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Telling Chris about the bounty had been one thing. He'd wondered about his own sanity as they'd sat on that butte, watching for the Ghosts, and he'd heard himself blurt out the truth, a truth he hated, a truth he wanted to set right but was too scared to. But he'd sat right there, staring into those green eyes that he'd known for a little more than a day, and given away his life.
Over time his faith in the man with those eyes, and his faith in himself, and slowly been confirmed as time had passed and he'd remained free and unchallenged – not even Ezra had ever said a word that made Vin think his secret wasn't a secret anymore.
The back side of that was having to finally tell the others, which he had done behind the livery in Jericho when it became clear that they were going to have to lure out the sheriff and his posse.
Not a one of them had walked away from him – in fact, when the time came, they'd all stood with him. He thought it was mostly because they were as worried as he was about Chris.
That hadn't made him feel real secure as they'd ridden into the prison camp, his name on the sheriff's tongue. When the fighting started, he'd had to remind himself more than once that it was about Chris, not him.
It had been a relief when Chris had finally stumbled out to them, dressed in the filthy black-and-white stripped prison uniform.
It had been worrisome when Chris' only words to him, through that long, strange night, had been, "You told them about the bounty? What the hell were you thinking, you damned fool?"
No one was happier to leave the camp than Vin was – he'd taken point and ridden away at a gallop, leaving the others to catch up.
Leaving Chris to catch up.
*&*&*&*&*
"He's in a bad way," Nathan said, sitting back in his chair. It was early, the sun just barely up, and they were sitting in the saloon, eating eggs and beans and tortillas and drinking coffee. Josiah sat with them, the other early riser. "That doctor told me about Chris' craziness while he was there, getting himself beat all to hell and the like. It's a wonder the man's alive." He shook his head.
Vin sipped on his coffee, wondering if getting the hell beat out of him was what had made Chris the pain in the ass he'd been since they'd shown up at the prison. Didn't seem likely – he'd seen Chris after a good fight and usually he was pretty cheerful. And horny. He wasn't either one of those things now, or if he was, he wasn't looking for Vin's company.
If anything, he was avoiding Vin more than any of the others.
"Seems he might have met a few demons from his past," Josiah said quietly, and Vin turned to find the older man's gaze on him. "I talked to several of the other inmates and it seems that Chris ran into the relatives of someone he'd killed – a fair fight, someone who had called him out." He shrugged, looking out the window. "But even a 'fair fight' can be complicated under the right circumstances."
Vin sipped some more on his coffee, thinking about that. Chris lived by a different set of convictions. Vin knew some of them were 'gunfighters' rules', dueling 'rules', rules for men who had more balls than brains. They weren't rules that kept you alive in the heat of battle though, when the stakes were far higher than a man's reputation or honor.
Chris lived by a lot of those rules, even when it didn't make any sense. Even when it was dangerous. So it stood to reason that some of his current mood might be tied up with regrets about the past and things he'd done – even if he'd had to do them.
Brooding, that was one of Chris' own personal curses. Maybe that was a big part of what was wrong now.
He thought about it on and off for a time, not surprised that Buck shared the same idea. As they worked on the corral fence at the livery several days later, helping Tiny replace it after a couple of young stallions went at each other when they were accidentally put in the same corral, Buck offered his own ideas on Chris' mood.
"Reckon he didn't get to where he really wanted to do," he said, grinning around the nails he was holding between his teeth. If it hadn't been for the grin, Vin would have had a hard time understanding the words, muffled as they were around the nails. But even before he could point out that Buck's early-on theories about why Chris was gone so long were wrong, Buck shook his head and spit the nails into his hand. He stood and stretched, looking past Vin into the town. "I ain't seen him this edgy in a long time, not since – well, the fire." His voice was softer now, the lines at his eyes deeper suddenly, as if the sun had moved, creating new shadows. "Maybe he is thinking about the past. He's thinking about something, that's for sure." He drew a deep breath, then, being Buck, he grinned again and the moment was gone. "You met Miss Adele, the new singer at Dave's Saloon? She's almost as good as the woman over in Eagle Bend – I rode over there several months ago, spent a couple of nights listening to her . . . "
That night at the saloon, as Buck told the same story again but this time with even more detail, Vin was surprised to find Chris settling into the chair next to him. Over the week since they'd returned, Chris had spent little time sitting at the table with all of them, preferring to keep his own company – and his own bottle - at the bar. He'd knocked a glass out of Buck's hand when he'd tried to help himself one night, and since then, the others had kept a distance. Maybe whatever this bad mood was, it was passing.
That seemed more the case as the evening passed and Chris stayed at the table, not talking but also not snarling, drinking more than usual but not as fast. Vin stayed later than usual, playing cards with Ezra and Josiah and Buck until Buck drifted away to Dan's Saloon, taking Josiah with him, and Ezra turned his attention to a 'more lucrative endeavor', meaning the group of men staying the night at the hotel.
Leaving just the two of them alone, for the first time since before Chris had gone off on his 'errands', weeks before.
They sat in silence for a time, and at first, it seemed comfortable enough. But Vin felt the pressure of it growing, his own questions sitting too long unanswered – why hadn't Chris wired for help, why was he so angry, what had happened at the prison – and why had he run off in the first place?
That question was the one that seemed to push the hardest, the one that came to rest on his tongue and hang there, no matter how many swallows of beer he took to try to wash it back down. It was making its way to his lips, the first word ready to escape into sound, when Miss Sylvie, one of the newer women passing through town, brushed past the table and stopped to ask after Buck.
She asked Vin, her brown eyes intent on his, but Chris was the one who stood and offered her a chair, and who offered the excuse that Buck had gone off to listen to the singing at Dan's, but that he might be back later, if she'd care to pass some time with them.
Vin sat long enough to wonder at the man – smiling, talking nice, pouring her liquor when she'd chosen that over beer – and then to wonder at himself. Maybe Buck had been right from the start of it. Maybe Chris just needed a woman's touch.
It was that thought that chased around his head as he pushed back from the table and mumbled a 'good night'.
He made his way to the boarding house, thinking that maybe it was time to leave town, head back to Tascosa and take care of things. Chris was right, he'd been a damned fool to give his name like that, and while he trusted the other six men, there were men who'd been freed from the prison who would know who he was now, and worse, where he was. It was just a matter of time before someone came looking for him.
He stripped down to his longjohns, draping his holster over the headboard, in easy reach. His room was the back of the house, at the end of the second-floor hall. Too far away to hear the jingle of spurs later on. Or to not hear them.
Sleep didn't come quick, held off by the turning and twisting in his mind as he went through all the things he needed to do before leaving. The wagon would stay at Nettie's, behind her barn. If he didn't come back, she'd find more use for it than anyone else, her or Casey. A trip to Mrs. Potter's would give him everything he needed, but he needed to spend some time looking at his provisioning. He'd been here too long, let himself get too spoiled on having a saloon and a restaurant and the luxury of a regular income. He suspected that if he'd had to make a run for it, he'd find his saddlebags missing a lot more than they should have been.
He drifted into a restless sleep, hearing the voice of his Numunuu mother, scolding him for his lack of preparation. She scolded him for other things as he dreamed, for getting himself into trouble in the first place, for trusting in the white men even though he was one himself. Then she scolded him for thinking that because to her, and to the band he had lost, he had been one of them, even with his pale hair and blue eyes.
'They do not know they lie,' she had told him once. 'But you do. You know what is real and what is not.'
Those were the words that twisted in his mind as he woke. The room was still dark, and the air heavy with the night. He lay still, wondering what had woken him until he heard it again – the light tap on his door.
His gun was in his hands with no thought, and he had it aimed as he said softly, "Yeah?"
"It's me," came the muffled whisper, a familiar voice but one that Vin hadn't heard like this in too damned long.
He pushed back the bedcovers and reached for his pants, setting the gun down long enough to work his way into them. It occurred to him that it had, indeed, been too damned long, so long that he didn't think twice now about getting dressed, or at least half dressed before letting Chris into his room.
"Trouble?" he asked as he pulled the door open with one hand, his gun back in his other. The lamp in the hallway was turned low, but it was still on and bright enough for him to see that Chris was alone and that he had already stopped by his own room; his hat and coat were gone as were his boots, leaving him in his sock feet. He still wore his gun, though, a sign he hadn't lost his mind.
Chris answered by reaching out and pushing at Vin's chest. For a second, Vin considered not giving ground, but he wasn't ready for a fight and he was curious as to what was so important that Chris felt the need to see him in the middle of the night.
Chris eased his way into the room, closing the door and turning the key in the lock in one practiced move. With the door closed, the room was dark, only the light from the half moon and the stars making it past the half-closed curtains. It gave Chris, dressed in black, an advantage. He pushed aside the barrel of Vin's gun and caught Vin by the hair and hip before Vin saw the move.
The kiss was hard, Chris' lips bruising. His hand wormed into Vin's hair, and he pulled Vin tight against him. For a time, it felt good, right, the way Vin remembered it, the way it had been before Chris had gone off.
But there was hardness in it, and anger, which pushed through the pleasure.
And there was the smell of a woman, the smell of perfume and of her sex, her desire.
He pushed at Chris, trying to draw away. For all that he wanted Chris, this was not the way. Nor the reason.
Chris didn't give, though, his hand clutching more tightly into Vin's hair, pulling at the roots. Vin pushed again, grunting at the pain from his scalp. He still had his gun in one hand and instinctively, he forced it between them, careful to keep his hands on the barrel and stock. Using it like a pry bar, he forced Chis back far enough to hiss, "No."
"Ain't this what you want?" Chris spat, his voice low and hard. "Rough and hard – ain't that the kind of cheap whore you are?"
The words, the idea, was so unexpected that Vin didn't understand them at all. Things between them had never been this way, this hurtful. Sometimes, they got a little carried away, especially when it had been a while, but it had never been a matter of pain over pleasure. Never a matter of insult.
As he thought it, Chris pulled harder at him, hair pulling loose from skin. Vin shoved the gun down, slamming it into Chris' belly and knocking the air from him. It broke Chris' grip and Vin jerked back, uncaring of the strands of hair he lost as he cleared room between them. "This ain't the way," he said, his anger hot. "I don't know what the hell's gotten into you, but you ain't taking it out on me!"
Chris' eyes glinted in the soft light, and Vin could feel the heat of him, heat that he knew was as much from anger as his own. But that made him wonder what Chris was angry about, and wondering about that, even in the back of his head, took some of the fire out of him. He struggled to find the words to ask, but before they came together in his head, Chris turned and walked out, unlocking the door and slipping through it.
As the latch clicked shut, Vin's anger came back – at himself for not being fast enough to ask, at Chris for everything else. What the hell was going on?
That was the thought that chased through his head, keeping sleep away for the rest of the night. Before dawn, as he dressed and left the room, a stray memory drifted past, someone he had known for a time, right after he was captured by the Comanche. He rejected the idea, but as he saddled his horse, checked his saddlebags, and headed out of town, the memory kept coming back, stronger and with more detail.
He spent the first day trying not to think at all; there had been a rumor of a band of Apache moving around the area and he concentrated on finding sign of them. They were good, almost as good as the Comanche he had lived with and he had almost decided that the rumors were wrong when he came upon the remains of a camp.
Knowing they wouldn't come back, he set up his own camp for the night, taking advantage of the last of the daylight. As he settled in, though, the fire going, coffee brewing and one of the rabbits he'd caught earlier in the day cooking on a spit, the memories returned.
The raid by the Penataka that had led to his capture had been one of several in the same area of west Texas. On one of the later ones, the warriors had returned with a Numunuu woman, who, after some time with the band, he realized had been captured by some white rustlers. She had been the wife of the warring chief, and he had gone on a mission to rescue her.
Afterwards, though, she had been a hard woman to live with. Vin hadn't known her well, but he had heard the whispers of the women and the laughter of the men as the warring chief, Tosawi, had been forced out of his tent many nights, his wife chasing after him with a skinning knife, screaming at him that he was a coward who had no respect for women.
As he had learned the language and the culture, he had come to understand other things, things about differences between whites and the Numunuu. As he had gotten older, he had learned about the differences between men and women, and that some things were the same, no matter the culture.
Tosawi had taken other wives, but he had kept this woman as his first wife, even though the women said they never shared furs together after her rescue.
That night, he dreamed of her and of some of the things he had seen when he had lived with her people. Over time, she had come to be known as Storm Wind, because her temper was unpredictable.
Rather like Chris'.
It didn't make sense but by the time he woke that morning, his dreams had convinced him that Chris' behavior was more and more like Storm Wind's. Which meant that something had happened to him in that prison that was, under most other circumstances, unthinkable.
The second day, Vin spent his time following the trail of the Apache band. It was slow going; they were good and they hid their tracks well. It took hours to find the direction they were headed, and more than once, he had had to back track to find the right path. By nightfall, he was sure they had made good time compared to his, but that was all right. If they were going the way he thought, they were headed away from town and even away from Eagle Bend. They were no threat to these parts and he was just as happy not to have to go against them.
But it left him with nothing to worry on but the situation with Chris.
Tosawi had never slept with Storm Wind again. And perhaps that was what was to happen with him and Chris. It wasn't a new thought; the attraction between them had been mutual but Vin had never assumed that Chris, once married, still grieving the loss of that life, would settle into a habit. And if Chris had been hurt the way Vin thought, he might never want to be close to anyone, man or woman, again. That was the more worrisome thought.
That night, he slept with fewer dreams but woke with the same concerns about what to do. He wondered if he could find a way to ask Nathan, without letting on that it was Chris, and he pondered on that while he broke camp and started back to town. He thought of other ideas, but nothing much came to mind as he made his way slowly back.
The route he took led him past the plot of land Chris had been looking to buy, and he was surprised to find Chris' horse tied off to a tree and Chris sawing away at a post. Several others were already in the ground, the beginnings of a fence, and Vin was impressed with the other man's determination.
He watched for a few minutes, appreciating the way Chris' body moved under the thin undershirt Chris wore, the way the fabric stuck to his body where sweat had soaked through. The way his muscles flexed and bunched.
He had never expected it to last, but he would miss it.
He thought about moving on – their last encounter hadn't ended on a note he wanted to repeat, and he did want to try to find a way to talk to Nathan, if he could. But as he touched his heels to his horse's flank, Chris turned and smoothly drew his pistol, aiming it right at Vin.
From the distance, it took him a space to identify Vin. "Thought you were gone," he said, his voice carrying over the distance between them.
Vin blinked, unsure of the tone. "Went looking for them Apaches. We talked about it." Which they had, but now, maybe, Chris had forgotten.
Chris stared, his eyes hard, before lowering the gun and putting it back in its place. "Wasn't sure if you were coming back," he said, not as loudly, and Vin realized that Chris, too, had wondered about that night and the way it had ended.
"Any reason I shouldn't?" Vin asked as he nudged his horse forward.
Chris shrugged and turned back to what he had been doing. As he took the saw back up, he said, "Not one that matters, no."
There was a well already on the place and Vin dismounted, leading his horse to the watering bucket. As he pumped water, he heard the rhythmic pattern begin again. While he drank, he wondered if he could find a way to broach the subject – one that wouldn't make Chris upset.
It would be far better to talk directly to Chris than to talk to Nathan. Especially if his idea was as stupid as he hoped it was.
He finished off his cup of water and hung the mug back on the hook, hitched up his pants, and gathered his resolve. But as he turned back to face Chris, Chris stopped sawing. He swiped a hand across his forehead then said flatly, "You know I didn't mean what I said. Reckon the liquor got the best of me."
Vin watched, not surprised when Chris didn't look up at him, but instead, reached again for the saw. He'd said all he had to say on the matter – but it was more than Vin had expected.
"Maybe so," he said slowly, catching Chris before he had the chance to get back to work. "But you've been liquored before and never felt the need to say such. You think maybe all the time in the prison made you think less of me?"
Chris had tensed when Vin started talking but as the question ended, he looked up quickly, surprised. Which was good, as far as Vin was concerned. It meant that Chris hadn't thought of it that way.
Which meant that whatever was going on with Chris, it wasn't about Vin.
Chris swallowed, then with a shake of his head, he said, "No, ain't you."
It was good but it wasn't enough, not for this conversation. "Then what is it, Chris?"
He knew he didn't have to ask more. Chris understood all the implications of the question. And it was up to him to decide what he could and would share.
Chris shook his head once more, wiped his hand on his pants, then picked up the saw. As he started working again, faster than he had before, Vin watched for a time, then he sighed and turned back to his horse.
But as he made to mount up, the sawing stopped and Chris said very softly, "I'd never hurt you, not that way." He didn't let go of the saw but he brought up his forearm so that he could wipe his forehead on his sleeve.
Vin stood with one foot in the stirrup, one hand on the saddle horn and the other on the rim of the saddle, ready to pull himself up. He watched Chris, waited to see if Chris would actually look at him. When he didn't, he pushed off with his foot and swung into the saddle, settling as his horse grunted.
As he gathered up the reins, Chris said more quickly, his tone sharper, "It ain't you. I – I – don't leave."
It could have meant anything – don't leave now, don't leave the town, don't leave me.
And because it could have meant the latter, Vin sat and thought, then said, "What happened wasn't your fault. Prisons are bad, they make men worse than they were before they went in."
Chris made a noise that Vin identified eventually as a laugh. It wasn't amusement, though, the sound far too bitter, too hard. "That what it did to me, you think? Made me worse than before I went in?"
Vin considered his answer. "Yeah, it did. Not 'cause you were bad before," he said, making his words clear. "What happened in there – well, that would change a man. Make him angry at himself, at everybody around him."
Chris finally dropped the saw and looked at Vin. "What do you know about what happened in there?" he asked, the anger back. "You hear something – one of your criminals tell you something to make himself look better?"
Vin held his gaze and said evenly, "I know that whatever happened to you has made you mad at yourself and at everybody who cares for you." He let the words hang in the still air, let them carry to Chris' ears and then slip into his mind. When he saw Chris' shoulders slump a little, he went on, "I know the man you are, and I know that man is still in you, under all that anger."
He waited, watching as Chris thought about this. After a time, Chris looked away, but this time it was different. He wiped at his face again, not just his forehead but his whole face.
Vin dismounted, petting his horse's neck for the mixed signals, and said quietly, "You want some help with the fence? Reckon since we're safe from the Apache, I got no need to be back in town just yet."
Chris drew a deep breath and when he spoke, his voice was thin. "Wouldn't mind the help," he said, but there was a hint of uncertainty that Vin wasn't used to, not from this man.
He smiled. "It's been right nice these last two nights, sleeping under the stars. But I reckon I'm getting spoiled to that mattress back in town. Figure I can head out before dark, get back in time to eat some of Inez's black bean frijoles." It was true, as he had thought days before.
Chris nodded, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, sounds good." He turned and looked at Vin, and for the first time in a long time, his eyes were kind. "Thanks."
It would be a while – it might be never. Tacosa was still waiting, and it was past time for him to take care of that. But as they started working together, as they found their pace, Chris seemed to let go. Maybe it was the hard work.
After several hours of digging, cutting, setting fence posts and filling in rocks and dirt, Vin said something about digging through to China, and Chris smiled. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
And that night, after a late dinner at the saloon, Chris smoked one of his cigarillos as he drink whiskey slowly, refilling Vin's glass when it was empty, and leaving the saloon when Vin did, walking in comfortable silence back to the boardinghouse.
In the morning, he'd think on it some more, and he'd check his saddle bags again, but he wouldn't leave for Tascosa tomorrow.