Belonging

by Carolyn Faulkner

  "Poor baby," he soothed in a hoarse whisper. "It must be awful to have someone who loves you enough to discipline you when you do something foolish."

  "It is!" she agreed vehemently.

  He began to rock them slightly back and forth. "And I am sorry to have hurt you—I always will be, my dearest Fleur, but I can also promise you that I will never let that stand in the way of me correcting you, even if it has to be a much worse punishment than you just got."

  She squirmed and wiggled in his arms at that worrisome declaration, trying to get away, but he wouldn't allow it, preferring instead to tip his head down and hers up, so that he could kiss her thoroughly, smiling slightly when she refused to join in at first, but confident that he could turn her around.

  And he did—within seconds of their lips meeting, she had lost the will to fight him and surrendered herself to him completely within the safety of his arms.

  When he finally let her go, before her father met them at the door with his shotgun, she turned at the door and, her lips pursed, commanded boldly, "I do not want you to spank me again."

  He touched the tip of his hat to her, shooting back, with a firm pat to her bottom in passing as he headed down the porch steps, "Well, then, I guess I can look forward to a future of you obeying me unquestioningly."

  Her loud snort made him smile. "Don't count on it, buddy."

  His warm chuckle drifted to her ears. "I know you, Petal, and I surely won't."

  Then he stopped and turned around, just as she was going to close the door behind her.

  "I love you to distraction, you know."

  It was a long second, during which his heart lodged painfully in his throat, before he heard her soft answer, "I love you, too, to distraction." Then he heard, as the door closed, "But sometimes I don't like you very much."

  Despite the fact that that incident seemed to open the flood gates, and she began to be spanked by him much more often than she preferred, which was not at all, they would both have agreed that they loved each other more and more each day.

  That was until later on, when he began to talk about the inevitability of America becoming involved in the horrible conflict that was unfolding in Europe and how he might as well join up, since he was bound to be drafted anyway at some point, hoping that going in early might give him a leg up on getting where he wanted to go, rather than merely being sent to become cannon fodder, as most of the European soldiers seemed to be. He even went so far as to take enough course credits at college that he could graduate a year early, with his degree, in order to enter as an officer, rather than a noncom.

  He'd discovered a passion for flying, one that few but Fleur supported him in, considering it a waste of time—and worse than that, money. But he intended to lend what little expertise and experience he'd been able to garner to the military, hoping to end up as a pilot or at least doing something involved with flight.

  But if he thought she was going to be happy about his idea of voluntarily entering the military when there was no real need to that she could see, he was sorely mistaken, and she let him know it from the first time he mentioned his intentions to her.

  Their plan had always been to get married during the summer after she'd graduated from high school, but what he intended to do would put those plans off indefinitely, possibly—and most frighteningly—forever.

  "So you don't want to get married?" she'd asked—trying not to sound accusing, but knowing she was failing miserably.

  The look she got for her efforts made her reflexively reach her hands behind her to protect her backside.

  "You'd better cover your bottom, little girl," he growled in warning as he literally stalked over to her, backing her up against the living room wall without ever having to touch her. Fleur found herself neatly trapped there when Lawson planted his palms on the wall behind her. "I ought to put you over my knee for even thinking that, much less saying it out loud to me in that bratty tone of voice."

  And he might have, if it hadn't been for the tears that he could clearly see were leaking out of the corners of her eyes.

  "N -no, Law, p-please don't s-spank me for missing you h-horribly—I will, if you go in!"

  Her tears and the sweet, pitiful plea that he knew came directly from her heart had him folding her into him and hugging her hard. "Shh-shh-shh, baby. I know you understand all the reasons why volunteering early might help me do what I want to do, rather than what they decide I should do."

  "I do, but I don't want you to fly planes for them! You'll get shot down and die and I'll die, too, for want of you!" she wailed against his chest, claiming fistfuls of his shirt and holding onto him for dear life.

  It was a stark reality and a hard pill to swallow, but he said it anyway. "I could just as easily be killed on the ground, honey. I'm sorry to say it, but it's the truth. War is coming—I know you realize that, too. I want to do this in the way that's best for the both of us. If I can get in before everyone else, even with what little flight time and know-how I have, I'm ahead of most. And just flying for them, I'll have experience doing so when I get back—I could fly planes for a living or at least work on them. We've talked about how it's the coming mode of transportation—I'd never be without a good paying job—we'd never have to worry about money, and I'd be working at my dream job."

  "If you come back."

  Lawson kissed the top of her head as he hugged her. "When. We must always think about when, not if."

  In the end, of course, he did what he said he was going to, entering the Army even before war was formally declared against Germany.

  He spent his last free day with her, and they came as close as they ever had to giving free reign to their passions. He was the stronger of the two of them, putting his foot down when she would have given in to him without a care.

  "No, my precious Petal," he had said that evening, lifting her away from him and turning with her to lay her gently down on her back on the blanket they had stretched out under the stars in a field that had a beautiful view of the night sky. "Since we're not getting married until I get back, I don't want to leave you with the worry about a possible pregnancy."

  "There are things we could do to prevent that," she suggested, giving him a bold look, a little concerned that he might consider her suggestion a bit forward.

  But he had merely smiled broadly. "Why, you little minx! What do you know about such things? And here I thought you were such an innocent!"

  "I don't have to be impure to know that there have always been ways to avoid unwanted consequences, Lawson," she answered primly.

  "Well, since those methods have been known to fail, I will consign us to the horrors of having to wait."

  Fleur batted her eyelashes at him outrageously. "We could still get married. I know my father wouldn't hesitate to roust a judge or two—even at this hour—in order for us to do so, if you wanted to before you go."

  It was everything he wanted. He had long since come to grips with the idea that he would brand her as his, if he could. But he also knew that, if he didn't come back, she would be despoiled and might well find it hard to get married again, and he firmly believed she needed the guidance of a strong, loving man to keep her out of trouble.

  He knew he was denying her of a widow's benefits if things went badly for him, and that weighed heavily on his mind, too, although he'd made arrangements with his family for her to receive anything that he might inherit in his stead, even though she wasn't his wife.

  But he also didn't want the possibility of a child of his growing up without a father, so, although he showered her with kisses, he brought her to her door intact that night and—mostly—unsullied, his heart both full to bursting and heavy with grief at the idea of having to leave her, although he was quite excited to have this adventure, though, too, however it turned out.

  It was almost impossible to leave her, especially since she couldn't seem to stop crying. He hated leaving her in that state and ended up sitting on their porch swing with her curled up
on his lap. It was torture for him, but his presence comforted her. He waited until she was asleep and snuck her upstairs and into her bedroom as stealthily as he could, managing to do so without waking her or anyone else in the house, luckily.

  He stood beside her bed, looking down at her for a very long time, carving the memory of how gorgeous she was indelibly into his memory before he forced himself to turn and leave.

  She surprised him the next morning by being at the train station, even though his train departed at five AM. Even his parents weren't there. Having chores to do around the farm, they'd said their goodbyes before he left, his mom having packed him a knapsack full of goodies to eat, give out to friends or barter with, whatever worked best for him.

  They hugged and kissed and she cried all over him. He told her all the things he could think of to help comfort her—how beautiful she was, that he expected to receive a letter a day from her, and how much he loved her, cautioning her to behave as if he was there with her, and that he'd be home before she knew it.

  Lawson had to physically remove Fleur's surprisingly strong arms from around his neck when he needed to board the train, but he held onto her hand as long as he could, with her running alongside the train until the very last minute, until her next step would throw her off the platform, hanging off the side of the train and waving at her, catching and blowing the kisses she'd sent him back to her until she was no longer visible even as a speck by the tracks.

  Even then, it was another twenty minutes before he could force himself to go in and actually find a seat on the train, after which he discovered, while digging in his pockets, that she had pressed a note into one of them that simply said, "I love you. Please come back to me." It wasn't signed formally, but rather with a plainly drawn flower, each petal of which was labeled "Yours".

  Fleur remained on the platform even longer than he had hung out off the train, brought to her knees by the stress and sorrow of it all, remaining there until someone who recognized her helped her all the way back home, where she—eventually—managed to steel herself to spend at least a year—please, God, no longer than that—without him.

  CHAPTER 2

  Before she realized it, Fleur had daydreamed a good deal of her time away, leaning against her broom and staring out at the backyard. It was now early evening, to her surprise. Luckily, she had started earlier in the week—always on the sly so that no one knew she was doing it, wanting to surprise him. And the place—which hadn't had a good cleaning since his parents had died not long after he'd left—was pretty much spic and span by now. She was sweeping more out of a need to keep herself busy than a real need to do so.

  She was so excited to see him, she could barely contain herself, and yet, she was that much on edge about it, too. Although they had maintained an almost furious pace of correspondence for the first year he'd been gone—in which he had talked about actually becoming a pilot, although not about where, of course—it had dwindled drastically, on his part, over the next six months. For the next year and a half—since she'd found out through a cousin of his that he'd been seriously injured—she hadn't had a letter, and that worried her, although her parents tried to reassure her that it didn't mean anything.

  But if Devon, who was one of the ruffians who used to be quite annoyed at his little shadow, hadn't come to tell her and told her what the Army had told him, as his next of kin, she would never have known that he was injured.

  "Seriously injured," was all the telegram had said, "and taken to an Army hospital in France for treatment."

  Although her parents were none too happy that he had let her know without telling them first—so that they might soften the blow, somehow—she had made him swear that he would always let her know, first thing, anything he heard about Lawson, now Captain Lawson Fields, U. S. Army Air Service.

  "Well," her mother had said upon hearing the news, "that's the reason why he hasn't written you. He's fighting for his life."

  Unfortunately, information of any sort proved to be more valuable than gold. The Army was not particularly forthcoming about what was happening to their soldiers medically, and more often than not, the news of the worst possible outcome was delivered via telegram, a visit from the clergy, or—worse than that, unbelievably, something that had happened to a few of their friends—reading about the death of a loved one in the Honor Rolls of the town newspaper.

  Fleur learned to hate the sight of anyone in a Western Union uniform, even though she knew they wouldn't be going to her door, they could be going to Devon's.

  But she tried to remember that he wasn't dead—that they knew of. And injured—and recovering—men were encouraged to write their families, so that they would know what was going on.

  No such letters materialized, however, although the sight of Fleur waiting for him—religiously, twice daily, hoping for any kind of word about her fiancé—had their postman nearly in tears of sympathy for her, wishing he had something to give her that would ease her mind.

  The war had been over for six months before they heard anything more at all—as far as she knew.

  The unfortunate truth was, though, that his cousin had had a letter from him, asking him to tell Fleur on his behalf to forget him and get on with her life, even that he had met someone else, if he had to, and that he no longer wanted to be engaged to her or have her in his life in any capacity.

  Of course, he did none of that, barely able to believe that it was Lawson who was asking him to do all of those horrible, cowardly things, although it was definitely his handwriting.

  In fact, Devon wrote a letter back to him, taking him to task and telling him that if he wanted to say those things to her, he'd have to do it himself, because he wasn't about to.

  When she finally did hear about him, it was the barest of telegrams, saying that he had been discharged and would be home within two weeks. His cousin had brought it over with him, not sure whether he should be happy about it or not, given what his previous telegram had said. And he wasn't even sure that it was Lawson who had sent this most recent one—it was completely dry and emotionless—it could have been the Army, for all he knew.

  But still, it was news, and he felt obligated to tell her, his face becoming a bright red when she'd jumped up and hugged him for it, already making plans about throwing a party for his return and even wondering out loud when they could get married.

  Devon had glanced at her parents, who were much more attuned to what his very dampened demeanor might mean for their reunion. "Uh, Fleur, darlin'," her father began, his brogue coming to the forefront whenever he was concerned. "I don't think you should be jumping the gun like this. You have no idea in what condition he'll arrive. You know how badly hurt some of the men who have already returned have been. They're coming back in a terrible state. He could be in a wheelchair; he could still need to be in hospital—you don't know, lass."

  She turned to him, her heart light for just having heard something—anything—about him. And it wasn't something unimportant—he was coming home! "Oh, Poppa, I don't care about any of that. If he needs to be in the hospital, then I'll be there with him any time they'll let me. If he needs help, I'll be there to help him."

  Her mother tried—with the same lack of success—to suggest to her that he might not be exactly the same man as he was when he left, but she would hear none of it.

  Lawson was coming home! Nothing—but nothing—else mattered!

  She had wanted to go to the station to pick him up, but Devon had been strangely, vehemently against the idea, suggesting that she give him some room to adjust to being home before she saw him. Fleur had agreed to not accompanying him—which had been horribly hard—but she notably hadn't acquiesced to anything else he'd suggested, and so here she was, waiting anxiously for the sound of his car driving up.

  But that sound never met her ears as she bustled about the place, cleaning things for the fourth and fifth time that day. Instead, it was the unmistakable click of the hammer of a gun being cocked back that caug
ht her ear, and seconds later, she turned slowly to see the outline—as he remained mostly in the shadows—of her fiancé, who seemed to be, as best she could tell, swathed head to toe in a long overcoat of some sort—leveling what appeared to be the muzzle of the revolver he had taken with him to war at her.

  And it actually took him a moment to put it down, too, once he realized who she was, a fact which she found quite disturbing.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked flatly, putting the gun away with what seemed like severe reluctance.

  No open arms for her to run into. No heartfelt "I love you" or "I missed you horribly".

  Fleur nearly fell forward from the strength of will it took not to fling herself at him as she had originally intended once she recognized him, sensing somehow that he might well not catch her if she did.

  Instead of him hugging her, she hugged herself, looking down at the now spotless rug, suddenly feeling as if they were strangers to each other.

  "Welcome home." She smiled hesitantly, looking back up at him, wishing she could see him better. "I aired out and cleaned the house for your return. I was so sorry about your parents, Lawson." She didn't mention that she was the one who cared for them in their final days—which ended up not being very far apart—not Devon or anyone else, not that she resented doing so. She did it for him, and because she loved them, too, and it was the right thing to do.

  He grunted noncommittally, not moving a muscle.

  Fleur cleared her throat nervously. "Are you hungry? I have a beef vegetable stew on the stove—I know it's one of your favorites of my recipes—"

  "No."

  Nothing more than that.