“You feel,” he muttered, as he thrust my legs apart again, “Like a damned angel.”

  A Damned Angel.

  He thrust into me hard. There would be a half moon of teethmarks on his shoulder tomorrow. With a groan he leaned forward on his forearms, his flexible hips exacting everything he had waited for.

  Pressed under him and spread wide for his demanding, insistent plunges, my whole body turned to a field of pure sensation. He stampeded across it; lightning and thunder. The sounds of our mating filled the room, just as he forever filled my thoughts, my waking moments, until we were back in bed again.

  He slid from me and turned me over. My bottom pressed against his hips, and we were joined by another thrust. This time he brought me up on my knees, displayed and ready for the taking. He took me swiftly, hard, mercilessly. Though I lost my screams in the pillow, they egged him on further, attuning his body to mine until the final rush took me out. Then he was slow and gentle again. I turned back over to face him.

  “See, Minnie?” he said softly. “I know you.”

  Which meant, I think, another three words. For Jake there could be no gray areas. He loved as he lived: never in halves, never in pieces. Each stroke brought me closer to his body, and closer to that part of him that burned for me, but could not be described in his own words.

  We pressed against each other. We posessed each other. His lips made a path across my face, then stopped to claim a real kiss. It went on and on, and on and on.

  *

  Later, while Jake slept, I crept outside. The night blew past with the chill of winter on its breath. I thought of Mama, God knows Where, searching for Papa. I thought of Papa in a jail cell or dead. The people I’d known were becoming memories.

  Before I had never considered loneliness. I remembered Jake saying in the barn, the night he cut up Jim Henley and needed me to nurse him, that he figured I was lonely. I had felt a sick pleasure in that. Lonely. It seemed then like a noble thing to be. Back then anything pitiful seemed noble to me.

  But I had not been lonely. Not really. I’d had my parents to love me. The respect and care (I thought) of the town. My life moved through a crowd of smiling faces who never did me any harm. And at any time I could pull someone aside to get me something I wanted.

  But no one had known me. Really known me.

  I had learned of loneliness at my aunt’s house. Now, the only thing standing in between that abyss and me was Jake.

  I had let him into the circle that encompassed everything about myself. My likes, hatreds, hopes, fears. He knew them all. And he had slowly began to show me his own secrets. We understood each other. To put it plain, I loved him.

  I loved his dark head. The way he kept himself in utter control, until it was time to stand up for himself. Then he could turn vicious and feral as a cat. I loved that, too.

  I loved his clear blue eyes. I loved his raw handsomeness, which always caught other folks off-guard. They expected a dirty Irish, a dirty McCoy, to live up to their expectations. In the way they expected me to do the same.

  Did he love me? I believed he did. One day I would find out. He would read all the books in the world until he could properly say the things rattling inside him.

  I sat on the porch and thought. As I sat a part of me stole back into the house and wrapped myself around the sleeping man I had married and then loved.

  *

  The week before Christmas, I woke with the sun in my eyes. An omen, Mama used to say, to wake with the sun in your eyes. But of what, I could not remember.

  Jake always rose before me, early rising being a habit of his from his days as Papa’s farmhand. He was out with the animals. I went to the kitchen, found the door open, and an Indian sitting on the porch.

  “Jake!” I cried.

  The Indian turned. He was old- older- with shiny small eyes and muscular legs. Trade beads studded his blue vest, which went over an old Spanish-style shirt. His hair was cropped around his chin, neat and stiff with road-dust.

  “Well,” he said.

  “Who are you?”

  “Joseph,” he said. “And you are Minnie Sampson.”

  “My husband is close,” I warned.

  Joseph did not look impressed. “I thought I’d get a better welcome from a friend.”

  “I don’t know you from Adam.”

  “Your mother never told you about me?”

  “Mama knows you?”

  “More questions?” said Joseph, raising his hands. “I walked across a desert to see an old friend and bring news. Do you want to hear it or not?”

  I shut the door and moved to sit with him. “I don’t recall inviting you here.”

  “Do friends need invitations?” said Joseph. He eyed my nightdress. “You grew up, little girl.”

  “Have we met?”

  “Once,” said Joseph. “When your mother was still on the prairie, and your father herding cattle. You used to call me Uncle.”

  “He still herds cattle,” I said.

  “Does he? I thought he was in the white man’s jail.”

  I started. I came to bring news, he’d said.

  “You know about Papa?”

  “I know the rumors. A cowboy from the West got broke out of jail. Sampson. They sent the law after him. Still At Large.”

  He reached into his vest. I tensed, but it was only a paper. He handed it to me.

  My father, represented on a WANTED poster in full black ink sketch. I crumpled the paper.

  “So he’s dead?”

  “How would I know?” said Joseph. “I only came to show you.”

  “Where is Mama?”

  “She didn’t have a WANTED poster,” said Joseph. “So I don’t know. I talked to her only the once.”

  “You ran into Mama in Utah?”

  “Yes,” said Joseph. “It was a great coincidence.”

  I rubbed my temples. Joseph nodded. “I heard someone helped your father escape.”

  “Who?”

  “Maybe it was your Ma,” said Joseph. “Anything can happen.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t know. I forgot to ask her.”

  If I ever saw my parents again, I vowed to ask them just who the hell this Indian Joseph was.

  “How did you find this house?” I asked.

  Joseph said, “How do we find anything?”

  I glared at him. He looked out at the nodding brown grass.

  “I went to a town before this to find you,” said Joseph. “I found your Uncle. They said you were married and you’d run off.”

  I chilled at the mention of my marriage to John Miller. “So?”

  “Well, you just said you were married here. I’m wonderin’ how your husband can be in two places at once.”

  My embarassment amused him. I blustered, “That’s none of your business.”

  “I am ignorant to most of the white man’s ways,” said Joseph, his voice thick with humor, “But I believe in their law, a woman cannot have more than one husband. They throw you in their jail for that.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “A warning is not a threat,” said Joseph. His voice had not changed a hair. “Not to a friend, at least.”

  He rubbed his calves with his thick, gnarled hands.

  “I see you got enough on your plate, Minnie Sampson.”

  He rose. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  I blushed deeper. If this man truly was a family friend, I’d be remiss to let him leave without something. Always be polite to Indians, Papa had said. They got troubles just like we do.

  “Stay for tea,” I said.

  Now Joseph really did smile. It wrinkled up his whole old face.

  We stayed and chatted for a while about my parents. And then, quite suddenly, he got up and declared he had to leave. I saw him off to the road. His blue vest with the winking trade beads was the last to disappear from view. Almost as soon as he left, Jake returned from the fields. I wondered if Joseph had sensed Jake’s absence and timed his visit accordingly.

  “What’s wrong?” said Jake. “Seen a ghost?”

  “Maybe.”

  I tore my eyes away from the spot where I’d seen the Indian vanish behind the hill.

  “You got any breakfast there?” said Jake wearily.

  “Huh? Oh- I drank the tea.”

  “By yourself? I made a whole pot.”

  I told him about Joseph. He was silent for a moment.

  “So your Pa’s coming back.”

  “Maybe.”

  Jake was silent again. I watched him. His face betrayed nothing.

  “I’m goin’ to town today,” he said.

  “Oh. What for?”

  “Shortie’s got to talk business. I’ll be back after noon.”

  “Can I come?”

  “Of course.”

  So off to town we went, dressed in our usuals, feeding on the strange feeling that the day had gone off to a funny start. Shortie was waiting for us in the front house of the local dram shop. I considered him. Like Jake, this character from the background of my life now served as a regular fixture. Like Jake, I did not know what Shortie made of me.

  He had his hat off and was scratching his cowboy’s bald spot. When he saw us he took his boots off the chair. Jake pulled a different one out for me to sit. Shortie raised an eyebrow at me, but nodded in greeting. It was the best he could do.

  “I’ll make this quick,” he said. “Sarah’s expectin’ me back. Jakey, it don’t look good for you.”

  “What doesn’t?” I asked.

  Shortie eyed me. He reached into his pocket and slid out a battered piece of paper. This he handed to Jake, who handed it at once to me.

  “It’s a letter,” I said, scanning the address. “How did you get this?”

  “Nevermind how,” grunted Shortie. “Read it.”

  The letter was addressed to Mr. Larssen, our lawyer.

  Dear Sir, it ran, in looping curlicues, It has come to our attention that an illegal holding of prize land in the area is taking place, and you have chosen to represent the offenders who have secured it. Due to the sensitive nature of your position here, it would be a smart thing to turn down these offenders should they come to you again seeking legal counsel.

  The woman, Minerva Sampson, is a negress whose parentage and legitimacy confounds her right to inherit the property in question. The man, Jacob Seamus McCoy, is a known rake, a drunkard, who has outraged the daughter of one of our town’s most upstanding families.

  Association with these kinds of persons may throw your own background into question, a fate I am sure you wish to avoid. We firmly request you stand down and allow our town to handle this situation in the manner we see fit. Should the aforementioned come to you, you are expected to follow our lead.

  Sincerely,

  A well-wisher.

  “Henley,” said Jake. “He’s behind it, no doubt. Another land-grab.”

  I handed the note to Shortie. Surprisingly I felt quite calm. “How did you get this?”

  “I read all the mail,” said Shortie matter-of-factly. “Ain’t so hard to steam a letter open.”

  I blinked. “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Ain’t it illegal to have two husbands?” he grunted.

  “Minnie’s got one husband,” said Jake, his eyes slitted. “Me.”

  Shortie shrugged.

  “Well,” I said. “What are we going to do?”

  “Ignore it,” said Jake. “If Henley wants to bring a fight, let him.”

  I stared. “You mean do nothing?”

  “Did I say do nothin’, Minnie?”

  “Last time Henley came to skin us he got surprised. You think he’ll make that mistake again? He’ll bring an army!”

  “What do you want me to do?” snapped Jake. “Stand up in court? Call a lawyer? Larssen won’t do it. Your Pa ain’t here. A dollar says the Sheriff’s in league with Henley. If they want a fight I’ll provide it. I don’t care a greenback.”

  “You fool,” I said.

  Shortie’s mouth fell open.

  “You fool,” I said. “What about me? You gonna rope me into your heroisms? I can’t shoot a gun. I can’t hold a knife. What army’s gonna stand up to this whole town risin’ against us?”

  Jake said nothing. He looked at his hands. Shortie looked at Jake.

  “She’s right, Jakey,” he said.

  “I ain’t yellow,” he said lowly. “I won’t turn tail on account of a man like Henley. No way in hell.”

  “Jake,” I said, “We don’t have to leave. But we can’t fight, either.”

  “So what do we do, Minnie?” he demanded.

  I blinked. “We could talk to Larssen-”

  “Minnie Sampson, the world ain’t your church picnic. Talkin’ just stirs shit around.”

  “McCoy,” I said. “My name is Minnie McCoy.”

  Shortie yelped a laugh which died in infancy. Jake ignored me.

  He looked sternly at his fists. Unclenching, clenching.

  “I’ve had enough,” he said.

  “Of what? This town? You and me both.”

  “If a man can’t fight for what’s his, he ain’t a man at all,” he said.

  “You’re a man, Jake,” I said, laying a hand on his arm. “Nobody said you weren’t.”

  “A man’s got to handle his affairs,” said Jake, still scowling. “Ask your Pa who taught me that.”

  He got up from the table and left. Shortie and I watched him go, with very different expressions.

  “Well,” said Shortie. “You’re out on your own, Minnie Sampson.”

  My hands fluttered around my throat like skewered butterflies. I felt warm all over, frightened, and sad. The door to the pub swung in and out, in and out.

  “I was a boy myself when Mr. Sampson took him on,” said Shortie. “We all had lots of opinions about him.”

  I didn’t want to hear anybody’s opinions. But Shortie went on, “Your Pa knew he had the makin’s of greatness. He thought he could raise young Jake under his wing. But Jake ain’t like regular people here, you know? He’s got grit. Independence. A brain too, though he can’t read a lick. We were all wrong about him. Not even your Pa could figure him out.”

  “He’s proud,” I said. “That’s all. It’s his damned pride.”

  “His Ma was a whore,” said Shortie brutally. “His Pa a wallopin’ drunk so stupid he signed his wordly goods away to Henley for a drop of whiskey. His oldest brother’s doin’ a lifelong stint in a Houston jail. Second-oldest just got hung in Reno for rape. Who knows what happened to the rest.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said numbly.

  “He ain’t got money and he ain’t got title. And here the name McCoy is worth mud. Before you came along he had a future planned. He was gonna go out West and start over. Now for some fool reason he’s decided to hitch himself to your wagon. And here you sit, bedevilin’ him for tryin’ to save your hide.”

  Shortie took a drink. His eyes got narrow and mean. “If he can’t be proud, what can he be? What else has he got left?”

  “I’m not enough to stop his pride,” I said. “I wish I was. It’ll be his downfall.”

  “He was wrong to choose you,” said Shortie. “He could have gone for Lucille Beck.”

  “Right.”

  “If I didn’t know Jake I’d say it’s his bastard in her belly after all.”

  I stood up from the table. The conversation was now pointless, and if allowed to continue one of us would get violent. I left the pub still thirsty. Looked around for Jake. But he wasn’t waiting outside and he wasn’t with the horse. He’d left. God knew to where.

  Clouded with sudden and despairing thoughts, I hardly noticed the couple walking towards me until the sun caught on twin flashes of honey blonde.

  Lucille Beck and her father were ambling up the street. Now heavily pregnant, Lucille had to lean her weight on a cane. Her father kept a hand fastened on the nape of her neck as if steering her. I imagined if he squeezed too hard the child would pop from between her legs and go rolling down the road. Coming to rest at my feet. Looking back at me with ice-chip blue eyes.