Black Locust Letters (25 page)

Betty lingered at the gate she remembered Clarkin closing
ever so carefully, walked up the concrete he had whistled on, then
stood at the door he had kissed her at. Sometime later, she took
off her shoes and coat, hung up her scarf, and lit a lantern. The
house was so dull and empty, so quiet, she could hear the kids
playing with a growling puppy through the wall.

What
would she do from now on, where would she go? Betty wasn't sure any
longer. It wasn't entirely the loss of Clarkin which bothered her.
She realized now that she liked wave talking. It came naturally to
her. Despite her protestations, she liked the games, the guessing
of who was doing what and why. And as much as she didn't want to
admit it, she liked the sense of importance that made powerful men
prostrate themselves before her while they said they needed her.
Did that make her a bad person? That she wanted to live on that
high, to speak a word and have it obeyed? There was a career to be
had, that was for certain, and the ease which she could take that
power was frightening.

She
came to the kitchen, her eyes fuzzy with tears, and took a cup of
tea off the stove, sipped it, and sat down in her chair. A dim
crackling came from the stove and she listened to it as she slowly
drained her tea. She put it in the sink, stared out at the birds
swooping down on bread heels and pecking at it. Betty blinked,
because she didn't feed the birds. She looked down at her tea cup.
Had she made it when she came home? She didn't remember doing it,
but neither did she remember unlocking her door and hanging up her
keys.

But
there was wood stacked by the back door, too, and the wood would
have had to been retrieved from the garden shed because her
father's men had used up all the wood when they were here
last.

Then
she realized all of a sudden that there was a fire in the stove,
water keeping warm on a side of the stove which she was not in the
habit of using, and a lanky arm draping over the side of her
bed.

“
Decapitaria Clarkin Hannah?”

Her
voice faded into the darkness, and she stilled, not believing it.
Then came his voice, muffled by the pillow, “Reporting.”

Betty knelt beside him and took his hand, lowering the door
to the stove so she could see him better by the light. Bare skin
seemed to shine in the flames, and when she moved the blanket
aside, she saw where his ribs had been bound in roughly torn
scraps, the remains of a shirt most likely. Betty touched his
shoulder and slid her hand down his body.

“
Nothing broken,” he said, turning on his side to face her.
The week had been hard on him, draining his face of color and
putting lines of strain under his eyes. “Got a slice across the
chest and a bit of a beating. Had to spend time escaping and
shaking them off my tail.”

Betty felt pain, physical gut wrenching pain, when she saw
the dark spots where bruises were healing and her mind went blank
with worry. “What happened? I thought they lost you...”

He
slid his hand up her arm, over her shoulder, and put his fingers
along her scalp, then stared into her eyes. The caress of his cool
fingertips against her skin made her tremble, drowning out any
rational thinking.

For
an instant, Betty couldn't believe he was there with her and her
world just stopped, and she was staring into amber eyes with bated
breath.

“
I
wasn't expecting you back for a while. The troops probably aren't
off the ground yet...” Her eyes opened wide. “You didn't desert,
did you?”

He
tapped her shoulder with a knuckle. “I had a different mission than
the men today.”

She
nodded.

“
Just so you know,” he whispered, his voice drawing prickles
of pleasure across her skin, “I want to make love to you tonight,
if you'll have me.”

“
But
your chest?”

“
If
I can evade capture, fight, and smuggle aboard a plane and freight
trains to get back with my unit to fight to get back here, I think
I can please the woman of my dreams,” he said, his voice a mixture
of amusement and frustration. “Unless you mean to decline my
attentions.”

She
threw her arms around him and lost herself to the secrets of the
night.

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About Me

I'm an author,
editor, and I dabble in illustration, all of which earns my husband
pitying pats on the back and the promise that one day, I'll make
money. After skipping across Nevada, Utah, Montana, Idaho, and
Leicester I landed in Yorkshire, UK, where I never get a sunburn
and it is seldom too hot to enjoy a steaming mocha.

About Black
Locust Letters

Black Locust
Letters was written as an authorial version of a one-night-stand.
It ended up being a long term relationship. Don't ask me how. It
grew up from a short story which was (thankfully) turned down for
publication. That short story and this novella share perhaps five
or six paragraphs in common. It's been a fun time, but I'm glad
this is now out in the world instead of within my head.

See you
later,

Nicolette