He'd often wondered if he would have done the same as young Masen when faced with such a tragic loss. He remembered all too well the pain of being left behind, and without saying as much, he thought Isabella might, too.

.

.

"I did nothing. I should've turned him in, but I didn't. I watched and waited to see if he'd put a foot wrong. If that man had so much as raised his voice to John Banner, I'd have been on him faster than a tick on a dog's ass. But, he never stepped out of line, not once all these many years."

As he fell silent, Charles wondered at Isabella's reaction to his story.

He felt lighter having unburdened himself, but wondered if his daughter would think less of him, if she'd think he'd done wrong not to take it to the law. He watched her as she stared blankly out the window and hoped that she would understand him keeping a silent, careful eye on Masen instead of turning him in, making sure the man didn't take liberties with right and wrong.

Which, thank the Lord, he never did. John Banner certainly had no complaints as he was always paid, sometimes with gold, sometimes by barter. Masen never gave his name, but didn't trouble the shopkeeper often enough for the old man to care.

"You're absolutely sure it's him?" Isabella asked, her faraway eyes staring into the darkening green, her face unreadable. Charles had never been able to tell what she was thinking in that clever head of hers. She was just like her wonderfully perplexing mother that way, full of her woman's mysteries.

"I'm sure, Bella."

Would she judge that Masen had paid a high enough price, just by giving away his right to live in civilized society? Charles hoped so.

"He lives alone up in the mountains somewhere, I'm sure of that, too. Lives frugal, I reckon, keeps to himself and comes into town on occasion, when he needs something like tools or stores."

Isabella sat up straight at that with undisguised interest animating her eyes.

"Why do you think he lives up there? Maybe he moves around from place to place, living by a campsite?"

"No, no, I don't think he moves around. I told you I've been watching. He ain't no drifter. He buys things that serve no purpose to such a one, things that would burden him and his horse. Things like grain stores and bags of sugar. One time he got himself a brand new spade. What's a drifter want with a spade, Bella?"

She nodded, directing her eyes outside again.

"Why do you think he's alone up there?" she enquired, altogether too casually.

Charles looked up darkly and tweaked his mustache in consternation. "He's on his own, all right. If he had a band of men up there, they'd all have been trickling into town at one time or another, and he's been the only one coming in. There ain't no woman up there either, judging by the way he's keeping himself, all tattered and overgrown like a holy hermit. No self-respecting woman who ever held a needle darned those breeches for him that's for damn sure."

Isabella imagined the horseman up in the mountains, his rough exterior and basic life away from the influence of the township, and had to agree with her father. She was quietly surprised at how much notice Charles had been taking of the man. She'd thought his eyesight poor and his body infirm, but it was clear that her old Pa's mind was a quick as ever.

"I think he paid a heavy price for the loss of his family, and for daring to avenge that loss," Charles said softly, tired now and saddened. It had been seventeen years since the deaths of his parents, and Anthony Masen would pay that price until his dying day.

As he fell silent, Charles looked grimly at his daughter, wondering if he had done the right thing to tell her.

He knew she was a trustworthy confidante, but regretted burdening her with this secret. She would keep it, he knew, if only to keep her own father safe. He'd be judged harshly for not turning Masen in to the law years ago.

That, however, wasn't his biggest concern.

No, if he was honest with himself, Charles was more worried by the interest Isabella had shown in the subject.

Did her renewed questioning mean that she had seen Masen again, or that she had not stopped thinking about him since?

And which was worse?

Charles did not like the loaded silence while she contemplated his words, staring with unseeing eyes while the house creaked and groaned and settled around them, the heat of the day dissipating into the cool evening.

As minutes slowly elapsed with nothing more said, he finally left her alone to her thoughts, hoping she would come to him in her own good time.

.

.

Isabella was stunned by her Pa's recollections, though not because she judged his decision or feared the drifter she now knew to be Anthony Masen.

Her father would have been surprised to learn that she thought she had found a kindred spirit, and an inspiration.

In short, she was awed.

Here was someone who had suffered a heart-rending loss and somehow, lived through it.

Not only had Anthony Masen survived the tragedy, but he had rallied, and it appeared that he may have meticulously planned his revenge on the rabble that had decimated his family, at the ultimate expense of a future for himself.

Isabella would have given anything to have had that opportunity for revenge, but there was not one man responsible for the death of her beloved Peter all those years ago.

It was a faceless wraith that took him in the name of the War of the Rebellion.

All she could do was swallow her silent grief until it, in turn, swallowed her.

She was bereft, then and now, and envied Masen his vengeance.

It dawned on her then, that she was unfairly giving Pastor Newton false hope.

She had long known she would never marry, and should have had the courage to tell him outright instead of keeping him waiting week after week. Under the pretext of sparing his feelings, she had taken the easy road.

Now, with the story her father had told echoing in her mind, she could no longer excuse her cowardice in the face of Anthony Masen's extreme sacrifice.

Just like he once had, she would straighten her back and face her fears with her shoulders squared, like a Swan should.

.

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A/N: So, an indirect answer to a recurring question: if you'd shot down the villains that murdered your family, would you keep your name? Thanks for reading and reviewing if you are so inclined!