by Linda Ford
“Carry me,” Megan said to Birdie.
“Honey, you’re getting too big.”
Megan stood before Clay. “I’m not too big for you.”
He leaned over, and she draped her arms around his neck.
What choice did he have but to push to his feet and carry the little girl to her bedroom? Birdie would prepare her for bed then take Megan to her room.
He looked around. The window was securely fastened, no ropes or torn dolls evident. He set Megan on her bed and left the room, brushing by Birdie on his way out. His insides jumped at the contact.
Birdie spoke softly to the child. “I want you to sleep in my room.” A moment later, Megan in a white nightgown, they moved down the hall.
A girl to tuck into bed, a warm house, home-cooked meals, a woman at his side—these were the things he wanted and could never have. He grabbed his hat and escaped to the verandah.
“Mutt, watch here.” He pointed to Megan’s window. With the window nailed shut, no one could get in without a great deal of effort, but the man who had been there didn’t know that. Mutt would warn Clay of anyone approaching.
Clay leaned against the post of the verandah and stared down the trail. How could a scene that seemed so peaceful be full of so much evil that a child was threatened?
The screen door slammed and he glanced over his shoulder.
Birdie smiled. “Megan is already asleep.” Birdie carried a thin satchel he knew contained her drawing supplies, and he smiled. Strange how much enjoyment he got from her pictures. Or maybe not so strange. She was a good artist.
She put the satchel on the table that stood between two chairs and pulled out the sketchbook she’d used earlier. It reminded him of the morning spent by the river and the conversation they’d had there. What had become of his aunt Helen? If she was still alive, she was the last member of his family.
“Could you spare me a sheet of paper? I’d like to write my aunt.” Where had that notion come from? Three years had passed since he’d left his home, and this was the first time he’d had a desire to contact anyone from back there.
“Certainly.” She slipped inside and returned with more than one page of paper.
His eyebrows went up. “I don’t have that much to say.”
“I thought you might like to write your parents as well.” Her remark was innocent and spoken in kindness, but the words seared through him.
“I have no parents.”
She laughed as if thinking he’d made a joke. “Everyone has parents.” Her smile fled. “Unless you’re an orphan. Did your aunt Helen raise you? Is that it?”
“My parents were murdered.”
She gasped.
Why had he said that? Why had she pushed him until he did? He dared not look at her knowing he would see shock or sympathy or maybe both on her face. He didn’t want either and pushed away from the post to go to the corner of the verandah where he could see the barn and corrals.
She followed him and placed her hand on his arm. “Clay, that’s awful. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”
The warmth of her hand and the kindness of her words, edged past his carefully constructed defenses. He fought back against the intrusion. “Save your sympathy. It was my fault.”
“How can that be?” No shock. It felt good to hear her disbelief, as if she couldn’t imagine how he could be to blame.
“I was a loud-mouthed, over-confident twenty-year old.” It was so long ago that he seemed to be talking about a different person.
“Sounds like many young men I’ve encountered.” Her tone was wry and not at all amused.
He recalled how she’d mentioned having knowledge of evil and pain. What kind of experience did she have to bring her to that conclusion? The question stung, and he covered her hand where it rested on his arm.
“However,” she continued, “most of them don’t blame themselves for murder.”
He’d never spoken of his guilt, not even to Mary, but now he found he wanted to. “I had spent a couple years seeking gold in the Cariboo. Found some. Not a lot but enough to make me think I could pay-off my parents’ debts and fix up the house. Maybe add a new kitchen. I talked about it a lot. Freely. To my shame, I bragged about all I was going to do with my big gold find.” The air seeped from him. “It really wasn’t that much. It barely covered a few the repairs after the mortgage was paid.” He stared up at the sky. “I gave little regard for who heard me.” His throat closed and he couldn’t go on. He swallowed the knot there and forced himself to continue. “I rode home late one evening to discover my parents and my little sister, all shot dead. The house had been ransacked. I knew someone had come looking for the gold I bragged about. There wasn’t any to be found, but how were they to know that?”
“Oh, Clay. How awful.” She turned her palm to his and squeezed. “To find them and then blame yourself.” Her words dripped with sorrow. “Were the killers brought to justice?”
He patted his gun. “That’s what this was for. Out in the Cariboo, my friends and I practiced drawing and shooting. I was pretty good. The best of those out there. I set out to find the man responsible for my family’s deaths.”
“Tell me you didn’t kill anybody.”
No mistaking the horror in her voice.
“No, but I tracked him down, captured him, and turned him over to the Mounties. He paid for his crime.”
“Thank goodness. There is surely some consolation in that.” She stopped, swallowed, and continued. “I wish I could have the same satisfact—.” She broke off.
He turned to her. Pain creased her face. He pulled her hand from his arm to his chest. “Tell me what happened?” Earlier when she’d suggested he’d feel better if he shared his pain, she’d been right. He wanted to offer her the same release.
She pulled away and turned to stare toward the woods. “It was nothing compared to what happened to your parents.”
“It was enough to hurt you.” He draped his arm over her shoulder. Hadn’t he promised himself he would never again allow any feelings between himself and a woman? But this was different. They were simply sharing their painful pasts, histories that might have some similarities.
“It hurt me all right. It’s like you said, there is evil in the world and I found it in the shape of a man named Larry.” She took a deep breath. “I’d spent years caring for my mother. While my friends were being courted, I stayed at her bedside. While they married and began having children, I focused on my mother. I hoped, prayed she would recover. And then, after a while, I realized she was only declining, suffering in her illness. And still I cared for her. Father was busy with the farm, and if not for me, who would take her tea, change her sheets and do my best to make her hours more pleasant?”
“I was twenty when she died. Of course it broke my heart, and I mourned and grieved her. But I also felt…free for the first time in years. Free to consider a different future than one nursing a loved one. Finally, I could be courted. Finally, I could consider marrying.” She glanced at the front door, then around the yard. Maybe she wanted to be sure they were alone. Maybe she wanted to look anywhere but at him.
He understood that. Understood how shame made a person want to hide. The difference was, he’d bet his last dime she’d done nothing to be ashamed of.
“Larry courted me like a gentleman should. I had every reason to believe he would ask for my hand soon. One night he told my father he would see me home after a church social. I thought as we left the park that night that perhaps this would be the moment he proposed. I was so eager, so looking forward to having a family the way all my friends did."
Her voice trailed off, and Clay clenched his fist, fearing what was about to come.
“Once we were away from town, he stopped the buggy and began to—” She shivered. “He was, it was….”
Clay’s jaw ached from the way he pressed down on his teeth.
“I fought him off,” she said. “And I jumped from the buggy and started walking home. He followed me,
rolling along beside me in the buggy, hurling cruel remarks like stones. No one would ever want anything but a few liberties with an old maid such as I was.” Her voice became hard with the memory. “I would grow into a bitter old woman with a wrinkled brow and a prune-like mouth. When he drove away, I thought it was over, but it was only the beginning. He spread ugly stories about me, stories that gave the men in my small town the idea that I welcomed that sort of attention.”
Clay heard the pain slicing through her words. He pressed his cheek to her head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She shifted, and somehow she ended up in his arms. He held her as she shivered in the cool evening breeze.
“One thing I vowed.” Her breath stole through his flannel shirt, warm and comfortable. “I would not be a bitter, prune-faced woman. I would enjoy life to the fullest.”
He smiled against her hair. “I’d say you do that. It shows in how you work to make Megan happy, how you laugh so easily, and in your drawings.”
She lifted her face to him. “Thank you for saying that.”
“It’s the truth.” A lot of truth had been spoken in the last few minutes.
She studied his face. “You’re what? Twenty-nine, thirty?”
He grinned. “Thirty-two but thanks for putting me younger.”
“I’m thirty. An old maid, but I don’t mind. I can make those around me happy, and that pleases me.”
“You have a youthful spirit.”
“Clay Fisher, what a nice thing to say. Thank you.” Still in the circle of his arms, she studied him until he felt uncomfortable. “According to Harrison you’ve been here two years. You were twenty when you— Well, when your life was forever changed. What did you do in those ten years?”
He dropped his arms and, unwilling to lose her touch completely, took her hand. He moved toward the west side of the verandah with her at his side. The sun touched the top of the jagged mountains. “I lived life from one extreme to the other.”
“Maybe you can explain that.”
Clinging shamelessly to her hand, a little afraid she would pull back when she heard who he really was, he slowly spoke. “I lived by my gun for four years.”
“You mean…? Were you an outlaw?”
He smiled crookedly at her hesitancy. “I went after those who were wanted by the law. I earned a reputation as being fast. I was foolhardy because I didn’t think I had anything to lose.”
She squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you survived.”
His heart welcomed the words. “And then I met Mary.” He wanted to protect Birdie from the horror of how it ended, but he also wanted her to know how he became the man he was now. He’d only known her a day, and yet he felt connected to her.
“Please tell me about her. I want to know everything.”
He didn’t ask for an explanation because he shared the feeling, which left him thinking the world quaked beneath his feet. “Mary was the preacher’s daughter. I don’t know why I was drawn to go to church that day, but I was. For a short time I thought God had pulled me in, offered me love and a future.”
She tilted her head to the side. Her gaze held his.
“There was a tea afterwards, though I’ve forgotten why. Probably some special event. All I remember is seeing this pretty young thing darting about like a bluebird, serving tea, speaking a kind word, dispensing blessings upon others. Even me. She introduced herself, asked about me. I was overcome by her youthful joy and asked if I could call on her. She said I could if I came to the house and met her father, and if he gave his approval.”
“Did you?”
He chuckled. “The very next day. Mary watched from the window as I hung my gun belt on the saddle before I went to her door. Her father talked to me then said I could court his daughter. She met me outside the living room door. And shocked me with her words. ‘I asked around about you,’ she said, ‘and learned you’re a gunman. If you want to court me, you’ll have to give up that life.’”
Birdie studied his face. “You did. I can tell by the expression in your eyes.”
He nodded. “I hung up my guns and bought a little farm. We married. She was expecting our first child when—” The lump in his throat wouldn’t allow him to continue.
Birdie wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. “Oh, Clay, what happened?”
He clung to her, needing the strength of another person to take him through the pain of what occurred next. He rested his chin against her head. “Someone came looking for Clay Fisher, the gunman. Wanted to prove he was faster. Wanted to earn himself a reputation. I said Clay Fisher, the gunman, was dead and gone. He wouldn’t believe me. I wasn’t wearing my gun. I was a farmer—what did I need a sidearm for? He refused to take that for an answer and tossed me one. It lay at my feet. I had no intention of picking it up. I had promised Mary I would never do that again.” He stared at the mountains but saw the farm. The house. His wife. “Mary looked out the window and saw what was happening. She dashed out yelling, ‘Don’t shoot.’ She spooked him. He shot her.”
“Oh, Clay. How awful.” Her arms tightened around him as she looked up, her face wet with tears.
He wiped them away with his fingertips. Did she really feel his pain that deeply?
She shuddered. “You’re right. There is so much pain and evil in this world.”
“Maybe not everywhere. Seems this home is full of joy and peace.” He would make sure no intruder stole that away. He’d let that happen to his own family. No way he’d let it happen to this one. “Earlier, you asked about me and Harrison.”
“I admit to a certain curiousness.”
“After Mary’s death, I hit bottom. Wandered about from place to place, but I couldn’t bring myself to wear my gun again. Half the time I forgot to eat. I hardly ever slept. Harrison found me sitting at the side of the road, dirty, unkempt, and at the end of my rope. He dragged me home and set me on the right track.”
“My brother is a good man.”
“He is indeed.”
She sighed against him. “I’m glad you told me about your past. Thank you for listening to my tale of woe. I’ve never told anyone about Larry before. I feel cleansed by talking about it. I wish I could help you with your pain.”
“I’ve never told anyone about Mary. Harrison knows I was sick of my gun. I told him a person who lives by the gun dies by the gun.”
She squeezed him a little. “I’m glad that didn’t happen.” A moment later she added, “Otherwise, Megan would be struck with only me and my two-shot derringer for protection.
He laughed softly and realized something. His heart felt different. As if he’d been freed of the hold of his past. “You have helped.”
“Really?”
“The pain has dulled with the passing years, but it has always been there, always been throbbing just beneath the surface. Talking about my parents and Mary has helped, though I don’t suppose it will ever completely go away.”
“I wouldn’t think so, but maybe it will be like it is with my mama. I get comfort from the good memories of the times we shared.”
“Sounds nice.”
She shifted and stepped away. “I had planned to get some pictures done.”
He chuckled. “I meant to write a letter to Aunt Helen.”
“It’s not dark yet.” She smiled up at him, her eyes teasing.
“You’re right.” He led her to one chair and sat in the other. She had brought pen and ink for him. He began to write a long overdue letter telling his aunt that he was alive and well and giving the address of the ranch. He addressed the envelope and set it aside to go to town when someone went.
Finished, he sat back to watch Birdie draw.
After a bit, she glanced up and noticed his attention. “Sorry, I get engrossed.”
“What are you working on?”
She showed him a picture of Megan squatting by the river looking for rocks. He’d seen it earlier as a sketch, but now it was alive with blues and greens
with a touch of gold reflecting off the ripples of the water and repeating in tiny veins in several of the rocks.
“What do you think?”
He turned to meet her eyes. “It’s beautiful.”
She looked pleased with his compliment. “I can’t decide if I should leave it or add some verse or saying.”
“I like the touches of gold. Do you know any verses or sayings about that?”
“Isn’t there one in Job about being refined like gold?”
“Seems to me there is. I heard a lot of Scriptures when I was married to the preacher’s daughter.”
Birdie laughed. “I suppose you did. But I don’t think that verse fits here.”
“No. It’s like there’s a deeper message. Like maybe the most precious gold is found in a loving heart.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s perfect. Thank you.” She took a pencil and shaped the words. When she was satisfied with their placement, she opened a bottle of India ink and filled them in. It took several minutes, but he didn’t mind. He enjoyed watching her work.
She sat back. “Perfect.” She held it up for him to judge.
He read the words. The most precious gold is found in a loving heart. She’d highlighted the black letters with gold.
“It certainly is.”
Their gazes sought each other and held. For the first time in four years, he let someone see into his heart. He hoped, trusted, even, that she would see past the dross of his past to the gold of love.
He searched her gaze deeply and found a warm heart full of kindness.
He’d found love and acceptance once before, and it had been taken away because of the gun he now carried at his side. He groaned, stood, and walked to the railing.
Birdie followed. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s still true. He who lives by the gun, dies by the gun.” He patted his sidearm to make sure she understood he referred to himself. “It’s best if you stay away from me.”
* * *
Tears pressed to the back of Birdie’s eyes. The evening had been so emotional—confessing her hurts to Clay, hearing his pain and sorrow. The poor man. It made her want to weep every time she thought of what he had endured. And now he feared that carrying his gun could lead to more destruction and pain. She understood his reasoning, knew he must fear getting close to anyone. How was she to comfort him? Please God, give me words as appropriate as the ones he gave me for the postcard.
