by Stephy Smith
The funeral home wheeled in the stretcher with a velvet covering draped over the edges. Emory and another cowboy lowered Cheyenne from Shawnee’s clutches and placed her on the gurney. Shawnee slid from the horse, the cowboys stepped back to let her and Mason stand at her sister’s side.
A cowboy brought in Cheyenne’s saddle and blanket, placing it on top of the fence. Shawnee took the blanket, placed it over Cheyenne. Mason covered Cheyenne’s face with her crumpled hat. Shawnee lowered to her knees, removed her hat from her head, covered her heart, and watched the cart until it wheeled out of sight with Mason beside it. Shawnee silently stood and turned to the horse. Sobbing, she hefted herself up and made the long journey back down the alley with the cowboys riding behind her.
Shawnee stopped at the pool of blood-soaked earth. She knelt and placed her hat over the dark red stain. She took her knife and stabbed the brim pinning the hat to the ground. Mounting the horse, she nodded to a cowboy at the end of the alley. He opened a gate to a large arena.
Shawnee kicked the horse into a run. The wind slipped across her face to bring back precious memories of her and Cheyenne. She raised her arms like wings of the birds in flight representing the twin’s free spirited nature. Rustling of the grass kept time with the beat of the horse’s hooves carrying the laughter of the girls to her ears for one last time. She weaved around the arena until the horrible vision of Cheyenne’s battered body turned into a blur of disillusionment. She returned to the gate, dismounted and walked solemnly down the alley to the sale ring. A cloud of release gently swept over her, as she honored her sister’s life in a way symbolic to their childhood.
The auctioneer called off the sale. He asked Shawnee to leave the saddle until the barn emptied. Shawnee stood waiting, watching as staff and buyers walked by, kissing the swells of the saddle, touching the seat or hanging ropes on the horn. The sadness was etched on their faces, and a morbid sense of respect and pride ran through Shawnee’s heart.
A slight relief washed over her. She walked down the hall to the main entrance of the sale barn. Unashamed tears slid down her cheeks. Her heart was touched knowing the cattlemen would remember Cheyenne.
She let her mind wander back over the years, how much they had grown closer and still retained separate lives. A small piece of Cheyenne seemed to whisper in her ear, ‘Remember when we would sit on our horses over-looking the land. Any animal with four legs was claimed as being our own prime livestock. At one point, we turned into rodeo queens with sequins glued to construction paper and slipped onto our cowboy hats. When we got older, we graduated to mothers with our dolls perched in the saddle in front of us and we taught them how to count cows. Those were the good days Shaw, please don’t ever forget them. I love you. Gotta go now.’
“This wasn’t the way it was supposed to end. We were meant to grow old, have kids and grandkids. Our lives intertwined with memories and losses shared together. It’s not fair I should have to face the world alone, Cheyenne, it’s not fair.” She swiped the tears with her fisted hands. She couldn’t believe her sister was gone.
Chapter Twelve
Shawnee sat in the parlor of the funeral home. The mortician was done with Cheyenne and would be bringing her out in a few moments. She sat quietly, twirling her thumbs. Shameless tears soaked the front of her dress. She looked down at her hands. A large form took a seat next to her and pulled her close.
She leaned closer into Emory as he held her near and let her cry. He didn’t say a word. However, Shawnee knew he wouldn’t leave her. His hold was too powerful and secure.
A cart wheeled past, and she recognized the coffin she and Mason had chosen for Cheyenne. In an instant, it disappeared into a tiny room. A gentle touch on her shoulder and the low voice of the funeral director told her they were ready. Shawnee glanced at Emory and squeezed his arm.
“I’m here,” his voice shook and his eyes shone brightly. His strong arms guided her to the door. Shawnee stopped.
“I can’t go in. Maybe you should go in and tell me how she looks.” Shawnee’s heart threatened to explode. Her gut twisted into tight knots, and her lips quivered as her body quaked. She grew lightheaded and leaned closer to Emory.
“I’m not going in without you. I’ll be right beside you. I’m not leaving you. Not now, not ever,” Emory whispered in her ear.
Shawnee took one slow step. Then another. She stared at the curtain behind the coffin. When Emory stopped, she assumed they were at Cheyenne’s side. She glanced down and ran her fingers across the cold cheek of her sister. She froze for a few minutes. A lump caught in her throat.
A peaceful look had replaced the sun weathered face of her sister and her hair lay braided half way down with the curled ends resting on one breast. The high neck of what Cheyenne called ‘her western wedding dress’ hid the puncture that caused her death. Tiny round pearl buttons lined in a row down the center of the bodice. Cheyenne’s hands lay folded across her lower abdomen with a yellow rose tucked in between them. She laid her head on Cheyenne’s shoulder. After a short time, she turned to leave the room.
The director stood outside the door, “She looks beautiful. Thank you.” Shawnee walked to the car and slid in. Emory shut the door behind her and walked around to the driver’s side.
Soon enough, they pulled into Shawnee’s driveway. She sat staring ahead. Emory tugged on her arm, and she looked up at him. His soft smile reassured her she’d be fine. Eventually. He caught her around the waist and guided her into the house.
“Do you need me to do anything for you?” His soft-spoken words soothed her.
“Just hold me.” Shawnee leaned into his solid frame. “I don’t want to go tomorrow.”
“You don’t want to miss going, either.” Emory rested his chin on her head.
“No,” she sat on the couch and curled her feet under her. “Will you stay with me tonight? I don’t want to be alone in this house. I can feel her here. She’s everywhere I look.”
Emory tightened his grip. Shawnee closed her eyes and let Emory guide her to the couch.
****
The church had been so crowded Shawnee found it uncomfortable sitting in the pew alone with Mason. Emory sat with the pallbearers across the aisle. She dabbed at her eyes, unable to focus on anything except the coffin placed in front of her and Mason. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to have the funeral over. They slid into the limo for the ride to the cemetery. She held onto Mason. He needed her as much as she needed him.
The cemetery was quiet. Shawnee fastened her arm through Emory’s. They sat under the tent waiting for the other mourners to arrive. The sun beat down on the crowd. A slight breeze whipped by as if Cheyenne was bidding everyone her last good-bye. Shawnee tightened her grip and refused to let go of his arm. His strength comforted her. Mason needed Shawnee to be strong, and she wasn’t sure she could provide that for him alone, so she held Mason’s hand.
The preacher cleared his throat, and the mourners closed in on the tent. He didn’t speak long. Tears and hugs engulfed her and Mason when the line of mourners filed by. She thought she was holding up fairly well, until Mason moved closer. He rested his head on her shoulder. Shawnee embraced him. His body shuddered.
Sobs escaped her lungs as she clung to Mason’s quaking body. He held back nothing. Shawnee didn’t have any words of wisdom to sooth him or herself. They both did what they had to do. Cry.
“Mason, please come to the house with us.” Emory touched his shoulder. Mason nodded his head and the three walked to the car.
“I never knew I could love someone like I loved Cheyenne. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to her being gone.” Mason raised his hand to wipe tears from his face.
“I know what you mean, Mason.” Emory glanced back in the rearview mirror.
Shawnee turned her head to look out the window at the houses that lined the street. Some had added on, others needed a coat of paint. The only things that changed were the faces peering out the windows and the children in the yards. Her
mind was so numb she couldn’t remember when she and Cheyenne played in these yards. The trip to her house blurred and her mind tumbled.
In front of the house, Shawnee paused with Mason. He grabbed her hand and took a step forward. Both of them were hesitant in the walk to the door. She hoped to see Cheyenne pop up on the couch, but knew it was a wasted wish.
Emory filled three plates with food brought to the house by friends and neighbors. He set them on the table and called Shawnee and Mason to come eat. Shawnee picked at her food. The clink when Emory tossed his fork down brought Shawnee’s eyes to the man leaning on the table.
“All right, you two! I can’t take this anymore. Do the two of you think Cheyenne would want you moping around here like this? Well, if you do, you know a different Cheyenne than I knew. She was full of life and wanted everyone to live. She felt so guilty when she had her bout with depression because of what it did to Shawnee. She asked me one time to make sure Shawnee never went through that again, and I’ll toss myself into a snake’s den before I break my word to that woman.” Emory slammed his open palm on the table.
Shawnee laughed for the first time since her sister had died. The last thing Cheyenne would want was for them to mope around. It felt strange to have someone point out what she would have wanted. She glanced from the confused faces of Emory to Mason. She tilted her head to the side and said, “Cow tipping anyone?”
“Cheyenne was a prankster.” Shawnee said as she shook her head. “You know I watched her take the poor unsuspecting victims out in the dark. She was so quiet and serious when instructing them how to tip over a sleeping cow. I don’t know where she got that plastic cow she used for her prop, but she put it to good use.”
A grin formed on Mason’s face. “Oh, that woman took me on many a cow tippin’s. I better go get Geraldine, that plastic cow, and go tippin’.”
“She pretty near ruined every new man on the job with those shenanigans of hers.” Emory smiled.
“You’re right, Emory. I got some Cheyenne cow tipping to take care of.” Mason sauntered to the door, placed his Stetson on his head, and walked out to his truck.
Emory gazed at Shawnee. “And you? What would you like to do?”
“I think…” Her hand went to her chin. “I think I want to stay in, and I’m sure the couch must be comfortable. I caught Mason and Cheyenne on it one night.”
“I don’t need details, Shawnee.” He closed in on her and pulled her close to him.
Emory locked the doors and turned off the lights. He drew Shawnee’s body against his. A burning desire to claim him came over her. The feel of his closeness filled the empty void she’d held deep inside for so many years.
The tenderness of his touch seared her cool skin with a heated flame thirsty for life. His love branded in her heart and soul with passion. He held her tight as he carried her to the bedroom. His lips never left hers. She tangled her fingers in his hair.
His tender touches left trails shooting across her skin as his agile fingers worked through her hair and massaged her neck. She pulled the snaps loose from his shirt, exposing his vast chest. Her fingers splayed across his taut muscles to find his heart.
“That’s you there.” He held her hand to feel the beat. “You’re what keeps my world going. You’re my life, my heart, my world. I’ve never loved anyone before. I never will again, if you’ll marry me.”
Shawnee ran a light finger across his lips and down his chin.
His lips and swift tongue flittered across her neck, behind her ears to the sensual spot under the lobe. She held her breath in ecstasy. A low moan escaped from her innermost depths. She pulled him closer and pressed her body against his. They melted into their own secret haven.
“I love you, Emory.” She closed her eyes. For a few minutes she thought of how good it felt to have him by her side. Bolting upright when the question of marriage sunk in, she gazed at him. Her body shook as the silent laugh rumbled in her throat. She tightened her hold on him. Her throat clogged with unspoken words.
“I love you, Shawnee. Now will you answer my question?”
“Yes, Emory. I’ll marry you.” Shawnee heard him let out his breath. She cuddled next to him, working her fingers across his chest. A heated passion burned deeply, begging for release. With heaving breaths, they cuddled until sleep claimed their clinging bodies.
Chapter Thirteen
Three months later, Shawnee stood to face Emory. “I want to work the alley.”
“No.” Emory’s eyes blazed.
“I worked on a ranch for three years, and you know I’m as good as any cowboy out here.” Shawnee stomped her foot and waved her arm to sweep the pens.
“I said no. End of discussion.”
“You know, Emory, you’re still the most ruthless, pigheaded son-of-a-buck I’ve ever met. You give me one good reason why I can’t work the flipping alley.” Her anger burned deep in her soul.
“You know why, Shawnee.” He turned to leave.
“I’m not gonna get killed like Cheyenne. That was one of those things that couldn’t be helped. Emory, it was her time to go.” Shawnee softened her voice. She touched her husband’s arm.
“I can’t take that risk. Besides, if something like that happens to me, I don’t want you to see it.” Emory ducked his head. His eyes filled with unshed tears.
Shawnee pulled him to her. “I’m stronger than you think. I watched my mom and brother suffer terribly. When we had that accident…” She gulped. “Mom and my brother went through the windshield. The glass cut them severely, and blood flew everywhere. Cheyenne was in the back seat with me and she was in bad shape.”
“You don’t have to do this, Shawnee.” Emory rested his hands on her shoulders.
“Dad died instantly. Cheyenne and I were—trapped. Cheyenne quit breathing and I had to save her life. I’m not afraid anymore.”
“No one ever said you were afraid of anything, except your own self. And the answer is still no.” He kissed her forehead.
“I don’t know what I ever saw in you. There has to be something in that fine-looking body of yours somewhere though.” Shawnee twisted around to leave.
Emory caught up to her, whirled her around, and kissed her soundly. She stood still; her eyes followed his slow, sexy pockets down the alley. She caught her breath; she couldn’t resist the urge to run up to squeeze his buns. He jumped and swatted at her hand. She straightened her shoulders and walked to her office to do payroll.
It was noon when she signed the last check. Carla handed them to the cowboys packed in the office.
There was a knock on her door, just as she expected. She looked up into angry blue eyes.
“Come on in, Mr. Creek. I’ve been expecting you,” she offered him a seat.
“What did you do to my paycheck? Seems I’ve been shorted sixty hours.” He threw the check on the desk.
She walked to the door and closed it. His head snapped around when he heard the lock click.
“I told you I’d make it hard on you if you walked into my office with that attitude. I see you’re testing my word. I do have the authority to do so now.” She unbuttoned her blouse. A smile played across his face. Her hand reached for the light switch.
Emory walked to the new couch. She followed. He faced her and a groan rumbled in his throat. She reached for the snaps and pulled his shirt open. Emory inhaled as Shawnee’s lips teased the hollow of his neck.
His hand went to her hair. She leaned her body to his muscular form. He kicked off his boots. She ran her fingers down his taut stomach and skimmed circles around his belly button. Her lips moistened as she ran her tongue slowly around them.
Emory pulled her mouth to his. His kiss tasted of honey. Shawnee melted to him. He kissed her neck and left a trail of blazing glory as he continued his quest. She moaned.
They held each other tight. Their breathing returned to normal, both too spent to make a move.
“You’re an amazing woman.” Emory kissed her neck.
; “And you, Emory Creek, are the love of my life.”
About the Author
Stephy Smith grew up in the Northwest Texas Panhandle and still lives within a few miles of her childhood home, which was also her mother’s childhood home. She owns her own ranch and takes care of her mother.
Other than writing, Stephy loves to read, garden, ride horses, paint and do just about any kind of arts and crafts if it doesn't involve yarn, knitting needles, crochet needles or material. She also loves history. Museum's, historical markers and sites along roadsides, old houses and walking through cemeteries. She writes young adult, sweet historical romances and a few contemporary romances.
Also by Stephy Smith:
Lizzie and the Rebel
Rescued from the River
Available at www.astraeapress.com, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and wherever e-books are sold.
Astraea Press
Where Fiction Meets Virtue
www.astraeapress.com
