.

.

.

THE PRICE OF RESURRECTION TRILOGY

The Second Story

.

REAPING THORNS

Jántallian

.

Part 1

'Friendship that flows from the heart cannot be frozen by adversity,

as the water that flows from the spring cannot congeal in winter.'

James F. Cooper

.

1

.

The rain blew horizontally along the road from Laramie, cold sheets of bitter drops driven southeast by a knife-chill wind. The rattle of falling water and the hiss of the gale obscured all other sounds. So the small buggy pulled in to the relay station unnoticed. The occupant was relatively dry, since the rain had been behind all the way from the town. It would be in her face going back. But it was worth it. And it was another score to add to his account.

It was scarcely mid-morning, but almost as dark as dusk. The ranch-house was tucked into the side of the hill like a small animal, burrowing away from danger. There was no sign of life in the corrals or the yard. Even the dogs were huddled in the shelter of the barn. The place might have been empty, dead, scoured of life by the relentless elements. But a single lighted window threw a warm glow of welcome out to any passing stranger struggling through the storm in search of shelter.

Her struggle through the storm had one objective and one only.

The buggy drew to a halt alongside the hitching rail. There was no sign that its arrival had been noticed. This was partly because there was almost no-one to notice. She had seen the old man and the boy alight from the early stage and make a dash for the Hotel. From her obscure seat in the lobby she had been able to overhear their conversation and knew that the owner was not at home. There was only one person left on the relay station. Thus circumstances played into her hand and she was not forced to engineer a solitary meeting.

The woman pulled her heavy cloak close about her and tightened the strings of the hood. She drew a deep breath and braced herself for the impact of the wind and the rain as she dismounted. This was a wise precaution. If she had not been hitching the reins to the rail, she would have been struck down. As it was, once she let go, the force of the wind almost drove her to her knees as she was flung in the direction of the building. Her outstretched hands hit the log wall hard. They were protected by her gloves, but she had no feeling at all as she groped and staggered her way along the front of the house until she could look into the lighted window. The indignity of her progress added yet another score to his account.

It was the kitchen window from which the light was flooding. She looked in. The range was glowing cheerfully and a big lantern hung from the ceiling, swaying occasionally as a particularly strong blast of wind struck the house. It looked positively cozy, but the room was basic, primitive. A few wall cupboards with utensils hanging under them. A small sink with some items to be washed. Bunches of herbs dangling from hooks on the wall. A side of bacon waiting to be carved on the bench below the window. A place without refinement or culture, a place where family connections and status had to play second fiddle to the strains of living hand to mouth. Her own mouth curled with contempt and malice, yet a shudder ghosted over her skin at the memory of the price she had paid to rise above such an existence.

There was a man working at the opposite bench, under the cupboards. He was making bread. His back was to the watcher, who could see the strong muscles of his arms and shoulders flexing under his shirt as he rolled the dough out with the heel of his hand, then pulled it back into a round with his fingers, rolled it out again and drew it back. The movement was rhythmic, soothing. He was whistling softly under his breath as he worked. She recognized the plaintive melody and recalled the words: 'For I am a rebel soldier and I'm oh so far from home'.

But he wasn't far away. He was home. Peacefully making bread as if there were no more important thing to do in the world. He was even wearing an apron. Her lips tightened with contempt as she took in this symbol of domesticity. It was utterly at odds with her memory of his cold and merciless character. Another charade? Another illusion, just like the illusion that there was any safety or any trust? How could there be any true peace, any real family? If it existed in this place, it was a peace and a family she had come to shatter.

The bread-maker had finished kneading the dough to his satisfaction and was dividing it into several tins waiting on the bench. When he had done so he turned away as a fit of harsh coughing suddenly shook him. It was the only sign of weakness she had ever seen in him. It made a bitter pleasure touch her face again.

She turned away from the window, from this fragile calm shining out against the rage of the elements. She struggled back along the wall to the front door. The power of the storm was nothing compared with the rage burning within her.

The front door was not locked. She opened it, knowing that any betraying noise would be concealed by the racket of the wind and rain.

The room inside was dim, unlit except for a well-made fire glowing on the hearth. It was peaceful, almost still despite the weather outside. She gained an impression of bare walls, one or two pictures and some of shelves of books. A gun-rack in the corner. Minimal furniture – a couch in front of the fire, a rocking chair, a bench under the window and nearby an old-fashioned desk with a chair pulled up to it. In the middle of the room was a big, plain scrubbed table with four or five chairs around it. She pulled out the one opposite the kitchen door and sat down. She waited.

- # - # - # -

The man came through the kitchen door, unhitching the apron with one hand so that he could toss it back into the room. In his other hand he was clutching a bundle of cutlery. Knives and forks.

He stopped, frozen in mid-movement, as he sensed someone's presence in the room. The faint perfume in the air must have told him at once that it was a woman, but nothing more. The room was so dark she was just a slender silhouette, seated on the far side of the table. After the briefest pause, he took the three paces to the other side of it. He reached up and pulled down the oil lamp hanging over the table. There was a spitting sound and a sudden smell of sulfur as he struck a match one-handed. The soft glow of the lamp gradually filled the space between them.

As the light began to lift the shadows, she felt an unexpected shock. In silhouette, he had looked exactly the same - lean, hard, broad shoulders, narrow hips, with all the grace and power of a hunting wolf. In the light, she was facing a stranger. The chiseled planes of the face were the same but, just for a moment, before he registered who she was, he looked relaxed and happy. A crooked half smile was on his lips, as if an inner joke was amusing him. Gone was the narrow line of the mustache which had made his mouth look so cruel. She was looking into deep blue eyes, not black ones. His hair, no longer slicked back, was rough and curly, a stray lock tumbling over his forehead in a way which would be very appealing, had she felt anything but hatred for him. And he looked so young. Because he was. Much too young for the life-events she had been able to discover. So much younger than she had realized.

He stood looking down at her. His face was now completely expressionless, just as it had been when they had parted almost a year ago. Not a sound escaped his lips. The woman too remained silent and still. There might have been a thousand miles of icy waste between them instead of an ordinary table.

At length he moved, setting down the cutlery with infinite care upon the bare surface. The last time they had been face to face, she had taunted him that he could not use a knife and fork properly.

"Miss Sherman-Gordon." The husky tones were the same - and still, she realized with fury, capable of sending a shiver down her spine. And why had he never, ever addressed her, even when they had been most intimate, in anything other than formal terms? "Y' have a reason for bein' here?"

The accent caught her by surprise. Not the cold, slightly English tones she remembered when he broke his habitual silence – this was a voice with roots in a country of its own. The shock rendered her momentarily speechless herself. How long was it since she had heard that hated Texan accent, the seductive drawl which promised warmth, security, trust - and then betrayed it? She let the silence grow between them. He ought to be used to it!

Eventually it was she who broke it, coldly, impersonally: "Would I waste my time and money getting here without one?" The very word 'time' drove another stab of recollection through her.

He said nothing – he was good at that! – merely leant forward, his hands on the table, as if inviting her to go on. She could not know the significance of the stance, the long timeless moments he had spent leaning just like that, when grief made any movement unbearable.

"Yes, I have a reason. A reason I thought you ought to hear."

"I'm listenin'!"

She told him.

She saw his expression change and she knew she was right. She had found the weapon which would stab through the cold self-control which had so enticed and baffled her! Only once before had she seen that feeling in his eyes: the time he had challenged her with her lack of care for a child of her family. It was the look of someone to whom family is of supreme importance – someone who would fight and die to protect the children of that family – someone for whom the continuing life of the generations was an integral part of the purpose of existence. She knew too the lengths to which he had gone to find and protect those he cared for, even though they were not related by blood. How much more he would give for those who were his own.

"Why didn't you tell -?" The question was bitten off in mid-breath because he knew the truth. Why would she confide in a man she thought was as callous and cold-blooded as she was? When he had deceived her and all she held dear, why should she trust him? Yet he was to be trusted absolutely over this. There was no way he would allow harm to come to the defenseless, to the vulnerable in his care, to the ones it was his desire as well as his duty to protect.

With her next words, she shattered all that protection and love. She told him what she had done.

"Catherine, you can't have! How could you?" His voice was soft now, pleading … but it was too late. She could see all too clearly what might have been. See that here was a man who would never desert or betray his children. Never abandon a little one to their fate as she had been abandoned so long ago by a father who never wanted the name. The want was unmistakable in this man's voice and in his face. In the gentleness and the compassion and the strength.

But it was too late for gentleness, too late for caring, too late for first names – much, much too late to purge the festering bitterness she had carried like a long thorn driven through the armor of her egotism, deep into her heart.

She rose to her feet, ignoring his appeal, and walked to the door. In the doorway, she turned and looked back at him.

"You should have used that knife!"

.

.

Notes: Apologies to Texans for maligning the accent and not being terribly good at writing it.