Between Earth and Sky(61)
Alma’s chest tightened like a vise. She looked around for George, then remembered he had sauntered off in the opposite direction. Breath rushed from her lungs. Not only had he heard Mrs. Simms, but also had the good sense not to let her see him. “I wanted some fresh air.”
“Mighty cold to be out after some air.”
Alma danced past the cook into the kitchen. Was it cold? She hadn’t noticed.
CHAPTER 26
Minnesota, 1906
She and Stewart made it back to their hotel just as the last rivulets of light drained from the sky. They’d spoken little since their encounter with James and the other agency workers. Alma couldn’t quiet her thoughts, nor did she dare give voice to them. The few conversations Stewart sparked dwindled quickly, like fire set to damp wood.
Dinner passed much the same. She chewed her food, sipped her wine, but tasted nothing. A piss-drunk Indian—that’s what the men had called Zhawaeshk. Would the jury see him any different? And the gunsmith—what would he do? She could picture him in court pointing his grubby finger at Asku. “That there’s the man I sold the gun to.”
Even if he sold other guns of the same model, even if his dealings were illegal, she and Stewart needed more evidence. Her husband tried to look unbothered, just as he had when the men rode up and asked him if he had a spare, as if a man of his station knew anything about shoeing a horse.
She needed to learn more about what had happened to Asku, what had transformed him from the boy she’d loved to the awful man Zhawaeshk described. But she needed to hear it from someone she could trust.
“Dessert, ma’am?” the hotel matron asked.
Alma shook her head. The knowledge of what she must do had set her stomach churning and she regretted eating anything at all.
“I wish we’d gotten more statements, but we haven’t time to go in search of the other witness,” Stewart said between bites of pie. “Tomorrow we must start on the agency’s files.”
“I could try to find them,” Alma said. As well as a few witnesses of her own.
Stewart frowned. “Split up? I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Don’t worry, dearest. I speak the language, remember? And I shan’t go far.” She smiled as she spoke, hoping to give her voice a lightness that belied the sudden flush of dread. Seeing Asku had always been part of the plan, she’d counted on it, prepared for it. But the others? How would she keep the memories at bay? Already she felt them like a vine snaking around her.
“I don’t like the idea. Going to La Crosse was one thing. It’s proper city and you had family there. But White Earth?”
“I’ll be fine,” she lied.
In the quiet of their suite, Alma peeled off her evening gloves and rummaged through her trunk for her needlework. She’d never been any good, not like Catherine or . In truth, she rather detested the activity. But her hands felt charged, restless. She sat down on the lumpy divan and arranged her canvas and thread across her lap. Tomorrow she’d seek out May or maybe Peter. They were several years younger than Alma and had sat rows away at the front of the class. But that was the point, better to interview acquaintances than those formerly called friends. Less painful that way. Less chance they’d dredge up unwanted memories, unspoken names. Her hand slipped and she grazed her finger with the needle. No blood—only a sharp sting.
Stewart took her hand. She’d only dimly registered when he came to sit beside her with the town’s single-paged paper. He kissed the red scratch upon her finger, and then with more force her palm, the inside of her wrist. She could hear the paper crumple in his other hand, watched as he tossed it aside. It drifted like a feather to the floor. His free hand found her waist and pulled her across the worn velveteen toward him. She closed her eyes and waited for that familiar spark, that warm tingle. Nothing came.
She clutched her needlework and stood abruptly. “I best put this away before I stick one of us again.”
She hurried to the bedroom and cast the silly needlepoint into her trunk. What was wrong with her? All she could feel when he touched her was the winter-cold fingers of another. She stood before the vanity and unpinned her hair, glaring at her reflection in the filmy mirror. Get ahold of yourself, Alma. She started on the silk-covered buttons that ran down the back of her dress, but her fingers felt stiff and clumsy.
Behind her, the divan’s seat cushion let loose a haggard whistle, and the sitting room door closed. Stewart’s footfalls padded toward her.
“Let me help.” He brushed her hands away and finished unfastening her buttons. His breath prickled her skin. Her dress fell away and she felt his lips brush the nape of her neck. They traveled downward over her skin while he slid the strap of her chemise from her shoulder. Again, Alma closed her eyes and tried to relax, but her muscles knotted beneath each kiss. His breath felt warm and sticky, his touch like the harassing tickle of a mosquito. He snaked his hands around her waist toward the hooks of her corset.
“Was this all a mistake?”
His face pulled away from the crook of her neck, but his arms remained encircled around her. “What?”
Alma wiggled free from his grasp and spun to face him. “Coming here. Do you really think we have a chance at proving Harry innocent?”
“Don’t think about that right now, darling.” He reached again for her waist.