John didn't want to pay for more men to help on the house. The labor was grueling with just the three of them. Or rather, the two of them, as Uncle had made it his duty to hold onto the plans and order them around rather than participate in the construction part of it.

But, all in all, it was an efficient system, especially when Uncle took over the preparation of their meals, and when he served coffee in the mornings. He wasn't completely useless, and now that it was just the three of them, Charles saw Uncle in a different light.

He was as Charles remembered in some ways: drinking half of the time, napping the other half, and always having a complaint of some pain or another ready when he was asked to do anything he considered arduous. But when he was sober, Uncle was sharp-minded. He engaged with John on how to expand the farm, and seemed confident on its future profitability. Even if his suggestions were always long-winded and barbed in nature, it was undeniable that Uncle had knowledge. And the way he freely shared it, it was clear he wanted John to succeed. Charles wanted him to succeed too, and believed John was halfway there.

For the next few weeks, they worked from the breaking dawn to the lowering sunset, until nightfall, when they couldn't see the nails they were trying to hammer. And, for weeks, the rain held off. The month continued hot and humid, until they began to wish for the clouds to sweep open and pour their contents for a moment of respite.

Occasionally, John would leave the farm to pick up bounty hunting jobs from Sadie, to keep up on his debt. Whenever he did so, Charles took the opportunity to replenish their meat supply and go hunting. But he also took that time alone to stop in Blackwater.

He attempted to avoid the town's bakery as much as possible. He knew Irene would be there and he hadn't yet figured out a way to approach her. However, the layout of the town made it damn near impossible for him to avoid the shop altogether. Most of the stores, restaurants, and taverns were on Main Street, and Mrs. Wilson's Bakery was no exception.

Charles learned a little of Irene's new life, and her routine. In the mornings, she baked alongside a little old woman, who Charles assumed was the owner of the shop's namesake, Mrs. Wilson. Irene was always alone in the afternoons, once the baked goods were completed for the day. Once the bakery closed, she headed towards the west side of town. Charles assumed she must have a place of residency, but he stopped himself from following her. He only ever watched her long enough to prove to his desperate mind that he hadn't conjured her into being.

As the weeks passed, Charles and John made a great deal of progress on the house, even when the rains came. Through the drizzle, they lifted the framing for the inside walls, and the house began to take shape. Once all the walls were in place, John's dispirited attitude transformed to a full on optimistic outlook. Charles had a feeling it was the first time John chose to believe this pursuit of his could be successful.

On top of a brick foundation, he and John laid out the wood floors, built a lone chimney in the center and finished the framing of the walls. One by one, they placed hundreds of shingles until the roof filled in the gaps of the ceiling. Finally, the day came when all of their efforts took the form of a completed homestead. The interior still needed doors, trim work, and furniture, but from the outside it looked livable.

That evening, the three of them stood back and admired their accomplishment. John stared up at the house, an awed silence taking over him. Charles had his own sense of pride for having been a part of building John's dream.

Uncle broke their silences by clapping a hand on John's shoulder and saying, "John Marston, you have a home."

John grinned crookedly and nodded. "So do you."

"Oh, I know," Uncle replied with surety.

Charles raised a brow his direction, believing Uncle may have just revealed his true motivations for being involved in this endeavor.

John added, turning to him, "And you, Charles. As long as you wanna stay with us."

"Thank you," Charles answered, somewhat surprised since it hadn't been his plan to remain, but he was grateful to have been included.

Uncle found a couple of beers and passed them around. He lifted his own and toasted, "Gentlemen, to this happy home." He couldn't seem to resist adding, "At least 'til this fool gets his woman back."

The three of them spent the night around the campfire, sharing stories of more reckless and uncertain times. They were all in good spirits after the house's completion. Once he was halfway through his third bottle, Uncle passed out, stretched on the other side of the campfire from Charles and John.

Charles shook his head, eyeing Uncle in the dirt. "I swear, he could fall asleep on rocks."

"And he has," John chuckled. "Believe me." He glanced over at Uncle as he began loudly snoring. "Lazy bastard."

"For the most part." Charles noted, "But you have to admit, he has been helpful."

"Surprisingly." John took a swig of his beer, before glancing over his shoulder at the house again, like he thought it wouldn't be there if he looked away for too long.

"So," Charles asked, "what's next?"

John scratched his jaw in contemplation, before running his hand over a beard that had thickened in the last few weeks. "Reckon I order a barn. I'll see if Sadie has any jobs so I can pay for it, and then, we can start building that too."

Charles nodded. It was the next logical step if John meant to make any kind of money off of the land. The soil around here was too hard and dry for planting, but a few farm animals, like sheep or goats, maybe even cows, could turn a profit if it was done right.

Charles was about to stand, ready to turn in for the night when he noticed John's expression had sombered. He was staring into the dying campfire, his gaze narrowed in deep contemplation.

Charles ventured, "Something on your mind, John?"

John's furrowed brows cleared and he raised his head. His gaze turned to the house. "Do you think it's enough?"

The question left Charles somewhat confused. "Enough for what?"

"To get Abigail here."

Charles answered honestly, "I'd say so. You worked hard enough to make it a place worth coming home to."

John picked up a twig at his feet and threw it into the fire. "I doubt she'll see it like that. She left for a reason."

"What happened between the two of you?" Charles asked curiously since he'd never heard John explain it.

John sighed. "I was a fool, I suppose. And she had enough of it."

"So she left?"

"I thought I was doing the right thing," John said defensively. "I had to get my employer's stolen cattle back. I had to. Or I wouldn't have had a job the next day."

Charles found the reasoning sound and didn't know if there was supposed to be more to the story. "But...she didn't want you to?"

"No." John stared at the fire again. "It wasn't only that. I ran into some trouble in Strawberry, and, well, Jack was caught in the middle of it. I still don't know what choice I had, but I can see now it scared her. She wants to live normal, but it ain't easy. Least, I ain't found it to be."

"She'll never know your efforts for Beecher's Hope if you don't tell her." Charles saw uncertainty pass over John's face and suggested, "Write her a letter."

"I've thought about it." John cast his gaze downward for a moment before he met Charles' eyes. "But what if, after all this, she don't come?"

Charles heard the vulnerability behind his question. Unfortunately, he didn't know Abigail well. He found her unpredictable, and the story John told on why she left him only confirmed his impression of her. Charles couldn't with honesty give John the assurances he sought. He advised, "You're just going to have to take that chance."

John fell silent as he seemed to mull over Charles' suggestion. "You're right." He stood, a little wobbly on his feet. "I'm gonna get some sleep, and write her in the morning." He shook his head with deliberation. "Women are confusing, Charles. Stay single as long as you can."

John turned away before he could see how his words cut Charles. He'd been alone nearly all his life. He'd been ready for a lifelong partner the last few years, and only one person had met his expectation. But now, he was stuck in some stunted head space, where the one he loved was within reach, but he was too afraid to speak with her in case it startled her into going on the run again.

In some ways, he was trapped in the same situation as John. If John never got into contact with Abigail again, he wouldn't have to find out if all his efforts to please her were enough. If Charles never stepped into that bakery, the situation between him and Irene would remain unchanged. Neither he nor John could be rejected by the one they love if they didn't make a move.

XXXXXXXXX

Charles stood across the bakery in Blackwater a few days later. It was the perfect window of opportunity to speak with Irene, and he was all out of excuses to talk himself out of it. She was alone in the bakery now as Mrs. Wilson had gone home for the day. There were no customers in the shop and the next hour would be a lull in business, if it was anything like every other day.

Yet, Charles couldn't push himself to cross the street. He could see Irene framed in the shop's display window. She was moving around, sorting the cakes and pies on display, and filling the empty spaces with more baked goods.

As far as he knew, Irene had never noticed him. However, today he'd been standing here long enough to earn a few odd looks in his direction from the customers entering and exiting the general store. He was drawing attention and he knew he couldn't keep doing this.

If he couldn't talk to her, what Charles needed to do was forget her. It should be clear to him now that he couldn't face her. He should move on.

With the completion of the house, and eventually the barn, Charles didn't have a compelling enough reason to stay on. John was his brother, but if Abigail came back, he'd feel out of place once again. Better for him to move on before he was awkwardly being asked to leave by John.

Charles wasn't certain where he would go. Maybe to Canada, settle down and maybe find another woman. One with not such a complicated past, one who was more predictable. One who wouldn't leave such a hole in his heart.

Despite nearly convincing himself to leave Irene be, Charles decided to get closer, feeling bold all of the sudden. He would make this the last time to observe her. Then, he'd move on for good.

The door to the shop was propped open, and she had moved to wipe down the counter. She was humming a tune he couldn't recognize. Every fiber of him buzzed as he gazed on her. This was the closest he'd been since he'd first seen her, but it was still too out of reach.

Charles straightened, about to back away when he noticed her pause and remove something unexpected from her apron pocket. Her attention was fixed upon it, twirling the object between her fingers idly. It was...a feather. Not any feather. If he wasn't mistaken, it was the eagle feather he'd gifted her the day before she left him.

Charles was rooted in place, now mesmerized while she closed her eyes. She brought the feather up to her face, slowly brushing it across her lips. Charles felt his body burn. Was she thinking of him in this moment?

"Oh-ho. Thought you'd gotten a sweet tooth, but it's a woman you're moonin' over."

Charles spun around to find Uncle behind him, watching him watch Irene. Startled at his appearance, Charles demanded, "What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the farm?"

"Lumber for the barn's come in," Uncle explained easily. "John sent me to get you."

Charles tried to deflect, pointing at the bottle Uncle had in his hand. "But you needed to quench your thirst first."

Unaffected by his tone, Uncle shrugged, and unfortunately wasn't distracted. He leaned forward, popping the front of his hat up so he could squint through the window and focus on Irene. "Who is she to you?"

"No one."

Uncle's bushy gray eyebrows shot up at the instant denial, and Charles knew he'd made his first mistake. "Well, maybe we should introduce ourselves then."

"No." Charles knew his denials were only piquing Uncle's interest further, but he couldn't seem to help himself from fumbling through this conversation.

Uncle patted his belly. "I reckon I got a sudden hankerin' for some pecan pie."

"Leave it, Uncle," Charles growled, gritting his teeth as he attempted to keep his voice down.

"Don't see why I should."

Charles didn't want to admit anything to Uncle of all people, but he didn't see another way out of this predicament. He wouldn't put it past Uncle to march into the bakery and start blabbing. He glanced in the shop window, making sure Irene hadn't taken notice of them. She'd set the feather down and started setting cookies on a platter. Thankfully, she was not looking their way.

Charles released a breath and faced Uncle again. "Look, Uncle, I do know her. But I don't want her to know I'm here."

Uncle looked at the bakery and then at Charles as if deciding how to proceed. "I never thought the day would come where I'd witness you pining after a woman. Turns out, you are as warm-blooded as the rest of us." Uncle joked, "Here I thought you was made of stone."

Charles grabbed his arm, and started to lead him down the sidewalk, away from the shop.

"I think a woman might be good for you, Charles, and I think—"

"I don't need to hear it."

"Hold up now." Uncle resisted, managing to put a stop to Charles' shepherding in front of the next store. "I only want to provide you with a quick favor. One that you're in desperate need of, my friend."

"I don't want any favor from you." Uncle likely had some long-winded story he wanted Charles to suffer through, one containing no purpose or moral.

"Boy, you'll thank me for this later."

Frustrated, Charles started to ask, "Thank you for wha—"

Without warning, Uncle placed two fingers to his mouth and let loose a whistle, one that was sharp, loud, and long. It was shrill enough to garner the attention of everyone walking on the streets.

Charles stared in horror before he thought to move. He smacked Uncle's wrist down, breaking the contact to cut short the whistle. But the damage had been done.

"Uncle." Charles stared at the mad man, aghast. In this moment he could throttle him. If Irene had heard...

"I'll leave you to it." Uncle started to scurry away, but Charles grabbed him by the front of his shirt, thinking, damn him. When he got back to Beecher's Hope, he was dumping all the whiskey—

"Charles?" A familiar voice, uncertain and soft came from behind him. Her voice.

Uncle slipped away from Charles' clutches, and Charles turned and faced the one person he'd been avoiding for weeks. She was so close, only an arm span away.

He heard her breath catch, as her eyes moved to his face and widened in further recognition. She whispered, "It is you."

Charles nodded, wordless.

They stared at one another. He took the opportunity to drink her in, capturing every detail of her. Irene's blonde hair was pinned tightly down to her scalp, a more severe style than he was used to seeing on her. Her eyes remained a vibrant blue-gray, large and soft as they gazed back at him. It seemed she still painted over her facial birthmark. He couldn't determine its exact location even though he'd seen it once. The scent of the bakery clung to her, sweet and warm. Her cheeks blossomed a rosy color as she continued looking over him in the same manner.

"Would..." Irene voice came out hoarse until she cleared her throat and asked quietly, "would you come inside the shop so we can talk?"

"Yes," Charles answered before he gave himself any moment to consider.

She granted him the slightest of smiles. She lifted her skirt and turned to go back inside the bakery.

As he followed, Charles' heart thudded violently in his ears. He'd played scenario after scenario in his head on how Irene would respond to meeting again. But he hadn't considered his own response. All his dormant feelings hit him full force at the sight of her. Nothing could have prepared him at having her so close.

Outwardly, he was doing everything he could to keep himself aloof, but his mind was rushing, a flurry of anxiety of what comes next. Where did they go from here? Was there anything that could be done to repair what they had? For his part, Charles knew he was already lost to her. He knew the moment he saw her through the bakery window, but hadn't cared to acknowledge it.

She had his heart, and it was hers to pull along, to break, or covet. He had no say in it, and neither time nor distance from her had changed his feelings of her.

As Charles entered the store for the first time, he took a look around. It was a quaint little shop, with only two small round tables against the left wall, two chairs accompanying each of them. Two rectangular tables in the center of the store held pastries on one, and chocolates on the other. The back wall carried baking ingredients to purchase. The last counter with the cash register was the one he frequently saw her standing behind, and the golden eagle feather rested where she had set it down.

Charles turned to face her as she locked the door behind him. She flipped a little sign to indicate the shop was closed. She passed by him, moving to the one of the tables for customers.

She offered, "Would you like to sit?"

He shook his head, not having found his voice. His body was buzzing, warm and hyper aware of her.

Irene nodded as if she understood. She crossed her arms and leaned against one of the tables. She looked down, not meeting his eye.

She was nervous, he observed. He'd rarely seen her in such a way and hadn't expected it.

Charles fixed his eyes solely on her. Now that she was in his sights again, at any moment she would decide to turn tail and run again. Yet she had invited him in, and it heartened him enough to give her a chance.

"Charles, I...I don't know where to begin. I can't believe you're here. I thought we'd never..."

She trailed off, but Charles could complete the thought. She believed they'd never see each other again. In truth, he'd thought the same. She'd disappeared without a trace as thoroughly as she'd done as a child.

"I've wronged you. All I wanted was...I..." She shook her head, flustered. "I don't know. It doesn't matter anymore. I realized too late I should have trusted you. Maybe it's still too late."

He considered the notion for a moment, that it was too late. Logically, it had been years. Those feelings, those emotions she'd brought out of him should have faded. Yet, nothing had changed. It was as if she had never left. As if no time at all had passed between them.

"Is there anything I can do to obtain your forgiveness?"

Charles understood he could ask for anything in this moment. Demand the truth, order her to explain where she had been, what had happened to lead her to leaving. But none of it came close what he wanted to do in this moment.

Her eyes searched his. "What is it you want, Charles?"

Charles knew exactly what he wanted from her. He wanted to know she was here to stay, that she was here in the flesh and this wasn't some wishful dream he'd made up to appease his lonely mind, heart, and body.

He wanted to loosen her locks from her pinned hair. To unbutton her shirt and kiss her neck, to hear her moan his name as his touch explored her body once again...

All of a sudden, his hesitancies, his reservations, everything that had been holding him back from experiencing this moment with Irene again, dropped away. He was ready to live again.

Charles stepped towards Irene, and she straightened, her eyes widening and her cheeks flushing further as he closed in on her. She lifted her head to meet his gaze and didn't flinch at his proximity. Her mouth parted slightly, emboldening him with an invite he couldn't resist.

Charles leaned down and caught her mouth with his, relishing in the return of the familiarity and heat. She clung to his shirt, pressing against him, warm and responsive.

He meant to keep the embrace short, to continue on only long enough to remind himself and her of what they had been missing.

But he had no ability to stop, or slow. He deepened the kiss, holding her tightly as he lost his senses, lost control.

Charles was only aware of one fact. He belonged to her. And no matter the length of absence between them, he'd always belong to her.