Marshal's Law

MARSHAL'S LAW #2: SILENCE IS SOMETIMES THE BEST ANSWER

Marshal watched her suspiciously from the rim of his mug, slurping the hot liquid loudly.  Monica knew exactly how his little business was doing.  The stables, though they belong to her, were part of his rental agreement.  It gave him the space he needed to board horses- usually because their owners were off vacationing.  It was only one facet of his business, but it was his primary source of income.

“Your stallin’ on tellin’ me somthin’, woman.”

Monica blushed, the color spreading from her cheeks to her neck to the swell of her breasts, where they peeked from the deep V-neck of her robe.  Clearing her throat, she grabbed the satin edges of her morning coat and pulled them tighter around her body- straightening to face him better.

Just as quickly, it seemed as if she changed her mind.  She snatched at the newspaper and found the pen she’d buried within its folds.

“Woman, you don’t do a crossword puzzle in pen,” he reminded her.

She shrugged. “All my pencils are broken,” she said and then gave him a wicked sort of grin. “Guess that means we’ll just have to get them all right.”

Marshal groaned but it only masked a smile.  It was all a part of the ritual; a part of his mornings that set his life apart from the one he’d held before the farm. 

She perched herself on the tabletop and leaned against the post as he kept to his work.  He didn’t have to watch her to know that she pressed her lips together; that the soft tapping was the point of the pen against the paper.  She was thinking.

“You gonna give me the first clue or what?”

Monica huffed. “Thought I might some advantage on this one, but,” and she sighed, “no.  It would appear not.”

“What’s the theme?”

The back-and-forth continued.  Monica read a clue, they discussed the possibilities and, slowly, very slowly, complete the newspaper’s puzzle.  They never worked on the Sudoku.  They never read the funnies.  They’d work the puzzle, following the conversation wherever the topics took them.  They very rarely took them anywhere expected, but that was all part of the ritual.  

It was in the middle of this sharing that Monica finally mustarded the courage to say, “I . . . uhm . . . I think I’ve made a decision, Marshal.”

With a slow cant of his head, Marshal considered her, then looked to the small hobby farm beyond the barn doors.  This place wasn’t Monica’s dream.  It had been her late husband’s.  With a slow sigh of resignation, he leaned against the wood- feeling as if he needed the support. “You’re finally sellin’ the place.” he said and silently lamented,  And I ain’t got the means to buy it off ya.

“Oh heavens no!” she immediately denied. “I mean . . . I considered it once.  This place is a lot for just me and the kids.  But then you came along and . . . well, honestly . . . you more or less took care of everything.  It’s nice, really-- country living without any of the work!”

Marshal chuckled into his coffee.  There was plenty of work and she did her fair share of it, but there was no need to correct her now. “Then what’s eatin’ at ya?”

Clearing her throat, she pushed the newspaper into her lap and announced. “I’m going back to work.”

Peering at her from over the lip of his coffee cup, Marshal’s eyebrows rose until they disappeared into his hairline.

She squirmed at his look.  Wrapping her robe a little tighter around her body, she crossed her arms under her breasts. “Yes, well, my little home business hasn’t done nearly as well as yours,” she said, as if she had to defend herself. “And, well, the life insurance money won’t last forever.  So, I’m going to talk to Blake about getting my old job back . . .”