It was the afternoon and Charles was returning to Beecher's Hope, a deer carcass tied securely to the back of his horse. He'd taken off early this morning, when John and Uncle had started squabbling. It'd started around sunrise, when John had tripped over one of Uncle's discarded beer bottles in the graveyard of litter he'd created in front of the shack.

John had kicked Uncle awake, demanding he clean it up. Uncle—likely still drunk—had hardly moved, as he groaned in response. But John had seemed determined to make him work. Not wanting to witness the fallout, Charles had decided to grab his bow and arrow, and leave on Falmouth.

As he rode up the driveway now, the area was quiet. Yet Charles couldn't be certain if that was a good sign or not. Either John and Uncle had reconciled, or their skirmish had come to blows and only one man had been left standing. If that were the case, maybe Charles shouldn't have left them alone after all.

When he reached the shack, he saw the bottles had been cleared, so John must have gotten through to Uncle somehow. Uncle, who was now napping outside against the shack. John was nowhere to be seen, and neither was his horse.

Charles slowed Falmouth and dismounted. Uncle lifted his head, not as locked into a slumber as he first appeared. Charles asked, "You drive John off his own property?"

Uncle squinted across the field. "He has business in town, he said."

"Business?" Charles questioned as he started to remove the tie-downs from the deer slung over his horse.

Uncle sat up, yawning widely before saying, "Seems Mrs. Adler's been bounty hunting in these parts. She has a job for him."

"We do need the money," Charles conceded. He hadn't seen Sadie since she'd practically chased him up to Arthur and Charlotte's house, but it sounded as if she were thriving.

"As long as she don't need a place too. There ain't enough room for anyone else here."

Charles replied with some humor, "You run your mouth any more and John won't make room. He'll just replace you."

Uncle waved a dismissive hand. "He needs me."

Charles raised a brow, but didn't challenge him. Instead, he hefted the deer carcass off of Falmouth and carried it to a table they'd dragged out of the shack yesterday. It was one of the few things they'd found and could actually use.

He rolled up his sleeves and worked through the afternoon, skinning and cutting up the meat. There was enough here to last them a few days. Although, with Uncle's appetite, maybe Charles should have brought back a second deer.

Once he finished the butchering, he walked up to the river just north of the farm. He crouched near it, taking his time to rinse his hands and arms, letting the coolness of the water refresh him.

When he returned to the camp, John had gotten back. Uncle was more awake, leaning against the shack's rotting door frame. He was guzzling down another bottle of whiskey he'd materialized from a secret stash Charles had yet to find.

John was tending the fire, sitting on a wooden chair that had seen better days. Charles joined him, nodding a silent greeting. He began cooking some of the venison over the open flame.

"How'd it go with Sadie?" Charles asked.

John shrugged. "You know how it is. One simple job ain't ever simple with her."

Charles cracked a smile. "You can say that again."

"But it paid well and that's all that matters really," John said conclusively.

They had peace between the three of them for several minutes, with only the fire crackling and the breeze rustling the trees. Then, Uncle opened his mouth.

"Feels like old times," Uncle began innocuously, scratching his belly with self-satisfaction.

Charles had to agree. Out in the open country, among friends. It felt like a home. Only, there was no urgency between them to find dubious jobs in order to please Dutch. While they still needed a reliable way to earn money, they weren't desperate for it yet.

"It's good to have the gang back together again," Uncle continued.

John grumbled, "Let's just hope things don't turn out like last time."

"There he goes." Uncle shook his head. "I tell you, Charles, this boy is sour as week old milk. No wonder Abigail didn't stay with you. Not even a retired two dollar whore would stay with you, that's the goddamn truth."

John glared at the fire he was poking, but didn't argue. Charles wondered at his silence. Did John hold himself back because he was finally fed up of arguing with Uncle? Or did he actually believe Uncle's words to be true?

"Now, you used to be decent company," Uncle prattled on, somehow unable to resist taking the bull by the horns. "But now...you're worse than a snake with a toothache. All he does is whine, whine, whine."

John stiffened and his hands formed fists. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, don't get all angry. It ain't gonna change nothing. You're hopeless. And I mean that literally. You got no hope. I mean, look at you, look at this place." He mocked, "Your dream home."

Charles didn't usually get between them when they started arguing, but Uncle was pushing hard enough that he might have to today. He didn't know why Uncle chose to be aggravating unless his intention was to piss off John for the amusement of it.

"I've had better nightmares than this dream. 'Oh, darling Abigail, I've changed. Come live with me in an outhouse I wouldn't ask my worst enemy to take a shit in.'"

John stood. "What are you trying to say?"

Charles stood too, ready to interfere if fists started flying.

"It's awful," Uncle said bluntly, not backing down. "It's a dump. The house, it's gotta go. Get some self-respect, you miserable sack of shit. Build a house a lady would set foot in."

John said defensively, "Place just needs a woman's touch."

"It needs leveling," Uncle insisted. "No woman would touch this place."

Uncle's words were harsh, but Charles secretly had to admit he had a point. Even if the shack were in pristine condition, there wasn't enough room here for a family. If John thought this shack and empty land was enough, he was fooling himself.

"The horses can have that building down in a minute," Charles offered, but waited for John to make the decision. They had the horses to do it. Charles had Falmouth, John had Rachel, and Uncle had Nell IV, one of the two horses they'd acquired from their getaway out of Saint Denis. The other one they'd sold in town for some spare cash.

John scowled, but agreed, "Fine. Let's do it."

Charles tied the horses, making sure the ropes were long enough so the animals would be clear of the shack's fall. John secured the other ends to separate points on the building.

They had the horses pull, and the shack was down in less than a minute. As quickly as it had fallen, Charles was convinced the next strong gust of wind could have collapsed it.

"Now what?" John begrudgingly asked Uncle, who had somehow become the one they turned to for advice.

"Now, we head into town and buy ourselves a house right out of a book, same as if it were a bicycle."

Uncle started moving toward the horses, but John held up a hand. "I'll go. Alone. You stay here."

"It was my idea."

John scoffed as he untied Rachel. "I need some peace and quiet from your incessant yapping. Charles, make him work. Whip him if you have to."

John left before another disagreement could break out. Charles started cleaning up the shambles of the shack. Uncle immediately began groaning about some phantom pain. Charles didn't want to hear any of his yapping either so he suggested Uncle continue cooking the venison. It was one task Uncle wouldn't find a reason to wriggle out of because he knew Charles was self-sufficient enough to not need it. That meant, if Uncle didn't cook, Uncle didn't eat.

Among the shambles, Charles found an axe. He chopped up the remains of the shack. They could use most of it for firewood as the wood was dry enough. It was good for anything else. He was halfway through the rubble when he heard a rider coming up the drive. Knowing it was too early for John to have returned, Charles looked up, already on guard.

It was a lone rider, but his horse was lighter in color than John's thoroughbred. He was pushing his horse at a hasty gait and headed for the campfire, where Uncle sat turning meat over the fire.

Charles started a stride in that direction, axe still in hand. As he made it within earshot, the stranger dismounted awkwardly, as if he didn't have the use of one arm. The man was short with a black derby hat, plaid jacket and matching black pants. But the most noticeable thing about him was the wound he was clutching on his upper arm.

"Please, you gotta help, sir," the man begged Uncle.

"What's this now?" Uncle looked him up and down, as if he'd just taken notice of the stranger's arrival.

Charles strode over and asked, "What happened to you?"

Panic lit his eyes but they weren't on the axe at Charles' side. His gaze kept straying to the road west, towards Tall Trees.

"There's mad men in them hills. I was riding through the woods, on the road, minding my own business, and a bunch of arrows came out of nowhere. They nearly took me out." He blanched. "The rest of my company are dead."

They didn't have much at their campsite yet. Besides the chair Uncle sat in, he and John had pulled up a log close to the fire. Charles had the man take a seat and he had a look at his wound.

Charles wrapped the man's injury with what little supplies they had. As he did so, the man told him more of what had occurred and who were to blame. The mad men were a lawless group called the Skinners. Apparently, they attacked anyone who crossed their path. His story was reminiscent of Charles' encounters with the Murfree Brood.

This man wasn't the first victim Charles had heard about. John had told him about a wagon he'd come across outside of Blackwater, where all the people had been taken out by arrows. At the time, they had assumed it was a random attack. Now, they had a name to who was terrorizing the area.

The man was able to leave on his horse by himself, thanking Charles profusely. Before he rode away, he warned, "I suggest if you plan on heading into Tall Trees soon, you hire a gun to stay safe out there."

Charles watched the man leave, taking his words under consideration. He started towards Falmouth, telling Uncle, "I need to get to town."

Uncle stood. "Wait a minute! Where the hell do you think you're going, Smith?"

"I have to warn John." The last thing they needed was him walking into a trap. It'd be slow-going for him if he was bringing back supplies for building a house. The likelihood of an attack was high.

Uncle followed him. "I'll go with you."

Charles stopped and turned to face him. "No. You need to stay and guard the farm."

Uncle frowned, looked around and asked, "Why can't I go into to town and you guard the farm?"

"Because I can't trust you to go directly to John without stopping at a bar first." Charles removed a rifle from his saddle and a revolver he rarely used. He pushed them into Uncle's arms and said seriously, "Don't take any naps while we're gone. Keep your eyes and ears open. And make sure that food is done when we get back."

Uncle grumbled some more, but Charles wasn't listening as he mounted Falmouth and turned her towards town. He rode fast, coming in from the western side of Blackwater. He spotted a pair of wagons by the lumberyard. More than likely, that was John with the pre-cut lumber for the house. Good. He hadn't left yet.

Charles saw men still loading them up so he decided to take the advice of the injured stranger. He and John had been in their fair share of shootouts, but they needed numbers on their side. He led Falmouth to the Blackwater Saloon, hitched her to a post outside and strode inside. He went directly to the bartender to ask if he knew of anyone looking for work to protect a couple of wagons.

"You're in luck." The bartender nodded towards two men sitting at a table by the window. "Those two are local guns for hire. Just got back from a job in Amarillo."

Charles thanked him and approached the two men. Without preamble, he asked, "You boys looking work?"

The bearded man on the left looked him up and down with suspicion. "What's the job?"

Charles was used to this sort of distrustful scrutiny so this man's reaction didn't faze him. "Escorting a couple of wagons through Tall Trees and back."

"Skinners?" the other, a clean shaven man holding a shot glass, asked knowingly. "Sure, we know a thing or two about providing protection, but it'll cost you."

Charles nodded. "Of course. I'm willing to pay half now, and half when the job is done."

The two looked at each other and came to a silent agreement. The bearded man shrugged, setting aside any unspoken misgivings he had about Charles. "Cash is cash." He stood and introduced himself, holding out a hand. "Mr. Wayne, and my partner here is Mr. Devon."

Charles shook both of their hands, and then discussed their rate. After they reached an agreement for the cost—which cut deeper into Charles' brawl winnings than he preferred—he walked them to the lumberyard, to where John and a crew of men were finishing loading all the wood to the wagons.

When they were close, Charles told Wayne and Devon, "You boys give me a minute?"

John turned, noticing him for the first time. His eyes widened slightly in confusion. "What are you doing here? Everything okay?"

"I'm not sure. Probably," Charles added, trying not worry him. He explained, "A feller came by the farm. He got attacked on the road. He said the Skinner Brothers were hanging around. Lots of 'em. I left Uncle armed to the teeth back at the ranch."

John lifted his chin to indicate the men behind Charles. "Who are these two?"

"Guns for hire." Charles saw the look of disapproval forming over John's expression. "If there's Skinners about, we need 'em."

"We ain't got that kind of money, Charles."

He expected some push back, which is why he'd gone and hired them first. "You wanna get robbed for your house?"

"No, but—"

"These Skinners can be nasty," Charles told him, folding his arms.

John didn't seem fully convinced, but it didn't matter in the end, since Charles had already hired the two men, and he didn't intend to rescind his offer.

Charles gestured for them to approach. "Mr. Devon, you're with me. Mr. Wayne, this is..."

"Milton," John introduced himself, "Jim Milton."

Charles raised a brow at that, not having realized John was using an alias these days. Yet, he didn't question it out loud.

"Let's go," he said, heading for the second wagon.

XXXXXXXXX

Before they took the lumber to Beecher's Hope, they had to make a stop in Tall Trees to Nils, a Norwegian smith who was an expert at crafting quality tools. The road through the forest was quiet, and they made it up to Nils' cabin without any hiccups.

But on the way down, Skinners made their presence known. They struck Mr. Wayne first, an arrow protruding from his arm in a sudden, unexpected attack. The wound itself was not life-threatening, but then he got dragged into the forest in the following scuffle.

By the time Charles and John fought their way to him, he'd been pinned to a tree by a knife stabbed through one eye.

Since he'd been living in Saint Denis the last few years, Charles had almost forgotten how wild it could get out in the wilderness. Brutality was not reserved for only beasts, but also feral men.

"Those were the Skinner brothers?" John asked, once they'd killed off the ones who'd ambushed them and had gotten the wagons back in motion.

"I told you I was worried," Charles said, watching the road and the second wagon Mr. Devon was driving behind them.

"Sadie said something about them too." John shook his head. Doubt crept up in his tone. "What kind of land have I bought?"

"It's not the land," Charles responded adamantly. He surveyed the fields, and the farm coming into view. "The Skinners move around, but they're here for now."

"I thought this kind of bloodshed was meant to be over with. What was all that nonsense about civilization?"

"This kind of bloodshed...is different. Folks have been killed, sure, for good reason and bad. But rarely just for the fun of it."

"This is fun for them?" John asked in disgust.

"No. Not this time," Charles said with some contemplation. "Most folk don't usually put up such a fight."

"Then I hope we put an end to it." John sighed. He slowed the wagon as they turned up the drive. When they reached the end of it, he dropped from the wagon and called, "Uncle!"

Charles had his own look around from atop the wagon, but Uncle was nowhere to be seen.

"Uncle!" John called again, louder.

Charles and John shared a look when they were met again with nothing but silence, and he knew John was having the same fear as him after encountering the Skinners firsthand.

Then they heard a grunt and Uncle sat up from the tall grass on their left.

John snapped, "You useless sack of crap."

Uncle stood and came up to them without a hint of contrition. "I was keeping guard." He rubbed his eyes and got a good look at them. Charles was covered in blood from carrying Mr. Wayne from the woods to the wagon, and John was covered in dirt and blood from struggling with multiple Skinners. "What the hell happened?"

"Skinner brothers," Charles answered.

"A lot of them?" Uncle eyed the road as if he expected to find their attackers giving chase.

"Enough." Charles turned to John, who had started unloading the lumber. "Once this is done, I'll take Mr. Devon back into town, and get poor Mr. Wayne buried."

The three of them got to the heavy-lifting, Charles, John, and Mr. Devon. The latter said very little, his demeanor morose because of the loss of his partner. Uncle occupied his time setting up a second tent, and tending the meat Charles had brought back this morning.

Once the last board was unloaded, they ate the passable meal Uncle had prepared. Mr. Devon didn't have an appetite, so when Charles finished his plate, he said, "I'll ride back to town with you, Mr. Devon, just in case.

Mr. Devon nodded silently and moved to the wagon in front.

"Be careful out there," John said to him.

"I will. But I'm fairly sure we scared them off for now."

Uncle shook his head ruefully. "Bad business. But we'll be safe together."

John said with some doubt, "Sure, if you say so."

"Bring back some whiskey," Uncle called as Charles jumped up into the driver's seat of the second wagon.

John turned to Uncle, frowning. "For what?"

"For what, he says. Ain't it obvious with you sitting around pouting about your missus?"

John glared at him.

"Oh, don't get your feathers all ruffled, Johnny-boy. Only proves how much we need the whiskey. "

John's scowl intensified as he demanded, "And just who do you expect to pay for this whiskey?"

"I'm sure you or Charles has a few dollars to spare."

"I'm done with you." John stomped away.

"Always angrier than a hornet's nest, he is."

Charles pointed out, "We were nearly killed today."

"Another reason for us to drink to our liveliness! What do you say, Charles?"

"I'll be back," Charles replied without giving him an answer one way or another.

The journey felt slow on their way to Blackwater, even with the wagons lighter in weight. Charles kept his eyes peeled, but the land around them was open and empty. There was nothing but deer gallivanting across the golden fields, and rabbits occasionally hopping on the trail. There was not a predator in sight, beast or man.

They dropped the wagons off at the timber yard to a Mr. Albert Cakes. Charles carried 's body from the wagon and placed him carefully on the back of Falmouth. He grabbed her reins and led her out of the yard, Mr. Devon following.

As they left the fenced off area, Devon said unexpectedly, "Willard has a family."

It took Charles a second to realize Mr. Devon was speaking of Mr. Wayne. Charles knew what it was like to lose friends so he replied with empathy, "I didn't know him well, but he seemed a good man."

"God," Devon dropped his head and muttered mournfully, "What the hell am I gonna tell his wife?"

Charles didn't have any advice, but there was one thing he could do for his part. When they reached the mortician's office, Charles handed over Devon's payment, and Wayne's portion, saying, "Make sure his widow gets this."

Devon nodded glumly, and then insisted on taking care of Wayne's body the rest of the way. He lifted Wayne from Falmouth and entered the mortuary, grief engulfing his expression.

Charles walked down the street a little with Falmouth in tow, but eventually paused. He took a moment to breathe. It was not quite sunset yet, but today had felt long. He inhaled and sighed deeply. He'd assured John his endeavor was worth all the trouble, but even Charles was having some uncertainties.

If they meant to make something new of this life, they'd have to accept the bad with the good. Although they were deadly, Charles believed the Skinners were a temporary problem. If he and John were persistent in claiming the area, they'd be left alone eventually.

Falmouth butted her head gently against his shoulder, lifting him from his reverie. Charles patted her and continued down the street. He had some money left of his winnings so he hitched Falmouth up in front of the Blackwater Saloon and spared fifty cents for a bath. It took him an hour to scrub all the dried blood from his skin. His clothing would be another matter, but for now he'd had a change of clothes on his saddle.

After the bath and a new outfit, he felt in much better spirits and less tense. He left the saloon, and started back to Falmouth when Uncle's request for whiskey suddenly coming to mind. Maybe Uncle was right. Maybe it was what they all needed tonight. If he was on edge, he could only imagine how John was feeling. The burden of the commitment to make Beecher's Hope a home would be weighing heavily on him tonight.

Charles stopped in at the general store across the street and bought a few bottles of Kentucky Bourbon, a bundle of oatcakes for Falmouth and the other horses, and lastly a can of coffee grounds. He had a feeling they'd need it in the coming days if they were to be building John a house.

As he crossed the street back to the saloon, the fresh smells of the bakery next door emanated from the open doorway, nearly drawing him in. He was tempted enough to stop and look in the window. Multiple round trays displayed a pecan pie, a plate of sugar cookies, pastries and an assortment of small candies.

If his hands weren't full with whiskey bottles, he wouldn't have hesitated about entering the shop as the smell of cocoa drifted out the door, sweet and enticing.

He contemplated whether to stash the whiskey on his saddle and come back to purchase something sweet when he happened to glance up. He caught sight of two people inside. He froze in place the moment he recognized one of the women, the taller of the two. No. It couldn't be.

Behind the counter, her light-colored hair pinned up and an apron tied snugly over her trim waist, stood Irene.

He couldn't believe his eyes, and then he couldn't believe that he'd found her again.

Irene was here, in Blackwater.

He stared, a bombardment of questions hitting him all at once. How was she here? And for how long had she been here? Did she work here? Had she missed him?

He wanted to burst in, to find out these answers, but shock prevented him from moving, only allowing him to observe.

She looked well, healthy and happy. She was chatting in a lively manner to a customer across from her, her smile just as warm and infectious as he remembered.

A dozen emotions flooded through him, too sudden and overwhelming for him to feel only one in the moment. Above all else, he was relieved to see her alive and well. She wasn't dead, or caught up in any unsavory circumstances. She appeared the same in demeanor as when he'd first met her at the Café Belle Helene.

Charles didn't know how long he stood there, watching her interact with the few customers in the bakery. Watching as she moved about the store with a comfortable familiarity.

He wanted nothing more than to step inside and speak with her. But he didn't know how she would react at seeing him. Would she flee again? He couldn't handle it if she did. Not when he'd gotten so close to her again. He decided in an instant that he needed to know she would be in Blackwater tomorrow, and the next day. That meant not disrupting her for now, until he collected his thoughts, his emotions, and maybe his courage.

It was difficult, but he turned on his heel and left the area quickly, before she spotted him in the same manner as he'd seen her. He reached Falmouth, packed his purchases into his saddlebags, and got out of Blackwater as fast as he could.

His mind was awhirl, and his heart thumping hard as he reached Beecher's Hope. John and Uncle were standing near one of the piles of lumber as he dismounted. He felt agitated, as if he'd seen Irene's spirit rather than the woman herself.

"Here comes Charles," Uncle greeted, and added mockingly, "Maybe he can lighten the mood a little."

"How'd you get on?" John asked, in the middle of sorting the toolbox they'd received from Nils.

Charles' thoughts were only on Irene so the question startled him. "On what?"

John looked up from the hammer he'd been examining closely and sent him a confused look. "The Skinners..."

"Oh." Charles hard shifted his mind back to the events that had occurred earlier in the day and reassured John, "They'll be back, but not for awhile."

"Charles, dear boy, John needs help moving these joists," Uncle said. "Now come on."

Distracted by Uncle's impertinence, he shared a look with John and couldn't help but smile. Some things never changed.

"Get a move on now," Uncle continued, shaking a large, rolled-up paper in his hand. "We gotta get started before the rains come."

John flat out told him, "You're very annoying."

"He's right though," Charles interjected before a fight started. "We should get on with this."

It did smell like rain in the air, and there were clouds from the mountains moving in. If they wanted to get the building of this house started, they needed to get as much done before the rain hampered their progress before they even started.

Besides that, Charles wanted to push himself to exhaustion tonight. If he didn't, when he closed his eyes to sleep, he would be reliving Irene instead.

Yet, in his heart, Charles already knew distraction was a wasted endeavor. No matter how much he tried, he knew from experience the memory of her every touch, every breath, and every kiss would be on his skin tonight.