Authors: Abbie Williams
“Thank you,” I whispered, and his eyes, though direct upon mine, were unreadable. I sensed that he longed to join me, even if just to wrap me into his arms as I slept. Such a thing would be unseemly, as ridiculous as that certainly was after the events of last night, but I had already learned that he was indeed a gentleman.
“You are most welcome,” he said softly, and then moved swiftly to retie the lacings.
Perhaps a quarter hour later I was drowsing upon the pallet he’d made, my head on an actual pillow, though a small and rather lumpy one, covered in striped ticking. The sun was pleasantly golden upon the canvas walls, the air warm and the sounds outside contributing to my tentative and cautiously-increasing sense of security. Malcolm hummed softly as he washed their dishes and cups, in a surprisingly sweet, melodic voice. Boyd and Angus lingered for another cup of coffee, their voices low-pitched, rising and falling in conversation. Insects buzzed past the canvas at intervals, perhaps bees or flies, but their noise was comfortingly regular. In the background the familiar sound of the horses filled me with more peace than anything.
I rolled to my other side and wrapped both arms about myself, and though I’d not truly prayed in a long time and I didn’t fold my hands as was customary, I thought with utter sincerity,
Thank you, God. Thank you for this gift, for Angus and these men. For their kindness and their care. Dear God, please don’t take it away. Not yet.
And then I slept.
Hours later
a hand was on my shoulder, shaking lightly. My first instinct was fear and I cringed away with a gasp, coming fully awake. It was only Malcolm, kneeling beside my pallet with apology lifting his eyebrows and quirking his lips. Instantly he said, “Gus was trying to wake you without comin’ in here, but you wasn’t waking. I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’re heading out in a piece.”
Heart still clanging, I managed a smile at him and said, “Thank you, Malcolm. I’ll be out directly.”
He rocked back on his heels and smiled at me then, squinting one eye and looking more like a little boy than ever. Again my heart stirred; I was startled by my sudden urge to hug him to me, to pet his hair. He observed, “My mama’s hair was the same color as yours, like clover honey. Sometimes I used to comb it for her.” His eyes and voice were soft with memory. He added, “I’d comb yours if you’d like.”
I lifted to one elbow, not entirely certain how to respond to his sincere offer, and at last told him, “I used to comb my mama’s hair too.”
“Boy! You quit pestering Miss Blake an’ come load your gear!” Boyd called; the sounds of activity from outside were increasing.
“Aw right,” Malcolm grumbled, and ducked immediately back out.
The quality of the sunlight had changed, and the shadows of leaves being stirred by a breeze flickered against the canvas wall. I breathed in and smelled the remnants of the cookfire. Sweat had gathered beneath my breasts and under my arms. Surely there was no time for or hope of bathing; I would have to make do until then. As I unbuttoned the top of my dress I considered the absurdity of my current thoughts, as it would be unladylike to leave the buttons undone before going outside. Further, I had no corset, though my shift and dress fit snugly enough across my breasts that it wasn’t as inappropriate as I feared. As if the thought of anything remotely relating to manners and the qualities of a lady had been a part of my daily considerations for years. I may have left Ginny’s behind, but until last night I had still been every inch a whore, a woman whose sole purpose was to entice and seduce and charm. For some reason the thought that Malcolm should be aware of this distressed me more than anything else.
I did not want them waiting on me for any reason, so I hurried to unpin my hair, brushing through its heavy length only marginally; Angus had left my valise propped in the corner of the tent, on the grass. Beneath my pallet had been spread a woolen blanket, creating a barrier between the earth and the bedding. I twisted my hair at the back of my head, again inexpertly without a mirror, though I was grateful for the lack of one. It wasn’t from vanity; I was afraid to look into my own eyes because then I would have to face my guilt directly. Guilt for even allowing the luxury of thinking I could stay with these four, that they would willingly take me along on their journey instead of depositing me at the first convenient place they deemed appropriate. I refastened my dress buttons and pressed both hands to my stomach, then dared to follow in Malcolm’s wake, into the bustle of the four of them tearing down the camp. Angus tipped his hat at me and moved to me at once.
“Did you get a moment’s rest, at least?” he asked upon reaching me, his gray eyes shadowed beneath his hat brim. I had the sense that he was quelling the urge to rest a hand on my shoulder, even my cheek. I would have allowed it, but of course he did not. “It was an indulgence to set up the tents when we are not staying the night, but the shade is a welcome thing.”
“I did, thank you,” I responded, and Angus nodded towards the wagon, saying, “I figured you wouldn’t mind riding with Malcolm for a spell. He’ll appreciate the company, that is if he doesn’t talk your ears right off your head.”
I smiled a little, letting my gaze follow the boy for a moment, as he helped Boyd load gear. Sawyer was hitching the horses named Juniper and Aces High to the wagon, but I darted my eyes away from him instantly. Angus added, “If we ride into the night, we’ll be on the outskirts of Rollins. Tomorrow we’ll purchase a few necessary things.”
“Angus, I haven’t any—” I began, my heart fluttering with anxiety.
“None of that,” he said gently. “I have taken your care upon myself and care for you I intend to do.”
I stared at him with undisguised amazement, into the eyes that were as sincere and honest as any I’d ever known. The very few I’d ever known, other than my own father’s.
“Are all of your things packed?” he asked next.
“Yes,” I responded.
“Then load them into the wagon and I’ll tear down this tent,” he said.
Minutes later Malcolm helped me onto the wagon seat, visibly brimming with excitement at the prospect of company. The horses waited patiently, their pointed ears quirked in either direction, tails and hides intermittently twitching away the ever-present blowflies. Malcolm collected the reins in his hand and slapped them against his palm.
“We take turns riding up here,” Malcolm explained, nodding at his brother and Sawyer, both mounted and awaiting Angus, who was stowing a last bundle in the bed of the wagon. Boyd had spoken kindly to me, wished me good afternoon, while Sawyer had not spared a word; he appeared restless atop his gorgeous mare and she sensed this, prancing a little as though she too could scarcely wait to be underway.
“There,” Angus said from behind us, and he climbed easily upon Admiral, who was waiting with a patience certainly born of long training and experience. He adjusted his hips in the saddle, adjusted his hat, and then nudged his horse forward. “Let’s ride.”
The men took the lead in the slanting light of afternoon, though from time to time Angus would glance over his shoulder as though to make certain we were still there. Sawyer and Boyd ranged far ahead, circling back, then out again. As promised, Malcolm chattered enough for the two of us, but I enjoyed listening to him.
“My, but it is a fine afternoon,” he said, tilting back from his position of elbows on thighs to scan the cloudless blue of the sky. The quality of the spring light made my throat ache a little too, with wonder at the beauty of it. The air was moist and still, the sweet smell of the long grass ripe in our noses. Birds flew and called, chattering with one another.
“It is, at that,” I responded. I sat straight on the seat, letting my eyes wander the landscape, taking a moment to find joy in the angle of the sunlight and the quiet sounds, the scents.
“We had bad weather for a piece, just last week,” Malcolm explained. “Though it was right exciting to cross over the Mississippi. We took a ferry, we did. I thought we may just wash away, but we made it across real uneventful. An’ it’s been right pretty for a few days now.” He nodded at his horse, plodding dutifully along before the wagon. “Ain’t it, Aces? I know we ain’t had a chance to ride for a bit. I’ll take ya tomorrow. Ol’ Boyd can drive the wagon for a while, dammit.” And then his eyes flashed to me, in angst. “I’m sorry, Lorie. I didn’t mean t’ curse.”
I bit back a smile.
“My daddy’d strap my hide for cursing around a lady if he was still alive,” he went on, reassured that I didn’t appear offended. “My daddy’s name was Bainbridge Alistair Carter, ain’t that a proud name? Before the War I had me three brothers, but Beaumont and Grafton was both killed. My mama’s name was Clairee Angelique Miller before she married Daddy. She died of the typhoid in ’sixty-four. Boyd come for me the next spring though. I had just about give up hope that anyone was left in my family.”
“I understand how you feel,” I told him quietly, resisting the urge to tuck my hand through his arm; it was far too familiar a gesture. “My mama died when I wasn’t much older than you. And I lost both my brothers and my daddy in the War.”
“Gus told us some last night, while you was a-sleeping,” Malcolm said. “He said he was gonna take care of you from now on. I’m right glad, Lorie.”
“Thank you,” I told him. “I’m glad to be with all of you.” He could never begin to know how glad, how indebted. My thoughts coiled reluctantly back around to Ginny, wondering at her reaction after last night’s events. I was thankful as hell that mile upon mile was now between us.
“I was my mama’s last baby, but she wanted a girl after me, something fierce,” Malcolm continued, sitting forward again, his dark hair flopping over his forehead; he’d let his hat dangle down his back. I noticed that his feet were bare, his toes curling against the dusty wooden board beneath our feet, and wished I too could remove my shoes; I was unused to the walking boots that I had never worn for more than an hour, doing little walking; I wore them to hang laundry mostly. The soft velvet slippers I had left behind at Ginny’s, under my old bed. My heels were aching and surely blistered by now; I hadn’t checked, as I hadn’t removed my boots when I napped. Malcolm was saying, “She went to Gilly Bledsoe, the holler witch, for a charm to make a girl, but it didn’t work, far as I could tell.”
I had been raised in Tennessee and knew of the superstitions that pervaded the hills and valleys, and so did not blink at his matter-of-fact comment. Malcolm continued, “Mama made a tea of it, I remember. It smelled right terrible. Daddy laughed an’ said the Carters made boys, that’s what. Most of my cousins was killed in the War, too, an’ Daddy’s brother Malcolm, who I was named for. I wish I’d been old enough to go an’ fight, Lorie. I had to stay behind, Mama wouldn’t even let me go for a drummer boy.”
“And thank heavens for that,” I admonished him. “My brothers were raring to go to war, too, and they both died before they ever got a chance to become men.” My heart twisted as always to hold Dalton and Jesse in my mind, a part of me terrified at the prospect of being unable to recall them completely. Already the sounds of their voices had faded. “I would give about anything if they were still alive.”
Malcolm shifted on the seat and his eyes came to rest on me for a spell. He finally said, “You talk so pretty.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “My mama would be happy to hear that. She spent plenty of time on my education.”
“How’d you end up in a cat house?” he asked next, sounding truly curious, and my heart simultaneously throbbed and sank; there was no point evading his question.
“My mama died and I was left alone,” I said, my voice slightly hoarse. I looked out to the three other riders; Angus had joined Boyd and Sawyer, the three of them riding abreast, perhaps twenty yards ahead. “I was alone, and a woman offered me a job in her place.” I determined that short and simple would suffice. “She gave me a place to live and food to eat.” All I’d had to do in repayment was lay down for whoever was willing to pay. My soul cringed and writhed at the thought. I finished with, “But she was unkind.” And sadistic, addicted to opium, and mean as a boar with buckshot in its flank.
Malcolm only shrugged and replied simply, “It’s good that Gus found you, then. He’ll care for you. He cares for all of us.”
I let my eyes linger again on Angus as he rode along, his shirt a faded blue today, his hat reddish-brown, the color of the roads leading to my daddy’s ranch. I was not oblivious to the fact that he wanted me, though he was keeping that tucked strictly away now. Nor did it escape me that I could use this to my advantage, should I choose to become the soulless scavenger that many people believed all prostitutes were; but I was not yet without a soul, no matter how much I had come to doubt that in the past years. I would not use him. Certainly last night did not count in that assessment, as he’d been a stranger, a paying customer. Though he was no less a stranger today; at least he was a kind one.
“Do you like music?” Malcolm asked then, redirecting my uneasy thoughts.
“I do,” I said.
“I play the squeezebox, and Boyd’s got a fiddle along. Our uncle Malcolm made instruments. Made Boyd’s fiddle from a spruce. You gotta have a tight grain on the wood for a fiddle,” he added with a tone of great wisdom. I held back another smile. “Boyd’s fiddle is near to thirty years old, older’n him. There ain’t nothing sweeter than the music it makes, I tell you true. We’ll play for you, I promise.”
“I would love that,” I told him.
“An’ maybe we can have us a dance!” he enthused. “Since you’re here. Aw, what dances we had back home. I miss them days so much. Shucks.”
I recalled dances with pleasure too, being lifted into my daddy’s arms and twirled around a crowded floor. I’d been robbed of dancing with any suitors, as would have been the case by my current age. Likely I’d even be betrothed by now; I recalled Mama having her eye on Rafe Howell for me, back in Lafayette in another life.
“Dances are indeed lovely,” I agreed. I adjusted position on the hard seat, my lower back aching slightly. When it came down to it, I’d led a rather pampered existence at Ginny’s. If one took into account simply the silk gowns and linen undergarments, cleaned daily by Betsy, the rich foods Greta baked, and the overall lack of chores. I would have to toughen up; I would rather cut off limbs than return to that life as a prisoner in a luxurious jail. Despite having slept the majority of the afternoon away, I was achingly tired. My head was hurting, just behind my eyes.