Joe felt reassured by the exhausted and frustrated look of the deputy who'd gotten a black eye from Candy. The man's expression when he peered into the jail room for a moment was one that a person would only wear if they had utterly failed at a set task and were deeply concerned about the potential consequences. It told Joe all he needed to know. Candy was still out there somewhere.

Glancing at his brother when the deputy closed the door, Joe knew Hoss had seen the look too, and knew what it meant as well as Joe did. There was still hope then. Of course, it was also possible Candy had dropped in the snow somewhere and nobody had found him simply because he'd never gotten up again. But neither Joe nor Hoss wanted to believe that possibility, though they were both aware of it.

They both also noticed when Lacy arrived awhile later that neither the newly arrived deputy nor the woman were as cautious as they ought to have been. Joe glanced at Hoss, who laid a subtle restraining hand on his arm. They were incautious, yes, but not enough. If Joe and Hoss made a break for it now, likely they would be stopped, possibly shot and definitely would get their captors' guards back up.

Unlike the deputy who'd remained behind, the one with the black eye looked like he and his conscience hadn't been on speaking terms for years, so there didn't seem like much point in harassing him. Lacy, on the other hand, was beginning to look a bit worried, like maybe she was beginning to absorb the true meaning of what she and the others were doing, the enormity of the crime, and the sin of murder.

Hoss tapped Joe's arm, signaling that he was going to take the lead on this round. Joe made no acknowledgment, except to turn his scowl away from the people and towards the "breakfast".

Hoss wanted to open the conversation by asking Lacy if her mother hadn't taught her to make anything but brown rubber on a plate, but he figured that wasn't likely to do anything except make her mad, and if she was mad she was less likely to think, and less likely to feel guilt for what she was doing.

"I s'pose you know that this can't end well for you," Hoss said to Lacy as she set down her tray.

"Canaday won't be a problem much longer," Lacy said, but it was clear from her tone that it was just talk; she had no idea where Candy was or what might be happening to him, "After that, everything should fall into place. We just have to wait for the money."

"You mean you have to wait for our pa to give over his life savings to save his sons," Joe corrected, then gave Hoss a brief glance which Hoss didn't dare return.

Joe had hit the exact note with his words and tone that Hoss would have suggested if they'd discussed this the night before. But they hadn't talked about how they would talk to their captors, it was something they had to figure on the spot.

"And then you kill us," Hoss added.

"I suppose you've thought about how our pa will feel," Joe suggested, "Spending Christmas alone, two of his sons dead, murdered no less, and after he did exactly as he was told," he narrowed his eyes slightly, "A pretty awful way to spend Christmas, if you ask me."

Lacy looked angry, and Hoss wished Joe would be a little less prickly in dealing with her. Not that he wasn't just as mad as Joe was, but it seemed like a gentler touch might be in order with Lacy. But she hadn't left yet, in fact she came up with a retort that surprised them both.

"You want to know about an awful way to spend Christmas?" Lacy all but snarled, her face contorting in her upset, which suddenly seemed more like grief that she'd turned to anger, rather than an enraged response to Joe's remarks, "I'll tell you about awful."

Joe sat back against the wall of the cell. He kept his expression carefully neutral, but Hoss could see the smug look in his brother's eyes. He'd gotten Lacy to start talking, and he'd gotten her into an emotional state. A moment later, Hoss understood why it had been so easy for Joe to do.

"Try a Christmas where your father holds a shotgun on the person you love and demands they annul your marriage or else get shot," Lacy said, "Or one where you find yourself married to someone you don't love, and they insist you go to bed together because they want an heir, and so you do, even though you don't want to. Or one year you find yourself in a town full of strangers, with no money and finding yourself wintering in a shack that was supposed to be temporary, and some young deputy comes riding in and tells you that you're a widow now," after her tirade, she brushed back her hair and continued in a more level tone, "I've spent more Christmases than I care to count sitting alone in a saloon, praying for a miracle, hoping for someone to come along and make all the wrongs that have been done to me right, like the Good Book says. But I'm tired of waiting."

"So..." Hoss said slowly, a confused look on his face, "you got the idea to wrong other people who never did nothin' to you. And that's gonna make all them wrongs you mentioned right somehow?"

"I don't care about right or wrong anymore," Lacy sighed wearily, "I'm just tired of living this way. And so is everybody else in Elodie."

"Well I'm not so fond of livin' this way either," Hoss gestured to indicate the cell he and his brother were being kept in, subtly including the tray of food Lacy had put in with them, "But I ain't plottin' to murder anybody to make myself feel better."

"You'd kill any one of us, given a chance," the deputy challenged from where he stood near the door.

"If we had to," Hoss admitted coolly, "But there's a heap o' difference between murder and killin' in self defense. I ain't never murdered nobody, but I expect that's a guilt that's mighty hard to live with."

"It's hard enough if it was an accident," Joe said, and Hoss knew the pain in his voice wasn't feigned.

Joe had counted himself responsible for more than one accidental death, most recently the death of a friend of his. Nobody could talk him out of feeling guilty over that, even though objectively it wasn't his fault. Hoss had his share of guilt from unfortunate incidents himself. But something told him that the deputy standing there wouldn't feel guilt like they did. He wasn't convinced Lacy would either, at least not soon enough to stop the killing. It might eat her up later, but that wouldn't do them any good. Still, Joe seemed to be on the right track, seeing as Lacy hadn't fled the room yet.

"Ma'am," Hoss said, and observed Lacy stiffen slightly at the way he addressed her, but he pressed on anyhow, "it's been my experience that a way of livin' has less to do with circumstance and a heap more to do with how folks choose to feel about it."

Lacy looked doubtful, and perhaps unsure what Hoss had said. Joe pitched in again.

"My brother's right," Joe said, "More money won't make you any happier. You'll still be a bitter, angry woman, no matter how much money you've got, because you choose to be that way, whether you realize it or not."

"What would you know about it?" Lacy asked, "You were born rich, and your father never picked who you would marry, and you were never moved out to the middle of nowhere on a promise that was never fulfilled, only to have that person you married be killed by their own ambition."

"No, no I haven't," Joe admitted, "But I've known people with all the money in the world who were poorer than beggars in spirit, and people without a penny to their name who were richer than kings. And it had everything to do with how they decided to view their lives, and what they chose to do."

"It ain't about what you got," Hoss added, "It's about who you are, and what you do for others."

"Or to them," Joe concluded.

"That's a lovely sentiment," Lacy said, her tone cold, "But sentiment doesn't put food on the table or clothes on your back."

"No," Hoss agreed, "Hard work does that."

"If you're lucky," Lacy remarked, then turned away and left in a hurry.

She'd moved quickly, but Hoss had still seen a hint of tears in her eyes as she fled the room, the deputy in tow. He glanced at Joe, who was poking at the breakfast with the provided utensil, which didn't seem sure whether it was meant to be a spoon or fork, making it the perfect instrument for an object that wasn't clear on whether it was food or material for making a saddle.

"Think we pushed too hard, too fast?" Joe inquired, not looking up from toying with the food.

"I dunno," Hoss said, "That lady's got a lot of anger in her, don't she?"

Joe nodded, "I didn't expect her to go off like that. Maybe it was for the best."

"Yeah," Hoss said, doubtfully, "Maybe."

Steve took one look at Hank and Jake in the sheriff's office and said, "What did I miss?"

Jake handed Steve the note from the telegraph office, but Steve passed it to Hank before turning to the coffee pot on the stove and shaking his head disapprovingly. He took the coffee pot away, poured out its contents, refilled it with water and stuck it on the stove. During this time, Jake languidly brought Steve up to speed on what the note said and what Hank's plan was. Steve listened, but said nothing until he managed to transform the cold water into something hot and drinkable.

Wordlessly, Hank took the first cup Steve poured, and Steve poured himself another, offering it to Jake.

"I don't drink the nasty stuff," Jake said, as Steve had known he would.

Steve took a sip of the hot coffee and looked at Hank curiously.

"What do you want to get involved in the affairs of Elodie for?" he inquired, "Especially at this time of the year."

Steve and Jake were good deputies because they had a sense of duty to their town, but also because they would follow Hank's instructions. Steve's question wasn't a refusal, and Hank knew full well that he could simply shrug indifferently and Steve would go along with it. But he also knew that the boys resented work and danger in particular during their Christmas vacation, and they were none too fond of being sober during that time either, so he owed them something more substantial.

He returned to his chair and took a sip of his coffee, observing that you just couldn't swig hot, fresh coffee like you could cold, stale coffee.

"Seems to me they already involved us, the minute those deputies stepped into my office and gave me the name and description of Canaday," Hank remarked, leaning back in his chair.

Jake was occupying the deputy chair, having tipped it onto its back legs and put his feet up on the deputy's desk. He had his arms crossed and his chin against his chest, and looked about ready to nap.

There wasn't another chair in the office, to the frequent annoyance of people who came in to complain. Hank had found that people with trivial complaints were not likely to stay long if they had nowhere to sit, and people with serious complaints were usually so wired they couldn't sit anyway. People who came just to visit took the liberty of perching on the desk of the sheriff or deputy, and seemed not to mind the insufficient number of chairs.

Steve shoved Jake's feet off the desk and sat on its edge. The front legs of Jake's chair came down with a loud thunk that reverberated through the old floorboards of the sheriff's office.

"I assume he was telling the truth about the Jeff Kailen Mare," Hank said.

"Oh yes," Steve replied with a nod, "And Clint Tanner's marrying the widow Kailen."

Hank sipped his coffee slowly.

"Took me awhile to find someone I could leave a message with for the doc. Widow Kailen could be having her baby any time now," Steve continued, "Hopefully she does that before the storm gets here."

"Storm?" Hank inquired, "Who said anything about a storm?"

"I did," Steve said, "Just now."

Hank nodded. Usually one went to an Old Timer for the weather, but in Dewton nobody could predict the weather like Steve. The man could sniff the breeze and predict a rainstorm a week in advance, and tell you whether it was going to happen in the morning or afternoon.

"When's the storm coming in?" Jake asked, not questioning his brother's prediction.

"Day or two from now, I think. Wind's a little indecisive."

Hank had noticed snow storms were apparently harder for Steve to predict than other types of weather. He had a theory that cold temperatures threw off whatever means Steve used to predict weather.

"Well gimme an update when it makes up its mind," Jake suggested, then turned and tilted his chair and put his feet up on the other end of the desk from where Steve was sitting.

"So what happens when the Elodie deputies get here?" Steve asked.

"We tell them they can't have our prisoner, and then we arrest them."

"On what charge?" Steve asked, "You realize they may not all be in on it. Could be just the sheriff and a couple of the deputies, the rest may have been fed a line of bull. You can't arrest a man for having believed a lie, can you?" he glanced at Jake, who made no response.

"We can arrest them on suspicion," Hank replied evenly, "Release them when it's all over if it turns out they had no idea what was really going on. But I don't think those Elodie deputies are in the dark."

Steve let go that line of thought and picked another, "What if they don't go quietly?"

Jake snored softly before Hank could answer. Steve shoved Jake's feet off the desk and he woke with a jerk and soft-voiced curse in time to hear the response.

"We do what we have to," Hank answered, "But I'm saying it now, the less gun play and killing, the better I'll like it.

"Me too," Steve said with feeling, taking another sip of his coffee.

A few years ago, there had been a drunk in the saloon that needed to be removed. Unfortunately, he had started a bar fight, and then followed that up by trying to shoot his way out. Steve had taken a bullet in his shoulder. He hadn't even been wearing a deputy badge that time, but he'd gotten involved in helping Hank subdue the gunman and been shot as a result. Though it was Steve who'd been hurt, it had been Jake who was enraged and muttering epithets for weeks afterward. Hank hoped to avoid getting anybody shot this time if it were at all possible, though he would rather shoot the men from Elodie than have Jake, Steve or himself be shot.

Involved in reflection, he took too deep a swig of coffee and burned his throat. He hoped fervently that burning himself with coffee was the worst thing that would happen to him this week.

Jake sighed heavily, "What a way to spend Christmas."

Hank said nothing, but silently agreed.