Between Earth and Sky(70)

“Did you know my father has a mind you should graduate?”

“Me?” He blinked and glanced back at the distant schoolhouse, a smile creeping to his lips. “Really?”

“This pleases you?” She hiked up her skirt and petticoats and stomped off. The dark soil, boggy from the spring thaw, clung to the soles of her boots. Winter’s debris lay strewn over the forest floor—snow-felled branches, decomposed leaves, weather-bleached pinecones. Though his feet made no sound, she knew followed but a step behind.

Her chest ached just beneath her breastbone. A dull, radiating pain she’d heard tell of in novels and magazine serials. Sick at heart. Flaubert, Haggard, Corelli—all their heroes and heroines suffered this affliction. To read of it was one thing, but to actually feel it—this new and persisting pain—how did one endure? Several minutes on and the sensation grew intolerable. She spun around. The thick fringe of trees hid all sight of Stover and its outbuildings. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What do you intend to do?”

expression became cloudy, inscrutable, his gaze probing. He inclined his head slightly, but said nothing.

“Askuwheteau has been accepted to Brown University. Did you know? Quite a prestigious school. In Rhode Island. It’s all Father can talk about.”

To this, he only snorted.

“And Frederick. He has work lined up with a carpenter in St. Paul.”

“You want me to go to Minnesota?”

“No, you know that’s not what I mean.”

With two long strides, he shrank the distance between them to inches. He smelled of soap and sweat and wood chips. It took conscious effort from Alma to pull back instead of lean in. “You could stay here. Find work in La Crosse.”

His hands tightened around his jacket, released, and tightened again.

“What does that mean? That you won’t go back to the reservation? That you’ll stay?”

He didn’t respond but grabbed her hand and pulled her toward a nearby break in the trees, where afternoon light spilled through the tangle of budding branches. A wide clearing stretched before them. Alma squinted as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight. At the far end, the tufts of grass and reeds gave way to a steep incline. A wooden fa?ade jutted from the hillside, its thick logs weatherworn and faded.

At once, stiffened. His nostrils flared and eyes narrowed. He pulled Alma back into the shadows of the nearby trees and handed her his jacket. “Stay.”

Before she could protest, he released her hand and circled around the clearing toward the wooden structure. Alma’s pulse quickened. She’d never ventured so far in this direction. To the west of Stover, scattered farms buffered them from the city limits of La Crosse. But she and never sneaked out that way for fear of being seen. Here, to the east, she was less clear on the boundaries. Surely, they were still on government land. Who then had carved this dugout into the earth?

She watched as neared the dwelling. Her hands clung white to his jacket. He moved with feline grace—long, slow, fluid strides. A few feet from the gaping doorway, he stopped. He crouched to the ground and sifted through the brown clumps of grass, examining the dirt beneath. Then, remaining low, he crept toward the entrance.

“Don’t go in!” she hissed to the yards of empty meadow between them.

He paused before the dark opening and glanced back over the meadow. His eyes commanded her to stay put. Then he disappeared inside.

With him lost to her sight, each moment seemed to stretch to infinity. A bird cawed, far in the distance. The grass rustled. Just when she decided some horror must have befallen him, he emerged unscathed into the light and waved her over.

“An old trader lodging,” he said when she neared.

Alma glanced around the clearing. “Are you sure it’s abandoned?”

“Long empty.” He took her hand and led her inside.

The smell of must and damp earth hit her the moment she entered. She clutched arm and let her eyes adjust to dim. The room was no bigger than her bedroom. Dried leaves and other bits of fossilized flora crunched beneath her feet. A series of roughly hewn beams supported the packed clay walls and roof. A straw pallet, limp and dust-covered, lay in one corner. Crumbling charcoal and scattered twigs cluttered the ground in the opposite corner. The ceiling above was blackened and concave.

walked over and poked at the crater. Bits of earth and debris showered down around him, filling the room with dust.

Alma gasped. “The ceiling’s collapsing!”

But the downpour of earth had already stopped. He laughed and coughed at the same time. “No, , that’s just the chimney hole.”

She arched her eyebrows and continued to stare with distrust at the dark soil above them. The dank air swirled cool around her and she shivered. pulled her toward him and wrapped her in his arms. She forgot the cold, her fear, and leaned her head against his chest. “Tell me you’ll stay.”

She rocked with the slow ebb and flow of his breath.

“I do not know.”

Alma pulled away to hide her tears. How could she feel so much when he apparently felt so little? She hurried from the dugout into the blinding daylight. “Father, Miss Wells, Askuwheteau—they were all right. You’ll return to the reservation, back to your old life, and I’ll never see you again.”

He came and stood beside her. The few inches between them felt like a chasm, widened by his silence.