Heart of a Dove

by Abbie Williams

His eyes closed as he said, “I despise springing this upon you, I do. Sawyer has told me about how…about how he feels for you, but you are carrying my child, Lorie. Though he insisted that he be allowed to stay with you until you were no longer fevered.”

  I pulled my fingers from his and curled both hands around my own neck, afraid that I may vomit, so weak I sank back to the bedding. I knew I was insulting Angus, and I had no wish to insult him. But the horror of what he was telling me, what he was making me understand, was more than I could bear.

  Surely you knew this would happen.

  This was wrong, so wrong, and I felt it to the core of my bones.

  I closed my eyes, silently willing him to go away. After a moment he said softly, and with compassion, “I’ll get you something to eat, Lorie.”

  It was near to darkness now, and I curled around my belly on the soiled bedding, sweat and self-loathing both soaking my skin. The pillow near my own held Sawyer’s scent, and I clutched it against me, buried my face into it and shuddered with sobs, stifling all sound with an agony of effort.

  I thought I heard Angus come back in, but the hand that touched me was Sawyer’s, and he collected me against him as I heaved with sobs, hating myself but unable to stop.

  “Lorie,” he whispered into my hair, holding me so tightly against him that it seemed he would never let go.

  “Sawyer,” I moaned, clinging to him.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and it sounded as though his throat was full of sharp edges, cutting him as he spoke. “Oh God, I’m so sorry…I told Gus…about the…child. I was so scared as you lay ill. I didn’t move from your side.”

  “But…he…said…” I could hardly speak through the sobs. “He…said…”

  Sawyer made a choked sound against me, and I realized he was weeping. My heart stabbed in fright. I shifted to look upon him, desperate to make him see that he could not let this happen. His face was agonized, tears swimming in his hawk eyes and streaking forth.

  “No, no, no,” I pleaded, clinging to him. I begged, “No, oh Sawyer, no…don’t leave, oh please, don’t leave me.”

  “Lorie,” he said, closing his eyes. I had never seen such pain on a face, and I knew it mirrored my own. His eyes opened and he cupped my jaws in his shaking hands. “I told him everything, but he…”

  He paused and his own jaw clenched, and I felt the same clenching around my heart, crushing it to bits.

  “You…are carrying his child.” His words shuddered forth, low and tortured. “From the time…I was a boy, I knew how much he…wanted a child. He and Grace never were…able.” He closed his eyes and I felt the trembling move all through him. “He will care…for you,” he managed, his voice a hoarse whisper. “He is a good…man, Lorie, a good man. I know this.”

  “No,” I whispered, shaking too, the covering ripped away from the despair in my soul once more. “Please, I’ll do anything, I’ll go away with you, anything—”

  Tears spilled over his face and he crushed me close. He whispered brokenly, “I can’t do that…to Gus. Not when he wants a child and this is…his child.”

  “I’m so sorry, oh Sawyer, I’m so sorry,” I whispered then, though the words were pitiful and changed nothing, as my hands fell away from him. I couldn’t bear to keep touching him when he was leaving me, abandoning me to my deserved fate. Sawyer was far too good a man, far too honorable, and he would keep himself from me.

  He made himself draw away, smoothing hair from my face. I couldn’t bear the expression in his eyes; it sliced like a razor through my soul, infinitely more painful than Sam Rainey’s knife had been over my flesh.

  “I told Gus I would not go until the fever broke,” he said, and there was a husk in his voice. “In the morning, Boyd and Malcolm and I…will ride ahead. We’ll make better time…on the horses…” His words dwindled to a painful halt.

  “No,” I whispered. I wrapped into my own arms, a roaring in my skull. Again, life was gutting me yet again.

  “We’ll wait for you, ahead,” he said raggedly, his eyes driving into mine. He went on, “We’ll restock and you and Gus…will catch up with us…”

  It was cruel, to the both of us, but heat flared in my eyes, the desperate heat of the condemned, and I vowed, “I will never love anyone but you. I will die loving you.” I withered, as he did before me, aching at what was happening between us. I grew cold then, and distant. I lay back down, weakly, using both arms over my face to block all sight of him and his hawk eyes.

  “Go,” I whispered, huddled there.

  His breath sounded broken, choked. My heart constricted, but I didn’t dare look at him. He touched my hair, with such tenderness that my chest heaved.

  Then he left me alone.

  I curled around myself, refusing to eat a bite of the food that Angus brought to me later, his gray eyes so worried, so concerned. I had heard Sawyer gathering things, I had heard him saddling Whistler, and I had heard him riding out.

  And then the sound of my own heart, draining away into non-existence.

  Malcolm came to me after that, and he crawled to the bedding and in his usual blunt and unflappable fashion, aligned his slim body with my back, his skinny left arm over my waist. He hooked his chin on my shoulder as I shook with weeping, petting my hair and murmuring nonsense. When I’d stilled a fraction, he whispered, “Lorie, Gus an’ Sawyer fought something fierce yesterday. Boyd had to break it up.”

  My fault, all my fault.

  I wished that Angus had never come across me, that Sam Rainey had indeed managed to kill me on the two occasions he’d intended; that they would come to such a pass because of me was more than I could bear.

  “Are you…truly carrying Gus’s child?”

  I nodded, and whispered, “Malcolm, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry they fought.”

  He went on, “I’ve never seen Sawyer so crazy-like. He was cryin’, Lorie. He loves you, something fierce. But Gus said you’re carrying his child.”

  “Malcolm, I’m sorry you had…to hear that,” I whispered, through a throat that felt sliced in two. I was at a loss to explain.

  “Well, things’ll work themselves out, Gus told me,” Malcolm went on, with the confidence of a boy. “But I hate to ride ahead without you an’ Gus. Gus said you an’ him was gonna get to know each other before you wed. I told you he aimed to marry you, Lorie-Lorie. I’ll miss you, just. We won’t see you for a spell, probably.”

  “I’ll miss you too, Malcolm,” I told him. “So much.”

  “You want me to lay with you?” he asked, so endearingly.

  I nodded, my eyes drifting closed.

  Morning came, with no regard to the devastation within me and the rending of our group. Malcolm roused me as he got up and hurried to load Aces’ saddlebags; they were leaving Gus and me with the wagon, and would purchase another in Keokuk, Iowa, where they would await us. Gus and I would be married there. The sun was still below the horizon when Boyd and Malcolm were loaded and ready to ride. Wrapped in my shawl, I stood numb and dead. Sawyer had left last night.

  Boyd hugged me to him and tipped his head to my ear. He murmured, “All will be well, Lorie-girl, don’t you worry.”

  My throat was too tight to reply, but I nodded against his chest. He drew back and cupped my shoulders for a moment. He added, “It’s good to see you up an’ about. We was right worried about you.”

  He clasped Gus’s hand and the two men hugged briefly, as Malcolm wrapped me into his arms and I clung back, missing them with a palpable ache, already.

  “We’ll see you soon, Lorie-Lorie. We’ll wait for you-all in I-oh-wah.” He pronounced all of the syllables, accenting them.

  I whispered into his hair, “Take care of him.”

  Malcolm held my gaze and I knew without saying that he understood. He nodded. I kissed his cheeks, then
moved to kiss both Fortune and Aces on their velvet noses before stepping back and wrapping into my shawl. The Carters mounted just as the sun peeked over the horizon, highlighting the both of them with haloes of golden fire.

  My heart panged; for just a moment, a horrible moment, I felt that I would never see them again.

  “We’ll see you down the road,” Boyd said, turning Fortune north. “Take care of my fiddle!”

  “Good-bye!” Malcolm yodeled, waving back as they rode out.

  Angus and I watched until they were no longer visible.

  I retired immediately to my tent but could not sleep. Gus came to the entrance and whispered, “Lorie, I aim to wash up at the creek. I’ll be there, just there. You rest.”

  I had not replied and now lay staring on a fixed point upon the canvas wall, as the light brightened and brought small details into focus around me. I tried for a time to clear all thoughts from my mind. My hands moved lightly over my belly, over the tiny child growing there. I felt it to be true; I had denied what I’d known, in my desperation. My breasts were full against my palms, the top curves swelling to match the lower, as they never had before; even the circumference of my nipples had grown, and they’d darkened.

  A child.

  Gus’s child.

  You are lucky, daughter, you should count your very blessings, Mama told me, her low voice clear and stern in my head. He is a good man, and he will care for you, he will love you. In time you may even love him. That’s the way of it, for most.

  I could never be near Sawyer again.

  If I was, I would go to him, everything else be damned.

  What would happen when he married someone else, as he would surely do? He would work as a blacksmith in Minnesota, breed horses, build a home for her, for their eventual children. He would undoubtedly give another woman children, start his family again. Family meant everything to him. Sobs wrenched from me, ragged and terrible. I choked on them, curling around my stomach and loathing the child that grew there, even though it had nothing to do with this, had never asked to be conceived. Its mother was a whore, and its father was marrying her from a sense of duty. And that was certainly more than any whore could possibly hope for, as I had reminded myself time and again.

  Sawyer. My woodcutter, mo ghrá.

  He was riding away from me.

  I moaned his name into my pillow, crying until I couldn’t lift my head.

  Perhaps two hours had drifted away when Angus returned and said, “Lorie, I am so worried for you. Please come out.”

  “I can’t,” I whispered.

  “May I come in?” he asked me.

  I nodded, then realized he could not see me, and replied, “Yes.”

  He did, moving to sit near me and brushing hair from my cheeks. His hands were gentle and warm, both. They weren’t Sawyer’s hands and my first instinct was to cringe away, but I remained still as he regarded me with pain in his storm-gray eyes. At last he implored, “Lorie, I would do anything to make you happy. I am truly sorry about Sawyer. I love him like a brother, even a son. I would never wish to hurt him, or you.”

  He sighed, holding his head in his hands. When he lifted his eyes at last, he looked deeply into mine and said, his voice soft, “Lorie, I do love you. I will care for you, and our child, all of my days. I mean to make you love me, I truly do.” There was nothing challenging in his voice, only an earnest sincerity. I knew he meant that. At last he whispered, “Will you let me try?”

  I felt trapped, a rabbit in a snare. Though it wasn’t fair to him; as I’d known from our first meeting, he was kind and good, a man that any woman would be lucky to love. At long last, I lied, nodding.

  He smiled at me, softly and with such feeling. He added, “Let me fetch you the basin, and I will wash these clothes, your bedding.” He rose to his knees and then said, “The boys will be into Iowa within a few days and they’ll rest up in Keokuk. I thought…I hoped that you and I could move more slowly, talk and get to know one another. I would court you, ask your father’s permission for your hand, if I could. Our circumstances do not allow for such formalities. But know, please know, I will not share your bed until we are formally wed.”

  Again I could only nod, weakly.

  He cupped my cheek and then ducked back outside.

  “Where are we?” I asked him later as we sat near the fire. I sipped at tea, my stomach yet unsteady. I hadn’t eaten in days, as I’d lain ill, and Angus was frying salt pork and biscuits. Despite everything, I knew I had to consume something or he would be worried. I had washed my face and brushed out my hair, braided its length. Angus had scrubbed all of the soiled bedding and my clothes, which fluttered now in a light breeze as the afternoon drifted slowly to evening. He had told me we’d break camp tomorrow. Only my tent was erected now; Angus claimed he would sleep beneath the awning.

  “Perhaps fifty miles south of Hannibal,” he told me. “When you fell sick, we left the trail and camped here, near the water. I didn’t think we should travel any further than necessary. You drifted in and out of a fever for nearly four days. We made willowbark tea for you, though I would liked to have given you beef broth. Perhaps we’ll detour into Hannibal as we pass there and purchase some beef. Though I recall my mama saying that it doesn’t do to reduce a fever too quickly, as the fever must run its course. We were scared, though, I’ll tell you. The typhoid is what robbed us all of so many, the Carters, the Davises, my Grace, too. I knew it wasn’t typhoid, though, as your fever wouldn’t have come on so quickly.” His eyes were concerned as he asked, “Do you feel well enough to travel tomorrow? We shall camp here as long as you need, my dear.”

  “No, we can move on,” I said, staring at the flames of the fire and trying frantically not to reach out to Sawyer in my mind. The sense of him was so strong within my soul, his aching grief that rippled back to me, even as I sat here miles upon miles from him. I could feel it acutely, the brutal stretching of what linked us. I couldn’t stop my thoughts from flowing to him.

  Sawyer, my Sawyer. How far have you gotten? Come back to me, please, come back. I need you.

  Lorie, he said back. Lorie.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on not falling to pieces. At last I said, “Gus, I must lie down, my head yet hurts.”

  “Of course,” he said at once, moving to help me up. “You rest, Lorie.”

  At the entrance, he drew me gently to him and held me to his chest. He rocked me side to side, comforting me. I knew he would try, and continue to try, until he either hated me or hated himself.

  “It will be all right,” he whispered into my hair.

  Within, I lay almost immobile, terrified that the emptiness within me would consume everything if I let it, if it was to have free reign.

  Whistler.

  I hadn’t even been able to say good-bye to her, though I knew Sawyer had left to avoid such a terrible scene by morning’s light. I rolled to the side as hot tears seeped again over my face.

  Where are you? How far are you from me?

  When will I see you again, and at what price?

  I expected to dream of Sawyer, longed to, just to glimpse him. And yet when I slept another figure invaded my mind.

  Rebel whore, he muttered. Fucking Rebel whore, riding with your Rebel soldiers.

  I’ll find you, Lila.

  Though I knew it was a nightmare, and could not hurt me, the essence of it stuck with me throughout the following day, as an oil upon my skin. I didn’t tell Angus, as he knew nothing of Sam. I imagined in time he would know many things about me, including that particular story, but I couldn’t bear to speak of it just now; as I helped Angus load the wagon, though he would hardly let me lift a finger to assist him, I kept hearing Sam’s words, echoing out of the dark parts of my mind.

  Angus assisted me upon the wagon seat, then sat near me, collecting th
e reins. I had tied my hat over my hair and sat woodenly, determined not to think about sitting on this same seat with Sawyer. Angus kept our pace slow and steady beneath a skittish sky of intermingling gray and white clouds, the air humid and sticky. We rode in silence, and although I didn’t intend to appear sullen, no doubt I did. My head ached and surely it was obvious that I had spent the night weeping. Though he spoke not of that, and to be fair, I knew Angus could not possibly fathom how deeply Sawyer and I loved one another; certainly he assumed we were simply infatuated, given the amount of time we had known one another. He could not guess the truth.

  We were silent for some time before I asked softly, “Will you tell me about Grace?”

  Angus leaned back and looked over at me. I dared to meet his eyes then, frankly studying his face. He was brown from the sun, and there were lines at the outer corners of his gray eyes. I realized afresh that he was over twenty years older than me. His hair was heavy and with a slight curl, hanging to his shoulders. I had never noticed him wearing it tied back. I blinked slowly, considering how I would look upon his face for many years to come, that our child would bear his features as well as mine. Would we have other children? Would he despise me after a time, when it would become apparent that I could never love him, at least not as I should?

  Angus had saved me from Ginny’s, had taken me under his care when I had no one else in the entire world. I owed him more than I could ever possibly hope to repay. I did not doubt his sincerity when he told me he cared for me and my heart felt knifed as I understood that he deserved far more than my love. He deserved a woman who would love him the way I loved Sawyer.

  Sawyer cannot be yours, not any longer.

  You must acknowledge this, Lorie.

  But a stubborn and dangerous part of me writhed and rebelled, and would not acknowledge it.

  At last Gus said, “Lorie, I know that Sawyer left…abruptly. He and I have never exchanged words before, I’ll have you know, and it was not your fault that we did in the days past. Please don’t feel as such, Lorie. I’ve known him from the time he was a boy, as you know. And he has always been…passionate about things. The three of us will move beyond this, I feel assured. I love him, and I love you, and in time it will work itself out.”