From Flame and Ash

— Chapter 3 —

The world became as various shades of grey.

WHEN SCARLET disappeared from her world, it was as if a fall of ash drifted across her vision.

Of all the colors in the color palette, Mountie scarlet was the last one Elizabeth had ever thought could become invisible. All the places and all the spaces that she had become so accustomed to seeing that distinctive, vibrant shade — to seeing him — had become empty. It was as if everywhere there had previously been something — someone — there was now nothing.

In the stable, bringing Sergeant back from their morning run, she would swear she heard his voice speaking, low and calm to Newton in the stall opposite, and she would begin to whirl around, heart hammering in her chest, only to catch herself, and instead pretend she'd dropped something on the floor, giving herself the opportunity to discreetly glance across the stable aisle as she made a show of searching. But the man in red was never there. And his huge horse, more often than not, wasn't either.

In the library, no matter how many times she found herself suddenly in need of a new book to read, never, not once, did she lay eyes on the town's Mary Shelley-reading lawman.

Passing the NWMP office, where he was so often to be found in years past, she would glance swiftly in its direction from her distance of safety across the road. But there was no man, no red, and rarely was Newton tied up outside.

She did not see him riding by her house on his rounds, sitting tall and eye-catching astride his massive mount, or walking by with Allie on their familiar path back from their fishing spots.

Her eyes, so accustomed to look up and find his fixed on her with an inexplicable expression in their depths, now found themselves bereft, for he was never there when she looked up, no matter how many times she raised her head.

She had released him from protecting her and he had said he would stay out of her life to give her space, so she should have felt relief, indeed satisfaction, that he was doing just that, and she told herself over and over that she did — I AM relieved not to see him everywhere! It makes me feel calm and - and . . . at ease! — but a cold restlessness kept her eyes always searching behind people, ever restive, when she talked to them, her hands invariably glacial to the touch no matter how warm her surroundings.

Once, when she thought she'd caught him out of the corner of her eye, her stomach clenched as she spun, and then heaved nauseously within her, leaving her shaking with nerves, as she saw that it had been, yet again, a mirage.

He was not there. He was never there.

Her life seemed to move around her in never-ending shades of grey. Who knew that when you removed the warmth of red, everything became colorless in your sphere?

But it wasn't — couldn't be — because red was missing. No. NO. It was because . . . because things were unsettled with the red-wearer.

Yes, that most certainly was the reason. The only reason.

And so time passed, feeling like an era dragging by, although in reality it was but perhaps the span of a week.

And then she saw him again.

But not in red. No. Red was still withheld from her grey-visioned eyes.

It was white and brown, instead, that met her eyes.

His jacket tossed aside on the woodpile, Nathan was clad in a simple white cotton shirt, worn brown suspender straps bracketing his wide shoulders, booted feet braced apart. Had white and brown always looked thus?

It was the sound of the axe that had caught her attention.

It was the middle of the afternoon, the sun beaming bright and hot in the early autumn sky, and the men of the town were usually at work during this portion of the day. But the rhythmic crack! thump! told her more clearly than words that someone was splitting wood and tossing the pieces atop a woodpile.

She rounded the corner so fast that the momentum behind her and the sight before her hit with the force of conflicting tidal waves. Her breath whooshed out and she nearly tripped over her own feet, stumbling in her rush to — stop!

It was him. Nathan.

She stood there, not sure what she wanted to do — stay? flee? — but her feet were under no such dilemma. They were frozen in motion, locking her into place while her mind slowly stopped whirling and went as quiet as a fall of new snow inside her head while she stood, transfixed, unable to pull her shell-shocked eyes from him.

This was alongside Nathan and Allie's house. Of course it was Nathan. Who else did she think it would have been? But thinking hadn't played a part in this. She had just instinctively followed the noise, letting her feet carry her across grass and dirt to bring her face-to-face with the wood chopper.

Nathan's back was half-turned towards her, focused on the task before him; brow furrowed in a concentration that seemed too fierce for the activity at hand. She watched as he caught a round piece of wood in his hand and placed it atop the chopping block, fingers splayed round its circumference. Hands, sun-browned and strong, gripped the axe handle as he raised the blade and brought it down in a swing that hit with concerted force, splitting the wood clean through with one blow.

Elizabeth's hand jerked at the sound, fingers outspread tightly across her midsection. Even at her distance, she could see the play of corded strength in his forearms, exposed by the pushed-back sleeves of his shirt, and the roll of fierce energy in his shoulders as he swung the blade up, sunlight glinting off it. The violent crack! of the log splitting in half drew an involuntary gasp from her lips and Nathan's head jerked in her direction, a breeze tossing his thick dark hair back from his face in wind-roughened waves.

The blue of his eyes darkened visibly as he took her in and she quivered under the exam. His jaw tightened flintily. For a frozen heartbeat, he was as still as she, his hand loosely holding the axe handle, blade braced down against the grass. Silently, without his eyes ever leaving hers, he hefted the tool, swinging it up and letting its handle slip through his open hand till it hit the shoulder of the axe. His fingers closed round it in a grip that turned his knuckles white.

And then he moved in her direction, each step made with a deliberation that simmered, potent and forceful, in the air, his approach a silent question, almost a challenge, with the look in his eyes and in the way he moved.

He came to a stop before her, chest still heaving from exertion. He swiped a hand across his forehead, perspiration glistening on his forearm, leaving a trail of wood dust clinging to him in its wake. Sunlight beat down in a golden swath across his face.

He smelled of wood and iron and masculinity, and she wished he smelled anything but. Flutters of something akin to panic gripped her in the moment and her heart clenched anxiously. His appearance, his height towering over her, the hardened, searching look in his eyes, everything that had passed between them up to this point, the heat of the sun boring down on them — it was all too much, and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands in a desperate attempt to stand her ground.

His hands remained at his sides, but those eyes, so unyielding and firm, continued to sweep hers — and Elizabeth's fragile self-control just broke.

Her feet came unglued and she took a few stumbling steps back, her feet landing at the edge of the dirt road that ran along the front of their row homes.

His mouth opened, the grim lines alongside it lightening as concern darkened his brow.

And Elizabeth bolted.

I'm sorry — I can't, I just can't. Her mind was screaming the words, but there they remained.

Down the road she hurried away from him, her back a rigid line, tiny puffs of dust kicking up around her skirt. He didn't call out after her, there were no footsteps resounding behind her, but she imagined she could feel those crystalline blue eyes of his boring into her back.

What must he think? WHAT am I doing!?

Like an angel to save her, there was Rosemary opening her door, broom in hand. She exclaimed in greeting to Elizabeth, but seeing her expression, swiftly caught her arm, pulling her off the street. Her eyes glanced up the road and only then did Elizabeth allow herself the luxury of doing the same, taking in Nathan's silent, wood-dusted figure at the end of the road as he turned and quietly walked away, axe on his shoulder.

"You'd better come in," her friend advised softly.

Hot tea poured into delicate china teacups. Linen tablecloth hosted gathering piles of lemon-lavender cookie crumbs. The familiar friendship ritual should have calmed her, but Elizabeth found that even the heat of the teacup cradled in her hands was not enough to dispel the cold ache that seemed to have settled as far down as her bones.

Rosemary let the silence go on for so long and then, "Tell me." It wasn't a question.

"I'm so cold, Rosemary," she whispered, her lips barely moving. "I cannot get warm any longer." Except for when Nathan takes my hands in his.

"When did the coldness start?" Rosemary's eyes were studying her shrewdly.

Elizabeth struggled.

Her friend took a sip of tea, in the manner of one who has all the time in the world. Her face was neutral, but her eyes were not.

"When I decided to go to Nathan and tell him I'm not in love with him." It burst out of Elizabeth with a force that was all the more frigid for its very hollowness.

Rosemary sat back at the admission, lacing her hands at her abdomen. "I see."

Quiet fell again until Rosemary said carefully, assessingly, "If you've rejected Nathan, does that mean you've accepted Lucas Bouchard?"

Baldly. "No."

"Well, what does it mean then?" Rosemary gave her a look that on anyone else would have been astringent.

"It means Lucas was right." She stopped, remembering. Rosemary tipped her head, gesturing her to continue. "Love does have to be fought for. But I was never able to fight for a chance at love with him. He knew it." Rosemary nodded, no surprise visible.

Icy tears stood motionless in Elizabeth's eyes. Heaven knows, she'd wanted to fall for Lucas, wanted to fall for anyone who wasn't the steady flame of tenderness and steel that was Nathan Grant.

She lifted her hands almost helplessly. "Something was . . . not there with Lucas. We laughed. I enjoyed the time away from the daily grind of reality that his attentions offered. We came close to kissing twice, but first one, then the other of us couldn't carry through with it. We had a love of literature; similar backgrounds." She ticked them off on her fingers, then searched, finally saying quietly, "But love to see you through pain as well as romance? Those intangible building blocks for living out life side by side with someone for the rest of your days? A man ready to raise Jack's son as he would have wished, in the near future?" She paused for a long moment, lost in her own thoughts, a small pensiveness entering her voice. "I couldn't fight for something that wasn't there, no matter how hard we tried to act like it was with the distracting artifice of candlelight and champagne and formal attire."

Rosemary's eyebrows arched at that, but there was a knowing in her face now, and a remembrance slid through Elizabeth — her, trying on a formal black dress at Dottie's Dress Shop while her friend watched, and her own tell-tale admission: I know it's not really "Elizabeth".

"He brought Hamilton to Hope Valley, made me feel like the girl I was there. But I couldn't continue escaping to a state of suspended reality." A humbled acknowledgement as she bit her lip." It took me awhile to wake up from that escape. I'm just not that girl anymore, though it was fun to pretend for a short time." Rosemary simply nodded, as if she'd known all along, while Elizabeth took a deep breath and returned to her friend's original question. "It means I've decided to live my life free of romantic entanglements, Rosemary. I had one great love; that, and my son, will be enough for me."

"You've told Lucas this?"

"Yes."

Rosemary nodded, then tilted her head, watching her closely. "Tell me about Nathan," she abruptly switched. "How did he react when you told him?"

Memories flooded through her; of thundering skies ripping apart and blue eyes blazing with fire and that something she wouldn't name, of rain-drenched features and hands that seemed like braziers against hers, and she felt a trembling begin in her toes, snaking its way through her.

Her eyes skirted the room, looking anywhere but at her friend. "Rosemary, could we talk about this another time? I-I'm not — I don't think I —"

"Alright, alright." Rosemary held up a slender hand, but Elizabeth had a sinking feeling she'd already seen far more than she'd ever wanted her to. "Then, tell me instead — what was that outside just now? What put you in such a state?"

"N-nothing," Elizabeth stammered hollowly. "I didn't realize it was him chopping wood and I . . . we . . . that is, we s-surprised each other and I needed to get back home, so . . . " Her voice trailed off, and below the table, her hands began to twist together agitatedly. A memory of once having watched Jack chop wood drifted through her minds-eye. But dread pooled, low and sour in her belly, as she realized she hadn't once thought of her deceased husband while watching Nathan split wood with brawn and blade.

"I see." Rosemary was very quiet. Then, very gently, "I know I've been somewhat haphazard in my advice to you on these matters and at one point may have even seemed to lean towards Lucas Bouchard — after all, he did court you in a way that, once upon a time, I myself would have wished to be courted — but you are not me, and . . . well, to be quite frank, dear Elizabeth, it seems to me that only one of those two men has been able to rouse such emotion, such disquiet, in you."

But that was because I was only looking for —

"Nathan seems to stir quite a reaction in you."

"T-that's because —"

"Yes?"

She breathed, deeply. "I realized I was looking for Jack in him."

Rosemary's elegant eyebrow arched even further, if that was possible. Her eyes narrowed, studying Elizabeth, then gradually softened into something that looked liked pitying compassion.

"When? Where?" she questioned softly, her words hitting Elizabeth with the targeted force of whaling harpoons. "How? Since when did you look at Nathan and not see Nathan?"

"It wasn't one particular moment," she was able to respond after a moment, firming her lips.

But then, she remembered Nathan, his impassioned words — that he loved her, that he was in love with her, and his emphatic, surging offer to leave the Mounties, the full-hearted sincerity of it nearly fracturing his voice — and something inside her seemed to shrivel a little at the memory, at that one particular moment in which thoughts of Jack had been the furthest thing from her mind, at that one particular moment in which Nathan Grant had made an offer, ardent and serious — I'd leave the Mounties — that her husband never would have been able to.

Rosemary's voice was even. "If you know the reason you were being pulled to Nathan, then why does he still affect you like this? If you figured out why he had such a reaction on you these past near three years, shouldn't he no longer have the power to create such a response in you, since you've figured out the source of your attraction?"

The silence was heavy.

"It's like the lion with a thorn in his paw. The thorn has been removed from your paw. You figured it out, you know why you were so reactionary around him . . . so why would his presence still stir you so?" Rosemary leaned forward, leveling a look at Elizabeth as she probed deeper. "If the cause has indeed been discovered, and if the cure — telling Nathan, being clear with him — was applied, why do the symptoms persist?"

For the second time in their conversation, Elizabeth found herself struggling. Finally she blurted out, "Because - because . . . because he didn't believe me when I told him, he asked me to make him believe, hence the ongoing t-tension."

"That shouldn't bother you." Rosemary rose and skirted the table between them to sit at her side, taking both her hands. "Elizabeth, if you know the truth about it now, if you have that internal conviction that what you know is right; then that inner certainty would bring a peace which, I tell you as your friend, I do not see in you. I know you well enough to know that even when you are distressed by being at odds with someone, no matter who they are, that internal compass, that certainty that you carry here" — she tapped the center of Elizabeth's chest very gently with a manicured finger — "stabilizes you and you never have this loss of composure. I know, because I've watched you for many years now, and I think . . ." She clasped Elizabeth's stacked hands inside hers again. ". . . if you will but look dauntlessly inside your mind, you'll come to see the veracity of my words. This is no ordinary reaction from you when you find yourself at loggerheads with anyone."

Elizabeth could not speak. She felt like her tongue had dried to her mouth, as if a desert wind had blown through, parching, shriveling her in place. Rosemary never spoke to her like this. Her feet, nestled in the depths of the Coulter's luxurious carpet, twitched.

"Elizabeth . . . " Her friend leaned toward her even further, her voluminous blond locks at odds with the stern expression coating her face. "There was a reason I said who knew what would have happened between you two had you stayed much longer by that wooded log with Nathan when he confessed his love for you. You might have lashed out at him, or bared your heart in return. I may have seemed unobservant at times, but I'm not blind, Elizabeth — and blind I'd have to be not to see the storm of emotions he stirs in you."

"I-I think I should go." Elizabeth stood up from the sofa like someone had lit a fire under her seat, hands slipping from her friend's. "Thank you for the tea, Rosemary. I really should get back and relieve Laura."

She was moving towards the door even as she spoke. She didn't know what to say to her friend. Her mind was spinning, like someone had wound up one of little Jack's tops and let it loose inside her head. Somehow, Rosemary reached the door before she did and stopped her with one hand on her arm.

"Forgive me for speaking so plainly, Elizabeth." Her eyes were steady with sincerity. "But after my last conversation with Nathan in the library and what he said of you, I found myself revisiting and reassessing what I thought I knew. Some things appeared clear as day from the outside looking in, and I hope I have not offended you by sharing them. But I felt it was high time someone did."

Her face was clear and unapologetic, but a tenderness entered her eyes as she leaned forward and embraced Elizabeth's stiff shoulders. Elizabeth smelled the familiar waft of Rosemary's sophisticated perfume and longed to relax into her embrace, to pour her heart out, to weep, to finally, finally, release the flood gates, but she could not. The chill inside her shivered her heart. Rosemary pulled away, and holding her upper arms in her hands, gave her a serious and loving look before silently releasing her and opening the door.

A breeze greeted Elizabeth as she hurriedly stepped out onto Rosemary's porch. Birds were chirping, the sun shone calmly, but inside, she felt jagged, disrupted.

The sudden sound of a gasoline engine broke the tranquility of the rural afternoon. From up the road, approaching at a swift clip, came an automobile. Lucas, clad in his usual three-piece suit, was driving, Fiona beside him, her full lips upturned in a broad smile, laughing as she tossed a comment over her shoulder to Hickam in the back seat. Fiona's sleek curls shone dark and glossy above the chic black detailing of her crisp white shirtwaist.

Lucas caught sight of her standing on the porch with Rosemary. There was a brief hesitation, then he raised a hand from the steering wheel in a wave. The car barreled by the house in a cloud of dust and exhaust. Fiona spotted them almost at the last moment and, after a swift glance at Lucas under her eyelashes, smiled warmly as they passed. Hickam bounced awkwardly in the back seat, his hand waving from behind the back window as the car turned the curve past Elizabeth's house and disappeared from sight.

It was only when she was safely back in her own home, door closed firmly on the outside world with its wood chopping men and their searching eyes that saw too much, that she realized that Rosemary had not advised that she see a doctor about her onset of acute coldness.

It was almost as if she knew. Knew that this malady was not of the body.

And Elizabeth Thornton's world remained grey and cold.

—ooO0Ooo—

Author's Note: Mmmkay! So! Rosemary bugged me quite a bit over the course of the love triangle on the show. And I prefer a Rosemary who will call her friend out when she needs it (like a mature woman and friend), and offer wisdom, including the speaking of hard truths, when no one else will. (I mean real wisdom; not flibberty-gibbet "advice" like going off alone with a man on an overnight, out of town excursion as a single Christian woman in 1916). So my version of Rosemary is going to be a bit different here in this story. And we definitely haven't seen the last of her.

Oh, and just as an FYI: For the purposes of this story, Elizabeth has NOT removed her rings yet. After all, she's made the decision to remain alone for the rest of her days with the memory of Jack to keep her company as she raises their son; so, to her thinking, why should she remove them? (She's not thinking too well these days, obviously. *Insert my theatrically rolling eyes here, LOL!*) Don't worry, those rings WILL be coming off in this story . . . just not yet.

Also, forgive me for brushing past some of E's "moments" with L in her conversation with RM in this chapter (I cringed, too), but it was necessary, and if there's one thing I'm not shying away from in this story — it's embracing the painful and imperfect.

I hope you all enjoyed this latest update! More to come! Thank you to every one of my readers! I wish I could thank every one of my reviewers, too, but there are a couple I wanted to mention by name:

All my beautiful Guest Reviewers: You guys leave me such positive and affirming words that I wish I knew your names so I could personally thank you, but know that I see you, I hear you, and I'm grateful for everything you say. (Oh! I see one Guest signed their review — "Angelwing", you are SO welcome, and Nathan is definitely not giving up on Lizabeth, but this will be a tumultuous ride for them. Please keep checking back; I have lots more moments between them to share in their story!)

Inspiredmomof2: Girl, shipping not one but two of the same couples makes me feel such an affinity with you! Thank you for leaving such gorgeous, heartfelt reviews both here and on my "When Hope Calls" story (I'm so glad you're loving that story! It's my long-chapters "baby" and I do so love writing it.) I look forward to seeing what you thought after every new chapter is uploaded and love reading your reviews; you have such spot-on observations, it's a joy to read as an author. And about this story: You're 100% correct. Nathan has said all he can to Elizabeth, and now he needs to be pursued. I'm beyond humbled (and grateful) that you took a chance on this N&E story despite your post-S8 distaste for Elizabeth. (Believe me, I understand that.) I'm so honored, and I will continue to try to earn the trust you showed in my writing.

Pharmama: Welcome! You're speaking to my heart with your words. That was exactly what pulled me in with N&E, too. (Well, one of the things.) Their emotional depth and connection, and the potential for an even more profound connection, given their respective histories, together and separate, was a massive pull. Such a monumental, senseless waste . . . #NotOverIt Still in a state of disbelief — about everything. It's surreal.

Hi00000: Thank you so much for saying that. I, too, always thought N&E didn't need words. They seemed to speak with their eyes, so beautifully and tenderly. I'm so moved that you felt that in Chap. 2 between them.

saltlifegirl25: Right!? The seeds for a good fight between them were there; they were planted and overdue, to my mind. And the actors had such fierce chemistry onscreen in those "fighting" scenes. Again, what a monumental and illogical waste they made of it all. "They need to go a few rounds" = yesssssss! haha! Someone bring a boxing ring, y'all! Well, if "tension and angst leading to a slow burn" is your cup of tea, then this story should be right up your alley. I look forward to seeing your thoughts!

Missela: I'm glad the tension came across. I always loved the fraught tension between them when emotions — whether happy or sad — flared.

Jacki Foster: E certainly is way too hard-headed, too sure that she's always right and in the right. Totally on point w/your observation there! She needs to be knocked down several pegs. I'm with you: the finale was a dumpster fire of garbage. Pure lies. They made a mockery of their own previous storytelling; of the narrative they themselves had laid down. And I'm finished with watching That Show, too. Thank you so much for your beautiful review!

Elle018: That might be one of the greatest compliments I've ever received on a story, Elle. I'm so humbled. What an honor. :3 I will continue striving to earn your lovely words.

Rockchelle99: Welcome, fellow TN! Thank YOU so much for your beautiful words in the review you left! I'm smiling from ear to ear reading it. The finale was horrid, you're right, and I will do my best to rectify the disaster which they created-pulled out of thin air, promise. I love the power of sensory details and try to work it into all my stories. I'm so glad that style resonates with you! Please stay tuned!

Kcrow125: That means a great deal, thank you so much. More is coming!

purplesinger56: You don't know what it means to a writer to be told that they captured a character perfectly. Thank you — so much! — for that! Made me a very happy and satisfied author! I'm so happy you found my writing and are enjoying it!