It was selfish of her to wish for that hour outside, to wish for the sitting and seeing the sky fill with color, maybe even seeing a star or two come out. Selfish because she hadn’t earned it.
Still, she shuffled to the door, stroked her fingers over it, laid her hot cheek against it. She could just hear the birds if she listened hard enough, but not the air through the trees as she would if she could stand on the other side of the door.
The air that would cool her aching jaw and settle her heart again.
She didn’t realize she’d touched the handle until it moved.
Shocked, terrified, she jumped back from it. It never moved. Not even when she scrubbed it clean.
Slowly, she reached out, touched it again, just a little pressure. It moved again, made the clicking sound it made when Sir used it.
With her breath coming fast, she gave it a little tug.
The door opened.
For one blind moment she saw Sir standing there, his fists raised to punish her for taking such a liberty. She actually cringed back, lifting her hands to cover her face.
But the blow didn’t come. When she lowered her hands again, looked out, she saw no one, not even Sir.
The air waved around her, all but tugged her out.
She jumped when the door shut behind her, shoved at it, then pulled, raced back in. Heart hammering, she fell to her knees, murmuring prayers.
But the pull was so strong, the air so sweet, she crawled back, opened the door again.
She got up slowly. Had Sir left it open on purpose? A reward? A test?
She looked toward the snow-covered ground where, come spring, she’d work the garden. Nearby, the dog slept under his crooked lean-to.
She took two steps, waited.
A couple of scrawny hens pecked around in the coop, the old cow chewed her cud. The swaybacked horse dozed on its feet.
She saw not another living thing. But she heard birds, and the air through the trees, and took another step along the roughly cleared path leading from her house to Sir’s.
She walked on, simply dazzled, forgetting the attack, the hurts in the sheer joy of being outside, without a tether, to be able to walk in any direction.
Bending down, she picked up snow in her bare hand, rubbed it against her face. Oh, it felt so good!
She picked up another handful, licked at it. The sound that came out of her was so foreign, she didn’t know she’d made it. Didn’t know she laughed.
But the dog heard, and woke with a ferocious bark, a lunge toward her. Fear of him had her rushing away in a limping run. She ran until her lungs turned to fire, until that awful barking fell away. The exertion winded her, and she stumbled, her body spilling into the snow.
Gasping for air, she rolled over, staring up at the sky through the trees, lying still, caught in wonder at the shape of clouds, how the branches cut through them.
Something tickled some part of her brain, some deep memory that had her moving her arms, her legs, laughing again at the sensation.
When she crawled up, looked down, she saw an angel in the snow. It seemed to point west. Yes, west where the sun would set.
Sir would want her to obey the angel.
In her long cotton dress and slippers, she limped west.
As she searched for angels, the sky began to burn in red, to billow in purples, to glimmer in golds. Enthralled, she trudged on. It seemed to her the sound of snow dripping from branches was music. Angel music, guiding her path. She came out to a place where little stones—gravel her memory bank told her—ran through the snow.
She didn’t notice when the gravel went to dirt, when the road forked. She’d seen a bird and, mesmerized, followed its direction for a time.
Birds flew, angels flew.
The air grew cold, very cold when the sun dropped away. But the moon sailed overhead, so she shuffled on, smiling up at it.
Deer, a small herd, bounded in front of her, leaping across the track. She stumbled back, heart hammering again as their eyes—yellow in the dark—gleamed at her.
Devils? Devils’ eyes gleamed yellow.
With a twisting jolt she realized she didn’t know where she was, she didn’t know which way her house would be.
She had to get back to it, get back and close the door she should never have opened.
Sir would be so angry with her. Angry enough to take the belt to her back as he’d done to teach her to obey.
In full panic—she could feel the bite of the belt on her back—she ran. Ran on a leg that dragged behind the other, on feet gone numb. When she slipped and fell, her knees burned, the heels of her hands bled.
She had to return to her house, repent, repent her great sin.
Tears poured down her cheeks; her breath tore from her lungs until, dizzy and weak, she had to stop, wait for her head to stop swimming.
She ran again, walked, ran, limped, lost in her mind, lost in despair, fell again on the gravel. On her knees she saw the gravel gave way to smooth. A road. She remembered a road. You traveled on a road. A road would take her back home again.
With a flutter of hope in her chest, she limped along with blood trickling down her calves from her scored knees. The road would take her home. She’d make tea and read the Bible and wait for Sir to come back.
She wouldn’t tell him he’d left the door unlocked. It wasn’t a sin not to tell him. Telling him was disrespectful, she reasoned. It would be saying he’d made a mistake.
She’d make her tea and be warmed by it; and she would forget the angel in the snow and the bird and the sky. Her house, the house Sir provided, was all she needed.
But she walked and walked and couldn’t find it. Walked and walked until her legs buckled, until her head swam again. She could rest once more, for just a minute. She’d rest, and then she’d find her way home.
Before she could, the moon circled and circled above her. It spiraled down, and it fell away, leaving her in the black.
PART THREE
A Sunset
There are sunsets who dance good-by.
They fling scarves half to the arc,
To the arc then and over the arc.
Ribbons at the ears, sashes at the hips,
Dancing, dancing good-by. And here sleep
Tosses a little with dreams.
—Carl Sandburg
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Roundup, a big barn of a dance bar, kept things simple. Music on Saturday nights—with the occasional Friday added in—from November through the first of May. May to November featured the addition of Open Mic on Wednesdays.
Otherwise, the head bartender played tunes for whoever warmed a barstool or chowed down on nachos or a burger at one of the tables.
Music ran from country to western, and the occasional crossover. Rock was not king here, though it could be tolerated in brief doses.
Callen had grown up on that country-western beat, its laments, its story-songs. But his musical tastes had expanded considerably during his travels.
Regardless, he didn’t much care if the band played disco on this particular evening, as he’d gotten a good look at Bodine’s legs.
They were every bit as excellent as he’d imagined.