THE HAND OF GOD

PART TWELVE:

He had never, not once, cried in the presence of a woman. Fact was, from the moment he hitched up his pants and walked out of that train station when he was eight, he'd vowed he'd never let another living person see him cry. He'd taken the Bible with him into the privy first, had sat there on the rough boards framing the shithole, squeezing the book with his small hands until

his knuckles were white, and crying so hard his eyeballs ached with it.

It was after that, after some huge man in a hurry had banged and banged on the flimsy door, hollering for him to get out. He'd staggered out of the privy, his knees weak and shaking, and

the man had cuffed him so hard that he'd fallen to the floor. He'd lain there a long, long moment looking at the Bible lying open near his head then pulled it to himself. He read where it had fallen open to Psalm 137, "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept when we remembered Zion...." and he understood then he was just as much an exile, just as much separated from all that was familiar, as much a captive in an inhospitable land where he must dwell. After that he'd stood, had hitched up his pants, and walked out of the train station, vowing no one would ever see him cry again.

And yet....

It was not a full-out sort of crying he was doing, not at all. He was mostly just shaking a bit as ageless pain spiraled its way up his guts. He hadn't even really been consciously aware, had not let himself be consciously aware, that so much still dwelled in the dark and hollow places of his being. With great and deliberate effort he stifled the sounds it made as it worked its way up his throat, seeking release into the air. No. He would not grant it that release. He would not.

And so his stifling of it warred with its release and despite his efforts, a groan, half moan, escaped his lips and he turned quickly to face the wall, clamping his hands over his mouth,

hoping she hadn't heard.

She opened her eyes, staring at his back, wanting to go to him, to lie beside him and curve her arms around him. But she knew what he was doing though not all the whys for it, and she granted him the separateness he seemed to crave. She knew, too, that if she went to him now, if she lay with him, then....  And all within her that wanted that ached with the restraint she placed on it. The restraint, though, was what she willed, what she must will right now, though it was not at all what she felt.

He lay there on his left side, his eyes tightly squeezed shut, hands still over his mouth, and tried  to stop the last of the shaking, to get that huge lid he kept over such feelings shoved back into place.  He'd known that somewhere inside him was this deep well where he kept them firmly tucked away, not only out of the sight of others but out of his own. From time to time its waters splashed up hard against the lid, but he had it nailed shut and wrapped in chains.

That last moment there in Contention, he'd felt its splash. Watching Dan dying there beside the tracks had loosened a few nails. He still didn't know what all that meant, what Dan himself even living meant, but still less what Dan's dying meant. He just knew it meant...something. And now, here with Elizabeth, it was worse. The woman had a hammer and a hacksaw in her quiet words, in the depths of her brown eyes, and he'd felt that carefully-tended lid start to give way. Just how she did that, he wasn't sure. Nobody...absolutely nobody...had ever done that before and the fact that she could, that she had, was swallowing him up so thoroughly that he almost had to gasp for breath.

Ben Wade, he told himself. Godamighty, man, you are Ben Wade. You've got to stop this, and stop it now. He lowered his hands, blowing out short breaths through his parted lips, trying to keep even that as quiet as he could. He was amazed at himself, at how thoroughly he'd let his
shields drop. He didn't do that. He never did that. Not ever. It was her. She asked him things that made him look inside himself, made him...remember. Made him...forget. Forget who he was now, who he'd worked so diligently to become. He couldn't let go of that. He didn't want
to let go of that. If he did, he'd be nothing more than that little boy clutching his Mama's Bible over the shithole. He was never going back there again. Never.

His mind suddenly filled with the sight of his gang, all of them dead by his hand, lying there in the dirt near the depot. He'd had times when he'd been free before, free from all the entanglements that came with heading up a large gang like his tended to be. He was always free then, though, because they'd been killed by lawmen or arrested, not because he'd shot the lot of them himself all in a few seconds. Standing there with his back to the boxcar, he couldn't stand the sight of them, couldn't stand what they were, what they'd been trying to do, what he was because he was their leader. A leader of animals. The thought of it had filled him with a quiet, deadly loathing for them, for who he was when he was with them.

Just before he'd pulled the trigger, he'd heard a bubbling gasp from Dan as blood from his lungs welled up his throat. Dan's blood somehow mingled with the splashing against his lid and he moved quickly, getting off shot after shot as though something huge were hot on his trail,
threatening to mow him down. He had no idea it was himself who was pursuing him, he just knew he had to wipe it all away, wipe every single bit of it away.

And now what? Here he was with no entanglements. So why did he feel so caught up in some inexorable net, why was Ben Wade shaking his black-hatted head at him in exasperation and why could he hear young Benjamin's sobs? "No," he whispered, not realizing he'd said it aloud.

Elizabeth could bear it no more and came, kneeling beside the pallet, carefully not touching him. "Ben?" She said his name softly. "Ben, please turn over."

He went perfectly still, not even breathing.

"Ben, please?"

With a bit of a groan he heaved himself onto his back, letting his hands fall to his sides, turning his face directly toward her. "Why, Elizabeth? So you can see this?"

It was no use. He knew it was no use to hide from her. She'd see right through his back anyway. So he turned, revealing a face with bloodshot eyes whose green depths held enough pain, loss, and confusion for several lifetimes.  "Ain't pretty, is it?"

He never knew what Elizabeth might say. She'd continually surprised him, but nothing to the degree she did just then when she smiled gently at the wreckage of his face and whispered, "Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair, thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks."

His mouth dropped open, then he snapped it shut, and grasping desperately for some shield to raise, said, "I ain't got doves' eyes, LizzieBess. More like some miserable, battered ol' huntin' falcon."

"A hunting falcon who's got himself an arrow through his breast."

His hand went to his chest. "Ain't been shot there. Not yet anyways."

"There are chest wounds that have nothing to do with incoming projectiles," she replied. She sat back then, regarding him silently.

"What?" he finally asked.

When she didn't answer but just kept looking at him, he raked both hands roughly through his hair. "I think I need to be gettin' on my way."

"Can't walk."

"I'll hobble across the border, then!"

"You know that's not going to happen, Ben."

"It will if I decide it will!" he snapped.

"No, it won't."

"I can't stay here any more."  He looked away. "I can't."

"Why?"

He looked back at her, his jaw working furiously. "You."

"That's not true, Ben," she said calmly.

"Not...?" He was at a loss as to how to deal with this woman. "What then?"

"You, not me. You don't want to stay here because of you."

He snorted. "Fool thing to say."

"Nevertheless, it's true."

"Ain't true." He shook his head firmly. "It's you. If I stay here I'm goin' to have you in my bed an' you know it an' I know it."

"And that's...."

"Not right," he finished. "Not why you come to this place. You ain't goin' to find what the heck it is you're lookin' for with me gettin' you all wet between your legs."  He decided to be deliberately blunt.

"Didn't take you long to get your shields locked into place, did it, Ben?"

"My...? Elizabeth, let it be!"

"No."

"No?" His eyebrows went up.

"No. I won't let it be."

"That's it!" he almost shouted and flung himself around on the pallet to stand. "I can't...."  But as soon as he jammed his feet onto the floor and attempted to stand, his ankle gave way and he fell forward, landing mostly atop her and knocking her onto her back. He lay there, entirely
startled, his ankle shooting fresh pains, his face about three inches above hers.

"This isn't exactly you having me in your bed, now is it?" she said, her eyes looking up into his.

He pushed himself up with his arms, his lower torso still atop hers. He'd instantly gone all hard. "Goddammittohell," he moaned and dropped his lips to hers, his mouth hungry, nearly starving.

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