If Tomorrow Never Comes
A meeting—by chance—and two futures were changed
One cloudy, rainy day,
When just outside the liv'ry door
A young man made his way.
The story's familiar to both, having been
Told from time to time,
One last retelling, the mem'ries so dear
Before the final climb . . .
Angry.
Oh, I was angry that afternoon. Angry, embarrassed, and well . . . afraid. Looking back, I can't imagine what you saw in me . . . but I'm awful thankful you saw something.
Oh, I thought I'd done everything right. I left Indiana with nothing but Papa's ragged boots on my feet, an old rifle I found in the barn, and Mama's ring on my finger. That's all that was left. I'd sold the rest to pay for Papa's stone. It wasn't much; his name 'n' the dates. Pneumonia took him, three years after cholera took Mama.
I worked my way to Saint Genevieve, trading chores for food when I was lucky, trapping rabbits and eating berries between settlements, and earning a bit here and there in fledgling towns.
Then it happened. Crossing a mountain-fed stream, Sandy stumbled on God knows what, and down we went.
I righted myself, cursed the stream, the water, the rocks. I was about to add Sandy to the list when I turned . . . and before I could close my mouth, my chest felt near crushed.
I'd raised Sandy since birth, a gift from my grandpa, and well, his leg was twisted and . . .
I walked the rest of the way to Saint Genevieve.
You always said it was fate. I wouldn't've been In Saint Genevieve that day, or comin' out of that liv'ry empty handed if things had been different.
And there you were.
The prettiest, most delicate rain-soaked gal I'd ever laid eyes on. And me, two weeks' worth of whiskers, trail dirt enough to make my tan jacket look brown, mud four inches high on my papa's boots, 'n' a thread-bare felt hat I was slow to tip—that's how taken I was; Mama and Papa would be ashamed. I was taught better manners than that.
Took me pert near a lifetime to get hold of myself. At least it felt like a lifetime. Course, you remember that, I'm sure. You stood there, cheeks risin' with that sweet smile of yours . . . your eyes laughin' at the clumsy lad that nearly knocked you down.
In that moment, with the rain beatin' on the livery roof 'n' mud sloshin' with ev'ry buggy that went by, and the sound of children findin' mischief in the early spring rain . . . In that moment, I knew my life was about to change, and change, it did. A ragged young man not sure of who he was or where he'd find a home and a lovely young woman with a heart as big as the Missouri and the sense of a schoolgirl . . . Ha, I mean, you did pick me . . .
The story goes on, and years passed by,
A town became a home.
So settled, content, so strong as one
With no desire to roam.
The story's familiar to both, having been
Told from time to time,
One last retelling, the mem'ries so dear
Before the final climb . . .
What a life we had. In the beginning, I reckoned I couldn't have loved you more. You took on our future with grace, dignity, and more patience than this man deserves. Than any man deserves. I mean, a banker's daughter from Saint Genevieve being toted to a fledgling town in Missouri Territory that changed hands more than a two bit piece in a wayside saloon. New Madrid. The Spanish took it from the Indians, sold it to the French, and thanks to the Louisiana Purchase, you and I were able to settle there.
And settle, we did. With a job that paid more in one month than I'd ever seen at one time—and less than some of the poorer folk had back in Saint Genevieve, you turned a drafty, ramshackle cabin into a home. Our home.
You made it so as I could take care of things with no worry for you—but I did worry.
You cooked and cleaned and mended, putting my needs afore yours, doin' for me first and you last.
You shouldered sleepless nights, not knowing if I'd come home in one piece or if I'd make it back at all.
And the children. So many hungry children. And you, my dear, managed to scrimp, barter, even beg at times, to feed them whenever you could. Their children . . .
The years flew by, bad days, more good,
Each blessed with love and pride,
New friends, new joys, new tests, new towns
New peace he must provide.
The story's familiar to both, having been
Told from time to time,
One last retelling, the mem'ries so dear
Before the final climb . . .
You told me once it didn't matter where we lived, as long as we were together. I knew so well what you meant, but a man has to draw the line when it comes to protecting his wife. Some of those towns were home to the most ruthless outlaws, men who were sick in the head, convicts, greedy gold hunters and the like. I could never put you in the middle of a place like that. That's why I accepted this job, this town, this place we call home. Virginia City.
Oh, it's had its share of outlaws and probably always will. But by and large, most of the people who came here, whether passing through or settling down, were decent, trying to find ways to afford a respectable life. A few have done just that, and more are coming in every day. Like that man and his two sons we met last week, before . . .
I . . . I haven't cried in years. Mama always said, "Save your tears for a time when it seems your heart is broken beyond repair." I cried when she died, and when Papa died. Then you and I ran into each other—I mean actually ran into each other, and my heart was healed.
I'm crying now, my dear Mary. And I can't imagine that my heart will ever heal if . . .
Hm. I don't know if you can hear me, but I can hear you tellin' me the doc's right. I have to face it. You might not make it through the night. There's nothin' to be done, no cure, no medicine, no . . . hope.
You'd say I'll be just fine.
You'd tell me I can make my future anything I want it to be.
You'd look at me with those twinkling, blue eyes I love so much and you'd say I'm the best sheriff this town or any other's ever seen.
You'd say you wished even more than ever that we'd've had children, but we didn't and it ain't no good to dwell on what was not to be.
You'd . . . uh . . . you'd say you love me, and Mary, there's still a part of me that can't understand what it was you saw in me.
And Mary, my sweet Mary, I love you more than I can say.
You told me once I should be content with today and not concern myself so with the trials of the tomorrows to come.
More than ever, Mary, tonight, I want to do just that.
The story's familiar to both, having been
Told from time to time,
One last retelling, the mem'ries so dear
Before the final climb . . .