Scene 3

Cal awoke to bright sunshine and a lonely bed. Amy was up first, as usual. Cal still hadn't fathomed how she could slip out without him feeling or hearing it. He dressed quickly and headed down the narrow stairs and around the corner to the kitchen. Then he paused in the doorway to watch Amy as she stirred something on the stove. Why did mornings always feel so awkward? Like they were two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Did it take this long for everyone to adjust to a shared life?

"Morning," he said. Then he suddenly realized he hadn't buttoned his shirt cuffs, and busied himself with them. Standing there in the doorway, feeling like a boy at his first barn dance. Shy around his own wife. Didn't stand to reason.

"Good morning." As usual, Amy appeared composed, at ease, as if she had nothing else on her mind than turning bacon and cracking eggs. Cal could never figure how she managed that eternal serenity. Was it from all the years of tending a father prone to drink? No, Cal could remember before her mother died, and even then Amy had been composed. The woman radiated calm. If only some of it would stick to him - he felt jumpy as a wet cat.

Amy added, "Coffee's ready."

"Been up long?" He crossed the small room, took a mug from the shelf by the sink.

"Not really."

Cal turned to the stove to get the coffee pot from where it was warming and nearly collided with Amy as she reached for a plate. "Sorry!" He hurried out of her way, then waited, empty cup in hand, for her to finish scooping eggs and bacon onto two plates. Only once she'd moved over to the table did he make a second attempt at the coffee pot. He always seemed in the way there in the small kitchen, and yet he didn't like to just sit and wait to be served, either. Amy was his wife, not his waitress. So he waited until she sat down before pulling out his own chair and taking a seat.

They ate in silence for the first minute or two, exchanging surreptitious glances. Finally, Cal put down his fork. He meant to make a comment about the weather, but different words formed on his tongue unbidden. "I didn't expect it would be like this. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Amy looked genuinely surprised. "What for?"

"This isn't what you expected when we married, I know."

"What did I expect?"

"Not a husband who can't sleep through the night, who can't even… can't even talk to his own wife in the morning without feeling like some fool schoolboy."

To his surprise, Amy smiled. "As to that, no. But I think it's only natural it should take some time to get to know each other again. You were gone nearly four years." She paused, then added, "Do you wish we'd waited longer?" Her smile faded. "Were you expecting something different?"

"I don't know. I didn't think much about it, I guess." Which was a lie. He'd thought of it thousands of times, imagined breakfasts, suppers, church on Sunday, hot spring noons when she'd bring him a lunch as he worked out in the fields, and so much else besides. It was all he'd ever wanted, all he'd thought about while he festered in that Yankee prison. And this was not how he'd imagined it.

Amy reached across the table and put a hand over one of his. "Give it some time, Cal. Give us some time."

"What if-" He bit back the words, refused to say them.

"What if the dreams don't stop? Is that it? You think they bother me?"

"Don't they?"

"I hate them. I hate that you've seen things, done things that haunt you this way. I hate the war for how it's hurt you. But if you think those nightmares will drive me away, then we really do need to get reacquainted."

Cal turned his hand over so it was palm-to-palm with hers. He wrapped his fingers around hers. "Thank you."

They never did get around to eating their breakfast. But that seemed to happen with some frequency those first couple of weeks. Cal could never thank his new father-in-law enough for deciding to spend a month with his cousin and leave the house to the newlyweds.

Scene 4

"You are no better than any human, you old nag! Always taking advantage when a lawman looks the other way," grumbled Ward at his horse. He had fallen flat on his belly into the fresh straw he'd just spread out in the stable, all because Rattler had pushed him unexpectedly. Which actually wasn't the horse's fault. He did that all the time, and Ward should have watched out.
Throwing the gelding an annoyed glance, he stood up, not bothering to brushing off his pants.
Rattler seemed to smirk.
The horse was about as old as himself – twenty-one – although Ward's teeth were fortunately in much better shape than Rattler's. Apart from his inclination to knock his owner over at any given opportunity, he had two or three other weaknesses, and he was neither a beauty nor particularly strong or fast. Nevertheless Ward would not have sold him for a pot full of gold.
Tenderly he caressed his head, and Rattler pushed his nose against the deputy's hand, more gently this time. "Good guy," whispered Ward into his ear. "Let's get you fed and then see what the day will bring."