Marshal's Law

MARSHAL'S LAW # 8: THINK YOU'RE A PERSON OF SOME INFLUENCE . . .

Mark snorted from behind him. “Course you approve,” he said. “But Dad wasn’t officially living at the farm when they finally got together.”  He shoved a pair of cowboy boots into his father’s chest, but his attention remained on his brother. “So I win the bet.”

“Rent wasn’t up for three more days,” Kody argued.

“All his crap is piled high in my place.”

“Excuse me, little lady,” Marshal said under his son’s bickering.  Laughter laced his voice.  He took his things from his sons and ambled to a nearby restroom.

As the boys fussed over who won their silly bet, her eyes locked on his broad shoulders and slim hips.

How could they have known?  She hadn’t known.  And then wondered how could she not know?  Why couldn’t she have seen this before now?  Before he was certain to leave?  They could have enjoyed this, even for just a little while.  She wasn’t greedy.  She accepted that he had to leave, move on with his life, but . . . but . . . 

Closing her eyes, she brusquely hushed the remorse.  Two and a half years of rich friendship was nothing to regret.  Nothing at all. 

“Hey, he’ll be back,” Mark said.

Kody crowded her on the opposite side. “Yeah.  Plan for a late dinner tomorrow,” he said. “Make one of those stews or something.”

“Not like he really wants to sleep on my couch anyway.”

Monica looked up at the men that Marshal affectionately called his boys.  They towered over her, country gentlemen as different as East was from West. 

“I’m sorry my mother is putting you through this,” Mark whispered. 

Monica pat his taunt arm. “It’s not your fault.  Besides, I’m not sure I would have ever seen, ever known . . .”

And the men over her gave a compassionate smile, like maybe they understood.  She and Marshal were quiet people.  They didn’t seek more than their comfortable friendship until it was threatened.  Now she clung to it . . . and she was still losing her grip.  It was the nightmare.

Marshal’s arms wrapped her shoulders. “You packing today?”

“Not at my place.  Mom’s.”

His arms were so comfortable, she wondered why she’d never sought them before.  It just felt natural.  But Mark’s eyebrow rose with disproval.

“Jeans, dad?”

Monica’s gaze dropped to the hem of his denim, where the point of his embroidered boot peeked out.

“I am who I am, son.”

The boys didn’t seem to find any argument with that.  Then the airline called for boarding and Marshal pressed his mouth to her temple once more.  He gave his boys brief, chest bumping hugs and took the carry-on.

Then he left.  Rigid, Monica watched every step, her thoughts fogged and her heart torn between this amazing dream and the nightmare of losing it all, right after discovering it.

“Where is he going?”

The audience of three spun and found Kay watching Marshal disappear into the jetway.

“Away,” Monica said scornfully.

No one offered anything further.

Mark turned to look at the door through which his father had just disappeared, then back at his mother. “The question is: what are you doing here?”