along the rough of his jaw, holding him to me while I tiptoe through the room we shared, back when I was unafraid. I want to lie on the bed and watch him sleep; I want to touch him like I did before. But I hesitate too long, my mouth on his, lost in the memory of then, and he thinks I’ve fled.
His body is thrumming, his breath hot, but he steps back, softly closing the door behind me, letting me go. He takes my hand, and without a word, we walk back toward the wickiups.
JOHN
The fat drips from the meat in our hands and slides down our arms, but we cock our elbows, trying to keep our clothes clean, and keep on eating. We eat too much and then eat some more. I don’t know if Naomi’s been full in a long while, and she eats like she’s starving. She probably is.
The swaying and pleading of the buffalo dance last night have faded into lazy feasting and contented conversation. It’s been a long day, but I’ve never had a better one. I’ve had better moments. Better hours. A better night in a borrowed room at Fort Bridger. But never a better day, and I bask in it, setting aside the worry and the wear, the grief and the guilt, for a few more hours.
Drowsy children, nodding off in their mothers’ laps, are herded to bed. Then a bottle is passed, and the stories begin. I sit not in the circle of men but just outside it, against my saddle, my legs stretched out, with Naomi at my side. Lost Woman folds herself beside us, and when the bottle comes, she takes a deep pull and passes it to Naomi with a look that says, Drink.
Naomi obeys, chokes, but then tips her head back and gulps it down.
“Easy, woman,” I say, and she hands the bottle to me, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. I take a sip and pass it on, the burn reminding me of the last time Washakie gave me whiskey, when I told him Naomi had been taken. I push the thought away. Not tonight. I found Naomi, and tonight, that’s all there is.
An old warrior tells a story of a white buffalo who never dies, and I whisper every word to Naomi as she gets sleepy at my side. When I urge her to go to bed, she resists, and I pull her head down in my lap and let her doze. Her hair has dried in waves around her. She’s left it loose, and I love it that way.
Lost Woman leans over her, patting her cheek. “She is coming back,” she murmurs.
“Yes,” I whisper, moved. “I think she is.”
“Spirits help,” she says. She smiles, but her eyes are knowing, and I’m not sure which spirits she’s talking about.
“They make you brave and keep you warm,” she adds, clarifying.
I nod.
“They watch over us. I see their prints in the snow sometimes.”
I look at her, brow furrowed, but she is rising, moving toward her wickiup with a hunched back and small steps. She has worked hard today, and her body is sore.
Around the fire, the stories have changed to the hunts of the past and the never-ending battles with the Crow. As I listen, I wonder how old the tales are and how much longer they’ll be told. The world has remained unchanged in the Wind River Valley for a thousand years. Maybe more. But the millennium is coming to an end, and Washakie knows it. He knows, and he is silent by the fire, listening to the old men talk and the young men laugh. His eyes meet mine across the way, and I am suddenly weary.
I rouse Naomi, who sits up with bleary eyes and stumbles to the wickiup in search of water and a softer place to lay her rumpled head. Washakie calls out to me, his voice low and warm.
“You are a buffalo hunter now, brother. You will see them in your sleep. Don’t shoot.”
His men laugh and Washakie smiles, and I bid them all good night.
I don’t dream of buffalo. I dream of oxen pulling wagons. I dream of Oddie the ox being left behind and Naomi sitting beside him, drawing pictures of people we’ll never see again. I come awake with a start, breathing hard, not certain where I am. Then Naomi reaches for my hand, reminding me.
“You had a bad dream,” she whispers.
“Not bad,” I whisper