Between Earth and Sky(25)

Alma bit her lip. She could end this still. One word and they’d pack their trunks and return home tomorrow. No visit to Stover. No more stirring of ghosts. Life would return to normal. But Asku would hang.

She tugged at the constricting lace about her neck. “Tomorrow, to La Crosse, then.”





CHAPTER 12


Wisconsin, 1888



Alma filed out of the church behind her parents. Her father stopped beside Reverend Thomas at the base of the stairs in the shadow of the building’s tall spire and struck up a conversation about the morning’s Scripture. Alma nodded at the reverend and slipped away through the crowd.

The morning sun painted the churchyard golden, but its rays offered only a memory of summer’s warmth. Orange and red leaves dappled the surrounding chokeberry hedge and overhanging trees. Children skipped across the yard chanting rhymes or playing tag. Adults milled about in small clusters, the men speaking of rains up north and the river’s rising water, the women of quilting bees and bake sales. Nearly fifteen now, Alma wandered listless among them. The children’s games seemed silly, while the adults’ conversation droned tedious and dull. Finally, she spotted Lily Steele across the yard and hurried over. They linked arms and strode together at an easy pace, catching up on the week’s worth of happenings.

“You’re coming to the piano program tomorrow, aren’t you?” Lily asked.

“I don’t know if I can.”

They passed a group of boys, and Lily gave a gentle toss of the head. Her blond ringlets caught the sunlight as they moved, drawing attention to her lovely face and long white neck. It was a practiced move to be sure, but judging by the boys’ ogling gazes, it worked to good effect. “You simply must come. Everyone’s going.”

Everyone, of course, meant La Crosse’s fashionable set.

“Including my brother.”

Alma looked down to hide the rush of warmth invading her cheeks. Edward Steele. For months she’d sneaked glances at him over the worn pages of her prayer book. To see him twice in so many days, perhaps even to sit beside him . . . but then . . . “Tomorrow’s the start of the new term and I—”

“The Indians are coming back? So soon?”

“Six weeks seemed a terribly long time to me.”

“I would have welcomed the break.” Her doll-like lips puckered.

“Yes, it’s just, it’s such a big schoolhouse, you see. And to be there by oneself—”

“Father says it’s unnatural, teaching the Indians. Living with them like equals. You really should stay with us and attend school here in La Crosse. Mother just adores you. We could practice our lessons together, and pin each other’s hair, and make . . .”

The picture Lily painted was a lovely one. Music concerts and soirées. Alma’s Indian friends weren’t acquainted with the latest hairstyles or dresses. Only Asku read and wrote at her grade level and could help her with her arithmetic and essays. And yet, when she was with her friends, none of that mattered. And she had missed them. Dreadfully.

She spied Asku through the crowd. He alone had forgone going home and instead spent the time apprenticing with a local farmer. His skin had deepened to the color of rosewood from his weeks in the sun. His clothes were just as neat, his hair just as tidy, his eyes clear and beaming. He waved boisterously, his entire arm flapping through the air. She raised her hand to return his wave, but after a sidelong glance at Lily, cringed back, offering little more than a nod. Asku’s smile faltered. Though the sight of it squeezed her heart, she waited until the Steeles’ carriage pulled away before searching for him again.

However suitably dressed, the lone Indian in a sea of white faces was easy to spot. He stood beside Mr. Coleman, the farmer with whom he’d apprenticed, and his wife. Their two small children hung about Asku’s feet, tugging his shirtsleeves and hugging his legs.

“Harry’s been such a help around the farm this summer,” Mrs. Coleman said when Alma approached. “Your father does good work there at Stover.”

“Thank you,” Alma said.

Mr. Coleman clapped a hand on Asku’s shoulder. “I never thought I’d welcome a red man into my home.”

Alma watched Asku’s jaw clench and his eyes narrow. The movements were slight, subtle, little more than an aberration. When he spoke, his voice rang light and steady. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

Instead of waiting for her father to finish his conversation with the reverend and ready the carriage, Alma and Asku decided to walk. She whispered this to her father, who distractedly waved his assent.

Much of the church crowd had already dispersed. The dusty street leading from the city lay nearly empty. Asku walked a pace apart, his duffle slung across his back. To talk to him, Alma had to crane her neck and speak over her shoulder. “Sorry about before. Not waving, I mean.”

“It’s all right.”

“It’s not that I’m embarrassed of our friendship. Only I . . .”

“Boonendan,” he said. Forget it. “I understand.” But his step still seemed weighted, the soles of his boots never quite clearing the ground.

“Bet I can beat you to the tracks,” she said.

Asku looked up and at long last grinned.

They broke off running at the same time, laughter rising between their brisk inhales. After a few strides, Asku pulled ahead. Alma hitched her skirt above her ankles and dashed behind him. With each breath, her lungs fought the rigid stays of her corset. Her boot heels caught in the road’s every rut and divot. Dust swelled in Asku’s wake, stinging her eyes and scratching her nostrils. They had begun the year nearly the same height, but over the months he’d grown at least half a head taller. The soft fullness of his frame had melted away into long, corded muscle.