The Light of the Lovers' Moon

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “I wanna give ya somethin’, Viola,” Stoney said. “Now quit snifflin’ and listen to me.”

  Violet gasped and angrily wiped more tears from her cheeks as she looked up to Stoney.

  The green-blue of his eyes seemed dim; the sparkle of delight in life even for hardship was gone. Still, he forced a smile at her. “You remember last fall when that feller came to town makin’ photographs…and yer mama had him make mine?” he asked.

  Violet nodded. “So you’d have somethin’ to give to your mother for Christmas.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Well, that feller give me two photographs of myself, and I did give one to Mama last Christmas. But I couldn’t never figure what I’d ever do with the other one…’til today.”

  Violet held her breath as Stoney reached into the back pocket of his trousers. Her tears only increased as he held the small, cardboard-mounted photograph toward her.

  “I want you to have it, Viola. I want you to have it. That way I know you’ll not forget me.”

  Violet didn’t pause; rather, she quickly snatched the photograph from his hands, lovingly studying the image for a moment before pressing it to her bosom. “Thank you, Stoney,” she breathed. “I…I thought about sneakin’ into your house last night and stealin’ the one you gave to your mama. I truly did! I didn’t know you had this one!”

  “You’ll remember me, Viola. You will…won’t you?” Stoney asked. He placed a hand on her shoulder and forced another smile, though his eyes were brimming with tears.

  “You’re my best friend, Stoney,” Violet whispered. “I could never forget you. A-and I’ll come back to you…I promise! One day…I’ll come back to you and—”

  Her words were silenced as Stoney’s fingers pressed firmly to her lips. “Don’t make me no promises, Viola,” he said. “Don’t make me no promises you might not be able to keep…even if ya did mean to.”

  “But I—” she began to argue.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Just promise to remember me.”

  Violet choked back the argument rising in her throat. She would come back to him. She would! Then and there, standing near the old cottonwood tree, Violet Fynne silently vowed she would return to Rattler Rock one day—return to Stoney Wrenn.

  “I…I got one more thing for ya,” he said, taking her hand.

  Violet clutched Stoney’s photograph to her breast as he led her beneath the canopy of cottonwood limbs and leaves.

  “He’ll probably tan my hide for it…but I don’t care. I done it anyway.”

  Stoney pointed to the trunk of the tree, and Violet gasped at what she saw. There, carved into the bark of Buddy Chisolm’s old cottonwood, was a heart—a heart with S.W. and V.F.

  “It’s all I can give ya, Viola,” Stoney mumbled. “That silly photograph that feller made and this,” he said, pointing to the carving in the tree. “I ain’t got nothin’ else.”

  Violet reached out—let her trembling fingers trace the fresh carving in the bark.

  “It’ll be here forever…won’t it?” she whispered.

  “Well…as long as the tree is here, it will,” Stoney said.

  “And this tree and the grass and the sky. The whole world will know we were here once, that we were friends, that we played and laughed…and…and…” Violet stammered. She stood, tears streaming down her face. “And that I love you…that I always will.”

  Stoney’s head hung low for a moment. He brushed a tear from his cheek with the collar of his shirt before shoving his hands into the pockets of his worn trousers.

  Violet reached into the pocket of her skirt. “I-I wrote a letter to you,” she whispered, withdrawing a small envelope. “It ain’t anything as grand as your carvin’,” she said. “But…but maybe it’ll help you remember me too.” She smiled as he looked up, smiled, and accepted the letter from her. “And…and I stole the photograph that man made of me for my own mama last fall. I stole it out of one of her trunks after she packed it up. It’s in with the letter.”

  Stoney laughed and wiped another tear from his cheek. He looked up at her, eyes still moist, still dull and lifeless. Shaking his head, he said, “What’ll I do, Viola? With you gone?”

  “What’ll I do without you?” Violet begged in a whisper.

  Stoney shrugged. “Grow up…without me, I guess.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “You were meant for better than this anyhow, Viola. I can’t begin to imagine what life holds for you.”

  “Violet! Violet Fynne!”

  Violet looked to the road—to where her daddy was waiting in the wagon.

  “We’ll miss the stage!”

  As she looked back to Stoney, a wave of pure desperation suddenly overwhelmed her. Throwing her arms around his neck, Violet clung to him—never wanting to let him go.

  Though Stoney returned her embrace, he whispered, “You go on, Violet Fynne. You go on with yer family. Go be happy.”

  “I’ll never forget you, Stoney,” Violet whispered. “And I’ll come back. I will…I promise!”

  “Just promise to never forget me,” he whispered. And then—in a much lower whisper, a whisper so quiet Violet could barely hear it—he breathed, “I love you too.”

  “Violet! Now!” her father hollered.

  Violet kissed Stoney on the cheek as he released her. He forced a slight grin, shoved his hands into worn trouser pockets again, and nodded.

  “Go on now, Viola…’fore yer pa comes over here to get you,” Stoney mumbled. “Draggin’ it out won’t change it.”

  “Will you come see the stage off in town?” Violet asked. “It leaves in an hour.”

  Stoney sighed. “Maybe,” he said.

  Violet nodded. She understood. He was right: dragging it out wouldn’t change anything. “Goodbye, Stoney,” Violet whispered, as her tears renewed their streaming over her cheeks.

  “’Bye, Viola,” Stoney said.

  Violet left him then—turned and went to her father waiting in the wagon. She climbed up onto the seat beside her father, and he brushed the tears from her cheeks, smiling with compassion.

  Stoney raised a hand in farewell as Violet waved to him, and she watched him—let her gaze linger on Stoney Wrenn, standing there beneath Buddy Chisolm’s cottonwood tree—until the road turned and the tree was out of sight.

  She looked down at the photograph in her hand—at the image of the tall, handsome boy. She only wished he were smiling. Oh, she knew it wasn’t appropriate to smile when a photograph was being taken. Still, she wished Stoney would’ve been smiling when the man had made the photo last fall, for she loved his smile—the light that leapt into his eyes when he did smile.

  Letting her fingers gently caress the photograph once more, Violet tucked the photograph of Stoney Wrenn into her skirt pocket. Her greatest treasure, that’s what the photograph was, and ever it would remain so—she knew it.

  Violet fastened the cameo brooch to the lace of her collar at her throat. She closed her eyes a moment, trying to dispel the vision of Stoney Wrenn standing on the road at the edge of town waving as the stagecoach carrying Violet and her family left Rattler Rock. The vision yet haunted her. It ever would, for Mrs. Deavers had written to Violet’s mother some weeks later. In her letter, she told Mrs. Fynne of Stoney’s father’s fury over finding out his son had been to town that day. Mr. Wrenn had beaten Stoney something awful, Mrs. Deavers had written. Violet had been beside herself with guilt and worry. For days she’d cried, telling her mother it was her fault Stoney was beaten, that the family must return to Rattler Rock to protect Stoney from his father.

  Finally, Violet settled. She was not soothed—only settled—understanding that, at only twelve years of age and at the mercy of her family, there was nothing she could do to help Stoney Wrenn. It was then that Mr. and Mrs. Fynne decided to cease in corresponding with anyone from Rattler Rock—to leave the past in the past and move forward.

  Violet did not write to Stoney, for she knew it would only cause him trouble, and she wo
uld not be the cause of another beating. Therefore, the last memory Violet Fynne owned of her beloved childhood friend was the vision of him standing near the road, waving to her as the stage rattled away, and the knowledge he’d been badly beaten for it. Violet suspected Stoney knew what his father would do if he went to town to see the stage off, yet she had asked him to come—and he had, even knowing he would pay the painful price. In this, Violet’s guilt worsened, and she could never forgive herself for being so selfish. Stoney had said his goodbyes under the cottonwood tree, but Violet—in selfish desperation—had not been content and had begged him to come to town to see the stage off. He had done as she asked, and, according to the details of Mrs. Deavers’s letter (which Violet had taken from her mother’s trunk some time later and read in full), Stoney had nearly paid with his life for Violet’s selfishness. For this, Violet Fynne would never forgive herself.

  The clock on the mantle chimed, and Violet gasped. “Oh, I’m late!” she breathed, brushing a tear from the corner of one eye.

  She glanced in the mirror, hoping she was presentable enough. Picking up a stack of new readers and her lunch bucket, she hurried out of the little house.

  As she rushed down the boardwalk, past the general store and livery, she wondered if any of the children had related her story of the seeing the lovers’ light to their parents. No one had appeared on her doorstep the evening before—no one intent on reprimanding the new schoolteacher for filling their children’s minds with such fiffle. Violet knew she must be cautious however. She’d known many a fellow teacher who had lost their positions for far less than telling tales of ghosts.

  Violet was suddenly aware of a discomforting feeling in her shoe. A pebble, perhaps? Irritated, she looked down to her feet, though she did not slow her pace.

  The force of the collision did not unbalance her enough to knock her to the ground. Yet it did cause the lunch pail and readers she was carrying to tumble from her arms and clatter on the boardwalk.

  “Oh, for crying in the bucket!” Violet sighed. “I’m so sorry,” she said to whomever she had bumped into as she bent over to quickly gather the readers. She would be tardy for certain—and what would folks think of a teacher who could not be prompt?

  “Let me help ya there, ma’am,” a man’s voice said.

  “Thank you,” Violet said, gathering several more readers into the crook of her arm. Standing erect once more, she began, “I guess I need watch where I’m—”

  She gasped, however, rendered entirely breathless as she stared at the man before her. He held out her lunch pail, and Violet accepted it—even as her mouth gaped in astonishment.

  The eyes! The face of the man before her, the remarkable stature, held little or no resemblance to the boy she’d once known. Yet the man’s eyes—the unusual green-blue opalescence of his eyes—his eyes were unmistakable. The man standing before her was Stoney Wrenn!

  “Th-thank you,” she managed to breathe.

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” he said. He didn’t smile—simply touched the brim of his hat and moved past her.

  Dazed for only a moment more, Violet turned and watched him walk away. He was tall—so tall and vastly broad-shouldered! He wore a weathered pair of boots, worn trousers, a red shirt, and a brown hat. He hadn’t recognized her, and she was somehow relieved he hadn’t.

  “Mornin’, Stoney,” Mr. Deavers greeted, stepping out of the general store and onto the boardwalk.

  “Mornin’ there, Alex,” Stoney said.

  The sound of his voice echoed in Violet’s mind—deep in intonation, so very different from the way his voice had sounded as a boy. He paused to speak to Mr. Deavers, and Violet studied him quickly. He was so large—much more so than he’d seemed at a distance! She had expected he would have grown, knew he would most likely be bigger than he had been as a boy. Yet he was so very tall when viewed at close range, the breadth of his shoulders so wide. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and the defined muscles in his forearms were evidence of hard work and strength. Furthermore, he was extraordinarily handsome! Not just casually so, but mythically so. As he stood talking to Mr. Deavers, his profile was on perfect display. His nose was straight, his chin firm, his jaw squared and in slight need of shaving. His appearance seemed entirely altered. He’d been a handsome boy, yes. Still, as a man, he was so handsome as to merit pure ogling.

  Violet closed her eyes just a moment. She tried to dispel the vision of those penetrating eyes, the same eyes that had mesmerized her as a child. Yet she could not, and she opened her own once more, still awed by his appearance.

  A very pretty young woman approached. She was dark-haired—not so unlike Maya Asbury. Violet watched the way her eyes glanced briefly to Mr. Deavers yet lingered with admiration on Stoney Wrenn.

  “Good mornin’, Mr. Deavers…Mr. Wrenn,” the young woman said.

  “And good mornin’ to you, Miss Asbury,” Stoney said. The smile he offered the young woman in return was not only charming but entirely alluring. “My, my, my. Don’t you look as sweet as summer honey? You’ll sure have the bees buzzin’ today, Miss Asbury…and the boys too, I reckon,” Stoney said. He smiled at Maya’s sister, and Violet felt the gape of her mouth widen.

  “Mornin’, Miss Fynne.”

  Violet startled, gasped, then closed her gaping mouth as she turned to see Sheriff Fisher standing behind her.

  “On yer way to the school, I guess,” the sheriff said.

  “Uh…yes,” Violet stammered. “Yes, indeed.”

  Sheriff Fisher grinned and glanced past Violet to where Stoney stood conversing with Mr. Deavers and Maya’s sister. “I see Stoney’s already got the girlies a-flutterin’ this mornin’,” he chuckled. “My brother says you used to know ol’ Stoney…when ya lived in Rattler Rock before.”

  “Uh…yes…yes, I did,” Violet said. “Way, way back…when I was just a little girl.”

  “Probably knew ol’ Alex Deavers too, huh,” he said.

  “Yes, in fact. I did.”

  Sheriff Fisher shook his head. “That was a sad day for the whole town, the day Mrs. Deavers passed. Last Thanksgivin’ it was. Sad day.”

  “Oh,” Violet said, frowning. “I…I haven’t been into the store yet. I didn’t know Mrs. Deavers had passed.”

  “Yep, she sure did.” Sheriff Fisher smiled. “But I’m keepin’ ya from yer path, aren’t I? We can’t have the schoolteacher arrivin’ at the back end of the children, now can we?”

  Violet smiled and shook her head. “We certainly cannot, Sheriff.”

  “You can call me Coby, Miss Fynne,” Sheriff Fisher said. “I go by Coby…to purty ladies such as yerself.”

  Violet was surprised to feel a blush rise to her cheeks. Sheriff Fisher was very handsome—tall, dark-haired, and blue-eyed. He was unusually charming too, especially for a lawman. It was always nice to own a compliment from a handsome gentleman.

  “You best be careful, Sheriff Coby Fisher,” Violet said, smiling, “or you’ll have the girlies all fluttering this morning too.”

  He laughed and touched the brim of his hat. “Oh, just one I hope, Miss Fynne. Just one. You have a nice day now.”

  Violet felt her smile broaden and her blush deepen as Sheriff Fisher nodded and walked past her. Still, as she looked again to where Stoney Wrenn stood smiling down at Maya Asbury’s sister, her smile faded.

  Regret, pain, and guilt washed over her, and she whispered, “What am I doing back here?”

  “I beg yer pardon, ma’am?”

  Violet looked up to see a young man standing next to her, a puzzled frown on her face. “Well, there certainly are a lot of folks coming and going in town this morning,” Violet said, suddenly somewhat overwhelmed with having her path so constantly barred.

  “I-I’m sorry, ma’am,” the young man said. “I was only headin’ over to the store. I didn’t mean to get in yer way.”

  Violet inwardly scolded herself. Her own preoccupation with Stoney Wrenn, Sheriff Fisher being about hi
s business—none of it was this boy’s fault. “Oh, no,” she said, forcing a smile. “I just don’t remember town being so full of life before.”

  “Yer Violet Fynne,” the boy said. He smiled, his dark brown eyes alive with light all at once. “Yer the new schoolteacher, ain’t ya?”

  “Yes,” Violet said. “Are…are you coming in to school today?”

  The boy dropped his gaze for a moment. He shook his head, causing his tawny hair to feather in the breeze. “No, ma’am. I ain’t one for book learnin’. ’Sides, I got chores that need doin’.”

  “Well, what’s your name?” Violet asked.

  Something about the boy intrigued Violet. Something in her soul was drawn to the young man’s obvious humility and kindness. He was already taller than she was, even for his apparent youth. Still, that wasn’t saying too much; Violet Fynne was not tall.

  “Jimmy Ritter, ma’am,” he said.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Jimmy Ritter,” Violet said. She moved the readers around in her arms, looped the lunch pail handle over one wrist, and offered a hand to Jimmy. She smiled when the young man took her hand.

  “Can I…can I help ya haul them things over to the school, Miss Fynne?” he asked.

  “Oh, would you?” Violet sighed. “I’m bound to be late as it is…and I don’t want to find myself dropping these readers again, or I’ll never make it over there. You sure you don’t mind?”

  “No, ma’am,” Jimmy said, his handsome smile broadening. “I don’t mind at all.”