Cypress Nights (23 page)

The next day begins

C
yrus woke up facing the wall.

A subtle lightening in the reflected shape of the uncurtained window became a smudgy wash of silver. The moon had almost emerged from mottled clouds.

The moon gave up, the light show faded and the wall receded again.

He closed his eyes and frowned, moved one foot carefully under the sheet, searching for Millie. The dog never left his bed during the night.

“Millie?” he said, and cleared his throat.

Not even a squeak.

He switched on the bedside lamp and sat up, pushed his fingers through his hair while he squinted around the big room. There she was, a barely noticeable bump propped against the bottom of the door to the rest of the house.

It took a moment to remember that Madge was out with Sig. The clock showed almost one in the morning.

He ran his hands over his face.

When she went out from the rectory, she didn't come in for Millie before returning to Rosebank. Not that it had happened often.

Sig and Madge would still be out. One in the morning wasn't late. Not in the world of men.

The sensation was there again, the disquiet, the clenching low in his gut.

A small sound reminded him that the dog was by the door.

“You want to go out,” he told her. “Of course you do. You need to make more noise than that.”

If he'd been sleeping deeply, he might be annoyed, but walking outside sounded better than tossing between being conscious and unconscious.

He retrieved his jeans from the closet floor where he must have missed getting them on a hanger last time. He did that a lot. Wearing a shirt didn't sound good. The air in the room felt as if he could grab sticky handfuls.

With his jeans on, and an old pair of boat shoes, he picked up Millie and opened the door. “We've got to get your leash first,” he said. Madge never let the dog out without one. “Hold on, kid. Cross your legs. We're on our way.”

He looked down and almost missed the next step.

Huddled over her knees, Madge sat at the bottom of the stairs. Even in the mostly darkness, Cyrus knew it was her. He braced his free hand against the wall. Millie didn't want to go out; she had sensed her boss nearby was all.

His heart beat uncomfortably. Not fast, but hard against his breastbone. “Madge?” he said softly.

She didn't answer or move.

Cyrus leaped down the rest of the stairs. He reached
Madge who raised her face. He flipped on a light and she flinched, held up a hand. She'd been sleeping?

Millie wriggled from his arm, landed in a flailing mass on top of Madge and licked her frantically.

“Madge,” Cyrus said. He vaulted over her and knelt on the floor at her feet. “Just tell me. All of it.”

She shook her head and looked away.

Her dress was torn. The top gaped and this time he turned his eyes from her. “I'll get Sig on the phone,” he said, not wanting to believe what he was beginning to think. “He'll tell me what's gone wrong. One way or the other, he'll tell me.”

“No!” She clutched at his arm. “It's not Sig's fault. It's mine. Leave it. I'm going to drive home now. I should have gone as soon as I got back here.”

Cyrus looked her over more closely. “You're scratched. And your feet, Madge.” Fury pounded at his temples. “Your feet are torn apart.”

He bent to pick her up, but she punched his shoulders till he backed off. “No,” she said. “I needed to rest. I've done that now. I'm going back to Rosebank.”

He stood up, his hands on his hips, his breathing ragged. “Where are your shoes?”

“Forget it.” She raised her voice but it was filled with tears. “You can't help me. It's not fair for me to be here.”

“Where else should you go when you're in trouble, if not to me?”

“Not to you, Cyrus.” The puzzlement in her eyes let him know that her own reactions bemused her. “No. Never to you anymore.”

Ignoring her pushing hands and the knots in his own stomach, he picked her up and carried her to the nearest bathroom, where he sat her on the counter and ran water
into a sink. “Don't you move,” he said, pointing a finger in her face. “Understand? Try to leave that spot and I'll catch you. You'll wish you'd stayed put.”

He switched on the lights over the mirror. The dress she wore was one of his favorites, red, soft cotton, the neckline square. A row of small buttons closed the bodice—except where there were buttons missing. Scratches had bled on her back, her arms. Twigs snarled her hair. Devoid of makeup, her white face turned his stomach. She stared back at him, and evidence of tears, mixed with dirt, streaked her cheeks.

He lifted one of her feet. Skin had stripped from the sole and she had too many contusions to count.

Moving past his own reservations, he threw a bath mat on the floor, turned the shower on full and pulled several towels from a cupboard. “Get in there,” he said, pointing once more. “Not one word of argument from you. Just get in and make sure you get yourself as clean as you can. Here.” He found a new nailbrush, still in its package, in a drawer. “It'll hurt, but scrub the dirt out of all those cuts. When's the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

Madge wouldn't look at him. “It's up to date,” she said. “I'll be fine. Thanks.”

“Good—about the shot. But you won't be fine. You aren't fine now. There are bathrobes and night things in the spare bedrooms. I'll get you something—and a first-aid kit. I'll knock on the door and put them on the counter. Holler if you need me sooner.”

He held her face firmly and moved it toward the light. At first she lowered her lashes, then she raised them. “You might as well tell me about it,” he said, furious at the marks on her. “This happened to you since you left with Sig. I'm going to call him now. Get in the shower.”

“No, please.” She caught his wrists. “You mustn't bother Sig. I was wrong.”

He didn't understand. “Of course you weren't wrong. You're never wrong.”

“Yes, I am,” she said softly. “And I was this time.”

She resembled a curly-headed waif, womanly, but pathetic and small. Whatever had happened, it hadn't been her fault. It wouldn't happen again.

One more moment and she'd be in his arms.

“In the shower,” he said, and left, closing the door hard behind him.

 

The hot water stung Madge's skin. She could barely stand, and shifted from foot to foot, relieving the pressure on her wounds.

If she had told Sig to stop and take her back to her car, he would have. Wouldn't he?

She'd never know, because instead she'd panicked and rushed away from him. Only luck must have saved her from a real injury—or an encounter with some critter that would have done her potentially serious harm.

A thin wafer of soap broke apart when she peeled it off the edge of the tub. She made the best of it, and used what was left of a sample-sized bottle of shampoo.

Standing under the streaming water until the pain faded, Madge turned to the wall and rested her forehead. Of course, she had come back here to find Cyrus. As he'd said, where else would she go when she was in trouble?

Hopeless. Everything was hopeless. She pressed her fists into the tile. There was nothing about her that was too soft to cope. For years, she'd dealt with a love so strong, it was with her always. And she'd known loving Cyrus was pointless, a perpetual homage to a man who
wasn't free to accept anything from her. But she hadn't folded. She hadn't run away.

She was not soft.

She wouldn't fold.

After tonight, there would be no more attempts at enjoying another man because it would never work. Good. That's the way she wanted it. Being around Cyrus was enough, and she should be grateful.

It
wasn't
enough.

To make sure her sobbing couldn't be heard, Madge turned the water on harder. The stream began to cool, and she turned it even colder until her skin smarted and tightened.

Her whole life was a joke.

She sluiced her face and turned off the shower. Standing on the bath mat, she toweled herself dry, rubbing too hard because pain closed out the deeper hurt.

The shampoo had a eucalyptus scent. Its clean softness soothed a little.

A loud rap at the door and Cyrus said, “I'm going to put a robe inside.” He opened the door just enough. “There's a nightgown here, too. When you come out, I'll fix up those feet. Cotton socks would be a good idea, wouldn't they?”

Her throat clogged. It took seconds to respond, “Probably. Thank you very much for putting up with me.”

He didn't answer.

Madge put on a pink cotton nightie and wrapped a white terrycloth robe about her. No drawer gave up a comb, so she ruffled her black curls with her fingers. This wasn't a beauty pageant.

A very gentle tap sounded at the door. “Madge? You okay in there?”

To love and be loved. Hell on earth when the one you longed for was kept from you by invisible bonds.

“I'm good now,” she said, and opened the door.

She looked him squarely in the chest—his broad, very human chest. His shoulders and arms, often exposed to the sun when he worked outside, remained tanned.

Madge stared at him. He was a priest, but now, this moment, he looked nothing more than a man—a man in need. Longing tightened the muscles in his face. But she didn't fool herself. There was anger there. She must make sure he didn't continue to blame Sig for anything.

“I'm going to pick you up,” he said. “Once we get some dressings and socks on you, I'll let you hobble.”

“I can hobble now.” She tried to pass him.

Without ceremony, Cyrus swept her up again and walked with her to the first of the rectory's small visitors' rooms. He threw back the plain white coverlet and sheet on the bed and propped pillows against the wall.

That's where he settled her.

“This stuff probably stings, but you need it,” he said, brandishing a bottle and cotton swabs. He smiled slightly. “The only socks I can find are mine. We could save the laundry and put both of your feet in one of them.”

She reached for the bottle. “Give me everything. I want you to get back to bed. Mass comes early.”

Cyrus sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her feet onto his lap. “I've had plenty of sleep. If Millie hadn't known you were sitting there, I'd still be asleep. I get too much sleep.”

She couldn't argue anymore. “My dog is a traitor.”

“Why?” He started swabbing her cuts. They stung.

She sucked in air. “I don't see her hanging out in here. She'd rather be up in your room. It's probably more comfortable.”

“It's just familiar,” he said.

His thighs were hard beneath her calves.

Cyrus glanced at her. He looked a second time and frowned.

She didn't want to talk about how awful she looked. “I've got clothes in the closet next door—I'll use some of them when I leave. I've got to get fresh things to work in.”

“Later. Much later. Madge, where are your shoes?”

“I lost them.”

He stopped in the middle of applying a dressing. “Have I ever really pushed you? About anything?”

“Don't do this, Cyrus.”

“Do what?”

“Blackmail me.”

“I've made it too easy, haven't I?” he said, gripping her ankle with both of his hands. “I've never…What am I saying? I don't have the right to expect anything from you. You owe me nothing, including explanations.”

There was steel in his hold. The tips of his fingers dug into her.

Madge blinked, her eyes filling with tears. Anger, frustration, deep, deep hurt and helplessness—she struggled to separate the forces crashing over her.

“We owe each other
everything,
” she cried. “If there's fault, we share it. We could have stepped back the very first time we knew we liked being together. We didn't.

“I jumped out of Sig's car and ran away. That's how I did all this. I found the Teche and followed it here.”

“Why?” Darkness gave him a stranger's face.

“He kissed me.” She took Cyrus's clenched hand to her mouth and held it there. “That's all. He did what people do, what a man who thinks a woman's interested in him does.”

“Did you tear your dress when you were running?”

“Yes.” He must have seen the broken buttons, but he didn't have to know any more.

“He shouldn't have let you go.”

“He tried not to. I hid. It was dark, and he doesn't know this place like I do.”