He knew there was ore up on Falcon Ridge. Stored somewhere in the banks just past the sparse woods, where the creek emboldened itself to river. There were traces of both gold and silver out on the sandbar, far enough out a body had to wade—or swim—depending on rainfall and meltwater.

Falcon Ridge was as high as land got around Whiskey Knot. It was a bit of a climb, and Fixing grumbled, balked. Even yet morning, it was hot. Han had to dismount at the base of the covert trail he'd blazed into the trees and coax. Fix dug his iron-shod hooves in so heavy you'd never guess he was fleet and fast as a peregrine when Han let him open up on flatland. Damned spoiled beast. Growling, Han brandished the looped reins. The big dappled gray bared his teeth in a chuckling whinny, knowing this to be idle threat. Han sighed, hooking his hand in the stallion's bridle, tickling the whiskered chin as they walked deeper into jackpine and blue spruce. It was true, Han would never beat a horse. Instead Han hit his own upper thigh with leather in absent rhythm with his muttering. No work for you, huh Fix. Quick or nothin', that it?

Under the brim of his hat Han squinted at the sky, checking for his arcane set of co-ordinates. A broken branch, a black feather stuck in pine pitch. Han prided himself on his sense of direction, but it had been a year and...he shook his head, reaching for the map and claim papers. He kept these in the back pocket of each day's britches. Not in his jacket, which Han slung off in the saloon, and not in the saddlebags he intricately tied (A Guide to British Navy Knots was a favorite boyhood Christmas gift from Pat) but were vulnerable to pickpockets when Fix was hitched to a post. Not even his tie-down holster provided storage secure enough for Han—Robert made a real barnum of collecting all their guns before supper. At night Han slipped his papers under his goosedown pallet.

His claim wasn't a secret, technically. Anyone was free to go to the Land Title Office and see Han Solo had filed an area claim last week. That he had a year to prove the land he'd staked harbored gold or silver, one year that whatever he found there was his. The trick was to let on to no one that they should check.

So far, so good: no one in Whiskey Knot looked to Han as the clever Solo brother. Especially not Robert—not even Pat, Han thought with a smirk that felt cavalier but looked, from the outside, faintly hurt. He knew he was seen as the tearaway, the reckless youngest, the despoiler of...no, all he had to do was keep on as he was. Working the farm jobs Robert assigned him, taking the pay Robert afforded him, showing up at the table and bowing his head into Robert's prayer. And if of a Saturday night Han hankered to hitch Fixing to the gigcart and ride into town for cold beer and cards or billiards, why that was fine so long as he didn't get truly plastered. So long as Ma drifted off thinking her baby was tucked upstairs by nine of the clock. So long as he was up on Sunday morning, washed and shaved for church. Ma was ill and she still hadn't recovered, Robert liked to remind him, from the shame Han had brought to the Solo name. And if Pop—

With a soft slap to Fixing's flank, Han cancelled the thought.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Han couldn't explain how he knew it. It was as though some buried sediment called to the minerals in his own blood. Particles magnetized in the chambers of his heart, and travelled. Veins called to veins and pulled him onward.

They'd found the grains of gold and silver just off the sandbar. Collected in the rich silt at the foot of the solitary birch that improbably grew there, slim and white and stubborn. The Han Solo who'd been a lovelorn fool—the Han Solo of before—had let that tree put him in mind of a name, a face, a form. But this Han Solo was a year older and he kept his eye roving well away from the pale column.

He looped Fix's reins to a thick branch in a shady spot, fed him a carrot and then another, softly scolding the big horse for a glutton. Placed his hat on a stump, toed off his boots, knitted socks, shed his shirt and suspenders and trousers down to the thin sleeveless singlet buttoned to the waist of his cotton undershorts. Han did not look at the birch, flourishing its full green leaf as though in defiance of the heat, even as he strapped his kit to his back, his pan and pick and can and cloth. Not even when he slung his gun-belt around his neck and struck out through the hip-deep water toward it. Damn tree might as well be a simple cross of pine. Yet it didn't feel like the spot where everything died. Even now, to his vexation, the birch remained Han's own marker of treasure.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Nothing. He found nothing. Han ended up resting on his back in the shallow slope of river, letting it flow over him. Hands laced behind his head, eyes closed, studying the fine veins in his lids. Listening to Fix whicker and snuffle from the shore. Listening for the train. From up here you could not feel the thrumming of the Western Express, but the whistle carried and it made Han's skin prickle even under the chill of sunlit, tumbling water. Here he was a man of near twenty-nine and still he yearned after that shrill call to freedom.

To hear it now Han's hand constricted at his skull as though around a humming steel rail, where he used to place his pennies. Other boys spent theirs on peppermint candy but copper was lucky, so said Han's Pop. And the red-gold color seemed too important—precious, elemental—to Han to trade for a measure of sugar. But there was alchemic honor in altering metal, though he could not have articulated that as a boy of six, could not as a man who'd lost his father since. He'd stored those pressed discs, their values and faces erased, in his dresser, under the handkerchiefs his mother embroidered for his breast pocket and he never wore. They were still there; Han checked when he came home last month. Han didn't know why he'd kept the thinned copper. It cancelled no debts, and he no longer believed it had power.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"I don't aim to run no beg-ride."

"Now, that's not what I said, baby boy."

Han's angled lip twitched, but he went on curry-combing Fix. Robert stepped closer, rested a hand on the horse's neck, pulling his muzzle into a hard stroke. Fix twitched away. Robert wasn't violent, but his affection had always had, even with Pat and Han, that domineering element. Robert withdrew his touch, untroubled.

"What I said to Mayor Bill," Robert went on,"was that you'd go right past Bright Oaks, so it'd be no trouble—"

Mayor Bill. Han snorted. Bright Oaks. Who in hell spoke-

"...no trouble to run his Eileen into town. Since I'll be sending you this aft anyway."

Han's eyes narrowed; still he kept them on his fingers, looped into the steel handle of the comb. "Sending me huh."

"Surely. To the chemist. Ma's laudanum."

Han let the breath he'd drawn for argument issue softly from his nostrils. He nodded. Robert delivered Han's shoulder a hearty slap. Han moved out from his brother's grip, hung the comb on its hook. At the mouth of the stall, Robert turned back as though struck by a sudden thought. This was a pet tactic of Robert's.

"Now: Eileen's a fine girl," Robert said.

"If you say so," Han said through his smile.

"So leave your hat on your bedpost. And no spitting, boyo."

"Spitting?"

"Betsy Armstrong told Florence you spit nigh in her path. Right on Silver Street. Noon last."

"Straight bullshit."

Robert's face softened into triumphant sympathy. "If you were in your cups...?"

"No. Middle of the day? No." Han snapped. "An' I don't do chaw, you know that—"

"Eileen's a real prize," Robert mused. "You play your cards right—and you love your cards—who knows?"

Han hated that look, Robert's hazel eyes twinkling like Han was some schoolboy, all his concerns a child's, his hopes and dreams a child's. "I'm not meanin' to hear this," Han said, as evenly as he could.

Robert chuckled. "Do you mean to be a bachelor all your-"

Han wheeled to face his brother, finger extended. "Hire me out on errands, fine. But don't you, don't you talk to me about—"

"See here." Robert's affable grin pared itself away, leaving a thin scimitar blade. "That's just like you, Han. You should be grateful, after all your fuss with that...salt-lipped girl. All that local talk, and the likes of Eileen Howard will be seen with you? She asked for you. The mayor's damn daughter! Lord knows why; Ma always said you were the looker."

Hitting Robert, twelve years Han's senior—unthinkable before. But now. But now. Salt-lipped girl. Fix's warm nuzzle of Han's fist was all that stopped it.

"Shave first, pup," Robert said, allusive twitch to his eyebrow. Han did not flinch at this extra twist of the knife.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Han did shave, but not for Eileen Howard's sake. He shaved because he had to bathe anyway, muddy from the river. And Han couldn't be scruffy if he'd be bringing Ma her dose later. She'd kiss his cheek goodnight, feel his whiskers, and wonder at his health.

As Han peered in the glass above his bedroom washstand, long frame still bare and damp from the galvanized steel tub before his hearth, he thought of the day under the birch. Han's expression remained impassive as he bearded himself with suds, scraped them off. Rinsed the gleaming steel he kept lethal on its leather strop, peppering the steaming water with stubble. Began again, dragging his cheek taut under a finger. Maybe. Maybe if he'd—

The straight razor whispered viciously into Han's flesh, just under his cheekbone. This error was rare for a man of his deftness, and he hissed with self-disgust. He was a farm boy, felt no squeamishness and ignored pain, but when Han saw blood drip into the china washbowl he moved fast to blot the cut with his alum block. In the mercury glass he watched the trickle down his jaw thicken, then stop. And in this way Han likewise blocked the images that threatened to shipwreck him: red ribboning into water; her face, neck, bosom pale with shock, pale except for where he had-

Han braced his weight on the wrought-iron stand. Let his eyes close and head drop back. Enough. Not that, not her, not any more. Not that day or any of the sweet time before. Ah, by God, by the good Lord Christ. By all the devils if that's what it took: enough. It had to stop. She was gone, and Han did not have sufficient aluminum salts to seal some stupid, stuck-bleeding heart.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He supposed most men would give a tooth to squire Eileen Howard into town. She did gleam from the bench of the gigcart next to Han, her hair that deep brass. Eileen shifted, in elemental increments, as Han drove Fixing on. At first Han figured this to do with the layers she wore; he'd never known, not until—well. Han was amazed at how much cloth and steel and whalebone women bore. But Eileen's face held none of the discomfort and fierce resentment he'd seen from...before. Eileen seemed pleased, turning her May Queen smile and wave on everyone they passed. Her movement was slow, controlled, but still somehow it reminded Han of a buffalo nickel flipped in the sun—seizing the light, beaming it back, deciding who lost and who won.

She also talked blue hell. Tearing into her elder sister's upcoming wedding party. The whole twenty minutes bumping along behind the horse—and what had got into him? Normally Fix kept the gig gliding slick, seemed to pride himself on it, but today his trot was so jarring it was almost snide—Eileen listed stuff she didn't think was good enough: her sister's dress pattern, menu, flowers. She hated that the event was to be held in September—and here already July 29! Almost no time at all, Eileen said, for her to plan her own dress.

Her wedding would be different.

And here, Eileen paused to look at Han. Her eyes shallow, cool and bluish as the saucers of skimmed milk he set out for the barn cats. And Han felt the gulf left by another passenger, another waiting gaze on his face: fawn-wide, fawn-warm, but clever as a fox. Brave as just herself. Eyes tearing up with speed, awed with freedom. Hazy and heated with what he'd believed to be love, fool that he was.

Han opened his mouth; the pull of his jaw split his shaving cut. Eileen recoiled.

"Huh," he said, to his bloody fingers, not to the pampered daughter of Mayor Howard.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Han dropped Eileen at Miller's Dry Goods and went to the chemist by himself. Eileen wanted to come with him—she dug a real grip on his bare forearm, smiling at everyone on the sidewalk—but Han took his arm sharply back. She got her ride, fine, but Han would not be walked like some dog. And he'd be damned if he would order his mother's morphine tincture in front of someone who never shut up. Han cared nothing for his own reputation but he aimed to preserve his Ma's dignity.

Glass vial safely tucked into the little pouch on his gunbelt, Han strode back up the creaking boards. In Miller's Han wandered the hardware wall, poking at scythes and plow-blades, the tools of his father's trade. His eye longingly fell on the prospectors' gear. He'd sure like a banjo shovel and second perforated pan, maybe a rock hammer and—

He reached the rear of the shop, where Eileen directed Mary to flip out some fancy bolt of cloth. Finally Han spoke. "You 'bout ready to go?"

Eileen stroked the silk as Mary cut. Those cold eyes looking at Han like this should make a lick of sense to him. Coyly Eileen held the edge of the white fabric to her face. That face, perfect and empty as an advert for Pears complexion soap. "Do you find this becoming, Han?"

God, Han felt such great weariness then, such a yoke on his back, it was as though he'd quaffed his mother's draught himself. And indeed his mouth did harbor a metallic flavor, like Ma complained softly of as she drifted off to opium relief. Han's mouth twisted against the taste, or maybe with bitter amusement: Betsy Armstrong might see him street-spitting after all. He rubbed at his neck. There was a prickle there, a funny itch like the one he used to get in his gut when—

Impatiently Eileen reached up, flicked at his hair, as though the compliment she expected was hiding there. There, where Han would normally have worn the hat that wasn't good enough for her escort.

"Ain't nothin' to me, Eileen," Han said. His voice slow and easy, grin toothy and stubborn as Fix. "I'll be outside."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Down the sidewalk Han could see his horse, tossing his dappled gray head like Han was trying to fit him with a bit. But Han never used one when he rode Fix. They understood each other, man and horse, spoke with pressure of knee and reined hackamore. Han shook his own head then, but before he could repress it the memory had its teeth in him.

He was teaching her to drive. Han made the mistake of saying, back when she said she wanted to learn, Didn't reckon ladies drove. This wasn't disapproval, it truly was reflexive report of his own experience: his Pop had always driven their cart and Ma had contentedly watched the world go by.

There is no singular manner, she said in her ferocious way, for a woman to follow.

Han could not argue, truly did not wish to argue, and she seemed to divine this with her soulful-shrewd brown eyes: that Han had no quarrel with the notion. Surprise she could accommodate, she welcomed debate, but she would not brook arrogant opposition.

So it was that they'd been driving, on the deserted, quiet roads where they wouldn't be bothered, which suited Han Solo down to the ground—how she used to perch on the gig bench between his thighs, her proud spine tight to his belly. His hands over her tiny ones on the reins. And this evening she asked why Fixing was bitless even when fit to harness. Han explained that the one time he'd tried to bit him, Fix had simply opened his lips and let loose unchecked drool. Deep gray chest a dark bib of wet. Slobbered his way all down Silver Street.

She began to quiver. But you're known for—

I surely am. Han tightened his right hand on hers. Ahh-ahh, Princess, don't slacken on the gee.

Why, I don't believe it. The gifted young horseman couldn't address—Even viewed only one-quarter, her smile was so glorious that Han had to close his eyes as he feigned offense.

Pardon me, miss. My horse steps real pretty under my hand. You'd think him for a Lipizzaner...Han tugged the brim of his hat...but for the flood of spit.

You jest, she'd said, and ah, to feel her there shaking with mirth, warm and close. Han. A flood?

Forty days and forty nights, Sweetheart, Han said into her neck, and he could still sense the spot where her head fell back against his shoulder, fell back with her full-bodied laughter. And under the awning of his hat she kissed Han through laughter or laughed through his kisses all the way home. Fix's gait a floating dream even as they neglected his steering.

Dunno why you're laughing. He was vile, Han protested, grinning as he swung her down to her feet a safe, discreet distance from her gate. Fix was so damn vile, I—

No. Revolting, she punned, those eyes dancing up at him. Fix was revolting. Her red lips budded with that pleasure she took in the deftness of her tongue. Her facility with words was a pleasure that was somehow shared with him, though he could not share her fluency. But she had shared her sweet sharp mouth with him in the soft June evening and then she'd cuddled Fix. Rebellious boy, she said warmly, hiding her face in the bowed neck of some noble Arabian ancestor. Aren't you. She closed her eyes in the fading light, smiling as Fix nosed her pinafore pockets for the sugar cubes she sneaked him from Rouge's pantry.

Han bought the damned ring the next day. Circlet of gold, set with a pearl luminous and rounded as her shoulder. It was still hidden in his dresser, wrapped in Irish linen that smelled of copper. Standing on the boardwalk, Han hissed breath through his teeth. Ah. Son of a bitch. Gripped the skewed bridge of his nose. Why was today so fraught with her? Fuckin' Whiskey Knot. He knew returning would bring back—

Fix nickered. His sound of affectionate welcome, but with Han half a block removed. Han's head shot up: his hands curled like hay-hooks into the rough bark railing. Bit his plump lower lip to blood.

There she was, the holder of that swift, sweet tongue, the adamant spine. Of those delicate capable hands that fit just so in his, that he'd so carefully described to Patton the jeweler. The owner of those knowing brown eyes, the chin that insisted on the faceted and sovereign nature of her purpose. She stood down the block, up on her toes on the planks, her face pressed to Fix's sun-baked hide. And Fix, that turncoat, he was hugging her back, had slung his neck near around her shoulders like a silvery feather boa. How'd you like to be a horsehair sofa, you traitor.

Han no longer tasted metal: not the copper of blood, not the iron bit. He no longer wanted to spit. Now Han's sense was visited with fresh water, cherry cordial, the rose salve she used to soothe her lips. He'd bought the tin of it for her himself at the chemist's because it was embossed Sweetheart.

He made the silent shape with his own lips that he had once pressed to hers: a wish, a breath. A curse.

Leia.