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The sun broke over the line of hills to the east, spilling a cold morning light into the shallow valley and across the quiet face of the town.
Chris Larabee stepped through the door of the boarding house and out to the edge of the boardwalk. With a yawn he ran a hand roughly through his hair, then pulled his hat on, snugging it low over eyes smudged dark with fatigue. He leaned against the porch upright, snapped a lucifer to life against his gun belt and lit a cheroot, drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs as he surveyed the silent, empty street. The watchfires had reduced to embers, their wispy smoke drifted low along the ground and disappeared into the bands of sunlight that crept across the street.
Another night passed. Another night without rocking Adam to sleep. Another night without Sarah's warmth pressed against him. Years' worth of nights now, nights that could be sweet with dreams that his wife and son were still alive; nights and dreams that were always shattered by the cold intrusion of a new dawn.
Another day ahead. Another day with the chance of finding the destroyer of his dreams. Another day with the possibility of revenge for the loss of his family. Years' worth of days now, days that could be bitter with the reality of loss and pain; days that were always shadowed by the restless, dreams of the night before.
Chris exhaled slowly, watching the smoke from his cheroot disappear into the sunlight now rising up across the front of the boarding house. He closed his eyes against the morning light, wanting to hold on to the pleasant echo of the previous night's dream for as long as possible. But the light of the brightening sun leached all the color and details of the dream from his memory, leaving only a hollow ache in its place.
Sounds from up the street caught his attention; the tread of boots on the boardwalk outside the saloon, the opening of a window in the hotel, the distinctive squeak of the backdoor at Potter's Store, and the shuffling step of the watchman checking and banking the dying street fires.
Chris opened his eyes, looked up to the morning sun, ground out his cheroot under a boot heel, and prepared to begin a new day.
Dec 2012
edited: Jan 2013