A/N: Usually I don't like fics that alter the original story's ending—especially an ending as beautiful as in BBM—but here I am being a hypocrite :) What can I say, I'm a fangirl at heart. However, everything I write ends up kind of quirky, so this is my own version of Ennis & Jack's happy ending—an odd sort of what-if story with a teeny-tiny bit of fantasy mixed in. I hope y'all like it! Time permitting, it'll be a three-part story some day; this is part one.

Also of note: I read the story right before seeing the movie (same day) so the two are intertwined in my brain. I pick and choose some aspects of each. However, I did read the story first, so some things—most notably character descriptions—are my own interpretations based on the limited details in the story rather than on the actors/script/etc of the movie. So this is more of a book sequel, but I'm not trying to imitate Proulx's writing style (I'm far, far too wordy...) and the dialect I use for the characters isn't exactly like the book but is based on how people spoke at a ranch from my childhood. Oh, and original characters (c) Annie Proulx, of course! Feedback welcome, please :)


Signal, WY, 1983

The last Sunday morning in May, Ennis lay twisted into a ball like a cat on his sagging fold-out bed, so lost in dreams he didn't hear the car turn down the ranch's long gravel driveway. Half-dreaming, anyway, awake at dawn out of habit but tempered by last night's whiskey, trying to fall back asleep or at least disappear into a daydream, not caring much which. A bottle drooped in one hand and a cigarette in the other, both spent, but in his dreams it was five years ago and he gripped reins in his hands and above him no aluminum trailer roof but blue-gray clouds tumbling down from the mountains:

He ambled along on a strawberry roan he'd fancied taking out on the trails, Georgia Peach. Ahead, Jack steered a black stallion up the rocky slope, trotting too fast for the terrain—the horse's choice, not the rider's—and Ennis was laughing and making bets with himself on when and how many times Jack would get thrown. Ennis hadn't intended to bring that horse on their fishing trip but the mare he'd planned for Jack had thrown a shoe getting into the trailer that morning, so it came down to either the stallion or walking. The rancher Ennis worked for, Jed Miller, bought that horse and a couple others for some kind of good deal when the bank took another ranch in town. Two mares, a colt, and then this one: biggest quarter horse Ennis had ever seen, stubborn and unruly, not quite green anymore but rough string if he was feeling generous. Dice, Miller had named him, because it was a toss-up whether you'd stay on. Ennis thought he'd have made a better bronc than cow horse. He'd also have made a good joke on Jack, rodeo show-off, always asking Ennis to bring a challenging horse. Ennis stood smirking in the stalls a few days before, considering it until he realized the joke would've been on him when he'd have to drive all the way back to exchange Dice for a rideable horse. But horseshoeing was nothing to rush, and Jack wasn't one to turn down a chance for excitement, so there they were anyway.

Up in the mountains, they made it halfway to their planned campsite before the storm crashed down from between the peaks, wind thrashing the land and sky, interchanging rain and sunshine, finally thunder. They climbed up to a ridge overlooking a long valley, watched the clouds gather like a flock of black sheep. Turn around or keep on going? they mused, but they didn't have time to ponder it. Lightning pulsed through half the sky, white hot blood in forked veins. Thunder roared right on its tail, not even enough time to count, echoes ricocheting off the crags. The horses spooked. Dice started bucking like he was meant for rodeo, damn near swapping ends, and Ennis snorted a hearty laugh as it took Jack a second to switch from "combine salesman of the year" back into rodeo mode. Another lightening flash and Georgia Peach followed suit, rearing up with more energy than Ennis knew she had, and on his quick trip from horseback to ground he figured it served him right for laughing at Jack and for betting against a friend in the first place.

The rain hit. Georgia took off galloping down the mountain. Propping himself up on sore elbows in the mud, Ennis watched her reins flicking the air behind her until she was gone around the bend. Then, grunting, he rolled over and watched Jack still holding on until that wild stallion finally settled. Never did throw him. Damn smug-looking rodeo cowboy. At least Miller would be pleased his crazy horse was finally broke. Ennis stood, spat out some dirt, begrudged Jack a smile; if he wasn't the better rider, Jack sure had a better way with the animals. Ennis glanced over his shoulder toward where Georgia had gone, then, smile spreading so vaguely only Jack could've noticed, held out his thumb like a hitchhiker.

Dice hopped a bit but didn't buck when Ennis hauled himself up onto the saddle behind Jack. They rode back that way, Jack at the reins and Ennis squeezed soundly against him, sometimes holding his waist, sometimes draping an arm over his shoulder and wrapping it around as if to contain the heartbeats. Rain forged streams from Jack's hair through the stubble on Ennis's cheek, down his neck, pooling in that valley between heart and spine where their two bodies pressed almost seamlessly, heat radiating through wet denim. Ennis leaned into it, nose burrowed in the sea of dark curls, flushed lips against sun-brown skin, faces separated by only a single layer of water. He drew a slow breath of storm and sweat, whiskey and grass, pines, mountains—always the mountains—and he held it as long as he could, wanting to hold it inside him forever, safe in some dusky, wordless place.

At the first stream crossing, they found Georgia waiting placidly on the bank. She strolled to meet them, snorting affectionately as if glad to see the rider she'd done her best to rid herself of an hour before. Ennis could've let go of Jack and hopped down to reclaim his horse. Her saddle was still in place, reins muddy but intact, fine to ride. He could've let go.

Neither he nor Jack spoke, heat and rain saying all that could ever be spoken, a whisper of need between two pressed bodies. In a fluid motion without a waver in Dice's stride, Jack steered toward the mare and leaned just slightly to grab her reins, handing them over his shoulder to Ennis as Dice plodded into the stream. Ennis took them, collected another long drawn breath and closed his eyes, fingers intertwined with Jack's around the reins; in his grip, water and mud and hot flushed skin, and inside and all around them the soaring mountains. He towed Georgia back that way, reins clenched in two hands tight across Jack's chest, their seam unbroken.

At camp that night, drying in front of a fire too hot for summer storms, Jack fumbled with a match and a drowned cigarette and beside him Ennis fumbled with the tight spigots the rain had coiled into Jack's hair.

"Don't bode well for later," Ennis said nonchalantly, wrapping a curl around his pinky.

Jack flicked the cigarette into the fire. "What's that?" he asked, matching Ennis's tone, leaning into him.

"The horses spookin at a little thunder. Who knows what they're goin a do when ya bring out that harmonica."


Car tires grumbled through the gravel driveway. Jack... Ennis thought, engulfed in the dream, knowing it wasn't anywhere near their next fishing trip in November, knowing by heart the engine roar of Jack's Ford that was far deeper than the approaching car's, jerking upright nonetheless. The empty container of whiskey clattered on the floor, twisting circles like a game of spin the bottle. He kicked it as he hopped toward the trailer door, yanking on jeans, breath ragged, stumbling, big toe stuck in a hole in one pant leg, colliding with the door more than opening it. The outline of a car edged through the approaching dust cloud. By the sofa, the whiskey bottle drifted to a stop.

Ennis huffed a few curse words through tight lips, kicked at his jeans and tore the hole wider finally pulling them on. His next thought was that he was late and it must be Stoutamire coming to find him, but remembered as the whiskey cleared that before leaving for the mountains a few weeks ago he'd wrangled one more day off out of his boss, and then remembered why. Two seconds later he was stamping his boots on and running down the steps as he recognized Junior's station wagon, pausing mid-stride at the sight of someone in the passenger seat—please not Alma, can't handle Alma this early—then taking the last step even quicker when Francine's light blonde hair came into view. Before Junior had even parked the car, the wave of dust overtook the trailer, stinging Ennis's bare chest with its grit, creeping into his mouth through his smile, then blowing on its way as if straight through him.

He wondered why the girls had come to visit so early; they must've woken up to leave not long after going to sleep the night before. Gettin old, he thought, remembering their plans to drive up but not their reason. He hoped they hadn't concocted another scheme to drag him along to church, though for a couple hours with them he always threw on a clean shirt and went along with no hesitation and minimal curse words.

Francie ran to meet him; Junior shut the car door her sister had flung wide open. Ennis bent to scoop up his younger daughter, recalling the last time they had visited and how he had twirled her around in the air for what seemed like a whole blissful day, how her waist-long hair had spun out around her in shiny waves like a field of summer wheat. Today he couldn't lift her past his ankles, rationalized that she must've had an incredible growth spurt in the last two months because it couldn't be his aching and creaking body at fault or all the whiskey swimming around in it, couldn't be. He turned it into a joke, dramatized his effort and gave up with a laughing sigh, telling her she had grown up so much he didn't know if he could call her his little girl anymore. She'd joked about that endearment last time, being sixteen.

"Daddy," Francie giggled, "I'll always be your little girl, even when I'm as tall as you!"

He set her down, backed up a step so his eyes could focus on her: a few tiny, ribboned braids adorned her hair, sunrise glinted off her braces, and was that blush on her cheeks or just laughter? Junior walked over, smile stretched ear to ear across deep dimples. "You won't never be as tall as Daddy," she told her sister.

"It's 'ever,' not 'never,' and I might just yet," Francie replied, having taken to correcting others' grammar ever since Alma and Munroe had transferred her to some upscale high school the year before. Anyway, Ennis knew his older daughter was right about Francie's height, at least. Francie took after Alma, petite and freckled, delicate features set gracefully on a small frame. Junior, despite her namesake, didn't have much of Alma in her, and for that Ennis was secretly glad—might've been why she was his favorite, just by a little bit, though he'd never say it.

Francie turned back toward her father. "Daddy, you're not even ready to go!" Ennis concluded it had to be church, though he must've pondered it a second too long. His little girl frowned. "You forgot, didn't you."

"No! No, I didn't forget, just..." he chuckled, a terrible liar, "you're early—church don't usually start til later—"

"You did so forget, and maybe you wouldn't have if you didn't drink so much whiskey all the time," Francie said matter-of-factly, skipping past her father and up the trailer steps. That she had gotten from Alma too, no doubt about it.

Ennis's face locked in a half-smirk, lips open, letting in dust. He looked over to Junior for help but what help was she, standing there laughing until her face was redder than the sunrise. "It ain't church today, Daddy, it's fishin," she finally said, pointing toward the car where two fishing poles jutted out the rear window.

He remembered then. How could he have forgotten?—must've been that last trip with Jack, their argument, sickness as he drove away, a wasted week of drinking, then spare change gradually filling up an empty coffee tin. Everything jumbled, hadn't quite settled back into place. He told his girls right before he left on that trip that he'd take them fishing when he got back. Sighing, sound turning into a grunt partway through, he ran a calloused hand through his hair and followed Francie into the trailer. Should've known they wouldn't be dressed in jeans and boots for going to church. "I'll be ready in two shakes of a lamb's tail," he called with more energy than he felt. Sixteen and eighteen. Sometimes he talked to them like they were still little girls. With his boot toe he scooted the whiskey bottle under the bed.

The shirt hanging on the bathroom door knob looked clean. He threw it on over his head, sniffed it as it stretched over his nose: no cow shit or itchy scent of straw, clean enough. Catching the reflection of his five-day-old stubble, he decided the fish could wait a couple minutes for him to make himself presentable enough to be seen with his daughters. He soaped up his face, scraped at the graying hair with a razor he should've sharpened weeks ago. Halfway through, he leaned through the doorway and glanced into the main room where the girls waited. Francie was parked at the window, the waves in her hair soaking up the rising sun as she scrubbed the dusty glass with a handkerchief. Ennis smiled, nicked his chin. Her mother's mirror image, Francie was, for good and bad and all in between. Had she been born a few years later, he might've wondered if she was his daughter or Munroe's. Not like Junior, who was unmistakably Ennis's.

He glanced toward his older daughter who was on the floor, elbows leaning on the turned-over wooden potato crate that served double as a coffee table and a footstool. She tucked her hair behind her ear, smiling at something, Ennis could tell from her scrunched-up cheek even though she faced mostly away from him. She'd started out as much Ennis's twin as Francie was Alma's, but gradually something else bloomed up in her, tangible and not. The tawny hair of her childhood darkened, by twelve the color of weak coffee, by sixteen, strong. She still had Ennis's lanky structure, but every time he saw her, her angles had softened a little—a good sign, meant she was eating well. She smiled more, or maybe just smiled more deeply, radiance welling up in her dimples from some place within her. He never knew where her brown eyes came from, certainly not from his gray-blue ones or Alma's green.

Once in a while he allowed himself a chuckle at how Junior, from her appearance, might as well have been his daughter and Jack's; seemed the perfect fusing of them, anyway, if such a thing were possible. Jack's brown eyes, they were, and his dark hair though with gentle waves in place of his tight curls. Summers browned her skin like Jack's, not burnt it like it did Francie's or Ennis's when he was younger. She had Ennis's long, narrow face instead of Jack's round one, Ennis's thin nose and close-set ears. And Jack's big-toothed grin though on cheeks that nearly weren't wide enough to contain it. But Ennis never let the thought linger much longer than a passing smile, because that thought beget thoughts of the mountains, of a ranch together someday, of coins filling up the coffee tin in the back of the cupboard, and that in turn led inexorably to images of tire irons and ditches and blood soaking into the dusty ground. Push it away, he knew; hold it down, suppressed, choked. Open the cupboard every evening, drop the money in, truck needs a new transmission right?—just drop it in without thinking on what it's really for, easier that way, safer.

He finished shaving, dug his tackle box out from under winter clothes and horse blankets in the closet, then rushed into the kitchenette to gulp down the remnants of yesterday's coffee he'd left on the stove. Francie had moved on to dusting the opposite window; Junior still leaned over the little table on the floor. Ennis had a mouthful of cold coffee when he realized what he'd left out on that table the night before. Coffee and air mixed in a gasp down his windpipe. He bent over the sink, coughed and spat, the pot clanging on the floor, coffee splattering. The girls whirled around, the stack of postcards still in Junior's hand. Jack's postcards.

"Are you okay?" Francie asked, and Ennis nodded, held up a hand reassuringly, still coughing out the last of it.

"Coffee too strong?" Junior teased once she saw that he was alright.

"Somethin like that," he finally replied, stooping and halfheartedly wiping up the mess rather than making eye contact with her. Why ya gettin so worked up? They're just pictures of mountains, they don't hardly say nothin...except the one. By the time he stood up, Junior was waiting by the door with her sister, the postcards collected into a poised stack in the center of the table. On top of the pile, like a star crowning a Christmas tree, perched a smaller stack: four torn rectangles, edges tattered, that had once formed a picture of the mountains past Grand Junction, Colorado, mailed September 22, 1973, ragged, warped, and faded from a year tucked in Ennis's chest pocket. He'd kept it there until the sweat and sun and wind took its toll on it, then stowed it somewhere safer. Only after the argument on their last trip did the card find its way back into Ennis's shirt. But he couldn't put it back in his pocket now—Junior had seen it. It had to be just a regular old postcard until the girls were gone, had to stay there on the table like it didn't mean so much.

"Come on, Daddy, the fish are all gonna swim away!" Francie shouted, halfway down the front steps.

"Don't you worry, I told a couple of em to wait around til ya got there," Ennis called. One glance back at the postcards, then out the door, down the stairs, back up, forgot the keys right there on the counter; yep, postcards still there too, going for real now. They packed into the truck, Junior in the middle seat even though Francie was smaller. Ennis worked the key, engine finally turning over once the cab was filled with dust and exhaust and they had to open the windows wide.

Out on the paved road, wind barreling in, he realized he wasn't used to feeling the cold come in through that front pocket.

"Ennis,

Took the long way home. Damn truck broke down halfway up that peak on the front. Real nice country there, not even cold. Let me know about December. We oughta go there, figure its right in the middle. And it ain't cold.

Love, Jack"

They didn't meet in Grand Junction, they met in the same Wyoming mountains as always, and before Jack had even stepped out of his truck, Ennis was stomping over waving the post card like an angry finger. "What're ya thinkin?" he growled from twenty feet away, more of an accusation than a question. Jack's eyebrows raised beneath his hat, his smile sagged. That wasn't quite what Ennis had planned to say, but still his boots kept on stomping. "What're ya thinkin, writin somethin like that?" He shoved the postcard in Jack's face, finger pressed white against the word. Love. "Christ, Jack, writin that shit out in the open for the goddamn world to see." But did ya mean it? Say ya meant it, say so. Say it out loud cause Lord knows I can't.

"It's—it's just a greetin," Jack stammered, his voice notches below Ennis's, "like sayin 'hello,' 'goodbye.' Shit, I dunno, I didn't give it that much thought."

I did—been thinkin bout it a month now, bent it all up from keepin it in my pocket, can't ya see that? Can't ya see it without me havin to say it? And he didn't say it. "That's your problem right there—ya don't think about things, never mind the consequences, just sayin whatever comes into your head like a damn coyote singin to the moon."

"Consequences? It's a fuckin postcard." Jack laughed, but it echoed bitter off the mountains.

"What if they seen it at the post office, huh? What then? It ain't safe. I gotta live here, y'know. What if the mailman read that—that last part?" He still couldn't speak it, couldn't even repeat the word. Even just reading it off with no sentiment, it caught in his throat like a bur, choking.

"The post office ain't got time to be readin your business. Anyway, if they did, who's to say I ain't your brother? Or your daddy or cousin or someone?"

"...My daddy wouldn't a wrote somethin like that to me. Cousin mighta," Ennis said, relenting.

"Yeah," Jack agreed through a long sigh, "well, my daddy wouldn't a sent me a letter to begin with." Another empty chuckle. He hopped out of the truck, no anger but skipping their usual embrace as he walked past, in its place sliding one hand across Ennis's chest, across the pocket that the post card had lived in since September 30th, down his side, grazing his clenched fist, leaving a path of fire like a fuse. "Okay, I won't write it again," he said easily, grabbing a bag from the back of the truck.

"Jack, I..." Write it again. Don't give in that easy. Write it all over the postcard, keep writin it on every goddamn one ya send... Keep singin. The word stuck in his throat, thorns digging in, windpipe strangling around it, pain in shards like something bursting in his chest. The only sound that squeezed through emerged somewhere between a curse and a grunt. Jack threw his hands up in surrender, shuffling over to poke at the fire. Ennis stormed around the other side of the truck, kicked a rock until he felt his toenail split and couldn't feel much else. Bleeding was simpler than that other thing anyway: boots off, wrap something around it, apply pressure, river would wash out the blotches on his sock, no words required.