she stared for a long moment before starting to sketch the cabin. She vaguely remembered watching her mother paint her watercolors, but Olivia had never put
her own hand to drawing. She wished she had one of the new, softer erasers Avis
had read about, that made it easier to rub out your mistakes. She was still working on the picture when she saw Mourning and Jeremy approaching. Both
shirtless, they were walking on either side of Dixby, with the gutted buck slung
over his back.
Olivia rose and waved, then hurried inside to tuck her journal under the
mattress. Back outside, she set the frying pans – one for the meat and one for the
potatoes – at the edge of the fire. She walked down to meet them and took the
pan holding the heart and liver from Mourning. Both men had smears of dried blood on their stomach, arms, and chest. On Mourning it was barely discernible.
On Jeremy the contrast with his pale skin made him look even whiter, like a bed
sheet. With his shirt off, his narrow shoulders and the deep depression where his
neck met his breastbone reminded her of a plucked chicken, but she scolded
herself for that observation. The way a man looks shouldn’t count for so much either. God gave us our faces and bodies and all we can do is live with them.
Pretty people didn’t do anything to deserve looking like that. Why should wethink more of them for it?
While she cut up and fried the heart and liver, she studied her hands and arms.
What had made white folks so sure their pale, fishy skin was better? Why hadn’t
they thought, gosh, look at these lucky people, they have such lovely dark skin?
But she knew the answer. People always think whatever they have is just perfect.
Whatever they do, the fact that they did it makes it the right thing to do. Once
they choose a religion, that makes it God’s holy word.
Mourning and Jeremy were down past the barn, staring up at a tall tree from
which a sturdy bough jutted, fifteen to twenty feet off the ground. Yes, Olivia thought, that would be a good place to hang the buck. Far from the cabin and high enough so that not even a bear could get at it. For a moment she imagined a pack of frustrated wolves or coyotes, leaping up at the carcass time after time and then giving up and going to look for easier pickings – like her or Mourning.
They had to get doors on the cabin and barn. But there was no point in thinking
about that now. Now she was going to have a delicious dinner and enjoy the company of her good friend and the man who – perhaps – had come to call on
her.
Chapter Nineteen
Olivia walked toward the two men, carrying a plate of fried liver and heart.
Too hungry to resist, she popped a few pieces into her mouth on the way. With
her fingers. Now she knew for sure she couldn’t be counted on to preserve
gentility on the frontier.
Mourning threw a length of rope over the tree branch. Jeremy tied one end
around the hind legs of the carcass, while Mourning fastened the other to
Dixby’s harness and led him away, hoisting the deer into the air.
“You plan on eating some of this critter tonight?” Jeremy asked.
“Indeed we do.” Mourning nodded.
“Then lower it down a bit and I’ll cut out the back straps. They’re good eating
– right tender.”
Olivia came up next to them and held out the plate. The meat disappeared in
what seemed seconds. Mourning and Jeremy returned to their bloody job and
soon joined her around the fire. They put some of the meat they had cut into one
