RATING: PG13 Language
SPOLERS: To my story Killing Time
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction based on the characters of the CBS series, The Magnificent Seven. I don't own 'em, I can't claim 'em, and I'm sure not making money off of 'em.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: While the events of Killing Time are referred to in this story, it is not necessary to have read that story to read Ghosts. My thanks to my wonderful team of Beta-readers, Sarah B., Sara (Dutch), and especially Sue N. I couldn't have written this without you.
Nathan Jackson wondered if it was a law of nature that children always started running fevers in the middle of the night. Bet Gloria Potter was wondering the same thing when her young son woke up sick and fretful in the wee hours. She had been apologetic for disturbing Nathan's rest, but worried as any mother would be, and he couldn't blame her for her concern. Since her husband's murder, she'd been real careful of her kids, as if they might be snatched from her grasp, too. He'd reassured her, given her son a draught for his fever, and sat with him till he settled down and went to sleep. Would bet that by mid-day the boy'd be whinin' about having to stay in bed and rest.
Nathan went up the steps to his rooms and stood for a moment looking out at the quiet town. It was a beautiful night, not too hot, and the watch fires were slowly dying. Overhead, the half-moon shed a soft glow over the rooftops and streets. Nathan drew a deep breath and stretched out his back. Time to get some sleep for himself ...
A flicker of movement on the rooftop opposite caught his eye; a shadow that melted out of the darkness and into the moonlight, soundless as a ghost. The pale light picked out the slope of Vin Tanner's slouch-brimmed hat, and then as he raised his face to the light, the hard angled bones of his face. A slight tilt of his head asked a silent query, Everything all right?
Nathan raised his hand and Tanner's fingers tapped the brim of his hat acknowledging the answer. Then he faded back into the darkness.
Nathan cursed softly. As much as he welcomed the sight of Vin Tanner pacing the rooftops, the tracker should have been in bed himself. It had only been two weeks since he had been about as bled out as a man could be and still live. He was young and he was strong, but a body could only take so much, and Nathan didn't aim for his skills to go awastin' just because Tanner was too stubborn to get a good night's sleep. He couldn't do a thing about it now, but come morning, he was gonna have a heart-to-heart with Chris Larabee. If anyone could force some sense into Tanner's thick skull, it would be the gunslinger.
Vin watched Nathan go inside his clinic and close the door. For a while there he had thought the big healer was gonna leap right across the roof, grab him by the scruff of the neck, and drag him off to rest. He wouldn't put it past him, either. Vin sighed and sank down cross-legged on the rooftop. There were things he wouldn't admit to Nathan; that he still hurt, that he still felt as weak as three-day old kitten, that the reason he was up on the roof wasn't duty, but a way to avoid the nightmares that had been plaguing him ever since he had been shot.
Over and over in his head, the same fuckin' dream. The night Titus Roche had died. Only not the way the night had ended, with Roche dead in the rain, and Mary Travis safe in Chris' arms. In this dream, Vin's shot missed Roche and blew Mary Travis' beautiful face into a bloody pulp. And then sometimes it wasn't Mary, but Chris or JD, or Nettie ... didn't make no sense! Sometimes he could swear he could smell the humid, heavy air of Georgia, the odor of rot and death that underlay the scent of pine and gunsmoke. Seemed his whole fucked-up past was comin' back t' haunt him. Maybe that was the price he was payin' for his sins.
He tilted his head back and looked up at the stars and the moon. Most times, they brought him some comfort, made him think of how small his troubles were, but now they just made him feel cold and alone. He hunched his shoulders inside his jacket, as if seeking warmth. The healing wound high on his chest burned and Vin rubbed it, aware of the ache clear through to his heart.
He stood up too quickly. His leg, still weakened by a bullet wound, nearly buckled beneath him and he cursed again, angry with his body's failure. He balanced his sawed-off across his elbow and set off on another circuit of the town.
Chris Larabee sat at his usual table in the Standish Tavern. It was too early for most folks, and the girl who brought him his plate of eggs was heavy-eyed and yawning. Least she wasn't looking at him like he was the devil incarnate. Chris stretched out his long legs and drank his coffee. His eyes, looking over the rim of the mug, never left the door. He hadn't stayed alive this long without learning to take precautions.
The next man through the entrance was Nathan. He motioned to the waitress to bring him some of what Chris was having, then sat down heavily. His eyes were bloodshot and weary, and Chris gave him a sidelong look. Jackson wasn't a man who took to carousing, so Chris figured it had been a medical emergency that had kept the healer from his bed. "Long night, Nathan?" he asked.
"Yeah. Miz Potter's boy started a fever. Scared his poor Ma half ta death."
Chris' heart gave a tug of ghost pain, remembering walking the floor with Adam when he was sick, the feel of the small, hot body against his chest, and Sarah alongside him, her pretty brow furrowed with worry. "He gonna be alright?" he asked softly.
"I jes' came from there. Fever's down and he's sleepin' like an angel. Miz Potter looks about ready to drop. Tole her t'let her daughter open the store, so she could git some rest." He paused as the waitress set his meal in front of him. "Chris, I been meanin' ta talk to you 'bout somethin'."
Chris' brows drew level. "Trouble?"
"I don' know. It's Vin. Saw him up roamin' the roofs, late."
"I can't tell the man what t'do. Seems he's got a right to be where he wants, long as he's well enough." When Nathan gave him a hard look, Chris' gut tightened. "You sayin' he ain't well enough?"
"He's healin', but he ain't healed. Not by a long way. Don't like that he gits gray as old dishwater, or that he cain't put full weight on that leg, or that he ain't eatin' like he should. Shit, if he gits any skinnier, he's gonna disappear when he turns sidewise. An' I don't think he's sleepin' worth a damn."
Chris' green gaze clouded. "Vin don't take easily t'being watched over, Nate."
"That's why I'm askin' a favor ... he won' listen ta me any mo' than he ever does. But git the man out a Four Corners, b'fore he sets out on his own. He goes off inta the desert, he ain't gonna come back alive."
Chris came upright fast at that. "Are you saying that he's that bad off?"
Nathan sighed. "I'm sayin' that the man don't recognize his own hurt. Somethin's eatin' at him, and he don't —" He fell suddenly silent as the bat-wing doors swung open and Vin wandered in. He nodded to them, went to get coffee, and then approached the table with a halting pace that brought a frown to the healer's forehead.
Chris shoved a chair clear of the table and Vin sat down, slouching low, and sipping at the hot coffee. At first, Chris thought Nathan was worrying too much. Vin looked pretty much like he usually did; slim, slightly tattered, quiet. It wasn't until he pushed his hat back that Chris saw the deep shadows under his eyes, the pallor lingering beneath the tanned skin on his cheeks, the thin, flat bones of his wrist when he stretched out his arm to set his mug on the table. Larabee's gaze flicked to Nathan's.
"Hey, pard. I was going out to the cabin for a few days. I'd appreciate some help out there."
"Kind of a sudden decision, ain't it?" Vin said. He sensed something — not quite sure what — underlying Chris' request, and it made him wary.
"Gonna be winter soon, and the place could stand some attention." Chris figured to stick as close to the truth as possible. Vin could smell a lie a mile away, and concern for his well-being even farther. Chris understood why Vin was so damned guarded; any man who'd spent time on the frontier knew that to be vulnerable in any way was a lure like carrion to a vulture. It was a lesson learned through hard and cruel experience, and not something Chris cared to dwell on.
Vin nodded. "I'll think on it. Let ya know." He got up from the table, settled his hat on his head and drifted out of the tavern.
"He didn't eat," Chris said.
"'Bout time ya noticed," Nathan grumbled, and then apologized when Larabee fixed him with an accusatory glare. "Sorry, Chris. Figure he's been blowin' smoke in all our eyes, the way he kin hide in plain sight."
Chris scrubbed a hand over his face. "I can't drag him out there, Nate."
"Y'offered. Ya said you needed help. He won't let ya down."
But the sun rose higher in the sky, and Vin didn't give him an answer. Finally Chris saddled up and rode out, hoping that Vin would follow when he was ready.
It was a hot day, and whether or not Vin showed, there was enough work to lose himself in, and sweat out his worries. He cleared the brush and weeds that had grown through a month of neglect around the house, mended fences, and started chopping wood to stack up for the winter. By late afternoon, he was hot, filthy, tired, and there was still no sign of Tanner. Seemed Vin was gonna hold his hurtin' to himself.
Chris drove the splitter into the last log and gave it a hard whack with the axe. The wood broke away, and Chris chopped the blade into the block, picked up the split pieces of wood and tossed them onto the pile. He stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt, went to the well, and drew up a bucket of water. Raising it overhead, he let the water cascade over his body. Then chilled and refreshed, he went inside to change. When he came back out on his porch, Vin was sitting on the stoop.
He angled his head up at Larabee. "Quittin' time?"
Chris shoved his arms into the sleeves of his shirt and sat down. "Figure you'd show up when the work was done," he grinned.
"Hell, ya tellin' me y'ain't got enough fer me ta do?" He leaned back on his elbows, tipping his face to the last rays of the sun. "Sorry, I shoulda come sooner."
"You'll make up for it tomorrow." He buttoned the cuffs of his shirt. "I've got some beer chilling in the spring. Want one?"
"Sounds good."
Chris tried not to move like Vin was some wild creature that would take flight if alarmed, but he'd seen it in him before; the way he kept to the edges and the shadows even with folk he trusted, the silence of his movements, the alert set of his head. He uncoiled slowly, quietly with such fluid grace that the bird chirping in the big burr oak next to the house didn't pause in its evensong.
Chris got the beer from the spring, then made sandwiches from bread and good smoked ham, made one thick and the other smaller, and put two crisp apples from the old tree out back on the plate. Balancing plate and apples in one hand, and the bottles of beer in the other, he kicked the door open and sat down, putting the food between them, the smaller sandwich closer to Vin's hand.
Vin eyed the food warily. He took the offered beer and drank in a long pull. The ride out had been long and hot, and the beer tasted better than anything had in weeks. There was a gnawing ache in the pit of his stomach that he recognized as hunger. He knew he needed food, but he hadn't had much desire for it, eating just enough to keep body and soul together. The golden-crusted bread with the pink ham showing at the edges looked tempting, and he picked it up, taking a bite, chewing and swallowing, and then another. He surprised himself by finishing nearly the whole sandwich, and an apple. Then he settled back against the step with a sigh.
Chris had tried not to watch, but when Vin picked up the sandwich, he came as close to praying as he had in a long while. He didn't know what was troubling the tracker, but he recognized the symptoms as clearly as Nathan had figured out what was ailing the Potter boy. It was hard not to know an illness that lived in your own heart. If there was a cure for such an ailment, he didn't know it. It was like a latent fever that lived in a man's body, rising to do swift damage, and then retreating into his bones until wakened again. He reckoned it was a battle he would die waging, but not before his time. And it wasn't one that he liked watching Vin fight.
The two men sat watching as the colors of sunset bled out of the sky and a tranquil blue twilight spread softly over the landscape. The bird in the oak gave a last sleepy chirrup, and fell silent. The quiet seeped into Vin's mind like a balm. When Chris had asked him to come out, he had fought the idea, afraid that once away from the distractions offered by Four Corners and its troubles, he would become as transparent as glass under Larabee's scrutiny. But he found himself not minding so much as long as Chris didn't expect him to talk ... Hell, he didn't even know what he should say. "I been havin' dreams ...?" Shit, Chris would think he was outta his mind.
He startled when Larabee laid a light hand on his shoulder, a quiver that Chris felt like a jolt. "I'm turnin' in. You sleepin' in or out?" he asked.
"Out. I been cooped up too long in town." He tried to sound casual, but his nerves were jumping. Last thing he wanted was for Chris to hear him thrashin' and moanin' in his sleep.
"It's gonna be a cold one," was all Chris said.
"You got blankets?"
He did. He gave Vin several, and left him to his own company. At least, he'd gotten Vin to eat. Maybe being away from the town would lull him into sleeping, and whatever was tying him into knots would have to wait until tomorrow. Even though the night would be chilly, Chris left the window open. He heard Vin moving around on the porch, heard the soft ghost of music as he sounded out an unrecognized melancholy tune on his harmonica, and then eventual silence. At first there was a breathless quality to it, as if Vin was being quiet to give Chris a chance to drift off, and then as the minutes passed, the tension faded into the calm of sleep. Chris turned on his side and closed his eyes.
Vin tried to stay awake until he was pretty sure Chris was sleeping. Damn gunslinger slept as light as a cat, and woke alert as one, too. Vin huddled into his blankets, drawing them close against his throat against the growing chill of the night. The effort of staying still and breathing softly made his body ache, but eventually exhaustion betrayed him. The knots in his muscles loosened, his eyes closed, and his fisted hands relaxed. The last sound he heard was the rustle of drying oak leaves shivering in a light wind.
Chris came awake fast, reflexes that never completely relaxed jerking him upright before he even knew what had startled him. It was pitch black in the cabin; the moonlight had long since moved from the windows. He listened. Nothing. But the quality of the silence had changed. He fumbled for the lucifers he kept at on the bedside table and lit the candle, chasing shadows across the room. He got out of bed, pulled on his trousers and shoved his feet into his boots. Might be nothing more than a fox or coyote out near the stables. He took his Colt revolver from his gunbelt, and opened the door.
Vin was sitting on the steps, his shoulders bowed, his head resting on his folded arms.
"Vin? You all right?" No answer. Chris set the pistol down well out of reach. He didn't think the tracker had heard him, or was even aware of his presence. He hesitated, not wanting to touch him, knowing Tanner was volatile and dangerous — as he was — when startled. Moving slowly, quietly, he sat down beside Vin, not touching him yet. "Hey, cowboy. You all right?" he repeated, this time reaching out a cautious hand towards his forearm. "Vin?"
It was as if that gentle touch shattered a wall of glass. Vin breathed in raggedly, turning his face towards Larabee, the blue of his irises just a thin light rim around the darkness of his pupils. "D-didn't mean t' w-wake ya," he stammered. "J-jist g-got cold ..."
His shoulder shivered against Chris'. Larabee knew Tanner was susceptible to cold temperatures, wore that hide jacket even in high summer when everyone else was like to bake to a crisp. But this night, though chilly, was hardly cold enough to make a man shake loose his bones. "C'mon, I'll light a fire and you c'n bed down inside. I told you it was gonna get cold tonight." He spoke lightly. "Get your blankets and your sorry ass inside." He firmed up his grip, saw Vin's eyes spark to awareness, and a slight smile curl his pale lips.
"Got any whiskey?"
"I might have a bottle stashed somewhere," Chris grinned. He stood up and retrieved his gun from where he had set it down, before he went inside.
Vin gathered up the pile of blankets he had tangled in a heap during the throes of his nightmare. He had hoped, really hoped, that being out of town, sleeping in the open, would dispel the haunting dreams. But they had come, even in this place of quiet and peace. Lord, he was tired of it all. He shivered again and followed Chris into the cabin.
He watched Chris stoke up the fire, and pull two chairs close. Then he went to a cupboard and took out a bottle of whiskey and two mugs, pouring a deep, generous splash into each. He held one out to Vin and indicated he should sit.
Vin sank into the chair with a sigh. The heat of the fire spread as the kindling fired up and ignited the larger pieces of wood. Vin moved closer to the hearth. "Ya don't have to set with me, Chris. Jist 'cause I cain't sleep, don't mean you shouldn't."
"Ain't gonna let you drink alone, pard." He slouched down in the other chair, stretching his long legs out towards the fire. "Feels good." He raised the mug. "Tastes better."
The two men sipped their whiskey in silence. As the room warmed, Vin shrugged out of his jacket and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, the cup held lightly in his slim fingers. Chris studied him unobtrusively, and didn't like what he was seeing. Without the disguising bulk of the buckskin jacket, it was obvious how thin Vin had become; slightness worn down to bone, and the lie of those bones showed clear beneath the soft calico shirt he wore. And yet Chris didn't believe it was Vin's intention to starve himself, or deny his body rest. There were quicker and easier ways to kill yourself — Chris had tasted the bitter steel of a gun barrel, had nearly ended his own life more than once, and only the fear of Sarah's shame at his weakness had stayed his trigger finger.
Question was why? The clues Chris had to go on were scant guesses at best, and with a man as reticent and private as Vin, you couldn't go blundering around making wild assumptions. Chris, an intensely private man himself, knew that the minute those deeply hurtful places were breached, there wasn't anything a man could do but shut himself off, because if he didn't, he would be destroyed.
He could only sit in silence and wait to see if Vin would trust him enough to talk. Didn't look like it would be tonight, though. Chris drank the last of his whiskey and stood up, stretching. "You gonna be all right here, Vin?"
Vin nodded, still looking at the bottom of the mug as if he were surprised that he had drunk the whiskey down. "Thanks, Chris. I reckon I'll be warm enough here." He looked up, slightly defensive, "Jist wanted to warn ya, I've been havin' some ... some dreams lately, and I don't want t'wake ya with 'em, if I fall asleep."
God. Chris just shook his head. "Don't worry on it. Might not happen. I'll keep my gun out of reach, if that's what's got you worried." Let his eyes show a hint of laughter, made it seem like what Vin had admitted was no more shameful than if he had told Chris he snored.
Larabee drifted into the shadows where his bed was, and blew out the candle he had lighted earlier. Vin heard the creak of the leather lattice beneath the thin mattress as Chris lay down. He spread his blankets in front of the fire. It was blessedly warm there. He toed off his boots and stretched out, pulling a quilt over his shoulders. For a while he listened to the crackle of the fire, and when he closed his eyes, he could see the patterns the flames cast as they danced and died. He heard Chris breathing light and easy, and he fought to stay awake, fearful of dreams and shame. But he couldn't fight forever; for the second time that night, he sank into sleep.
The birds nesting in the burr oak woke Chris before dawn. He sat up slowly, the aches from the previous day's exertions tightening his arms and back. He stood and felt the cold striking through his stockinged feet; there must have been a frost during the night. He didn't relish going out to the privvy, but he pulled on trousers and boots and a thick wool shirt over his longjohns. Vin was curled into a tight ball in front of the fire, his face scarcely visible beneath a tumble of long hair and wadded covers. But what Chris could see, looked peaceful; flushed with sleep, untroubled by anguished dreams. Chris felt satisfaction at his second victory. Food, and now sleep.
When he came back inside, he stirred up the fire and started a pot of coffee, knowing Vin was surly as a bear without it in the morning. He sliced bread and opened a crock of honey. Then he heated water and shaved. When he turned away from the cloudy square of his shaving mirror, Vin was blinking up at him with owlish blue eyes.
"'Mornin'," he rasped, coughing to clear the sleep from his throat. He pushed himself upright, thrust his fingers through his hair and yawned. He had slept five straight hours without nightmares — as far as he knew ... He gave Chris a wary look. "Didn't thrash around 'r nothin' to wake ya, did I?"
"Not so's I noticed." He knelt beside Vin, offering him a steaming mug of coffee. Vin took a few sips, letting the heat seep into his stomach before he pushed the covers aside and stood up, stretching the kinks out of his back and grimacing slightly at the ache at the base of his spine. He drank some more coffee to fortify himself before going out into the cold morning. When he returned his mug was reheated and Chris was handing him a slice of bread spread with butter and honey.
Vin looked at it, not certain he was hungry. Chris, seeing that hesitation set off on a different tack. "Better eat up, pard. I was thinkin' on riding out to the far pasture and mendin' fences. Should take us the better part of the morning, I figure."
Vin nodded and took the bread. Last thing he wanted was to let Chris down. Friends did for friends, and he was still learning the ropes when it came to being Larabee's friend. The bread tasted fresh, the sweetness of the honey and the smooth butter went down easy, and as Chris talked a bit about what he wanted to get done, Vin reached for a second piece and didn't argue when Chris poured more coffee into his mug.
They rode out to the pasture, Peso and Chris' black feeling frisky in the morning air until they gave the animals their heads and let them stretch it out a bit. They worked on fences all morning, as the sun rose higher and warmer. Finally, when it was reaching its zenith, Chris called a halt to the work. He and Vin sat beneath a cottonwood down by the stream that meandered through Chris' property.
Vin wrapped his arms around his drawn-up knees. He chewed on a stem of grass he'd plucked. It was sweet grass, good pasturing. Larabee's house might be little more than a shack, but the land it sat on was prime. A cool breeze sprang up, tossing the leaves and making spangled shadows dance across the water as it flowed over the rocks in the stream bed. Vin sighed and lay down. It felt good to be out here. Almost as if his ghosts were resting quiet instead of clawing at his heart and mind. But the very thought of them set his heart beating faster, and he stowed them away quickly, searching to find that place of peace once again.
"Ya got some good land here, Chris," he said.
"It'll do. Someday I might even make something of it."
"I'd say you got a fair start on it already."
"I never thought I'd stay here long enough." He took his hat off, relishing the feel of the breeze as it stirred his hair. "I brought it with the money I made as a hired gun. I guess I thought I could take that money and use it to build something, maybe give something back for what I took, so Sarah ..." The damn words stuck in his throat. He threw a pebble into the stream. Waited for the knot to subside before he spoke again. "My stomach's playing tag with my back, partner. Ready to head back in, get somethin' to eat?" He stood up, offering an open hand.
Chris' words had given Vin a jolt. He knew Chris' past was about as hard and painful as any man ever had to endure, but he'd never heard him say much about his wife and son; and even Buck touched lightly on the subject like you might probe a sore tooth with your tongue to see if it was gonna make you cringe. He'd seen Chris fight his ghosts with whiskey and rage, with stone-cold silence, with fiery revenge, but not with the tender regret he heard in his voice now. Made him feel less alone and hurting. He spun the sprig of grass in his fingers. "Reckon I could eat," he said, and took that warm, hard grip.
Chris hauled him to his feet. Didn't seem like there was much weight behind that effort, but at least there was a lightness to Vin's voice that hadn't been there for a while. They rode back to the house, watered the horses and ate a meal of beans and bacon. After, Chris figured Tanner didn't need to work off any food he was eating, and pulled out a nest of harnesses that needed attention.
They sat on the porch in near silence, but comfortable with it, and each other. There was a simple satisfaction in working with the leather, oiling it, checking for frayed edges and weak points, mending what needed mending. As the sun rode lower in the sky, Vin set aside the halter he had finished, and stretched out his fingers. "This is right nice, Chris. But I reckon I should head on back b'fore dark." He said it, half hoping that Larabee would stop him, but not really expecting it.
Chris twisted a few strands of rope in his fingers. He heard the faint reluctance in Vin's voice, and knew he was being given a chance to reclaim his own solitude. Damn, when had Vin gotten so tentative around him? Maybe when he had gotten so tentative with himself, like the world he was used to walking had suddenly shifted beneath his feet, opening chasms of doubt and fear. Giving him nightmares to swallow his soul in the dark. Chris knew about that, all of it. Also knew Vin wouldn't ask to stay. He'd give Vin the same chance he'd extended. Chris inclined his head speculatively. "Runnin' out on what I got planned for tomorrow, Tanner?"
A great rush of relief came over Vin, and with color burning on his cheebones he tried to adopt a casual tone. "You sayin' I'm shirkin' my duty here, Larabee?"
"You up to cleanin' out the barn, tomorrow?" Chris asked, one brow aslant.
"Hell. Now I cain't leave. Yer makin' it damn hard on a feller's honor, Chris." He sighed, made a show of reluctance. "Reckon I'll stay."
Chris sat back against a roof support. How many more battles was he gonna have to fight with Vin's wits and stubborn pride? He looked at Vin's profile, edged with light from the setting sun. How many battles would he fight, if Chris had been the one in need? The answer was the same. As many as he had to, in order to win.
When the shadows grew long and the light the color of melted butter, Chris watched Vin lead the horses into the barn to bed them down for the night. He leaned up against the porch rail, a cheroot lit and smoking in his hand, his hat angled low against the sunlight. Two sweating bottles of beer sat on the steps. He and Vin had spent the afternoon clearing the remaining brush from the foundation of the house, and making light repairs to the windows and doors, so they'd be more secure against the winter weather. Vin had been about as talkative as he usually was — which meant three words in an hour, but some of the tension was gone from him. His smile came easier, his humor reasserting itself with wry comments on the general state Chris had let things get to — the sort of banter Chris had sorely missed over the last weeks.
Vin closed up the barn, his slim body counterbalanced against the weight of the door as he pulled it shut. He came up to the porch, brushing straw and bits of hay and seed from his clothing. "I c's see why ya want help cleanin' out that barn, Larabee. Got about two years worth a' old hay bales proppin' up the walls." He coughed and took the beer Chris was offering. "Got an old plow in there too, if'n ya plan on takin' up farmin' in yer old age."
Chris smiled, willing to take the ribbing. "I tried farmin' once. Grew a fine crop of rocks, too. Made Sarah laugh, at any rate." His eyes darkened with the memory, but not with sadness. "She knew I was set on ranchin' and raising horses."
"Why'd ya try farmin'?" Vin asked.
"I thought that was what she wanted. Turns out she hated farmin' as much as I did. She was smart enough t'let me figure that out for myself."
Vin heard the longing in Chris' voice, and ducked his head, wishing that he hadn't brought the subject up. "Sorry, Chris. Didn't mean ta pry."
The sun sank below the tree line, and Chris tipped his hat back. "No need to apologize, Vin. There's good memories and bad. This was a good one."
Vin thought in his life there were far more bad memories than good ones. His Ma and his Grandpa, those were good ones. Living with the Comanche, learnin' t'hunt. It was the bad memories that were rippin' him up inside, now. But being here with Chris was better than being in town where the weight on his heart was fit to kill him. Least out here he could breathe. Absently, he rubbed his chest, as if he could feel that weight as a physical force.
"That wound still botherin' you?" Chris asked.
Vin shrugged. "Musta pulled a few muscles mendin' fences. Ain't worth no never mind."
Chris sat down on the step, his beer held loosely between the fingers of one hand, his cheroot burning down to the end in the other. He took a final, deep draw on it, and then crushed it out. Vin sank down cross-legged a few paces away. He was very quiet, and Chris let the silence lengthen, figuring that when Vin had his thoughts all in order, he'd speak. He waited through the sunset, until the colors faded and the twilight fell long and blue, and there were no shadows, only the still, dark night. Then Vin spoke, his voice a soft rasp.
"Ya b'lieve in ghosts?" he asked.
"Wish I did," Chris said quietly. "Then death wouldn't seem like the end."
Vin continued speaking, desolate and whispery as the wind in the leaves overhead. "It seems they're all comin' back t'haunt me, Chris. Ever since I shot Roche t'save Mary. Sometimes I'm shootin' Roche, and I miss and kill Mary. Sometimes it's you I kill, 'r JD. Sometimes it's men I kilt in the war, with the flesh all rottin' from their bones. I c'n smell that wet Georgia clay, red as blood and heavy with rain. Death all 'round me, and draggin' me down, 'til I swear I'm smotherin' with it. That's when I wake up. Chris, I cain't breathe, cain't sleep. Must be outta my fuckin' mind."
Hell, what could he say? He wasn't Nathan, or Josiah. Couldn't say they were just dreams, and dismiss them like they weren't real. They sure as hell were real to Vin. He drew in a breath. "Y'ain't crazy, partner."
"Feel like it's all slippin' away. Like I ain't gonna wake up." His voice was starting to shake, and Chris got up from the step and crouched next to him. He touched Vin's shoulder, and felt the long shudder of a chill run through his body. "Makes it hard t'sleep, Chris. Hard t'eat ..." He bit back on the sob he felt swelling his throat. "I shouldn't 'a come here, bringing my miz'ry with me." He twisted out of Larabee's grasp.
Chris released him, knowing that if he tried to hold Vin, he'd fight like a wildcat and run just as fast. Vin stood there, his shoulders heaving, shivering like he'd been caught in a chilling rain. Chris looked out into the darkness. "Shit, Vin. There ain't no place you can run where those dreams ain't gonna follow." He opened the door. "So you might as well stay." He went inside, built up the fire and lit the lanterns. He heard Vin's steps on the porch, heard him go down the steps. Felt his heart sink down to his stomach. Wasn't a damn thing he could do about it, either.
He put a pot of coffee on to boil, and took out the bottle of whiskey. When the coffee brewed, he poured out a mug, and added a stiff shot of liquor. The squeak of the door made his hand jerk so hard the hot coffee spilled over his knuckles. He cursed, then a slow smile turned his mouth.
"Ya got enough fer company, Larabee?" Vin stood in the doorway, his body slanted and poised as if waiting to find out if he was welcome or not.
"Got enough for a friend," Chris said, and held out the mug.
Vin didn't know why he'd come back. He'd been half-way to the barn, set to roust out Peso and ride as far and as fast as he could. But those words kept spooling through his mind: ... ain't no place you can run where those dreams ain't gonna follow. He'd done a lot of things t'cause himself and others pain, but he'd never been a coward in his life; that was one thing he held to with pride. And it warn't no use running from himself.
And then there was Chris Larabee. Vin didn't know to this day what twist of fate had sent him to Four Corners. He'd been fleein' from Tascosa and the noose, and had come down sick with a fever. He'd ridden into town and slid right off a' Peso's back, practically at Nathan Jackson's feet. The healer had fixed him up with his foul-tastin' potions, and a kindness that Vin hadn't felt for a long time. Figured he owed the Doc somethin' fer savin' his life, miserable as it was; so he'd taken that job at Watson's t'earn a bit for his care, and to get back his strength.
He'd been about as lost then as he'd ever been since his grandpa had died. The loneliness and hardship of being on the run, the realization that he had no place to go when he was sick and hurtin', the sad truth that no matter how long he might live with the People, he was never gonna be one of them, and that their paths were traveling different ways that he had no power to change: it had all worn him down to near despair. But what had seemed the hardest cruelty at that time, had also set him down on that street, on that day. And set Larabee on the corner opposite.
His life hadn't been the same since.
He sat there, in front of Chris' fire, with his fingers wrapped tight around the warmth of the mug. Larabee's long length of body was slouched down in his chair, his hands clasped together and resting on his lean middle, his green eyes hooded and alert. You couldn't on a cold day in hell call Chris' presence restful, but the strength in him could make you feel safe. Even a man with a price on his head and no reason to trust anybody. But he trusted Chris Larabee with his life.
Chris turned his head slightly, as if Vin had spoken. "Hope you've got the sense to sleep in, tonight," he said. "I don't relish the thought of draggin' ya inside, half-froze."
Vin gave a soft, bitter laugh. "Half-froze ain't the worst of it, Chris." He rubbed his forehead. "I could sleep out in the barn ... should be warm enough in there."
Chris just uncoiled himself from his chair, strode over to the pile of blankets Vin had slept on the night before and dropped them at his feet. "That barn's hardly fit for horses until we get it cleaned out tomorrow. Not to mention what Nathan'll do t'me if you come down with pneumonia."
"Hell, I'm th'one who'd have to drink his horse-piss concoctions," Vin said defensively.
"You like drinkin' em?" Chris asked.
"Hell, no!"
"Then you're sleepin' in here and saving us both a world of grief."
Vin's shoulders stiffened up like he was about to do battle. He stood, his thumbs locked in his gunbelt, his blue eyes picking up the reflection from the flames. He stayed like that for a good minute, not looking away from Chris' challenge. But in the end, he yielded: not to Larabee's determination, but to his own weaknesses — a body that needed rest and warmth, and a heart that ached for the comfort of friendship.
Chris wasn't certain to be grateful for the ease of his victory, or worried that Tanner had folded so easily. He nodded, not giving anything away other than satisfaction that he wouldn't have to drag him in from the cold. But he lay awake a long while after he had gone to bed, listening to Vin finally settle and fall asleep.
The sound came from the darkness; a low, mournful keen without words that jolted Chris awake in a hurry and set the short-hairs rising on his neck. He was out of bed and crouched at Vin's side in three long strides, and once there didn't know quite what to do.
Vin was curled tight on his side, his knees drawn up as if trying to protect himself from invisible blows. Sweat glistened on the plane of his cheek, but he was shivering like the breath of winter had blown over him. The worst was the sounds he made; choking, sub-human sobs of grief and fear torn from the roots of a soul in pain.
Jesus, Vin. What the hell could do this to you? Chris asked softly. He laid a hand on Vin's shoulder. It was the barest whisper of a touch, but Tanner jerked away as if he had been burned.
"No!" he cried, and Chris startled back. Vin's breath came hard and fast, and the pulse below the angle of his jaw was a rapid tremble of movement. "No ..." he whispered hoarsely and the word died out in a shivering sigh.
"Vin!" Chris took hold of him, hands on either side of Tanner's face. He felt the jarring beat of blood beneath his thumbs, racing frighteningly hard and fast. "Vin — wake up!"
Blue eyes opened, pupils dilated and black, and not seeing much, Chris guessed. He watched the focus return slowly. He dropped his hands to Vin's shoulders, feeling the tremors shaking his slight frame. "Hey, partner, that's one hell of a dream you're havin'."
"Dream?" Vin whispered hoarsely. He was still breathing in shallow gasps, like a man who'd run a race past endurance.
"Yeah, just a dream."
Color burned high on Vin's cheekbones and he roughly shrugged off Larabee's hands, rising to his feet in a compact motion, and moving as far away from Chris as he could get and still be in the cabin. His first instinct was to run, but that was as futile as a caged bird beating itself against the bars.
There ain't no place you can run where those dreams ain't gonna follow ...
He pushed the sweat-soaked strands of hair from his forehead and wished his heart would quit beating so fast that he couldn't breathe. He pressed his hand against his chest, and took a few aimless paces from one end of that small room to the other.
Chris saw that gesture of pain and knew it wasn't the bullet wound that was prompting it. He rose from his crouch, very conscious of the fragile control Vin was fighting to maintain. He'd seen that brittle strength in men after a battle, when exhausted pride was all that kept them from breaking down. He knew how easily it was shattered, and how once broken, it was beyond simple mending. He moved cautiously, in silence, keeping that distance from Vin that he knew the tracker needed.
Water first, and then whiskey. He poured water into a cup and set it on the table, then went and got the whiskey bottle and set that next to the cup. Then he went out on the porch and waited.
It was a while, but eventually Vin came out and sat down on the steps. He dug the heels of his hands in his eyes, feeling the dull headache and lethargy that accompanied the aftermath of his dreams. Hell, maybe he was losin' his mind. He heard Chris go inside, and come back a moment later.
Larabee set the whiskey bottle and two mugs on the steps, and then sat down. He didn't say anything, just splashed whiskey in one mug, and sat sipping it. After a minute, Vin picked up the bottle and poured his own drink. He held the mug in fingers that he willed to steadiness. The liquor burned the back of his throat, spreading illusory warmth through his body, but it couldn't chase the chill in his soul. He stared into the darkness.
"I'll ride out in the mornin', Chris. Go and figger this out alone. No reason you need t'be bothered with my troubles."
Chris' jaw hardened as he bit back his anger. Getting mad at Vin would only drive him away faster, and he'd been driven away enough in his short life. He hated the thought of Vin wandering off like a wounded wolf abandoning the pack. Chris worked things around in his mind a while before he spoke.
"If that's what you want, I won't stop you. But I've got some things to say first."
Vin kept silent. Larabee would say what he had to say, no matter if Vin wanted to hear it or not. But he couldn't run off at night, and he was too damned tired to argue. He tossed back the rest of his whiskey. "Reckon I owe ya, Chris. Speak yer piece."
Chris took his time lighting a cheroot. He drew in the smoke, let it out in a long stream. and poured another swallow of whiskey in both mugs. He was about to open up his veins and bleed out the kind of pain that usually drove him to drink himself insensible. Only this time, he was going to feel every lance.
He looked over at Vin, sitting quietly, pale and drawn with weariness that he could not disguise. Chris took a deep breath like he was about to dive into deep water, and began speaking.
"I was in some pretty big battles back in the war. Murfreesboro, Chattanooga, Pine Mountain ... each one had its own particular horrors. I saw things there that scared the shit outta me, Vin. But I was a grown man in a company of boys, so I never let on that I was as scared as they were, and just kept on fighting. Some of them weren't old enough to leave their mammas' sides. I'd lay awake at night and listen to them whimperin' like a litter of pups, knowin' they was pissin' themselves outta fear. One boy, younger'n JD, took to followin' me like I was protected by some sort of magic charm. He was a good kid, fought like a man when it came down to it even with tears rollin' down his face. Of all those battles, Murfreesboro was the worst. I was sent t'do some scoutin' at the front lines during the battle, and I told the kid to stay with Buck and not to pay no mind to what I was doing. But he followed me anyways. I caught him sneakin' around in my shadow. I sent him back, cussed him out and told him I was go! nna report him to the major for insubordination. Told him he was gonna hang ..."
Chris paused long enough to take another pull on his cheroot. Vin hadn't moved, but Chris could tell he was listening, wondering where this story was going. Chris wasn't so sure himself, but he took up the thread again. " ... I can see those big, scared eyes to this day, Vin. He turned tail and ran. But a shell burst between us and I lost sight of him. I figured he had headed back to our lines, so I finished my reconnaissance, reported to my major, and asked Buck where the kid was. Hadn't seen him. The battle was in full force by then — savage as any I'd seen — didn't end until nightfall when the rain began. The dead were thick on the ground, white faces like bones turned up to the sky. I went looking for the kid, and found him. That shell had clipped the top of his skull, hollowed it out like a melon. His eyes were open ..."
Suddenly, the cheroot wasn't so steady in his hand, and he felt the chill of that night touching his spine, but it was too late to call back the words.
"I ran, Vin. I told Buck I never found him, and I let them bury that kid in a long, unmarked grave because I was too sick to look at him again. I never spoke his name, never allowed that I'd seen him, or that I knew where he'd died. Never wrote to his mamma to tell her that he was a brave soldier. I asked myself what was that one death in thousands? Nothing. I buried it. Buried it deeper in my heart than that boy was buried in the ground."
"When the war was over, me and Buck spent a lot of time drinking and carousing, generally doing everything we could to forget what we'd been through. Didn't much care if I lived or died as long as I was drunk or gettin' laid when it happened. Then I met Sarah. She changed everything. We got married, settled in. Began thinking of a family. When she told me she was gonna have a baby, I was walking on air. Life was perfect."
He felt the shift of Vin's shoulder against his, and knew the tracker had never known that sort of love, that sort of home, and probably didn't want to hear Chris paint the picture. "I started having dreams, Vin. About that boy, about him coming back all soulless and empty-eyed, begging me to bury him proper, begging me to write to his ma. First time, I figured it didn't mean a thing. Scared the wits out of Sarah to hear me wake up screamin', but she didn't ask about it, and I didn't say. But it kept happenin', each dream worse than the next. One morning I woke up and Sarah had a black eye. I'd hit her in my sleep. I would have cut off my own hand before I hurt her, Vin. I was ready to send her back to her daddy rather than live with someone like me. She wouldn't let me. She made me tell her about the dreams, and swore that she'd sit by me and wake me before they got bad — every night for two weeks, she stayed up like that, just keeping her hand on my shoulder, so that I wouldn't be alone. Bit by bit they went away, Vin. Sarah figured it was like a poisoned wound that needed lancing."
"Sounds like Nathan," Vin whispered. He was still hunched down inside his jacket.
"Yeah, she was a lot like that," Chris sighed. He studied the end of his cheroot, but the glowing shreds of tobacco brought back visions he didn't want to see. He crushed it out beneath his heel. "I tried to track down the boy's mother to tell her how her son died, and where he was buried, but it was too late. The boy's records were gone."
"Chris, I don't even know the names of those men I kilt. They was jist shadows in the night, a lit cigar, the sound of their piss ... " He drew a shaky breath. "Apaches'd say I got the ghost sickness."
Chris raised his brow. "Ghost sickness?"
Vin nodded. "They believe when the spirits of the dead visit in your dreams, you got the ghost sickness. Ya cain't eat, cain't sleep, feels like the world is crushin' yer life outta yer chest."
"I'd say that's a fair description." He slanted a curious glance at Tanner. "You believe that?"
Vin shrugged, but his hand crept to the medicine bag he wore around his neck. "Don't know what t'believe, Chris. I jist know I'm dyin' inside."
Chris turned on him, hard and fast, his green eyes catching all the light and sparking fury. His fingers bit into Vin's shoulders. "You're not dying! I'm not gonna let you die — let you give up to those ghosts. I never seen you walk away from a fight, and I sure as hell ain't gonna let you walk away from this one!"
Vin jerked out of Larabee's hold. "It ain't yer call — ain't yer ghosts. Ya cain't take 'em from me, any more 'n I can take on yours." He rose and walked to the far end of the porch, drawing in a deep breath to ease his aching heart. "Cain't do it."
Chris looked at the narrow shadow Vin had become in the darkness, as if he were already a fading spirit. "Sarah did it for me, Vin."
"She was your wife, Chris." Desolation underlaid with humor.
"And you're my friend."
Vin was fair rocked back on his heels by that simple statement. He'd never thought to equate friendship with the sort of faith and trust implied by the bond of love. The ache in his heart seemed to spread to his throat, and he couldn't speak, couldn't move. "Ain't the same, " he finally managed to rasp out.
"Hell, Vin. You put yourself in front of a bullet to save me, to save Mary Travis, and you think I won't do this one thing for you?"
"Ya don't have to," Vin turned back towards Chris, afraid to show his hope and his fear. He kept his face averted, instinctively playing the shadows.
"And you don't have to help me clean out the barn tomorrow, but you will."
It would be all right. Vin knew that as soon as Chris spoke. He came out of the darkness. "Ya sure about that, Larabee?"
Chris smiled. "Yeah, I'm sure." He picked up the whiskey bottle and the mugs. He cast an inquiring glance at Vin. "You comin' in, partner?"
Vin looked at the darkness at his back, and the light beckoning from the doorway and followed Chris inside. He stood a little uncertainly, wondering what he should do, where he should go. He looked at the pile of blankets that was his bed, and knew that he would not be able to sleep anytime soon.
Chris stirred up the fire and put on another log. Vin drifted over and sat down in front of the fire, Indian fashion. He linked his hands together loosely, and stared into the rising flames. He was aware of Larabee's silence, the patience in it, the reluctance to bring any pressure to bear on him if he wasn't ready to take it up. He wasn't ready. Didn't ever think he'd be ready ... but holding the pain to himself was killin' him. He just didn't know if he could speak it.
He looked over at Larabee, standing quiet and considering the fire. Waiting. Vin sighed, breath going out of him in a slow release. Chris heard the surrender and sank down beside him. Vin closed his eyes and looked deep into his past.
"My ma was a good woman. Righteous, like Josiah would say. Don't remember much about her, but she always told me I had t'be strong and do honor to my pa's name. I never knew him — but it was like he was always there, looking down on us. My grandpa took me in after she died. He was her pa, and he raised me like he raised her — he wasn't educated neither, but he knew right and wrong, and could quote the Bible good as Josiah."
Vin frowned, paused a moment to gather his thoughts. "After he was gone, I's sent to th'orphanage." His mouth curved bitterly. "There's a place t'make ya wonder if God gives a fuck what happens once yer born. Claimed they was Christian while they's starvin' and beatin' ya half t'death. Stayed there fer six months, an' then figgered I's better off on my own. I done things I warn't proud a' doin', but I lived an' found my way back t'Texas. The Comanche are a lot kinder t' strangers than th' Christians at that orphanage. But I warn't one of them — an' when th' war broke out, I was dumb enough to sign on, thinkin' it was somethin' that would honor the Tanner name."
He shivered. "I told ya what th'army did t' me, Chris. Ain't no use in sayin' more." Another long tremor worked its way down his spine, and Chris looked at him sharply.
"The last few weeks musta raised a lot of ghosts. No wonder y'ain't sleepin." The lazy words were betrayed by the concern in his eyes. and Vin was grateful for the tact and the concern, both. He rubbed his chest, but the hurt was less than it had been, and he was suddenly weary. He blinked, trying to focus on the present, and on Chris' face.
The fatigue must have shown, for Chris stood up and stretched out the kinks in his back. "You stay up any longer, pard and you're gonna tip headfirst into the fire." When he saw the flare of panic in Vin's eyes, he crouched down. "Listen to me, Vin. You lay down. I'll be sittin' in the chair, and if you happen to start dreamin', I'll be here. I'll chase the ghosts, Vin. You just sleep."
It sounded so simple. So perfect and achingly simple, that Vin believed it. He lay down cautiously, pulled the blankets over his shoulders, settled his head into the crook of his arm, and fell asleep.
Chris let the past come to him as he watched over his sleeping friend. Sarah's presence was so strong in the quiet darkness that he believed if he wished it hard enough, she would appear. Funny thing was, he would have wished her there for Vin — to be with him, to take away his pain, to lay her healing hands on him and draw the nightmares away. Vin didn't deserve to bear those burdens without rest or ease.
Lord, how he wanted that for Vin. Losing his Ma so young was a hard thing; and the night terrors of a child paled when set next to the horrors a man's mind could conjure up out of experience and hard living. Chris didn't dream much anymore — at least none that he remembered clearly. But then, he didn't sleep much either — not the deep sleep that invited dreaming. Chris supposed there were men in this world, sleek, self-satisfied bastards like Titus Roche who slept sound so matter what evils they inflicted on their victims. But Roche was sleeping in Hell, and Vin didn't deserve to be haunted by that man's death.
Chris moved his chair closer to Vin. He settled in, considering the sleeping tracker. He looked worn out, young and vulnerable; his armor of sharp wits and wary alertness stripped away. You wouldn't think to look at him there was all that turmoil inside his slim, quiet body.
Chris knew something of that turmoil; guilt and grief, anger gone unspoken and tearing like a knife in the heart. It had left him scarred, bitter, and alone for so long that he had nearly forgotten the part of him that had been husband, father, and friend. He'd often wondered what would have happened to him if he had not walked out of that saloon and seen Tanner on the corner opposite, issuing an unspoken challenge to save Nathan's life. He'd never thought it was his own life that would be saved, as well.
Vin stirred in his sleep, fingers fretting at the covers, and Chris sat forward, watching for signs of deepening distress. Tanner's chest lifted in a breath, and Chris went to him, laying a firm hand on his shoulder. Vin gasped and sat up; opened his eyes, confused for a moment, then as if he remembered Chris' promise, the tension left him, and he sank back down with a sigh. Chris kept his hand on his shoulder until the hard contours of Vin's face softened with sleep, and only then did he slouch down in his chair and allow himself the luxury of falling into a light doze.
Vin woke as dawn began brightening the windows. That he had slept at all was a surprise, and that he should have slept deeply was a wonder. He turned his head, blinking the drowsiness from his eyes, waiting for their focus to sharpen. Chris had pulled the chair next to the bed of blankets and his long-fingered, lax hand was no more than a slight twitch away from Vin's shoulder.
He remembered then, waking on the edge of the nightmare, and Chris' touch guiding him back to safety. He was more grateful than he could say, but he didn't know how to tell Chris that. Seemed what he had done went beyond mere thanks. He shook his head at Larabee's contorted posture as he slept in the chair. He'd given Vin the rest he'd so desperately needed, and was going to pay for it with a stiff neck. Didn't seem right, somehow.
Moving cautiously, he stood up, muscles aching in protest from the work he had done yesterday, his leg throbbing from the slow-healing wound, the hole in his chest still sensitve to movement. But he no longer felt dragged down by exhaustion. He went outside for fresh air and to take care of his body's needs, and when he returned to the cabin, Chris was awake, and coffee brewing.
Chris turned from the stove. "Thought you might have taken off," he said quietly.
Vin took the offered mug of coffee. "After a second look at that barn, I thought I might," he drawled, relieved that Chris wasn't watching him like he was some piece of fragile glass. "But I figgered I owe'd ya fer puttin' me up. I got a good night's sleep, so ya might as well put me ta work, Larabee."
Chris understood the implied gratitude, and wouldn't embarrass Vin by making a point of acknowledging it. "Then let's get to it," he said.
It took all morning to clear the hay and debris from the barn. Chris kept an eagle-eye on Vin to make sure he didn't do anything to incur Nathan's wrath. But Tanner seemed willing to pace himself and let Chris do the heavier work. Still, when it looked like he was wearing down, Chris stabbed his own pitchfork into a pile of hay and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
"Break time, partner. If I suck in any more bits of hay, I'll start neighin'."
Vin made a sound like a whickering horse, mocking him, but grateful for the time to rest; he was too proud to admit he was tiring, even if he suspected that was the reason Chris was calling for a break.
Chris got cold water from the spring, and two apples. They sat on the shaded porch, ate and drank, resting from the hard work. Vin finished his apple and lay back, his legs crossed at his ankles and his head pillowed on his arms. The ache of honest labor felt good through his body, and the ghosts that haunted his nights seemed far away and faint. He closed his eyes, not thinking of anything beyond picking out the individual threads of melody from the tapestry of birdsong filling the air. He drifted from waking, to a half-dream, to sleep.
The scent of Larabee's cheroot teased him awake — he thought he'd only dozed off, but the shadows were long and the low angle of the sun laid warm rays across his body. He drew in a deep breath, let it out, and sat up slowly.
Chris was leaning on the rail, looking out over his land. He'd changed his shirt, and his blond hair was damp; other than that, he seemed to not have moved from the porch. When he heard Vin's sigh, he turned to him, smiling.
"Feeling better?"
Vin rubbed his eyes. "Shit, I ain't used t'sleepin' in midday." He yawned. "Ya could have waked me."
Chris arched a sarcastic brow. "Yeah — it ain't like you needed to sleep, Tanner." He stood over Vin and offered his hand to pull him to his feet.
Vin grimaced, got up, and slanted Larabee a glance. "Thanks, Chris. I reckon I did." His brows drew level. "I didn't dream — it was like I's sunk in a deep, dark, quiet place. But I wasn't alone ..." A blush came to his cheeks, as if that was something to be ashamed of. He looked away, brushed a few stalks of hay from his clothing. "Hell, don't pay me no never mind, Chris. I'm still half-sleepin'. He picked at a few more hay seeds. "Think I'll clean up some." He limped inside, came out a few minutes later with fresh clothing over his arm and headed towards the stream.
After he washed the sweat and itchy bits of hay from his body, he sat in the late afternoon sun until the light breeze started gooseflesh rising on his skin. He dressed and made his way back to the cabin, with a growing hope in his breast. The trees and sky and honey-colored light glowed with a new-minted freshness — or perhaps it was himself that was new-minted and coming out of the darkness.
Chris saw the changes in Vin; in the set of his jaw, the sure, light paces with scarcely a halt, the calm in his blue eyes. He kept that awareness to himself, just dished out the potage of peas, potatoes, and ham, quietly gratified when Vin ate hungrily, mopping up the remains of the thick broth with a chunk of bread. He watched his friend coming back to life, and marveled at the resilience at the heart of him.
Small steps, he figured. Sometimes small steps were all a man could take.
It was almost a ritual, to take whiskey and coffee outside and watch the sunset draw colors from the land to paint the sky. Vin stretched out his legs and leaned back on his elbows, the tilt of his chin allowing the last remnants of light to touch his face. There were things he had to say to Chris, none of them easy in the telling, but needing to be spoken.
Chris waited. The night was quiet, the coming darkness gentle. When Vin spoke, his voice was like a cat's paw of wind rippling the surface of still water.
"Ya know what I done during the war, Chris. Ya told me 'bout yer war an' yer ghosts — but they was ghosts you didn't make. Not the way I did."
Chris's hand brushed over Vin's. "Wasn't your fault, what they made you do. No one would say it was, pard."
Vin shook his head. "I cain't pretend I didn't know what I was doin'. I was huntin' men like they was no more'n animals, and I reckon I'm payin' fer that still, what with the bounty on me, an' all. Seems like ... some sorta justice —" He could sense that Chris was about to object and he stilled him with a motion of his hand.
"Eli Joe ain't the ghost hauntin' my dreams, anyways." A glint of humor silvered the surface of his eyes before he continued. "Swore I wasn't gonna do that again — stalk a man and kill him unawares."
"You didn't," Chris said.
"I didn't, but thinkin' on it — knowin' that if I didn't take that shot at Roche, Mary was gonna die — I was scairt. Didn't think I could do it." He fell silent. "I was shakin', Chris. Until I took that shot, I was shakin'." He dropped his head in his hands. His bowed shoulders trembled and Chris set his hand there, feeling the hard curve of bone too sharp and close to the skin.
"Jesus, Vin." He cleared his throat of the stone that was lodged in there. "You did it. You saved Mary, you saved me. You did it with Roche's bullet in you, and bleedin' out your heart's blood." He stood up, his hand still braced on Vin's shoulder as he rose. "You saved more lives than y'ever took, Vin. Including mine by just bein' on that corner and askin' me t'walk with you. You tell that to your ghosts."
He went to the far end of the porch and leaned against the support, looking out into the night, and thought that darkess was not any more mysterious and frightening than the ghosts that lingered in the mind and heart.
He heard Vin get up from the step, could almost feel the disturbance in the air as he grappled for control, and then the soft scuff of his boots as he paced to Chris' side. "Ya think them ghosts'll listen?" he asked.
"You send 'em to me if they don't," Chris said lightly, and then in solemn promise. "You don't have to fight alone, Vin. Never again."
He didn't know what to say to that. He had known from the first that he could trust Chris to watch his back, to fight beside him, to risk his physical life without question; that he would stand against the shades that haunted his heart was so unexpected and breathtaking, that words, which had never come with ease, failed him entirely. He nodded, that slight inclination of his head that served to express so much ... gratitude, comprehension, acquiescence, determination.
Chris saw that motion and understood every nuance. He didn't need words from Vin. He never had.
Two days later Chris and Vin rode in to Four Corners and dismounted with the weary, satisfied air of men who had worked hard and well. They led their thirsty horses to the water trough, let them drink, then tethered them in front of the Standish Tavern.
Chris pushed open the bat-wing doors and stepped inside, his black clothes so powdered with dust that they were gray. He made a line for their usual table.Vin took off his hat, whacked it against his thigh, and lifted the sweat-soaked hair from his neck. For autumn coming up fast, it had turned unseasonably warm, and he had a powerful thirst.
He ambled towards the bar and held up two fingers. "Beer. Cold as ya got," he winked at the girl serving him, and she responded with a blush and a smile. "And two more, when ya git a chance."
He took the mugs over to the table and sat down with a sigh. "S'good ta be back," he said. "Yer a goddamn slave driver, Larabee." He raised his mug, and Chris responded with a snort of laughter and an answering salute.
Vin drained his mug and slouched even lower in his chair. He closed his eyes. "Tired."
Chris' eyes narrowed. Tanner still looked fine-drawn, but the fragility that had so worried Nathan was fading. The hollowed orbits beneath his eyes were less bruised and translucent. He'd slept the last two nights through, eaten everything Chris had put in front of him with good appetite, and seemed to be healing well, physically. But there were moments when his blue eyes had taken on a far-away, desolate expression and Chris knew he was walking the ghost-paths again. He knew from his own life that it was a hard way to turn from, and a long battle to fight.
A man's ghosts were always with him, sometimes clutching at his heart with chilly fingers of memory, sometimes whispering to him like the sigh of wind through pines. You couldn't chase them away, or wish them away. You lived with them; the savage and the gentle, alike.
Chris drank his beer and let Vin doze.
Nathan saw the two horses tethered in front of the saloon; Peso and Chris' black. That their riders were at the saloon and not at his doorstep, only slightly mitigated his worry. He shoved the doors open with a large, flat palm and went into the semi-darkness.
They were there, Larabee and Tanner. The gunslinger was staring into space, an expression on his hard face that struck to Nathan's heart, and he looked immediately to the slender Texan slouched in the chair opposite Larabee. Lord Jesus, he uttered in silent prayer and crossed to the table in three long strides.
Vin slitted open a blue eye and lifted his hand in a two-fingered salute to the healer. "Howdy, Nathan. Grab yerself a beer an' join us."
"Vin?" Nathan was unbelieving and hugely relieved. He scanned Tanner's face anxiously, restraining himself from putting out a hand to touch him for reassurance that he was indeed much better than he had been when he'd ridden out just a few days earlier. It was damn near miraculous. "Vin?" he repeated.
"That's my name. Don't wear it out," Tanner drawled and squinted up at Jackson. He pushed himself semi-upright. "Stop gapin' at me, Doc. Set down, maybe I should git yer beer. Yer looking peculiar." He stood up and went to the bar, moving with scarcely a hitch, Nathan noted.
He looked at Larabee and shook his head. "Don't know what sorta magic ya got out at that place a' yours, Chris. But it done him a world a' good. I didn't know what I'd find ..."
Chris smiled. "No magic. Hard work, fresh air. Gives a man an appetite, is all."
"He's healin'," he said softly. "You done what I couldn't, Chris."
Chris' eyes went to Vin where he stood leaning easily against the bar. "He saved my life, Nate. All I did was give up a few nights' sleep." He picked up his mug and joined Vin at the bar.
It wasn't all. Nathan knew the chains of the past were strong, tethering unwilling ghosts to the heart the way sinew bound muscle to bone. You could cling to those chains and let them gall your soul, or break them and live free. Either way there was going to be pain. Nathan looked at the two men; gunslinger and tracker; mirror-image souls if he'd ever met them. Haunted with memories and pain, but no longer bearing them alone.
He figured it came down to living with your ghosts, or dying with them. Seemed that Tanner and Larabee had made their choice. They would live, and their ghosts would fade.
The End
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