The hardest trails yet to come
1491 Words
*Wade*
I scoop the mud out of the bowl and pat it over the swollen flesh on Briony’s calf, hoping the coolness will reduce the swelling. Damn, I don’t want to have to cut out part of her muscle. I know the venom can kill the flesh, the muscle, and in rare instances, the victim.
The thought of her dying causes a hard, painful knot to settle deep in my chest. I'm certain she has more questions she wants to ask, discoveries she wants to make.
I want her to see a sunset from the porch of my cabin, with the far-off horizon a distant haze. I want to learn to answer her questions with patience.
I want to watch her daughter grow up.
For some unholy reason, I think she will give Chase a little girl instead of the son he craves. I imagine a little girl with Briony’s golden hair, her green eyes, and her tiny tipped-up nose, running over Chase’s ranch, wrapping deltas and gammas around her tiny finger. I hope sometime She will visit with her Uncle Wade. I will give her a gentle mare to ride and share my secret place with her where the wildflowers bloom, the water mists, and the sky is always blue.
And I will love her. If she is half as sweet as her mother, I will love her.
I shift my gaze to Briony’s face. Dear Goddess, but she is pale. I brush my mud-caked fingers over my trousers until they feel clean, then I gently wipe away the dewy sweat beading above her upper lip.
I wish I had been able to spare her the sight of my face uncovered. I told her to close her eyes, but she didn’t obey me, and I hadn’t had time to press the issue.
If Chase had told her to close her eyes, she would have closed them. His voice carries the mark of authority. If the man says, ‘Jump!’, every other man within earshot asks, ‘How high?’
Hell, I hadn’t been able to make those two ragamuffins at the train depot follow my order to leave me alone. Maybe that's the reason I enjoy working with horses so much. They listen to me.
Briony’s eyes flutter open, her green gaze vacant. Damn, I wish the snake had chosen me.
Her lips lift slightly, and a small spark glints in her eyes. “No shadow show tonight.”
I swallow hard, wondering how she can tease me when she is feeling so poorly. “You get to feeling better, and I’ll give you one,” I promise, knowing I would give her anything, do anything if she just wouldn’t die on me.
Her smile withers away like flowers pulled from the earth and left too long without water. Reaching out, she presses her palm against my left shoulder, her warmth seeping through my flannel shirt. “Did you get this wound at the same time?”
I nod slowly. "Yes. I'm sorry you had to see my face..."
She moves her hand up to palm my left jaw. The scars are fewer there, and I can feel the gentleness of her touch.
"The scars suit you," she says quietly.
Yeah, the scars suit me. A man should be as ugly on the outside as he is on the inside.
Self-consciously, I wrap my fingers around her hand and place it on the cot. She tucks it beneath her chin and draws her legs up as she lies on her side, vulnerable as the day she was born. I bring a blanket up to her shoulders, but it can only protect her from the chill of the evening, not the harshness of life. Offering comfort is as foreign to me as giving an apology. I desperately search the recesses of my mind for some memory to help me.
An image comes to me, so powerful that my hands shake. A time when I’d had nothing but pain, fear, and the overwhelming desire to die. Another memory teases the back of my mind. Small hands, a nurse’s hands, rubbing my back, making the pain tolerable with her sweetness. Like most of the young wounded soldiers, I had entertained the idea of marrying her... until I had caught sight of my reflection in a mirror.
I place my hand against the small of Briony’s back and feel her stiffen beneath my fingertips. "I won't hurt you," I reassure her. "Just gonna help you forget."
Awkwardly, I rub my splayed fingers over her back. She has such a small back. I wonder if she will have the strength to bear Chase the son he wants... or the daughter I think she will have.
I stroke her shoulders, stopping just short of the nape of her neck. Touching her flesh, absorbing her warmth appeals to me, appeals to me as it shouldn’t. I have no right to feel her skin beneath my fingers, even if I am only offering comfort.
"My mother used to rub my back when I was sick," she says quietly, and my fingers falter.
My thoughts are anything but motherly. "I just thought it might help."
"It does."
My hand continues its slow sojourn over her slender back. Touching her in a less than intimate manner warrants a bit of reverence that can best be appreciated with silence: like watching the rising of a full yellow moon or hearing a wolf calling out to his mate.
"Would you mind reading one of Chase’s letters to me? I always find comfort in his words. They're in my bag." Her mouth curves up. "But I suppose you know that."
I prefer stroking her back to reading, but my desires don't seem nearly as important as hers. Opening her bag, I remove the bundle of letters. My fingers feel clumsy as they untie the delicate ribbon that binds the letters together.
"Take one from the middle," she suggest. "Any one."
I select the one that looks the most worn, figuring it must be her favorite. I slide the letter from its envelope. "You sure you want me to read this?"
She nods. I turn up the flame in the lantern and angle the letter so the dim light illuminates my brother's words. I clear my throat.
April 6, 1876
My dear Miss Starweaver,
The wind blew through this afternoon, turning the wheel on my windmill for the first time. The wheel groaned and complained, as some men are wont to do, but eventually, it worked hard enough to bring up the water. I enjoyed listening to its steady clack. Hopefully, many a night it will serenade my family to sleep.
Loneliness does not exist for me when I am surrounded by the vast expanse of land and the endless possibilities. I think you would find much here to ease your loneliness: the land, the howling wind, the braying of cattle, the sun, the moon, the stars. When I ride out at night alone, I find companionship in all that surrounds me. I tell you this because I do not want you to think that loneliness is responsible for the following words.
I believe a wife and sons would enrich my life beyond measure. And I would do all in my power to enrich theirs.
After a year of corresponding, I am convinced you and I are well suited, and I would be honored to have you as my wife. I shall anxiously await your reply.
Yours,
Chase Moonshadow
"I said yes," Briony states softly.
I set the letters aside, pick up the cloth, and wipe her brow. "Yep. Chase was grinning like a fool for a week after he got your letter."
Her laughter washes over me as gently as a spring rain. I can't recall ever making someone laugh... or causing them happiness. A measure of disquiet sweeps through me. I don't want her depending on me for laughter, happiness, or comfort because eventually, she'll learn the truth about me: I'm not a man that a person can depend on.
I know Chase had experienced qualms about sending me to fetch his future mate, but he had no choice. I want to believe Chase sent me because he trusts me and has gained a measure of respect for me, but I know the truth: Chase had no one else to send.
Her laughter fades into silence, and she places her hand on my arm. "You really can be quite charming." Her cheeks flush, and I'm not entirely sure it's from the fever. "Chase will be a good husband, won't he?"
"The best." I drop the cloth into the bowl of water. "I'll fetch you some water to drink."
I begin to stand up. She reaches out, her fingers encircling my hand. "Thank you for saving my life."
I don't have the heart to tell her that the hardest trials are yet to come.
- Writer
