Chapter Four: A Horse with His Heavy Burden
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He thinks about Spencer Reid a lot more than what he suspects is healthy. The regrets he carries about him are heavier than most, mostly because his regrets about his dead family have lingered too long to be this raw. He wishes he'd kissed him, just once.
He wishes he'd asked to ride alongside him.
As it is, months pass and the memory of the man's face fades, as does the phantom touch of his hand on Hotch's body. But it doesn't fade completely; at nights when he's alone, Hotch digs deep into his memories with his eyes closed until he's lost in the scent of the man's sweat, the rasp of calloused fingers over his body, the soft sound he'd made as Hotch had found pleasure in their bed. When he's done, heartrate slowing and just slightly guilty about what use he's putting the remarkable man's memory to, Hotch watches the stars through the eye Spencer left him, and he wonders.
Winter kicks in. He lodges with a ranch looking for good workers to help with the winter-bound stock. There's no snow in this desert land, but the cold is vicious and doesn't help to chase away his longing for a warmth in his bed.
Sometimes, he considers taking one of the eager women around the area, wooing her and charming her and, finally, working to fall in love with her. Starting a family. A life. But he doesn't want that again. He wants nothing to do with delicate curves and the soft touches of any of the women he meets, finding them wanting in select ways. None of them are tall enough to match him in height, few of them are as eager to hear all that he knows of plants or skies, and he dislikes their lack of hazel eyes and a casual limp. He wants the body against his to be lean and hard, to have known the road like he knows it, with hands that can be rough but don't have to be. The dreams he tumbles into when he fumbles for his bed, more often than not drunk and disorderly as he tries to chase away these wantings, are filled with these thoughts as well as the imagined burn of stubble on his jaw, a hard promise of pleasure rocking against him, and a man willing to help him chase away his nightmares by telling him to look beyond them.
But there's no point in dreaming because that man is gone. And it doesn't matter how far Hotch looks using the telescope or otherwise because, as winter becomes spring which gives way to a hot summer, he's never going to find him. Not that he's looking.
Honest.
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Post winter, he wanders. There's plenty of work in these gold and silver struck towns around him, but Hotch finds that with enough money from the stagecoach job in his pocket, for the first time he isn't inclined to take any of them. Instead, he travels listlessly from town to town on his borrowed horse, lingering in every saloon and asking at every post office if they know of a Spencer Reid.
None of them have.
Summer finds him choking on the desert heat. He's lost and weary, tiring of the road and wondering if three years is long enough to risk DC once more, despite knowing it's really not. Whispers of thought occur to him again, of making a home out here and settling down, alone… more whispers of thought occur, remembering Spencer talking of his home, of the hanging valley and the aspens and the snow, and he begins to wonder.
He finds a town big enough to have a library and kicks the dust from his boots at the door, walking into the hush of the book-filled room with the strangest feeling like he's going back in time. If it wasn't for the derringer in his pocket, his rifle checked in with the local sheriff, he'd have sworn he was twenty again and studying to pass the bar.
"Can I help you?" asks a stern woman, eyeing his duster coat and worn boots and sun-baked skin. He's got his hat in his hand and is regretting not getting a haircut before coming here, although he's at least clean-shaven and has been since the day Spencer shaved him and expressed his preference. It's like he's clinging to the Aaron Spencer liked, even if that's a lost hope…
"Uh," Hotch says, looking around. "Actually, yes. I think so. Do you have any maps of the state?"
"Of Nevada? A few, although since we're fairly new as a state, they're few and far between. What exactly are you looking for?" She eyes him slightly less warily now, foot tapping.
He thinks. "Snow," he says finally. "I need to know where it snows to help find a… friend."
"Oh well, sir, most of the state is mountains—the Sierra Nevadas run across almost the entire state and some of them are downright alpine. A map I can get you, and snow too, but I'm not sure you'll be able to find a single man from what they tell you. I assume you don't know his town?"
No, he doesn't. Nor any towns close. Hotch thinks for a while as the librarian finds him several maps and shows him with a ruler where the snow falls, a prohibitively expansive range for how hot it is down the southern end of the state.
"Could you tell me what a hanging valley is?" he asks finally, regretting not asking Spencer at the time. "Are they rare? And do you have any books on aspens?"
She looks at him strangely but vanishes and returns with a small pile of books of plants and geological formations. "Good luck," she informs him. "They're all we have. We're not like those fancy libraries they have up East."
"Thank you," Hotch says, already beginning to read.
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It takes him three days, but he finds that aspens can grow no lower than 1,500 feet in the Western states, the vicious summers pushing them further up into the mountainous ranges. A small booklet on plants of Nevada some ten years earlier suggests that they're only found in the most northernmost part of the state, as it decries the lack of the researcher's favourite tree in this 'hellish county'. And he finds very little on hanging valleys except that they're glacial in nature and are often found in U-shaped canyons. With this in mind, he thanks the woman, takes the careful notes he's taken, and rides North with a purpose in mind. Even without conscious decision, he's made up his mind to find him, no matter how long it takes. After all, there's no one in this world he owes his time to—maybe his purpose is by the side of the man on the mule, helping him find another man's luck.
With the mountain ranges on the horizon ahead of him, him and his horse make their way there. It's a lonely road that feels a little less lonely for the knowledge that there's someone waiting at the end of it, if only they can find him. The dreams he's having change, just a little, from lust and skin and sinful wantings to a cabin in an overhanging valley, high above another with one end open to the world. Those dreams are beautiful and exhaustive, as each is painfully mundane. In one, he drives a head of cattle to his property up there, coming home. In another, he paints a wall. Always, there's the knowledge of the presence of another, just through that door—perhaps in a room filled with books and stars and happy endings.
Hopeful dreams are the hardest to wake from, and Hotch wishes he could remain asleep.
The lonely road he's riding ends at the newly settled town of Eureka, the silver boom having been kind to those here. The mountains behind the township sit watchful, Hotch's eyes always upon them as he rides up the main street wondering if anyone here would know much of a hanging valley and a man on a mule. But when he hitches the mare and heads into the tavern there, a nice place with a pretty girl serving, he doubts that any of these men here drinking away the dirt of the mines have much on their minds beyond what's below them.
"We don't want any trouble with that," suggests the barman when Hotch takes a seat before him, nodding at the rifle on Hotch's back. "Now, we don't ask you to give up arms, but if you plan on staying here I recommend poking in on the sheriff and giving him your name. So many new faces in and out these days, you'll get a lot less trouble if they know your intentions are kind."
"I'm just looking for a friend, friend," Hotch says with a smile he knows is charming but still feels odd on his tired face. "Man named Spencer Reid. Know anyone of that name?"
"None that have presented as such. What makes you think he's here?"
"He said he lived in a mountain range," Hotch says, knowing it's a long shot and taking it anyway. Maybe some of the luck of this place will rub off on him.
"Hmm. Well, if he lives in the Ruby Mountains, he won't come here much for supplies. Elko is closer, and bigger."
Hotch thanks him, finishing his scotch and asking if there's any room for him and board for his horse. He's tired and sore and could use a bath and bed before travelling onwards, promising the man he'll check in with the law while the barman's wife prepares a room they let to some strangers. It's something to kill time and he takes the mare and walks her down there, letting her nudge at his shoulder as they clop down the unsealed road, thoughts miles away to the snow-capped peaks he's imagining. There's no fear of his name having spread this far; he's not notorious for killing Foyet, for all that it was unlawful and brutal. Likely he wouldn't have faced the law for it anyway if he'd stayed, but shame had driven him out into the night and far from everyone who knew what he's a man capable of.
But when he steps into the sheriff's building, the man looks up and barks a laugh to see him. "Just who we need!" he exclaims, making his way around the desk to offer his hand. "You a bounty hunter?"
"Ex-lawman from over East, looking to start a new life over here," Hotch says warily. "I have a friend around these parts who might be able to assist me with that, over at Elko. Is there a problem?"
"Damn horse thieves in this area," the sheriff responds with a rattling cough, releasing Hotch's hand from a bone-crushing shake and meandering back to his desk to tap at a telegram paper seated there. "Convenient that you're here, this came from Elko itself. I can't spare myself to ride out looking for him, but if you're looking for some gold heading up that way, want to keep an eye out?"
Hotch walks over, catching a glimpse of the Wanted poster the man is drawing up. The bounty is what catches his eye, huffing out a surprised noise at the easy six-hundred dollars being offered for the man alive so long as the horse is found with him. "Must be a damn valuable horse," he notes, still not committed despite the hefty price, eyes lingering on the name of the man: William Lynch.
"Aye, that's the thing. I know the owners making the complaint—they got money plenty, up in Elko County with a silver line on their land and plenty of livestock to boot. The old man just kicked it leaving his boys with the property, but they're not known for their horses and those boys would have made a nice mint from their father's death. Must have sentimental value." The sheriff is still watching him carefully, reaching into his pocket for a pipe and tapping it on the desk, leaving tobacco on the paper. "If you want the job, it's yours. I don't even have a deputy out here and wouldn't spare him for a horse if I did, no matter how rich the bounty."
"All you have is a name?" Hotch presses. "William Lynch?"
"Ayup. You heading over to Elko, you can stop in on the Reids' land and learn more—they'll be pleased as punch to tell you. I figure there'll be bounty hunters aplenty doing so, with that kind of price."
Hotch freezes, that name thudding home. "Did you say Reid?" he asks carefully, making sure to show no emotion in his voice as he does so. "What was the complainant's name again?"
"Oldest boy is Tobias Reid. Father that just died was William. Something on your mind?"
"He has brothers?" Hotch presses, heart thudding so hard that he's worried it's visible. "Is one of them a Spencer? Spencer Reid?"
"Hmm, not that I know of. Maybe the youngest, I don't know them well enough to say. Only ever knew Will and Tobias, since Will has shares in one of the companies mining Eureka. Problem?"
"No," Hotch says with another forced smile. "No problem, thank you. I'll ride over first thing."
"Oh, if it helps, doubt it will," calls the sheriff after him as he thanks the man and turns to leave, one of those posters in his pocket, "The horse? It's got a name, apparently. Telegram noted it specifically—goes by Rabbit."
Despite the warm air, Hotch goes cold.
But he's sure it can't be.
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The Reids' homestead is beautiful. With the mountains so close, it's a picturesque view of Western America, cattle lowing to each other in the wide-sweeping paddocks and a herd of horses taking no notice of Hotch and his mare as they ride past. When he gets to the huge home sprawled at the end of a long drive, he finds that this is the kind of place to have separate buildings to house the army of staff they employ to maintain the building. Stables block the view of the servant quarters, but he'd seen them on his way in, dismounting from the mare as a man comes out to take her reins.
"Purpose?" the man asks him, uniform denoting him as some sort of steward. Hotch watches him for a moment, judging his airs before answering.
"Here about the missing horse," he says finally. To his surprise, the man's face goes from professional to cold in an instant, stiffly turning and leading him into the main building without a word. They even use the front entrance, a surprise to Hotch who'd expected that, with travel-worn clothes, he'd certainly be asked to use a staff door. Quite the opposite, he's deposited in a parlour with fine furniture aplenty, looking around at the oiled portraits of the family and wondering. One catches his eye—it's a man who doesn't look familiar, not really, but the children by his side… after staring at the oldest for a moment, Hotch realises there's a resemblance there. Hazel eyes and those haphazard brown curls… not a perfect likeness, but if this boy was to stand by Spencer, no one would doubt their family ties.
But none of the children in the portraits, with their fixed painted smiles, is Spencer himself.
He's brought out tea and thanks the dark-haired maid, who shoots him such a hateful stare with her cold, equally dark eyes that he's stunned into silence. The tea already in his cup, when he tries it, is weak and cold, not the first time these leaves have been used. A strange contrast to being invited through the front door, when it doesn't seem like the place is miserly.
Hotch wonders.
When the maid returns with a plate of sandwiches, he speaks. "Is there some disservice I've done you?" he asks, shooting his prettiest smile when she glances at him icily, bitten nails stark on the beautiful plate she's holding. "I'm sorry if I have. I'm just a man looking for work and taking all I can, I have no qualm with this lovely place or the people within it."
She looks around, eyes lingering on the closed door and silent halls before speaking. "If you have no qualms with this place, nor desire to cause us harm, then I recommend you turn around and get the hell out," she says, stunning him once more. She doesn't talk like a maid. There's no deference in her tone, her accent is rounded and strange, well-bred. And the anger in her voice is unmistakable.
"Is this about the thief?" Hotch queries, because that's all he can think of. "William? Do you know him, or his whereabouts?"
"No and no, and even if I did…" The girl—woman, Hotch realises, she's older than she's trying to seem—looks back at the door warily before spitting out, "I wouldn't tell the likes of you, murderer."
And then she's gone, the door swinging shut behind her as footsteps approach the other door, leaving Hotch pondering that. He's sure he's never met her, and he'd never forget a face as vivid as that one—which means her response is definitely connected to this job he's taken.
Interesting.
"Oh, I see Emily has brought out refreshments, what a good girl," says the man who walks in—Hotch places him at early-twenties in age—dressed fine and without a speak of dust on him. Hotch nods his head, stepping around to face the man properly as, before he even greets Hotch, he pours himself a tea and takes a sandwich for himself. He doesn't complain about the tea, so Hotch assumes that it's only him who's been given the doctored cup. Also interesting. "Now, you're taking up the bounty we placed on that no-good thief?"
"I am, sir," Hotch answers politely. "Mr…?"
"Tobias Reid. Look here, Mr…?"
"Hotchner," Hotch answers. "Aaron Hotchner."
"Mr. Hotchner, you need to know this bastard has been a thorn in my side for years, but he's gone too far this time. The horse he's taken? It's a valuable animal, not just in potential and breeding but also in sentimental value. You're aware that my father just passed?" The pause he takes is loaded, his smile firmly fixed in place but cold and without feeling. It doesn't really look like he knows how to smile, and Hotch doesn't trust him an inch as he nods assent. "Well, this horse meant a lot to him and he meant for me to have it on his passing. Lynch, that mutt, objected to this. Thinks he has some claim to the animal because he was working here when it was born, some verbal agreement that I promise never happened between him and my father that he would have the horse."
"He used to work here? Do you have any pictures of him? That would be handy." Hotch isn't surprised by the man's quick nod, but he is relieved. He doesn't fancy searching for a man with no face, just a name—and names can be changed, as easily as becoming Hotch instead of Hotchner in some cases. "I assume he left in disgrace and that's why he took the horse?"
"Exactly. He was a liar and a thief and a womaniser when he was here and my father rightfully threw him out on his ass—although that didn't stop him coming back here constantly, harassing the staff. Emily!"
The maid appears again, so quickly that Hotch raises an eyebrow. "Sir," she asks with a curtsey that's just deep enough not to be rude, shooting Hotch a stare that dares him to accuse her of eavesdropping. "How may I be of assistance?"
"Tell the man about how you were harassed." Tobias pauses, clearly waiting for an answer, but Emily is silent and tensed. "Now, Emily. God knows, you have a tongue. Use it!" He moves from his place, taking two steps until he's beside her and grabbing her arm, shaking it a little. "Come on now, the man has a right to know what kind of an animal he's hunting."
Hotch is as tense as Emily looks, seeing a flicker of pain cross her features, her mouth thinning sharply. And Tobias is holding her arm tight enough to bruise for sure.
"There's no need to shake her," Hotch says with forced calm, not wanting to seem as though he cares in case it inspires greater acts of cruelty. He's met men like that before, those who use the spectacle of violence against a lesser in order to force respect from those around them. "She's just gathering her thoughts, aren't you, miss?"
"Sir," she hisses, anger clear in her voice. "It's as he says… Mr. Lynch visited to harass us."
But she offers no more details and her expression is stormy.
"And the horse is rightfully mine," Tobias presses.
"Don't know much about horses or who they belong to," she replies shortly. "But I guess you wouldn't say so if it wasn't true, since if it wasn't true he'd have done no wrong and you'd have no reason to be sending men against him."
Silence. Tobias looks at her with such savage hatred in his expression that Hotch's hackle are up instantly. If a man had looked like his horse like that, Hotch would have bought the horse immediately to stop him whipping it simply to draw blood. "Get out," Tobias says in a low, dangerous voice. "To your room, you're dismissed for the day, no pay. I don't like your tone."
She nods, curtseying again before turning to leave.
"Emily?" Tobias calls after her, looking at Hotch and smiling like a snake. Emily pauses by the door, fingers resting on the handle and without looking back. "I'll be speaking to you later about how to talk to your betters. Don't leave your room. And tell Hewson to get me the sketches I had done of Lynch."
Despite only being able to see her in profile, Hotch still sees that she whitens at the implied threat, leaving without another word. Something cold and dark settles in Hotch's gut.
"Sandwich?" In the quiet of her leaving, Tobias's voice is startling. Hotch declines, the tea already settling grossly in his gut. Every one of his instincts is screaming at him to get out, to ride away from this place, and he's thinking of listening when the steward arrives and lays a packet of papers on the coffee table before them. Hotch sees a horse deed indeed made out to a William Reid and a formal Will signed and notarised that he, after Tobias nods at him, picks up to find that it absolutely grants ownership of the horse known as 'Rabbit' to the eldest son, Tobias Reid, upon his death.
The final papers on the table are the sketches. Hotch looks at them next. And he keeps looking. And looking.
And, finally, he swallows down everything he can't, won't, say and agrees to find the man pictured upon them for the bounty listed. He doesn't ask to take a sketch, both because he doesn't want a reminder of this and also because he doesn't need it: he knows the man pictured, but under a different name and a different life.
When Spencer had said he was looking for his luck, he'd never mentioned that he planned to steal it.
But before he leaves, he asks one thing: "Will he be hanged for his crimes?" is the question on his lips, well aware that there's no sympathy for horse thieving out here.
Tobias looks at him, that same smile on his face. "No," he says. "Mutt or not, he took the horse under the mistaken belief that it's his. I won't hang him for that—I just want the animal back and him serving whatever punishment the courts decide. I'm not like the men out here, Mr. Hotchner. I have no desire for blood."
It's a small comfort, but only a small one. Hotch is a firm believer of justice where it's deserved, but he knows he's not the kind of man who could see the man he feels so intimately towards hanged.
He intends to do his job; this allows him to do so.
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He rides for the mountains with some mind to see if there are any at the base of it who know of the glacial canyons within. Tobias had assured him that Spencer—William, Hotch corrects himself, he gave Hotch a false name all those months ago—owns a small property within the range, although he hadn't known the exact location. It's likely that he's holed up there, hidden within the recesses of the mountains he loves.
It feels like a betrayal that Hotch is now using the knowledge he gained in trust to now hunt the man who gave it, but Hotch is feeling betrayed too. All his dreams of finding a home here, of settling down, they're shattered now; at least, those that involve Spencer beside him. Spencer isn't a man who exists, he's never existed. The telescope in Hotch's pocket is likely stolen too, just like the horse and the maps and everything else, because Tobias had also assured him that the man 'William Lynch' has never set foot in a college, especially not Yale. Despite knowing that he'd been perilously close to falling in love with a lie, Hotch still falls asleep that night beside the road with the telescope in his hand, using it to study the mountains ahead.
His mare's welcoming nicker wakes him, a warning for him that he's not alone. Without moving to give away that he's awake, he slits his eyes open and watches the gloom where his horse is looking, her ears perked and eyes bright as she nickers again, straining against her rope.
There's an answering whinny from the darkness, one that ends on a bray. Hotch knows that sound: it's a mule.
He bolts upright, something cold pressing against the back of his skull. It clicks.
"Hands where I can see them," says a woman's voice, ice cold and definitely ready to pull the trigger. "Get on your stomach, snake, or I'll put more holes in you for you to piss through."
"You're the maid," Hotch says, recognising her voice as he does what she says and lies flat, hands behind his head. The gun doesn't shift, steady against his skull as her other hand pats him down. "Why are you following me? And armed?"
"Shut up," she snaps, shoving his face into the dirt and suddenly leaning close, her knee digging painfully into his spine. "How the fuck did you get this?!"
"I don't know what this is," Hotch says into the dirt, wincing as it gets in his mouth. "I can't—"
She lets him up, shoving the telescope into his face. "This, how did you get this?!" she barks again, no longer dressed as a maid, instead as a man with her hood covering that long, dark hair. And, behind her, a mule that even in the moonlight Hotch knows is Jack emerges from the trees to nuzzle at the mare happily. "Where's the man you took this from?"
"He gave it to me." Hotch looks to his bag, nodding at it. "Front of that. You'll find a small pocket with trinkets within. There's a note—read it."
She eyes him warily but does as he says, the gun still on him as she dumps his bag out. His wedding ring hits the ground, no longer on his finger as he'd felt too wrong to wear it while dreaming of another. The note drifts down beside it, along with a tattered photograph of him and Haley and Jack as an infant. She barely bothers with the photograph, picking up the note and staring at it.
"This is Spencer's handwriting," she says finally, now looking at him with frustration clear despite the shadow of her hood. "He gave it to you?"
Hotch nods, careful since he's still in danger of her bullet.
"What a dick," she mutters, dropping the note and standing, scooping up the telescope as she goes. He's torn to see it vanish into her pocket, both glad to be rid of it while also feeling like he's losing a part of himself. "This thing cost a mint."
That lingers for a moment, before he clicks. E—Emily. "You gave it to him," Hotch guesses. The gun doesn't waver. She's barely paying attention to him.
"I should shoot you anyway," she says, more to herself than him. "You're a bounty hunter."
"I'm not. I'm just a man, and I know him. We're… friends. Why else would he have given me the telescope when he clearly treasures it?"
She stares at him for a long moment after that, her expression fraught. "He gave it to you?" she repeats again, finally lowering the gun and letting him up. "Don't lie to me, this is important—he trusted you enough to give that to you?"
"Yes. We worked together for five months, on a stagecoach. We were close by the end of it." Hotch looks at her pocket, where he can see the shape of the telescope. "You didn't answer me—are you the lover who gave it to him?"
Her stare changes from focused to amused. "Hardly," she answers. "I'm not his type. But I did give it to him, as a gift when he was awarded his doctorate. I bet you didn't know that, did you? Tobias likes to spout the bullshit that Spence is some uneducated yokel sniffing from scraps at his heels, but he has a PhD, one of the first Yale has ever awarded. You've been lied to, and so has everyone else around here. Here's a question for you—will you help me save his life?"
It's Hotch's turn to stare, his brain whirling. "Why?" he rasps.
Emily steps forward, kneeling so she's eye to eye with him and he can see how intent she is. "I know Spencer didn't steal Rabbit," she says with her voice so intent he can tell she's desperate to convince him. "I know, because the whole time he was at Yale, Rabbit was there with him—and so was I."
"There are no women at Yale."
"Yes, there are. I was one. You're out of your time, bounty hunter, things change. Do you know what doesn't change? That no good pig fucker Tobias Reid. When Spencer vanished from New Haven three months after graduating, I knew something was wrong. I couldn't find him there and figured I might as well ride out to where he said he grew up, just outside of Elko. When I got out here asking for a Reid, they pointed me to that house—where I saw Rabbit in the stable, no Spencer. And when I showed the staff this…" This is a photograph, small enough to be put in a locket: Spencer and Emily sitting together, the shadows of the real smiles they'd have given before they'd faded while waiting for the camera's eye still visible on their faces. Hotch can see scratches around the edges where a locket would have held it before it was removed. "…they told me they knew him as William Lynch and that he grew up there. These are the only land owning Reids in Nevada state, and they have no birth records for a Spencer Reid. But there is a birth registered in the area for a William Lynch to a Diana Lynch, no father,and here's the kicker: the copy of the birth-certificate they have here has been edited. It's not the original."
"What exactly did you study?" Hotch asks her, a little startled by this fierce, determined woman. "And why are you telling me all of this?"
"That doesn't matter. What matters is that Spencer's being set up and they're using you as a weapon against him. I need to know if you're going to do right by the man who gave you that telescope, or if you're going to act as a mistaken arm of the law to help get my best friend killed—my only friend killed." She stares him down, anger showing again. "I don't know what the hell went on in his life and I have no idea how Rabbit got from my stables to this place, but I do know that I've been Spencer's friend since we were eighteen years old and the only times he's spoken of his brother it's been with fear—can't say I blame him, now I've met the monster. There'll be no mercy shown if you find him and drag him back there."
'His brother' she'd said. Hotch feels his hands bite into the ground below, his mind racing. "Do you know where his home is?"
She shakes her head, still watching him. "If I did, I'd have ridden after him the night he took Rabbit. He came to the house a week before the theft—Tobias threw him out, tried to get the ranchers to rough him up on the way, but they refused. Knew him growing up and like him well enough, all the staff there do. None of them believe he stole Rabbit, none of them. They're all sure the horse was freely given. And it doesn't make sense."
None of it makes sense to Hotch, but in particular: "Did he see you there? If you're such good friends, why wouldn't he have warned you of what he planned, taking the horse?"
"He saw me, and I don't know why he didn't warn me—maybe because he knew I'd insist on helping him." She grins wickedly, and he raises an eyebrow at her. But the grin vanishes. "All he told me was to leave, immediately, and to never come back. He risked sneaking back onto the homestead to warn me again, was certain I was in danger there if they found out we were friends. When I said I wasn't leaving without him, he told me to take his mule and meet him in Elko a week later, near where they're going to put the railway. That night I woke to find the place alive with law and a posse riding after him, saying he was a thief. The deadline was three days ago. I've gone there every day since and he hasn't shown."
Hotch considers all of this, every inch of it. Does he still believe Spencer is a thief?
He's not sure. If he is, he needs to face the law. But Emily doesn't seem to think mercy will be shown, despite Tobias's words, and Hotch is more inclined to trust her smile than Tobias's—even if it's wicked.
"Will you ride with me to find him?" he asks finally, seeing her suspicion spark before he continues: "I don't know where he is—but I think I can find him. And I won't make a move without his word on what happened, and without reviewing the evidence on all sides. Right now, all I have is a horse deed in Tobias's name and your word that Spencer is who he says he is."
"You want evidence?" Emily pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing: "I can get you evidence, but not if I ride with you. I know how to investigate. I bet you if I start digging into Tobias Reid, I'll find something that exonerates Spencer—will you wait to act until I return with it?"
He thinks about that, considers it. Realises that it's their best chance of all of them getting out of this without losing something important.
And says, "Yes."
She promises that she'll return, asking him to come down to the base of the mountain, to this spot, once a week on Mondays: when she has the evidence, she'll meet him here. All she asks in return is that he doesn't make a move until then, except to find Spencer and make sure that he's okay.
He promises. But, before he leaves, he asks her for one thing.
"Can I have the telescope back?" he asks her. "I… it's important to me. In return, I'll give you my mare. She's swifter than Jack, and far less stubborn—she'll get you further."
Emily looks at the mare, walking over there to pet the diamond blaze in the middle of her black forehead. "Does your mare have a name?" she asks. Hotch shakes his head. "Well then, I can't take a girl out without her having a name… how about it, girl? Let's call you… Blackbird."
And Hotch says nothing, just nods and watches his borrowed horse ride off into the night with a woman upon her who he doesn't know if he can trust. It's like letting go of the last part of the man from DC, the one who'd asked to borrow a horse from his best friend and been gifted one immediately. With that heavy on his mind and the telescope heavy in his pocket, he turns and walks away, Jack loping beside him.
He doubts he'll see either of them again.
.
.
He finds a man herding sheep and asks him about glacial canyons and, to his shock, he gets an answer. "You could try Lamoille Canyon," the man says, looking at the rough sketch of the kind of thing Hotch is looking for. "It's got those open-sided valley things, three or four of them. Don't know if anyone lives up there, but there's an aspen path that will take you right through. Cold up there though, had some early snow last week that stuck, just thawing now. If you weren't riding a mule, I'd tell you to wait till it's less icy."
"Thank you," Hotch assures him, "but I trust my mule, and it can't wait." Jack takes that moment to try and twist his head around to bite, no more fond of Hotch now than he'd been when they'd parted ways.
"Right," says the man, moving on.
Alone—well, with Jack—Hotch moves into the shadow of the mountain, travelling up and up and up looking for an aspen path and following the ghost of a man he's scared to lose.
.
.
It's Jack who finds it, perking his long ears and letting out a loud heee-haw that echoes as he suddenly surges forward. Hotch lets him have his head, heart drumming as they exit the aspen path, the fall trees looming overhead in coats of orange and gold, and gallop towards a narrow ledge leading up to a valley above. It's a terrifying ascent but Jack doesn't even falter, just whuffs at the ground and then trudges up it with Hotch clinging on for dear life.
Partway up, the side catches Hotch's leg painfully, causing him to curse and twist in the saddle to try get his leg away. If he'd believed he could lead Jack up the slope without the mule taking off, he'd have done that—but his train of thought is derailed as he sees dark smears on the rock.
"Whoa there," he murmurs, dismounting from the back of the mule and ignoring him as he snorts and keeps going. Instead, Hotch crouches and brushes his hand across what's undoubtably dried blood, his heart now beating in his throat. Up the slope he follows the mule, until the rocky ground because flat dirt again, both him and the animal walking along a desire path pressed into the wild turf. More aspens loom as they move silently through the trees, Jack no longer eagerly surging ahead. Now, his eyes are wide and his nostrils flaring, ears swivelling back and forth. Danger danger those ears are saying, and Hotch draws his rifle and steadies his feet.
"Come here," he whispers, catching Jack's reins and hitching him to an aspen so his hooves don't give them away. "Stay." Onwards alone he goes, creeping through the trees that are tall enough that snow from the week before is still laid thickly around, his boots crunching through the crust as he goes. There's no wind in this valley, the world still and silent, the air so cold that it burns as he breathes it.
Then he comes out on a different trail. They must have entered the aspens at a different point from whoever came before, because when Hotch looks down at the tracks frozen neatly into the snow, he can read it easily. A burdened horse had ploughed through it with an uneven gait, leaving furrows and piles in his path as he meandered back and forth, in no real hurry. Stopping to feed, Hotch guesses, his hands bunched tight around the rifle. No rider guided this animal.
He follows that trail, but even if he hadn't been watching it so closely, it would have been apparent when it changed. Here, the snow is stained and smoothed. The horse had walked through, but something had dragged behind it… something that Hotch guesses is responsible for the trail of blood left to dry in place atop the snow, held in memoriam by the frigid alpine air. And he's not that good at tracking to guess with certainty but, if asked, he'd say the tracks look damn well like the horse's rider had fallen from the saddle with his foot looped through the stirrup.
Brain silent now, almost buzzing along with the stillness of the valley, Hotch keeps walking. Around the rifle, his hands shake. The cold is almost welcome because at least he can't feel the terror that's struggling to surmount itself, take over everything from his blood to his brain. He's sure he's looking for a body. It's too much blood to be otherwise, and too much time has passed since it was shed.
The trees suddenly end, watery sunlight here dispelling the snow into grey tufts and slicks of ice. At the end of the browned grass Hotch is looking over, there's a quiet cabin. The gardens around it are dead, partially overgrown where they're not bare and frost-torn. No smoke eddies from the chimney and the small stable to the side is closed and noiseless. Nothing moves.
Something moves.
Hotch stalks that something closer to the cabin, following the side edge to the front and walking out to find a deep chocolate brown horse with a flaxen mane and tail lifting its head to study him curiously. For a second, Hotch almost laughs to see the animal standing there, but the laugh falters. If this is Rabbit, the horse that Spencer risked everything for, something has gone wrong. The animal is still saddled and bridled, its coat marked horribly by dirt and sweat and its mouth a mess from where it's been grazing around the bit. When it snorts and trots away from Hotch approaching, it limps badly, the saddle dragged around its belly and hitting its leg painfully with every step.
Hotch has a vivid, chilling memory of how carefully Spencer had cared for Jack, even giving him the blanket that would have helped on the cold nights travelling.
It rips a sound from his mouth, the gun dropping from ready to lowered: "Spencer!"
No answer, just the horse snorting and trying to roll to dislodge the saddle, getting up and half-rearing in anger when Hotch takes an automatic step towards it. It does it again, teeth bared, and Hotch backs up and looks to the cabin, where the front door is open.
It's open.
His heart and hope the loudest things in this frozen valley, Hotch turns and walks towards that open door, fully expecting to find nothing more inside than the corpse of the man he could have loved.
