by Linda Jones
Cyrus's eyes flickered down and back up again, and he looked at her face so hard it was as if he were trying as desperately as she was not to look at her exposed flesh.
"Lovely,” he said gruffly, and then he turned to Fannie. “You've done a lovely job, Mrs. Rowland."
Roxanne turned about, more than ready to escape to the dressing room and her own simple dress. What had she been thinking when she'd ordered this gown? She would never wear it, never!
Cyrus stopped her, calling her name, and she made herself turn around to face him again, hoping, praying that none of her anxiety showed.
"Calvin left a letter for you.” He lifted one side of his vest, exposing his badge. He touched the inside pocket there, then lifted the other side of his vest and repeated the soft touch on another pocket.
There was something in each pocket, she could tell, spying the edge of an envelope in each one. Cyrus hesitated, then he returned his fingers to the first pocket and withdrew a letter.
"He's already gone?” she asked softly.
"This morning.” He laid the envelope on top of her stack of books. “Sorry to run, but I really do need to see Hamlin,” he said as he walked to the door. “He's having problems with professional gamblers again, and I promised I'd stop by and have a word with the worst of them."
"Of course,” she said relieved and disappointed at the same time. “Thanks for delivering the letter."
Cyrus opened the door, but glanced over his shoulder before stepping onto the boardwalk. “It's a nice dress,” he whispered, and then he closed the door behind him.
Roxanne took a deep breath as she returned to the dressing room to disrobe.
Cyrus walked right past the saloon without even glancing over the batwing doors. He really had promised Hamlin that he'd have a talk with a couple of disruptive professional gamblers who'd made his place their home away from home, but tonight would be soon enough.
He'd always known that Roxanne was beautiful; that wasn't exactly news. But when Fannie Rowland had parted those curtains and he'd seen Roxanne standing there in her new dress, his heart had damn near stopped.
Bright, brilliant blue instead of gray or black or brown or dark plum, brought her face alive, made her look younger, happier. And that neckline—he broke into a sweat just thinking about it. Fetching as she was in her nightgown, it had covered her from head to toe, merely teasing him with promising curves.
The neckline of her new gown revealed creamy neck to swelling bosom, and he'd seen the flesh there rise and fall with every breath she took until it became a chore not to stare, not to reach out and touch.
This was a disaster of major proportions. The dance, the conversation beneath her balcony, last night's confessions ... and now this. Dammit, he was falling in love with her, and that would never do.
He patted the letter in his pocket. Carrying his letter and Calvin's miserable note around all day, he'd mulled over his decisions of late, his mistakes. He had to stop pretending to be Calvin, no matter how much he enjoyed the pure freedom he felt when he stood beneath Roxanne's balcony and said whatever came to mind. Hiding behind Calvin's pretty face had become almost second nature. It would be too easy to let it happen again.
Last night he'd had a good excuse for going to her. The look on her face as she'd run from him had frightened him. He'd had to know if she was all right after witnessing the shooting. He had to know.
Those mistakes were in the past. He vowed here and now that there would be no more excuses, no more acting. He'd done the right thing, giving her the simple note Calvin had written. It was only right that she knew the real Calvin before deciding to marry him.
And he was quite certain that Roxanne planned to marry Calvin. They were almost perfect for one another, two beautiful, naive people who wanted the same things from life. A shared dream was enough to build a life on, more than enough; a farm, a dozen kids, a wide spot in the road to call their own.
True, Calvin could be less than dazzling on occasion, but maybe Roxanne would find a rustic charm in his note, perhaps she'd see something he had not.
Cyrus didn't even see Daisy McKee and Jane Rice standing on the boardwalk in front of the café until he nearly collided into them. They jumped back to avoid being run over, and he managed to tip his hat and offer a mumbled apology without slowing his step.
When he was safe in the Lamar County Jail, he made his way directly to his office and slammed the door shut. Tired, for some reason, exhausted to the bone, he plopped into his chair.
Once Roxanne was properly settled with Calvin, maybe he would think about moving on. Other men would manage well as Paris's sheriff, and out west there were lawless towns that would probably pay a pretty penny for a fast gun to keep their streets safe.
A fast gun. That's what he was, that's all he was and all he ever would be. He had nothing to offer a woman like Roxanne, a sweet, tender lady who dreamed of peaceful farms and fat babies and new beginnings.
He drew the envelope from his vest pocket and tapped the edge on his desk. Yes, it was a good thing he hadn't given her this letter. How would he explain later that Calvin could hardly write, that he couldn't even manage to spell her name correctly?
The letter he'd written went into the trash, unopened, tossed there with a hearty flick of his wrist. It was best to dismiss what had almost been a colossal mistake, to forget he'd written the damn thing.
He tried to dismiss all thoughts of Roxanne from his mind. He had no luck. Hell fire, she looked extraordinary in that blue dress. He'd damn near stuttered like a schoolboy and tripped over his own feet like Calvin, making his way out of that dress shop. And all because of a length of blue satin cut and sewn in a particular pattern and draped over the right body.
Half a minute later, he fetched the letter from the trash and opened the envelope. It was a kind of self-inflicted torture, that he felt the need to look at those words he'd written again. One more reminder of what he'd said, and then he'd burn the damn letter. He couldn't very well allow this to fall into the wrong hands.
Ready to face the most foolish part of himself, to torture himself with what he would never have, he snapped the single folded sheet open and read,
Dear Roxann.
"Oh, no."
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Chapter Ten
Before leaving Fannie Rowland's shop, Roxanne slipped the envelope Cyrus had delivered between the pages of the slim book of poetry she carried with her students’ essays. After last night's quiet discussion, she couldn't wait to read the letter Calvin had written to her. As she walked home she wondered which Calvin Newberry had written the letter; the romantic man she was falling in love with, or the shy farmer he became when she saw him face to face. Anticipation almost made her dismiss Fannie's ridiculous suppositions and the expression on Cyrus's face as he'd left the shop. Almost.
She said hello to Ada upon arriving home, checked on the stew her aunt had started for supper, and then very casually excused herself to her room for a short rest and a chance to freshen up.
Her students’ essays were deposited on the end of the bed, and with anxious fingers she plucked the envelope containing Calvin's letter from her book of poetry. She sat on the edge of the bed and slowly opened the envelope, sliding out the single sheet of paper. After last night, what would he say? With Calvin, one could never be certain. It might be all about the farm and his cousins, and then again....
Dear Roxanne,
I wish I did not have to leave you, even if it is only for a short while. We grow closer every day, and I know, as surely and truly as I know nothing else, that when you are not beside me, when I cannot walk to your balcony and call your name, I will miss you.
After talking with you last night, I know you better than I ever thought I could, better than I have ever known another human being. It's as if your dreams have become mine, as if somehow you are already a part of me.
While we are apart I will think of you often, more often than you know. I
will close my eyes and see you as if you stand before me, and take comfort in the very thought of you, as I always do. Think of me while we're apart.
Yours,
C
She read the letter three times, smiling more widely with each rereading. One would never dream, to look at Calvin Newberry, that he had such a romantic heart. He hid it behind his shyness and his need to present a masculine front, she supposed. Whatever his reasons, she wanted to teach him, to prove to him, that he could trust her enough to be himself to her face, to tell her, without fear, how he felt.
She fell back on the bed with the precious letter clutched to her chest. Her fingers were gentle, so as not to crumple the paper. She would save this letter forever, read and reread the cherished words a thousand times. Already she could close her eyes and recite Calvin's sweet words, they were so indelibly burned into her mind.
A soft, warm tingle teased her, reminding her that she could desire a man again; her heart pounded, a sign that she could fall in love again. The smile on her face suggested that she could once again be truly happy.
She owed Calvin a debt for this gift of warmth and hope and love, a debt she would happily spend a lifetime repaying.
Cyrus ran harder than he'd ever run before, pushing through the invisible forces that tried to drive him back. No matter how hard he pressed forward, Louis and the Yankee monster got further and further away.
Everything would be different if he could just reach Louis in time. The world would be better. He would save himself and Roxanne and Calvin as well as Louis. He didn't know why or how, but in his heart this was a certainty.
Still, he wasn't surprised to watch the Yankee's bayonet rip into Louis, wasn't shocked when the bayonet slashed up and across his own face sending him falling back and back and back.
Cyrus came up with a hoarse shout that no one but he could hear. His heart beat so hard he could feel it pounding against his chest. A cold sweat drenched his skin.
He left the bed quickly, as if he could escape the nightmare by leaving behind scattered sheets and abused pillows, as if the place where he slept were a battlefield. One look at the rumpled sheets and the quilt that lay on the floor, and he knew he was right. Here before him was one battlefield he'd never escape.
The damned images stayed with him a while longer, as they always did. He paced the room, naked and trembling, trying to shake the dream. With the curtains closed the room was pitch black, but his instincts and his memory of the room's layout and his excellent night vision guided him as he stalked across the plank floor.
This nightmare had come too soon after the last one, dammit. Much too soon. The last horrific dream remained with him still, coming to him in bits and pieces he couldn't quite drive from his mind; and now this. He'd been having the nightmare less often over the past couple of years, the nightmare horrors coming to him further and further apart until he'd begun to hope that maybe one day he would be rid of them completely.
His time with Roxanne, he reasoned, had triggered the dream. Talking to her, as himself and as Calvin, as he walked her home and as he hid beneath her balcony, had become a torture all its own. Seeing her this afternoon, in a seductive dress that made her look like an anxious lover rather than a grieving widow, had been more than he could take.
Dammit, he'd seen her standing there in that dress and all he could think of was getting her out of it.
More than a single afternoon's fantasy haunted him. Roxanne had been on his mind more and more of late, as his obsession grew. All the hours he'd passed in her company, talking to her, listening to her, standing so close he could reach out and touch her if he had a mind to, had somehow made her a much larger part of his life than he'd ever intended.
Being a part of her life was much more entangling than watching from a distance.
Yes, when she was wed to Calvin and they had their damn farm, he'd wave goodbye and head west, leaving behind memories, obsessions, nightmares. Then again, maybe he shouldn't wait even that long. One thing he'd learned about Roxanne in the past couple of weeks; she wasn't as fragile as she appeared to be, she wasn't as delicate as he'd always assumed she was. Behind the pale mask of a grieving widow, beneath the quiet, withdrawn woman he knew, there was more strength than he'd ever imagined. She didn't need him to watch over her, not anymore.
He peeked through the curtain to the Pierson house. Roxanne didn't sit on her balcony tonight, sleepless and melancholy. She likely slept soundly, dreaming sweet dreams that would disappear on waking.
There would be no more sleep for him, not tonight. He lit a lantern and placed it on the rarely used desk in the corner. He opened all the drawers, searching almost frantically for what he needed. At last he found what he searched for: paper and pen in the bottom drawer.
He pulled a chair up to the desk and sat, and moved the paper so that the light from the lantern shone directly upon it.
My dearest Roxanne, he began.
She kept an eye out for Cyrus as she walked home from school, but he was nowhere to be seen. Just as well, she supposed. Perhaps he avoided her on purpose, as disturbed by yesterday's awkwardness as she'd been.
Perhaps it was impossible to be mere friends with a man, especially one like Cyrus. He was a good man, she knew that well, but he was also hard and restless, all male, a little lonely and maybe even a little lost. Lost inside, as she'd been lost for so long. Goodness, Cyrus didn't need a friend, he needed a woman. Someone to hold and kiss him, to make him a real home, to soften his hard edge and ease his restlessness. A rather surprising, deep shiver, shot through her body. She shook it off.
Thank goodness Friday was finally here. Tomorrow was cleaning and laundry day and with all this energy, she needed a place to expend it. She'd do some baking, too; fill the house with the wonderful aromas of baking bread and spice cake. Still, she could sleep late, if she wanted to, and retire early in the evening. She could steal a few quiet minutes here and there, perhaps a quiet hour or two, to contemplate her future.
For the first time in too long she could think of the future without pain, without bleakness.
Dismissing Cyrus firmly from her mind, she thought of Calvin instead. She pictured his lovely face, of course, but more importantly she went over the letter he had written, the soft whisper beneath the balcony. There was such wonderful promise in his words, such hope.
Their children would have blue eyes....
He would've been wise to decline Josiah's invitation to Sunday dinner. Cyrus knew that full well even as he rapped on the front door of the Pierson house.
The further away from Roxanne he stayed the better off they'd both be. She wanted Calvin, the farm, a safe and happy life. He couldn't promise her safe or happy, so he had no right to even try.
Still, he wanted to see her again before Calvin came back to Paris and took over, before he finally gave up and completely handed the woman he wanted over to his dimwit deputy.
The meal was plentiful and delicious, as always, and Cyrus tried to be a good guest, complimenting everything that was placed before him and making small talk about the weather with Josiah and Ada.
Roxanne looked lovely, of course, in a simple white blouse and a brown skirt he'd seen her wear a hundred times. How could a woman make something so plain look so tempting? He wanted to unfasten every tiny pearl-like button himself, wanted to unfasten that brown skirt and watch it fall to the floor in a puddle. He stared at the food on his plate and tried to listen to Ada wish for a little rain for her flower garden.
Throughout the meal Roxanne remained distant, as if her mind were elsewhere. Of course her mind was elsewhere, Cyrus chided himself. She was thinking of Calvin Newberry and anxiously awaiting his return.
It occurred to him that he could always fire Calvin and speed the process along. Without his job as deputy, there would be nothing to keep the dimwit in Paris. Calvin Newberry and the widow Roxanne Robinette could be married and move to the country, just as they both obviously wanted.
He endured
the rest of the meal, talked town business with Josiah, and complimented Ada and Roxanne on the fine food he barely tasted. There was just one thing more he had to do before leaving this house for the last time. He didn't look forward to it, but he knew it had to be done.
Ada pushed back her chair, walked briskly into the kitchen, and came back with a spice cake she set at the center of the table.
"Cyrus,” Josiah said as if he'd just remembered something important. “Ada and I will be out of town for a few days next week. My brother's having a big barbecue at his place in Honey Grove, and he asked us to come out and stay for a few days. We haven't been away in so long we decided we really should go. Keep an eye on things for us, will you?"
"Certainly.” He glanced to Roxanne, whose mind was elsewhere. “The three of you are going?"
Ada shook her head as she served the fragrant cake. “No. Roxanne refuses to leave her students, even for a few days.” She pursed her lips, making her disapproval clear.
"She is a grown woman,” Josiah said sensibly.
"I'll be fine,” Roxanne said in a monotone that suggested she'd said so a thousand times.
Cyrus waited through dessert, picking at the spice cake and eating little. When the meal was finally finished he stood and said his goodbyes to Josiah and Ada. Then he turned to Roxanne. She smiled at him wanly, almost absently, but still—it was a smile.
"Roxanne,” he said. “Could I speak to you privately? Perhaps on the side porch."
The widening of her eyes indicated surprise, but she stood without hesitation.
"School business,” Cyrus said in an aside to Josiah, satisfying the man's curiosity with the simple lie.
Roxanne walked with him through the parlor to the side porch. Like it or not this was as alone as they were likely to get, with the gardens before them and the house at their back. He closed the door.
