Part 32 (1/2)
What was spread upon the ground was indeed a Brussels carpet in greens, blues, tan and wine with a border and ta.s.sel trim. ”It's lovely, but why is it out here?”
”Because your other present is definitely an outdoor present and I wanted you to enjoy both at once.”
She glanced around, noting the mysterious bundles. ”Okay.”
He went to one and withdrew a long rifle.
”A gun?” she asked.
”A rifle. And I'm going to show you how to load it and use it. Next time a wolf comes around you won't have to be afraid.” He gave her a quick lesson, showed her how to hold the b.u.t.t against her shoulder and fire. She tried a few practice shots, scaring birds from the underbrush.
”You were right, Annie,” he said from behind her.
She lowered the barrel and turned.
”What you said in your note. I was hiding. I expected you to be so brave and overcome your fears, but at my first mistake I turned and ran.”
She looked at the weapon in her hands. ”Well, this is definitely the most unusual-and practical-birthday gift I've ever received.” She handed him the rifle.
He unloaded it and laid it down.
”You didn't make any mistakes, Luke.”
He gestured with an outstretched hand. ”There are wolves out here. Bears, too. I knew that. I should have prepared you. Taught you what to do. That was my mistake.”
”It's not your fault. I blamed myself for being clumsy, too. What good does blaming ourselves do? I'm the one who left you, remember?”
”You needed your family.”
”You're my family,” she said firmly. ”I needed you. But I ran, because I thought I failed you.”
”You could never fail me,” he a.s.sured her with his eyes as well as his words.
”What about afterward?” she asked, allowing her anguish to push the feelings out into the open. ”What about me letting you take care of the baby alone-grieve alone? That was wrong. I'm so sorry.”
”Annie, I had to do it. You were too weak, and I didn't mind. You had the whole-physical thing to deal with. I couldn't help with that. I don't even know what you went through really.”
”I should have shared it with you. We should have done our crying together.”
”I don't think it's too late,” he said hoa.r.s.ely. ”I know I have tears left.”
”Oh, Luke,” she said, rus.h.i.+ng forward to wrap her arms around his waist and hug him tightly. ”Luke, I'm so sorry.”
He held her tightly, his heart beating comfortingly beneath her cheek.
”Luke, can you forgive me?”
”Annie, if we say we forgive each other, then that means there was blame somewhere, and there's no blame. Let's just start over.”
”All right,” she whispered.
”I have one more present for you.”
She released him, and he stepped away, peeled back a blanket to reveal a mahogany box with a horn attached.
Annie had seen one similar on a trip East. ”A graphophone! How extravagant!”
”We can dance anytime we like,” he said and wound the crank on the side.
Tinny music rang from the horn. Wrangler raised his head and shook it. Annie laughed.
”May I have this dance?” her husband asked, bowing before her like a proper gentleman.
She gave him her hand. He extended one foot. She stepped on it and he guided her across the carpet in time to the music. The music slowed and Annie placed her head against his chest.
”We lost our child together,” he said, his voice low against her ear. ”We can't let it be something that drives us apart.”
She raised her head to look at him. ”That day at the livery you said you pushed me too hard. That's not so. You encouraged me to become who I wanted to be all along. Loving you is what gave me the courage to try.”
”We'll have more babies,” he promised. ”They won't replace the one we lost, but they'll help us get over the sadness.”
”Was he very beautiful, our John?” she asked.
The music had stopped, and Luke brought their movements to a halt. ”Like a beautiful little man. Perfect in all ways, but too tiny.”
”Did he have black hair?”
”Yes. Let me take you to his grave.”
He lifted her to Wrangler's back and walked, leading the horse. They made their way down the hill, below the timberline, around knee-high p.r.i.c.kly plants and bright patches of b.u.t.tercups and fireweed. Several feet from the last patch of aspens, with a view of the house below and the horses in the corral lay a small mound of smooth rocks.
Luke helped her down, and they made their way in silence to the tiny grave.
”This is a beautiful spot,” she told him after a few minutes of silence.
”I chose it because you can see our house from here.”
”Well, it's perfect.” She looked at the stones so lovingly selected and placed, and her arms ached for the child she would never hold. She reached for Luke's hand and lowered herself to the ground. ”I never thanked you for thinking of the blanket for him.”
”Seemed only right. I put him in a pretty box-one I'd saved and stained.”
A tear made its way down her cheek. ”Didn't have to be very big, I'd guess.”
He gripped her fingers hard. ”No. He was tiny.”
Annie looked up and saw his throat working, his mouth clamped in a hard line. She pulled him down beside her and they wept in each other's arms. Tears of grief and sorrow, but also reviving, cleansing tears. Annie kissed his beautiful face, the scar on his lip, his damp lashes. ”I love you...more than ever.”