"What name did you give your child?" the priest asked, looking between the couple standing before him. The woman sighed heavily, shooting her husband a sidelong glare.
"Jesse."
'Jesse James McCree'. Maria would never, ever forgive Bill for taking advantage of the epidural to fill out the birth certificate. Even in the presence of the priest, Bill grinned to himself. There was no way he wasn't going to keep up that little family tradition.
Bill hated it when he couldn't sleep. He'd thought that after a week in the hospital, spending the night in his own bed would help, but even with Maria sleeping soundly on one side and the baby monitor's soft white noise on the other, he found no rest.
He couldn't stop thinking about the priest's words, the promises he'd been asked to make. He hadn't wanted to fight Maria and her family on having a Catholic wedding—it was important to them, and it made her so happy to have the big church wedding she'd always dreamed of. He thought getting Jesse baptized would be the same; after trying so hard and losing two babies already, she'd been adamant about getting him baptized right away, and Bill didn't kick up a fuss. It was just a little water, right? No harm, no foul.
But he'd had to make promises he had no intention of keeping. His word was his bond, that was how he'd been raised, but he sure as hell wasn't going to raise Jesse to be Catholic, or Baptist, or anything else…
He carefully pulled back the covers and began dressing in the dark, shaking out his pants and shirt before pulling them on—a week away was plenty of time for scorpions to have moved in, and the last thing he wanted to do was get med-evaced back to the hospital for stings in unfortunate places. He kissed Maria on the cheek and checked the time on his phone before slipping it in his pocket: 2:18 AM. He'd find work—there was always something to be done on the ranch.
His sock-clad feet patted on the wood floor, and he hesitated in the hall for a moment outside the nursery. It had stood empty for so long, a hollow promise, a bitter reminder. No longer. Jesse slept so peacefully, swaddled tight in his crib while the wave generator played the calm sounds of a sandy beach somewhere out south.
"C'mere, Jesse," Bill whispered, scooping the baby out of the crib and holding him to his chest with great tenderness. "Papa's headin' out fer a while...look after yer mama 'til I get back," he smiled, gently rocking side to side as he watched Jesse sleep. He was going to have his mother's thick hair, he could tell—he already had quite a mop on him, for a newborn.
He glanced up, frowning slightly as he caught sight of a crucifix hanging on the wall of the nursery. His mother-in-law must have hung it while they were in the hospital in Amarillo; he never would have allowed it if he'd been home, and the fact that it was partially hidden behind some balloons showed that she knew it shouldn't be there. The thought of a symbol of torture decorated with the body of a dying man looming over his baby boy was almost too much for Bill. There'd been enough suffering in this house without inviting any extra from the church.
With Jesse safely cradled against his chest, Bill reached out and snagged the crucifix from the wall, slipping out of the room like a shadow.
Bill was somewhat shocked at how easily Jesse slept. He'd laid him down so carefully while he pulled on his boots and winced at the sharp jangle of his spurs, but the babe slept without fuss.
He'd walked slowly across the red clay path to the stables, afraid to jostle him awake, but Jesse merely shifted against his chest and continued his slumber.
The warm, sweet smell of horse swept over them as Bill slid open the door to the barn. One of the barn cats hissed and leaped up from a warm little hollow in the hay which Bill promptly commandeered, laying Jesse down in the straw and draping a thin blanket over him while he worked. The crucifix was simply jabbed into the straw like a knife. He worked almost in complete silence, only disturbing the quiet to wake his horse.
"Git up, David," he called softly, clicking his tongue. The ears of a dapple grey swiveled around as his head rose, rising and nickering happily at the familiar face and voice. "Sssh, don't wanna wake nobody up," Bill soothed, slipping on a simple hackemore and leading the horse out of his stall. It didn't take long for a team like Bill and David to get saddled up, even with the horse curiously sniffing at the infant swaddled nearby and barely restraining the urge to step closer.
"Easy, don' wake 'im," Bill whispered, tightening down the cinch and tucking the crucifix into the saddlebag before cradling the sleeping baby in one arm and stroking David's muzzle with the other. "This here's Jesse," he murmured softly, smiling as he presented the newborn to the horse. David's ears flicked and his lips stretched out to mouth and nibble on Jesse's foot. "Whoa," Bill chuckled, backing him up a step. "I know he's sweet, but he ain't fer eatin'. Won't be long 'fore he's ridin' on his own—yer gonna have t' help me look after him, alright?" he said softly, sidling back and carefully mounting. Settling into the saddle felt the most like coming home since he'd returned, and with the gentlest of urges, David stepped out into the cool night air.
The sky was clear and crisp, and the ranch was wrought from silver in the spring moonlight. Together, they skirted the empty paddocks and casually wandered out into the rangeland, the soft whisper of new grass and the heavy sound of David's hooves against the stiff ground soothing Bill's soul. No wonder he couldn't sleep—the ranch in the moonlight was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen. A soft coo drew Bill's attention, and he looked down to find a pair of big brown eyes staring back at him. Ah, there was another one of the world's great beauties.
"Hey there, Jesse," Bill smiled, holding the gently squirming baby close and letting the reins go slack as he allowed David to wander along his favored paths through the scrubby grass, "Ain't never too early fer yer first ride," he whispered, his gaze lifting to watch the starry arch of the Milky Way rise in the east like a sleepy maiden. "No sir…never too early," he mused softly. McCrees belonged to this land—best for Jesse to take his place in the landscape as soon as possible.
It was hard to say how long they wandered through the range. The distant scent of the herd was only a small signpost, and the disappearance of the houses and buildings was only confirmation to Bill that they were wandering in the right direction. The house and barns and stables were the brains of the operation, no doubt, but the heart and soul of McCree Ranch was out here under the blanket of stars and the silver moonbeams that turned the land into a daguerreotype—at night out on the high plains, time stood still. It was the way things ought to be, pure and simple and from the earth.
"Whoa," he called softly, David's hooves coming to a halt on a small hillock. Bill recognized the flat rocks here—he'd camped here a few times with his own father before. It wasn't a terribly popular place to camp on the drive; being so close to the house one might as well push that last mile or two to make it back to a real bed. But for a boy and his Daddy to share a moment under the stars, it was a good little spot. Bill slid from the saddle, Jesse's soft squeaks and coos earning David's attention again, though the horse stood obediently aside.
"Welcome home," Bill said, smiling as he wandered a short way past the rocks. "I know we said that when y' first come in the house, but this here...this here's really home." He knelt down in the rich red loam, his heels angled out to keep his spurs out of any uncomfortable places. "See, Jesse, yer a McCree, an' we do things a little differn't than most."
He'd dreamed of bringing his son or daughter out on the range for years. He'd imagined giving this little speech so many times as he laid his head down after a long day in the saddle. He'd wept in silence more nights than he could count, holding his wife close as grief wore them to the bone, the nursery preparations left half-finished and his words of hope and love leaking away like he was trying to hold water in his hands, and as dozens of names (first all sorts, the second time, only girls—they knew they were having a little girl the second time) slipped through his fingers and fatigue had dragged the grieving ex-parents-to-be to dreamless sleep, he'd been left clinging desperately at just one final thought.
Next time we'll all make it. Next time we'll bring that little baby home.
Jesse cooed and squirmed in Bill's arms, his big brown eyes searching for Bill's tear-filled blue ones, hidden beneath the shadows of his hat.
"We've been hopin' for you for so long, Jesse…" Bill whispered, leaning down and kissing his forehead, "I couldn't wait to bring you home, an' now I've gone n' forgot everything I wanted to say to ya," he chuckled dryly. His gaze rose to the North Star, hoping perhaps for a bit of guidance. He let out a soft sigh, cradling Jesse close for a moment before reaching down, scooping up a handful of rich red loam.
"McCrees have lived and worked and died here for pert' near 200 years," he murmured, "We been here as long as Texas, an' we ain't goin' nowhere. We're a part of the land, an' it's a part of us," Bill recited, letting the soft earth sift through his fingers for a moment. An impish urge came over him, and he sprinkled the dirt over Jesse's head, smirking at his own sacrilege.
"Y'ain't belong to no church," Bill murmured, "Not when you's this small. Maybe not ever, that's fer you t' decide when yer older. Fer now, this is what y' belong to, this is what y' come from...and it's what y' go back to in the end." He paused, holding Jesse close as he fussed over the cool dirt on his head. "But y'ain't goin' back to the earth fer a long time, y'hear? I'd sooner take a bullet ten times over n' put you in the ground, Jesse. I ain't gonna bury another child...I can't," he whispered, his back drooping and bending under the weight of his sorrow.
Jesse continued to squirm and fuss quietly, letting out little scoffs and squeaks and grumbles. Bill's head didn't rise until he heard David snort, pawing at the ground for a moment.
It was hard to see in the moonlight, but Bill had spent his whole life peering into the dark, searching, protecting. Approaching from the west was a figure on horseback.