Heart of a Dove

by Abbie Williams

  My heart ached at this sincere question. I whispered, “Of course not, sweet boy. We can never be faulted for loving someone, not ever.”

  He nodded then, wiping the tears on his cheek with one shoulder.

  Sawyer and Boyd joined us, Boyd settling across from Malcolm, while Sawyer crouched behind me and collected me upon his lap. His arms enfolded me and I turned my cheek to his chest immediately. Malcolm leaned against Sawyer’s arm, sighing with a soft breath.

  “We’ll visit Gus’s grave before we head out in morning,” Boyd said softly.

  “I would like him to have a cross,” Sawyer said quietly. “He deserves so much more than that, God knows, but I aim to make him a cross.”

  Sawyer and Boyd sat long beside the fire that dark night, constructing a wooden marker for Gus’s grave. They worked near the fire, talking quietly when they spoke at all, the scent of Boyd’s tobacco smoke combining with the fire itself, drifting through the canvas to fill my nostrils. I was too distraught to sleep. Instead I curled around my pillow and listened with half an ear as they worked together.

  “He loved you, you know,” Boyd said at one point. “He did, Sawyer.”

  “I know,” Sawyer returned, hardly more than a whisper.

  “He loved Lorie too. But he couldn’t love Lorie the way you do, I see that now,” Boyd murmured. I heard him say, “I ain’t ever gonna speak of this again, but if I had to lose Gus or you, I’d…” Boyd faltered, as though collecting himself with a great deal of effort. “I couldn’t go on without you, old friend. I could not.” Faintly, “Let us never speak of this again.”

  Though I could not see him, I sensed Sawyer’s grief. He said something to Boyd too low for me to hear, his voice ragged. Moments later he untied the entrance to the tent where I lay, crawling within to my waiting arms, putting his face to my neck. I clung to him, stroking his hair with both hands.

  “Lorie,” he whispered against my skin, and I drew back to see his eyes in the muted orange glow of the fire through the pale canvas walls, the flames flickering over us in unceasing motion. He appeared to have been struck across both eyes, so sore and swollen from tears did they look; I was sure that mine appeared similarly. I traced my thumbs gently over his cheekbones and he smiled just a little at my touch, shifting so that his weight was not resting fully against my right arm.

  “Sawyer,” I whispered back.

  “I do not mean to lose control so,” he said softly, his voice rough with emotion. “I just…”

  You needn’t explain, I assured him with my eyes, keeping my hands upon his face.

  “I know,” he whispered in response, turning his face to kiss my left palm. “Boyd and I made a cross for Gus.” His eyes held mine and he said softly, “We made another for the baby.”

  I drew in a sharp breath at that, not from anger; rather, I was overcome that they had thought to do so. Sawyer said intently, “Are you—”

  No, I tried to say, though no sound emerged, as my throat closed off. I shook my head.

  “It is not your fault,” he said slowly, as though to impress upon me the truth of his words, his eyes driving into mine. “Lorie, I would that you know this.”

  When I didn’t speak, he softly kissed my forehead and whispered to me, “When Ethan and Jeremiah were killed, I knew that Mama wouldn’t be able to bear it. I thought…that if I could save their bodies…so that she could see them buried…”

  “Sawyer,” I whispered, as pain for what we’d both been through sliced as keenly as the edge of a cold blade.

  He wound his fingers into my loose hair. Quietly, he explained, “Both of them are buried near Mama and Daddy in the cemetery back home. I brought them home on a wagon bed, wrapped in blankets. I could do that for them. It was all I could do, and Mama thanked me.” His voice caught. “She never blamed me for their deaths, like I feared, nor did Daddy, but I could hardly bear to look them in the eyes, I was so ashamed to be returning home alive when my brothers were gone. I had to report back for duty within a week.” He shifted us again, carefully, settling my shoulder blades to the blanket. He ground the base of both palms against his eyes before propping himself on his left elbow to study my face. He bracketed his right hand flush against my ribs and whispered, “I know it’s but little comfort, but I want the baby to have a cross, near Gus’s.”

  I told him, “Thank you. Thank you with all my heart.”

  He slid one hand upward to cup my jaw.

  “Boyd told me how you carried your brothers from the battlefield,” I whispered. I took his wrist in my hand, holding tightly as my words came forth, raggedly. “I know you would do anything for those you love. Oh Sawyer, I love you. I need you so much. When I heard your voice, when I knew you were there…”

  His nostrils flared and his eyes grew intent with protectiveness. He bent his forehead to mine, curving over me, with great care. He pressed tender, feather-soft kisses to my bottom lip, the swelling on my temple. He whispered, “I will protect you with my life, my brave woman. Do not fear, not anymore, sweetheart.”

  I curled against him, the strength and blessed safety of him, tucking my face to his neck. He cupped the back of my skull and wrapped his other arm about my waist. Into my hair he murmured, “I love you so. Mo mhuirnín mhilis, my Lorie.”

  We heard Boyd rise and bank the fire; its orange glow diminished almost instantly, insulating us in a dimmer reddish tint.

  “G’night, you twos,” Boyd told us from just outside the entrance. “I’m to bed.”

  “Good-night Boyd,” I told him. “Thank you.”

  Sawyer said, “Dea-oíche, mo chara is sine.”

  As Boyd’s footsteps retreated, I whispered to Sawyer, “What does that mean?”

  “It means, ‘good-night, my oldest friend,’” he murmured in reply.

  “You’ve known Boyd all your life,” I acknowledged.

  “I have,” Sawyer agreed, and so long passed before he spoke again that I was nearly asleep. He said softly, “Lorie, I must tell you of something,” and his tone roused me to wakefulness.

  “What is it?” I whispered. It was nearly dark within our tent, the fire nothing more than embers, but I could discern the intensity of Sawyer’s gaze, more hawk-like than ever.

  “I will keep no secrets from you,” he said. “You are to be my wife, I think of you as such already, and there should be no secrets between husband and wife.”

  “Tell me,” I implored, putting my palms on his chest as he angled just above me, on one elbow.

  With the fingertips of his free hand he traced over the narrow white scar on his jaw. When he spoke, his voice was low; I sensed his desire to speak freely, but he chose his words with great care, swallowing once, closing his eyes momentarily, before relating the story.

  “Boyd and I were with a regiment in Georgia in ’sixty-five when our commanding officer received word of Lee’s surrender. It was well into April by then and I was…utterly empty. I was nothing. I felt as hollow as a dead tree, Lorie, and the only thought in my head was getting home to something familiar, to Mama and Daddy, and the Carters, to our home in the holler. By ’sixty-five, I hadn’t set foot in Tennessee in nearly two years. Boyd and I spoke of home the way you would of heaven, when we spoke at all. If he hadn’t been with me, I would not have survived, this I know. The horror of what we saw – we followed in Sherman’s wake, Lorie, and it was unspeakable.” His jaw clenched and his eyes lifted from my face, staring sightlessly at the edge of the tent. I curled my fingers around the material of his shirt, letting him know without words that I was here, that I would always listen.

  His lashes lowered; I wished fervently that I possessed the power to remove whatever atrocities he saw behind the screen of his eyelids. I understood well the prison created by one’s memories. The inescapability of them.

  “Lorie,” he breathed and opened
his eyes to look deeply into mine. He said softly, “Your eyes are so beautiful. I see in them the blue of the evenings back home, that time of dusk when the air itself is indigo. And then I see the green of willow leaves, the green of spring, and renewal.”

  Tears filled my eyes at his adoring words, and he kissed away the two that trickled over my temples.

  He whispered, “You don’t know how my heart feels to look upon you, to have found you at last. My heart seems to split open with the force of such feelings. I thought – back then, marching home from Georgia after we were mustered out of the regiment – I thought I would never feel again. That any spark of joy or contentment was dead, forevermore.”

  “What happened on the way home?” I asked softly, sensing this was the part of the story that he struggled to relate. I stroked his chest with my thumbs, slow and gentle.

  “We were outside Chattanooga that night. By the grace of God, Boyd and I had come across Gus a day earlier, headed west from Virginia. It seemed almost miraculous to see anyone from Suttonville, that any of us had survived such rampant destruction. The Confederacy was ash, and that’s all that seemed left our lives. It was all we could to continue moving forward. We kept to the main roads by day and camped well off them at night, mindful of confronting any other soldiers, Federal or otherwise. Men were desperate then, on both sides, and we wished only to avoid trouble. But that night…”

  I cupped his face with my right hand; he placed his over the back of it and kissed my palm.

  He said, “It was close to a new moon, and overcast, and when I woke I couldn’t get my bearings at first, as the mist had settled in so thickly. I heard Whistler then. Someone was trying to steal the horses and she alerted me. I was half-crazy, I acted without thinking, and I was up out of the blanket and charging before I knew I had moved. Shots were fired at me but I could only think of saving my horse. I figured they would have to kill me before they got her. Behind me, Boyd and Gus made for the trees, meaning to circle around on the bastards.”

  “Then what?” I whispered. I could feel the tension holding his body rigid.

  “I caught hold of Whistler’s bridle and I saw that the man gripping her lead line was a goddamned Federal. There were three of them, piss-drunk from the sounds of it, and this one turned in his saddle and aimed at my forehead. His pistol clicked on an empty chamber and I felt as though that click was the sound of my heart exploding. It has never yet dulled in my memory, no matter how much I pray otherwise. He cursed his ill luck and grabbed his saber…”

  “Sawyer,” I whispered. His throaty voice was even more husky than normal as he continued.

  “He slashed at my face. If he’d leaned even a hair farther forward I’m certain he would have killed me. Boyd and Gus were firing from the cover of the trees by then, and the other two Federals were occupied shooting back at them…and I…I snapped as would a kindling stick. I grabbed his wrist and dragged him from horseback…I had my belt knife…and I stabbed his throat.” He clenched his teeth before finishing in a hoarse whisper, “I stabbed his throat and I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop until Gus hauled me from the body.”

  “What of the other two men?” I asked, aching for his pain.

  “They rode into the darkness. I never saw their faces. I vomited until there was nothing left to leave my body. I was so covered in blood Gus and Boyd thought I was mortally wounded, but the slash on my jaw was the only place I’d been cut.”

  I sat up, with determination, and pressed my lips to his scar. There, against his skin, I whispered, “He would have killed you. Words cannot explain how grateful I am that he did not succeed, Sawyer,” and his arms enclosed me.

  It was near to dawn before we spoke again; we slept for a time, braided together, and it was as the first faint light of day tinted the air around us a soft gray that Sawyer whispered, “Thank you for letting me tell you such a thing about myself. I would not upset you for the world, mo mhuirnín mhilis.”

  I moved closer to his warmth and whispered, “I would never be upset with you for telling me something about yourself, Sawyer, never. Good or terrible, I will listen.”

  “I do know such, sweetheart, and I thank God for that, every day.”

  Later that morning we gathered around Gus’s grave, with its two small crosses, one for him and one for the child. I let myself believe that Gus would look after his child, wherever their souls now lingered. I prayed with all of my heart that this was so. The Missouri prairie was desolate as a gray and dismal dawn stained the eastern horizon. I could hardly bear to look upon the mounded earth in which Gus’s body would rest from now forth, hundreds upon hundreds of miles from Cumberland County and all of his kin. All we could do here on the prairie was pile stones atop the raw, turned ground. We stood four abreast, until the sun cleared the edge of the prairie and there was nothing left to do but ride on.

  “With any luck, we should be within Iowa in perhaps three days’ time,” Boyd said as he mounted Fortune.

  “First we gotta return Rambler, the borrowed horse,” Malcolm reminded him as he climbed atop Aces. Sawyer and I claimed the wagon, drawn by Admiral and Juniper. Whistler, tethered to the side, seemed to dance with the anticipation of continuing our journey.

  “That we will,” Boyd responded tenderly. His eyes moved from Malcolm to us and despite everything, his dark eyes held some of their old twinkle. “That we will.”

  - - -

  The story continues in Soul of a Crow, coming in 2015

  Acknoweldgments

  This one is for my dears –

  My dear husband, Will, and my three daughters, who I love like crazy, and who have been so gracious as to share me with my laptop.

  My dear sisters Emily and Marni, who were the first to read this book.

  My dear mom Marta, who instilled in me a love of nature and all things magical.

  My dear friends Trish and Laura, who love ‘Old West’ lore too.

  And I must thank –

  Creative Director of Central Avenue Publishing, Michelle Halket, who is a wonderful editor, entrepreneur and all-around cool lady, not to mention a good friend, who took a chance on me and who has helped my writing career in countless ways.

  My two favorite musical groups of all time (hyperbole intended), the Wailin’ Jennys and The Be Good Tanyas, whose music I listened to almost constantly (albums Firecracker, Blue Horse, and Bright Morning Stars specifically) as I wrote this story – do yourself a favor and check out their incredible music.

  The Pioneer Woman, whose gorgeous, good-humored, heart-warming, and sometime downright heart-wrenching weblog (of the same name) and stunning photography helped inspire my vision of the horses in this book, most especially Whistler.

  Fictitious character (though to me he will always be real) Augustus McCrae, Texas Ranger, whose wisdom I keep close to my heart.

  And, most importantly, to those of you who believe there is more to this life than you can see –

  Further, researching this story has given me poignant insight into a world not so very far removed from our own, and to the heartaches and struggles, and ultimately the tremendous courage, of women who worked as prostitutes in this country during the latter half of the nineteenth century.

  About the Author

  Abbie Williams has been addicted to love stories ever since first sneaking her mother’s copy of The Flame and the Flower; and since then, she’s been jotting down her own in a notebook. A school teacher who spends her days with her own true love, their three daughters, and a very busy schedule, she is most happy when she gets a few hours to indulge in visiting the characters in her stories. When she’s not writing, teaching or spending time with her family, you’ll find her either camping, making a grand mess in her kitchen at various cooking attempts, or listening to a good bluegrass banjo.

  Catch up with her at abbiewilliamsauthor.
com

  Also By Abbie Williams

  -- The Shore Leave Cafe Series --

  Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe

  Second Chances

  A Notion of Love

  Winter at the White Oaks Lodge

  Wild Flower

  The First Law of Love

  Until Tomorrow

  The Way Back

  -- Forbidden --

  -- The Dove Series --

  Heart of a Dove

  Soul of a Crow