Chapter Nine

You can spend your whole life building
Something from nothing;
One storm can come and blow it all away.
Build it anyway.

You can chase a dream
That seems so out of reach
And you know it might not ever come your way.
Dream it anyway.

You can love someone with all your heart,
For all the right reasons,
And in a moment they can choose to walk away.
Love 'em anyway.

You can pour your soul out singing
A song you believe in
That tomorrow they'll forget you ever sang.
Sing it anyway.

I sing, I dream, I love . . . anyway.

-- Anyway -- Martina McBride/Brad & Brett Warren

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The first two weeks of June were warmer and wetter than usual in central Montana, and the wranglers who worked the Busted Flush ranch, often toiling from sun-up to sundown and even beyond - as needed - endured the heat and humidity with less than their customary nonchalance. It was not a month like other months, and everyone who lived and worked there sensed that all was not as it should be. The days seemed longer than usual, and tempers seemed shorter, as towering thunderstorms lumbered across the prairie every afternoon, like great monolithic beasts caught up in a migratory pattern. Yet, the atmosphere of gloom and uncertainty that seemed to hover over the ranch had little to do with the weather or the physical discomfort it caused, and everything to do with the thunderous expressions and sullen attitudes of the two men at the top of the ranch's pecking order.

Though the overall operations of the ranch continued unabated, there was a series of minor incidents - a brief physical altercation between two drovers, an accident involving improper use of a tractor, a quickly contained barn fire resulting from a carelessly tossed cigarette, other small incidents that meant little in themselves but added to escalating stress levels - all symptomatic of a lingering malaise that had no official source or definition, and no easy cure. And to a man, the ranch hands all subscribed to the philosophy of life that was almost universal among those born to a hard scrabble existence: shit always rolls down hill.

Since their purchase of the ranch some four years earlier, the owners had adhered to a carefully structured division of responsibilities, designed to capitalize on the strengths of each of the two men. While Mike Stansbury had a good head for business and an instinctive understanding of the intricacies of finance, along with an affinity for the wheeling and dealing aspects of trade and negotiation, Ennis Del Mar was the quintessential cowboys' cowboy, who was guided by the elementary rhythms of ranch life, possessed an intuitive understanding of the strengths, weaknesses, and needs of the various breeds of ranch animals, and combined a fundamental sense of fair play with a no-nonsense approach to getting the job done which enabled him to run the ranch crew with a sure hand. While Mike was frequently away on short business trips, Ennis' presence at the ranch was almost constant, and he demonstrated early and often that he would never expect one of his men to perform a task that he himself was above doing. Times were tough and patience often stretched to its limit, but, all in all, the relationship between hands and honcho, as he was termed, was strong and steady.

In previous years, Mike and Ennis had made a point of setting aside several weeks in the month of September to travel around the country, visiting various cattle auctions and horse shows, and taking in the sights of some of the more spectacular areas of the mountain states and even up into southern Canada. Thus, the ranch hands were accustomed to the absence of the owners during the late summer and early fall; at all other times of the year, however, the routine was entirely predictable. Ennis was almost always to be found out and about at the ranch, taking a direct, hands-on approach to the physical labor involved in the daily operations, while Mike spent the majority of his time in the main office, situated in a small building adjacent to the ranch house, sitting behind a huge executive desk while carrying on the administrative oversight involved in running a successful ranching conglomerate.

The first major variation from the norm occurred on the last Tuesday in May when Mike Stansbury drove away from the ranch, after tossing a couple of over-stuffed suitcases into his truck and announcing that he would be back "in a couple of weeks or so" and arranging for Ronnie to go to spend a few days with his grandparents. This followed a Memorial Day which was unusually quiet, when Ennis Del Mar spent most of the day riding fence among the foothills along the ranch's northern boundary while Stansbury took Ronnie and drove down to Winnett to mingle and do some informal business with other ranchers at a big barbeque given by the cattlemen's association.

Father and son had returned late to find that everyone had already retired for the night.

What did - or did not - happen that night in the privacy of the ranch house's master bedroom was something that no one would ever know or try to learn, but the next morning, the Stansburys were gone just after sunrise, and well before Cora had a chance to do anything more than prepare coffee and toast for them, leaving her with no opportunity to speak to Mike, to say the things she thought needed saying.

Then, when Ennis failed to appear for morning chores on three different days of the first week in June, the foreman - a grizzled, weathered, sharp-featured veteran named Jerry Farrell, who had spent his entire adult life at the ranch - shrugged off the questions of the rest of his crew, and went about his scheduled work without comment. But beneath his stoic exterior, he knew intuitively that trouble was brewing on the horizon, and he spent a lot of time that day staring off toward the storm clouds rising in the western sky, his deep-set eyes unfocused and thoughtful.

When Ennis did eventually return from his mysterious errands, driving in sometime in the afternoon, he was even more taciturn than usual, pitching in as always to finish necessary tasks, but communicating little and spending a lot of time closeted in his own little office in the back corner of the feed barn. No one had any idea what he might be doing in there, as he ordinarily used the space for nothing more than stashing away breeding records and veterinary charts on the herds, but when Pop Cal, who had been the chuckmaster/cook for the ranch hands for as long as anyone could remember, took it upon himself to intrude on Ennis' privacy under the guise of needing to talk about replacing the old propane tank at the bunkhouse, he learned nothing useful, reporting back to the foreman that he'd found Del Mar just sitting at his desk, staring off into space, or - actually - at the wall beside his desk, if a person wanted to be precisely accurate. Cal had been startled to realize that his entrance into the little room had gone completely unnoticed by its only occupant, until he'd cleared his throat to snag Ennis' attention, and Pop Cal Tripplehorn, at six foot three, two hundred and eighty pounds, was not easy to miss. To observe that Ennis was distracted would have been a gross understatement.

That evening, the two old-timers leaned against the corral fence, arms braced against its top railing, and looked off up toward the northeast where the last remnants of the day's thunderstorms were spending themselves against the craggy mountain peaks.

"Whut a ya think?" grunted Cal, his words garbled by the plug of tobacco in his mouth, as he took off his battered old Stetson and wiped beads of sweat from his rapidly expanding bald spot with his sleeve.

Farrell drew a deep drag of his cheroot and took the time to blow out a couple of near-perfect smoke rings before answering. "Dunno, but always figgered somethin' like this might happen one a these days. Never knowed two fellers that made it together - like them two -'thout one 'r th' other havin' t' be top dog."

The cook frowned. "Always thought there already was a top dog. Del Mar never seemed t' care, one way 'r t' other. Jus' went along with whatever Mike wanted, didn't 'e?"

Farrell shrugged. "Reckon somethin' must a come up that made 'im change 'is mind. I figger it's th' quiet ones that'll surprise ya sometimes. Mebbe he jus' hadn't ever found somethin' he cared enough about t' raise a fuss over - til now."

Cal nodded. "In th' old days, used t' be ever'body'd pretend not t' notice this kind a thing. Think it might a been better that way."

Farrell sighed. "Better fer ever'body else, mebbe. Might not a been better fer th' two a them, though."

"You know lots a fellas . . . like them?"

The foreman grinned. "Yeah, and so d' you. Just might not a figgered 'em all out. Gits mighty lonesome ridin' herd, Cal."

The old cook laughed. "Yeah. Guess y'er right. Remember Kenny Duffey? Don' think hardly anybody ever guessed about 'im and that Caswell kid."

Farrell nodded. "I remember. Caught 'em once, out at Pilgrim's Creek. They was s'posed a be lookin' fer strays."

"Ya fire 'em?" asked the cook, after aiming a gob of dark saliva at the fence post.

"Nah." The foreman lifted one hand and slapped at a horsefly that was buzzing too close. "Jus' made some noise so they'd hear me an' break it up, so that they was all back together by th' time I rode up. Never saw no reason t' cause trouble fer 'em, jus' cause a what they like t' do with their peckers. They was good hands, fer th' most part."

Both fell silent for a while. Then Cal turned and studied Farrell's angular profile. "This . . ." He paused and gestured vaguely toward the ranch house. "This bother you any?"

Farrell shook his head. "Wouldn't be here if it did, would I?"

"You understand it?"

"Nope." The foreman dropped his cheroot and ground it out with his boot heel. "Never did. But I reckon I don't need a understand it. Lots a folks say it ain't natural, and maybe they're right. But I figger it like this: long as it don't hurt me none, why's it any a my business?"

Cal nodded. "Sounds right."

"Good people," added Farrell, and Cal grunted his agreement, echoing the attitude of most of the other ranch hands - men who lived a hard, harsh life and cared more about being treated fairly and honestly than about the personal lives of the men who paid their wages.

A burst of laughter erupted from the bunkhouse where a bunch of the men were gathered around an old table-model television, and the cook gave vent to a little burp, followed by a satisfied sigh, as he let his hands fall to rest against his prominent abdomen. "Good dinner tonight," he observed, always glad to call attention to his own culinary achievements - real or imagined.

"Good enough," replied Farrell, suppressing a grin. It was always better to keep Cal just a little bit off balance and anxious to prove himself. "Pork chops was a li'l tough."

Cal opened his mouth to dispense a few colorful cuss words, but swallowed them unspoken when he noticed the curl at the corners of Farrell's mouth. "Reckon that's why ya only ate three."

"Yup."

Again the two fell silent, and a fresh breeze sprang up, whistling around the eves of the stable. "You reckon they'll straighten this out?" asked Cal finally, nodding once more toward the ranch house.

"Dunno," Farrell answered after a pause. "Hope so. Reckon the ranch'll still be here, no matter if one a them ain't. But it's all goin' about as good as it ever gets, an' I'd sure hate t' see it all turn t' shit."

Cal smiled. "That why the Garvey brothers ain't aroun' no more?"

The foreman nodded. "Somehow, it jus' didn' feel right t' me fer a couple a half-assed fuck-ups t' be willin' t' accept good wages from a man's hand, then turn around an' call him a fuckin' faggot. They're jus' Goddamn lucky that I got to 'em afore Ennis did. Tell you what, Cal; from what I seen, they'd a been lucky if all he done was tear 'em some new assholes. First time I ever saw 'im lose 'is temper, and I don' think I ever want a see it again."

The cook frowned. "So what happens if he does lose it again, an' it's Stansbury that's the cause?"

The foreman flinched slightly as a particularly garish flash of lightening lit up the northeast horizon. "Dunno, but mebbe it's best if Mike jus' stays away fer now. Til everythin' has a chance t' settle down."

But Cal was shaking his head. "Don' recall too many times when runnin' away from somethin' did a damn thing t' fix it."

Jeremy Farrell didn't bother to argue as he pushed away from the fence and turned to walk to the bunkhouse. It didn't matter, after all, what either one of them might think or say. Only Ennis Del Mar and Mike Stansbury could decide which way the wind would blow and who it might take away with it, and tomorrow would be another long, grinding day in a succession of long grinding days.

Besides, he thought, as he fell into step beside the big cook while another burst of boisterous laughter rose from the bunkhouse, life would go on at the ranch much as it always had, no matter who lived in the big house - or who didn't.

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It was late on Saturday afternoon - the day before he was scheduled to meet Bobby Twist at the trailhead - when Ennis returned from another of his mysterious errands, and parked his truck in front of the main garage. The evening was settling fast as he switched off the truck motor, and he paused for a minute to enjoy the twilight silence as he reached out and laid the palm of his hand on the flat, rectangular package that lay beside him across the bench seat. He closed his eyes briefly, going over all the points of the argument he had conducted in his mind over the last two weeks - the argument between one side of his mind and the other.

And at the end of it all, when the final decision was made and there was no turning back, he still wasn't 100% certain that he knew what he was doing or why.

Ultimately, he had given up on examining the logic of his actions, and relied instead on nothing more than instinct and gut feeling.

He had finally conceded that he probably didn't know what he was doing; maybe he never would. And he was absolutely certain that he did not know if it was smart or logical or prudent or wise. In the final analysis, he knew very little, except for one small unavoidable truth, one little thing of which he was certain, but only on a purely instinctive level.

What he was doing was right - and long overdue.

He just hoped he could endure whatever it might cost him.

Mike's new Silverado truck was parked in the first bay of the triple garage, and Melanie's dark blue Mustang was in the second, and he had dithered for as long as he could. The music was waiting to be faced, and his time for procrastinating had run out.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes briefly, then exited the truck, tucking his package under one arm and stepping back to retrieve a small plastic case from the crossover tool box behind the cab. As he walked toward the house, he hesitated for a moment, trying to see it through new eyes - to peel away the scales of familiarity accumulated over time and see it as he had seen it for the first time. Solid and sturdy, roomy and homey, not fancy or particularly pretty. Foursquare - white with dark green shutters and trim, a deep porch around three sides with spindle railings, and two dormer windows cut into the dark roof. Thick, glossy rhododendrons at the front corners still bore a few snowy blooms left over from the spring, and flower beds filled with mounds of bright, cheerful daisies and pastel phlox and spikes of white and purple salvia stretched out on either side of the front steps, neatly kept and artfully planned, courtesy of Cora's diligence and dedication. Along the fence line, immensely old Lombardy poplars stood in regimental precision, fronted by large, sprawling specimens of bridal wreath shrubs, and, in the exact center of the front lawn, a circle of low-growing greenery surrounded a wrought iron silhouette of a huge stallion, frozen in mid-stride. In his mind - and only in his mind - Ennis had christened the slightly stylized horse Jack o' Spades; he had never allowed himself to examine his reasons for doing so.

Just like he'd never allowed himself to think about a lot of other things, and he was only just now beginning to realize the price he'd paid for putting so many things away unresolved.

Cora was in the kitchen when Ennis came through the back door, and the air was rich with the aroma of roasted chicken and cornbread stuffing. She was busy swirling meringue atop a thick, golden pie filling, and smiled when Ennis paused to swipe a finger through the satiny mixture and stick it in his mouth, his eyes going wide with appreciation.

"I done somethin' right?" he asked with a tiny grin. "Don't get coconut pie too often."

"Oh, hush up," she snapped, swallowing a smile. "It's Melanie's favorite too, you know. Mightn't be for you at all."

He nodded before moving to the sink to wash his hands. "Ever'body make it in all right?" he asked, deliberately casual, determined to suppress the tiny tremor in his voice.

"All present and accounted for," Cora answered, ignoring the tremor just as he'd
known she would. "They're all upstairs - washin' up, I guess."

Ennis' only response was a soft grunt.

"You goin' up?" she asked, when he said no more.

"Not jus' yet. Got somethin' I need a do first."

She looked down at the flat, oblong package at his side and nodded. She had no idea what it contained, but she was pretty sure it meant more trouble brewing.

"Don't wait too long," she said softly, looking up to meet his eyes and disturbed by the shadows she saw in them. "Putting it off is just gonna make it harder."

He started to turn away, but then he stopped and stepped toward her, leaning forward to drop a quick kiss on her cheek. "Thanks, Cora," he mumbled. "Know ya been tryin' a help, an' I ain't been no fun at all lately. Whatever happens, jus' . . . well . . . jus' know that I 'preciate what ya tried a do."

She went very still for a moment, before lifting one hand - flour-dusted - to touch his face with gentle fingers. "Wish I knew how t' do more, Ennis. But I doubt that anybody can really help you through this. This is up t' you and Mike. I jus' don't want to see either one of you make the mistake of throwin' it all away."

He nodded then and walked further into the house, his package once more cradled against his body. Cora could only watch him go, and think about all the recent nights when the two of them had eaten dinner at the little breakfast table in the kitchen, rather than set the table in the dining room. They had talked of everyday things - of the weather and the new owner of the feed store down in Lewistown, of how on earth Willie O'Malley had managed to get his foot caught in his stirrup and break his ankle getting off his horse, of the additional hands they'd need to hire for the fall round-up, of the new family who'd just moved in at the old Fleming ranch and the two pretty teen-aged daughters that all the ranch hands were itching to meet, and of the litter of newborn kittens Cal had discovered in the hay loft. They had spoken of many things, but they had actually said little of what was uppermost in their minds.

She sighed and turned back to her pie, knowing that she had done all she could. Unless, of course, she got the chance to have a true heart-to-heart discussion with Mike Stansbury - an opportunity which had, so far, been denied her. There were, she thought, a few things that needed saying and hearing.

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The main house of the Busted Flush had been built during the forties, and it featured many things that were no longer considered fashionable. Just off the main entry, for example, there was a large, square room with a wall of windows, heavily draped, with furniture arranged to focus on a fireplace with an ornate mantle; this was known as the front parlor. The current owners had resided in the house for almost four years, and neither of them, if pressed to do so, could have remembered ever actually taking a seat in front of that fireplace for the simple purpose of relaxing. It was fully furnished, of course, with massive leather sofas and chairs and sturdy oak tables and cabinets and heavy brass light fixtures, but it was only used for special occasions, like Christmas festivities and formal gatherings to celebrate things like Melanie's graduation and, three months later, her departure to UW in Laramie, and - once - a welcoming party for Ennis' younger daughter and her new husband, fresh back from a Denver honeymoon.

But most of the time, it was nothing more than a corridor - leading from the front entryway into the real heart of the house - the large, slightly shabby, supremely comfortable den, the room where the family came together, relaxed together, communed together, and made the kinds of memories that every family treasures.

But on this particular occasion, Ennis deliberately detoured through the parlor, pausing to stand before the fireplace and gaze at the portrait that hung above the carved mantle, which held a neat row of  six identical silver picture frames, each displaying an image of fresh-faced youth: Alma Junior, Jenny, Melanie, Ronnie, Alma Junior's daughter, Denise, and Jenny's young son, Matthew, each caught in a candid moment. Not the stiff perfection of formal portraits, but the natural ease of casual snapshots, snapped at random, selected with loving care, and enlarged to emphasize their sweet poignancy.

Above the photos, the oil painting of Ramona and Elizabeth Trumbell revealed that the twins had been beautiful in an other-worldly, delicate way - almost angelic in appearance - and, ultimately, very fragile. At age twelve, neither had yet begun to mature or to display the physical changes that adolescence would bring, so the faces captured in the portrait appeared to be those of lovely children, caught in a drowsy moment in a shaft of pale sunlight, eyes soft and limpid beneath the sweep of thick lashes as they leaned against each other, watching a butterfly as it hovered above a dewy rose. Though born identical, life had left its own marks, rendering them marginally distinguishable because of a small crescent-shaped scar on Ramona's temple and two tiny pock marks on Elizabeth's jaw, and the artist had manipulated reflected light to emphasize the differences between the faces rather than the similarities. Further clever use of light and shadow had been employed to brighten Ramona's coloring, making her hair appear to be a richer shade of auburn, her skin a creamier shade of golden ivory, and her eyes a deeper green. Ultimately, the artist had succeeded in telling a story in careful brush strokes - a tale that was both simple and complex though entirely wordless, portraying Elizabeth as the fading shadow of a life cut short, and Ramona, the still vibrant essence of youth preserved.

The portrait had been painted two years after Elizabeth's death, her likeness recovered from a small, blurred photograph, which might have suggested the ploy used by the artist in emphasizing the ethereal quality of the twin who would not survive to see adulthood. It was very beautiful and very sad, and made even sadder by the tragic irony of the artist's assumption that Ramona would escape the destiny that fate had dealt to her sister, when, in the end, they had shared death, as they'd shared birth, albeit at opposing ends of a seventeen-year interlude.

Ennis paused and looked up at the portrait, correctly identifying the innocence and the hope shining in soft green eyes, along with pale portents of wisdom and compassion hinting of the woman who would grow from the child. "I b'lieve you might understand," he whispered. "I jus' hope . . ."

But he fell silent when he detected a light footstep on the stairs and caught a blur of bright coppery curls and faded denim out of the corner of his eye causing him to turn just in time to catch an armful of lively, lovely, and definitively female young woman.

"Butch," cried his carrot-topped assailant, after administering a rib-cracking hug, "you look . . . scrawny." Melanie Stansbury tried to glower, but couldn't quite pull it off. She didn't have the face for it. "You dieting or somethin'? Tryin' a catch the eye of some sweet young thing t' help recapture yer youth?"

Ennis returned the hug, breathing deep to revel in the clean, fresh scent of her hair. "Name ain't Butch," he grumbled.

Her only response was a baleful roll of her eyes.

From the first time Melanie had been confronted with the reality of her father and his new 'partner', she had dubbed them "Butch and Sundance" - much to her father's chagrin - drawing from her familiarity and fondness for western movies. Ennis, however - although he tried to act as if he were annoyed by the moniker - had privately decided early on that there were worse things a man could be accused of than looking like Paul Newman, although he could never see much of a resemblance himself. However, he had long since recognized that Mike, with his glacial blue eyes, sun-bleached hair, and rangy build, had much in common physically with Redford. In truth, he was not displeased to be compared to one of the legendary outlaws, although he might have been more so had he realized that Melanie's choice of nicknames had little to do with physical looks and much to do with the balance and counterbalance of needs and desires that she sensed between the two men.

She had even gone so far, on one occasion, as to explain her rather singular conclusions about the homo-erotic nature of the relationship between the two cowboys in the classic film, but she hadn't gotten beyond a sentence or two before Ennis decided that there were certain things that he just didn't need to know and certain suggestions that he had no desire to contemplate, and departed to see to whatever bit of urgent business he could scare up. Later that night, Mike had teased him about his hyper-sensitivity to words like 'homo-erotic' and Ennis had accepted the gentle ribbing in the spirit in which it was offered. But he had never had any desire to have an in-depth discussion about the relationship between him and his life partner with the offspring of either of them.

They all knew the truth now - more or less - and he had never seen any need to beat the subject to death with endless analysis.

Early on, when Ennis had first stumbled through the obstacle course of revealing the truth to his girls, his ex-wife had complicated matters considerably by declaring, in an unguarded moment, that she had known the truth for years, and that if Mike Stansbury thought he was venturing into virgin territory, he was in for a big disappointment. Such comments had, of course, led to more revelations, and Ennis had been saddened to realize that Alma had known a lot more than he'd ever suspected, and had been badly hurt by his infidelities.

Hurt more than anybody, except . . .

Mike, on the other hand, had never felt compelled to offer any detailed explanation to his children for Ennis' place in his life and theirs; it had never been necessary. After an initial period of awkwardness, with everyone walking on metaphorical egg shells for fear of offering offense, Ronnie and Melanie had simply settled into a tacit form of acceptance, grounded in the undeniable fact of their father's obvious happiness. It had been slightly more difficult for Ronnie, who had endured periodic spells of depression and rebellion, cutting up rough a couple of times, and even taking a swing at Ennis once, on the occasion of his first excursion into a drunken stupor, and accusing him of being a "home-wrecking faggot." But such eruptions had been rare and short-lived, and the boy had been suitably shame-faced once he had recovered from the grandfather of all hangovers. Time and familiarity had gradually overcome any reservations the children might have had, and both had become staunch advocates of gay rights during the interim, although Melanie was by far the more vocal of the two.

Ennis' daughters had not handled it so well, although they had come around eventually. Jenny and her husband, Nathan, had finally adopted a policy that parodied the military attitude; they did not ask and did not speak of what they chose not to know. It made for some awkward moments, but allowed them all to interact without flagrant hostility. As for Alma Junior, she had finally decided that her father's love and devotion for her and her daughter was more important than his 'sexual deviance'- as she termed it; her husband, Curt, had been less forgiving and had never made any effort to overcome his bias, but did not try to interfere in the relationship between father, daughter, and granddaughter.

The entire awkward situation had made for some interesting holidays.

Melanie smiled up at Ennis and forced herself to ignore the dark circles under his eyes. "Want a take a walk with me? I'm going down to see how badly you've neglected my Boo Radley."

Ennis snorted. "Crazy-ass horse is jus' fine. Like always."

Her eyes were soft with understanding and gratitude. "You been takin' him out reg'lar? Like ya promised?"

Ennis lifted his hand and smoothed the curls back from her forehead. "Since the ornery li'l bastard won't let nobody else ride 'im, didn' have much choice, now did I?"

"Thanks, Ennis," she whispered, before looking down at the package still gripped under his arm. A question formed in her eyes, but she chose not to ask it.

"Don't be long," he said, stepping back. "Miss Cora ain't gonna like it if y'er late t' supper."

He left her standing there, wondering, but she quickly turned away and continued on her errand.

Ennis moved into the den and walked to the hearth, where a heavy fire screen was arranged in front of the fire pit. The mantle above this fireplace was nothing like the ornate one in the parlor; instead this one was nothing more than a thick slab of oak, without ornamentation, and the only decorative objects placed upon it were a couple of carved wooden horses, roughhewn and very simple, but somehow capturing the majesty of the breed.

Mounted to the rough stone above the mantle, in a heavily matted frame, was a sepia tone sketch of a horse and rider, poised against an evening sky. The figures were indistinct, meant to convey only the stillness and serenity of the moment, rather than any specific person or place, and it had been hanging above the fireplace when Ennis and Mike had bought the ranch. Neither had ever seen any reason to exchange it for something else.

Until now.

Ennis set his package down on the heavy pine coffee table, and carefully removed the brown paper it had been wrapped in. He spent a moment just staring down at the object before him; then he went about the chore he'd set for himself. It was only a matter of minutes before it was done, and he stepped back to inspect his handiwork.

A quick burst of daylight - the last flare of the day - speared through the broad window and pierced the soft gloom of the den to frame the new painting in its hand-rubbed frame, which had replaced the sketch above the mantle - and Ennis was suddenly aware of a presence behind him, someone who had approached quietly and stood now, motionless, with breath suspended.

He resisted the urge to heave a deep sigh as he turned to look into the eyes of the man who had been his life partner for the last six years.

Mike Stansbury found that he could not move, could not breathe, could only barely think. And could not voice the cry that was rising in his mind. "No, no, no, no, no . . . "

He didn't recognize the work; a new artist, then. Maybe that kid from Vermont who'd opened a studio in Lewistown last year, a young man who Melanie had met the previous summer and identified as "a young Georgia O'Keefe." Since Melanie herself was an extremely talented, very promising artist, majoring in art at UW, Mike had familiarized himself with the works of most of the members of the local artists' colony, in order to better understand his daughter's interests. But the style of the portrait that hung now above the mantle was different from everything he'd ever seen before, different - and unforgettable.

It was not intricately realistic, like a photograph; instead, it focused on specific details of the subject, while leaving others less well defined, but it was, nevertheless, absolutely accurate. With soft, dewy eyes of deep, oceanic blue, fringed by sooty lashes; hair as dark as ebony, firm jaw, gently curved lips, and sharply defined dimples, slightly stubbled, golden skin shaded by the brim of a dark hat - there was no mistaking the likeness of Jack Twist.

It was beautiful, and, as much as Mike wanted to deny it, he couldn't. This was the man who had been first in his lover's heart - first . . . and forever. The man who was still first, and always would be, and who had made way for Mike and his relationship with Ennis by dying. He knew it, as he'd always known it; if Jack had lived, Ennis would never have spared Mike a single glance.

Ennis stood looking at him for a moment, before reaching out and laying a hand on his shoulder. "Hello, Darlin'. I missed ya."

Mike wanted to lower his gaze, to meet his lover's eyes - to refuse to acknowledge the change that had occurred between them, and the proof of it that hung on the wall. But he couldn't. "Is this how it's gonna be then?"

Ennis let his hand drop, but he didn't move away. He wasn't entirely sure of what he was doing, or why it had to be done, but he knew that this was a crucial moment which would determine what their future would hold - and even if there would be a future.

"Reckon that's up t' you, Mike."

"Ya don't ask much, do ya?" The anger was building in Mike's voice, simmering now just beneath the surface. "What if I cain't . . ."

But Ennis stood firm. "Either I'm a part a this family an' this house, or I'm not. An' if I'm not, and ya cain't deal with this . . ." he nodded toward the painting, "then I'll take it down and move it out t' my own space. But ya gotta understand this, Mike. I spent more 'n thirty years denyin' this man - pretendin' that he didn't matter. Pretendin' that I weren't queer. And now, after all these years, it looks like I finally decided a fess up and admit it to the world, admit that I am queer. But I still left Jack in the past, like it wasn't being queer that was my dirty little secret. It was him. An' I won't do it no more."

"No matter what I think about it, huh?" Blue eyes were dark with bitter rage, and somethin' more.

"Darlin'," Ennis whispered, "he's dead and gone. He cain't take nothin' away from you. But he's a part a me. Don't ya understand that? He's a part a me an' . . ."

"Why now?" Mike demanded, moving away from Ennis and going to the window, to look out toward the mountains in the distance. "Ya were willin' enough t' leave 'im behind fer me before, so why . . ."

"Didn't do it fer you," Ennis said quickly, turning back to gaze up at the blue eyes in the portrait. "Know I always let ya believe that it was fer you, but it wasn't. I did it fer me. Because I couldn't stand t' face the truth."

"An' what truth would that be?" asked Mike, his tone flat and cold.

Ennis suddenly found it difficult to draw breath - to speak the words that had remained bottled up inside him for twelve long years. "I sent 'im away, Mike. An' he died alone, because I sent 'im away. If I hadn't done that, if I'd taken the chance he wanted a give me, it never would a happened. He'd be . . ."

The silence between them was heavy with remorse and regrets. "He'd be here," Mike said finally, his voice heavy with defeat. "That's what y'er saying, ain't it? If he'd lived . . ."

Ennis turned to face his partner, his eyes dark with resolve. "Yes. He would."

"An' you an' me . . ."

"If Ramona hadn't died," Ennis replied gently, "there'd be no you an' me, would there? Not like this, anyway. Maybe we'd just be meetin' up ever once in a while, fer a couple a high altitude fucks, but we wouldn't be sharin' a life, would we?"

"Ennis . . ."

"I'm sorry t' put you through this, Mike. I really am. But it's time t' set this right - t' do what's right. T' tell the world that Jack Twist wasn't no dirty secret that I'm still ashamed of. That he was th' man who showed me what life ought a be about, the man that took my heart all them years ago, an' never gave it back. The man I loved more'n life itself, who never got t' hear them words from me. I gotta do this, and I'm sure hopin' you can deal with it, that we can find our way through it . . . together. But I gotta do it, no matter what."

Moving quickly, he stepped forward and wrapped his hand around the back of Mike's neck before leaning in and dropping a soft kiss in the velvet softness below his jaw line. Then he walked out of the room and out of the house. He had said what he had to say and done what needed doing. It would be up to Mike now, to determine what came next.

He set off toward the stables, to join Melanie in her reunion with her wonderful, beautiful, crazy-ass horse.

In the den, now deep in shadow, Mike Stansbury continued to look out toward the horizon, rapidly losing definition as the first stars blinked into existence. When he heard a footstep behind him, he sighed. Somehow, he had known that there was more to come.

"You decided yet?" asked Cora, nothing but curiosity in her tone.

"Eavesdropping again, Woman?" The words were sharp, but they both knew they were just spoken to fill the silence.

"How else am I gonna learn what's goin' on?" she replied, taking a seat on the battered old couch and staring up at the new addition to the room's décor. "And what matters."

Mike turned sharply to stare at her. "You think this . . ." he nodded toward the painting, "matters?"

"I know it does," she answered firmly, "and so do you."

"You think he's right then." Beneath the note of belligerence that threaded harshness through his voice, there was an undertone of exhaustion and defeat.

"I do," she replied gently. "Is he really asking so much of you - so much that you'd risk throwin' away what you've gained?"

"Never been good at sharing, Cora," he snapped. "You should know me well enough to know that."

She nodded. "Guess I should, but tell me this, Mike. What exactly is it that you think you'll be asked to share? You think this man's spirit is gonna come callin', crawling into your bed at night to take what's yours? You think Ennis is gonna choose his memory of this man over your living presence? He wants - he needs - to honor a memory that he pushed away for all these years. A memory - not the man himself, cause it's far too late for that. He needs to find peace with his conscience, to do whatever it takes to . . ."

"He was first," Mike cried, letting the anguish and the hurt erupt from his core. "He had what was supposed a be mine. He was . . ." He fell silent when he couldn't find the words to continue..

"Yes," she said softly. "He was first. And there's nothing you can do to change that. He's always going to have been first. But that's not the real question here, Mike. Not the important one."

"What do you mean?"

She rose and moved to stand before him, reaching up to cup his cheek with a gentle hand. "The only thing that really matters is who's going to be last, isn't it?"

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

When the family gathered for dinner, by tacit agreement, conversation was light and warm and focused on safe topics like Melanie's art instructor who was French and ill-mannered but brilliant, and Ronnie's need for a new saddle, and the latest gossip about Maizie Sullivan - the widowed owner of the Rocking M ranch who had a weakness for young, blonde cowboys. There was much laughter, and everyone seemed glad for a chance to relax and simply enjoy the moment and Cora's excellent meal.

Over his second piece of coconut pie, Ennis looked up and found Mike's eyes on him, dark with shadows and filled with something that might have been need - and might not.

"Think I'll be turnin' in early," said Ennis, rising. "Gotta head out at the crack of dawn."

"Ennis," said Melanie quickly, with a swift glance toward her father, "I hope everything goes OK. I hope you find what you need to find."

Ennis confined his response to a nod and a tiny smile, and moved toward the stairs, pausing long enough to lay a hand on Ronnie's shoulder as he passed. When he reached the doorway, he stopped and looked back over his shoulder, to meet Mike's gaze. "You comin'?" he asked softly.

Mike's eyes closed, but not quickly enough to conceal the flare of emotion within them. Only Ennis, however, was able to recognize it for what it was, and understand that Mike had not been entirely certain that his presence in their bedroom would be welcome.

Mike nodded, and rose from the table, keeping his eyes downcast so that no one would be able to notice their suspicious shininess.

The two men went upstairs, Ennis' hand braced against Mike's shoulder.

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

At breakfast the following morning, Mike was unusually quiet, and Ronnie and Melanie seemed preoccupied as well. Ennis, of course, was long gone, having driven off into the dawn as the first streaks of primrose painted the eastern sky, and no one mentioned his departure.

Which, of course, only served to emphasize his absence.

Carrying his second cup of coffee with him, Mike left the table and his virtually untouched breakfast, in order to wander into the den and stand before the fireplace, where Jack Twist looked down on him with a faint smile.

He tried to believe the smile was a smirk, that the face before him was a mask for something ugly and depraved, something that should never have been allowed to touch his Ennis, to infect him with this endless need to subject himself to whatever this man had to offer.

He tried to believe it - and couldn't - and felt a thousand times worse to realize that he had been lying to himself for all these years; that Jack hadn't been the cretin who never deserved what Ennis had given; that Jack had been the other half of Ennis' soul; and that Jack had deserved everything that Ennis had never been able to give him - the very things that he had given to Mike, once Jack was gone.

He set his coffee cup down, and fought off a compulsion to go to the kitchen and take a butcher knife from the cabinet and come back and slice the painting to shreds. Such an action would obliterate the portrait, but it wouldn't do a thing to erase the horror that was throbbing within his heart, the terrible guilt and remorse that was at war with his own needs and desires.

He needed to destroy something, to wipe out something - to regain control of all that he had lost. And he knew that he was walking on the knife-edge of disaster, that his entire future with Ennis was at stake, that he must accept what he could not change. He even knew that a true, selfless love would move him to support what Ennis was doing, in the interest of caring more about Ennis' happiness than his own. He knew all of that, and still clinched his fists to subdue his rage.

He turned and strode away from the portrait, to remove himself from temptation, and walked out of the house, still needing an object on which to vent his rage. He was half way to the stables before it struck him, before he remembered where he would find the perfect target for his fury. He wasn't sure he could get away with it; wasn't sure how he'd even respond if Ennis confronted him, but maybe he was worrying needlessly. Maybe Ennis wouldn't even notice. The box, after all, had been tucked away in the top of that little closet, gathering dust, for years. Maybe Ennis didn't even remember where it was, or what it held.

Mike, of course, had figured it out early on, finding the box in Ennis' effects when they were still living in Riverton and always keeping track of it thereafter. He'd never let on that he knew about it, and perhaps his ignorance would serve him now. If worse came to worse, perhaps he could simply claim that he'd tossed the box out, thinking it was just trash.

Ennis' little office wasn't locked, of course. There was nothing in it that would tempt a thief, so Mike was able to go directly in. It had been a while since he'd visited the tiny room, and he paused to take a quick look around, noticing again how shabby the office was and how crowded. He needed to pressure Ennis to replace the old, bedraggled desk chair and the scratched and dented desk, but first things first.

The closet door was slightly ajar, and Mike wrenched it open. Then he reached up into the dark cubbyhole at the top and felt around for what he knew was there, what he had last seen some two years earlier.

When his hands encountered nothing but dust, he reached in further, sure that he must have just missed the box in his haste. But several more seconds of searching yielded the same result. The box was not there.

Now where . . . .

He looked around the office and finally spotted what he was seeking. The familiar box was in the trash can by the desk, the tape that had sealed it torn away. On the wall by the desk was a wooden clothes hanger, dangling from a crooked nail, and Mike was suddenly sure that he knew what the hanger had held. He closed his eyes and was able to visualize it: two shirts - light and dark, plain and plaid - nested one within the other, each stained with what could only be dried blood.

Two shirts, kept and preserved and treasured over many long years.

Two shirts - nowhere to be found.

He walked out of the office, visions of a bonfire consuming the garments still flickering in his mind, and spent a moment looking up into the brightness of morning, understanding that that which he had sought to destroy had been forever taken beyond his reach.

He wasn't sure how he felt: angry that his plot to gain a measure of revenge had been foiled, or relieved that he would never have to face Ennis' anger for his actions. He knew that his attitude was petty and childish, knew that he must make his peace with what Ennis wanted or risk losing him. But, for the moment, he could barely swallow his disappointment or stifle his curiosity.

Where the hell were those shirts?

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