On Her Way Home (37 page)

Rising from the stool and finally understanding, Jo went to him. Clutching his arm she said softly, “You have to let it go.”

Mac wasn’t expecting that. Violently, he ripped his arm away from her, her words disgusting him. They repulsed him. “Let it go?” he scorned. “Let it go...” He glared at her. “Put a bullet between Krissy’s eyes then tell me to
let it go
!” Mac’s fury ricocheted off the walls and thrashed around the barn with vehemence. The suggestion that he could just let it go sickened and appalled him. Bitterly, he turned on her. “What do you know? Your big
tragedy
,” he scoffed while glaring at her, “was being duped by a good-for-nothing man.”

Jo hadn’t been angry before now, but his cold dismissal of a pain that scarred her deeply, enraged her. It was unfair to say that she didn’t know pain, wrong to compare them. Because she hadn’t felt pain like his, she couldn’t empathize with him? Hers held no capacity? Gave her no credence? Forcefully, she said, “I may not know exactly how you feel, but I do know what it feels like to be bitter, to be sick inside. I do know what it feels like to miss someone. I do know what betrayal feels like.” Her eyes pierced him. Softer, she continued, “Not to the extent you do, Mac…I admit that, but still…
I do
. You have to let it go. You
have
to forgive him, forgive yourself.”

Agitated, Mac covered his eyes with his palm and then slowly pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Jo approached him again. Carefully pleading with him, she submitted, “You didn’t shoot Tom, and he didn’t shoot you.”

Mac looked down at her, wary, defensive.

“You think that was him holding the gun?” she asked, rhetorically. “You said it yourself. He was a person you didn’t recognize. A person you’d never seen before.”

“Yes,” Mac seethed, pounding his fist against his chest, “but I was
me
! I pulled the trigger. I knew what I was doing. I knew who I was shooting!”

“And what if you hadn’t?” Jo broke in. “What then? He would have been shot anyway for what he did! He murdered your captain! He could have pulled the trigger again and killed you.”

Mac yelled at her, “Don’t you think I’ve asked myself those questions a thousand times? Don’t you think I’ve lain awake at night reliving it?” His eyes were angry and tortured, his chest heaving rapidly with the explosive questions.

Gently, Jo whispered, “Then like me, you know that it’s pointless. That what is done can’t be undone. That no matter how you twist it or contort it, it won’t change what happened.” Looking intently into Mac’s eyes, she continued, “You did what you had to do.”

Mac ripped away from her. “No,” he hissed.

“Yes,” Jo insisted, grasping his arm again. “Would you do it again?”

He shook her off.

She followed him, pushing, plaguing. “Pull the trigger? Would you? Would you do it again if you were in the same situation?”

“NO!” Mac yelled, his eyes furious.

“Would you?!” she yelled back at him. Grabbing his arms, forcing him to stop and look at her, she held the truth up to his face. “You know the answer. You know the truth, Mac.”

“
Fine.”
The concession tore from his lips, “Yes, I would do it again. He shot me...Tom, my
brother
. He looked at me and chose and…I hate him for it.” Mac turned his back on her, shaking with emotion. He grabbed the top of the stall door and hung his head between his shoulders.

Jo walked to him, her heart breaking for him. Wrapping her arms around his back, she comforted gently. “Then you know. You
know
…that like it or not, reliving it, hating yourself for it, hating him for it, it won’t change anything. It would happen that same way again.” Jo moved around to the front of him. His breathing had slowed. The fire had deserted him. All that was left was the tortured embers of pain glowing in his pupils. Jo’s warm loving eyes implored him. “Let it go.” She reached up and cupped his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “You loved him, and he loved you, and if you think for one minute that he would want you to be miserable for the rest of your life, you are wrong. If he was your brother as you said he was, he would give everything within him to take that bullet back.
He’s not to blame…and you’re not to blame; the war is to blame
.” Thick, wet tears pooled in her eyes then spilled down her cheeks. “Let it be,” she whispered.

The barn was hushed and silent. Like so many of their encounters, the only sounds left after their heated exchange were violent breaths and summer stillness. The battle had raged, the mountain had been bombed, and all that was left was to wait and watch. Would it crumble and break, or would it remain hard and unyielding?

Mac dropped his head to his chest. Jo’s pleading destroyed him. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to accept what she said as truth, but for years he’d lived with the guilt, the hate. He didn’t know how to do what she was begging him to. Letting it go felt like betrayal, like surrender, and surrender was dishonorable. How could he live his life when he’d taken Tom’s? How could he accept any measure of joy found in its journey as if he was deserving of it? The shot that had ended Tom’s life was a brief flash in time, a choice made not by conscience, but by fear, starvation, anger, instinctual survival; recognizing this was the only scrap of mercy Mac allowed himself. Only in that circumstance—blood pouring out of his side and his captain dead behind him—could Mac make peace with the bullet he’d put in Tom’s head. Now to set what he’d done aside in order to “let it go” and knowingly choose his own life again, his own happiness, without war to justify the action, was in his mind an even deeper betrayal.

“You can be happy, Mac. You can have what you want,” Jo’s voice captivated him, called to him. She was offering herself to him, her life, her love.

Mac lifted a hand to her cheek and pushed the pad of his thumb into a hot wet tear, letting it soak into his skin. “I don’t want to hurt you, Jo.” The words scraped hoarsely from his throat.

“Then don’t,” she entreated, pressing her lips to his. They were warm and soft and salty with tears. She moaned into his mouth and clutched the front of his shirt with her hands, but Mac was still. She waited for his arms to wrap around her, but they didn’t come. She deepened her kiss, urging him with her warm mouth to do the same.

His hands clamped softly around her wrists, subduing their climb up his chest. Jo pulled back and stared into his face. What she saw killed her. Mac hadn’t changed his mind. Nothing she had said had made a difference. He was going to let her go. He would choose his guilt over her.

Horror flooded into her being, and she shoved against the hard granite wall of his chest with her trapped hands. In shame she tore them away, looking up into his eyes with abhorrence.

“Jo…” Mac petitioned, but she backed away.

She raised her left hand to her lips, pressing two fingers against the pink softness, blocking the gateway that would let the bitter heartache out. Staring vacantly into Mac’s eyes, she said, “I won’t beg another man to love me.” The ache in her words rang out cold, flat, and fixed, chilling Mac to the core.

“Don’t compare me to him,” he pled softly, stepping toward her.

At his advancement, Jo recoiled, quickly retreating a step. A sarcastic, scornful laugh escaped her lips. “You’re both cowards,” she flung at him, her words slicing through the air like the coil of a whip.

Stung, Mac stopped cold, his face turning white and his icy blue eyes narrowing to black slits. Striding toward her, he grabbed her forcefully by the upper arms. Jo stiffened in his hands, slanting her face harshly to the side and giving him her cheek. Mac felt her resistance, felt the rigid, cold strength of her condemnation flow into him with force.

“He didn’t love me, but wouldn’t admit it,” she whispered. Then turning her broken eyes back to his, she accused, “You do…but won’t.”

As she spoke the words, her demeanor shifted, all trace of emotion became shrouded in apathy. Where once she was open, now she was withdrawn. Where once there was vulnerability, now there was reservation. Where once the loving countenance of a woman shone, now a detached and distant creature stood. Her openness, her vulnerability, her offer to love vanished before Mac’s eyes and was replaced with proud, unbending resolve. Jo’s hard body went slack in his arms, surrendering the fight, too proud to beg for his love.

Stunned, Mac dropped his hands, and without meeting his eyes again, Jo turned her back on him and left.

***

It was well after midnight when Mac’s heavy tread sounded on the stairs. Sam had been asleep for hours already and was sprawled across the bed, taking up more space in it than a four-year-old should. Mac carefully scooted him over and sat down on the edge of the bed. The explosive scene with Jo had played over and over again in his mind for the last few hours, and still it repeated, every look, every word, every touch plaguing him. She had called him a coward. She had compared him to the man who had betrayed her and then married her sister. “You’re both cowards,” the words rang in his ears. Mac hung his head, dropping his face into his large palms. He had never felt this raw and mangled before in his life, even after the incident with Tom.
How can that be
? he asked himself. Glancing over his shoulder, Mac listened to Sam’s light rhythmic breathing. The things Jo had said about Tom, about letting it go, about forgiving, churned in his soul. Swinging his head back around, Mac squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to block out all thought.

A moment later, Mac’s eyes shot open, and he stared down at the dark brown floor below him. A still, small voice pierced his soul. Warily, he rolled from the bed, blindly following its beckoning, and slumped to the cold floor. The wood was a hard and unfamiliar sensation against his knees. Mac droppe
d his forehead onto the bed and for the first time in four years, threaded his hands together and prayed.

***

Jo was restless in her room. After leaving Mac, exhausted and in turmoil, she had sought her bed early and drifted to sleep. Now it was the middle of the night, and she was wide awake and regretful. She should have never compared Mac to Will. The two were nothing alike. Will wasn’t faithful to a living person, but even though Tom was dead, Mac was still loyal to him. After much contemplation, Jo was just coming to understand that Mac viewed his sacrificed happiness as honorable. She had asked him to dismiss his feelings, dismiss his promise to himself, and he would not. Not for love, not for family, not for Jo. That was the opposite of cowardly. Tears stung her eyes. Although she understood his decision better, she was still devastated by his choice. For the hundredth time tonight, Jo said a silent prayer of gratitude for the spiritual strength God had blessed her with in the last year. She knew that His love would be the only thing sustaining her as she moved forward.

Jo flipped her pillow up and plumped it, tucking it back under her head. A loud
CRACK
split the stillness. Jo shot straight up in her bed, instantly alert. The only thing she could liken the sound to was the report of a gunshot.
CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.
Three more shots shattered the quiet night air. Flinging her quilt off of her, Jo bolted from the bed and rushed to the window. Her eyes peered into the blackness, but she could see nothing. Wait. No. There were lights on the road.
CRACK. CRACK
. Jo whirled away from the window and scrambled to the door. It slammed forcefully into the wall as she flung it open and raced from the room.

Mac flew into the hallway from his bedroom just as Jo did. His pants were undone as if he had hurriedly put them on. His eyes crashed into hers as he hastily shoved his arms into the sleeves of his shirt.

“There are lights on the road,” Jo spluttered out.

Leif’s door swung open, and he barreled into the hallway, disheveled and bleary-eyed. Before Jo knew what was happening, Mac and Leif were jumping down the stairs, taking them three at a time. She followed them, her robe flying open as she swung around the railing with wide, alarmed eyes. She watched Leif as he hurriedly sat on the bench and pulled his boots on, not bothering to lace them.

Mac ran past Jo, who was still standing at the bottom of the stairs, and crossed the parlor to the fireplace. Snatching the gun from its place above the mantle, he loaded it with proficiency while tearing back across the room and into the foyer. His intention dawned on Jo.

“Wait,” she cried, grabbing his arm wildly as he strode by her.

Mac ignored her, easily breaking the contact as he pounded into the room. Kirby was just coming into the foyer, his gray hair standing on end from sleep. He held a rifle in his hands and tossed it casually to Leif as if they had rehearsed it. The house was filled with urgent frenzy.

“Wait,” Jo screamed, as Mac charged toward the door with the gun in his hands. She darted in front of him, blocking his way.

“Move, Jo!” he yelled, his face red and angry.

“You’re not going out there!” she cried frantically, absolute fear for him pulsing through her. Mac raised his arm, pushing her brusquely aside. With white knuckles, Jo desperately clung to his forearm, looking into his face with enormous, frightened eyes. “It’s dark. They’re shooting! You can’t go out there,” she cried.