Page 120 of Cowboy's Last Stand
He had gotten better, markedly so.His first few attempts were brief and lacking pertinent details.She remembered writing pages and pages to him, only to get back a short love note.When she’d asked him to elaborate, he’d delivered.His next attempt had included the Lord Byron poem, “She Walks in Beauty.”She’d been over the moon about it, which had encouraged him to keep trying.As the letters progressed, his voice had changed.
Mike’s faltering script and simple statements had transformed into something special.He’d shared insightful commentary on the war and funny stories about his comrades.He’d asked questions about Marcus and expressed his feelings to her.He’d been achingly sweet.She’d cherished every word.
Unlike the bereavement letter, she’d read these over and over again since Mike’s death.Mike had been loquacious in person, like Marcus.He’d also learned English as a second language.Although he’d picked up conversational skills with ease, writing was more of a struggle for him.Even so, she’d never questioned the letters.Mike was the type of man who gave 100 percent and never quit.She’d assumed that he’d put a lot of effort into it because he was devoted to her.
Now, these sacred mementos were tainted.Jason must have suggested the Byron poem.What else had he contributed?How much help had he given?
Fresh heartbreak washed over her, and she crawled into bed with the letters.She felt so stupid for not seeing what was right in front of her face.The more she cried, the more she realized she wasn’t crying for Mike, and that made her even sadder.Thoughts of her husband’s death no longer devastated her.She wasn’t a grieving widow anymore.She made a fist and punched the pillows, hating Jason for taking that away from her.
She fell into a fitful sleep, only to be jarred awake by her alarm.She rose groggily and got ready to take Marcus to school.At least she didn’t have to work at the library today.She had to work at the Night Owl tonight.Maybe she’d call in sick.
After she dropped off Marcus, she returned to her pity party.She curled up on the couch with a box of tissues and her phone.She wanted to call her dad, but she wasn’t ready to speak.She wasn’t sure which details to share.
While she dithered over the decision, she heard a commotion outside.Frowning, she rose and glanced out the window.Wade Hendricks was walking toward her front door in uniform.Two squad cars were haphazardly parked outside.Her chest tightened with distress.
She threw open the door, imagining disaster.“Is it Marcus?”
“Marcus is fine,” Wade said.“I’m here about something else.”
“What?”
He glanced over his shoulder at the two other deputies.One stood in the driveway with his gaze on the side of the house.The other was stationed behind the open door of his squad car, speaking quietly on a radio.They looked cagey, as if they were expecting trouble.
“I need to talk to Jason,” Wade said.
She stared at him blankly.
“Is he inside?”
“No, he’s…”
“Upstairs apartment?”
She shook her head.“He left last night.”
“What time?”
“Around eleven.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know,” she said.“He took his backpack.”
“He left on foot?”
“Yes.”
“Which direction?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, uncomfortable.“What difference does it make?What is this about, exactly?”
“There was an incident last night.A fatality.”He cleared his throat.“Billy was shot in his trailer.”
“Oh my God,” she gasped.Wade’s face was so expressionless it appeared to have been carved from stone.It took a moment for her to process the information.Wade’s brother had been the victim of a fatal shooting.Billy Hendricks was dead.“I’m so sorry.”
“Can we look around?”
“Of course.”
