Between Earth and Sky(62)

“What if you don’t find anything tomorrow at the agency? Suppose I can’t find any more witnesses.”

He succeeded in unhooking her corset and flung it to the corner. “Then we’ll find another way.”

The blitheness of his comment cooled whatever flame his touch had kindled. He reached for the other strap of her chemise, but she backed away, clutching the thin cotton to her breast.

“Alma, what’s wrong?”

“I just . . . we should have found something more by now. I didn’t think it would be this hard.”

“It troubles you to be among these Indians again.”

“What? No . . . it’s just the circumstances.”

“Why don’t you ever talk about it? Your father’s school. Your former classmates.”

“How often do you speak of your friends from Princeton?”

He took off his tailcoat and tossed it over the back of a chair. “Rarely, but I wouldn’t travel cross-country to exonerate one of them for murder either.”

“You agreed to come!”

They both winced at the volume of her voice. The neighboring guests had probably heard her through the hotel’s thin walls. Stewart moved beside her and sank onto the cushioned vanity stool. He pulled her onto his lap. This time she did not lurch away. “Darling, I know you’re worried about your friend, but you’ve grown so cold and foreign.”

“I’m sorry.” She unfastened his bow tie and pulled it free of his collar. “I shan’t let my temper go again.”

“It’s more than that, Alma.” He tucked a loose curl behind her ear and traced the curve of her face. “You’re fighting for friends I never knew existed. You speak languages I’ve never even heard of. You’re laconic and melancholy. I haven’t seen a true smile cross your lips in over a week.” His featherlight touch moved down her neck, danced over her collarbone, and down. “Open up to me, darling. Help me understand why this all means so much to you.”

So much of her ached to tell him, to rid herself of these lies, to feel his forgiving kiss and make love to him unhaunted by the memory of another. But she couldn’t. The truth would break him as surely as it had broken her. She arched away and faked a yawn. “I’m tired.”

His hand fell to his side and he released her from his lap. He retreated to the far corner of the room and dimmed the lights before undressing. But she had already caught a glimpse of his wounded face.

In bed, she curled up to the very edge of the mattress and clamped her mouth around a sob. Only her eyes had permission to cry. The day covered her like a dirty film. As she hugged her arms to her chest, she realized with some relief it was not Stewart who repulsed her but herself. As much as she feared losing his love, she feared even more that he’d realize her unworthiness and regret he’d ever loved her at all.





CHAPTER 27


Wisconsin, 1890



Mrs. Simms’s voice hummed like a fly at the edge of Alma’s attention. “Don’t overdo it, ladies. Too much water and the crust won’t come out flaky.”

Alma nodded and drizzled another tablespoonful of liquid over the mixture. A tin of lard sat beside her on the vast counter. Flour dust hung in the air. It reminded her of falling snow and of archery and of— “Tsk! That’s too much.” Minowe batted away Alma’s hand and moved their shared bowl of pie dough out of Alma’s reach.

Half a spoon’s worth of water hit the counter before Alma stopped pouring. “Hmm?”

“Zhiishiib,” Minowe said under her breath. Working beside them, and Alice both laughed.

“Did you call me a duck?” Alma asked.

“The duck is always fooled by the trickster. He’s gullible. Foolish,” Alice said.

Minowe threw a handful more flour into their bowl. “Stupid.”

“I was just following the recipe.”

Minowe shook her head.

Alma sighed and leaned onto the counter. Chin resting on hand, she stared forward at nothing in particular. The piecrust was safe in Minowe’s expert hands. Her thoughts rolled back, cataloging every surreptitious touch, every secret encounter she and course, she used his Menominee name now—had shared over the past weeks. Before, when the very sight of him had vexed her, their paths had crossed continuously. Now that she coveted his company, their encounters seemed too few.

That morning in class, they had brushed past each other en route to their desks. Their eyes met, then retreated. His fingertips grazed the back of her hand.

“Azaadiins,” Asku had whispered to her as she sat stunned several minutes into class. “Open your book. Miss Wells is on her way down the aisle.”

She’d turned to a random page and pretended to read. “Miigwech. You’re a godsend.”

Now, hours later, the back of her hand still tingled with the memory of touch.

The back door of the kitchen swung open and Mr. Simms stomped in, brushing snow from his woolen jacket as the door slammed behind him. “Them extra sacks of taters arrived from the Indian Bureau. Want ’em in the root cellar?”

“That’d be fine, dear,” Mrs. Simms said.

Her husband opened the door a crack and shouted, “Down in the cellar, George.”

Alma’s head sprang up, her eyes fixed on the window above the sink. appeared in the yard, a large sack of potatoes flung over either shoulder. The door to the root cellar creaked open and he descended out of view.