#ch. 20

Ms. Grimshaw watches over all, holding the girls to a punishing standard. Dutch schemes. Hosea worries. The boys terrorize Valentine’s saloons and homesteads and lonely dirt roads. Pearson takes every opportunity to talk about his Navy days over a daily pot of stew filled with game that Charles brings in. Reverend Swanson oscillates between fits of passion and pain and morphine melancholy. Uncle can be found propped up napping anywhere and everywhere. Sometimes you stick a boot in his ribs as you pass just to make sure he’s still alive.

John, for his part, is consumed entirely by his sheep rustling scheme. He splits his days between Emerald Ranch and Valentine’s stockyards, which is probably for the best because Arthur and Abigail haven’t been shy about playing happy family with Jack. It’s like the tentative truce forged after the train job between brothers is all Arthur needed to open the cracked shell of his heart fully. The way he looks at Abigail - the way she looks at him - tugs at heartstrings you’d thought long-severed. Mrs. Adler watches them from the edge of camp with a wistful look in her burnt-barn eyes, mouth caught between a smile and a snarl. Even Kieran stutters out a comment about how sweet they seem when he’s sure Arthur won’t hear.

Trusting in how peaceful— how happy things have been is hard, but you can’t say you miss the tension and misery from before. It’s… nice. It feels nice.

—

You’re more surprised than you should be when Arthur and Abigail come up to you, eyes bright and cheeks flushed and looking so strikingly young, to tell you they’re getting married. In town. Today.

“We just need a witness,” Arthur says. The asking is implied.

“Can’t you take Mary-Beth? She loves this sort of thing,” you try to deflect, caught between joy and discomfort. “I doubt there’s a church they’d let me in, even.”

It’s not that you aren’t happy for them - you’re thrilled. But to actually go with them and sign documents and make things official in the eyes of the law and the God you’re on such bad terms with? It feels like a lot. It feels a little like a betrayal, still. Your eyes search for some kind of comfort in John’s figure across camp, but it’s in vain. If anything, it reminds you how precarious this joy is. How a selfish part of you wishes to lay claim to more of it.

“We want it to be you,” Abigail smiles.

You shouldn’t.

But her eyes are pleading. You start to wilt under the happiness and hope that shines through them like the sun. “Please, Ghost.”

You’re not sure how anyone’s ever said no to her, the way she blinks up through her lashes and grasps your hand in hers and smiles so sweet. And Arthur is no better. It’s hard to remember a time he’s been so happy. So hopeful. The broadness of his frame has taken on a boyish lightness that wasn’t there even when he was a boy.

Shit.

“Fine,” you finally relent. “I guess I know the Reverend in town.”

The relief and excitement on their faces is almost worth the knot of nerves in your stomach.

—

“My friend!” Reverend Hampton calls out when he spies your approach.

You make to shake his hand but he pulls you in for a hug instead. You return it awkwardly and flash a bashful grin. “Reverend, these are my good friends, Arthur and Abigail. They’d… Well, they’d like to be married today. Can you help us?”

His smile, broad and warm and maybe even a little smug, is all the answer you need.

While he procures the necessary documents the three of you fidget near the altar in an otherwise empty church. Muted rays of midday sun fight their way past cloud cover to reflect greens and reds and golds through stained glass. It paints the French blue of Abigail’s finest dress mosaic, like she’s some kind of Mother Mary that walked right out of a window pane. She alternates between clutching the bouquet of wildflowers that Tilly helped Jack pick to her chest and beaming up at Arthur. He stands stiffly opposite her in a suit that doesn’t quite fit, itching at the collar. His returning smiles are a crooked and genuine show of teeth, like he still can’t believe he made it this far. Like his body has a hard time accommodating happiness this size. He’s spent so long in self-inflicted loneliness.

Maybe you have, too.

All four of you cry and laugh in equal measure when the vows are exchanged. Forever recited back in different shades of blue. Arthur places the ring on Abigail’s finger so delicately it makes your heart ache. He kisses her just as tender, just as careful. You look away and wipe at your tears. The Reverend pronounces them man and wife. Arthur prints his name on the marriage certificate afterwards in careful, elegant script. You both smile encouragingly when Abigail signs her X on the line beside it.

Yours fits just off to the side. You have to stop yourself from signing Ghost.

“You know,” Arthur says to the Reverend as you all turn to leave, “we know a Reverend. He ain’t nothin’ like you.”

Reverend Hampton’s expression manages to be both serene and amused. “Every Shepherd has his flock. I am honored to have been trusted with his today.”

You snort. “Figures you’d say somethin’ like that.”

Arthur and Abigail go on ahead to the wagon hand in hand. It’s impossible to miss, decked out as it is in the tinsel and bells Mary-Beth scrounged up to make it appropriately romantic. You linger a moment longer at the chapel’s threshold with the Reverend.

“Thank you for this,” you say. Your eyes trace the joy on your dear friends’ faces. “Feels like I’m always in your debt.”

“Nonsense, my child. I am in yours. You have brought life and love here - that’s all an old man could wish for. But please,” he says, and turns to squeeze your hands in his, “do not squander this chance at your own happiness.”

You tuck your chin and stare at your boots while embarrassment burns from your chest to your cheeks. “I’ll try.”

He smiles. “That’s all we can ever do in this life. Go in peace.”

—

You drive the wagon home to the sound of hoofbeats and tinkling bells and laughter and love. It starts raining along the way, light and clean. Lances of sunlight beam through the clouds.

—

“Mr. Morgan,” Dutch greets, a shine in his dark eyes. “Mrs. Morgan. We sure are glad to have you back.”

Jack runs up past everyone with shrieking laughter. “You’re so pretty, Momma!”

And she is. A vision in blue, swept up in Arthur’s embrace. He carries her down from the wagon just to hear her laugh.

The girls coo over the ring on her finger while the boys shake Arthur by the shoulder with grins wide enough to swallow him whole. Choruses of that ring is so pretty and you finally grew some balls and I bet the church was nice inside and can’t believe you squeezed into that suit and won’t you spin for us form that familiar symphony of family you’ve come to count on all these years.

John lingers on the periphery of it all, but he makes a point of stepping forward and shaking Arthur’s hand before the dancing starts. He reaches for Abigail’s hands and murmurs something close to congratulations.

“Thank you, John,” Abigail says through shining tears. A little sad. A little overjoyed. A little relieved, even.

Arthur can’t find the right words, but his eyes say it all for him.

“Sure,” John grimaces a smile, “sure. You two… be well. Really.”

They whisk away to the sound of music crackling from Dutch’s gramophone, leaving him beside you with a half-broke heart. John shakes his head at the silent question posed by the tilt of your head, so you settle on the edge of the celebration to watch them whirl in ¾ time. They’re given time enough for a few twirls and dips all their own before the others start to join in.

The rain hasn’t let up. But sometimes it’s good to dance in the rain, and it’s not so damp yet that you can’t light a cigarette. You inhale deep and sigh out smoke before passing it to John without a word. He always ends up bumming off you anyway.

“Was it nice?” he asks through smoke-filled lungs. His gaze never strays from the happy couple.

“Yeah,” you say, then huff half of a laugh. “Made me cry.”

He eyes you without turning away from the dancing. “Really?”

“Really. That goddamn Reverend always gets me… weepy and shit.”

“Easy with the blasphemy, there.” A smile ghosts across his face.

“Or what? I’ll be struck down by lightning?” you scoff. “Be doin’ me a favor. Then I won’t have to listen to you ask about things you don’t wanna know.”

“Shut up,” he says, but he’s smiling now. It’s one of the real ones - one of the rare ones - that goes a little lopsided and softens the sharp flint of his eyes. You’re unreasonably proud of yourself for it.

He turns to face you, now, hesitant. Something about the way he looks at you makes you shift in place. “What?”

“Do you…” he starts awkwardly, clears his throat. Holds out a hand. “Will you dance with me?”

You look at his hand, then at him. It’s hard to hide your smile, so you give up trying. “Long as you don’t step on my feet.”

“Can’t promise that,” he laughs an awkward little laugh as he takes your hand and leads you into the fray.

The song playing now isn’t quite as upbeat, so the tempo is a little easier on his two left feet. You let him lead through the simpler steps and take charge when he falters through the more difficult sequences. It’s a perfect give and take. He even manages not to squash your toes.

“I know this ain’t an easy thing,” you say lowly, so only he can hear you over the music. “Can I ask how you’re feeling now?”

He sighs. “I feel… I don’t know. Fine, I guess. I reckon Abigail was right about—” he cuts himself off there and swallows. His cheeks stain red past the rain. He can’t look you in the eye.

“Right about what?”

“Nothin’. Me and her not bein’ right.”

The song ends, so he spins you out one last time and then you face one another with a bow before melding back into the edge of things. He grabs a beer for each of you from a nearby crate. There’s more there, something you know you’re missing, but you don’t press. Feels like you never do. Instead you clink your bottle to his drink to new beginnings. To things working out the way they’re meant to.

—

The rain clears up just before the sun sets and paints the sky in dewey blues and golds past the few lavender clouds that remain. Silk dresses and wedding bands. Songbird wings and sunshine. Happiness. Hope.

—

Arthur is busy being newly married and tying up loose ends for Strauss, so when the time comes just a few days later John brings you in on his sheep scheme instead. It’s a simple enough thing to scare off the ranchers and take over their wooly charges. You’ve done a bit of farm work here and there, and Moonshine has a real knack for it. Old Boy is less interested in the sheep, but John does a decent job for a man without any real experience.

You run them into Valentine with little trouble.

Trouble comes instead from the foreman at the stockyard who eyes the both of you, scarred and mean, with suspicion. You guess you can’t blame him.

“Fine sheep,” John says. He’s awful proud of himself.

The man shrugs. “They’re alright.”

“You got much better?” you say, but you already know where this is headed.

“I got plenty with less… ambiguity about their provenance.” He makes a point of eyeing your beat up clothes and unconcealed weapons.

“Those are real fancy words, mister. Not sure I take your meaning.”

He doesn’t smile. “I’ll make it simple, then. You give me twenty-five percent kick back and I don’t say nothin’ to nobody.”

“The fuck do you think I look like?” you snarl, stepping up in his face. A scam is a fine idea, but getting scammed yourself? You don’t take kindly to that.

He doesn’t flinch. “I think you look like a low-down criminal, and I know folk swing for rustlin’ ‘round these parts. Twenty-five percent. I won’t say it again.”

You open your mouth to argue but John grabs your shoulder to pull you back and steps forward in your place. “Fifteen.”

“Twenty.”

They haggle back and forth while you stew in your discontent and glare at the other hands until they finally shake on eighteen. You shake as well with a look that could kill, but don’t say another word until you and John make it back to the horses hitched a little ways away.

“Eighteen? Really?”

“Like you could do better. I mean what were you gonna do? Beat him? Kill him? Then what?”

You scoff, but it’s hard to argue his point. “Fine. I guess it’s better than nothin’.”

“You’re damn right it is. This worked out, relax.” He mounts up. “Dutch wanted me to meet him and Arthur at the saloon. I’ll see you at camp?”

“Sure,” you say. “Try not to get so drunk you can’t find your way back. It’s only noon.”

He laughs. “I’ll try. It’s been that kind of week.”

It sure has.

You ride back at an easy lope on a loose rein, enjoying the day and the lightness in your chest that’s been there since the wedding. A bad deal on good sheep feels like nothing at all compared to that. Nothing at all.