I’ve told you – that makes it so.”
He stood, returning to his saddle, putting the papers away - tucking them back behind both of her long pretty braids she had cut off, behind other papers he found after his time at Clover Grove. All were tucked away safe and sound, he paused a few seconds, letting his thumb stroke over one of the braids before closing the pouch and turning back to his wife.
Back at the fire he squatted not far from her, gazing into the flickering flames. “Hungry?” He asked.
She was quiet and shook her head no, her mind once more in turmoil.
“There’s bread, apples,-...”
“I'm sca'ed – sca'ed o'you.” She cut him off, murmuring low the admission of truth that ached in her throat. “Sca'ed o'lot a thangs – like... what tomorra bring? When I die, will it hurt – will they tor'cha me?” She didn't look up, the fire had her mesmerized.
“Asiza...” Broc called her name softly.
She glanced his way, watching his eyes.
“You got nothin' to be scared of with me. Not sure why you holdin' back, but my mind tells me – you know you safe with me.” He sighed long and deep - turning back to the basket before him. “Like I was saying, bread, apples, a pie, cheese, figs, dried venison – I’ve had my fill. It's yours to take up the tree. Nibble on something, don’t want you hungry. We got a long day of ridin’ come morning, get yourself some sleep.” He directed softly.
Her eyes went from the fire to him, gazing for moments before she finally said what was on her mind,
“You be nasty, or'mean t'me jus' one time – I'm gone run – run so, you never will fin’ me again.”
“I been nasty or mean to you yet?” He asked directly with no hesitation. It took a moment but knowing the truth, she had to shake her head.
“So what reason I got to start?”
“You ain’t own me before.”
“You know that don't mean nothin’ Asiza – don’t mean nothin’ at all. You won’t run from me. I keep telling you, we one, we belong together. How could I be nasty, or mean to you knowing that? ‘Sides, I’m not yer master really, I’m yer husband. I plan on treatin’ you – like you my wife – that’s how I’m gone treat you. God as my witness, you’ah never look at me, with the eyes you look at the rest.” He sat gazing into her face, for her to know that he meant that.
She sat unsure, gazing right back. “What I’m supposed t’call you?” She asked.
“Broc, that's my name – that suits me just fine.”
“I call you that in fron’of otha’ folks, they gone know somethin’ not right. Gone have t’call you Masta’ Broc.”
“Only in the south, only in front of other folks.” He clarified.
She stopped talking and started thinking again, then asked, “You gon’ wanna didle me soon, ain’t you?”
Broc smiled, “Yeah I am – you my wife, I plan on it – one day.”
She thought some more and then got quickly to her feet, “Emmm, ain’t gone be t’night tha’s for sho’.” She turned about to sprint for the tree when his voice stopped her, “The basket of food, don’ run off without it.” She stood at the tree looking back at him and then at the basket. Broc stood, picked it up and walked up to her holding it out for her to grab. “Here, take it up with you.”
He confused her and good.
She took it from him, looped the handle over her head, rotated the basket to hang over her back and put the handle in her mouth. Despite the shoes and clothing, even with the basket, she scampered up the tree almost as good as when wearing her soft moccasins.
Broc stood below, dazed, amazed and enraptured, watching her. Finding a good perching spot, she hung everything in reach, the basket, her bow and arrows, the harness and sheath for her dagger, leaving her whip in place on her hip.
Taking a bit of bread from the basket, she ate it, glancing down at him from above.
He didn’t see it, but she gave a slight smile and nod.
He turned away. Soon, only
He stood, returning to his saddle, putting the papers away - tucking them back behind both of her long pretty braids she had cut off, behind other papers he found after his time at Clover Grove. All were tucked away safe and sound, he paused a few seconds, letting his thumb stroke over one of the braids before closing the pouch and turning back to his wife.
Back at the fire he squatted not far from her, gazing into the flickering flames. “Hungry?” He asked.
She was quiet and shook her head no, her mind once more in turmoil.
“There’s bread, apples,-...”
“I'm sca'ed – sca'ed o'you.” She cut him off, murmuring low the admission of truth that ached in her throat. “Sca'ed o'lot a thangs – like... what tomorra bring? When I die, will it hurt – will they tor'cha me?” She didn't look up, the fire had her mesmerized.
“Asiza...” Broc called her name softly.
She glanced his way, watching his eyes.
“You got nothin' to be scared of with me. Not sure why you holdin' back, but my mind tells me – you know you safe with me.” He sighed long and deep - turning back to the basket before him. “Like I was saying, bread, apples, a pie, cheese, figs, dried venison – I’ve had my fill. It's yours to take up the tree. Nibble on something, don’t want you hungry. We got a long day of ridin’ come morning, get yourself some sleep.” He directed softly.
Her eyes went from the fire to him, gazing for moments before she finally said what was on her mind,
“You be nasty, or'mean t'me jus' one time – I'm gone run – run so, you never will fin’ me again.”
“I been nasty or mean to you yet?” He asked directly with no hesitation. It took a moment but knowing the truth, she had to shake her head.
“So what reason I got to start?”
“You ain’t own me before.”
“You know that don't mean nothin’ Asiza – don’t mean nothin’ at all. You won’t run from me. I keep telling you, we one, we belong together. How could I be nasty, or mean to you knowing that? ‘Sides, I’m not yer master really, I’m yer husband. I plan on treatin’ you – like you my wife – that’s how I’m gone treat you. God as my witness, you’ah never look at me, with the eyes you look at the rest.” He sat gazing into her face, for her to know that he meant that.
She sat unsure, gazing right back. “What I’m supposed t’call you?” She asked.
“Broc, that's my name – that suits me just fine.”
“I call you that in fron’of otha’ folks, they gone know somethin’ not right. Gone have t’call you Masta’ Broc.”
“Only in the south, only in front of other folks.” He clarified.
She stopped talking and started thinking again, then asked, “You gon’ wanna didle me soon, ain’t you?”
Broc smiled, “Yeah I am – you my wife, I plan on it – one day.”
She thought some more and then got quickly to her feet, “Emmm, ain’t gone be t’night tha’s for sho’.” She turned about to sprint for the tree when his voice stopped her, “The basket of food, don’ run off without it.” She stood at the tree looking back at him and then at the basket. Broc stood, picked it up and walked up to her holding it out for her to grab. “Here, take it up with you.”
He confused her and good.
She took it from him, looped the handle over her head, rotated the basket to hang over her back and put the handle in her mouth. Despite the shoes and clothing, even with the basket, she scampered up the tree almost as good as when wearing her soft moccasins.
Broc stood below, dazed, amazed and enraptured, watching her. Finding a good perching spot, she hung everything in reach, the basket, her bow and arrows, the harness and sheath for her dagger, leaving her whip in place on her hip.
Taking a bit of bread from the basket, she ate it, glancing down at him from above.
He didn’t see it, but she gave a slight smile and nod.
He turned away. Soon, only
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