Sweet Memories on a Summer Night

It was a dangerous night to be on the roads.

Highwaymen roamed the countryside, preying on travellers and barring bridges until unwilling victims coughed up their monthly earnings and whatever else was deemed valuable. Those fortunate enough were sent on their way, while others met the Lord above with desperate prayers still on their lips.

Gene was well-versed in the ways of such unseemly folk. More so than he ever wished to be.

The moon was high in the clouded sky. He was nigh invisible in the black duster and hat, little more than a shadow on the road that wound through the fields. He’d forgone the red-tinted glasses that gave him his name.

The Highway Devil they called him, though tonight, he was not the monster that prowled the roads.

His horse huffed. Gene reached down to pat its neck. “Little longer, lass.”

He straightened, grimaced. His side ached, bruised from his latest excursion. He scratched at the bandage on his hand, stained with a mixture of blood, sweat, and dirt.

A strong wind blew across the field, rustling the silver-green ocean. The sound tickled his ears, blades of grass brushing against each other, whispering tales only they knew. The wind teased his too-long hair from under his hat, the strands almost as black as his eyes.

The old elm tree was a silhouette against the moonlight. Its branches stretched out, thick and strong. Beneath it, a light flickered.

Gene clicked his tongue and nudged his steed onward, his eyes following that faint flicker of light. He stayed his horse a few meters away and swung off the saddle. Moving with practiced stealth, he reached the old tree.

He touched the bark, as rough as the calluses on his hand. If he closed his eyes and listened, he imagined he could hear the creaking of the rope swing, the soft tinkle of laughter. So much had changed since then. He could almost convince himself that the last three years had been a dream. That his hands weren't stained with blood and that the bounty on his head was a mere conjuration of some drunkard too deep in his cups.

A figure sat under the tree, slim features lit by the lantern. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, chin resting on her arms, and her slippered feet peeked out from beneath her light blue skirt.

Gene pulled off his hat and put it to his chest and bowed his head slightly in greeting.

“Shayla.”

The woman looked up at him, her expression dark. Hard lines formed around her mouth and the dark circles under her eyes. Her lips thinned into an even sharper line. “You’re late,” she said. “Three days I waited. Came here every night.”

Gene winced. “I’m sorry.”

The wind had ebbed to a soft breeze. Shayla breathed out, her breath shifting the golden strands of hair that peeked out from beneath her bandana. Her anger was born from anxiety, he knew. He would feel the same if their circumstances were reversed.

She shifted so that he could sit next to her. They uttered no words, letting the moment of silence pass over them like rainclouds drifting across the sun. A respite from the harsh world and the commitments of their waking life.

Gene pulled a sack of coins from his coat and handed it to her. It would feed their small family for the next two months. Two months was all he would dare. Any more might raise more questions they did not want answered.

“The mayor’s stayed away?”

Shayla pocketed the coins and nodded. “He only cares about the payments.”

That was why no one questioned where the money came from, but that could change on a whim. They tread a dangerous line between treason and indifference.

He shifted on the hard ground, grimacing as it jostled his bruised ribs.

“You’re hurt,” Shayla said.

“Do not worry about me, chère.”

“How could I not? They curse your name as if you were the fiend himself. Just yesterday, the bounty doubled as the sheriff gathers more men to hunt you down. I am afraid that every meeting is our last. That our daughter will grow up without a father.”

Gene reached up and cupped her cheek, wiping away a tear that spilled from her blue eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You have so much to worry about. I shouldn’t be one of them and it pains me that I am.”

“How much longer,” she whispered.

“Not long. That man’s days are numbered. Retribution shall come to him.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “By your hand?”

“By God’s hand.” He kissed the crown of her head. “Just a little longer.”

They fell into a soft silence. The stars peeked out from behind the clouds. Dawn was hours away. He would have to be gone by then.

“Tell me about our daughter,” he said.

Shayla’s head shifted on his shoulder, her hair tickling his cheek. “She keeps asking when you’ll come home. She becomes more and more like you every day.”

Gene smiled, and he closed his eyes as he listened.

A young woman stood beneath the elm tree where two lovers once met. In her hand was a bouquet tied together with a length of twine. She held a worn hat in her other hand.

She knelt and placed the flowers between its roots. Her lips moved in silent prayer. Her collar was flipped up against the gusting wind that rustled the elm tree’s leaves and brushed across the green field.

Finally, she stood and placed the hat upon her head, then turned her back to the tree and walked briskly to the horse grazing a distance away. Swinging herself into the saddle, she turned toward the sun. She breathed out slowly and turned her dark eyes toward the horizon. She flicked her reins and, with a quirk of her lips, galloped into the unknown.