Disclaimer

I do not claim ownership to any of the characters in this story. This is a fan fiction designed purely for the enjoyment of fans of Charles Bronson and spaghetti westerns. No copyright infringement is intended nor implied.

Someday

A Once Upon a Time...in the West Fanfic

It had been 10 years since he left the place known as Sweetwater. Ten long years of riding, traveling from town to town in an attempt to purge himself of the demons that had been part of his life from childhood. Even more years since his brother had been killed and he'd been forced to be the catalyst in his brother's death. Now he was finally returning to Sweetwater.

Ten years ago, Sweetwater had been a dusty, worthless farm destined to become a train depot. Brett McCain, the man who originally settled and owned the land, had seen that the railroad would need another resting place along its' run to the Pacific Ocean. Sweetwater was just the spot for that respite. It had the only source of water within 50 miles. Water that the trains would need in order to continue their journeys.

The rider smiled slightly. All the townspeople of Flagstone, the train depot spot before Sweetwater, had laughed at McCain back then. They had all said he was a fool to buy land in the middle of Utah's desert, much less try to scrape out a living there with his motherless children.

The townspeople were the fools. Only McCain, and the railroad tycoon Morton knew the value of Sweetwater. Both men were dead and gone. Likely nothing but bones by now. So were McCain's children. And their killer. Frank. The rider had seen to that last death himself.

But that didn't mean Sweetwater didn't have a champion. There had been a Mrs. McCain. Jill McCain from New Orleans. A beautiful red haired woman with plenty of fire and spirit. She had come to Sweetwater intending to begin a new wife as wife and step - mother, only to be a widow.

The rider had come to Flagstone on his own agenda. To avenge his older brother's death at Frank's hands many years earlier, when the rider had been just a kid. Frank hadn't joined up with Morton at that time, but he had a sadistic streak even then.

His idea of fun had been to tie the rider's hands behind his back and put his brother - who had a noose around his neck - on his shoulders. The rider had been forced to stand in one place in the desert sun while Frank's gang watched and laughed at him. Every time the child moved, the noose around his brother's neck grew a little tighter, but the child refused to give up.

He could still see Frank advancing across the scrub and sand towards him. Frank didn't smile. Frank never smiled. His blue eyes were ice cold and terrible as they locked on the child's eyes. Frank had stopped mere inches away from the child and placed a harmonica in his mouth, telling the child to keep his lovin' brother happy.

The harmonica whistled a mournful tune as the child breathed in and out, unable to remove the instrument clamped in his teeth. He was growing more weary by the minute as Frank watched the tableau unfold.

The rider's brother had made a decision, to end his life so his brother might live. Crying a hoarse "I love you!" The older male had kicked his little brother out from under him, sending the rider falling face first into the ground.

The noose tightened around his older brother's throat as the rider fell forward. The sudden movement of the rope snapped the older male's neck, quickly ending his life.

The younger man fell into the dust, the harmonica falling at last from his mouth.

In the silence that followed, Frank only spat on the ground and walked away. His gang followed in his wake, laughing and taunting the younger male for being weak.

The rider had kept the harmonica, often using those same mournful notes to communicate for him. When he did speak, he used few words, preferring to let gestures, the harmonica, or his gun do his talking for him. He never gave his name. Cheyenne had been the one to name him 'Harmonica'.

He eventually caught up with Frank first in Flagstone, but the showdown had been in Sweetwater. By then, Frank had been hired by Morton to eliminate any obstacles to his railroad empire like the McCain family.

When Jill McCain determined that her husband had intended to make his land the next stop on the railroad line, the rider had helped her make that happen. He, along with his friend Cheyenne, started the construction of Sweetwater by measuring out and staking the lots for buildings such as a bank, livery stable, hotel, and other businesses, so that Sweetwater Station would be started by the time the railroad reached it.

The rider halted his horse a moment to take a drink from his canteen. Jill McCain. Not a day had gone by in the last 10 years that he hadn't thought of her. He'd been drawn to her from the start, but he knew that staying with her after he bested Frank wouldn't have done either of them any good. He still had demons to get rid of. When he left her after he killed Frank, he had said that Sweetwater would be a nice place to come back to someday.

Jill McCain was better known as the Widow of Sweetwater. She wore basic black every day of the week, though her husband and step - children had been dead a decade. The log cabin stood near the train station, a monument to one man's foresight. The train station itself welcomed travelers and railroad workers with a hand carved sign that read 'STATION'.

When Sweetwater was under construction and the railroad had reached its' otherwise dusty, barren clearing, Jill hadn't given anyone her first name. She was known as 'Mrs. McCain', or 'The Widow McCain'. She was always pleasant to the workers, taking cool water to them before the lunch break and again before the end of the day. She never seemed to notice if one of the more daring men patted her rear end. She'd merely smile and treat it as nothing, though to that bold male, it meant a lot.

The townspeople that settled in Sweetwater knew of the tragic story of 'The Widow'. Most learned of it during their stop over in Flagstone. In some ways, the people of Sweetwater considered her their treasure, as many visitors often stopped in the town just for a glimpse of her.

Jill McCain had never remarried, though she was a stunningly beautiful woman and had many admirers. She could have settled down with a new husband many times had she wanted to. She just didn't want to. There was only one man she wanted to settle down with, and he had promised to come back, someday.

Every day at dawn, she would leave the log cabin to stand on the station platform and stare across the prairie. She would scan the horizon in every direction as if she were looking for something - or someone. Every day she would walk away from the train platform with a disappointed expression on her face. She would go back into her house until it was time to bring water out to the workers. By then she had overcome whatever had disappointed her as she laughed and chatted with each worker until it was time for her to go back to her cabin.

She performed that morning ritual every day, rain or shine, for ten years as the town grew. She lived on the wings of the promise that He would come back. Someday.

The horse plodded along the dusty trail leading to Sweetwater. The man who Cheyenne had once called Harmonica wasn't in a hurry to get there, though his heart raced in anticipation at the idea of seeing Her once again.

He smirked at his own folly. No woman in her right mind would wait for him to return. Not ten years. Not even one year. Jill McCain was more than a handsome woman, she was a woman any red blooded, healthy man would want for his own. He had no right to expect her to have waited this long for him. Yet, a part of him knew that she had.

The horse reached the crest of a hill and stopped again at his urging. It bent its' head to nibble at the sparse desert grass while he took stock of Sweetwater laying below.

The last time he'd seen it, the railroad had just reached the clearing. Building were in the process of going up. Now all the workers were gone. The town was established. Buildings that were only slated to be mere cells were larger, wider, and higher than when he'd left. It was, as he foretold a decade ago, a nice little town.

People moved about their business, going from building to building and getting on with their daily lives. The log cabin still stood near the station. The carved sign still hangs over the platform.

He felt like he has come home. He dug his heels into the horse's sides, signaling his desire to continue on into town.

Though there hasn't been a reason for her to do so for years, Jill McCain continued her practice of venturing out of the cabin twice a day, once in the morning and again in the late afternoon. Now, instead of taking water out to the workers, she walked around her town, visiting with the townspeople and conducting her business.

Brett McCain had left her well off after all. She'd taken on the job of running the station that he'd intended to do, and it had paid off handsomely. She had employees who operated the station for her now, seeing to the needs of the trains and the travelers.

No one knew of her past. That secret had died with Frank. In Sweetwater, she had a new life, if not a lonely one. She had friends, both male and female. She never brought a man into her home, nor spent the entire night with any particular man. Nor would she take any gifts from any man. That smacked too much of her old life. The one she'd left behind in the whorehouses of New Orleans.

She was still a handsome woman. The years had been kind to her. Her skin was still creamy white despite the harsh desert sun. Her hair still the same fiery mane of copper as when she'd first arrived in Flagstone. Her build was still trim, a benefit from her twice daily constitutional around the town.

She was well used to the comings and goings of horses. At one time her heart had quickened its' pace whenever she heard a horse stop behind her. She'd turn to look, only to be disappointed that it wasn't Him.

She often wondered what had happened to Cheyenne. The man might have been an outlaw, but he had a heart bigger than the outdoors. She couldn't make a pot of coffee without thinking of him.

Jill had just returned to her home when she heard the sound of a horses' hooves coming up behind her. Despite many years' prior disappointment, her heart raced at the sound. She slowly turned to face the rider who dismounted from the horse. She gazed intently at him, unable to move or speak. She was afraid if she did, she would find that the vision in front of her was a dream.

He was older, but he carried himself in the same tall, easy manner. His eyes were still blue, the skin of his face tanned and weather beaten. The wrinkles around his eyes were more pronounced. Strands of white were visible in his otherwise jet black hair. A gun rode on one hip, and he was dressed in dark denim instead of khaki pants and a pale red shirt. The hat hadn't changed. The leather thong that had held his harmonica still hung from his neck.

He returned her gaze with a level one of his own. He didn't smile at the sight of her, but his eyes communicated the fact that he was glad to see her. His gaze drifted to her left hand to notice that there was no ring on the third finger.

Jill turned slightly to open the door to her cabin. She didn't say a word of invitation, but he followed her inside as if she had invited him inside.

The interior was the same as he remembered it. Nothing had changed. He put his saddlebag on the floor and removed his hat, placing it on a peg near the door. He closed the door with his foot, hearing it close with a satisfying, secure 'thunk'.

They stood a few inches from each other, neither of them speaking a word of greeting. They didn't have to speak. Their hearts knew the fact that someday had finally come.