What do you do when the dead rise? What do you say to the love of your life when he comes back to you from the grave? How do you apologize for killing him? Jesse knows and he also knows that love never dies. (M/M)
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“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked her. “I mean, we could put him in the root cellar. He doesn’t have to be here with the others.”
“No,” Jennifer said, “I think it’s best we keep him out of the house. I wouldn’t want him getting loose and… and hurting someone else.” She pulled little Elizabeth closer to her bosom. The baby cooed, her voice barely overriding the grunts and moans of the things in the pen.
“You’re right.” I patted her hand and walked back to the wagon where the man who used to be her husband lay, straining against the ropes holding him down. I pulled him to his feet. “Wesley, I’m going to untie you once you are in the pen,” I explained, as though he could understand me. He gnashed his teeth and the wound on my bottom lip throbbed in response.
He didn’t resist as I nudged him through the gate, slammed it shut behind him and refastened the latch. The clanging of the metal brace bought the attentions of the others. I slid a knife between the thick wooden slats and cut the ropes holding Wesley’s hands together. “I’m so sorry, Wes,” I said. If I could have taken back all that happened, all I’d done, I would gladly take his place in there. He gave me a mixed look of indifference and sorrow—or perhaps that was just me projecting on him. “I love you,” I whispered. The Buffalo Soldier guarding the pen glanced at me, then quickly diverted his eyes as though he were embarrassed at overhearing my endearment.
Wesley grunted. The spot where he’d bitten me gave a slight twinge again. I sucked my lip into my mouth, as though I could hide the wound. No one knew he’d bitten me, least of all Jennifer. She didn’t know about a lot of things he’d done to me, or I to him.
We climbed back in the wagon. Jennifer gave her husband a slight wave then glanced my way sheepishly. “He probably doesn’t know who I am anymore, does he?”
“Probably not,” I replied, but I wasn’t so sure myself. There’d been a glimmer of recognition in his eyes a few days ago. The day I killed his mother. My second murder in a week, his being the first.