Between Earth and Sky(77)

“Sioux,” Alma said.

“Does it matter what tribe they come from?” Mrs. Steele said. “Their malign traits are universal.”

Lily glanced at Alma as she refilled the teacups. It was a look of pity, not solidarity. “It would be unchristian of us not to try, Mother.”

“We’d be better off were they all dead,” Mrs. Steele replied.

Alma reached for her tea with a trembling hand. The cup rattled against its saucer, liquid sloshing over the edge. She gave up and returned the teacup back to the table. “Women and children were among those massacred.”

All five women turned cold, questioning gazes upon her.

“Are you implying the soldiers are to blame for this incident?” Mrs. Lawrence asked.

Alma’s mother let out a trill of laughter. “No, of course not. A rancher’s wife and daughter were taken after the battle in one of those retaliatory raids organized by the savages.” She looked at Alma with piercing eyes. “Alma was just referring to those poor Christian souls.”

Alma clenched her jaw, refusing to be cowed by her mother’s stare.

“Good heavens, I hadn’t heard that.” Mrs. Lawrence clutched the satin bow about her gizzard-like neck. “Do you think any of the older boys at Stover might run off and join this red rebellion?”

“Believe me, we keep a very close eye on them. Mr. Simms has never failed in tracking down a runaway.”

Ruth leaned forward in her chair. “Do you really think a full-fledged uprising is under way?”

“Don’t you read the papers I pass you each morning, girl?” her grandmother said. “Those hostile bucks are burning schools, attacking wagon trains, pillaging the nearby ranches. I read just this morning the Governor of Nebraska called for troops to protect the settlers along the Nebraska-Dakota border. It’s only a matter of time before the agitation spreads.”

Mrs. Steele and her daughter both nodded, grave expressions cast upon their faces. With the sigh of a martyr, Alma’s mother collapsed back in her chair.

“No need to worry, Cora,” Old Mrs. Lawrence said. “The army will take swift care of them.”

A sudden fear gripped Alma. These buzzards were not the only ones reading the papers. Her father had taken care to hide news of the Dakota fighting from the students at Stover, even from those who might have relatives among the dead. But what of ?

Calls for safekeeping and worried expressions followed them as they left the Steeles’. Instead of steering the buggy toward Stover, Alma directed the horses downtown.

“Home, dear. I haven’t the energy to visit the shops today.”

“Mr. Simms asked if we would stop by the carriage factory and inquire about a part he ordered.”

Her mother scowled but waved them onward. Traffic thickened as they headed west. Sprawling mansions gave way to single-story shotguns, ornamented coaches and buggies to surreys and mule-drawn box carts. Pillars of smoke rose from the mills and factories that lined the Mississippi. Locomotives blared their horns. All the while Alma’s insides twisted with worry.

When they reached the Wallis Carriage Company, Alma left her mother napping in the buggy and hurried inside. Mr. Wallis greeted her from behind a small lacquered counter. Behind it, a variety of carriages stood on display. Her eyes moved beyond the shiny new models to an open door leading to the workshop. Six or seven young men labored over vehicles in various stages of repair. Among them she spotted . The tamponade around her heart eased.

“How can I help you, Miss Blanchard?”

“I . . . um . . . my father received a letter addressed to George. As Mother and I were coming to town today to call upon some friends, he asked me to deliver it.” The lie left her mouth dry and her pulse unmeasured.

“Of course, I’d be happy to give it to him.”

Her stomach dropped. “I . . . er . . . I hate to take you from your bookkeeping. I’ll take it back.”

The creases around the man’s gray eyes deepened. He looked over his shoulder at and his expression softened. “All right, my dear. Mind your lovely dress. Floor’s covered in sawdust.”

The click of her boots over the floorboards heralded her approach, and the workers looked up from their hammers, trammels, and paintbrushes. Each one nodded when she passed. Though the clamor of their labor resumed, she knew their eyes had not left her.

sat on the stool at the very back of the shop, sanding down a long plank of wood. He, too, had glanced up at her approach, his unshorn hair falling over owl-wide eyes. He brushed the strands aside and returned to his work with a coolness that both alarmed and relieved her. Since his departure from Stover in July, they met with little frequency. Their paths crossed each Sunday in church, but there only a quick word or folded note could pass unnoticed between them. She’d never before come to the shop.

He stood, set aside his sandpaper, and wiped his hands over his cotton trousers. “You shouldn’t be here, ,” he whispered.

Alma opened her satchel and rummaged through its contents, feigning to search for the imaginary letter. “I had to see you. I was afraid news from Dakota had upset you.”

His jaw clenched and his irises seemed to darken until they were barely distinguishable from his pupils. “Upset is not the word I feel.”

“Just promise you won’t do anything rash, reckless.”