The Cedar Tree (Love Is Not Enough) (29 page)

He swallowed the cookie, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve. Stooping, he picked up a broken picture frame, glass crunching beneath his boots. A shower of tiny confetti sprinkled from the frame's glass.

He picked up a bit of paper—his hat and part of his hand in the air. Another bit showed his ear and part of his jaw clenched tight with effort. He picked up a few more confetti scraps—flying hooves, the custom made spur on his Tony Lama boot, and the red fringe of his rodeo chaps underneath the silver GH of his initials. He frowned. Not a very encouraging start.

Moving to the window across the room, he glanced out. The driveway remained empty, so he turned to the dresser. A framed picture of Lance teetered on top of a pile of books—Physics, English Literature, and a ragged paperback copy of
Great Expectations
. He nudged the picture with his finger and smiled grimly as Lance toppled behind the dresser.

He slid open the top drawer. Hair stuff. He stirred through it with his finger, hooking a familiar length of blue satin ribbon. Untangling it from a handful of barrettes, he remembered the day he'd untied it from her hair. So soft, and shining like a halo in the sun. Beautiful. He fished his wallet from his back pocket then folded the ribbon into it.

He replaced the wallet, and then in the middle drawer on the right side—her panties drawer—he found it.

"Geez," he muttered.

She had mutilated the cactus flowers, shredding the postcard like she'd shredded his picture, only she'd taped it back together. He peered closely at it. What was that…coffee grounds? A small seed…maybe a tomato seed…formed a tiny bump between the Nevada sunrise and the tape. He sniffed. It smelled like…goat. Soured goat milk.

Yet…she had taken a lot of effort to dig the tiny pieces from the trash and tape them together. Was that the emotion he'd been craving?

He glanced around the room. It certainly looked like the work of an emotional woman. Darlene could have done that.

Replacing the card as he'd found it, he started to slide in the drawer then stopped. He hesitated then slowly unfolded a small pair of pink cotton panties. His heart beat faster as he rubbed his rough thumb over a soft yellow butterfly. Lifting her hair ribbon didn't bother him much, but what were the moral implications of stealing a virgin's underwear? Probably not as bad as fornicating, but…

Reluctantly, he replaced the panties and shut the drawer. He had enough trouble constantly wrestling his thoughts from images of her and him together as it was.

He glanced out the window again then crunched across the bedspread to the overturned nightstand and set it upright. The top drawer of the nightstand held the familiar ivory colored paper of her notes to him and some pens. The bottom drawer held an assortment of lotions and perfume. He picked up one of the bottles and sniffed—the musky floral fragrance he had come to associate with her. She certainly didn't need to wear it for Lance. He slid it in his shirt pocket, shutting the drawer.

If she missed her stuff, she could call the marshal.
"Yes, Officer, I've been robbed. I'm missing a hair ribbon and a bottle of perfume, but my panties are still here, so I don't think it was Gil…"

Her Bible lay open on her pillow. He sat on the tumbled bedding on her mattress and picked it up.

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted…

She had underlined it.

He stared soberly down at the words, imagining her miserable and grieving in the silent darkness of her room. Did she roll out of bed to pray and try to find answers like he did? Had she ever wished, even once, for his arms around her while she cried?

He carefully replaced the Bible then stood. With his hands on his hips, he scanned the room. His hat—the one the dog had peed on—hung from a hook on the wall by the door, clean, now. He left the hat there and turned to leave. Then he stopped, frowning. Where else could they be?

He turned back to the bed, lifting the covers. She'd jammed the stuffed dog he'd given her for Christmas head-first between the mattress and the wall. He smiled narrowly. Disrespected, but in her bed anyway.

He lifted the mattress. The pile of his notes and the letter from before her mother's death fanned out on the box-springs near the edge. Except for the box of Christmas chocolates, all his stuff was there.

He'd check on the bridle when he went outside, but he'd lay money it was with her saddle. She probably would've gotten rid of everything if she was through with him.

With his heart lighter than it had been in many weeks, he strode out of the house. His assets might be a little battered, but he was still in the running.

***

That night, newfound hope won out over decision. Considering what he'd found in Katie's room, he wouldn't wait until the end of March to approach her. He showered and shaved—the gash on his cheekbone had faded to a pink line—then splashed his cheeks and chest with the aftershave she liked. In polished boots and dressed in his best shirt and jeans, he drove to church.

When the service finally ended, Katie gathered the kid's stuff, wearily clutching him in one arm. Rachel took him away then Lance approached and said something. Katie nodded, but her dark circled eyes didn't smile. Lance hesitated, his gaze on her troubled, but then he walked away.

She scanned the room to where Rachel was still holding the kid. An expression of relief passed over her thin features. She shouldered the diaper bag then slipped through the side door of the church.

He followed her into the chilly darkness outside. "Katie?"

She jumped and whirled toward him. Then she glanced quickly toward the parking lot at the other end of the building and turned to walk away.

He stepped in front of her. "We need to talk."

She sidestepped him.

He matched her movement. "I'll make a scene."

She stopped and sagged resignedly, her eyes closed. "What do you want?"

He gripped her elbow, urging her around the corner of the church into deeper shadow.

"This is far enough." She pulled away her arm then stared at her feet.

He studied her downcast face in the dim light from the streetlamp across the road. The muted screams from a horde of children racing around the parking lot reached him. She didn't move.

"You've hardly said two dozen words to me since your mom died. Don't you think I rate some kind of explanation?"

She remained motionless.

"It's been three months, Katie. I just wanna know what I did wrong."

Still nothing.

"You haven't even broke up with me," he said, growing desperate. "You just stopped talkin' to me. Why?"

She rubbed her forehead. "Okay," she said tonelessly. "I'm breaking up with you."

"No, you're not." He stepped closer. "You're just gonna tell me what I did and we'll get it fixed."

She drew away, holding her arms around her thin middle. "I can't," she whispered, finally.

"Why not?"

A long moment passed. She made a hopeless gesture. "I'm…I feel like I've…died. I'm all shriveled up inside. Talking won't help, and I can't…handle any more demands on me."

"I'm not makin' demands on you," he said quietly.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not. I've got eyes. I can see what kind of load you're carryin' and it kills me. Watchin' you try to—"  

"Don't." She held her trembling hands to her ears. "Please, don't."

He stopped. A sickening sense of dread started in his belly. He shouldn't have pushed her. A couple of kids rounded the corner, yelling. They stopped short, eyes wide.

"You kids beat it," he snapped.

The kids ran off. Katie lowered her hands and shivered, pulling her coat tighter around her. She didn't look at him.

"What'd'you want me to do?" he asked, at last.

She met his gaze, her eyes dry and too big for her thin face. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. I don't want you to do anything. While I was sneaking around with you, someone I shouldn't have been with, doing things I shouldn't have done, I lied to my mom, and fought with her, and…she was dying, Gil." Her voice faded to a whisper. "And now…Dad like he is… How can I ever make up for that?"

"Katie, I wish I'd done things different, too, but we can't go back." He stepped closer. "We can start over, though. I love you. I'd do anything for you, just tell—"

"Stop." She backed away. "Don't tell me how you feel. I can't handle it. I…can't feel for you what you want me to anymore."

"Can't or don't?"

She held her shaking hand to her forehead and looked away.

He raised her chin, making her meet his gaze. "Which?"

She swallowed hard and her gaze slid away from his. "Don't."

"I don't believe you. You're throwin' me away because Lance is what your mom and dad wanted for you."

She met his gaze again, but didn't say anything.

"Do you let him kiss you?"

Her eyes slowly filled with tears. 

"Well, how is it?" he asked roughly, driven by his jealous pain. "Pretty good?"

She didn't answer.

He tightened his grip on her chin. "Or is it really good? Like when we do it?"

No reaction. He fought himself not to take her by the shoulders and shake her until she woke up and lost that…dead look in her eyes. Car doors slammed. Motors started. The screaming ranks of children thinned.

"What makes me the only expendable one in this mess?" he asked tightly. 

A long, silent minute passed. Her slender throat moved when she swallowed.

"There's me, too," she whispered.

He stared at her with a sudden terrifying suspicion. "Katie…" He urgently gripped her thin shoulders and gave them a shake. "Tell me you haven't made some stupid promise to God that you won't have nothin' else to do with me to make up for—"

"You'll find someone else and Lance is a good guy. He's loved me forever," she said tonelessly. "Everybody's always thought we'd get married someday."

No. Oh, God, no.

The smell of soap on her warm skin reached him. Her hair smelled like lightning. Just like it had that first night when she'd started breaking his heart. She'd never stop. He never should've…

He had to get out of there. He was sick. In two seconds he'd throw up.

Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, he stepped back on legs like rubber.  

"Okay, you've got it through my thick head. I won't bother you anymore." He backed another step. "If you ever decide you want me…I guess you know where to find me."

***

Later, the house slept, dark and silent. Like death. He reached for his clock. Two a.m.

He eased from his bed and dressed. Molly followed him downstairs. His grandfather didn't stir when he pulled on his boots by the living room door. In the chilly night air, Venus shone steadily in the sky over the cedar covered knob. The Big Dipper hung upside down over the mountains to the north.

Out of habit, he made for the corral where Lucky and Shorty lifted their heads. Lucky trotted to the fence with a deep whicker rumbling in his chest. The horse nudged him.

"Didn't bring you anything, Luck," he murmured absently. He rubbed the horse's chin.

Lucky seemed to sense his distress, laying his long head over the shoulder of his denim jacket. Chief and Molly sat close to his boots, silent. He leaned against the top corral pole, rocking back and forth as if in physical pain.

He was in pain. His head hurt. His stomach hurt. His chest hurt. Everything hurt, and he couldn't block the lifeless decision in Katie's eyes from his memory.

If she'd made a promise to God, they were over. She wouldn't break it, and he couldn't ask her to. It was all over. Forever.

He dropped his head to his arms. The dogs whined when a strange sound—a man weeping—filled his ears. For a moment, he didn't know who it was.

Then he figured it out.

It was him.

Chapter Seventeen

April sun had dried the mud inside the breaking pen, a round, six foot high stockade of boards tilting slightly outward. The Roman-nosed black gelding Gil rode sidled across the pen, its long ears swiveling bad-temperedly, back humped beneath the saddle—a powder keg waiting for a match.

"Molly, no," his grandfather shouted from the direction of the house.

Gil jerked his head toward Molly's shrill yapping. An instant later, the five pound match shot through a gap in the bottom of the fence, zipping under the fourteen-hundred-pound powder keg beneath him.

The big horse launched into the air like a rocket, squealing with outrage. Then it dropped, back bowed, legs like fence posts, trying to stomp the black and white streak darting in and out between its hooves.

He thumped down hard on the saddle and the gelding began to buck with sheer, vicious enjoyment, slapping the seat of his jeans onto the saddle with every neck popping, spine jarring thrust of its powerful hindquarters.

Fifteen seconds later, he launched himself into the sandy middle of the pen away from the horse's flying hooves. He landed on his feet, but his bad knee buckled and he fell to his knees, gasping for air.

Molly continued to yap and dart. The black bucked around the pen again, grunting with concentrated glee. Finally, tired of the game, its big head snaked out and teeth bared, it chased Molly through the gap in the fence.

He staggered to his feet. His chaps fell down around his knees, tripping him. With an impatient scowl, he hauled them back onto his hips. The horse stopped on the far side of the pen to give a vigorous shake, beating the saddle stirrups in a dusty tattoo against its rough-haired rib cage. Then, unperturbed, it lowered its head and thrust its nose between two boards, straining to lip at a sprig of new grass outside the pen.

Snatching up his hat, he limped toward the gate where his grandfather stood holding Molly. Her furiously panting mouth grinned wide with satisfaction.

"I'm sorry, Son," his grandfather said. "She squeezed out the door before I knew she was there. You all right?"