The Seduction of Roxanne

by Linda Jones

  It seemed, for a moment, that he would reach Louis in time. Maybe this battle would end differently. A spark of hope worked its way into Cyrus's heart. Yes, he would reach Louis in time, kill the beast, and the nightmare would be over.

  The Yankee slashed his bayonet fiercely, and in that instant Cyrus's hopes died and he knew he would be late again. Louis became still, and one hand settled over his ravaged midsection. It was a killing wound; they all knew it. Louis, Cyrus, the Yankee. Still Cyrus threw himself in front of Louis to take on the Yankee himself and in that instant, an instant that chilled him in his dreams and his memories, the bayonet that had killed Louis slashed up and across Cyrus's face.

  Together he and Louis fell into the ditch. The long, slow fall stole Cyrus's breath. His eyes filled with blood that blinded him.

  This was where he usually woke up. He knew, by this time, that he was trapped in a nightmare, a familiar nightmare formed of part memory and part nurtured fear. Always, as he fell he woke up. God, he wanted to wake up.

  He continued to fall, and he and Louis landed softly in the ditch, not two feet from a dead Yankee.

  "Cyrus?” Louis whispered as Cyrus rolled over to face his dying friend.

  "Hang on,” he said, lying and hoping and praying. “It'll be all right."

  Cyrus made himself look down at the wound that would kill Louis Robinette in a matter of minutes. The wound was too deep, the blood flowing too fast. He laid his hand over the wound in a hopeless effort to staunch the bleeding.

  "Promise me,” Louis whispered, and then his voice died away.

  "Anything,” Cyrus said, willing the boy to live. “Anything."

  "Take care of Roxanne. Tell her I was thinking of her when I died.” He took a labored breath. “Make sure she's happy. I don't want her to ... to...."

  "I know,” Cyrus said.

  "I was going to watch over her always, but now it's up to you, Cyrus. Take care of her."

  "I will."

  "Make sure she's happy."

  "I will."

  "Roxanne should have everything she wants."

  What Roxanne wanted was this boy she'd grown up with and learned to love, this boy who had made her his wife while they were both little more than children. Goddammit, he didn't want to go home and tell her Louis was dead, that her husband had been thinking of her with his last breath.

  But he couldn't say any of that to Louis. “She will,” he promised. “Roxanne will have everything she wants."

  Cyrus came awake instantly, sitting up in bed and taking a deep breath that burned his lungs. Drenched in sweat, his heart pounded fiercely. His blood ran icy cold.

  He hadn't had the dream in months, had even hoped, once or twice, that it was gone for good. Tonight's conversation with Roxanne had triggered it, no doubt, with her concerns for what Louis would think about the fact that she wanted to take a husband again.

  Running trembling fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, he left the bed. There would be no more sleep for him tonight. He wouldn't take the chance that the nightmare would be waiting for him on the other side of closed eyes.

  Finding his way around his sparsely furnished one-room house was no problem. Too many nights he'd paced in the dark, until he knew his way well. Complete dark, eyes closed, it didn't matter. There was never a single misstep.

  He paced now, toward the faint cast of moonglow in the front window, and then away. Past the cold fireplace and to the table and single chair where he ate his meals. To the pantry where he stored his foodstuffs and whiskey.

  By the time he'd poured himself a short glass of whiskey, the trembling had stopped. The dream hadn't faded though; it never did.

  He'd never told Roxanne that Louis had been thinking of her when he'd died. She'd been so damned sad for so long, it seemed cruel; not a comfort at all. He'd never been able to make himself walk up to her, look into her desolate eyes, and tell her how Louis had been killed, that his last thoughts had been of her. He certainly couldn't tell her now, as she was finally thinking of moving forward, of taking another husband.

  While he'd failed in that request, he'd taken the other very seriously. He watched over Roxanne, made sure she was safe, anyway. He couldn't do much about the happy part. His secret guardianship was a duty he took as seriously as his job of sheriff, was more a calling than a duty, actually. He'd watched Roxanne cry and grieve, seen her pull deeper and deeper into her shell. He'd learned every nuance of her graceful motions, memorized every line of her face; the deep blue eyes, the arch of her eyebrows, the beauty of her high cheekbones and the fullness of her lips. He knew, by looking at that face for a split second, if she was having a good day or a bad one.

  It had only been in the past few months that she had as many good days as bad ones. He should've known that eventually she would want more from life than living with her mother's sister, Ada, and Ada's husband.

  But he hadn't expected this. Married! Dammit, he didn't like this development. He didn't like it one bit. He poured another splash of whiskey into his glass, his last for the night, and sat by the window in the main room of his small house so that moonlight fell on him and chased away the suffocating darkness of the night.

  From here he could see the Pierson house, stately and majestic, surrounded by tall trees and well-kept gardens; a vegetable garden, an herb garden, a flower garden. Josiah had been insistent on adding lots of outdoor living space as well, including a large rear porch, the smaller side porch where Cyrus had sat with Roxanne a few hours earlier, and a couple of semicircular upstairs balconies that curved in an almost Italian style. One of those balconies was just outside Roxanne's bedroom, and while the leaves of a tall oak tree hid half of that space from view, he could see a portion of that balcony right now; it was one of the reasons he'd bought this particular house.

  When had he become so completely obsessed with her?

  He'd gone to war and left behind a young, scared, wide-eyed girl, and returned to a beautiful, desolate, solemn-eyed woman he watched over with great diligence. When he'd marched to war she had not been his, she'd been Louis's new bride. When he'd come home she had not been his, she'd been Louis's grieving widow. But somehow, in the past three years, he'd begun to think of Roxanne as his.

  Any man, given the circumstance, might think on occasion of impossible kisses, and on a good night dream of having her in his bed. Any man might find a strange comfort in just looking at her face, in wondering what it would feel like to hold and comfort her on those bad days, to kiss her with abandon on the good ones.

  He didn't dwell on his feelings overmuch. They weren't important in the scheme of things; they probably weren't even real. And even if they were it didn't matter. Roxanne wanted a husband, a kind, handsome, safe man. A stray thought flitted though his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. A scarred lawman who couldn't shake violent dreams of war didn't meet any of her qualifications. She wanted a farmer or a merchant, someone who would be there for her forever, father her children, build a stable and loving home with her.

  By God, Roxanne would have what she wanted. He'd promised Louis.

  Like a wispy figment of his imagination from a kinder dream, Roxanne stepped onto the balcony. He wondered if a nightmare had awakened her, too, or if she simply couldn't sleep. So many nights he'd seen her step onto the balcony, had watched her sit there for hours, still as a statue. There had been fewer of those nights of late, as she began to heal.

  She sat, as she always did, on the floor of the balcony, her hands gripping the wrought iron railing, her face resting against a bar. Even from this distance and by scant moonlight, he could see the white of her nightdress, the dark mass of her loosened hair falling over her shoulders.

  He knew why he was wide awake at an hour long past night and not yet morning, but what kept Roxanne from sleep?

  * * * *

  The bars in her hands and against her face were cool, almost cold, and the air that had been comfortably chilly earlier now had a bite that was anything but co
mfortable. Still, she didn't move.

  Torn between the past and the future, she felt as if she didn't belong anywhere. There was no special place for her, no true home, no one person who truly needed her.

  If only Louis had lived.... How many nights had she sat right here and begun her musings with those words? If only Louis had lived.

  Louis Robinette had been an important part of her life from the day she'd come to Paris to live with her aunt and uncle. She'd been twelve at the time, and still grieving for her father. She sighed and closed her eyes. How much of her life had she spent grieving for the men she loved?

  Louis had been her friend first. When they'd first talked about marriage ... so young, too young ... they'd planned a simple life on a farm near Paris, where they'd live comfortably and have lots of babies.

  Her chums at school had been horrified when she confided in them. They all wanted adventure, romance, passion. Roxanne had only smiled at their protests. She was perfectly content to have her life with Louis ahead of her. What she wanted, what she needed, was a simple life, a man who was her best friend, and a family of her own. It was a life her father had not been able to give his only child, after his wife's death. Roxanne remembered too well moving from place to place, watching her father grow old before his time, until he died and left her to his late wife's sister, Ada Pierson.

  Louis had been kind, familiar; she knew him so well. Their life was well planned, stretching before them with nothing but blue skies and happiness. Louis would farm and Roxanne would have babies. They would grow old together as they had grown up together; friends always. There was such warmth and security in those simple plans, they'd soothed Roxanne's heart. If not for the war they would have waited another two years to marry, but when it had come upon them everything changed.

  For once, she didn't cry as she thought of this. She'd spent too many nights crying over what would never be, tearing her heart out over a thousand what ifs.

  Down the street a short way Cyrus's brick home stood. Square and plain and well-kept, it was a nice little house on a small lot. She looked at the small square window near the front door, imagining Cyrus sleeping deeply somewhere beyond. Her memory of him wasn't faulty, she was certain. He had been her friend, and Louis's too, as much as a man could be a friend to two inseparable fifteen-year-old youngsters. Her first memory of him was as he'd chased away fat, greasy, stupid-eyed Rufus Russell, who'd decided to pick a fight with Louis in the middle of the square.

  What had happened? It had been so long ago. All she could remember was being scared, Louis trying to force her to hide behind him, and then Cyrus Bergeron, a newly appointed deputy sheriff, appearing out of nowhere to take on the young man who'd been harassing them.

  When Rufus had taken a swing at Cyrus, Cyrus had simply stepped out of the way, moving so quickly he amazed them all. Especially Rufus, who'd tried again; and failed again. Rufus had picked up a rock, but before he could throw it, Cyrus had plucked it from his hand. In the dark, Roxanne smiled. Oh, the look on Rufus's face had been priceless.

  Cyrus had never laid a hand on Rufus who was, for all his size and bluster, just sixteen years old. Eventually the bully had run off crying. Her smile died. Rufus Russell had died in the war, too. Pneumonia, she'd heard.

  After that day, she and Louis had considered Cyrus their special friend. They fed him fried chicken and apple pie when there was a church picnic, and whenever they were in town they made a point of stopping by to say hello. After all, Cyrus didn't have any family. No parents living, no wife, no family at all. Roxanne, who adored her aunt and uncle and had Louis forever at her side, had thought that very sad.

  Now here she was, nine years later, still living with her aunt and uncle, marking time. While Louis had been away she'd prayed, every night, for him to come home to her, and she'd been so certain he would come home. So certain they'd have the life they'd so carefully planned.

  The lack of a real home left a hole in her heart. Oh, she did love Ada and Josiah, but she was forever conscious that they had taken her in, that she didn't really belong here. She wanted to fill her heart and her soul with her own family, to make her own special place in the world.

  Maybe it wasn't too late for her to try again.

  "I can make a family,” she whispered to the night. “I will."

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  Chapter Three

  Every afternoon on her way home from school Roxanne saw Cyrus. She'd noticed him on the day after her confession that she wished to marry, standing on the boardwalk casually. She wondered if he'd always been there as she passed, standing in front of the saloon or the saddlery, Fannie Rowland's dress shop or Uncle Josiah's furniture store. If so she'd passed unaware, as she'd passed most of the past three years unaware.

  In the days since, Cyrus usually said hello and then asked how her day had gone. Sometimes he would walk part of the way home with her, as she told him about her students at the school. He never said much, and when he did his conversation usually consisted of a gentle prodding to keep her talking about school, or else a harmless comment about the weather. Other days he just watched her pass by, muttering a soft, friendly greeting as she walked on.

  After just a couple of days she began to look forward to seeing Cyrus on the way home, and over the weekend she'd missed her walks through town. She'd actually searched for him, unsuccessfully, at church.

  Today as she walked down the street she was searching for him still, peering into open shop doors as she passed by, glancing into long, narrow alleyways. It wasn't important that she see Cyrus, not really, and yet somehow she felt it was important. Her day would be incomplete without his comments on the weather and her best, or worst, students.

  Finally he appeared just down the street, stepping from the barbershop freshly shaved and with a crisp hair cut. Roxanne experienced an unexpected wave of relief when she saw him. In his everyday dark twill pants, white shirt, and leather vest and polished boots, he was quite striking and masculine. He stood straight as an arrow, unbending and powerful as if nothing could ever make him sway or lose his balance, not even the most terrifying twister.

  Long legged and broad shouldered, he simply cut a fine figure. He always had, hadn't he?

  Settling her eyes on Cyrus, she suddenly felt better; lighter. What might have been a smile tugged at her lips, and if she wasn't mistaken the blood in her veins became warmer. Significantly warmer. Her step increased just slightly, as if she couldn't wait to reach him. As if she were anxious to be close to him.

  The hint of a smile faded and her heart skipped a beat. She purposely slowed her step. Oh, she couldn't possibly like Cyrus that way! He was her friend, nothing more. A lawman would make an entirely unsuitable husband.

  "Good afternoon,” she said, as if she hadn't fully expected to see him on her way home, as if running into him was nothing more than a mildly pleasant surprise.

  "Good afternoon.” With a casual, almost lazy step, Cyrus joined her on the street, setting his wide-brimmed brown hat on his head. “You'd better hurry on home,” he said. “Looks like rain."

  At least Cyrus wasn't acting like a fool! Mentioning the weather, he steered the conversation down a safe and normal path, as always.

  She cast a wary glance to the darkening skies. Spring storms could be violent and heavy, flooding the streets and the ravines, driving everyone indoors for hours or even days. Then again, sometimes the rains fell soft and sweet, watering the flowers and grass and clearing the air. It was impossible to tell what kind of storm this one would be. She increased her pace, just a little, and so did Cyrus.

  Their long strides matched perfectly, quick and easy and comfortable. What a pleasure to walk with someone this way, unfettered and unchecked. For Roxanne, walking with Aunt Ada was always a chore, since shortening her stride to match that of her short-legged aunt took great restraint. Sometimes, some days, restraint was the last thing on Roxanne's mind. She thought of how perfectly her stride and Cyrus's matched, and d
ismissed her earlier foolish reaction. He was a friend, and that was all he could ever be. She looked forward to seeing him because he was her friend; nothing more.

  They reached the end of the business district, and she waited for Cyrus to excuse himself as he usually did. A quick goodbye, a remembered appointment or chore usually came to him about here. But today he stayed with her, as the scenery changed from bustling businesses to quiet residences.

  He cleared his throat.

  "Merilee Smith is having a party tomorrow evening,” he said softly. “Are you planning to go?"

  She remembered receiving the invitation, wistfully recalling parties she and Louis had attended together, and then firmly setting the invitation and the memories aside. “No,” she said simply. With anyone else she would've felt compelled to offer an excuse, but not with Cyrus. He understood; somehow she knew this to be true.

  "Too bad,” he turned his head to nod to Mrs. Upshaw, who was sitting on her front porch snapping beans. “If you're determined to marry, that would be as good a place as any to start looking."

  "Oh,” she breathed. “I hadn't thought of that.” Deciding that she desired marriage once again, and actually doing something about it, were two very different prospects. She knew what she wanted: a fresh start, a new beginning, a break from the past. Where that fresh start would come from she had no idea.

  She cut a quick glance to the man at her side. Cyrus would make someone a wonderful husband one day, but he was not the right man for her. There was too much of the past in his eyes, too much pain to match her own. He needed a fresh start himself.

  He looked a little dismal, at the moment. There was no smile, no joy, no ... ah, she knew this look too well. He really did need a fresh start.

  "Why the long face?” she asked, leaning over slightly to catch a glimpse of his eyes.