Chapter Sixteen
The next day I slammed my shovel into the dirt, forcing the tool farther into the earth with my heel, the ground hard and unyielding, the air today watery and too thin.
I tossed the load, the brittle red clay crumbling in oblong circles and squares.
If only I’d finished digging my well before winter.
But no, here I was, still burrowing, my shovel barely edged beneath the surface.
The sun submerged below the tree line, and a butter-yellow light speared between the branches.
Winter echoed with faint sounds, like a lingering of long-gone summer crickets.
The periodic whinny of the wind or the rustle of an animal scampering through brush.
My shovel hit a rock, and the ricochet reverberated up my forearms into my biceps.
I huffed out some air and leaned over the handle.
It was Christmas Eve, and I was alone. The days and years and seasons of my life blurred, the colors of our farm oat and sable and Magnolia’s favorite rose-pink dress.
But Christmas, those moments stood at attention.
Evergreen and white, cranberry and gold.
Magnolia and Pa before the fire, caroling.
Willie pulling Ma to her feet, candlelight flashing on the pine boughs, my hand grasping Magnolia’s, and we’d whirl round the room.
Ezra scowling from the corner, smoothing his wiry waves of hair into place.
Pa muttering prophecies of spring: Now, did you note them stripes across the catapillas?
We’re in for a long winter; Ezra arguing about rings around the moon or low quantities of acorns.
I’d lie about seeing the thick tail of a coon or woodpeckers sharing a tree, send Ezra into a tizzy.
That had been my life. But I was here, right at present, creating my own story.
Memory was a lost place—distorted with time, forever ungraspable.
A remembrance settled over me, of the Yuletide celebration the year before, when families from across the county had roamed over to celebrate on our farm.
A scratchy wool throw blanket wrapped around my shoulders, racing downhill, winter grass brittle on my bare feet, cold air scraping down my throat in gasps, our laughter an echo across the lowland.
Beside me, Willie bound through the prairie, lifting his legs high, trying to avoid the inevitable burrs from catching on his new slacks, his hands full of Lark’s clothes.
I couldn’t believe Lark had fallen for the prank, Willie daring him to stand outside naked for ten minutes, but, of course, we’d stolen his clothes and headed off yonder to the millpond.
There was a holler, and I peeked over my shoulder, skidding downhill over gravel, grasping Willie’s arm so I wouldn’t fall, a laugh cracking from me.
Lark sprinted after us, his skin a white glow in the dark, a cowboy hat held over his unmentionables, the golden bonfires of the celebration a blaze along the rise.
“I’ll handle the clothes. You stall him.
” I caught the bundle from Willie, then rushed downhill, the garments smelling of horses and sweat.
I reached the pond and jumped across stones, headed to the mossy outcrop in the middle.
I slipped on some algae and grasped the wide-flung oak limb overhead to steady myself—dropping Lark’s clothes in the wallows, his overalls a blue smudge sinking in mire.
Willie and Lark ran up then. “Ah, hell,” Lark said, scowling at his clothes in the shallows, and then he rushed me.
He swooped me round the waist and tossed me over his shoulder. I gasped and called for Willie, but he just grinned and let Lark haul me away, surely to toss me in the pond.
“Lark.” I smacked his back. “Come now, this satin will pucker, and my ma will have my head.”
“Well, you might as well take it off then. You’re headed for the water.”
He lowered me, my bodice sliding along his bare chest, my ankles and hemline dipping into the freezing water, the creek trickling on by. His usual grin pressed into his face, but it felt thin at the corners. “I reckon we should be careful,” he said.
I looked at my fingers, narrow and tapered along his chest. “When have I ever wanted careful?”
We left the water, Willie tossing Lark a blanket, the group of us settling under the broad water oak along the bank.
“Whiskey,” someone yelled from the shadows, neighbor boys running downhill to join us, hauling a barrel of red eye.
We talked the midnight hours away, the night sky clear of clouds, stars bright and crisp.
Willie leaned against the trunk behind me, Lark now clothed in overalls from someone’s cousin.
“So who’s all headed to the Strip this summer?” I asked.
Willie pumped his fist and howled. The other boys were unsure. “You rushing, Minnie?” one of them asked.
“Absolutely.” I knocked my head toward Lark. “This feller here, Magnolia, my brothers, and I plan to find plots alongside each other.”
Growing up, everyone knew Lark and I would someday marry, but now that the Strip would open soon, I didn’t suppose we needed to hurry.
We could continue on as we always had, finding plots of land alongside each other, living as closest friends and neighbors, and then, after I’d proved up on my land, we could marry and have children.
“Willie,” I said, “we’re linking up with one of the big groups, right, maybe those founding the city of Woodward?”
“Mmm.” Willie drank his whiskey and looked over his shoulder, scanning the distant party, surely wondering whether another gang was up to something more fun than us. Willie looked at you like he was searching for the next thing. I nudged his boot, brought his attention back. “Woodward?”
“Willie,” someone hollered from uphill, “you down there?”
“I am alright.” Willie pushed off the tree and straightened his waistcoat.
“We’ve got a baseball game rolling,” a neighbor said, “need you as captain.”
“On it,” Willie hollered and hastened uphill. The others followed, leaving me at the creek with Lark. I lifted my brows. “Baseball?”
Lark kneaded the back of his neck. “I like the pond at night. We could stay?”
I clinked my glass against his. The moment stretched long, somehow heavy and awkward. I rubbed my shoulders, warming myself. “The quiet feels thick-full of thorns,” I said. “Why does this feel odd?”
“Everything’s changing.” He brushed a lock of hair off my forehead, his gaze stuck on my lips, his features indistinct in the understory. “I’m okay with that.”
And then he kissed me for the first time, his skin a bit colder than usual.
A flush of surprise, of hunger—I wanted so much.
His fingers gripped my hips, my hands caught in his hair, the strands stiff like fraying wheat.
And then we stumbled into the deep shadows behind the cedars, his hands tugging at my skirts, me fumbling with an overall buckle.
There was a click as the metal loop slipped free of the button shank, his breath hot and ragged against my neck, and then we were having sex, his eyes wide, my gasps erratic.
It had been fun, we always had fun. But then it ended.
On my homestead, the air blustery, I tucked my shawl up tight under my chin.
Being intimate with Lark had been inevitable, ever since the two of us had raced around as toddlers, tangling up in all manner of trouble.
Of course we’d ended up unclothed down by the creek.
I’d just thought at the end of our wildness, we’d marry and dash off somewhere together.
But—he’d never intended to marry me. I edged the tip of my shovel against the rock, the scrape shrill in the quiet.
The sky darkened. Lark was my oldest friend, and I’d lost part of myself when he’d stayed behind.
But I didn’t miss him, not truly. I didn’t want to return to my life in Kansas, didn’t want to socialize tonight with folks I didn’t know at some dance, but tarnation, I was exhausted with digging and building and pressing through my days, a blur of maintenance and chores and sprawling across my couch when dark hit, etching out letters on my crosswords.
There was a part of me, buried under these seasons of mourning, that desperately needed something more.
I yanked open my door and shoved my hands on my hips.
My woolen corset dangled from a cupboard.
I should probably wear that. I frowned down at my timeworn linsey-woolsey shirt and ripped the wincey over my head.
I shimmied into my corset and buttoned it over my chemise.
I reached behind and pulled the ties tight, jolting myself back into proper society.
Then I dug about my chest for my fancy attire.
Wool petticoat, pine-green satin skirt bordered with velvet, ivory overblouse, emerald bow knotted at my throat, smart damask jacket, barrettes nested in my hair, and muff warming my hands.
I spun to my mirror. A grin shocked wide at my wild hair and proper outfit. I looked ready to ruin adventure. Well, of course I was. But most surprising—I couldn’t wait.