LilithWarbird

Prelude: For Tonight, That Was Enough

Texas, 1876

The stitch gave way when Lilith pulled the saddlebag shut.

“Son of a bitch.”

Raven lifted his head from the grass. His ears turned toward her, then away. He had heard worse criticism of better equipment.

She brought the bag nearer the fire and pushed a bone awl through the old holes. The leather smelled of horse sweat and rain that had dried three days ago. Across the creek, something small moved in the brush. Lilith paused until she heard the careless scrape of an animal feeding, then bent over the seam again.

At fourteen, she knew the difference between a sound worth investigating and a sound that merely wanted supper. People made the distinction harder.

The awl slipped.

“Dammit.”

She caught it before it struck her knee, but not before it nicked her thumb. She put the thumb in her mouth and glared at the bag.

Raven glanced over.

“Oh, don't you start.”

He lowered his head.

“You tried to eat a saddle blanket yesterday. You've got no business judging anybody.”

His ear flicked. Lilith returned to her stitching, smiling despite herself.

She sat with her boots braced against the earth, black hair tied away from her work and her dark brows drawn together. Big Mama claimed she could look at a biscuit so sternly that it would confess to being burnt.

The last stitch held. Lilith pulled the seam tight, tied it off, and gave the repaired bag a firm tug.

“There, you stubborn son of a bitch.”

Raven tore another mouthful of grass.

She accepted his silence as praise.

The fishing hole lay along a quiet bend of the North Fork of the Red River. Cottonwoods shaded the bank, their roots gripping the soil above the water. Rushes stirred in the shallows, and the evening breeze carried the smell of damp earth and sun-warmed grass. The creek spoke softly over stones whose shapes Lilith knew by heart.

She knew where the bank turned slippery after rain, where the fish sheltered beneath the overhang, and where to put a blanket so the morning sun would find it first. It was Emilio's old fishing place, and she had been coming here almost as long as she could remember.

Clay was away on a bounty hunt of his own. She looked forward to seeing him when she returned to Dusty Gulch. Until then, she had taken the opportunity to spend a little time at their old camp with Raven for company.

He appeared pleased with the arrangement. There was grass, clean water, and no one to argue about how much of either he ought to have. Best of all, nobody had asked him to carry anything heavier than Lilith.

Lilith laid the saddlebag beside her blanket.

Her crimson sombrero rested nearby, its black velvet trim framing an embroidered Prairie Rose wrapped in thorns, with small black bolas dangling from the brim. That same little rose was engraved on the grip of her first Colt, on her knives, and on the riveted metal tips of her leather hair tie.

A few pretty touches pleased her. She saw no reason a useful thing ought to be ugly.

She checked her twin Colt Peacemakers, working carefully over each long barrel before setting the pistols aside. The first had been a gift. She had bought its matching companion herself because she liked the look of the pair hanging at her hips. Hawkeye had found this explanation insufficiently practical, which only improved her enjoyment of the purchase.

She counted her cartridges, cleaned a trace of dust from a knife, and returned the throwing blades to their roll. Her tomahawk, sharpening stone, spare arrowheads, and a handful of tools occupied the remaining space beside her. Enough for the road, provided she did not develop the urge to carry half the countryside home with her.

She reached for the bow last.

Its grip had darkened where her father's hand had held it, and then hers. Her grandfather had carved it for Emilio, the Mexican man who had married his daughter and, after a considerable period of scrutiny, become his son. Lilith could still picture the old man inspecting the bow whenever he wanted an excuse to inspect its owner.

Emilio always pretended not to notice.

Neither of them had been particularly convincing.

Lilith ran her thumb over the familiar grain. It was the belonging she had carried away from her childhood home; her mother had pressed the bow into her hands with an order to run. Six years later, Lilith still carried it.

Once, on a fishing trip here, she had accused her father of being unfairly good at everything.

“Everything?” Emilio had asked.

“Everything important.”

Her mother looked up from cleaning their catch.

“Ask him to cook it.”

Emilio looked wounded. “There's not a damn thing wrong with my cooking.”

“Of course not, Daddy. One day he might even let us taste the fish beneath all that seasoning.”

Her mother always called him Daddy when they were together as a family. Emilio was reserved for forgotten chores, broken promises, or whatever trouble he'd managed to find that week. And trouble seemed to find him often.

But he always made things right. He'd work the skin from his fingertips if that's what it took to remind his wife that he loved her more than life itself.

And Lilith knew her mother wouldn't have changed a single thing about him, even if she'd had the power.

“A little seasoning brings out the flavor!”

Grandfather chuckled. “Well, I happen to like his cooking.”

“Then perhaps you should let him cook for you every night,” Grandmother suggested.

Grandfather wisely returned his attention to the creek.

While Emilio continued defending his culinary talents to his wife, Grandmother leaned close to Lilith.

“I'll tell you a secret, little warrior. I actually like your father's cooking.”

Lilith looked at her, surprised. “Then why are you always picking on him?”

Grandmother smiled.

“Between you and your mother, that man's ego gets fed plenty. No sense in me adding another helping.”

She glanced toward Emilio, who was now passionately explaining the proper use of pepper.

“Besides,” she whispered, “I do enjoy watching him squirm.”

Lilith giggled, and Grandmother winked before returning to her work.

Lilith smiled and inspected the bowstring. Satisfied, she placed the bow beside her bedroll, clear of the fire and anyone's careless feet.

Raven had once stepped directly on a bundle of kindling and behaved as though the resulting noise were a personal attack. She had not yet forgiven him for scattering the whole pile.

Food occupied more space than she liked and less than Big Mama had wanted.

She set aside what she would eat before morning and repacked the rest for the journey back and whatever work followed. Dried meat, parched corn, biscuits, fruit, a little fat and salt would keep for days if she was careful. She did not expect to need a week's worth before reaching Dusty Gulch, but weather and opportunity rarely consulted a person's plans.

At the bottom of the sack, she found a cloth parcel she had not packed.

She unfolded it.

Molasses candy, broken into dark, crooked pieces, with pecans pressed into it.

She couldn’t help the smile that crept on her lips. It felt good to be cared for. She’d keep that part to herself.

“Lying old woman.”

Big Mama had stood in the boardinghouse doorway, arms folded, insisting she hadn't slipped a single extra thing into Lilith's supplies.

Lilith ate the smallest piece. It stuck to a tooth and tasted of scorched sugar and a kitchen in which she was expected back.

Raven's head came up.

“Don't even think about it.”

He approached anyway, his long white tail swaying behind him. First he inspected her empty hand. Then her other hand. Finally, with admirable efficiency, he found the parcel.

“You have an entire field.”

He nudged her shoulder.

“You're a greedy bastard, you know that?”

She broke off a tiny crumb and offered it to him. Raven accepted it, nosed her palm for more, and found nothing.

“That's your share.”

He tried her pocket.

She laughed and pushed his muzzle away.

“Go on. Before Big Mama starts packing sweets for you too.”

Raven wandered off, apparently willing to settle for grass until a better offer presented itself.

Lilith tucked the remaining candy safely away. Beside the food went her medicine pouches. She knew them by their knots: dried plants, salves, and remedies she had learned to prepare with her mother and grandmother. If she could not remember a plant with certainty, she left it alone. Grandmother's opinion of guessing at medicine had been exceptionally clear.

Big Mama had added a clean bundle of bandages, folded linen, soap, scissors, and a needle case.

“I already carry medicine,” Lilith had protested.

“Then carry something clean to put over it.”

“You expect me to get shot?”

“I expect you to have opinions in public.”

There had been no useful answer to that.

Lilith secured the bundle with her sewing things. She checked her canteens and other necessities, then rolled a spare shirt and stockings into her blanket.

Under the shirt lay a plain dress, carefully folded.

She smoothed its fabric before packing it. A clean dress, a different arrangement of her hair, and an innocent expression could get her through a doorway that would remain closed to a girl in buckskins wearing two pistols. People were remarkably willing to believe the story their eyes told them.

She was willing to help.

The repaired saddlebag closed without complaint.

“Much better.”

A little supper remained in the covered tin she had used earlier. Lilith set it near the coals to warm and took up Raven's brush while she waited.

He stood near the creek, his black coat gleaming blue where the last sunlight caught it. Uneven white spots scattered across his rump and upper hind legs, while his long white tail stood out against the dark grass. His black mane, slightly curled, had collected a few burrs.

“Come here, handsome.”

He raised his head, considered her, and came over.

Lilith brushed his shoulders and back, worked the burrs from his mane, and inspected his legs. The solid white star surrounding his right eye gave him a wonderfully innocent look. Even the lashes on that side were white, though the ones around his left eye were black.

The innocence was misleading. Lilith had years of evidence.

She had known him before the attack, when he was a barely weaned colt who liked to follow her about and investigate anything she left within reach. Afterward, she had found him beside his mother, who would never rise again, and brought him to this fishing hole. She had known enough to keep him fed and sheltered, though those early days had tested everything she knew.

Now he stood taller than she did, strong and handsome, and apparently no wiser about keeping his nose out of other people's belongings.

She scratched a familiar spot beneath his mane.

The mighty Raven, whose judgment of strangers could be severe and whose patience for foolishness was limited, appeared prepared to surrender every ounce of dignity for another minute of scratching.

His head sank, his upper lip twitched, and he leaned into her hand with a long, satisfied breath.

“There he is.”

She scratched harder.

“Oh, you like that, don't you?”

When she stopped, he nudged her wrist.

“That's enough.”

Another nudge.

“You're spoiled rotten.”

She scratched him again.

Raven had helped her through enough difficult days to earn some indulgence. Besides, she enjoyed the ridiculous look on his face far too much to deny herself another minute.

At last she put the brush away and pressed her forehead briefly against his neck.

He stood still for her.

“Good boy,” she murmured.

She took her warmed supper to the bank and sat with her boots near the water. A dragonfly skimmed the surface, changed direction, and vanished among the reeds.

She watched until it disappeared.

This was where Clay had first come upon her, six years ago, when she was eight and Raven was scarcely more than a colt. She had seen the enormous stranger approaching and raised Emilio's bow, though at the time she could barely draw it.

Clay had stopped.

Then, rather than arguing with the fierce little girl pointing a bow at him, he had caught fish. He offered her the larger portion. She distrusted him, and for a little while she refused even that simple kindness, but hunger eventually persuaded her to accept it before the day was done.

She remembered sitting close enough to the fire to feel its warmth, too tired to stay awake. When the nightmares came, Clay's low voice had brought her back to the creek and the night around them. He had not demanded explanations.

In the morning she found berries he had saved for her.

She had saved some for him in return.

Lilith smiled at the water. Clay had always been rather good at saying what mattered without using many words.

He would probably return from his present hunt, see her, and ask if she'd eaten.

Big Mama would ask exactly the same thing, though she might inspect the answer personally. Hawkeye would arrive halfway through a story about his grandfather before remembering the question at all.

Lilith took another bite of supper.

It was a tremendous amount of attention for someone who had long ago learned to look after herself.

She liked it more than she cared to admit.

The last of the food disappeared. She rinsed the tin, put it away, and sat for a little longer while the sky darkened beyond the cottonwoods.

When she returned to the fire, her fingers found the small leather pouch at her neck.

She held it without opening it.

Inside were ashes gathered from the four people whose voices she still carried in memory: her mother, her father, her grandmother, and her grandfather.

Sometimes she could recall a laugh or an expression so clearly that it seemed only yesterday. Other things slipped away when she tried too hard to remember them. The pouch was worn smooth where her thumb had passed over it through the years.

She looked toward the creek.

“Wish you could see me now,” she whispered.

Raven approached quietly and lowered his muzzle to her shoulder.

Lilith glanced up and smiled.

“Look at you. Trying to be sweet.”

He nudged her.

“All right. You are sweet.”

She slipped the pouch beneath her shirt and rubbed the white star around his right eye. He stayed beside her until she moved to finish making camp.

The fire was nearly banked, the saddlebag repaired and packed. Her blanket lay where she could see the creek through the branches. The sombrero remained beside it, its little black ornaments stirring when the breeze found them.

Lilith took another piece of molasses candy from the parcel, considered it, then broke it in half and saved the rest for the ride.

Big Mama would have approved of the restraint, though perhaps not of the amount she had eaten to begin with.

Raven lowered himself onto the grass with a substantial rustle and a satisfied exhalation.

“Comfortable?”

He settled his head.

“I'll take that as a yes.”

Lilith lay back beneath the cottonwoods. Stars showed between the leaves, and the creek moved steadily over the stones. The same water had accompanied afternoons with her family, hard first days with Raven, and long evenings when she and Clay had begun to trust one another. Tonight its sound required nothing of her.

For once, she did not listen for approaching footsteps or the warning crack of a twig.

She listened because she liked the sound.

Raven breathed quietly nearby.

Lilith reached over and touched the familiar wood of her father's bow. In the morning she would set out for Dusty Gulch, where Clay, Big Mama, Hawkeye, and the rest of her noisy little world awaited her.

She closed her eyes.

And, for tonight, that was enough.

From the current draft. Text may change during editing.