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“Catherine told me you were awake and talking last night, but I didn’t want to keep you from your rest.”
My conversation with Catherine is fuzzy and dark, and I almost wonder if I imagined it. It feels unfinished between us. I look around the room, taking in the chrysanthemum wallpaper bathed in late morning light, the snow sparkling on the sill outside.
“How...how long have I been here?”
“A day. No, don’t try to get up,” he says as I struggle to my elbows.
Pain sears through my shoulder and I wince, falling back into my pillows. Fragments of memories surface again. The barrel of Cyrus’s pistol aiming straight for John’s heart through the swirling snow. A sickening bang cutting the air like thunder. The red, the heat, the vibration, the light. Cyrus’s arm jerking to the side as he cried out in surprise. Almost simultaneously a pain like I never felt before shredding into my shoulder. And then the darkness.
“Has anyone told my mother? She’ll be worrying. You have to tell her that I’m all right.”
“Would you like to tell her for yourself?”
I part my lips to tell him that if I can’t sit up yet, then I certainly won’t be able to make my way to Mother’s room. But before I can say anything, he turns in his seat, and smiles over his shoulder. I follow his line of sight and give a little gasp.
Wrapped in a shawl and very pale, Mother hovers in the doorway. It’s just like that day after the pond when her disappointment was etched on her face. But now she breaks into a slow, glowing smile.
John gets up and offers her his arm, which she leans on heavily as he guides her to the bed.
“My dear, dear girl.” She perches herself on the edge of the bed, the roles reversed from just days ago when I feared she would never rise again. John melts into the background as Mother puts a warm hand against my cheek. “How do you feel?”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her, barely able to feel the pain in my shoulder anymore now that joy and relief are warming me from the inside. “Truly. But what about you?”
“Tired,” she says. “But much, much better. Better than I’ve felt in a long time.” And she looks it. Her dark eyes are sparkling, and the heaviness, the weariness, that she has worn like a shroud not just these past months, but these past years, has lifted. “No sooner had I been granted a second chance at life than it looked as if I might lose you.” Her voice quivers as she adds, “But here you are. Didn’t I say you were strong?”
We sit in silence as she strokes my cheek; we both know that there are years of secrets and questions that will need addressing, but that now is not the time. Not with her still so weak, and me injured. Not with John standing right there.
“I’ll leave you to rest now, and I’d better do the same or your father will wear me out with worrying.” She looks over her shoulder to where John is waiting by the door, trying not to intrude upon our reunion. “I suppose you’ll want some time,” she says, turning back to me with a raised brow. “But leave the door open.”
I open my mouth to assure her that nothing untoward will happen between John and me, that nothing untowardcouldhappen, not while I’m barely capable of sitting up. But then I see the glimmer of amusement in her eyes, and I smile. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“But I do worry about you. It’s a mother’s job.” She brushes my temple with a kiss, and gestures to John to let him know that she’s ready. With his assistance she stands, and offers me one more warm smile.
After he’s brought her back to her room, John hesitantly comes to stand by the bed. “I should probably let you rest now too.”
“No!” The force of my voice startles me, and John stops. “I mean, not yet. You’ll stay with me?”
John sits back down and takes my hand. “I won’t leave you, not if you don’t want me to.”
I never want him to leave, so I just press a grateful kiss onto his hand before letting go.
“Oh,” he says, reaching into his pocket. “I almost forgot. The doctor gave you something to keep you asleep while he removed this.” John holds up a black metal ball. “Said if it had been even a hair to the left it would have shattered your shoulder completely.”
I reach out and take the bullet, marveling at the tiny thing that was almost the instrument of John’s death, and shudder. “And Cyrus?”
“Gone packing back to Boston to lick his wounds. He’ll stay there this time,” John says with finality.
“How do you know?”
“I told him if he ever tried to interfere again I would tell everyone he shot you, and I would press charges. Besides,” he adds with grim humor, “I think he was more than a little unnerved by what happened.”
We fall into silence as I process this and what it means for the future. No more Cyrus, no more threats, no more looking over my shoulder. If John is unnerved himself by what happened, he doesn’t say so.
“You never told me that he loved you,” John says quietly.
“I didn’t think it mattered. Besides,” I add, hesitant, “I’m not sure I would call it love.”
“He called it that. Last night, he resorted to pleading, claiming that he loved you and wouldn’t let me steal you away.” John takes the bullet back, rolling it between his fingers. “A man driven by greed and money is one thing. A man driven by love is another. He’s willing to risk anything.”