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Less than one day’s ride away from Powder River, Cornelia Locke finds herself thinking about the future for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.
Tomorrow, she’ll reach the end of her journey. She’ll find David Melmont and kill him, and then… And then.
She has never really thought about what would happen then. Ever since her son’s death, her life has only had one goal, one purpose, looming in the distance ahead. She never thought about what she would do once it was done. In fact, it’s been a long, long time since she thought about herself having any kind of future at all.
The dead don’t have a future.
She looks at Eli, skinning a rabbit for their dinner while she tends to the horses, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. There have been a lot of evenings like this in the last few weeks. Quiet, comfortable, peaceful, almost… domestic. As much as any of these things are possible in the vast American wilderness.
But what will tomorrow night look like?
With a sudden pang, Cornelia realises she couldn’t bear it if it isn’t exactly the same. Different place, different meal, but she and Eli, exactly the same. Together. Home.
The dead don’t have a future, but she isn’t dead yet. She thought she was, she felt like she was, but she’s not. She’s alive, and she finds she wants a future, no matter how long or short it may be.
She wants to go to Powder River, give David Melmont what he deserves, and then she wants to get back up on her horse and ride away with Eli by her side, her hand reaching for his. Where? Anywhere. Anywhere he wants to go. Find the plot of land he’s owed. And if they won’t give it to him (they probably won’t), then Cornelia can just buy it, can’t she?
Would he accept that? Maybe. Maybe not. But as long as they were together, they would find a way. They always have so far.
Cornelia doesn’t have a clear idea what kind of life a Pawnee man and an English woman could have on a few acres of land in Nebraska, or wherever else they might end up. Certainly no life that she’s used to, but that’s all right. She adapts quickly, she’s proven that enough times lately. There’s nothing waiting for her back in England. Here? Everything.
As long as Eli wants her with him. Will he? The way he’s looked at her lately, it doesn’t seem like an unrealistic possibility. The way he kissed her. The way he put his hand on her shoulder when he told her he already knew.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s not just about what he wants, what she wants. It’s about whether it’s fair of her to ask it of him.
He deserves so much better than having to watch her disintegrate.
“You’re quiet,” Eli points out later as they sit by the fire, the first stars beginning to appear in the endless sky above them. Cornelia’s silence must have been really noticeable, if he’s remarking on it.
“Just thinking. About tomorrow.”
There’s a moment of silence before Eli says, looking into the fire, “You can change your mind if you want to.”
“Oh, no!” Cornelia reacts immediately. Changing her mind about Melmont? Never. “Definitely not. I’m just thinking about what will happen, you know. After.”
Eli glances at her, then back into the fire. “Never guess how a thing’s gonna turn out till it does.”
He has a point, Cornelia has to admit. They could both be dead come morning – you never know in this place. But how can she stop herself now from thinking about the future when she hasn’t done it in years, and the taste of it is unfamiliar and addictive?
She picks at her rabbit leg, watching the muted reflection of the firelight in the leather of her gloves.
When Eli told her he already knew and they didn’t have to talk about it, she was grateful. Relieved. She doesn’t want to talk about it any more than necessary. But not talking about it won’t change the reality of it. She doesn’t want to hide, can’t hide. Not from him, not anymore. Not if they can hope to have any kind of future together.
She sets her food down, wipes her hands on her trousers. Then, very deliberately, she begins taking her gloves off.
She doesn’t look at Eli as she does it, but she still sees him in her peripheral vision, startling slightly in surprise when he notices what she’s doing. She can feel his eyes on her as she lets the gloves fall to the ground, runs her sweaty palms down the fabric of her trousers. Her heartbeat seems oddly loud in her ears.
When she finally dares to glance at Eli, he’s not looking at her hands but at her face. Their eyes meet, and Cornelia’s breath catches in her chest. For all of Eli’s apparent stoicism, his eyes can communicate so much emotion. Even here in the dark, just the dying campfire illuminating their faces, there’s no way Cornelia could miss the sheer depth of feeling in his eyes.
She holds his gaze and it feels almost like a physical touch, wrapping her in a cocoon of safety. The vulnerability she’s been feeling, while still there, doesn’t make her vaguely nauseous anymore. She’s protected. Wanted. Safe.
Then Eli shifts, moving a little closer to her, and holds out his own hand to her like he has done many times before on horseback. Letting her decide if she wants to touch him.
She does. Oh God, she does.
She looks down at his palm, open and waiting, and slides her own scarred hand in it.
It really isn’t practical, not being able to touch the world when the world has Eli Whipp in it. His hand is warm and rough and gentle, and Cornelia wants it in hers all the time, palm against palm.
She feels his thumb brush over the sores on the back of her hand, soft, almost reverent. Then his hand in hers shifts until their fingers are threaded together in a firm, confident grip, but not too tight. Holding her, but always giving her the option to withdraw. Cornelia grips back.
Eli brings their joined hands to his lips and kisses the back of her hand, and it’s so far removed from the way a lady might get her hand kissed in an English drawing room, an empty display of manners. No, this is a real kiss, full of feeling and intention. Eli’s lips press against her scarred skin softly but without hesitation, again and again and again.
Cornelia lets her eyes fall shut, a tear spilling over and running down her cheek. She thought her life was over, but it turns out it’s not. Life is here, with him.
His breath is warm on her skin as he murmurs a single word she doesn’t catch.
“What did you say?” Cornelia whispers.
Eli looks up to meet her eyes again, holds them as he says, slow, low, “Tâtačiksta.”
Cornelia doesn’t understand, but at the same time, somehow, she does.
“What does it mean?” she asks anyway, to be certain, or maybe just to tease him, see what he’ll do, if he’ll voice his feelings without the protection of a language barrier.
Eli doesn’t reply, instead reaching for her other hand and covering the marks there with kisses too. Each press of his lips feels like a declaration, a promise, a confession. Cornelia supposes it’s answer enough.
But then he lets her hand fall and leans his head close to hers, his mouth to her ear. His voice is barely a whisper, felt as much as heard. “I cherish you.”
Cornelia’s breath rushes out of her. She did understand.
She tries to repeat the word without butchering it, as best as she can. “Tâtačiksta,” she exhales over the lump in her throat. “Tâtačiksta.”
This time, when they kiss, there’s no urge to run rising in her belly. There’s nothing to run away from, nothing to run to, not anymore. The only thing she wants to do is stay.
So she stays, and they kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and she touches him with the full surface of her palms. His cheeks, his jaw, his ears, his hair. The warmth of his neck, pulse thrumming, vocal cords vibrating under her fingertips. Life is here. Life is here.
They break apart only to rest their foreheads together, stay like that until Eli pulls her to his chest, wraps them both in his red blanket, and that’s how they go to sleep, her head on his heart.
Eli deserves better, yes, but then so does she, and so did her son. Cornelia knew he was dying from the day he was born, but she – she cherished him. He suffered, she suffered, but that didn’t mean they never knew happiness. She got to know him and be with him and love him, for fourteen years. That wasn’t nothing. The love was worth the pain.
She could still have a few good years left. Or months, or weeks, or days. And maybe she can’t ask Eli to spend them with her, but she can accept it if he decides that it’s worth it. Because he cherishes her.
She repeats the word in her mind, in time with the beating of his heart under her ear. Tâtačiksta. Tâtačiksta.
She wonders if it can be conjugated. Future tense. I will cherish you, for as long as we have left. I will cherish you, always.
She’ll ask him about it tomorrow night.