It's a Wonderful Life, a maverick fanfic

It's a Wonderful Life

I opened my eyes and looked around, not knowing exactly what I'd find. The last thing I remembered was the gun butt crashing down onto the back of my skull and the thought that crossed my mind at the exact same instant . . . 'I wish I'd never been born.'

That, of course, was not the case. Once again I'd end up with a headache and probably an empty wallet, courtesy of the men after my brother Bart. It was just the straw that broke this camel's back, as far as I was concerned. Bart had done one thing after another that yielded painful consequences ever since we'd been home, and I had been the recipient of those consequences nine times out of ten. Why Bart had picked this particular week to fall back into his old habit of screwing up and not getting caught at it was beyond me. It seemed like every time I turned around someone was mad at my brother, whether they had reason to be or not, and I was the Maverick made to pay for it. Until I'd finally had enough and wished I'd never come into this world. And I was angry enough at that exact moment to mean it.

Nothing in my line of sight was familiar. I'd been walking down main street in Little Bend, Texas, hometown to the Maverick brothers, when somebody decided I was Bart and not Bret. That happened on occasion, although not usually in the town we'd grown up in and with the consistency that it had occurred this week. Must have been some new element that Bart had shellacked at poker.

It was almost Christmas, and we'd decided to return to our hometown and spend the holidays with our father and uncle. Nothing had gone right since we'd first arrived, however, and the lump on the back of my head was just the icing on the cake. I blinked once or twice and sat up, brushing the dirt off my coat and waiting for my head to clear. I reached into the inside pocket and discovered that not only was my wallet gone, so was the thousand dollar bill I kept pinned there for emergencies. Cursing under my breath and trying desperately to shake the cobwebs out of my head, I staggered to my feet and stepped out of the alley. Where was I?

I didn't recognize anything until I saw a sign dimly reflected in the moonlight – 'Little Bend Bar.' I made my way down the street to the door and entered, expecting to see familiar surroundings at the tables and Ray Ames behind the bar, the way he always was. The inside of the saloon was a filthy mess, old and broken down, and the man behind the bar wasn't Ray.

I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out enough for a cup of coffee. As the bartender poured me a fresh cup, I asked about Ray. "Ray Ames, oh yeah, he used to work here. He left town almost ten years ago. His daughter got in some kind of trouble and they packed up and moved. Ain't seen him since. You a friend of his?"

I thought about all the years that Ray had kept the Little Bend Bar alive, and wondered just how I could have missed the bartender's departure from town. "Uh, yeah. Where'd he move to?"

"Somewhere in California. Said he just couldn't stand to live in this town no more. Say, you new here?"

"Uh, no. I been here before." I looked around the bar again and this time saw half a dozen men I knew, including Benny White, the man that owned the place. "Hey, Benny, how've you been?"

White looked up, confusion resting comfortably on this face. "Do I know you, sport?"

"Heck yeah, Benny, I been comin' in here with my father and brother since I was barely ten years old."

"And you are . . . ?"

There was that confusion one more time. "Maverick. Bret Maverick. Beauregard's my father and Bart's my brother."

Benny shook his head. "You must be mistaken, son. Bart Maverick don't have no brother. He's an only child. Lives with his old man in a shack out by the river."

'No, Benny, I'm tellin' you, I'm Bret Maverick."

Benny shook his head one more time. "And I'm tellin' you, there ain't no Bret Maverick. Quit tryin' to cause trouble and get outta here before I have you thrown out."

No Bret Maverick? What in the world was Benny talking about? I was Bret Maverick, and I was standing practically under Benny's nose. Right now I wasn't gonna argue and I headed for the front door. I walked down the street and noticed that most of the businesses and shops I expected to see were different. The barbershop was gone, as were the tobacco store and the tailor. The stores that were there looked dirty and dingy inside. When I got to where Maude's should be I was stopped in my tracks; Maude's big and beautiful bar wasn't there at all. In its place stood a small, grungy establishment named Corrander Joe's. I was about to walk right past the place when I spotted a familiar blonde head laying on one of the tables. It was Maude Donovan.

I walked inside and sat down next to her. Laying my hand on her elbow, I began to shake – gently. "Maude. Maude honey, wake up, it's Bret. Maude, wake up now." Slowly, very slowly, the head came up off the folded arms. It was Maude, alright, but her eyes were bloodshot and she looked twenty years older. And when she opened her mouth to say "Huh?" all I could smell was whiskey.

"Who wants me?" she slurred, and tried to stare at me. Her eyes wouldn't focus and she mumbled "Who're you?"

"It's Bret, Maude. Bret Maverick. What are you doing here, like this? And where's your place?"

"Bret . . . hahahahaha. There ain't no such person. There's Beau and there's his no-good son Bart . . . but there ain't no Bret. Who are you and what do you want?"

I shook my head. What was going on? She was the second person tonight to tell me I didn't exist. "Where's your daughter?"

"My daughter?"

"Yeah, you know, gorgeous blonde with aqua- colored eyes. Your daughter, Doralice?"

She stared at me with something akin to back-breaking grief before bursting into tears; I had to wait almost five minutes for her to calm down enough to answer me. "My daughter. My daughter Doralice is dead. She was hanged down in Mexico almost five years ago. Now go away and leave me alone."

Hanged! But that . . . that couldn't be. I, along with our cousin Beau, had crossed the border into Mexico and found Bart and Doralice. They had no food and no water, and Bart had one of the Federales rifle bullets in him. But they were alive – THEY WERE ALIVE!

"Maude . . . "

She put her head back down on the table. "Go away. Leave me alone. This whore's temporarily closed for business. Ain't sleepin' with nobody tonight. Whoever you are, go away!"

I staggered to my feet, more confused than ever. Just what had happened to me? Everything I knew, everything I believed, was all screwed up. And then it all became clear, and I knew where I had to go and who I had to see.

XXXXXXXX

This was it? This was the 'shack out by the river' that Bart and 'his old man' lived in. Benny had been absolutely correct – this place was a run down, dirty, one room cabin. How two men were supposed to live there, I couldn't begin to guess. Especially two men as fastidious as Bart and Pappy.

I dismounted and wrapped my horse's reins around what served as the hitching rail. I knocked carefully on the door and heard . . . nothing. Obviously Benny had been wrong. And then there was the sound of stirring within the cabin, and I knocked again.

Slowly something emerged from far back inside the shack. I could hear the sound of footsteps, shuffling along the dirt floor, and the door slowly swung open. The hair and beard were dirty, the eyes dull with liquor. The clothes were old and tattered, and the man . . . smelled. A combination of filth and booze, there was a smirk on his face and an icy quality to his voice. "What?" he practically yelled.

"Pappy?"

"What?"

"Beauregard?"

"Yeah, that's me." There was no recognition in his face at all. It was like looking at a stranger, and a hostile one at that.

"I'm . . . I'm here to see Bart."

"And just who are you?"

I gathered my courage. "I'm your firstborn. I'm Bret."

I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't what I got. A laugh, a sick, ugly laugh. "Don't got but one son, and you ain't him." And just as quickly as it had opened, the door slammed shut.

I waited a minute or two, and when the door didn't open again I knocked.

"What?" yelled a gruff, whiskey soaked voice. A mean-sounding voice.

I didn't answer, just knocked a second time, and this time the voice responded, "Go away!"

"Mr. Maverick?" I called, and within a minute or two I once again heard footsteps.

I couldn't believe what stood in front of me. The man was filthy dirty . . . his clothes looked like they'd been slept in for months, and from the smell that emanated from him, they had. They were so old it was hard to tell what he'd looked like when they were new. My gaze started at the man's feet and went upwards, to the unshaven face with the straggly beard and mustache. The hair was shoulder length, dirty and tangled, and the eyes . . . the eyes were dull and sunken, not at all the way his eyes were supposed to look. This was my brother, Bart. And I was sick to my stomach at the sight of the man.

"Who're you?" the voice demanded, and I cringed.

"Bret."

"Bret who?"

I steeled myself for what was to come. "Bret Maverick. I'm your brother."

The meanest, nastiest laugh I'd ever heard in my life issued forth from that mouth. "No, really, who are you?" it asked again.

"I'm Bret. I'm your brother."

It was then that Bart turned back to the inside of the cabin and let loose. "Beau, get out here!"

Beauregard appeared once again. "You got a kid I don't know about?" Bart growled.

"Nope," the figure answered, and went right back where it came from.

"What else you got?" Bart asked.

I shrugged. "Nothin'. I got nothin' else. I'm the brother you were meant to have." How could I explain to this poor, filthy scarecrow that stood in front of me that somehow, someway, I had wished myself out of existence? I didn't quite understand it, yet I knew that was God's honest truth. Something in the universe heard the heartfelt plea that I'd never been born, and granted my offhand wish. And everything I'd seen and heard so far was the result of that desire for non-existence, that fervent prayer.

Ray Ames had fled his hometown ten years ago. Maude Donovan was a hopeless drunk and appeared to be the town whore. Doralice Donovan, her daughter, was hanged in Mexico for a murder she didn't commit. And my brother Bart . . . dear, sweet Bart . . . was . . . as close to an animal as a man could get. I could just imagine what Bart's life had been like with no older brother to watch out for him and guide him. Cora Stampers that summer in the river . . . the holdup of the saloon in Claytonville. How many more things just like that? How many times had Bart gotten into trouble and, because there was no Bret there to keep him from harm, suffered the consequences? It was a wonder he was alive at all.

"You the law?" I shook my head.

"You ain't got nothin' to do with that Pinkerton come around here a couple weeks ago, do ya?"

I froze. "What Pinkerton?"

"Malone was her name. Came here lookin' for . . . I ain't exactly sure what she wanted. Me, I guess. Anyway, if you're lookin' for her you're too late. She's gone. Ain't gonna be comin' back here again."

"What . . . what did you do to her?"

"What do you think I did to her? I run her off. Teach John Law not to be sendin' nobody around here lookin' to arrest me . . ."

I left the cabin and puked my guts out. What was happening? Who were those men claiming to be Beauregard and Bart Maverick? Under the grime they probably looked like my father and brother, but the similarities stopped there. Pappy reeked of so much alcohol it was a wonder he could even stand, and Bart . . . just thinking about the men I'd just met made my stomach roll again.

Once I'd emptied my stomach I shakily got to my feet and headed back towards town. I wasn't sure where I was going or what I was doing, but I had to do something. Something to try and fix this mess I had apparently created with a few careless words. Even if I was doomed to exist like this, not really existing at all, could I leave pappy and Bart to suffer because of it?

XXXXXXXX

Once I got my stomach settled I rode around aimlessly for a while, not sure where I was going or what I was gonna do. I needed some time to figure out what I was gonna do with this mess and how I could fix it. The problem was, I didn't know where to go. Was there any place I could go to be alone without having reminders of how screwed up things were and everyone telling me they didn't know who I was.

Normally when I wanted to think, I'd play poker. Something about getting in a game and not thinking about my problem usually helped clear my head. I knew that wouldn't work this time though, and I had no desire to go back to either the LB Bar or Corrander Joe's. I wasn't sure I'd be welcome back at the LB, and I didn't want to have to see Maude again. If nothing else I suppose I could ride around just like I was doing.

I rode back into town from the Maverick shack, a road I've been down more times than I could count, and kept riding right on through. I took a good look at this Little Bend as I rode back through, and just like the first time I noticed that everything looked sort of dirty and run down, like no one really cared about anything in this place. It was depressing, and I wondered if it was the people who made it that way, or if the people only seemed run down because of the town. Maybe both.

I'd almost ridden out the other side of town when I saw it, a saloon I hadn't noticed before. It was called the Pair-a-dice, and I scoffed at the name. It wasn't a very fitting name given what I'd seen of this town so far, even if it was a play on words, but it looked in better repair than anything else in town. I tied my horse out front and walked in apprehensively, almost afraid of what I'd discover; but I was pleasantly surprised to find everything about the place unfamiliar and . . . clean. It wasn't an elaborate or beautiful place, nothing like Maude's, but whoever owned the place obviously took some pride in it, unlike most of the other places in town.

I walked over to the bar and ordered a cup of coffee. The bartender passed it over without a comment and I took it to a corner table and sat down. I was sitting there quietly nursing the cup when a girl made her way over to my table. She was young and fresh-faced, couldn't be more than nineteen or so, with a bright smile and long dark hair.

She leaned on the chair across from me and flashed me that smile. "You're new here, ain't ya?"

I shrugged and returned the smile sadly. "I guess so." I, Bret Maverick, was no stranger to Little Bend, but then it seemed I wasn't Bret Maverick anymore, and this wasn't my Little Bend.

"You want a drink? A stronger drink than what you've got?"

I shook my head. "No, thanks. I don't drink."

She gave me a funny look, then sat down. "Huh. In that case, you wanna buy me a drink?"

I studied her a moment then answered with a question of my own. "You lived here long?"

She nodded. "All my life."

I'd never seen her before, and she was claiming to have lived here all her life. What else was new? "If I buy you a drink can you do something for me?"

She stiffened and eyed me warily. "Like what?"

I knew what she was thinking and rushed to explain myself. I wanted nothing from her but some information. "Like the answers to some questions. Can you tell me anything about the Mavericks?"

She looked taken aback then. "You're . . . you're not law, are you? I don't want to get mixed up in that."

This was the second time I'd been asked that and I was getting curious to know what Bart Maverick had been up to. "No. I'm not law. I'm just . . ." How was I supposed to explain this without this girl thinking I was crazy? "I . . . I thought I knew Beauregard Maverick. I mean . . . well, my pappy knew him. He used to talk about him a lot when I was little. The stories he told don't match up with the man I met today."

"Oh." The bartender had brought a drink over, and the girl looked down at it before she said anything else. "I hear he wasn't always that way. That's what they say anyway. He used to be a cardsharp and a good one. He was married once but she died a few years later and he sorta went crazy and started drinkin' real heavy. He's been that way as long as I can remember. He used to come into town pretty often, and play poker but that's changed as he got older. Now about the only time anyone sees him is when he needs more whiskey or . . ." She looked away and cleared her throat.

"Or?"

"Or he needs . . . company."

"Company?"

She sighed and dropped her voice down to a whisper. "Whores."

"What?" I couldn't believe that. Pappy has always enjoyed the company of the fairer sex, but I've never known him to frequent whore houses.

Her face colored some. "The girls at Corrander Joe's offer services we don't here. But I hear there's only one the old man likes; her name's Maude."

My stomach dropped. Pappy and Maude? On the one hand, that made sense and seemed almost right but on the other . . . well, Pappy and Maude weren't supposed to be a drunk and a whore. The revelation was more than I was ready for and I didn't want to know anymore even if the girl could tell me something else. "His son?" I asked quietly.

She sighed. "He's a no good; a cardsharp too. He ain't welcome in here or any of the places in town really, except maybe the LB Bar." She leaned closer to me. "I hear he's in some kind of trouble. A few days ago there was a Pinkerton around asking questions about him."

"What kind of trouble?"

"I'm not sure. Most folks don't seem to want to talk about it."

I nodded. "You know anything else about them?"

"No more than anyone else knows. He's older than me, but I have an uncle about his age. He's always been something of a bully and a troublemaker. At least that's what Clay, my uncle, says." She shrugged. "He's come and gone a lot through the years, and no one seems very happy he's come again." She seemed to study me. "Anything else I can help you with?"

I wasn't sure I could take hearing about much more so I shook my head. "No, that's enough Miss . . ."

She smiled brightly again. "Angel. You can just call me Angel. And you are?"

"Bret."

"Nice to meet you, Bret. Anything else you want to know?"

"No, thanks. You've told me more than enough."

"Well . . ." Angel was cut off by someone calling to her. We both turned and there was a young man at the bar smiling; a matching grin was on Angel's face when she looked my way again. "If you don't need anything else . . ."

"No." Whoever the young man was, Angel seemed happy to see him, and I knew she would probably much rather keep company with him than a morose stranger; she'd probably get him to spend more money, too.

Angel got up, and in just a minute she and the young man were dancing to a lively tune being played on the piano. Meanwhile, I ordered another cup of coffee and thought about what I'd learned. If I'd thought things were bad before, they were even worse now. And I still had no idea how I could fix this mess.

XXXXXXXX

"I hear you've been asking about the Mavericks."

I was so lost in thought that I wasn't aware I was no longer alone until the voice interrupted my thinking. I looked up to see who else in this dump of a town was interested in the Mavericks and found the most beautiful brilliant pair of blue eyes staring back at me. It wasn't just blue eyes but flaming red hair and a shape that made a man take notice. Ginny Malone. And she looked exactly like she was supposed to. I grinned. In all this chaos, finally something was right. "You're here."

Ginny's eyebrows went up. "Were you expecting me?"

"Not exactly, but I'm glad all the same."

She sat down across from me. "What's your business with the Mavericks?"

I was so relieved something in this crazy place was right I hardly paid any attention to what she was saying. "Ginny, honey, I don't know what's goin' on here but everything's all mixed up and . . ."

The look on her face stopped me cold. It was a look that said I was crazy. "Why did you call me that? Who are you?"

I'd thought things couldn't get any worse, and they just had. Ginny Malone, the woman I loved, the woman I'd always thought I'd settle down with one day, had no idea who I was. Actually, I had no idea of who I was either. "I'm . . ." I stopped and sighed. What could I say? I wasn't Bret Maverick, not here. I decided to ignore that question and answer the first one. "It's your name, isn't it?"

Her look and her tone turned defensive. "My name is Virginia. How did you know that?"

I've never before known Ginny to prefer her given name over her nickname; that was just one more thing about this place that was screwed up, but at least everything about her wasn't completely different. I could tell I'd touched a nerve though, and tried to rectify the situation. "I – I'm sorry. I heard the name around town. You are the Pinkerton?"

She nodded stiffly. "It's Malone; you can call me captain."

I nodded, feeling a pang that Ginny was so stiff and formal. "Yes, ma'am."

"Do you have information about the Mavericks, Mister . . ."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced a smile. "You can call me Bret."

"Just Bret?"

"Joseph," I answered quietly. I'd used the name many times but never before had it sounded so awkward.

Ginny smiled at me. Her demeanor was still nothing but professional, but her hostility was gone. "Well, Mister Joseph, are you connected to the Mavericks in any way?"

I shook my head. "No, ma'am; I'm not."

"I don't understand; you've been asking about them, going out to that shack and . . ."

"Look, Miss . . . Captain. Yes, I did go out to see them, but I have no connection with them, and I know nothing more than what I've heard today. I'm sure you know just as much as I do."

Once again Ginny nodded. "I won't take up any more of your time then."

She started to get up and I felt an unexplained surge of panic. I was a stranger to her, but she was the only thing that had been remotely right since I'd opened my eyes. She didn't seem distant and foreign to me like everyone else did and I couldn't let her just walk away. "What's Maverick wanted for anyway?"

Ginny sat back down. "Robbery and attempted murder."

The words hit me like a blow. I was going to have to stop asking myself how this could get any worse because somehow it always did. My brother, my little brother, had tried to kill someone? "Murder?"

"Attempted murder, but he came pretty close."

"Who-who'd he try to kill?" I was sure my voice was hardly more than a whisper.

"He hit a stage carrying a shipment for Wells Fargo. There was a federal man working with him, undercover. Maverick found out about it and didn't take too kindly to being played for a fool. He shot Buckley and . . ."

"Buckley?" Was the name a coincidence or . . . I shook my head; surely not. There had to be thousands of Buckley's in the world.

Ginny smiled sort of wistfully. "He's a good man. He used to be something of a con man himself, so he knows the business, knows how men like Maverick think. I guess Maverick wasn't too pleased to find out Jim wasn't really a kindred spirit."

I think my mouth dropped open. There may have been thousands of Buckley's in the world, but I was willing to bet only a small percentage were named Jim, and an even smaller percentage were con men. "Jim Buckley? Dandy Jim Buckley?"

Ginny looked at me sharply and I saw something flash in her eyes. "And how do you know that name, Mister Joseph? Who are you?"

I was still reeling from what I'd learned about Bart and Pappy and now Ginny Malone was sitting here talking to me like a perfect stranger and telling me Dandy Jim was a federal man. "I'm nobody," I replied wearily.

Ginny apparently didn't like my answer. "You're nobody," she said hotly. "A nobody who just happened to turn up in a backwater town like this one and stumble onto a hole-in-the-wall shack where a wanted man is hiding out? A nobody who's been asking about that same man since he got back into town? And you just happen to know the man he tried to kill a few weeks ago? Are you a bounty hunter?"

I sighed, feeling worn out and empty, and a little sick at the thought there was evidently a price on my brother's head. There was no way I could explain what was really going on to Ginny, but I had nothing else to offer. I sighed once again. "I . . . I thought I knew Maverick. I realized I was wrong when I got out there."

"And Buckley?"

"I . . . believe I have met him, some time ago. Only he was nothing close to a federal man when I knew him."

Ginny's wistful smile came back. "I understand he used to be a mess. But he's one of the best I've ever worked with."

"Yeah," I said softly. Something about her tone and the look on her face didn't sit well with me. Was Ginny praising Buckley? "He's good alright."

Ginny looked perplexed and a little agitated. "You thought you knew Maverick and you do know Jim. I'm afraid I'm not following you, Mister Joseph, so I'll ask again, who are you?"

More than anything I wished I could answer that, but I'd already given her the best answer I could. The same held true for her questions concerning the Mavericks. "I told you, Captain."

She shook her head. "You know too much to be nobody, but you don't know enough to have a professional connection with Jim. Do you know him from before? When he was still . . ."

"You could say that."

"And Maverick?"

"I don't know him."

"I don't believe you."

I saw no reason to continue this talk. I knew she didn't believe me, and I really couldn't blame her, but what else could I say? Besides, it was becoming more and more difficult to sit here across from her and know she saw me as nothing more than a lead in one of her cases. "Well, I'm sorry, Captain, but that's all I can give you." I pushed back from the table, ready for this encounter to be over. I didn't understand any of this myself. How could I possibly explain it to her?

"Wait." She reached out and touched my arm, instantly stopping me. Her fingers burned my sleeve, bringing a wave of pleasure at feeling her touch, and jolt of pain knowing it meant nothing to her. I sank back down in my chair, unable to leave her.

"I'm sorry, Mister Joseph." She looked down and picked at one of her nails. "You must think I'm terrible, fussing at you like this." She looked back up and smiled. "I apologize. I don't have an excuse other than I was hoping you could provide me with some information that might help. I was out at the Maverick place a few days ago and . . . well, Maverick made it quite clear he has no intention of giving up or coming in peacefully."

I winced, wondering about the confrontation. From what I'd seen, this Ginny was very much like my own Ginny, and I'd seen first-hand how cold this Bart was. There likely hadn't been anything friendly about the meeting, especially given that Bart was sure Ginny was gone for good. "He mentioned that," I mumbled.

"I should have known better, but I wasn't prepared for him to be that violent. He's a dangerous man."

"Can you tell me more about what he's wanted for?" She gave me a questioning look and I shrugged. "I'm curious about the man whose home I so nonchalantly waltzed up to earlier."

She took a deep breath. "Well, judging from the reports my agency has and everyone I've talked to – people around here and some of the local lawmen – he's always been something of a troublemaker. He's a mediocre cardsharp, and he's suspected of being involved in petty crimes since he was about fourteen. There's a lot of local robberies and some small time larceny everyone is sure he was behind, but there's never been enough proof to pin anything on him. It seems he's getting braver though, or bolder anyway; he's moving on to bigger things. I'm sure he thinks himself a mastermind, but he's really just a punk who's been lucky so far."

"What's the Pinkerton's interest?"

"Wells Fargo sometimes uses us for security. There were some rumors going around that Maverick was bragging about making a big hit in the area they were making a run in, and they started getting nervous. One of the crimes Maverick is suspected of being involved with was an army payroll; that makes him of federal interest. When Wells Fargo told us of their concern, we got in touch with the local Marshal. That's where Jim came in. He's very good at what he does."

It wasn't the first time Ginny had made that comment and this one was accompanied by a smile of . . . fondness? Then some kind of hurt passed over her face.

"It's a miracle he's still alive. Maverick was trying to kill him, and he very nearly succeeded."

Looking at her, hearing her tone, I knew this wasn't just an associate to her. She was talking about a friend, maybe more than a friend. "So it's personal now?" I asked softly, feeling my gut twist.

She looked at me sharply. "He . . . I told you, he's good at what he does. And no one deserves to be shot down in cold blood."

That may be true, but this was very personal to her. Maybe Ginny hadn't told Buckley how she felt, or maybe she hadn't admitted it to herself, but her interest was definitely more than professional. I sighed and wondered how many more blows I would have to endure. It wasn't enough that I'd lost my family and my home, I'd lost my woman too. And not just lost her, lost her to the one who'd been a thorn in my side since the day I'd met him.

"The problem with Maverick is he's not just a thief anymore; we know now that he'll kill if he has to. He needs to be stopped before that happens. I don't enjoy the thought of killing a man, but that's likely what will happen when we try to bring him in. I thought if you were someone he knew perhaps . . ."

"I know what you were thinking," I broke in softly. "But I'm afraid I can't offer you any assistance with the Mavericks." Honestly, I didn't know that I would if I could. I couldn't disagree with Ginny's words, but some part of me kept saying that he was my brother. He wasn't, not really; he wasn't the man I knew or the man he was supposed to be, but still familiar enough that the thought of him going down in a hail of bullets turned my stomach.

Ginny studied me a moment, then took a breath. "Mister Joseph, you don't have to tell me because it's really none of my business, but . . . what were you doing at the Maverick place? From what I gather they aren't men most folks care to associate with. And if you really are a stranger . . . "

I decided to stick with the same story I'd told Angel before. It was as close to the truth as I could get without anyone thinking I was crazy. "My Pappy knew Beauregard. Since I was in town I decided to look them up. The man I met wasn't anything like the one my Pappy told me about."

"Then you really don't know them?"

That was the saddest truth of all. I shook my head. "No, I don't."

Ginny gave a resigned sigh. "Alright. Well . . . thank you for your time Mister Joseph; I'm sorry I took up so much of it. And again, I apologize for anything I said earlier."

"Think nothing of it, Captain. And good luck."

"Thank you. I'm afraid we'll need it."

She got up from the table, and as I watched her walk away I felt another crack in my heart. Not existing wasn't supposed to be this painful.

XXXXXXXX

I sat in the saloon and drank coffee; I had nowhere else to go. Everything I'd known my entire life was gone, vanished, destroyed. My whole identity, as the eldest son of an honest poker player, no longer existed. My father was a cardsharp, a drunken, dishonest cheat who didn't know me from Adam. I'd practically raised my best friend in the whole world, my kid brother Bart, and instead of the decent, caring man he'd grown into, in this life he was a dirty, no account petty criminal. And it still hadn't dawned on me why the world I'd woken up in was so very different from my own.

I was sitting at a table by the doors feeling about as low as I could get when someone walked in and for just a moment I had a clear view of my horse . . . being led away by a person or persons unknown. Wasn't there anything safe or sacred in this worthless little burg? I'd lost the three things that mattered most to me in the world, my father, my brother, and the woman I loved . . . was I supposed to let the only possession I had left be taken away from me, too? Without hesitation I jumped to my feet and ran after the big chestnut stallion, yelling, "Hey, you've got the wrong horse."

It didn't take long for the irony of the whole situation to hit me. The man trying to steal the only thing of value I had left in this world was my brother Bart. If there is such a thing as your heart physically breaking, at that exact moment what was left of mine was shattered into a million little pieces.

"Bart! Bart Maverick! Where do you think you're goin' with my horse?" I yelled after him, and he stopped dead in his tracks. I saw the right hand slide down towards his gun, and I put an end to the motion before it really got started. I pulled mine cross-handed and threatened my own brother. "I'll drop you right where you stand, Bart. Don't force me to do somethin' I really don't wanna do."

He turned back to me slowly with that same evil grin I'd seen once before, out at the shack he called home. "Is he yours? Sorry, I thought he was mine. Looks just like the stallion I had stolen from me last week. Gotta take better care of him, mister, or somebody will see him and accuse you of horse theft. They hang horse thieves, you know." He stood and watched me for a good five minutes, and I swear if I'd gone back inside and sat down he'd have started walking again. This incarnation of Bart Maverick didn't have any more patience than the one in my world, however, and the look on his face grew rapidly darker until he finally spit at me. As a last ornery gesture, he dropped the reins on the ground and turned his back on me, daring me to shoot him. It might have been the best thing if I had.

XXXXXXXX

I went back to the saloon simply because I had nothing else to do. Every second since I'd woken up had been filled with unpleasant revelations and realizations, and I didn't know what to do about it. Somehow, some way, my wish had been granted, and I had seen the result of it. Simply put, it wasn't pretty.

I didn't understand what had happened. I still existed, as far as I knew. People could still see me, talk to me; I just didn't exist as Bret Maverick. I had no father, no brother, no place in Little Bend, Texas, and no way of helping the people most important to me. I meant absolutely nothing to the woman I loved. My brother would likely be dead soon, either killed trying to rob someone or hanged for one of his crimes. Pappy was a drunk who apparently only showed his face when he needed more whiskey or a whore. Maude was his whore of choice and had her own love of whiskey. And Doralice was dead, unjustly hanged because her Bart wasn't there to ride to her rescue, and I wasn't there to help them get back home.

I'd never felt as helpless or as useless as I did right now. Sure when I'd said I wished I'd never been born, I'd meant it. I'd meant it in that moment, that split second it had taken for the thought to cross my mind, but how many times had I, along with everyone else in the world, thought something stupid like that. Why had this thought been different? Why had this one come true?

I sank down in a chair at a corner table, ordered a cup of coffee, and wondered where I went from here. I'd already established I did exist, as someone, just not Bret Maverick. So what did I do? I couldn't imagine trying to stay here with all these reminders of how I had messed up everyone's lives, but how could I leave the people I cared about in such misery? And what could I do to help? Not one of them was interested in what I had to say, and I couldn't blame them. And I was afraid they were all too far gone for any help anyway.

My thoughts turned to Pappy and Bart again. What had life been like for them after Beauregard lost his beloved wife? Had Bart known any affection? Had his father taken any time to at least try to steer him in the right direction, or had the drunk just left him to his own devices? From what I'd seen at the shack I could easily believe the latter. But was it all the old man's fault? Had there been anyone to help him at all? Even my Bart had been a handful, and there had been times he could try the patience of a saint. Maybe the boy had just been too much for a man on his own with no one to help. Maybe he was so blinded by his grief he'd been unable to see what the boy really needed. Maybe he was just too broken to give it.

I knew I'd never have the answers to my questions, but that didn't stop me from thinking about them, and the more I did, the guiltier I felt. I couldn't shake the feeling that this was my fault and there should be something I could do to help. Sighing I dropped my head into my hands. This was apparently life for Beauregard and Bart Maverick without me. This is what happened when I hadn't been there to give Pappy the occasional reminder that his youngest son was smarter than he sometimes acted, or that blowing up when Bart popped off only made things worse. Was this what Bart had become because I wasn't there to tell him to just shut his mouth and admit Pappy was right about something, or be the gentle voice of reason when he was afraid asking Pappy's advice would result in Pappy overreacting? Was I really needed to remind both of them that the other might be right, and perhaps listening was better than reacting? Did I matter so much that both of them had crumpled without me there? That seemed extreme, but I couldn't deny that the men I'd met today were nothing like they should have been.

I was sitting there contemplating my father, my brother, and my own self-worth when a familiar figure came up. "Want some company?" Angel asked offering me a half smile.

"I'm not sure how good the company will be, but you're welcome."

She slid into the chair across from me. "It doesn't matter; you look like you could use a friend."

I gave her a wan smile. "I could at that. Too bad I don't have any."

"I don't believe that. A man like you must have a lot of friends."

"I did once. I'm not so sure now."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I looked at the girl across from me and smiled ruefully. "Why do care about me? I'm just a stranger, drifting through. Why do I matter?"

"Oh, I don't know. Part of my job is giving men company."

"Company, not listening to their sob stories."

"Listening to anything they want to talk about."

"As long as they buy you a drink."

Angel sort of laughed. "I guess that's true, but I didn't make the rules. But you really look like you could use a listening ear, and I'm a pretty good listener."

She just sat there looking at me and smiling, and she seemed so young and innocent I couldn't help but smile back. "Alright, Miss Angel, if you really want to hear this sordid tale. What will you have to drink?"

Angel's smile grew. "Coffee's fine," she said waving the bartender over.

The man was at the table almost instantly with another cup and a full pot of coffee. He and Angel exchanged a knowing look, and I wondered what it meant. If I didn't know any better I'd think the two of them were up to something, but I didn't get an uneasy feeling about either one. It was more like they . . . pitied me, maybe even understood me.

Angel refilled my cup then filled one for herself before she looked at me and smiled again. "So, Bret, what is your problem?"

I sighed heavily wondering if there was any way to explain how confusing and mixed up everything was without sounding crazy. "I . . . I made a mistake."

Angel laughed. "All people make mistakes."

"No, this . . . this is a big one. This one has ended up hurting a lot of people; people who are very important to me."

"But you're still only human. I'm sure if you're willing to make amends those people would be willing to listen. Especially if they care about you like you do them."

My heart sank a little more. That was the problem, I wasn't anything to them anymore. "I'm not sure I can do anything to fix this."

"You could start with an apology."

I scoffed. I could just see myself walking back up to that shack and apologizing to Bart Maverick for ruining his life. I wondered if he'd shoot me before or after I got the words out. And Pappy; those dull eyes of his just staring at me while I begged forgiveness for not being his son, for not being there to help when he really needed me. And Maude and Ginny . . . they would all look at me like I was crazy. I don't know, maybe I was crazy. "An apology won't help this."

Angel's look changed to one of sympathy and she suddenly looked a lot older than she had before, not physically, but something about her eyes spoke of wisdom far beyond her years. She reached across the table and took my hand. "What could you have possibly done that was so bad? What could make those you care about hate you that much?"

"That's just it; they don't hate me. They don't even know me." Angel's eyebrows rose slightly and I pulled my hand away with a sigh. "I know it's crazy," I mumbled as I dropped my head into my hands. "But I don't know how else to explain it."

I heard someone approach the table and set something down. I then heard Angel move from the chair she'd been in to the one next to me. "Bret," she said softly.

I looked back up, and sure enough she was beside me and holding two new glasses filled with amber colored liquid. "I know you said you don't drink, but under the circumstances . . ." She offered me one of the glasses. "Maybe it would help."

I gazed at her sadly for a moment before taking the glass she was offering. It was something I never would have done at home; I don't really care for the taste, and it's never solved anything for me, but everything else about this place was wrong, so why not?

I took a drink, grimacing at the bitter bite of the whiskey, and she took my hand again. "I'll listen to anything you want to say, Bret."

I took another drink. "Have you ever wondered if you were important?"

"I suppose it's something all humans do at one time or another."

She was right I guess, but how could I be so important? Was I capable of making such a difference in the lives of my father and brother that everything had changed with my absence? "I have a brother," I told her. "He's a great guy; my best friend. But I said something stupid and now . . ." I had to swallow a lump in my throat. "I've lost him. I've lost him and my father and . . . how could I be so stupid?"

"You couldn't have said anything so bad that your father and your brother can't forgive you."

I shook my head, knowing I wasn't making sense, and took another drink. "It's not like that."

"Then what is it?"

I jerked my hand away again. "You don't understand," I snapped as dropped my head back into my hands.

She was silent a minute then. "I understand much more than you think, Bret Maverick."

Her words froze me for a moment, then I slowly raised my head back up. "What did you say?"

"I understand you're lost and confused."

"What did you call me?" Had I heard her wrong?

She seemed to know what I was thinking and smiled. "I believe you heard me."

"You called me . . . ." I looked around the bar expecting something to have changed, nothing had. "You know?"

I saw those wise eyes again as she nodded. "Yes, I know who you are."

It felt so good to hear someone say my name I could have cried with relief. "Do I really not exist?"

She shook her head. "Not as Bret Maverick, not here. You made a wish, and your wish was granted. Bret Maverick was never born; no one here has any knowledge of him."

"Am I really that important that all this could happen because I wasn't here?"

"Everyone makes their choices in life, Bret, but you are very important to your family. After losing his wife Beauregard had no one to turn to, no one to help him with his son, so he depended on a bottle to help him through each day. With his father out all night playing cards and spending his days drinking, Bart was alone too."

I finally asked a question I had thought of earlier but hadn't had the nerve to ask. "What about my uncle? Why isn't he here?" My birth or lack thereof would have no bearing on Ben's existence.

"He prefers to travel. He doesn't have much use for his drunken brother and thieving nephew."

That didn't make sense to me, but I didn't question it. I'd already learned today some things I was probably better off not knowing. "So they really were all alone," I muttered.

"They are both stubborn and independent men. As Bart got older, he and his father butted heads constantly. He grew up angry and lost with no one at all to guide him."

I didn't think it was possible for my heart to break more than it already had, and yet it did. "And with no one there to guide him he never became a man Maude would ask to save her daughter. And without her daughter . . ." I groaned and dropped my head on the table.

I felt a hand on my back. "Yes, Bret Maverick, you are very important."

"I didn't mean it. I didn't. I just want to go home."

"Bret?"

I slowly raised my head back up and looked at Angel. "I wanna go home," I told her again. "Is there any way to go back?" I didn't want to stay in this place, not being Bret Maverick a second longer.

Angel placed her hand on my cheek. "I didn't bring you here, but even though you aren't Bret Maverick in this world, you do exist. You're wish didn't take away your life, just everyone's knowledge of it."

"Are you saying this can be undone then? I can go home?"

"It's not my decision to make, but your life hasn't yet ended." She looked at the glass on the table and back at me with a knowing smile. "Maybe you should have another drink."

I looked down at my half-empty cup and without thinking too much about it threw the rest of the contents back. I shuddered as the liquid made its way down my throat and prayed that in some bizarre way it would do some good. "Is that supposed to help?" I asked with a cough.

Angel smiled that smile of hers again. "You matter a great deal, Bret Maverick. Don't ever forget that."

A buzzing started to fill my head as the room swam before my eyes. What was going on? "A-Angel?" I heard a note of panic in my voice.

I felt myself pulled into an embrace. "Shhh, relax Bret. Everything will be alright."

My lids grew heavy and I couldn't hold my eyes open a second longer. "Angel," I called weakly. "What's happening?"

"It's gonna be alright, Bret. Just let go."

I felt a kiss being pressed against my forehead before my whole world went black.

When I opened my eyes again I was alone and still very much in the dark. I was also sitting at a table. I sat there a minute trying to get my bearings, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I realized I was still in the saloon, or a saloon. I pushed away from the table and slowly got to my feet.

"Angel?" There was no answer, not that I was expecting one. I stood in the room lit only by moonlight and called out again. "Angel?"

It was hard to tell in the darkness, but it looked like I was still in the Pair-a-dice. But why would I be left here, alone? Not willing to wait for answers I hurried out of the batwing doors onto the boardwalk. There was more light out here, but I still saw no one else around. That didn't make sense. Why was I alone? Was I still in that nightmare town of Little Bend or was I somewhere else? I hoped when I'd passed out before I would wake up at home, my stupid wish undone and the world made right. I was now afraid that wasn't the case. In fact, as I walked along the empty boardwalk it became clear that I was still very much in my alternate Little Bend.

"Angel?" I called plaintively, my voice sounding pitiful even to my own ears. Yet again I'd been dumb enough to think things couldn't get any worse, and once again, they had. The only thing worse than not being known, was being all alone. I had no idea not existing would be like this and I was willing to give anything to put all this behind me.

I stepped off the boardwalk and sighed. I'd thought when I'd finished that drink and Angel was telling me it would be alright I was on my way home. Instead I'd woken up in the same nightmare, only this time I was all alone. There at the end I'd thought maybe Angel was just that, an angel. Now I was wondering if she was something else; maybe this was hell.

Broken, lost, and confused I didn't hear the footsteps coming up behind me until it was too late. I barely had time to turn before something heavy come crashing down on my head. I staggered a little before I hit my knees then fell face first into the dust of the street. As I went down I heard a voice. "I don't know who you are but you've poked around here enough."

Rough hands grabbed my coat and started feeling around for my wallet. "As much of a bother as you've been, I ought to get somethin' out of you before I kill you." The words were followed by a laugh; a cruel, evil laugh that I'd heard too often today; the laugh of Bart Maverick. The darkness started to close in around me again and I didn't even care. My brother, or rather the man who should have been my brother, was about to kill me.

I didn't care about that; I didn't care about anything anymore. At this point, death would be welcome, even at Bart Maverick's hand. My last thought before I embraced the blackness creeping in around me was 'I'm sorry, Bart.'

XXXXXXXX

My head felt like it was splitting wide open, and my mouth was so dry I couldn't talk. It was dark and cold outside, and I woke with the persistent feeling that I was about to be killed by the man that was leaning over me . . . my brother, Bart Maverick.

I was as confused and yes, terrified, as I'd ever been in my entire life. I'd already woken up in an alley once today, with my head throbbing painfully and my entire world turned upside down. I was Bret Maverick, born and raised in Little Bend, Texas, with a father named Beauregard and a brother named Bart. Yet when I got myself off the ground and back on my feet, I discovered that no such man existed. And the Beauregard and Bart that were living in whatever world this was were nothing like the men I knew. Neither, for that matter, was the town or anyone else in it.

The last thing I remembered before feeling the gun butt split my head open was the sound of Bart Maverick's laugh in my ears. There was no mistaking it; it was the meanest, nastiest laugh I'd ever heard in my whole life. I had managed to destroy my entire life, and the world I lived in, by thinking one thought – 'I wish I'd never been born.'

Some way, some how, that misplaced thought had upended everything I knew. First off, I didn't know who I was anymore, but I sure wasn't Bret Maverick. And just how did I know that? Because everyone I met in the entire town insisted there was no such person. And that included my father, my brother, and the woman I loved. It didn't matter that those three people still existed; they weren't the Beauregard, Bart, and Ginny that existed in my world. Beauregard, the father that hadn't touched a drop of whiskey in thirty or more years, was an absolute drunk. Ginny was a flustered Pinkerton agent with a mad crush on Federal Agent Dandy Jim Bickley. And Bart – dear, sweet Bart – was a murderous, evil sounding thief. I'd found an alternate world to live in, and I hated it.

Bart reached a hand out for my head and I must have whimpered and tried to pull away from him. Funny, he didn't look like he had the last time I saw him. This Bart was both clean and clean-shaven. No long, greasy hair, no straggly, dirty beard, he had clean clothes and bright dancing eyes that smiled all on their own. "Easy, Bret, easy," he crooned softly as he gently wiped blood from my head.

"Wallet's . . . in inside pocket. Take it. Just don't . . . hit me again."

"Shhh, easy Brother Bret. Why would I hit you? And I may be almost broke but I sure don't want your wallet. Just lie still and let me get some of this blood off you."

He reached for my head again and I cringed. That's when I heard footsteps running towards us, and another familiar voice called, "Bartley! Did you find him?"

In just a few seconds Pappy's face came into my limited line of vision, and I winced. He was just as clean-shaven and sober looking as Bart, and I was once again thoroughly perplexed. "Water," I managed to beg for, not knowing if I'd be given any or not, and Pappy disappeared for a few seconds. When he returned, a full canteen was placed against my lips and I drank my fill.

"I'll go get Doc Petry," Pappy told Bart, then turned his head back to face me. "You hang in there, boy. Everything's gonna be fine." I closed my eyes, and when I reopened them he was gone. I expected Bart to have reverted to the dirty, mean outlaw that had taken my brother's place, and I was surprised that he hadn't. I tried to reach for my head but his hand curled around mine and prevented it.

"Don't do that, big brother. You're still bleedin' pretty good. Let's wait till Pappy gets back here with Simon."

"Bart?" I questioned feebly.

"Who else did you expect?"

"I don't . . . I don't know. You . . . weren't you. And now . . . you are."

"I don't know what you're tryin' to tell me, but it's not makin' any sense. Just lie still until Doc gets here, okay? I don't know how bad you're hurt." He squeezed my hand and smiled, and I wasn't sure what had happened. All I was sure of was that the man smilin' down at me was my brother, Bart. Wherever I'd been, wherever I'd gone to, we were back together in the same world.

XXXXXXXX

"How ya feelin', son?"

That was the first thing Pappy asked me when I was stretched out under the blankets in bed. Truth be told, there have been plenty of times I felt better, but I didn't need to worry him any more than he'd already been worried.

"Better, Pappy. Much better."

He squeezed my hand before walking away from the bed. I'm sure that Simon's words had carried more weight than mine, and they'd already had a lengthy conversation. According to Bart, I had a concussion and would require several days of bed rest, but would eventually be as good as new. Of course, Simon didn't know what had been going on inside my head; he'd only been privy to the outside, and he'd obviously seen worse.

Bart sat at my bedside for almost an hour before he said anything. I dozed on and off, and every time I opened my eyes he was there. Finally he asked me very quietly, "Wanna tell me about it?"

"No."

Persistence, thy name is Bart. "What happened that you don't wanna talk about?"

"Who says somethin' happened?"

I got a very small grin after that one, and he seemed content for a while to let it go. A few minutes later he took up the questioning again. "Musta been pretty bad for you not to talk about it."

"It was."

"So you admit that somethin' happened."

"I do."

"But you won't say what it was."

"I don't know what it was, Bart."

"Bret, when I found you, you were moaning. Words, not just sounds. Do you know what you were saying?"

"No." I didn't, but I had a feeling that Bart was gonna tell me.

"Bart, don't kill me. I won't turn you in. You have to trust me." He paused for just a minute, before once again taking my hand in his. "It wasn't just the words, Bret. You were afraid – truly afraid. Of me. Please tell me what happened."

I let out a long sigh and tried my best to explain something I didn't even understand. "I wished I'd never been born. And somehow, the universe chose to accommodate me."

We sat there for a few more minutes, while Bart tried to grasp what I'd just told him. "Not . . . born? What does that mean?"

"I wasn't here. I didn't exist. There was no Bret Maverick."

"Then who . . . who were you?"

I closed my eyes and tried again. "I don't know. I was nobody. Everyplace I went, looking for Bret Maverick, he wasn't real. And everything was different because of that."

"Different how?"

"It just . . . was."

"Doralice?"

"Dead." I saw him cringe. "Hanged in Mexico."

"Maude?"

He didn't need to know everything about Maude. "A saloon girl."

"Drunk?"

I didn't answer him. I didn't have to.

"Pappy?"

"A cardsharp and a drunk."

"Uncle Ben?"

"I don't know. Not in Little Bend."

"Where'd Pappy live?"

"In a shack down by the river."

"Where was I?"

"You were with him." I was hoping he'd stop asking questions, but he didn't.

"What was I? Why were you afraid of me?"

"You were . . . different."

"Different how? Did I look different? Act different? What?"

'Dear God, Bart, let it go. Don't make me tell you. Please, let it go.'

"Bret, talk to me. I need to know."

"All of it?"

"All of it."

"You were . . . an outlaw. A cardsharp, a thief. Wanted by Pinkerton and Wells Fargo"

"An . . . outlaw. Who was workin' . . . Ginny. She was Pinkerton, wasn't she?"

I closed my eyes again. I wanted it to stop, to go away, I didn't want to talk about it or think about it anymore. "Yes."

"And . . . you. Who were you workin' for?"

"Me? Nobody. I was workin' for nobody."

"But . . . I was gonna kill you."

"You thought I was . . . you thought I was . . . I don't know, Bart. I don't know who you thought I was."

"An . . . outlaw. I guess . . . I guess I went with Earnie to Claytonville."

"You don't seem real surprised."

"I'm not. It woulda been so easy . . . I think the only thing that kept me from going was the idea of disappointing you. But if you weren't there to disappoint . . . "

Bart had come across many a fork in the road. When faced with a decision, he'd always made the right one. But I was there, by his side, in his life, ready to convince him to go back and start over again. There in his face to show him why he didn't want to cheat at cards, or rob the saloon, or shoot a federal man.

That's when it hit me. I always thought I hadn't made much of a difference in the world. But maybe I had, after all. Ray Ames, Doralice, Maude, Pappy . . . Ginny, my beloved Ginny. And then there was Bart. He was the biggest revelation, the biggest . . . disappointment. Maybe he wouldn't have turned out like that without my help and guidance. But maybe he would. And I could see those eyes . . . those dull and sunken eyes. Not at all like the man I was looking at now. Nothing at all like my brother.

Thank God I was born. Thank God I lived.