Oh, it was every bit as bad as he'd feared. It was daylight, the dull gray daylight of snow, and the only other light was from a lamp on the other side of the room. But it was more than enough. He groaned, dropped his head back, let his eyes close again. Slow slow slow. But the beast was up now, giving his temples a mauling. Well, no help for it now; might as well get up. He sat up slowly but all the way, tried to rub away the ache in his temples.

"Well, looky who's up!" It was a warm, husky woman's voice, full of amusement. "Glad to see you're one of the blessed below still, stranger. Last night you tried to drown yourself into heaven."

"Yeah, I figured," he muttered. He opened his eyes again. He was on a bed, much rumpled. His boots still being on had probably contributed to that rumpling. He swung his feet down onto the floor and wondered if they'd do his bidding, if they'd actually hold him up. Felt a little too rubbery to carry this big banging head of his.

Last night? Well, of course there had been a last night, but he'd mislaid any recollection of it. He had a pretty good idea of how he'd spent that night, or at least a good bit of it. But this room? Lord knows he'd seen more'n a few like it over the years. He didn't have to hear the piano to know it was over a bar. The room had the sad shabby smell of all rooms over all bars. These creaky iron bedsteads-oh, Lord, this wasn't creaking, it sounded more like thundering to his tortured ears-did they make em just for these rooms? The bed gave him no clues.

He looked over at the woman. She didn't call anything to mind either. She wore a wrap that might have been satin once, but the shape and the shine had gone. It had been trimmed with some fluffy thing-fur? feathers?-now balding. Her small head was crowned with an enormous bun of brassy gold hair. She still wore a headdress of dark red velvet ribbons and feathers with an oily sheen. Some poor rooster out back was probably bare-assed and fuming. But it was the hair that made him goggle. Even in this light it was metallic, glaring. How on earth did hair get that color?

She'd rolled herself a cigarette. "I can tell you don't know me from Adam, do you, stranger? I guess I should be hurt, seein as I'm the one dragged you back in last night. Yes, you was set on ridin off last night. It was sleetin something fierce. Lordy, even a coyote wouldn't travel in that weather. I convinced you to stay on." She laughed. "Well, me and that little header you took outside."

"You're right, ma'am," he said sheepishly. "I don't remember."

"Goldie," she said pleasantly. "I'm Goldie. Glad to meet you. I'd say I'm glad to meet you sober, but I don't reckon you're quite there yet, are you, stranger?"

"No," he said. "I ain't quite there yet." His mouth was so dry he was surprised his tongue worked. "I'm powerful thirsty."

"I bet you are." There was a bottle on the vanity. She offered it. "A little hair of the dog? Though you look like you need the whole hide."

He took the bottle, took a small pull from it. Good God. No wonder he had the hangover of all hangovers. This would take paint off walls. "Coffee," he said finally. "Any coffee hereabouts?"

"I think we can rustle you up a little. You just stay there, stranger. I'll be right back."

"Goldie," he repeated. "Is your name really Goldie?"

"Course it's Goldie," she said, suddenly irritable. "What you have em call me, Snow White?"

Snow. Some small chunk of memory broke loose, floated into view. Yes, it had been snowing last night-no, sleeting, she was right, small darts of ice in his face. Even the street in town had been slick as glass. Poor Charger, hardly knowing where to put his feet down.

It was snowing again, or perhaps sleeting again, it was too noisy for snow. Through the window, past a single line of roofs, he could see tall pines, limbs bent with snow. A familiar sight. He was in the Sierra Nevada, but where? Why?

Goldie came back, carrying a coffee pot, a cup, and a plate. He took the coffee gratefully, gulped down a cup, started on a second, but wrinkled his nose at the food.

"Oh, go on, try," Goldie said. "Morty's a much better cook'n he is a piano player. You're lucky he was willin to fry up them eggs for you. You scared him last night. Was it his playin in particular, or you just don't like piano players?"

"I just don't like piano players." Runny yellow eggs, a small lump of some kind of meat. If his cooking was better than his piano playing...But he realized he was hungry, and he finally got a few mouthfuls of egg down. He wasn't hungry enough to try the meat. Coffee, though, wasn't half bad.

Goldie settled herself back down at the vanity, poured herself a nip, started rolling a cigarette. "You got a name, stranger? Though I suppose I could just go on callin you stranger."

"Heath," he said.

"Now that's a pretty name. I won't ask if you got another. Place like this, we just skip all that Miss and Mister phase. Why don't you like piano players?"

"Bar's for drinkin and cards. Don't need piano for either."

She grinned. "Now that's what I like to hear. Man who knows his business. Louie thinks the piano adds a little something to the place. Guess he thinks it makes us girls look prettier."

"No piano's gonna help that whiskey of his."

"Ain't that the truth! But thanks for callin it whiskey just the same. I've heard it called far worse. But Louie's the only game in town, so he don't have to try too hard. Course there ain't much custom in these parts nowadays, good whiskey or bad."

"What town is this, anyway?"

"Oh, my, oh, my. You really did tie one on, didn't you? Pinecrest."

Pinecrest. One town down from Strawberry. It was coming back to him now. He was headed home, both in a hurry and not. He'd already been low; figured he might as well bottom out and kill some time, too, and detour through Strawberry. Detour through in December! He couldn't have been thinking very straight even before he'd hit Louie's. But he hadn't done much straight thinking in a long time. Every thought ended in the same place. A trip to Strawberry-hell, he'd thought, he couldn't feel much worse. Apparently he could.

"So, I'm thinkin," Goldie said meditatively. "Fella ties one on like you did, there's only so many reasons. Money trouble's popular." She looked him over. "You ain't dressed too sharp. But if that big horse is yours..."

"He's mine all right."

"Well, a fella with a horse like that ain't got money trouble." She pointed down. "This is some right fine tobacco you got here, by the way."

"Glad you like it," he said dryly. "You could pass it over, if it ain't too much trouble."

"You sound enough to roll one? Tell you what, I'll do it for you." She did it quickly and neatly and handed it to him, along with a match. "Ain't it funny how loud a match is on a day like this?"

It was damned loud and it wasn't funny. But Goldie was right, it was right fine, and the taste settled his stomach a little. Those eggs were only halfway down and undecided about their next move.

"Let's see, where was I? Oh, right, not money trouble. Course you could just be a dipso. Maybe you just tie on outta habit." She looked him over. "But I don't think so."

"You so sure?" he said gloomily. He'd done his share of drinking and then some over the years. This summer, though, he'd had it bad. Drank more in two-three months than in the last year or two altogether. Didn't help one bit. Terrible to be sodden and stupid and hung over and still not forgetting anything. Bet he'd scared the family. They'd had to wonder if he'd turned dipso after all. What'd they really know about him, anyway? Two years' acquaintance; still room for plenty of nasty surprises. But he'd embarrassed himself at a big family party. After that he'd pulled himself together, tried a combination of too much work and bad temper to occupy his mind instead. That hadn't helped, either. He didn't remember consciously deciding last night to try drink again. Well, it must have worked a little. What the hell was he doing here?

Goldie mused. "Not money trouble. Not a dipso." She took a long drag, gave it some thought. Her eyes narrowed and she looked him over more carefully. "Good lookin young fella like yourself, it's hard to believe. But there's only one thing left."

He waited.

"Woman trouble," Goldie said. "Got to be woman trouble."

He remembered. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah, I got woman trouble."

Goldie put out her cigarette, took another sip. More gently, she said, "Left you, did she?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You got that left look."

You got that left look. Yes, he did. For months now he'd seen the reflection of that left look in the sympathetic eyes of his family. If only it was that simple. People who left sometimes came back-though in his experience people who got gone generally stayed gone. But, still, there was a chance you'd catch up with them, or they'd come back. Dead-well, preacher said there'd be a great big reunion other side of the grave. But it had been a long time since he'd been able to set foot in church. He'd been a church-goer himself for a while, but it had never really took hold of him. If God was in charge of everything, well, hell, He had a lot to answer for. Heath was certainly done asking.

To change the subject, he asked, "What time is it?"

Nettled, Goldie snapped, "Why you askin me? You think I took your watch? It's over there, with your bags."

Time to test those rubbery legs. Surprisingly, they held, though he stepped very carefully. It was nearly noon. "I need to be goin."

"What, don't like the company? Honey, you really think you're ready for stairs? Have a little more coffee first. Hell, have the pot. Look at that sleet a-comin down. You ain't going nowhere, at least not today. Probably not tomorrow either. Once it gets to snowin around here-last year we was snowed in for nearly two weeks."

"Two weeks." But of course it was possible; he knew only too well. Up here, in December, a foot could fall in no time. Another piece of memory fell into place. He didn't have two weeks. Christmas was four-no, three-days away. He had to be home. Had to be. He went to the window, looked out anxiously. It was still coming down.

"You can look all you want," Goldie said. "It ain't as cold as it was last night, but it ain't stoppin just this minute anyway."

For want of anything better to do, he sat back down on the bed, his head in his hands. Stupid fool. He'd had no good reason for coming up this way, and every good reason for getting home. But no; these last six months he'd let himself wallow, and yesterday he'd decided to let himself sink a little further. Well, he'd sunk a lot further than he'd intended, and look at the mess he was in now.

"So," Goldie said. "She must have been a damn difficult woman, to leave a good-lookin young fella with money."

Difficult? Yes; impossible, infuriating. Addictive. Beautiful-But he couldn't start thinking about that now. For six months now he'd been doing everything he could to not start thinking. If he let himself start now...If he thought he was pathetic, disgusting now, what would he be then? "I don't want to talk about it," he snapped.

"Well, fine," Goldie said. She turned away a little, drew her wrap a little tighter. She looked in the mirror, sighed, and took off the ribbons and feathers. She started the long work of reassembling her big loose mess of too-bright hair.

It kept falling. Snow or sleet? Did it matter? Watching it calmed him a little. The mess was made, couldn't be unmade. Even giving into anger-well, that could lead to all kinds of weakness too, anger was just a back door for all the bad thoughts. The eggs finally decided to stay down.

He watched Goldie doing her hair. In the nicest tone he could muster, he asked, "What's your real name?"

"You just don't like my name, do you?"

"Nobody's named Goldie."

"I am."

"I mean really. What's your name?"

She smiled, but it was a tired smile, one that had been pasted on over sadness too many times. "I been Goldie so long I done forgot. It don't matter."

But he knew better than anyone that a name did matter. "You haven't forgotten."

"Well, I ought to. I've been Goldie a long time and I reckon I'm gonna stay Goldie."

That hadn't worked. He poured out the last dregs of coffee. "So where you from?"

"Well, ain't you sociable?" She caught his eye in the mirror, winked. "Last night I had you down for a mean drunk, but you sober up right nice."

"I'm almost there," he said ruefully. "Coffee ain't bad."

"I told you he's a better cook. You empty? I'll bring us up fresh." She picked up the pot and said, "But there is the small matter of money. Louie's already spotted you a meal and a pot. I'd best show him some coin if you want another pot."

"Sure." He fumbled, found his wallet. It was about as full as he remembered. "How much?"

"Better make it five."

"Five. Dollars? Are you jokin? That meal wasn't worth two bits."

"Like I told you, only game in town."

He pulled out a coin, handed it to her. Suddenly he realized just how much of the night he didn't remember. Embarrassed, he muttered, "Do I owe you-"

That brought a peal of real laughter. "Oh, Lordy, it took both Louie and Morty to get you up these stairs. You think-Oh, Lordy, mister, you really did tie one on last night. But not with me."

He could hear her chuckling fading down the stairs. You been low, he thought miserably, but I don't recollect bein this low before. It was one thing for a woman to go to pieces; you expected it, they were softer, gentler, weaker things. But when a man let go... Look at all the good things been handed to you, he thought. All these things you never thought you'd have. Then you take one knock and you let it all unravel. How can you face going home after this? Going home with the stale stink of this place thick on you?

"Extra hot, extra strong," Goldie said. "Stop lookin out that damn window, you're makin me nervous. It'll stop when it stops whether you're lookin or not." She settled back down at the vanity. "Where you got to go in such a hurry?"

"Home," he said simply.

"Oh." She looked down. "You got folks waiting for you."

"Yes." He couldn't resist looking out the window again. "Don't look like I'll make it."

"I wouldn't worry," she said lightly. "I guess they'll be glad to see you whenever you get there."

He shook his head. "I been a fool," he said. "Wouldn't blame em if they did shut the door on me."

Goldie toyed with the bottle, but she didn't pour. "Some folks got long memories and short forgiveness," she said to herself. Brightening, she said, "So what're you doin in Pinecrest, then?"

"On my way to Strawberry."

"Strawberry? You got folks in Strawberry? Didn't think there was no one left in Strawberry."

"There ain't," he said. "I grew up there. My mama's buried up there."

Goldie picked at a nail. "That where you had to be for Christmas? For a mean drunk you're an awful nice son."

"No," he said. "My family's in the valley. It's-it's too complicated to explain." But he'd caught the melancholy in her tone. "You never did say where you come from."

"No, I never did say." She squared her shoulders. "St. Louis, if you please."

"Pinecrest is a long way from St. Louis."

"Ain't it? Didn't seem so at the time. But then my mama always said I was too foolish to be left on a street corner by myself."

"That's a hard thing to say."

"It is. But who knows you better? Mama always said I was too fond of a good time and too foolish to know when they were over. I reckon that's about right." She finally poured another drink. "Say, I know what'll keep your eye off that window. How bout some cards?"

"Cards?" Even bargirls didn't usually play cards. "With you?"

"No, with the president. Yes, with me. You see anyone else here?"

"No, thank you, ma'am."

"Ma'am, is it now? You just tryin to say you're too nice to take my money?"

"I played some," he said.

She had sat up at the prospect, but now she wilted again. "Even hung over you'd probably beat me. I do love a game, but the game don't love me. I can't tell you how many months wages I already owe Louie."

That shocked him. "He'd hold you? Over a gamblin debt?"

"Sure he would. Or did you think I stayed for the cookin and the company? Don't go gettin any ideas about havin a word with him, neither. It's a honest debt. I made it, I'll stand by it."

"How'd you ever start gamblin?"

"My second husband liked to play. He wasn't much better than I was. Course he wasn't much for standin by his debts. Or anything else, for that matter."

He realized then that she had that left look, too. Uncomfortable, he looked away and out the window.

Goldie snorted. "You afraid Santy Claus ain't gonna find your stockin?"

"No," he said. "No, it's just-I got a child at home."

"Oh," Goldie said. And then more softly, "Oh, I see now. Little boy?"

"Girl. She's just-she's just a baby. It's her first Christmas. Silly. She won't remember one way or the other. But I oughta be there."

He'd said ought, not want, and it made Goldie wonder. "You oughta be there since her ma ain't."

"Yes...."

Goldie swirled the dark liquor in her glass. It could take paint off walls; was she thirsty enough to take a little more? She was. "Hard lovin a child after you been done wrong, ain't it?"

"No," Heath said quickly. "It's not-it's not like that. My wife." He hesitated. So many nicer ways to say it. Passed away. Gone to the Lord. Bound for glory! Only one had the right flavor. "She ain't left. She's dead." Only one word had the right flavor and he'd been six months avoiding that very taste. Even now, with the word just past his lips, he was spitting out the taste, already willing himself to forget it again.

"Well, that's different than being left."

"It don't feel any easier."

"I wouldn't know," Goldie said dryly.

Anything else to think about, focus on. Why wouldn't she know? "What happened to your first husband, then?"

Goldie rolled her eyes. "You are soberin up, catchin my little white lies. He wasn't my husband. Neither was my second husband."

"I'm sorry."

"Why? Ain't your doin." She shook her head. "Afterwards it's hard to believe you believed any of it! No, I ain't already got a wife. Sure, I'll take care of you. Course, we'll find gold in California." She shrugged. "Like I said, too foolish to be left alone on a street corner."

"You still got folks in St. Louis?"

She looked away. "Yes, I still got-folks. In St. Louis."

"Why don't you go back?"

"And leave all this?" Yes, the whiskey was tasting a little less like paint thinner now. "It's a long ways away."

"There's trains."

"Not just the miles, the time. Like I said, I been Goldie a long time. I got folks there but I doubt any of them'd be happy to see me."

"They might surprise you," Heath said, remembering his own family.

"They might. But you know what wouldn't surprise me? There's a whole passel of 'I told you so's' waitin right along with em. That's some pretty hard medicine to take."

So was that whiskey, he thought; but he didn't say it. The worst of the headache had passed, leaving only a tightness at the back of his head. It occurred to him that he'd feel better with a clean shirt and a shave, but he didn't move. The air in the room was leaden. For all her bright chatter and her brighter hair, Goldie was as low as he was, and he suspicioned that neither was doing a good job of raising the other's spirit. Terrible how quickly and easily the veneer of respectable society was stripped away by a little bad whiskey and a cheap room. These last few years he'd spruced up his grammar and his manners a bit. But this had been his place for a long time before that, and he was shamed by how quickly he'd fallen back into the rhythm.

"So," Goldie said, for she found puzzling over this young man's troubles better than puzzling over her own, "so why don't you want to go home?"

"I do," he said irritably.

"Men who want to go home don't take detours through towns like Pinecrest and get drunk as lords in places like Louie's."

Yes, terrible how you fell back into the rhythm. And yet there was a comforting anonymity here. He had no last name; he had no responsibilities; when he rode out of Pinecrest he'd never ride back, he'd never have to see the echo of his own darker thoughts in her eyes again. His family, so sympathetic, so understanding, so careful to tiptoe around him, so careful never to mention a name or an event that might trouble him. Their kindness moved him, gratified him, but it was a burden, and it checked him, too. He didn't want to see that kindness turn into distaste. How could anyone of them hear what dogged at him and still keep that sympathy?

So here you are, back in a place you thought you'd left for good. "I want to go home," he said. "It's just-it's just harder'n I thought it'd be."

"Not everyone's cut out to look after a child."

"It's not that." And it wasn't-not exactly. After Augusta died everyone had told him how lucky he was that the baby had lived. The child was a lifeline, she'd keep him from going under. And she was; what good he'd scraped out of these last six months had come mostly from her. But she was an anchor, too, a reminder of all that was lost. Fatherhood would have been difficult for him in any situation; tossed on a sea of rage and grief it was nearly impossible. And none of this could be said. How could anyone as kind as Victoria, as passionate as Nick or Audra, understand what ate at him day after day? "I can't hardly bear to look at her sometimes," he said. The words came low and rough and fast, as if they'd been yanked out on a hook.

He could hardly believe he'd said it. It sounded even worse than he'd feared it would. The silence lengthened. When he finally got up the nerve to look over at Goldie, he was surprised. She didn't look disgusted; she just looked sad. Sad, and understanding, too.

"You ain't the first," she said. She knocked back the rest of the glass. "Sure you don't want a little hair of the dog?"

"Sure." How could she take his words so lightly? Or-more likely-she was used to far worse. Louie's in Pinecrest; what hadn't she seen? "You don't act like what I said's all that bad."

"It ain't. You're a mean drunk, but not a bad man. If you was really bad, it wouldn't bother you none. You wouldn't be tootin up on this bad old whiskey in this sorry old town." The whiskey seemed to brace her a little. "You want some advice? Just give it some time. You'd be surprised what you can learn not to see. Just give it some time."

What you can learn not to see. No doubt you had to learn to not see a lot to tolerate this life. But living comfortable with what he knew and didn't like hadn't ever been his strong point. And what sort of man would he be at the other end of not seeing?

She looked at the window, then, surprised, got up. "You know, I think that's rain."

It was enough to distract him, and he wrenched open the window. He stuck a hand out. It was definitely rain. It had been rain for a little while, too, because the snow was beginning to look runny. If it kept raining-well, it would be plenty muddy, but mud was better than ice.

"Hope that big horse of yours can swim. You might wish it stayed snow." But she smiled a little. "You may make it home for Christmas after all."

"I might." Time, he told himself. Time to stop sitting here and feeling sorry. You wanted to get home for Christmas. Get. "I reckon I need a shave," he said.

"Well, we're not big on shavin around here, but I'm sure Morty can rustle you up some water." She went back to the vanity, pinned in the dark velvet ribbons and the feathers. "And I might as well tidy up too. If the road's passable we might actually have some company tonight."

He shaved down in the kitchen. There was plenty of resolve in him, but there wasn't much relief yet. He'd said what he needed to say and he'd gotten to say it without consequences. But it was hard to look forward with any pleasure. The last six months he'd wrestled with his grief and lost badly. Learning not to see. Was that the best the future could hold-that he'd have to learn to cut off half his feelings to let the other half live? Forget Augusta so he could care for her child without destroying himself? His own eyes looked back at him through the grease-spotted mirror, blurry and bloodshot and shadowed, a thousand years old. What other choice did he have, really?

Goldie was dressed now in the same dark red dress he vaguely remembered from the night before, but she seemed in no hurry to go downstairs. "You ain't planning on leavin now, are you? It'll be dark soon."

He shrugged. "I'm willin to take the chance. I don't have much time."

"You look even less persuadable sober than you did drunk, so I ain't gonna waste my breath trying. One for the road?"

He shook his head. For the first time a small smile flitted across his face. "Even if was my last drink on earth, I'd say no to that whiskey." He looked at her, noticed again her smile seemed pasted on. The various strands of what she'd told him suddenly came together in his hands. He said, "You got children in St. Louis, don't you?"

She sighed, looked out the window. "Mama looks after my boy." Her grin was more like a grimace. "Hopefully she won't raise a fool the second time around."

"Second husband?"

"First. The one married already. Poor mama just about liked to die of shame, but what else could she do? Well, she could hope that bein such a fool once I'd learned my lesson. Not that I did. When the second come along-talkin about how much money there was to be made in California-well, I fell again. Or I say I do, but I really did know better the second time. There's a difference between believin with all your heart and decidin not to not believe, if you can follow me." She sighed. "I think Louie's whiskey is gettin to me. Anyway, I figured it was worth a try. Get out from under my big mistake and mama's I-told-you-so's. Make it up by making some money for the boy." She gestured vaguely. "So here I am."

"So he's what you had to learn to look at without seein."

"Well, now, you do understand, even if the whiskey's making my tongue a little stupid. Yes, he's the spittin image of my big mistake."

"Goldie," he said, "how much would it take to get you home?"

"More'n you got," she said lightly.

"Don't be too sure."

She shrugged. "It ain't just money, stranger. It's time." She twisted a strand of the brassy hair. "Like I said, I been Goldie a long time. Hard to stop. And that's a lot to ask a child to not see."

That he couldn't quite answer. He'd judged his own mother harshly for a long time, so long that he'd never gotten to properly make amends to her. A terrible thought: all his worrying about how he would do for his daughter, perhaps it was all pointless. Perhaps someday she'd sit in judgment on him, too, and rank all his efforts for her as failures. Who was he to tell Goldie to go home? Couldn't be certain of anything turning out right no matter how well you meant. All that's certain, he thought sadly, is that life is hard and the whiskey in these places is always third-rate.

And yet-she'd tried to help. Had, in a way. "I got a hundred dollars on me," he said. "Would you go home if I-no, don't answer that. Just take it. Leastways you can choose."

"Choose," she said sadly. "I ain't made a single choice that turned out good."

"It's better'n not choosin."

"But you think I should go."

"I guess I know why you think it's best if you don't go. I don't know what's right, Goldie. I just know I have to go."

She took the money, tucked it into her chemise. "Don't suppose you'll come back this way."

He barely suppressed a shiver. However difficult his life at home might be it was still far preferable to this. Wasn't this what he'd hated: the rootlessness, the hopelessness, the anonymity? He had his troubles, he had his pains, but at least he had a place to go to, now that his head was clear enough to recollect it. "Nothing personal, but I don't reckon so."

"Good," she said with a false heartiness. "One trip here is enough for anyone."

He bent over and kissed her cheek awkwardly. He'd said to her what he couldn't say to his nearest and dearest, but there was nothing more to say. She took his kiss in silence.

A few minutes later she saw him ride by, the big bay picking its way carefully through the sodden streets. Good-lookin young fella with money; naturally she'd let him leave. She went on looking out the window long after he'd gone, thinking alternately of St. Louis and going down for a game.

Out of the island

and into the highway

past the places where you might have turned

you never did notice

but you still hide away

the anger of angels who won't return

"Everything you want," by Vertical Horizon