by Anthology
“Because I killed your husband.”
The words echoed off the ceiling, the walls, her inner ears, yet she shook her head, questioned her hearing. “What?” She spun around. “What did you say?”
He appeared to be ten feet tall in the dark, tiny space. “I married you because I killed Orville. You became my responsibility.”
Anguish burst forth. All this time she’d been wrong. Morgan didn’t care for her—leastwise not in the way she wanted, the way she dreamed. “Responsibility?”
He gave a single head nod.
The tears could no longer be suppressed, not with the way her heart wrenched as if someone had just grasped it with a hard fist. She squeezed her eyes shut as a single tear slipped out, singed her cheek as it trickled downward. A thousand thoughts jumbled her mind, but one held precedence over all the rest. Responsibility, the way Morgan said it, meant burden.
“Moga?”
“Come here, buddy,” Morgan said, kneeling down to catch Nathan as he rushed past her. “Cora—”
She shook her head. “I—” Her throat constricted, plugged too tight to speak. She flipped around and, holding in a sob that threatened to tear her apart, she left the lean-to, took refuge in the only private space the cabin offered—behind the dressing screen. There she slumped to the floor and let the tears flow freely, but silently, refusing to let even the tiniest sob escape. That might shatter her, and she was broken enough.
All along she’d been fooling herself. Morgan would never love her.
Guilt. Responsibility. Oh, they were fine qualities, but not what a wife wants her husband to feel toward her.
She’d also been wrong in thinking she’d done something to turn Morgan away from her. He’d never been attracted to her in the first place. Who could be attracted to a yoke around their neck? Covering her mouth to muffle the increasing, painful sobs racking her chest, she expected a wave of humiliation to engulf her, to join the rest of her depressing realizations. He must think her a shameless hussy.
Memories of their earlier encounter flooded warmth where pain sat, quieting her sobs. She hadn’t been embarrassed when it happened, and she wasn’t now. Had she honestly thought it would be that easy? One kiss and the world would be all she ever wanted. That was flat-out foolish. In all actuality, things weren’t any different than they’d been this morning, except now she knew why Morgan kept his distance. Wiping the tears aside with the backs of her hands, she leaned against the wall and pondered this new route her thoughts took.
It was sometime later when noise filtered through to her—the sound of a hammer striking a nail, Morgan’s voice, Nathan’s giggles. She’d thought, wondered and gone to that place within where the outside world ceases to exist. It was peaceful there and grounded her, made her see reason when her conscious thoughts found none.
Pushing off the floor, Cora moved to the washstand. She’d known Morgan didn’t love her, that’s why she’d wished he’d learn to. The water she dunked the cloth in was chilly, but refreshing as she wiped her face. What concerned her now was that if Morgan took the blame for Orville’s death upon himself, did he believe she blamed him, too?
Empathy was a strong emotion, hurting for someone else, and when it came to Morgan, her entire being ached for him.
After patting her face dry, she glanced in the tiny mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders. There wasn’t anything she could do about her looks, but there was something she could do for Morgan. If he’d let her.
Twisting, she glanced to the screen, listening to Morgan’s and Nathan’s hushed chatter. She’d known that it might be a precarious trail she took, the one that led to Morgan’s heart. Determination lifted her shoulders. She was halfway there and nothing would stop her now. Morgan was worth fighting for, even if it meant fighting him.
Cora hung the towel over the bar on the side of the stand, and feeling almost reborn, walked around the screen.
“Mama, tee.” Nathan jumped to his feet and scrambled across the room.
She bent and lifted him into her arms. “Yes, I see it.” Kissing the top of Nathan’s head, she eyed Morgan squarely. “It’s beautiful. You and Morgan did a wonderful job.”
Morgan, shifting from leg to leg, stared at her as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t know where to start. The feeling was mutual, and that, too, gave her courage. Accepting his unease, she glanced to the tree.
The pine, its trunk now nailed to a set of cross boards so it couldn’t topple, stood taller than him. The top branch almost touched the ceiling and the entire structure glistened in the light filtering through the window. “It is a beautiful tree, Morgan. Thank you.”
He opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it. His gaze went to the floor. Half of her wanted to wrap her arms around him and smother him as she did Nathan when he was unsure of himself, and the other half wanted to shake him, to tell him no one was responsible for Orville’s death—least of all him. But she couldn’t, not yet.
She set Nathan on the floor. “I think we should decorate our tree. Don’t you?”
The child nodded. “Yup.”
“First,” she said, glancing at the mantel clock which proved more time had lapsed since breakfast than she’d imagined, “we need to have some lunch and you need to take a nap.”
Nathan’s face puckered. “No nap.”
“Lunch first,” she said, tackling one battle at a time. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I’m hungry,” Morgan said. “Aren’t you, buddy?”
If possible, she loved Morgan more at that moment, when, whether he realized it or not, he supported her. “Morgan’s hungry,” she told Nathan. “We better feed him.”
“Ya! Feed Moga!” Nathan took off for the kitchen.
She started to follow but when the path led her past Morgan he laid a hand on her arm. “Cora,” he said, swallowing. “I—I’m sorry.”
“Not now, Morgan,” she replied softly. “But when Nathan is napping, I’d like to talk—I’d like us to talk.”
He nodded. His expression was so forlorn she couldn’t help but reach up to pat his cheek.
Her fingers were warm and tender, and Morgan tipped his jaw, absorbing the feel of her against him no matter how simple. Then, as if a stick of dynamite had detonated in his chest, his heart exploded. He reached out and pulled her close, enveloping her with his arms and body.
The quiet, muffled sounds of her tears had eaten at him the whole time she was behind the screen, worse than if she’d been sobbing aloud. He wanted to go to her, hold her close, but he hadn’t. Couldn’t—he’d had no idea how to ease her pain. A hell of a thing for a man to admit, even to himself. It had been torture, carrying on as if nothing was wrong. He’d restacked the wood, and played with Nathan, all the while she’d cried alone. Morgan tightened his hold, wishing he could take all her hurting away, all her worries. He’d gladly carry them for her—from now until the end of time. “I’m so sorry, Cora.”
She wrapped both arms around him, held on tight while resting her cheek on his chest. “Oh, Morgan,” she whispered.
Perhaps in time when Orville’s name was mentioned, she wouldn’t grieve so. At least he hoped so. He kissed the top of her hair. She smelled so wonderful, always did, and he wondered how. It was light, sweet yet spicy, and wholesome and fresh all at the same time. There were nights when she’d be sound asleep that he’d lain on his side, his nose near her pillow, just luxuriating in the heady scent.
“Mama. Moga. Eat.”
Morgan opened his eyes and smiled at Nathan standing next to the table. What he’d said in the lean-to had been the truth. Nathan was his son—if for no other reason than he loved both Cora and the boy beyond life, and always would. “We’re coming, buddy.”
Cora twisted, but kept one arm around his back. He kept one around her shoulders, wanting to offer any comfort he could, and side by side they walked to the kitchen. Once there, she rubbed his side for a moment before removing
her hand. Like a flower petal falling from a blossom, quiet and graceful, she slipped out from under his arm and walked to the stove.
He bent down and picked up Nathan. After setting the child in the high chair, Morgan pushed the chair up to the table. The woman was amazing. In the small amount of time it took him to settle the child and retrieve plates, silverware and glasses from the neatly stacked cupboards, she had filled the room with the wondrous smell of food cooking to perfection.
It was astounding how some people knew just what to do. He’d been cooking for years and had never figured out what went with what to make it mouthwatering and filling. His fare had been life sustaining, but that was about it. Whereas her meals made eating a pleasurable experience and not just something that had to be done in order to live.
Morgan’s mind continued down this path, and he let it, not wanting to think of the anguish he’d caused. That would come later—when they talked.
As she busied herself, he took in the cabin she’d turned from a shell to a home. In two months, she’d sewn curtains and cushions, pillows and quilts, and even braided rugs to cover the floor near the door, in front of the hearth and beside the beds. She’d also canned the few vegetables his little garden had produced, which was nothing compared to the jars of things she’d brought over from her place. Of course he’d acknowledged all this before, but today it seemed more prominent than ever, making him conscious of the fact he didn’t want to live without any of it. Namely, because it all was a part of her.
The meal was consumed with little fanfare, and only one glass of spilled milk, which Morgan sopped up with Nathan’s napkin, assuring the child no harm had been done. While Cora washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen, he carried Nathan to the bed tucked in the tiny alcove beside the fireplace. He sat on the edge while Nathan squirmed and fidgeted. When the child was settled, Morgan began to tell him a tale of a little bunny who stole carrots every day. It was a simple, silly story, one he’d heard Cora share when tucking the child in one evening.
The child soon dozed, but Morgan continued the tale, hoping to avoid the anxiety creeping in over the upcoming talk with Cora. In all actuality, he was afraid of what she would say to him. Would she leave him? Admit living with the man that killed her husband was too difficult? He couldn’t blame her.
Virginia Fisher lent rooms in her big house on the edge of town. He could pay for several months in advance, give Cora time to mourn Orville properly, without all the worries she’d had at her place. A wicked quickening happened inside him. What if she wanted to return to Ohio? He’d have to let her go. The thought caused his blood to drain.
Her touch, though soft and gentle on his shoulder, made him all but leap off the bed. A man heading to the gallows couldn’t feel more remorse than he did right now. He stood and followed her across the room to the chairs in front of the fireplace. His gaze took in the room for a moment. Their bed was on the far wall, along with the screen partition. Then there were the two rocking chairs, a small settee and now a large tree in the center of the room. He turned, glancing over his shoulder. The kitchen, with several cupboards, the cookstove, table and chairs, filled the other end, along with the door that led to the lean-to, and opposite that was the little alcove that held Nathan’s bed and trunk. He’d built this place for a single man. She deserved so much more, which was why he’d ordered plans for a larger one, had the ad wrapped up in shiny paper for her to open Christmas morning.
“Morgan,” Cora said. “Please sit down.”
She was in one of the rockers, so he took the other one, after he added a log to the fire.
“I’ve ordered plans for a larger house,” he said abruptly. So much for the shiny little package hidden in his saddlebag out in the barn’s tack room.
“Oh?”
That’s it, oh? He didn’t quite know what to say, had envisioned she’d be excited about a new house, maybe even start planning where things should be. Then again, this wasn’t Christmas morning, and hardly the time to bring up such a discussion. “Yes,” he said. “I plan on building it this spring.”
“Really?”
“Mmm-hmm,” he answered, trying to keep any emotion out of his voice. “We can add on as many bedrooms as you want.” His cheeks blazed like a prairie fire. He should just shut up. Remember what his father always said, “don’t speak unless spoken to.” That was good advice.
“That’s wonderful, Morgan,” she said, but he didn’t look up—couldn’t take the chance of seeing what was truly reflected in her eyes. “And yes,” she continued softly, “we can add on as many bedrooms as you want.”
“As I want?” Dread hit his chest, spread through him like a stampede. She was leaving him. “Cora—” Thoughts hung in the back of his mind like icicles on the porch eaves, but he couldn’t find anything to say. If he started offering reasons as to why she shouldn’t leave he may never stop.
“Morgan, can I ask you a question?”
Half-afraid to open his mouth, he nodded.
“If that cord of firewood had injured you when it fell, would that have been my fault?”
Every ounce inside him snapped to attention. “Of course not. Why would you even think such a thing?”
“Because you built the lean-to so I wouldn’t have to go outside to fetch firewood. If I hadn’t moved in here, you wouldn’t have built it and the wood would never have fallen on you.”
“That doesn’t make it your fault,” he replied. She was not a dense woman, had more common sense and quick-wittedness than most men he knew, so why was she acting so foolish about the woodpile?
“Good,” she said with unequivocal satisfaction.
“Good?” A queer sensation tickled his spine—and brain.
“Good,” she repeated. “Then I know you know how fault works.”
“Uh?” Was he the dim-witted one?
Sitting there as calm as a little peach hanging on a tree,
gently swaying back and forth in the high-backed rocking chair, she cocked her head slightly and looked at him as if she was perplexed. “You said the woodpile falling on you wasn’t my fault.”
“Of course it wasn’t your fault,” he said slowly, making sure she understood. “It was an accident.” He searched for more of an answer, but came up short. “Accidents just happen, that’s why they’re called accidents.”
She gave a little nod. He let out a sigh of relief—glad she finally understood.
“So, if I and Nathan were outside and a storm came up, and we ran as fast as we could to get to the cabin, but lightning struck a tree, knocked it on top of us, would that be my fault?”
Fear shot him to his feet. The edge of the seat knocked against the back of his knees as the chair rocked haphazardly behind him. “Damn, Cora. Don’t say such things.”
Cora—quite calm compared to all that was going on inside him—sitting in the chair, rocking to and fro, stared up at him. “I didn’t say it was going to happen,” she said. “I asked, if it did, would it be my fault?”
“Hell, no, it wouldn’t be your fault!” He paced the rug in front of the fire, his body quivering at the thought of such danger befalling his family. “Lightning is an act of God. A freak of nature. It’s nobody’s fault.”
Cora stood and took a step, blocking Morgan’s path. The idea of Nathan being injured formed a thick glob in her stomach, tore at her heart, but she had to find a way for Morgan to relate to what she was about to say. He was clearly agitated, and that, too, had her insides balling. She drew a fortifying breath, willing her voice to remain calm, and rested a hand on his forearm. “Morgan.” Waiting until his eyes met hers, she bit her lip, needing his full attention. “Lightning spooked Orville’s horse. That’s why he fell in the river. It wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t my fault and it wasn’t Orville’s fault. It just happened.”
Morgan’s face, flawless in every way, except for the deep scowl, held statue-still as he gazed down at her. She was in too deep now; it was either sink or swim. Stepping forward, she
placed a hand on his chest, imagined she could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. “Orville was a good man, Morgan, a very good man. And I’m sorry he died, I miss him in many ways.” She caught his arm, stopping him from moving away. “I would have stayed married to him for the rest of my life and never regretted it, but that’s not what happened.”
He broke away, turning his back on her. She followed, taking a hold of his elbow. “Please, Morgan, let me say the rest.”
The muscles beneath her fingers tightened, and she clasped on harder. He turned to face her, and she took the movement, no matter how he meant it, affirmatively. Leading him a few steps she lowered onto the settee and tugged him down beside her.
A million thoughts swirled in her mind, twice as fast and strong as the blizzard whistling outside the cabin. There was no guarantee this would work, that he would understand or that his guilt would dissolve, but it was all she had. This was the only way her wish could come true. She glanced to the tree, standing straight and tall, filling the air with the fresh scent of pine, and in a deep and sacred way, hope. It fueled her will. Straightening the story in her mind, Cora began, “I was eighteen when I married Orville. He was twenty-nine. My grandmother and I lived next door to his family. I used to watch their children once in a while.”
Looking as if he was about to spring off the sofa at any given moment, Morgan frowned, seemed to back even farther away if that was possible. “Their children?”
“Yes,” she explained. Orville never spoke of all he left behind in Ohio, and respecting his silence, neither had she. “Orville was married before,” she continued. “He and Roxanne had two children, a girl named Ada and a boy named Adam.”
“What happened to them?”
The pain of the past was still there, a bruise on her heart as was Orville’s death, but she’d come to terms with it, understood how life went on despite great losses. “They died,” she answered solemnly, clearly recalling how fast most of the community took ill.