Page 4 of Working the Lode

CHAPTER THREE

Zelnora

Zelnora’s hands trembled as she trudged up the hill to the store. Who was that man? Mr. Cormack Bowmaker, that’s all she knew. Was he Mercy’s backwoodsman? But no, it was the other fellow who wore the buckskins with the porcupine quills. This flame-haired man of impossible beauty was taller than the other, stood straight with hips thrust forward and long arms dangling at his sides, as though he knew how to walk, to stalk, to fuck. His piercing, unblinking eyes, a celestine blue of a clarity she had never known, had seemed to look quizzically at her. His head was slightly cocked, wondering if he knew her from somewhere, or questioning the veracity of her soul, her past, perhaps knowing something about her, something that was perhaps shameful. Was there anything shameful about her?

Oh dear Lord, he must know about her and Brannagh, about their fumbled couplings in the back room, oh dear Lord, but that was absurd. Brannagh had not touched her earring until after Mr. Bowmaker had looked at her that way. Perhaps he had somehow found out that she was a divorced woman?

Burning with this imagined shame, Zelnora burst into the store, glad no customers were there. Mercy, behind the counter, leapt to her feet, her face ablaze with anticipation and anguish.

“Zel! What happened? Did you see him?”

Dramatically flinging her back against the closed door, Zelnora panted, “If by ‘him’ you mean the red-headed taller one without the fine beaded leggings, then yes, indeed, I saw him. And no animal on his head, just a scarf tied round it.” Zelnora paced about the room and fanned herself with her hand. “Mercy!” she breathed, realizing the double entendre of the word for the first time. “I have been struck by an angel. I had never thought this would happen.”

Mercy came around the side of the counter to confront her friend, grabbing her by the shoulders. “I saw no red-headed man, Zel. Tell me, then, about the shorter one, the dark-haired one.”

Zelnora felt faint. Although the autumn rain had just ceased outside, her face burned and she longed to dive into the river. She looked Mercy in the eye. “His name is Aaron Erskine and that’s all I know, they work with Marshall up at Coloma building a mill, but you can’t go down there now because I… ” She closed her eyes, struggling to continue. “I have to go to the pantry shed for some, ah…some lemonade!”

She grabbed the padlock key and her tin cup from underneath the counter, whipping the rebozo from her hair and flinging it over a stool. Her last view was of Mercy, hands on hips, declaring, “That must be some rugged red-headed man to make you so feather-headed!”

“If Brannagh returns, tell him I’ve gone to bathe in the river!”

Her real goal was to sneak more whiskey from one of the kegs she knew were there, and gather herself. She fairly ran the fifty yards up the hill to the pantry shed, letting herself in with the key. It felt safe and secure inside there with the barrels of flour and pickled salmon, the comforting smell of tallow and cheese.

She sat on some bags of dried corn holding her whiskey cup with trembling hands, just soaking her lips in it and breathing, hoping the essence would bring her to her senses. With a shock she realized she was contriving to somehow meet up with Mr. Bowmaker again. How dare she? How could she? Brannagh would never hear of it! Perhaps he had a wife câched away somewhere up in the mountains; perhaps she even cooked for them at the mill. What did she know? Mr. Bowmaker would play the fiddle or some other mournful instrument at night as the exotic Indian wife—a beautiful lithe maiden no doubt—danced a fandango about the fire with upraised arms, and then he’d fuck her ferociously, like an animal with her on her knees, flattening her like a frog against the bearskin, as Barton used to do to her. Only Mr. Bowmaker wouldn’t grunt like a barnyard animal, no, he wouldn’t let his tremendous strength hurt her, he would use his strength in the adept, agile manner the mountain man used when he put his all into tracking, scenting, shooting, and skinning his prey. The stalk of his penis would be thick, like a proud giant trunk, but he wouldn’t hurt her in his brutality, the ecstasy would last longer than thirty seconds, and he would—

“Oh; excuse me. I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

Good Lord! It was him! He poked his head and shoulders beyond the shed’s doorframe, lit like a beatific angel by the filtered light of the one sooty glass window.

Zelnora was so lost in her reverie she jumped a foot in the air at the sound of his voice, sloshing the whiskey out of her cup as she put her free hand to her chest in shock. The tiniest of amused smiles creased the edges of his mouth—oh, his beautiful mouth, with its bow-shaped cupid’s upper lip. Gathering herself, she leaned forward in anticipation, perhaps knowing this position showed her bosom to its best advantage. “No, no, it’s fine, I was just, ah…” Smiling, she held out the cup as though it explained everything. “Please come in, what can I do for you?”

He entered the room, and stooped a bit to clear the doorframe. Oh, dear Lord in heaven, how tall he was, how masculine the way he stood, how large and experienced his hands as they hung at his thighs, powerful thighs tightly encased in buckskin…He looked directly at her with that unwavering gaze. “Brannagh said I could find some powder and shot in here. Is that true?”

Zelnora stood and set the offending tin cup onto a barrel. He gazed at her as though she were his prey, or an oracle capable of answering his innermost life questions. She returned the unblinking gaze and the sly smile. “Is that true?” she said coquettishly. “Why, yes, I suppose it’s true.”

His smile widened—a soft, almost fond gaze, a woman could imagine, if such things were possible. He took one step closer to her. “Is it true, really? Maybe life is just a dream and we wake up when we die.”

Zelnora was startled to hear such a sentiment come from a mountain man. She had thought they just discussed rifles, pelts, and, well…ammunition. The smile melted from her face and she felt the sting that signaled tears might fill her eyes at any moment. “Yes, but wouldn’t that be sad. Shouldn’t we live life to its grandest extent?”

“Do you, though?” he asked ironically. He had almost no accent at all; it was hard to pinpoint where he was from. Maybe a tinge of French, but it was just a flat, sandy voice. “Working in Brannagh’s store, being his ‘helpmate’? Is that your grandest extent, Miss Sparks?”

How presumptuous of him! Yet how correct. She dropped her direct gaze to his throat which was unfortunately covered with a black silk cravat. He stood so still, with hands at his sides immobile, taking her answers so solemnly. No one ever listened to her, or requested her opinion on anything. “Well, no, of course not. My situation could be a lot worse, however. You’ve seen those poor emigrant women in the Fort. I’m very fortunate to have Elder—Mr. Brannagh as my protector.” Defiantly, she looked back up into his eyes, only to discover he was no longer smiling in that deliciously impish manner. Now he was dead serious.

And took another step toward her, so there was only the distance of a foot between them. He looked her up and down, assessing. “Yes, I reckon you’re fortunate to have Brannagh as your ‘protector,’ as you call him. Many unlucky women have had to stoop to worse than him.”

Oh dear Lord, he knows… “He is merely my protector!” She shrugged. “And he’s not that bad. Once you become acquainted with him.”

Tilting his head in that assessing way of his, Mr. Bowmaker actually reached out and took her chin in his fingers, his fingers so long and warm, capable of doing so many things, such as knapping flints, and skinning animals, and…Zelnora’s mind became a complete blank. “A protector? And that makes it better? To cavort with a protector?”

The nerve! “Who said anything…about cavorting…” Her voice was becoming completely uncertain.

Now he stood so close she had to back up against a shelf of sardine tins. “I saw the way he touched your earring, and I know he gave them to you.” He even bent the smallest bit at the knees, so as to look her more closely in the eye, but she didn’t want to meet his gaze.

“That is none of your business, Mr. Bowmaker. I get by all right.”

“Excepting he’s a heartless bastard, and you’re a lovely mountain flower just waiting to be plucked.”

Did he say…plucked? Or fucked? Zelnora’s head spun wildly with this sinewy man’s proximity. What was his goal, to taunt her? Well then, he was succeeding excellently. Recalling her recent ambition to track him down and pluck him, she gained the courage to look him in the eye again and say in what she hoped was a careless tone, “Yes, he is rather heartless. I don’t care much for him personally. And I do find you rather beautiful and wild and…animalistic.”