The Seduction of Roxanne

by Linda Jones

  "Sorry about that,” Cyrus muttered as he gathered the cards into a pile. Black helped, a smirk on his pretty face. The silly smile remained, unchanged, even as Cyrus slipped a finger into a ruffled cuff and covertly swiped the card the gambler had concealed there. “I haven't done this in a while."

  At the bar, Hamlin groaned and placed his head in his hands.

  At first Cyrus shuffled the cards slowly, getting a feel for the way they moved against his fingers and landed in the palm of his hand. Gradually, he began to shuffle faster and faster, until the cards flew through his fingers every bit as fast as they had through the gambler's.

  "Well, what do you know about that?” Cyrus asked with a grim smile. “This isn't so hard after all."

  Black's grin was gone. He didn't much like the sight of those cards moving in such expert fashion in someone else's hands. When the cards were well shuffled and Black was suitably impressed, Cyrus slapped the deck onto the center of the table.

  "Go ahead,” he ordered curtly.

  Johnny Black reached out and cut the deck, his hand hovering over the cards unsteadily before he divided the deck into two uneven piles. Cyrus reassembled the deck before tossing a single card at the gambler and then dropping one to the table before him.

  "You first,” Cyrus muttered, his fingers tapping the back of his own face-down card.

  Black tossed his card over and glanced down at the jack of hearts that fluttered into place. His smile returned. At the bar Hamlin Nickels, who was a gentle, peace-loving man, uttered a filthy curse.

  Cyrus shot a quick, sharp glance to the barkeep. Ah, the man had no faith, no confidence in his sheriff. His thumb teased the corner of his own card. “A jack. That's pretty good,” he muttered.

  "Yes it is,” Black said confidently. “How about we finish this?” He pointed at Cyrus's card and wiggled his fingers in an almost feminine way.

  Without looking down, Cyrus flipped over his own card to reveal the ace of spades Johnny Black had been keeping up his ruffled, lacy sleeve. “Well what do you know,” he said softly. “I win."

  Angry and surprised, Black locked dark eyes with the man who'd beaten him with his own card. Beneath the table, Cyrus laid a hand over his Colt. There was nothing more dangerous than an angry, surprised man.

  But Black's anger fled quickly. “Well, Sheriff, aren't you clever?"

  Cyrus said nothing as the gambler rose from his seat, straightening his cuffs and then collecting his long-tailed jacket from the back of the chair. He looked beyond the batwing doors to the gray day beyond.

  "It's raining again,” Black said with evident distress. “Surely you don't expect me to leave town in this miserable weather."

  Cyrus maintained his seat. “I'll be happy to give you a slicker, if you don't have one,” he said softly. “Compliments of the city of Paris."

  Black glanced over his shoulder and grinned at Cyrus as he took his leave, pushing through the swinging doors. “No thank you. Sheriff. I'll manage.” He looked to the wet, dreary street before him. “A little rain never hurt anyone."

  It rained for three days straight, until the streets were nothing but mud and standing water, and the creeks and streams rose, threatening to overflow.

  In Paris, Texas, people stayed at home and watched the waters rise and prayed for the rain to stop.

  Roxanne kept to her room, on this third day when it was too nasty even for the Paris Female Academy to open its doors. From here, she could occasionally look through the wide balcony doors to the small brick house across the street. She saw Cyrus come and go, swathed from neck to foot in a long slicker, his head covered with his wide-brimmed brown hat. He never so much as glanced in her direction.

  As of this morning, she knew there was no baby. She should be relieved, but the emptiness inside her was no relief. It felt too much like grief.

  So close. She and Cyrus had come so close to finding what they both obviously wanted. What had happened to ruin their chance? A nightmare? Not a nightmare. The truth. At least, the truth as Cyrus saw it. She didn't accept, not for a moment, that he had allowed Louis to die. He might be able to kill when he had to, he might be a dangerous and feared soldier at heart. But he would not allow a man to die for his own gain, not even unconsciously.

  What bothered her most, what kept her awake at night listening to the rain and haunted her in the hours she was confined to this house, was Cyrus's promise to a dying Louis. His devotion, his friendship, his love. Was any of it real? All this time, as he'd watched over her so intently and kissed her and loved her ... had he only been fulfilling that promise?

  Cyrus Bergeron took vows and responsibilities seriously. He would do anything to fulfill a promise, risk his life to keep his word. His inability to keep his long-ago promise to her, that he would keep Louis safe, bedeviled him still.

  Did he say he loved her only because he knew it was what she wanted to hear?

  Did he think himself in love with her because he felt. Heaven forbid, obligated?

  In the past three days she'd started, more times than she could count, to make her way boldly across the street to tell Cyrus that she didn't care about the past anymore, that she didn't care that he carried a gun, that she didn't care why he loved her.

  Something always stopped her. Maybe she wasn't quite sure of her own feelings just yet.

  Then again, maybe she was simply afraid that Cyrus would reject her, and she wasn't strong enough to withstand his rejection. Not yet.

  He needed time. That's all. So did she.

  He didn't own much, and packing everything into two saddlebags wouldn't take any time at all. Anything that wouldn't fit into the saddlebags or into a roll behind the cantle would be left behind.

  The rain grated on Cyrus's nerves. When would it stop? By the end of the week his business here would be taken care of and his deputy, Will Haller, would take his place in the office of sheriff. As soon as he knew that Roxanne wasn't with child, he would be able to ride away from Paris with no obligations, no regrets. But dammit, he didn't want to ride off in the rain, not if he could help it.

  With the rain falling so persistently, he hadn't seen even a glimpse of Roxanne since she'd left his house in the early hours of Monday morning. He didn't know if she'd gone to school that rainy day or not. For once, he hadn't been there to watch.

  But he did know the rain made it impossible for her to step onto the balcony at night. Perhaps that was just as well. If she stepped into the moonlight and he saw her from his window, he might be compelled to stand beneath her one last time, to look up at her as he spun a fantasy world for her by the darkness of night.

  Fantasy by moonlight, reality by sunlight, nightmare behind closed eyes. They were all woven together until he didn't know what was real and what was fabrication. All he knew was that Roxanne would be better off without him.

  Roxanne picked at her stew and nibbled on a biscuit. When Ada and Josiah asked if she was coming down with a cold, she said yes. Better a small lie than a truth that would shock and dismay them both.

  They talked about the rain until she thought she would scream. They talked about the new minister until she wanted to toss her bowl of stew across the table. They talked about new pieces for the furniture store until she wanted to lay her head on the table and cry.

  She did none of these things, of course, because she realized that her aunt and uncle had nothing to do with her desire to scream and cry. Cyrus did this to her, not inane dinner conversation.

  Josiah finished off his stew, his spoon scraping against the bowl with an irritating rasp as he shook his head. “I still can't believe Cyrus is leaving. This town won't be the same without him."

  "What?” Roxanne's head snapped up. “What do you mean Cyrus is leaving?"

  "Oh, that's right,” Ada said softly. “You weren't down for dinner last night when Josiah first mentioned it. Seems the sheriff has decided to move on.” She sighed. “It's so difficult to find and keep a really good lawman these days. Why, do you re
member—"

  "He can't leave,” Roxanne whispered, interrupting her aunt's reminiscence.

  Ada and Josiah both stared at her expectantly, eyes wide with surprise.

  "I love him,” she said. “He can't leave."

  "Oh dear,” Ada sighed.

  Roxanne stood quickly. “I'm going over there right now,” she said, to herself as much as to her aunt and uncle. She should've done this days ago, she should've stayed in his bed after he'd run from her, stayed until she convinced him that his fears were false.

  "That's not wise,” Ada said primly. “It's after dark, after all, and it's still raining quite hard. Besides, it's really not proper for you to be in Cyrus's company unchaperoned. If you still feel the need to talk to him tomorrow,” she said, “your Uncle Josiah can take you to the jail.” She wrinkled her nose. “Though that's really not a fitting place for a lady like yourself. Maybe we can invite him to supper tomorrow night,” she added cheerily, as the solution came to her.

  "I'm going over there right now,” Roxanne said, determined. “And I'll tell Cyrus that I love him, and I'll do whatever I have to do to make him stay."

  "Oh, my,” Ada said, fanning herself furiously with her napkin. “This is just too scandalous. Josiah, make her sit down and behave."

  Josiah sputtered, more than a little embarrassed. Ada fanned herself briskly and rolled her eyes, as if she might faint.

  Roxanne smiled, content at last. No matter what Ada and Josiah thought, she knew with all her heart that this was right. “And if I can't convince Cyrus to stay in Paris,” she said calmly, “I'll follow him when he leaves. I'll pack a bag and buy a horse and no matter where he goes, I'll be there."

  Ada emitted a distressed sound that bordered somewhere between a laugh and a sob, but Josiah, bless him, lifted his head and gave her an uncertain smile. “So, you really love him, eh?"

  Roxanne nodded. “I do."

  "Cyrus Bergeron,” he said thoughtfully. “He's a fine fella.” The statement held more than a small amount of approval.

  "I know.” Roxanne smiled.

  "But Roxanne.... “Ada began, her voice high-pitched and unsettled. “You can't just throw yourself at the man. It's ... it's not done."

  "I don't have any choice.” Roxanne left the table and headed for the front door. Outside a mere sprinkle of rain fell, a soft shower that would not hamper her on her short walk across the muddy street. She didn't want to delay even long enough to collect a hat or a shawl to cover her head. She couldn't afford to take precious time to think about her pride or her dignity, or what she would do if Cyrus said no.

  The road was a sticky mess, and her shoes were ruined long before she reached his front door. There was even a goodly amount of mud on the hem of her skirt, even though she had tried to hold it out of the street as she made her way toward the yellow light in the window of Cyrus's brick house.

  When she reached the front door she didn't even stop to knock, but opened it quickly, before she could change her mind. Cyrus sat before the fireplace, and he jumped to his feet as the door swung open.

  "Leaving?” she said as she stepped inside and slammed the door.

  She watched his face harden and his eyes close to her, as if he had prepared himself for this moment. There was no emotion on his face, not even a hint of regret.

  "Soon,” he said softly. “I wanted to talk to you first, to make sure there was no ... that we hadn't...."

  This was the Cyrus she remembered coming home from war; stoic, indifferent, ancient-eyed. What had he seen with those eyes? She would never know. She didn't want to know.

  "There's no baby,” she whispered.

  Cyrus closed his eyes. “Thank God."

  "You don't have to sound so relieved,” she said angrily.

  "I couldn't leave not knowing.” His soft voice displayed no regret, no joy.

  "You can't leave. Your place is here.” She took a step toward him, moving into the light the fire and the single lamp cast. Some of the iciness of his expression melted.

  "You're wet.” It seemed he shivered.

  She looked down at her rain-splattered green skirt and white blouse, at the muddy hem that almost brushed the bare plank floor. A strand of damp hair fell past her cheek. “Just a little."

  He offered her his chair by the fire and grabbed a folded towel from the top of a small dresser. It was then that she spotted the stuffed saddle bags, and as her eyes roamed the room she saw that it looked empty already. Surfaces were bare, and the room had lost some of its warmth. As if Cyrus had left it already.

  Without a word he began to dry her hair, rubbing the warm dry towel gently over her scalp and neck. His hands were tender and heavy, comforting against her wet head. He touched her with the ease of a man who knows a woman, and yet with a distance that broke her heart. For a while she sat there silently and allowed him to tend to her with loving, gentle hands. He did love her. If she knew nothing else, she knew that Cyrus loved her.

  "Don't go,” she said as he moved the towel to her neck.

  "It's for the best.” His hands brushed her shoulders and then her arms, as he warmed her from the inside out.

  "Best for who?” she asked. “For you?"

  Cyrus dropped his hands and backed away. “Does it matter?"

  "Yes.” Roxanne left the chair by the fire and walked toward a retreating Cyrus. “It matters very much. Best for who?” she asked again.

  "Best for you,” he whispered.

  He dropped the damp towel on the table and lowered his eyes. His body was tense. His neck corded, his hands knotted into fists, and she knew he was fighting this horrible decision. He didn't want to leave her any more than she wanted him to go.

  "Well, you're not getting rid of me that easily,” she said, taking another step toward him. She set her pride and her fear of rejection aside, knowing that if she didn't she wouldn't have anything but her pride to keep her warm at night. “I didn't wait for you all this time only to give you up without a fight.” She balled her fists in frustration. “Blast you, Cyrus, I never knew you were such a coward."

  He lifted his eyebrows slightly. It was likely no one had ever accused Cyrus Bergeron of cowardice. “A coward?"

  "Yes,” she said, feeling a new surge of strength. “A coward. Otherwise you'd fight for us. You fight for everyone else, why not for what we could have?"

  He lifted his eyes to her; determined, cold eyes. “I'll be leaving by the end of the week."

  If he wouldn't fight for them, she would. “Fine. I'm coming with you."

  Cyrus shook his head slowly. “What are you doing? Why are you so damned and determined to punish us both?” He settled those emotionless eyes on her, and she felt a chill that touched her bones. “You don't need me anymore, Roxanne. You've left the past behind, and in a few weeks or a few months you'll meet a man and you'll fall in love again and he'll give you everything you want."

  "I'll meet another man,” she repeated incredulously.

  He nodded once. She stepped closer, lifted her face, and placed her hands on his chest. His heart beat beneath her fingers as she tilted her head up to lay her lips on his. Perhaps this was all he could understand, this physical connection they had. If she had to be bold and remind him of what he was throwing away, she would. She kissed him.

  He didn't turn away from her, but delivered a passionless response. The meeting of their mouths was warm, friendly, bittersweet; the kiss of two friends parting.

  The arms that wound around her were gentle—too gentle, as if he was afraid to hold her any tighter. He held his body rigid, distant, even as he allowed his mouth to continue touching hers. It was the kiss of a stranger.

  She pulled her lips from his and backed away. That simple embrace, that lukewarm kiss, told her everything she needed to know. Cyrus didn't want her. The unwelcome knowledge hit her cold and hard in the gut. Her worst fears were true.

  Everything that had brought them to this place, the sweet words, the watchful eyes, the love letters ...
even the way he'd loved her ... had been his way of fulfilling his promise to Louis. Nothing more.

  "I'm a complete idiot,” she whispered, backing away.

  "No, you're not,” Cyrus whispered. He tried to give her a smile, but it didn't work. “You're a strong, beautiful woman and your life is only going to get better."

  "Without you,” she whispered.

  The false smile faded. “Without me."

  She backed toward the door. “You're finished here, aren't you? You loved me until I could feel again, you shook up my life until I knew I wanted more than numbness and memories, and now you're walking away.” He didn't deny her accusations. “You fulfilled your promise to Louis, and now you're free to leave, is that it?"

  "You're going to be all right, Roxanne,” he whispered as she laid her hand on the door handle. “You're stronger than I ever suspected, and you're going to be just fine."

  She shook her head as she opened the door and ran out into the rainy night.

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  Chapter Nineteen

  His bags were packed and on his horse, his house was closed up and Will Haller had said he'd keep looking for a buyer. Cyrus had told Will that he'd send word of his new location when he was settled, but he didn't think he would. A clean break was for the best.

  The rain had finally stopped, but its effects were seen all around Paris. A few low-lying houses were flooded, the streets were a muddy and often impassable quagmire, the creeks and streams were filled to their banks and in some cases beyond. What had once been mere trickles of gently flowing water had become wildly rushing rivers.

  A day or two of sun would make a world of difference, but Cyrus wouldn't be here to see it.

  He double-checked the buckle that held his saddlebags in place. It was early, still, but not so early that the sun and a few early risers weren't up and about. He had to get started. At any minute Roxanne might come walking down this muddy street, on her way to school. He'd looked her in the eye and kissed her and sent her on her way once, knowing it was for the best. He didn't think he could do it again.