Free Soul of a Crow by Abbie Williams Page B

on the air, giving way to tones of gray; beyond the river, a faint stripe of pale peach heralded the advancing day.
    â€œI’m just as guilty as Malcolm,” I admitted, my cheek resting upon Sawyer’s heartbeat as he stroked my back, up and down in a gentle rhythm; it felt so good that most of the tension in my body had fled. I explained, “You told me to stay in the tent, too.”
    â€œI did,” he agreed in a whisper. “It was a dangerous situation and I suppose I should be angry, but you’re safe in my arms, and I can’t muster up any anger just now.”
    â€œWere they stalking the horses?” I whispered, horrified at the prospect; I had never considered that a horse could be a prey animal.
    â€œThey must have been,” Sawyer replied. He cupped my shoulder blade, gently stroking his thumb along the hollow created by it, which he knew I loved. He murmured, “I recall Mama worrying over panther tracks near our well a few times when I was a boy, but I never saw the size of such creatures back home.”
    â€œDo you think your shots hit them?”
    â€œNo, I don’t believe so. They were moving too fast.”
    â€œI aim to keep practicing with the rifle,” I said, snuggling nearer to his warmth.
    â€œYes,” Sawyer murmured in agreement. He kissed my ear and whispered, “Sleep for a spell before dawn, mo mhuirnín milis , the danger’s moved on now.”

- 4 -
    We traveled on into the prairies of Iowa. According to our route, I knew that we would shortly catch the Iowa River, which angled northwest, and would guide us nearly into Minnesota, where we would continue to travel due north before retaking the much-larger Mississippi, which had unfailingly led the way from Tennessee. Boyd posted a letter to Jacob, back in Keokuk, letting Jacob and his wife, Hannah, know that we were only a little behind their predicted schedule.
    â€œGus figured that by August we would be in central Minnesota and pick up the Mississippi again, and follow it all the way to Jacob’s homestead. When we were plotting a route last winter, we determined that if we veered northwest in Iowa, it would cut weeks from the journey. With luck, we’ll arrive by early autumn,” Sawyer said.
    He rode Whistler near the wagon, which I drove, sweating under the long afternoon sunshine despite my wide-brimmed hat. The air was warm and bright, and I had rolled the sleeves of my blouse above both elbows. I was barefoot and wearing Malcolm’s trousers, belted now with a length of satin ribbon. Malcolm and Boyd rode just ahead, and I reflected anew how much I appreciated the freedom to wear boy’s clothing; here on the prairie, the strict rules of conduct which had been instilled in me from my earliest days did not apply as exactly. I allowed myself room to speculate that perhaps in Minnesota I would be allowed to retain this independence, however sparingly. What an unexpected luxury it would be if no one in the north woods objected to my unladylike mode of dressing.
    Besides , I reflected, with an acknowledgment of the bitterness coloring the thought, You are no longer exactly a lady. No matter how dearly Sawyer treats you, how much he loves you, it can never fully absolve you of the truth.
    And the truth was, like it or no, and I hated it to the blackest depths of my soul, I’d been a whore.
    Forgive me, Mama , I found myself thinking, as I did time and again, though somehow I knew in my heart that even my lovely, decorous mother would find it in hers to accept my plea.
    â€œI am eager to see the North country,” Sawyer said; we spoke often in this conversational vein. “To read Jacob’s letters is to picture a sort of heaven on earth. Lakes as you’ve never imagined, forests so deep it would take days to walk from under the tree limbs. The winters, though, I’ve trouble imagining as Jacob describes them.”
    â€œDrifts higher than the