Shadow show
574 Words
*Wade*
Being an honorable man would mean looking away.
But I've never been that.
I'm lying here on my pallet by the fire, covers drawn over me, my eyes stuck to the tent.
It wasn't until I'd banked the fire, submerging the camp into near darkness, that I noticed the lantern's glow casting shadows within the tent. A shadowy spectacle visible from my vantage point.
I can see her, the she-wolf, sitting on the cot reading a letter. Those clover green eyes scanning the page, darkening every time she speaks.
She's been reading for a while now. I find pleasure in watching her put one letter away, and take out another from the envelope. Her movements are elegant, refined, and practiced… as if she reads these letters often. I find myself wondering if those are letters from Chase, and what he might have told her about us, his brothers. Then I curse myself for giving it a second thought.
She places the letters on a small table near the cot, the same one holding the lantern. She stretches her arms above her head, reaching for the top of the tent.
As she lowers her arms, she starts to take out the pins from her hair. I watch as the shadow of her hair cascades over her shoulders and down her back.
My hands clench, and I find myself unable to look away. She reaches into her bag and pulls out her brush. Slowly, she starts brushing her hair.
I count the strokes.
And I envy the brush.
And I envy my brother, who will have the privilege of watching her without a canvas cloth between them.
A hundred strokes. A hundred long, torturous strokes.
She braids her hair. It seems criminal, confining something so beautiful. To confine her magnificent hair into a braid, to confine such a beautiful she-wolf to a secluded ranch in West Texas.
Gradually, she undresses, every stitch, until nothing is left but the shadow of her flesh. My body reacts, my fist clenching the blanket.
Sweat beads on my forehead, my chest, my throat.
I find myself praying for a cool breeze to sweep over my skin and ease some of this heat, but the heat only escalates when she drops a cloth into the bucket and bends over to get it.
She tilts her head back, lifts her arms, squeezes the cloth, and lets the drops fall over her face and shoulders... her breasts.
Casually, she wipes the cloth along her throat, tracing the path of the droplets running down her body.
I imagine feeling the rhythm of her heartbeat, the heat of her skin. I envision it's my hand sliding over her body instead of the cloth, my hand exploring her curves, my lips leaving a damp trail on her skin.
Turning to my side, I pull my knees towards my chest, curling up like a child trying to shield himself from the raw loneliness. A single tear trickles down my cheek.
I have my horses. I have my solitude. And on nights when the moon is full, I can look out across the vast prairie and hear nothing but the distant cattle, the whispering wind, and the promise of another day.
And if there are moments like this one, when I yearn for more, I need only glance at my reflection in the calm waters of a pond to remember that I deserve less.
So much less.
- Writer
