From Flame and Ash
— Chapter 8 —
Memories Of Moonlight Under A Shimmering Sun
HEATWAVES SHIMMERED across the worn roof, beating down on the lone man on its surface who worked as though fire licked at his heels.
His hands were relentless as they pulled away roofing, exposing the beams of the rafters beneath, the discarded materials sliding off the roof to fall into a debris pile below. It was a slow and exerting task; his arms and back ached from the incessant movement.
But Nathan barely noticed.
Memories of certain schoolteacher besieged him, fueling every nail he tore up, every shingle he pulled off, every burn in his muscles as he labored steadily across one section of the roof.
He worked as though he were trying to exorcise demons, but it was the memory of Elizabeth's wan, sleeping face against his shoulder, and those eyes which seemed to rend apart when she had looked up at him, heavy lidded with exhaustion, as he laid her spent form down against the softness of her bed . . .
He stilled, head down between braced shoulders, hands gripping the rough wood of a beam, and breathed deeply in, then out.
Carrying her, sleeping and helpless, in his arms had been both heaven and hell on his heart.
Kissing her, feeling her soft but cold forehead under his lips, whispering against it that he loved her, had not been planned; it had been borne out of a movement that stirred from the very depths of his soul towards her, one which he gave into only because she was nearly unconscious with exhaustion, with little chance of it ever being remembered. And because he knew Laura could not have heard his near-soundless whisper from where she stood watchfully on the other side of the bed; for the rest, he trusted her discretion.
But finding Elizabeth's note tucked into the jamb of his door the next morning, with its simple apology written in her elegant yet practical hand, had made everything inside him go still and silent. It was the last thing he expected to receive from her seemingly icy and angry heart.
Yet there it was.
That she had written it the same night he had carried her home, that she had slipped up the road at some point in the night to tiptoe her small feet across his porch . . . her effort made those two simple words — I'm sorry — so much more than just ink and parchment.
That it was her flareup outside the library she penned the apology for, he knew instinctively. They weren't at a point yet that she would be saying those words for anything else. When she had arrived at his door the following evening, stumbling over her words like a drunk man in the dark as she tried to give his basket of food back to him, he'd seen something in her eyes. He'd seen that something again right before he'd left her on her steps, but that time, the unknown something was accompanied by unspoken questions swirling through her eyes in a whirlpool of emotion.
Leaving her on those steps had been both harder and simpler than he had imagined.
Unlocking his tense fingers from the beam they clenched around, he shoved himself upright again and dragged a forearm across his exertion-dampened brow. He needed to purge Elizabeth from his thoughts in order to focus on the work at hand.
Hard to do when she echoed behind every beat of his heart.
He paused, distracting himself by looking out over his land from his high vantage point. Its beauty and eminent suitability for their needs struck him all over again like it was the first time, and he didn't scruple to thank the God who had made it possible.
Newton nickered from where he stood in the small, fenced paddock tucked into a corner of the property to the rear of the house. It housed a lean-to, big enough to shelter several animals if need be. Nathan loosed a low whistle of reassurance and was gratified to see his horse settle, lowering his head to munch again on the green grass.
The only other inhabitant on the property was currently below him inside the house, attacking the interior with a broom as if by sheer vigor she could get them moved into the house earlier. She had fallen in love the instant she had laid eyes on the property and was bursting at the seams with her desire to move in now.
Thinking of his young niece, now legally adopted as his daughter, brought a warmth swelling his heart, as thoughts of her always did. Allie was one of the greatest gifts God had ever bestowed on him, despite the fact that she came into his life on a wave of pain. Losing his sister Colleen had been one of the most gut wrenching experiences he had ever been through, but she had left him a precious gift. Allie, whose sassy-sweet eight-year old energy filled his life and gave him a purpose even when other areas of his life left him battered and weary.
Turning back to his labor, his hands tested the beam he'd exposed moments earlier; it looked strong and free of rot, needing only some nail reinforcements to shore it up more tightly. As he drove the nails into the wood with hard-hitting, sure blows, he wished somewhat grimly that the issues between the town's schoolteacher and himself could be fixed as easily.
But human hearts, simple or complex by nature, were built layer upon layer, and were fragile enough not to rush.
How many layers down was Elizabeth's truth buried? How many layers were left still to be peeled away? How much deeper did he have to go?
Whack! He drove a nail home with a surging stroke of power and let himself sprawl back against the pitched roof with a rough, bursting exhale of breath, hammer still clenched tightly in hand.
Stay out of her life, Nathan, keep your distance. Like you said.
"I'm trying," he growled back at the voice in his head, staring up at the blue sky. But when the woman looks like death warmed over from exhaustion and hunger . . .
"Uncle Nathan?"
The perky, questioning voice sounded close to him, too close, and he bolted to a sitting position. The heart-shaped face of his small niece smiled at him, torso and shoulders visible above the edge of the roof from the ladder she was perched on.
She extended a hand to him, a cold glass of water visible. "I brought you some water."
Nathan was not one to baby Allie. Fiercely protect, yes; coddle, no. She was a bit of a tomboy, with an independent, adventurous streak a mile wide, and usually he gave her wide allowance with her actions, but a two-story high roof was a bit much even for him. He moved towards her, careful not to raise his voice.
"Thanks, Allie, very thoughtful of you." He sipped on the water. It was cold and refreshing, sliding down his throat, and he tipped some over his face, letting it wash over his features, hearing Allie giggle at the action. "But this is a bit of a tenuous position up this high" — he reached out and flicked his finger gently against her cheek in an old, familiar gesture between them — "even for you, monkey."
"Aww, Uncle Nathan." Her grumble was half-hearted and in it, he heard that she knew she shouldn't be up here. "Can't I come up, just for a minute? I want to see our home from up high, too."
Our home.
Carefully setting his glass down on an exposed rafter nearby, he reached out both hands to her and pulled her to his side. "Alright, you little shyster, come here . . . but only for a few minutes. And" — he snagged a handful of her clothing — "I'm holding onto you."
"Wow," she breathed, not protesting his hold, eagerly swiveling her head around. "It looks so different from up here. Newton looks small." She tilted her head to look up at him seriously. "I love it, Uncle Nathan. This is going to be our best home ever."
He rested a hand on her head and dropped his chin down onto it for a moment. "Yes, yes, it is, Allie," he said softly, then steered her gingerly back towards the ladder. "Back down with you, young lady." But he eased down the ladder ahead of her, hawk eyes watching her discreetly, ready to catch her if her feet so much as slipped on the rungs.
"How about we break for lunch?" he suggested as she reached the ground, her small feet landing without a sound in the grass. "You can tell me about this story you're writing."
"'K, Uncle Nathan," she enthused and he thanked God that she had not yet reached the age where she didn't want to share things like her stories with him, although the mothers at her school assured him it was rapidly approaching. Some days, he wasn't sure if he had a budding mathematician or writer on his hands, she loved both so much.
He wrapped a hand affectionately around her small shoulders as they walked up the steps, across the front porch, and into the shadowy, cool recesses of the spacious house.
Gathering the lunch materials they'd brought with them, they ate on the temporary table he'd created by laying an old door on top of two wooden sawhorses, chatting quietly together. As they rose from their meal, offering a closing thanks to God for His bounty, Nathan's mind began to drift to the telegram he'd received the day before.
Arrived safely. It had been signed simply: Bill
He couldn't help but wonder what had greeted Bill in California. The telegram had given nothing away.
—ooO0Ooo—
Cantering in a lazy circle around Bouchard's oil site had become a daily part of his rounds.
This day was no different.
Distant sounds met his ears. The clatter of machinery and tools; voices calling to each other; and then the hollow tap-tap-tap of a bold woodpecker on the termite-infested trunk of a tree closer at hand . . . and another sound, soft and plaintive. Alert and curious, he urged Newton forward, heading him toward a small grove of trees, behind which seemed to emanate the sound his ears had picked up. Rounding the edge of the grove, he pulled up short.
His eyebrows shot up.
Ahead, their backs to him and intent on the task at hand, a coatless Lucas Bouchard had Fiona Miller hoisted atop his shoulders, their faces turned upwards. Fiona was standing on his shoulders with his hands holding her modestly skirt-swathed calves steady as she stretched toward a far-flung branch, leaning out . . . as . . . far . . . as . . . she . . . could . . .
"Need a hand?" Nathan inquired dryly.
The sound jolted the towering pair like someone had clanged frying pans together in their ears.
Fiona gasped out sharply, losing her precarious balancing act, and toppled down in a froth of flailing arms and red skirts and dark curls, tumbling into Lucas's arms as he surged up to catch her. From above, the tiny white fluff ball of hissing fur and blue eyes that she had been trying to rescue from its perilously uncertain perch eyed the scene below with a baleful expression.
Nathan started to apologize for startling them but stopped when he realized his interruption was the last thing on either of their minds.
The pair had frozen when Lucas's arms closed about her; then, two things happened simultaneously — Fiona loosed herself from him, and Lucas abruptly released her. Nathan noted with interest that both their faces were inscrutable as Fiona batted at her skirt and Lucas ran an eye over her in cursory inspection. There was a drag of dirt across the arm of one of the businessman's usually immaculate white sleeves, unencumbered by a suit coat, and a scratch across one cheek. Blood gathered in a thin line, giving his cheekbones pirate definition.
"Are you unharmed?" The businessman's voice was a touch terse.
Hers was composed. Perhaps a bit unnaturally so. "Quite so, Mr. Bouchard."
Lucas's brow darkened at the formality, and Nathan decided this might be a diplomatic time to intervene, intriguing though these interactions were. He eased Newton ahead and, pausing him beneath the troublesome branch, boosted himself up in the saddle and easily captured the tiny kitten in his gloved hand. Its little claws made no impression on the thick, weathered leather.
"Careful," Fiona warned to the side of him. "She's quite ferocious and likes to leap."
As if in direct contrivance to her words, the small animal sheathed her claws and kneaded her paws against the sleeve of his red serge, then, light as a feather, daintily picked her way over his arm and with a contented shake of her fluffy head, settled herself down in front of him in the saddle, and curling up her tiny body before his pommel, began to purr very softly. Newton was very still beneath them.
Nathan glanced over at the staring pair.
"I . . . I don't believe it," Fiona whispered, brushing disheveled dark hair off her forehead. "We chased that cat all over the site and into the woods, trying to catch her before she hurt herself, and she acted like we were her mortal enemies, and then you show up and she acts as if she loves humans!"
Nathan stroked a gloved finger between the miniature feline's ears and was rewarded with a strengthening purr. He was just starting to respond to Fiona when the undergrowth rustled beyond the grove of trees, and he turned slightly in the saddle to see Hickam come barreling into the clearing, a wooden ladder in hand.
"Lucas, Fiona — I've got a . . . " he trailed off, staring between the pair on the ground and the Mountie on horseback; the white kitten a splash of snow against the scarlet backdrop of the serge. "Oh."
"Thanks," Lucas directed his attention to the ladder. "I appreciate the effort."
"Sure," the other man agreed. "So, you going to keep the cat, Fiona?"
"I'd like to, but . . . " She warily approached the kitten, who opened one eye at her, blinked, and only went back to dozing once Fiona had halted. The woman looked chagrined. "I don't think she likes me much at the moment."
Nathan picked up his reins in one hand, the other loosely braced around the kitten's sleeping form. "I think I'd better keep an eye on her for now. Maybe someone in town needs a cat. I might check with the livery stable." Fiona's face looked distraught at mention of the cat becoming a mouser and he softened. "Tell you what; I'll keep her with me for the time being, and if you want to try again with her, you know where to find me."
Fiona's eyes warmed with relief, but Nathan didn't miss the sharp look Lucas shot between them at his last sentence.
"Or maybe someone's missing a kitten," Hickam offered helpfully. "I'll ask around and find out, Nathan."
He nodded. "Good idea, thank you, Hickam." His knees urged Newton on. "This little miss and I need to get going and finish my rounds. I'll see you."
He glanced in the general direction of the other three in good-bye; Fiona gave a small wave; Hickam bobbed his head; Lucas watched Fiona expressionlessly.
—ooO0Ooo—
Mind still lazily turning over the brusque turn in Bouchard and Fiona's communication at the end of their kitten-rescuing mission, Nathan rode into town and headed toward his office.
As he passed the Infirmary, he noticed Lee and Rosemary Coulter exiting, his arm around her, her hands clinging to his in a grip that seemed unnaturally tight. Their faces were strained. Nathan felt a flicker of concern, but as they gave no indication of being aware of his presence — or anyone else's — he passed without a word, glancing back at them just once, a slight frown marking his features.
He continued up the street, just in time to see a small crowd of passengers disembarking from the evening coach. One, he recognized; a stylish young woman with a slender face under a pert hat, and a self-contained manner about her.
Katie Yost. Back again?
The other passengers milled about; some grappling with luggage, others dispersing towards their destinations. One was noted for his very stillness, in stark contrast with the activity around him. His back to the gathering, he leaned against one of the posts serving as a support for the coach station roof. His wide-brimmed hat was pulled low, shadowing the upper half of his face, a fringed cowboy jacket draped loosely about him, hiding his form.
It was the hair that gave him away.
Floating strands of white-blonde curls wafted out from under the back rim of the hat.
Nathan leveled a hard look at the watchful figure as he drew nearer. What had looked like pants behind the cover of the post was, upon closer inspection, a moderately cut split-skirt.
He was a she.
The figure looked up as he rode past and from under the black hat, clear, light blue eyes met his unswervingly from a face that was beautiful, its finely-boned, patrician features somewhat at odds with the garb of its wearer. Her eyes dropped to his uniform and when they rose to meet his again, they had sharpened; an odd, yet astute expression in them. She gave him a microscopic nod as if she was acknowledging something, then lowered her head and melted away between buildings.
Nathan was not unused to being looked at oddly or in acknowledgement that he was a uniformed law officer, but something about this felt different. Not alarmingly so; just . . . different. He tucked it away in his mind as he approached his office and slid from Newton's back. The kitten had awakened and was standing upright in his saddle, looking at him with unblinking eyes.
"Alright then — come on." He stepped closer and ducked his shoulder down to her level, creating a flat surface for her to walk out on. He didn't have to duck far; Newton was so tall his back was nearly level with Nathan's shoulder. The kitten tested the serge covering his shoulder with one paw, then, seemingly satisfied, stepped onto it and sat herself down, holding herself in that position as he entered his office and lowered himself onto the chair behind his desk. She felt like the weight of a dozen feathers on his shoulder.
He would have to craft a wooden crate for her. She was too young yet to survive on her own — not that she seemed to have any sense of that! — and she was too tiny to let wander freely. With her size, she was liable to accidentally get stepped on by something either two-legged or four-legged.
His pen moved steadily across the page of his log book as he began to fill out the report of the day's activities. Headquarters had sent the office a typewriter, but it had yet to ingratiate itself with him. Noisy, clanking machine.
Peaceful purrs filled his ears and he slanted a look at his new friend. "Down you go, fluffy." He captured her and settled her on the floor by his booted feet. After a moment of swatting at his boots with her paws, she lit the office with the sounds of her tiny, indignantly angry meows. It proved impossible not to smile at the contradiction of her fluffy, helpless appearance and her decided, fractious mood.
He scooped her back up. Her anger immediately subsided into pleased purrs again. He eyed her. "Let's try a compromise. Deal, grumpy?"
Setting her on the surface of his desk, a midway point between the floor and his shoulder, he went back to his task, eyeing her from time to time as she warily picked her way around the desk, curious about everything. That worked until she decided that right on top of — or alongside — his arm was where she wanted to be. As he was writing, that was not a viable option. So back on his shoulder she went, where she proceeded to curl herself in a loose circle, her head pressed against his neck over the collar of his uniform, creating a vibrating spot of warmth with every purr.
Ring! Ring!
The phone rang, shrilling its sound across the desk to him.
"Northwest Mounted Police," he answered on the second ring. There was a clicking noise, then an unmistakable voice came across the line.
"Nathan? It's Bill."
He set his pen down. "Bill? How are you? How are things there?"
"Hot," Bill grumbled, then conceded, "The sunshine is nice. Colorful place. San Fransisco's a bustling city; people from all over the world here. Have you ever eaten Chinese food?"
Nathan sat back, chuckling at his friend's style of communication. "Just once. I went easy on a youngster who'd gotten mixed up with bad company and his family made me some of their national dishes as a thank you. Did you like what you had?" He well knew his friend's penchant for anything culinary.
"It was alright." Bill's voice was off-hand, but Nathan could hear the truth. He'd loved it.
He wouldn't be surprised if a certain oriental flare made its way into some of the dishes at the cafe, which Bill partially owned and still strapped on an apron in the kitchen when needed, or when the urge to cook struck.
"Just . . . let you know . . ." The line crackled in his ear. "Home . . . leaving . . . train . . ."
"Bill? You're breaking up. The connection's not good." He waited, then heard Bill come through again.
"You hear me now?"
"I can. You mentioned something about coming back?" Through the line, he could hear the sound of San Fransisco's famed streetcars in the background, muted though, as if the call was being made from inside a building.
"I'm heading back on the train tomorrow. Not much more I can do here, not right now anyway."
Something in Bill's voice made his ears sharpen attentively, his fingers firming around the earpiece. "Has something happened, Bill?"
A dry chuckle sounded on the other end of the line. "You could say that," was the cryptic response.
Hmm. Nathan picked the pen up and rolled it between his fingers, slowly. "Care to elaborate?"
"Not now. I'll fill you in when I get back." There was a pause. Nathan was quiet, sensing what Bill needed was not a response, but a receptive ear. Bill cleared his throat. "It's not easy burying a wife, estranged or not. Regret . . . is a terrible thing to live with, Nathan."
Didn't he know it. So, so many regrets in hindsight . . .
—ooO0Ooo—
"You're coming with me, little lady." Nathan caught up the white fluffball on four legs that was making her way around the floor of the jail. "You can't stay here by yourself. Time to go home and meet someone who's going to be ecstatic to meet you." Allie was going to be giddy with delight to see him bringing home an animal.
The phone call with Bill had ended with the traveling judge gruffly pulling himself out of emotion and wishing Nathan good-bye somewhat abruptly — or so it might have seemed to one who knew Bill less well. But Nathan had understood implicitly. Bill had a big heart under his prickly exterior; he would have been surprised if Bill wasn't struggling with internal conflict after an event like Nora's death.
He wondered what else had gone down in San Francisco. Bill's voice had been full of something unspoken.
Locking the door of the office behind him, he gave the miniature feline in his hand a look before placing her by the pommel of his saddle again and swinging up behind her. A passing child chased a ball down the street, hollering good evening to him as he passed, and Nathan smiled and called back a greeting of the same. A suspicious and hurting Hope Valley had been grudgingly slow to accept him as their beloved Jack Thornton's replacement, but these days, they had long since adjusted to each other, and the town and its inhabitants felt like home.
And suddenly, there in his line of vision . . . was Jack Thornton's widow.
Tall and immensely slender in a lacy shirtwaist and long, trailing skirt of soft pumpkin, she was storming straight across the street before him and up onto the boardwalk before the saloon entrance, headed in a beeline straight through the tall wooden doors of the Queen of Hearts. Light from the windows spilled out onto the dusky street.
A storm of energy seemed to boil in thunderbolts around her, her figure nearly quivering with anger. The lines of her profile could have been carved from granite, so locked in icy anger were they.
A ramrod slid up Nathan's spine. What in the world —!?
Ahead of him, Elizabeth Thornton threw open the double doors to the saloon, letting them crash without care against the walls, and stormed inside, her fury and fire disappearing from his vision in the dim interior.
—ooO0Ooo—
Author's Note: Hey, everybody! How was THAT for a cliffhanger, eh!? ;) Wanted to note:
* As I mentioned in an earlier chapter, I previously regressed little Jack's age, and have done the same for Allie in this chapter. This was done to fit the vision I have for the Grant Family in this AU story. I've updated my "intro" at the top of Chapter 1 to reflect this information — and what pairings can be expected in this story — so that newcomers to the story will have that information from the start.
This story will feature a younger!Little Jack and a younger!Allie. Allie will still be in school (and will have been in school for several years), just like she was on That Show. If Opal was in school at (what looked like) age 5 or 6, then so can Allie Grant, haha. ;)
* Regarding Bill: I've written him as "married but estranged" from Nora, again to fit the vision I have for this story. And now he's widowed!Bill.
* RM and Lee coming out of the doctor's office . . . you can all probably guess what that was about.
* Fiona & Lucas: yep, there's tension brewing and they're at odds currently — more on that to come.
* The mysterious new stagecoach arrival, hmm, I'm going to not say more on her now. ;p
* The kitten thing honestly just . . . happened. I knew I wanted that scene with Lucona and the kitten in the tree, but Nathan taking the cat with him just wrote itself. That was not in my original plan for that scene at all, yikes! And her personality and immediate liking for Nathan and his response to her . . . all unplanned, too. But she and that plot took on a life of their own as I was writing, and well, here we are. LOL!
* I know Nathan used a typewriter on That Show (if memory serves), and he probably will eventually here, too, but for now, he's not a fan. ;)
* Also: Nathan just arrived in Brookfield in my When Hope Calls story ("Neither Diamond Sunbursts or Marble Halls") in Chapter 8. This story here ("From Flame and Ash") hasn't quite caught up to that story in terms of the plot that takes him there and it will take a few chapters yet before it does, but it is coming to this story eventually, too. For those who liked his friend and fellow Mountie from there, I have a love story planned for him that will be introduced in Chapter 9 or 10 of my WHC story, although they will eventually show up in this story as well, as I will be weaving several plots together for crossovers between the two stories.
Lastly, my profound gratitude for the warm reception you all gave to the last chapter here, especially the Nathan & Elizabeth content! It makes me so contented to hear in reviews that it resonated with you. I read every word of them and am so, so, so deeply touched that so many of you take the time out of your busy schedules to leave me beautiful, detailed reviews. It means the world.
XOXO