He held her tightly, and she held on. She didn’t break. She grieved. Morgan grieved with her, for her, and finally, for himself. He knew that because there came a time when he was aware that her sobs had quieted and that he was standing in the circle of her arms. Neither of them stirred for a long time. There was comfort in their mutual embrace, warmth, and a sense of rightness.
Over the crown of her head, Morgan saw snowflakes drifting and dancing past the windowpane. He lifted his chin and cupped her elbows in his palms. “Look,” he said, and turned her until her view was the same as his. “There will be an inch in a hour and six inches by morning if it doesn’t blow too hard. Everything will look different.”
Jane drew Morgan’s hands forward and placed them against her midriff, just under her breasts. She placed her hands on top of his and held them there. “People say that spring is renewal. I suppose that’s true, but I have always liked winter’s white blanket.”
Morgan smiled. “It is beautiful.”
“I know I might be longing for spring come February, but for now…”
“For now. For now it is exactly right.”
Nodding, Jane breathed in deeply.
A moment later, Morgan did the same. The air that filled his lungs seemed clearer. “What do you want to do, Jane?”
She did not answer immediately. “I want to sleep,” she said at last. “And I do not want to be alone. Will you lie with me?”
And so he did.
Gideon Welling took off his gloves, dropped them on the ground, and warmed his hands at the fire. After a moment, he hunkered in front of it to let the warmth bathe his face. Ice crystals attached to strands of this thick brown mustache began to melt. He licked his lips.
Marcellus Cooley sat similarly hunkered on the opposite side of the fire. He had his hands out, but unlike Gideon, he was still wearing his gloves. Smoke wafted in his direction. He squinted, turned his head a little to the side. The scar that cut jaggedly through his salt-and-pepper beard from cheek to chin was starkly visible in the firelight. No one took notice of it.
Avery Butterfield reached for the coffeepot, poured himself a cup, and then held it up for other takers. When there were none, he returned it to the grate. He lifted the tin cup to his mouth but didn’t drink. He sniffed instead. The heady aroma filled his lungs and expanded the breadth of his barrel chest.
Dixon Evers rolled a matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other as he contemplated whether it was worth the effort to pick up the coffeepot now that Avery had put it back. Probably not, was his determination, so he sucked on the matchstick and scratched the underside of his narrow, beardless chin from time to time.
The fire crackled. An ember popped. No one spoke. They were bone tired from the chase and cold to their marrow. Their horses snuffled nearby, nosing around in the snow for patches of grass. In its own way, the silence was wearing. Only one of them had a plan, and he was keeping it to himself for the time being. Asking for it was, well, asking for it, and a fight was probably going to get someone killed. It had happened before. They used to number five, but Cotton Branch was gone now, dropped where he stood because he asked one too many questions. And therein lay the conundrum. There was no way to identify the question that would be one too many. It was better to ask none at all.
Gideon picked up his wet gloves and placed them closer to the fire. “Did I ever tell you about the time Morgan yanked Jackson’s ass out of the pond when he fell through the ice? Mine, too.” When they all shook their heads, he went on. “I guess Jack was about twelve. I was fourteen. Morgan must have been nine. Skinny as a rail. Morgan, not Jack. Jack was a chubby one back then. All belly and chins. He dared Morgan to cross the pond out back of our place. Jack figured he wouldn’t know where the thin parts were in the ice. Jack was like that. Always thinking about an advantage. It was late March, so there were only a couple of paths across the pond where the ice was thick enough to step.”
Gideon held out his hand to Avery and flexed his fingers. Without a word, Avery passed over his coffee cup. “Obliged,” Gideon said. The coffee was now the proper temperature to drink, and he did. “Morgan didn’t want to do it. Jack and I could see that. I thought that would be the end of it, but Jack kept needling him, calling him names until he found one that stuck in Morgan’s craw. Probably something to do with his hair. Carrot stick. Ginger pie. Match head. That sort of thing. Morgan was as touchy as a girl about it back then.
“So Morgan marches his skinny self across that pond and steps wherever he damn well pleases, and when he’s safely on the other side, he drops his pants, opens the back door on his union suit, and waggles his bony white ass at Jack. There was no holding Jack back then. I grabbed the collar of his coat, but he wriggled out, and all I had was his coat as he started off.
“He picked his way real careful-like, especially when he got to the middle, but I could tell he wasn’t going to make it. I started slitherin’ out after him before the ice collapsed and he went under. Crawled on my belly like a snake to the hole, threw out his coat, which I was happy to have now, and tried to pull him out. ’Course, the ice kept cracking and I kept slithering, and I more or less dragged him through the cracks until we reached the other side. I thought Morgan would have run scared by then, but it was the damnedest thing, he was waiting there dangling his pants for me to take. I grabbed ahold of them, Jack had ahold of me, and Morgan pulled. I never would have guessed he was so strong or that I would be so cold.”
Gideon’s eyes moved from man to man, examining each face. “I reckon I ain’t been that cold again until one of you told me it was safe to cross my horse at the Hickory Creek narrows and the other two agreed. I’m still trying to figure out how you came to that conclusion when none of you ever done the same.”
He was met with silence.
“Well, here’s what I’m thinking. Marcie, you give me your coat. Avery, your boots look to be about the same size as mine. I’ll take those and your socks. Dix, I’d be grateful for your gloves and trousers. You fellas can wear my things or not, but my opinion is that it’s better if you just set them out near the fire. Have a care nothing scorches, else you won’t be getting your things back.”
As one, Marcie, Avery, and Dix stood and began to strip. Gideon only got to his feet when he had an armful of clothes. He changed out his trousers, socks, and boots and handed his wet things over. He huddled in Marcie’s coat before he put on dry boots and gloves.
He sat down and resumed drinking his coffee while his men dealt with his damp garments. He was smiling genially beneath his mustache when they rejoined him. “Nothing like a story to take you back and put you in the present at the same time. I don’t mind saying that I miss Jack, but missing him doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t always have the best judgment. He should’ve known the ice wouldn’t hold him, just like he should’ve known not to deal from the bottom of the deck when there’s a professional gambler at the table. Worse, you don’t keep your gun strapped in your holster. Takes way too long to draw.”
Gideon sighed heavily. “But that was Jackson. Always on thin ice. I blame prison some. There’s no way around the fact that it changed him. Changed me, too, I expect. You?”
Although he directed his question to no one in particular, they all nodded.
“I figured,” he said. “Reckon it changed Morgan, although there’s no telling exactly how. Might’ve made him softer. Maybe harder. Guess we’ll be finding that out.”
Dixon pulled the matchstick out of his mouth and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “You reckon he knows it’s us?”
“I reckon he knows it’s me,” said Gideon. “I wasn’t aware you ever met Morgan.”
“I ain’t.”
