Grace of a Hawk Page 3

  Charley resettled his hat and tipped the brim at me, murmuring, “Good evening, dear Lorie,” reminding me of the first moment of meeting him last summer, when he mistook me for a boy. It did strike me as somewhat humorous that to Charley it must seem as though I was clad far more often in garments intended for men; even now, with my braid tucked under Sawyer’s hat and a length of ribbon securing the waistband of my boyish trousers, I was far from properly attired. But Charley grinned, acknowledging my lack of concern over the matter, before his mustache fell back into the somber, half-frowning expression he’d worn as he rode into the dooryard.

  He explained, “We have not seen hide or hair of the boy in, well, close to a month now, I would suppose, unless he has returned in my absence, though I haven’t the sense that he shall have. Fannie is quite beside herself with worry. Fallon disappeared in the night hours, taking his horse with him. Stole a saddle from the tack room. Or perhaps I shall use the word ‘borrowed,’ until I am able to prove otherwise.” Charley, a kind soul with five of his own rowdy boys, remained magnanimous as ever. He continued, “The boys and I rode at once to their homestead, but it remains unchanged. I do not believe Fallon ventured there, or if so, he did not linger long, as not a thing was disturbed. We’d since taken in their livestock.”

  “And of his father?” I ventured, hesitant to speak aloud Thomas Yancy’s name, as though to do so would be to summon him. When I caught myself wringing my hands, I summarily ceased the motion. Sawyer came to stand near me, on the opposite side of the corral fence. The last of the sun shone over his golden hair and the angles of the face I loved more than all else in the world. He cupped my shoulder, stroking with his thumb, knowing I needed the reassurance of his touch.

  “Not a word,” Charley confirmed. He rested four fingertips briefly upon my forearm, braced along the corral, his touch conveying compassion; he knew how I feared Yancy, the vindictive marshal whose whereabouts remained unknown. Beneath his hat brim, Charley’s dark eyes scrutinized my face. He spoke quietly. “His absence troubles me greatly, as well.”

  Edward Tilson, local physician and Sawyer’s and my savior in more ways than one, appeared in the open door and called, “Rawley! Good evening to you, sir. I s’pose you smelled supper on the air.”

  “And a fine one, from the scent!” Charley returned; he was familiar with Tilson’s bantering.

  “Lorie-love,” Sawyer murmured, offering me his arm, and the three of us walked through the dusky air, tinted a warm rose as the sun sank. Lightning bugs, which I’d been silently admiring before Charley’s horse appeared on the horizon, flitted in the tall grass and late-blooming wildflowers nodding their blossomed heads in the roadside ditches. We were dining late this evening, as Tilson had only recently returned from setting a broken arm.

  Tilson stood wiping his gnarled hands on a length of huck toweling, watching us come near. His gray hair hung past his jaws on either side, in need of combing as usual; Tilson was not one for fussy grooming. In his rasping voice, courtesy of a Yankee rope about his neck during the War, he demanded of Charley, “What news have you?”

  “Yancy’s eldest has disappeared,” Charley said.

  “Who has disappeared?” Rebecca asked, joining her uncle at the door, peering around his left shoulder. Spying Charley, she invited, “Do come in, Mr. Rawley.”

  “And not a word on the location of Yancy himself, either,” Tilson said, in a grim undertone. “At least, not in town. He ain’t yet reappeared on his homestead, is that right? It’s already September the first and shortly it’ll be two months gone since he rode away from this very yard.”

  Charley nodded affirmation. “There has been no sign of the man, despite the efforts of several searching parties. I shall wash quickly and join you. I’ve other news, as well,” he said, and detoured around the north side of the house, to the hand pump. Beneath its dripping spout, a cluster of rangy white daisies had grown to the height of my thighs.

  Unable to resist the urge, I leaned against Sawyer’s warm, strong side, thankful for the security of him; he tucked me closer at once, kissing the top of my head. I heard the thought he sent my way, Don’t fear, love.

  I don’t mean to…

  Two dozen steps beyond the house in which resided Tilson, Rebecca Krage, her sons, Cort and Nathaniel, and her brother, Clint Clemens, there squatted the emerging structure of a small shanty cabin intended for mine and Sawyer’s use this coming winter; all that was required was a last row of shingles over the tar paper. Although I knew Sawyer longed for us to be on the trail with Boyd and Malcolm, and chafed at the circumstances which forced us to remain behind for a time, I cared only for his recovery. Physically he was repairing well – the burns and bruises ravaging his flesh had slowly faded as they healed; his shoulder bore no more than a rounded red scar on the front, roughly the size of my thumbnail, and a thin reddish line along the back, where Tilson had neatly stitched the incision he’d sliced to free a bullet from Sawyer’s body.

  Sawyer’s distress, and subsequent frustration, was born of the limitations forced upon him by his missing left eye. His head ached, fiercely at times, and he grew dizzy riding Whistler; numerous times I reminded him that only a short span had passed since the grievous injury, and that it would ease with time. I worried so for him that some nights, even after the intensity of our joining, I lay sleepless and fretful, listening to him breathe and praying he would be fully able to come to terms with the injury. For my sake, I knew he minimized his pain and strove not to complain, but as well as we sensed each other’s thoughts I understood what he kept from me. And Sawyer knew this, too. His internal agony was as potent to me as my own.

  Stormy, Malcolm’s gray cat, paced near the woodstove; the animal had been left behind to traverse northward with Sawyer and me, come spring. It had been weeks since Boyd and Malcolm departed for Minnesota, armed with rifles, pistols, and rounds, food, bundles of winter clothing, and little else, prepared to ride hard, intending to reach Jacob Miller’s homestead by September’s end. The ache of their absence stung as nettles dragged over my skin. Each night I whispered a prayer for them, calling to my sweet Malcolm in my mind, wishing him safe. I knew Boyd would care for and protect the boy, but I longed for Malcolm in the way of a mother, imagining him hurt – an arm twisted, a knee scraped – his freckled face wet with tears before he fell asleep, for I knew he missed me every bit as devotedly. Who would sing with him? Who would pet his hair and hold him? Boyd loved him, this I knew without question, but Malcolm needed a woman’s touch; since very nearly the first night we had met I’d imagined myself a surrogate mother to him, his own mama having succumbed to illness years ago, during the terrible last year of the War.

  Sawyer drew out my chair and I took my customary place, to Rebecca’s right. She placed the last dish upon the well-laden table and hooked her apron near the woodstove before curving a hand over my shoulder, an affectionate gesture so common to her. I smiled up at her, this woman I had grown to love as well as a sister, who had opened her home to us without question, offering friendship and kindness and acceptance. Her hair, dark and lustrous as polished walnut, was twisted back from her face, her green eyes taking on a fetching golden cast in the lantern light, a lovely shade much like Sawyer’s. Her lips softened at the sight of my smile and then became wistful, whether she knew I recognized it or not; she glanced at the chair which Boyd had always claimed, and swallowed with difficulty, before turning abruptly away.

  Rebecca loved Boyd, this I knew as certainly as the full moon would shine, a seamlessly-sculpted ivory circle, in this night’s sky. And if his absence hurt me, it was miniscule compared to her pain; I would see Boyd again, come next year, whereas Rebecca had resigned herself to a life without him. I struggled to accept this truth; I wanted so badly to beg her to accompany us in spring, to forego her unspoken promise to Marshal Quade and instead reunite with Boyd, but I understood the irrationality of such longings. Rebecca was a mother and a lady, rooted in the security of the comfortab
le home she had made here in Iowa, and Marshal Quade had courted her in earnest now that Boyd was absent. Whether Quade harbored ill will towards Boyd, I knew not; Quade had never behaved as less than a gentleman in Boyd’s presence, though I suspected he had at the very least sensed the imminence of Boyd’s threat to his position in Rebecca’s life, as he’d never been exactly friendly with Boyd. Now that Boyd had departed for the Northland, Quade’s bearing grew daily less imposing and more relaxed; only a few nights past, I’d witnessed him laugh.

  I knew Rebecca cared for Quade; I had grown to recognize him as a kind and honorable man, though I continued to struggle to refer to him as Lev, as did Rebecca, or even Leverett, as my first interactions with the man, which had been so formal, continued to color my perception of him. But I acknowledged Quade’s overall decency, and his devotion to both Rebecca and her boys was as evident as the nose upon his face. These truths were, however, coupled with my knowledge that Rebecca’s feelings for Quade paled in comparison to those she harbored, and would continue to harbor, for Boyd. During our frequent conversations, which I cherished, Rebecca and I shared hushed confidences in the way of sisters but even had she never spoken aloud her longing for Boyd, I would have known.

  Peering at Rebecca from the corner of my gaze, I thought, Dearest, I would do almost anything to bring him back for you. I know he loves you. He was just too damn stubborn to admit to it.

  I stretched my mind out across the endless miles even as I comprehended the futility of such an undertaking, picturing the prairie racing beneath my gaze, faster than any speed possible by man or horse. It was a wishful attempt, at best, as I knew Boyd and Malcolm could not sense my thoughts as could Sawyer. Still, I entreated Boyd, willing him to hear. Come back for her. Please, come back for her.

  Of course there was no response; though I had not truly expected one, a small, cold chill centered itself at the base of my neck. I was unduly troubled that I failed to perceive a sense of either Boyd or Malcolm, not the faintest inkling. I refused to pose the question of their potential whereabouts just now, for fear of upsetting Rebecca; though she already worried for the same reason, even if she had not voiced it in so many words. We had received no letter from Boyd, no note hastily scrawled – he was not given to lengthy letter-writing, I knew, but there had been exactly nothing thus far, not so much as a scrap posted from a town in either Iowa or Minnesota to inform us of their progress. By now they must certainly have ridden near enough a settlement to post a letter; based upon our collective calculations and subsequent detailed examination of the mapped route, we assumed they had by now reached the Minnesota border, but we’d received no evidence to offer reassurance.

  I would ask Sawyer later, when we were alone in the shanty cabin.

  Charley entered from outside and Rebecca made certain her boys, Cort and little Nathaniel, were settled before taking her own place, the last to be seated. Tilson led grace; I slipped my hand into Sawyer’s, to my right, and he curled tight my fingers as Tilson said, “Amen.”

  “Fannie sends her regards,” Charley said, as everyone fell to passing dishes.

  “I imagine her hands are full,” Rebecca said, and then, to Nathaniel, “Do not feed the cat at the table, young man.”

  “That they are,” Charley acknowledged. “And now with the distraction of Fallon’s disappearance she is in an inconsolable state of nerves. I do confess I am angered at the boy’s seeming lack of concern for what his actions have caused. To leave, with no explanation, not even to his brother. And to what end? I intend to place an ad in the town circular, seeking any word of the boy’s whereabouts. Otherwise I should not have ventured so far from home in the midst of such an occurrence.”

  Sawyer knew, and shared, my dislike of Fallon Yancy, only compounded tenfold now that we knew of what his father, Thomas Yancy, was capable. I tried, chiefly in vain, to remind myself Fallon was only a boy, no more than fourteen years of age. As a young runaway he was bound for potential danger, no matter what his motives for the decision.

  With his usual gruff and impertinent humor, Tilson observed, “Rawley, if one plans to run away it hardly seems wise to inform another party of the intent.”

  Charley snorted a laugh, shaking his head. “Tilson, you’ve a point, I shall not argue, but it concerns me greatly that a youth in my charge, however tentative, has gone missing.”

  “Do you believe the boy has attempted to reunite with his father? Or perhaps his father has made contact with him?” I inquired; it was the first explanation that occurred to me upon Charley’s announcement.

  “I was about to ask the same,” Sawyer said. Beneath the table, he rested his hand upon my right thigh, patting me twice.

  “I should like to believe Thomas would present himself to me, and to Fannie, in the manner of a grown man, not to mention that of a United States Marshal. Yet, given recent circumstances, I’ve come to realize I know very little about the man’s intentions. It stands to reason that he could have made contact with his elder son between now and last July. But Dredd spoke nothing of such, and I would presume that Yancy would attempt to reach the both of them.” Charley sighed and seemed to dislike the pall cast over the table at his words; he turned to me and politely changed the subject. “Fannie is especially interested to hear how well you have enjoyed learning to midwife.”

  Tilson’s kind, blue-gray eyes alighted upon me and he beamed with all the pride of a father. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it many times after your absence, Lorie. You are indispensable. An admirably fast learner.”

  “And you have been a most gracious teacher.” I smiled his way with genuine affection, my cheeks flushing with both pride and the joy of my own recent discovery, ever so new and precious. Edward Tilson, Rebecca’s uncle, had doctored his entire adult life, first in Tennessee, the land of his birth, and through the duration of the War, and now attended to those in Iowa City and its neighboring farms; he had relocated after the Surrender, to live with his sister’s children in Iowa. Rebecca and her younger brother shared with Tilson the homestead where Rebecca’s father brought the family many years ago, and in which she had lived as a new bride, and later a widow, after her husband, Elijah Krage, was killed in 1863.

  Their home was already cramped, even before the unexpected arrival of four complete strangers, as Boyd, Malcolm, Sawyer and I had been to them earlier this summer, and so the shanty cabin constructed for Sawyer’s and my use would be more than welcome upon our vacating it come spring. I knew Rebecca intended to remain on this homestead after she married Marshal Quade; following the wedding, Tilson would occupy the shanty cabin, and Clemens spoke of renting his own room, nearer to town, where he was employed as deputy sheriff. Clemens had not joined us for dinner this evening, as he was on duty, and also possessed of a rather shy, solitary soul.

  “Even sound teaching is only as effective as the pupil’s abilities,” Tilson said modestly. “You’ve a fine natural talent.”

  Sawyer caught my gaze and asked, Would you like to wait?

  No, I said in return, a smile seeming to split my face. I’d spoken with Rebecca this morning, but no one else knew.

  Tilson set down his fork at the sight of my expression and observed, “Lorie, you’ve the look of the cat that stole the cream. What are you about this evening?”

  Rebecca, delighted, clasped my forearm and squeezed.

  “We…that is, Sawyer and I…we are…” Tears surged to my eyes at the notion of something so wondrous.

  Sawyer took my right hand into his left and folded together our fingers. Everyone had stopped eating, even Cort and Nathaniel, watching with expectant excitement. His deep voice rife with elation and pride, Sawyer said, “Lorie told me just last night that we are to be parents in the spring.”

  The table erupted with congratulatory chaos. My tears overspilled and I leaned against Sawyer, who kissed my forehead. I remained a bit ashamed of my own failure to notice my monthly bleeding had ceased nearly six weeks ago. Occupied as I’d been with th
e traumatic events of the summer, it took Sawyer’s half-teasing observation to trigger the realization that there was a very good reason for this absence.

  “I swear I am not imagining it, darlin’,” he’d whispered only last night, as we lay snuggled beneath our quilts.

  “Imagining what?” I’d murmured in lazy response, savoring the feeling of my backside tucked against the solid warmth of his thighs, so tired my upper eyelids seemed tethered to the lower.

  He pressed his lips to my nape, sweeping aside my hair to do so, and settled my breasts within his broad palms. Gently circling both nipples with his thumbs, he murmured, “That your breasts seem to grow fuller with each passing day.”

  My eyelids parted at this, my hands moving to cup his much larger ones; his knuckles made unyielding ridges beneath my palms and I fitted my fingertips in the valleys between each. It was not until that very moment I counted rapidly backward, racing to recall when last I’d dug my bleeding-cloth bindings from our trunk. As awareness dawned I’d eased to a sitting position, the quilt falling to my hips. Sawyer, mildly alarmed, rose to one elbow.

  “It’s been…it’s been…I haven’t…” I stumbled, unable to gather enough wits to coherently explain.

  “Haven’t what, love?” he asked, resting his hands on my bare thighs. He watched as I counted on my fingers, forward through the months this time, my heart fluttering with an exquisite, fledgling happiness.

  “May,” he understood, even before I spoke, and I nodded, tears brimming in my eyes. He whispered reverently, “Our child, next May.”

  “Fannie shall be overcome with joy,” Charley pronounced, grinning at us here at the crowded dinner table. “What wonderful news. I am delighted to be present for this happy announcement.”

  “I could not be gladder for you,” Rebecca said, tears glistening; she touched the edge of her sleeve to her eyes, each in turn. “And that I shall be able to help you through the process brings me much relief.”