October 2013
“Ten minutes or so,” Sean announced from his lawn chair, cracking the top of another beer. Jessie was snuggled on his lap, a blanket over them, while Quinn and Wy lay on their backs on another blanket, both of them pointing out constellations in the black-crystal sky. Wy was slowly waving a sparkler that he’d just lit with Sean’s lighter. I could hear Becky and Garth murmuring about something from their quilt, while Clark bounced baby Tommy on his knee in a sling chair to the right of Marshall and me.
It was the night before Halloween, a holiday that Jalesville celebrated with a great deal of enthusiasm; earlier in the week we’d visited the pumpkin patch and carved what the Rawleys called ‘pumpkin moonshines,’ two of which now graced the counter in our little apartment. I’d given mine a cheerful lopsided smile while Marshall’s leered wickedly; he’d gone so far as to add pumpkin seed teeth, anchoring them with toothpicks. I understood that Halloween was serious business around here.
We’d spent the evening on a haunted hayride through the foothills – which had been pretty damn scary – shrieks echoed from the rocks in a wholly eerie way. To top off the overall festive mood, Camille and Mathias had welcomed their fifth baby and third son early this morning, naming him James Boyd Carter, after two of Mathias’s ancestors. Tish and Case had stayed home to watch the fireworks at their trailer – they were deep in the throes of planning their new cabin, which would be built next spring, after the ground thawed – and Tish had told me just yesterday, swearing me to absolute secrecy, that she thought she was pregnant.
I’d told only Marshall since then.
Now, as it approached ten, we were gathered to watch the annual Halloween Eve fireworks display just south of town; or, as Marshall had explained, it was annual as long as it hadn’t yet snowed by now, which this year it hadn’t. It appeared that most of the population of Jalesville had turned out; The Spoke set up a makeshift bar in an RV, complete with a cardboard, hand-lettered sign reading Have Bar, Will Travel. Instead of peddling icy beers, this evening they sold primarily hot chocolate with shots of Kahlua, apple cider spiked with rum, and Irish coffees.
I was bundled in a scarf and mittens, a green wool sweater of Marshall’s (I loved wearing his clothes so much that he joked he’d have to start wearing mine to compensate) and a puffy down vest. I’d ordered new fur-lined winter boots online at the law office, so my feet were toasty too. Clark had lit three candle lanterns, and there were orange and purple lights strung all along the front of The Spoke’s RV, so I could plainly see the buoyant delight in Marshall’s eyes as he scooted closer to me. I smiled at him and he grinned right back, radiant with the joy that bound us. My heart absolutely swelled with love for him.
“Marsh,” I said, and he tipped his head me questioningly. I was in our lawn chair and Marshall was at my feet on a quilt; he’d been entertaining baby Tommy before Clark claimed his grandson.
“Ruthie?” he responded, with the same teasing-questioning tone, neither of us able to stop smiling at each other.
“It’s a little cold out here,” I said.
Immediately he put his chin on my left knee and his hands around my calves, holding gently, while my heart took up a hot, clanging rhythm.
“What can I do?” he asked softly, playing with me.
I teased, “Maybe you could get me one more apple cider-n-rum?”
“Those are good, aren’t they?” he responded, kissing my knees, one after the other.
“Or maybe…” I said, tugging off a mitten to stroke his hair; his head was bare, his black cowboy hat near his feet.
“Maybe another blanket…” he suggested.
“Maybe I’m gonna barf if you guys don’t quit,” Wy said, waving a sparkler our direction.
I giggled and said, “I’ll get us a round this time.” I addressed my future family, asking, “Anyone need a drink?”
“Me!” Wy cried. “Two shots of whiskey, neat.”
“Like you even know what that means,” Becky teased him.
I took everyone’s order and then threaded through the crowd and got in line at the RV (The Bar-V, as the Rawleys called it). I had lived in Jalesville long enough now that I knew most of the people around me, exchanging friendly greetings, the same warm sense of welcome flowing around me as it would have back in Landon. The line to the bar window was lengthy; the Heller girls, clad in shiny pink wigs and zombie make-up in the spirit of Halloween, looked busy as they made drinks.
I was playing around with the idea of offering to help when a hand slid across my back and wrapped possessively around my hair. I knew at once that it wasn’t Marshall – and discomfort flared in my belly even before the person spoke; I smelled the sharp scent of whiskey and thought fleetingly of Wy’s comment – the man gripping me had certainly consumed far more than two shots this evening.
“You hair grew out so fast,” he said into my ear, and he was so close that when I turned to see just who in the hell thought he could touch me this way, his chin almost brushed my forehead. In the purple-orange glow of the Halloween rope lights, I first saw glossy dark hair and gleaming-white teeth.
Wolverine eyes, I thought then, blinking at who could only be Derrick Yancy, Capital Overland representative who was undoubtedly up to his nose in criminal activity, and whether Ron Turnbull had helped him lay waste to Case’s barn or not, Derrick was clearly also skilled at covering his own tracks. At present, he was also quite drunk; he had slurred over his words and now regarded me with unfocused eyes. I took a step away from him but he followed closely, as though we were magnetized, saying, “I thought you were…” He narrowed his eyes and demanded, “Where is she?”
“Not here,” I said with as much sharpness in my tone as I could muster, reasonably certain he meant Tish. I sidestepped again and managed to get my left forearm between us; I was afraid he might clutch it in order to stay upright, but at least it forced his eyes and the smell of his breath farther away from me.
“Little sister,” he said with satisfaction in his voice. “You’ve got to be…her little sister…”
“What do you want?” I asked, more disgusted than frightened of him, although he gripped my upper arm tightly in one hand and brought his face close to me again.
“I didn’t do it,” he hissed intently, and my vision nearly clouded from the booze wafting from his mouth. But I was determined to know what he meant.
“Then who did?” I demanded. My blood pulsed; I raced frantically through all the things I should ask him – especially since he was so bombed. Maybe he would actually tell the truth.
His expression conveyed extreme need, but just what he needed I could not have said in that moment; I could only sense that he desperately wanted me to understand something. Then he stunned me by whispering, “I love her…for fuck’s sake.”
“You love my sister?” I asked, bewildered.
He was so far beyond drunk that I thought his eyes might roll backward into his skull. He might have been attractive, if not for his demeanor and the overtly arrogant set to his features; his dark eyes were glazed by the alcohol.
“I have always loved…Patricia,” he whispered, shaking my arm just a little, for emphasis. “Even if she doesn’t…return my affections.” Derrick was staring into the middle distance, his gaze just above my head; exactly what he was seeing was uncertain – I only knew it wasn’t the Halloween festivities here in Jalesville. He said, “She loves that dirt-grubbing son of a bitch. He’s a goddamn…” He paused, drunkenly, before saying with certainty, “A goddamn killer for hire.”
What the hell?
“Who burned down Case Spicer’s barn?” I asked fervently, deciding to ignore his other very startling statements. It was crowded and one of the Nelson family’s teenagers (I couldn’t keep them all straight) jostled us, hastily apologizing.
Derrick muttered, “This fucking shithole town.”
“Who burned it down?” I pressed, speaking through my teeth.
“Pretty little sister,” he whispered, tilting his head and blinking slowly as he looked back at me, seeming to realize he was in danger of spilling additional secrets to a stranger. I tugged at my arm, which was still in his grip, just as he reached his other hand to cup my cheek, moving quickly for someone so drunk.
I jerked instantly away, not caring if he stumbled and fell. I needn’t have worried, as Marshall was suddenly there, and the look in his eyes would have made a much more sober man than Derrick turn tail and run; even through the thick boozy haze surrounding him, Derrick’s face registered apprehension.
Marshall was in what amounted to the calm before his storm, and though his voice emerged quietly, even I shivered at his tone. Not removing his eyes from Derrick’s, he ordered, “Walk away right now.”
“Or what, Rawley?” Derrick asked, with a singsong cadence.
“Or stick around and find out,” Marshall invited, his voice a finely-edged blade.
“No,” I implored, low, putting my hands on Marshall’s right arm. Beneath his sweatshirt I could feel his muscles, bunched and ready.
Before I could move, Derrick reached and stroked my hair, wrapping his fingers into my curls the same way Marshall usually did (my stomach lurched violently) and simultaneously said, “See you soon…pretty little sister.”
Marshall clamped a white-knuckled hand around Derrick’s shoulder and said directly into his ear, “I will break every fucking bone in your body.”
Derrick made a sound of disgust and shrugged away; Marshall let him go, to my great relief, turning instantly to me. I tucked myself against him and caught his jaws in my mittened hands. Before he could speak, I assured him, “I’m just fine.”
Marshall breathed out slowly through his nose, cupping my elbows in his hands, rubbing me with his thumbs. He said, “Wy ran over here to ask you to get him a hot chocolate instead and saw that bastard grab your arm.”
I noticed Garth, Sean and Quinn all headed our way, stern and imposing, clearly ready to help back up their brother, if necessary, and I felt the warmth of security; I knew they would fight to the death for each other, no matter how much they pretended otherwise.
Pam Heller, their cousin, leaned from the bar and asked us, “Someone call down the wrath of God, or what?”
Marshall’s shoulders relaxed a little as his brothers reached us. Garth put a hand on Marshall’s back and asked quietly, “Everything all right?”
Sean smacked a gloved fist in the opposite palm, hamming it up a little; he was pretty drunk himself, and the one to answer Pam, saying heatedly, “Someone screws with one of our women, they screw with all of us,” and then everyone in the vicinity was laughing.
“You tell ‘em, Sean,” Pam said. “I’m pretty sure you don’t mean that how it sounded,” and there was more laughter at her words.
Marshall said, referring to the local sheriff, “We have to find Jerry. Someone needs to take Yancy’s keys before he drives anywhere.”
“Let’s go,” Garth said. “I just saw Jerry a minute ago.
Marshall gently kissed me and then disappeared into the crowd with Garth, in search of the sheriff. Sean and Quinn stuck around with me in line; the two of them helped me carry everyone’s drink back to our seats.
“Everything all right?” Clark, Becky, Jessie and Wy almost simultaneously asked us. Baby Tommy was asleep on Clark’s lap, cozy in a blanket.
“It’s good, Pa,” Quinn said, patting his father’s shoulder.
Jessie held out her arms to Sean and he hustled back to his girlfriend. I heard her tell him, “I was worried about you, baby,” to which Sean responded, “I was like a gladiator, you shoulda seen it.”
Quinn, who’d broken up with Ellie a month or so ago, rejoined Wy on the quilt, while I went to sit with Becky until our men returned. Wy scooted close to us.
“Wy said Derrick Yancy grabbed your arm,” Becky said. “What happened? Ruthie, you should have seen Marsh, he just flew out of here to get to you. I hope he didn’t bulldoze anyone in his path.”
“I wasn’t trying to tattle,” Wy told him, as though I would have thought such a thing. “I was just worried. That Derrick guy looks nuts.”
“I know, buddy,” I assured him. Given what Derrick had said to me, I could have easily drawn the same conclusion. The troubling thing was I knew that Derrick was not crazy, and based on his statements, he had just given me ample reason to confirm that the past plagued him too. Maybe when he drank it was worse.
“Why doesn’t that asshole just go back to Chicago?” Becky wondered.
“He’s still making sales here, unfortunately,” I said. Al, Tish and I had just been discussing it at work. “Even though he’s been stalled, it’s enough that it’s still worth his time.”
Marshall and Garth rejoined us then, much to my relief. Both of them stopped to talk to Clark, though not before Marshall’s eyes swept to me, making sure I was safe.
“Jerry’s going to deal with Yancy,” Garth said, just as the first firework sounded, effectively lifting a rippling chorus of pleasure from the crowd at the sight of the glittering gold explosion.
Marshall and I reclaimed our lawn chair; Marshall settled the quilt over our laps and I cuddled against him, feeling so very safe and loved. Inside my left mitten, I used my thumb to touch my engagement ring. I already felt married to him; in my mind, I referred to myself as Ruthann Rawley, as I loved how that sounded. We had set our wedding date for next June 21st and planned to have everyone out here to Montana. We both wanted an outdoor ceremony, but hadn’t yet settled on an exact location.
Marshall murmured in my ear, “So I didn’t kill him, even though I thought seriously about it.”
“Marsh,” I scolded. I kissed his cheek, which felt chilly against my warm lips. He wasn’t wearing his hat, gloves or scarf, and I scolded more, “You’ll catch a cold, sweetheart.”
“Not with you in my arms. You’re so warm,” he responded, nuzzling me with little kisses. I tucked my wool mittens over his bare hands.
“Derrick said a bunch of really strange things,” I told him, as another explosion detonated in the black sky, this one sizzling with blue and green. “The strangest of which is that he loves Tish. He actually said that.”
“Loves the Tish he knows now, or the person he remembers from the past?” Marshall was as perceptive as always.
“Past,” I whispered, and as crazy as it was, I knew it was true. A violent chill swept up my spine, a shiver that bore no relation to the cold – at least, not the cold air, and Marshall held me even closer.
“I won’t let you go,” he assured me, his voice low and warm. “You know that, darlin’.”
I did, but the insistent force of that energy, the sounds of the people from the past that I was still certain I somehow knew, were not so easily denied. I purposely avoided the letters written by Una Spicer (why couldn’t there be at least one word, anything to give me a clue about what had become of the marshal?) just as I avoided location of old Rawley homestead, and not only because of my terror. There was a small part of my soul, one I nearly refused to acknowledge, that felt as though I belonged there – rather than here. That was the crazy part.
The terrifying part.
“I know it,” I whispered, kissing him again, this time aiming for his lips.