Pulling down the shade over the window in the door and hearing the lock click satisfyingly into place, William Tompkins let out a heavy sigh. He'd let damned few see him like this but now that he was alone to trudge up the stairs, it didn't matter. There was no use hiding from his own self.

About halfway up the stairs, it all hit him. This had just been too much. Oh he knew what others thought. He knew how they talked about him, the people of the town. He especially knew how the young men out at the Express station thought of him. Maybe another man might've made damned sure they understood but William Tompkins was not another man.

He was proud to a fault and he was wounded in ways he scarcely admitted to himself. As he leaned against the wall trying to wrap his head around the abrupt changes that had been thrust on him in such a short time, he cringed at how downright mean he must seem right now. Well, if people were intent on judging then he'd just have to let them be wrong—at least partly.

Slowly he made his way the rest of the way up the stairs and sank into his favorite chair with a loud sigh. Sure, it was probably easy to judge him from the outside. He'd probably judge himself if he wasn't living it. To think they were gone, totally gone from him. In his mind, he had buried them. They were dead. He had grieved them, come to terms with being a widower, a childless father.

He had gone through the mourning alone. There was no one. His siblings were far away and hadn't been thrilled with him taking his family out west to begin with. Had he asked for sympathy, he'd have gotten none from them.

So he became the bitter old man everyone grumbled about. He scowled and bellowed and snarled at people and consoled himself that they would be worse if they had his pain to deal with.

Now that he was alone and everything was over, he allowed the tears to silently travel over his weathered cheeks. For a moment he had his fondest wish and dream. He had it in his grasp and he didn't know what to do with it. It wasn't as he envisioned. Given time he would have come to terms. He would have been grateful for them. He would have accepted and loved them as they deserved.

Time was something he wasn't granted though. Time was fleeting. He should know such things by now. But he hadn't learned. He thought he would have the time.

He thought how funny it was that no matter how clearly life had shown him to treasure every moment, to remember how days could fly, how things could change in an instant, that he still believed that time was a commodity he could take for granted.

Now he'd had more time with them, with those most precious to him. He'd been granted what anyone would want or desire and he had not one happy recollection. He'd wasted the chance. He could only look back at the hurt he caused. How he had punished them for his own failings.

Jenny now wanted nothing to do with him. That wasn't likely to change. She was only going to the people who blamed him for everything. If it was possible to place more blame and anger on him than he did himself, they did.

The moment the stage pulled away, he wanted to jump on the nearest horse and ride after it. He wanted to pull her out of the stage, to beg her forgiveness, to tell her how he'd missed her, how sorry he was that she'd been taken, that he hadn't welcomed her with open arms…to tell her how he loved her. He did love her. He loved them both and would to the end of his days. He tried to recall if he had ever told either of them that. He wasn't raised to where men said such things.

He regretted being too much a slave to how he was raised. He had attitudes he was seeing weren't right, weren't helpful. He just didn't know how to be any other way. He thought maybe he could learn, thought if given the time, he could become a man they could have been proud of. Time. It always came down to time.

The picture of his family…what had once been his family…sat next to him. It mocked him. Their eyes accused him. He wanted to turn the picture down, break the eye contact with those he had failed. But he just couldn't.

Words swirled in his head. Apologies, explanations…none of them could make their way from his mouth. He was rendered as mute as that bald kid that rode for Teaspoon. His wife…his little girl…everything in the world that had truly meant anything at all. They were there and they knew what a failure he was. They knew he was not any kind of a man at all.

Now everyone else knew it too. They knew what he threw away. They knew he chose being stuck in his ways and his misery over the hope of his family. They knew what a coward he was. He chose the devil he knew over the one he did not.

There wasn't another man walking the earth that would make that choice. He chose the safety of his grief, his familiar grief, over the chance that he could have his family back.

When the sun cleared the horizon the next morning, he was still in that chair with the accusing faces of his wife, child and even his younger and more optimistic self staring at him.

He had made the decision the day before to not be open today. He just couldn't bear it. The looks from the fine residents of Sweetwater had been bad enough before but now, they were just a mirror and one he couldn't bear looking in.

He still made his way down the stairs. Work would do him good, maybe. If it didn't, he could always head out and go fishing. He couldn't think of the last time he had just sat next to a lazy pond with a line in the water not caring if he got so much as a nibble.

He had just taken up a broom to at least tidy the place before thinking about the rest of his day when a tap came on the glass of the door. He tried to ignore it but then a face appeared at the window next to the door.

Nora Duncan. The newly widowed sister of the banker, Carson Hughes. She had come to live with her brother and his wife after her husband's passing. He strode to the door as patiently as he could and opened it just a sliver.

"Mrs. Duncan," he said with a growing edge to his voice. "I'm not opening today. I told everyone yesterday and the sign is right there."

"I know that, Mr. Tomkins," she said softly, gently, as if she was soothing a child who'd been awakened by a nightmare. "I surely can't blame you. It's just…I made a pie for you. I know it's silly. I…I'm sure that a mulberry pie isn't going to make everything alright. I know better than most it won't."

She clearly knew she was babbling and she looked up at him helplessly.

"It's not the pie, really…I thought you might…need to talk."

He began to shake his head and then he saw it. In her eyes was the same defeated look he found in his own. Behind the accusing look, behind his disappointment in himself. Behind all the self-loathing was the same broken look Mrs. Nora Duncan wore. His hurt came forward. The pain he tried to hide was now right there where he had to look, had to see, had to feel.

"Maybe I do at that," he whispered. "I'd ask you in for some coffee but the gossips in this town are terrible."

"We could walk," she suggested.

He nodded and soon found himself carrying the pie as Nora—she insisted they do away with formalities—strolled next to him with her hand lightly in the crook of his elbow. The air in his lungs felt good, healing and refreshing. Not being alone felt good too.

"Thank you," he managed to say. Speaking was hard. He was out of practice at anything but growls and bellows.

"Oh, do not thank me, William," she replied. "I was purely selfish. It's been terribly lonely since my Daniel passed on. I don't mean just that it's lonely without him. I mean…I don't live in the same world as other people anymore. Carson has his Doris. Being a widow is to live in another world entirely. It's a paler world…like a shirt that's been washed and dried in the sun too many times. It might have been a color at one time and you might still be able to almost tell what color it was…but the life is gone from it."

"You've still got a lot of living to do, Nora," he said finding a soothing voice that became more natural the longer he spent with her.

"I have years and years left," she agreed. "So do you. But I think you know as well as I do that…living is harder than it sounds."

"I ain't ready for…uh…living yet."

"Oh, William," she half cried with a blush. "That is not what I am talking about. Why my Daniel isn't three months in the grave."

"I…I didn't mean offense, Nora-"

"I'm not taking any," she told him. "I just want to be clear. I'm not looking for that kind of…companionship right now. I just…well, I feel like maybe you understand where I am. That you know what it's like when the color's gone all out of your world."

"I imagine I do at that," he mused. "I never thought it in quite those words…it's strange. I've been a widower a long time and she only just died."

They walked a ways farther until they found a spot with nice shade and a large fallen tree they could sit on. Nora produced two forks from her small purse and waited for him to take a bite.

"I can say that your husband was a very lucky man," he said closing his eyes.

"He was always partial to my mulberry pie," she said with a small giggle. "He actually was just partial to pie, any kind."

"A man after my own heart," he said with a hearty chuckle that surprised even himself.

"You have a wonderful laugh, William. You should laugh more often."

"I haven't felt like a good laugh in a really long time, Nora…thank you."

"It does my heart good to feel like I'm doing something useful again. Making you laugh feels useful."

There was a pause, a moment to think of what it could mean to the both of them to be able to speak openly about the things that were too often kept hushed. Then Nora spoke again.

"Tell me about her."

He looked up stunned and the knitted his brow together for a moment.

"I understand if it's too soon," she said quickly. "But I like to talk about Daniel. I feel like when I talk about him, I can keep pieces of him. No one ever asks and most people feel strange hearing about him. Like I'm invoking ghosts or something."

"No one ever asks," he conceded. "Even before when…well, when I just thought she was gone…I thought that's how it was. I thought maybe it was wrong to talk about her, or think about her. Maybe it was even wrong to still love her."

"It's not. The most right thing in the world is to keep loving. Don't let death take love from you."

He sighed heavily and for some reason he did not try to hide the moisture forming in his eyes.

"Sally…that was her name. She was…well, she was strong for one thing. Stronger than me by a long shot," his eyes drifted far away, not as much in space but in time. "I could never have endured all she did. I'm not as strong or brave as she was and I don't expect I ever will be."

He swallowed hard and looked at his helpless and useless hands. Hands as complacent as the rest of him in letting go of the only things he should have ever held tightly. He looked up to see Nora smiling at him. It was an encouraging look, sweet and tender. Something shifted in William Tompkins right then and everything he had once hidden suddenly felt like it needed airing.

"You know when she was living with the Indians they called her Shining Eyes," he said softly. "Sometimes I think that's better, you know…how they call people. What does Sally even mean? Or William? Or Nora? But Shining Eyes…that makes sense. And it fit. Her eyes could sparkle. She could be full of mischief or fiery anger…or gentle love but her eyes would shine like the sun whichever it was."

"That's a lovely memory to have of her."

"Shouldn't just be a memory," he said tersely. "She should be here. If…if I hadn't…"

"You mustn't blame yourself, William. This had to have been terribly shocking for you. I can't even imagine how confused you must have been. You're only human after all. We all can look back and see what we should have done clear as day. But I guarantee every person you pass on the street has more than a couple things they wish they'd done different."

"Do you?"

"Of course," she said with a chuckle under her breath. "There are so many things. Little things and big alike. Do you know what my last words to Daniel were? We'd argued that morning before he left the house. I wanted to go and visit Carson for a while and Daniel didn't want me to go. I yelled that I would do as I pleased and he'd just be lucky if I was still there when he got back that evening. He walked out and I slammed the door behind him."

A lone tear meandered its way down her cheek. Her voice didn't crack and she showed no other signs of crying.

"His death was an accident," she said, her voice still clear and strong. "I know that. But to think the last thing he heard from me was a threat to leave him…one I forgot within a half hour of uttering it. I should have told him I loved him. Or at least kissed him goodbye. We just never know how much time we have, do we?"

"No we don't," he agreed softly. "Even once we get old enough to know the time is dwindling, it's hard to remember that we might not get a tomorrow…or even a later."

The quiet settled over them warm and comforting. There was an ease in knowing that most of the things they might want to say didn't need saying.

"Nora," he said daring to break the near sacred silence. "I haven't had a friend in a good long time. I'm not sure how to do this. I want to be your friend though."

"Me too," she said. "I don't know how it works either. I like this though. I like feeling like I'm not alone here."

"Maybe we don't have to live in this other world forever."

"I'd like to think we don't. I'd like to think that maybe we can put color back in these old faded shirts."

He smiled at her and laughed his happiness. It was happiness he didn't think he'd find for a long time, if ever.

"I think maybe we can."

Yes, even Tompkins gets pie. I hadn't really planned on it. I had only tossed the possibility in my head a little. But this story crystallized before any of the others did so I went with it. Anyway, I hope you all liked it. I have a hard time seeing very many characters as completely unredeemable. I think that sometimes people struggle with things and I could see glimmers of him trying from time to time. Maybe that's enough and maybe it isn't but if a person saw his faults and wanted to better himself, I just think maybe he should be allowed to try. Some of you might agree and some might not. You are all entitled to your opinions. I just know that I am not without my faults and I have been wrong before and have made mistakes. If all I ever was or could be was a pile of faults and mistakes and errors in thinking...well, why would I even bother? People have given me chances to learn and to change and better myself. Maybe a friendship with Nora could be just the thing to help him change the things he wants to about himself.

Of course maybe it's just that I've been watching old episodes of High Chaparral and the character Don Collier plays in that is quite likable. Hard to say.

Anyway...there are two more pie stories to come. One I have half an inkling about and the other is just a mystery.-J