Vows by LaVyrle Spencer
"You want to know something ironic," he mused at length. "While you've been keeping him away, he's been spending more time with me. Every night I've been listening to him wail about how much he loves you and how he's losing you, but he doesn't understand why. Christ, it's been torture. I was on the verge of telling him so many times."
She searched her mind for consolation and found only one. "But Thomas," she told him honestly, "I've never loved him the way I love you. It would have been wrong to marry him."
"Yeah," he mumbled, only half-convinced, and they sat silently until their backsides began feeling the raised rims of the nail kegs.
Finally Emily sighed and pushed to her feet. "I should go so you can shoe Pinky. Papa is probably wondering where I am."
Tom withdrew from his moroseness and stretched to his feet. "I'm sorry I got so moody. It's just hard, that's all."
"If you took it lightly, I wouldn't love you as much, would I?"
He wrapped both arms loosely around her shoulders and rocked her from side to side. "This might very well be one of the hardest things we'll ever do, but afterwards we'll feel better." He stopped rocking and asked, "Together then? Tonight?"
She nodded against his chin.
"Emily?"
"What?"
"Could I pick you up at your house?"
Her stillness warned him that she'd guarded their secret well. Again he drew back to search her face. "There's been enough cat and mouse. If we're going to do this, let's do it right. Your father was honest with you, isn't it time you're honest with him?"
"You're right. Seven o'clock?"
"I'll be there."
* * *
Chapter 17
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How does a woman dress for the breaking of her engagement? In her bedroom that evening, with the lamp at her elbow, Emily studied her reflection in the mirror. She saw a worried face framed by coal-black hair, troubled sapphire eyes, a frowning mouth, and a scoop of bare throat above a white shift. She had little choice of dress—not for a full year—yet mourning garb seemed appropriate for tonight's mission.
The dress was plain, trim above, full below, constructed of unadorned black muslin. As she buttoned it up the front she saw her body shape it, rounded here, concave there, until the high cleric collar drew the last inch tight and she studied herself as a woman. She had rarely thought of herself in the feminine sense, but since she'd fallen in love with Tom she saw herself through his eyes—thin, trim, not unpleasantly curved. She touched her hips, her breasts, closing her eyes, recalling the swell of feelings aroused by Tom. A year … dear Lord, a year…
Guiltily she opened her eyes, plucked up a brush, and began punishing her hair, currying it mercilessly before winding it up in a severe figure eight and ramming the celluloid pins against her scalp.
There. I look like a woman filled with remorse for what I have to do.
But minutes later she felt more like an anxious schoolgirl as she waited in the dark at the top of the stairs for the sound of Tom Jeffcoat's knock. From the parlor below, beyond her range of vision, she heard Fannie playing the piano while Papa, she knew, read his newspaper. Earl had come over tonight; he and Frankie more than likely lay on their bellies on the floor, building card houses.
When a knock sounded Frankie exclaimed "I'll get it! Maybe it's Charles!" He shot across Emily's range of view while she clattered downstairs in an effort to cut him off.
"I'll get it!"
"But it might be Charles!"
"I said…" She skidded to a halt in the entry and forced his hand off the knob. "…I'll get it, Frank!"
He backed off, looking maligned. "Well, get it then. What're you standin' there for?"
"I will," she whispered through clamped teeth. "Go back to your cards." Instead, he sat down on the second step to be a thorn in her side. Peering through the lace curtains she saw the outline of Tom's shoulders and felt a twinge of desperation. Fannie stopped playing the piano. Papa's paper rustled as he lowered it to his knee, waiting to see who appeared around the stub wall. Earl was probably gawking, too, and he'd certainly spread the news as soon as he got home.
"Well, for pity's sake," Edwin called exasperatedly, "will one of you open the door!"
"Open the door, Emileeee," her little brother repeated in a sing-song.
She drew a fortifying breath and did the honors.
"Hello, Emily."
He looked incredible! Ruggedly attractive in his sheepskin jacket, with cheeks freshly shaved and ruddy from the cold, hat in hand, and hair flopping attractively over his forehead. Emily stared, tongue-tied.
"Emily, who is it?" Papa called from the parlor.
He stepped inside, closing the door. "It's Tom, sir."
Tom!" Dropping his paper, Edwin hustled to the foyer, followed by Fannie. "Well, this is a surprise." He reached for Tom's hand, inviting enthusiastically, "Come in! Come in!"
"Thank you, Edwin, but I've come to take Emily out."
Nonplussed, Edwin glanced between the two. "Emily?" he repeated disbelievingly. Fannie smiled vacuously. Frankie thumped from one step to the next on his butt.
Five full seconds passed in utter silence, then from the parlor Earl complained, "Aw shucks, the wind knocked my cards down!"
Fannie recovered first. "Well … that's nice. Are you going for a walk?"
"Yes, to Charles's," Emily replied hastily.
"Oh, to Charles's." Edwin looked relieved. "We haven't seen him around for a couple weeks. Tell him hello."
"Can I come along?" Frankie asked, popping off the step.
"Not tonight," Emily answered.
"Why not? There's no school tomorrow and Charles says—"
"Frank Allen!" Emily demanded, "Enough!"
"Tom doesn't care, do you Tom?" The boy appropriated Tom's wrist and suspended himself from it. "Tell her I can go, pleeeease?"
"Afraid not, Frankie. Maybe some other time."
"Aw, jeez," he mumbled and clunked to the parlor to fling himself down petulantly.
Fannie advised, "It's a chilly night, Emily, be sure to wear a scarf."
Emily caught her coat from the hall tree and began stuffing her arms into it, unaided, but Tom stepped behind and held it while the others watched and assessed his gallantry with undisguised fascination.
"We shouldn't be gone more than an hour or so," Tom remarked, opening the door for Emily.
She flashed Edwin and Fannie a tight smile. "Good night, everyone."
"Good night," Fannie responded.
Edwin said nothing.
The porch steps might have led down from a gallows as Tom and Emily descended them with their gazes trained straight ahead. Not until they reached the street did Tom release the tension from his shoulders.
"Whew!"
"Fannie knows."
"You mean you've told her?"
"No, she's guessed, I can tell. She guessed that I had a yen for you from the first week you came to town."
"Oh, really?" His voice held a teasing note. He glanced back over his shoulder, gauging their distance from the house, and took her hand. "This is news."
She turned a spare grin his way to find a similar one aimed at her. They walked in silence, fingers linked, enjoying the momentary lift of spirits.
Eventually he asked, "What about your father?"
"I think he's putting off admitting what's right before his eyes."
"I thought it would be best to get this thing over with, with Charles first, before we told him."
"I agree. Charles deserves to be the first one who knows, and until he does, I can't draw an easy breath."
On Charles's porch they no longer held hands. They no longer teased. They avoided glancing at each other. "Everything's dark. It doesn't look like he's home." Tom knocked, then backed off to stand a proper distance from Emily.
They waited. And waited.
Tom glanced briefly at Emily, then knocked again, but still no answer came. The windows remained dark.
"Whe
"I don't know. What should we do, try to find him?"
"What do you want to do?"
"I want this over with. Let's go see if we can dig him up." He tugged her hand and they set off toward town. Loucks was closed up for the night. The saloons were open so Tom went into the first alone—women wearing mourning bands wouldn't dream of entering a saloon—leaving Emily to wait on the boardwalk. Inside the Mint he drew a drunken slur from Walter Pinnick, an invitation to a poker game from a trio of Circle T ranch hands, and a suggestive glance from a powdered whore named Nadine. He ignored them all and questioned the bartender, came out a minute later, reporting to Emily, "He's been here but he left and said he was going to my place."
"But we passed your place and he wasn't there."
"Do you suppose he went to the livery after he found out I wasn't home?"
"I don't know. We can try."
They ran Charles to ground midway between Walcott's and Jeffcoat's Livery Stables, where he'd obviously been searching for Tom. From twenty yards away he spied them and waved, hurrying toward them.
"Hello, Emily! Hey, Tom, where have you been? I've been looking all over for you!"
Tom called, "We've been looking for you, too."
They met in the middle of Grinnell Street, shifting their feet for warmth, sending puffs of white breath into the air as they spoke.
"Oh yeah? Something up for tonight? Lord, I hope so. This town dies after six o'clock. I went down to the Mint and had a beer, but there's only so much of that a man can stand, so I came looking for you." He appropriated Emily's arm. "I didn't expect to find you, too, what with the mourning and all." He dropped his eyes to her coat sleeve, still with its broad black band sewed in place, while she averted her gaze to the rutted street.
"We'd like to talk to you, Charles," Tom said.
"Talk? Well, talk away."
"Not here. Inside. Why don't we go down to my stable?"
For the first time Charles grew wary, flashing assessing glances from Tom to Emily, who carefully avoided all eye contact. "About what?" He fixed a questioning gaze on Emily but she dropped her eyes guiltily.
"Come on, let's get out of the cold," Tom suggested sensibly.
Charles spent another worried glance on his two best friends, then forcibly lightened his attitude. "Sure … let's go."
They walked the frozen street three abreast, with Emily between the two men and not an elbow touching. Tom opened the weather door and led the way into the dark barn. Inside, they stood in dense blackness surrounded by the smell of horses until Tom found and struck a match, and reached overhead for a coal-oil lantern. Squatting, he set it on the concrete floor. Watched by the other two, he opened its door with a metallic tink, lit the wick, rose, and replaced the lantern on the nail overhead. During the process the tension in the barn multiplied tenfold.
The lantern shed an eerie light on Tom's unsmiling face as he dropped his arm and confronted Charles. The sheer somberness of his expression lent additional gravity to the scene. For moments he remained silent, as if searching for the proper words.
"So what is it?" Charles demanded, glancing from Tom to Emily and back again.
"It's not good," Tom replied honestly.
"And it's not easy," Emily added.
Charles snapped his regard to her, suddenly angry, as if he already knew. "Well, whatever it is, say it!"
A spur of dread gripped her, shutting her throat. Dry-eyed, she stared at him and began, "Charles, we've been friends for so long that I don't know how to begin or how to—"
Tom interrupted. "This is the hardest thing I've ever had to say in my life, Charles. You're a true friend and you deserve better."
"Better than what?" Charles remained silent, stiff-faced, waiting.
"Neither one of us wanted to hurt you, Charles, but we can't put off telling you the truth any longer. Emily and I have fallen in love."
"Son-of-a-bitch!" Charles' reaction was immediate and forceful. His fists bunched. "I knew that was it! One look at your faces and a blind man could see you're both guilty as hell!"
"Charles." Emily reached for his arm. "We tried not to—"
"Don't touch me!" He twisted sharply, elbowing free. "Don't, by God, touch me!"
"But I want to explain how—"
"Explain to somebody else! I don't want to hear it!"
Tom tried to reach out. "Give her a chance to—"
"You!" Charles lunged and slammed Tom in the chest, sending him quickstepping backward. "You sonofabitch!" The attack was so unexpected it temporarily stunned Tom. "You underhanded, sneaking sonofabitch!"
Recovering, Tom cajoled. "Come on, Charles, we don't want to make this any hard-ergh!" A second shove ended the word on a grunt and set Tom back another step.
"My friend!" Charles sneered, pushing Tom again, just hard enough to force him backward. "My two-timing, back-stabbing, double-crossing sonofabitch friend!"
Tom went lax, letting himself be manhandled. "All right, get it off your chest."
"Y' goddamn right I will, you sneaky bastard! And you're gonna be mighty sorry when it's over!"
Tom let himself be thumped again, and again, arms hanging loose, until his shoulders struck a buckboard on the turntable and his hat tipped askew. He reached up slowly to right it, then took a spraddled stance and raised his palms. "I don't want to fight you, Charles."
"Well, you're going to, and it's not gonna be pretty! If you think I'm going to let you steal my woman and walk away untouched, you're wrong, Jeffcoat! Not after I had a claim on her since I was thirteen years old!"
Horrified, Emily came out of her stupor. "Stop this, Charles!" She grabbed Charles's arm. "I won't let you fight!"
"Back off!" With a thrust of his elbow he tossed her aside, then glared at her. "You want to play Jezebel and pit one friend against another, well, fine, now you can just stand there and watch the results! You're going to see some blood before this is over so you better take a last look at his pretty face before I mess it up!"
Pivoting unexpectedly, Charles threw his full weight into a violent punch that snapped Tom's head back and cracked his shoulders against the buckboard. His hat flew. He grunted and doubled over, holding his belly.
Emily screamed and came at Charles with both hands. She dragged him back no more than two feet before he swung and pinned her arms at her sides, slamming her against a stall door with enough force to clack her teeth together. "Keep off or by God, I'll lay one on you, too, woman or not! And believe me it wouldn't take much right now, the way I feel!"
Incensed, Tom came at Charles from behind. He spun him, gripping his coat front, raising him to tiptoe. "You try it and it'll be the last move you ever make, Bliss! All right, you want to fight … you think it'll settle anything…" He backed off, crouched, beckoning with eight fingers. "Come on … let's get it over with!"
This time when Charles lunged, Tom was prepared. He took a shoulder in the chest, but dug in and braced, throwing Charles upright and catching him beneath the chin with both forearms, following with an immediate left to Charles's jaw. The crack sounded like a rake handle breaking. Charles landed on his ass on the concrete and sat for a moment, stunned.
"Come on," Tom challenged again, his face pinched with intensity, "You want a fight, you've got it!"
Charles rose slowly, grinning, wiping his bloody lip with a knuckle. "Hoo-ey!" he goaded, centering his weight in a crouch. "So he's in love." His face turned hard. His voice became threatening. "Come on, bastard, I'll show you what I think of your—"
A solid right shut Charles up and bounced him off the buckboard. Rebounding, he threw his momentum into a volley that dented Tom three times below the waist. Before Tom could straighten, Charles caught him by the throat, forcing him backward across the corridor until they crashed into a stall door. Inside a bay gelding whinnied and danced, rolling his eyes. Emily leapt to life, screamed, and attacked from the rear, pulling at Charles's jacket coll
"How long, Jeffcoat?" Charles demanded in a raspy, constricted voice. "How long have you been after my woman? I'll make you pay for every goddamned day!"
"Charles, stop it! You're choking him!" Emily drew rein on Charles's collar but a button popped off, dropping her to her rump. Shooting up, she collared Charles again, this time with an arm, leaping like a monkey onto his back.
"Get off me and let us fight!" With a flying elbow Charles knocked her off and she stumbled backward, cradling one breast, wincing with pain.
"You sonofabitch, you hurt Emily!" Tom roared, enraged. The rage felt wonderful! Hot and healing and revitalizing! His knee came up and thrust Charles off, sent him pedaling backward, followed by Tom, who propelled himself through the air with an intensity outdistancing any he'd ever known. Two well-aimed clouts knocked Charles to his back, but he was up in a split second, and Tom took as good as he gave. Both men were powerful, with chests like drafthorses, forearms, thick as battering rams—a blacksmith and a carpenter, conditioned by years of swinging weighty hammers. Augmented by sudden enmity, their strength became immense. When they set out to punish, they did.
Flatfooted, they bare-knuckled one another—faces, stomachs, shoulders—exchanging a flurry of punishing blows and grunts that carried them from one side of the stable aisle to the other. Against a stall door, onto the floor, then up, riding the splintery wood with their shoulderblades, accidentally opening the latch, further adding to the confusion as the horse inside whinnied and pawed in terror. Neither man heard. When Tom upended Charles with a punishing uppercut, Charles picked himself up and returned the favor.
In minutes their faces bled. The skin on their knuckles split. Still they fought, growing weaker with each punch.
A dying blow caught Charles and sent him stumbling backward, tripping over a buckboard trace. He plopped onto the turntable, setting it in motion, carrying him several feet away from Tom, who followed unsteadily, weaving on his feet. Panting, the two rested for ten seconds before obliging one another again, this time on the floor, rolling, too close for effective swings.