by Lori Wilde
Coyotes yipped in the distance. Creatures rustled in the bushes. I might have been afraid if I hadn’t been raised in the country, knew the night sounds like an astronomer knew the stars. I trudged and daydreamed. Thought about the marathon. “It Had to Be You” circled around and around in my head. Finally, I reached the caverns.
The night road might not have scared me, but stepping into that cavern took extra courage. Only thoughts of John kept me going. This was my last-ditch effort. Useless, most likely, but it was all I had. Something was better than nothing.
Please, Cupid, please.
A fresh cold blasted my face as I stepped into the cavern. My hands shook as I shone the thin flashlight beam around, found the wandering path, and started my journey.
At one point I thought I was lost and a breath-stealing panic grabbed my lungs as I realized no one knew where I was. If I took a wrong turn and found myself wandering endlessly, no one would know to come look for me.
I contemplated going back, but then there I was, in the cave with the Cupid stalagmite looming over me. I crouched beside it. Imagined Mingus Dill in this spot pleading for his life.
Love had saved Mingus. Maybe it could save me too.
I left the letter at Cupid’s feet, left my beating heart and endless hopes and shattered dreams there too.
Have it all, Cupid. It was all or nothing. John or a lifetime of unfulfilled yearning.
I stumbled from the cave, made my way through the cavern, and popped out into the moonlight. I remembered the last time I’d left the caverns and walked this road. John had come upon me and given me a ride.
I touched my cheek. The one that I had rested against his back.
“John, I love you!” I yelled the words out loud. It felt so good that I said it again. And again. Spilling to the heavens the words I could never ever say to him.
“I love you, John. Marry Elizabeth if you must, but it will never change how I feel. I’ll love you until my dying day.”
The wind whistled through the mesquite trees and a light sprinkling of snow started to fall. My toes were cold. Nothing to do now but let go.
My fate was in Cupid’s hands.
I SPENT CHRISTMAS Eve morning in my room. I did not want to get in the way of the family’s wedding day preparations. Nothing had happened since I left the letter at Cupid’s feet. I don’t know what I expected. A bolt of lightning from the sky? John’s life path had been set long before I ever met him. It was unreasonable to expect him to change it for me.
Hope is a terrible thing. It keeps you clinging when you should let go. It sails you straight onto rocky shoals.
Nothing is going to happen, Millie, I told myself. Go back to sleep. When you wake, John and Elizabeth will be married and all hope will be gone.
But sleep was impossible.
I got up, got dressed, and with hands clasped behind my back, I paced the small room. The wedding was at eleven, with a reception brunch to follow at the Fants’ home. All I had to do was peek out the window and I’d be able to see the guests arriving with presents when the time came.
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stay here and watch.
Out. Get out of here. I wrestled into my coat and put on mittens my mother had knitted me for Christmas. She’d sent them in the post on the same day she told me that she and my brothers and sisters were going to San Antonio.
For the longest time, I simply wandered around town. Everywhere I went people smiled and wished me Merry Christmas. I forced a smile, wished them the same, but inside I was hollow as a Halloween jack-o’-lantern.
I swear I had no intention of stepping into the First Methodist Church of Cupid. Why torture myself by watching John hitch himself to Elizabeth for life? But as more and more people, decked out in their Sunday best finery, streamed past me headed for the church, I found myself helplessly following the crowd.
Don’t do it, Millie. Don’t.
I stopped on the sidewalk outside the limestone church with a tall silver steeple reaching for the sky. Had the silver come from the Fant mine? Could my daddy have mined it? Were there other silver steeples stretching across the Southwest? A trail of my father’s work. A legacy linking past to future for generations to come. The notion pleased me.
A relentless wind whipped down off the mountains, stirred the skirt of my work dress around my legs. I wasn’t dressed for church services, much less a Christmas Eve wedding.
The crowd was thinning as eleven o’clock approached, and still I stood rooted. Paralyzed by indecision.
I pictured myself running up the aisle and just as the preacher asked if anyone knew a reason these two should not be joined to speak now or forever hold their piece, yell out, I know a reason. John loves me and I love him.
Of course I would not, could not do that, no matter how much my heart was breaking. If there was to be a miracle, John would have to come to me. I would not throw myself at him.
An image of my letter, lying at Cupid’s feet, drifted into my mind. I’d have to go back up there and retrieve the letter before someone else found it and learned of my lovesick secret.
But not today. I was too weary. Maybe tomorrow as everyone else celebrated Christmas.
The bell clock in the tower of the Catholic church across the street chimed the hour. Eleven o’clock. Elizabeth would be walking down the aisle.
I curled my hands into fists, waited. The sidewalk around me was empty. The final stragglers had already entered the church. I should leave. Go back to my room.
My feet ignored my brain. Before I knew it, I had climbed the steps and my sweaty palm was on the doorknob. Strains of the bridal march drifted through the heavy wooden door.
“No. No. Don’t do it,” I whispered.
Was I talking to myself? Or John?
I twisted the knob, eased open the door. Lighted candles flickered. The ends of the pews were decorated with red poinsettias and white bows. The scent of pinecones filled the air. A wizened old lady pounded the keys of the organ, pumping out the slow-paced song. Elizabeth, looking like a china doll, was being escorted down the aisle on her father’s arm. Every seat was taken and numerous guests stood along the back wall. Rosalie and Buddy Grass were among those standing. Apparently, they had gotten back together. It seemed most everyone in town had come out to see Cupid’s heir apparent take his bride.
There was no room for me here.
Go.
Common sense finally sank in and I was just about to turn away when I spied John standing at the end of the aisle, dressed in a dapper black suit, his hands clasped in front of him. My stomach flopped over and I forgot to breathe.
His eyes met mine.
I saw in them anguish that mirrored my own. I wanted to flee, but my feet were rooted to the spot. I knew one thing with absolute certainty. If I moved, my knees would collapse, so I stood in the doorway, hung in darkness as black as the Cupid Caverns at midnight. Why, oh why had I opened that door?
Elizabeth and her father reached the altar.
But John was not looking at his bride. He only had eyes for me.
My lips parted and I whispered inaudibly, “My one true love.”
Elizabeth’s father turned her over to John, stepped back, and seated himself in the front pew. John took Elizabeth’s hand.
Torture. This was pure torture I had to go. Somehow I would force myself out the door. On jelly legs, I turned.
The preacher cleared his throat, but before he could speak, John cried, “Wait.”
I stopped, imagining he was speaking to me, but I did not dare turn back in case he was not.
The entire church went utterly silent.
“Elizabeth,” John said, his voice strong and clear. “I cannot marry you. While you are a wonderful person and I regret causing you pain, I truly love another.”
The congregation let out a collective gasp.
Slowly, I pivoted back to face the front of the church. My heart was pounding so hard I wondered if others could see it beating against my
chest.
Elizabeth paled, swayed on her feet, let out a quiet little peep.
“I’m sorry,” John told her. “But it’s better to say it now than enter into a marriage where neither of us would be happy.”
Elizabeth’s eyes were wide as plates. “Who … who is this woman you love?”
John stretched out a hand to me. “I love Millie Greenwood.”
The second collective gasp was louder than the first.
In hindsight, I probably should have slipped out the door and let him come find me once the commotion was over, but I simply could not contain myself. I flew down the aisle toward his outstretched arms.
He grabbed me in his arms, spun me around, dropped a hundred kisses on my face in between whispering, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
“I love you too,” I said, tears streaming down my cheeks, and for a moment I feared it was all a sweet dream.
“No!” a loud female voice called out from the back of the room. “No! This isn’t right.”
John and I broke apart.
Quickly, I cast a glance at Elizabeth, who seemed rather numb. She blinked repeatedly. Her parents went to her side and were patting her hand, but she shook them off. “I’m fine. John’s right. He doesn’t love me and I don’t love him. We were just merging our money and family names.”
I swung my gaze to the congregation, stared into a sea of faces, all with various shades of reaction. Some looked shocked. Some smiled knowingly. Some scowled. One older woman muttered, “This is what comes of women having the right to vote. Utter chaos.”
But the woman who’d shouted was now waving a white envelope in her hand and marching toward the altar. I recognized both the woman and the envelope.
It was Rosalie Smithe and she had my letter.
“She doesn’t get to be Cinderella. She doesn’t get to marry the prince. This is all wrong. She’s a maid.”
“What’s wrong with that?” someone called out, and I realized it was Beau Bossier. “Rich or poor. You love who you love.”
“But that’s just it.” Rosalie marched up to me, shook the letter underneath my nose. “John doesn’t really love you, does he, Millie?” She spun back to face the congregation. “This maid has bewitched John Fant and I have the proof.”
There was more gasping and rustling of skirts. A cold chill shoved straight down my spine.
Rosalie opened the envelope, unfolded my letter, and began to read it. “Dear Cupid, How heartless of you to make me fall in love with a man who is out of my reach.”
When she finished reading, she added, “Millie Greenwood bewitched him. She wrote a letter to a heathen god asking him to cast a spell on Mr. Fant.”
My knees turned to water. All the air left my body. I couldn’t look at John for fear I’d see betrayal on his face.
Rosalie’s face turned red.
“How do we know Millie wrote that?” Penelope asked. “It’s signed, Forever Hopelessly in Love.”
“It’s her handwriting.” Rosalie passed the letter to Penelope.
Penelope read the letter with an impassive face and passed it to her mother.
“Where did you get the letter?” the preacher asked from behind us.
I startled. Held my breath.
“My boyfriend, Buddy Grass, saw her coming out of the caverns at midnight, night before last. He found it at the base of the Cupid stalagmite.”
“What was Buddy doing up there in the caverns in the middle of the night?” The town sheriff stood up and cast a glance down the aisle at Buddy, who was easing out the back door.
The congregation was muttering about spells and witches and Cupid and blasphemy and all manner of dark things.
“Really,” Elizabeth said. “It’s all right. I think it’s all for the best.”
I was liking her more and more and feeling guilty for the pain I was causing her, but what worried me was how John was taking the reading of my letter to Cupid. I raised my head and met his eyes, terrified to see condemnation there.
But his eyes were soft and kind. “Hush!” he commanded the room. “I have something to say.”
Everyone fell silent. The runaway groom had spoken.
John faced me, took my hand, held it tightly in his. “It’s true. Millie Greenwood has bewitched me.”
That drew more comments, murmurs, and gasps from the crowds.
“But not in the way Rosalie suggests. Millie has bewitched me with not only her beauty, but her kindness, her good nature, and her willingness to help others. She bewitched me with her smart mind and sensible outlook. It does not matter to me that she is a maid. Or that she wrote a letter to Cupid begging for intervention. It only proves how she much loved me if she was desperate enough to write a letter and walk it all the way up to the Cupid stalagmite in the middle of the night.”
“Yes,” I whispered because it was true.
“You’re the one that I love, Millie Greenwood. For better or worse and everything in between.”
“Oh, John!” I whispered, too happy to cry.
He gathered me up into his arms and with everyone watching carried me out of the church as if I were his bride.
Epilogue
I MARRIED JOHN FANT eighteen months later on the best day of my life. Not in a church with a silver fancy steeple—we were known for bucking convention, after all—but in front of the silver mine where my daddy had died. I saw it as a fitting tribute to my father. A new beginning where a tragic ending had taken place. The mine would reopen the following day after John’s painstaking restoration. He’d taken it beyond the safety standards of even the most secure mineshaft in the country.
Something unexpected had happened in the renovations. They found a new vein of ore no one knew about, and so his kind caring and attention to detail paid off.
My mother moved my sisters and brothers to San Antonio to live near her sister, and while I hated not having them nearby, it was time for my family to begin a new chapter of their lives, just as I was.
And John’s family? They welcomed me into the family with open arms. Ultimately, they just wanted their son to be happy, and it was as clear as the smiles on our faces that we made each other happy.
What happened that day in the First Methodist Church became known all throughout the Trans-Pecos region, and a funny thing happened. People began marking pilgrimages to the Cupid stalagmite and leaving letters asking for his help in affairs of the heart. Side business sprang up to take advantage of this unexpected tourist trade. Inns were built and local business started selling Cupid merchandise. It was a heady time. Times were changing. All the old rules were breaking and people were becoming more accepting of new ideas and new ways of doing things.
By writing that letter to Cupid, I’d started something bigger than myself.
And as John and I sealed our marriage with a heartfelt kiss, a legend was born.
GO WILDE THIS SUMMER!
Here is a sneak peek at
LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT
Available May 28, 2013
and
ALL OUT OF LOVE
Available June 25, 2013
The first two books in New York Times bestselling author
Lori Wilde’s
delicious new series set in Cupid, Texas!
Love at First Sight
Just one look and the earth trembled beneath my feet.
—MILLIE GREENWOOD
Dear Cupid,
The most awesomely awful thing has happened. I have fallen truly, madly, deeply in love.
Awesome because I have never felt anything like this. I’ve heard people talk about love at first sight, but I never believed in it. Then with just one look—bam! I was a goner. The minute we laid eyes on each other we knew we were destined soul mates. Suddenly, our minds are wide open and the world is the most beautiful place. How have I gone so long without knowing magic like this?
But that’s what you do, isn’t it, Cupid? Fling your arrow and make people fall in love at first sight. Drive
them crazy. Send them over the edge of reason.
It’s awful because I’ve been accepted into Oxford University with a full scholarship. I can’t bear the thought of leaving my guy behind, and family responsibilities keep him from joining me in England. My head tells me that this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I can’t pass it up, but I ache at the thought of being so far away from him. What’s the point of the finest education in the world if you can’t be with the one you love? Tell me what to do, Cupid. Go or stay? My fate is in your hands.
—Shot Through the Heart
Natalie McCleary folded the well-creased letter and tucked it into the pocket of her Van Gogh yellow sundress. The letter writer’s angst settled in the pit of her stomach. Sometimes, playing Cupid was more difficult than running her bed-and-breakfast, Cupid’s Rest.
It had been over a week since the letter had arrived and she still had no answer for the sender. Her response had the power to change the entire trajectory of Shot Through the Heart’s future, and she did not take her duties lightly.
The trouble was, at twenty-nine, Natalie herself had never been in love. Who was she to give advice to the lovelorn?
You’re Millie Greenwood’s direct descendant, that’s who. It’s your obligation whether you want it or not.
Wasn’t that just the story of her life? Obligation. Responsibility. Tradition.
Natalie shook her head and squared her shoulders. C’mon, don’t be resentful. She’d never been a complainer or shirker and she wasn’t about to start now.
The sole of her right yellow Keds made a slight scraping sound as she scuffed over terra-cotta paver stones. She moved toward the large white wooden box situated underneath the cherubic fountain in the botanical gardens, located in the center of downtown Cupid, Texas. It was just after dawn and the gardens weren’t yet open to the public, but in another two hours the place would overflow with tourists.
Mockingbirds called from pink-blossomed desert willows. Over by a prickly pear cactus, a black-crested titmouse gobbled up a fat grub worm. Undisturbed by Natalie’s presence, a long-legged roadrunner strolled over the limestone rock wall surrounding the gardens. Locusts started a low-hummed buzzing, tuning up for the encroaching late June heat. Dragonflies hovered over the fountain, and a toad peeked up at her from blue pebble gravel around the firecracker plants. From La Hacienda Grill down the street, the smell of huevos rancheros wafted on the air and mingled with the perfume of fuchsia rockroses.
