It's my birthday, but I'm gifting YOU with the penultimate chapter of this story! Enjoy!

JULY
After Hours

Saturday, July 4, 1885
6:00 AM

A steady, distant drumroll drew Emma's eyebrows together in her sleep. Just as she was debating if it was part of her dream (Who brought a snare drum to the high school swimming pool?), a deafening BOOM sent her blankets flying as she fell off her mattress. "Battle Hymn of the Republic" promptly began playing out in the square – right in front of the blacksmith shop.

As she fought to untangle herself from her bedclothes and straighten her nightgown, the brass ensemble harmonized over the heavy beat of the drums and clash of the cymbals. Indignant, disgruntled, and still half-asleep, Emma swung her frizzy braid to her back, shoved her feet in her shoes, and growled as she grappled with an uncooperative dressing gown. After tromping down her ladder, she threw open the barn door, squinted into the sun just beyond the offending band, and levelled her brow at the smoking cannon next to them.

Doc, already dressed in his best, appeared next to Emma with his hands on his hips. He filled his lungs with the fresh air and sighed happily at the day waiting beyond their door.

"They sure don't celebrate like they used to!"

After being blasted out of bed by cannon fire, Emma had the misfortune of remembering that she had to spend the day in a prim-and-proper bustle dress. Typically, when the temperature was flirting with triple digits in the middle of the summer, Emma hid in the public library's basement or emptied the ICEE machines at the 7-Eleven. All of this was done in a tank top and shorts, not layers of fabric fitted over an archaic undergarment.

Of course, when her father told her she'd have to go full native for this occasion, he'd come prepared with a dress for her – white cotton, thank God, textured with pinstripe and trimmed in airy ruffles. She was ready to compliment this surprisingly tame choice when he revealed a straw hat sprouting a small garden adorned with a large, red-striped bow. At least it kept her face out the sun.

Outside, patriotic buntings hung from every railing and window that lined the streets, and a 38-star American flag was proudly displayed on the front of the courthouse scaffolding. Everyone was in their finest, many of the women and children incorporating festive blues and reds into their ensembles – the flowers of their hats and bonnets, the ribbons on their gowns, the cameos at their necks. The few remaining war veterans came in their full regalia, including Zeke, whom they spotted across the crowd with several other men. One of these men wore a Medal of Honor and relied on a crutch to stand.

Emma's mind wandered during the preacher's endless sermon and countless blessings, and after the reading of the Declaration of Independence, Mayor Thomas directed the townspeople to the picnic area behind the Hilly Valley Telegraph for lunch. It was a feast of ham, mutton joints, bacon, and beans, cracker biscuits, jelly tarts, cakes, and lemonade. They crossed paths with Seamus and Maggie on their way into the grove and sat with them at the end of one of the long tables.

Near the end of the meal, Emma tuned out the conversation as little William stared at her from his mother's lap. She smiled as he gummed at the smear of blueberry-streaked frosting Seamus had dotted on his fist. Maggie did not approve of this, but she did not wipe it away.

"It's the third one in a fortnight," Seamus was saying as Emma broke eye contact with the baby. "All along the western ridge, all smokin' when the hands find 'em."

"Find what?" Emma asked.

"Cookfires," Seamus said, finishing off his apple pie. "Right in the middle of the fields. No one else cozies up on me land like Buford Tannen does, so I'd reckon he's in these parts again."

"Have you spoken with the marshal's office?" Doc asked.

"What're they going to do? Post a man in my fields at all hours?" Seamus smiled, took a drink, and continued with a mischievous glimmer in his eye, "What I ought to do is fence off a bit of land I don't till and surround it with bogey-men. Then he'll want to use that one."

Emma flexed her hand under the table. Four months removed from their roadside encounter, Tannen's leer still pressed against the edges of her mind like smoke on the horizon. It blurred with each recollection, but the disquiet it evoked flipped and fluttered to the bottom of her stomach like a coin sinking in deep water. Those eyes found her from the crowds in her dreams and the quiet moments of her day. Somehow, he unsettled her more than Biff's alternate self holding her at gunpoint in 1985A.

"That'll do, Seamus," Maggie warned, adjusting William to stand.

"Aye," he obeyed, smiling at Doc and Emma as they all rose from the table. "Would you care to join us for the parade?"

"Can't I just get a ring and say I'm married?"

Doc chuckled. With Emma's intentions to become the schoolteacher now public knowledge, he anticipated a few offers from men kindly trying to "save her" from the lonely life of education. A middle-aged banker had tipped his hat at Emma while she was passing out peppermint sticks to the winners of their horseshoe toss that afternoon and tried to introduce himself at dinner. Now, as Doc guided her around another couple on the dance floor, she was regarding every hypothetical suitor with repugnant indifference.

"What reason, then, would you have to be under my roof?"

"I'm a widow."

Doc bent his brow. "At seventeen?"

"He was hit by a buggy on our wedding night. It was very sad."

Emmett nodded, lips still twisted in amusement.

"What of your married name?" he asked, glancing up at the musicians under the strings of electric bulbs. "You've been 'Miss Brown' all this time."

"It's easier to say than Mrs. Schwarzenegger," Emma posed, making them both smile. She hardly fell out of step when they moved around another couple, finally beginning to predict the momentum shifts that came with dancing in a bustle dress.

"A mourning ring might be more appropriate."

Emma scoffed. "No way. Then they'll just come in droves. The only thing worse than 'she's single' is 'she's single and I know for a fact that she's marriage material because she's already been married'."

"My dear, it's unavoidable," Doc reasoned as the music came to an end. He led her off the dance floor. "You're one of the few marriable women in town."

"Not if I'm already mar-ried," she sing-songed under her breath.

Doc shook his head with a smile. He couldn't stop her from slipping on a ring to discourage prospective husbands when he wasn't looking. She wouldn't bother buying anything, either; she had enough knowledge of the forge now to smelt a few scraps into a metal band. While he didn't agree with it, he understood. Marty was essentially out of the picture, and he suspected if Clarence came back tomorrow, she'd still refuse him, too.

She just wanted to heal.

They walked into the shadows cloaking the entrance to the livery, taking in the lively spectacle from their doorstep. Across the way, in front of the saloon, Emma saw Zeke for the second time that day. She waved to him as her father opened the barn door.

"Hey, Dad, I'm going to say hi to Zeke."

"Alright," Doc said, waving to Zeke himself. "As soon as I get Galileo hitched up, we'll head to the lake."

Emma nodded. As he disappeared into the livery, she turned to cross the street but paused; Zeke was already headed into the saloon. She started calling his name as she dashed through the dry wisps of dirt left illuminated in the wake of a passing horse, and before her better judgement could stop her, Emma entered the saloon and collided with someone's back, knocking her hat over her face.

It was loud, hazy with cigar smoke and heavy with the perfume of whiskey-soaked barrels and patrons. The floor was dusty beneath the perimeter of her skirt, an upright piano offered a jovial medley to keep all in high spirits, and several chandeliers leant light to the round, mismatched tables and chairs in front of the bar.

Emma could see little else between the brim of her hat and the man's shoulder before he turned and raised his brow at her. His features were sharp, and his beard and eyes were dark.

"Well now, look at you," he grinned, earning him a scowl he ignored. "Looks like prices are on the rise in these parts."

The corner of Emma's mouth ticked upward, unamused as he sidled up to her.

Let me tell you what happened to the last guy who made the mistake you're about to make –

"Ellis, goddamn it, what are you doin'?"

The man in front of Emma whipped his head toward the voice. On the other side of the table next to them, Zeke rose from between two other men with a calm, foreboding glare.

"Mind your business, old man."

"My niece is my business, boy. Get your damn hands off her."

At this command, Emma felt Ellis shrink away. When he looked between her and Zeke, she batted her eyelashes at him until he dropped his hand from her back. Deciding not to press his luck at the dare that surfaced in her eye, Ellis skulked away toward the bar, shooting daggers at them over his shoulder.

Emma smirked when he stayed put.

"Thank you, Uncle."

Zeke sighed, taking his seat. "Girl, I'd hate to think what your father would say, seein' you in here."

Emma turned to Zeke and smiled at the men in either side of him. On the left, a portly man in a worn derby hat narrowed his small eyes at her. On the right, a handlebar mustache bearing the Medal of Honor she saw in the square that morning straightened his hand of cards. His crutch lay under the table.

"If I'm sitting here playing cards you, he probably won't say much," Emma said. "Deal me in. Just for a hand. I'm leaving for the lake in, like, ten minutes."

"Who's your pa?" the Medal of Honor asked.

"Blacksmith, isn't it?"

As Emma nodded, Zeke slid his chair over and waved at the space between him and the derby hat refreshing everyone's drinks. Emma buoyantly came around to the other side of the table and pulled up a chair before removing her extravagant hat.

"He'll probably try n' shoot me for lettin' you stay in here," Zeke said of her father, "but I know he'd do it if I let you out of my sight. That's Levi," – he pointed to the derby hat, then the Medal of Honor – "that's Jeb. Boys, this is Miss Emma."

"And this is poker," Jeb warbled grandly as he dealt.

Emma couldn't help herself; she leaned in on her elbow, smiling around Zeke at Jeb.

"Your last name wouldn't be Haney, would it?"

"No."

She turned to Levi, impish.

"Strauss?"

Levi eyed her. He slid her a shot glass.

A soft laugh escaped her at the unspoken suggestion; she was years from legal drinking age – in 1985. She was guilty of taking half a swig of liquor at the dance in 1955, and yeah, she'd had a secret beer or two in the last year, but it was likely frowned upon for a "lady" of any age to publicly imbibe in 1885.

In a saloon.

With men.

While trying to become the schoolteacher.

Emma raised an eyebrow at Levi, but he raised his right back before rearranging his cards, leaving his covert offer rippling in its tiny glass between them. She sensed no hint of sabotage associated with this drink, but rather a secondary offer of confidentiality. One drink wasn't going to make her vomit or pass out. If she rode in the cart on the way to the lake and ate the peppermint stick in her pocket, her father would be none the wiser by the time they were side-by-side watching fireworks.

Emma picked up her cards, casually laid her arms on the table around the glass to inspect her hand, and pulled the drink closer in the crook of her elbow. She straightened her back and, suddenly feeling Zeke's disapproval penetrating her, hesitantly glanced at him.

"Are you tryin' to get me shot?"

"No," – she picked up the glass – "I'm trying to drink this shot –"

Emma stopped dead, the rim of the glass millimeters from her lips.

Doc glared at her from the other side of the table.

Emma slowly smiled, daring to keep the glass right where it was.

"What's up, Dad?"

The "V" in his brow deepened.

When he didn't find Emma outside the shop or partaking in the festivities in the square, his internal compass tugged him toward the saloon. Emmett wasn't sure what he would have preferred: Emma being in the saloon or not being in the saloon. It wasn't like her to vanish, and after Seamus confided in them his suspicions of Tannen's presence in Hill Valley again, locating her became a more urgent matter. So, when he saw her sitting just inside the door next to Zeke at a table, he was relieved.

But the dark liquor in her hand insulted his concern. The pianist's lively trills further plucked at his patience, and the men stumbling around him to get in and out of the rowdy establishment intensified the considerable contempt rolling off his person.

As Emma picked up on his dilemma – a roaring reprimand that drew everyone's attention or a stony scowl that guilted her into submission – the devil on her shoulder made his case. It was not a sound argument ("Just do it," he said), but the temptation to rebel thrilled her in a way she hadn't experienced in… she didn't know how long.

Emma's eyes glittered.

It was the Old West.

It was Independence Day.

And it was just one shot.

Doc gaped at her as she threw back her whiskey. Emma immediately grimaced, but to her credit, she didn't choke or spit it back out. She put the back of her wrist to her mouth as she swallowed, giggling through the burn as tears sprang to her eyes. Her voice was tight but effervescent when she smiled up at him.

"When in Rome!"

Emmett held up a hand and shut his eyes; her behavior left him struggling to appropriately articulate the depths of his displeasure in this setting without jeopardizing their integrity amongst the community.

"You are… incredibly grounded."

"From what? Sweating to death?"

"Ah, it wasn't more than a lick," Levi dismissed as he refilled the glass. He placed it in front of Emmett, ignoring his incredulity. "You can handle more than a lick of whiskey, can't ye?"

Emmett took a deep breath and zeroed in on Levi.

"She's seventeen. She's trying to become a teacher."

"And she will," Zeke assured him. "Nobody saw her. I was watchin'."

"I was watching," Doc said.

"Did you see how fun it was?" Emma asked. She reached around her hat for the shot glass in front of him. "I can do another demonstration if you want –"

Emmett swiped the glass out of her hand. Several drops of whiskey rained down on the table as another group of men jostled in behind him, but Doc managed to save most of it from sloshing out. A few cheers came from the gambling table next to them, but it wasn't regarding their game; the men at the table recognized him.

Amongst those men was Crazy Ben, Hill Valley's favorite alcoholic. Already drunk as a skunk. He stood on his chair and rallied his following for a toast in the blacksmith's honor.

Emmett discreetly tried to get the beloved inebriate to call off this motion, but within the time it took to scan the main floor, his name rattled through the chandeliers and support beams. Shades of liquid amber glowed like shards of stained glass around him.

"Emmett! Emmett! Emmett!"

Levi and Emma were chanting right along with the crowd. Zeke and Jeb just watched on; Emmett had a feeling he was now the subject of a bet between the two cavalrymen and inwardly harrumphed, rolling his shoulders.

"Emmett! Emmett!"

He looked down into the tiny glass, then over at Emma.

She's still grounded.

Emmett raised the shot glass and brandished a smile.

"When in Rome!"

The saloon erupted in cheers.

Emmett took the shot, slammed the glass down, and, after garnering another palpable wave of applause, collapsed like a great timber to the ground.

July 5, 1885

Turns out Dad can ground me from going shooting. But the real punishment in 1885 is manual labor. I'm set to scrub, sweep, and shellac for the next week for my little stunt, but I don't think he's as mad as he's letting on. We've already indirectly laughed about it a few times.

He had to be administered a disgusting concoction Chester dubbed "wake-up juice" to sober up. He ran outside for the water trough as soon as Joey poured it in his mouth, but he tripped, missing the trough entirely. I ended up picking gravel out of his forehead for ten minutes until he came to, and then we walked back to shop at his pace under the colorful bursts of the fireworks.

By next week, the mine should be safe to explore without being caught for trespassing. Dad has a list a mile long of things we need to do to preserve the DeLorean for Marty, but he wants to finish the schematic first so he can put it in the car. He said the information is too sensitive and extensive to include in the letter he plans to write.

He hasn't asked me yet, but I've already tried to think about what I would say to Marty, and it's so overwhelming that I wouldn't know where to begin. I'm not sure that it matters. Though, if our roles were reversed, I'd go back in time just to say, "what the hell?" if he didn't send me anything. Maybe I'll put his Walkman with the schematics on the front seat. I don't know. I feel like shutting down when I think about it, so I'm trying not to.

Inevitably, in trying not to think about saying goodbye to Marty, I end thinking about saying goodbye to Clarence and wondering where he is on the line between Denver and Kansas City. I wonder if he writes home, what sights he's missing when he's elbow-deep in hot gears and grease. If he might return to Hill Valley someday. If I know any of his descendants. I can't think of any Livingstons off the top of my head in 1985, but Clarence may have only had daughters. Or died young. Or just couldn't have children.

It's none of my concern. I made sure of that. I made the right decision. And while I miss him, I don't regret it. I will have a life beyond him and he beyond me.

Soon, I will say the same of Marty and be grateful for the practice when I do.

The day of the July town meeting had finally come.

Naturally, this made the stars align in such a way that a large rattlesnake decided to assert its authority in the shop before they left. Doc was caught mid-shave by Emma's shriek, then by surprise at the thick, four-foot serpent winding through the legs of the shop bench toward the living space. At one point, he was standing on his bed with his homemade sniper rifle. When the snake turned away and made for the horse stalls, he lunged for the snake shot pistol hanging on a beam and fired. The poor horses were still startled, but Emma was able to calm them while he disposed of their intruder, lather dripping from half of his face.

Now hurrying to the church in the dense pinks and purples of dusk, Emma rolled the end of her hasty braid up under itself, stuck it with a pin, massaged some volume into her scalp, and fixed the twisted cuffs of her sleeves. The doors and windows were all wide open for ventilation despite the lack of a distinct breeze. The mayor did not need one, however, to carry his robust voice into the streets.

The church was packed, leaving some men to stand in the main doorway. Zeke turned when he heard them coming. Compunction marred his faint smile, and Emma watched her father's shoulders sag with a silent sigh. She looked between them, confused.

"What is it? What happened?"

"They already announced her," Zeke said gently, unfolding his arms as he leaned off the door. "Comin' all the way from New Jersey once she gets word. I'm sorry, Miss Emma."

Emma flashed a smile and smoothed her hands on her cotton-print skirt, appreciative of his tact but finding it unnecessary; the moment Mayor Thomas mentioned her age at the last meeting, it was a lost cause. She could have visited the students' families to reassure them that their children would receive an unprecedented education and still not passed the ever-important first impression. In fact, this news barely registered as a loss, but it seemed rude not to express disappointment after Zeke had stuck by her.

"Am I still the underteacher?"

"Yes, ma'am, you are," he grinned. "And you've got a schoolhouse to prepare."

As Doc triple-checked the revised time circuits schematic between calibrating refrigeration cycles, the sun scorched the air and bled through the brittle fibers of Emma's hat as she crossed the square to the Hill Valley Telegraph. Since she wasn't occupying her time with a full load of lesson plans for the school year yet still wanted to write academically, she found herself submitting short articles on scientific topics to the local newspaper.

She didn't tell her father because he'd refuse to let them be published, and Mr. Gale did not seem eager to fill his pages with her scholarly dissections. He talked her into flyers and pamphlets on the condition that he edited them for the masses. He had yet to accept one in the two weeks she had been dropping by.

Mr. Gale laid her final draft about Koch's postulates on his desk and pinched his forehead. His glasses clicked as they fell back onto the bridge of his nose.

"Miss Brown, no one is going to read this," he said for the umpteenth time. "Just like no one is going to want to read about cathode rays or" – he referenced another of her drafts and struggled with the pronunciation – "Escher… Escher-itch-a collie…?"

"E. coli," Emma corrected, biting her lip as she fingered the ribbon of her hat in front of her.

"There's no interest," Mr. Gale said. "You'd best move to San Francisco or some other big city if you want an audience for these things."

Emma sighed, trying not to let her posture give away her weariness on the matter.

"Mr. Gale, I'm going to be honest with you," she breathed, drawing a deep breath. "I'm in a place in my life right now that I don't understand. At all."

She drove her finger into her papers on his desk, meeting his eye.

"But I understand this."

"I know you understand it," he said gently, "but everyone else does not. I will still make your flyers, but I cannot put my name on them. If you prefer, once you have enough of these, I could put you in touch with a binder for you to print privately.

"But I tell you what," he said, lighting a cigar, "I'm more eager to see you put this effort towards the school again. Elmer's done graduated the eighth grade and is taking on my trade now, but my little Junebug is attending for the first time this September."

Emma smiled at the thought of a little girl younger than Amos joining the class. She'd be a perfect little ray of sunshine. Perfectly malleable and enthusiastic, just like she was at that age.

"Careful, Mr. Gale," she admonished amiably. "She'll have an interest in more than just cathode rays if you let her around me long enough."