The words on the page kept floating away. A tight run… dismounting. Indians…went on.
Jack would let his eyes roam back to the start of the sentence in his recent Wild West Weekly. The exciting story wasn't enough for him this afternoon. If he were being honest with himself, the story hadn't been enough for him for days, maybe even weeks now. His beloved dime novels, the stories of out west, were making him weary. A simmering feeling of unrest, an uncomfortable feeling of guilt had started to nag at him when reading.
The story kept escaping him.
When Francis Sullivan had been barely seven years old, he'd settled on a dream. A way to keep himself company, a castle in the clouds to safety and freedom. Santa Fe was everything Francis had ever believed he wanted, and a candle Jack Kelly had kept lit for more than a decade. He still dreamed of Santa Fe, but these days something or someone else crowded his sleeping thoughts as well as his waking ones.
Jack tucked his reading back into the mailbag in his lap and glanced out across the soft green park in front of him. Even before the sun had dawned this morning, Jack Kelly had known he would find his way to the park today. Golden Gate Park was a place that demanded to be compared, that fought viciously to bring up memories of a different swath of wilderness, a park amid another metropolis.
Jack's brown eyes traveled along the hills, dancing up to the crisp blue-gray sky, rolling around the trees, and following the occasional bird. His gaze would not settle on anything, it seemed it was not only his tales that couldn't garner his attention. He itched with impatience, unspent energy coiled up his legs and through his arms. Jack had never realized how much time he spent running as a boy, until one he had stopped. There was never anyone or anything to run for in San Francisco, not for Jack Kelly.
A young girl ran down on the knolls, a purple ribbon flicking through the air behind her just out of a reach of an exasperated nanny. There was a collection of artists just east of Jack, laughing loud enough for the man to momentarily wonder what was so funny. Cities were all the same, Jack had learned, they bubbled and brimmed with life.
He sighed impatient with his own uneasy, with the wild need for another letter. Even if he knew the letters would bring other simmering feelings. He never mentioned Santa Fe in his letters, not anymore. And since abandoning her anger and resuming their correspondence, Audrey never asked about his return. The couple, if that's what they were still considered, danced around the topic while clinging to each other.
Without thought, his fingers began tracing the shape of coins in one of his pockets. His mind counted again, six quarters and two half dollars. He allowed his thumb to run along the inside of his coat where he'd sewn in a five-dollar bill. He huffed a breath through his nose to keep from pulling out the string around his neck that kept the little gold ring with the rubies safe. Jack Kelly had saved a small fortune and he'd taken to checking in on it so often throughout the day that David had warned thieves might notice. The habitual tick was why the man had forced himself to stop wearing the ring on his pinkie. He had enough money to go to Santa Fe. But he didn't think that's what he wanted to use the money for – not this money won in a game of chance with the little ring.
"Cowboy!"
Jack jerked at the hailing, at a name that felt as if someone had struck him. A name that set his teeth on edge and his shoulders just ever so much higher. The nickname mocked him. Jack inhaled through his clenched teeth.
An elderly gentleman was stepping up into the sunlight not stopping until he cast a shadow up to Jack's wandering eyes.
"Mr. Ambrose." Jack tilted his head up, without bothering to shade his eyes to greet the shadowed silhouette in front of him. The shadow stood for a moment, studying the surly portrait of a young man bent up under a tree.
"You look in need of fight or a good chase, Mr. Kelly." Mr. Ambrose quirked, his voice prodding softly without asking any questions.
"Good fights can lead to a good chase." Jack clicked his tongue as he pushed himself off of the ground.
"You are trouble, boy," Mr. Ambrose chuckled. Jack bit down on his tongue to keep from demanding not to be called a boy. He knew from experience he'd be ignored and work himself into a sour mood trying. The elder man arched a brow, as if he knew what Jack was holding back but turned to continue his walk without a word about it but with every expectation for Jack to join him.
Jeremiah Ambrose was nearly seventy years old, but he moved like a much younger man straight and sturdy. He wielded a walking cane, that Jack suspected may have started like Conlon's as a tool of intimation long before it was needed for extra support. Ambrose was broad where Jack was tall and bronzed by the western sun in a color that reminded Jack of candy more than any other man he had known. Mr. Ambrose was a storyteller who walked Golden Gate Park every day and knew how to spot a good story and a friend. The Park was always going to lead Jack Kelly into Jeremiah Ambrose's path.
"I might not have wanted to walk." Jack sighed resigned.
"Didn't ask you, did I, boy?" Mr. Ambrose smiled back.
"Just as high and mighty as Conlon," Jack grumbled quietly to himself shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from pulling the ring from his neck. Mr. Ambrose either didn't hear him or ignored him, as he practically jogged towards a crowd of birds pecking at a forgotten sandwich.
"You know, don't you, that San Francisco is more west than your precious Santa Fe?" Mr. Ambrose huffed as he waved at a woman sitting at a nearby bench.
"You don't say?" Jack murmured back.
"How often has that smart mouth of yours gotten you into trouble?" Jeremiah laughed. They traded in stories, Jack, and Jeremiah, and depending on the day and their moods each could use words to craft feelings or paint pictures or fall into adventures. It didn't matter if the stories were true or embellished, not to them.
"More often than I could get myself out of." Jack gave a tired sigh. Jeremiah glanced at his young friend, hearing the exhaustion of battle. Jeremiah had run west nearly sixty years ago, he'd chase gold and fought in wars, he'd fallen in love at first sight, and he knew what it was to be at the precipice – in a battle of wills with oneself.
"How is your young lady?"
"I haven't a letter from her since before the last time we walked." Jack shrugged.
"I was a rider for the express once, mail has a long way to travel from your New York to here." Jeremiah soothed. With Jack, Jeremiah had learned this surly mood was only caused by the girl or the dream. It seemed today it might be both.
Jeremiah led them into the gardens where the tulips would come in spring. He walked along to the windmills, hoping maybe the new structures would distract the young man enough to bring him into a story. But Jack didn't even so much as look up at the stone tower as they neared it.
"And what's happening in your weekly then? What trouble has the young West found himself in?" Jeremiah tried coaxing.
"I keep losing the story." Jack shrugged helplessly.
Jeremiah whistled softly, a pretty sound of discovery.
"Sometimes, the hero has to do something for himself before finding his way back to the path," Jeremiah advised softly letting them fall into silence. It seemed today would be a quiet walk of contemplation.