The Seduction of Roxanne

by Linda Jones

  So he'd returned to watching her from afar, sure it was for the best. He'd even suggested to Calvin that he meet up with Roxanne on the way home from school and walk her home, and on one day the deputy had done just that. Cyrus spied on the meeting from the shadows until he'd seen Roxanne smile just once; then he knew all was right with the world and he was no longer needed here.

  Today, however, Calvin was not around. Cyrus cursed under his breath, figuring that the boy was probably lost again.

  Even though Calvin was not around to do the honors, he didn't join Roxanne as she walked by. Standing on the boardwalk before the saloon, he even lowered his head as she passed, so that if she looked his way she'd assume he didn't even know she was on the street. He stood in shadow and her gaze was steady and straight ahead, so likely she wasn't even aware of his presence.

  Roxanne seemed well on her way to being happy, and he was glad; but he also felt a strange sense of loss. He hadn't expected that giving up his obsession would be so difficult, that he'd begun to think of Roxanne as his reason for being, as his purpose in life. Once her dreams came true there would be a large, empty hole in his life, a void he didn't think anything—anyone—else could fill.

  A sound that didn't belong, something not quite right, made him lift his head. He stepped forward, narrowed his eyes, and looked searchingly from one end of the street to the other. For a moment all was still, and then he heard more clearly the faint noise that had disturbed him. Horses. Coming fast.

  He stepped into the sunshine, into the street, and felt as well as heard Roxanne turn her gaze to him. That gaze hit him as surely as the warmth of the sun on his face.

  "Hello, Cyrus,” she said, just a hint of surprise in her voice.

  He didn't look at her. With his eyes trained on the emptiness at the end of the street he squinted his eyes against the glare of the sun. A coarse shout, a joyous, angry scream, joined the approaching thunder of pounding hooves as the dust at the end of the street rose.

  "Get into the dress shop,” he commanded, nodding once toward Fannie Rowland's place.

  "But—” Roxanne began.

  "Now."

  She heard the urgency in his voice, perhaps, because she obeyed without another word. Hamlin Nickels stepped onto the boardwalk, and without turning, Cyrus ordered the old man inside as well. Up and down the street the word spread quickly, and people took cover.

  Dust filled the street as the riders approached. Cyrus's heartbeat increased and his mouth went dry. Riders coming fast didn't necessarily mean trouble, but that single shout had been spine-chilling in its fury. His gut told him nothing good would come riding through that dust cloud.

  Three horses appeared, still coming fast. It didn't take him long to recognize the rider in the middle as the man who'd introduced himself, a couple of weeks ago, as J. T. Johnson. The man he'd run out of town.

  Cyrus waited in the street, alone. The warm spring sun beat down on his hat, his face, and the length of his body, and dust rose to tickle his nose. Muscles tensed in his neck and his arms, and he flexed his fingers without conscious thought. Everyone else was behind closed doors, perhaps peeking from windows and rooftops, but he soon forgot that he had an audience. All his attention remained on the three riders as they came to a halt in the middle of the street.

  J. T. dismounted first, and the others followed suit. The three of them stepped forward defiantly, moving unerringly ahead. J. T.'s companions fanned out, effectively surrounding Cyrus.

  "Fellas, this is the Sheriff Scarface I told you about. He was right unfriendly to me last time I passed through town.” With friends backing him up, J. T. was braver than before, and that made him dangerous.

  "You boys might as well get moving,” Cyrus said calmly, his voice low. “There's nothing for you here."

  J. T. took a step forward. “I'm here to call you out, scarface.” His hand rested comfortably over the revolver at his hip. “You insulted me, throwed me out of town for no good reason, even threatened to shoot me in the back.” He shook his head in apparent disbelief. “Ain't right. I tried to forget about it, but I can't. You done me wrong."

  Cyrus glanced quickly to the two men who had ridden into town with Johnson. They were apparently as mean and stupid as J. T., and that was a real shame. Cyrus found it damn near impossible to reason with a single mean, stupid man, let alone three of them.

  Watching Johnson's hands, Cyrus swept his jacket back to clear his holster. He flexed his long fingers again. “You have one last chance to ride out of town. Think of it as a gift. I'm in a fairly good mood and I really don't want to kill anybody today."

  Johnson grinned. “I ain't riding out of town this time until I'm good and ready.” He smirked. “That might not be for a day or two. I ‘spect once you're dead the three of us will find that tall gal I seen on my way out of town and show her how a real man treats a woman."

  Cyrus suppressed the flare of anger that shot through him and narrowed his focus until all he saw were the armed men in the street. The horses behind them faded, the people he knew were watching were gone—unimportant. Johnson really was stupid. Did the moron think the man he called Sheriff Scarface would get frightened and run just because he was outnumbered? Did they think he would panic because he faced three guns?

  Yes, there were three of them, but no matter what, Johnson was a dead man. He should know that just by looking at Cyrus's face. One or both of the others might—might— get off a shot, but that wasn't going to happen before Cyrus put a bullet through J. T. Johnson's heart.

  "Last chance,” Cyrus whispered, his hand hovering over the Colt at his hip. “If you plan to ride out of town sitting upright, now's the time."

  Johnson twitched once and drew his six-shooter, trying unsuccessfully to get the drop on the sheriff who had driven him out of town.

  From the moment he saw Johnson make his move, Cyrus didn't think; what came next was instinct, reflex. The butt of the gun fit his hand with a comfort that made it a part of him. The weapon slid smoothly from the holster, without a hitch, without a split second of hesitation, so fast Johnson's companions flinched. One of them cursed reverently beneath his breath.

  Cyrus tightened his finger on the trigger. When the moment was right, he squeezed.

  An expression of surprise flitted across Johnson's face as he lifted a hand to his chest and fell to his knees. Stupid, Cyrus thought.

  As if through another eye, Cyrus saw the men beside him draw their guns as the horses reared and skittered back. He rotated and fired, the defensive motion smooth and quick as he fired to one side and then the other. A single shot was fired from a weapon not his own, but it went wild.

  In a matter of seconds the confrontation was over. He hadn't consciously aimed and fired, hadn't even thought about what was happening. Now it was done. Survival instincts had kicked in, and Cyrus had done what he had to do, what he did best. He'd killed them all.

  The reverberation of gunfire diminished in the suddenly still air as townspeople stepped from their businesses to get a better look. The horses ran, scared off by the sharp, violent blasts that continued to ring in Cyrus's ears. Three men lay dead in the street. All three had their six-shooters in their hands. Only one of them had managed to get off a shot.

  Around him, people murmured; whispering words he couldn't quite discern. He didn't need to hear their words. He could tell by glancing at their faces that they were scared, impressed, horrified. Cyrus himself felt only slightly ill.

  He took his eyes from the bloody bodies on the street, and discovered Roxanne staring at him. Her face had gone pale, so white she looked as if she might pass out at any moment. He took a step closer to her, planning to explain what had happened, but when he made that move she took a matching step back.

  He stopped his forward progress as Hamlin clapped him on the back and Thomas Eakin appeared to congratulate him on a job well done. When he didn't respond, they moved away to see to the task of removing the bodies from the street.

 
Cyrus moved toward Roxanne again, a single step, and when he did she turned and ran.

  * * * *

  She should've been asleep hours ago, but right now she felt like she'd never sleep again. Her heart pounded unnaturally fast and hard and had for hours, and her mind whirled with thoughts ... none of them pleasant.

  Roxanne sat on her balcony and grasped the wrought iron bars before her as if the very grip kept her from falling apart. She drank in the night air as if it could nourish her, as if the coolness would calm her blood and her heart until all was right again.

  She'd never seen a man shot before, never seen blood flow from a man's heart, taking his life with it. When she closed her eyes she heard the discharge of guns so clearly she winced, just as she had this afternoon when shots had been fired. In her mind's eye she saw, again, the men fall, saw Cyrus standing calmly over it all as if nothing were wrong, as if this turn of events was right and natural. He'd killed three men in the blink of an eye.

  Oh, it had happened so fast. One minute all was well, and the next ... the next nothing was the same. Cyrus had killed three men without so much as a breath of hesitation.

  Three guns had been pointed at him. Three men had surrounded him. When he'd drawn his gun and pulled the trigger, an answering shot had been fired. Dammit, he could've been killed.

  Like it or not, she kept coming back to that. Cyrus might have been one of the men on the ground, bleeding, dead. If that single shot had been well-aimed, it would've torn through his body in a heartbeat, tearing flesh, perhaps bringing that heartbeat to an end.

  She clutched the cool iron bars in her hands and looked beyond to the dark and silent moonlit night. All was apparently peaceful here, and all around her the residents of Paris slept, safe and sound.

  The peacefulness was false, though, she knew. There was danger everywhere, violence right around the next corner, at the end of the road. She closed her eyes tightly. How could she have allowed herself to feel anything for Cyrus when she knew very well who he was and what he did?

  She knew now, more certainly than ever, that Calvin was the one who could make all her dreams come true. No matter what inappropriate feelings for Cyrus flickered through her, she knew in her heart and in her mind that he was not the man for her. She could list the reasons from memory now; the past that tied him to Louis, his dangerous career, his horrified insistence that he would never get married, that children—the children she wanted so badly—were annoyances to be avoided. She couldn't allow her feelings for Cyrus to grow. No matter what, she would have to learn to squash the admiration and jealousy and desire that flitted inappropriately to the surface now and again.

  "What keeps you awake?"

  Her eyes flew open and she looked down to see a familiar white hat and long butternut duster.

  "Calvin?"

  "Yep.” His voice was soft and gentle, easy and soothing. “I couldn't sleep myself, tonight, so I decided to take a nice long walk. I was jest passing by when I saw you sitting here. What's wrong?"

  Which Calvin stood below? Farmer or lover? Distant friend or adoring suitor?

  "It's silly, I know, but I was rather upset by this afternoon's ... episode.” Goodness, she couldn't even say the word shooting.

  He nodded his head as if he understood. “It can be kinda disagreeable to watch a man die, even a bad man."

  "Is that what they were?” she whispered. “Bad men?"

  He hesitated; for a moment he didn't even pace, but stood stock still in the moonlight. “Do you think the sheriff would shoot them if they weren't? Do you think he would've fired his weapon if he hadn't been defending himself and anyone else those criminals might have run across next?"

  "I don't know,” she whispered. “It happened so fast."

  "You shouldn't think of such things,” he said. “What happened this afternoon was ugly and horrible, and you shouldn't be exposed to such misfortunes. You should.... “he stopped for a moment. “You should only have goodness and beauty for the rest of your life. Blue skies, green gardens, happy children."

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Children?” she whispered.

  "Children."

  He paced, head down, beneath her balcony. Oh, she wished he would look up at her and smile, just once, but since they'd been through this before she didn't really expect him to. Maybe one day, when he knew her better and didn't feel so shy in her company, maybe then she could see his face as she heard sweet words from his mouth.

  "I'm so very glad,” she said earnestly, “that you're not going to be a deputy for much longer."

  "Are you now?” he asked softly.

  "Yes,” she breathed. “I can't ... I just can't...."

  "I understand,” he said, saving her from her ramblings.

  "Roxanne?” he said her name very slowly, and she had the strange notion that he liked the feel of the word on his lips.

  "Yes?"

  He didn't speak immediately, but stalled as if waiting for the perfect moment to speak. The silence was deep, complete. She waited.

  "All I want is for you to have everything your heart desires,” he finally said, his voice uncommonly low.

  She smiled. “That's all?"

  "That's everything,” he whispered, and then he began to back away, one slow step at a time.

  "Don't go,” she said, coming up on her knees. “Not yet."

  Already she felt calmer, more herself. The panic and the horror were gone, just because Calvin stood there in the night, whispering kind, sweet words to her.

  "I can stay for a few more minutes, I guess,” he said reluctantly.

  Roxanne stood. She wasn't even wearing her dressing gown on this warm night, just her nightdress. She should run inside and change, or else she should allow Calvin to walk away. But she did neither. She clasped the rail in her hands and looked down at that wide-brimmed white hat that hid everything from her.

  "I'm coming down,” she said impulsively, releasing the rail.

  "No!” Calvin backed away a few more steps. “I can't talk to you face to face, not tonight."

  "Why not?"

  He cocked his head slightly to the side. “Unless, of course, you want to talk more about the farm."

  "No,” she said quickly, ashamed that the very thought distressed her deeply. “I don't want to talk about the farm, not tonight. It's just that you're so ... so far away, and it's so dark tonight."

  He paced silently for a moment, then stopped directly beneath her. “I have an idea,” he said, and then he turned his back to her and walked to the oak tree that grew near her balcony. An old, gnarled oak tree, the lowest limb hung a good ways off the ground.

  Calvin jumped up from a standing position and caught the lower limb in both hands, and then he heaved himself up with a grace she hadn't known he possessed. He tossed one leg easily up and over the limb, and then the other. She smiled, and her heart raced. There was strength and beauty in that simple move, masculine grace and heart-stopping power. He disappeared into the leaves, and she only saw his boots as he stood on that low limb and climbed higher, bringing himself directly across from her.

  Leaves rustled for a moment and then were still.

  "Calvin?” she whispered.

  The answer came from mere feet away. “Yep."

  Cyrus leaned against the tree trunk and stretched his legs out along the sturdy limb. Through a break in the leaves he saw Roxanne's face as she leaned over the balcony railing. He could imagine that she reached for him with her entire body; that she reached for Calvin.

  It came to him, again, how very beautiful she was. Every feature perfect, strong and still somehow soft. How could Calvin say that she was no prettier than Jane or Rose or half a dozen other girls? The boy was apparently blind as well as stupid and clumsy.

  Roxanne smiled, and his heart constricted.

  Tonight she wore only her white linen nightdress. Did she know how it molded to her body? How her breasts pushed against the thin fabric, how the linen flowed about her long legs? A short
gust of wind pushed the fabric against her body, for a brief second delineating every curve, every crevice. Every in and every out. Before him stood pure perfection, all woman, and what he wanted more than anything was to reach out and touch her. Ah, but not only was he hiding, she was too far away. Unless he wanted to reveal himself, unless he was ready to face her with the ugly truth, he would never be able to touch her.

  Watching Roxanne, thinking about touching her, fantasizing about his hands on that body, aroused him. His response was immediate, complete, and not at all surprising. He was so hard, getting down from this damn tree anytime soon was going to be a real problem.

  No wonder his physical response was so quick and painful. He hadn't been with a woman in a long time; too long. At this moment he finally understood why. He wanted Roxanne and only Roxanne, a woman he could never have, a woman he had no right to desire.

  "Is this better?” he asked.

  Her smile widened. “I don't know. You're closer, but I still can't see your face."

  "Just as well,” he sighed. “You know how bashful I am. Why shucks, you just look at me with those big blue eyes and I lose my tongue, and all I can think of to talk about is plowing and cows."

  She cocked her head to one side and a fall of dark hair draped over her shoulder. It looked so soft, so tempting.

  "You even sound different,” she said, apparently only slightly puzzled. “Your voice is softer. The same, somehow, but still ... different."

  "Maybe I am different when I'm alone with you,” he said. “Maybe I've changed because I know you. ‘The face of all the world is changed, I think, since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul.’”

  She sighed. “You know Elizabeth Barrett Browning."

  "Sure,” he said, wondering if he'd made a colossal mistake. “I went to school. Mostly we had these old maid schoolteachers, but there was this one prissy perfessor fella.” He tried to mimic Calvin as well as possible. “If I remember rightly he was the one who taught us poetry."

  When she'd run from him this afternoon, she'd been pale and sickly looking, but now she had color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. Even in the moonlight he saw the details too well. She was right; she could never marry a lawman whose life would always be touched with violence. She was too delicate for a life like that. She deserved better. She deserved more.