The feel of the coach moved quickly underneath my feet, miniscule bumps under the wheels adjusting the ride of it and bruised delicately up from me feet and through my entire body. The golden wheat blurred by the window, the touch of blue sky bleeding into it so that on the horizon they became one. I swallowed, a shift under the wheels making it catch in my throat and twist a sickness in my stomach that feed from fear and an anticipation that ran like a hot wire under my skin.
"You alright?" Pa asked and I looked over, his back against the wall of the coach and his hands casually folded in front of him. No detail of fear or concern wrote itself into the way he held himself or etched its way into the set of his eyes.
"No," I said simply and leaned back, the roughness of the wall prickling over my back and shivering down my spine.
"Don't worry. It'll be alright," he said, a small smile of pure conviction tracing his lips. "They have no evidence against you. They can't hold you."
"And what about you?" I asked, the coldness that hadn't fully dissolved from my throat again breaking its way through in an intensity that made breathing a challenge. His smile of almost warmth twisted into a smirk.
"You let me worry about me," he said, a glint of something that only he knew and I could guess at visible in his eyes and along the lines of his face.
"You never worry. About anything," I pointed out, the edge of the cuff blending its rust into my wrist and shading it murky red. He chuckled lowly, the sound a quiet rumble in his throat.
"I worry about you," he pointed out, the shade of warmth there but out of place amongst the smug details.
"That's different," I said with a hint of stubbornness.
"Not really," he said, shaking his head and making the shadows from the window re-cut themselves over his face. I shifted my gaze away from him and leaned my head back, a bump under the wheels passing through the wood and bruising the back of my head against it. I gritted my teeth, a dark frustration poisoning its way through my limbs and into my chest. A crunch sounded beneath the wheels and my weight seemed to drop, the seat colliding harshly beneath me. Pa raised his head in half hearted curiosity and I slid closer to the window, the seat beneath me falling on a more cautious slant. The sun cut across the golden wood of the wheel, the weight of it fallen off the makeshift bridge and sunk into the powdered earth.
"Hello there!" The driver called and I adjusted myself to peer up at him, the spark of the sun blinding me and I pulled back, everything significantly darkened. "Evans! Can you give me a hand with this?" I turned again to look out the window, three men with any distinctive markings to them faded out walking over, a makeshift home behind them with puffs of smoke painting their way out of the chimney and into the sky. I shifted away from the dip of the slanted seat and to the other side, weaving my fingers through the thin bars. Charlie was barely visible in the distance, the light of the sun gleaming over him and erasing all distinct details. A face appeared in the corner of the window and a catch of surprise caught in my throat as the driver stepped to the door and started to unlock the chain holding it closed. Pa shifted closer to it and wiped at his upper lip as the driver glanced up nervously, his fingers delicately casting off the chain. He unlocked it and pulled it open with an un-nerving creak, a gun in his hands that he pointed at Pa, the coldness in my throat taking note of the fact.
"Let's go," the driver said, pulling the door open further and a patch of dirt becoming visible through it. I glanced over at Pa who held out his hands with an indication for me to go first.
"Ladies first," he said politely, a sense of humor to his smile. I stood, my head tilted and the floor slanted underneath my feet and stepped to the door. The sun bit at my eyesight and I squinted, the brilliance of it making them water and stepped down and onto the dirt, my legs almost shaking from the memory of harsher movement.
"Good driving, Marshall," Pa said, ducking out after me, a grin on his face as he stepped next to me, pure enjoyment written into his every detail. A man stood behind Pa and draped a jacket over his shoulders, the fit of it too loose and flowing around him. He pulled off his hat, the silver details of it glittering in the sun and set another one on his head, flattening the strands of hair.
"Remind me not to play poker in this town," Pa said with a surprisingly solemnity, glancing over at me with a look to remind him later. I stared back, no words coming to mind to respond to him and the thin shade of irritation sharpening in my stomach. I turned away from his gaze and down at the Rancher, his eyes looking up at the two of us and his hands firmly held on a board secured underneath the fallen wheel. Tucker went to stand beside him, his hands gripping the top of the wheel.
"All right Marshal," he said, staring up at the driver who again reclaimed his seat on top of the coach. "Give us a count."
"One, two, three," he counted, the snap of his voice and the reins following as Tucker and the Rancher gripped the wheel and shifted it into movement and back onto the bridge. It started to roll again onto the path and Pa grabbed onto my arm and pulled me back and out of the way, the unexpected pull stumbling up my feet. The man who took Pa's hat set it onto his head and stepped into the coach, pulling the door shut behind him and settled onto the seat, various cuts of his shape visible through the narrow window.
"Come on," Tucker said and grabbed onto Pa's elbow and shoved him into a walk. I followed after, the grass kicking up around my ankles in a mist that faded my feet from my view. I looked up as we approached the house, a woman standing on the porch with her arms crossed over her chest and weariness that bleed out of every detail of her. A pinch twisted in my stomach, the tiny and almost perfect details of her darkening a memory that only swirled in and around my fingers like a ghost I couldn't catch. The rancher jogged up behind her and stood with his rife pointed out, his breath coming in somewhat hard and the sweat from the day dampening his throat and forehead.
"Ma'am," Pa politely said, tipping the brim of his hat and his outstretched arm pulling at the coat around his shoulders. She didn't move, only stood stiff and determinedly defiant, the shade of bare emotion unmoving in her eyes. I attempted a small smile on my lips at her, a small warmth and reassurance that I tugged at me with an inability to commit fully and a dark sadness that sparked too much of it. The edges of her softened somewhat, the core of her sunk into her own defiance and strength that did not let the weakness bleed through. The floorboards creaked with a reminder of their age under my feet as Pa was led to the open doorway, Byron half cut from view by the frame.
"Byron," Pa said cheerfully, taking note of his shape in the doorway. "What an unpleasant surprise."
The walls were a softened gray, the occasional bare detail adding a new dimension of presumed home to it, a simply elegant lamp or touch of delicate curtain to the window. A flickered fire burned hotly in the fireplace, a laced cover draped over top and the design a delicate stitch of red. A sense of loss for something I never truly had ran its rusted blade throughout my body. I ran my finger over the bone at my wrist, the feel of the rust bleeding into it and dug my fingernail into the skin there, a hotly thin desperation beginning to quicken in my chest and swell through my veins. Pa looked around in half smug amusement, taking in the simple details I did but with none of the sad affection.
"You have a lovely home, ma'am," he said to the woman as she stepped inside, her arms still crossed over her chest and creasing the gray fabric.
"Thank you," she said stiffly, stepping against the wall and pressing her back against it, her finger nervously smoothing over the crease in her sleeve. A footstep resonated on the floor and I turned, the Boy standing half obscured by a doorway frame. Everything inside me shattered, falling and piercing through my insides with an unbearable sensation that almost brought me to my knees. I swallowed the sharpness inside me, the edges of everything around me fading and the lines of him darkened and pierced with terrifying intensity. His lips parted somewhat, his eyes fixated on me, in mine, a look in them like he was staring into the sun and was blinded but couldn't look away …
"William," the Rancher said, the sound of his voice breaking through whatever held me paralyzed. The boy … William barely shifted his eyes to his father, the movement flickering the light over his face and sketching out the lines of it deeper. "Can you go and get some more wood?" Visible irritation drew its strength into William's shoulders and he glanced back over at me, a change in his eyes that seemed to draw itself through his entire body.
"Please," the Rancher carried on, a slight pleading in his voice that held out in the air. William sighed and walked across the floor to the open doorway, every fiber inside me taking note of every one of his movements. The set of his shoulders, the hold of his arms at his sides, the shift of his steps against the floorboards … His gaze broke free of the strands of hair littered over his forehead, a catch of the light making them shimmer and I dug my fingernail into my wrist, the pinch of pain reminding me of the sense of reality I was faced with. He passed through the open doorway, his shadow falling along behind and I turned, the blonde sweep of my hair blurring the edges of my vision. The sun passed around him, sketching it across the earth, imprinting it upon its memory and carving it through mine. He turned to look over his shoulder, his eyes catching mine and everything inside me broke further, shattered and twisted until there was nothing but a longing that bled everything inside me raw.
"Should take an hour before the outfit to take the bait," the Rancher said, his arm leaned against the doorway and the shadows dusted over him. "Should be enough time for dinner."
"Oh good, what are we having?" Pa asked, his back pressed against the wall, a grin on his face of pure enjoyment and his arms across his chest like chains didn't bind them.
"Is there somewhere where I could wash up?" I asked, my voice stilted and low in the almost silence of the room. The Rancher and his wife glanced over at me, the energy and attention of the room focused and framed around Pa with me almost a bare afterthought in the shadows.
"Out back," his wife said and jerked her head somewhat to an open doorway that glimpsed at the dead and drying grass beyond it.
"Thank you," I said politely and Tucker righted himself from where he leaned, gun carefully clutched between his fingers. I walked around the odd chair scattered around the table, glancing over at Pa with his head tilted thoughtfully and trying to construct an idea of what I was thinking. A chilled breeze shivered through me as I stepped to the door, a basin of half filled water resting on a small table and the breeze rippling across its surface. I walked over carefully and dipped my hands into the water, the bite of its chill forming goose bumps up my arms. I gathered the water between my palms and lifted them, tendrils of it leaking through and pit pattering back into the bowl. I cupped it to my face, the feel stealing my breath and brought my hands away, water dripping down my face and along my neck to fade into my shirt. I rubbed at the hollow of my neck, the fingers bleeding dirt and sweat that had gathered there and wiped them on my pants, dampening a stain.
"Here," the wife said and I looked up at her in the doorway, a torn cloth in her hands and held out to me. I reached across the small distance and took it from her, the wear of it soft against my fingers.
"Thank you," I said quietly and turned back to the basin, dipping it into the water. It sank under the weight and I drew it out, wringing it and the water soaking down my hands and sleeve with a bitter cold. I scrubbed the cloth into my skin, the feel of it almost rough and unnatural against my neck and face. I could feel my skin becoming pink under my ministrations, a delicate rawness to it from not being so clean in so long. I let the cloth fall back into the water and wrung it out again, my fingers growing numb from the coldness of it.
"Your hair is very pretty," she said and I looked over as she shifted with almost discomfort, her arms still protectively crossed over her chest.
"Thank you," I responded, the words stunted on my tongue as it tried to gain an appropriate feel of them. She nodded, thoughts darting through her mind and glimpses of them catching through her eyes. I ran the cloth on the nape of my neck, the hairs on it standing on end and dampening under the water droplets that ran down my spine with shivered accuracy.
"How often do you brush it?" She wondered a mild strain in her voice as she struggled with the words and the knowledge that she was having a conversation with me.
"I … I don't," I admitted quietly, embarrassment curling and burning up the back of my neck. She nodded slowly, letting the knowledge shift its way through her mind and crumble its way through whatever opinion she had fashioned for me.
"I … I have a brush in my room," she stuttered, gesturing behind her into some region of the house that I couldn't see. "If you want, I could …" She trailed off but the meaning behind what words she spoke splintered its way through me with a sudden hurt for something I never had, never knew I wanted. I slowly nodded and swallowed, a lump in my throat that choked at my breath and she turned from the doorway, her skirts flowing around her in a rustle. I draped the cloth over the basin and followed her as she disappeared through a doorway, her skirts shifting like a whisper over the floorboards. I walked after her; the half closed door creaking as I lightly pushed it and received a more complete view of the room. A bed rested against the wall with a hand stitched quilt carefully ducked over it and a small dresser stood next to it with a niche of home and comfort to it that prickled at the lump in my throat. She turned from the dresser and uncomfortably held out a brush, the handle of it ornate and the bristles standing out from it with a rough looking touch.
"You can sit on the bed," she pointed out, and gestured to the quilt with a tremble in her fingers that seemed so out of place in the strength that she held in her shoulders. I walked over and sat carefully on the bed, the mattress sagging under my weight and the quilt creasing with it. She sat next to me, a groove fitting itself into the fabric with her shape and she carefully rested her fingers against my hair and started to unwind my braid. Her fingers caught in the tangles and lightly pulled, the feel of them straining against my head and making me bite my lip to hold back a noise of pain. She let my hair fall along my shoulders, the feel of it heavy and tight like the memory of it being bound was still there.
"You have beautiful hair," she said quietly, the bristles digging through the strands and drawing downward, tugging and breaking through the knots. I bit my lip harder, a faint taste of metal breaking onto my tongue.
"My Pa says I have hair like my Ma," I answered, the feel of her name on my lips almost as bitter as the taste of blood.
"And where is your mother?" She wondered, smoothly her fingers down my hair, the bristles following and digging after.
"Heaven," I said simply, a hardness in my voice that dug into my chest with an ache that twisted itself deeper. "I made her sick; she died a few days after I was born." Her fingers hovered over my head lightly, a sudden tenderness in them that made the ache hurt darker and deeper.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, the bristles running down my neck and untangling from the ends.
"Sometimes … when I dream … I can imagine that I can still hear her voice. Singing to me," I continued, the words rolling off my tongue like I had for years been holding them back and only now had the chance to say them, their feel everywhere in the room around me. She didn't say anything, her hands gently peeling my hair away from my face and running the brush through them, the touch softening them and making them fall like a blur around my face. I closed my eyes, the feel of her fingers on my hair stirring the ache more painfully and clouding my senses with a twist of memory and dreams that never quiet built themselves fully in my mind.
"William," she said suddenly and my eyes flew up, William standing against the doorway with his fingers lingering on the wood. A heaviness broke in my chest and stole my breath and I twisted my fingers into the quilt, the colors weaving and colliding together into a dizzying blend. "Why don't you get washed up for dinner?" He didn't move, any movement of his frozen, locked in place with only the dozens of shades in his eyes that spun me deeper and drowned me.
"William?" She asked, her voice somewhat louder and clearer and he shifted his gaze up to her before turning and the shadows from the fire dancing over his face and unraveling down his back. I dropped my gaze to my hands, untwisting them from the fabric and pink lines and patterns imprinted into the skin. She swept all my hair to the side and over my shoulder, binding the end so that it feel to a twisted point.
"There," she said and I reached my fingers up and entangled them in the strands, the feel of them unnaturally soft and my touch falling too quickly through them.
"Thank you," I said quietly, knotting my fingers into my hair and holding them there, Williams gaze still broken and swimming through my mind, a look in his eyes like he had lost something precious and it had finally been found.