Chapter Seven

Ah, had I not taken my life up and given
All that life gives and the years let go,
The wine and honey, the balm and leaven,
The dreams reared high and the hopes brought low?
Come life, come death, not a word be said;
Should I lose you living, and vex you dead?
I never shall tell you on earth; and in heaven,
If I cry to you then, will you hear or know?

-- The Triumph of Time -- Algernon Charles Swinburne

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The sun was a globe of molten lava, seeking to bury itself in the density of the old growth forest beyond the river, by the time Ennis crested the hill that looked down on the cluster of buildings that formed the Busted Flush Ranch, nestled into the center of the valley that surrounded it like a cupped hand, with rough streams running like veins across its breadth. Beyond the dark bulk of the forest, curling up toward the Northeast, the peaks of the Judith Mountains caught fire in the late brilliance, and glittered like jewels in the angled sunlight, as a faint sylvan mist rose and hovered above the meadows stretching out to the north, marking the near borders of the great river. Off to the South, the Big Snowys were already smudged with night, hulking shadows reaching up to embrace the twilight.

It was late; he was late, and he had not bothered to stop and phone ahead to let his partner know that he would not be arriving home at the expected hour. He was aware of an urgency - a twisting in his gut that demanded that he hurry. Nevertheless, when the urge struck him, he pulled off on the shoulder of the road, at the top of the first loop of the gravel lane that snaked its way down the hill. He recognized the opening bars of Does Fort Worth Ever Cross your Mind? on the radio, and sat for a while, listening as George Strait lamented the fact that cold beer doesn't cure jealousy, and wondering -- for at least the ten thousandth time - why the fuck so many songs had to be about Texas . . . or blue eyes (Cryin'in the Rain?) . . . or rodeo cowboys . . . or why there had to be comic strips called Smilin' Jack or restaurants named Jack-in-the-Box. Then he shook off his morbid musing, realizing that it wouldn't make a bit of difference if he never heard another song again, or read another newspaper or passed another billboard; there would still be runty little dogs, and herds of sheep, and cans of beans, and harmonica music (badly played) or Pentecostal hymns (badly sung) and hail storms and bull riders and a hundred other things to trip him up; the world would always contain countless prompts that would tug relentlessly at his memories and animate a soft-focus figure to walk through his dreams.

He stared down toward the ranch - seeing everything, and seeing nothing - and allowed his thoughts to wander a bit as he speculated on how much his life partner might have figured out about the gentle specter that still dwelled in the fringes of Ennis' mind - always silent and unobtrusive, but never really completely gone. He wondered if Mike was still haunted by uncertainties generated by that pale ghost, and then wondered if he really wanted to know.

There was a light shining in the main stable, and several more aglow in the bunkhouse, and Ennis could pick out dark silhouettes moving through the gloaming, finishing up their day and heading in for the evening meal, as the horses in the largest corral, freshly fed and brushed, settled for the night, enjoying the quickening of the evening breeze and the freedom to stretch weary tendons and muscles in aimless ambling.

Ennis took a deep breath, and told himself that he couldn't really detect the aroma of chili and cornbread, but he could close his eyes and visualize it, along with the big bowl of cole slaw and some of Pop Cal's warm cherry cobbler, topped off with a mound of vanilla ice cream. He wondered if Mike was planning to eat with the crew tonight, and decided that he rather hoped so. He wasn't much in the mood for the more refined meals that Miss Cora usually prepared in the kitchen of the big house, and he knew that, if he drove in before Mike finished up for the day, he could probably pressure his partner into settling for the simpler fare in the company of the ranch hands.

Probably. Usually.

Mike ordinarily gave in to Ennis' wants and desires. But not always.

The definitive example of one of the times when he had not done so was the beautiful spread laid out below him: the Busted Flush. When they had decided, early in 1992, that the opportunity to buy the Montana ranch was just too good to pass up, Ennis had wanted to leave it with the name bestowed by its original owners: Twin Hills Ranch. But Mike had objected - strenuously - insisting that he was not going to brand his cattle and horses with something that looked like a McDonald's logo, and Ennis had not bothered to argue much. But then, Mike had come up with his suggestion for a new name, and it had been Ennis' turn to object - also strenuously.

Who in his right mind, he'd demanded, named a ranch after a losing poker hand? But Mike had been adamant, and Ennis had ultimately been unable to refute his argument. Why should they worry about tempting misfortune with an unlucky name when they had been lucky enough to find each other, Mike reasoned, and he rather liked the idea of thumbing their noses at the vagaries of Fate. At that point, even though Ennis might have continued to argue, Mike had used a tried-and-true method for distracting his partner, and, by the time Ennis had remembered to bring it up again, it was a done deal, with new branding irons already commissioned and a new sign ready to erect over the front gate.

The Busted Flush Ranch - Michael Stansbury and Ennis Del Mar, proprietors - was a thriving horse and cattle ranch, producing a limited number of well-bred and well-trained quarter horses every year, along with a fine, healthy herd of Red Brangus cattle.

Ennis looked down at the valley, and felt a deep sense of longing settle over him. He had truly come a long way since he had first heard - and rejected - the suggestion of a "little cow and calf operation", and he didn't often allow himself to think back to that moment. He had built himself a good life, with a man who loved him, a man he loved, and it was a waste of time and effort to lament what could have been, if he'd only had the courage to reach for it. There was no going back.

But, whispered the insidious little voice that sometimes erupted in his mind, if you could go back, would you?

He did not allow himself to answer - had never allowed himself to answer - but, as he keyed the ignition to start the truck to complete the last leg of his journey, a quick mental image of a mischievous smile and a brilliant spark in crystal blue eyes caused him to shake his head sharply and tell himself to concentrate on the road, and the greeting he would get from his man when he pulled to a stop in the driveway of the big two-story ranch house. Maybe Mike would be resting on the wooden swing that they had hung on the deep front porch that ran the width of the house, where they often sat together to watch the onset of a thunderstorm or welcome the first snowfall of winter or simply wait for moonrise.

Ennis hoped he would find his partner there; more than that, he needed to find his partner there, to help him to refocus - to remember his priorities.

No matter how much he wanted to do the right thing for Jack, and for Bobby, and for Jack's mother, the simple truth was that Jack was dead. And there was no getting around that, and no making up for old wrongs, no matter how much he might wish it.

He eased out onto the road, suddenly eager to get home . . .

"I wish I knew how to quit you."

The memory struck with the force of a tidal wave, with exactly the same devastating impact felt at the moment he had first heard those words so many years before, only this time it was sharper and clearer than it had been for a long, long time, honed by his recent encounter with the young man who was almost the spitting image of his father - enough so to restore little details about Jack that Ennis thought he'd lost forever. But now, in the restored clarity of recall, he could not do what he had done way back then; he could not harden his heart and refuse to recognize the foundation of loneliness and pain from which the words had sprung. Helpless to suppress the recollection and racked with regret, he could only slam on his brakes and ride out the images coalescing in his mind.

"Then why don't ya? Why don't ya jus' let me be, huh?"

Physically, the revelation had been like a kick in the gut, like a blade slicing through him as he stood poised on the precipice, the fine edge of disaster, looking down into every nightmare he'd endured over the last twenty years. It was instinct that took over as he went numb with dread - instinct that moved him to where he had to go, to protect what he could not risk, to armor his heart.

"It's because a you, Jack, that I'm like this . . . 'm nothin' . . . 'n nowhere."

Blinded by tears, struggling to remain upright, then hearing the swift approach of footsteps, as he'd known he would. As he'd intended. When, after all, had Jack Twist ever failed to respond to Ennis' need, just as he had been conditioned to do, over all those long years? Ennis sometimes wondered if the man to whom he'd totally surrendered his heart, to have and to hold - to break or mangle or preserve or cherish in any way he might have wished - had ever realized the truth. Had he ever stopped to figure out how easily and how often he'd been manipulated and forced to feel a guilt he never should have been asked to bear?

Loving hands reaching out; soft voice murmuring - and the violent response - guaranteed to erase any lingering trace of indignation or righteous anger and overwrite it with the kind of burning guilt that would make Jack forget everything except a need to make things right - for Ennis; to soothe the pain - for Ennis; and - above all - to subjugate his own needs and hurts - for Ennis.

"Get th' fuck off a me."

And then, the arms, the firm, strong body that would not be denied or pushed away, and the voice, saying what it always said. "It's all right. It's all right." Interspersed, of course, with, "Damn you, Ennis!" But they both knew that the cussing was just for show, just a means to disperse the tension, to find a way to step back from the edge of the abyss on which they'd teetered, a means of letting sleeping dogs settle back to lie - undisturbed - one more time.

"I jus' can't stand this no more, Jack."

He heard it all - saw it all - again; exactly as it had happened twelve years earlier, and he wasn't quite agile enough, mentally, to avoid the one thought that always struck him hard and left him reeling with the awful ache of it. He could not have known that it would all be for the last time, that he would never get the chance to take it back, to unsay the things he'd said, even though he'd known as he spat out the words that he didn't mean them, that it was all a means to an end, to keep Jack under control, to maintain the way things had to be in order to avoid the awful dangers that were always lurking out there in the real world, waiting for either of them to miss a step, to reveal a weakness - to blink.

How could he have foreseen that everything he did, every action he took to try to avoid the things he feared the most, would ultimately be futile - that Jack would die anyway, struck down in his prime, no matter how hard Ennis had tried to shield him and protect him and keep him safe? Keep them both safe.

How could he know that he would never get the chance to say he was sorry?

And now a different memory whispered to him - recent and fresh and vivid - offered in a different voice: "Then, when he came up here that last time, th' light was jus' gone. An' he was empty, and lost."

As the voice faltered and fell silent, he was instantly plunged into the last bit of memory - the one he almost never allowed himself to experience, the unkindest recollection of all.

Jack kneeling, offering comfort and acceptance, and himself surging to his feet, dragging Jack, off balance and staggering, up with him and claiming that soft, tempting mouth, silencing any chance of more words being uttered, to inflict more pain, ravishing those lips and reveling in the taste that would never be duplicated, never be equaled, and never again be experienced - Jack's kiss, the essence of the surrender of Jack Twist, and the taste of a love never spoken or acknowledged, but real and vital nonetheless. Pulling away, and seeing the devastation in those incredible eyes and knowing that he had put it there.

Jack's mother's words echoed in his mind, repeating like the refrain of a sad song, and he knew exactly what she had meant. He had been there, after all, when it happened.

It was the last time he'd ever seen that face, except in the depths of his dreams, where it was always awaiting him, always looking at him with eyes in which the light of hope had flickered in that moment and gone forever dark.

He had seen death in Jack's face that day, and had forced himself to turn his back and drive away and leave him there, alone and empty. And lost.

Ennis sat in his truck as the evening deepened and violet shadows settled around him, gut-punched by the images that kept flashing in his mind, refusing to be ignored.

How could he do this? How could he ask . . . He put his head down on the steering wheel and searched for the right words.

He didn't find them.

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Not sitting on the front porch or relaxing on the swing after all. No. Mike was draped over the fence of the main stable-yard, chin braced on his crossed forearms when Ennis drove in, watching as his 18-year-old son, Ronnie, dismounted from a young sorrel filly, who was still frisky enough to resist the bit and resent her rider. When she would have nipped at the young man's fingers as he removed her bridle, Mike chuckled, and turned to meet Ennis' eyes.

"Low startle point," he observed.

Ennis refused to allow any more memories to surge into his mind; he'd endured enough of those already during this interminable day.

"Be firm there, Ron," Ennis called out. "But gentle. Let 'er know who's boss, but go easy. If she panics, it's no good fer nobody."

Ronnie's eyes - storm gray and thick-lashed and surprisingly dark under bright auburn hair - were wide with uncertainty as he reached up and wrapped his fingers into the horse's silver-white mane while the other hand stroked the warm softness from her throatlatch down to her chest.

"Don't be shy, Boy," Mike directed, his voice gruff and oddly tense. "She ain't no shrinkin' violet, an' pettin' her like she was a pussy is only gonna tell 'er that y'er scared."

Ennis glanced at Mike, and surprised a look of annoyance in ice blue eyes. "Y'er doin' fine with 'er, Ron, but don't push too hard. She's still skittish, jus' like she ought a be. Fresh broke don't mean spirit broke. Why don't ya jus' lead her around a bit, t' cool 'er off. Then take 'er in an' brush 'er down. In a week, she'll be eatin' out a yer hand."

Ronnie Stansbury looked up at Ennis, eyes suddenly soft with hope. "Ya really think so, Ennis?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Ennis saw that Mike turned away, rolling his eyes, but he ignored his partner's churlish behavior, and responded to the young man's question with a nod and a smile.

When youth and horse had moved away from the fence, Ennis turned to study Mike's face and didn't bother to hide his annoyance. "What the fuck's wrong with you?" he asked, his voice low-pitched and harsh. Night was falling swiftly, and Mike was only a paler shadow against the gloom - a blur of chambray work shirt and dark jeans and the Red Sox baseball cap he favored when he was doing chores around the ranch - but there was no mistaking the icy glint in eyes gone opaque and steely with suspicion, and Ennis was stricken by the sudden realization that the deep blue he had once compared to the lovely warm color of Jack's eyes had hardened over the years and grown colder.

Instead of answering Ennis' question, Mike turned and leaned back against the fence, and looked up the hill toward the entrance to the ranch. "Wondered how long ya was gonna hang around up there before ya decided a drive on in."

Ennis felt a flush creep up his neck and touch his face with uncomfortable warmth. "Jus' stretchin' m' legs."

"Uh-huh," Mike replied, obviously skeptical. "Two minutes from home, an' ya couldn't wait? Must a been a hell of a trip."

Ennis moved to the fence, and propped one booted foot on the bottom railing. "Yeah. You could say that."

Wordlessly, Mike moved up beside him, and assumed an identical position, pausing to light one cigarette, then another, passing one of the Marlboros over to his life partner, before settling in, his shoulder brushing Ennis' arm. "What happened, Ennis?"

"What makes ya think somethin' happened? Out a the ordinary, I mean?"

Mike turned and looked directly into Ennis' eyes. "You think I can't tell - in a skinny minute - when somethin's botherin' you? After all these years, ya think I don't know ya well enough t' scope it out when somethin's wrong? Sooo, ya gonna tell me, or are we gonna dance around it all night while ya figure out how t' say what y'er not sayin'?"

Ennis' only response was a sigh as he rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefingers and wished he could just find a quiet corner to disappear into.

"Jack Twist," snapped Mike. "That's what this is about. That's what it's always about. When are you goin' t' . . ."

It had been a long time - years even - since Ennis had lost control of his temper to the point of physical violence, but he had not forgotten the sensation of rage racing through his bloodstream like boiling steam. "Stop!" he said coldly. "Jus' . . ."

"When does it end, Ennis?" Mike interrupted, twisting his body and moving forward until he could brace his hands on the fence rail, creating a cage around his partner's shoulders. "How many years before you let 'im go? Before you understand that he . . ."

"He's dead, Mike," Ennis ground out through clinched teeth, suddenly overwhelmed with frustration and a silence held too long. "Dead. Dead, dead, dead. Ain't that enough fer ya? Do I have t' hate 'im too, before ya'll be satisfied?"

Mike recoiled, as if he'd been hit with a closed fist. "Hate 'im?" he echoed. "Is that what ya think I want from ya?"

"Ain't it?" Ennis almost snarled. "Ain't that what ya always wanted? Ain't that why we had t' . . "

"Had t' what?" Mike's voice was just a whisper.

But Ennis did not respond, lifting his eyes to stare off into the last flicker of sunset in the West instead of meeting his partner's gaze, and noticing then that Mike's son had gone stiff and frozen within the corral, his eyes wide with fear. He was too far away to hear what was being said, but it was obvious that he had heard enough to understand the hostility radiating from the two men.

'Had t' what?" Mike repeated, lunging forward and wrapping his arms around Ennis' shoulders and jerking him forward, barely managing to ignore the concern in Ronnie's expression and the near panic in his posture.

"Stop it, Mike," Ennis snapped. "Th' hands, Ronnie . . ."

Mike's chuckle was sharp and harsh. "Goddammit, Ennis! Ya think they ain't figgered it out b' now? We sleep in th' same bed an' ain't neither one a us been with a woman fer six years. I think they know we fuck . . ."

"Mebbe so," Ennis replied coldly, "but that don' mean we gotta flaunt it an' shove it in their faces. Ain't fittin'. Yer boy . . ."

"Is my concern." For a long moment, the two simply stared at each other, and Mike knew immediately that he'd made a mistake, but that it was too late to take it back. Finally, he felt a cold unease settle in his stomach. "You ashamed a me, Ennis? Ashamed a us?"

More anger flashed in dark amber eyes, although no verbal answer was forthcoming.

Mike took a deep breath, before stepping back and dropping his arms to his sides. "All right then. Have it yer way, but ya still ain't answered m' question. What is it y'er talkin' about - what we had t' do?"

Ennis still refused to meet the eyes of the man who had become the center of his existence, understanding that to do so might reveal more than he wished to share. "I saw 'im t'day," he whispered, barely able to summon the words. " He . . ."

"What?" Mike stumbled backwards, suddenly almost unable to summon up enough air with which to speak, as if he'd been sucker punched and left gasping. "What did you say?"

A strange deadly calm seemed to wrap itself around Ennis at that moment, enabling him to answer without inflection. "Fer jus' one minute, I saw 'im, an' I thought . . ."

He looked up then and watched as Mike's eyes filled with thick, writhing shadows, a miasma of anguish. "He's dead," came the whispered response. "You said he was dead. You promised . . ."

"I said it," Ennis answered, feeling tenderness swell within him as he realized how much pain he'd just inflicted on the person who had committed no sin except to love the man who had first been loved by Jack Twist, "an' it's true. He is dead, but I saw 'im jus' the same. Wasn't really him. Was 'is son, Bobby. But for jus' that one second . . ."

Mike turned away, and reached out to brace himself against the fence post, trying to suppress the tremor in his hands, and to find the breath to speak firmly. He glanced up to see Ronnie start toward him, and raised his hand, signaling the youth to keep his distance, before offering his response, his voice thick and heavy with grief. "He came back t' you. For jus' that moment. That's what you felt, wasn't it?"

Ennis nodded, unable to verbalize what was stirring in his heart.

It was Mike's turn, apparently, to be unwilling to meet his partner's eyes. Instead, he watched Ronnie lead the sorrel filly into the stable before speaking again. "An' you forgot everything else, didn't ya? Fer that minute, you forgot me."

"No." However loudly the voice inside him might insist that he concede the truth of those words, Ennis could not simply remain silent, and allow Mike to believe them. "No, I didn't ferget ya." His voice was suddenly gentle, and filled with remorse. "I'd never ferget ya, Darlin'. You know that."

"Then what . . ."

"I remembered him," Ennis admitted with a sigh. "Remembered everythin' that I'd let myself forget. An' realized somethin' I should a known."

"I don't . . ."

"I love ya, Mike, and I told myself, back when we first met, that th' only way fer me t' really love ya, t' really give myself t' you, was t' let 'im go. T' leave 'im in th' past an' turn 'im into somebody I used t' know."

For a while, neither of them said anything more, but both realized that the conversation had only just begun.

Mike crossed his arms, hugging himself against the falling chill of the evening, and looked down, eyes staring into nothing. "An' now?"

Ennis reached out and laid a gentle hand on his partner's shoulder. "Now," he answered, "I know I was wrong."

Mike moved suddenly, shrugging Ennis' hand off and stalking off into the darkness. "Y'er thinkin' about Brokeback," he called back over his shoulder, his voice strident with a wild mix of emotions that was threatening to overwhelm him. "Y'er thinkin' about what we did up there."

Ennis started to argue, but then he realized that it was useless to deny it. Even though he had resisted calling up and examining that memory, it was nevertheless right there, just beneath the surface of his mind - waiting.

Mike paused and turned back to study Ennis' face, peering through the growing darkness to read the expression in night-dark eyes. "Y'er wonderin' why, why it had a be that way."

But Ennis had said all he meant to say, for the moment, although they both understood that there was a larger issue here - a confrontation that they could not avoid for much longer. But both decided that they would turn away from it, for just a little while longer.

"Ya hungry, Amigo?" asked Mike, reaching out to touch his partner's chin. "Betcha didn't eat all day, did ya?"

Ennis sighed, consciously forcing his shoulders and torso to relax, and allowed himself to be coaxed toward the house, feeling a little bit like a coward for not finishing the conversation, but relieved just the same to put off the final conflict, for a little while.

"Come on, Ronnie," Mike called out, as they walked away from the corral. "Miss Cora ain't gonna be happy if supper gets cold on the table."

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Ennis sighed and resisted the urge to open his belt and let his stomach expand as it would. As she was sometimes wont to do, Cora had surprised him tonight, by anticipating his need for simple fare. In the past, she had joked, once or twice, that it was the Shoshone in her that sometimes allowed her to know things without being told. Ennis was never entirely sure if she was joking, or if there might be more than a grain of truth in what she said, but she had certainly put her intuition to good use on this occasion, providing exactly the type of robust food he needed: a hearty beef stew with spuds and carrots, baked beans - sweet and glistening with honey and molasses - deviled eggs and sliced tomatoes, and fluffy home-made biscuits, with a dessert course of bread pudding swimming in a rich, whisky-flavored sauce, all washed down with her special lemonade.

Ennis had watched with quiet amusement over the years as Mike had fought his battle against the tendency to bulge and counted himself lucky that he had never had to face that particular worry. And before Mike, there had been Jack, who . . .

He deliberately cut that thought off before it was completely formed, and concentrated on the way the light from the overhead light fixture struck sparks of gold from his partner's hair, which seemed to grow thicker and brighter with every passing year. Mike had aged well, he thought. At fifty-seven, he was still a ruggedly handsome cowboy, a bit better padded than when they'd first met, but still a fine figure of a man.

"Coffee, Mr. Ennis?" Cora rose from her seat at the table and cleared away the dessert plates, all scraped so clean that they barely needed washing.

"Don't know if I got room, Miss Cora," he answered, looking up into her serene face so characteristic of her people with its strong profile and cinnamon skin, smooth and almost unlined despite the years betrayed by the streaks of gray in ebony hair.

"Always room fer coffee," she replied firmly.

"Fer me too, Cora?" Ronnie's grin was borderline sassy.

"Guess I gotta admit it," she answered, with a theatrical sigh as she filled two cups from the old-fashioned, drip-style coffeepot waiting on the sideboard. "Eighteen means grown, I reckon. But you could still have more lemonade, if ya want it."

The boy flushed and nodded. "Guess I'll wait fer breakfast fer coffee."

"Good choice," she replied, her smile very gentle, as she handed Ennis and Mike their cups.

Ronnie accepted the lemonade refill gratefully, and drank as if he had not just finished a full three-course meal complete with a glassful with each course. "Hey, Ennis," he said, when the glass was half-empty, "gonna show my calf at the 4-H fair week-end after next."

"Good fer you, Bud," Ennis answered, saying exactly what the boy expected him to say, but it was obvious that he was only half-way paying attention. Ronnie looked puzzled, and glanced toward his father for enlightenment.

Mike hesitated, and was instantly annoyed with himself for being afraid to ask - and afraid not to. "Melanie's comin' in from Laramie that week-end too. You gonna be here fer that?"

Ennis' gaze was suddenly riveted to the surface of his coffee. "Reckon not. Got a . . . errand I gotta take care of."

Mike simply stirred his coffee for several long seconds, apparently weighing his response. "Errand, huh? What kind a errand?"

"Yeah, Ennis," Ronnie added. "I was hopin' ya'd be here t' . . ."

"Ronnie," Mike said quickly, "I'm jus' thinkin' that I fergot t' lock up the equipment shed. Would ya run out an' check on it fer me?"

"But I . . ."

"Now, please." His daddy's voice was firm, but not harsh.

The boy grumbled, but he went.

"I'll just go put the food away," said Cora Littletree. "Leave you two t' . . . whatever."

Mike smiled as she disappeared into the kitchen. "Smart woman," he observed.

"Yeah."

"What errand?"

Ennis took a deep breath before looking up to meet his life partner's eyes. "Gotta go back t' Brokeback, Mike. Gotta take Jack's ashes back, to the place he wanted t' be."

Mike nodded, once more playing with his spoon, something pale and skittish moving in his eyes. "Well, I guess I know now whut ya meant, don't I? About what we had t' do'."

Ennis nodded and managed a half-smile. "Guess ya do. Y'er a smart fella, Darlin', so I'm purty sure ya figgered it out."

"Ya figger we was trespassin' on sacred ground. Don't ya?"

Ennis flinched, knowing how hard it was for Mike to think of what they had done on the mountain as some kind of sacrilege. "I jus' don't understand why we had t' . . ."

"Do you know," Mike said sharply, "what you said t' me th' first time we were together?"

Ennis looked confused. "Reckon I said a lot a things, but . . ."

Mike's smile was rueful. "Ennis, ya ain't never said 'a lot a things' in yer life. Not even then. Not even when y'er comin' like a geyser."

Ennis tried to ignore the scarlet flush that was blooming in his cheeks. "Then what . . ."

"Ya said all the right things that night, almost. More than I ever expected ya would. But then, just as ya fell asleep, ya kind a tucked yer face into yer arm, and ya said, 'Night, Jack'."

Ennis felt a sudden rush of pain rise within him, knowing how much it must have hurt his companion to be called by that name. His voice was rough and heavy with remorse. "Aw, Jesus! Mike, I didn't . . ."

"Didn't what?" Mike interrupted. "Didn't mean it? Or jus' didn't mean t' say it out loud."

Ennis tucked his head and stared down at his own hands as they clinched and unclinched in his lap. "I don' know whut t' say. 'M sorry, Mike. Ya have t' know I didn't say it t' hurt ya. I . . ."

"You still do."

"Whut?" There was an edge of panic in Ennis' voice as his eyes widened, and he looked up to study his partner's expression.

"In yer sleep. Ya still call 'is name."

At that point, Ennis knew that there was nothing more that he could offer that would make any difference.

"Earlier," said Mike, rising to his feet and bracing his hands against the table, "ya asked me if I wanted ya t' hate 'im. If it wasn't enough that he's dead. Do ya really think that's why I insisted that we had t' go back t' that mountain, so that you'd learn t' hate 'im?"

"I don't know," Ennis said softly. "I don't think I ever knew. I tol' myself that I needed t' let go a all that him 'n me had - everythin' that we had together - but it never felt right t' me. I never was able t' believe that it was . . ."

With a sharp breath that was almost a sob, Mike turned and went to a small antique cabinet in the corner of the dining room and opened the bottom drawer, from which he extracted a small manila envelope.

Then he hesitated before turning to walk back to the table, his breathing uneven and his steps uncertain, as if he wasn't sure he was doing the right thing. Still, he moved forward and stopped just beyond Ennis' reach.

"I never hated 'im, Ennis," he said, barely audible. "An' I knew you never could. I even knew that he was th' only reason I was able t' have you. If you'd never lost Jack Twist, and if you'd never had 'im t' begin with, you'd a still been locked away inside yerself, alone an' miserable an' unable to admit t' what y' are. Whatever we have - the two a us - we have because a Jack Twist."

Then he opened the envelope and pulled out a single photograph, leaned forward, and laid it on the table in front of Ennis.

The silence in the room was suddenly thick and stifling as Ennis looked down and felt the world recede from his consciousness as he fell into eyes the color of a twilight sky, eyes unlike any other he'd ever seen.

"Where'd you get this?" he whispered, barely breathing, simply staring, afraid to touch the picture, afraid it would turn out to be nothing more than a mirage, a figment of wishful thinking.

"Wasn't that hard t' find," answered Mike, deliberately not noticing the expression on his partner's face. "Knew his name an' where he lived an' worked. Family was purty well known down there - lots a pictures in the local paper an' all. Wasn't hard t' git a copy."

Then he looked down and studied the face of Jack Twist, smiling gently and looking out from under the brim of a dark hat. "Had t' know what I was up against."

"All this time," said Ennis. "You had this all this time. While I lost 'im, little by little, you had this . . ."

Mike suddenly went to his knees and stared up into Ennis' eyes - eyes wounded and betrayed - and reached out to lay his hand against Ennis' chest. "Ya never lost 'im, Ennis. He's always been right here. And that's why I wanted t' go up t' Brokeback, not t' try t' blast 'im out a yer heart, but jus' to try t' find a little spot in there fer me."

Ennis continued to stare at the photograph, finally reaching out and touching its surface with trembling fingers. "Why didn't ya ever tell me?" he asked.

Mike stood and spent a moment gathering his thoughts, obviously unsure how to answer. In the end, he simply spoke from the heart - said the only thing left to say. "Because it ain't my way, I guess. After Ramona died, when I was finally able t' deal with it, I jus' decided that I wasn't gonna hide myself no more. Wasn't gonna pretend t' be something I wasn't and wasn't gonna let nobody stand in the way a what I wanted."

Ennis looked up, and read the desperation in his lifemate's eyes.

"An' what I wanted was you, Ennis. I couldn't stand the idea that he was always gonna be first in yer heart. I couldn't handle that. But, in the end, it didn't work. No matter what ya said, I always knew. Ya might live with me; ya might even love me, but he's the one in yer dreams. But he's dead, Ennis. Ya said it yerself. An' however bad ya might feel about what we did up there - however much ya think that ya betrayed 'im - the truth is that he's never gonna know it. He can't . . ."

"What if y'er wrong?" It was softly spoken, but it struck Mike with the force of a physical blow. "What if he can?"

"What . . ." Mike swallowed hard, trying to compose his thoughts. Trying to find the right words. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," Ennis replied slowly. "I'm not sure what I mean. I'm not sure of anything any more."

Mike stood for a moment, staring into Ennis' face and trying to read the shadows in his eyes. Then he turned and started to walk away, pausing when he reached the doorway, suddenly looking much older than his fifty-seven years. "I'm sorry, Ennis. I never knew it would hurt ya like this. I never would a . . . "

"I gotta do this, Mike," Ennis said gently. "I hope ya understand it, but, whether ya do or not, I got no choice."

Mike looked back at the man who was the center of his existence and nodded. "You comin' back?"

Ennis did not meet his gaze, choosing instead to lose himself once more in sapphire eyes. "Reckon I ain't got nowhere else t' go."

Mike seemed to sway for a moment, gripping the door frame for balance before squaring his shoulders and walking out of the room. Nothing between them was resolved, but he could tell himself that there would at least be time to strive to resolve it. It wasn't much comfort, but it was the best he could hope for, under the circumstances.

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Cora Littletree was more than seventy years old, although she was not sure just how much more. Born on the Wind River reservation during a time when records of native American births were poorly kept, and then orphaned at a young age, she knew virtually nothing of her family although she was a virtual repository of knowledge of tribal history. Barely past puberty, she had come to the ranch owned by George and Myra Trumbell - parents of infant twins Elizabeth and Ramona - looking for a way to support herself when the world was in turmoil and the country was on the brink of war - although it did not know it yet . More than fifty years later, she was still seeing to the needs of the members of the same family, Ronnie Stansbury and his sister Melanie being the only surviving descendents.

She had been nursemaid, nanny, chaperone, and constant companion to the Trumbell twins, old enough and strong enough to be able to help with their upbringing but still young enough to share and understand their hopes and dreams and joys and sorrows. She had bathed them, dressed them, tended their injuries, slapped their hands - as needed - and concealed their minor transgressions, and, in the process, come to love them as if they were her own blood. And, in time, she had mourned the premature death of Elizabeth when she'd succumbed to pneumonia at the age of sixteen. After that, she and the remaining twin had grown steadily closer, bonding ever more firmly until she had ceased to be a servant or an employee and become, instead, a surrogate sister and a beloved member of the family. Thus, when Ramona had given her hand in marriage to a tall, dashing young man from Colorado, a blonde, blue-eyed, Redford-esque cowboy wrapped up in all the romance of the breed, it was only natural for Cora to accompany the newlyweds to their new home on the new ranch carved out from a lovely section of the parents' spread, and continue her devoted service to the family, expanding her affections to include Ramona's new husband.

The marriage had been only a few months old when Cora had realized that Ramona's cowboy was both more - and less - than he seemed.

In time she had come to understand that Mike Stansbury had married Ramona in order to prove himself a man's man, to reject the sexual urges that society and his ultra-conservative, fundamentalist Christian family considered unnatural and to force himself into the mold of normalcy by committing to a wife and children.

His efforts would prove futile, of course, in that he was never able to divorce himself from his sexual identity, but he proved to be a devoted and caring husband to Ramona and a loving father to the two children they produced. Though his wife had never been the one true love of his life, she was a good gentle woman, and he honored her and protected her to the best of his ability. She had never known that her husband was homosexual, although Cora had known very early on. It was a condition the Shoshone woman had recognized quickly, as she had encountered it before, within her own culture, where it carried an even greater stigma than out in the white man's world. Together, husband and childhood companion had conspired to shelter his wife from the harshness of reality, and, in one way, his sexual preferences had proven to be a blessing; Ramona, though not actually sickly, was never exactly robust. As she had grown to maturity, she had seemed to tire more easily and grow more delicate; thus she never developed much of a sexual appetite. She loved her husband, but lacked the energy or passion to express it except on very rare occasions, and his ability to find release and satisfaction elsewhere proved fortunate for them both. At the same time, his discretion made certain that she would never be hurt by knowledge of his infidelities.

Still, Ramona was determined to be a good and dutiful wife to Mike, and to provide children to carry on the bloodline; thus there were occasions when she engaged in the art of seduction, to fulfill her duty and to demonstrate her deep and abiding love for her spouse. They had been married only a year when she discovered that she was pregnant.

When Melanie was born, the birth was traumatic for the slender young woman - so traumatic that her doctor believed she might not recover. Though she did survive, it was months before she regained any strength, and care of Melanie was left primarily to Cora, thus insuring that the bonds between the Indian woman and the Stansbury family grew even stronger.

At that time, Mike had sworn that there would be no more pregnancies, that he would not risk his lovely wife's life. But Ramona, though not physically hearty, was possessed of both a strong spirit and a stubborn streak. When Melanie was three, her mother set out to give her husband a son, and succeeded in luring him to her bed on a night when he had been working too hard and drinking too heavily.

Ronnie had been born just seven months later. Having been delivered by Caesarian Section, in a time when such procedures were rare and risky, he had barely survived; Ramona had not.

Mike Stansbury had spiraled down into a well of depression and remorse, spending years blaming himself for his wife's death while denying his own sexual appetite in the belief that she had died as a punishment for his sins. During that dark and trying time, his children were guarded and protected by the woman who had become such a major factor in all their lives.

Ultimately, Cora Littletree had proven her value to the family once again by rescuing Mike from the darkness into which he had retreated after losing his wife. She had cajoled and wheedled, manipulated and begged, bullied and browbeaten and - finally - forced him to realize that his purpose in life still existed; that Ramona might be gone, but her children required his presence and his active participation in their lives.

Thus, reluctantly, spurred by her relentless determination, he had begun to reach out again, to live again. And then, when Mike had finally decided to find a new place in which to raise his family and make a new start for them all, he had run head first into destiny, in the form of Ennis Del Mar.

Since that time, he had never tried to conceal who or what he was, although he had also never made a big issue of it. It was hardly common knowledge, but neither was it a closely kept secret.

Cora Littletree stood at the kitchen sink, looking up as Mike started up the back stairs, his head turned away so that she would not spy the suspicious brightness of his eyes. She stood there for a while, listening as he made his way upstairs to closet himself in his study - his private little cubbyhole. It was the place to which he always retreated when he had wounds to lick and hurts to heal.

She drew a deep breath and took a moment to organize her thoughts before going in to face the task that lay ahead of her. Cora had little formal schooling, but she had educated herself over the years, utilizing a keen natural intelligence and an innate thirst for learning until reaching a point at which she could discuss Nietzsche's philosophy and Plath's poetry with college student Melanie, or Bruce Springsteen's music and Michael Jordan's hook shot with Ronnie, or Louis Lamour novels and Brangus breeding techniques with Mike, or horse whisperer legends and stories of the Great Plains Indians with Ennis. She had accumulated a great store of knowledge in all manner of fields over the course of many years, but most of all, she knew the people to whom she'd devoted her life, frequently even better than they knew themselves. They were her family, and Ennis Del Mar was one of them, even though he had been the last to join the group and had been, in some ways, the hardest to get to know.

Ennis possessed a deep, defensive stillness that discouraged curiosity, and he concealed and guarded his old wounds with constant vigilance. But Cora saw them, probably because they were akin to some of her own - wounds that were buried under thick, ugly layers of scar tissue, though they remained fundamentally unhealed. Old wounds, old pains, old regrets.

Old - but still deadly.

She wiped her hands, and took a deep breath, knowing that it was time to take steps to try to unbreak what had once been mended, but was now broken again, fragmented by a force that had reached out of the past, wielded by a ghost that lived in Ennis Del Mar's heart.

He was still sitting at the dining table, staring down at a small photograph on its surface, his fingers wrapped around an empty coffee cup, when Cora sat down beside him. She reached over and picked up the picture, and gave herself time to study it.

"Oh, my," she said softly. "What a beauty!"

Ennis closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "Yeah. He was."

"Yours?"

For a moment, it seemed he might deny it - might fall back on old habits and revert to the Ennis Del Mar who was "not queer". But he didn't.

"Yeah. Mine."

She was quiet for a time, enjoying the lovely symmetry of the face in the photo. "Guess I can see why he's so scared."

Ennis blinked slowly, obviously thinking hard. "Scared? Who's scared?"

She looked up then, and read the confusion in his eyes. "Come on, Ennis. You know what I'm talking about."

"No, I . . ."

She shook her head and then nodded toward the oil portrait hanging over the sideboard - a pastel rendering of a woman with soft auburn curls, pearl-pale skin, and a tender smile. "Tell me something. Do you ever resent Ramona?"

The confusion deepened, took on elements of outright panic. "Resent Ramona?" he echoed. "Why on earth would I resent Ramona?"

She gave a little shrug. "Maybe because she was here first. Because she was actually married to Mike, which you can't ever be. And maybe because this . . . " She swept her hands out in an all-inclusive gesture. "All of this is her legacy. It was Ramona's family's money that paid for all of this. Mike was a lot like you, Ennis. Oh, he had a big family, all right, but not much else. Came from nothing. Had nothing, until he married her. And now, she's gone, and everything he has - everything the two of you have together - is because of what she left him. Considering all that, lots of men might feel threatened or diminished. Or resentful."

He looked at the portrait for a moment, noting the gentleness of soft gray eyes, before shaking his head. "Never resented her. Don't know why, but . . ."

"But I do," she interrupted, ignoring his twitch of annoyance. Ennis didn't care much for being interrupted, but she looked down again and identified the strong current of mischief in deep blue eyes, and she figured he'd probably had plenty of practice in dealing with it. "I do know why."

He heaved a deep breath, and she knew that he would have been happy to ignore her and to leave this conversation unfinished, but couldn't figure out how to manage it without being unforgivably rude. "OK, then. Why don't you tell me why you think I don't resent her."

"Because she wasn't the love of his life," she replied calmly. "Oh, he loved her, and he was good to her. He'd have had me to deal with if he hadn't been. But he never could manage to give her his heart. She never knew that, but I did."

She hesitated and waited until Ennis looked up to meet her gaze. "His heart was always yours. Even before he met you, even before he knew you existed. It was always waiting for you."

His eyes fell to the picture she still held in her hand. "But yours," she continued gently, "wasn't waiting, was it? Yours was already given, long before he came into your life."

Slowly, he leaned his head forward until his forehead rested on his clasped hands. "I don' know whut t' do, Cora," he whispered. "I love Mike. I do, but Jack . . . I can't even tell ya what Jack was t' me. An' now . . . "

"And now?" she prompted, when it seemed he had run out of words.

He stood abruptly and walked over to the window, to stare out into the darkness. "Jack died alone," he said in a voice that was, itself, almost lifeless, "because a me. Because I was too scared an' timid t' take the things he offered me. An' I thought I could jus' erase him out a my life an' start over. But . . . "

"But you couldn't," she continued for him. "He's still there - inside you. Isn't he?"

He turned then and studied her face. "Cora, do you believe . . . do ya think there's somethin' that goes on? After ya die, I mean."

She sighed. "Ennis, you're forgetting my Indian blood. The Shoshone are a very spiritual tribe, believing that the spirit always survives. That the flesh lives and dies in a tiny little pocket of time, but the essence of the person goes on, becoming a part of the elements of creation."

He nodded, but he didn't look very happy with her answer. "So ya think he's . . . "

"Is that what's worrying you, Ennis?" she asked. "You think he's standing around somewhere in the afterlife, looking down and condemning you for building a new life without him?"

He flinched away from the sharpness of her tone. "Mebbe. Mebbe he's . . ."

"Never figured you for the type that would fall for an asshole," she snapped.

"What?" His eyes widened and darkened with rage. "What do ya . . ."

"That's what he'd have to be," she continued, "to want you to spend your whole life wrapped up in grief and loneliness, just because he's gone. So, is that what he was?"

"No." There was no trace of uncertainty in his voice. "He was . . . just Jack. He gave me everythin' I was willin' t' take from 'im. An' would a give me more, but I couldn't let myself take it. I was too afraid."

She nodded then, and moved to stand beside him, reaching out to take his hand. "Then you know how Mike feels now. Afraid - only he's not afraid of what other people might think or do. He's only afraid of losing you; it's what he's always been afraid of."

"Cora," he said softly, "I gotta do this. I gotta take Jack's ashes back up to that mountain, even if it hurts Mike. I got no choice."

She sighed and squeezed his hand. "I know you do, Ennis, and - deep inside - Mike knows it too. But do yourself a favor, and do it for the right reasons. You do it, because the spirit of the man you loved so much deserves to be at peace. You do it out of love and respect for him, not out of guilt, because, if he's half the man you make him out to be, he forgave you a long time ago, and he wouldn't want you to live in misery. You do the right thing, and then you learn to forgive yourself. If he was the man you think he was, it's what he would have wanted for you."

"And Mike?" he asked, almost unable to face the prospect of inflicting pain on a man who loved him so deeply.

Her smile was gentle. "Mike will be here when you get back, no matter how much it hurts, and he'll know, in his heart, that it was the right thing for you to do. Even if he's never able or willing to admit it."

"You think he'll wait fer me?"

Her smile became a soft chuckle. "You think he won't?"

Ennis' smile was barely there, just a twitch of his lips as he turned away to gaze once more into the night, and Cora sighed, knowing that it was more than the dark landscape that he was seeing and wondering if he would find what he was looking for among the bright scatter of stars, or if he would have to wait to confront the dark shape of destiny, back up on that mountain.

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