Heart of a Dove

by Abbie Williams

  Had Ginny wanted me dead? Or, as Jack had said upon his first attempt to take me back to her, was I to be left unmarked? I almost laughed, hysterical, deranged laughter, at imagining them explaining all of the marks upon my flesh to Ginny, back in St. Louis.

  Much better to die here, rather than there.

  Certainly I would be dead before too long, bled completely out, and then perhaps my soul would be allowed to fly to Sawyer’s. As the morning drifted by outside the tent, I envisioned heaven, and those who were there waiting for me. Would I be permitted to join them, or would I be damned, sent directly to hell for my sins? I could imagine no hell worse than being kept from Sawyer.

  In late morning, I tried to sit in an attempt to shift the pain in my body. My head swam, as it had when I’d been fevered, but I didn’t believe I was feverish at this point. As I sat, I saw something flash on the ground, a glint like the winking of an eye. I blinked and stretched my fingers over the grass, closing them around a small, solid object. I brought it close and realized I held an arrowhead, perhaps two inches long. It was crafted from stone rather than any sort of metal, with numerous nicks along the straight edges. I rubbed a fingertip over the point. It was sharp. I curled it into my fist.

  My heart seized as Jack crawled abruptly into the tent, his face bearded and dirty, his eyes holding a bizarre mixture of disgust and sympathy. I calculated how far I could stick the point of the arrowhead into one of his eyes, and wondered if it would kill or only blind him.

  “Get up,” he commanded me, holding out a handkerchief, damp with creek water.

  I remained unmoving, still considering which of his eyes I would stab.

  No, Lorie, save it for Sam.

  “Now, girl,” Jack said, and he narrowed his eyes at me as though in speculation. He lowered his voice and said, as though betraying a confidence to me, “I don’t relish hurting a woman, not like them two. Listen to us, Lila, and we’ll get you to St. Louis without further harm.”

  He set the damp cloth upon my lap, wincing at the sight of me, before ducking back out. From outside he ordered, “Sam wants to ride out, girl, so hurry yourself.”

  My heart beat faster, gaining momentum at the thought of possessing a weapon, however small. If I waited and maimed Sam, would they kill me outright or make me suffer first? I had no wish to be a coward, but the thought of being tortured at their hands made my blood run as ice. If I only managed to wound Sam, he would make me sorry for every last breath I took before dying.

  Instinct warned me to wait, but I vowed to the empty tent and the slice of gray sky I could see through the gaping opening, Sam Rainey, you despicable murdering bastard, you son of bitch, you fucking woman-killing coward, I will take you out if before I die, that I swear. You robbed me of everything I had left in the world and I will kill you, if I can. I swear by my soul.

  I was reluctant to use the cloth Jack had left, but I dabbed carefully at the blood upon my thighs, avoiding the flesh between the legs, as I hurt there so badly I couldn’t bear the thought of even my own hand administering the handkerchief. I shifted to all fours, uncertain if I’d be sure-footed enough to stand, let alone walk. Their blanket was beyond repair, stained now with so much blood it appeared as though someone had been murdered upon it. I gagged, closing my eyes as another wave of dizziness struck my head. But by the time Jack returned, I was kneeling.

  “Come on, girl,” he said, taking my elbow.

  I hated to touch him, revolted at even being near him, but I didn’t think I’d be able to walk without his support. The man named Dixon tore down the tent; Sam was already mounted. Lead lines connected Admiral, Aces and Fortune to their horses, and my eyes roved over the three animals, as pain so raw and terrible that I could hardly breathe cinched my chest.

  Malcolm, my sweet Malcolm, oh God, Boyd, Angus…

  Sawyer.

  Tears streamed over my cheeks. I had cried so much in past days it seemed impossible that any tears remained in my body. When Sawyer rode out, leaving me with Angus, there had still been the hope of seeing him again; my tears for that seemed as nothing, now that he’d been taken from me for all time. Jack bound my wrists and helped me atop his horse, a rangy gray that side-stepped and whinnied frantically at the scent of the blood on me. Jack cuffed its nose and then climbed behind me; I kept my eyes on Aces, closest to me, the arrowhead curled against my right palm.

  They set a hard pace through the day, pausing only to water the horses before pressing on again. Sitting the saddle became a constant nightmare. My legs were bare as my skirt rode high, scraping against the sides of the horse and the edges of the saddle, though that was nothing compared to the ache between my legs. I felt as though I had been beaten with a tree branch, both there and where Sam had kicked me. When they paused to water the horses Jack passed me his canteen, and I was too thirsty to refuse, gulping until I choked. There was a part of me that could be grateful it was not a particularly hot day, overcast as afternoon sank into long summer evening; occasional spatterings of rain fell over us.

  They spoke not at all as they traveled, as though to do so was to expend too much effort. Sam, especially, seemed tense. When he rode, it was not possible to discern that his leg was injured. I watched him for a spell, concentrating all of my hatred, imagining how it would feel to plunge the point of the arrowhead directly into his eye. I would use every ounce of strength I possessed, and then I would welcome the death to follow.

  Let me be brave enough, I pleaded, over and over. Let me survive long enough to take him down first.

  I dozed a little, though even in a half-stupor I was sure to keep my hand fisted around the arrowhead. Exhaustion won out and took me momentarily under, my head lolling, and I saw Sawyer in a dream, felt him even more completely than I had this morning, and was overwhelmed with a sense of his furious anger and his all-consuming determination. I woke with a jolt, clinging desperately to the image of Sawyer in my mind, before the essence of the dream faded, leaving me without him.

  The sunset was brilliant scarlet beneath the cloud ridge, burning into my eyes as they at last made camp, depositing me against a tree trunk with my wrists bound.

  “We’ve days yet,” complained Dixon, his voice carrying to me as he set up their tent. “What if she don’t make it back to St. Louis?”

  Little did he know I didn’t expect to make it through this night, but Sam would die before me, I was determined. Jack hadn’t noticed my fisted right hand as he’d bound my wrists, thank God, and I clutched the arrowhead like a talisman. At the very least, I wanted Sam to be blinded, damaged beyond repair. I wanted to make him suffer. I wanted all of them to suffer, but him the most. In some tiny, insignificant way, that would help ease the wreckage I had made of four lives. Five, if I counted the unborn child’s. I leaned against the tree, hearing the river somewhere just beyond. The setting sun painted my face with red light, blood-red to my eyes. I blinked, remembering how Malcolm had presented the turquoise hair ribbon to me, from behind his back. How he’d lamented that his mama might not know him in heaven.

  I hate to think that Mama wouldn’t recognize me when I get to be an old man, he’d said.

  “Malcolm,” I whispered, staring into the sun. Now he wouldn’t be as much as a young man. I trembled violently, unable to get my arms around myself. “Oh Jesus, Malcolm. I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

  I prayed for all their souls then, nearly blinding myself as I continued fixing upon the sunset; I felt a sense of final reckoning. This was the last time I would watch the setting sun, and I recalled Sunday services of my past, words spoken at funerals.

  “Malcolm, Boyd, Gus…Sawyer,” I whispered, pressing my fisted hands to my forehead as both my body and voice shook. “I love you, I love all of you, and I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…please understand. Please forgive me, oh please.”

  I repeated those words until the sun
sank and pulled with it the bloody light, leaving me in the gloaming, if not in peace.

  They worked silently, staking out the horses, building a small fire. I remained sitting, vaguely assessing the damage to my body, contemplating if I would have the strength to hurt Sam as much as I longed to hurt him. In the past few hours I hadn’t felt the slickness of any new blood flowing from between my legs, and the cramping in my gut had dimmed to a dull ache. My right side burned with pain and there was a swelling bruise on my temple. I’d thought for a time as we rode that Sam had knocked free a tooth from the back of my mouth when he’d backhanded me, but after exploring with my tongue, I determined it was still there. My bottom lip, though no longer bleeding, yet stung.

  They ate and passed a small flask, again in relative silence. I felt Sam’s gaze from time to time. I doubted he could see me clearly, as I sat in darkness while his face was highlighted by the fire, but I met his gaze and did my best to convey to him my fury, my loathing, to communicate to him my intent.

  You bastard, I thought, trying to steady my trembling, to gather my wits and my courage for what was to come. You absolute bastard. I will hurt you. I will kill you if I can.

  Jack rose and wiped his hands over his thighs, then brought me a strip of jerky, as though he’d been somehow assigned my unwitting keeper. I shook my head at him.

  “Dammit, take it, you need to keep your strength,” he said. “You lost a pile of blood, girl. We didn’t bother bringing that blanket along.”

  I hoped he felt the hatred in my eyes.

  Perhaps a little of it did soak into his dim wits, as he tossed the jerky to my lap and retreated.

  He said, “I don’t hold with taking a woman this way,” as though that excused him for other personal atrocities. He’d shot at Whistler. His bullets could have killed any of them. My breath came faster as the panic I’d managed to hold at bay all day rushed to assault me.

  I hadn’t allowed myself to picture what had happened; surely they’d been taken by surprise as they’d slept. Had death come quickly? The thought of Sawyer shot and in pain, of their bodies sprawled dead, sent me reeling forward, vomiting until my innards seemed turned inside-out.

  I wished Angus had never found me, that I was still rotting away at Ginny’s place.

  Jack grunted in disgust and walked away; it was only after I ceased heaving that his words registered.

  Taking a woman this way.

  I understood just before the man called Dixon came to scoop me up by the elbows. He wasn’t tall, but wiry and strong.

  “Come on, girl, you’ve rested enough,” he said. “I wish Sam wouldn’t have beat your face so. I liked it better last night. Shoulda taken you last night, but you’ll do.”

  Sam remained sitting at the fire, watching in silence as Dixon led me to him. I walked haltingly, my heart firing with renewed energy, sensing this was the moment I’d been waiting for since being lucky enough to scrounge a weapon from the grass. I stared without blinking at Sam, holding his gaze as I sensed he disliked that. He took another long pull from his flask and swiped at his mouth. He eyes were a flat red in the fire’s light.

  “Ginny wants you alive,” he told me. “Said we could kill the others, but not you.”

  “What did she offer you?” I whispered, not able to stand completely straight, pressing my bound wrists to my belly.

  He didn’t answer and I figured he would not. He sighed and his eyes roved up towards the dark sky. He stared there, as though star-gazing, and replied, “She couldn’t give me enough gold to risk myself for a whore, brother or no. I knew I’d get a chance to kill those Confederate bastards who took you from her place. Bragged about it to that dumb cunt Eva, about being of the south.”

  My upper lip curled in anger before his words had fully arranged themselves into meaning in my mind, but then one word echoed within me.

  Brother…

  “She’s your sister?” I whispered. My thoughts flashed backward through time, recalling Ginny’s words, her behavior. She knew better than anyone Sam’s obsession with me and how she could warp it to her advantage, and she would be willing to protect him, because he was her blood. I shuddered at the thought of the evil that had surely spawned the both of them, the black and sadistic souls that writhed within their bodies.

  He disregarded my question, though he invited, “Sit a moment, Lila. I’ve not yet finished my whiskey and I’ll tell you a story or two.”

  Dixon hunched down and Sam passed him the flask. When Sam produced his knife, the very knife that had cut my face years ago, I forced myself not to flinch. He freed my wrists with a single stroke and I pressed them instantly into my bloody skirt, even as Sam sat back on his haunches and motioned impatiently for Dixon to hand back the whiskey. I refused to sit, instead staring at him impassively.

  “You southerners and your goddamned pride,” he said. “Don’t know that you lost the War, do you? I thought we had killed enough of you to prove that your pride means less than shit. But southerners breed like goddamn rabbits. And you won’t let your own forget, will you? Keep that Rebel spirit alive and well.” He was gnashing his teeth almost unconsciously as he spoke. He said, “Look there,” and indicated my waist. For a second I faltered, terrified he had spied the arrowhead. “You were already carrying a little Rebel bastard, weren’t you?”

  I made a sound in my throat, unable to stop it. His eyes flashed to mine with a hint of triumph; he’d succeeded in causing a reaction. He looked beyond me, as though confused, and asked Dixon, “Where is that goddamn Jack?”

  Dixon thumbed over his shoulder. “Out near the horses. He ain’t wanting a piece of a woman. Maybe he wants a horse instead.”

  Sam chuckled, as my heart continued to shred out of control, preparing me for battle. Ginny’s brother. I would never have known, though it made sense of so many things. I prayed that I was ready to face what lay ahead, my thoughts bloodthirsty in a way that I had never assumed myself capable. Outwardly I did my best to keep a sense of composure. If Dixon tried to take me back to that tent, I would have to stab him, and as much as I wished for the strength and capability to kill all of them, I wanted to destroy Sam the most. My fingers itched with it.

  Sam studied the fire and at last answered my original question, not looking at me as he replied, “Ginny and me had the same mother, that is true. And she was as much a whore as any whore I’ve ever known. Couldn’t say for sure who our pas were. Ginny runs the same whorehouse where our ma used to work. Same exact.” His eyes flickered to me, briefly. “She wouldn’t let me back in, not after I stabbed at you. Woulda been worse had I killed you.” He spoke with calm, no hint of regret or apology. “She wants you back at her place.”

  “Why?” I whispered, as though he would tell me anything.

  “Christ knows why. Money, most like,” Sam said, still intent upon the fire. It colored his face orange, a face beset by a strange, empty expression. He appeared haggard, much older than when I’d looked so unwillingly upon him the night he cut me. I concentrated all of my hatred into his eye socket, imagining the arrowhead I would bury there. It scraped against my right palm, sharp and immediate against the slickness of sweat, keeping me fixed on what I must do, shortly. Suddenly, as though sensing the burn of rage in my thoughts, Sam’s eyes met mine.

  He rose to his full height. He was tall and spare, and had taken everything from me that he possibly could. I breathed shallowly through my nostrils, trying desperately to calm myself, my body preparing for battle so intensely that for those moments I didn’t feel any physical pain. Sam stepped around the fire and caught my upper arm; I cringed, I couldn’t help it, and he said in my ear, “How about I give you another bastard?”

  I let him walk me, at his hitching pace, to the low-slung tent.

  Lorie, this is it, this is it, this is it.

  A broken refrain, and it was time. I watched
the little tent with its gaping mouth of an opening, sweat trickling over my temples and between my breasts, as I considered that this was the place I may very well die in the next few minutes.

  Give me strength, give me strength, I begged, and then I thought of Malcolm, who had only been twelve years old, and I knew, without a doubt, that I could do what I must.

  Sawyer, I cried out in my mind, closing my eyes as Sam shoved me towards the entrance. Sawyer, I love you, I will never stop loving you.

  I stumbled to my knees and groaned inadvertently. Sam knelt behind me and clamped both hands on my hips. He was breathing roughly and the canvas walls closed off most of the firelight, gifting me with an advantage. He yanked my thighs from beneath me and flung me to my back, but I didn’t fight him yet, blood pulsing in my ears, roaring with determination.

  “Don’t be long,” Dixon called over. “Leave a little something for me.”

  Hatred was a powerful, elemental weapon. Sam leaned back and shed his suspenders. My palms were so slippery that I was terrified I might drop the arrowhead I’d clutched all through the day. When he reached beneath my skirt and caught my knees in his hard hands, spreading them, I bit back instinctive screams and tensed my arms.

  “You whore,” he muttered.

  Gorge rose in my throat and I thought my heart might give out with the strain of its beating. I maneuvered the arrowhead between my right thumb and forefinger. I cupped my left hand around his neck, his hair stringy and greasy under my fingers, for all the world as though I was perhaps inviting him closer. He braced over me. I held his head in position, shuddering for a moment on the brink, and with every ounce of my strength plunged the sharp stone point into his left eye.

  There was a horrible sensation of ripe sinking, as though I’d pierced a rotting plum, and blood poured hotly down my fingers. Sam roared as I’d never known a human could, rolling from atop me and thrashing violently. My vision narrowed to pinpricks, but I twisted out of the tent, crawling on my knees before stumbling to my feet, lifting my hem and running. I knew I wouldn’t get far, as Dixon was coming. I screamed then, in terror, realizing it was futile to flee, even as I fled. I ran as I hadn’t realized I could, hurting so badly and with bare feet, into the darkness of the open prairie.