The Seduction of Roxanne

by Linda Jones

  Well, the past didn't matter much, and these days Cyrus barely noticed her. He was a busy man, with more important things on his mind than a girl he used to know, long ago. In the years since his return from the war he probably hadn't said a dozen words to her.

  He was a good sheriff, respected and dedicated; a good man, honorable and strong. When she allowed her thoughts to take such a dangerous turn, she wondered why he didn't have a woman, a wife. Even with the scar disfiguring what had once been a handsome face, he was a striking man. Cyrus Bergeron was everything most women looked for in a man, but he was always so alone. Perhaps it was by his own choice that he was a solitary man.

  Nearly perfect as Cyrus was, he met all of her qualifications for potential husband but one—the most important. When she married again, if she married again, her husband would not be a man who lived by the gun. She'd lost one man to violence; losing another would surely kill her. Still, perhaps they could become friends again. She was beginning to think she needed friends in her life. Cyrus seemed a logical place to start.

  "Hello,” she said as she stepped onto the boardwalk.

  Cyrus tipped his hat.

  "Uncle Josiah would like you to come to supper tonight, if you're able.” She shifted her books. They weren't heavy, but she'd been carrying them for a while.

  Cyrus hesitated briefly before answering. “Sure."

  "I think he wants to discuss building a new jail or something like that,” she explained. “Besides, it's been a long time since you've had supper with us.” In truth, she couldn't remember how long it had been. She remembered very little of the year after the war ended, the year Cyrus had come home without her Louis, the year she'd been widowed. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly, little more than a long blink, as she willed her mind to return to thoughts of the weather and tomorrow's lesson and what they would have for supper.

  "Yes, it has been a long time.” Cyrus's voice was cautious, soft and easy; gentle.

  "Six o'clock, then,” she said as she rearranged her books again.

  Cyrus moved, barely shifting his weight in her direction. “Would you like me to carry those for you?"

  "No,” she said quickly, embarrassed that he thought such a small load was too much for her. He probably believed she'd been hinting all along for him to carry them for her, as if she wasn't capable of carrying her own small stack of books. “I don't need any help."

  He returned to his post against the wall, stoic as always, untroubled by her curt refusal of assistance. She shivered once, deep and silent. Cyrus was a well-liked and effective sheriff, and an honored veteran of the war that had killed her husband. But he was also unbendingly hard and as tough as old leather. His eyes were too old for his face, and at times, like now, they were cold and emotionless. He hadn't been this way before the war; it had changed him, as it had changed her and everyone she knew.

  "I should get home,” she said as she backed away. “See you about six."

  He didn't say anything as she turned and continued her short journey down the street. Aunt Ada would need her help with preparing supper, especially since she'd been feeling a tad poorly with that cold she'd been nursing.

  She wondered, as she walked away, if Cyrus still liked apple pie.

  The Scott Mercantile was a short distance north of the saloon, and Mrs. Scott was arranging a few things on a sidewalk display that included a table of notions, her broad hips swaying beneath a bright yellow skirt, her movements lively as if she felt the coming of spring as Roxanne did. As Roxanne stepped closer, she heard Mrs. Scott humming a gleeful tune.

  Something caught Roxanne's eye and she stepped onto the boardwalk once again. Mrs. Scott said hello, but was immediately called inside to assist a customer. Just as well, Roxanne thought as she stood over a plank table of buttons and ribbons and lace. She wasn't in the mood for chitchat.

  Spools of satin ribbons in bright colors were arranged in a vibrant rainbow, and Roxanne balanced her books in one arm so she could reach out and touch a length of brilliant blue that caught just a hint of the afternoon sun and glimmered like a soft, tempting jewel. The length of blue was surrounded by other colors; emerald green, ruby red, a bright yellow and a soft pink.

  How long had it been since she'd noticed color? She frowned as she fingered the blue ribbon. Years. Her life had been black and gray for so long, a bad dream she couldn't shake, a nightmare that stayed with her night after night, day after day. The bright blue ribbon slipped silkily beneath her fingers, inviting and beautiful.

  Her heart beat too fast, and it had nothing to do with her brisk walk. Beautiful. This little bit of blue ribbon was beautiful. She hadn't seen beauty in anything in such a long time, she'd almost forgotten what it was like to simply admire a flower or a sunset or a bit of satin ribbon. For the past three years she'd drifted through her life in a daze, seeing nothing, wanting nothing. Was she waking up at last?

  Did she want to?

  Without moving from his post, Cyrus watched Roxanne. Johnson, the pitiable scum, was right. Roxanne Robinette was much too good for a man who was imperfect inside and out, who was scarred in body and in mind. He'd known this to be true as he'd watched over her for the past three years. Still, now and again he was assaulted by the most improper, impossible thoughts.

  She seemed to be admiring something, lost in thought. With her head cocked to one side she stared raptly at an item on a table of odds and ends. He wondered what it was, wondered so hard that he almost stepped into the street to follow her path and discover what had grabbed her attention.

  He didn't move.

  She'd shuddered when he'd offered to carry her books, affirming what he already knew; she found him repulsive. He imagined it was the scar that appalled her, but it might be more. Perhaps she blamed him for failing to satisfy her whispered request as he'd prepared to march out of Paris in January of ‘62.

  Watch over Louis, she'd whispered, her eyes wide and red from crying, her full lips trembling. She'd been a child, then. A bride, but still a child in his eyes. I don't think he'll make a very good soldier. Don't let him get hurt.

  Cyrus had tried, and for years he'd been successful. He'd watched Louis's back, as the young man learned to be a good soldier. A fighter. A survivor. But in the end, in the final year, he'd failed.

  Roxanne was too much a lady to voice her feelings of anger, to even hint at the fury that had to be in her heart. But Cyrus knew too well how he'd failed her. Surely she despised him.

  Ah yes, his occasional impossible thoughts about Roxanne Robinette were just that. Impossible.

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  Chapter Two

  The dining room in the Pierson house was as finely furnished as the rest of the large, elegant home. The long table and sturdy chairs were made of walnut, a gilt-framed mirror hung above the sideboard, and on the opposite side of the room hung a similarly framed portrait of a long-dead ancestor. The table was set with the best china and crystal, since they had company for supper, and the spring flowers in the center of the table had been picked and arranged in the porcelain vase by Roxanne herself, just an hour or so before Cyrus arrived.

  Every now and again Roxanne caught Cyrus staring at the new blue ribbon in her hair. She wondered if he thought it disrespectful, too frivolous for a widow, inappropriate with her somber dress. She certainly couldn't tell what he was thinking by looking at him. There was no emotion at all on his face, not even when he caught Aunt Ada staring at the scar there. Twice.

  Throughout dinner she had remained silent as Cyrus and Uncle Josiah discussed the need for a new Lamar County jail. They both knew the improvement was necessary, but it might be a while before the funds were available. Uncle Josiah had always been one for planning ahead.

  They talked briefly about the new deputy sheriff who would arrive from Tennessee later in the week. Calvin Newberry had distant relatives in Paris and was coming here to settle. The relatives had recommended him for the job. Roxanne's mind was else
where; she cared nothing for jails or jailers, not tonight.

  She cleared the table and carried in the apple pie she'd prepared that afternoon. It was still hot, and she protected her hands with a folded towel. The pie would be better after another hour or so of cooling, but this would have to do. She placed it in the center of the table and went to the sideboard for four dessert plates.

  Before she could finish the simple task, Aunt Ada began to cough. She tried to contain it, but was quickly caught up in a violent coughing spell. Uncle Josiah helped his wife to her feet.

  "She's got some cough medicine in her sitting room,” Josiah said, his eyes on Ada's distorted face. “You two visit and we'll return shortly.” Together, Ada, coughing spasmodically, and Josiah, supporting her lovingly, left the dining room.

  All of a sudden a palpable awkwardness filled the air; a strained silence. Without Josiah to talk city business, and Ada to fill the empty pauses with bits of gossip, there was apparently nothing to be said. Roxanne sighed as she began to cut the pie. If she was going to wake up, if she was going to try to live again, she would need a friend or two.

  "I hope you still like apple pie,” she said as she carefully lifted a piece and set in on a plate. It steamed enticingly as she set it before Cyrus.

  "Of course,” he said quietly. “It looks wonderful."

  She cut three more slices. “You might want to let it cool a few minutes,” she said, sliding a piece onto her own plate. “If I'd known you were going to be here for supper I would have made it this morning, but Uncle Josiah didn't ask me to invite you until I was leaving for school."

  As she took her seat, Cyrus lifted his eyes to her, following her every movement. “You made this?"

  She nodded.

  "Just because I was coming for supper?"

  He seemed to have a hard time accepting the simple fact. “Yes, Cyrus,” she said. Amazingly a small smile, a very small smile, teased the corners of her lips. “I made this apple pie just for you."

  He lowered his eyes to the dessert. “Well, thank you,” he said softly. “It's been a long time since anyone made me an apple pie."

  She desperately needed someone to talk to. Cyrus was sensible, and she could trust him to keep her musings to himself. He was not a gossip. In fact, she couldn't even imagine him at the barber shop or a saloon swapping tidbits of information with the other men of Paris. Her secrets would be safe with this man; she knew it.

  He lifted his wine glass and took a sip.

  "I want to get married,” she blurted.

  Cyrus apparently swallowed his wine the wrong way, for he immediately choked on the small sip. He coughed as viciously as Aunt Ada had, returning his wine glass to the table and leaning forward as he barked and shook.

  Roxanne jumped from her seat and ran around the table to slap him on the back. He was so hard it was like slapping a brick house through a thin layer of cotton, so she whacked harder. Eventually, his coughing stopped and he very slowly lifted his head. She stepped back as he cleared his throat and rose to his feet.

  "You want to do what?” he asked hoarsely. He didn't look so tough and mean at the moment, in spite of his narrowed eyes and hawk-like features. He had a nicely shaped, long nose and prominent cheekbones, one of which was marred by the long scar he'd brought home from the war. He still hadn't completely recovered from the choking spell, and his moss-green eyes watered as he stared down at her, ruining the fierce effect.

  She realized, perhaps for the first time, that he was one of the few men in town who could stare down at her.

  Oh, if Cyrus was taking the idea this hard, what would her aunt and uncle say? Damnation. Was she supposed to stay stuck in this terrible state forever? Lonely, grieving, never more than half-alive; the widow Roxanne Robinette who had nothing and no one, and never would.

  She took a deep breath, for courage. “I want to get married,” she said softly.

  It wouldn't do for Ada and Josiah to return and hear this conversation; she wasn't quite ready to have the discussion with them. “Why don't we step outside for a few minutes?” They wouldn't be overheard there. Cyrus looked baffled and vaguely uneasy, but she didn't regret confiding in him. “You look like you could use a breath of fresh air, and by the time we return the pie will be cool enough to eat."

  "Sure,” Cyrus said softly. Very softly.

  He followed her into the parlor and through the door there to step onto a small porch that overlooked the garden at the side of the house. There was a rocker there, where Aunt Ada usually spent an hour or so of her afternoon when the weather was nice, and a long bench that was barely protected by the overhang. Roxanne sat on the bench, leaving the more comfortable rocker for Cyrus. Instead of taking that seat he lowered himself to the opposite end of the bench, barely two feet away.

  His cheek, harsh and jagged even in soft moonlight, faced her as she turned her head to look at his profile. She wanted to reach out and touch the scar, to ask him what had happened, but she did no such thing.

  "Do you think Louis would be terribly disappointed if I decided to marry again?” She kept talking, not ready to hear the answer just yet. “You knew him better than anyone, perhaps even better than me after those years away from home. He mentioned you so often in his letters, and even before the two of you left for the war he admired you greatly."

  There was a short pause before Cyrus answered. “He wanted you to be happy,” he said softly, almost too softly.

  Roxanne studied the garden by moonlight, as Cyrus did. “I won't ever be happy again,” she said pragmatically. “I don't expect to be happy."

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Cyrus turn his head. She could feel him watching her, but didn't turn her head to meet his gaze.

  "Why do you want to get married?"

  All her frustration, all her indecision, rose to the surface. “I can't live here forever, in someone else's house. I can't spend the rest of my life teaching other people's children. Aunt Ada and Uncle Josiah have been so kind to me, and they would never say they don't want me here, but I always feel out of place, as if I don't belong. I want my own home. I could buy a small house,” she added, “or rent a room, but I don't want that either.” She turned her head to find Cyrus staring at her. “I want a family, children, a home. I'm ready to get on with my life."

  Again he paused before speaking. “Louis would want that for you,” he whispered.

  It was what she needed to hear, and maybe Cyrus knew that. Relief flooded her, rushed through her veins and her heart and her mind. She closed her eyes and drank in the cool night air.

  "So,” Cyrus continued. “Who's the lucky man?"

  Her eyes flew open. Knowing what she wanted from life was one thing; specifics were another. “I don't know,” she admitted. “A farmer, maybe, or a merchant. I'd like to stay in or near Paris, but.... “there were so many memories here, good and bad. Maybe she'd be better off without them. “Perhaps I should think about moving. There are mail order bride services—"

  "Absolutely not!” Cyrus exploded, jumping to his feet as if he could no longer stand to sit.

  After the soft voice he'd used all evening, the shout startled Roxanne so that she twitched. “It's just an idea."

  "A damned bad one,” Cyrus said just a bit more calmly as he reclaimed his seat. “You can't climb on a stage and take off for some unknown parts and some unknown man.” She could hear the anger and frustration in his voice. “You might find yourself married to some ... some.... “He seemed unable to continue.

  "You're right,” she conceded. “That is a foolish idea."

  They sat in comfortable silence for a moment longer, both of them looking over the garden and enjoying the crispness of the air. Cyrus took several long, deep breaths before he spoke again.

  "Why a merchant or a farmer?” he asked in a low voice.

  Roxanne closed her eyes and leaned her head back slightly. “More than anything, I want to feel safe,” she whispered. “I need a husband who leads a gentle life. N
o guns, no swords.” She swallowed hard. “There can be no more war in my life. I lost Louis to violence, and even though I don't expect to love any other man the way I loved Louis, I won't risk losing another husband to the gun.” I couldn't bear it.

  Cyrus had no response to her reasoning, and for a moment longer they simply enjoyed the night. Roxanne lifted her face to accept a cool, gentle breeze. Now that she'd spoken the words aloud they made even more sense to her. Louis was gone and he could not be replaced, but she was ready to live again. It was time.

  Cyrus smelled blood, heard cries loud and faint reaching above the clash of steel and the occasional explosion of gunfire. He fought the Yankee with his bayonet, as he had fought the Yanks that had come before, slashing and stabbing, fighting to stay alive.

  This battle for ground in Tennessee had quickly turned to hand-to-hand combat, vicious and desperate. There was no conscious thought as he felled one Yankee after another, just instinct and luck.

  As the Yankee fell, wounded but not dead, Cyrus turned to Louis. The boy should've been right behind him, dammit, but he was far away, fighting hand-to-hand near the ditch the Yankees had been cowering in. Cyrus cursed as he turned and ran. Louis was a much better soldier than he'd been three years ago, but he still had a tendency to get lost in battle. The boy thought too much; he didn't always trust his instincts.

  The Yankee who fought Louis was bigger and stronger; he was impossibly big and strong, a beast who couldn't be beaten. Cyrus ran faster, but he couldn't reach him. The faster he ran the further away Louis and the Yankee beast were. His heart beat so hard he could feel it, and all of a sudden he knew what would happen next. The beast would kill Louis, and then he would kill Cyrus. It always ended that way.

  His feet were like lead, and no matter how hard he tried his movements were slow and difficult, like he ran through molasses; cold molasses that impeded his every movement and filled his mouth and his eyes and his ears. The sounds of battle faded and finally disappeared altogether, until there were only the three of them. Louis, fighting bravely, the Yankee, confident and aggressive, and Cyrus, running.