If I never meet you in this life let me feel the lack. A glance from your eyes and my life will be yours. - The Thin Red Line

They begin their patrol in the middle of town, not at the jailhouse, but instead, across from it at the saloon. Josiah tosses back his whisky while Vin finishes off the cool dregs of his beer. JD sets his own beer mug on the table with a solid thud only to announce that he is on his way to the boot maker to have his boots resoled. With a clap to Josiah's shoulder that seems meant to serve Vin as well, he bids his farewell and is gone in a blur. Vin watches the batwing doors swing after him and ducks his head to smile down at the floor. Their Sheriff is a force to be reckoned with.

Josiah relays JD's hand to Vin's shoulder and together they leave Buck behind knowing they have already been forgotten in favor of Hattie, who has nested on his lap. Once out of the saloon and on their horses they pass the telegraph office and the bathhouse and begin the lazy circle around Four Corners that allows them to head off trouble before it comes to town. Their mere presence seems to serve the strongest purpose making the patrol something close to a Sunday ride. The routine of it is both lulling and unnerving to men who are unused to such things.

Mary is often out on the boardwalk in front of the Clarion News or peering through its window as she works at the template for the next days paper. If they catch her eye they tip their hats and enjoy her answering smile. The Ritz Hotel is a more sedate establishment now that Maude Standish is no longer the proprietor. It thrives nonetheless as does Ezra's hotel across from it now that only the most mundane competition is in play. If they spot Ezra they whistle or shout or anything to disturb him unless he is on patrol with one of them where the teasing is constant, but at a low hum. From there they make a slight turn east past the stage company and out of town, into the low rolling hills that house Chris and Nettie among others.

Summer has lifted its lion's head and uses the sun to keep everyone under its paw. Their horses fall into a slow gait while they pull their hats down low, belying the attention they give their surroundings.

They come upon the Blackwell homestead first with Mrs. Blackwell tending a thriving garden along with her two daughters. They are greeted with a mixture of awe and trepidation as if they are wild animals, otherwise shot at, who keep more dangerous carnivores at some distance. Since there is some truth in the assumption they dismount, still towering over the small family, and despite the heat, hold their hats in hand.

"Good day, Mrs. Blackwell," Josiah says softly, showing her his teeth when he smiles. "Miss Lizzie, Amelia." The young girls take in his lumbering kindness with their own smiles as it is not often that a bear remembers their names. Vin remains out of their reach, something yet to be tamed. "I trust everything is as it should be?" Josiah continues, knowing that as capable as Mrs. Blackwell is that it is a hard land for a widow like herself.

"Very well, Mr. Sanchez," she says and nods at Vin. "Mr. Tanner. I have some tomatoes - too ripe on the vine for canning but you might like them on the trail?"

"Sounds right nice," Vin says, pushing himself forward.

Mrs. Blackwell bestows him with a more genuine smile. "Give me a moment then" and disappears inside to collect a basket. That moment is just long enough for Lizzie and Amelia to lose their patience, sigh, share a grin at their audacity and then fit their hands into Vin and Josiah's and tow them into the garden. As Mrs. Blackwell fills a basket with firm, round tomatoes the girls fill the regulators pockets with pods of sweet peas. In part, to show his appreciation and also because he loves them almost as much as Chris, Vin snaps a pod open and lets the peas roll into his mouth. It's a gesture that gains him more favor than any words.

With the basket hanging from Josiah's saddle horn they mount up, tip their shaggy heads and continue on. The Summer heat, making the rolling hills shimmer, keeps them at a slow pace and makes it possible for them to enjoy the tomatoes from the saddle. Vin unsheathes his knife and wipes both sides on his pant leg before handing it over to Josiah. Josiah takes the knife and lets the sharp edge and weight of it halve a tomato, handing one piece to Vin. They both take an over reaching bite, make appreciative noises and wipe their chins with the back of their hands when called for. Without asking or being told, Josiah sacrifices another tomato to their appetite.

Vin moves several pea pods from one pocket to another not wanting to eat more than his share just in case Chris has returned home.

The idea of home and the actual experience of having one is something that all of them are settling into at varying speed and difficulty. Vin and Chris are not the only ones to admit that it is an odd thing to find themselves a part of a town they had thought they were only passing through. JD seems to be the only one who had the forethought to jump off of a stagecoach before his fare ran out and claim Four Corners as surely as it has claimed them.

They have sat around a table, drunk, well fed, even rested and shared a disbelieving laugh at how they had meant to leave long ago but for reasons none of them can properly name, stayed instead.

Vin has marked off more than a few days with every intention of leaving for Tascosa to clear his name or finally face the rope that sometimes haunts his dreams. But these men, and especially Chris, have watched his back and the simple truth is it would vex his spirit to leave them without his steady eye and aim.

There is something perverse in every man, Vin supposes, that makes him test his good fortune. Honest work, respect and trustworthy friendship should lay such habits to rest but they have each, at one time or another, climbed into a wide bed, squirmed under soft covers, sighed and thought, "Tomorrow, I'll light out."

The patrols indulge some sense of wanderlust even if they are along a well tread path.

Josiah looks over his shoulder at Vin and then reins his horse towards Chris's ranch. It's a ways out of their usual patrol but Vin is grateful.

He smiles to himself, the best he can manage these days, and remembers.

It was March, with the days bright and full of bluster and the nights running long and cold.

Chris buttoned his long coat up to his chin and pulled his hat down over his brow against the cold wind. Vin did his level best to ignore the teasing look Chris gave him from under the brim of his hat and pulled his hide coat over layers of shirts and bandanas. As if to make sure Vin noticed his humor, Chris's hands joined Vin's in pulling and tugging until Vin sighed in exasperation and let his hands fall to his side. A look that was meant to put Chris in his place only seemed to amuse him more. It was a sight that Vin found worth the blood that burned his cheeks.

They finished their drinks and walked out of the saloon with nothing more than a nod to the gambler and preacher they relied on and a heavy coin tossed to the barkeep. The wind howled around them, pulling at their hats. They ducked their heads and mounted up for an extended patrol that would take them to Eagle Bend where Chris planned to talk to Daniel Moore and Thomas Two Hats, horse ranchers that Chris knew when he had had his own stock.

It was the kind of endeavor that Vin encouraged in his own way, quiet, always at the ready, making way for Chris's tentative progress. The unassuming parcel of land Chris had bought seemed to linger in hope of being put to some use beyond a retreat. A horse ranch seemed right or a farm, although Vin had to squint to see Chris behind a plow and never brought it up, even as tease. No, a ranch seemed about right and something Vin would be happy to be a part of.

Keeping their heads bowed to the wind they made their way to the Lazy T ranch, Chris calling out his name as they rode in. It was late at night, well past eleven, but a lamp glowed through a window at the back of a large and finely made cabin. By the time they made it to the porch another lamp had been lit and the door opened to reveal Daniel Moore and Thomas Two Hats beside him, pants and coats pulled on over night shirts.

In both coloring and temperament they seemed to have been made to counterbalance the other. Daniel had wavy hair down past his shoulders, white as snow and setting off eyes as blue as corn flowers but sharp, not one to look down at his shoes when he spoke. "Get on in before the wind takes you away."

Vin and Chris stepped inside suddenly feeling the trail on them once they took in the practical warmth of the cabin. Thomas Two Hats pushed himself to his feet after putting more kindling in the large fireplace. He reminded Vin of the elders in the Kiowa reservation that helped raise him. They were formidable men, to be sure, but they carried their authority not as a weapon but as a way of being understood: we are human and we are men and we cannot waste our time fretting about either fact. He was younger than Mr. Moore, his hair still black with white strands shot through it. He was the same height as his partner but heavier as if gravity favored him. Thomas shared a small smile with Vin when it was clear they recognized each other beyond the quick introductions they made.

Chris took off his hat and stopped himself at the last moment from swatting it against his leg to rid it of some of the trail dust. "We're sorry to show up at this hour. When the wind kicked up we decided to push on."

"Glad you did," Daniel said, belying his gruff manner. "We were wondering if you boys were hunkering down somewhere waiting it out." He ushered them to a wide couch made of dark brown leather and watched as they sighed into it. "I'll put your horses up for the night'" he said and marched out the door. Both Chris and Vin lifted out of their seats not wanting to be a bother but Thomas waved them back down.

"We got mares about to go in season and he'll take any excuse to check on them. Sit, sit." Still stiff from sleep he shuffled into an alcove and made enough noise to cause Chris and Vin to exchange a look. He came back out holding a tray with thick ham sandwiches and a coffee pot he hung over the fire once he set the tray down in front of Chris and Vin. "I'm afraid it's not much..."

"No sir," Chris interrupted, "this is much more than we've had on the trail."

Vin snaps a pea pod and empties it into his mouth. The taste is bittersweet.

"Thomas. Please call me Thomas and please dig in," he said with a swat to Chris's knee as he settled into a nearby chair. They did and he watched, satisfied.

Chris was up and pouring coffee for all of them when Daniel came back inside, his disheveled hair making him look like a ghost.

"How are Frances and Bell?" Thomas asked.

"Just fine," Daniel said, holding his temper for guests but frowning like he had been caught at something.

Chris handed him a cup of coffee that Daniel used to warm his hands as he took a seat.

They sat in a rough circle around the fireplace and talked about horses and the stock Chris kept years ago and how he had given the two old men a good run for their money and how Chris felt the same about them. Chris sat perfectly still and fought with himself over what he wanted and what he thought he deserved as if they were two entirely different animals.

Daniel and Thomas laid out a pallet of blankets in front of the fire for Chris and Vin to set their bedrolls and then retired to the back of the cabin. Vin watched Chris cocoon himself in his blankets and then before either of them was asleep inch his way over and butt his forehead up against Vin's shoulder. Vin went to sleep soon after.

In the morning they were fed a hot breakfast that nearly put them to sleep again and spent the day working the horses with Thomas and Daniel. Vin could see Chris forget himself at times. Forget that he was grieving, forget the penance he lived under, forget that he had already made up his mind: not yet. Not yet.

They left the next morning with strong handshakes and promises to keep each other in mind if their wills changed course.

The wind had died down but the chill followed them home.

Josiah's horse makes its way easily through the copse of cottonwoods that surround Chris's cabin. Vin reins Peso back and once more begins to bargain for Chris's safe return. For reasons that he would never be able to explain, this bargain has come to depend on Vin never looking directly at what he wants. If he can discipline himself to use only his peripheral vision, keeping his eyes forward and feigning indifference so well that even he believes it, then maybe ...

Chris and Vin rode into town from the south-east where Josiah's church and the cemetery have entered into a truce. Vin thought there was something almost amusing about having the dearly departed left to greet those who find Four Corners from the desert. It could be taken as either an ominous warning or a promise that everyone is cared for even after they are gone.

Vin spurred Peso into a gallop and Chris followed suit when it became apparent that the group of people inside the cemetery were not mourners, but instead, a mob. Succinct, as always, Chris fired a single bullet into the air and then aimed the smoking barrel at Mr. Baker's temple just as he was poised to throw another rock at Chanu. Vin knelt beside Chanu and helped him sit up. At least one rock had creased his forehead leaving blood to run down the outside if his eye like a tear. Chanu pulled himself from Vin's hold and used one of the rocks thrown at him to continue to dig.

Without turning his head to look down the barrel of Chris's gun Mr. Baker reluctantly lowered his hand and let the rock fall from it. His voice was both nasal and loud, a petty man demanding to be heard. "Mr. Larabee, that heathen is digging up Miss Mosely."

Chris, still in the saddle, leaned forward and used his gun to point. "Mr. Baker, that rock you dropped is smarter than you are. Take another look. Chanu is planting a tree by his wife's grave. You can be sure no one here will do the same for you." He finally slipped from his saddle and let the crowd disperse around him as he made his way to Vin and Chanu. Kneeling on the other side of Chanu he holstered his gun and used his voice instead. "All you good people go on home now." And slowly, but without fail, they did.

Chris took in how Chanu continued to dig as though the mob might reappear. The soil bit at his hands, bloodying his knuckles. Chris put a careful hand on Chanu's wrist and while no rock had been able to stop him that small touch stilled him and then set him trembling. A small keening sound escaped Chanu as Chris took the rock from his hands and began to dig for him.

From the vantage point of his knees Vin saw them as he never had before. Widowers. Men defined by loss. Suddenly there was very little difference between the blood on Chanu's face and the black clothes Chris wore as both injury and material spoke of grief. Vin pushed himself to his feet and felt his legs quake under his weight. "I'll go find Nathan," he said with a decisive nod and left them to plant the sapling.

Chris found Vin hours later, after dark when the watch fires had been lit and it should have been easier to hide. Still, all Chris had to do was open his window at the boarding house and climb out onto the roof to find him. Vin smiled at Chris's sighs and mumbled curses as he settled down by his side.

Vin pulled his knees up and folded his arms on top and tried to deflect Chris's concern with a show of boredom.

Chris continued his study but kept his voice quiet. "Chanu's all right. He's staying with Nathan tonight and then Josiah is gonna ride out with him in the morning. Been a while since he's seen Ko-Je."

"Good. Glad to hear it," Vin said, keeping his eye's fixed on a single star.

Chris waited a moment and then asked, "You all right ?"

"I am," Vin said and nodded to back it up.

Another pause and then Chris put his hand on Vin's back and while Vin could not feel the warmth through the layers of his clothes he could feel the weight of it and it made him shiver. "Come on inside now before you nod off and end up in the street."

Vin put his chin on his forearms. "You're a bossy man, Chris Larabee."

"Yeah, well...," Chris mumbled as he tugged on Vin's sleeve and then made his way through the window, leaving it open, an invitation Vin no longer had the reserves to decline.

He took his time climbing through the window and then sat on the sill for a long moment to hold his ground. Chris glanced over his shoulder and then washed his face in the basin, nonplused by Vin's stubbornness. As Vin finally made his way in and shut the window Chris emptied the basin into the chamber pot under the bed and filled it with clean water. Vin shed his coat and the bandanas and took his turn at the basin. The cold night air that he had let into the room found its way through the weave of his union suit and made him shiver. He ended up rushing to bed and earning a smirk from Chris who let him off the hook easy by rolling onto his back and arranging the covers over both of them with nothing more than a sigh. Vin put his back to Chris and drew his arms up to his chest to keep warm.

Chris kept his voice low but pressed his concern. "Where'd you get off to?"

Vin shrugged under the covers. "Didn't want to crowd you all, what with Nathan and Buck ready to help."

"Vin, I doubt you could crowd anyone even if you tried - no offense."

"None taken." And then realizing only the truth would satisfy Chris he said, "Seemed private."

"Mmmh," Chris agreed, although not entirely with Vin's logic. He cleared his throat, a nervous sound and spoke to the ceiling who cared nothing for him. "I'm heading out of town for a while. Was wondering if you'd keep an eye on the cabin now and then?"

Taking a moment to register that he wasn't invited Vin swallowed and said, "You call that a cabin?"

Chris knew he was being teased but answered seriously. "It's all I got. Might be more someday but not until ..."

Vin knew. "Ella is a dangerous woman. Might be wise to take someone with you. Someone who can track and shoot straight."

Chris squirmed a little. "I don't think she needs to be tracked. I think she wants to be found - but only by me."

"Don't like the sound of that."

"I didn't think you would, but Vin, I won't be able to do a damn thing until I send her to hell."

They were both silent for a while, nothing but the still, cold air pushing up against the window and then Vin said, "I'll check on your cabin when I go on patrol."

"Appreciate it." Chris rolled onto his side, jouncing the bed as if Vin needed some kind of warning and then fit himself behind him, arm over his waist, hand pushing Vin's knees down against his own, the blankets roiling around them both and then settling in close. Two tumblers in a lock. And then restless sleep.

It always surprised Vin how sharing a bed with Chris was like sleeping with a tornado and yet the man could climb out of bed without disturbing him at all. The room was still dark, a full moon not ready yet to yield to the day. Vin sat up, knowing that Chris had already left. Neither one cared for goodbyes.

He got up, wrapped a quilt around himself and climbed out the window again to sit on the roof. There were places meant for introspection, Josiah's church among them, but Vin preferred the roof with nothing to hem him in but the sky above and his own tangled thoughts. It grieved him not to be at Chris's side. Worry crept up and left him feeling hobbled and ashamed. It crossed his mind to defy Chris's wishes but he never made a move to do so since he did not want to be known as a man whose word was no good. Instead, he sat still and sang a song that only his own ears could hear and fixed himself to wait.

The sound of hoof beats silenced him as he looked down to see a man in black on a black horse come to a stop and after a moment look up at him. The "huh" sound of Chris's short laugh reached him and pulled at the corners of his mouth. Vin let one side of the quilt fall away and then raised his hand high in the air, a salute and a farewell in one gesture. Chris raised his hand in the same way and only after some time did they break the connection and withdraw their hands. Chris moved on, North out of town, as if he was doing nothing more important or dangerous than yet another patrol.

Vin pulled the quilt tightly around himself again but it wasn't the cold that made him shake.

Even before Vin and Josiah make it to the clearing of Chris's property Vin knows that Chris will not be found there. The strange, near silent hum that fills the air whenever Chris is near is absent. Only the mid-day heat greets them.

Josiah holds his worry close to the vest but Vin's careful eye catches his concern all the same causing him to spur Peso over to the corral while Josiah inspects the cabin. Josiah leaves the door open for light and takes in the haunted feel of a home where nothing has been touched by a human hand. The coffee pot still sits in the frying pan by the small hearth. The wide pallet in the back has been undisturbed by sleep. A spider web by a shelf has outlived its own occupant and fallen to ruins. Josiah swipes it away entirely and then turns to leave only to find Vin in the doorway. Not for the first time he is struck by how young Vin looks when he is wide-eyed and disappointed. His eyes take in the same details as Josiah's but also the fact that there is nothing left to track and not much to return to.

Vin swallows. "Corral looks good. Guess we can head on out."

Josiah follows him without a word. After six weeks with no word any reassurances seem almost cruel.

They ride out to where the hills edge along the desert to the Miller farm. Mr. Miller is a man of little success beyond the large family he has helped produce. Another is on the way with Nathan being summoned before they left when Mrs. Miller seemed to be in some distress.

Vin and Josiah exchange a look of concern when they see that Nathan's horse is still tethered to the hitching post while the Miller brood milling anxiously on the porch. They dismount and keep themselves at the ready even as they greet the family.

Mr. Miller cradles his shotgun. Like many others he has never said so but it is clear that he is pinched to be beholden to any of the Seven and most of all, Nathan.

"You lookin' for your nigger, boys?"

"Nathan is his own man, Mr. Miller," Josiah says kindly but pins him with his eyes.

"Hmmph," Mr. Miller disagrees and then squirms under Josiah's attention. "The Mrs. called for him. Don't see any need for it. She should know by now how it all goes. Got our girl, Margaret in there to make sure nothing improper happens." He patted his rifle to let them know how he would handle such a transgression. Both Vin and Josiah fervently hope that the child has more sense than her father.

As if to reassure them somehow Nathan opens the door with an empty pitcher, looking somewhat harried but otherwise no worse for wear. He displays a weary kind of deference in the face of Mr. Miller and the weapon he carries but deals with Josiah and Vin in his usual fashion. "Is one of you able to fetch some water from that well?" Vin grins at his spirit and takes the pitcher to be filled, ignoring Mr. Miller's disapproving look.

Nathan approaches Mr. Miller, only briefly looking him in the eye. "Mrs. Miller is doing just fine."

"Then why did she call for you?"

"She was wanting to push but she wasn't dilated enough for the baby. I've been walking her around - "

"She ain't no horse, boy."

"No sir," Nathan agrees and leaves it at that.

Vin brings the full pitcher back to Nathan and hands it over. "Be happy to stay," he says to Nathan and then turns to Mr. Miller, "help out where I can."

Nathan starts to object mildly but Mr. Miller talks over him. "No need for that. Your man here seems to have everything under control, don't you, now?"

"Yes, sir," Nathan nods. To his relief Margaret, no more than eight, comes to the doorway and gestures shyly for him to come back inside. He quickly but kindly sends them on their way. "Be obliged if you gave my regards to your sister, Josiah."

"Will do."

Nathan nods at Vin and then follows Margaret back inside. There is no way for him to tell his friends that their kindness only gives men like Mr. Miller something to chafe against and that he is better off operating under one poor opinion than caught between opposing ones.

Unable to find God's love for Mr. Miller - and not terribly troubled by the failure - Josiah passes Mr. Miller slowly, using his size and an indifferent glare to let him know that he is not impressed with either the man or the rifle he nurses. Mr. Miller steps back.

Vin tips his hat to the children. "Take good care of your Ma, now."

A shy, uneven chorus of "Yes, sir," sends them on their way.

Not far from there they reach a point where Josiah is set to head towards Vista City to visit his sister, Hannah and Vin is on his way back to Four Corners. Staying in their saddles they exchange a handshake that holds their mutual regard.

Vin spares him a small smile. "Say hello to Hannah - give her my best."

"I will," Josiah says and then tips his head to the side. "Think you can make it back to town without causing a ruckus?"

"I might. It ain't that far so the odds look good." And then more seriously. "I'll keep an eye out for Nathan."

"Glad to hear it." Josiah finally lets Vin's hand slip from the maw of his palm. "I hope to see all of us home by the time I get back."

Vin opens his mouth to agree or complain and then settles for a nod. Josiah smiles warmly to spare him and then rides off.

Vin takes his time riding back into town. There is no use rushing these days.

As the desert slowly gives way to Four Corners the sun finally tips towards the hills off in the distance, taking its time and showing off a spectrum of colors. Vin is a reliable witness to it but cannot enjoy it as is his habit. There are landmarks ahead that call on him to bet against the hope he shares with Josiah.

The bone yard is empty and for once not the stomping ground of everyone's lesser angels. Vin tethers Peso just outside and then goes to Claire Mosley's grave. He takes his canteen and empties it around the sapling that Chanu planted at the end of Winter. It has grown from his knee to his hip and thrives with what little attention is paid it.

Sighing at his lack of restraint, Vin looks down the main street of Four Corners, his eyes trained for any telltale of Chris but find none. His disappointment sparks another game - lonelier than solitaire. What would he give today not to want to look for Chris? The stakes had started out small, first with his hide coat when it was still cold, then his hat when the days grew warm. Now he courts his indifference with the sacrifice of his wagon, then his harmonica, his spyglass and even the soft, faded red bandana he wears as often as washing permits. It's a futile game not only because there is no way to win but also because there is no way lose. Who would bother to collect his small estate even as he fails each attempt?

A low rumbling sounds from under his ribs. The peas and tomatoes have done nothing but whet his appetite and yet the thought of either bread or meat makes his stomach roil all the more. Without a word spoken he prays as he knows how to for Claire Mosely and all the other martyred spirits that surround him and then stands and leaves.

He walks Peso to the livery, nodding at folk he passes and nothing more. With a another nod to Tiny he stables Peso himself, taking the time to brush him down until the cantankerous animal shivers. Satisfied that much, Vin decides a long bath wouldn't hurt none and makes his way to Mr. Po's. The watch fires have been lit making the warm night seem as if it has been fueled by nothing more than a campfire. The town is quiet with only the loud and lively piano from the saloon rallying against the peace.

Mr. Po accepts his coins and fills a tub with warm water, just this side of cool. Vin removes his clothes, limp and in need of a washing, and sinks into the water. The warmth and comfort of it startles an ahh out of him before he ducks under as if to save face. He reemerges, doing his best to tamp down the childish delight of being in water and then frowning, sets himself to the task at hand.

The plug of soap has a cool, airy smell to it making him feel as if he is about to scrub himself with a fistful of snow. He works a lather up in his hands and brusquely washes his face, the back of his neck, behind his ears. An unbidden image of Chris comes to mind: he was on his horse, indulging in a rare genuine laugh, nearly falling out of his saddle when he had riled Vin to stuttering. Sometimes the man had no sense. Vin starts to smile back at the memory when soap works its way to the corner of his eye and stings him. He quickly rinses the soap away, accepting the unreasonable pain as just for tying himself to people and places he has no right to.

He takes the offending soap and lathers his chest and arms. Tomorrow would be a good day to head for Tascosa. He could rise early, slip out of town and leave the stable boy to assure any who might ask that Vin was all right and might see them again, God willing. He loses some of his steam as he pulls a foot across his knee and washes between his toes. That kind of message would be a lot to leave to a boy all of nine years and would probably send at least Buck and Nathan after him, endangering them all. He foot slips from his knee and makes a small splash and a dull thump. He has stayed too long. There is no clean getaway to be had.

His other foot is given a more distracted wash. Chris left in March and sent telegraphs that mapped his trail from Taos and then into Colorado, each blunt message telling them only where he was headed. Denver and then east to Lawrence, Kansas and a little further into Kansas City, Missouri. The telegraphs stopped in Missouri six weeks ago in early June. Vin had dug into his pockets to pay for a telegraph to the sheriff of Kansas City asking after Chris but the only information he received told him that KC was too big a town to keep track of the comings and goings of one man, even if that man was Chris Larabee.

Six weeks. But who was counting?

Vin lets go of his foot and sinks down in the murky water. Without meaning to he continues to wait.

+ + + + + + +

Outside, in front of the Clarion, Mary holds her own vigil. She draws a crocheted shawl around her shoulders more for modestly than any need for warmth. Vin has yet to emerge from the bathhouse she is sure she saw him enter close to an hour ago. As if she has finally counted off the right minute Vin steps out of the bathhouse, hair still damp and curling, a bundle of laundry under one arm and his saddlebag over his shoulder.

Mary stands and in doing so startles Vin, something she thought impossible. "Vin, I'm sorry. I - I have something for you that I thought you might want to see sooner rather than later."

"Ma'am," Vin greets her cautiously. These days he is always braced for bad news and yet he still feels knocked off his axis by the possibility of it.

Mary steps towards him since he is suddenly unable to move and holds out a thick letter. "Mrs. Walker asked me to give this to you once you returned to town." It was a kind way to remember things since Mrs. Walker, the Postmasters wife, had handed the letter over to Mary as if Mary might break the seal and gossip about the contents.

It's a long moment before Vin accepts it, the sheets of parchment heavier than he expected and making his hand shake. In the dim light from a nearby lamp Vin can make out his own name and despite the use of cursive, Chris's, in the left hand corner.

Mary's soft voice nearly startles him again. "If you'd like, I could ..."

Vin's head snaps up. "No. Thank you, ma'am." He tries to smile. "It'll be good practice for me."

Mary smiles back through her worry. "Of course. Good night, Vin."

"Goodnight, Mary." And then remembering his manners. "Thank you."

"No trouble," she assures him and then leaves.

Vin finds his feet heavy and of little use getting him where he wants to go if only he could decide. He turns in a circle, boot heels clomping on the boardwalk. When he comes to a stop he is facing the saloon across the street. It's the only establishment still burning light so he heads towards it like a moth. He stops at the batwing doors and peers in, finding Ezra, Buck and JD easily enough, their backs to the wall. Ezra throws his hand in clearly disgruntled as Buck uses his long arms to scoop the poker chips closer to his beer. JD is the first one to see him, hailing him over to win more of Ezra's money. Buck stands to bring Vin in bodily but Vin is gone before Buck can reach his full height. By some silent agreement the three men let him go unaccosted by their good intentions.

With more purpose in his step Vin decides to go to Josiah's church. As much as Josiah hopes for a congregation Vin is drawn to it for its lack of one. There is no one to take note of his effort if he does not count Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

He has been doing well with his lessons, Mary has said so. He has taken pride in his new ability to collect supplies at the general store without having to rely on a picture or the color of a label. If he can find someplace quiet, not like the saloon, where he can take his time then he can find out where Chris has spent so much time writing a letter.

On his way to the church he looks up and sees that a light is burning in Nathan's window. He's home then, and probably ready to retire after such a long day. Vin watches a moment longer, the sight seeming to calm him some and then walks over to the steps of the church.

Someone has bothered to light the lamps that Josiah has put on either side of the doors. Vin sets his belongings down haphazardly on the top step but keeps his hold on the letter. Sitting down with a small thud he hefts the letter in his hand, weighing its precious mineral content and then turns it over. He has never received such a thing and yet he knows what is involved in its making. Fine paper strong enough to endure miles and miles of travel. An inkwell and a pen that will not skip and blur. Fine sand set to drift across each page to dry the ink. A steady hand to fold the sides in and then the bottom and top, making a neat rectangle. Melted wax to seal the ends. A coin to send it off and most importantly, a man, not too much unlike himself, who has put in writing what he could not say in words.

He breaks the seal and in doing so acknowledges that Chris is alive, out of his sight, to be sure, but well enough to write for several pages. What would keep Chris from coming any closer than a letter he can only hope will be spelled out for him. He recognizes his name again and the word "Dear". Chris's cursive is different than Mary's careful penmanship. Chris has either written the letter in a rush or the sharp flourishes simply belong to him. He finds other words further down the page that he can make out. "Trust", "poor", "day" and all the words that stitch them together "the", "for", "and." He takes a breath and goes back to the beginning. Mary's voice reminds him to take one word at a time and let the meaning follow them.

"My Dear Vin," he whispers to himself, nearly out of breath. "We ... have ... a-l ... w - My Dear Vin, we have ... alllw ...w -" Vin looks for more light as if that is the problem and then reads the salutation silently, still not hearing it. He looks up again and finds Nathan's light. It's late and it grieves him to give up at all much less so soon but the morning is too far away to be considered.

Vin bounds down the steps only at the last moment remembering his things and then tries to pace himself at Nathan's stairs. He catches his breath from the short jaunt and knocks softly. A floorboard creaks as Nathan opens the door. Vin marshals his voice to a casual greeting. "Hey, Nathan. I - you're back. That's good."

As tired as he looks, Nathan smiles and steps back from the door. "C'mon in, Vin."

"Ahh, I don't want to keep you. How's Mrs. Miller?"

Nathan goes along. "Good, good. Got one more daughter. Pretty little thing. C'mon in. I got tea and sugar cubes."

"Nah. Mr. Miller do all right by you?"

Nathan looks down and then squarely back at Vin. "He did."

A tea kettle whistles, calling an end to the debate. Nathan walks away from the open door and calls over his shoulder, "Close the door when you come in, will ya, Vin?"

The whistle dies away and with it Vin's hesitation. He steps inside and closes the door. Nathan makes quick work of setting up a tray for tea and gestures with a grunt for Vin to sit, both of them at a loss as to the etiquette of being in the clinic when neither one is hurt or nursing. They sit a the corner of the table as Nathan pours the tea and catches Vin leaning forward to see if it smells medicinal. Vin adds a sugar cube and Nathan knowing him well adds another. Vin looks down and smiles and then stands abruptly and goes to his saddlebag. He brings a blue bandana tied at the corners back to the table and unties it to reveal pea pods - Chris's share and now Nathan's. Nathan smiles at the generosity and begins snapping pods open, waiting patiently for Vin to tell him why he came to his door.

Vin takes a sip of tea and nods his approval to himself. When he looks up Nathan is carefully pushing peas out of a pod with one big finger onto his saucer and eating them one by one. Everyone has their way.

Vin clears his throat making Nathan look up. He reaches under the bandana and pulls out the letter. "Got a letter from Chris."

Nathan drops his pea and leans forward.

Vin takes short breaths and needlessly pushes his chin out. "I don't know what all it says. I'm not so good with this kind of writing." He hands the folded letter over to Nathan who questions him with a look. "I was hoping, if you have the time, if you might read it to me?"

"Of course, Vin," Nathan says quietly. "Of course."

Vin tries to hide his relief behind a teacup. "Appreciate it."

Nathan weighs the letter the same way Vin did and smiles at the result. "I always suspected ol' Chris had a lot to say."

They grin at each other but it's more than enough to set them both at ease. Pea pods and tea cups forgotten, they move their chairs closer to the corner of the table, ready to conspire.

Nathan unfolds the letter and clears his throat. A quick look at Vin's wide eyes and then he begins. "My Dear Vin," Nathan reads and finally Vin hears the words.

We have always been quiet in each others company which I suppose is true to your nature but more of caution in mine. In truth, I feel as though I am about to bite my tongue clean through trying to keep from saying a word that might cast me in a poor light in your eyes. I fear I have kept you as my friend under false pretenses by uttering no more than three carefully chosen words a day. If I speak my mind and tell you everything I know will you be able to bear that knowledge? Will you hold any esteem for me at all? I'll start at the beginning and trust you to have the patience to hear me out. And more than that. To understand what I'm telling you and if you can, to forgive me for it. I am the only son of a Bloomington, Indiana preacher. I was born late in my parents life, a blessing they said. I never knew my papa without white hair. I also had three sisters, two already married by the time I came along and the youngest, sixteen and engaged to be married the following year. By all accounts, I never wanted for attention and was passed around more than a Christmas ham. My own earliest memory is of running around at a church picnic and being picked up and fed, a bite here and there, and then running off again. My father was a soft-spoken man even when he stood at the pulpit, often times leaving his congregation leaning forward to hear the word of God. He could preach from any part of the bible but preferred the New Testament with Christ's teachings. He was gentle and patient and believed what he taught. I didn't share my father's faith in a God that loved me. I had no sense of His guiding hand. I never felt the spirit move through me the way it sometimes did with Mrs. Lewis who would call back during a sermon, Amen, amen! I sat limp in my mothers lap while she fanned us both and waited until I could weave my way through the shuffling adults who seemed to be in no rush at all to get outside. If my lack of faith disturbed my family they kept it between themselves and God. The only thing they asked of me was to remain quiet and still when the time called for it, a discipline I would use throughout my life. As undemanding as they were I grew into a boy determined to test the wide boundaries I was allowed. It came to a head when I was ten and not only feeling tall but also too old to follow the routine I had been raised in. The sermons seemed to get longer and repetitive and if I could stay home on a Sunday due some sudden illness that was gone by the afternoon, then all the better. I loved my family but felt that a more exciting life was waiting for me elsewhere. If you can believe it, I became surly and impatient. One day I was suppose to be helping my father paint the walls of his church along with a few other men and their sons. Instead I walked through the pews, bored, angry at having another Saturday consumed by obligations, distractedly pushing out of place the hymnals my youngest sister had arranged on the seats. My father looked over his shoulder while kneeling to paint near the floorboard and asked me to bring a lamp over to him. I found one and took my time walking it over to him and then I stopped. He was hunched over, careful and patient as always, and for some reason I still don't understand I pitched the lamp against the wall, just past his shoulder. The oil splattered on the wall and onto his shirt and one side of his face. I stood there with my mouth open unable to take in that I had set a wall on fire along with my fathers shirt sleeve. Someone pushed me out of the way and joined the men who were using drop cloths to smother the fire. Smoke lingered in the air after they put it out. One wall was scorched with a hole showing where it had burned clean through. The other men helped my father to stand and looked at me with puzzled distain. How could I do such a thing? My father steadied himself and came to stand in front of me. His sleeve was burned by his shoulder revealing a patch of red skin. His forearm was blistered from where his sleeve had been rolled up and his cheek and temple were dotted with smaller blisters. He took me by the arm and marched me down the long aisle to the open door. He pushed me outside and shook my arm and said, "Don't come back until you have God's love in your heart," and then slammed the door. I stood there dumbfounded, rubbing my arm and wanting nothing more than to go back inside. I put my hand on the door handle but was suddenly too weak to work it. It was the first time I realized how strong my father was and also, the first time fire hurt someone I loved. I'm sure I was punished but I don't remember it. What affected me more was the slight distance I was suddenly given not only by the townsfolk but also from my family. My sisters would still insist on a kiss hello and goodbye but would settle for pressing their cheek against my temple. My father spoke to me with his hand on my shoulder as he often did but it began to feel like the length of his arm was trying to keep me away. My mother fussed over me but I could no longer tell it apart from how she fussed over anyone else. The first Sunday that my mother and father got ready for church without me I followed them around waiting for them to change their minds. When they didn't I tried to celebrate by smoking some of my fathers tobacco and eating the sweets my mother put out for guests. Both made me sick. When I was a young man of fifteen I left home having never stepped back inside my father's church. A failure on my part. I spent several years finding out how close I could get to sin and what a good fit being a sinner was for me. It was something I found amusing since I knew all of the commandments but still felt untouched by them. I was tearing through Missouri when I met Ella. I didn't notice her at first what with carousing in whatever town I found myself in. Women were always around and eager to know you no matter your behavior. I stayed in St. Louis longer than I usually did and after a while I was looking at only one woman, Ella. She could out drink the lot of us but I suspect she was her most daring when she was sober. We entered into a highly competitive game to see who could live life out to the furthest corners and ended up calling it a match. At the time I had no idea how to love someone - although I thought otherwise -and was even more sure that Ella, wild Ella, wanted no more than my company for a short while. I stayed with her during the night and left in the morning without allowing her the chance to follow me. I thought she would miss me for all of ten minutes. On my part, when I thought of her, I thought of her kindly. It was not long after leaving that the War came along and not unlike many men of my age, I ran after it. There is not a singular event that stands out in my mind. I had the common experience of seemingly endless boredom punctuated by moments of terror. I met Buck on a rainy day under a lean-to that leaked and sealed our friendship when he was the first recognizable face I saw after a long and bloody battle. I shudder to wonder if you were on the other side of any field or bridge we fought on. I wish I could say that the blood of war had somehow washed away all of my baser instincts and made me a noble man but that is not so. I fought no more zealously than any other man but I took pride in my aim and aimed to kill. I became inured to the suffering around me faster than I should have and added to it more times than I can tick off. I do not blame the war for making me the way I am as it did little more than march me down a muddy cow path to my true self. When the war was over I followed Buck west or he follow me - I'm not really sure - and it was there that I met Sarah. I was on the ground, fighting a cowpoke over nothing more important than spilled beer when through the dust I saw her skirt swing by us as if our great struggle was of no importance to a woman who was on her way to buy two spools of thread. I hit the cuss on the chin, ending the fight and leaving me to shake my sore hand and dust myself off before she came back out of the general store. When she did I was unable to say a word since her father, Hank Connelly, sized me up fairly, wrote me off and used his wide back to block any exchange. It was weeks before I had an opportunity to speak to her and longer than that before she paid me an ounce of attention. She was unlike any woman I had ever known in that she was not interested in the latest fashions or the next society party but was serious minded, not easily amused and unwilling to pretend to be. She was also something of a loner, a quality I had never witnessed in a woman, and was just as pleased to go for a ride on her own if I was foolish enough to show up late. I courted her for nearly a year, against her father's better judgment, and was somewhat surprised when she accepted my marriage proposal. We were married under the shade of a live oak with Sarah somewhat amused at my unwillingness to enter a church. She would often times give me an indulgent smile as if to say, someday, someday I would come around. I don't know how to tell you about Adam in an impartial way. When I held him for the first time I thought that he shone, which means that he was Sarah's son. He took on his mother's serious nature, quiet unless Buck was around, and not shy to look me in the eye, searching for and finding truisms about his father that would make him smile or wrap his arms around my neck in pity. He was a boy that would have understood my father's belief in God's love if I had bothered to teach him about it. I was an unlikely husband and father who relished the duties of both roles the way anyone will when they find out they are surprising good at a thing. I was well aware of what I was capable of if pushed but I was not living a life that caused me to worry about it. In my comfort I failed to be vigilant. When they were taken from me, I became vigilant. I was awake for days, terrorizing townsfolk for answers they did not have, riding in every direction looking for a trail to lead me to the murderer of my wife and son. I started to pray for the first time since I was a child but not in an obedient whisper to the ceiling but instead an angry cry to the sky above me. I had finally found my faith in God and railed against His vengeful, unblinking eye while Sarah and Adam were burned alive. He had waited patiently, something I coldly admired, all those years after I had set a fire in His home and found me, and what I loved, and scorched the earth that I lived on. I called on my own vengeance and lack of pity and they came running, loyal servants to a ringing bell, and set myself on one path. I would not go to hell over some misunderstanding but would wage a war for the right to burn as my wife and son had burned for my sins. I nursed the idea that I would find the killer through attrition, one soul at a time, first my own and then when there was only one man left standing, his. I would know him to be the killer as only someone as cold and hard as myself would be able to survive the swath I was ready to cut. What I did not know at the time was that hate has the ability to turn and look back at itself, mocking any man who carries it and hobbling him for the effort. I would have been grateful to anyone for pointing this out to me but it was Ella who brought it home and in doing so, added to it. I found her in St. Louis hiding in plain sight under the wide umbrella of charitable works. She was not surprised to see me and stepped past my gun to kiss my cheek. She started to speak but saw something in my eyes that silenced her. I put my gun on a small round table and walked to the door. I heard her pick it up, the heavy barrel scraping against wood, and the loud report of a bullet fired and waited patiently for it to hit the back of my skull. I took a breath and then another before I realized that it was the first time since the fire where I could do more than take shallow sips of air. There was no need to turn around and confirm it with my eyes; I knew she was gone. I was still foolish enough to expect to feel some kind of satisfaction but if anything I envied the temerity she had to finally put an end to our history. Vin, if you are still listening, I need to call on you yet one more time. I went to Eagle Bend to pay my respect to Sarah and Adam and place a proper headstone at their graves and seem unable to go any further. You are my friend, a thankless task, I'm sure, but I believe that if you will come and get me I will follow you anywhere. Chris Larabee

Nathan places the last page at the end and sets the letter in front of Vin. He smiles to himself and shakes his head fondly. "A preacher's son. Now there's a surprise," he says, not surprised at all. When he sees Vin look up at him, wide eyed and desperate to be on his way, but stunned to inaction, his smile gives way to a plea for reason. "Vin, I know you wanna light out right now but you won't do no one no good stumbling around in the dark." Vin opens his mouth to protest but looks down at the letter instead, the alphabet just a little clearer at the cost of everything else. Nathan places his hand on Vin's wrist and waits for him to notice him. "Sleep here tonight. We'll wake Miz Kent up early and send you off with a full belly. All right?"

Vin places his hand on Nathan's but is unable to meet his eye. "Thank you," he says, also unable to convey half of what he means. "Thank you."

+ + + + + + +

Although it is nothing new, Nathan makes good on his word and sends Vin off with a warm handshake and a breakfast of bacon and eggs and a well sugared cup of coffee. The morning sky is burning red and orange and warm enough to promise another hot day to add to all of the others.

Vin tips his hat and heads north out of town, towards the hills and not the desert, which would have been a shorter route to Eagle Bend. Nathan watches Vin spur Peso to a gallop and figures if Vin wanted him to know why he was taking the long way he would have told him. Simple as that.

+ + + + + + +

Chris's ranch is empty but Vin holds no hope of anything else. He rides along the periphery until he finds what he is looking for. The sapling only comes up to his hip and sways wildly under the warm breeze. Vin carefully digs it up with a miners shovel and wraps the soiled roots in what's left of an old burlap bag. He secures it to his saddle horn, letting it sail over his shoulder and then heads south to Eagle Bend, suddenly in a rush.

He pushes Peso hard under the uncompromising heat but the horse holds his own. They reach Chris's ranch on the edge of Eagle Bend with the sun still holding court in the sky. If not for the sight of Pony tethered to what is left of the creaking windmill Vin would have succumbed to the disappointment that has, in times past, taken to greeting him at Chris's cabin back in Four Corners. The charred, skeletal remains of the fine house Chris once lived in defy the elements, seeming to board sturdy ghosts of not just mother and son but also the husband and father who survived them. Vin senses no malice in this place only a near tangible grief for both the dead and the living.

He tethers Peso alongside Pony and refills the large bucket of water left nearby. Peso ignores Vin in favor of the water as Vin removes his saddle, placing the sapling and the hand shovel nearby. With that done he takes a moment to scan the area not unlike he has done back home: a flash of black cloth against foliage, blond hair, the glint of a gun. A low vibration in the air. Nothing calls to him but the task at hand.

He approaches the graves of Chris's family slowly, open to any sign that he is somehow intruding, and finding none, stands outside the short fence that surrounds them. A simple headstone reads, Beloved Wife and Son, their names, the years they were born and the one they share when they died.

Beloved. Vin knows that word.

He puts down the sapling and shovel and using his hands tries to press his dusty shirt and pants into some semblance of neatness before he takes off his hat and clears his throat. He does not have a voice made for singing but he has reason to believe that Sarah and Adam will forgive him this flaw. To spare them some he sings just loud enough for his own ears, under his breath, but as sincerely as he knows how. It is a small thing to step out of his comfortable limits to wish these two spirits a good journey.

When he is done he clears his throat again and sets his hat back on his head. He takes the sapling to the foot of the graves, some distance from the fence and crouching, begins to dig. The soil is dark and rich, a fine place for something to grow and become a living marker. Once he is satisfied with planting the sapling he dusts his hands together and looks up to see Chris by the stones that had supported a wide porch, standing as still as a wild creature. He has snared a rabbit and holds it in one hand, forgotten.

Vin feels a sense of relief so sudden and violent he falls from the crouch he is in to his knees. As Chris approaches he pats the already compact soil into place and then out of pride pushes himself to his feet. He notices that Chris did not reclaim the Colt .45 that Ella took her life with and has replaced it with another Peacemaker, this one with a wood grip, not ivory, but just as impressive.

Chris takes in the tree Vin has planted and gives him an old smile with just one corner of his mouth and a hint of it in his eyes. He holds out his hand to Vin. "Thanks, Vin..." and then runs out of words. Vin holds up both hands still as dirty as can be. Chris lets his hand fall and then points to the tree and says, "That's something," knowing Vin will take it as a high compliment.

Vin dusts his hands again. "Might not survive the Summer."

Chris nods. "Might outlive us both."

Vin gives Chris his own sad smile. "It might."

"I caught supper," Chris says, adding commentary to the rabbit hanging from his hand.

"Yep,"

"Won't take me long to clean it. There's a creek just beyond the trees if you want to wash up."

Vin shows him his hands again and the two of them share a smile. He heads off towards the creek without another word and feeling some kind of relief at having some distance from Chris and the loss that surrounds him. It's a feeling that would shame him more than it does if not for the fact that it's rooted in the desire not to intrude more than he already has. This is not his home - or even Chris's - and care must be taken not to stay too long.

When the sun finally does set a different kind of quiet overtakes them. The air remains warm and still, barely moving the flames of the campfire between them. Coyotes yip in the distance at a crescent moon and crickets sing along. They keep their eyes on their hands and food as if cleaning a bone takes all of their fearsome attention. Vin sucks the grease off of one finger and the small sound makes Chris look up. Their eyes catch and hold, not unlike the first time they did when they saw each other across a dusty street but this time the fine, intricate spider web of communication is more than they can cross. Vin breaks the brief stalemate by tossing a bone into the fire and wiping the rest of his fingers on his pant leg. It has been a long day for him with little sleep the night before and so he is not out of line to unfurl his bedroll with a kick and lie down on it with his hat over his eyes. He hears the hiss of Chris's coffee cup being emptied onto the fire and Chris setting his own bedroll out and then laying down after he has elbowed it into shape.

"We'll head out early," Vin says, although he is not really sure that that is the plan.

"Goodnight, Vin," Chris says not unkindly, but does not answer the silent question.

Despite his fatigue Vin does little more than doze. He opens his bleary eyes and raising his hat looks over the low burning campfire and steals a glance at Chris. Chris is awake, looking away at the graves or the hopeful young tree beyond them - Vin is not sure - and winding and unwinding his stampede strap around his finger. The sight reminds Vin of a bored, good-natured baby left in his crib to entertain himself. Vin replaces his hat and feigns sleep, sometimes dozing again until the sun finally rises and both men are finally able to move around and away from each other.

They make do with a breakfast of hardtack and jerky and saddle their horses.

Vin is ready to ride when he notices that Chris is holding his reins, his feet still on the ground. "I'll ride ahead," Vin tells him in a surprisingly steady voice and Chris nods. He spurs Peso to a slow bearing and then jinxes himself by looking back to see Chris standing in the middle of the ruins of his past life and making no move to leave it.

He is listening to the steady clomp of Peso's hoof beats when he hears another set galloping towards him. With more discipline than he thought he possessed he waits until Chris is at his side before he looks over.

"Is this how fast we're going?" Chris asks seriously.

Vin takes the challenge and spurs Peso into a gallop.

They reach Chris's cabin close to sundown, both of them tired and dusty and more than a little unnerved to find themselves in a familiar place under unusual circumstances. Vin puts the horses up for the night all the while wondering if he will end up heading out once Chris is settled. With some hesitation he goes to the cabin where Chris has opened the door and windows to let out the stifling air that has filled it. Two lamps have been lit against the setting sun.

Vin leans against the doorway. "The horses liked the extra oats I gave them."

"I bet they did," Chris says running his finger over the small table top and then showing Vin his clean fingertip. "I was expecting a lot more dust."

Vin shifts to his other hip. "The boys came out every once in a while - made sure the varmints didn't take over."

"I'll be sure to thank them."

Vin nods quickly. "Still a bit of light out. I think I'll head back to town and let them know - "

"Dammit, Vin," Chris interrupts, exasperated and running his hand over the top of his shorn hair. "Did you get my letter?"

Vin yanks his hat off and rings the brim in his hand. "Hell yeah, I got your letter and be sure to thank Nathan for reading it to me 'cause I couldn't make sense of your chicken scratch." When Chris bows his head Vin lowers his voice. "Dammit Chris, if you had written a week earlier I would have shown up a week earlier. I don't know what else to tell you." Chris says nothing, prompting Vin to take a step inside. "I'm glad you told me about your family - about both of them - but aside from that all I got from it was that you're in some kind of war with God and - it sounds like - you wouldn't mind dying."

Chris keeps his head bowed and turns to the side. "I thought I wrote more than that."

"Maybe. Maybe you got it in that fool head of yours that God is out to burn down anything you create. Anything you might take pride in or care for." Chris looks up and tries to stare Vin down and failing that begins panting for air. Vin, not usually a cruel man, pushes on. "Do you think He's waiting for you to show Him what you can't bear to lose so He can set it on fire? Do you think he might want to burn me down?" Chris makes a strangled sound but does not move. Vin raises his arms out to his side, making himself a wide target and lifts his chin and calls out to the low ceiling, "Well, here I am! Do your worst!"

In an instant Chris is across the small room and knocking Vin's arms down, shoving him roughly up against the wall and then contradicting his violence, burying his forehead on Vin's shoulder and pleading, "Don't Vin, don't."

Vin drops his hat and takes a breath to say a kind word but Chris has no use for words anymore and silences Vin with another weak shove. It does not take much effort at all for Vin to roll Chris against the wall and hold him there. A gold sunset blazes through the doorway and the small window next them and casts them both in a warm glow. Vin manages to bring his hand up to Chris's face to touch his sunburned cheek and let his fingertips rasp over the stubble on his chin. As much as it feels the same way as his own skin at the end of a long trail it also feels as if he is holding lightning in a bottle. He almost smiles but before he can Chris presses his forehead against Vin's, his quickened breath ghosting over Vin's face. Vin's eyes drop closed but the lack of sight only heightens the way his hand feels on the back of Chris's neck, the heat that nearly burns his palm, the clean, tilled earth smell of sweat, the wonderfully anxious feeling low in his gut.

Chris lowers his hands from Vin's shirt and scrambles to undo his gun belt. Vin, as drunk as Chris has ever seen him is no help at all, heavy against his chest, his cheek scrubbing his neck. The gun belt is finally freed and falls unceremoniously to the floor with a clunk. The sound causes Vin to open his eyes, still in a stupor, heavy lidded, mouth open. The sight makes Chris profane. "My God, Vin." He takes Vin's face in hands and presses his forehead once more to Vin's and then suddenly in a hurry begins working at Vin's clothing. He unarms Vin first, one hand at the buckle and the other yanking at the drawstring at his leg until a small arsenal rests at their feet. He pushes the leather braces off of Vin's shoulders and pulls his calico shirt out of loose buckskin. Vin rallies himself, focusing all of his addled attention on the many buttons of Chris's shirt, undoing them one by one, disciplined man that he is, until he can open it wide to reveal pale skin, a heavily muscled chest, sparse hair and a narrow waist. His fingers slip under the waistband of Chris's pants, ready to undo another set of buttons once he can get over the feel of Chris's belly against his knuckles. Chris pulls Vin closer still and lets him feel his body which cannot lie. Vin steps back just far enough to discard his shirt and pull his union suit off of his shoulders, letting it puddle low around his hips. Chris follows his lead and adds his shirt to the pile on the floor, unbuttons his pants and then unable to be of any more help, falls against the wall. Vin takes a moment and then steps forward and presses his hand past the loose folds of Chris's drawers until he finds the skin that makes Chris hiss. He is unsettled and somewhat thrown when Chris touches him. It sets them shoulder to shoulder, struggling to hold themselves up and then each other. Panting and cussing. Rough and quick and a little careless and completely unapologetic about hurting each other under the best of intentions.

Vin shudders against Chris, nearly loosing his footing and then watches amazed as Chris's face contorts and then goes slack, head thrown back. Still hungry for air they enter into a drunken waltz, first Chris pushing Vin back towards the pallet and then Vin turning them and grinning at Chris allowing himself to fall back on the soft bedding. Vin reaches down and pulls off Chris's boots, taking in the tomcat languor of his friend as Chris rests his hands above his head while watching Vin remove his pants. Vin toes off his own boots and lets his pants slip off, a mundane task if not for Chris's hungry and unblinking appraisal of him. Suddenly flustered he crawls into bed next to Chris and presses himself against him out of modesty. Chris snorts a laugh and brings his arms down to smooth any ruffled feathers.

They are both tired from the center out and blinking back sleep as if there is one more thing to do. Chris clears his throat and then rolling on top of Vin takes the time to look down at him without censor, the corner of his mouth nearly giving away a smile. Vin starts to ask him what has tickled him so when Chris leans down and kisses his mouth. It is different from the stomping fight they engaged in between the window and the door and sets a precedent for how things will be. It is a soft kiss, prone to small, wet sounds but thorough and nothing to be taken lightly. Chris ends it with a string of kisses seeming to map Vin's mouth, the last one landing sweetly on his cheek. Vin reaches up and caresses Chris's temple with the back of his fingers and with that gesture tries to tell Chris everything he knows about human kindness. With a tug on Chris's ear he pillows his head on his shoulder. And then there is silence, which they thrive under, once more.

Epilogue

Josiah opens the double doors and lets the midday sun illuminate the small church. No congregation waits to be let in but it's a fact that amuses him more than it should.

His visit with Hannah was heartening. While she is still mute and given to fits of temper she has also taken Josiah's arm and walked out into the sunlight. He doubts that she will ever be able or willing to visit his church but it's more than enough to know that she is finally living through God's grace and not His wrath.

It was also heartening to come home and find that Chris was alive and well, reticent about the demise of Ella but somehow making peace with the history they had fashioned for each other.

There was more optimistic talk of starting a ranch come Spring and actions to back it up. Chris's corral had already doubled in size and a well was being dug for a more ready water supply. A barn was in the plans along with the purchase of a mare from Thomas Two Hats and Daniel Moore with an eye to buying the old gentlemen's entire stock once they saw fit to retire from ranching.

As with Hannah, Josiah doubts that Chris will ever be completely free of the demons that have run him to ground for so many years but with an endeavor that does not include revenge he might finally be able to live a life that he sorely deserves. It is a prayer he holds for each of them.

Josiah collects a broom from the alcove and then, more gunman than preacher, looks up at the man standing in the doorway. "Good afternoon, Chris." He walks down the aisle to where Chris waits for him, hat in hand. A glance over Chris's shoulder reveals Vin sitting on the bottom step, leaning against a banister and singing into his harmonica. "Afternoon, Vin."

Vin tips his hat amiably and continues to play. Josiah joins Chris in the doorway and leans across his broom. "Someday Vin is going to be a fine musician."

Chris leans forward to whisper. "Or someday one of us is going to take it away from him."

Josiah smiles as if the idea has never occurred to him. "Is there something I can do for you boys?"

Chris holds his eye but there is still something tremulous about it. "I was wondering if there was something that I could do for you - for the church."

The request puzzles Josiah so he sticks to the truth. "About all I have to do is sweep," he says, thinking that will be the end of it.

Chris takes a hold of the broom handle as if he has come into town for just that reason. "You can keep Vin company. The townsfolk will thank you for the quiet."

Josiah hands over the broom, not really understanding why Chris has sought out such menial labor, only that he needs to, and that is reason enough.

Chris nods his thanks and watches Josiah take a seat across from Vin, uneven bookends. He turns and steps inside the church, setting his hat carefully on a pew and then walking down the long aisle. The heels of his boots sound loud to his ears making him relieved when he finally reaches the pulpit. He hears Josiah's rich laugh and then Vin using both lungs to play his harmonica. Chris smiles to himself and begins to sweep.

End of The Letter

For JensenRick and Smilla, on their Birthdays.
July 2, 2006

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