by Alicia Scott
When the two-by-four was cut to the right length, he set it aside, picked up another and resumed sawing.
Behind him, the log cabin had already taken shape. It was built by hand, his hand, and the process had been painstaking. He'd chosen the site himself, cleared it with a Cat tractor that he'd rented. He'd picked out the logs, good thick logs, and scoured building plans to come up with what he wanted. Every now and then, C.J. or Brandon would stop by and lend a hand. They moved faster than he, always in some sort of hurry. He preferred to take it slower. He had time now, and time was precious and should be savored.
There were nights he wanted to sleep with his eyes open so he wouldn't have to relinquish his view of the stars.
He finished with the last board. He picked up the ones he'd cut, wincing a bit as the movement pulled on his still-healing thigh, and began his rolling gait toward the house.
The external structure was done. Built into a hillside, the cabin was two stories high, really a main floor with a loft. The ceiling was vaulted at forty feet, with a wall of sheer windows so that daylight drenched every inch of the interior and a man could always feel as if he had one foot outdoors. The view extolled snowcapped mountains and endless green horizon. When he died, he wanted his ashes scattered here so he would never have to leave that view.
He'd broken ground of the cabin five months back. The day they'd released him from the hospital with his stitched-up thigh and governor's pardon. He didn't remember much about what happened before that. They said he'd been unconscious for ten days, and in those ten days the Ferringer clan had moved in and closed ranks around him. Phone calls had been made. Testimony from Joel, Maggie, C.J. and Brandon had been filed. A lawyer had been hired. A call had gone in to the governor's office, presumably from Brandon.
Cain had just floated, weightless, bodiless, and sometimes in the void he thought he could feel his mother's embrace. And so he'd floated, feeling her hand around his once again and beginning to realize that he was no longer alone.
When he'd finally regained consciousness, Maggie had been there at the bedside and she had smiled at him and he'd known everything would be all right.
Later, there'd been a flurry of activity. Ham's arrest and his subsequent outpouring of racial diatribes had made national news. His location was now kept secret and the police watched him around the clock, fearing assassination. Zechariah had yet to be charged but was under investigation. Ham would not comment on Zech's involvement one way or the other. Nor would Ham comment on his own, using the opportunity instead to spout off his white supremacist rhetoric instead.
The Klan had flown in a high-powered attorney from Louisiana to take his case. The Epsteins had countered by hiring an even bigger-name attorney, who specialized in bankrupting white supremacist leaders, to file a civil suit against not only Ham, but the two white supremacist groups he belonged to.
Justice was now in the hands of the court and the media were already playing out the trial.
Cain stayed away from it. He needed the trees now. He needed the feel of tools beneath his hands. He needed to create something, slowly and painstakingly. He needed to watch it grow and take shape and know that he could do that.
He supposed he needed some time to heal.
His old employers had called him up the day after his release. They were interested in hiring him back. He countered by saying maybe he'd like to do some freelance projects. He had some ideas for a new generation of games. He wanted to start programming one called "Great Escapes," where the objective was to break out of jail.
They were amused. They were interested. They sent him a top-of-the-line PC and 28.8 baud modem in the mail, plus an advance. He worked on the game at night now, after the sun went down. It was good to be programming again; he liked the complexity. He had a feeling this game could really be something.
"Hey, this is where you've been hiding."
Cain turned, the smile already on his face.
She stood before the wall of windows, having entered without making a sound. The trees framed her luminescent face lushly, giving a wild, fey aura to her features. She glowed these days. Truly glowed.
"How are you feeling?" he asked immediately. He didn't have a chance to cross toward her; she was already crossing toward him.
"Like I swallowed a beach ball." She grimaced, rubbing her hands over her swollen stomach.
"Lucky beach ball," he whispered and replaced her hands with his.
"Did you feel that?" Little junior had learned how to kick.
"He's going to be a fighter," Cain agreed. He tweaked her nose. "Like his mother."
Maggie crinkled her nose, but smiled. Finally, she gave up on restraint and came fully into his arms. They never made it longer than two minutes without touching, and now they drifted into the embrace as naturally as a ship slipping into port. Her arms went around his waist, her head nestled into the curve of his shoulder. His hand stroked her hair. They let the silence linger and savored it.
"Don't forget," Maggie said at last, drawing slightly back, "tonight you finally have to bite the bullet and meet my grandmother."
"Uh-oh," Cain said.
"Exactly."
"She'll probably take down her shotgun and demand that I make an honest woman out of you," Cain said.
"No. C.J. has dibs on that."
"Ah."
"Lydia just wants to mess with your mind. She thinks anyone who builds a log cabin by hand must be a little crazy."
"She may have a point."
Maggie smiled at him. Then she snuggled back into his arms.
"So what about next month?" he asked at last. He picked up a heavy coil of her long red hair, held it up to the dappled forest light, then let it stream like silk through his fingertips.
"What about next month?"
"For the wedding," he said.
Maggie stilled in his arms. "What wedding?"
"Ours."
She finally pulled back, looking at him intently. "Cain Cannon, are you proposing to me?"
"I've been proposing to you," he said, "for five months now." He gestured to the house.
She looked puzzled for a moment and then her eyes widened. "You mean this cabin? You mean you've been building this for me?"
He took her hand. "Here, let me show you something."
He led her to the front door and gestured down. "You've never noticed."
"Never noticed what?"
"Look down on the door. What do you see?"
"A flap."
"Not a flap. Who puts a flap on a door? It's—"
"A cat door," she finished and then her eyes widened again. "Oh my God, you put in a cat door! It is for me!"
Now he grinned, relaxed and ridiculously pleased with himself. "You'll have to help me with the interior, though," he said softly. "I don't know exactly what you want."
"Oh," she said. "Oh."
He brushed his thumb down her cheek. "I love you, Maggie," he whispered. "Did you think I was going to risk you slipping away? A true Hathaway Red is hard to find."
"I … I don't know," she babbled. "I wanted you to ask, thought you would ask, but you did just get out of prison and you have a lot to figure out and I didn't want to pressure you or rush—"
He silenced her with a fingertip over her lips. "I'm not pressured. I'm not rushed. I'm in love. So what do you say, Maggie? Will you take one ex-convict, slightly used?"
"Okay," she said immediately. And then her face softened beautifully. "Oh, Cain, I love you so much."
Cain drew her back against him and it was good and it was right.
He held her with his cheek against her fiery hair. And through the windows of his new house, he could see the sun brighten the blue sky and dapple the endless flowing trees.
* * * * *
Inhaltsverzeichnis
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Epilogue
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