Authors: Alicia Scott
Sometimes he did stop, but when he did it was
just to inhale a huge gulp of the fresh, pine-scented air, hold it in his lungs
like a fine perfume, then exhale it slowly as if he was still learning how to
breathe.
When the two-by-four was cut to the right
length, he set it aside, picked up another and resumed sawing.
Behind him, the log cabin had already taken
shape. It was built by hand, his hand, and the process had been painstaking.
He'd chosen the site himself, cleared it with a Cat tractor that he'd rented.
He'd picked out the logs, good thick logs, and scoured building plans to come
up with what he wanted. Every now and then, C.J. or Brandon would stop by and
lend a hand. They moved faster than he, always in some sort of hurry. He
preferred to take it slower. He had time now, and time was precious and should
be savored.
There were nights he wanted to sleep with his
eyes open so he wouldn't have to relinquish his view of the stars.
He finished with the last board. He picked up
the ones he'd cut, wincing a bit as the movement pulled on his still-healing
thigh, and began his rolling gait toward the house.
The external structure was done. Built into a
hillside, the cabin was two stories high, really a main floor with a loft. The
ceiling was vaulted at forty feet, with a wall of sheer windows so that
daylight drenched every inch of the interior and a man could always feel as if
he had one foot outdoors. The view extolled snowcapped mountains and endless
green horizon. When he died, he wanted his ashes scattered here so he would
never have to
leave that view.
He'd broken ground of the cabin five months back.
The day they'd released him from the hospital with his stitched-up thigh and
governor's pardon. He didn't remember much about what happened before that.
They said he'd been unconscious for ten days, and in those ten days the
Ferringer clan had moved in and closed ranks around him. Phone calls had been
made. Testimony from Joel, Maggie, C.J. and Brandon had been filed. A lawyer
had been hired. A call had gone in to the governor's office, presumably from
Brandon.
Cain had just floated, weightless, bodiless,
and sometimes in the void he thought he could feel his mother's embrace. And so
he'd floated, feeling her hand around his once again and beginning to realize
that he was no longer alone.
When he'd finally regained consciousness,
Maggie had been there at the bedside and she had smiled at him and he'd known
everything would be all right.
Later, there'd been a flurry of activity. Ham's
arrest and his subsequent outpouring of racial diatribes had made national
news. His location was now kept secret and the police watched him around the
clock, fearing assassination. Zechariah had yet to be charged but was under
investigation. Ham would not comment on Zech's involvement one way or the
other. Nor would Ham comment on his own, using the opportunity instead to spout
off his white supremacist rhetoric instead.
The Klan had flown in a high-powered attorney
from Louisiana to take his case. The Epsteins had countered by hiring an even
bigger-name attorney, who specialized in bankrupting white supremacist leaders,
to file a civil suit against not only Ham, but the two white supremacist groups
he belonged to.
Justice was now in the hands of the court and
the media were already playing out the trial.
Cain stayed away from it. He needed the trees
now. He needed the feel of tools beneath his hands. He needed to create
something, slowly and painstakingly. He needed to watch it grow and take shape
and know that he could do that.
He supposed he needed some time to heal.
His old employers had called him up the day
after his release. They were interested in hiring him back. He countered by
saying maybe he'd like to do some freelance projects. He had some ideas for a
new generation of games. He wanted to start programming one called "Great
Escapes," where the objective was to break out of jail.
They were amused. They were interested. They
sent him a top-of-the-line PC and 28.8 baud modem in the mail, plus an advance.
He worked on the game at night now, after the sun went down. It was good to be
programming again; he liked the complexity. He had a feeling this game could
really be something.
"Hey, this is where you've been
hiding."
Cain turned, the smile already on his face.
She stood before the wall of windows, having entered
without making a sound. The trees framed her luminescent face lushly, giving a
wild, fey aura to her features. She glowed these days. Truly glowed.
"How are you feeling?" he asked
immediately. He didn't have a chance to cross toward her; she was already
crossing toward him.
"Like I swallowed a beach ball." She
grimaced, rubbing her hands over her swollen stomach.
"Lucky beach ball," he whispered and
replaced her hands with his.
"Did you feel that?" Little junior
had learned how to kick.
"He's going to be a fighter," Cain
agreed. He tweaked her nose. "Like his mother."
Maggie crinkled her nose, but smiled. Finally,
she gave up on restraint and came fully into his arms. They never made it
longer than two minutes without touching, and now they drifted into the embrace
as naturally as a ship slipping into port. Her arms went around his waist, her
head nestled into the curve of his shoulder. His hand stroked her hair. They
let the silence linger and savored it.
"Don't forget," Maggie said at last,
drawing slightly back, "tonight you finally have to bite the bullet and
meet my grandmother."
"Uh-oh," Cain said.
"Exactly."
"She'll probably take down her shotgun and
demand that I make an honest woman out of you," Cain said.
"No. C.J. has dibs on that."
"Ah."
"Lydia just wants to mess with your mind.
She thinks anyone who builds a log cabin by hand must be a little crazy."
"She may have a point."
Maggie smiled at him. Then she snuggled back
into his arms.
"So what about next month?" he asked
at last. He picked up a heavy coil of her long red hair, held it up to the
dappled forest light, then let it stream like silk through his fingertips.
"What about next month?"
"For the wedding," he said.
Maggie stilled in his arms. "What
wedding?"
"Ours."
She finally pulled back, looking at him
intently. "Cain Cannon, are you proposing to me?"
"I've been proposing to you," he
said, "for five months now." He gestured to the house.
She looked puzzled for a moment and then her
eyes widened. "You mean this cabin? You mean you've been building this for
me?"
He took her hand. "Here, let me show you
something."
He led her to the front door and gestured down.
"You've never noticed."
"Never noticed what?"
"Look down on the door. What do you
see?"
"A flap."
"Not a flap. Who puts a flap on a door?
It's—"
"A cat door," she finished and then
her eyes widened again. "Oh my God, you put in a cat door! It is for
me!"
Now he grinned, relaxed and ridiculously
pleased with himself. "You'll have to help me with the interior,
though," he said softly. "I don't know exactly what you want."
"Oh," she said. "Oh."
He brushed his thumb down her cheek. "I
love you, Maggie," he whispered. "Did you think I was going to risk
you slipping away? A true Hathaway Red is hard to find."
"I … I don't know," she babbled.
"I wanted you to ask, thought you would ask, but you did just get out of
prison and you have a lot to figure out and I didn't want to pressure you or
rush—"
He silenced her with a fingertip over her lips.
"I'm not pressured. I'm not rushed. I'm in love. So what do you say,
Maggie? Will you take one ex-convict, slightly used?"
"Okay," she said immediately. And
then her face softened beautifully. "Oh, Cain, I love you so much."
Cain drew her back against him and it was good
and it was right.
He held her with his cheek against her fiery
hair. And through the windows of his new house, he could see the sun brighten
the blue sky and dapple the endless flowing trees.
* * * * *