The mountaintop was cold that day, the wind freezing and curling around John's neck, and weaving up his coat sleeve as he held Abigail close to his chest. The noon sun was high in the sky, reflecting off the snow that clung stubbornly to the rocks around them.
It was Arthur's birthday, and the turn of the new century.
"I think we should do this every year," Abigail said, her words lost quickly to the wind. Her thick hooded shawl fought off the wind, but she was thankful nevertheless for the weight she had put on since moving onto the ranch. Good insulation, John called it.
"Me too. Important to remember." John wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Next time we should bring Jack."
Abigail nodded and tapped his arm before she released herself from his hold. She walked carefully toward the marker, her cold-weather skirt and boots shuffling on the rocks. Kneeling, she took her gloves off and touched the earth were Arthur lay. Grass was poking stubbornly through the cracks in the rocks. The grey sky pressed in on her, this rocky outcrop perilous on the best of days, but felt more dangerous in the cold.
She looked out. The Big Valley stretched before her for miles. She could see the ocean, barely, above the horizon. Sunlight broke through the clouds about a mile out, and the greys and blues gave way to warm ochre and green over the valley, where spring was creeping in, persistent against the snow melt.
When John mentioned returning to the place Arthur held the line and let him go, Abigail's heart leapt into her throat. What if they were waiting for him? It was irrational, but her fear was overwhelming. Beyond Pinkertons, Dutch scared her more than anything.
"I have to go back for him, Abby darlin'. He's my brother." John stared at the ceiling.
"I know, sweetheart. I know." She laced her fingers in his, squeezing twice.
"I have to."
She went with him after he finished, marveling at the simplicity of the place. The rocks jutted out into the air from the side of the mountain, a natural place for Arthur to rest. The mountainside was secluded, accessible by a path from both sides. Grass grew there in the late summer.
Abigail had carved the marker herself, with one of the beatitudes haloing his name. Blessed are the mourning, for they will be comforted. She'd always been interested in woodwork, but she was immensely proud of this piece.
ARTHUR MORGAN, it read, surrounded by carefully painted flowers. She and Jack had crushed berries and sieved oil to make the paint, and Abby was happy she was able to involve her son in something so precious. The snowstorms of the past month had barely weathered the carving, but she suspected she would have to build another before the next rainy season. Maybe out of stone this time. Something more permanent. Stable.
The wind bit at her cheeks and nose as she thought of the gift Arthur had given her. Practically everything important to her – the things she couldn't replace – was kept safe or rescued by Arthur at one point or another. Memories poured over her, and she hung her head, her eyes trained on the dirt between her fingers.
He rescued Jack from the Braithwaites…I could never repay him. She could easily recall her panic when she couldn't find her boy. She remembered the burning that consumed her body as she searched camp, the way his hand felt securing her arm and soothing her ragged breath.
John held her tight, his black-and-white striped prison uniform coarse against her cheek. She clung to him and wept, certain before this moment that he was ripped from her forever.
Arthur saved John – again and again. She knew much of the time he'd only bent to her because he loved her so much. Sure, he loved John as his own blood, but since John's year away they'd been feuding more often than not.
"You know you deserve more than that fool Marston." Arthur watched her from his place by the fire as she finally managed to snag Jack's chubby little arm. John had gone into town the night prior, but he was nowhere to be found now. Arthur noticed Abigail's eyes, like a periscope, tracking the entrance to camp as people came and left. John's year-long absence left her jumpy on long outings, even a year later
Abigail exhaled sharply through her nose, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear, struggling with her slippery son. Her bun was falling apart. Jack was just starting to walk, and half her time was spent chasing him around camp, keeping him out of Pearson's way and out of reach of the ammo wagon attached to Arthur's tent. "I know it. But I'll be damned if I don't love him to death." She hauled Jack into her arms as he wiggled and laughed, reaching for Arthur. "It is a cross I must bear, so it seems."
" I'd've married you myself and spared you from this nonsense, but I suppose shacking up with Marston isn't the worst thing you could do." He looked up at her and smiled.
She pressed her lips together tightly before she realized he was joking. She sighed, resigned. "I know it."
Arthur stood and reached for Jack. "Go grab something to eat and take a few minutes to rest. I can entertain the boy for a little while."
Abigail shifted her hold, her arms tightening around Jack. "Are you sure?"
"Sure," Arthur replied. He saw her tight grip on Jack, and her eyes jumped around, landing on Bill and Javier before returning to Arthur, wide and shaky. "I'll keep an eye on him. I'll bring him out by the horses or down by the water if we need a little space." He looked significantly at the other men in camp.
Her shoulders dropped from her ears and she cracked a smile, thin and tired. "Thank you."
Abigail smiled. She wouldn't have minded marrying Arthur, not in the least. But now she had John to be a father to her boy. They had their own home, and John tried his best to settle in. The transition to farmer from outlaw couldn't be easy, and as much as the transition had been difficult on her, she couldn't imagine the difference for John.
She looked down at her left hand, where the gold band cradled the little red stone. Even as she'd married John, she was still wearing Arthur's ring. She shared a private laugh with herself. God did have a sense of humor, and Arthur gave her his whole world so she could live in hers.
"I'll be in debt to him as long as I live." John's voice traveled to her over the wind, voicing her own thoughts exactly.
"We didn't deserve him." She looked over her shoulder, smiling at him.
"Maybe not me." He winked at her, his arms crossed against the cold.
Abigail's grin turned with her as she pressed her fingers to her lips and pressed them to Arthur's marker. …for they shall be comforted. She desperately hoped that he was resting easy. Somewhere.
"What do you think happens when you die?" Abigail asked.
It was fall, and John had been gone for nearly three months. Abigail's eyes were puffy and red much of the time, raw from crying. She was on her back in the grassy meadow, Arthur entertaining Jack beside her. Hosea and Lenny had built a couple of irregular blocks for the boy to play with. He was smacking them together, babbling and laughing.
"Couldn't rightly tell you. All I know is I want to be buried facing west, so I can remember all the good times we had out that way when I'm gone." Arthur was introspective. Unusual. Jack babbled alongside him and he nodded, making sure the boy knew he was listening to him.
"That's nice. I hope that's a long way yet." Abigail reached toward him, pressing the tips of her fingers into the back of his shirt. She felt his smile more than saw it.
"Me too."
She stood, pocketing a stone from the grave and brushing the nature off her skirt. She rounded toward John and took his arm. "Ready?"
"Give me a moment, would ya? I'll meet you by the horses."
"Of course." She stood up straight and pressed a kiss to his scarred cheek. As she walked away, his throat closed, thick with emotion. He couldn't afford tears with the cold. He was sure they would stick to his face and stay there forever, revealing to the western sky that he wasn't as strong as he thought.
John deliberated for a moment before approaching the marker. Like his wife, he knelt. Unlike his wife, he spoke.
"I gave the ring to Abigail. She loved it."
"Would you get up? We are married!"
"No, I know. But I want to do this proper. In front of God."
"You were right. It looks at home with her." He chuckled. Lately, he'd been laughing at himself over this. The only time he cared about the law is when it came to Abigail, but he would also raise hell and high water – law be damned – for her too.
"Where on earth did you get this ring? It's beautiful but I'm sure we can't afford –" she paused, squinting at him. "Did you steal it?"
John rolled his eyes. "Of course not. I'm supposed to be doing right by the law now, remember?"
"I know, but…where'd you get it?"
They were in bed together, and she was admiring her new ring in the dim light of the lamp.
"It was Arthur's. He gave it to me on the mountain, with his hat and everything. Here." John rolled over and reached under the bed, where he kept the satchel. He searched for a moment before finding a letter. Mary's letter. He read aloud. "I enclose a ring you gave me many years ago, when we were both young, not because I don't like it, but because I care for it far too much and it reminds me too much of you. I hope, one day you will find some people in love who can use this, for it kept me thinking of you all these years…" John finished reading and folded the letter, gently placing it where it was before.
He looked up when he'd returned the satchel to its home under the bed. Abigail had tears in her eyes, and they tracked down her cheeks as she tried to blink them away. John kissed her then, and turned off the light.
John was wrapped around her finger, and he knew she wore Arthur's heart around her hands for years as well.
"Well, God and Uncle and Jack, anyway. Nobody much else to see it. No –"
A gasp. "Oh Lord. I didn't expect anyone else up here."
John's adrenaline spiked and he bounded to his feet, his hand on his gun. Mary Linton. As soon as he could process it, he took his hand off his revolver.
"Mary?" John rasped. He swiped quickly at his eyes with a sleeve. He was touched and sobered by the presence of someone else, here, to honor Arthur, less than a year after he'd died.
"Yes, er, John? Is it?" She looked unsure as she clasped her hands at her chest. He saw they were shaking. It couldn't be from the cold, as she wore velvet, fur lined gloves.
"It is, ma'am." He came to his senses and removed his – Arthur's – hat. He watched Mary. Her eyes tracked the hat as it hung gently in his hand
She smiled shakily at him. "I came to pay my respects for Arthur's birthday."
John nodded. "Me too. My wife, Abigail is here as well." He gestured toward the horses, out of sight around the corner. "I can't remember if you've met her or not."
"I have," she answered quickly. John held back a laugh. It wasn't hard to imagine Abigail's feelings toward Mary. The women in camp weren't ever shy.
"You have a letter from a Mrs. Linton, Arthur." John watched as Tilly crossed the meadow with an envelope. "If you ask me, she ain't worth the time."
Arthur smiled thinly at her. "Thanks, Tilly."
"I'm gonna go read over his shoulder." Abigail stood and gathered her skirts. John reached out but couldn't stop her as she marched herself across the yard. Karen tried to follow, but Abigail waved her off.
John sighed and kept an eye on her. When Arthur reached his tent, Abigail was waiting for him, her head tilted to the side and hands folded, leaning on his bedside table. He deflated and set the letter aside to listen to what she had to say.
From his place in their tent, John couldn't hear, but he could see enough. Arthur had softened significantly as Abigail spoke. She was using all her maternal wisdom, patting and fretting over him as she likely told him how much he mattered and how much he was worth. He was worth so much for both of them.
It was like Abigail was reading his mind. She glanced back and gestured to John, who gave a small wave and a warm smile with the half of his mouth that wasn't open and raw. Arthur returned it but focused quickly on Abby.
They talked for a long time, and Arthur landed with his head in his hands. Abigail stood, popped his hat off, and stuck a kiss to the crown of his head. She squeezed his shoulder and turned, floating back to John.
"He's alright." She sighed. "Women have a way of twisting him up, poor thing."
John laughed loudly. "You're one to talk."
She winked at him.
Mary smoothed her shaking hands down her black coat. Now that John was really looking at her, he noticed she was wearing all black, with a black mourning veil pushed back on the crown of her head. Her wide, floppy black hat was pushed back, held to her with a ribbon that pressed against her throat.
She was in full mourning. John wondered what he had missed. He was under the impression that Arthur and Mary had ended things, bittersweetly, in Valentine. That's why he had her ring. Why Abigail displayed it so proudly on her left hand.
"I can give you a minute." John smiled warmly at her and started to walk toward Abigail.
"Thank you." Her voice barely touched him as he rounded the corner.
Mary took a shaky breath and stepped toward the marker. It had been a few months since her last visit when the fall had started to grip the Big Valley, and the fog in Saint Denis became crippling and cold. It was shortly after she'd received a letter from Miss Tilly, one of the girls that ran with the gang, telling her of Arthur's passing.
At this point, she was more than allowed to present herself in half-mourning, introducing purples and dark blues into her wardrobe after a season of black, but she just added more petticoats to her mourning clothes as the winter grew colder. She'd failed him. She failed herself. A lack of faith. She laughed at the irony.
"I miss you, Arthur. I feel as if I miss you more every day." Her hands trembled and her nose ran, affected both by the cold and the depth to which the words were true. "I was thinking about our time together, camping and traveling and finding all sort of wild adventures."
She clung to his back, Boadicea galloping underneath them. They were hauling across New Austin, back to Blackwater, where they'd set up camp for the week.
Mary threw her head back and laughed, gasping for the wind that ripped her hair out of its plait and into her face. She could feel Arthur's breath under her arms, and his free hand holding hers.
"Havin' fun back there?" Arthur had to shout over the wind, and he pulled Boadicea back to a brisk canter. The wind died and Mary tucked herself into Arthur's back.
"Always with you." She was only half joking as she squeezed around his middle. He raised on of her hands in his and kissed it, his three-day beard scuffing the soft skin of her palm.
"I love you, Mary." She felt rather than heard the murmur into her hand.
She smiled and leaned as close to his ear as she could. "I love you too." She pressed a kiss to his leather-clad shoulder. "So much," she said to herself.
"Do you remember that? We were on the road for two and a half days. I'd never seen Daddy so mad."
Mary smoothed her hands down her long black coat, reaching into the pocket on her left side. "I brought this for you. It's a letter I wrote but didn't send from a long time ago."
She placed it under a rock at the base of his grave marker. "Happy birthday, my dear Arthur. Rest easy. I'll see you soon."
As he rounded the corner, John met his wife's warm eyes and she smiled at him. His heart leaped, and he kicked himself for ever thinking he could live without her.
"You'll never guess who I just ran into." He kissed her temple and breathed her in. Campfire and strawberries. She never changed.
"Was it Arthur? Because I'm sure if it was you woulda told me by now and screamed like a little girl." She poked him in the ribs and he laughed.
"No not at all." He made sure he had her rapt attention before he continued. Her brown eyes wide and cheeks flushed with the cold. He loved her. "Mary Linton is up there around the corner."
"Mary? I thought she left him." Abigail's joy quickly fell into furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips.
"Me too, but she's wearing full mourning blacks and a veil." John shrugged. "I guess they made up somewhere along the way." He looked toward where Mary was, around the corner. The wind had died down some, and he could hear her speaking, murmuring really, to Arthur.
"Maybe we'll never know," offered Abigail. She shrugged, turning to pat one of the horses that nosed into the bag at her hip.
"I could probably find something in his journal. He wrote about her often."
Abigail squinted at him. "Is that really right?"
John shrugged but was warmed by her moral concern. "Maybe not. But he left it to me with his satchel. I've been reading bits and pieces every once and a while."
Just then, they heard footsteps. Abigail raised her eyebrows as Mary appeared.
"Thank you both. I'll be leaving from here, if you want to return to him." She smiled at them shyly, nodding politely at Abigail.
Something warm suddenly possessed Abigail as she looked at this grieving woman, who she never liked but always understood. "Mrs. Linton?"
Mary turned, startled and surprised. "Yes?"
"Would you like to have dinner with my family?" The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she could feel John's shocked eyes boring holes into the side of her head. What was the harm? It couldn't hurt to have her with them. Who could she tell about their little home, nestled in the west as it was. Abigail soothed herself. Arthur would like that. His family, all together under one roof. Maybe he wouldn't like the attention so much, but all of his people? That's where he was always happiest. Either that or outside in the rain somewhere.
Mary cracked a smile. "If you'd have me, I would be honored." She looked around. "Though I'm afraid I've no horse. I came by stagecoach and foot."
"No worries there, ma'am." John stepped up, placing a hand on Abigail's hip. "I would gladly take you on mine. He's an easier ride than Abigail's mare."
Abigail rolled her eyes. "Shall we get going then?"
Mary nodded and ducked fully around the corner toward John's horse. He helped Mary onto Old Boy and settled himself into the saddle. Once he was certain Mary was comfortable sidesaddle with all her skirts, he checked on his wife.
Abigail was taking stock of her saddlebags, adjusting the weight so it could rest easy on her mare. He watched her focus, appreciating the strong line of her arms, the concentration on her brow, and the way her eyes bounced from one point to another, analyzing and checking and double checking.
The horse wasn't perfect, sure, but it was a ride. She hauled herself up, settling in and winking at John.
They prompted the horses down the mountain and began the trek back to the farm.
"I'm afraid it's a bit of a ways, Mrs. Linton, but it gets warmer after the pass up ahead." John raised his voice over the rhythm of the horses' trot, Abigail leading.
"That's fine." He thought he heard a light laugh, but he wasn't sure. "It's not like I have anywhere to go anyways."
John felt a flash of…something. Grief? Pity? Whatever it was, it wasn't comfortable. "What about your little brother? Jamie, was it?"
"Yes, Jamie. He's off working on a farm in Nevada. I'll see him again once the planting season is over." Her voice was careful, opaque.
"You living by yourself now?" John didn't mean to pry, but he was concerned. If Arthur loved this woman (he was absolutely checking the journal as soon as he returned), he would do his best to take care of her. It's what any good brother would do, he reasoned.
"I live in a women's apartment in Saint Denis, run by nuns, I think. We don't see them often. I was there when…well."
John understood. He nodded, and placed a reassuring hand over hers, holding tight to his waist. "That was a difficult time for us all. Arthur saved my life, and now I'm here."
"He always talked about you like a brother." Her voice changed then, pensive and quiet. "He was always a good man."
John nodded. "I always thought so. I'm glad he was able to prove it to himself, in the end.
"It would really mean a lot to me." Arthur stuffed his hat onto John's head, looping his saddlebag around the younger man's shoulders and reaching for his gun. " Please." He passed the revolver to John, loaded. " Get the hell outta here."
Mary lapsed into silence then. John really had to dig through Arthur's journal now. He found himself liking her, which didn't seem right at all. She'd broken his heart, right?
The rest of their journey, about two hours of riding, was uneventful save for some rabbits John shot on a whim. Dinner tomorrow, perhaps. It was enough to get them through the week if they were frugal, but then again they could have unexpected company, like Mary. More mouths to feed wasn't a problem for the first time in their lives.
Abigail kept looking over her shoulder to where John and Mary rode. They were terribly quiet. Though, on such a day of mourning, she could not blame either one of them. She knew her husband would be brooding quietly all day, but she would wiggle something out of him before he fell asleep – she was sure of it.
Jack was at the gate waiting for them when they arrived. John could see his son's grin from miles away, it seemed like, and the ride home suddenly didn't feel so long or weary.
They dismounted at the stables, and Jack threw himself into Abigail's arms. John watched her as she laughed and kissed him all over, only a little jealous.
"Go say hello to your Pa before he turns to stone." Abigail deposited Jack on the ground and turned his shoulders toward John, who smiled at him.
Jack bounded up toward John and was caught in a pair of strong arms and swung around and around until he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. John's chest warmed, and he brought his son close, taking notes from his wife and peppering Jack's dark hair with kisses. "How was your day with Uncle?"
"Pretty fun. We shoveled hay." Jack's eyes were bright. The boy resembled Abigail more and more every day. The wide, dark eyes. Sloped, delicate nose.
"Tell me he's mine." John tried to keep his voice down, but his fists were clenched and his jaw was tight. Jack was sleeping in a makeshift cradle by Abigail's bed. His mouth was slack and his cheeks were flushed and soft.
"Let's have this conversation in the morning. Everyone's asleep and you'll wake the baby." Abigail's voice was tense and tired, an aggravated whisper.
"Just tell me and be done with it." John stood and grabbed his bag, preparing to go. Abigail heard Karen stir in the next tent over, recognizing the interruption in her snore.
"John, please." Abigail reached for him in the dark, but couldn't find purchase on his arm.
"Just tell me." His shoulders tensed by the minute, and his knuckles were white where they held the straps of his bag to his chest.
"He's yours. I'd swear it." Abigail's whisper was furtive, desperate.
"I don't believe you."
John kicked himself with the memory. Unbelievable. He'd been such a stupid ass. He looked to Abigail for a moment. She was minding the horses – scratching their ears and speaking quietly to them. Mary was by her side, patting Old Boy on the neck.
"Careful with him," John heard Abigail warn. "He's fond of women and might follow you home."
John smiled. "Did Uncle shovel hay with you, or did he just watch?"
"Oh, he just watched." Jack's attention was beginning to drift, as young children were wont to do, and John redirected, ruffling Jack's hair and steering him in the house.
Abigail let out a snort. "C'mon Mrs. Linton. Let's get you inside by the fire." A generous arm was offered to Mary, from Abigail, and they crossed the yard together.
Mary followed Abigail into their house and settled down by the fire. John tended to it, brought it back to a roaring blaze before sitting down on the carved log currently serving as their couch. Jack stood at the edge of the room, watching and waiting for an invitation from the adults. John waved him over, and took Jack in his arms, holding him close. Abigail was busy in the kitchen, setting the table and finding bowls for her family and the guests
John so rarely found an excuse to be physically close to his son. The day away, however, and the emotional exhaustion of the journey provided a clear path to Jack. He looked to Mary, who was watching them with a small, mournful smile. He smiled back.
"Where did you say you were settled down these days, Mrs. Linton?" Abigail returned, a rag in her hand.
"I'm in a women's place down in Saint Denis, still. I miss the west, but it's a good place to settle for a while yet, until things out here get a little more…organized," Mary confessed.
"We'd be happy to take you to the nearest train station as soon as you're ready to head home. You're welcome as long as you'd like to stay. We can make up a bedroom for you tonight, even." Abigail waved to Jack, who leapt off the couch and trotted to her side. Before Mary had a chance to answer, Abigail turned her attention to Jack. "Will you help me set the table sweetheart?"
Jack nodded and bounded toward the kitchen. How on earth did this boy have so much energy? John was certain he was far more lazy as a child.
"That's very generous of you, but I would like to get back tonight. I would hate for our matron to grow worried," Mary said, after Abigail had turned back.
"Just fine, then. Dinner's ready now and then John can take you back."
"Thank you."
The Marston home was warm, the soup hearty, and the memories bittersweet. They would sing, later, around the fire. A song that Kieran taught them from his home, meant for goodbyes.
Oh all the comrades that e'er I've had
Are sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e'er I've had
Would wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call
Good night and joy be with you all