Hel Morgan

Four

When a match was struck behind her, she whipped around, the lantern driving the shadows back from the room. Her eyes met the storm clouds in her husband's, and she did not look away. For a long moment, Hel did not speak, and when he did his voice was soft but edged with coldness.

"I was hoping you'd be home for dinner. We haven't eaten together in a few days."

"I couldn't Shell, I promised Judith Hauer I'd stop by and see her." Her voice was even, but stiff.

Morgan's jaw tightened a little but he quickly relaxed it, looking away.

"I was getting worried Beth, you should've let me know where you were," he chided gently.

Anger flared hot in her breast as Elizabeth untied her bonnet and set it on the table, her fingers tight in the material. She looked over at him, her nostrils flaring a little.

"You have no right to say that to me, Asahel. All the times you've-" she stopped abruptly and turned away. "I will not argue with you about it. I am going to bed."

"You need to eat-"

"I'm not hungry."

Going to their room she closed the door behind her, taking care to not allow it to slam shut. She was angry, angry and hurt, consumed with emptiness and longing but not completely without hope, her fingers trembling as she struck a match to light a candle with. Asahel Morgan was as stubborn as she was, but he'd made his choices, and they would each have to suffer because of it.

He was a good man, a good husband, but the law of the gun came first. He took on the job of town marshal and he'd stepped aside for no one since, not even her, in all the years he's worn the badge. The safety of each individual was his responsibility, and he took that very seriously and allowed no shortcuts in carrying out his obligations. She'd known that was his way when she married him, and still, somewhere deep inside, she respected him for it. But how long could she tolerate being second to a gun, a badge, or any gunfighter or outlaw who came through hunting trouble?

Pulling the pins from her hair she quickly undressed, re-hanging her clothes in the wardrobe. After dressing for bed, she was washing her face when the door opened behind her. Drying her face she did not turn around, did not allow herself to acknowledge his presence. He moved quietly about the room readying for bed, the familiar sounds somewhat relaxing to her, but Elizabeth did not permit herself to soften. She glanced into the mirror on the vanity, seeing the redness around her eyes, the slight puffiness of her skin. Remembering the reason for it caused more tears to trickle down her cheeks.

"Beth?" Hel noticed her expression, saw her tears and came to her, reaching out his hand but she jerked away from him, not letting him touch her.

"Don't!" His wife's voice was thick, strained. "Don't touch me."

"Beth, what is the matter?" he took a step forward, but she whirled on him, her eyes flaring.

"Leave me alone Asahel Morgan!" the words were snapped out, though Elizabeth kept her voice low. She'd never raised it in anger, and was determined to never do so.

Her husband's eyes darkened, a deep frown etching itself into his brow.

"What is going on?" he asked her, "you act like I'm the enemy."

Never before had this failed to illicit a protest from her, opening the lines of communication, but tonight she simply glared at him. He watched as the bright blue of her eyes burned with anger, flaming with pent-up emotion she would never let out. Hel Morgan understood his wife, and more, he accepted her. He knew better than she did the reasons for her behavior, the strict, though mostly illogical, codes of conduct expected among the southern elite. Despite that upbringing, she had the ability to adapt, to accept a new lifestyle, and he'd always loved that about her, and encouraged it. So now, in the face of her stony silence, Hel knew there was a deeper reason motivating her fury.