But what if we make mud, Mama?

Then mud is what you’ll be, my girl.

“Lady Mae.” He pulled at her hand. “We got this. We wake in the morning and go to the depot. Then this.” He held up his hand. “It’ll be quick and I’ll be no worse for the wear. The Deputy will go away and then—”

But he could not finish the words for Lady Mae’s lips reached for his and pressed gently against his flesh. She kissed him as she had always dreamed of—as if he would turn into dust should she pull back. If he turned, then she would, too. If she kept her lips on his, though, on the warm skin, faces touching, then they’d stay forever, their mouths and hearts dancing slowly until the end of time.

16

Lady Mae woke the next morning to sound of rain. She rolled over and let her arm fall to the other side of the bed, but it was empty. She sat up, saw the indent of where Arbuckle had laid his head after they had made love. She leaned into it, breathed in his scent, which was now mixed with hers.

Thunder cracked in the sky, and the rain came down in sheets so forceful that she rose and looked out the window to make sure it wasn’t hail. The sky was gray and low; the drought had broken and the earth drank up the water greedily. The dusty road was thick and dark, and from her bedroom window, she could see the edges of Deputy Iverson who stood underneath the porch eaves. The rain whipped loudly against the shack; she could slip out her window and walk around. He wouldn’t hear her. It would take only a moment, just one motion to slice his neck from ear to ear. The blood would be warm and would drip down into the mud. He’d be part of the earth. But her mother was already earth.

Won’t let him near you again, Mama.

Ain’t your cross to bear, my girl.

She moved away from the window slowly and began to dress. Although it was still warm she made sure to wear both pairs of stockings—it could get cold in the hills quick, especially when the winds changed. Arbuckle had often written of the snow and ice, of how the weight of it snapped branches and bent limbs as if they were simply the arms of a child. It was hard to imagine; although the temperature did fall with the seasons, the settlement never received more than a thin blanket of snow. She had already packed what she could, and that satchel sat at the back door. She could not bring another without raising alarm, and so she took the extra pair of gloves she held in her hands and tucked them down into the waist of her skirts.

As Lady Mae made her way toward the kitchen, she saw her great-grandmother’s quilt neatly folded on the cot in the living room. She went over to it and stood quietly for a moment before picking it up. It was worn and soft and felt heavy in her hands. It would be difficult to leave it behind. She brought the frayed edge to her face and inhaled deeply. It smelled of Arbuckle and her childhood and the sooty ash of fires past. She buried her head into it, and though she could not recall exactly, she thought of Arbuckle wrapping it around her all those years ago and the hollow loneliness that followed. But she’d be lonely no more; she’d have Arbuckle and together they’d climb their way through the thicket and brush until they came to trees so tall and dense that there would be no way for the Deputies to find them. She folded the blanket, laid it on the cot, and went into the kitchen.