Where the Lost Wander(97)
JOHN
The fat drips from the meat in our hands and slides down our arms, but we cock our elbows, trying to keep our clothes clean, and keep on eating. We eat too much and then eat some more. I don’t know if Naomi’s been full in a long while, and she eats like she’s starving. She probably is.
The swaying and pleading of the buffalo dance last night have faded into lazy feasting and contented conversation. It’s been a long day, but I’ve never had a better one. I’ve had better moments. Better hours. A better night in a borrowed room at Fort Bridger. But never a better day, and I bask in it, setting aside the worry and the wear, the grief and the guilt, for a few more hours.
Drowsy children, nodding off in their mothers’ laps, are herded to bed. Then a bottle is passed, and the stories begin. I sit not in the circle of men but just outside it, against my saddle, my legs stretched out, with Naomi at my side. Lost Woman folds herself beside us, and when the bottle comes, she takes a deep pull and passes it to Naomi with a look that says, Drink.
Naomi obeys, chokes, but then tips her head back and gulps it down.
“Easy, woman,” I say, and she hands the bottle to me, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. I take a sip and pass it on, the burn reminding me of the last time Washakie gave me whiskey, when I told him Naomi had been taken. I push the thought away. Not tonight. I found Naomi, and tonight, that’s all there is.
An old warrior tells a story of a white buffalo who never dies, and I whisper every word to Naomi as she gets sleepy at my side. When I urge her to go to bed, she resists, and I pull her head down in my lap and let her doze. Her hair has dried in waves around her. She’s left it loose, and I love it that way.
Lost Woman leans over her, patting her cheek. “She is coming back,” she murmurs.
“Yes,” I whisper, moved. “I think she is.”
“Spirits help,” she says. She smiles, but her eyes are knowing, and I’m not sure which spirits she’s talking about.
“They make you brave and keep you warm,” she adds, clarifying.
I nod.
“They watch over us. I see their prints in the snow sometimes.”
I look at her, brow furrowed, but she is rising, moving toward her wickiup with a hunched back and small steps. She has worked hard today, and her body is sore.
Around the fire, the stories have changed to the hunts of the past and the never-ending battles with the Crow. As I listen, I wonder how old the tales are and how much longer they’ll be told. The world has remained unchanged in the Wind River Valley for a thousand years. Maybe more. But the millennium is coming to an end, and Washakie knows it. He knows, and he is silent by the fire, listening to the old men talk and the young men laugh. His eyes meet mine across the way, and I am suddenly weary.
I rouse Naomi, who sits up with bleary eyes and stumbles to the wickiup in search of water and a softer place to lay her rumpled head. Washakie calls out to me, his voice low and warm.
“You are a buffalo hunter now, brother. You will see them in your sleep. Don’t shoot.”
His men laugh and Washakie smiles, and I bid them all good night.
I don’t dream of buffalo. I dream of oxen pulling wagons. I dream of Oddie the ox being left behind and Naomi sitting beside him, drawing pictures of people we’ll never see again. I come awake with a start, breathing hard, not certain where I am. Then Naomi reaches for my hand, reminding me.
“You had a bad dream,” she whispers.
“Not bad,” I whisper back. “Just strange and . . . lonely.”
She sits up, crawls to the canteen, and brings it back to me, as if water cures loneliness. I drink even though I’m not thirsty, and she does too.
She lies back down, but we are both wide awake, and she whispers after a long silence, “Do you want to tell me about the dream?”
“Sometimes I dream about Oddie.” I don’t tell her the rest, and she doesn’t ask me to, but after a moment, she shoves the buffalo robes aside and crawls up on my chest, spreading herself over me, her cheek against my heart. I shed my shirt before I slept, and her breath is warm on my skin.
“Poor Oddie. He was tired of carrying all of us,” she says softly. I close my eyes, savoring the feel of her against me, solid and close. I reach up to stroke her hair, following its length to the base of her spine.
“I worry sometimes that you will get tired of carrying all of us, John.”
“I would carry you to the ends of the earth.”
She raises her head and looks down at me; her walls are down, and her gaze is tender. She braces her hands on either side of my head and kisses me—lips, chin, cheeks, brow—softly, sweetly, and then does it all over again. When she returns to my mouth for the third time, her breath is shallow, her heart thrumming, and the kiss is not nearly so soft or sweet. Her lips cling to mine, hungry and hopeful, and I respond in kind, my hands still but my mouth eager, molding her lips and chasing her tongue.
She wears a ragged homespun shift when she sleeps, something Hanabi gave her. It’s thin beneath my hands as I draw it up over her hips and pull it over her head. Her eyes don’t leave mine, and her mouth returns, wet and welcoming, and I can’t be still any longer. Her arms curl around me, and her legs twine with mine when I roll, changing our positions. When she stiffens, I immediately stop, lifting myself up onto my arms and taking my weight from her body. But she grips my hips and guides me home, insistent. We moan as one and move together, slow, slow, slow. Our eyes are locked and our bodies are joined, but tears begin to seep from the corners of her eyes and trickle into the pool of her hair.