Between Earth and Sky(88)
“No, you won’t. You’ll stay here.”
Alma stood. He’d never presumed to tell her what to do before. Not like that. “I’m not some porcelain doll to be locked away in a china hutch. Harry is my friend and I shall do whatever it takes to see him free. Whether you approve or not.”
Stewart slammed his glass down on the table. The decanter clattered. He refilled his glass, splattering the doily as he poured. He raised the drink to his lips, his fingers strangling the glass with such force she feared it might shatter, then lowered it as if he might say something. His jaw remained clenched, however. He stared at the wall, his hazel eyes distant, his nostrils flaring with each exhale.
Alma reached out to touch his arm, to stay his hand. He felt like stone beneath her touch, and she pulled away. She thought back to his face when he’d pulled her from the Indian’s mule—his openmouthed relief, the way his eyes clung to her, unblinking, like she might again vanish.
“I have to do this. There’s so much I’ve done wrong. I have to feel as if I’ve helped in this.”
The glass remained at his lips, the light of the nearby lamp reflecting off its tawny surface. Had he even heard her, registered what she said? She always marveled at the control he exercised over his expression. A lawyer trick of his. Yet something always revealed his emotion—a slight lift of the shoulders when exultant, a quick tug at his shirt cuffs when uneasy, a splaying of his fingers when anger got the best of him. It was like a secret code between them—things other people missed that Alma never failed to notice. Not tonight, though. Tonight he gave her nothing. She clutched her arms about herself, fingers burrowing into her flesh. She could not bear the sudden estrangement, but would not back down. She must see Minowe. Alone.
His hand sagged. He unstopped the decanter and poured the liquor back. Its sharp scent perfumed the air between them. He unfastened his bow tie and walked past her into the bedroom. “Something is amiss with the account books and ledgers. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
He spoke to her in the same cool, detached fashion he spoke to his clerk. But it was better than silence.
“What do you mean?”
“It has to do with this latest land allotment.” He shrugged out of his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat. “Indians came up from Minneapolis, Chicago, even St. Louis to receive land, many of whom are not in any previous roll books. And the deed log looks as if it’s been tampered with—names penciled in and later erased, names scratched out, names gone over in ink like they’d been penciled in beforehand.”
“What does all this have to do with Harry?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. It looks like there was quite an uproar after the proceedings—numerous complaints, even a letter sent to Washington. Maybe Mr. Muskrat was among those speaking out like Mr. Zhawaeshk said.”
Alma did her best to swallow the disappointment rising in her chest. She’d hoped for something more, something definitive.
He turned away from her and stepped out of his trousers. She saw his skin for only a second—the light freckles that dotted his back, the hair that covered his calves—before he donned his nightshirt. He’d dimmed his bedside light and climbed beneath the sheets before she’d even begun to undress. No advances tonight. No impassioned lovemaking where every inch of their bodies hungered for friction, where sweat slickened their skin and moans freely escaped their lips.
Her breast heaved at the thought of it. She wanted so badly to touch him, to feel the crush of his embrace, to know that everything would be all right. A chill took hold of her. A draft no doubt stolen in through the thin drapes and poorly seated windows. She stripped off her gown and unfastened her corset. Perhaps it was best. The distance. There were too many ghosts between them tonight.
CHAPTER 36
Wisconsin, 1891
“Jaha! Who let you out of the house?”
Alma, treading carefully over the rows of black soil and budding sprouts, smiled at . “I escaped. Here, let me help you.” She grabbed seed bag.
“I thought ladies did not work in the field,” Minowe said, coming up beside them.
“Mother thinks I’m napping. You know I’d be out here more if I could.”
Minowe smirked and continued along the empty track of dirt. With each stride, she plunged the long stick she carried into the ground, poking a small hole in the loamy earth. “Aren’t your fancy La Crosse friends coming this afternoon for tea?”
Alma followed after and sprinkled a few broad white seeds in each depression. “Mother invited them, not me.”
Her friend snickered without looking back.
“Only one seed, Azaadiins,” Hoga said from behind her. “Otherwise the plants tangle and choke one another.”
“Oh.” Holding the hem of her skirt above the ground, she bent down and fished out the excess seeds. “What are we planting, anyway?”
squatted beside her and covered the hole with dirt.
They continued for at least a dozen more yards, Minowe burrowing the hole, Alma dropping a seed, tilling over fresh soil. The sun smiled above in the cloudless sky. Magpies chattered from the fence posts. A soft breeze carried cool air from the nearby forest. How good it felt to be out of the stuffy schoolhouse.
The days since her father’s outburst in the study had stretched on with bitter tedium. True to his word, he guarded against any opportunity that might bring her and together. He forbade her to leave the schoolhouse, even for a walk around the grounds, unless in his or her mother’s company. Under the pretext that Stover now had too many students to cart back and forth into town, he asked Reverend Thomas to conduct a special worship service in the school’s dining hall each Sunday. He even bought two bloodhounds to prowl the grounds at night.