bootprint maker had been sloppy, stripping some vines bare and crushing others, still hung with unready fruit. It was greedy, expedient behaviour.
Shayna preferred going to the patch in the coolness of dusk, but the prints had dried by then, having been made in early morning’s dew-soft ground. The next morning she was up early, arriving at the bushes with a Thermos of tea just after the emerald flash of sunrise. He was already retreating. It surprised and somewhat delighted her to see the back of a tall, broad-shouldered figure holding a dainty basket, when she’d expected an old man with a coffee tin or a teenaged boy with a grocery bag and more energy than sense.
“Hey,” she said, and the man turned. His whiteness gave her a small shock. Even if the
o’tá:ra
wasn’t technically on the reserve, everyone knew that her people made use of it without interference.
“Hello,” he said. “How can I help you?” This interloper’s face would have been boyish had it not been cut by the blunt axe of hard work and hours outdoors.
Shayna hadn’t really thought out what she was going to say. If he were one of her own people, her authority as a berry picker, a keeper of the patch, would have done most of the work. But this man, whom she recognized now as the tobaccofarmer from across the road, would want something like an explanation. She hesitated.
“I like these berries,” he said, holding up the basket. “Put them on my breakfast cereal just like my ma used to. This is her basket.”
“Yeah, but you’re … um … kind of like a rutting moose the way you stomp all over the bushes. Lots being wasted because of you.”
His face flushed, but the laughter that followed was only vaguely apologetic. “Well,” he said, “that won’t do. Forgive me. This was going to be my last basket anyhow.”
He nodded his head and turned to walk across the road, then stopped, put his basket on the ground, and returned. “Excuse my manners. My name’s Coulson,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Coulson Stercyx.”
His big palm, cooled by the dew of raspberry leaves, swallowed hers entirely. She felt calluses press into her knuckles.
“Shayna,” she said.
“Just Shayna?”
“Shayna Watters,” she said, using her former married name. He let her hand go, and she noticed that the tips of his fingers were berry-stained, just like hers.
As the only white person on this side of the barricade, Coulson is starting to feel damn awkward.
So much quiet fury for a woman
, he thinks as he looks at Shayna’s unmoving figure. Still, he can’t go home without her. Two weeks have passed since they last woke up together. How unexpected it is to be middle-aged and filled with toppling desire.
“Shayna.” He steps forward, reaches for her hand. “You look like you could use a shower, a good meal. A firm bed.”
He wants to quit this scene, have a drink, get out of this stiff new shirt, feel the slide of her skin against his. But she shakes her head, slips out of his grasp.
“We have to make some strategy decisions. I have to stay,” she says.
“It sort of looks like your strategy’s decided.”
There’s heat in her face and her eyes. He’s not used to chasing women; he’s unused to asking.
Are you coming home with me?
Marie had petitioned him in the end, it must have been a dozen times. He lying silent in his parents’ bed as she packed, tears streaming down her face.
Are you coming home, Coulson?
“The meeting’s important. I’ll stay,” Shayna says. “You can go.”
Her dismissal rankles. He can’t face his empty bed. “C’mon,’ ” he says. “They’re not going to miss you for one night.”
Marie was holding her suitcase. Wet drips, sooty with mascara, slid from her chin onto her white blouse. She’d wiped her nose with her sleeve. He’d never seen her do such a thing, not in nearly a decade of marriage. She asked one more time, her voice cracking like fine porcelain.
Are you coming home
Shayna preferred going to the patch in the coolness of dusk, but the prints had dried by then, having been made in early morning’s dew-soft ground. The next morning she was up early, arriving at the bushes with a Thermos of tea just after the emerald flash of sunrise. He was already retreating. It surprised and somewhat delighted her to see the back of a tall, broad-shouldered figure holding a dainty basket, when she’d expected an old man with a coffee tin or a teenaged boy with a grocery bag and more energy than sense.
“Hey,” she said, and the man turned. His whiteness gave her a small shock. Even if the
o’tá:ra
wasn’t technically on the reserve, everyone knew that her people made use of it without interference.
“Hello,” he said. “How can I help you?” This interloper’s face would have been boyish had it not been cut by the blunt axe of hard work and hours outdoors.
Shayna hadn’t really thought out what she was going to say. If he were one of her own people, her authority as a berry picker, a keeper of the patch, would have done most of the work. But this man, whom she recognized now as the tobaccofarmer from across the road, would want something like an explanation. She hesitated.
“I like these berries,” he said, holding up the basket. “Put them on my breakfast cereal just like my ma used to. This is her basket.”
“Yeah, but you’re … um … kind of like a rutting moose the way you stomp all over the bushes. Lots being wasted because of you.”
His face flushed, but the laughter that followed was only vaguely apologetic. “Well,” he said, “that won’t do. Forgive me. This was going to be my last basket anyhow.”
He nodded his head and turned to walk across the road, then stopped, put his basket on the ground, and returned. “Excuse my manners. My name’s Coulson,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Coulson Stercyx.”
His big palm, cooled by the dew of raspberry leaves, swallowed hers entirely. She felt calluses press into her knuckles.
“Shayna,” she said.
“Just Shayna?”
“Shayna Watters,” she said, using her former married name. He let her hand go, and she noticed that the tips of his fingers were berry-stained, just like hers.
As the only white person on this side of the barricade, Coulson is starting to feel damn awkward.
So much quiet fury for a woman
, he thinks as he looks at Shayna’s unmoving figure. Still, he can’t go home without her. Two weeks have passed since they last woke up together. How unexpected it is to be middle-aged and filled with toppling desire.
“Shayna.” He steps forward, reaches for her hand. “You look like you could use a shower, a good meal. A firm bed.”
He wants to quit this scene, have a drink, get out of this stiff new shirt, feel the slide of her skin against his. But she shakes her head, slips out of his grasp.
“We have to make some strategy decisions. I have to stay,” she says.
“It sort of looks like your strategy’s decided.”
There’s heat in her face and her eyes. He’s not used to chasing women; he’s unused to asking.
Are you coming home with me?
Marie had petitioned him in the end, it must have been a dozen times. He lying silent in his parents’ bed as she packed, tears streaming down her face.
Are you coming home, Coulson?
“The meeting’s important. I’ll stay,” Shayna says. “You can go.”
Her dismissal rankles. He can’t face his empty bed. “C’mon,’ ” he says. “They’re not going to miss you for one night.”
Marie was holding her suitcase. Wet drips, sooty with mascara, slid from her chin onto her white blouse. She’d wiped her nose with her sleeve. He’d never seen her do such a thing, not in nearly a decade of marriage. She asked one more time, her voice cracking like fine porcelain.
Are you coming home
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