The broken beta - healed by innocence

Checkers

*Briony*

As dusk settles, I scrub my blouse viciously in the warm bucket of water Wade brought me in silence. He hasn't spoken a full sentence since this morning. He grunts, yeps, nopes, and for the most part leaves me alone.

We set up camp a little earlier than yesterday because he wants to keep us near water as long as possible. He shoots a hare for the evening meal. I want to crawl into the dirt and hide when he strides into camp with the hare and his rifle.

How could I say what I did this morning? How could I think he'd be grateful for the loss of an eye or the scarring of a face that I am certain would have made she-wolves swoon with its rugged beauty elseway?

I know I could apologize a hundred times, but that's not what Wade Moonshadow wants... or needs. He needs to be accepted as he is, to learn that he doesn't have to hug walls or view life through shadows of his own making.

Rising, I slap my blouse over the side of the wagon, smoothing out the wrinkles so the material can dry through the night. I trail my fingers over Chase’s brand. I expected so much more from this trip: laughter, stolen kisses, promises of happiness.

I should leave Wade to mope around in the world he has no desire to share. I should focus my thoughts on Chase and how I can best make him happy. I'm not learning much about him from his brother, but perhaps if I read his letters again, I might discover something I missed.

I dump the water out of the bucket, straighten my back with a sigh, and begin walking toward the tent and solitude.

A horse's whinny catches my attention. Glancing toward the area where Wade has tethered the mules, I stumble to a stop.

Wade sits on a log, his left side to me so I am not visible to him. He's laid a checkerboard on a tree stump. Beside his feet lies his folded duster, his hat on top of it.

He's leaner than I expected, and yet his shoulders fan out as he plants his elbow on his thigh and cups his chin in his palm. He has rolled up his sleeves, and I can see the strength in his forearm. Before him, his horse snorts.

"You sure?" Wade asks.

The horse bobs her head.

"All right," Wade replies and moves a black checker piece across the board. He promptly picks up his own red disk and jumps the black one he has just moved.

The horse whinnies, dips her head, and nudges the checkerboard off the tree stump.

"God damn! You're a sorry loser," Wade whispers harshly.

Laughing, I approach the duo. In one seamless movement, Wade grabs his hat, settles it on his head, springs to his feet, and spins around.

"Thought you were washing your clothes," he says from beneath the shadows of his brim.

I take no offense at his tone, but sadness sweeps through me. He trusts his horse, but not me. I fight to keep my feelings from showing on my face as I rub the horse's shoulder. "I was, but it doesn't take long to wash a blouse," I say. I eye him speculatively. "I suppose I should have offered to wash your shirt."

"That's not necessary. On a cattle drive, a man gets used to having dirty clothes for a while," he replies.

"But we're not on a cattle drive. I will wash your shirt tomorrow," I insist.

He opens his mouth as though to protest, and then snaps it shut.

I press my face against the horse's neck. "I never mentioned that I think your horse is beautiful. I thought she was brown, but sometimes when the sun hits her coat just right, she looks red."

"She's a sorrel. Got speed and endurance bred into her, and she's smart as a whip." He says.

I study the man who is watching the horse with obvious affection. I remember his description of the horse that had broken Chase's leg. "You know a lot about horses."

"I'm a mustanger. It's my job to know a horse's temperament. With mustangs, it's usually easy. Their coloring gives them away. A dun with a black mane and tail is hardy, an albino is worthless, a black is a good horse unless he has a wavy tail and mane." He explains.

"That's amazing," I say quietly, more impressed with how much he's spoken rather than what he's said. "Do you raise them?"

He nods slowly. "Startin' to. They used to run wild over Texas, but they're gettin' harder to find so I've taken to breeding 'em."

I rub the horse's muzzle. "What's her name?"

"Sorrel." He lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug. "Reckon I got as much imagination as my parents."

I laugh lightly, delighted with the conversation. Although he still wears his hat, he has relaxed his stance. He appears to be more at ease with horses than with people. I wonder what would make him comfortable around me, what would have to happen for him to leave his hat on the ground. "I play checkers. Probably better than your horse."

He narrows his eye. "My horse is pretty good."

I tilt my chin. "I'm better."

"You willing to put that claim to a test?" He asks.

I'd thought he would never ask, but I decide against showing too much enthusiasm. I don't want to frighten away the easy companionship that is settling in beneath the shade. I simply waltz to the log where he's been sitting and tilt up my face, offering the challenge, "Why not?"

He shoots across the short space like a bullet fired from a gun, gathers his playing board and pieces, and sets them carefully on the tree stump. He playfully shoves Sorrel aside when the horse nudges his shoulder. "This ain't your game. Get outta here." Then he drops down, sitting back on his haunches, and the game begins.

I have never seen anyone concentrate so hard on a game. Wade balances himself on the balls of his feet, his elbow resting on his thigh, his chin in his palm, studying each move I make as though each move is equally important.

I remember playing checkers with my father before the war. Our games went quickly, and usually ended with both of us laughing, neither of us winning. I am beginning to understand why Wade's horse had tipped over the board.

"My father taught me to play checkers," I say. "If I thought I was going to lose, I'd move the pieces when he wasn't looking. He always pretended not to notice."

"You say that like you loved him." He says.

I blink. "Of course I loved him. Very much. He was my father. Didn't you love your father?"

"Not particularly." He admits.

I sense from the tightening of his jaw that he might have regretted voicing his feelings.

"Your move," he grumbles.

I carefully remove another one of his pieces from the board and settle in for the long wait as he contemplates his strategy. He tips his hat off his brow with his thumb, his attention clearly focused on the game.

I'm certain he doesn't realize that he's allowed the shadows to slip away from his face. I welcome the opportunity to view more than his profile. The black patch is larger than many I've seen. I suppose he wants to leave as few scars visible as possible. My fingers flex involuntarily, and just like when I first met him, I feel an overwhelming urge to touch the unsightly scars with compassion. I imagine holding him to my chest, easing the pain that still lingers within his remaining eye.

An unexpected warmth floods through me as if I have wandered too close to a roaring fire. I ball my hands into tight fists to stop my fingers from trembling, from reaching toward a face that fascinates me with the history it reveals. Wade's marred features leave no doubt that he has fought in the war. I wonder if Chase's face reveals as much.

"Was Chase wounded during the war?" I ask.

Wade tugs on the brim of his hat, pulling the shadows back over his face. "Nope."

I chastise myself internally, wondering if I'll ever remember how quickly talk of the war distances Wade. Although he sits across from me, I sense him retreating. I desperately want to keep him near.

"Does Chase play?" I ask, grateful to see the stiffness roll out of Wade's shoulders as he leans forward.

"With all he has going, I don't imagine he has time." He says.

"Don't the two of you ever play?" I ask.

He reaches toward a piece, then pulls back his hand without touching or moving the disk. "No."

He scrutinizes the board with such intensity that I wish I had planned to lose. With a sigh, he moves a piece forward, placing it so I have no choice but to jump it and claim it. I'm certain he intends to sacrifice his piece to gain two of mine, but I don't think it'll be enough for him to win. I somehow know that my winning will also be my loss.

I slip my fingers beneath the board and quickly flip it off the stump.

"What the…" He glares at me with obvious displeasure.

I smile sheepishly. "I thought I might lose."

"You knew darn good and well that you weren't going to lose." He huffs.

He reaches for the board, and I wrap my fingers around his arm. He stills, the muscles beneath my fingers tensing. "It was only a game. You're supposed to have fun when you're playing a game."

"I was having fun," he says gruffly.

"You were?" I ask.

He nods, but the muscles beneath my hand don't relax.

"Then let's play again," I say, settling into place while he sets up the game. I allow him five moves before I dump the board over again.

"Dang it!" he roars.

"I wasn't having fun," I say, challenging his claim.

He insists with a stubborn tilt of his head, "I sure as heck was. I was gonna win that time."

I can't help but smile sweetly at him. "No, you weren't."

His frustration shows as he gathers his board and pieces. "You're aggravating, you know that?" he tells me, though his voice doesn't carry true anger.

I'm curious, pushing a little further. "Does Chase smile more often than you do?"

He sets the board on the stump, arranging the pieces with a hint of resignation. "Everyone smiles more than I do." He motions to the game. "Go ahead and move."

I lean in, resting my elbow on the tree stump and cradling my chin in my palm, watching him closely. "Why don't you smile?" I ask, more to myself as I study his profile, imagining how he might have looked before the war marred him. she-wolves must have swooned for him back then.

His temperament, though, is another story… fiery as the devil's.

"You feel up to riding?" he surprises me with the question.

The shadows are growing longer, and the idea of riding at night startles me. "You want to travel at night?"

He meets my gaze, serious. "No, I just want to show you something if you feel up to riding. Of course, you'll have to ride on the horse with me."

My eyes flit to Sorrel and the saddle on the ground. It's been years since I've ridden. I can anticipate the unavoidable contact, the closeness of Wade's body. My mouth goes dry, my heart racing at the prospect. He wants to share something with me. That's how friendship starts, isn't it? "What are you going to show me?"

"If I could describe it, I wouldn't have to show you," he says, a hint of mystery in his voice.

I stand then, resolute. "Then I would like to see it."

Moments later, he lifts me onto Sorrel's saddle. I grip the pommel tightly as he mounts behind me, his presence enveloping me.

"Relax," he orders as he takes the reins, but I can barely manage it, nestled between his thighs, his chest against my shoulder.

"I am relaxed," I squeak out, though we both know it's a lie.

"Yeah, and I was having fun playing checkers," he retorts softly as Sorrel begins to move beneath us.

We ride towards the vast plains ahead, Fort Worth now just a memory. Our future stretches out before us. When we reach the top of a hill, Wade stops Sorrel, dismounts, and looks out toward where the sun kisses the earth.

"See where the sun touches the land?" he asks, almost reverently.

"Yes," I reply, taking in the sight.

"That's where you'll be living."

I admire the quiet beauty of the place, the way the colors blend and meet the green expanse.

"See all the people?" he continues.

"No," I answer, but I realize too late that he's making a point.

I look down at him, catching the sadness in his eye, the weight of his words hitting me. I gaze back at the land, feeling the vast emptiness he's trying to show me.

"Who will you talk to, Miss Starweaver?" he probes further.

"I'll talk with my husband," I assert confidently.

He shrugs. "And when he's not there?"

"Our children," I add, imagining a future filled with family and life.

He tries to warn me, "I don't know what Chase told you in his letters, but you're heading into a loneliness so deep that it hurts the heart."

"Only if you let it, Mr. Moonshadow," I counter, determined not to be swayed.

I'm not sure if Wade has ever encountered someone as resolute as me, or if he's ever seen anyone look as serene as I must now, with the wind playing with my hair and a soft smile on my lips.

"I think it's beautiful," I say, a quiet affirmation of my hope.

"You have no idea what you're heading toward," he warns.

"No, I don't. But I know what I've come from. And I have no desire to return to it," I confess, my resolve firm.

I turn slightly to look at him, offering a rueful smile. "You were right this morning when you said I didn't want to see the world as you do. You see only the emptiness. I see a place that's waiting to be filled with dreams."