The ride back to town didn't seem to take as long as the ride out had. Chris rode toward the front, keeping track of Vin out of the corner of his eye, and the sound of his horse plodding along behind. He figured Vin must be feeling mighty poorly to willingly head back to town and a bed inside four walls. Maybe he ought to spend another night at Nathan's, just in case. By his voice, Vin's throat was still raw, he shouldn't even be outside yet. Not overnight in the damp and wind. Chris'd make sure Vin spent the next few nights inside if he had to nail the door shut.

M7*M7*M7

Vin rode back to town staring at a spot between his horse's ears. He knew he should be paying attention to the land around them. Chris would keep alert, he knew that. But two kept better watch than one. Still he couldn't drag his eyes up from the horse's mane, couldn't attune his senses to anything but the memories.

Some of the memories were clear - being at the creek before he got sick, trying to eat some dinner at the boarding house before spending the night in Chris' room, having to lay down in Nathan's bed and sleep while the day was still wide open. But after that, the memories wove in and out of each other, substance seemed to get tangled up in visions, and Vin couldn't be sure what he'd experienced and what he'd dreamed.

He remembered dead buffalo, but that could just be an even older memory being tossed up to make room for new ones. He thought he'd dreamed he was being hanged, but he had that dream a lot anyway. He'd been on the floor, hadn't he? Except he was on the bed, under the covers. But it got too hot and he was shivering. And the medicine tasted bad and burned his throat and the room spun and spun around him till he dropped to a stop hearing a heartbeat and knowing he was safe hearing it till he had to cough and it seemed like he'd never stop coughing up all that blood and gore and through it all he wasn't alone because that somebody he couldn't remember was always there and it must've been ---

"Chris?" Vin said his name more to stop his mind from racing on like a train out of control than to get his attention. When Chris turned back, concerned, Vin had to think of something to say to him. Nothing came though and he felt foolish. Chris just watched him kindly, thinking maybe he'd drifted off and said his name coming awake.

"We'll be home soon, another half mile."

Vin only nodded.

M7*M7*M7

They dismounted at the livery, and Chris led his horse inside first. Vin followed, but he moved slowly. By the time he unsaddled, put away his tack, and started to brush the horse, Chris was done and on his way out of the stable.

"I'll be back." he said.

"Un hunh." Vin couldn't say he cared either way. He took a long time currying his mount, wanting to get to his room and privacy, but dreading the walk he'd have to take across town to get there. He thought about lighting out of town again, but Chris would only hunt him down.

Or maybe he wouldn't.

Vin didn't know which would be worse.

He put away his tools finally and headed out of the livery to the boarding house. His body felt unaccountably stiff and sore.

"Too much laying around." he thought to himself. "Gettin' soft...tomorrow I'll head out on my own...no damn nursemaids around." He took every step waiting to hear Nathan call out to him, or have one of the others stop him, ask how he was doing, tell him he looked better or worse, something, anything.

But nobody did. Not till he got to the porch of the boarding house and met Chris walking out.

"Hey, you want to get some dinner, 'fore y'head to your room?"

"Nahh, thanks. Just want t'lay down." He hardly looked at Chris as he spoke, pushing his way past, heading down the hallway. Chris watched him, felt the key in his pocket, and followed Vin to his room.

"You might need this." he said, as Vin reached for the knob and was met with a locked door.

"What the hell?" Vin quickly scanned the door and hallway, making sure he was at the right place. "What's goin' on?" It was a different door, a new door with a keyhole under the knob.

"A surprise." Chris told him, though his voice held no satisfaction. He could see by the sharp look on Vin's face that this was not going to go well.

"What kinda the hell surprise y'gotta lock on my door?" Vin demanded.

Chris held back a sigh. Nope, this was not going to go well at all. He offered the key, but didn't answer. Vin grabbed the key, snarling something under his breath as he fumbled with the unfamiliar mechanics of a skeleton key and lock. Chris thought about helping; he also thought about not being able to use his hand for a week if he put it too close to Vin right now.

"Damn, stupid, what the hell stupid kinda lock y'put on this damn door any how?" and with a final wrangle, the damn door popped open. Vin meant to take a step inside and slam it behind, but his next curse died on his lips. "What the...?" He gave a fast look around again. This had to be the wrong room.

Lace curtains - white lace curtains hung at the barely opened window, stirring slowly in a slight breeze. A generous quilt covered the bed, hanging down so low it almost touched the braided rug that took up most of the floor. In the corner of the room stood a wash stand with bowl and pitcher, a coat tree, and a low chest of drawers.

Chris watched Vin's back, trying to gauge his reactions. By the pull of his shoulders as took each breath, he was not happy. One word, just one word, and Chris would turn on his heel and leave Vin to rant in solitude.

Vin had decided to be full-fledged angry. This room might not be much, but it was his and they had no damn right to come in here and touch anything. Who were they to think that it wasn't good enough? It was his and he could keep it any damn way he wanted to...

But there, in the middle of the room, in the middle of the new rug, Vin's eyes fell on the rocking chair, with the granny afghan draped over the back. He stared at it.

"My Ma had a rockin' chair too..." he finally said. His raw voice cracked a little. He walked up to the chair and laid a reverential hand on one of the decorative spindles along the top of the back. "Y'know how long it's been since I sat in a rockin' chair?" He kept his voice quiet, a whisper reserved for holy places and miracles.

"Better'n twenty years I'm willin' to bet." Chris said, and Vin nodded, not surprised that Chris guessed.

"Since I lost my Ma... My grandmother had one, weren't allowed though."

"Nettie has one." Chris said, but Vin gave him a look like he'd suggesting violating the woman.

"Oh no." Vin shook his head. "Couldn't never do that." He hadn't taken his hand off the smooth wood.

"Why not?" Chris couldn't imagine what the answer to that might be.

"Might get used to it." In his weary voice, Chris heard years of deprivation, forced on him by circumstance, and self-imposed out of fear. Don't want what you can't have. Don't get attached to what could be taken away. Don't get comfortable and don't ever ever close both eyes at the same time.

"That's what the key is for Vin." Chris told him. "You lock your door, this is a safe place for you." But Vin shook his head again and pulled away from the rocking chair.

"Ain't no safe place. Fella like me. Never was no safe place...had a quilt like this 'un too, when I'se little." He fingered the bright cover. "Ma taught me all the colors. Then when I had to be quiet, when she was real sick, at the end..." But he couldn't finish the thought. He flung the quilt corner away from himself.

"Just wastin' it y'know. Wastin' all this fluff on me. I mean - I 'preciate what y'all musta went through, gettin' done so fast...reckon you was just tellin' Buck about it this mornin'...weren't you?"

"Next time I find myself thinking you're asleep, I'm gonna poke you." Chris said. "Yeah, I was tellin' him about it this morning. After what you said last night, 'bout wantin' what other people have."

"I don't deserve this."

"You deserve a home Vin. " Chris insisted, annoyed at Vin's self deprecation. "Not just that wagon a'yer Grandpa's you had. Not an empty stall in the livery, not out in the wind and the cold and the wet somewheres, where all y'can do is look through the windows and see other people having a life you'd like to have. You deserve a door you can lock and a safe place to keep yourself and your belongings. You don't gotta be forever findin' a place you figure no one will know to look for you. You got friends now'll watch your back."

"Got nobody." Vin mumbled.

"What're you talkin' about?" Chris asked. His mind flashed on the days stretched into a week or more that six friends had fussed, worried, prayed, and agonized over Vin as first his spirit lay dying then his body. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"Nothin'..." his finger traced the fine stitches in the quilt. Chris thought he might have an idea what was going on. He tried anyway.

"Vin - y' been sick, you're still wore out. Ain't much been goin' on in the town, still you been missin' out on the little excitement we've had. You're bound to feel outta your place, till you get back your strength." Vin didn't answer. "All right, you don't gotta like what we did to your room, but give it a couple days 'fore you pack it all up and burn it, okay?"

"...okay..."

"C'mon, let's get some dinner...you're hungry and I'm buying."

Vin nodded his head up once that he heard. They left the room and Vin let out an aggravated sigh as he wrangled with the key again. As they walked down the hall, Chris rested his hand lightly on Vin's shoulder, but immediately felt his friend stiffen at the touch. So he casually let his hand drop down again.

He wondered what was going on.

M7*M7*M7

The rain started again before nightfall. Vin lay in his bed, on top of the quilt, listening to it spatter against the muddy street and side of the boarding house. He didn't light the new lamp that stood on the chest of drawers. Didn't light the little stub of a candle he normally used. He let himself lay there, in the dark and quiet and comfortable, and tried to figure out how a man with so many friends could feel so miserable.

But here he was, alone in the dark and cold, laid out like a corpse on the bed, the bright colors of the quilt fading with the sun. He knew he could find anyone of his friends and if they weren't busy, just sit down next to 'em. They'd talk or not, but they wouldn't push him away. He knew none of them would ever push him away.

He wondered if he woulda been friends with Buck if Chris weren't around. Sometimes it seemed that Buck was everything Vin wasn't - big and bright and handsome, outgoing and at ease in a crowd, rough when he had to be, and civilized when he wanted to be. At first Vin'd been of a mind to not like Buck, till he recognized the undercurrent of genuine kindness in him. He saw it in first in the gruff way Buck tried to keep JD alive and out of harm's way in spite of himself. Then later on, when Chris' father-in-law died, Vin could see how deep it ran in Buck to still care for his oldest friend.

Vin brushed the hair out of his eyes and tried to not think of pulling the quilt around himself to stave off the cold.

'Gettin' soft.' he chided. 'Y'can have the bed, or y'can be warm, ain't givin' you both...'

Lying here in the darkness, the room didn't feel any different than the last time he'd slept in the bed. That was when? He couldn't remember now. He'd been sick though, he remembered that.

Not sick now, Nathan'd been by to make sure of that. Same as always "...take it easy...get some rest..." after pokin' and proddin' and getting a look down Vin's throat. "...keep warm..." Told him to shut the window to keep out the draft. Vin could barely make out the white lace curling in the stream of air blowing through the thinnest possible opening between window and frame.

Before he left the newly decorated room, Nathan'd sat on the bed, next to Vin lying there, and laid his hand on his forehead. Seemed to keep it longer there than usual while his eyes searched Vin's face for what Vin had no idea. So he closed his eyes and pretended to be weary till Nathan moved his hand to give Vin's shoulder a squeeze before he left. Once he was gone, Vin got out of bed long enough to lock the door and push his straight back chair under the knob.

Not everything had changed.

So now he lay flat out on top of the quilt he wouldn't surrender to, staring up at the ceiling he was slowly less and less able to see. Why was he here? Why didn't he go find somebody and have a drink? Have something else to eat or just sit by a toastin' stove? None of his friends would ever push him away.

But maybe they would.

Vin never sat down next to anybody when he was craving companionship, he'd trained himself away from that comfort, like he'd trained himself to endure cold and heat, hunger and thirst and exhaustion. The only way to not get cut to slivers by life was to be harder than anyone or anything you came up against.

He fingered the edge of the quilt but made himself let go before he pulled it over his body.

'Warm or in bed, don't get both' he told himself again. It looked like it would be a mighty warm quilt though. Probably get so warm lying underneath it that he wouldn't be able to sleep anyway.

Shouldn't sleep, anyway. Lock or no lock, he was alone and no one to watch his back. Sleep was a luxury - you stop paying attention, you stop living. He'd had too much sleep this past week anyway, all the time up in Nathan's bed. Nothing to do but sleep, no matter how hard he fought it. Nathan musta put somethin' in all that skunk water to make him so sleepy. His body wouldn't just give out on him like that. That was somethin' Nathan might do.

A heavy gust of air chased a bolt of lightning over the town. Vin pushed up on his elbow to have a look. Thunder rolled close and fast, but didn't sound like it hit anything. Even in rain, a lightning strike meant fire. He listened awhile, but no one raised an alarm and he laid back down. Fire took a lot of people, women especially. Cookin' and lamps and candles and all them skirts they wore.

Vin let his mind wander under the current of sleep, keeping it at bay, one ear open to the sounds in the boarding house, one eye watching the shadows coming through the window. Lord, he was tired of being on alert all the time. It just came to him natural now, to not sleep deeply, never relax completely. Always gotta keep an eye on everything going on. You stop paying attention, you stop living.

Maybe he could go find Chris. If Chris was around, Vin could sit with him and have a drink, let himself fade into a deeper sleep than he could here.

Life went on, one step at a time. Never any real surprises. Things went bad, things got took care of. Aches and pains, blistered hands and blistered souls. You take care of yourself and you go on.

Vin missed his Ma. More now than he ever had, and he couldn't figure why. Seemed she'd been close to him when he was ailin', her and his Pa, floatin' in and out with those dreams and visions he couldn't nail down. Probably that's why he missed her, missed them both - he'd lost them again. That warmth and safety he felt when he was sick and dying was just another dream he lost when he woke up. His Ma and Pa and being safe - he'd lost each one of them a long time before.

Now there was nothing.

He turned onto his side and with one hand brought the huge quilt up and over himself. It only took a few minutes to get warm, and not much longer after that to drop dead asleep.

M7*M7*M7

Footsteps.

Vin threw the quilt off and sat up in a movement, every nerve intent on the sounds in the hallway.

Footsteps.

Slow, dragging footsteps, getting slower the closer they came to the room. Vin swung his feet over the bed and into his boots, reaching for his gun hung over the headboard. Back and forth the footsteps shuffled, checking rooms, judging which one was the right one. Vin trained his weapon on the door, heart pounding as he waited to hear those footsteps go past.

Ignorant fool he berated himself. You stop paying attention, you stop living...

The footsteps would go past, they always went past...

Who said y'could get comfortable and sleep? What the hell were you thinkin'?

He felt his hands tremble around the gun, and he willed them to be still.

Was thinkin' I'm gettin' tired of hidin' out n' watching my back, tired a'bein' alone...tired a'bein' tired...

But the footsteps did stop at his door, and softly the knob rattled. Vin steadied his sights and tried to quiet his heart, not afraid as much as angry that he'd let his guard down. The knob rattled more insistently then and a drunken voice he recognized as one of his 'neighbors' in the boarding house muttered something and wandered down the hall. Vin still held the gun steady and trained on the door, even after the footsteps died away and a door farther down opened and closed.

It wasn't this time - it will be next time. One a' these times y'fool, one a' these times you'll wake up dead...

As the scare wore off, Vin became aware of the other sounds and sensations around him. The rain still pounded the ground, though it was letting up, and the wind that managed to creep in under the window had a cold bite to it. A few snores and snatches of conversation from fellow lodgers reached him through the walls and ceiling. He lowered the gun as he looked around himself.

Surrounded by people, yet he was all alone. When did that happen? He remembered his Ma saying what a happy, friendly little boy he was, and not just in his visions. He remembered her saying it for real in his memory. She said he was happy and loved to talked to people, that she never had to worry about him having friends. She said he'd be able to make friends wherever he went.

When did that change?

When she died.

It wasn't that the unfairness of it all hadn't occurred to Vin before, a little five year old boy who'd known nothing but love and tenderness, thrown by fate into a bear pit of an existence. Confused at first when none of the usual things he'd done to make his Ma happy worked on his grandparents. Confused when he did the very best he ever could and was still beaten and tormented for failing. Confused because he could never figure out what he'd done so bad that he'd never know another moment of gentleness or softness or love.

And his confusion, fed on scarce meals and constant pain, grew into a silent acceptance that somehow he deserved the beatings and curses.

And the acceptance of mistreatment grew into a wariness of everyone he met - holding himself back, keeping out of their way before they realized he deserved only brutal treatment, if he deserved anything at all.

And the wariness led to the isolation necessary to keep himself alive till he was grown and could defend himself.

Only by then, the isolation was a stone wall around him, and he didn't remember how to rely on anyone but himself. How to put his whole trust into another human being. And he couldn't tell if that part of his soul was only hiding, or had died entirely.

Died with his mother.

When she left him alone in hell.

To be continued