Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,73
it. “I don’t want life to be harder for Naomi because she is my wife,” I explain.
“Well, that’s something to think about.” Winifred sighs, and she studies the girl on the bluff that I’m keeping in my sights; I might lose her altogether if I look away. “But don’t think about it too long.”
“I’ve been thinking about it since I met her.”
“Then I reckon that’s long enough.”
“Âka’a,” I grumble.
“The hardest thing about life is knowing what matters and what doesn’t,” Winifred muses. “If nothing matters, then there’s no point. If everything matters, there’s no purpose. The trick is to find firm ground between the two ways of being.”
“I haven’t figured out the point or the purpose.”
“Just trying to survive makes things pretty clear most days. We have to eat; we need shelter; we have to keep warm. Those things matter.”
I nod. Simple enough.
“But none of those things matter at all if you have no one to feed, to shelter, or to keep warm. If you have no one to survive for, why eat? Why sleep? Why care at all? So I guess it’s not what matters . . . but who matters.”
From the back of my mind echo Jennie’s final words to me before I left St. Joseph.
It’s worth it, you know.
What is, Jennie?
The pain. It’s worth it. The more you love, the more it hurts. But it’s worth it. It’s the only thing that is.
“Many people matter,” I argue, though it is not a protest as much as a plea. I have very few people who matter to me, and I’m not convinced I matter very much to them.
“Yes. But you have to decide if Naomi matters to you . . . and how much. What would you do to keep her fed, to keep her breathing, to keep her warm?”
“I would do just about anything,” I admit.
“And that right there is purpose.”
“I cannot give her shelter. Not out here.”
“That’s what marriage is. It’s shelter. It’s sustenance. It’s warmth. It’s finding rest in each other. It’s telling someone, You matter most. That’s what Naomi wants from you. And that’s what she wants to give you.”
She reaches up and pats my cheek and turns away. She has mouths to feed, and she has said her piece. But she calls over her shoulder after only a few steps. “You’d best be going after her now.”
I am in the saddle before Winifred May reaches her wagon.
Naomi descends the bluff before I can reach her, but she sees me coming. She turns the sorrel at the bottom of the hill and veers west around it, making me race to catch up with her. She is a sight, racing across the expanse with her hair streaming out behind her. It’s the same color as the horse beneath her, and I can’t help but think that damn Dakotah chief knew exactly what he was doing. The sorrel’s gait is smooth and long, and Naomi’s skirt hangs over on each side, giving the appearance of royal draping. She’s a decent rider, as comfortable in the saddle as she is in every other area of her life. And maybe that is the root of my problem. Naomi seems to know exactly who she is, and she gives no indication that she is anything but content with herself. I told her she doesn’t think, she just feels, she just does, but maybe it’s because she is confident enough to trust her instinct and move ahead.
She slows when she’s put the bluff behind her, a barrier between us and the train, and then she comes to a stop, her back to me, waiting for me to draw up beside her.
“I want to be alone, John Lowry.” I know she is calling me John Lowry because I’ve told her not to.
“No. You don’t,” I counter. “You wanted me to follow you.”
She glares at me, her color high and her hair tumbling around her, and for a moment I just drink her in, looking my fill.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she snaps after I’ve stared a good minute. “I’m angry with you, and I do want to be alone.”
I slide off the dun and, trusting that Naomi won’t bolt just to spite me, walk to her horse. Without her permission, I put my hands around her waist and lift her down so she is standing in front of me, so close I could bend my head and kiss her tangled hair. Her pulse is drumming in her throat;