killed more than a handful of gunmen to free Hattie from that handsome, fast-handed Boothog Wiser. And in the end it looked as if what he had ultimately accomplished was to warn the one called Jubilee Usher that Jonah was indeed somewhere on the Mormon’s backtrail, following, his nose to the ground like old Seth on the scent of possum or coon.
Across these last three summers, Jonah had learned a piece of tracking from one of the best—an old trapper named Shadrach Sweete. Hook was no longer a novice: he was becoming one with the land, just like any good Injun.
There was a bittersweet quality to that thought as he tried the meat again. Done enough for a man gone all day without proper victuals. He would eat his antelope now and think on the dark, black-cherry eyes of Shad Sweete’s half-breed Cheyenne daughter, Pipe Woman. Her dusky face swam before him among the wisps of firesmoke drifting up into the branches of the Cottonwood, branches that would quickly dispel much sign of Hook’s camp fire here at twilight.
At times Jonah found himself ashamed that his thoughts of her got all tangled up with his remembrance of Gritta. It was like he would take a stick and swirl it backand forth at the edge of a stream. Stirring up mud and sand and pebbles until everything grew murky. Until nothing was clear anymore. Resentment for himself boiled up in Jonah like sour whiskey a day late to do a drunk man any good.
All he knew as he sat there over the fire, one hand holding that antelope steak while the other dragged in dirt and sand to snuff out the glowing embers, was that he had to see this thing through.
Had to find out if Gritta and the boys were alive, or dead.
Only then could he put them out of his mind and heart—and open himself to Pipe Woman.
4
September 1868
T
ILL DEATH DO us part….
Gritta Hook tried desperately to remember more of the words, her mind clawing at the marriage vows like her fingers once scraped at the damp earth clodding up on the blade of her hoe as she weeded the long rows of crops she and Jonah had planted together that last season before he went off to war.
She could remember only faintly how it had been left up to her and the three children to plant the crops the spring after Jonah marched off on foot behind Sterling Price to fight the Yankees plunging down from northern Missouri.
“Till death do us part,” she whispered, touching her lips with her fingertips afterward, not so much to test their swollen flesh for the oozing cracks as much as to remind herself of Jonah’s kiss after he had looked into her eyes with those deep gray ones of his—holding her hand on thatday when they stood before the preacher, before all their family and friends come from up and down the length of the Shenandoah.
A cold splash of fear shot down her back as that word came back to haunt her.
“Death,” she murmured as the old army ambulance lurched, then swayed side to side gently, rocking among the ruts worn deep in this trail south by west toward Mormon country.
She was good as dead now, Gritta decided. And if she wasn’t by the time Jonah somehow found her by the grace of the Lord … well, she wasn’t really sure just how she felt about that—him coming to get her now. Not after all this time with Usher.
She knew the man’s name. More so, she knew the smell of him, how he kept himself scrupulously clean. By now she had learned there seemed to be a particular smell to each man.
Perhaps it was nothing more than the cinnamon oil he worked into his long black curls. So dandified. She thought about that long hair of his falling to his shoulders, what with Usher almost totally bald on top of his head.
But when she smelled that musk of his mingled with the cinnamon scent to his hair, and saw the look Usher got to his eye, she knew he had come to take her. It had been such a long time since last she had resisted. Gritta couldn’t remember when she had tried to fight off the huge man. Slow she had been
Across these last three summers, Jonah had learned a piece of tracking from one of the best—an old trapper named Shadrach Sweete. Hook was no longer a novice: he was becoming one with the land, just like any good Injun.
There was a bittersweet quality to that thought as he tried the meat again. Done enough for a man gone all day without proper victuals. He would eat his antelope now and think on the dark, black-cherry eyes of Shad Sweete’s half-breed Cheyenne daughter, Pipe Woman. Her dusky face swam before him among the wisps of firesmoke drifting up into the branches of the Cottonwood, branches that would quickly dispel much sign of Hook’s camp fire here at twilight.
At times Jonah found himself ashamed that his thoughts of her got all tangled up with his remembrance of Gritta. It was like he would take a stick and swirl it backand forth at the edge of a stream. Stirring up mud and sand and pebbles until everything grew murky. Until nothing was clear anymore. Resentment for himself boiled up in Jonah like sour whiskey a day late to do a drunk man any good.
All he knew as he sat there over the fire, one hand holding that antelope steak while the other dragged in dirt and sand to snuff out the glowing embers, was that he had to see this thing through.
Had to find out if Gritta and the boys were alive, or dead.
Only then could he put them out of his mind and heart—and open himself to Pipe Woman.
4
September 1868
T
ILL DEATH DO us part….
Gritta Hook tried desperately to remember more of the words, her mind clawing at the marriage vows like her fingers once scraped at the damp earth clodding up on the blade of her hoe as she weeded the long rows of crops she and Jonah had planted together that last season before he went off to war.
She could remember only faintly how it had been left up to her and the three children to plant the crops the spring after Jonah marched off on foot behind Sterling Price to fight the Yankees plunging down from northern Missouri.
“Till death do us part,” she whispered, touching her lips with her fingertips afterward, not so much to test their swollen flesh for the oozing cracks as much as to remind herself of Jonah’s kiss after he had looked into her eyes with those deep gray ones of his—holding her hand on thatday when they stood before the preacher, before all their family and friends come from up and down the length of the Shenandoah.
A cold splash of fear shot down her back as that word came back to haunt her.
“Death,” she murmured as the old army ambulance lurched, then swayed side to side gently, rocking among the ruts worn deep in this trail south by west toward Mormon country.
She was good as dead now, Gritta decided. And if she wasn’t by the time Jonah somehow found her by the grace of the Lord … well, she wasn’t really sure just how she felt about that—him coming to get her now. Not after all this time with Usher.
She knew the man’s name. More so, she knew the smell of him, how he kept himself scrupulously clean. By now she had learned there seemed to be a particular smell to each man.
Perhaps it was nothing more than the cinnamon oil he worked into his long black curls. So dandified. She thought about that long hair of his falling to his shoulders, what with Usher almost totally bald on top of his head.
But when she smelled that musk of his mingled with the cinnamon scent to his hair, and saw the look Usher got to his eye, she knew he had come to take her. It had been such a long time since last she had resisted. Gritta couldn’t remember when she had tried to fight off the huge man. Slow she had been
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