It's the first day of the cold, and like a memory of sins past, he comes.

The first moment of shock passes, and William realizes that his hand had gone to his rifle and that he is angry. He had heard, long ago, that Wade had never made it to Yuma prison, but he never thought that Wade would have the gall to show up here.

You should be dead, he thinks. Like him.

Wade is watching him. He's hundreds of yards away, but William can tell. Watching him, watching his land. The cattle needs driving, but he can't move until Wade's gone.

They stare at each so long that the shadows move. Then, with a jolt, William realizes that Wade has been moving forward. Toward him.

William has to keep himself from charging at him. He's safer here, with his home behind him, with his barn to his side, with everything that is his nearby.

What do you want, Wade? he wants to call out.

It wouldn't matter, though. He knows better. Whatever Wade wants, he'll take it.

It's been six years, but as he comes, William sees that Ben Wade hasn't changed. He might as well be the same man that he'd seen step on that train and slip into the legend of his father's death. William has gotten older. He's a man with a family now, but suddenly he wants his youth back. He wants everything back.

"Good day, William," Wade says simply, but it carries.

William slides his rifle in front of him, across himself. "Wade."

Wade doesn't pay him any mind. He saunters so easily around on his horse that it may as well be he himself walking, taking in everything.

"You think it's so wise, Wade, to be around people who know you?" William says, trying to be as controlled and measured as he sounds. "Known what you've done?"

The horse is moving, but Wade looks like he's standing still. He smiles. "And what have I done, William?" Wade eyes him, fierce and intent as a hawk, but he isn't waiting for an answer.

William shifts the rifle so he's cradling it in both hands. "I may owe you my life. But you owe him yours."

Currents pass through Wade's face, but he stays smiling. "I owe your daddy nothing."

"Why are you here, Wade?" William can hear his growl, but it's still a cub's growl.

"Where is he buried, Will?"

Wade's not smiling anymore. He and the horse are still.

William ducks his head, unable to look at him anymore. He says out back, more to himself than to him, but Wade is already guiding the horse around the side of the house.

He doesn't follow. He can't move, not yet, and face this terrible man.

Everything he has, everything he owns, he owes to his father's spilt blood. And to Ben Wade.

His family does not suffer, his brother is still alive, and his mother is buried proper because of his father and Ben Wade.

William takes a long time forcing himself to get off his horse and go around back. When he finally does, it's another battle to walk and to look at this man kneeling at his father's grave.

"All your father gets is a piece of wood, boy?" Wade says, over his shoulder.

"We didn't get that money right away."

"You got it now, don't you?"

"I also got a one-year-old daughter. I can't spare the money right now. My father would understand."

Wade snorts, and turns his attention back to the marker. His eyes go over it, steady and careful, and William can see him go still, can see something within him go still.

A wind kicks up that sears the side of William's face. His hands have long since gone numb, and his anger is dying in the winter air.

Wade removes something from his coat and places it near the grave marker. It's a very old, very tattered bible. "Whenever you decide to grace your father with a proper stone, William, make sure this stays here."

Wade stands, and now that William is fully grown, Wade's not that much bigger than him, but damned if he doesn't still make him feel like a child.

William risks a glance at his eyes, and he has to turn away because it's all there. Lord, it's all there and he was wrong.

It's all different now. Everything is different now, and never has been the same since that day. He has to shut his eyes against it to catch his breath.

William knows he is closer to this man more than any living person in this world, because Wade knew his father. The simple truth of this fact wounds him to the core.

He swallows hard. He knows Michaela is inside, tending to the baby and to the house. She probably hasn't even noticed that he hasn't left yet. He needs Wade gone.

Wade, sharp as ever, seems to sense this, but he takes his own time. His eyes track over everything again, but then they settle on William, for far too long. William has to look away.

"Well, I best take my leave, William," Wade drawls, mounting his horse. "Give my regards to your brother and your lovely mother."

William has to clear his throat. "She passed, Wade."

"Oh. Well, I am indeed sorry to hear that. She seemed like a good woman."

"She was," William breathes. As he watches Wade start to leave, something in him crumples. He shoots forward and grabs a fistful of Wade's reins. Wade just glances down at his hand, then at him, his brow cocked.

"Wade," William finds himself begging, but for what, he doesn't know. He looks up at him, and it's that day all over again and he is so helpless. He wants something from Wade that he cannot possibly give.

"Wade, why'd you do it?" He is breathing hard but he can't get enough air. "Why did you get on that train? It wasn't about doing the right thing. You knew you was going to escape anyway – why'd you do it at all? You – " His grip tightens and he is shaking and he has to force the words past his teeth. "You shot your own men. They were coming to save you. Why'd you do it?"

That smirk of Wade's appears, and the tilt of his head makes William hate him all over again.

"And that's why I don't owe your daddy nothing."

And all William had left was the winter wind and the tears on his face.

He let the reins fall from his hand, and Wade stares him down as he whistles his horse into going.

"If you ever come around here again, Wade," William calls after him, through the pain in his throat. "I'm gonna shoot you on sight."

It's a damn stupid thing to say, and he's not even sure if he means it.

Wade doesn't even stop, doesn't bother to look at him, but as he fades, the empty wind carries his voice back to him:

"You're his son, Will. Wouldn't expect anything less."

fin