Between Earth and Sky(76)

“Anything strange or suspicious, put in this pile,” Stewart said, indicating a small stack beside him.

Everything was strange to her—not the acts themselves, but that the Indians’ lives should be so regulated.

She came across a field service report about a young unmarried woman found to be with child. If the father were also single, the report recommended the couple be made to wed. Were he not single, more severe action—fines or even jail time—should be assessed, and the baby put up for adoption.

The paper crunched and rumpled under her tightening grip. To live under such scrutiny! To have such private matters discussed, debated, cataloged. And the baby. She stared forward at the far wall, the yellow maps bleeding into the white plaster, the cabinets and bureaus and tables and chairs all blurring into shapeless, nameless objects. This was not the life she’d imagined for her friends. Not the life promised them.

Hadn’t it been that way at Stover, though? The litany of rules, the stiff punishment, the constant surveillance. She’d been a fool to think they’d be handed freedom after graduation.

“Find something?”

Alma straightened and looked at Stewart. “Hmm?”

“I know this is tedious, darling. Should you like to take in some air? Or I can see after some tea?”

“It isn’t that. It’s just, this is all so”—she waved a hand over the papers—“so bleak.”

He teased the report from her fist and scanned its contents. “Yes, I’ve seen several of these field reports.”

“What business is it of the agency’s if they marry in the Christian fashion or not?”

“Surely you’re not suggesting they . . .” He paused and lowered his voice. “Engage in amorous congress without official contract.”

“What is making love if not an avowal of one’s affections and devotion?”

He regarded her with a stunned expression. “Debauchery.”

Alma dropped her gaze. Her cheeks burned. “I simply meant that they have their own marital customs.”

“Customs forbade by the law. Laws policed by the agency.”

His unimpassioned voice only enflamed her further. All logic, no emotion. Black and white without any gray. She stood and crossed to a nearby window. Water spots clouded the glass. She pressed her hand against the surface. How smooth. How fragile. She imagined her ungloved hand breaking through to the outside, the filmy glass cracking and splintering, its jagged shards red with her blood. She pressed a little harder.

A hand lit upon the small of her back. Stewart’s. She’d know his touch if she were blind.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he said quietly. “I know these people were your friends. I didn’t mean to imply they were all criminals and debauchers.”

Not just them—her too.

The glass was cool beneath her fingers. A touch more pressure and it would shatter.

At last, she pulled away—away from the glass, away from Stewart’s hand. “I’m no help to you here.”

“Nonsense. You’re a great help.”

She looked at the mountains of papers and ledgers and knew he was lying. There was only one way she could help: Minowe. “I’ll just take a quick stroll about the yard.”

“Don’t go far.”

She grabbed her coat, skirting his gaze. “I shan’t.”





CHAPTER 32


Wisconsin, 1891



Despite the hearty fire crackling in the marble hearth, a chill lingered in the Steeles’ parlor. It hung in the dour expression of the hostess and her daughter. It prickled across Alma’s skin during the prolonged silences that riddled their conversation.

“There’s a promise of snow in those clouds,” Old Mrs. Lawrence said, waving a wrinkled hand at the gray sky peeking through the Oriental lace drapery.

Alma nodded in concert with the others and sipped her lukewarm tea.

“Probably the same storm that ravaged Dakota,” Lily Steele said. Then, as if realizing her blunder, she bit her lip and dropped her gaze to the damask rug.

Alma set down her teacup and braced herself. Her silly friend had opened the door to the subject the others had been too decorous, but plainly fiending, to bring up.

“I heard the Indians’ corpses are still there, lying frozen on the field, on account of the blizzard,” Mrs. Lawrence’s granddaughter said in a whisper, as if trading bits of post-soirée gossip.

Alma’s stomach clenched.

“Ruth!” Mrs. Lawrence shot the girl a scandalized look.

Mrs. Steele straightened in her chair and raised her chin. The gaslit chandelier cast the sharp features of her face in a sallow glow. “Serves those savages right. However do you rest at night, Cora? Those Indian children might slaughter you while you sleep.”

“It’s been a trying few days.” Alma’s mother put a hand to her cheek and sighed. “Mr. Blanchard insists we have nothing to fear. Even in light of this uprising at Wounded Knee, he sees nothing but goodness in them.”

“Murderous devils!” Mrs. Lawrence said.

Alma flinched at the old woman’s words. Her fingers dug into the folds of her dress.

Mrs. Lawrence continued. “Have you any of those . . . those . . . what band are those hostiles from?”