Lacy (20 page)

When he let her back down, her body brushed
against his, and its changed contours made her step back quickly, blushing.

"We're married," he said quietly, dark
color staining his own cheeks as he tried not to appear as embarrassed as he
was. "We'll both have to get used to it, I guess."

She swallowed. "Sorry. It's the age of
permissiveness, after all. But I suppose I'm still back in the Victorian
Age."

"So am I, if it's any consolation." He
touched her cheek gently, his eyes soft and quiet on her face. "Do you
want to know what happened in France, Lacy? Are you sure you want to
know?"

"Yes."

"I'll tell you tonight, then," he said
grimly. "We might as well have everything out in the open. Then you can
decide whether or not you want to stay. When you know the truth, San Antonio may appeal to you very strongly."

He turned and left her there, his spurs making
musical noises as he strode out the back door and onto the porch.

He didn't want to tell her. But she had the
right to know. If she loved him enough, it would be all right. He hoped she
did. He'd never hoped anything as much. With his mother's terminal condition,
he didn't know if he could cope alone. He'd never needed anyone before, but he
needed Lacy. God willing, she wouldn't run out on him now.

Lacy watched him go with mixed emotions. Finally
he was willing to tell her the truth. She knew it had something to do with what
had happened overseas, but she didn't know what. When he told her, perhaps they
could settle down to a new understanding and build a lasting relationship. She
took the used cups to the sink and began to run water to wash them.

It was late when Cole came back. He'd been
helping two of the men build a bigger calving barn, and they were just now
through with the frame. The tin was going on the next day. It was hard work,
but the hay-filled stalls were handy for two-year-old heifers who were giving
birth for the first time, and for cows who had a hard time. The old barn was
getting rickety. Cole's father had always maintained that it was far easier to
build a new structure than to repair an old one.

Lacy was sewing a new dress, so Cole told her to
keep on with what she was doing. He went to the kitchen and lifted the white
linen cloth that covered the leftover food from the evening meal. He filled
himself a plate of cold ham and rolls and canned peas. Then he opened the small
icebox and, with the ice pick, chipped off some ice to fill a tall glass. He
didn't want to have to ask Lacy to make coffee for him, and he was hot despite
the chill because he'd been working. He poured sweetened brewed tea from the
ceramic pitcher on the table into his glass. Then he put everything on a tray
and went to his mother's room to sit with her while he ate.

Marion
was propped up in bed
nibbling on a piece of coconut cake, looking worn and pale. But she smiled at
him all the same.

"How are you feeling?" Cole asked as
he put his tray on her bedside table and tossed his hat onto a nearby chair.

"A little better, I think. Thank you, dear.
You look tired."

"We got the calving shed framed in,"
he said wearily. "Tomorrow, we'll roof it with tin. Thank God we live in
an area with a relatively warm winter. Turk's told me horror stories about
calving in a Montana winter, with five feet of snow on the ground."

Marion
nodded. "That's
why the cattle industry does so well here in south Texas. Or so your father
always said."

He took a bite of ham and studied her narrowly.
"Did you love my father?"

She started, her eyes wide and round. "Why,
of course!"

"How could you when he was so cruel to
you?" he asked quietly. "He treated you like a stick of furniture
when he wasn't berating you for some reason or other."

Marion
smiled gently.
"You saw the temper. I saw the boy I fell in love with trying too hard to
cope with life." She lay back against the mound of pillows, her eyes
misting in memory. "He was eighteen and I was sixteen when we married. We
took Daddy's buggy and drove to Reverend Johnson's house late one afternoon
with our marriage license. He married us and his wife gave us supper. I was so
happy, Coleman. Those first years were bliss."

"And then?"

She put down the thin white saucer with the cake
on it. "And then we bought this ranch. Your father was never cut out to be
a rancher. He was a city boy, with big ideas. He would have made a fine
businessman. He never was able to cope with cattle."

"That isn't how I remember him," he
muttered.

"Oh, he learned," Marion said,
correcting him. "But he hated the cattle industry, the dust and dirt and
carnage of it. A man who is forced to do something he finds abhorrent can be
turned cruel." "Perhaps," he said noncommittally.

"You don't believe me. You love what you
do; you enjoy working out of doors. I think you even like the challenge.
Someday, Coleman," she continued, her eyes soft, "you won't have to
live like this anymore. You'll have something better."

"I don't need frills," he protested
gently. "I suppose Lacy wouldn't mind them, though."

Marion
's eyes twinkled.
"Do I dare ask if things are better for the two of you?"

"They're much better," he said, but
his eyes were sad. "For the present."

The elderly woman studied him without speaking
for a long moment. "Lacy loves you very much," she said. "You're
like your father in some ways, Coleman—afraid to trust, to open yourself to others
because people who can come close enough can hurt you. Lacy never would."

"People can hurt without intending
to," he said, and abruptly changed the subject. Not even to his mother
could he talk about his deep fears, his insecurity, his scars. He didn't want
to tell Lacy, but if their marriage was to have a chance, he'd have to.

When he got up to go, Marion reached out and
gently touched his hand as it held the tray of empty dishes.

"You will take care of Ben and Katy.. .when
the time comes?" she asked worriedly.

His face went hard as he looked down at her,
seeing his life flash before him, all the memories of her loving care, her
tenderness.

"Haven't I always?"he asked quietly.
"Now stop that. God was here first. He made doctors."

Marion
smiled. "Yes, He
did, didn't he?"

"You remember that." He bent and
kissed her forehead gently. He wasn't an affectionate man, but he did love his
mother. She touched his hair gently, remembering the tiny, black-headed baby
she'd cradled in her arms, held against her heart, twenty-eight long years
before. Many a dark night she'd rocked him in the cane-bottom rocker near her
bedroom window, watching him nurse while her husband slept soundly in the bed
nearby. Tears stung her eyes hotly, but she hid them. A mother's memories were
precious, and private, something she rarely shared even with the children who
provided them.

"Will you take my saucer back to the
kitchen with you?" she asked, managing to sound almost normal.

"Certainly." He added it to the tray
and smiled at her. "Try to sleep."

"I'll do that. Pull out the top light as
you go, will you, dear?" "Sleep well."

He reached up to the metal string attached to
the socket of the lone, stark bulk suspended from the high ceiling and tugged.
The light went out promptly. Cole shook his head at the modern miracle. The
family had gone to bed by kerosene lantern until two years ago. Electricity was
still a luxury, like the telephone, but Marion had said that cattle prices went
up while Cole was in France recuperating in the hospital after the war. So many
new things graced the old house on his return. He did know how war seemed to
boost the economy, so he'd never questioned it. His mother had so enjoyed those
luxuries that he didn't have the heart to chide her about the money that could
have gone into an improved breeding program. With the neighbors' help, and
Taggart and Cherry overseeing his cattle, at least the ranch had done okay
while he was off fighting. That was one big blessing. Now if he could just
manage to pay off the mortgage before he lost the whole business, that would be
his best one—next to keeping Marion alive as long as possible, he added
silently, and with an absent prayer.

But at the moment, he had another worry on his
mind. How to tell Lacy, as he'd promised he would tonight, that her dreams of a
family could never come true.

Chapter Nine

By
the time Cole finished
his bath and dressed in clean clothes, Lacy was sitting in front of the small
fireplace in their bedroom, having laid a fire in it. She was hemming the dress
she'd made, her face glowing softly in the firelight. The high-ceilinged rooms
were quite cool in November, despite the fact that it was south Texas. The fire felt good.

Cole paused beside her chair. "I put the
dishes in the sink," he remarked quietly. "They'll keep until
morning."

She smiled up at him. "Thank you. How is Marion?"

"I pulled off the light. She said she was
going to try to sleep." He sat down in the straight-backed chair beside
hers and ran a restless hand through his hair, damp from the tub. "I
promised you an explanation."

She slid her needle through the fabric of her
dress and her hands stilled. Her blue eyes held his. "Yes."

"It's going to be hard."

"I told you before.. .nothing will matter,
Cole," she told him.

"Won't it?" he asked, with veiled
sarcasm. He leaned back in the chair precariously and began to roll a
cigarette. "You knew that I was wounded in France, and that it took a long
time for me to heal. What you don't know is how it happened." He put the
finished cigarette in his mouth and reached over to get one of the big kitchen
matches that were used to light fires. He stuck it in the stone hearth and lit
the cigarette, tossing the used match into the fire. "I was flying back
from a raid on the German lines. There were several of us, in formation.
We
were surprised by a German circus that
was on its way back to camp after raiding our front."

"Circus?" she asked, curious.

"It was what we called a formation of
fliers," he explained. "The name of the squad's lead pilot determined
its name, Richthofen's Circus was headed by the Red Baron himself." I see.

"It was a madhouse. You can't imagine the
complexity of trying to balance a wire-rigged flying machine in the air and
rain bullets at an enemy at the same time. My outfit was a biplane, a Nieuport,
and just as I leveled off on the enemy's tail, I was hit by gunfire from above.
I went down with the engine in flames."

Lacy hadn't moved. She hoped she was still
breathing. "You crashed in flames?"

"Not quite that. The planes were made of
wood and wire and dope-covered fabric, so they burned quite easily. But I got
lucky, because there was a flat plain close by. I was able to land the plane.
But my foot was caught and I couldn't get out. And just after I was on the
ground, it burst into flames." He glanced at Lacy's horrified face.
"Turk had seen me go down. He landed almost simultaneously and ran toward
me. I was on fire when he pulled me out of the plane." He shivered with
the memory of the heat and agonizing pain. "He smothered the flames and
sat with me until the medics came. I spent months in the hospital. At first
they thought I might die, but I kept improving. Turk sat with me. Talked to me.
Encouraged me. He pulled me back from the edge." He didn't look at her
now. "When I was well enough, the doctors told me what had happened, what
I could expect. After they left, I made a grab for my service revolver. Turk
took it away from me."

Lacy let out her breath. "Oh, Cole,"
she said, horrified.

He laughed coldly, staring into the flames,
wincing at the dancing heat. "My back and legs were pretty bad, even my
stomach. I healed, but there are some terrible scars. That's not even the worst
of it." He lifted the cigarette to his lips and took a long draw.
"They said I might not be able to father a child."

She was out of her chair and on her knees in
front of him even as he finished speaking, her arms sliding around him, her
face against his chest. She held on tight, not even speaking.

His hands rested lightly on her hair as he tried
to assimilate what her actions meant. Was it comfort or pity?