“I be talkin’ like colored folks cause I be colored folks. Not like Mr. Jeremy
Kincaid what can’t decide if he Irish or American. I know what I be.”
She wondered what had aroused this hint of animosity and glanced over her
shoulder to make sure Jeremy was still out of earshot. “Did he do something to
make you angry?” she asked. “I thought you two were getting along just grand.”
Mourning followed her glance down to where Jeremy was still crouched on
the white boulder, splashing his upper body with water. “I ain’t meanin’ to say nothing bad ’bout him. He be a right good skin hisself, helpin’ me with that buck, teachin’ me what I gotta do. Ain’t bad company neither. But I can tell you
one thing – that there be a man what got a whole mess a habits from livin’ on his
own and likin’ it. He ain’t gonna change one thing in his life to ’ccommodate no
one else.” He paused and looked directly into her eyes. “What I sayin’ is – that
ain’t no man what gonna marry you.”
Olivia’s jaw dropped. “Marry me! What an idea. Honestly, Mourning.”
Jeremy had started up the hill and Mourning spoke quickly, under his breath.
“I know you been thinkin’ on it. I seen the way you be lookin’ at him and I tellin’
you – that man there ain’t gonna be takin’ on no wife.”
Jeremy’s approach saved Olivia from having to respond. She wondered if her
face looked as red as it felt and busied herself turning the pieces of meat.
“That felt good,” Jeremy said, still shirtless and dripping.
Too distracted to think to offer him a towel, Olivia mumbled, “I introduced
myself to your horse. Beautiful animal. What’s his name?”
“Ernest.”
“Ernest?” She laughed. “Not what I would have expected.”
She waited a moment for him to say something else. He didn’t. She rose and
went inside to grind the coffee beans, wondering what had made Mourning talk
like that. Had Jeremy said something about her? Did he dislike her? But he was
the one who came calling; if nothing else, he must want to be friends. She sighed
and fretted and finally went back out with the coffee pot, setting it near the fire,
ready to brew. The three of them sat watching the meat and potatoes fry.
“What are we going to do with all that meat?” Olivia looked back toward the
tree where the deer hung. “Maybe we should take some of it into town to sell.”
Mourning looked at her as if she were unbalanced. “Let someone else enjoy
the fresh venison what our expert hunter lady got? You gone loony?”
“Well, it’s not going to stay fresh forever. How much do you think we can eat
in a week or two?”
“Don’t you worry. I got a Michigan-size appetite. Feel like I could eat the whole thing. Anyway, you gonna pickle it,” Mourning said.
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“Must tell you in them guide books,” Mourning said. “I think all you gotta do
is boil up a big pot a water and throw in a mess a sugar and salt and a handful a
saltpeter. Once it be good and boilin’ you take it off the fire, skim the foam off,
and let it cool ’fore you set your meat swimmin’ in there. You just gotta
