I brushed my cerulean sash tied about Stot’s upper arm. Firelight gleamed on the sharp panes of his face, his jaw shadowed with stubble like smoke before a sunrise. Circling the dance, some farmers played a spirited game of horseshoes and others chatted, sharing ways to establish a homestead. Willie slumped on a wooden barrel, liquored up and flipping cards in a game of faro. I hadn’t seen Ezra since sunset. Now it was just that stretch of dark before morning, a few fiddles and an accordion lending a bit of chaos to the midnight hours. Stot spun me out, and I tripped over my skirts and then a stick. He steadied me, hands on my shoulders, my chin knocking his chest.
I held on to his gun belt and laughed, my forehead against his collarbone. My head fit perfectly. It was glorious to loosen emotions, to feel like I needn’t contain myself. Stot could handle a blustery rail of laughter from some homespun woman. His gaze slid to my lips, his exhale brushing the wisps of my hair. With the boys from Kansas, I could surmise their thoughts. They were tame, predictable—manageable.
Stot? He was one wild unknown.
I flicked my gaze to his lips, and he leaned down a breath. My heart stopped.
And I sucked down my laughter in one big gulp. He slid his palms over my shoulders, down to my wrists. From the edge of the meadow, I caught Olive’s gaze, her thoughts plain as daylight:Lord, but what are you doing?But we were just dancing. Just two friends who’d found a likeness in each other, just two lonesome pioneers.
And then, in between the clamor of the fiddle and the groan of distant wind, from across time and space, a woman narrated an outlandish story, not unlike those exaggerated fables of Davy Crockett.I ain’t know much, but my pa says my soul’s lightning.The boundary of a vision shaped across the prairie: a gauzy white Regency gown, axe resting against collarbone, golden embers floating about her frame. She seemed an echo of the woman in my painting, and I supposed, with the shocks of lightning rising from within her, she must be folk legend Sally Ann Thunder Ann Whirlwind. I remembered her story, had read it many times:Folks say I can blow out a moonbeam, outscream a coyote, and leap over my own shadow.And yet—I glimpsed a real woman, not a caricature from a tall tale.
Sounds and scents returned me to the present. The screech of an accordion, the smoke of winter bonfire, Stot’s hands, warm on my wrists. I blinked, refocused. He studied my posture, brows drawn. I untangled my hands, then walked to the edge of the party, slow and careful, the world hazy and tipping, my palm on the pleats of my bodice, atop my breastbone. I couldn’t let the world spiral away, couldn’t allow myself to unravel. The dancers were blurry shapes and flapping open jaws, loud and wobbly, and for a moment they didn’t seem real.
Stot slid a hand beneath my elbow. “You’re anxious again.”
I stepped away and rubbed my shoulders, cold. Why couldn’t we just keep on dancing, keep on having fun, without any worries.
He glanced at the tension in my hands. “It’s not everyone’s worry of making it to spring,” he said, “nor is it anguish from the first day as I’d presumed—your worry is something elsewhile.” He shifted his weight,hands in his trouser pockets, shirtsleeves rolled to expose his wrists. “I don’t scare easy.”
No, he wouldn’t. He’d managed the cowboy bloodshed just fine. But the possibility that I heard the voices of other women, from throughout time? Stot was as lawless as winter was long, but he was also rooted to practicality, like a blasted post oak that’d been growing for an epoch. He wouldn’t abide the whimsy that my land told me stories—and it was imperative to my safety that no one knew I might’ve caught hysteria.
Stot edged closer, shoulders right before my own. He studied me, as if he took me apart and rearranged me. “You can’t just keep tossing up barricades,” he said, “pushing everyone away, listening to wind sounds.”
I faltered backward. “What?”
“I’m not some two-bit farmer from Kansas,” he said. “I see you watching the tree line, listening for something, painting women you don’t see. All your bravado, I don’t buy it. I like your strength, but I also fancy your gentler parts.” He lowered his voice; the bonfire reflected red in his black hair. “I’m asking you to let me know you some, let me see the truth.”
“The truth?” I scoffed. “Well, that’s rich, coming from the outlaw.”
“You know that’s not who I am.”
I stepped closer, below his brim. “Do I?”
His hat tipped low, a broody haze hanging about him as if he were some ominous god of war from another age. “You’re hiding something.”
“Oh, I apologize,” I said. “I forgot you adore transparency.”
“What does that mean?”
I threw my hands out. “I knownothingof who you are. You’re a wanted outlaw, for all manner of nefarious crimes, shot up by wayward bandits, presumably rambling about the countryside with bands of desperadoes—andI’mthe one hiding something?”
“Mmm.” Crinkles fanned at his temples. He clicked open his pocket watch, closed it. “The tales are more interesting, perhaps.”
“To hell with tales, I’d rather the truth.” I crossed my arms, the rim of my collar brushing my forearms. And he had some sweetheart back home, wherever in netherworld that was.
He ran his thumb across the gold engraving on his watch. “Would you?”
I tipped forward on my toes, spoke in a mock whisper. “I don’t spook easy.”
He laughed, low, guttural, and shook his head. He pulled his flask from his pocket and drank. The muscles bobbed on his throat.
Sophia spun past, her palm rested atop some dandy’s hand, the bell of her petal-pink gown curving. Such youth, such innocence, somewhere perhaps I’d never been.
He regarded the crowd, which was sloppy and fraying at the ends. “Come on, let’s dance.”
I held my shoulders, fingers clenching satin. I released my grip, sighed. “Liquor first.”
At the refreshments, I shoved a pastry in my mouth and grabbed some jars of blackstrap rum. Stot rested his forearms on the table, leaned toward me until I halted and looked at him. “You wonder about my past?” he asked.
