Something Borrowed

Chapter 50

Owen

He'd never known such despair in all his life. When his wife had passed, he'd known grief. He'd known emptiness. He'd known anger. He'd known that hollow, superating mass of loss and guilt that spread tentacles out into a man's being and claimed the soul for itself.

But he'd never known this despair.

All the many years of his son's life filled his vision as he balled his hands into fists and pressed them against his burning eyes. Brent as a newborn, squawling and fussing. Brent as a baby, asleep face down in his cradle with a thumb in his mouth and his rump sticking up in the air. Brent the toddler, tottering from one room to the next. Brent in the saddle before him, bouncing and cackling with glee as he held the reins in his tiny hands. Brent as a sullen, pensive teen with dreams too big for the life Owen could give him. Brent with his broad grin and easy charm, twirling girls about on the dance floor. Brent, with his shoulders back and a proud tilt to his chin, talking business.

"Sir, you have to get away from the house." Two anonymous sets of hands gripped him by the arms and set about dragging him away. He wrenched free from their grip, glaring up at the men. Just ranch hands. Undeserving of his wrath.

Only one person deserved to suffer. 

"Get away from me!" he spat, shoving to his feet, casting his gaze around the yard. There they were, huddled together as if all was well and the turmoil had passed. Melissa and Amelia, and little Rebecca curled in her mother's arm. And holding them all, as if he was their savior: evil incarnate. The devil stared back at him over Amelia's head, and Owen knew true anguish.

He hadn't known he was a sinner when his wife died. He hadn't known his actions would hurt her, but he had known this time. The preacher had warned him. His gut had warned him. Instead of listening, he had followed his failing, pitiful heart, so desperate to have his son back. He had abandoned God and placed his trust in weakness and trickery and lies.

A roar of indescribable rage tore at his throat as he barreled across the yard, his stocking-clad feet impervious to the cold as he drew closer and closer to the object of his wrath. The devil's deceptively gentle eyes flared wide and he pushed the woman and the child-- Brent's woman. Brent's child-- away from him, staggering to his feet.

"Pa, wait now. I--"

His fist was flying, connecting, aching. The devil stumbled back. A woman screamed. Small hands grabbed at his arm but he jerked himself free and launched himself forward. Instead of tackling evil to the ground and beating the life from those eyes that looked so cruelly like hers, he grabbed his misbegotten spawn by the arm.

"You did this!" he cried, yanking his captive toward the house and then releasing him, shoving him against the porch rail while he was still off-balance. The bastard had the gall to look pained, holding up his hands to stall the onslaught as he caught his balance.

"Pa, I didn't--"

"Don't call me that!" he screamed, throwing another punch that missed its mark by a mile. "You are nothing to me. You are nobody. You are a poison and you've tainted this family for too long. You deceived me!"

"You're out of your mind!" Now he saw the evil, glinting in that treacherous brown gaze. He saw the disrespect shining out. The disdain. "I had nothing to do with this, old man."

"The hell you did!" he yelled, hauling back and letting fly another blow. The devil ducked beneath it and came up glaring, shoving him backward. Owen didn't let the assault stop him. He was on a mission, now. Nothing would stop him. "You wanted this! You wanted him to die! You're a murderer. Murderer!!!" He yelled the last at the top of his lungs.

"I don't want him to die," the devil pleaded, reaching out and grasping his wrists to forestall more blows. "I swear to you. Please, just calm down. You--"

"Prove it!" he yelled, bringing his knee up into the man's belly and staggering back when he huffed out a cough and released his hands. The look in her eyes was sheer pleading. No, not her eyes. His eyes. The devil's eyes.

"Pa!"

"You!" he yelled, shoving the imposter back against the rail, punctuating his words with pitiful, open-palmed slaps. "Are not! My son! You are evil! You are poison! I hate you! I banish you! I reject you!"

And then he collapsed to his knees, overcome.

"Please," he begged, reaching for the devil's hand and wrapping his own around it. "I'm sorry." Perhaps he had forfeited his right to God's ear, but the the Almighty had sent this sinister envoy. Satan was an angel. Perhaps his prayers would reach their intended, if only he prayed loud enough.

"Please," he whimpered, clinging to the devil's hand and pressing his forehead to it. "I reject you. I reject evil. I failed, but I'm sorry. Please don't punish my son. Please, bring him back to me. I repent. I repent!"

The hand yanked free from his own and he peered up into a sooty, blackened face. They hung together, suspended in that moment. Owen felt the weight of his sins pressing down on him until it was all he could do to stay upright. "Please," he whispered, grasping the hem of the jacket. "Please bring him back."

The devil's eyes left his, settling on something over his shoulder, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. Yanking his clothing free from Owen's hold, he stepped back.

Turned.

And disappeared back into yawing maw of Hell, nothing left of the devil but a cloud of dark smoke.