Pierre had been watching for a means of transport for his merchandise to Santa Fe, and so it had been easy to strike up a bargain. She would loan Pierre the use of her wagon, and he, in turn, would be in charge of driving it. Thus, he was to take care of the mules, keep the wagon in repair, etc. Meanwhile, Angelia would be free to sew, to prepare meals and to draft her evening lessons for Swift Hawk.
At present, Pierre sat next to her on the wagon’s spring seat, with feet dangling from the dashboard. His attention wascentered on the mules.
She could hardly ignore him. He reeked of body odor, and every now and again Angelia fanned the air in front of her. Discreetly, she spared him a quick glance, wondering how he could be oblivious to the stench.
He wore a black hat turned up completely in front, a red and white polka-dotted shirt and red-checked breeches held up at his waist by suspenders. Perhaps those breeches were the culprits, since they were filthy with grime and sweat.
But that wasn’t all. Pierre had cultivated a heavy, white mustache and beard, the same color as his hair. It gave him a wild sort of appearance. Moreover, there were things, particles or foodstuff, in his facial hair, which made it difficult for Angelia to look at him, for she found her attention centering on that, not on him.
Pierre’s hands were calloused, his nails long and dirty, and when he spoke, his breath would have wilted the most hearty of roses. His voice was gruff, his teeth yellow, with several of them missing.
But Pierre’s was a gentle heart, Angelia had come to discover, for he was often to be found with the children, giving out toys to them. Perhaps the man had simply lived alone for far too long.
“Pierre,” she began, hoping against hope that she might communicate sensibly to a man who spoke little English.
“Oui, mademoiselle?”
“Pierre, don’t you think it would be better if you were walking alongside the mules? Like those men over there—” She pointed.
“Oui, mademoiselle, oui.”
He didn’t move.
She tapped him on the shoulder, and using a sweeping motion, showed him the other men walking beside the wagon. Then she directed her gesture toward her own mules, and finally back to him. “Do you see? I think you should be walkingalongside the mules.” She made her fingers mimic the act of walking, then indicated him.
“Oui, mademoiselle, de mules… Pierre.” He made the same finger signs, then laughed.
“No, no, no. You.” She touched him on the shoulder. “You go there.” She directed her fingers to the spot, then made a walking gesture. “And walk.”
“Ah-h-h-h. De mules…walk.” Once more he laughed but remained firmly seated.
Angelia gave up, deciding that it would be best if she jumped down and strolled beside the wagon, if only for a breath of fresh air.
Leaning toward Pierre, she muttered, “I’ll walk,” at which point she climbed down and jumped easily to the ground.
Perhaps that was all it took to spur Pierre into action, for he immediately swung down, and following her, he gained her attention, then lifted an arm back toward the wagon, using his arm to point.
“Yes, yes, Pierre. I will. As soon as I stretch my legs.” She nodded at him, and he returned the movement. However, he had no more than turned his head when she tripped over a vine and, gasping, fell face first into the grass-covered mud.
Righting herself, Angelia dusted herself off, cleaned the mud from her hands and quickly decided that riding in the wagon wasn’t such a bad idea. Wiping her boots on the moist grass, she took the few necessary steps back to the wagon and climbed up onto the spring seat.
A deep sigh escaped her throat as she glanced forward, out over the mules, watching as Pierre led them. He carried a stick in his hand, as though it were a weapon to wield on the animals, but he didn’t use it. That reminded Angelia again that Pierre’s was a kind heart.
Silently, she set her sights on the environment around her. It was a glorious day. The sun was peeking up over the clouds behind them, there in the east, and it threw a delicate pinkishhaze over the landscape. Dew and moisture caught the sky’s tint, magnifying it, causing the grass to look as though it sported tiny, sparkling jewels.
Contented for the moment, Angelia let her thoughts drift to other things—to the events of the past few days. As always, her thoughts riveted onto Swift Hawk.
Odd, how a few short hours could change one’s viewpoint on life. Yet this was exactly what had happened to Angelia.
Since that morning with Swift Hawk—three or four days previous—she’d felt happy, carefree and lighthearted. Swift Hawk had been in her mind almost constantly, and truth be told, she had not been able to take her attention off him. Indeed, every time she thought of him, every moment she recalled the look in his eyes that day, the touch of his hands, she felt warm—so warm she was certain she glowed.
Unquestionably, she had begun to think of that particular morning as being…magical. After all, wasn’t it like a bit of magic to be that close to another human being? To be so close that at times, she could have sworn she knew Swift Hawk’s mind?
So this was what it felt like to be in love.
Thinking about it now, it seemed to her as though they had ferreted out a bit of heaven. Indeed, a paradise. She only hoped it wasn’t a forbidden delight.
Especially since, happy though she was, Angelia was not unaware that she had crossed a line. Being a minister’s daughter, she was aware that what had happened between herself and Swift Hawk was an act that was best carried on between a husband and a wife. And she and Swift Hawk were hardly that.
