Marshal's Law

MARSHAL'S LAW #10: IT DOESN'T TAKE A VERY BIG PERSON TO CARRY A GRUDGE

She looked as if he’d struck her.  “Marshal . . .”

“You know, maybe you’ve opened my eyes a bit, too.  Maybe I’ll find somebody . . .” but he couldn’t finish. 

She looked a bit robotic, taking off the ring he’d set on the wrong finger.  She held it out, biting her quivering lip.  He laughed bitterly as he took it; then spun on the heel of his boot to stalk away. 

Maybe one day he’d find someone; someone that’d fill this empty place in his life. 

Then again, maybe he was better off not knowing he needed it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Monica stood in the middle of her mother’s living room -- no, she revised, her living room-- and tried to organize the chaos of boxes as friends carried them into the house.    It was hard to concentrate with the pain in her chest.  Conversely, it was easier to bear the pain with the smash-busy activity around her.

“Looks like this is the last load from the farm house,” Nancy announced as she bustled in.  It had been her job to supervise affairs at the other end. 

Beau followed her- thick and boisterous.  He mopped a creased brow with an old handkerchief and ran his hands through his already unkept steely grey hair, but he laughed with heart and smiled with his eyes.  “Too bad Marshal skipped out on you so quick,” he said. “We sure could’ve used his back today.”

Monica’s chest seized.  She hadn’t even heard from Marshal.  She wouldn’t dare call him, not after the way she’d hurt him; but she’d sent him a text.  Just one.  “I’m sorry.” 

He hadn’t answered her.

Beau’s smile fell and his thick hand fell heavy on Monica’s shoulder. “Aw, I’m sorry, dove.  I didn’t realize . . .”

Monica stiffened her spine and smoothed her expression.  “No need for apologies.  And thank you for all your help today.”

Beau shrugged. “Seemed the least I could do, seeing as you gave up that pretty little farm on my advice.” 

“It was Marshal’s farm,” she corrected. “It was just our home.  We can live anywhere.”  The bravado in her voice was a lie.  She already missed the slope of rolling hills, the call of the horses, the low of distant cows, the racket of Luke’s chickens.  Everything had been sold off or hauled off. 

Now she had a yard.  Yards could be good: less mowing, fewer chores. 

The dog skulked from the kitchen and up the stairs, its whip-like tail tucked between its legs.  Monica’s eyes followed the old hound.  He looked lost.

“Well, I guess I’ll just see about helping with those last boxes,” Beau said and backed away.  He hefted a sigh that sounded suspiciously sad before turning away. 

Monica couldn’t take the pity.  This was her choice.  Sure, it smarted a bit but change was always hard.   “So you’re really going to shack up with him?” she asked her mother.

Nancy laid a hand on Monica’s arm. “I know it must seem fast to you, but I’m old.  I don’t have time for all these games you young people play.”

“Games?” Monica repeated, her voice incredulous.

“I love you, I love you not.  I love you enough to do this but I can’t love you enough to do that.”  She lifted her chin fractionally, but the defiant set of her jaw wasn’t unfamiliar to Monica. “I love Beau.  He loves me.  The rest is . . . an adventure.  We’ll just have to figure it out as we go.”