The crisp morning air bit into his lungs, clearing some of the fog from his brain. Joe drew in a deep breath as he entered the barn, tasting the warm sweet scent of horse and hay. He greeted Buck and Chubby, rubbed Cooch's soft nose. Cochise nosed hopefully for a treat he hadn't brought, and Joe wondered with a little flush of guilt how long it had been since he'd remembered an apple or lump of sugar in the morning. He'd just … let that slide.
Along with a lot of other things.
"Sorry Cooch," he murmured, offering another pat instead. "Later."
Joe seized the pitchfork and went to toss hay into the stalls, the work coming somehow easier than it had in a while. Breathing seemed like less work too, and the heavy pain in his chest was … lighter. The physical aches, the apathy still clung to him, slowing every thought and movement as though he were living in molasses instead of air—but the sharp pressure of keeping it all inside, hidden, had eased.
He'd said it out loud, and not to just empty space.
It … did feel better. A little.
She'd been right. It would have irked him, if he could be bothered.
Joe finished his morning chores without any thought—it was all routine. Water the horses, feed the cats, feed the dog, feed the chickens, feed the goat. Jamie was the one shoveling stalls this week, and Candy was chopping wood and filling the box. Hop Sing would get the eggs, as the little cook didn't trust anyone else not to break the lot of them (with some justification, unfortunately). Joe's own part was done quickly, and he was back out in the yard.
Cool air, filling his lungs. It was … good. Sharp and fresh. Clean.
The smell of his home. He loved this land.
Pa was on the front porch, puffing at his pipe. He could have been looking at anything or nothing, but Joe knew that Ben was watching him.
His pa had been worried. They had all been worried.
He wasn't giving them any reason not to be, but he also couldn't seem to do anything different.
Fresh air. Easy breathing.
When was the last time he'd actually started a conversation with his pa? With anyone? He'd been just responding more than conversing lately …
Joe stepped onto the porch, scrambling for something to say. "Pa. Nice morning." He wanted more, but his mind skittered away from the effort.
He didn't force it. Couldn't bother.
Ben blinked, eyeing him cautiously. Hopefully. "Fine morning, Joe." He hesitated, but when Joe didn't offer anything else Ben didn't push. He only slid a hand onto Joe's shoulder, squeezing gently. The heavy warmth was … comforting, rather than confining. In a flash of insight Joe noticed that his pa had aged—the fingers that gripped him were thinner, bony even, although the callouses were still rough enough to catch and snag on the fabric of his work shirt.
It had been a tough couple of years for everyone.
Joe stayed there on the porch with his pa for nearly thirty seconds, drinking in the spicy pipe smoke and the crisp Nevada morning, before he pulled gently away and ducked into the house.