“So he coulda aksed. If he aksed, you woulda gave him some food, right?”
“Well, of course.”
“So what he gotta go stealin’ for?”
After they were settled back down she lowered her voice to a whisper and
asked if he had heard the couple behind them talking.
“Uh-huh,” he said.
“He’s so nice – the way he talked to his wife. I can’t imagine my father ever
talking to my mother like that.”
“Old Seborn loved your mamma plenty, don’t be worryin’ ’bout that. I never
seen no man cry like him, day he found her.”
“What do you mean, ‘found her?’ Found her where?” she asked, suddenly
shivering with cold.
The air between them seemed to have grown thick.
“Found her where?”
“We gotta get some sleep,” he said and turned over.
Olivia would have shaken his shoulder, demanding he tell her, but knew it
wouldn’t do any good. When Mourning decided to be stubborn, he was good and
stubborn.
Never mind, Mourning Free, she thought. I’m going to have all the time in the
world to find out what you meant. I’ll pry it out of you with a crowbar if I have
to.
Chapter Eleven
The ship’s dressing bell roused Olivia at 4:30 the next morning. She shivered
with the damp, untangled herself from the twine and tried to stretch the stiffness
from her limbs without disturbing Mourning. He was still asleep, his hat
covering his face. She couldn’t imagine how she must look and was glad that her
mirror was buried in one of the baskets. She ran her fingers through her hair, but
didn’t bother with her day cap. It was still dark and, anyway, none of these people were ever going to see her again.
When they were planning the trip Mourning had presented her with a
homemade leather purse on a belt and said, “You gotta be able to get at some money without havin’ to lift up all them skirts and whatever else you got under
there.” Now she squeezed the soft skin, feeling the coins and assuring herself that no one had robbed her during the night. Then she stood and lifted her arms
over her head for a real stretch.
Further up the deck a straggly young man was selling tin cups of coffee out of
a battered pot. Olivia smiled, pleased for Mourning to be proven so clever about
keeping a small amount of money accessible. He stirred and Olivia turned her back to him, trying to grant him some privacy. She heard him sit up and waited
for him to speak before turning around to wish him a good morning.
“I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” she said. “Are you ready for one?”
“Guess so.” He leaned forward and began untying himself from the baggage.
Olivia soon returned with the coffee and perched on his tool case. They sat in
comfortable silence, sipping the hot bitter liquid.
