Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(50)

“I know why they call it Sweetwater,” Ma says. “They call it Sweetwater because there’s never been a sweeter sight.”

To Ma’s sentiment there is a chorus of hearty amens. It is not the taste or the quality—though it’s cool and clean—but the triumph of our arrival. We camp near its mouth to avoid the wagon city at the base of the big rock, and we splash and wash to our hearts’ content, each woman taking a turn in the center of a circle of skirts to scrub all the bits that never feel clean. We wash our hair and launder our clothes, talking and laughing and singing a little too.

Pa takes the boys to the big turtle rock to sign their names. He brings a chisel and a mallet, and they spend the day climbing and combing the monument, making their mark among the rest. John goes too, though he explores on his own, and when he comes back, he is as scrubbed and shiny as the women.

It’s a week too late to celebrate the Fourth of July, which is how the rock reportedly got its name, but we celebrate anyway, with a wedding and a day of rest. Adam and Lydia have decided to marry, and every family contributes something to the wedding feast. Lydia’s fixed a bit of lace on her coiled braids, and I let her borrow my new green dress. It’s a little big on me, and Ma and I haven’t had the chance to alter it. It fits Lydia just right, and I hope John won’t mind that I’m sharing his gift. He didn’t say two words when he gave it to me. He just laid the packages at my feet and walked away. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion, wearing the blue and pink and splattered yellow, day after day. It is a special occasion, even if it’s not mine. I wear my blue dress again tonight but add a matching ribbon to my braid.

Deacon Clarke gives us a heartfelt speech that turns into a sermon. Lydia clears her throat and reminds him she wants to be wed, and her father rambles to a pronouncement, giving Adam permission to kiss the bride. Adam complies, kissing Lydia like a chicken darting down to peck at the dirt. Everyone cheers, raising their tin cups and stampeding for the tables we’ve constructed out of sideboards.

After we eat, our makeshift tables are emptied and pushed aside for dancing. Homer Bingham has a fiddle, and he knows a few lively songs. I coax Warren to take a spin with me. He’s a good dancer, always has been, and before long he’s smiling big and breathing hard, a welcome sight to all who have had to watch him suffer. Wyatt cuts between us, showing him up, and I dance a few rounds with him and a dozen others, including the new groom, who thanks me for being so nice to Lydia, before I plead for a drink and a chance to catch my breath. I think I see John standing in the shadows, and I slip away, determined to draw him out. He stands beside the dun, repairing a bit of rope, but he raises his head as I approach.

“That fiddle is out of tune,” he says, his tone dry.

I laugh.

“It is. But it doesn’t matter. Everyone is singing along.”

“A pack of wolves could do better.” There’s a smile in his voice, but he isn’t wrong.

“But a pack of wolves can’t dance nearly as well.” It feels good to dance. I danced at my wedding. I was the last woman standing. Daniel had to coax me to quit.

“What was his wife’s name? Adam’s wife,” John asks, still braiding his rope.

“Lucy.”

He nods, pulling off his hat and setting it aside. “It must be hard for her mother, seeing him marry again so quick.”

“Sometimes we do what makes sense. Life is too hard to be alone,” I say. “Elmeda said as much herself.”

“She would rather it was you, I reckon.”

I study him for a moment, and then I grin. “Are you jealous?”

I am pleased at the notion. I haven’t caught my breath from the dancing, but I spin a few times anyway, kicking up my heels and swishing my skirts. I can still hear the fiddle and the deacon keeping time with his tin pot and wooden spoon. I grab John’s hand and swing his unwilling arm, ducking beneath it, in and out, making him dance with me even though his feet are planted and his left hand hangs at his side.

“You haven’t made me jealous,” he murmurs. “I like seeing you smile and hearing you laugh. You work so hard, and there is so little joy in your life. But I don’t want to dance.”

He touches my face, brushing his thumb across my cheekbones and over the bridge of my nose, like he’s tracing my freckles. I step into him and rise up on my toes, my body brushing his as I press my mouth to his throat, warmth and salt and smooth skin against my lips. He lowers his chin and returns the caress, moving his lips across my jaw and over my cheek before settling his mouth against mine, inhaling as he does, his lips slightly parted, pulling me in.

He says he doesn’t want to dance, but that is what we do. It’s just a different kind of dance. His mouth is pressed to mine, seeking and sinking, moving together and apart, all things working toward the same end. Or the same beginning. We are a circle of two.

It is not like the first kiss we shared. That kiss was all clash and confrontation. He wanted me to run, and I wanted to stay and fight. This kiss is not a fight. This kiss is slow and languid like the Platte, hardly moving, while beneath the surface the silt shifts and settles. His arms snake around me, and my palms flatten over his heart, needing and kneading, and heat grows in my belly and in my heart and where our mouths are moving together.

“I need you to marry me, John,” I whisper against his lips.