Between Earth and Sky(49)
The lively song began. Without daring a glance at Edward, Alma held out her hand and prayed George would take it before the others noticed her trembling. A few more notes sounded and his fingers closed around hers.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said when they reached the dance floor. “I didn’t need your saving.”
“I wasn’t saving you, I was saving Miss Downey.”
He smirked and slid his arm around her back. The tiny hairs on her skin enlivened. She found the new and pleasant sensation distracting and altogether unwelcome. She stepped when she should have hopped, then hopped when her feet should glide.
George bore her through the fumble, never losing his place in the dance. “I thought you were a more better dancer.”
She flushed. “Maybe if I had a better partner—”
“Like that dandy back there?”
Alma’s throat tightened. “No, not like him.” She should have said something earlier to those gossips, intervened sooner. What was the point of fitting in if it felt so awful? “Actually, you dance better than I expected. Of course, your form is too rigid, but the steps are correct.”
“You mean I dance well for an Indian.”
“No, for an obstinate brute who never cared to learn.”
A grin flashed across his face. “You would not care to learn with a partner like .”
She thought of Miss Wells—a common fixture at the Saturday socials during dance instruction—and joined George in smiling. “True.”
Their eyes met and quickly retreated. They finished the schottische in silence, Alma praying for the end. But when the final note played and George let go her hand, she found herself wishing for a few more bars.
“Good dance, Azaadiins,” he said.
She couldn’t decide whether the remark was sincere or sarcastic, but he’d never called her that before, her Indian name. The sound tingled in her ears.
A smooth, confident voice intruded. “Pardon me, sir, but I believe the honor of Miss Blanchard’s final dance belongs to me.”
Alma turned to see Edward Steele standing beside them. She noticed for the first time the way his flattened lips resembled a catfish’s. And his eyes, too small and far apart, had a fishy aspect as well. George met his smug stare, remaining beside Alma a moment more before striding away.
“The gall,” Edward said as he pulled her close and swept them into the tide of dancers.
“Surely you don’t begrudge him a simple dance.”
Edward’s jaw tightened even as he smiled down at her. “Of course not.”
Before, such a smile would have melted her. Now, it only strengthened her resolve. “You’re a hypocrite.”
His graceful step faltered. “I beg your pardon.”
“What do you have against the Indians anyway?”
He blinked and seemed to chomp upon his words before speaking. “These ingrates are already a headache for my family, hemming and hawing about selling their lumber.” The honey was gone from his voice and in its place straight bitters. “What do you think happens when they return home from your father’s school filled with ideas of equality?”
“It’s their land.”
“Says who?”
Alma’s temples pounded and her carriage stiffened. How had she ever thought him debonair and handsome? She looked away and waited for the song to end, accidentally treading upon his toes every chance she got.
CHAPTER 22
Minnesota, 1906
The gun merchant was right, she and Stewart did stick out. It seemed a pall followed them through the crowd as they searched for the witnesses on Stewart’s list. Games paused. Conversations stopped. Eyes tracked them.
Alma looked around. All the other whites on the reservation were peddling something: goods, religion, the government’s brand of rule and order. Carpetbaggers, the lot of them. No wonder the Indians were skittish.
The climbing sun warmed the air, but Alma clutched the lapels of her duster closed. She should have worn a different shirtwaist. A slimmer petticoat. A less ostentatious hat. She’d never expected to feel like a biiwide here, an outsider, but she did. Was this how Asku felt that summer he’d stayed in La Crosse with the Colemans? Was this how Minowe and felt dancing at the mayor’s Christmas ball? Alma smoothed the flyaway curls at the nape of her neck, but they sprang back into fuzzy ringlets before her hand left them. When had the air turned so muggy?
Minowe had always wanted curly hair. One night they stayed up long after evening prayers, rolling her dark hair in strips of muslin pilfered from the sewing closet. The next morning when they unwound the rags, the curls fell from her hair before Alma could fix them with bandoline and pin them in place. She’d laughed at their failed effort, laughed as Minowe snatched up the muslin and threw it in the potbellied furnace. With such perfect hair—so thick, smooth, and glossy—why would she want pin curls in the first place?
Now, Alma’s laugh was quiet and bitter. How foolish she’d been. Keeping one hand on her lapels, she clasped Stewart’s arm. With his patent-leather shoes, double-breasted overcoat, and shiny brown derby, surely he felt out of place too. But then, he’d never nurtured any false assumptions of belonging.
It didn’t help that she could feel Sheriff Knudson watching her. Undoubtedly the Indians noticed, too. Even when Alma asked in Anishinaabemowin about those named on the list, she met with polite resistance. No. Gaawiin. I don’t know who or where they are.