No, they were a mismatch from the start and she’d known it, but she’d admired his perseverance and single-mindedness, traits she also had. For a while, the physical side of their relationship burned hot, a raging fire that threatened to consume them both, but it had quickly sizzled out and no amount of fanning could bring it to life again. With nearly no mutual interests, their marriage became a sham that neither of them wanted to admit to.
The loss of his brother stopped her from ending their relationship, as she was not willing to add more pain to an already grief-stricken family. Then when Morgan immediately enlisted, his mother nearly had a nervous breakdown. The only thing that kept her going was planning their wedding and anticipating the birth of grandchildren. While Cara couldn’t go through the farce of a big wedding, she had agreed to a civil ceremony. It made no difference to her, really. There was no one else in her immediate future and Morgan would be gone a great deal of the time.
The grandchildren would never appear, but she’d deal with that later. In her opinion, the world was a fucked up place and she didn’t feel the need to populate it with offspring. Her work was her life and nothing would be allowed to interfere with that.
The house fire that took his parents’ lives made children a moot point. The fire started in the basement and Cara suspected it began at the shrine Morgan’s mother maintained down there. She frequently kept candles burning in front of pictures of her dead son. It was a morbid little room, the walls covered with memorabilia from Matthew’s birth to his death. Cara disliked going down there intensely, but on occasion she had to when Helen Whittaker wanted to show her something she’d recently added.
The smoke detector was always hanging open with the battery dangling from the small wires. When Cara mentioned how dangerous that practice was, Helen scoffed. “My candles set it off now and then and I don’t want to disturb the neighbors. I always blow them out before I go back upstairs anyway, so what’s the harm?”
Yes, Cara thought, slowly flipping through her Cd’s, what was the harm? Two lives lost, a home destroyed, and another devastating blow to Morgan, a man already dealing with more than he could possibly handle.
Cara had arranged a speedy and tasteful funeral for her in-laws, dealt with the estate issues, and tried to be supportive of her husband when he flew in for two days. Morgan was home long enough to see his parents lowered into the ground and long enough for her to see what he was becoming. Hopeless.
She told him good bye and to stay safe as she kissed his cheek the day he got on the plane for his return to duty, but she knew she was looking at someone with a death wish. In fact, it surprised her when she got word two years later that he’d been injured, but survived. In all that time he hadn’t written one letter or picked up the phone, and then he was home, physically intact, but mentally depleted.
A great sadness filled her as she selected La bohème, inserted the disc into her stereo, and stared out the window at the lights of D.C. Tomorrow Morgan would have been gone two weeks and was supposed to return to the access point. At that time, he could choose to come home or merely send back information. Her biggest fear was that there would be nothing from him and she would forever wonder if he had survived. She needn’t have worried.
After spending the evening with Emma, Morgan retired to his room. There were so many things he wanted to tell Cara, and it was hard to write quickly enough. The pen was a step up from the quill he’d been expecting, but it still took some getting used to and he made quite a mess on his first two attempts. Finally, he was able to compose a reasonably readable letter:
Cara,
I arrived relatively intact and the experience was not unpleasant. I have been absorbed into the Whittaker family as a long lost son, taking the place of one Morgan Whittaker who has not, as of now, returned from the Indian War where he was fighting with Sheridan’s army. Please use all your resources to find out what happened to this man and if I can expect his return in the near future. Parents are Emma and Henry (deceased). Children are: Morgan, Mead, Melissa, and Matthew. Also, Mead has a leg injury that prevents him from leading an active life. Please gather any information that may help him. Are there any natural products to relieve his pain and stiffness that haven’t been discovered in 1880’s? Is there anything I can do, using items that are available to me in this area to help him? I also want everything you can find out about Callie Mae Walker. I don’t have her birthday, although I think she’s in her early twenties. Her father is a preacher in a town called Sully’s Bend. I want to know what happens to her in the future if possible. I will return in one week. Anxiously awaiting your response,
Morgan
P.S. I’m having the time of my life. Emma’s cooking is unbelievable. I would sell my soul for a pair of sneakers and some sweats.
It was nearly sun up when Morgan knocked on the door of Missy and Cole’s farmhouse.
“Good Lord, Morgan, what is it?” Cole asked, answering the door in his long johns.
“I need you to do something for me,” Morgan replied, removing his hat when Missy appeared behind her husband, holding a shotgun. “Morning, Misfit.”
“Why can’t you do what you’re told, woman?” Cole demanded, turning around and snatching the gun from Missy’s grasp. “I told you to stay in the bedroom until I seen who it was. Confound it! Traipsin’ around in your nightgown isn’t proper.”
“It’s my brother,” Missy snapped. “I’m certain he’s seen me in my nightwear before and I have a robe on.”
Morgan in fact had not seen her in her ‘nightwear’ before, and she painted a pretty picture indeed with her bare toes peeking out from her blue robe and her long dark hair pulled forward over her shoulder.
“Don’t matter. It coulda been anybody and you need to learn to heed what I say. Just suppose it was someone up to no good? What then, miss smarty pants?”
“Then I would have shot him,” Missy sighed. “I’m going to make some coffee. You’re welcome to stay for breakfast, Morgan. I’ll make sure I’m properly attired,” she said with a curtsey. “I didn’t know we had such high-fa-luting ways around here when it comes to family,” she said saucily as she took the shotgun from her husband’s hands and sauntered off to the bedroom, her little nose in the air.
“See what I mean? She don’t pay no never mind to a thing I say. Clear as day I said, ‘Missy stay here until I see who’s a knockin’, but no…she comes sashayin’ out here like she’s some mountain woman instead of a well brought up Kansas farm girl.”
“Cole…”
“I tell you, Morg, they don’t make women like our mamas anymore, no sir-e-bob. I bet when your daddy told you ma to do somethin’ she…”
“Cole, I…”
“Pretty soon, if they get their way, women will have the vote and then they’ll be runnin’ things around here. It’s plumb scary if you ask me. Why, I remember one time…”
“Cole!” Morgan bellowed.
“Huh? Oh, sorry,” Cole replied, rubbing his head. “Come on in and have some breakfast.”
“I don’t have time. I need you to help me, Cole.”
