The Light of the Lovers' Moon Read online

  Copyright © 2011

  The Light of the Lovers’ Moon by Marcia Lynn McClure

  www.marcialynnmcclure.com

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the contents of this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.

  Published by Distractions Ink

  P.O. Box 15971

  Rio Rancho, NM 87174

  ©Copyright 2008, 2011 by M. L. Meyers

  A.K.A. Marcia Lynn McClure

  Cover Photography by © Mikhail Kokhanchikov/Dreamstime.com

  Cover Design by Sheri L. Brady

  MightyPhoenixDesignStudio.com

  First Printed Edition: 2011

  All character names and personalities in this work of fiction

  are entirely fictional, created solely in the imagination of the author.

  Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  McClure, Marcia Lynn, 1965—

  The Light of the Lovers’ Moon: a novella/by Marcia Lynn McClure.

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Jean, Jean, the Ten-Pin Queen!

  For heartwarming friendship, for fantastic one-liners,

  and for a little story you once shared with me.

  As you know, I built this entire book around that little tale you told!

  Chapter One

  Violet Fynne pressed her fingers to the dark scar in the bark of the old cottonwood tree. Gently she traced the heart carved there—each letter etched in its center. A warm breeze stirred the leaves overhead, causing radiant sunlight to speckle the grass beneath the tree. She smiled, suddenly bathed in whimsical sentiment. She fancied the dancing dapples of sunshine appeared more as frolicking fairies rather than as simple dollops of light.

  Still, it was the carving in the tree’s trunk that held Violet’s attention captive—so old, so dark, lovingly etched many years before.

  “S.W.,” she whispered, the tips of her fingers lingering, caressing the letters over and over again. Had it truly been nearly ten years? Truly? At times it seemed it had been ten years; at times it seemed it had been a hundred. Yet here and there, it did not seem so long, as if only yesterday the bark of the cottonwood stood unmarred—as unmarred as her heart once was.

  Violet closed her soft, hazel eyes. Slowly she inhaled, willing her mind and body—every one of her senses—to drink in the moment. There were meadowlarks some distance off, their familiar calls soothing, delightful. A shallow breeze toyed with a loose strand of her hair—whispered through the tree limbs and leaves, as if the wind had something to say but could not quite awaken to yawn or speak. The shade was cool where Violet sat, and she let one hand travel over the grass, the tender blades tickling her palm. Then, as if some invisible conductor of nature’s sonata had raised his baton, the cicadas in the branches overhead began to sing.

  All at once, Violet could nearly touch the past—nearly hear it, nearly smell it, nearly taste it. Her heart remembered delight then, even as it yet ached. She wondered if she could perhaps linger forever beneath the old cottonwood, where sunlight danced among the leaves, the scent of grass, bird nests, and flowers mingled with the meadowlark’s call to lull the world to contentment.

  “Yer trespassin’, lady.”

  Violet stiffened—held her breath as she heard a rifle hammer cock. She opened her eyes and remained motionless, rigid with fear.

  “I said, yer trespassin’,” the man said again.

  Slowly Violet stood, swallowing the fear in her throat. Turning, she saw the man standing behind her—the barrel of a Winchester rifle aimed at her head. The sun hung high at the stranger’s back. She raised her hand to shade her eyes from the searing radiance. The man was large, in height and in stature. He wore a weathered hat, pulled so far down on his brow that even if the sun hadn’t been merciless behind him, Violet could not have clearly seen his face.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Violet stammered, still facing the fatal end of the rifle. “I grew up here…in Rattler Rock. I’ve just returned a-and was taking a walk…to see a few places and things I remember as a child. Mr. Buddy used to let us­­—”

  “Bud’s dead,” the stranger growled. “I own this land now…and I don’t take to trespassers, no matter where they sprouted.”

  “Of course,” Violet said. “Forgive me. I’ll just be—”

  “On yer way,” the stranger finished for her.

  Violet sighed, relieved when he lowered the barrel of the rifle.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding to the man, grateful he’d simply warned her instead of blowing a hole through her.

  Quickly she made her way from the clearing surrounding the cottonwood tree and back to the road. As the scent of warm dirt and grass filled her lungs, she mumbled, “Mr. Buddy? Dead?”

  It seemed impossible that Buddy Chisolm was dead, that anything could have killed him—man, beast, disease, or even old age. Buddy Chisolm couldn’t die! As a child, Violet had been more certain of Buddy Chisolm’s immortality than of almost anything else in life. Buddy Chisolm had lived through wars—broken and healed half the bones in his body. Certainly he’d been nearly seventy when Violet’s family had left Rattler Rock. Yet she could not believe a mere eighty years had beaten Buddy Chisolm.

  She sighed, melancholy over the knowledge Buddy Chisolm no longer walked the earth. It was hard to imagine him at rest—any kind of rest—but especially the heavenly sort. She gazed up into the clear, blue sky, wondering if old Buddy were causing chaos in heaven. Was he sitting on a cloud watching over Rattler Rock, grumbling about fences that needed fixing and horses needing to be broken? Was he telling tales to the angel-children in the clouds—tales of battle and adventure, the sort of tales he’d told to Violet and Stoney so many years ago? She could well imagine it. Violet giggled out loud at a vision of Buddy Chisolm sitting around a heavenly campfire, captivating the imaginations of little angel-children with stories of bear hunting and swimming faster than water moccasins.

  Oh, how she and Stoney used to love to listen to his stories, sitting for hours, entirely enraptured by Buddy Chisolm’s wild tales! She imagined the angel-children in heaven were no less enraptured. She adored the thought of those heavenly children being as delighted by crusty old Buddy Chisolm as she and Stoney had been all those years before.

  Stoney, she thought then. Stoney Wrenn. Violet winced as her heart ached anew.

  It was ever her heart ached at the thought of Stoney—for it was ever she was haunted by his memory. Dropping her gaze from the heavens above to the dirt of the road beneath her feet, the familiar guilt and agonizing that thoughts of Stoney Wrenn always bred wove through her. Oh, she understood it wasn’t her fault, that there was nothing she could’ve done. She’d been a child, after all—and what could a child have done to help Stoney? Still, the guilt and regret haunted her—haunted her more miserably than the ghosts of the old abandoned house on Buddy Chisolm’s property had haunted their last domain.

  She hadn’t inquired about Stoney, of course. She was hoping information regarding him would be presented in a more natural, less obvious manner. Yet no one had mentioned him. Still, she’d only been in town a day and a night—only seen a handful of people—and none of them had known her family when they had lived in Rattler Rock. Yet it was somewhat agonizing, not knowing whether Stoney Wrenn were even still alive. She feared the worst, of course—for she envisioned Stoney’s father’s violent rampages had most likely only increased once Violet’s family had left Rattler Rock almost ten years before.

  Violet paused in walking,
closed her eyes, and lifted her face toward the sun as memories began to wash over her. Oh, how she used to love to run, down the very road she now trod. How she and Stoney would run—barefoot and happy as any two larks in spring—racing down the road toward old Buddy’s shack. She could almost feel the dirt between her toes, the tiny pebbles under her feet. She could almost hear Stoney’s laughter—almost see the strange green-blue opalescence of his mesmerizing eyes.

  Remaining still, Violet let the memory bathe her in melancholy, flood her senses with the joy of the past and with the pain reminiscing would inevitably bring. Yet she would remember—she could never forget—and she would welcome the memory—and the pain.

  “I’ll wallop ya good if I catch you, girl!” Stoney shouted.

  “Well, you’ll never catch me!” Violet called over her shoulder.

  She giggled as she ran. Stoney Wrenn could never catch her; she was far too quick. “Like a danged rabbit,” Stoney always said. Oh, once in a while, she’d let him win—just to make him feel better. Or let him catch her—just because she loved the feel of his arms going around her as they tumbled to the ground. Yet today—today she was impish, and she ran even faster as she saw old Buddy Chisolm’s shack up ahead.

  “I’ll turn you over my knee, Violet Fynne!” Stoney shouted.

  Violet shook her head as she ran, amused at Stoney’s endless efforts to remind her he was thirteen and far more grown up than her mere eleven years.

  “Come on then, old man!” Violet hollered. “Catch me if ya want me!”

  He wouldn’t catch her, but he wouldn’t give up trying either, and her smile broadened at the knowledge.

  Violet collapsed in a heap on the grass in front of Buddy Chisolm’s shack. She lay back, placing a hand on her bosom to calm her pounding heart as she gazed up into the sky.

  Moments later, Stoney collapsed beside her. “Yer a rotten little rat, Viola,” Stoney panted.

  “My name is Violet, and you’re just mad ’cause I beat you…again,” Violet breathed.

  “Violet or Viola…my mama says they’re the same thing,” he teased.

  “They are not the same thing,” Violet argued.

  “Are so,” he said. “A dainty little flower…good for nothin’ or nobody…except for old ladies who like to press ’em in books.”

  “Violets are a very beautiful flower! They’re named for the lovely maidens in Greek mythology who—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Stoney interrupted, rolling his eyes with such dramatic effect that Violet wondered if it hurt. “Them maidens were so beautiful that Cupid himself told Venus they was purtier than she was. And Venus got all fussy and jealous and beat them girls until they turned purple and turned into violets. I heard it a million times.”

  “And you’ll hear it a million more if ya keep callin’ me Viola,” Violet giggled.

  Stoney laughed, turned on his side, and studied Violet. He smiled and said, “Well, it’s just that yer so much purtier than those girls Venus was beatin’ on. I just like to call ya Viola…so’s you’ll remember yer purtier.”

  Violet giggled. She looked to Stoney—studied his handsome smile, the unusual green-blue of his eyes. She fancied they looked just like rare opals, all greenish-blue and shiny, like the ones set in the expensive earrings her Aunt Rana wore every Thanksgiving.

  “Don’t you be tryin’ to woo me, Stoney Wrenn,” she said. “I know your ways…even if all the other girls don’t. You call me Viola to ruffle my feathers. So don’t waste your time in flatterin’ me. I’m immune to your charms.”

  “Immune?” he asked, raking fingers through his tousled brown hair. “Who uses that word?” He shook his head, still smiling. “You read too many books, Viola.”

  “Violet,” she corrected. “And I do not.” Violet pulled a long strand of hair from the loose braid hanging down her back. Twisting the hair with her index finger, she said, “I just prefer stories…instead of wallerin’ in the mud the way you and them other boys do.”

  “I like stories too,” Stoney said. “That’s why I come here…to ol’ Bud’s house. He tells the best stories I know. Better stories than the ones yer always readin’ in them books of yers. What kind of a girly name is Cupid anyway?”

  “Who’s causin’ all the racket out here?”

  Violet looked to see Buddy Chisolm step out of his weathered old shack and into the sunlight. The frown at his aged brow only emphasized the deep wrinkles on his forehead. His white hair knew no order—simply stuck up this way and that as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Buddy pulled his suspenders up over his shoulders, and Violet smiled as they snapped into place.

  “It’s just us, Bud,” Stoney said.

  Buddy Chisolm’s frown softened. He even grinned a little as he looked to Stoney and then Violet.

  “Vi’let Fynne,” he began, “yer mama will tan yer hide good if she sees you with yer skirts hitched up like that.”

  “Oh!” Violet exclaimed. It was true. She’d pulled the back of her skirt and petticoat between her leg and tucked them into her waistband at the front before she’d started racing Stoney to Bud’s house. It wasn’t proper to remain in such an indecorous state in the presence of a man. Quickly she tugged at the hem of her skirt and petticoats, smoothing them around her ankles as she sat up.

  “Yer daddy give you a beatin’ yet today, boy?” Bud asked Stoney.

  As ever, Violet’s stomach churned. Her heart ached at the thought of what Stoney endured at the hand of his violent father.

  “Not today, Bud,” Stoney said, smiling. “It’s been near a week since he took out after me.”

  “Good. Good,” Bud said, nodding. “He ain’t takin’ out after yer ma yet?”

  “No. Just me.”

  “Well, if he does raise a hand to yer mama…you shoot that ol’ son of a…” Bud paused, glancing at Violet. He cleared his throat and continued. “You shoot that ol’ yeller skunk if he ever takes after her…right in the back if ya have to.”

  “Oh, I will,” Stoney said.

  Violet felt the frown puckering her brow soften as Stoney smiled at her. He winked, reached out, and pinched her cheek with affectionate reassurance.

  “So,” Bud sighed. Violet watched—couldn’t help but smile—as the elderly man eased himself down onto the ground in front of them. “What kind of horse…manure…are you two shovelin’ today?”

  “Violet seen the light,” Stoney said.

  All at once, Violet’s anxiety eased as she remembered the reason she and Stoney had sought out Bud’s company.

  “Well, praise be to the Lord, girl!” old Bud exclaimed. “But I thought yer folks already went to church and such.”

  Violet laughed. She glanced to Stoney. He was laughing too, and she thought his laughter was the most blessed sound on earth.

  “No, no, Bud,” Stoney chuckled. “She seen the light in yer old place…the lovers’ light. There was a full moon last night, and I snuck her out of her house to go down there and watch for it. She didn’t believe me before—said she had to see it for herself—so I snuck her out to yer old place, and she seen the light.”

  Buddy Chisolm smiled. “Oh! I see,” he chuckled. “So, Miss Vi’let,” he began, “you still think I’m a liar now?”

  Violet shook her head. “I-I admit…I thought you were just pullin’ everybody’s leg about the ghosts in your old house, Mr. Chisolm.”

  “And now?” the old man prodded.

  “I saw it for myself,” Violet admitted. “There really are ghosts in that old house!”

  “Yes, there are,” Bud said. His eyes narrowed. He looked from Violet to Stoney. “You be careful sneakin’ out like that, boy. If yer daddy catches you—”

  “He won’t catch me,” Stoney interrupted. “But I want you to tell Viola the story, Bud. You tell it so much better than me.”

  Buddy Chisolm paused. He inhaled a deep breath—scratched the thick whiskers of his chin with the crooked fingers of one leathery hand.

  “I don’t k
now, Stoney,” Buddy said. “Might be Miss Vi’let here would take to wakin’ up screamin’ in the night for the fright of knowin’ the story. I can’t have Graham Fynne knockin’ down my door for scarin’ the life outta his girl.”

  “I won’t scream, Mr. Bud,” Violet promised. “I swear I won’t! No matter how scary the story is.”

  Buddy Chisolm winked at Stoney and chuckled. “Well, then…I guess it can’t do too much harm to tell ya the tale, now can it?”

  Violet shook her head with assurance, her insides swelling with delighted anticipation. “Look!” she exclaimed, holding one arm out for Stoney to inspect. “I’m so excited I got chicken skin!”

  Stoney smiled, chuckled, and ran a hand over Violet’s arms. Violet giggled when Stoney’s touch caused the goose bumps on her arms to increase rather than to settle a bit.

  “You ready then, kids?” Buddy Chisolm asked.

  “Yes, sir!” Stoney said.

  Violet nodded, drew her knees up to her chin, and waited. The grass was cool beneath her seat, the sun warm on her face, anticipation ripe in her young mind.

  “Well, then, I guess I’ll start by warnin’ you. This ain’t all around a happy story,” Buddy began, “but it is a story to stay with ya all yer livin’ days.”

  Violet smiled as Stoney sat up, crossed his legs, and leaned forward—already captivated by the old man’s tale.

  “That ol’ house yonder, the one Stoney snuck you up to last night,” Buddy said, pointing in the direction of the old house. “It was built before the war. Some ol’ son of a…some ol’ boy with a wagonload of money and no sense at all come out here from back east—from New York City, in fact. He hired him a bunch of fellers, and they built that house from the ground up. And it was a fine thing to see! Oh, indeed it was. A fine thing! Oh, it don’t figure out here at all—not out west here where folks like their space, their horses, and their cattle. Still, folks said this ol’ boy wanted to live in luxury and get away from the city all at the same time. Now, you and I know it can’t be done. Either ya live for luxury or ya live for yer soul. Right?”