Between Earth and Sky(13)
“You don’t think she’d like to meet me?”
Alma clutched her teacup to silence its clattering. Her mother would love to meet him, to show him off to all of her friends. “See, my silly daughter’s made something of herself, after all,” she would say.
His tidy hair and correct posture, his tailored suit and silk tie, his silver tiepin and cufflinks—that was all she would see. Not the tender, honorable man beneath.
She shifted atop the velvet seat cushion. It no longer felt soft, but coarse and prickly. “I’d hate to take you away from your practice any longer than necessary.”
His lips flattened. “And your father? Shouldn’t you like to visit his grave?”
“No.” Even to her own ears it sounded like a lie.
He crossed his legs and looked out the window. Minutes passed in want of a word, a touch, a glance. But Alma didn’t trust herself. Her shaky voice, her watery eyes, her sweat-dampened gloves all would beg more questions, elicit more deceit.
“Union Depot can’t be far off,” Stewart finally said. “I’ll return to our sleeper and instruct the valet about our luggage.” He stood and grabbed the book he’d been reading over breakfast: A Treatise on the Law of Capital Offenses.
She touched his hand with the tips of her fingers. “Stewart . . . thank you.”
He mustered a smile and exited the dining car. He would never admit to weariness, but she could see the lines around his mouth, the way the rest of his face refused the mirth of his smile, as if it had been painted on atop an otherwise somber expression.
Four days had passed since she’d first read of Harry’s trial in the morning papers. Stewart’s face had looked weary even then, but now, watching him walk away, she saw the fatigue in his step, in the slant of his shoulders. He loved her so. And this was how she repaid him?
Outside, debarking passengers bustled about the depot. Coaches, wagonettes, and the occasional automobile crowded the curb. Horns honked. Horses whinnied. Train whistles blew.
She and Stewart found a quiet corner on the platform. He withdrew his pocket watch from his waistcoat and sighed. “I had hoped to go to the hotel with you, but my appointment with your classmate’s lawyer, Mr. Gates, is at eleven. I’d best head to his office straightaway.”
“That’s all right. I wanted to go see Harry, anyway.”
His hazel eyes fixed her with a concerned look. “Alone? Shouldn’t you like to freshen up first at the hotel? I can join you this afternoon and we can go together.”
“I doubt anyone at the jail will take offense to my traveling clothes.” She straightened his tie and patted his chest. “Besides, dear, it’s the twentieth century. Women travel alone all the time.”
He shuffled a foot atop the wood platform. “He’s not being held in the city jail, darling, but several miles southwest of here at Fort Snelling.”
An army fort outside the city? The idea seemed archaic. Harry wasn’t some rabble-rousing warrior in the like of Geronimo or Crazy Horse. “This isn’t a military matter.”
“The crime occurred on federal trust land—”
“The Indians own the land. The government parceled it out under the Dawes and Nelson acts. Father spoke of it often.”
He smiled that tired smile. “Yes, but not all of it was allotted. And even that which was remains in trust for twenty-five years.”
“Oh.” It seemed Stewart had done more than brush up on criminal law in the past few days. “What about bail?”
“The judge refused to set bail. I’ll speak to Mr. Gates and see if we can’t get your friend transferred to the city holding facility. Until then, why don’t you—”
“Wherever he is, I’ll see him today.”
Stewart pursed his lips, but led her to the line of waiting cabs. “Are you sure?”
She squeezed his hand. “I’ll be fine. I’ll meet you back at the hotel in time for dinner.”
He paid the driver and helped her into the brougham. “I hope he opens up to you. We need his cooperation.”
“He will.”
His face was stoic as the carriage pulled away from the curb. He checked his watch again, then disappeared into the thick of towering buildings and streetcars. Her heart squeezed. Stewart deserved better. Could nothing in her life remain unsullied?
She sagged, resting her cheek against the cold glass window. Once again, that wide gray river meandered into view, an unwanted companion as she headed south toward Fort Snelling. The first white settlers had adopted the Ojibwe name: Mizi-ziibi. Harry had told her that. She’d never expected to see its broad waters again. She’d never expected to revisit any of this. She slipped a hand into her purse and withdrew a necklace of strung porcupine quills. At its center hung a beaded medallion sewn onto leather backing. Her fingers traced the intricate design of beads, each painstakingly inlaid to form the image of a sun. Their bright coloring belied the years. Belied all that had happened. A sob built in her throat and she thrust the necklace back in her handbag.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She could do this. Harry would talk to her, clear up all the confusion about the murder. He would go free; she would go home. Stewart would still love her. A day, maybe two and she could return to her dollhouse life.
CHAPTER 8