Between Earth and Sky(105)

His hand flew up and silenced her. “I need a moment. A moment to make sense of all this.” He stood like that, hand raised, fingers splayed as his watch ticked away in his waistcoat pocket. Each second dragged longer than the one before.

“Please, my love, you have to understand, I never meant to hurt you with any of this. When I read about Harry’s trial in the paper . . .” She thought back to Minowe’s words. “Some part of me believed that if I could save Askuwheteau, I’d be saving as well.”

He cocked his head in her direction and stared at her like a stranger. Then his red, vacant eyes clouded over with anger. “You lied to me. All these years.”

She flattened her hand over a sob.

“You fornicated with some Indian and then presented yourself to me unsullied.”

“That was your doing,” Alma cried. “You’d cast an image in your mind of who I was before you even met me. There was no room for who I really was.”

“Our entire marriage has been a farce.” He snapped the mended necklace and threw it to the floor. Black beads and porcupine quill rolled helter-skelter across the Oriental rug. He marched from the room, through the parlor, and tore his overcoat from the rack.

Alma hurried behind. “That’s not true! I love you.” Something cracked underfoot. She froze. Beneath her slipper lay a shattered porcupine quill.

A slamming door brought her head up. Stewart was gone.

*

Dawn broke gray and cold. From the hotel window, Alma watched the streetlamps flicker off. Newsboys staked out their corners and merchants unlocked their shops.

Stewart had not returned. Where and how he’d spent the night, Alma had no guess. With each passing hour, her chest squeezed tighter. Surely he would be back to dress for court. He hadn’t his shoulder bag or even hat and gloves.

She fled the window and paced the room, wringing her hands until they tingled from loss of blood. He hated her. He must. How could he not after all she had done?

With each turn through the parlor, she checked the polished oak clock atop the side table. Asku’s trial began at eleven. The hotel footman knocked with breakfast trays just after eight. The steaming coffee cooled, and the untouched toast grew stale. By nine, her entire viscera had wound itself into unending knots.

Whatever happened, she could not leave Asku alone. She unpinned the sagging remnants of yesterday’s coiffure with an unsteady hand and undressed. Wrinkles lined her skirt where it had bunched beneath her as she slept, kneeling on the floor, head resting on the couch, waiting for Stewart to return.

She laid a fresh outfit across the bed and stared down at it. A chill prickled her naked skin. She dressed slowly and with care, one layer of fabric at a time, buttons aligned, seams straight. She restyled her hair and pinned atop it a wide-brimmed hat. The clock in the parlor struck ten. With each chime, her heart rocked.

Stewart was not coming back.

Her eyes were spent of tears, but her breast trembled with dry, silent sobs. She forced herself toward the door. Halfway there, she stopped and glanced at his hat and gloves nestled atop the hall stand. Her fingers brushed the soft fur felt and kid leather. The scent of his Bay Rum aftershave still lingered in the air. She breathed in deeply and held the air in her lungs until they burned. By the time she returned from the trial, the smell would likely be vanished, his trunks packed and gone. She took another breath, a parting glance, and departed for the courthouse.





CHAPTER 44


Minnesota, 1906



Alma pushed her shoulders back and entered the courtroom. A smartly dressed man with a trim mustache lounged behind the prosecution’s table. Across the aisle sat Mr. Gates, shuffling through a stack of papers. The chair beside him—Stewart’s chair—was vacant. Her carriage sagged. The heavy mahogany door banged closed behind her and Mr. Gates turned around. Relief flashed across his face. He daubed his forehead with a hankie. Almost as quickly as it had come, his smile faded. He rose to his feet and craned his neck to see around her.

“Mrs. Mitchell,” he said when she sat down behind him in the gallery’s front row. “Is your husband not with you?”

Alma took a deep breath. “I came alone.”

“But . . . er . . . he is coming?” Mr. Gates tugged at his collar. “It’s quarter to eleven. I’m hardly prepared to introduce the evidence he found at White Ash myself.”

“White Earth.”

He looked at her blankly.

“The reservation.” She made no attempt to dull the edge in her voice. “Gaa-waabaabiganikaag, if you prefer.”

“Yes. Yes. Either way, what am I supposed to do with this?” He gestured to the jumble of documents strewn across the counsel table.

She glanced back at the door. Without Stewart, she’d have to fight for Asku herself. “Mr. Muskrat would like to change his plea to guilty.”

“Guilty?” He grabbed a fist full of papers. “Then what’s all this for?”

“We, that is, I thought it would help the case. I was wrong.”

“Mr. Mitchell seemed mighty convinced yesterday when he was explaining it all.”

“Mr. Muskrat is adamant.”

“What a mess!” He mopped the sweat from his lined brow and shook his head. “If we don’t submit this, we’ll look like fools. Your friend will hang.”