The Seduction of Roxanne

by Linda Jones

  "What?” He turned to her and raised his eyebrows slightly.

  "It's just that you look a little ... downhearted. That's all."

  "I'm fine,” he said absently, and she got the distinct impression that she'd embarrassed him somehow.

  Friend or not, Cyrus apparently had clear and distinct limits. They could talk about the weather, their jobs, and her plans. His own personal life was apparently off limits. For now.

  Roxanne heard the slowly approaching hoofbeats long before she and Cyrus reached the next corner, but thought nothing of it until a golden horse came into view from behind a tall growth of flowering bushes. The animal was extraordinary in size and color and beauty, but was nothing to compare to the magnificence of the man sitting on its back. She stopped dead in her tracks.

  The man was as golden as the horse, with his softly curling blond hair and tanned skin. Broad shouldered and tall he held himself erect, like a Greek god leisurely surveying the kingdom before him. Apparently lost in thought, he didn't look to the side to see her and Cyrus standing there, but kept his eyes straight ahead as he rode through the intersection. His profile was startlingly handsome; nose razor straight, cheekbones and jaw chiseled and still warmly soft, lips perfectly shaped. As he passed, the wind caught his thick golden curls and lifted them gently, as caressing fingers might.

  "Oh, my,” she whispered as the man continued on his slow journey and all she could see were his broad back and golden head. “He's absolutely beautiful."

  When the golden man was gone from sight she looked at Cyrus, embarrassed by her childish behavior. Staring at a stranger! Goodness, she'd practically ogled him. She lowered her eyes. What was wrong with her? First Cyrus and now this total stranger.

  Roxanne thought of the blue ribbon, the way the color had called to her. She was waking up at last, seeing beauty and brightness and feeling in ways she'd never thought to feel again. But this was ridiculous! If Cyrus was ashamed of her or embarrassed for her he didn't show it; but then, he always kept a tight rein on his emotions.

  "Well, he is rather beautiful, you must admit,” she said as she stepped forward, resuming her journey home.

  "If you say so,” Cyrus answered. There was a touch of bitter humor in his voice, and she remembered that he had once been beautiful himself, before the war had damaged his face and stolen the light from his eyes. He was still beautiful, in a way that only a hard man could be. She wouldn't tell him so, of course.

  "Do you know that man?” she asked lightly. “I haven't seen him around Paris before.” She would've remembered, surely, even in a dazed state of mind.

  There was a short pause, long enough for her to glance warily to the side, before Cyrus answered. “That's my new deputy, Calvin Newberry. He arrived late yesterday."

  "Oh,” she said, hearing the disappointment in her own voice, feeling her heart sink. Again she reminded herself that a deputy husband would be completely unacceptable.

  In the span of a quarter-hour, two men had made her heart leap, both of them lawmen. She resigned herself to the fact that it had only happened because she'd been thinking so much on her prospects for marriage. Other men would make her heart leap and bring a smile to her face, wouldn't they? She was certain they would. There would be no lawmen in her life; no guns.

  She was almost home. Cyrus had never walked quite this far with her before, but she was glad of his company today. She felt anxious, unsettled, as if something wondrous and frightening waited around the next corner. Or perhaps around the last corner.

  "He won't be a deputy long, I imagine,” Cyrus said casually. “Once Calvin's certain Paris is the place he wants to settle, he plans to look for a parcel of farmland in the area."

  Her heart lurched. “A farm?"

  "That's what he said."

  She stopped at the walk that led to the front door of her home, laying her hand on the low wrought-iron gate that swung open on flowering bushes and lush grass. A single drop of rain hit her face.

  "Thank you for walking me home, Cyrus."

  He shrugged off her thanks and glanced quickly to the blackening sky. “Calvin will be at the party tomorrow night,” he said. “The gathering is meant, in part, to welcome him to Paris."

  Another drop hit her arm, soaking through her cotton blouse. “Well, perhaps it would be rude of me not to attend, in that case."

  He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “If you'd like, I'll come by and we can walk over together."

  The beginnings of a smile tugged at her lips again. Cyrus was her friend, perhaps her best friend. She'd closed herself off from others for so long, but he was here for her. Perhaps he always had been, as she'd blindly passed him by. “And you'll introduce me to your new deputy, I suppose?” A few more drops fell, but she didn't run from them.

  "If you'd like,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

  She nodded once. Yes, Calvin Newberry was beautiful, but he offered much more than that. He was new here, and looking at him didn't cause an assault of memories that were more painful than good. She would never look at him and wonder if he'd seen Louis fight and die, never talk to him of old times that would never come again and be assaulted by that sharp pain in her heart that sometimes came when she least expected it. She was trying so hard to leave her former life, the good and the bad, in the past where it belonged. Perhaps Calvin Newberry, or someone like him, was her future. There was only one way to find out.

  The rain fell softly and steadily as Cyrus reached the Lamar County Jail. He was soaked to the skin, cold, and angrier than he had a right to be as he threw open the door and stepped into the front room. All he wanted was to make it to his office and close the door.

  But of course it wasn't to be that easy. Three deputies talked and laughed loudly in the front room, and Calvin Newberry was one of them. The other two were familiar men, old friends, good deputies. Will Haller, short and stocky and compact in build, gave Cyrus a crooked smile and a quick hello. John Branden, a few inches taller than Will and skinny as a fence post, nodded his head in Cyrus's direction.

  Cyrus ignored them both and stared at the newest addition to his staff.

  This was what Roxanne wanted, he reminded himself as he slammed the door behind him. Beauty and light. Safety and security. If he could give it to her he should. It's what Louis would've wanted, what Roxanne deserved.

  "Calvin,” he said as the new deputy lifted his head. “My office."

  Calvin followed obediently, only tripping over his own big feet once on the short walk down the hall from the front room to the sheriff's office. Cyrus didn't see what happened but he heard the stumble from the big man behind him, the clatter of big booted feet against the plank floor, the surprised exhalation of breath. He'd seen Calvin trip over his own feet enough in the past day to know what had happened.

  A clumsy deputy. It was just as well that Calvin didn't plan to make peacemaking a career; he was likely to shoot himself in the foot at any time.

  "Have a seat,” Cyrus said as he took off his wet hat and reached for the bottom drawer of the small dresser at the back of his office. He'd spent many nights here, and was always prepared with a change of clothes and a wash-stand and towels. There had been too many wet, cold nights during the war when he'd only dreamed of a dry towel and warm clothes.

  Funny, how little things could become so monumentally important. After spending days in clothes that refused to dry, marching on wet feet, watching the rainwater drip off a hat before his very eyes, a man could begin to think he'd never be dry again. He could feel every drop of cold rain on his already drenched skin, every brush of wet fabric across his flesh as he moved, until it seemed like his skin was no longer a part of him. He'd dream of a warm fire and a sturdy roof and dry warm clothes, hoping those fantasies would get him through another wet day.

  Cyrus shook off the bad memories. For the moment he had to be satisfied to dry himself with the towel. The change of clothes could wait a few more minutes.

  Calvin too
k the seat before Cyrus's desk, fidgeting nervously. Maybe the kid thought he'd already done something wrong; maybe he thought his career as sheriff's deputy was going to be even shorter than he'd planned.

  "What do you think of Paris so far?” Cyrus asked, trying to maintain a purely conversational tone.

  Calvin nodded his head once, barely moving, as his pale blue eyes fastened onto Cyrus's face. A hint of fear flickered in those eyes. Cyrus wondered if he really made such a fearsome sight. Maybe so.

  "The people have been right nice,” Calvin said in his melodious Tennessee accent that had just a hint of the hillbilly in it. “And I surely do like my room at the boarding house. It's a right big town, though,” he muttered with a shake of his head. “I got myself lost this afternoon. Took a wrong turn somewheres and ended up taking the long way ‘round to the square."

  Cyrus nodded as if he understood and was sympathetic, but in reality he withheld a disgusted groan. Paris was a good-sized town, but it would be difficult to get lost between the boarding house and the square. Apparently not so difficult for Calvin.

  "Newberry,” Cyrus said as he stepped around the desk to close the door to his office. It wouldn't do for this conversation to be overheard. “I understand you don't plan to be a deputy for very long."

  Calvin shot to his feet and spun to face Cyrus. The two men stood nose to nose, eye to eye. While Calvin was a bit broader in the shoulders, Cyrus figured they'd be a fair match in a fist fight.

  "Now, I sure enough made that clear in my letter, Sheriff,” Calvin said defensively. “But just because I don't plan to be a deputy forever that doesn't mean I can't do the job while I'm here."

  Cyrus gestured impatiently with his hand. “Sit down,” he growled. “I'm not trying to get rid of you.” Yet.

  Calvin carefully resumed his seat, and Cyrus took his own seat across the desk.

  "You plan to be a farmer, I understand."

  Calvin nodded once. “Yep. All the Newberrys were farmers. My daddy and my granddaddy and my great-granddaddy.” All of a sudden the handsome young man looked deadly serious. “Things in Tennessee ain't what they used to be, and after Ma passed on I figured a new place and new people was just what I needed."

  Cyrus understood all too well the craving for a new place and new people, the need to turn your back on the past and ignore it. Calvin was lucky; he could do just that.

  There was no reason to beat around the bush. “I imagine you've given some thought to getting married, eventually."

  Calvin blushed, his cheeks turning bright pink as he cast his eyes down. “Well, yessir. I'll need a wife, and younguns to help work the farm. A home ain't complete without a woman and lots of younguns."

  While Cyrus had to admit he didn't see this young man as beautiful, as Roxanne did, there was an air of innocence and hope about him. His dreams were simple; a farm, a wife and younguns. Goddammit, Calvin and Roxanne would be perfect for one another.

  "Got anybody in mind yet?"

  Calvin, slow as he was, finally became suspicious. He narrowed those startling blue eyes. “Are you figurin’ on doing some matchmakin,’ Sheriff?"

  "I usually try to keep my nose out of other people's personal business,” Cyrus muttered.

  Calvin answered with a wide smile. “But not this time, right? Well shoot, there's no reason to be bashful about the dealings. Just tell me her name and point me in the right direction, and I'll be happy to spend a little time with her and see if we suit."

  A matchmaker. If this was right, why did a knot sit heavily in his gut? It didn't take much pondering to come up with the answer. Even though Roxanne wasn't his and never would be, he was reluctant to let her go. Watching over her, dreaming about her, had become too much a part of his life. He dismissed his foolishness and remembered his promise to Louis. Even more clearly, he recalled the spark of sweet delight on Roxanne's face as she'd talked about a family of her own. Safety. Security. Beauty.

  "Her name is Roxanne Robinette, and she'll be at the party tomorrow night. I'll introduce you there."

  Calvin's grin widened as he stood. “I do appreciate this. Why, just imagine it. The sheriff hisself fixin’ me up with a woman."

  There was nothing disrespectful about the way the words were said, but Cyrus felt compelled to lean over his desk threateningly. “Roxanne is a fine lady, not a woman I'm fixing you up with,” he said in low tones. “You'll meet her, and if you think she might suit you as a wife, we'll go from there. She is not a woman to be taken lightly."

  Calvin's smile faded and he took a step backward. “I understand. I didn't mean no disrespect.... “Another step and he caught his boot on the back leg of the chair he'd been sitting in. A shuffle, a prance, and a moment later Calvin landed on his backside. The whole room shook.

  He popped up quickly. “I look forward to meeting this lady,” he said as he backed away from the desk.

  Cyrus stifled a groan. “Do you dance?” he asked as Calvin reached the closed door.

  Calvin flashed another of those brilliant smiles. “Why, I'm a right fine dancer, if I do say so myself."

  When Calvin was gone Cyrus dropped into his chair, wet clothes and all.

  Roxanne sat on the balcony long after dark had fallen. Her feet were curled beneath her and her cheek rested against cool wrought iron. This had become her place of peace, a small corner of the world to call her own. While Ada and Josiah slept, while all of Paris slept, this was her refuge, her special place to sit and think and ponder and dream.

  Tonight her thoughts and dreams took a new and startlingly unexpected direction. Apparently waking up from her long sleep included noticing men, remembering that she was a woman. The very sight of Calvin Newberry had been somehow exciting, and she could still envision his striking form as he rode past, unaware that she watched.

  Calvin Newberry wasn't the only man on her mind. In the past week she'd thought of Cyrus so often it was downright frightening. This afternoon when she'd seen him step from the barber shop she'd actually felt a rush of excitement, a most improper thrill that had taken her by surprise.

  She wondered what it would be like to have a man touch her again, even innocently. The shield she'd built around herself was an effective one; it kept everyone at bay. No one held her hand, or placed his arm around her shoulder, or kissed her. What would Cyrus's hand feel like in hers? Rough and strong, she imagined, hard and powerful and still ... soft. His arm around her shoulder would be sheltering, wouldn't it? Warm and all-encompassing, protective and intimate. And if he were to kiss her....

  With a few deep breaths and a strength of determination, she forced her inappropriate thoughts of Cyrus aside; dismissed them as nonsense.

  Be honest, she thought, your reluctance to even consider accepting this afternoon's fleeting tenderness and this evening's fantasy about Cyrus as real and true isn't entirely because he's a lawman. In part, yes, but not entirely.

  Cyrus was and always would be too connected to the past, to Louis; that long-ago day in the square, the picnics, watching the two of them march off together. She thought of Louis when she looked at Cyrus, and dammit, thinking of Louis hurt. Not as much as it once had, but still she felt the pain for what she'd lost.

  Her eyes drifted closed as she tried to shut out the memories. She couldn't spend the rest of her life grieving for all she didn't have. A new beginning waited out there for her, somewhere. Maybe it rested in Calvin Newberry's hands, perhaps it would come with someone she hadn't yet met.

  She would never love again, but there had to be something more to life than this. If she had to will away the past, she would. If she had to will away these strange thoughts of Cyrus, she would do that, too.

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  Chapter Four

  The Smiths always threw the best parties. It had been years since Roxanne had been to a social gathering at the grand home, and in the old days it had been Merilee's mother-in-law acting as hostess. She remembered. How well she remembered.

  Ea
rly in January of 1862, Hank Smith had gone to war with the Ninth Texas Infantry, along with Louis and Cyrus. A minié ball had torn through his hip and nearly killed him in the same battle that had killed Louis.

  He'd come home to his lovely wife, Merilee Ashworth Smith, and a daughter he had never seen, a child who had been born eight months after he'd marched away from home. Not long after his return he'd taken over the Smith family business, a saw mill just outside Paris.

  A tall, lean man with a prominent Adam's apple and ears just slightly too large for his thin face, Hank walked with a pronounced limp and a cane, and always would. Merilee was all peaches and cream, short and shapely and fair, and she doted on her husband and her children. They made such a perfect pair it was sometimes painful for Roxanne to watch them; the way they looked at one another, the way they held their children. It reminded her of everything she'd lost.

  Tonight there was plenty offered in the way of food and drink, on tables scattered inside and outside the big red-brick house. Lots of people, everyone important in town and a few faces Roxanne didn't recognize, were in attendance. They milled throughout the large house and past open double doors at the back, and visited on the lawn by the dying light of day. They wore their very best. The women had styled their tresses elaborately and the men had polished their boots and slicked back their hair. It wasn't Paris, France, by any stretch of the imagination, but the people of Paris, Texas, held their own.

  A few of the party-goers, unaccustomed to seeing the widow Roxanne Robinette in a social situation, stared as she and Cyrus entered the house together. Even though she was tempted to literally lean on her escort for support she resisted the urge. They said their hellos, and soon she and Cyrus were just a part of the crowd.

  Roxanne fidgeted, picking nervously at the overskirt of her dark plum-colored dress. She wished Aunt Ada and Uncle Josiah had been able to attend. Unfortunately Aunt Ada's cold, which was better but still an annoyance, had kept them both at home.