Suddenly, as if for the first time, I was aware of Simon’s nearness on the couch, and it seemed to unstitch me. He was so close I could feel his breath on my face as he spoke. So close that, if I leaned toward him, I could kiss him without any trouble.
The image was so clear in my mind that I could feel the heat rise in my face. I also found myself wondering if he was entertaining any such thoughts about me.
As if in answer, Simon slowly, purposefully turned my hand over in his grasp. I couldn’t help but stare in fascination, as if his hands were disembodied things, acting independently of the man they were attached to.
His fingers traced their way lightly, slowly, along my palm. A thrill surged through me far stronger than the whiskey. Then he brought my palm to his warm lips, kissing the places where his fingers had just been.
I wasn’t sure I could speak even if I wanted to. His lips felt branded on my skin.
He took my glass and set it on the table, then drew me to my feet. Then he drew me into his arms.
He didn’t try to press or persuade. I could feel his lips move like a caress over my cheeks, my closed eyes. Then they were on my mouth, kissing me over and over . . . And once more I was leaning into him, and his arms were around me, pulling me to him, to his beating heart.
His lips slid to my neck, the stubble on his cheek scraping my skin. When they moved back again to my mouth, I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him tighter till he sighed deep in his throat, still kissing me, and drew himself up till my feet left the floor.
I’d never felt so giddy, so breathless. His body against mine was a foreign country, but at the same time as familiar as the bay rum I could taste on his skin. As if holding him were the true muscle memory, and every moment that had ever come before only a waste of body and soul.
Forgiven
I raced the dawn back to the farmhouse that morning. The house was still asleep as I slipped Nastas back into the barn. I stripped off his saddle and set it back on the railing. He returned of his own accord to his stall, and I swung the door closed; it latched with a click.
I stood in the yard and watched the sun crest, wishing Simon were there to see it with me. Leaving him had been hard, even knowing I’d see him again soon at the café.
But before I got ready for work, there was something I had to do.
Inside the house, I returned the flashlight to its drawer and climbed the stairs again in stocking feet. From the top landing, I didn’t head for my bedroom, but for Laurel’s. Her door was ajar, a night-light glowing in an outlet near her headboard. I stepped inside and heard a rustle on the bedding. A small, furry head popped up near her pillow, peering in my direction, followed by the rhythmic thump of a tail against the quilt.
I could hear Laurel’s deep, regular breaths before I was close enough to brush stray streaks of hair back from her face and tuck the quilt close. Her forehead was cool when I kissed it.
As I straightened, the tail thumped more energetically. I skirted the bottom of the bed to where the dog still lay—she was stretching a bit now, dark eyes blinking, tongue darting nervously in and out. As I approached, her head sank to her paws and she burrowed into the covers as if she wanted to disappear.
As gingerly as I could so as not to wake Laurel, I sat on the bed, then drummed my fingers against my leg. Tinkerbell leapt to her feet at the signal and climbed into my lap, her tongue licking at my face. I stroked her soft coat and scratched at the base of her ears. Felt the firm muscle and bone beneath my fingers, the pulse at her throat. She curled up in my lap, her fox tail wrapped around her body, and sighed.
I leaned down and kissed the top of her head, then buried my face in her fur.
“I’m sorry.”
Kindred
“I learned about the Big Dipper when I was a little girl,” I said. “The Little Dipper, too. The Seven Sisters.”
“Mmm,” Simon murmured sleepily.
We were stretched out together in a sleeping bag in the field next to his cabin. I adjusted my head on his shoulder, the better to examine a million brilliant stars in a perfect black sky.
“The Seven Sisters are a star cluster,” I explained. “Pleiades. Look at them straight on and they’re just a blur. But look off just to the side and you can make them out. Peripheral vision. I figured that out when I was a kid.”
“Show-off,” he mumbled, stroking my hair.
“It ain’t braggin’ if it’s true.” I could feel the rumble of his chest as he laughed. “But no matter how hard I look,” I continued, “I can’t find the Big Dipper anymore. Or the Little Dipper. Or the Sisters. I haven’t seen them since I came here.”
Simon’s laughter faded. “Does it bother you?” he asked quietly.
“Would it make a difference if it did?”
When he didn’t answer, I raised my hand, gesturing overhead. “So tell me about these stars.”
“That’s easy,” he said. “Those over there? That’s the Spatula. And those? Ten-Gallon Hat. And those five grouped together over that way? Bluebeard and His Wives. But you have to squint and cross your eyes at the same time or you can’t see them right.”
“Ass.” I tucked my arm back inside the sleeping bag, nestling against him with a shiver.
“Sure you don’t want to go inside?” he asked.
“No. This is nice. You cold?”
“I’m fine. I’ve been colder.”
“Tell me.”
He paused. “A long time ago. Winter. A forest in Germany.”
“Ah. One of those trips to far-flung places? Was it beautiful?”
“Used to be.”
His tone was light, but there was a finality to it. Like a door closing.
“So, tell me more about when you were a little girl,” he said. “Did you have pigtails?”
“Pigtails?” I laughed.
“Sure. The kind boys dip in inkwells.”
I raised my head from his shoulder to gape at him. “Inkwells? Just how backward was the school system when you were a kid?”
“We were lucky to have slate boards and chalk. We rode dinosaurs to school.”
I kissed him. “Poor boy.”
“If I tell you about the outdoor privy, do I get another kiss?”
“Don’t you dare.” I kissed him again, this time lingering. When I raised my head again, I stroked the hair springing from his temples.
“How’d you manage to stay a bachelor so long?” I asked.
“It takes commitment.”
“Seriously. Meg’s been married for a while. You must have had . . . other opportunities.”
He ran a finger lightly down the bridge of my nose to my lips.
“I didn’t want opportunities. I was waiting for you.”
“Stop it. I’ll believe every word you tell me right now.”
“You should.” His hand was cupping my cheek, his face solemn.
I nestled back on his shoulder. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone before. From when you were a boy.”
“Let’s see. There was the time my dad and I were driving back from Santa Fe. On Rural 14, through Madrid. A coal town.”
“Used to be. They’re turning it into an arts colony now.”
“Hey, who’s telling this story?”
“Sorry.”
“Anyway, it got dark and I fell asleep in the front seat. Next thing I knew, my dad was shaking me awake. He wanted me to see the moon.”
“The moon? I think I like your dad.”
“It was a full harvest moon, on the night of the autumn equinox. Hanging so low over the piñon pines you could almost reach out and touch it. So we sat there on the ground, backs against the truck, drinking Nehi Wild Reds till the moon went down.”
“That’s a nice memory.”
“I remember something else, too.”
“What’s that?”
“I remember the Big Dipper.”
Night Chill
A dull thunk, like an ax splitting cordwood.
Spasms of exquisite pain . . .
* * *
I woke in my bed with a moan, my hand flying to my skull. To ward off, to stanch—I wasn’t sure which. It took a while for the throbbing to go away.
Nightmares had been coming on more often lately, although when dawn came I could remember them only in snatches. Sometimes vague impressions lingered, like a bad taste in the mouth or a heaviness of spirit. But by breakfast, I was usually myself again.
I was learning to see them as clarifying. Like visions that focus the mind. Giving it direction.
But that night, as the pain ebbed, something else took its place. Like a voice, but not quite. It was giving me direction, too.
Get up, it urged. Get up.
I did as it told me. I opened my bedroom door and headed down the hall.
Laurel’s door was cracked, her night-light glowing. I stepped inside and there she was, asleep in bed. She was curled on her side, peaceful, both hands tucked under her chin.
Tinkerbell was there, too, but awake and crouched protectively against Laurel’s back. The dog was growling low, a relentless rumble deep in her throat, her white teeth bared. It shocked me, until I realized Tinkerbell wasn’t looking at me.
She was looking at Jim.
Jim was standing over Laurel’s bed. Or, at least, some version of him was. There was no real substance to him, nothing to equate flesh and blood. The form was there, with all the right lines in place, but it was colorless, translucent.
I stepped into the room, and Jim turned toward me. His movements were slow and impassive. His face a blank, an abyss. A beam of light slanted steeply through the bedroom window. Not the moon—there was no moon that night. The light had to be coming from the top of the Mountain. And it glinted off an object in Jim’s hand. Long, flat, tempered steel. Machete.
A cold, contained fury erupted inside me.
Jim turned again, back toward Laurel, and Tinkerbell snarled and half rose to her feet, primed for attack. I moved then, too. It was only a few steps to where he stood, and I was on him in an instant.
I overtook him in midstep . . .
. . . and he dispersed like fog gusting from dry ice, until there was nothing to grapple with but a clammy chill.
Just like that . . . he was gone.
Into a Fogbound Moon
The night before the birthday party for Reuben’s brother came the first snow of the season. We had a dusting just after Thanksgiving, but it didn’t last long. This time the snowfall was four inches at least, and it stuck. It was even deeper on the Mountain, where the Begays lived, so we had to get there on horseback.
That morning, Olin and I saddled the horses while Jessie buttoned and zipped Laurel into warm boots and a parka. Tinkerbell had built up a thick coat for the winter, but I wasn’t sure if her paws could handle the trail higher up, so I slung an army blanket across my saddle in case she needed to hitch a ride.
We packed up the birthday gifts. I wasn’t sure what a sixteen-year-old boy might like, but Liz LaGow had assured me a fleece-lined hackamore was just the thing, because the main present from the boy’s family was to be a saddle horse.
As I mounted up, I tried not to stare at Jessie, who was wearing belted woolen trousers—so different from her usual matronly attire that she seemed almost a different woman. Olin winked at me before he gave Jessie a leg up. Jessie reined the pinto into a fast clip toward the road.
“She’s a firecracker on horseback,” Olin said admiringly. “Even did some barrel racin’ as a girl.”
“What’s barrel racin’, Opa?” Laurel asked as Olin swung her onto Tse’s broad back.
“That’s expert ridin’, Bunny.” He tucked her boot into the stirrup. “I’ll show you come spring.”
He swatted Tse’s flank as Laurel dug in with her heels, and the big horse took off after Yas, who had slowed to an easier pace toward town. I waited for Olin to mount up; then we cantered after the others, Tinkerbell loping behind.
The broad avenue through Morro was strung with pretty plastic snowflakes—huge ones that lit up every night now. Garlands of ivy and red holly berries were wrapped around each lamppost. Doors and lintels were hung with evergreen wreaths and swags decorated with pinecones and fruit, ribbons and bows. Inside the gazebo was a Christmas tree with handmade ornaments.
We headed past homes where kids were scraping together snow to build snowmen. Others were sliding down the foothills on wooden sleds. Past the Wild Rose, the general store, Schiavone’s, the library, the pub. The town hall, according to the sign out front, would be showing It’s a Wonderful Life this weekend. It didn’t strike me as ironic.
Just outside Morro, we bore to the right to climb into the forest on the access road. The snow was still a dry powder, so the horses kept their footing with ease.
I glanced at the spreading snowcap overhead. Ever since that night when I’d found Laurel and Tinkerbell, the Mountain and I seemed to have reached an understanding. Maybe it had lost interest in me and loosened its grip. Or maybe the prospect of getting caught up in its orbit had lost its menace. I’d made my peace with it—like going from a bone-jarring beginning to finding the right rhythm at last.
At Simon’s cabin, Pegasus was corralled out back pacing the fence. He’d filled out into a powerfully built animal—nothing like the emaciated creature I’d seen that first day.
But in front of the cabin was a handsome bay I’d never seen before. Simon was snugging the saddle cinch as we approached.
Tinkerbell raced ahead and onto the porch, stretching out beside Pal. Laurel called out, waving her arm like a flag, and Simon returned it. He was wearing a brown cowboy hat and sheepskin coat.
“I’ll see if he needs any help,” I said, leaping from Nastas’s back.
“Fine, fine,” Jessie said. Then to Laurel: “Why don’t we ride ’round back and visit Pegasus?”
As I headed toward Simon, I watched the three of them disappear behind the cabin.
“Mornin’, cowboy. Need some help?”
“Always.”
He leaned over as I moved in for a kiss; then another. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured.
“Your nose is cold.”
“You know what they say: ‘Cold nose, warm heart.’”
“That’s ‘Cold hands, warm heart,’” I said.
“In that case, I’d better get these off.” He was pulling at his gloves.
“Stop that!” I grabbed his hands with both of mine. “You’ll freeze.”
He tugged me to him. “With you here? Not a chance.”
Olin’s voice rang out: “Don’t forget the saddle, Simon! The boy’ll be disappointed if you do.”
He and Jessie and Laurel were returning. Simon patted a large lump wrapped in a thick blanket strapped tight behind his saddle. “Right here!”
“Best get started, then,” said Olin. “It’s a ride.”
The Begay ranch lay on the other side of the Mountain. The access road would take us to it, cutting around the Mountain rather than over. Laurel rode ahead with Simon. She had always taken to him, from that first night he came to dinner; perhaps that’s why she seemed to accept our being together now without hesitation or fuss. He was pointing out the places he’d gone hunting or fishing as a boy, or where he and his uncle hunted mushrooms or dug up sassafras roots to make tea.
“What’s sassafras?” she asked.
“A tree,” said Simon. “Deer eat the leaves and twigs, and rabbits eat the bark in wintertime.”
“What’s it taste like?”
“You like root beer? It tastes like that.”
She gave him a look that said she didn’t just fall off a turnip truck. “A root beer tree?”
>
He reached for his canteen. “Here,” he said, unscrewing the cap and passing it to her.
She took a sip. “It’s a little like root beer,” she said. “But no bubbles. It’s warm, too.”
“Like it? Then drink up.”
In time, the road hit a steep incline, which the horses took at a slow, methodic pace in snow that was well past their fetlocks. When the road leveled off again, we were high up on the Mountain’s south side, breaking free of the forest and overlooking a deep, sweeping valley so spectacular it took my breath away.
I reined in. The others did the same.
The late morning sun hit the slope at an angle that made the snow shine as if every inch were dusted with crystals.
And moving along the deep slope were bison—hundreds and hundreds of them, massive and shaggy, pawing at the ground, blowing out steaming breaths like bellows. Tinkerbell and Pal began to bark, but the bison ignored them—all but one great bull that raised his huge horned head, his muzzle white with rime ice, and heaved a huge snort. The dogs quieted.
Along the valley floor, a river was whipsawing through. Scattered along its banks were buildings of various sizes and shapes. You could smell wood smoke from chimneys and fire pits.
“And over there,” said Olin, pointing to the opposite slope, “those are Begay’s sheep. Some of ’em, anyway.”
A faint jingling noise erupted farther down the mountain road, growing louder by the minute. Finally I could make out a red sleigh on runners, drawn by a horse with silver bells on its harness.
We sidled closer to the Mountain to make way for the sleigh to pass. Seated inside was a woman in a silver fox coat and hat and a man in a wool overcoat and Russian-style fur cap. They were rosy cheeked and giddy, and the woman waved and called as they passed: “Gruss Gott! Wie geht’s?”
I sputtered after them: “Gruss Gott—gut, danke!”
The Hummingbird's Cage Page 21