Winter of 1893

Arthur slowed his horse to a trot as he approached Deer Head Ranch—the ranch he'd bought with his own money six years ago when he found out he had a newborn son. Even in winter, this was a land with no snow—just the way he liked.

He pulled to a stop as the child, now six years old, looked up from his play things on the front porch and saw him. Arthur wondered to himself how many times he could look into the face of his son and turn away again. Wondered how many times he was built to take it. Before it ripped him apart.

"Mama?" he heard Isaac call inside as he dismounted.

"Isaac, come on inside; it's a little too cold this morning. Come—" As soon as Eliza stepped outside and saw him, her breath caught.

"Mama, Arthur's here."

Arthur peered up at her from beneath the brim of his hat. "Hello, Eliza."

She brushed her blonde hair out of her eyes to make sure she was seeing true. When she realized she was, she blinked. "Arthur, come inside. I can see your breath. You too, Isaac." She looked down at her son. "Come on. Inside," she said with a tilt of her head towards the door.

Isaac left his things and scurried inside. Eliza began to follow him, until Arthur made it to the door.

For a moment they were both there, standing just outside the threshold looking at each other—a moment that seemed to last for minutes as he stepped past her and slid into the door, slid into their lives again. His eyes flashed at her like bright blue jewels. And it was that easy.

As he entered the house she let out a breath and hung her hopes like she hung her head.

Arthur removed his hat and coat and addressed Isaac, who sat at the table. "You remember me?"

"'Course I remember you, Arthur. You were supposed to finish your story about the buried treasure when you came back, but…you never came back."

"Well, I'm here now, ain't I? Reckon I can finish that story for you tonight after supper, in front of the fire. How's that sound?"

"Great! Only…" Isaac looked away, and Arthur followed his gaze to the scant pile of kindling by the fireplace. "We don't have much wood right now."

"That don't seem right. I can fix that." Arthur picked up the leather tote by the hearth, donned his coat again, and headed for the front door.

"What?" Eliza said as Arthur left. She looked at Isaac. "Wait here. Stay inside, I mean it." She followed Arthur outside. "Arthur, it's early morning. You just got here. Can't the chopping…wait? You've been gone so long, and come so many miles, I'm sure. Won't you sit and…talk?"

"I'll get it done, and you'll have firewood. There a problem?" he said.

Exasperated, she dropped her hands.

He smirked. "I won't be long." He grabbed the hatchet that was propped against a stump and headed for the tree line behind the house.

About an hour later, he was dumping a load of stripped logs and dry twigs next to the fireplace. Eliza was frying potato cakes at the stove. Isaac was nowhere to be seen.

Arthur began to ask, "Where's—"

"He's in his room practicin' writin' his letters," she said continuing her task. "Come sit. You must be exhausted."

"It wasn't much work," he said taking a chair at the end of the table.

"Good, but that's not what I meant." She put a plate of potato cakes and eggs in front of him.

He took her meaning and tried not to look up at her as she sat in the chair adjacent to him.

She put her hands around a mug of coffee and watched as he started eating. In the past he had made sure to come by for a few days once every three months, at least. The last couple years he'd gradually stayed away for longer each time before returning.

"Been so many months since you were here last, I started to think we'd never see you again," she finally said.

He swallowed. "I was…in a bind for while. It's a bit of a long story."

"I'd like to hear it."

"No," he said promptly, "it's not the kind of thing you want to hear."

Knowing it was futile to pursue it, she decided to let it go and sat back in her chair. She watched the eddies of steam rise in spinning swirls from her mug. "Seems like more and more time between your visits."

He sighed. "Of all the things I am, I'm a man of my word. I told you I'd do what I can to take care of you, be here as much as I can. But it ain't much. And that's for your own benefit. You know that."

"I know."

"I don't wanna go through this again," he said, letting his fork clank against the plate as he sat back in his chair, still chewing on a mouthful of food.

"I know." She lifted the mug to her lips and sipped the coffee past the lump in her throat. "We—" her eyes fluttered down. "He misses you. That's all."

"He hardly knows me."

"That's no fault of his."

"Well, it's probably a good thing, anyway."

She looked at him as he continued eating, seemingly without any further thought to what he'd just said. How can you honestly believe that? she thought. She glanced at the door of her son's room and tried not to let herself venture down the deep dark well that she sat in for hours when she thought about him growing up fatherless. She looked back at the mug in her hands. "I'm sure you'd like a hot bath." She stood. "I'll fix one up for you."

He immediately stood. "I can help bring the water in," he said.

"Oh, it's no trouble," she waved him down. "Sit and finish eating."

"No, really. I don't want to cause you any more work than you'd normally…"

With his back turned to her, Arthur's attention was suddenly snagged by the Christmas tree in the corner. He stepped towards it and gazed at the ornaments and the string of popping corn wrapped around it. She watched as he touched the dangling red felt stars, lingering where he stood, seemingly enthralled.

When he spoke, his words were slow, and he almost sounded dazed: "Didn't even realize it was Christmastime. You know how long it's been since I saw Christmas things? Even thought about Christmas?" She saw his head shake gently, and he looked up at the top of the tree. He chuckled hazily, "Must've been about Isaac's age."

How winsome, how heartbreakingly childlike he could be with just a few words. And only she knew it in the whole wide world. And she grieved for the child that he'd been, the child that was shown the darkness in the world—how ugly it could be—all too early. The child that had had his kin ripped from him, and became starved for loving-kindness. The child that had been deceived by miscreants into devoting loyalty for a lie. She could see it all.

"That's pretty young to leave behind Christmas," she said. He nodded as he began to turn towards her, as if awakened from a daydream. His eyes were just coming up to meet hers as she said, "A long time to go without joy."

When their eyes met he paused, and his scoff was a mingling of spite and ache: "Not sure I ever knew what that was."