Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction

Chapter Eight:

I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night
In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light,
In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space,
In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face.

I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me.
I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.

-- Every Grain of Sand
-- Bob Dylan

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The witching hour - as his mama had termed it - had long since come and gone and still, Ennis remained seated at his banged-up, scratched, and dented old desk in his crowded, narrow little office tucked away in the back corner of the feed barn. Around him, the ranch was silent, except for the occasional nicker of a horse or, once in a while, the far off howl of a coyote, and all was dark, except for the security lighting strategically placed around the compound and the pale glow peeking through the kitchen window of the big house, emanating from the small fixture over the sink, left on by Cora when she'd retired for the night.

Ennis had remained at the dining table for a long time, sitting, smoking, thinking, and looking down at the photograph of Jack. Sometimes just looking; sometimes unable to resist touching, running gentle fingers across the image of a well-remembered face, conjuring up the smell and taste and texture lost to him over the past twelve years, but recalled now. Renewed, reanimated. Almost reborn.

Ronnie had come back in from his contrived errand to the equipment shed, and lingered for a few moments in the doorway, obviously wanting to say something - anything - to break the awkward silence, but sensing that any words he might offer would be intrusive and unwelcome. Ennis had not spoken to him at all, but he had looked up and favored the boy with an apologetic smile, to let him know that the problem which had arisen between his father and his surrogate father was not of his own making. He'd gone upstairs then, and, moments later, a faint burst of music had erupted from his room - had been immediately dialed down and shifted into the throaty contralto of Alanis Morissette, and Ennis had wondered, for just a moment, if he was playing 'that' song again; the one that always drove Mike into a rant about 'what modern music was coming to'.

But he'd barely even registered the sound, and found that he really didn't care.

After a while, he had grabbed a Budweiser from the fridge and wandered into the den, switching on the television and trying to focus his attention on the Sunday night movie - an old black and white war story, in honor of the upcoming Memorial Day holiday no doubt, but his hand kept straying to the pocket of his shirt where he had tucked the photograph of Jack. The first couple of times he touched it, he'd actually given in to the urge to pull it out, and spend minutes staring down at it, before replacing it with infinite gentleness.

When the late news had come on, he had been surprised to realize that so much time had passed, and he'd then tried to focus on stories about the government's concerns over nuclear power development in Iran and demands for Palestinian autonomy in the Gaza Strip and the Burmese head of state preparing for a visit to Singapore, or even the eruption of forest fires in the northwest part of the state. But again, he'd been unable to summon up any real interest.

What difference did it make? What difference did anything make when he'd only just managed to recover something he'd long believed irretrievably lost?

What difference at all?

When he'd registered the faint sounds of his life partner emerging from his little study and making his way, with slow, heavy steps, toward the big bedroom at the back of the house, the one with knotty-pine paneled walls and sturdy, dark oak furniture and the big king-sized bed that they'd shared for the past four years, he'd suddenly found himself unable to sit still and contemplate the images those sounds called up in his mind. An abrupt tightening in his chest had forced him to realize that he needed to move in order to keep breathing.

The night air had revived him instantly, allowing him to throw off the creeping lethargy that had gripped and threatened to smother him, and he'd walked briskly to the barn, pausing only long enough to watch the light show as a fast-moving thunderstorm battered the mountains off to the northeast, while a sliver of moon played hide and seek with torn fragments of cirrus clouds directly overhead.

In his crowded little office, he paused in the doorway, before rejecting the harsh brilliance of overhead fluorescents and settling instead for turning on the little gooseneck desk lamp as he dropped into his battered old chair. The torn and faded leather upholstery, well-patched with strips of duct tape, conformed to his body perfectly, instantly familiar. Mike had been urging him for years to replace it with a newer, more luxurious model, but Ennis had been adamant in his resistance. The chair was old, certainly, and unimpressive, with a ragged, hard-used appearance, but it suited him well, and he felt no need to replace it simply for the sake of getting something new.

He leaned back and allowed his eyes to drift closed for a while, drawing deep, cleansing breaths and content to listen to the silence as he reached for balance, for a way to calm the kaleidoscopic whirl of emotions twisting inside him.

Serenity - or some small semblance of it anyway - did not come easily, but finally, tentatively, it did come to him, allowing him to clear his mind and live within the moment.

Only then did he allow himself to reach into his pocket and pull out the photo and set it down on the desk blotter before him, moving with exaggerated care, as if the picture were fragile and ethereal, as if it might vanish in a silent puff of smoke. The cone of light from the lamp formed a perfect oval around it, and blue eyes, perennially bright and remarkable, flashed even brighter, providing a perfect counterpoint to a barely-there smile that was no more than a tiny upcurling at the corners of that sensual mouth. The shadow of the black hat - always Jack's first choice - fell across his face as he looked up and out toward his right, dark lashes like a smudge against golden skin, and stubble, dark and sensual, covering his cheeks and chin.

Ennis opened his middle desk drawer and rummaged around until his fingers closed on the object he was looking for, an item which he seldom deigned to use, but which, at this moment, would prove to be worth its weight in gold.

The magnifying glass was old and tarnished and chipped on one edge, but it served the purpose for which it was intended admirably as Ennis, his near vision even worse at this point in his life than it had been in his youth, positioned it over the photograph and felt a sharp, visceral jolt, deep in his midsection, as the image swam into perfect focus.

Jack. His Jack. Wearing a familiar shirt - western cut, deep blue and black in a small checked pattern, with black stitching. And Ennis knew, immediately, approximately when the photograph had been taken. The shirt was the key. Jack had worn it on the first day of their visit to Don Wroe's cabin in November of 1974, and he had never worn it thereafter. Actually, never had a chance to wear it again, as it had gone mysteriously missing during that week.

Ennis lit a cigarette, and watched for a moment as thick spirals of smoke curled into the air above him, his eyes unfocused and almost black with pupils expanded against the dimness of the office. Then he pulled a square-shaped bottle from the bottom drawer of the desk and took a long pull, savoring the smoky-sweet tang of the whiskey as it warmed him from the inside out. Only then did he allow himself to look down once more, leaning his chin against his open hand, and letting the memory take him, as he submerged himself in the crystal depths of those incredible eyes that flowed like a timeless river, sweeping him back into realms of yesterday.

It had been one of the few times in all the years they'd been taking their 'fishin' trips' that Jack had been the first to arrive, but only because he had reversed the usual order of his journeys and gone to Lightning Flat first, before meeting up with Ennis. His father had suffered some kind of back injury and needed help with transferring a herd to winter pasturage, so Jack had gone up early to lend a hand, so Ennis - realizing that Jack would arrive before him - had made a point of telling Jack where to find the key to the cabin.

In addition, on the appointed date, Ennis had been delayed in his departure from Riverton when his younger daughter had taken a tumble from the steps of the Methodist Church and broken her collarbone. Most of the morning had been spent rushing her to the local clinic and waiting for results from x-rays, and then getting her and Junior and Alma all settled in at Alma's sister's house where they'd be staying until he came back from his trip. Alma had watched, tight-lipped and flinty-eyed, as he'd prepared to leave, obviously infuriated by his determination to go on with his excursion, no matter what, but unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing that it would be difficult for her to cope without him and how badly she wanted him to stay.

Her sister, Josie, and brother-in-law, Tommy, had watched as Ennis said his farewells, and neither of them had bothered to disguise the scorn with which they regarded his actions and his attitude. He had managed to ignore them, but only barely.

For a moment - a very fleeting moment - he had considered canceling and staying home. The clinic visit fees and the charges for x-rays and medication had been more than he could actually afford to pay, although he had paid them without protest to make sure Jenny would be all right, and time off from work would further stretch his meager resources, perhaps to the breaking point. But, ultimately, he could not bring himself to give up the week he had been waiting for since mid-summer; the week that was his reward - pretty much his only reward - for the hardship and loneliness he endured through all the days he spent alone. Alone - although he rarely knew real solitude - but he was always alone in his mind and in his heart any time he was without Jack.

He could easily have given up the camping and the hunting and the fishing (such as it was) and the stay in Don Wroe's cabin and the return to the mountains; what he could not give up . . . was Jack.

By the time he turned into the narrow, winding dirt road that curled up the side of the broad mountain to end at the meadow where the rough, stone cabin was located, it was late afternoon, and the sun had begun its descent, pouring out red-gold light across the snowfields that blanketed the rough crests of the Big Horns, while the shadows of the lodge pole pines had created a tunnel of lavender gloom through which Ennis drove his old two-tone pick-up, pulling a rusted and battered horse trailer behind it . As he rounded a curve, a break in the trees lining the side of the road revealed a plume of white smoke rising from further up the mountain, and he could not quite suppress a tiny smile to see the visual evidence that Jack had arrived before him.

Very shortly, he would have good cause to be far from pleased about the smoke trail.

The truck of that year, parked on a graveled apron that fanned out to a broad stretch fronting the cabin, was deep maroon red, and it was - surprisingly - the same one that Jack had driven on his last two trips north. It was usually in September that the Childress Twists traded for new vehicles, but Jack had developed a certain fondness for this particular Ford pick-up, which might have had something to do with the way the two young men had initiated it into their unique private little world back during the early spring, when they had been unexpectedly stranded by a sudden flash flood and forced to spend a full night huddled up within the dark little shelter provided by the camper top that covered its bed. Jack had pledged - in a moment of sweet, boneless fulfillment - that he was going to have the truck bronzed as a memento of the record number of times they'd come together - and cum together - during that long, wet night.

Ennis emerged from his old F150, and grinned to note that the truck wasn't bronzed, but it hadn't been traded in either.

He stretched his arms over his head and felt the satisfying pop of muscles and tendons wound tight from too many hours behind the wheel (and too many months with little more than his own hand for company) and looked around, hoping to spot a slender figure wrapped tight in dark denim, long legs, ending in dark boots, propped against any available horizontal surface, wearing a smile bright enough to rival the sun on a face beautiful enough to stun the senses.

He paused suddenly, thunderstruck by a memory. Beautiful? Could it be that it had been more than ten long years since he had first examined that question? Since he'd first faced the possibility of it, when he'd astonished himself by thinking of Jack as 'pretty' before realizing that 'pretty' was a ridiculously weak term for what Jack truly was? Could it really be that long, and was it still true after all this time? Was that really the word he still wanted to use to describe Jack Fuckin' Twist?

Because it didn't actually apply. Did it? Was Jack really beautiful, or was it just that Ennis saw him that way? Feature by feature, was he truly beautiful?

Long muscled legs, big strong hands, soft dark hair, golden skin? Sculptured lips, bluer-than-blue eyes . . . OK, forget the lips and the eyes. No point in even debating those particular features or the perfection of that luscious ass or . . . He felt a tightening in his chest, of a breath caught and held, as he realized that he still did not know how to best describe how he saw Jack, how he would explain . . .

Ennis went stock still for a moment, coming face to face with an elemental truth he only rarely allowed himself to see. In the final analysis, it didn't matter if Jack would be considered beautiful by anyone else; it only mattered that - through Ennis' eyes - the beauty was pure and flawless and undeniable. And then he remembered the times - few and far between but unforgettable for all that - when Jack had used that same word, murmuring it in the form of a verbal caress, a gentle breath in the night, a whispered prayer, as they lay together sated and spent, just before sleep would creep in to steal consciousness away.

Beautiful! And he felt a small, tentative smile touch his lips. Could it be - maybe - that the word was only fully appropriate to describe what they were together; the sum of their parts?

The smile became a grin as he imagined how Jack would respond to such a thought - with unbridled laughter.

He resumed his walk toward the cabin, eyes searching, anticipating the bright shout of greeting, the rush forward with outstretched arms, the impact of that strong, hard body.

Yet still, no Jack. No greeting. No . . .

He paused again as he heard a voice stirring on a rising wind, followed by a rhythmic thunking sound, threading through the distinctive twang of a guitar accompaniment.

He grinned and prepared to go into stealth mode - to sneak around the house and catch Jack unawares as he chopped firewood while listening to the local country music station. It was only rarely that such an opportunity arose, since Jack was usually hyper-alert for any sign of Ennis' arrival, but this time . . .

"Likened to no other feel,
Summer love is simple true.
There's no end to what I'd do
Just because you asked me to."*

The voice was unmistakably that of Waylon Jennings, one of Ennis' favorites, and Jack seemed to be singing along. Or was he just talking along? Or . . .

Another thunk of the axe, followed by a sharp cry, hastily bitten off.

"Shit! Son of a . . ."

And another voice - deeper, unfamiliar, urgent. "Here. Lemme see that. Y'er bleedin' like . . ."

"What the fuck's goin' on here?" Ennis' voice was harsh, almost a bark as he came around the corner of the cabin, and saw Jack crouched on one knee, his left hand braced against the side of his neck with the bright scarlet of fresh blood swelling around it, and a second man - tall and well-built and dressed in the distinctive tan and green of the forest service - leaning over him, trying to pull his hand free to better examine the source of the bleeding.

"Ennis." Jack's voice was unsteady, faint.

"Flying wood chip," said the stranger by way of explanation as he lifted Jack's chin to get a better view of the wound. "I'll just . . ."

"I'll handle it," snapped Ennis, moving in fast and wrapping his hands around Jack's biceps to pull him free of the forest ranger's grasp. Jack was slightly damp, wearing only his dark blue and black checked shirt and jeans. No coat, although the afternoon was chilly, but chopping firewood was always a sweaty job, and he had obviously discarded his jacket for better ease of movement. It had made the task easier, but left him more vulnerable to the kind of flying debris that had gouged out a chunk of the soft flesh under his jaw.

"Got a first aid kit in my saddle bag," said the man, nodding toward the back of the lot where a big chestnut gelding was tethered to a tree branch.

"I said," Ennis snapped, "that I'll handle it."

The stranger turned and met Ennis' gaze directly, for the first time, and Ennis was surprised to look into eyes almost as blue as Jack's under hair almost as dark. "No problem," he said, his voice a rich, deep baritone. "Part a my job t' be prepared fer stuff like this."

With a jerk that was less gentle than it might have been, Ennis tugged Jack toward him and sank to his knees to get a good look at his companion's injury. "No need," he insisted sharply. "We got it."

Jack looked up then, and Ennis felt a swift urge to flinch away from the look of irritation in those sapphire eyes. "Dammit, Ennis!" It was barely a whisper, but it was laced with anger. "Stop actin' like a fuckin' asshole."

"Fuck you, Twist." Also a whisper, and just as angry. Ennis bared his teeth in a near snarl before surging to his feet, leaving Jack off balance and struggling to rise without assistance.

"Ennis Del Mar," said Jack sharply, still trying to wipe blood off his throat, "this here's Ben McCullough. He was up in the fire tower on the ridge over there and saw smoke comin' from the cabin, so he rode over t' check it out."

Ennis confined his greeting to a stiff nod, his jaw clenched tight with resentment.

McCullough spent a moment studying Ennis' expression, before replying in kind. "Jus' doin' my job. Ain't seen nobody around this place in months." But something in his tone and in a muted glint in his eyes, said that he had seen more than might meet the casual eye; seen something that made him want to smile. He managed to stifle the urge, but only barely, and it didn't really make any difference as Ennis saw it anyway, causing him to shift uncomfortably, as Waylon fell silent, and a different voice rose softly to offer up a new ballad.

"I'll be getting' along then," said the ranger, with a friendly smile for Jack and a terse nod for Ennis. "I'll be around if you boys need anything."

Jack shuffled his feet, looking embarrassed, and wondered if he should offer an apology for Ennis' boorish behavior. But he didn't want to compound the problem by making Ennis any madder than he already was, so he chose to remain silent.

For his part, McCullough glanced from one to the other, the speculative gleam in his eyes growing brighter. Then, when the speculation shifted and became a hard glint of certainty, he stepped forward and reached out to run his fingers over the collar of Jack' shirt. "Got some splotches a blood there, Buddy. Might want a take it off, an' soak it to . . ."

Ennis stepped forward quickly, nudging Jack aside, and pointedly cleared his throat and spat, allowing actions to speak louder than any words could have. Jack, now red-faced with mortification, elected to express his thanks with a nod before moving away to retrieve the axe he had dropped when the wood chip gouged into his throat. McCullough simply smiled, but as he turned to depart, the music swelled on the radio and a single phrase was suddenly sharp and clear in a moment of crystalline silence.

"No one knows what goes on behind closed doors."**

The ranger paused and turned back to look directly into Ennis' face as a slow smile touched his lips, never reaching his eyes. "Nice song," he remarked, so softly that only Ennis heard it. Then he winked and continued on his way.

It was certainly not the first time in his life that Ennis had been rendered speechless, but it was surely one of the most infuriating. He watched Ben McCullough mount up and ride away, sitting tall and easy in the saddle, as if born to it. Which he probably had been. Ennis knew that it was petty and childish to wish that the horse would shy away from a gopher hole or some other unexpected obstacle on the ground and toss its rider on his head, but he wished it anyway.

No such luck.

He turned to glare at Jack, content with the realization that the primary target for his rage might be beyond his grasp, but the consolation prize was standing right in front of him, cocky and insolent and full of sass . . . and beautiful.

And still bleeding.

Wordlessly, roughly, Ennis grabbed Jack by the front of his shirt and drove him back onto the narrow back porch of the cabin and into its dim interior, his eyes busy devouring that sculpted face and noting that Jack was heavily stubbled - obviously hadn't shaved for days. Another reason to give his anger free rein. Jack knew better, knew that Ennis preferred him close-shaved and stubble-free.

Jack, after an initial moment of shock and resistance, allowed himself to be manhandled, his lips curled in a knowing smile as mischief sparked in his eyes. "What's a matter, Cowboy?" he asked as Ennis kicked the door shut behind them. "Ya got a problem ya need some help with?"

"Yeah," snapped Ennis. "I got a big problem. Got a shithead name a Twist that's gettin' too goddamned big fer 'is britches. What's that shit on yer face, Boy? An' how come I git here an' find ya moonin' over that big dickhead?"

Jack laughed, and Ennis felt the rage boil through him. Blindly, unable to stop himself, he reached out and shoved Jack - hard. Hard enough to send him reeling to smash against the cabin wall, and Jack Twist - ordinarily easygoing and laid-back - was suddenly every bit as angry and infuriated as Ennis, but with the added indignation of having been wrongly accused.

He sprang toward Ennis, rage like a flame in his eyes, and pushed, propelling them both into the cabin's main room to fetch up against the edge of the massive fireplace with the roaring fire blazing just inches away. "That dickhead, in case ya didn't notice, was jus' bein' neighborly. Don't mean nothin', Ennis. Except that you got it in yer head that ever' man that comes near me is out t' poach on yer territory, an' that I must be some kind a cock-hungry slut that cain't get enough and cain't resist any pecker that comes my way." He paused and spent a moment fighting to control his rage - and losing. He then reached down and grabbed his own crotch. "Well, lemme clue you in, Cowboy. This ain't no pussy. An' I ain't no sweet li'l gal that ya can push around like y'er some kind a lord an' master an' ya need t' . . ."

Ennis, struggling to contain his own fury, finally put a stop to the tirade in the only way he could think of. He covered that smart mouth with his own - hard and grinding and demanding - and forced himself to ignore the burn of stubble against his skin. No camouflaging this time; no way to pretend that this was some soft, pliable female melting under his kiss.

When Jack wrenched free and stepped back, Ennis was almost overwhelmed with a momentary sense of loss. "He knew," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Jack frowned. "Who . . . knew what?"

"Yer new buddy," snapped Ennis, stepping closer and trying to unclench his fists. "He knew . . . about us. He fuckin' winked at me, Asshole. Now how would he . . ."

Jack's insolent grin was like a slap in the face. "Did it ever occur t' you, Ennis," he drawled, "that guys might pick up on the fact that y'er so jealous y'er almost pea green with it?"

That thought brought Ennis up short, and his eyes grew wide and were suddenly filled with some emotion that Jack couldn't quite identify. "Ain't . . . jealous."

Jack's grin became a laugh, with a distinct sneering quality. "Goddamn, Ennis! Ya don't really 'spect me t' b'lieve that, do ya? Ya might not say it much, but it don't take one a them rocket scientists t' figure it out."

"What the fuck ya talkin' about, Jack?"

Deep blue eyes were suddenly pensive and filled with shadows. "Ya really don' know, do ya?"

"No, I don' know. Ain't never said I was . . ."

"You remember back in the spring," Jack interrupted, "we got t' talkin' about football and such? An' I was tellin' ya about meetin' Joe Namath in Dallas year before last when I went down there fer a John Deere convention an' how a bunch of us wound up goin' out an' havin' a drink with 'im. An' I mentioned how big he was, an' how he told all them dirty jokes, an' how I thought he was a good-lookin' SOB. Remember?"

"Hell, no," snapped Ennis. "Ain't like I remember ever' thing ya say, ya know. Ain't nobody got a memory like that, seein' how ya don' never shut up."

But Jack knew better, knew full well that the conversation had not been forgotten. "Ya went all quiet on me," he continued, then quirked a tiny smile. "Even more'n usual. An' then, the next thing I knew, you was all over me. Like t' fucked me into the ground that night. Remember?"

"Thought that was what we did ever' night," came the mumbled reply.

The tiny smile grew wider. "Yeah, but not like that. An' then - jus' when I was 'bout t' explode, ya started t' whisper, so soft I don't even think ya meant fer me t' hear it. But I did hear it, Ennis."

"Hear what?" There was a huge measure of defiance in the two words, but it covered an equal measure of uncertainty.

Jack stepped back again, and crossed his arms, effectively closing himself off from any renewal of intimate contact. "Ya said, 'This is mine, Jack Fuckin' Twist. This is mine.' Remember?"

"No."

For a full minute, Jack was silent, just studying Ennis' expression. Then he nodded. "All right then." And he turned and moved away, calling back over his shoulder. "Reckon we ought a unload th' horses?"

Ennis sighed and offered up a silent prayer of thanks that Jack had decided to drop the subject.

"All right. Gonna be cold as a witch's tit tonight, I reckon, but there ought a be some hay in the barn fer 'em."

Jack walked over and opened the front door, shrugging into his coat as he moved. "Oh, by the way," he called back just before walking out onto the front porch, "ain't shavin' neither."

"What?" Ennis was caught off guard, wondering where the defiance he heard in that simple announcement had come from.

Jack turned and met Ennis' gaze squarely, and there was no mistaking the spark of sheer malice in his eyes that was almost bright enough to disguise the glint of pain it was designed to cover. "If ya want a pretend it's some pink and prissy little girl y'er kissin'," he said firmly, "y'er gonna have t' figger out another way."

He walked out then, leaving Ennis to try to regain the breath he'd lost as his man spoke and reflecting that, when it came to sucker punches, Jack Twist could give as good as he got.

Four hours later, when they'd seen to the horses and shared a bottle of Old Rose and a meal of rare steaks, and when Jack had allowed Ennis to make up for 'actin' like a fuckin' asshole', as Jack put it, in the only way he knew how - by using every ounce of skill and experience and knowledge gleaned from the years they'd spent learning about each other to drive Jack to multiple orgasms that left him limp and semi-conscious, Ennis savored the chance to hold his lover - boneless and gilded by the reflection of firelight - and gaze down at the face that he saw every night in his dreams; the face that would always - for him - define 'beautiful', stubble notwithstanding.

Later, moving very quietly and leaving Jack to snuggle down into the softness of quilts and covers - a luxury they would enjoy very few times over the years - Ennis slipped out of the bed and retrieved Jack's shirt from the floor. He stood for a moment, his fingers rubbing at the spots of dark blood that marked the collar, noting the silkiness of the fabric and the fine detailing of the stitching and figuring - correctly - that it had probably cost a pretty penny. He paused to recall the look on Ben McCullough's face; then, silently and very deliberately, he dropped the shirt into the fire and watched as it was reduced to ashes.

Moments later, with a sigh of deep satisfaction and only the slightest twinge of guilt, he went back to bed and took careful, loving possession of that which - above all else - belonged to him and him alone.


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

Slowly, irrevocably, tears welled in Ennis' eyes and trailed down his cheeks, dripping finally onto hands that still clutched the photograph that had ignited the memory. He remained seated for a while longer, dwelling in a montage of remembered images, a series of snapshots of moments frozen in time and captured in his mind, once lost and now recovered.

A distant rumble of thunder roused him from his musings, and he got to his feet, moving slowly in deference to muscles and sinews stiffened from sitting motionless for too long, and walked to the corner of the office where a narrow door covered a small storage closet. The hinges squealed a shrill protest when Ennis pulled the door open, and the air within was stale and thick with dust. Except for a couple of old ponchos and some rubber boots, the little cubicle was almost empty, and a narrow set of shelves held only a scattered selection of odd tools, a box of worn work gloves, and a couple of bridles, in need of mending. That was the entire list of contents.

Except . . .

For one cardboard box, plastic-wrapped and sealed tight, tucked into the back of the top shelf, beyond the reach of prying eyes and exploring hands.

Ennis retrieved the square carton, wiping a thick layer of dust from the top of it, and returned to his desk where he placed it in the exact center of the blotter. Then he sat down again, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Ready . . . and not ready.

Finally, growing impatient with his own dithering, he fished a pocket knife out of the desk drawer and sliced through the tape that formed an air-proof shield around the lid.

His hands were trembling when he finally opened the box.

They were exactly as he'd left them when he'd closed the box the last time. Could it really be four years ago?

Slowly, with the reverence he knew was appropriate to the moment, he lifted the two nested shirts from their bed of tissue paper and dropped the empty box to the floor, never taking his eyes from the dark stains that marked the sleeves of both shirts. Then he draped the garments, very soft now and faded with age, across the blotter on his desk before leaning forward and inhaling deeply.

He wanted to believe - tried to believe - that there was something left in the shirts, some tiny trace of Jack. But he knew better. The only scent that remained in the fabric was a faint whiff of mustiness - the same smell he had inhaled inside the tiny old closet tucked under the eaves in Jack's childhood bedroom. Of Jack himself - the distinctive scent that was uniquely Jack, that always spoke of summer and long days spent in the saddle - nothing remained. Nothing but memory. The look in those gem-toned eyes when Ennis, reeling with need and anguish, had struck out in blind fury, hating life and time and duty and - yes, hating Jack too, for opening doors that must now be relocked and left behind; it was a moment that he had never quite managed to forget or deny. He had lied to himself for many years, claiming that he didn't know what that look meant.

He had known. All along, he had known.

Jack's heart had broken that day, for the first time. But not for the last.

He gently wrapped both his hands in the fabric of the two shirts, and buried his face within the folds.

"Jack." It was no more than a whisper. "What have I done, Bud? What have I done?"

He sat for a long time, weeping in silence, his anguish too deep to be vocalized.

Finally, he leaned back and straightened the shirts, before standing to retrieve a hanger from the top of an old metal cabinet. With great care, he arranged the shirts on the hanger, the deep blue denim of Jack's shirt tucked protectively inside the pale plaid of his own.

Then he hung them on a peg on the wall by his desk, adjusted them so that they were hanging perfectly straight, and spent a moment just looking at them.

He drew a deep breath finally, turned off the desk lamp and started toward the door. Then he stopped and looked back, and saw the shape of the shirts in a shaft of weak moonlight streaming through the office's only window. They were nothing more than a shadow, but they were huge in his mind, filling him with an old, familiar, bottomless ache.

"Jack," he whispered, "I swear . . ."

He did not know, at that moment, exactly what he was pledging. He only knew that something in his life had changed; something within himself had changed, and there would be no going back.

He understood suddenly that he still had promises to keep.

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

*You Asked Me To -- Billy Jo Shaver, Waylon Jennings

**Behind Closed Doors -- Kenny O'Dell

 

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