I scooped out salve from a pot, a glob of mossy-river green. It smelt of dampness, of the deep of creeks and the wide of distances. I hissed as I smeared the salve on my brow, the cut burning. I prayed that Wa-ah-zho had gotten to Stot in time. I supposed Stot knew how to watch his back, but I couldn’t stop worrying about him. What was this between us? It couldn’t be love, could it? We were fire and lushness and delicious sparring. Sure, we helped each other round our homesteads, and we’d developed a vicious loyalty, and he listened to me about my longings and my fears, but that wasn’t love. Love was—
Lord, but wasn’t that the size of it—I didn’t know what love was at all.
But we couldn’t have a romance, him intended for another. I rubbed the salve on my forearm scrape and wound a piece of cloth round my arm. My fingers slipped. I couldn’t tie the blasted cloth with one hand. Niabi strode in with a kettle. She set the pot down and took the cloth from me, tying the bandage. After pouring hot water over sassafras roots, she dribbled in some honey, just as I liked. I sat on the rug, and she handed me the warm mug.
“Your stomach?” She lowered beside me.
I shrugged. Stared at the pieces of tree wandering the deep, wine-red tea. The flavor was spicy, almost like root beer. Niabi had been gentle and patient as I healed. I envied her hope. She held on to her positivity without expecting me to join her. She waited and watched, like the sun knowing a flower will someday rise again from the darkness of the earth.
She grabbed a handful of bur oak acorns. “So the gossip of the morning—Stot’s here.”
“Oh—” I jostled my mug. “He’s safe?”
Niabi told that Stot had not been at his homestead when Wa-ah-zho had arrived. Instead, Stot had been helping a neighbor deliver a breech cow—and it’d taken Wa-ah-zho a while to track him down. I inhaled, released a sigh. “But he’s unhurt?”
“Safe and whole.” Something like amusement tugged at her mouth. “But he’s in a fury.”
“Isn’t he always?”
“Oh, this is worse,” she said. “He’s all churned up. Like there’s warring tornadoes inside him.”
“Where is he?” I needed to see him.
“Pacing outside. I wanted to check with you before he stormed on in, surprising you in your unmentionables.”
I smiled weakly and told her I wanted to see him. She nodded and stood, then paused. “My Wa-ah-zho carries roiling weather within him too.” She ran her thumb around the lip of her cup, glanced through the smoke hole. “The world heavy on him.”
I nodded and rubbed my face, the scent of dried blood bitter. Stot was complicated, composed of stormcloud and lightning but also the steady drift of sunrays across aged oak floorboards, the sort of glow that returned day after day. “I need to see Stot,” I said. “And then I need to go home.”
“Good heavens, you should rest. At least a few more suns.”
The pull homeward was dynamic. “I must go.”
Niabi tucked her hair behind her ear and frowned. But she ducked through the doorway. Beyond the lodge, I heard raised voices. That low rumble was Stot. I set my cup down and stood, raking my fingers through my tattered hair.
Stot stormed in, his bulk taking up too much space in the lodge. I turned toward the fire.
“What in blasted burning thunder?”
I peeked over my shoulder. “Beg pardon?”
He strode forward, spun me around.
I yelped.
“Blazes.” His fingers fussed about the bandage on my forearm.
I batted at his hands. “Stop it.”
“I’m trying to help.”
I grabbed his hands, stilled them.
His hat hung on his shoulder blades by a braided black cord round his neck. His hair was windblown and disheveled, his jaw singed with stubble—but he was whole and unharmed. He brushed his gaze down. I’d yet to close my blouse, my ivory silk chemise visible. I fumbled with the buttons, my fingers ungainly.
Stot’s hand paused mine, his voice muffled and hoarse. “Allow me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
