by Linda Jones
Louis turned to look over the next hill. “I'm going to head over that way,” he said, pointing his walking stick straight ahead. “Looks pretty over there.” He glanced over his shoulder, that happy grin still on his face.
It wasn't real. Cyrus knew, as always, that this was just a dream. It was just a dream. It was memory and doubt and terror and expectation, the curse of a lifetime, his own personal hell. But in this dream, everything was different. The war was gone ... no, it wasn't gone, it was over. Somehow he knew this was the last time he'd dream of Louis.
Louis started to walk away, toward that pretty hill, and Cyrus followed. It was his job to watch over the boy, right? He'd promised Roxanne, after all, he'd given her his word.
But before he'd taken two steps Louis looked back. “I'm going on alone, Cyrus. You can't go with me.” He grinned and glanced over the next hill before turning back to Cyrus and winking devilishly. “You take good care of our girl, you hear?"
Cyrus stopped in his tracks and watched Louis walk away. At first he felt panic. Complete, utter panic. And then, as Louis disappeared, the panic was replaced with a peace so warm and complete he knew he'd never felt anything so heavenly. It was over. By God, the war was finally over.
His eyes flew open. He lay in his own bed and his head hurt like hell. A little light, as on any cloudy day, broke through the curtained window. Roxanne sat by the bed. Her head listed to the side, her eyes were closed, a frown marked her worried face. And she was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.
Take good care of our girl.
He reached out and touched her knee. She jumped when he touched her, but her frown was quickly replaced by a bright smile.
"You're awake,” she whispered as she covered his hand with hers and leaned forward. “Thank heaven. I thought you were going to sleep all day."
His head pounded, he wanted to drift off to sleep again, every muscle in his body ached ... but he felt strangely good.
Roxanne grinned brightly. “You're quite the hero, you know. The Smiths have been here twice this afternoon already, checking on you. All of them. Half the folks from town have stopped by to make sure you're all right. Hamlin said he'd take care of your horse and baggage, so you don't have to worry about that. Oh, and Maude Hipp is baking you a chocolate cake, and Aunt Ada is making her famous pot roast."
"Women are always trying to feed me,” he mumbled.
"You have no idea,” Roxanne said softly. “Elizabeth Fowler is making you some fresh calf's-feet jelly, and she swears it will heal you faster than any doctor's medicine."
Elizabeth Fowler? He'd always been so sure she hated him for the simple betrayal of surviving when her boys had not.
"Jane Rice asked me to tell you she's making you another lemon sponge cake,” she said, a less-than-kindly tone slipping into her voice, “and Rose Wells delivered some special tea, along with her best wishes.” Roxanne leaned slightly closer. “You can have none of it, not even a crumb of cake, until the doctor and I both say so."
"Yes, ma'am,” he muttered obediently.
She smiled at him, a wan, tired attempt at a cheerful expression. “You've given everyone a scare, Cyrus. Mary Alice is especially distraught that you were hurt helping her. She's been quite worried about you.” Her smile faded. “So have I."
"I'll be fine,” he raised a tentative hand to the bandage on his head. “Guess I won't be traveling for a few days, though.” He squinted one eye shut as a bolt of pain shot through his head.
Roxanne took her hand from his. “I guess not."
The nightmares were gone, he knew that. There would be no more waking up screaming in the middle of the night, no more long nights where he sat at the window afraid to fall asleep. Louis, and the memories of that day, weren't going to haunt him anymore. The nightmare was over, finished, healed.
He settled his gaze on Roxanne's face, on her worried eyes and the wonderful, stubborn set of her chin.
He loved her. He would always love her, and she was looking at him right now as if nothing else mattered but love. Not memories; good or bad. Not promises; kept or broken.
Take good care of our girl.
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Chapter Twenty
Cyrus sat at the table, refusing to spend another minute in that damn bed. His head hurt. Hell, even his hair hurt, but he would survive. He had a hard head.
Once the doctor had assured Roxanne that he would recover, she'd reluctantly left him to Hank's able care. It was obvious that she hadn't wanted to leave, but he'd insisted. Dammit, he couldn't even think clearly when she was in the same room. How could he be expected to make a rational decision while she hovered over him as if every breath might be his last?
After she'd gone, Cyrus had insisted to Hank that he didn't need a caretaker, but the man persisted in sticking around. Just to be sure, he said, that no unexpected complications cropped up. They'd seen their fair share of nasty head injuries in the past, enough to know that they couldn't take a quick recovery for granted.
Cyrus had reluctantly agreed to allow Hank to stay; but by God if the grateful father thanked him one more time for saving Mary Alice he was going to kick the scrawny man out—headache or no headache.
Hank joined him at the table, his own cup of tea in his hands. Cyrus would've preferred coffee, or better yet whiskey, but together Roxanne and the doctor had commanded that he stick to tea and broth for the time being. He'd tried to argue with them; after all he was no invalid. But agreeing was easiest, and since he likely wouldn't be here much longer....
Cakes and pies and breads—gifts from the residents of Paris—crowded one end of the table. He stared at one particular pie, a fine-looking custard. He wasn't hungry, didn't even like custard pie all that much; but this pie had been made by Elizabeth Fowler, a woman who had delivered it herself along with the disgusting-looking calf's-feet jelly and a softly spoken inquiry into his health.
He'd always been so sure she wished him dead, that every time she looked at him she remembered her boys and cursed fate for being so unfair, allowing him to live while they did not.
"Cyrus, I think we need to talk,” Hank said sheepishly.
Cyrus withheld a groan that had nothing to do with his aching head. “You would've done the same thing if you'd gotten there first,” he said impatiently. “I just—"
"This isn't about Mary Alice,” Hank interrupted. “Though I do thank you again—"
"Don't."
Hank stared into his cup of tea, a pale, sweet beverage he obviously didn't like any better than Cyrus did. He rotated the cup, swirling the warm liquid, and then he set it down and dipped his spoon into the tea, splashing and stirring. He stalled for time, looking as if he truly agonized over what was to come.
"I think we need to talk about the war,” he finally said, cutting anxious eyes upward to look at Cyrus's face. “About Louis."
Cyrus left his chair quickly ... too quickly. His head spun and he stumbled once as he escaped from the table. Hank came out of his own chair and followed. When the meddling bastard tried to catch Cyrus's arm, Cyrus vigorously shook him off.
"Go home, Hank,” he muttered. “I'll be fine. I don't need a damn nursemaid."
"I'm not your damn nursemaid,” Hank said testily. “I'm your damn friend. Sometimes I think you've forgotten that."
Cyrus glared, to no avail.
"We left here together, years ago,” Hank continued. “We fought together, then we came home and tried to leave it all behind. I don't want to go back there,” he whispered. “But I think you've got yourself some very wrong ideas and I need to set you straight."
Cyrus didn't head for the bed, but turned around and headed for the pantry in the far corner. “Wrong ideas?"
"Yep. Roxanne says—"
Cyrus spun around, and the expression on his face silenced Hank. “Roxanne says what?” he whispered.
Limping more than usual, Hank returned to his seat at the table. He looked every bit as miserable and exhau
sted and drained as Cyrus felt. Surely he didn't want to talk about this anymore than Cyrus did.
With a deep sigh, Hank placed his head in his hands, palms covering his eyes as if he could find comfort in the darkness. “Don't you want to know the truth?” he asked softly.
Cyrus shuffled to the pantry and fetched a half bottle of whiskey. His saddlebags had been so full there hadn't been room for everything. He'd chosen carefully, taking only what he could carry, only what he had to have. What a stroke of luck that he'd left this bottle behind.
Dammit, if they were going to sit here and talk about the truth, he was going to need something a lot stronger than tea.
Roxanne sat on the end of the bed and stared past open balcony doors to the complete darkness beyond. Now that the crisis was over she trembled and felt physically ill. Her stomach knotted painfully, and she'd been close to tears all evening.
She could've lost Cyrus. When she'd seen the limb come crashing down on his head she'd been scared and angry, but there hadn't been time for panic and hysteria. Right now, she had nothing but time.
Her worst fear was that she'd lose one she loved again. Unfortunately, the only way to make sure that never happened was not to love at all. Too late for that. For better or for worse, Cyrus had worked his way into her heart and there he was going to stay. Whether he remained in Paris or left for parts unknown, whether he loved her back or not, whether he ever again touched her or not ... she loved him.
Her fears were not unfounded; her worries were not irrational. Losing Cyrus to a bullet or an illness or a tree limb would destroy her, but so would living without him.
What was she supposed to do, shelter her heart until there was nothing left to guard? Become a nun and close herself off from the world? Not that the Presbyterians had any nunneries ... not that it mattered. She didn't want to guard her heart so closely that she numbed it forever. Not anymore.
She went to her desk and lit a candle. Paper and ink and a pen were gathered from the bottom drawer, and she placed them all before her, flexing her fingers and wrinkling her nose as she searched the deepest part of her heart. What do you say to a man to make him stay when he's determined to leave? How many ways can you say I love you?
Candlelight flickered over the blank sheet of paper for much too long, but when the idea finally came to her she smiled. She put pen to paper.
In spite of the hours he'd slept yesterday, Cyrus passed a long, peaceful night. He slept, dreamless, and woke more rested than he'd been in a very long time. In spite of the pain in his head, he felt strong and contented and whole; as if a piece of him that had been missing had been restored in the night.
How had he let his memories get so twisted? As Hank had talked about that day on the battlefield in Tennessee, a conversation that had been painful for both of them, the memories came flooding back; real memories, clear as day. Not nightmares, but reality. The truth.
He hadn't let Louis die. He'd been there as the boy had passed, he'd promised to watch over Roxanne, but the killing wound had been delivered before Cyrus started running.
No one ran that fast.
He walked around the room for a few minutes, working the kinks out of his legs. He still hurt all over, he still ached everywhere. So why did he feel so damn good? He dressed quietly, and then sat the edge of the bed.
Hank slept, as he had all night, in a hard-backed chair. His long, lean body looked uncomfortably twisted. His jaw went slack, his mouth fell slightly open and he snored softly.
Hank had bad memories of his own, and a bum leg to remind him every day of that battle in Tennessee. Neither the memories nor the old wound kept him from claiming the life he wanted, from having a loving family and a nice home. They didn't stop him from living.
A brief, very light knock on the door sounded as it swung open, and Merilee entered with Mary Alice in tow. They carried two baskets, Merilee's larger basket filled with ham and sausage and biscuits, and Mary Alice's smaller one containing three jars of jam. Strawberry, peach, and blackberry, she told him as she placed the jars, one at a time and with the greatest of care, on the table.
Merilee woke Hank with a gentle hand on his shoulder, a smile and a soft good morning, and Mary Alice came, basket and all, to the bed where Cyrus sat.
"I have something for you,” she said, reaching into the basket to retrieve one last item. “It's a letter,” she said needlessly as she offered it, her eyes impossibly big. “Uhhh ... from me."
Cyrus looked down at the fine, even writing on the envelope. Sheriff Cyrus was written there in a neat cursive hand that certainly did not belong to a not-quite-six year old.
"Well, thank you,” he said, staring down at the letter.
Mary Alice climbed onto the bed and sat beside him, reaching up a small, tender hand to touch the bandage that encircled his head. “Does it hurt?"
He opened his mouth to say like hell, but thought better of it. “Just a little."
"I'm glad you caught me yesterday,” she said, her only show of emotion a slightly trembling lower lip. “I can't swim a lick."
"Well, maybe it's time you learned."
"That's what Daddy says. He said he'll teach me to swim this summer."
"Good."
"You know,” she said thoughtfully as she came up on her knees and draped an arm over his shoulder. “Being in the creek was scary, but it was kinda fun, too.” She glanced at her mother and lowered her voice. “I was really scared until you got there, but after you caught me I wasn't scared at all. The water moved so fast, I felt like I was flying."
Cyrus smiled. “It was pretty fast."
"Maybe we can do it again sometime, but without the tree falling on you,” she whispered.
Mary Alice scrambled off the bed to help her mother put breakfast on the table. Hank came slowly out of his chair, exchanging good morning hugs and kisses with his family, studying the fare before him and declaring himself hungry as a bear.
Cyrus dropped his eyes, opening the envelope to withdraw the single sheet of paper. He began to read, fully expecting a formal thank-you note from Merilee.
Dear Sheriff Cyrus,
How do you thank a man for saving your life? For making the rain and the wind and the storms go away, for pulling you from a deep, dark whirlpool that threatens to drag you down so deep you're sure you'll never find your way to the surface? It isn't easy.
You may think I say I love you just because you saved me, but that isn't the case. I love you because of who you are, for your kindness and your good heart, for your strengths and your weaknesses. They make you who you are. I love you because you're a man who tries to save everyone but himself. I love you so much I want to be the one to save you.
So I'm asking, no I'm ordering you to stay in Paris. There's a Fourth of July dance coming up in just a few weeks. I'll expect you to be there, and I'll expect you to dance with me and no one else. I have a new blue dress I've never worn before, and I think you'll like it.
We need you here, all of us. Stay.
Love,
Your best girl
Cyrus folded the letter and placed it in his pocket.
"I'm going for a walk,” he said as he stood.
"Before breakfast?” Merilee said.
He shook his head. “I'm not very hungry."
"Well, you need to eat,” she said as if she was speaking to one of her children. “And I'm not sure that you're ready to be up and walking—"
Hank reached up, took Merilee's wrist in his hand, and pulled her down into her chair. “Leave the man alone, Merilee, and eat your breakfast."
"Well I just—” she began defensively.
"Leave the man alone,” he repeated slowly.
"Yes, dear,” Merilee said demurely.
Cyrus was halfway to the door when Mary Alice piped up. “I must write a pretty good letter."
Roxanne knelt in the dirt. She was too restless to do much of anything, but the mindless task of pulling weeds from Aunt Ada's flower garden suited her mood
. Tall, green weeds came easily from the wet ground, and with her gloved hand she pulled weed after weed after weed.
From this garden she couldn't see Cyrus's house. That was the reason she'd decided on this particular chore, after all. To sit in her room and watch his front door and just wait would be torture.
What if she'd made a mistake? What if no matter what she said, Cyrus was determined to leave? She yanked much too hard at a flimsy looking weed. If he had his mind set on leaving her behind, there was nothing she could do. Nothing.
Mary Alice should have delivered the letter by now. She wondered what Cyrus thought of it, if he was amused or embarrassed or unimpressed, if he was touched at all. Last night it had seemed such a good idea, to use one of his own tricks against him in a way he was sure to understand. But now ... now she wasn't so sure.
A raspy, distant noise intruded into her thoughts, but she dismissed it easily. It was just a bird, she thought, or maybe a cat, prancing in the vegetable garden on the other side of the house and celebrating the end of the rain.
She ripped viciously at a weed and tossed it aside.
Cyrus represented everything she feared. He was now, and probably always would be, a lawman who carried a gun. Every day of his life he would face the possibility of real danger.
And as if that weren't enough, he was an undeniable part of a past she wanted only to forget. Nightmares of the war might haunt him forever. Memories she could never understand would be with him always.
With Cyrus there would be no safe, isolated farm where she could hide from the worries of the world; no easy, gentle safety; no shelter from the cruelties of life. He belonged here in Paris, where the people needed him.
Ah, fear or no fear, none of that mattered. She knew now that danger was everywhere, for everyone. No one was truly safe. As for the nightmares, well, if they came she should be there to soothe him, to make the past fade for him as he had made her fears fade. She needed to be at his side to tell him, to show him, that the past and the uncertain future were nothing compared to a night in the arms of the one you loved. There was only today, always.
