It didn’t escape Rowena’s notice that Dale steered the wagon into ruts, so that she kept bouncing against him on the narrow bench. She relaxed her body, making the contact last a fraction longer than necessary before she pulled away. She wanted the discord between them to end, but she didn’t know how to achieve it. Even though she accepted that she was in the wrong, her pride wouldn’t allow her to apologize. Moreover, she was not ready to let go of her hatred of the Shoshone, however misguided or unjustified the feeling might be.
“Where are we going to?” she asked.
“North.”
“I can see that.” Rowena hesitated. “Are we going to the Indian reservation?”
Dale gave her a thoughtful glance. “No,” he replied. “We are not going to the Indian reservation.”
When night fell, they made dry camp. Dale laid out a cold supper of jerky and hardtack.
This is how he must have lived during his years as a lawman, alone, lacking any home comforts, Rowena thought.
Regret filled her, and a touch of shame at her stubborn refusal to take the first step toward a truce. She had no right to make him suffer because he hadn’t done her bidding. She opened her mouth but the words of apology caught in her throat. Why did it have to be so hard?
Dale pushed up to his feet. “I’ll sort out the bedding.”
The sun had disappeared beneath the horizon nearly an hour ago, and darkness was falling, the buzz of insects loud in the silence. A few stars already twinkled in the sky. A gust of wind made Rowena shiver. Not knowing where they were going, she’d put on a blue cotton dress, simple but well-cut, good enough for a visit with officers’ wives, in case they were headed for Fort Washakie, where Major Parks had taken the army recruits.
“Ready to turn in?”
Dale was beside her, his hand held out to her. She laced her fingers into his and allowed him to help her up into the wagon, where he had laid out a bed of straw covered with a canvas sheet. Two blankets were spread on opposite sides. Hiding her disappointment, Rowena wrapped herself into one of the blankets. So near, but not together. She gave a long, slow sigh of uncertainty.
“Are you cold?” Dale asked.
What harm was there in a lie? It had worked once before. “Yes.”
He reached out, laid his arm across her waist and pulled her toward him. Images of making love beneath the stars filled her mind, but Dale merely held her, letting her share the heat of his body.
“Good night, Rowena.”
“Good night.” Somehow, she knew that tomorrow she’d face a test of some kind, a test of courage and wisdom. If she failed, the rift between them might never heal.
Tense with foreboding, Rowena clutched the hard edge of the wagon bench as Dale left the marked trail and brought Samson to a halt in the middle of nowhere. Ahead, she could see nothing but barren land covered in sparse grass and gray rocks. “You said we were not going to the Indian reservation.”
Dale hopped down from the wagon. “We’re not. Those big boulders mark the reservation boundary. This was easier than getting permission for a number of Indians to leave the reservation land.”
He helped her down, his hands curled around her waist. Before he released her, he looked into her eyes and spoke quietly. “Will you do this for me, Rowena? Will you see them?”
Reluctantly, she nodded. Dale released her and went to lift a wooden stool from the wagon. After he had set the stool on the ground, carefully selecting an even spot, he gestured for her to sit down. When she was settled, Dale spread a blanket on the ground in front of her and stepped aside.
Suddenly, it seemed as if the earth itself had come alive. Indians, mostly women and children, stepped forward from between the rocks, from the shadows. Some seemed to simply rise up from the grass, like ghosts materializing from the morning mist.
One of them, a young woman carrying a baby at her hip, separated from the others and walked toward Rowena. Clad in a ragged cotton skirt and a deerskin shirt, she was painfully thin, her hair matted, her cheeks sunken. She halted in front of Rowena, bent to place a small clay pot on the blanket and straightened again. Carefully, she folded aside the piece of blanket that covered her baby and held the child up for Rowena to see.
“Thank you for the life of my baby.”
The words came out in halting, heavily accented English. Not waiting for Rowena to reply, the young woman withdrew back into the crowd.
Another woman stepped forward, followed by two children, a scrawny, nearly naked boy, barely old enough to walk, and a girl of around six of seven. The woman laid her hand on the shoulder of each child to bring them to a stop in front of Rowena and bent to place a pair of decorated moccasins on the blanket. “Thank you for the life of my children.”
Next, an old woman, toothless, her face lined with deep grooves, came forward with limping steps. Her gift was a small leather pouch with a few glass beads in it. “Thank you for my life.” The words were barely comprehensible. It became clear to Rowena that these women spoke no English. They were merely repeating words learned by rote, sacrificing their pride to thank a white woman who had taken pity on them and saved them from starving.
I had no pity, she wanted to shout. Tears welled up in her eyes, tears of compassion and shame, but she blinked them away, aware that Indians preferred solemnity on such formal occasions.
One by one they came, women young and old, some with children and some without. The pile of gifts on her blanket grew, ranging from a deerskin shirt decorated with porcupine quills to a handful of pollen that conveyed a blessing.
Finally, the women clustered to one side. A boy of perhaps fourteen, with a complexion so fair he had to be mostly white, came to stand in front of Rowena, together with an old man using a gnarled branch from a tree as a walking stick. Despite his frail body, the old man walked with the pride of a chief with ancient traditions behind him.
“My grandfather speaks no English, so I’ll translate for him,” the boy said.
The old man fastened his black eyes on Rowena and spoke a few guttural words.
“My grandfather thanks you for your gift to his people. He hopes you are pleased with the gifts they have given you in return.”
Rowena nodded. “Tell him I shall treasure the gifts of his people.”
The young man passed on her comment, and the chief replied, haughty and regal. The boy could not hide the startled flicker on his face, but when he translated his voice remained bland. “My grandfather has learned what happened to your mother. He says he knows of an Arapaho brave with the scalp of a flame-haired woman in his lodge. If you like, my grandfather will fight the brave for the scalp, so you can get back your mother’s hair and put it in her grave, make her body complete in the afterlife.”
Rowena clasped her hands together in her lap. At the mention of her mother’s fate, grief and anger surged within her, but quickly ebbed again. It was in the past. Nothing to do with this ragged collection of Indians, a nation who had lost their land, their freedom, their way of life. She contemplated the old man, as fragile as a dried-up twig. He could fight no brave. He couldn’t even fight her.
“Thank your grandfather, but there is no need. It no longer matters.”
The boy translated. The old man gestured at Rowena and spoke again.
“My grandfather says, white women don’t value their hair?”
“Tell him...” She felt a twitch at the corner of her mouth and had to bite her lip to bring the flash of amusement under control. “Tell him that white women value their hair very much while they’re alive. After they are dead, they no longer care.”
The old man replied. When his grandson started to translate, the chief held up his hand to demand silence. Slowly, each word measured, he said, “White...women...wise.”
No longer feeling the need to hold back a smile, Rowena nodded. “Thank you. I wish your nation well. May the drought end soon and there be many buffalo roaming the prairie, so that your people never need to go hungry again.”
The Indians turned away and walked off. By now, the sun had risen, and the bright light revealed their ragged poverty in every detail.
Who am I kidding? Rowena thought bleakly. The drought shows no signs of ending and the buffalo have all been killed by wealthy tourists who shoot them from the train windows for sport.
The sky was a blue dome above, the sun hot, the breeze cool, the prairie ablaze with wildflowers. It would have been a lovely day for an outing but Rowena’s agitation kept her from enjoying the journey home. She barely had the courage to look at Dale. He had bundled the blanket with the gifts from the Indian women into the wagon, and he had helped her up, but since then he had spoken not a single word. It was clear he was not going to help her.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I was wrong.”
“I know.”
“I felt betrayed... You said I only needed to ask...”
“I know.”
She stole a peek at him. “At least the house is spotless now.”
Dale sighed. “I know.”
From that moment on, the silence between them grew easier in texture. Here and there, they broke it with small, inconsequential comments.
“Did you see the skylark?”
“What was that? A prairie dog?”
When they got home, Rowena offered to cook while Dale unhitched the wagon and took care of the horse.
“What about these?” He indicated the gifts bundled into a blanket.
“Leave them in the barn for now. I’ll sort through them tomorrow.” She valued the items, but she expected that she would value them even more once she could be sure they were free of bedbugs and fleas.
In the kitchen, Rowena did her best with a chunk of beef and a tin of carrots, but her nerves eroded what little skill she possessed. When she heard Dale’s footsteps in the hall, she dished out the food.
He sat down and studied his plate. “What is this?”
“Beef stew.”
He stirred the charred pieces of meat and the carrots hardened into pellets with his spoon, then took a cautious mouthful. “It tastes all right.”
For a while, they ate in silence, the strain between them as suffocating as the oppressive thickness in the air that precedes a thunderstorm.
“Are we going to get more sheep?” Rowena asked finally.
“The Shoshone say it’s going to be a harsh winter. Perhaps we should wait until spring, so we don’t need to nurse the flock through snowstorms.” He looked up at her. “What do you think?”
Her gaze collided with his. His eyes were green, so green. And the scar on his face was so familiar, she could close her eyes and in her mind trace her fingers along the length of it. He hadn’t shaved, but from the droplets that glinted in his hair she knew he’d had a wash at the outside well, like he did most nights, to leave the bathing room free for her. She felt her chest tighten.
I’ve missed you, she wanted to tell him. I’m sorry I was foolish and stubborn. Will you love me? Will you ever love me?
She recalled the hand-carved ornamental stones up in the graveyard, a monument of Mr. Reese’s devotion to his wife. What did it take to make a man love a woman so? Were some men born with the capacity for such depth of emotion, while others would always lack it? Or could a woman, the right woman, inspire such devotion in any man?
But she held her tongue. Once before, she had spoken of love to a man, and he had trampled all over her feelings. “I think you are right,” she said. “It’s best to wait until next spring. Do the same as we did this year, get a mix of ewes and lambs, but more of them.”
Dale finished his stew and got to his feet. “I’m off to bed. Good night.”
And with that, he walked out of the kitchen, not looking back.
No invitation, no plea, no command. No Will you come and keep the coyote away? Nothing to ease her back into how things had been between them before she chose to shut herself away from him. The message was clear: You broke it. You fix it.
Nerves thrumming, Rowena cleared up in the kitchen and had her evening wash. She went up the stairs into her white-furnished bedroom and changed into her prettiest nightgown, a fine lawn cotton shift, trimmed with lace at the collar and at the end of the sleeves. Cold in her bare feet, she stood in front of the mirror and studied her reflection in the light of a single candle burning in a brass holder.
Coward, she told herself. If you don’t go to him, you’re a coward.
In her mind, she practiced her entrance. May I get into bed with you? May I join you? Can I come and keep you company?
She frowned at her image in the mirror. Surely, a wife didn’t need permission to join her husband in bed? It was her right by law. A duty, in fact. And she would exercise that right. Fulfill that duty. At once, before she lost her courage.
Dale lay in bed, listening. Would she join him? He heard the creak of a floorboard in the corridor first, before he felt the cool draft as the door flew open, with enough force to slam against the wall. Tense and still, he listened to the sound slowly fade away.
Leaving the lamp burning would have revealed he was waiting for her—waiting and hoping—so he had extinguished the flame, and darkness filled the room. After what felt like an eternity a single point of light appeared through the open doorway. A candle, with a hand cupped around the flame. Then the rest of his wife flounced into sight. With a determined thud of footsteps, she strode over to the bed, so hastily the candle almost fluttered out with every step, despite the protective shield of her hand.
When Rowena reached the bedside, she held up the candle to cast the light over him. “Move over,” she said, and to emphasize the command she made a shooing motion with her free hand. “I’m getting into bed with you.”
Triumph coursed through Dale, triumph and relief. He scooted backward on the thick feather mattress, to make space beside him. He held up the edge of the bedding. Rowena placed the brass candleholder on the nightstand and bent to blow out the flame.
“No,” he told her. “Leave it burning.”
She glanced back at him over her shoulder. He could read anticipation and excitement and even a hint of victory in the small smile that hovered around her mouth. She made no reply, merely turned around and slipped silently next to him beneath the covers.
Dale bundled his wife into his arms. The feel of her supple body against his. The faint scent of her soap. The way her hair tickled his skin. The sound of her breathing when she fought a burst of nerves. How could everything about her have become so familiar in the space of a few short months? How could it feel like a piece of him was missing when she was not by his side?
Dale framed his wife’s face in his hands and looked into her eyes. The candle burning behind her left her features in shadow, but he could read her expression anyway. He thought he saw echoes of what he felt, and that gave him the courage to speak.
“I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too.”
“Don’t ever do that again. If you want to fight, fight. Shout and yell. Slam doors and throw things. But don’t ever freeze me out again like that.”
He kissed her, a fierce, possessive kiss. His heart was hammering so hard he felt the room might echo with the sound. While he’d been waiting, wrought with uncertainty and doubt, he had thought it would be enough to hold her, to feel her against him, to reassure himself that he had not lost her. But now the need to possess her, to stamp his ownership, burned like a brushfire through him.
Closing one hand over the rounded swell of a breast, Dale rubbed and tugged and caressed, his fingers feeling the supple shape through the fabric of the nightgown. Rowena arched her spine to meet his touch. She made a small sound, a cry of abandon that he captured with another hungry kiss.
Before, she’d welcomed him at night, but now she met his passion with her own. Tongues dueled, teeth clashed. Her hands raked into his hair, holding him in place. Unable to wait, Dale curled his fingers over the lace collar of Rowena’s nightgown. He rolled half on top of her, his leg thrown across hers, pinning her down. His arm tensed, ready for one big downward tug that would tear the garment open.
Beneath him, Rowena wriggled. Her hands left his hair and curled around his wrist, stalling him. “No...” Her voice was a breathless whisper. “Don’t...”
Don’t. Dale froze. It felt as if his heart had stopped beating. As if his blood had stopped moving in his veins, his lungs had stopped breathing. As if every clock in the world had stopped. As if the world itself had ended, with those two small words of rejection.
No. Don’t.
He forced himself to meet Rowena’s eyes. There was no fear in them, no recoil or hesitation, only the misty haze of passion. Her skin was flushed, like velvet in the soft glow of candlelight. Her hair, rich brown with coppery glints, fanned over the pillow like a carpet of autumn leaves. Her lips were parted, glistening from his kisses. And then that lovely wide mouth that he could never kiss enough curved into a grin of mischief.
“This is my best nightgown.”
The dawning of understanding came in stages, like a trickle of water falling on a parched land, reviving, restoring life. All those clocks in the world that had stopped began ticking again. His lungs filled with air, his heart resumed beating, his blood flowed through his veins again.
Somewhere inside him a kernel of humor grew and grew, until it burst through. With an easy chuckle, Dale eased the grip of his fingers around the lace collar of the garment that had slowed him down. And perhaps it had been a blessing in disguise. Once before, he had taken his pleasure too fast, too hard, and left his wife to go to sleep unfulfilled. He would not let it happen again.
As if reading his thoughts, Rowena released her stranglehold on his wrist and reached up to trace the scar on his cheek with her fingertips. “There is no need to hurry,” she told him softly. “We have all night.”
A smile on his face, Dale searched for the tiny pearl buttons at the lace collar of his wife’s nightgown and slipped free the first of them. Letting his fingers linger, he stroked the soft skin on Rowena’s neck, felt the rapid beat of her pulse in the hollow between her collarbones.
There was no need to hurry. They had all night.
And he intended to make every minute count.