Chapter 11

Only in this place,
In darkness where no prying eyes can see,
In wilderness where no stranger strays,
Beside the tumbled waters
Where no voice can be heard,
I wrap you in the heat of me,
Hold you against the bulk of me,
Breathe you, taste you, fold you in.

I know that it is not enough,
Will never be enough for you.
I know that you sometimes weep for me,
For what can never be,
And that you turn away
So that I will not know or see.
I know anyway.

Do you know that you are life to me,
That you are everything that is beautiful
And real and precious,
The focus of my light,
My shield against the darkness,
My burnt sugar taste of joy,
My only hope of heaven?

You are the music of the rainfall,
The sweet rebirth of morning,
The bright pure laughter of a child -
With summer's magic in your eyes.

I bury my face against your hair,
Breathe deep, and hold the scent of you inside me,
To carry with me when you are far away,
And I wonder if the day will come
When you are broken by my fears,
When your pain and loneliness
Drive you to a place I cannot go,
A time I cannot touch or share.

Will I still feel you, breathe you, taste you then?
Or will I hold you only in my dreams?
Will my broken spirit weep within the darkness,
And wish that I had told you when I had the chance?

Will I pledge then what I cannot promise now?
Will I find the strength to say it then?
Or will I watch you go -
And never learn to say it at all?

-- Will I? -- Cynical21


Morning came, chilly and overcast, with wisps of fog clinging to the condensation-drenched surfaces of the mountain and tumults of iron-gray clouds obscuring the highest peaks. In a pearly pre-dawn pallor, Ennis came awake quickly, as always, even though it had been long past midnight when he'd finally given up his lonely vigil and retired to his insulated pallet. Even then, his limbs heavy with exhaustion both emotional and physical, he had resisted sleep; coming to complete awareness with an impatient, but soundless gasp, he refused to take refuge in the vagueness of that thought. The truth was that he had been afraid to sleep - afraid of what mindless release he might have sought in the unrestricted nature of his dreams, for there was no way of knowing - of being sure - that his traitorous sub-conscious mind might not free him from the restraints placed on him by his consciousness; no way of being certain that his traitorous body might not reach out in the night and take what lay so tantalizingly close in space and time and so infinitely far away in possibility.

Bobby slept on, snoring slightly, curled around the warmth of the little pup that was snugged up against him, and Ennis allowed himself a moment - just a moment - of self-indulgence.

How could he have let himself forget? How could he ever have believed that anybody - anybody - could be more beautiful, more perfect, more . . . Just more.

Feature by feature, he knew: this was not his Jack. The face, though just as perfectly proportioned, was slightly thinner; the cheekbones, a little more deep-cut; the brow slightly higher, and the widow's peak a bit more pronounced; in those small but significant variations lay the distinctions that identified the young man as not Jack. But in other ways - especially the tendency of dark, thick hair to ignore the laws of gravity and stand on end, and the sweeping fringe of dark lashes so full they were like smudges against golden skin, as if someone had painted them with a coarse, stubby brush, and the dark stubble that emphasized the strong jawline and the lines of the body, long and lean and sculpted . . . Ennis rose and exited the tent in one less-than-smooth motion, driven by something that was almost panic.

What the hell was he doing or thinking? This was not Jack; this was Jack's child, so completely off-limits that he was shamed by his own weakness.

But - he staggered abruptly, almost going to his knees as the thought struck him - what if it had been? What if Jack had somehow come back to him? He was, in every way that mattered, taken - a full partner in a life-long relationship. As much a married man as it was possible for a gay man to be.

He thought about Mike - really thought about him, as he had not allowed himself to think about him since he'd driven away from the ranch the previous morning. He loved Mike; through all the problems they'd endured - even recently - he'd never doubted that, never questioned that. He loved Mike; he belonged to Mike, and he had no desire to change that simple truth.

Though denied any kind of formal ceremony or legal recognition, they were life partners and had pledged their loyalty and enduring commitment, in the presence of those members of their families who had been willing to bear witness to their resolve: Mike's children, although Ronnie had been unable to disguise the depth of his misgivings; Ennis' younger daughter, still shaken by the revelation of her father's sexual identity, but determined to demonstrate her loyalty and her liberal mindset, and his sister, newly refound and hungry enough for some kind of familial connection to overlook the circumstances of his relationship; Cora Littletree, who was no kin to either of them, but was family, nonetheless.

Ennis had once considered himself "not the swearing kind", but life and circumstance had brought him to the realization that his inability to commit, to reach for the things that mattered most to him, had cost him the things that might have enabled him to change his life and realize his dreams. Had cost him Jack.

He had no regrets. Jack had gone forever beyond his reach, had left him behind and embraced the darkness and found peace (he devoutly hoped) in eternal sleep, and he loved Mike, who was so much more than just a substitute, a replacement for what had gone before.

But what if . . .

He shook his head sharply, taking a deep breath and suddenly grateful for the sharpness of the air and the biting chill it sent into his lungs, bitter enough to startle him out of a semi-reverie that threatened to pull up questions he had never thought to confront. But his moment of soul-searching and uncertainty was not - quite - over.

"He turned me around. He gave me my life back - again."

He heard the words in his mind, echoing in the very bottom of his memories.

Jack? It was not even a whisper; barely even a coherent thought. What did you do?


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Bacon, thick-sliced and dark and still sizzling, hardtack biscuits, lumpy and firm but dripping with homemade blackberry jam, and coffee, strong enough to strip paint; according to Ennis Del Mar, a real cowboy breakfast. Bobby choked a bit at first, unaccustomed to such sturdy fare at such an early hour - except for the coffee, of course - but quickly realized that he would need plenty of energy to meet the physical demands of the day, tucking in and finishing everything on his tin plate.

Tinker, of course, was in doggy heaven, ignoring his kibble and gnawing on whatever his human benefactors tossed his way.

When Bobby became aware of Ennis Del Mar's scrutiny as he mopped up the last drip of jelly with a final crumb of biscuit, he glanced up quickly and surprised a look - that look - in deep amber eyes. "What?" He was still trying to be patient, but being watched so frequently - and so hungrily - was beginning to get on his nerves.

"Nothin'," came the quick response. Then a quick intake of breath, and a mumbled explanation. "Ya eat like yer daddy. That's all."

"How's that?" There was genuine curiosity in the question, strong enough to overcome any irritation.

Ennis' smile was gentle. "Like he had t' eat fast, afore somebody come along and tried t' take it away from him."

Now it was Bobby's turn to study his companion's face and attempt to read the emotion buried in those dark eyes - and wonder. Then, reluctantly, he nodded, as he recognized the truth of the comment.

"You calling him greedy?" The words were sharp, but there was a smile beneath them.

Ennis grinned. "Naw. Jus' unwillin' t' settle fer less than he thought he deserved."

Bobby's smile softened, and he sighed. Though he had been called a wordsmith by people smart enough and knowledgeable enough to use the term appropriately, he realized that he couldn't have said it better himself; the description of his father was letter-perfect.

Jack Twist had never been willing to settle. Abruptly, a sharp breath caught in the young man's throat as something twisted in his gut; had that attitude ultimately gotten him killed?

He looked up quickly and surprised a fleeting grimace on Ennis' face, and wondered if the old cowboy had stumbled upon the same thought.

He might even have volunteered a comment - or a question - if the sun had not chosen that exact moment to edge over the cloud-blurred foothills strewn along the eastern horizon, and send its first streaks of brilliance out to gild the flanks of the mountain with glints of gold and copper as a swirl of starlings erupted from a stand of mountain spruce. Overhead, a red-tailed hawk rode a ray of pure sunlight across the shadowed bulk of the valley toward the rolling meadows beyond the lake as a pale scrap of rainbow flickered in the mist below the mountain's cumulus-draped crest.

"Think it'll rain?" asked Bobby, remembering stories his father had told him about the violence and fury of Big Horn storms.

Ennis glanced toward the west. "Later, mebbe. All a this . . ." the sweep of a hand indicated the trappings of a cloud-touched daybreak . . . "will burn off as the sun gets higher."

Bobby nodded, and rose to begin dismantling the tent as Ennis started gathering up the cooking utensils. But Bobby hesitated, his eyes shadowed and his face suddenly vulnerable, appearing much younger than his twenty-nine years. "Ennis," he said softly, uncertainly, "I'm sorry for last night. I just . . ."

But Ennis was not in the mood for apologies. "Ya got nothin' a be sorry fer," he said sharply. "You was jus' takin' up fer yer daddy, like ya should. He . . ." His voice was suddenly thick and guttural. "He'd be proud."

Bobby turned then, and stared straight into dark eyes, turbulent with shadows. "Would he? I guess I'm not so sure."

"Why not?"

There was a heavy pause, and Bobby turned away, not at all sure he wanted to see how Ennis would react to his next words. "Because my daddy loved you. More than anything. More than my mother, more than his family, more than his life . . . more than me."

"No, Bobby, don't . . ."

"Yes." There was no uncertainty now, and not a single nuance of self pity. "Yes, he did. So now I'm asking myself if he'd really be proud of me, or just ashamed of the way I'm treating you."

Ennis drew a deep breath before stepping forward, deliberately invading Bobby's space, demanding that the younger man meet his eyes. "I don't know if I got any answers ya want a hear, Bobby. But I know this. I cain't begin t' understand how ya must be feelin', t' stand here and face me down.  That takes more guts than anything I ever done in my life. An' if my kids ever found themselves in a fix like this, I know I'd be damned proud if they tried t' stand up fer me, like y'er doin' fer Jack."

Bluer-than-blue eyes - dry and hard until that moment - were suddenly suspiciously bright. "Jus' tell me . . ." It was a whisper, semi-strangled.

"I'll tell ya anything I can."

The younger man struggled for composure, and for the right words. "I'm tryin' to see things through your eyes - and through Daddy's. In spite of sounding like I think he could do no wrong, in my heart I know better. He wasn't perfect - not by a long shot. He could be hard-headed and demanding and spiteful, and Lord knows, he was the kind of man who wanted what he wanted, when he wanted it, and it took me a long time - years even - to be able to accept him for the person he was. He was a good father to me. And he was good to my mother, but there's no denying that he would have left us both behind, if you'd been willing to take a chance with him. I don't think he'd have abandoned us completely - he cared too much for that - but I have no doubt that he'd have gone if you'd said the word. But still, after recognizing all that, and after understanding how much you meant to him, I don't believe he would have wanted you to spend the rest of your life tryin' to drown yourself in a bottle after he was gone."

Ennis' eyes were suddenly huge - and darker. "You mean that?"

The smile was shaky. "I'm trying to, but . . ."

"But?"

Deep breath, shoulders squaring, eyes narrow and focused. "But ya gave everything he ever wanted from you to somebody else. And I need to understand how you could do that for your 'partner' and why you could never do it for Daddy. I need to know if it was just that you never loved him enough - or what. And if you tell me it's none of my business, I'll have to live with that, but I still have to ask."

Ennis stood for a moment, absolutely motionless. Then he turned and walked to the lip of the shelf, to stare down into the rosy dawn-kissed mirror of the lake.

For a time, Bobby thought the man his father had loved beyond all reason would refuse to answer, that the secrets that had bound the two of them together in a hopeless dance of frustration and thwarted desires would remain forever buried.

Then Ennis began to speak, and it was as if he was alone on that bluff, musing through his thoughts and unaware of being overheard.

"I spent twenty years shovin' Jack away from me, pushin' him back, denyin' that what we had was anything but a crazy 'thing' that we needed a hide. I told myself that it didn't make me 'queer'; I couldn't be queer, cause I knew that no real man could be queer. So it wasn't me that was queer." He paused, and his next words were so bitter that they seemed to scrape against the soft tissues of his throat. "It was Jack. Fer twenty years, I told myself it was Jack. That he was the queer one - that I would a been fine, if he'd jus' left me alone."

He knelt by the edge of the bluff, his shoulders hunched against the glitter of the sun. "Ya asked me if Jack knew that I loved 'im, and I said that he did. But the truth is that I don't really know for sure, because . . . because I never let myself know it, until it was too late. Fer twenty years, I never let myself say it or think it, and fer twenty years, I never let him bring it up. I couldn't risk it. I couldn't let 'im risk it."

"So he didn't know?" Bobby's voice was thick with unshed tears.

The reply was little more than a rasping breath. "I told myself he did, because I couldn't  stand t' think that he didn't. Ever'thing I did - ever' time I pushed him away, ever' time I walked away from 'im, it tore my guts out. I cain't tell ya how many hours I spent doubled up on the side a the road, pukin' m' guts out cause it hurt so Goddamned bad. Ever' single time, but I told myself it was for him - t' keep him safe, t' make sure that he didn't open his damn-fool mouth an' say things that'd let people know what he was."

The pause was longer this time. "What we were. And after all that, after givin' up any hope of havin' the only thing I ever really wanted . . ."

"Ennis, I . . ."

"He died anyway." It wasn't just a shout; it was a primeval scream that tore through the fields and forests and mountainside like the bellow of a dying beast, raw and bleeding and primitive. The world went silent for a time, as the wilderness echoed to the pain and the bottomless grief and loneliness.

Bobby could think of nothing to say, so he didn't try.

"He died anyway." This time it was barely a whisper. "And I understood, for the first time, how wrong I'd been, because - without Jack - my life was barren  an' empty. For the first time, I knew the truth - that it wasn't Jack that trapped me in the 'thing' we had. That the 'thing' we had was the only thing that ever really mattered in my life. So I stopped carin' - about anything. When Jack went, he took all the light out a my life. There was nothin' left."

And Bobby stepped forward and awkwardly laid his hand on Ennis' shoulder. "You did love him." It wasn't a question.

A nuance of morning breeze stirred blossoms of wild columbine and set them dancing as the old cowboy offered his response, so softly that the zephyr threatened to drown him out. "Like you could never imagine. Like I could never love anyone else. Ever."

Bobby knew that he should remain silent, should just accept it, but he found that he couldn't, that he had to be sure. "Even your partner?"

The hurt in dark amber eyes was bottomless, but not dense enough to hide the truth. "Mike . . . Mike is a good man. He saved me. Pulled me out of a nightmare you can't even imagine. But Jack." He drew a deep shaky breath. "There's only one Jack."

And tears rose in his eyes as he realized the elementary truth of it. There would, forever, be only one Jack. He understood and admitted it to himself for the first time, and knew he could never admit that truth to Mike, even though he was pretty sure his life-partner already knew. And he knew something else; he had allowed himself to be pulled out of the despair of his grief and into a new life because - at least in part - he no longer cared enough to resist. There had no longer been a Jack Twist to defend and protect.

Jack had left him behind, and the only comforts he'd known after that bleak day had slowly eroded to nothingness when the presence he constantly sought, the warmth that had occasionally seemed to touch him in the night, had dwindled to no more than wisps of memory.

"He turned me around. He gave me my life back - again."

There it was again; the fragment of a thought that was too nebulous to be termed a fully formed idea, but would not be ignored.

Jack, what did you do?


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


The second day was different, after that emotional outburst on the bluff overlooking the lake. The two rode abreast, not saying much, but saying a lot with minimal conversation. And they both learned things about the man who was their only common interest.

Ennis confined his comments to scraps of memory - pointing out the spot where he and Jack had first pastured the sheep back in '63 and where Jack had pitched his pup tent, to spend the night looking down toward the distant fire of the base camp; the knoll where Jack had attempted, repeatedly, to snuff out a prowling coyote, proving in the process that coyotes, elks - and broad sides of barns - were safe from assault when Jack Twist was wielding the rifle, or, as Ennis occasionally suspected, that the hand had been somewhat unsteady because the heart wasn't really in the attempt; the sunlit glade where he had brought down an elk, to supplement their meager food stores and go some way toward silencing the constant bitching of the young ruffian at his side; the campsite where they had shared stories of their youth and Jack had done his ridiculous impression of a bull rider putting on a show for his fans; the remains of a nest where an American eagle had once spied on the activities of two human usurpers in its realm, one of whom had been arrogant enough to sport an eagle feather tucked into a hat band. He talked of a damaged harmonica, blown with too much enthusiasm and too little ability; of an exuberant young tenor voice that frequently bellowed scraps of hymns and raunchy lyrics, but sometimes, at rare, precious moments, lapsed into unexpected sweetness, in softly murmured ballads and half-remembered folk songs; of a feisty mare with her dark-haired, blue-eyed cowboy in the saddle, the joining of horse and rider forming a vision of singular grace; of hail storms and snow drifts, of the stupidity of sheep and the stubbornness of mules and the cunning of predators, and - most of all - of Jack; Jack as he had been during that first summer, and Jack, as he had changed over the years.

For a long time, Bobby was content to listen, but Ennis seemed to grow more and more taciturn as the day progressed, as the memories he shared seemed to darken, becoming more and more somber, and Bobby would pitch in then, to fill the more awkward silences, offering up little stories and snippets of memory.

The sun had passed its zenith and begun its long slide toward evening when they reined in their horses and dismounted in a small, sun-dappled glade at the foot of a steep trail that lead upwards toward a narrow plateau. At the edge of the clearing, in a natural grotto, a spring had formed, welling into a deep, narrow pool, its water almost icy in its purity. They watered the horses, and then drank deeply, before finding seats on a slab-like boulder that jutted out from the water's edge while Tinker took advantage of the break to explore the wooded area and send a squirrel scurrying for its nest. The stone was warm from the summer sunlight, and Ennis, who had slept little the night before, lay back and drowsed against its soporific comfort.

When Bobby began to talk, his voice was gentle and took on the cadence of the light wind that brushed through the foliage above them.

"I didn't know it when it was happening," he said, "didn't understand that he did a lot of the things he did because he'd never had anyone to do them for him. He was . . . God, he was everything to me. When I got my first bike, he was there to pick me up when I fell, and hold me upright until I learned how to ride it. When I played little league baseball and football, he was always there, helping out the coaches, making sure our team had everything we needed, hauling equipment and coolers of drinks and making sure every team had a sponsor. Coaching first base and high-fiving everybody who beat out a throw - especially the kids that didn't manage to do it very often - and making sure that nobody picked on anybody. When I had trouble in school, it was Daddy that tackled the problem, Daddy that wouldn't let me slide, Daddy that found the solution. When our Scout troop needed chaperones for a canoe trip or a camping expedition or somebody to teach us how to build a campfire, Daddy was the one that volunteered. When I was eight and so scared of the water that I didn't want to learn to swim, he was the one who taught me. Mama wanted to send me to some fancy swimming instructor at the local college, but he wouldn't hear of it. He taught me himself. He taught me everything - to ride, to throw and catch a football, to drive a tractor, to saddle a horse, even how to handle long division, even though I'm pretty sure he never completely mastered it himself. Everything that was worth knowing, he taught me.

"At the same time, he was doing a hell of a job in the machinery business - so good that my grandfather was annoyed as hell, because, try as he would, he couldn't come up with any real reasons to bitch about him, though that never stopped the old SOB from trying. While the infamous Good Ol' Boys' network - the rich old farts that were part of my grandfather's generation - never had much use for Daddy, he was welcome in a lot of places that the High and Mighty of Childress would never have had any interest in going. Daddy liked people, and - mostly - they liked him. And he liked helping people. L. D. had a bunch of Hispanics working for him, and he mostly treated them like shit. But Daddy was good to them, and they returned the favor. They worked twice as hard for him - and for Mama - as they ever would have worked for L. D., and lots of folks figure that was a big part of the company's success. He used to take me down to visit with them, and to play with their kids, and it made L. D. furious to think that his grandson was hanging out with Spics and greasers, but Daddy just ignored his ranting, like he ignored most everything else the old man complained about."

He paused and turned to stare down into the inky depths of the water. "Of course, it was the members of the Old Guard that got 'im in the end. None of the friends he'd made could do anything to save him."

Bobby lay back on the boulder then and gazed up into the sky, noting a bank of cumulus clouds forming in the southwest. "They went to Paris the year before he died - him and Mama; did you know that?"

Ennis turned his head to gaze at the younger man's profile and managed to ignore the stirring in his loins. "Paris . . . like in France?"

"Yup. Won the trip through one of the big tractor manufacturers."

"Son of a bitch!" said Ennis, with a smile. "Jack Twist in Paris. Don't that beat all? How'd he like it?"

Bobby laughed softly. "Depends on whose version you believe. According to Daddy, he liked the wine and the chocolates and the people and the French cigarettes well enough, but got tired real quick of everything tasting like fish; said he couldn't wait to get home to a bottle of Jack Daniels and some barbequed ribs. But according to Mama, the French girls were all over him, like bees to honey - lovin' that smile and those dimples and making Mama mad as a wet hen, while he was eating it up."

Ennis thought a minute. "Yup, that sounds like Jack, all right."

Bobby just nodded, and closed his eyes against the glare. "They went a lot of places, over the years. Hawaii, Puerto Rico, New York, Bermuda, Vienna. Had some pretty good times, I guess."

Ennis shaded his eyes with his arm. "He never told me."

Bobby turned to read the expression in Ennis' eyes, noticing the faint vein of sadness in those four simple words. "Because it never really mattered," he said. "It was all just frosting on the cake to him, I guess. Didn't matter where he went or what he did; none of it was really important to him. He'd have told you, if it was. I think I mattered to him, and my mama mattered. And his mama. But what really mattered . . . was you."

Ennis sat up quickly, but not before Bobby had seen and recognized the quick flash of gratitude in his eyes.

He rose, a little stiff from sitting at an awkward angle, and tucked his shirt into his jeans, a motion that appeared so habitual that it was almost a reflex. "Best get going. Two more hours should get us there, and then we can set up camp, and you can show me if you're any better at fishin' than yer daddy was. Which ain't saying shit since he never could catch nothin' to save his life."

"From what I figured out about those 'fishin' trips'," Bobby retorted quickly, "he was usually busy elsewhere."

Ennis's ears were suddenly fiery red, and Bobby couldn't quite swallow the laughter that rose in his throat. Jesus Christ! He almost strangled on the thought. Did I really just make a joke about my Daddy . . . and not fishing? Jesus Christ!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On their final approach to the campsite Ennis had in mind, they were treated to one of the Big Horns' legendary thunderstorms and forced to take cover under an outcropping of striated slate. Luckily, though fierce and intense and loud enough to be intimidating, the storm was short-lived, and they were able to continue their journey after a brief delay, only slightly the worse for wear. The entire mountain sparkled under the re-emergence of the sun, brighter somehow for the interruption - meadows and foliage and gem-toned wildflowers and dark sweeps of stone jeweled by the prismatic radiance of golden light refracted by raindrops.

They emerged, at last, from a stand of dense coniferous trees, picking their way around sprawling juniper shrubs that reduced the trail to a slim thread in some spots, and found a rough, heavily-veined cliff wall rising vertically before them, with a narrow path veering off to the right, thickly carpeted with many years' accumulation of pine needles. They had been quiet for the last few minutes, concentrating on guiding the horses through the final switchbacks of the steep path, and Ennis had fallen back a bit, allowing Bobby to forge ahead and reach the plateau first.

The younger man spurred his sorrel mare lightly, renewing his grip on the little pup that was snuggled tight against his lap, and urged the horse to follow the curving path into the brilliant sunlight that glittered invitingly just beyond the bulk of the cliff, and she obeyed smartly, demonstrating the quality of her training at Ennis Del Mar's hands. Thus, she erupted from the shadows in one quick lunge, and Bobby went as still as carved marble, dumbstruck by the vista that opened out before him.

For a few seconds, he could not utter a word, could barely even catch his breath, and only marginally noticed that Tinker was struggling to be free.

Young Robert Twist, though Texas born and bred and a cowboy at heart and a true son of his father, was not without a certain level of sophistication. Born to money and not averse to spending it, he had traveled far and seen much in his short life; he had ridden a barge down the Nile and marveled at the incredible variety of life along its banks; had traveled through the Alps and Germany's magnificent Black Forest on a train ride that was composed of nothing but moment after moment of breathtaking vistas; had journeyed through the plains and jungles of Africa and been left speechless with wonder at the richness of the various cultures, the staggering courage of the people, and the warmth of their spiritual lives; sailed through the incredible sapphire waters of the Aegean and Mediterranean Seas and spent weeks lolling in the sun on the beaches of Greek Islands and savoring the simple joys and generosity of the inhabitants; walked the streets of Paris and London and Rome and felt, in each of them, the richness of history stirring around him, but nothing in his life could have prepared him for the moment when he rode into air as clear as polished crystal to find the entire spectacle of Brokeback Mountain stretched out before him, every facet perfect and beautiful and matchless.

Ennis paused within the cover of the tree line and was content to watch the young man's reaction, calling up in his mind's eye the response experienced more than thirty years earlier by another beautiful, young cowboy who had been stricken speechless - possibly for the first time in his garrulous life. At that time, of course, they had ridden side-by-side, discovering the stunning sweep of perfection together, neither able to articulate the wonder they shared.

Bobby slid from his saddle and walked to the edge of the plateau, his dog dancing around his feet as his eyes widened to try to take in everything at once, even though it was not possible to see it all as a whole picture. Below and around him, encompassing a sweeping 240 degrees of visual scope, the mountain fell away, washed in crystal shades of violet and mauve and magenta and pearl, exposing the entire breadth of its surface, laced with deep-etched channels carved by rivers and streams that cut deep toward the bedrock that had formed the foundation for the huge mountain during the dim ages of pre-history. Across the sweeping meadows that covered its flanks, the deep emerald of evergreen foliage caressed the countryside, draping over broad shoulders like soft wraps of velvet, the color growing deeper as the trees grew thicker in the center of heavy forested clusters, with glints of obsidian accenting sprays of garnet and plum and topaz that dappled the jade sweeps of grassland.

Off to the left, a subdued rushing sound drew Bobby to turn and peer around the final outcropping of stone, and he paused again, thunderstruck. The mountainside, while composed of multitudes of sheer drops and steep contrasts and an incredible variety of land masses and shapes, did not, for some reason, support many waterfalls. Mostly, the natural tumble of rushing streams was confined to series of cascades and boulder-strewn switchbacks, and fragmented rushes across rock faces. But here, in this one place, that lack was addressed, as a thick plume of water fell away into the brilliance of the day, to land in great splashes of platinum in an indigo pool on a lower plateau that brimmed quickly and emptied itself into another long plunge toward a boulder-lined abyss far below. In the glare of sunlight, droplets hung in the air and created flickering scraps of rainbow radiance that painted the water's surface with gleams of jewel tones.

Bobby stared up toward the source of the falling water but could not see its origin as it poured over the edge of a huge canted stone that emerged from the mountain's face some twenty meters above him.

At that moment, Ennis moved forward and joined him in looking up, though his gaze followed a slightly different path, tracing a rocky trail that disappeared into a gap in the cliff overhead, a notch in the side of the granite slab, and wondered. Would it still be the same - the place he and Jack had discovered together, the place that they'd claimed as their own in a way he was pretty sure no one else ever would? He wasn't sure, and wouldn't be sure until the next morning when he climbed up there to see for himself. He could have gone early, of course, and checked it out, but somehow it just didn't seem to be the thing to do. He would wait for sunrise, and make the climb with Bobby Twist at his side.

Just the way it was meant to be, although he had no idea why he was so sure of the rightness of it.

He would see it exactly as he had seen it so many years before, with the light breaking over it like amber liquid, painting an unforgettable portrait of . . . but, of course, there would be no body, long and loose-limbed and gloriously bare. There would only be the memory - indelible, burned forever into his mind and his heart. Jack, as he had been at nineteen; Jack, as he would always be in the deepest core of Ennis' being.

He glanced once more toward Bobby, enjoying the expression of wonder in the young man's face and realized that, no matter what this little excursion might have cost him, no matter how painful it might have been or yet prove to be, he owed a huge debt of gratitude to young Bobby Twist. Bobby was not Jack, but he was close enough to being an alternative version of Jack that he had managed to stir the memories that enabled Ennis to resurrect the man who had claimed his heart when he'd been nothing more than a boy himself - the man the years had taken from him.

In a strange way, Jack had come back to him, reclaiming the heart that had never truly been whole without him.

And Ennis knew he would never again relinquish his hold on that which was most precious to him.

Quickly, he dismounted and got busy setting up their camp, knowing that this was not the time for sharing thoughts. Some things, after all, one must keep to one's self - today, tomorrow - maybe even forever.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


They had talked hardly at all as night set in. Bobby had quickly demonstrated that he was no more a fisherman than his father had been, and Ennis had done no better, but the cowboy's camping stores had yielded canned chili and beans and fruit cocktail and a package of Fig Newtons - not exactly a gourmet meal but good enough and satisfying for appetites whetted by a hard ride and repeated bouts of emotional upheaval. Tinker, of course, was in doggy heaven, once again ignoring his kibble and sharing his master's meal with great enthusiasm.

"My daddy hated beans," Bobby remarked, as Ennis retrieved the last of the cans of beer from their spot in the pool at the edge of the plateau. Ennis paused in mid-stride, and felt an odd stirring in his gut, and couldn't, for a moment, figure out why. Then it struck him; throughout their rambling, they had talked about Jack Twist, from two completely different perspectives. But here was elemental truth; Bobby's Jack, of the world trips and the little league coaching and the machinery business, and Ennis' Jack, of the constant bitching and the rodeo roughhousing and the harmonica-playing, were one and the same person. The same Jack.

"Yeah," Ennis agreed, feeling a ridiculous urge to grin, "I know."

They sat by the fire and drank their beer; then they switched to whiskey, and spent most of the evening simply enjoying the sigh of the night breeze and the emergence of the moon above a bank of clouds rising in the East.

Finally, as his eyes grew heavy, and he knew that he could not stay awake much longer, Bobby looked over at Ennis, who was staring into the fire, as if it held all the secrets of the universe. And maybe it did - or maybe those answers were locked up somewhere behind those deep amber eyes.

"Ennis?"

"Yeah?"

"You . . . you gonna be all right? I mean, with . . . everything?"

Ennis looked up, and Bobby saw that his lips were upturned in a soft smile. "Yeah, Bobby. I'm gonna be fine."

Bobby nodded, and thought he should probably drop it, but couldn't - quite. "I never meant to screw up your life. That's not what I meant to do, and I hope . . ."

"Just stop worryin' about it, Bob. Ya done what needed doin', what should a been done a long time ago. An' ya helped me t' remember things I never should a let myself forget. And I'm grateful. So just get some sleep. Dawn comes early."

Bobby took one last swig of Jack Daniels, before making his way to the tent where sleep came easy.

Some time later, Ennis paused as he moved toward his sleeping bag, and spent a quick moment staring down at the face that was so familiar and so like Jack. But was not, ultimately, Jack at all.

He lay in the darkness and waited for his unease of the previous night to return, but it didn't, and he understood, after a time, that his body had finally reached the right conclusion. Jack was gone, and there was no way to resurrect him, except in dreams of the past. Then he smiled and nestled into the blanket that served as his pillow, and allowed sleep to take him where it would.

Until the first glowing promise of sunrise brought the approach of the long-awaited moment, the moment when Jack Twist would finally be laid to rest in the place of his choosing - would finally come home.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

By unspoken agreement, they did not talk. Nor did they eat or drink coffee or take any action to prepare for the day.

They simply rose and approached the trail up the cliff, each grasping a small stone canister. Tinker, for whatever reason that might have influenced his canine consciousness, remained in camp, tucked snugly into Bobby's still warm sleeping bag.

The pre-dawn light was pale, but crystal clear, allowing them to navigate the steep, rock-strewn path with ease, and pull themselves up through a narrow opening in a jumble of boulders to step out onto the expanse of dark granite as the eastern sky showed streaks of saffron and coral and rose.

Ennis paused as he stood at the edge of the promontory and allowed his eyes to sweep the surface, seeing what was there to see - and what was not.

It was the same - exactly as it had been more than thirty years before. Pristine, lush, untouched, incredibly beautiful, just as it had been the first time he'd seen it, with one major difference, of course. This time, there was no Jack Twist, smiling, stretching and flexing like a great cat, and bare as a newborn baby.

The sunrise had been imminent then, as it was now, illuminating the broad pocket of alluvial soil, undoubtedly deposited long ago by upheavals in the earth's crust, providing a deep layer of rich, moist loam that covered a broad crescent-shaped swath of the rocky shelf, where the stone outcropping intersected the vertical roughness of the cliff, trailing to nothingness beside the aperture where the great mass of the waterfall erupted from its journey through a subterranean path within the mountain's bulk to stun the eye of anyone fortunate enough to witness its resurgence into the light.

From the richness of the soil pocket, a profusion of wildflowers formed a wild tangle - the golden richness of alpine buttercups, the deep blues of harebells and alpine forget-me-nots, the rose and lavender and ivory of mountain bells, the sweet blush pinks of columbine, the deep violets of pasqueflowers, and the striking crimson of Indian paintbrush, and a wealth of other blossoms that Ennis could not name, all erupting into a pendulous tumble that sprayed over the edge of the outcropping, echoing the graceful spray of the water that arched beyond them, eager to catch and refract the first rays of sunlight.

It was just there, amid that glorious bedlam of lush color and thick greenery, that Jack had lain in wait for him that morning. He remembered it vividly, remembering the beauty of the setting, but, ultimately, remembering that the natural wonders had paled in comparison to the loveliness of the vision of Jack, naked and eager and smiling. He remembered his raging need, the raw hunger that had sent him racing forward, dropping his clothing as he went, so that when they had come together, there was nothing to prevent skin from impacting skin, bodies from entwining and joining, and Jack's body from opening to him, pulling him in, engulfing him, drowning him in the exquisite essence of Jack Twist.

He was stunned by the vivid quality of the vision and suddenly overjoyed that this memory, at least, remained unsullied, untouched. In this place, they had come together with a passion and intensity that surpassed any that they'd ever shared before. And he had never shared that thought, that memory - or this place - with anyone else.

And he knew in that moment that he had chosen well. This was the place.

"Ennis? You all right?"

Bobby's voice seemed to rise from far away, even though he was standing close at hand.

"I'm fine," he answered, suppressing a sudden urge to shout with joy for the rightness of the moment. "Just a few minutes now. You ready?"

Bobby heard the strange note in the cowboy's voice and understood suddenly that this place was truly sacred, not only to his father, but to the man who had shared it with him. He couldn't help but wonder why, but realized that there were some things he was simply not mean to know.

"Ready," was all he said.

They moved then to the lip of the outcropping, careful to spread out and leave space between them; then each opened the canister he held, and waited.

When the sun crested the eastern hills, it did so quickly, springing up to bring morning, touching the hills beneath it with scarlet fire.

Both Ennis and Bobby took a deep breath, and murmured their own benediction for what was about to happen.

Bobby stepped to the very edge of the stone, and, as the first pure ray of sunlight struck him, he thrust the canister forward forcefully, releasing a broad spray of pale powder which seemed to hover for a moment in the dawn stillness. Then a faint breeze touched the young man's face, and he watched as it swirled through the cloud of ash and bore it outward, into the spray of water rushing out to greet the dawn brilliance, where it was lost in scraps of rainbow, struck by the earliest beams of sunrise.

"Welcome home, Daddy," whispered Bobby, almost overwhelmed by the rush of joy that swelled within him.

Then he turned and watched as Ennis completed his own ritual, in his own way.

Unlike Bobby's dramatic gesture, Ennis simply reached out and upended the cylinder he held, allowing pale ash to pour forth into the mist of morning. In the breathlessness of the moment, the particles seemed to disperse into a cloud that lingered to form a halo around the tall figure at its center, and a shaft of pearly light angled in to ignite the bits of ash into a fleeting radiance that wrapped Ennis like a cloak. When he slowly settled to his knees, it swirled around him, clinging briefly, before taking wing in the rush of dawn and riding a sudden upward rush of wind, finally dissipating in a prism of pure light.

Then it was done, and Ennis Del Mar seemed to collapse in upon himself, his face buried in his hands, cowering away from the light.

Bobby didn't have to stop to think about it, didn't spend a moment wondering if it was the right thing to do. He simply stepped forward and knelt, gathering his father's lover into his arms, offering his strength, his serenity, and the only forgiveness he knew how to give.

They sat there for a long time - long enough for Ennis to become aware of what had happened, what was happening.

Not Jack, not Jack, not Jack . . . It was a litany he chanted in his mind. Yet, some part of him insisted that the young man beside him was, at least, a part of Jack, a piece of Jack, and he was able, at last, to take some comfort from that awareness. Even when he turned his face, and gently, tentatively, dropped a single kiss against young Bobby Twist's throat.

And Bobby, after an infinitesimal flinch, relaxed and allowed it, realizing, finally, that it was the only benediction he had to give.

Finally, as one, they rose and turned to gaze out into the morning and to spend one last moment in the pastel haze of memory.

Then it was time, and Ennis found it was much harder to turn and walk away than he'd expected.

Good-bye, L'il Darlin'.

Across the plummeting rush of the water, he spied movement and watched, spellbound, as an eagle rose from the skeletal branches of a dead tree and beat its wings as it rose into the liquid radiance of morning.

And the thought - half-formed, tremulous, uncertain - came to him again, refusing to be ignored.

"He turned me around. Gave me my life back - again."

The eagle soared, and disappeared beyond the dark bulk of the mountain.

Jack, what did you do?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They made it back to the trailhead by the end of the day, although evening was coming on quickly by the time they arrived, and there was little time for rehashing or discussing.

It had been a strange day, given more to indulging in contemplation, in resurrected memories and introspection, than in conversations or emotional exchanges. Yet, both seemed comfortable with the protracted silences, capable of speaking when they found it necessary, and refraining from doing so if not compelled to break the silence.

They had eaten breakfast before breaking camp, but neither had been in any mood to discuss the experience they had shared as dawn broke over the mountain. As the day wore on, they both became more and more convinced that any discussion they might share would only detract from the perfection of the experience and the sacred quality of the moment.

Some things were better understood - and honored - in silence.

Even Tinker had seemed subdued, content to drowse across Bobby's saddle, with only an occasional wriggling attempt to get closer, to reach up and bury his nose in the crease of his master's throat and demand the attention to which cute little dogs should always be entitled. But Bobby, while never failing to respond as required, remained slightly distracted, something far away and shadowed in his eyes.

Packing up at the trailhead was a matter of a no more than a half hour, allowing time for Bobby to spend a few minutes stroking the throat of the mare that Ennis had raised from a colt - the foal of another spirited mare, a beautiful sorrel named Gypsy Twist, which had once been the favored mount of another member of the Twist family. As he stood with his face nestled against the mare's flank, he felt, once more, as if his father was standing nearby, smiling.

Finally, when there was no more cause for dawdling, Bobby turned to meet the gaze of his father's long-time companion and struggled to find the right words. But there was, finally, not much left to say, except . . .

"Thank you, Ennis." His voice was soft, hesitant. "I couldn't have done this without you. I wouldn't have even known where to start. My dad - I think he'd be grateful too. So . . . "

"Yer daddy," Ennis said firmly, "never had no call t' be grateful to me, not then and not now. Jack was . . ." He paused, unable to continue.

"It's okay," said Bobby quickly. "You don't have to say . . ."

"Yes. I do have to say." The old cowboy's voice was firm now, and his words forceful and sure. "Everything I ever had, everything that ever meant anything to me . . . it was Jack that provided it. And I took an' took an' took from 'im, unable t' ever give anything back. I was too scared of everything. Even of the truth. An' it's too late now fer me to tell 'im that I'm sorry, that I'd give anything - everything - t' be able t' have just one more minute t' stand an' face 'im. T' tell 'im that I loved 'im more than I could ever say, and that I wish I could take back every time I sent 'im away, every time I hurt 'im. But I cain't say it t' him. I can only say it . . . t' you. An' promise you one thing. In the past, I let myself forget 'im, because I couldn't deal with th' hurt and the pain of knowin' how I failed 'im. But I promise you, that ain't ever gonna happen again."

Once more, Bobby found himself speechless and overwhelmed with gratitude for Ennis' willingness to bare feelings that he had been concealing for most of his life.

Finally, he just nodded, then unlocked his truck door and reached for a package stowed behind the seat. "Got something for you," he said quickly. He leaned forward abruptly and thrust the object into Ennis' hands, refusing to allow himself time to rethink his actions or change his mind.

Ennis frowned, obviously puzzled. "What is this? What . . ."

He fell silent as he tore away the protective covering, and saw the painting that had hung in Jack Twist's study for so many years - the painting that Bobby had christened "Daddy's golden cowboy."

"Bobby, I cain't take this," he said slowly. "This was yer Daddy's, an' . . ."

"I know," Bobby interrupted firmly. "But this is the right thing to do. I can't exactly explain how I know that, but I do know it. It's what he would have wanted."

A shy smile touched Ennis' features. "Do I really look like this?"

Bobby laughed. "Ask somebody else. I'm not a very good judge. Not objective enough."

Ennis simply stood for a while, looking down at the face that purported to be his. Then he looked up, and saw that Bobby's eyes were dark with unspoken thoughts. He cleared his throat then, and moved to stow the painting in the cab of his truck, placing it carefully to be sure it would not fall. When he spoke, he was not looking toward Bobby, and the younger man had a suspicion that it was because he didn't want to allow anyone to see the emotions that might be flaring in his eyes.

"You gonna remember this?" he asked. "Really remember it?"

"You think I could forget it?" Bobby allowed a small nuance of annoyance to show in his voice.

Ennis shrugged, still not turning to show his face. "We all forget things, over time."

Bobby was still uncertain of why Ennis had to ask, but he hastened to offer assurance. "I'll remember. You don't have to wonder about that."

Then Ennis turned and met Bobby's eyes. "Mebbe we should . . . come back - sometime."

"Soooo," Bobby drew the syllable out, still pondering the underlying meaning of the conversation, "we should come back . . . so I won't forget?"

"Sure." The answer was brusque. Then brown eyes locked with blue, and all pretenses fell away. "It's important."

Bobby grinned. "Same time next year?"

Ennis turned away, but there was no hiding the tell-tale flush that rose on his neck. "Sounds good."

Jack Twist's son understood that he would never know Ennis Del Mar the way his father had known him, but he understood suddenly that this was important, even though he wasn't sure why. But he found that, ultimately, it didn't matter; he was simply relieved that he would not be forced to sever all contact with the man who had known his father better than anyone else ever would or could. He doubted that any relationship he might manage to develop with Ennis Del Mar would prove to be easy or even pleasant; yet, he wanted the opportunity to give it a try, to preserve one of the few connections he had left to the man he had lost so early in his life.

"Need t' give you somethin'," Ennis said quickly, withdrawing a thick, sealed manila envelope from the glove box of his truck and handing it to Bobby.

"What's this?" asked Bobby, studying the heavily-sealed flap, and noting that there was nothing written on the outside except his name.

"Just something I need you to keep for me."

"Keep for how long?"

Ennis' smile was enigmatic. "As long as it takes."

"But how will I know . . ."

"You'll know," Ennis said quickly.

"Ennis, I . . ."

But once more, those deep, shadowed eyes asked, and Bobby could not refuse. "Is it important?" he asked, finally.

Ennis smiled. "Yeah. It is."

"All right then. I'll keep it for you, as long as it takes."

In the end, Bobby was the first to leave, his face solemn and still, with Tinker plastered against the rear window, watching as Ennis was lost in the thick gloom of twilight.

But still, Ennis lingered for a while, allowing his gaze to sweep across the glittering surface of the lake, the velvet darkness of the woodland framed by the setting sun, and - finally - the bulk of the mountain as the light retreated from its flanks, leaving it a dark and silent silhouette against emerging stars, stars that glistened like gems in a crown.

In the darkness, the old cowboy didn't bother to wipe away the tears that brimmed in his eyes.

"Good-bye, Li'l Darlin'. I swear . . ."

But even then, as the incredible day drew to its close, he wasn't sure what it was he meant to say.

He drove away finally, but there was no denying that a part of him stayed behind, lingering in a place where eagles soared and flowers bloomed and ashes rode the wind.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~