by Meg Muldoon
Fletcher clutched my hand as we watched the sun emerge from behind a bank of clouds.
I looked over at him.
The warm golden glow of the morning danced on his eyelashes, bringing out those stormy blue eyes of his.
It almost hurt to look at him, he was so beautiful.
I was suddenly overcome with a feeling of gratitude. Thankful that I was here with him, sitting on this bench, watching the sun come up and set the desert on fire. Thankful that I hadn’t died on the floor of that church. Thankful that I had a second chance.
That maybe we had a second chance too.
Fletcher took my hand in both of his. I felt the scarred roughness of his broken one as it gripped mine.
He gazed deep into my eyes then.
My heart started beating like the wings of a hummingbird.
“I know you’ve been upset with me, Loretta,” he said, his voice low and steady. “And I don’t blame you. I think if I put myself in your shoes, I’d be real angry too.”
He took in a deep breath.
“You see, I had spent a lot of time, at one point, thinking about ways to get some sort of revenge for what Christina did to me,” he said, looking out into the distance. “I wanted to see her suffer. Suffer just like I had.”
He shook his head.
“I went on like that for a real long time. Too long. Those kinds of feelings eat a hole right through the middle of you. It’s a disease, Loretta. Holding onto pain and anger like it’s all you’ve got in the world…”
He sighed.
“There’s no room for anything else in your heart when you live like that.”
“Fletcher, you don’t have to—”
“Yes I do,” he said. “Because you have to understand.”
I nodded silently, rubbing the back of his busted-up hand.
“The day I met you, Bluebird, I let all that pain and anger go,” he said. “Because I knew I had to. I knew that I had to give you everything I had. And that I only wanted you in my life. Nothing from the past.”
He took in another deep breath.
“When Christina showed up, you don’t understand how hard it was to not let those feelings come back. You don’t know how hard it was for me to help her. To let go of what she did. To not just let her get exactly what she deserves.
“But I did it. I helped her, because I knew that to do otherwise meant I hadn’t let go of the anger. Meaning that my heart…”
He trailed off, swallowing hard.
“Meaning my heart didn’t completely belong to you, Loretta.”
I searched his eyes.
There was nothing but tenderness there. Nothing but bluebirds singing. Nothing but sunrises and sunsets. Nothing but cool breezes and warm embracing arms and long, passionate kisses, and deep oceans of love.
“Does it?” I said quietly. “Does your heart belong to me?”
He squeezed my hand.
“I know you’ve been waiting on me, darlin,’” he said. “But I’ve been waiting on today.”
“Today?” I said.
He nodded.
He let go of my hand and stood up. He left the bench, disappearing somewhere behind a rocky outcropping off the trail.
I furrowed my brow, looking down at Hank, who was sitting near the bench, his head lifted. Looking just as confused as I was about where Fletcher had gone and what we were doing out here.
I shrugged at the dog.
A moment later, though, I understood perfectly.
And I was completely awestruck.
Chapter 79
His mangled fingers gripped the strings as he strummed the last chords to The Rusted Spurs song. Completing each chord as perfectly as he had the day he wrote the beautiful tune.
It had been that song. The one I heard him play all those years ago at The Stupid Cupid Saloon. The one that had stolen my heart right out of my chest. The one that had ruined me from that day forward to any other kind of music.
The one that sent a wave of chills shuddering throughout my body, hearing it now.
For those few minutes, I was 16 years old again. Looking up at him. The future so beautiful and gorgeous and bright in front of both of us.
The last note of the song hung in the air around us like the smell of sweet orange blossoms.
I realized my face was wet with tears.
I reached over, touching his mangled hand.
I could only imagine how long it took for him to play that song again. How many hours it took to relearn the chords with those damaged fingers of his. The hours of pain and frustration it must have taken.
“Fletcher…” I said, trailing off, the words stuck in my throat.
But I didn’t have to say anything.
He knew what I meant.
What this had meant to me.
He took the guitar sling off his shoulder, placing the instrument on the bench.
And then Fletcher Hart, my blue-eyed country singer, the man of my dreams, the love of my life, the man who had save my life not once – but twice, my soulmate, dropped down to one knee.
He pulled something from his pocket and looked up at me.
“I bought this six months ago, waiting for the day when I could play you that song again.”
He smiled.
I could hardly believe it. Here I’d been all this time, thinking he was unsure of me. When all he’d been trying to do was to make the proposal as special for me as he could.
“You’re my sun and stars, Loretta Loveless,” he said. “I was dead. Six-feet-under. A corpse walking the earth.”
He shook his head.
“And then I met you.”
He opened the box.
I looked deep into his eyes, feeling the burning flames of love engulf my heart.
“I don’t know anything about soulmates or star-crossed lovers,” he said. “But you have my heart, Loretta.
“All of it.”
He looked down.
“And I can only pray that you’ll take it.”
He took my hand in his.
I thought my heart was going to burst with happiness as he said the words.
The words, it felt like, I’d been waiting my whole life to hear.
“Bluebird,” he said. “I’ll love you until the day my heart stops beating.
“Will you be mine forever?”
He looked deep into my eyes, deep into my soul.
Then he slipped the ring on my finger.
“Fletcher Hart,” I said, sinking down to meet him.
I put my arms around him, kissing him with everything I had.
“You have all of my heart too.”
“Are you saying yes?”
I gazed deep into his eyes, my heart thundering in my chest.
The love I felt for him at that moment turned the world around me hazy.
Made me feel like I was suspended in air.
Made me feel like I was punch drunk.
Made me feel like I was flying.
“Yes,” I whispered. “With everything I have and then some. Yes.”
He grinned, a look of relief rushing across his face.
Hank came up to us, licking our faces, wanting to know what we were doing sitting there on the ground.
And a soft, southerly breeze blew through the trees around us.
Fletcher swept me up in his arms and kissed his bride-to-be with a burning passion that could have melted the sun.
And we both understood:
A new day had dawned for us in Broken Hearts Junction.
The End
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Murder in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 1)
Mayhem in Christmas River: A Christmas in July Cozy Mystery (Book 2)
Madness in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 3)
Malice in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 4)
Misch
ief in Christmas River: A Christmas Cozy Mystery (Book 5)
Roasted in Christmas River: A Thanksgiving Cozy Mystery Novella
Burned in Broken Hearts Junction: A Cozy Matchmaker Mystery
About the Author
Meg Muldoon loves writing cozy fiction. A former small town news reporter, Meg has always had a special place in her heart for lost dogs, homeless cats, and feisty old locals. When not writing, she enjoys baking up batches of bourbon bread pudding, wearing red cowboy boots, and using craft glue guns.
She lives in central Oregon with an Australian cattle dog named Huckleberry.
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