her sour nightgown. She first knelt next to the tub, stuck her head in it, and shook her hair out. Then she stood in the water and bathed herself.
Not only her fever had broken; the heat wave was over and the cool air felt
wonderful on her worn out body. When she collapsed on the mattress, she
imagined the Stubblefields coming up the trail and finding her lying there, naked
except for the towel. That thought, however, was funny rather than frightening.
What did she care about them? What did she care what anyone thought?
Once she felt completely dry, she pulled the clean nightgown over her head
and covered herself with the blanket. Then she put her thumb and forefinger to
the sides of her mouth and produced a loud whistle. She curled up and slept, until clouds blocked the sun and the chill in the air woke her. Then she rose, dragged her mattress and bedding back inside, cleaned her mouth with tooth
powder, and brushed the tangles out of her hair. She climbed into bed and
quickly fell asleep. Next thing she knew, it was growing dark and Mourning was
rustling around the cabin, trying to scrape up something to eat without waking her. He saw that her eyes were open and came near the bed, squinting at her in
the dim light.
“You feelin’ better?”
“Yes.” Olivia nodded with a smile. “Much better, thank you.” She lightly
touched his hand. “I never had anyone take such good care of me.”
“You feel like eatin’?”
“Maybe just some toast.”
He put a chunk of bread on a stick by the fireplace. The warmth of the cabin
felt good and the smell of the toasting bread aroused her appetite. Olivia watched
Mourning throw potatoes into the pot for supper and put the kettle on. He handed her a plate with the toasted bread and she ate, still watching him. He pulled a stump chair close to her side and told her what he had managed to get
done that day and that Filmore had brought the oxen back, along with some eggs
and butter.
“That was a fright you gave me,” he said, as their eyes met after a long pause.
He looked ill-at-ease and rose to take the kettle from the fire. When he
brought her a cup of tea, he moved the chair aside and rested his left hip on the
edge of the mattress. Then he hesitantly put his arm around her shoulders, as if
she required help sitting up. Feeling the warmth of him through her thin
nightdress, Olivia closed her eyes and flushed red.
I don’t need any help to sit up and drink my tea, she thought. And he knowsthat I don’t. And he knows that I know that he knows.
She allowed herself to lean against him. He was so warm, so strong, so kind.
Why did white people have to be so stupid? He must have cleaned himself up in
the river; he smelled so good. Without thinking, she turned toward him and put
her arms around his neck. Her breasts, unrestrained under the muslin chemise, pressed against his chest. The tin cup fell from Mourning’s hand, splashing tea
on the floorboards, and he froze for a moment before returning her embrace. He
held her close and she pressed the side of her face to his neck, breathing in the
scent of him.
You can’t do this, you can’t do this, a silent voice screamed from somewhere
far away. Olivia ignored it. She was so tired of being alone. She didn’t care what
people thought. Especially horrid people who said hateful things about a
