The Seduction of Roxanne Page 11

  But if he could love her, just once....

  He put the impossible thought from his mind. “Do you know you look like an angel, standing there?” he whispered, the voice too much his own. Perhaps she realized something was wrong. Her smiled faded. “Shucks,” he added, doing his best to sound like countrified Calvin. “You're fine as frog's hair, and that's a fact."

  "You say that, but it's not true,” she said, half in modesty and half in confusion. “I'm too tall, and my mouth is too wide, and I—"

  "To me,” he amended, “You're the purtiest gal in town and always will be. You are not too tall, you're stately and graceful in a way no woman of an average height will ever be. And your mouth.... “His insides tightened and impossibly he got even harder as he studied that particular feature. “Your mouth is perfect, Roxanne. Especially when you smile or laugh."

  "You're beautiful,” she whispered shyly. “Truly, impossibly beautiful.” It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but it seemed she blushed. “That's very forward, I know, but it's only the truth."

  Roxanne wanted and deserved beautiful. Still, he was in no mood to hear how much she admired Calvin Newberry's face. “Talk to me,” Cyrus said. “Tell me about yourself and your life and what you want."

  Roxanne stared intently, and even though Cyrus knew she couldn't possibly see his face he shivered as she seemed to look straight through him.

  "I don't know where to start,” she whispered.

  Cyrus made himself comfortable—as comfortable as possible in his present condition—stretching his legs along the sturdy limb and crossing his booted ankles. The hem of Calvin's duster hung over the limb, and his wide-brimmed hat scooted forward to shadow his face ... just in case.

  How fortunate that Calvin was forgetful as well as clumsy. Cyrus had found the hat and duster hanging in the jailhouse long after Calvin had gone home.

  "Start at the beginning,” he said softly. “What were you like as a child? Were you happy? Serious? Did you play with dolls or were you a tomboy? I want to know everything."

  Roxanne told him about her rootless years with her father, and coming to Paris to live with her aunt and uncle after his death. She even spoke about Louis. She told him so much he didn't know, along with tidbits he knew quite well. After a while she sat on the balcony, perhaps tired at last, and leaned her head against the railing.

  She talked more about Louis, how much she'd liked him when they first met at the age of twelve, how much she'd come to love him, how he'd died. There were no tears. She told him how sometimes she looked at Mary Alice Smith and realized that if she'd been pregnant when Louis had gone to war, she'd have a child just that age. It was a very personal, intimate, heart-felt observation, not the kind of secret to share with just anyone.

  When she finished, she took a deep breath and sighed slowly, as if she'd just expelled something bitter and was better for it.

  "And what about you, Calvin?” she asked dreamily. “Tell me about your life."

  "Another night,” Cyrus said softly. “Besides, you haven't finished."

  She fastened her eyes on the leaves of the tree. It was a wonder, in his mind, that she couldn't see him.

  "What did I leave out?"

  "What do you want?"

  She smiled, a soft, sleepy, wonderful smile. “I want to live again. To have a home and family and children. I want peace at last, real peace. And I want to pass countless nights just like this one, talking while the rest of the world sleeps."

  "You shall have it,” Cyrus whispered, his voice so low he was almost certain Roxanne couldn't hear.

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  Chapter Nine

  After an almost sleepless night, Cyrus arrived at Lamar County Jail earlier than usual. Hell, if he was going to pace and mutter he could do it here as well as in his own one-room house.

  Going to Roxanne's last night had been a bad idea. He knew that, had reminded himself again and again of his mistake. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't regret going to her. Thanks to his late-night visit he knew her better than he ever had, could close his eyes and see her as a lanky little girl, could understand even better how close she and Louis had been. He knew her dreams and fears, her strength and courage.

  Calvin was a lucky man.

  Cyrus paced near the window, thinking again how fortunate Calvin was, when a sharp rap sounded on the door and it opened. The lucky man himself stood there. He'd collected his duster and hat from the rack in the main office, where Cyrus had replaced them early this morning.

  "Just wanted to say so long before I hit the road,” Calvin said with a wide grin.

  "You're leaving already?” Cyrus snapped.

  Calvin's grin faded. “Figured I might as well get an early start. I got a long day ahead of me."

  "What about Roxanne?” Cyrus asked impatiently. “You can't just.... “He waved one restless hand in the air. “Just go off without a word."

  Calvin stepped into the room. His beautiful face was marred by a deepening frown. “I told her a couple of days ago that I was taking this trip. Ain't that good enough?"

  "No,” Cyrus said through gritted teeth. After last night she'd expect more. Of course, Calvin wouldn't know that. “At least leave her a note."

  Calvin screwed up his face at this suggestion. “Well, I reckon I could do that, if you think I should."

  Cyrus fetched a paper and pen from his desk drawer, and slapped them on the desk. He allowed Calvin to sit in his chair and ponder the possibilities for a few minutes before he put pen to paper. The deputy wrote slowly and deliberately, and still the note was finished in a matter of minutes. Satisfied, Calvin folded the note in half and handed it to Cyrus as he stood.

  "Give this to Roxanne for me, will you? I gotta get on the road."

  Cyrus took the folded sheet of paper and muttered a grumpy goodbye to Newberry. He waited until Calvin had departed and closed the office door before he unfolded the note to read the crude, uneven writing.

  Dear Roxann,

  I hav gone to see my cousins. When I get back to Paris, meybe we can do some corting.

  Yer friend, Calvin.

  Cyrus closed his eyes as he took his seat at the desk. This would never do! Roxanne would expect something different than ... than this. She would expect legible writing, correct spelling, a modicum of intelligence and emotion.

  He should've remembered the crudeness of Calvin's letter inquiring about the job of deputy. Instead he'd only been thinking about how disappointed Roxanne would be if Calvin left without a word.

  What had he done? Any sane man would've introduced Roxanne and Calvin and then stepped back and allowed nature to take its course. They'd suit or else they wouldn't. A man should only interfere so much.

  Oh, but the look on Roxanne's face when she'd seen Calvin for the first time ... it had been extraordinary. Cyrus was determined that if she wanted Calvin, she would have him. One way or another.

  He took a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer, lifted the pen Calvin had left on the desk, and after a moment's hesitation began to write.

  Roxanne felt an extra spring in her step and the tug of a smile on her face. Her feet moved faster, her heart was lighter. Everything was brighter today, warmer, better.

  Who would have suspected that beneath Calvin's handsome face and perfect physique there beat a heart as good as any on this earth? How many men would sit through half the night listening to her ramble on about her life, would ask the right questions and laugh in the right places and then ask for more? Did he know that last night had been a purging of sorts for her? A turning point?

  Last night she'd talked openly about Louis without crying, without pain. She'd even smiled once or twice as she remembered good times. Finally, at long last, she'd put Louis in the past where he belonged, and even though there was a special place in her heart for him and always would be, she realized now that her heart was not closed. It was unexplored, open, ready to love again.

  She was falling in love
with Calvin Newberry.

  "Roxanne?"

  She came to a dead stop in the street, and smiled widely when she saw Cyrus directly before her. She hadn't seen him standing there, and if he hadn't spoken she probably would've continued walking until she bumped into him.

  "Good afternoon,” she said brightly.

  He did not return her smile. “Good afternoon.” His voice was low, soft, somehow secretive.

  Even though she considered Cyrus to be her friend, even though she had experienced a fleeting, strange attraction for him, she realized that she didn't know him at all, not like she knew Calvin. Cyrus Bergeron was a mystery, a closed door, an unknown soul. The little bits she knew about his life as a boy had been grudgingly shared. If she wanted to know more she'd likely have to wrest the story from him one miserly sentence at a time, a task which would likely take a lifetime. She wondered if Cyrus had ever dared to open his heart to anyone.

  "Walk with me?” she suggested when he didn't move. “I have essays to read and grade this afternoon and tonight, so I really need to get home."

  "Sure,” he fell into an easy step beside her, his long strides checked only slightly to match hers. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His jaw, dusted with a faint afternoon beard, was taut. His lips were hard, his eyes cast down. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, and a moment later, “About yesterday—” he began awkwardly.

  "Calvin explained,” she interrupted, and then she turned her head to further study Cyrus's solemn profile. He looked so desolate her heart lurched. “I hope I didn't disturb you by running away as I did. I was upset, but I'm fine now."

  "Good,” he said without looking at her.

  Roxanne felt the need to wipe away the dismal expression on his face. She was, at least in part, to blame. “I know you do what you have to, to keep peace, to protect yourself and others.” She shifted her stack of papers and slim books to the crook of her left arm, and reached out to lay her hand on Cyrus's arm. He tensed significantly, and she immediately withdrew her hand. “I hope I didn't hurt you,” she said softly.

  Cyrus looked at her then, stoic as always. “Of course not,” he said.

  Of course not. She smiled wanly.

  They walked silently for a while. Cyrus had become a good enough friend that silence between them usually wasn't awkward. Today, though, Roxanne wondered if he had more to say about yesterday's events, if the way she'd run from him had hurt in a way she couldn't understand or apologize for.

  The very thought scared her a little. So quickly, Cyrus had become a part of her life she couldn't live without. He was more than a friend; he was a shoulder to lean on, an anchor in a tempestuous time, a rock she needed to keep her steady as she reclaimed her life. Perhaps he was close-mouthed and dangerous and hard to know and understand, but she couldn't imagine her life without Cyrus in it.

  Fannie Rowland vigorously swept the boardwalk just outside her shop. When she saw Roxanne she stopped sweeping and lifted her hand to wave energetically. “I got your dress ready early,” she called as she resumed her chore. “Come on in and try it on. If everything's in order you can take it home today."

  Roxanne looked down at the stack of papers in her hand. The very thought of the new gown excited her, as if she were a silly girl who'd never had a fancy dress before. The blue gown was an extravagant purchase Aunt Ada would not approve of, a beautiful luxury, a concrete sign that she was truly ready to move on. Suddenly, she was a little afraid.

  "I really do have these papers to grade,” she said, disappointment in her voice.

  "Surely it can't take that long to try on a dress,” Cyrus said sensibly. She could hear the hint of interest in his voice, a liveliness where, a few minutes before, there had been none. “Besides,” he added in a lowered voice. “What would happen if you were a day or two late grading those papers?"

  Roxanne pursed her lips slightly. “Nothing,” she admitted. “Nothing at all.” She headed for the shop, hands full of the papers she'd decided could wait. When she turned she saw that Cyrus hadn't moved.

  "Come on,” she said with a grin. “I'm going to need a man's opinion.” She needed much more than Cyrus's opinion on her new gown; she needed him with her as she took this step.

  After a very short pause he followed her. He only hesitated once, at the door, looking almost panicky for a split second. Roxanne smiled at him, putting aside her own anxiety for the moment. She imagined Cyrus had never set foot in a dress shop before, and his discomfort showed. He was out of place among the fancy hats and laces, ready-made dresses and bolts of brightly colored fabric that made his own earthy twill and leather seem downright dull.

  Roxanne placed her papers and books on a table near a rack of lace as Cyrus stepped into the shop and closed the door behind him. To his left there sat a table that displayed a basket of fancy buttons and several spools of colorful ribbon. To his right, an arrangement of fashionable hats added more color and gaiety to the small shop. The feminine accessories surrounded Cyrus, making him seem bigger, harsher. He was definitely out of his environment, and judging by his evident discomfort, he knew it.

  Fannie did her best to make Cyrus comfortable, pulling out a dainty chair for him to sit in while he waited. He lowered himself slowly onto a padded seat that was too small for him. Fannie then offered a cup of tea, which he quickly declined.

  As Roxanne slipped into the dressing room she glanced over her shoulder to see him sitting in that small chair, his hat in his hand. He did not look happy ... but he didn't look particularly unhappy, either.

  The blue silk dress had begun as a ready-made, but with Fannie Rowland's skill it had been transformed into something extraordinary. Roxanne swallowed hard as Fannie removed the gown from a rack of colorful clothing and presented it with a contented smile; she knew her talents as a dressmaker were extraordinary, and that this creation was one of her best works.

  For a moment, Roxanne felt certain she'd made a mistake. Her new rose dress was brightly colored and pretty, but it was also modest and conventional, suitable for a widowed school teacher. The blue gown was shockingly beautiful, the kind of clothing that would draw all eyes to it, if she were ever brave enough to wear it in public.

  With Fannie's help, Roxanne shed her gray everyday dress and slipped into the azure gown.

  "The neckline is too low,” she protested as the dress fell into place.

  "It is not,” Fannie insisted. “It's quite fashionable for evening, and certainly appropriate for a grown woman who has her eye out for a certain man."

  When Roxanne gasped, only slightly shocked, Fannie smiled. “Sheriff Bergeron is certainly going to like this,” she whispered. “Why, if you didn't already have the man wrapped around your little finger—"

  "Cyrus?” Roxanne interrupted.

  Fannie realigned the sleeves and tugged at a piece of wayward lace. “Don't play coy with me, miss,” she said happily. “I see the two of you walking in the afternoon, dancing together, sitting together at the picnic. Why, it's about time you two—"

  "Cyrus is just a friend,” Roxanne insisted. “Just a friend."

  Fannie's smile faded, but the sparkle remained in her eyes. “If you say so."

  Roxanne frowned as Fannie tugged at the full skirt and realigned the embroidered sash. She and Cyrus had been spending a lot of time together. Perhaps it was only natural that a few busybodies who had nothing better to do than speculate would think there was more to their companionship than met the eye. Yes, just a few busybodies, surely.

  But suddenly she worried if there were others who thought as the dressmaker did. Then a more frightening thought chased away her irritation at a little harmless gossip. Good heavens. Could Cyrus possibly think there was more to their newfound friendship than she intended? Oh, no, this was not good.

  She shook her head and put aside her fears. Cyrus had introduced her to Calvin, after all, and he knew very well how she felt about his dangerous career. He had confided in her about his pl
ans to remain unmarried and childless, the way one friend might confide in another. He couldn't possibly think they could ever be anything more.

  Try as she might, she couldn't completely dismiss this new concern. What if Cyrus had experienced the same unexpected and irrational feelings she had? Maybe he knew, as she did, that they were unacceptable, wrong, completely impossible ... but maybe he couldn't dismiss them any more easily than she could.

  A new and disturbing thought practically sent her reeling. She had the sheriff of Lamar County waiting in a dress shop to pass judgment on her new gown!

  "It's lovely,” she said to Fannie. “There's really no need for Cyrus to...."

  Fannie ignored her, whipping back the curtain that separated the dressing area from the front room. Roxanne felt as if she were on display. An actress on the stage or, more likely since she couldn't make herself breathe, a marble statue on a pedestal.

  Cyrus rose slowly from his little chair, hat in hand.

  "Come along,” Fannie said impatiently, offering her hand as Roxanne stepped from the platform to the floor. “Let's allow the sheriff a good look."

  She had no choice but to step into the front of the shop and smile and allow Cyrus to tell her what he thought of her new gown. She wished desperately for more fabric at the neckline, then wished even more desperately that the hot flush she felt rise in her cheeks wasn't horribly red.

  "Magnificent, isn't it?” Fannie said proudly. “Such a lovely color."

  Cyrus waited silently as Roxanne stepped forward. Goodness, his eyes were fastened intently on her face and she knew, she just knew that her cheeks glowed as red as a strawberry.

  "It's the color of your eyes,” he said softly, almost as if he thought aloud.

  She wanted to look down to see exactly how much of her bosom had been revealed. Too much, she knew without glancing in that direction. She could actually feel the air on skin that was normally covered, could feel the rise and fall of her exposed chest. By force of will she kept her eyes straight ahead. There was no need to call attention to the most decadent feature of the gown by staring at it.