Chapter 13
ALICE
By morning, I am grateful for my evening of only lemonade, while Kodiak, chastened beneath the glare of sunshine, grumbles about our modest room. He stretches, and the popping of his bones is loud in the hush.
“You sleep mighty fine, I hope, Princess Alice?”
“As well as might be expected. Thank you.”
He laughs, though humorless. “Well, the floor was just dandy.”
I check a smile. “Had you behaved yourself, you might have known the soft earth and the comfort of a campfire.”
He does not miss a beat. “And had I left you to rot in Ohio, I’da been the one keepin’ folks up last night.”
The words strike deeper than they should.
It is not my fault the world has contrived to trouble women with ceaseless care for safety, propriety, and virtue.
Of course I must strive to prove my usefulness.
I cooked for him, prepared coffee at daybreak, did what I might to ease the way.
Yet no matter—I am a weight to be borne, and soon enough he will set me down and walk away.
I say nothing, wiping my face at the washstand. The boards creak as he paces.
“Come on. We best be movin’. I got business waitin’ down south.”
Though tempted to reply in kind, I hold my tongue. I will not grant him the satisfaction. He leads through the door, then halts at the threshold, turns and braces one hand high on the frame. The breadth of his shoulders fill the space.
I stand with hands clasped at my waist, bowing my head.
“That was me bein’ a fool,” he says, and leans forward, closing the distance without moving a step.
The words cause a flutter in my belly.
“That weren’t kind, what I said. Whiskey’s rattlin’ in me, but that ain’t your fault. Didn’t aim to put my blight on you.”
An apology—unbidden, sincere. Perhaps he saw me wince. I smooth my skirt and lift my chin. “Thank you.”
He nods, then steps into the hall. His boots drag on the floorboards with less swagger than usual. I follow, unsettled in heart, though not as I was a moment before.
The air outside greets us crisp and bright, a balm after the heavy smoke of the night. “You brew a fine cup,” he says suddenly, abrupt, as though the words had been wrestled from him. “Better than I ever managed.”
So odd a confession—domestic, small, not his usual talk. Against my will, I smile. “That is kind of you.”
His mouth tilts in the barest grin, hidden swiftly beneath his hat brim. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
I laugh before I think to stop myself. The sound startles me as much as him. For once, he does not try to press his luck. He only glances sidelong, and in that silence there is something sweeter than all his swagger the night before.
The road south opens wide as Salt Lick falls behind, the town shrinking to a tendril of smoke on the horizon. The land stretches in slow waves of grass and brush, stitched here and there with silver water. The red sun climbs, its warmth pressing hard upon my bonnet.
We do not speak much. His silence is not cruel; it has an ease to it. At times, he hums a tune under his breath. I catch myself watching the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw, more than I ought. By midday the heat bears close, the horizon wavering with dust.
Suddenly he stiffens. “Keep your head down,” he hisses.
My heart leaps, but I obey, ducking beneath the brim of my bonnet. A small band of riders moves along a ridge half a mile distant.
“Too neat for ranch hands, too stiff for drifters,” he observes.
They wear dark coats and wide hats, their faces cast in shadow.
“Who are they?” I whisper.
His hand tightens on the reins. “Pinkertons.”
The name is strange to me. “Are they dangerous?”
He snorts without mirth. “Depends who you are. They’re private detectives.
Rich men’s hounds, sniffin’ after whoever their master points ’em at.
You cross a railroad baron or a bank, they loose the Pinkertons.
And I crossed plenty.” His jaw works hard.
“Best hope them bastards ain’t huntin’ me today. ”
A shiver passes through me despite the heat. The riders crest the ridge and vanish into the shimmer of dust. He watches the horizon long after they are gone, reins drawn taut.
At length he exhales, shoulders easing. “We’ll keep movin’. Country’s wide. They can’t cover every trail.”
I nod, though unease lingers. He says little, and I do not ask. The sun drags slow across the sky, baking the land flat and still. My skirts cling to my legs, my mouth dry as dust, yet he calls no halt, only urges the horses on, mile after mile.
By sundown, my bones ache with weariness. At last the road narrows, and he draws the wagon into a thicket of trees.
“Here’ll do,” he says, unhitching the horses. He checks their hooves, speaking low to them, words too soft for me to catch but warm enough in tone. From time to time I glimpse his tenderness, and it is striking—that such a man, rough and ill-mannered, should be so gentle.
I climb down stiffly, legs trembling after the long day. The air cools with dusk, cicadas lifting their song. I set to work, gathering kindling, striking flint. Soon a fire glows small between us, a circle of orange in the wide dark.
“Thank you. That’s a right pretty fire, Miss Alice,” he says.
My back teeth clench, but I return his playful poke. “You are most welcome, Mr. Kodiak.”
He smiles. “Like the ring of that.”
We work around each other, a slow rhythm of yielding and leading, his hands busy with his part and mine with mine, until the camp stands ready—shelter pitched, bedroll spread, rations laid neat for morning.
Thunder rolls in like distant drums.
“Thought I smelled rain,” he mutters, scanning the camp. “I’ll crawl under the carriage.”
The mud-spattered undercarriage is low to the ground. A man of his size could scarce fit, let alone keep dry. “There is the tent.”
He turns back slow, one brow raised.
Before he speaks, I cut him short. “I suggest shelter, Mr. Kodiak. Nothing more.”
He chuckles. “Why of course, Miss Alice. I would assume no impropriety.”
Plainly he makes a jest of me, yet I let it pass in good humor.
When the rain comes, he joins me beneath the canvas. The drops fall heavy and warm, a summer storm soaking the world outside. The fabric sags, dark with moisture, but we are dry enough.
“Least it ain’t cold,” he rasps, easing down with a groan.
“I imagine that would be far worse.”
“Ain’t nothin’ meaner than wet and cold both.”
I glance toward the drowned firepit. “Would be pleasant if a fire could be brought inside.”
He chuckles. “Well now, I seen it done. Not in a tent like this, but the Shawnee, they build shelters to hold heat proper. Wigwams, tight-packed with bark and clay. Smoke holes cut at the top. Dry as bone within, no matter the weather.”
I study him by the lantern’s glow. “You have been among the Shawnee?”
He nods, eyes gone distant. “Few years back. Took a bad break to the leg, fever after. Scout I’d worked with—he’d married a Shawnee woman—brought me in. They had no call to help me, but they did. Asked nothin’ in return.”
“Weren’t you afraid?” The words slip out. “Of them, I mean.”
He cuts me a look, firm but not unkind. “No, ma’am. They bore me no ill will. Most of what folks say is fear, or guilt. The Shawnee don’t take up arms without cause. Their land’s been stripped away, treaty by treaty. Hard to fault a man for holdin’ fast to his own land.”
He falls quiet then, not angry, only convinced.
“They liked the stars too,” he says after a spell, chin tilting toward the dim patch of sky visible through the flap. “Old men would tell stories, all bound up in the constellations. Reckon you’d probably find ’em mighty interestin’.”
“I think I would. I’ve always loved the stars. The legends behind them. I traced their patterns night after night.”
“Awful lot to keep track of.”
“If you track them long enough, they become familiar. Year after year, the same stars return to the same place in the sky. I suppose I found something comforting about that.”
He squints upward. “When that Shawnee scout brought me in, he told ’em my name.
Kodiak. One of the old men, he nodded and pointed at the sky.
Said there’s a bear up there, you can see him plain if you know where to look.
Three hunters on his trail, never lettin’ up.
Every spring they rise again, chasin’ him ‘cross the heavens. Come fall, they wound him. His blood spills, turns the leaves red. But the bear don’t die for good.
Next year he’s back, runnin’ just the same, huntin’ and hunted all over again. ”
Goosebumps erupt down my neck. “Ursa Major. The Great Bear.”
“You heard it too, huh?” He smirks faint, like it’s some private joke.
“The three hunters,” I say. “Orion’s belt. The bear is destined to run forever. Around and around, never resting.”
The storm cools the air, the patter steady on the canvas above. I sit still, the warmth between us unexpected. “Your life sounds like an adventure.”
He chuckles softly. “Fool’s gambles is what it is. Only seems like adventure in hindsight.”
The lantern burns low, its glow warm against the canvas walls. I lie with hands folded, listening to the rhythm of his breath. He shifts, the canvas rustling. His nearness looms, and I can’t help but lean into his warmth.
“Ever sleep out in a storm before?” he asks. His voice, rich and deep, is a wondrous thing. Capable of instilling fear or comfort. Tonight, in this tent, it soothes me.
“No,” I admit. “Always there was a roof, no matter how poor.”
“Roof’s a comfort. But a storm in the wild, that’s somethin’. Make you feel small. Let you know whatever’s out there don’t really give a damn.”
The words tug at something in me. I live my life measured out in deeds, as if tallying the goodness I share will amount to something virtuous. It’s never guaranteed my safety, and yet, here I am, with my protector, my bear, under a canvas cover, quite warm and dry.
I turn to him in the dim light. His face is sculpted in shadow, the lantern light catching his cheekbones, his mouth. I ask, “There are worse places to be than here, aren’t there?”
He fixes on me and doesn’t break. For a moment, neither of us breathes. My pulse beats loud in my ears. I cannot name the force that carries me forward, only that I lift my face, ever so slight, until my lips brush his.
His breath shudders, and the sound alone nearly unravels me. A man like him—so powerful and always in complete control—is made weak under my kiss. It chills me to my bones.
He does not pull back. His rough hand comes up, cupping my cheek tenderly. The kiss deepens, soft at the start, then hungry, sweeping me up tight into his arms, drawing me close, swift as the storm outside. I yield to him without thought.
The lantern flickers, shadows lashing the canvas. The scrape of his stubbled jaw, the sound of my own breath betraying me. God forgive me, but I am only flesh.
When he breaks away, his thumb lingers at my cheek, calloused yet trembling.
“Lamb,” he whispers, as though the name is sacred.