Between Earth and Sky(60)

Facing the target, she blew away the cobwebs from the feather vanes and positioned the arrow. The bow felt foreign in her arms. Her muscles struggled to recall the correct movements. She pulled back and shot. The arrow sang through the air, at first on target, then veering left, striking not the bull’s-eye, but a nearby tree.

“Good shot.”

Alma jumped at the voice and spun around. George stood a few paces off.

“What are you doing here?”

He looked down at the heap of wood scraps in his arms, then nodded toward a large stack of lumber piled along the brick wall.

“Oh . . . well . . . carry on,” she said.

“What would your mother think? You holding the bow and arrow of the Indian.”

She raised her chin. “Archery is a respectable pastime among ladies.”

He snickered and walked past. Halfway to the pile he began to whistle. He tossed his load atop the waist-high stack of timber and turned around. Instead of retreating, he leaned against the brick wall, arms and ankles crossed like a train-yard hobo, and continued to whistle.

Confounded boy! She turned her back to him and marched to the tree line to remove her arrow. They’d said nothing to each other since the night of Charles’s accident, but where she once found satisfaction in their enmity, the silence and retreating glances now perturbed her. She throttled the arrow, yanked it from the tree trunk, and strode back to her bow.

Clear as birdsong, George’s whistle-tune filled the small yard.

She tried to focus on other sounds—the swoosh of her skirt over the snow, the occasional rustle of barren branches bending in the wind—but it was not enough to distract her from his song. Then the melody hit her. Her eyes went wide and heat rushed into her cheeks.

He’d fly thro’ the air with the greatest of ease, a daring young man on the flying trapeze.

“You were listening?”

“Very funny song. What’s a trapeze?”

“How dare you listen!”

His lips curved into a mischievous grin. “Why you never sing with Minowe and ?”

“I haven’t the voice for it.” She shook her head. “That’s not the point. I only sang to avail poor Charles. It has nothing—”

“I like your voice. Sing it again.”

“Stop it, George.” She turned away, facing the target, and nocked her arrow. “Leave me be. I haven’t the stomach to quarrel with you today.”

When he spoke again, his voice had lost its taunting edge. “No, truly. It is good what you do for him.”

Alma shook her head. She waited to hear retreating footsteps, but George did not move. After several seconds of silence, she raised and drew the bow. A low chuckle rent her concentration. With bow upright and arrow poised to shoot, she spun around. “What?”

George raised his hands above his head, still laughing. “Your form, Azaadiins, it’s very wrong.”

He’d used her Indian name again. She lowered the bow. “I don’t need your help.”

He arched an eyebrow and took a step closer, his arms still raised.

Ignoring his approach, she turned back to the target. “I’m just a little out of practice.”

Footfalls continued toward her through the snow. She drew back the arrow, but stopped when a hand came to rest on her hip.

The air in her lungs froze.

“Here.” He guided her back leg around with his foot, aligning her body perpendicular to the target. He pressed down on her shoulders until her carriage relaxed. Then, mirroring her stance, he moved in close behind her. His left hand grabbed the bow directly below her grip. He matched the curve of her drawing arm with his, their fingers overlapping atop the bowstring.

The target, the trees, the cloudy gray horizon blurred. Alma blinked. George’s breath tickled the back of her neck. They drew back together and loosed the arrow. It whistled through the air, arcing slightly, then descended toward the target. Alma pivoted around without waiting for it to land. George had dropped his arms but not backed up. She looked up into his face, only inches from her own.

Her mother’s voice sounded in the back of her mind, badgering her about propriety and the precise distance of chaste interactions, but when his hand touched her cheek, tilting her head up toward his, she knew nothing but the contact of their skin.

Their lips pressed together. Had she started the kiss or had he? That thought, too, slipped from her mind. He cradled her head fiercely, the pressure of his mouth against hers alternatively rough and tender.

Then, suddenly, he broke apart from her, spinning round on his heels and strolling away. Alma remained frozen, the shock of the encounter rooting her to the ground. A strange mixture of panic and elation bubbled up inside her. The electricity of his touch was like none she’d ever felt. It lingered on her cheek and lips, buzzing like a delicious poison.

Before rounding the corner, George looked over his shoulder. He blinked, mirroring her own bewilderment, then shot her a pulse-quickening grin.

No sooner had he disappeared behind the brick fa?ade than Alma heard the voice of Mrs. Simms.

“Alma!”

She hurried around the house to the kitchen.

“Heaven above, child! That’s the third time I called you.”

“Sorry, ma’am. I . . . I didn’t hear you.”

“What you doing yonder round the house anyway?”