When Marshal Andrews had surrendered the gunbelt to her, he’d told Mary that Arthur had been a known gunfighter. He explained that the man’s Colt had work done on it. The hammer was tall and straight. The trigger was light. Someone had removed the trigger guard all together.
Mary had grown up with firearms. Mostly, she’d shot rifles and shotguns, but Cole had taught her to use a revolver, too, so she pulled the modified Colt from its holster and examined it closely.
It had been cleaned and oiled. That was nice of the marshal.
She opened the cylinder and found it empty. Wanting to leave the belt’s ammo loops full, she went to the cart and dug around until she found the ammunition Conn had bought her.
She loaded the Colt, leaving one chamber empty, the way Cole had taught her. That was always a good idea for safety, and a very good idea with a gun like this with its missing guard, extended hammer, and light trigger.
She holstered the loaded weapon and wrapped the belt around her waist and cinched it tight, thankful this Arthur had been a thin man. The thing fit her just fine, riding her hips just above her dungarees.
Next, she grabbed the Parker. As Conn had requested, Purcell had attached a sling.
She used that now, slinging the scattergun over her shoulder. She’d loaded it before leaving town.
Now, armed to the teeth, she walked back over to her husband’s grave.
She stared at the crude marker she’d slapped together, a haphazard cross of warped and weathered boards, and shook her head.
It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
But then again, nothing could be enough.
Cole had been her whole life.
She told him that now, talking aloud to him as if he could hear her. She didn’t have the heart to use the past tense, however.
“You’re my life, Cole,” she told him. “What am I going to do without you?”
And just like that, despite all her attempts to control her emotions, she was crying again.
Which was okay, she supposed.
Because she was standing at the grave of her beloved husband, and the dirt was still fresh. What kind of woman wouldn’t cry at a moment like this?
So she cried.
She no longer tried to hold back.
She cried and then she sobbed and finally, her legs grew weak, and she went to her knees and put both her hands on Cole’s grave and cried some more.
After a moment, a furry head nuzzled in close and the dog licked her cheek as if he was trying to dry her tears.
“Thanks,” she said, pulling him close. “You’re a good dog.”
She sat back and put an arm around the dog, who licked under her chin, making her laugh through her tears.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she told the cur. “I mean, I know what I’m going to do—I’m going to rebuild—but I don’t know how I’m going to do it, even with the boys’ help. We don’t have the money or the materials. We need mules and a bigger wagon and more muscle.”
The dog leaned into her, panting. He didn’t seem too worried about what she was saying.
This made her laugh again. Because there was wisdom in the dog’s lack of concern.
Who better than she knew that life held no guarantees?
She and Cole had worked hard and saved and done their very best to make a happy life here… but where had that gotten them? If she was a different type of person, this might have killed her motivation, but Mary Sullivan was not an easily daunted woman.
Life tendered no guarantees, but she still believed in hard work. And she still saw value in it, still believed good things were possible.
