I didn’t go to school with my sisters because the girls at school were afraid of me—the teacher too—and the boys always wanted to fight, though I usually started it. Fighting made me feel better, and I was good at it. The teacher asked my father to keep me away until I could behave. My father turned me over to Otaktay, a half-breed Sioux who worked for him for a while. Otaktay was good with knives, he knew how to grapple, and his rage was almost as big as mine. He wore me out and worked me over while Jennie taught me to read and write and do my figures. Language and numbers were never hard for me, and I had a good mind beneath my fine head of hair.
I “knew” some women at Fort Kearny—some Pawnee, one Blackfoot, and a handful of whores from Illinois—who set up in a row of lodges at the rear of the fort. Everyone knew who they were, and no one said a word. They just paid their visits and took their turns, and the women made their living. Captain Dempsey had a wife somewhere, but Dawn, the Blackfoot woman, was his personal favorite, and he didn’t like to share. When she smiled at me and touched my chest, it almost cost me my father’s spring contract. Captain Dempsey ordered me to take my attentions elsewhere, and I obliged him by heading back home. Women were trouble.
“You don’t think much of me, do you, John Lowry?” Naomi asks, pulling me out of my reverie.
“I don’t think about you at all, Mrs. Caldwell,” I lie, emphasizing her name for both our sakes. I don’t like it when she calls me John Lowry in that Jennie-like tone, and I am angry with her, though I have no real reason to be. “I’ve found that women can’t be trusted,” I say.
“And I’ve found that men are just frightened boys. God gave you stronger bodies to make up for your weaker spines.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I lie again.
“You are terrified of me, John Lowry.”
“Go away, little girl. I will not be your fool.”
“I am many things. But I’m not a little girl, and I’ve never befriended a fool.”
I think of the woman who wanted me to kiss her and then screamed when I acquiesced. I wonder if Naomi will scream and make a scene if I kiss her too.
“What’s your game, Mrs. Caldwell?” I sigh.
She gazes at me steadily, blinking once, twice, the long sweep of her lashes drawing me in. Her wrist is narrow, and my fingers touch as I wrap my hand around her arm and pull her toward me. She lifts her chin, her nostrils flaring like a mare sensing danger, but she comes willingly. Her breath tickles my face, and when my mouth nears hers, it is all I can do not to crush the small bones beneath my fingers.
I decide I will be rough. Harsh. Then she will run off crying and leave me alone. Or her father will come with his big rifle and insist I go. Fine with me. I am weary of the slow pace of the wagon train and can make it to Fort Kearny by myself. I’ll get there in half the time. Better to be done with the train and teach Naomi Caldwell a lesson she should have learned long ago.
But at the last minute I cannot do it. I can’t be harsh, and I can’t kiss her.
I avoid her mouth altogether, even though she’s lifted it to me. Instead of passion and punishment, the peck I lay on her forehead is soft and sweet, a child’s kiss on a mother’s brow.
She pulls away and looks up at me expectantly.
“That is not the way I want to be kissed,” she says.
“No?”
“No,” she answers solemnly. She takes a deep breath, and her words bubble out in a nervous rush. “I want you to kiss me like you’ve been thinking about it from the moment we met.”
I laugh at her pretty words so that I don’t feel them. I see her swallow, her throat working in discomfort. I have embarrassed her. Her fingers curl in her skirt, gathering it as if she is about to flee. Good. That is what is best for her.
Yet I reach for her again.
This time I am not gentle or timid, and her lips flatten beneath my mouth, but she does not pull back or push me away. She slides her fingers into my hair—my hat has fallen—and tugs so hard my teeth snap and my back bends. Her ribs are slim and dainty beneath my palms, and I encircle her, lifting her up and into me. For a moment I kiss her blindly, boldly, invading her mouth and suckling her lips, teaching us both a lesson.
But she is softer than I anticipated—softer lips and skin, softer swells and softer sighs. And she is sweet.
It stuns me, and I shove her away, ashamed of myself. She staggers and reaches for my arm, but I have stepped back, and she crumples, falling to her knees, catching herself with the palms of her hands.
I curse, long and low, a word Jennie would slap me for saying. My father says it all the time, but even he knows better than to say it in front of a woman. I step forward to help Naomi up, but she ignores my proffered hand and rises nimbly without my assistance. Fine. It is better that I don’t touch her again. My hands are shaking and my legs aren’t steady, and I wipe the kiss from my mouth with the back of my hand.
She brushes off her palms and shakes out her skirt. Even in the shadows her lips are crimson. I have kissed her too hard, and I desperately want to do it again. She avoids my gaze, and I am certain I have accomplished my aim; she is angry with me. That is good. That is best. But my heart is pounding with the need to redeem myself.
“I know why you are being unkind.” Her voice is gentle, stunning me all over again.
“Why?” I gasp.
“You don’t think we’re the same.”
“Good night, Mrs. Caldwell,” I say, dismissing her. I need her to go. To stay. To forgive me. To forsake me.
“The Andersons are from Norway. The McNeelys are Irish. Johann Gruber is from Germany. You’re part Indian, and I’m a widow.” She shrugs. “We all need each other. We can all live side by side peaceably, can’t we? We don’t all have to be exactly the same.”
“Some cultures do not mix. It is like having fins but trying to live on land,” I whisper.
She says something beneath her breath, and I duck my head trying to catch it.
“What?” I ask.
“So be a turtle,” she repeats, enunciating each word. She grins suddenly, her teeth flashing in her pretty face, and I laugh out loud. I laugh, disarmed in the face of her honesty, my discomfort and defensiveness melting into the moonlight.
“Good night, John,” she says, turning away. She walks from the clearing, leaving me smiling like a fool in the copse of cottonwoods, my horse the only witness to my undoing.
She is so different.
Most everyone I know is afraid. Including me.
But Naomi May—Naomi Caldwell, I correct myself—is not afraid.
4
CHOLERA
NAOMI
“Ma?” I ask. I don’t know if she’s still awake. Ma and I are bedded down in the wagon. The camp has been quiet for half an hour, yet my mind won’t settle, and my heart hasn’t slowed since I made John kiss me. I knew exactly what I was doing. I suspect he knew it too.
“Did you say something, Naomi?” Ma’s voice is wan, and I almost say never mind, but I need to talk.
“From the moment I saw John Lowry on the street in St. Joseph, I wanted him,” I confess in a whispered rush. “I don’t even know why.”
“I know,” Ma murmurs, and my heart finds its rhythm. Ma always has that effect on me.