Marshal's Law

MARSHAL'S LAW #12: TIMING HAS A LOT TO DO WITH THE OUTCOME OF A RAIN DANCE

Marshal’s Law #12: Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a rain dance

Watching the nurses care for Monica, Marshal felt about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.  His nerves jangled, sleeping hadn’t been a real possibility, either.  So he kept a kind of guard over her. 

First of all, there wasn’t nothing between her and the Lord but a smile, and a blue smile at that.  The staff bundled her in heated blankets and told him to back off; but Marshal knew her.  She’d turn herself inside out with embarrassment if she woke naked.  So he rose a ruckus.

And, yeah, he told more’n a few people that she was his wife. 

He couldn’t much regret it.  Kept the bastards from tossing him out on his ear when they found him holding her hand.  He’d sandwiched it between his, breathing over the chilled fingers as he prayed, endlessly prayed, for her to be alright.  The witch that forced him back and swaddled Monica tighter against the air was probably related to his ex-. 

So he couldn’t touch her.  But he stayed . . . and he watched.

And he planned.

His ticket creased and useless, he stewed on what he’d been ready to do.  For lack of a better word: beg.  He was ready to beg her to take the risk.  On him.  On them. 

But she’d come to him first.  Coerced by lies, but she’d come . . . because she loved him.  Damn whatever reason she’d give.  It boiled down to that.  She’d come because she loved him.

Determination roped his chest.  There wouldn’t be any begging.  He knew what he wanted and, sure as certain, he knew what she wanted.  She’d blustered and fussed.  She’d hidden behind her family and her fear of leaving the only home she’d known.  She’d hung onto her past like it was a religion.  But when the tire met the road, she came.  And he was going to make sure she stayed.

Would she complain?  Might.

Would she fight him?  Well, there was that possibility.

Would she try to shut him out of her life?  He paused on that for a moment.  They lived on opposite sides of the country.  It sure seemed possible.

But if he acted quick enough; if he was sure; if he was firm and decisive and maybe even spoiled her a bit . . . his eyes pinched closed and the ticket crushed in his hand. He wanted to spoil her for the rest of her life.  So what if he tread on the edge of her permission?  He’d been careful for over two years.  Today it was all or nothing.

“Mr. Hurst?” a nurse whispered. “Would you care to lie down?”

Hunched, his arms braced on his thighs and the ticket crushed in his hands, he shook his head.  Then he righted himself.  Straightened.  It was an act of will.  He was dead beat.  “Do you think she’ll wake soon?”

The woman shook her head. “She’s sedated.”

Pushing himself up, he took his hat. “I’ve got a few things to take care of.  I want to be here when she wakes.  Do you have any idea . . .?”

“Maybe tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll be here.”

And he was.  After the scheming and organizing and the delivery of one ruthless tongue lashing to one of his meddling sons, he was back to spend another night with her.  This time he slept.  The pull-out hadn’t been the most comfortable thing he’d ever rested his head on, but it wasn’t the worst, neither.  And Monica had held his hand all night- even reached for him when he lost her for a bit. 

That near about made the whole ordeal worth it . . . until he saw her wake. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Eyes still closed, Monica stretched, luxuriant in the warmth.  Fingertips long and toes pointed, she arched in the bed with a satisfied groan.