Marshal’s Law #11: Sometimes you get and Sometimes you get got.

A cheery fire snapped in the hearth and Christmas carols played over the radio.  Monica sat with a darkened phone in her lap and stared at the shadows that danced over the hearth.  The music seemed distant.

“You’re crying again,” Luke whispered. 

She swiped a sleeve over her eyes and managed to mutter, “Am not.”

“Are, too.”

Luke took her phone and pushed it onto the side table before wrapping his mother’s neck.  She lost the pretense.  Tears streaked the twinkle lights into exaggerated stars.  When she’d cut herself off from Marshal, she thought she was saving herself this pain; but losing him was just as devastating as losing Jason.  In both cases, she’d lost the love of her life. 

Standing between her legs, Luke rocked her as if she were a child.  “It’s Thanksgiving next week,” he said, like it was a promise of happiness.

Monica squeezed him guiltily.  She had to shake this.  She’d stayed in Paris for her family.  Her mother was moving, granted, and her sister had disappeared with a note-- “Gotta figure a few things out.”  But they all needed her.  The boy in her arms needed her.  His sister needed her.  But she missed Marshal the way she missed oxygen.

Her eyes slid to the phone.  Though darkened, it would show his picture and number the minute it was brought to life.  All she had to do was touch one, small button. 

“Maybe you opened me up to some possibilities, too.”

Remembering the words, her chest pinched.  It’d been months since she’d heard from him.  For her there had been no one else.  She didn’t want anyone else.  But him?  He’d had months of getting to know new people, exciting people.  It wasn’t a stretch to think that he’d found someone new by now. 

No, she’d leave him to his new life.  She hoped he was happy.  If anyone deserved to be happy, it was Marshal . . .

“Mom, I can’t breathe.”

Monica let loose of her son and he stumbled away from her.  “Sorry,” she said and brushed the wrinkles out of his clothes.  Embarrassment burned her wet cheeks and she couldn’t manage to hide all of the emotions she didn’t want to feel, much less acknowledge.  She tried for an explanation and Luke tried to tell her it was alright and neither of them could finish a sentence, much less make sense of what anyone was saying; when the phone rang. 

They silenced, both of them staring at the name on the screen.  It chimed twice more before she managed to scoop it up and mash the button. 

“Kody?”

“Monica, I’m sorry to call like this, but my dad’s in trouble.”

“Trouble?” Panic swelled in her chest. “What kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know exactly,” he said. “But I can’t go and Mark has to stay with Susan because of the baby.”

“Doesn’t he have anyone there?”

“No,” he said and it sounded so certain that Monica’s heart lurched.  The panic grew until it pressed on her throat.  “Monica, I’m sorry.  I know you two left on bad terms.”

“No, we didn’t . . .”

“He needs you.”

Monica fell back into her chair.  She stared into the fire, the flames blurring into orange and red and yellow streamers.

“I could call him.”

“He’s in no condition to take a phone call,” he said. “How do you think I know he’s so messed up?”

Messed up?  The panic rolled over her, drowning even her sense of touch. 

“Will you go?”

“Uhm,” she stammered.  Then, “What’s the address?”

Kody rattled off an address and then the line was quiet, leaving Monica to stare.  She felt blank.

Jerking herself out of the stupor, she rushed to the laptop and jerked it open.  She bounced in her chair as it whirled and started; then bounced some more after she entered the password.  The confounded machine couldn’t wake up fast enough.  When she finally got the internet working and the airline website open, she could only stare at the cost of the ticket.

That much?

Heart in her throat, she checked her bank account.  She could afford it, with five dollars to spare.  No grocery money.  No gas money. 

She bought the ticket.

~*~*~*~*~*

That night Monica hadn’t slept enough to matter.  She was a certifiable mess.  It was a good thing that Kody was driving.  Last night’s snow was only a salty slush against the side of the road, but she was so anxious she probably wouldn’t follow silly rules like speed limits or traffic lights.  Even without driving, she was an accident waiting to happen.

“Relax, Monica,” Kody said.  “We’re going to get there in plenty of time.”

Her heart wrung.  Would she?  It would still take over ten hours to make the trip.  What if that was too long?  It had already been twelve hours since Kody had called, since Marshal was messed up.  Her face fell into her hands. 

“Honestly, Monica, it’s going to be okay,” he said again, but there was anxiety in this voice. 

“Mom?”

Monica straightened as if someone had jammed a rod down her spine.  “Ashley, I expect you to make sure this hooligan stays out of trouble,” she said, attempting a joke. 

“Nothing keeps that hooligan out of trouble,” she complained and knocked the back of Kody’s head. Then she reached from the back seat to knead her mother’s shoulder.  “But we’ll stay safe.  Luke, too.”

“I don’t need anybody to babysit me,” he grumbled. “You act like I’m five.”

“No,” Monica said. “I act like you’re twelve and capable of a great deal of mischief by your own right.”

In the rear view mirror, Luke’s lip twisted into a reluctant smile.  He liked the comparison to Kody. 

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, kids,” she said, the panic starting to swell again.  “I’ll see when I get there.  But he may not be able to come back with me . . .”

Kody’s jaw tightened.  His stare on the road ahead was stony.

“It’s okay, mom,” Luke said.  “If Marshal needs us, we’ll just have to go to him.”

Ashley nodded smartly beside her brother. “He’d do the same for us.”

Monica twisted in her seat. “I’m sorry I have to leave you,” she said, obviously torn.  “I didn’t have enough money . . .”

So quietly Monica hardly heard him, Kody cursed.

“We’ll be fine, mom," Ashley promised. "I've got some money stashed away."

Luke nodded, his head bobbing like a doll. 

Monica looked into the eyes of her children.  They reached across the seats, holding each other’s hands.  "Only until I get paid," she promised.  "Oh, I shouldn't have sunk so much into the house.  I should've waited for the farm sale to finish.  I should've . . ."  Anxiety pulled at her from every direction, but then the car stopped.  They were at the airport.

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

The sun touched the horizon and high, wispy clouds blushed at her idea of a coat.  Her gloves and hat were almost negotiable in the temperature’s bitter bite between airport and the furnace blast of the taxi’s heater.

“Cold enough for you?”

Monica laughed. 

“Heck of a turn in the weather, ain’t it?  Guess winter just couldn’t wait.  So, where ya-goin’?” the driver said. 

Monica offered the paper with the address.  Her hands shook and she’d only been subject to the weather for a few minutes. 

“Yeah, I know where this is.  It’s up around toward my in-law’s place.  I’ll get you there in no time.”

“Th-th-thank you,” Monica chattered and held her naked hands to the car vent.

“Ya shouldna waited for me outside,” he said as he pulled into traffic.  “I was a-talkin’ to the wife.  It’s already dropped below freezin’.” 

Heat penetrated the layers of her coat and Monica relaxed into the seat. “I’m alright,” she said and opened her coat a little.  “I did know enough to dress in layers.”

The driver nodded and let the conversation lapse.  Monica’s attention turned to the window.  She’d already texted her family, let them know that she’d arrived safely.  Now she just had to find Marshal.  Worry warred with exhaustion. 

My dad’s in trouble.

Kody’s ominous words rang in her thoughts and her hands wrung in her lap.  Monica didn’t know what kind of trouble to expect.  Jail?  Hospital?  She didn’t even know where the address she’d given the driver would take her. 

Leaning against the cold glass, she watched as the city faded into wide stretches of country.  Houses appeared less and less often, until the driver turned into a gravel road marked more by the mark of tires than any sign.  The car bounced roughly on the pitted driveway until it stopped.  In front of them was a home- log and stone with dark windows and a cold chimney. 

“Don’t look as if anybody’s home,” the driver said.  He double checked the address.  “But this is it.”

Monica ran her credit card through the reader and gathered her things. “Thank you,” she said and pushed open the door.  “I gave you nice tip,” she added before forcing her way out.  As she tottered her way up the porch steps, the car crunched the gravel.  By the time she’d turned, it was gone. 

The bags fell onto the wooden planks with a hollow sound and she trudged the last steps of her journey, falling on the doorbell.  Between airports and airplanes and taxi, she’d been on the move since oh-dawn-thirty.  She didn’t even wake for Black Friday sales this early and, paired with scant sleep, she futilely hoped that whatever the emergency- maybe, it could wait until a hot cup of coffee.  Or sleep.  Sleep would be nice.

She rang the doorbell.  Then rang it again.  Monica shivered in her coat and pulled the collar up, tighter around her neck.  When no one answered yet again, she tried the knob- locked. 

Exhaling a white, icy breath, she shuffled to the window and pressed her face against the glass.  Inside, boxes were piled around the edges of the rooms.  Familiar furniture was pushed around a dark television, but no one was in sight.

Her stomach churned.  She didn’t know how to interpret this.   

Wrapping her arms around herself, Monica stomped the numb feeling out of her feet and trudged around to the back of the house.  It would be like Marshal, she reasoned, not even use the front door.    She waded through the snow, the icy flakes slipping by the hem of her jeans and dampening the top of her socks.  The deck was cleared of snow, a path of crusty footprints stretched from the steps to a garage. 

Monica laughed soundlessly.  Even the imprint of his boot was familiar; but, considering the wide, even pattern of prints, he seemed to be alright- physically, anyway.  Every indication that he should be here- and okay- edged her impatience to a confused anger.  She squelched it with reason.  

He’ll be back, she thought, and reached for the back door. He’ll be back and then he can explain everything. But the knob refused to turn.  A gusty wind pulled at her hat and she shivered, the violent act trailing down her spine.

A different kind of worry punctured her fermented anxiety and Monica pulled her phone.  She couldn’t stay here.  Already her fingers were so numb that it was difficult to push the buttons.  She couldn’t feel her feet.   But there was no signal.  She moved to the edge of the deck, stood on the slick, flat railing, and even tried by the front of the house- still no signal.  There was no way to call for help and it was too far to walk anywhere.  Without any other recourse, she tried the garage and couldn’t even dredge up the strength to be surprised when it was locked, too.

He’ll be back, she promised herself and settled into the corner of a covered stoop.  Knees pulled to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her body and tried to recapture some of her lost warmth.  He’ll be back, she thought, over and over again, as the grey twilight settled into a blue velvet tapestry of uncountable stars.      

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

Marshal was busier than a cat on a hot tin roof.  Probably just nerves, but he didn’t want to leave nothing undone. 

“Rick, you got the horses for the next few days?”

“I told you I did,” he complained. “Not that you should be shoveling their shit anyway.  You’re the executive director of this outfit.”

Marshal filed a stray paper as he answered, “Keeps me humble.”

“Well, at this rate, you’re gonna be late.  Am I driving you straight to the airport?”

Marshal jerked his long coat from its peg and pulled it on. “Yeah, I’ve got my bag.”  He grabbed the black Stetson and jammed it over his head, wondering at her reaction when she saw it. He’d worn it every day, just as he’d promised. And every day he'd put it on, he'd thought of her; wished for her.  He smiled at himself, at his plans.  He was going to fix this.  “Let’s get out of here.”

The men pushed through the cold and piled into Rick’s old truck.  The rutted farm road kept conversation to a minimum.  The churn of his thoughts pinched the rest.  Then, patting the breast pocket of his coat, he found it flat.  His expression soured and he reached inside the pocket and then every other pocket in his coat, in his suit jacket and then his pants.  He even took off his hat and checked the band. 

He didn’t have it.

“Whatcha cursin’ a blue streak for?” Rick asked.

“I gotta get by the house.”

Rick jerked to look at him. “You sure?” he asked. “We’re cutting it real tight already.  Can’t you just make do?”

Marshal pulled the hat from his head and spun it in his hands, his eyes unfocused on the floor in front of him.  His thoughts spun out like a muscle car. 

The night was slowly getting lost in the city glow.  It would be smarter to just go.  It was only one thing, one small thing.  And yet . . .

“Turn around.”

“Sir!”

“Do it.”

Rick spun the truck, the lights catching fresh snow falling from the black sky. “I sure hope this is worth it.”

“Me, too.”

Rick ignored speed limits and Marshal stared at the clock as if he could force the seconds to slow.  What was he thinking?  By the time they traveled the near-fifteen miles back to his place and then back to the airport, he would have added thirty minutes to the drive.  He was supposed to be at the airport in twenty minutes.  At best, he was going to be almost forty minutes late. 

He could miss the flight.

“There’ll probably be some delay or another,” Rick said, as if he could read Marshal’s mind.

Marshal’s throat tightened.  Maybe he should just forget it.  Turn Rick back around . . .

He swallowed the indecision.  He’d made the call.  He’d stick by it.  Swinging ‘round in circles wouldn’t do him any good. 

The truck fishtailed a bit when Rick swung into the gravel drive.  The headlights swept over the white field and bounced on the distant house. 

“You leave some of your luggage?” Rick asked.

Marshal pushed his hat back to look at the bags piled on his front porch. “They ain’t mine.”

The truck jerked to a stop and Marshal jumped out.  He spared the bags on the front porch a hard stare as he scaled the steps, but then he just opened the door and hurried inside.  Flipping on lights as he went, his eyes touched every flat surface. 

Where in the hell did he put it?

“Uhm, Marshal, sir?” Rick called from the back door.

In the kitchen now, he jerked the door open as he pulled on the cabinet drawers. Sure as certain he didn’t put it in the bedroom. 

Rick lingered in the opened door.  The air was biting, even thru his coat.  “Close that door, boy.”

“I’m no more a-boy than you,” Rick grumbled. “And I can’t in good conscious leave this woman on your stoop.” He shifted uncomfortably. “She don’t look so good.”

He lurched upright from his searching to stare at the open door. “Woman?” he asked.  “What woman?”

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

If Rick had sped to the house, then the trip to the hospital was Nascar-worthy.  The truck heater blew hot and fast, still Monica’s skin was cold to the touch.  Marshal managed to hold onto her and shuck out of his coat, his suit jacket and his dress shirt, all the while begging her to wake.  Her head lolled and she moaned.

“I’m going to undress you, darling,” he said, only to blanche at the color of her skin.  He choked as he pulled away her shirt.  “Might be a good time to wake up and slap me stupid for being so forward.”

She didn’t.  She was as limp as a wet rag and near-about that cold.  Marshal pulled her against his chest and kissed the waxy skin.  Then, grappling with his long, wool coat, he covered her like a blanket- head and all. 

He called to her, speaking of the most inane things as he kissed her.  And kissed her.  And kissed her.  His heart wrung out until it couldn’t beat.  He didn’t know how he managed to draw the next breath, except to say that he had to.  He had to coax open her eyes, to bring her back to him. 

Somewhere near the outskirts of the city, she said, “You’re okay,” though her blue lips hardly moved.  Her hand reached for him, but the movement was rusty. 

“I’m okay.”  He squeezed her tighter against his body, as if he could force his warmth into her. 

“Yes, my name is Rick Denahue and I’ve got a woman with severe hypothermia in my truck.  We’re heading to . . .”

Marshal tuned out Rick’s report and pushed Monica’s hair away from her face. “What were you doing?”

Her fingers still blue, she coasted her hand along the strong, flat plane of his chest. “Kody said you were in trouble.”

 Kody?  Anger griped him.  Said he was in trouble?  Had brought her here, to freeze on his back stoop?  What had the boy done?  She nestled her head into the hallow of his neck and the chill on her skin stung.   He pulled her closer to his warmth. 

“The next time you find yourself locked out of my house, you break a window and let yourself in.”

“Don’t be angry,” she said, though she sounded lethargic.  “I’m okay.  See?  I’m not even shaking.”

Marshal and Rick met eyes with a meaningful look.  Her body’s lack of shivering didn’t mean she was okay.  It meant the exact opposite.

“I’m just so tired,” she continued. 

Marshal’s throat swelled shut.  “No.  No, you’ve got to stay awake, baby.  Come on, now.  You have to stay awake,” he said but her breathing slowed again.  Her body felt lax against him.  Grasping at straws, he said, “You tell me why I shouldn’t fly back to Kentucky and string that son of mine up by his toenails.”

She stirred.  Pressed against him, the way that she was, her mumbled words were warped.  He didn’t understand most of them-- something about messed up and feeling scared and empty bank accounts and children and her past.  It wasn’t a lucid tale, even when he could understand the words.  It didn’t matter, as long as she was awake. 

“We’re here,” Rick said.  The truck stopped with a hard lurch in front of the emergency room doors. 

But Marshal was cemented in place.  He gripped Monica against him, afraid to let her go.  A lock of her hair fell over her eyes.  Her lips parted fractionally as she breathed and he bent to press his warm mouth onto her chilled lips. 

And then there was a thumping against the glass.  The door jerked open and she was being pulled away from him, pulled onto a stretcher and carried away.  Marshal could only watch.  The winter air seized his bare skin.  Still it felt warmer than the organ in his chest.