The Seduction of Roxanne

by Linda Jones

  Instead she'd whispered about his words, in the letters and beneath her balcony, and when they'd touched ... when they touched nothing else mattered.

  He knew that in a roundabout way Roxanne did love him. She just didn't know it.

  There were a thousand or more good reasons why he should stay away from Roxanne. There was only one good reason for him to consider going to her and asking for more than friendship.

  Like it or not, right or not, he loved her.

  Ah, actually there were two good reasons. He opened his eyes and fastened them on the occupied balcony across the way. He wanted her so badly he'd likely die without her in his life; in his bed. Going to her, pretending to be Calvin last night, had been wrong. Touching her, kissing her, taking liberties behind a mask of darkness, had been wrong. Burying himself inside her, taking everything she offered, had been wrong.

  In spite of all those wrongs, loving her had been very, very right.

  As he contemplated the rights and wrongs in his life, he absently stroked the scar on his cheek. He wanted to start over, to put aside his fears and take a chance.

  When Roxanne had looked at him over apple pie and said, “I want to get married,” what would've happened if he'd looked her in the eye and said, “Great. Marry me.” When she'd looked at Calvin Newberry with glazed, wanting eyes, he should've said, “The boy's a very nice moron.” On the night of the Smiths’ party he should've danced with her all night.

  Ah, but there was no going back, was there? There would be no second chances to undo mistakes, no way to erase all his blunders. All he could do was start over.

  He leaned forward until his face was so close to the windowpane he could feel the cold brush his cheek. Start over. It was the only chance they had.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  Ada and Josiah were home, classes continued as if nothing had changed, and Roxanne forced herself to return to her old routine. She walked home from school thinking of tomorrow's lesson, the slippers that needed mending, whether they'd have chicken or beef for supper. Her eyes straight ahead, her step brisk, she ignored everything and everyone else.

  In the six days—all horrendously long—since Calvin had left, she'd settled more and more comfortably into her old self. She did her job, she helped her aunt, she reached for the numbness that had gotten her through the past three years. It was best this way. If she didn't yearn for what she'd never have she wouldn't be hurt again. She had her students, her loving aunt and uncle, and she didn't need anything or anyone else in her life. Whatever foolish hope Calvin had sparked in her, a silly, stupid longing for anything more, was gone.

  She increased her step, unconsciously hurrying toward the safety of home, the haven of her lonely room. Gone? That was a lie. She tried to make it true, she really did, but there was something unsettled within her, still, something that hadn't been there before. It wasn't hope, not anymore; but she definitely suffered from dissatisfaction and an unexpected agitation.

  And anger—with Calvin, with Cyrus, even with Louis. Mostly she was angry with herself for allowing this mess to grow to such massive proportions.

  Cyrus stood, indifferent as always, in front of the saddlery, she noticed. As she had in the past several days, she ignored him. She hadn't spoken to him since the afternoon she'd asked him to shoot her if she ever spoke of marriage again.

  Of course, he hadn't spoken to her, either. He was always there at the saddlery as she walked home, or in front of the barber shop, or in front of the saloon, and he passed his time either looking at his feet or talking to some old geezer who didn't have anything better to do than bend the sheriff's ear. Today he stood alone.

  Roxanne kept her eyes straight ahead, her head high and her spine straight as she blatantly ignored Cyrus. They were not friends, she reminded herself silently. He'd kissed her, he'd looked at her on more than one occasion as if he saw something extraordinary in her perfectly ordinary face, and she'd been foolish enough to share all her silly dreams with him. He'd confused her, and if she'd learned nothing else from her experience with Calvin it was that she didn't want or need to be confused by a man ever again.

  Her steps had almost carried her safely past a silent Cyrus when she heard the cry; a faint, exasperated, “Mary Alice!"

  About that time the little girl brushed past, cutting across so closely she ruffled Roxanne's brown skirt. Roxanne had to stop short to keep from plowing into the child, and when she did her books and papers slipped through her arms and went flying. One thin book landed, open and face down, at her feet, and the others tumbled this way and that. The papers scattered, caught by a sudden whiff of a breeze, as Mary Alice threw herself at Cyrus.

  "Sheriff Cyrus!” the child cried with an unbridled joy that tugged at Roxanne's heart.

  Cyrus braced himself and caught Mary Alice, long arms wrapping around her pale pink dress as she vaulted herself up with a giggle.

  "Well, hello. If it isn't my best girl,” he said softly.

  Roxanne stifled an unladylike curse and dropped down to collect her books and snatch whatever papers she could. They were the girls’ poems, some silly and some quite good, and she didn't want to lose a one.

  "I'm so sorry,” Merilee said as she came rushing by. “She saw Cyrus and I just couldn't stop her."

  Of course Merilee couldn't stop her little girl. She carried a baby on each hip, a boy on one side and a girl on the other. The twins were seven months old, now, babies but obviously heavy to carry.

  "It's all right,” Roxanne said. She lifted her eyes to see Cyrus with Mary Alice in his arms, heading her way. “It was just an accident.” She grabbed as many papers as she could reach, and stacked her dusty books in the road.

  "You're going to have to watch where you're going, young lady,” Cyrus said as he put Mary Alice on her feet and began to collect a few papers that had blown up against the boardwalk a few feet away. “We can't have you running down the schoolteachers."

  Mary Alice collected a few papers herself, then handed them to Roxanne with a muttered, sincere apology of her own before her mother herded her toward home.

  Roxanne stiffened as Cyrus came toward her, a messy stack of dirt-smudged papers in his hand. “I think this is everything,” he said. His eyes fixed on her face, but they told her nothing; nothing at all.

  A flutter of white caught her eye, and she turned her head to follow a single sheet of dancing paper. “Over there,” she said.

  Moving quickly, Cyrus rescued the lone poem, snatching it up and adding it to the stack he held.

  "Here you go,” he said softly as he placed the papers in her hands. She couldn't quite bear to look at him, so she stared down at the papers, instead. Well, she could add cowardice to her ever increasing list of faults. All she wanted to do was escape before she made yet another mistake.

  "Thank you,” she muttered, and Cyrus stepped out of her way. She took a single step before gathering her courage and spinning around to face him. “I thought you were leaving town."

  "I will,” he said. “Someday."

  "I thought you were leaving soon,” she whispered, perhaps a little desperately. “That's what you said."

  "I changed my mind."

  Heaven above, she felt something for him even though she knew it was hopeless. Hadn't she blundered enough without making a fool of herself over a man who obviously had no use for a wife and family? Who'd made it plain that he liked his life the way it was? Simple. Unfettered. Uncomplicated. She, on the other hand, had complicated her own life miserably by allowing a man who did not love her to take a husband's liberties. She'd let passion cloud her judgment, she'd allowed her body to rule instead of her mind or her heart.

  She'd cursed herself a thousand times in the past week. What if she carried Calvin's child? And even if she were fortunate and there was no baby, how could she ever let another man touch her without remembering that night? How could she take a man into her life without telling him what a fool she'd b
een? And if she told, he would hate her.

  Cyrus was the only man who threatened her heart, who kept alive that horrid spark of hope. If he left, if she didn't have to see him every day, perhaps she'd be able to put him in the back of her mind where she stored the rest of her regrets.

  "You changed your mind,” she repeated. “Why?"

  "The time's not right."

  She turned around with a swish of her plain skirt and headed toward home. Well, he was going to make this difficult for her, with his soft voice and his piercing eyes and his ridiculous decision to stay in Paris. Fine, she deserved whatever pain and heartache she got.

  The difficulties began immediately, as Cyrus fell into an easy step beside her. “There's going to be another picnic Sunday,” he said casually.

  "How nice.” Her voice was cold, dead, just as she intended.

  Keeping pace beside her, Cyrus grumbled something she couldn't understand, but if she wasn't mistaken the words were horribly obscene. A moment later, he reached out and grabbed her arm to rudely stop her progress. It took a great juggling effort to keep her books and papers from flying this way and that all over again.

  "What do you think you're doing?” she snapped, staring cold and deep into Cyrus's eyes, and then cutting her gaze to the fingers that gripped her arm, long, dark fingers against the white linen of her sleeve. “Let go of me."

  The fingers on her upper arm tightened. “No.” He shook his head once to reaffirm his refusal. “Not until you hear me out."

  Her heart beat too fast, and she could feel, too clearly, the pressure of those fingers against her flesh. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. Instead she said calmly. “Go ahead."

  The fingers of one hand gripped her tightly, but not painfully, and he raised his other hand to her shoulder where it rested warmly. She no longer wanted to scream. More than anything, she wanted to fall into Cyrus's arms and cry her heart out, she wanted to throw herself at him and have him call her his best girl. She wanted to tell him everything and have him understand.

  "Stop this,” he whispered.

  She pushed back all her insane urges and maintained her cool exterior. “I don't know what you're—"

  "Stop punishing yourself,” he whispered. “So you made a mistake. It's not the end of the world."

  How much did he know? How much had Calvin shared with Cyrus and the others he knew? She could feel her face flushing hot and red. Calvin claimed not to remember anything about that night, but what if he'd been lying? What if Cyrus already knew everything?

  "A colossal mistake,” she said, her voice shaking.

  "We all make mistakes,” he said gently. “You're entitled to one now and then."

  She felt her eyes filling with tears, her calm exterior giving way. Every panicky fear, every horror, drifted to the surface. “Not like this.” Her voice shook slightly. “You just don't know—"

  "It doesn't matter,” he interrupted, his voice quick and soft, caressing and friendly. “I know things didn't work out like you wanted, but that's over and done with and you have the rest of your life ahead of you.” His voice became gruff. “Stop ... stop punishing yourself and everyone who cares about you."

  "I'm not punishing myself, and I'm certainly not punishing anyone else,” she insisted weakly.

  The hand on her arm tightened, and Cyrus inched closer and closer, until she could almost hear his heartbeat, almost feel the heat pouring off his body. “You're punishing me,” he whispered, and her heart skipped a beat. “Dammit, Roxanne, it kills me to see you like this."

  "Why?"

  "Don't you know?"

  Cyrus released her and took a step back, and it came to her that like it or not she did know. He cared about her and always had. He had been her friend, her rock, and even though he'd protested that he didn't want marriage and children, he didn't act like a man who didn't care for family life. Mary Alice Smith adored him, and whether he admitted it or not he had a soft spot in his heart for that little girl. Perhaps his protests about marriage and children had been hollow; empty, meaningless words meant only to steer the conversation in another direction.

  Had Cyrus planned to leave town because she'd set her sights on Calvin Newberry? Was he here today, still in Paris, because Calvin was gone?

  Cyrus, who was a part of her painful past, who wore a gun, who was everything she didn't want in a man, looked at her as if he really did care—as if she could tell him anything; even her greatest mistake. How could she go back to a life of loneliness and hopelessness when he looked at her this way? Oh, she didn't need this complication, not now.

  She took a deep, stilling breath, afraid to go too fast, afraid to trust her instincts. “I'm so confused,” she whispered. It was the truth. She'd been so certain that Calvin was the one for her, the perfect husband, the new love of her life ... and she'd been very, very wrong. Was it possible that her feelings for Cyrus went beyond friendship and always had?

  "I know,” he whispered as if he really understood.

  After what had happened with Calvin, she didn't want this, didn't want any man to court and kiss and deceive her ever again. Not even Cyrus. And yet, he was her friend. Her very, very good friend. Maybe that was enough, for now.

  "Cyrus?” she whispered as he backed away. “I'll be there Sunday."

  He almost smiled. She almost smiled back.

  "I'll make an apple pie."

  This time he did smile. The curve of his lips was crooked and small, but still they fashioned a charming smile. “Wear the pink dress,” he said as he turned around.

  He didn't wait for an answer, but Roxanne muttered as she turned about to head for home, “Maybe I will."

  Cyrus glanced anxiously at the clock sitting on the mantle in Hank Smith's study, as Hank rambled on about the twins and his sawmill business, how hard it was to find good help and how fast the babies were growing, how smart Mary Alice was and how beautiful Merilee was. The entire conversation made Cyrus very, very nervous. If he'd known this was the conversation he'd have to endure when he'd received the invitation for afternoon coffee and cake, he would've declined.

  Still, he knew Hank Smith well enough to know the man was procrastinating. The lanky ex-soldier moved anxiously about the room, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, his long, thin fingers never still. While he did glance in the direction of the chair Cyrus sat in, his eyes never lingered and he hadn't smiled. Not once. And Hank Smith had always been given to wide, frequent smiles, even when they'd been at war.

  Cyrus wondered if Hank ever woke at night screaming, if he ever spent sleepless nights watching his wife and children, afraid to go to sleep. Somehow, he thought not. Wounded though he was, gentle Hank Smith was a survivor. He'd put the horrors of war behind him, and spent his days worrying about lumber and payroll, cutting teeth and making sure his children grew up tall and smart.

  "Well,” Cyrus said as Hank paused to take a breath, “I really should get out of here."

  "Oh, not yet,” Hank said anxiously. “Have another cup of coffee,” he headed for the silver pot that sat on his desk, very out of place among the papers and pens and books.

  "No, thank you.” He stood slowly. “I've got to be going."

  Hank waved an anxious hand. “Five more minutes."

  Cyrus glanced at the clock again. Dammit, Roxanne was probably already home by now. He'd been sitting here for almost an hour, listening as Hank rambled on about nothing and everything. He wondered if she'd looked for him on her way home.

  "Why don't you just spit it out, Hank,” he finally said impatiently. “Tell me what's on your mind."

  Hank looked more than a little embarrassed. “I promised Merilee that I'd speak to you about ... about Roxanne Robinette."

  Now Hank had his full attention. “What about her?"

  "They used to be good friends, you know, but since I came home, things have been different."

  Since the war. There was so much in that unspoken phrase. Since I came home and Louis didn't. Since Merile
e's life went on and Roxanne's stopped.

  "A lot of things are different, now,” Cyrus admitted.

  "Merilee still cares about Roxanne,” Hank insisted. “But she doesn't know what to do."

  "About what?” Cyrus asked impatiently, his teeth clenched.

  Once the subject had been broached, Hank had no problem moving forward. “Merilee had begun to think that Roxanne was finally coming around, that she was finally getting on with her life. She came to the party, and was seen out and about more often, and just seemed ... I don't know ... Merilee used the word ‘brighter,’ and I guess in a pinch that'll do."

  Cyrus nodded. “And?” he prodded.

  "All of a sudden she's right back where she started,” Hank said quickly. “Merilee's worried, and she thinks you're the only one who can talk any sense into Roxanne."

  Cyrus started to protest, startled that his involvement with Roxanne was so transparent, but Hank cut him off with a raised hand and a quick word.

  "I know. It's none of our business. But Merilee said she'd rest easier if I spoke to you and I promised I would.” Hank looked relieved to have the encounter over with, and a little embarrassed to be caught up in this personal situation.

  "Well, you've done your job,” Cyrus said noncommittally as he glanced at the clock one last time. “Merilee can rest easy, now."

  He turned to walk away, and didn't even stop when Hank asked, “Shall I tell Merilee you'll speak to Roxanne?"

  Cyrus muttered to himself as he walked out of the front door. “What the hell do you think I'm trying to do?"

  He walked quickly through the neighborhood, down one street and across another, through one yard and then another, over Thomas Eakin's fence rather than the long way around it. A few people saw him, and if they acknowledged him he waved absently and kept moving. Finally he could see his own little house, and the Pierson house across the street.

  Roxanne had just reached the wrought iron gate at the pathway that led to the front door. Her back was to him, and he drank in the fine points that were so very clear to him; the cinch at her waist, where her white blouse and dark blue skirt met. The set of her shoulders. The strands of soft dark hair that brushed that slender neck.