As Bridget brushed his hair out of his eyes, Brendan stared into her eyes. They were so blue; so peaceful and innocent and knowing and sad all at once. He couldn't stand it. Why did the world have to be so ornery? The fact that such a sweet girl like Bridget had to die was so unfair.
In that moment, if the devil had offered Brendan a way to save Bridget, he'd have given up his soul immediately.
She was still looking at him. Lordy, what did she want? Why wouldn't she say anything? He stared into her eyes and...wait. There, deep in her eyes, beneath all the layers of simplicity, was the one thing he'd been certain Bridget wouldn't ever understand. Desire.
His breath hitched in his throat. It didn't make sense. How could she know what that was? She was...well, she was Bridget. She wasn't supposed to know what that was. And even if she did know, there was that thing the doctor had said about her. "She can't satisfy a man."
Then it hit him. Even horses felt desire. All animals did. And weren't he and Bridget a lot like the animals? He broke into a small smile at how easily that explained it, and as he did, an answering flash of desire flickered through his eyes.
He reached behind him to open the door to the funeral parlor, still staring at Bridget. As he backed inside, he took her hand and pulled her gently along with him. His voice finally worked enough to let him say, "You want me to carry you?" as they reached the stairs up to her room. He knew she understood, and a simple nod of the head would be enough of an answer.
There was no question that she was feeling desire. The question was, did she really want to satisfy that desire?
Want... dolls!
He reached behind him to open the door to the funeral parlor, still staring at Bridget. As he backed inside, he took her hand and pulled her gently along with him. His voice finally worked enough to let him say, "You want me to carry you?" as they reached the stairs up to her room. He knew she understood, and a simple nod of the head would be enough of an answer.
And nod she did. Her grin broadened as he picked her up: she was as light as a feather and her wooden leg didn't particularly weigh a lot more than the limb it replaced, so that she wasn't noticeably un-balanced in his strong arms. The question was, what to do when they actually got to her room. There could be no carefree abandoned, pure naked skin against skin love-making in the normal sense: she was clamped into a cast iron corset (literally) and there would be the vexed question of whether to leave her leg strapped on or unbuckle it and take it off. But maybe that didn't matter, and maybe it didn't matter exactly what went on in that room during the next hour or so.
He would not hurt her, nor she him.
She would find a way to make him happy, and he her.
He would find her nexus of pleasure, and her deft fingers and willing lips, would find his.
They would eventually lie together, arms entwined, gazing at the crazy cracked plaster of her bedroom ceiling, ultimately spent, sleepy, dreamy. That such a coupling of Kalispell's most handsome and desirable man, with its most flawed and pitied young woman could take place was no small miracle. And whatever happened next, by this union, Brendan Connolly had saved the life of Bridget Monahan.
A voice sounded from below.
"Bridge?! You in?! Where's Charlie?"
It was Crabbe.
Somehow it had worked. And it had been magical. Brendan didn't believe in magic, but this was as close as he'd get to it. Brendan's eyes had just closed, one bare arm still wrapped around Bridget's shoulders, when Crabbe's voice shattered the calm.
He sat bolt upright in the bed, adrenaline pounding through him. "Damn...dammit!" He tumbled out of the bed and grabbed his clothes, tripping over his boots. He winced at the noise they made on the floor and was already eyeing the second-story window as the quickest means of escape. His ears were straining to hear if Crabbe was coming up the stairs.
His jeans were being stubborn and his fingers were, too. He'd only just yanked his belt buckle tight around his waist and had one arm in his shirt, when he looked over at Bridget in the bed.
He couldn't just leave like this. It wasn't right. With any other girl, he could get away with it. But Bridget wouldn't understand. He gnawed on the inside of his cheek and glanced at the window. Escape was so close.
Lorenzo felt like he was living two lives, thinking constantly of 'it' whilst carrying on his normal usual life. When he woke up of a morning, he had forgotten... but there was a horrible sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and then he would remember. He had been through what modern psychiatrists would recognise as the five stages of grief. At first he had simply ignored the diagnosis. Ahhh, he didn't feel that bad. It was just the odd spasm of pain. If he hadn't gone to see the doctor, he would never have known about what was wrong with him, ergo it wouldn't have existed.
Then he'd got angry. Why him? What had he done to deserve it? He hated everybody in Kalispell , even Bridget. Why couldn't they have it: dumb, dull, grey people. Damn them all. But... maybe he shouldn't be so angry. Maybe if he thought kindly of people, did kindly things, well, maybe God or Jesus or some Chinese God of Fa's would think kindly on him. Maybe some divine miracle would take this all away. That had keep him going for a while: a couple of weeks, a strange couple of weeks where Crabbe was the kindest man in Kalispell. But an increasing depression crept in, and ever growing despondence which convinced him more and more that it was better to end it all by his own hand than to wait for the pain and disability that the disease would bring before his eventual pathetic demise.
Then he was at peace. He accepted it. The only problem was Bridget. He couldn't abandon her. If nobody else could clearly accept and love her as he, against his own will almost, loved her, then he would look after her in his own way. He would take her with him.
All that was there, in the back of his mind as he climbed the now familiar wooden stairs in the old funeral parlour: the fifth stair creaked as it always did. He reached the top of the stairs. Strange, he was worried about the crippled girl's safety: the girl he had now decided to... no, kill, murder, these were too strong. He would let her sleep, is all. Sleep, dream, and then sleep on and on and dream no more.
"Bridge?"... "You in there? You all right?" He knocked and opened the bedroom door.
Brendan tensed up as he heard the squeak of a stair, and Crabbe's voice a moment later. If he was going to go, he should go now. But as he looked into Bridget's eyes, he knew he couldn't. He didn't know Crabbe well enough to know how he would react to the realization that someone had deflowered his ward. The fact that she'd already been deflowered by other men was besides the point. The point was that if Crabbe got angry, he ought to get angry at Brendan, not at Bridget.
So Brendan stood beside the bed, hands clenched into fists at his sides. When Crabbe opened the door, he was met with a defiant stare from the partially-clothed young man. Brendan didn't like feeling helpless, and that was how he felt at the moment. He had no excuse for what he'd done, and he had no gun.
If this had happened in Mississippi, with a normal father and normal daughter, a shotgun wedding would have been in Brendan's future. But Bridget wasn't a normal girl and Crabbe was just her guardian, not her father.
"Charlie's gone," he said to Crabbe finally. The edges of his shirt flapped as he moved in front of Bridget. "Went to New York."
It had to be admitted, when Lorenzo Crabbe entered Bridget's room and saw Brendan Connolly standing there, a primitive flash of protective anger did flash in his eyes. But he held on to it, and remembered. He remembered what was happening, his condition. This was actually what he wanted. He even managed a nod and a half-hearted smile.
"I'm sorry to have disturbed you." he said mechanically. "Come down and we'll have a drink... when you're ready." he said.
"Charlie's gone," he said to Crabbe finally. The edges of his shirt flapped as he moved in front of Bridget. "Went to New York."
"Yeah." said Crabbe. This was evidentially no surprise. In fact, it had been his idea.
- - -
When Connelly eventually did come down, Crabbe had already helped himself to one drink. He was hitting the bottle pretty hard these days. A good slug of whiskey had put him in a better mood. The first one always did.
"Mr Connelly. Whiskey?" he asked and had started to pour a glass even before he heard an answer. Bridget had followed Brendan down, unconcernedly dressed in a light dressing down. Why not have her there too? He considered. After all, this concerned her, too. in fact, it was ALL about her. But his remarks were addressed to Brendan alone.
"So... I've been waiting for an answer. About you looking after Bridget when I'm gone. Is this it?" he asked.
Brendan, fully clothed now, gulped half the glass of whiskey in one go. He was still confused about Crabbe's behavior. First briefly angry, then subdued, the man had not yelled or threatened him, but had instead invited him downstairs to talk and have a drink. It didn't make sense.
And then Crabbe popped the question: was he going to marry Bridget?
Brendan glanced at the redhead in question, his mouth twisting. Not only was he in a dilemma about how to answer Crabbe, but also about how to answer in Bridget's presence. He knew that she understood more of people's conversations than she let on, but marriage was...marriage. It might go over her head.
Caroline, Arabella, and Charlie Fa had all said he should not marry Bridget. And both Caroline and Arabella had offered to help care for her in the event of Crabbe's death. Sleeping with Bridget didn't change that fact that neither he nor she was meant for marriage.
Finally he looked up at Crabbe, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to choose his words carefully. "I...will take care of her. I will. But..." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I can't marry her."
Finally he looked up at Crabbe, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to choose his words carefully. "I...will take care of her. I will. But..." He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I can't marry her."
It took a second for Crabbe to process this bombshell, he could literally feel the the blood pumping in his ears, hear it singing; and then he did it, exactly what the doctor told he shouldn't do: he blew his top. He was suddenly on his feet, whipping out a derringer from his vest pocket and cocking it as he bellowed "You slept with her knowing you had no intention of marrying her?! You god-damn son of a bitch!!"
The small black hole of the gun barrel was staring Brendan Connelly directly between the eyes. But the look of fury on Lorenzo's face suddenly morphed into one of agony: his gun hand and his free hand flew to his heart and then he was falling stiffly forward, slamming face first onto the table with a explosive BANG! that was far too loud and sharp to be that of a mere body hitting the wood. He slid off the table and onto the floor, his eyes sightless and one of the lenses of his spectacles cracked. The large and quickly growing patch of dark blood on his vest mute testimony to the fact that the small pistol had gone off as he had hit the wood.
Bridget didn't scream, she made a low horrible moan, like a wounded animal, and stumbled forward to throw herself on the body of the man who had been her rescuer, her father and her friend. She looked up and round at Brendan, confused, speechless, imploring his help.
For a second, nothing happened. Brendan thought he might have gotten away with it. And then everything happened. The derringer appeared out of nowhere, and Brendan stared at it with a sick, frozen feeling in his gut. This wasn't fair. He didn't have a gun.
"You slept with her knowing you had no intention of marrying her?! You god-damn son of a bitch!!"
He held up his hands placatingly. "Hey...wait...let's talk about this." All he was looking at was the gun; not Crabbe's red face or strained expression. And then the gun moved. When Brendan finally focused on Crabbe's face, it was falling towards the table.
He gaped as Crabbe hit the table and instinctively flinched at the loud bang, expecting to feel pain wherever he thought Crabbe had gotten off a shot. But there was no pain. No blood, not on his clothes, anyway. Then he noticed the blood on Crabbe's vest.
"Oh my God." Brendan's mouth was suddenly dry. Before he could react, Bridget had rushed to Crabbe's side. Her cry spurred him into motion, and he knelt beside her.
"Bridget. Bridget. Don't lean over him, you'll get blood on your dress!" It was probably too late for that. He gathered her into his arms, putting a hand behind her head to turn her gaze away from the dead Crabbe. As he held her, he looked over her shoulder at the man who mere seconds ago had been close to shooting him.
What was he going to do? This was the second dead person he'd been around in the space of a month. This time there were no witnesses; no one to say that he'd had nothing to do with Crabbe's death. No one except Bridget.
Want... dolls!
Bridget had watched the whole scene play out in abject horror: the last time she had seen Crabbe that angry, a man had ended up dead on the floor; but this time it was her one time rescuer and protector who lay in a pool of blood. She ran to him, hugged his inert form close to her, pressed her cheek to his head, but knew, even as she did so, that he was gone. She picked up the small gun and stared at it absently, not understanding what exactly had happened to cause his death.
Brendan was there. She loved Brendan, she had loved him even before they had made love, but she didn't understand if this meant Brendan would now look after her instead of Crabbe. That is how it had happened last time. She felt a terrible ache at her loss, but it was as he had told her: told her in a soft voice when he thought she was asleep: 'I'm going soon, little girl, going away, away, away. But what am I to do about you, sweet innocent one? What am I going to do about you?"
Maybe this was it; maybe he had provided her with Brendan to take his place. All was as it should be, she looked up at Brendan: but he didn't look like this was all planned. He looked troubled, very troubled indeed.
She stood and approached him, holding out her arms to comfort him, an enormous patch of Lorenzo Crabbe's wet blood slick on her flimsy dressing gown, soaking through to her bare skin beneath, her false leg clunking on the wooden floor as she neared the unlucky cowpoke, the gun still in her hand.