With Chris tucked under the blankets, and seeming to be asleep, Vin sat in the hard chair next to the stove. Out of habit, his fingers itched to do something. His gun didn't need cleaning, and he didn't want to disturb Chris by playing his harmonica. He glanced back at the bed, feeling an odd ache overtake him again. There'd been a few times when he'd seen Larabee pass an afternoon reading a book. At first, it surprised him that a man so hard and lethal would just sit and read.

Once, he got his gumption up enough to casually ask Chris what it was he was reading. Vin couldn't say now what it'd been, but he could sure remember what it felt like to hear Chris talk of sailing ships and far-away places. He'd been so caught up in the story that it took a couple seconds for him to realize Chris had offered to loan him the book, and a calm panic overtook him, until he found the sense and breath to say 'sure, now that y'spoiled the ending for me.' and Chris frowned at him a second or two, then just shrugged.

It'd be nice to have it now, that book and the gift to read it. Nice to slip into somebody else's life for awhile and forget everything. Vin took another glance back at Chris.

Well, almost everything.

M7*M7*M7*

After a little while, and no chore came to mind or to hand, Vin rummaged the little tin of salve out of his jacket pocket and went to a corner of the cabin that was blocked from Chris' view, to take care of his scrapes again. Some of the scabs had dried and stuck, and bled when he pulled the woolen fabric away from his skin. Same as before, he did the best he could, reaching as many wounds as he could with the salve, then got himself dressed again and came back out into the cabin.

He put some more wood into the stove, set some coffee on to brew, and emptied Chris' saddlebags onto the table. The drizzle outside tapped on the shingle roof, and the heat from the stove caused steam to build on the windows. Any other day like this would have him checking his tack and making repairs, passing the rest of the time in the saloon with one or another of his friends, or by himself sometimes.

But that – being by himself – happened less and less as time went on. As he spent time in this town, around these men. He generally felt comfortable with 'em. They were each of them men with pasts that didn't bear up under much prying, so none of them pri. As long as a man was true to his word, kept a confidence, defended the defenseless – Vin shook his head. He was sounding like the Padre now. That wasn't a bad thing though, and the memory of the man warmed Vin.

"I miss you." He whispered into the chilly cabin.

M7*M7*M7

Tucked under the blankets, but not really sleeping, Chris watched Vin moving around the cabin. He thought for sure Vin was wearing one of Buck's shirts, and he looked like a kid trying to wear his father's clothes, the thing was so big on him. Vin sat and stood, searched for something in his jacket set over the back of a chair. He went out of Chris' line of sight for a few minutes, then came back, wiping his hand on Buck's shirt. Made some coffee and set out the foodstuffs for supper. Now, finally, he was back in the chair, with the big wooden bowl in his lap, peeling the vegetables for the stew.

Chris watched him, watched the fine, long fingers lightly handle the bulky utility knife, peeling potatoes just as thinly as Sarah ever did. He watched, and knew that he was staring, trying to catch out some sign or suggestion in Vin's movements or build that would square with what he'd told Chris in the jail.

He'd heard stories growing up of course, whispers of his mother and aunts and neighbor ladies, tales of monstrous deformities and slobbering imbeciles who never learned to walk or speak or take care of even their most basic bodily necessities.

And there sat Vin Tanner, with a sharp mind and a deadly eye.

There'd been a family in Chris' part of the county, back when he was growing up. The father was gone a lot, leaving a half-grown boy to be head of the family. He'd been about Chris age, and everybody said he was odd. Didn't talk much, never spent more time around folks than he absolutely had to. Always too thin, too dirty, and too tired. He told some folks that his Ma was dead, some he told that she was laid up with ague. Some he told it was none of their damn cross-eyed business where his Ma was or what she was doing so why didn't they take their old crone noses outta his business and put 'em back up in the air where they belonged.

Curious as any of the other boys in the area, Chris and a bunch of the others snuck into the family's farmyard one day. There was the mother, nice as you please, sitting on a rocker on the front porch, talking a blue streak to the boy while they shelled peas. Chris didn't think she even took a breath.

The next time they snuck up, she was in the rocker again, head down, not moving, not talking, only moaning loudly, with the boy sitting on the step, looking like he was crying.

The last time they went, she was in the yard, shrieking like a banshee, chasing the boy with a sickle, calling him a devil and yelling that she had to free his soul from his body, and Chris heard himself yelling 'run! run!' to the boy, to his friends, to himself, until finally the boy made it up a tree where she couldn't get him, and the crowd of peeping boys ran for their lives.

Word spread through town, and the family moved on not too long after that, and Chris never did find out what happened to that boy. He didn't know why he thought of it now, except that it was a hellish way for a boy to grow up. Now that Chris was grown up, he often wished that - instead of peeping - he'd befriended the boy and maybe helped him with his crushing burden.

So, why was he thinking of it now? Because there was another boy, grown to a man under unbearable circumstances that he didn't create but bore the brunt of anyway. Word wouldn't get out this time, not unless it was Vin's doing, still, Chris had the urge to guard him. Tanner had the looks and habits of a rough, wild man, but Chris guessed that inside the flint exterior, Vin had a vulnerable soul. He saw it in the way Vin cared for Nettie, and stood up for Josiah, and Chris sure heard it in the words of that poem that Vin didn't know everybody else knew he wrote. And Chris was gonna make damn sure nothing came along to crush the life out of that soul.

Just as soon as he was well enough again to get out of this bed.

to be continued