Precious

By: Anonymous

A shaft of light broke through the brown sack cloth curtain, illuminating the coating of dust on the floor of the small cabin. Chris Larabee lay in the narrow bed under the window, his eyes shut painfully against the light that signaled the beginning of another day.

It had been two weeks since Ella had disappeared. Two weeks since the discovery that his wife and child were murdered because of Ella's obsession.

Self-loathing filled the man on the bed and he burrowed his face deeper into his pillow, trying to escape the visions and voices that filled his mind. Through a haze of alcohol, Chris could hear the approach of a horse. Buck.

Chris groaned as he heard Buck's boot and cheerful whistle on the steps. A sharp rasp on the door and a "Hey Buddy" broke through the silence. Chris didn't bother to raise his head.

"Go ‘way, Buck! I ain't in the mood."

"Well hell, buddy, you ain't been in the mood for two weeks. Don't you think it's ‘bout time you got yur ass in gear?" Buck replied amiably, opening the door and moving about the small room.

Chris listened to Buck carry on his chatter as he went about preparing breakfast. When he smelled the greasy bacon on the stove, Chris felt his stomach lurch. In a single move, the gunslinger hoisted himself from the bed and moved to the door. Opening it, Chris gulped at the cool air, waiting for the nausea to pass.

"Well," Buck drawled, "Good to see you up. Why don't you go get cleaned up while I finish makin' the eggs?"

Chris stared out at the tumbling hills, verdant patches of green cropping up as spring announced her presence in the quiet of the high desert. The cool morning air seared his lungs, sending a chill along his chest and causing his eyes to tear. Behind him, he could hear Buck rambling, but his mind only processed the throbbing sensation at his temples.

When a firm hand rested on his shoulder, Chris turned to face his friend. Buck's cheerful smile greeted him, but Chris couldn't bring himself to return the smile. For a moment, the two stared quietly at one another. Then Buck grinned, tipping his head toward the makeshift table in the cabin.

"C'mon, let's eat! I'm starved."

Chris watched the man sit down, casting an ironic smile in the direction of the ladies man. The man could eat anywhere!

Turning, Chris moved to pull a shirt from the chair by his bed. He dressed slowly, listening to the click of the fork and knife as Buck consumed the bacon and eggs directly from the pan. Chris listened with growing irritation to the sound of the knife scraping the pan, the sound of Buck's teeth gnashing the food, the small sounds of every swallow. A sudden desire to lash out at the man seated at the table, to hurt him, filled the gunslinger. Chris felt a tremor pass through his shoulder blades and he struggled to contain the rage of aggression that seemed to explode without provocation.

"Ain't ‘cha hungry?" Buck inquired.

Swallowing his emotion, Chris turned toward Buck, his face a mask of indifference. He cast a disdainful look at the table before turning to pour himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove. With the cup in hand, he returned to the door, searching through the glaring sunshine with an anger that barely remained in check.

From behind him, Buck drew in a breath and quietly put the eating utensils down. "It ain't your fault, you know. She's crazy. You couldn't a known..."

"Buck." The single word carried the hushed threat.

"Chris," Buck began again, "I know you don't want to talk about it..."

"That's right," Chris returned forcefully, moving to face his friend, "I don't. Now let it go."

Buck stared at his friend momentarily before nodding slowly. He saw the edge on which his friend was balanced. "Okay," he returned quietly, "fine."

Neither man spoke until the sound of horses broke through the silence. From outside, the men could hear Nathan and Vin arguing.

"He don't want no medical attention. He ain't gonna appreciate it."

"What he want and what he needs is two sep'rate things. I just want to make sure he's okay."

Chris shook his head, swearing under his breath. Everyday one of the six men had "dropped by." Chris knew they meant well, but their attention was painful. He didn't want them around--they reminded him of his blind faith in Ella, of his foolhardy trust even in the face of Vin's evidence to the contrary. Frowning, Chris turned on his heel, grabbing his gun belt and wrapping it around his waist. No, he didn't want to face them, didn't want to face Vin.

"And where do you think you're goin'?" Nathan asked imperiously, while Vin leaned against the open doorframe, his eyes seeking out Buck's. Chris watched the silent exchange between Buck and Vin, irritation crawling over his skin at the helpless looks that passed between the two.

"Out."

"Not until I check that bullet wound," Nathan replied, placing an arm on Chris' chest.

Anger flared in the gunslinger and he pushed Nathan's hand away and turned toward the door.

"Hey," Nathan replied, standing his ground, "I'm just trying to help. That shoulder needs to be re-bandaged. Vin." Nathan motioned for the bounty hunter to stop Chris.

Vin lifted a hand toward Chris, to block his path. "C'mon Chris."

Surrounded by the three men, Chris felt the world close in on him as blood surged to his temples. Without thought, he ran his fist into Vin's face, sending him sprawling to the cabin floor. In an instant, Nathan was at the young man's side, helping him to sit up. Buck stared at the man on the floor and then at his oldest friend in the world.

Chris felt tremors begin wrack his body as he stared down at the bounty hunter on the floor. Blood from Vin's nose left a trail across his pale face, the dark scarlet pooling on the floor. Chris jerked away and he began backing out of the cramped cabin, the blinding sun burning at his eyes. As he saddled his horse, Chris could hear Vin calling to him, but shame at his actions kept him from turning back. He mounted up and rode toward the foothills, where the forest would block the interminable light.

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It was well past noon when Chris pulled his horse to rest. His body was warm from the heat of the ride, but his mind had cooled. He replayed the scenes of the past month in his head. The brothel where Buck and J.D. found him. Seeing Ella again. Making love to her. Rejecting Vin. Finding the locket. Watching her attack his friends. Being shot. The nights of drinking. Josiah's cryptic sermons. J.D.'s jokes. Buck's cooking. Hitting Vin.

Chris exhaled loudly, guilt and self reproach beating as steadily through his veins as his life blood. He paused momentarily, listening to the occasional caws that broke the silence of the quiet trails of the high sierra. From his height, Chris could look out across the river to the mesas that stretched along the horizon. Just ahead, lush trees met desert, the dry trail giving way to the dark forest with its tiny rivulets of crystal water. Quietly, Chris led his horse toward the shade and the beckoning cool. Large boulders sat on precipices, marking the routes the natives were wont to travel before being placed on reservations. Chris paused briefly before the timeless trail, a powerful desire filling him with the urge to set out and never look back. Rounding a bend, Chris came to a halt. There, before him, sat Mary Travis, gazing intently at the small town miles below.

For a moment, Chris contemplated fleeing--backing away before she noticed his presence--but something held the gunslinger to his place. He hadn't seen Mary since she had delivered the letter from Ella. He remembered the strange combination of curiosity and disappointment that had played across the widow's face. At the time, he had wanted to explain, but he couldn't find the words and so he had watched her turn and retire to the Clarion. Now, Chris observed the woman from a distance. Her long, golden hair tumbled down her back, a gentle breeze twisting the locks. As the wind lifted the soft tendrils, Chris could make out the contours of Mary's neck and the gunslinger felt a familiar shudder pass through him. Mary sat with her back erect on the trunk of a fallen tree, her blue riding skirt lying gently about her legs, her shiny black boots peeking out. She seemed intent on something below her. Chris strained to follow her gaze and drew in a sharp breath at the sight.

Some hundred or so feet below Mary a mountain lion paced. At the sound of Chris' clipped breath, Mary turned her head, just in time to see Chris draw his gun.

"No!" Mary cried, moving to stand beside the gunslinger. She reached out to still the hand holding the weapon.

From below, Chris and Mary could hear the piercing squall of the cat who was now alerted to an unseen danger somewhere high on the mountain. "No," Mary whispered, holding onto the gunslinger's arm. Chris looked at her as if she had lost her mind. But Mary held her hand to her lips and quietly led the gunslinger to the edge of the trail.

"Look," she whispered, gazing down the side of the mountain.

There, two cubs stood at attention, their tumbling play interrupted by their mother's shriek. Chris moved his gaze from the lion cubs to the mother, who stood rigid, her ears tucked back against her head as she evaluated the enemy lurking high above. For a few quiet moments, man and cat stared, each assessing the danger the other presented. From her perch below, the animal let out another caterwaul, her eyes never leaving the loathsome pair above. This time, the baby cubs began tripping down the mountain. When the cubs were safe from view, the sleek cat turned, bounding down toward her young, safe from the crack of the barrel.

As the cat disappeared from view, Chris let out a heavy breath. Staring at the pale, small hand that still held his arm, Chris felt irritation build in his chest. Its smallness seemed to reaffirm its need for protection.

"Dammit, Mary, don't you have any more sense than to go traipsing up a mountain! That cat coulda' killed you and no one ‘ud ever know!"

Mary pulled her hand from Chris' arm and took a step back as if slapped. Her face closed, anger tinting her cheeks.

"I was just fine until you came along," Mary retorted, crossing her arms.

The gunslinger and newspaper woman stared intently at one another, neither wavering. Chris squinted his eyes, his brows furrowing into an angry glare. Mary pursed her lips and raised her chin a fraction of an inch. It had become a familiar dance.

When he saw she wasn't going to back down, Chris stepped back with an angry huff, holstering the weapon he still held in his hand and turning his back on the woman. He took a deep breath and looked out at the scene before him. The calming breath helped to settle the erratic beat of his heart. "What are you doing out here anyhow?"

"I...I..." Mary faltered, looking at the gunslinger's back.

When Chris turned back toward her with a questioning look, Mary continued, "I...like to ride up here sometimes...to...to think." A pink flush covered the widow's cheeks and she looked at the ground.

Chris stared at the pink darts on Mary's face for a moment too long, imagining how it would feel to take her face in his hands. Finally, as though aware that his gaze was improper, Chris reined in his wandering thoughts. "Isn't fitting for a lady to ride up here alone."

Mary bristled at the simple statement, anger bubbling to the surface before she could rein it in. "I see...and given your extensive knowledge of saloon girls and psychopaths you feel that you are a fit judge to decide what is appropriate behavior for a *lady*?"

Chris raised a wary eyebrow at the widow's sarcastic question.

Mary saw the look and stepped back, a small voice in the back of her mind telling her she had revealed too much. She had no right to feel the keen sense of betrayal, but that didn't stop the feelings from surfacing.

Chewing on her bottom lip, Mary glanced around, anxious to look at anything but the gunslinger. Finally, when he didn't respond, Mary asked testily, "What brings you up here?"

Chris shook his head, running his hand through his hair as an exhausted sigh escaped through his nose, "Needed to think."

Mary nodded in understanding, waiting for the man to continue. When he didn't, Mary glanced around nervously. "I thought you did your best thinking in the Saloon."

"Nah...too crowded." It was little more than a whisper.

"Too crowded?" Mary queried, confusion filling her features. She had not expected the man to respond and she wasn't sure how to proceed. "With friends?"

Chris shrugged his shoulder and turned his back on the woman again, silently rebuking himself for getting into this conversation. "Too crowded period. I just want to be alone." The emphasis on the word "alone" would have quieted any of the six men, but Mary had an irritating habit of pushing things--meeting things head on--exposing herself to danger. Chris sighed inwardly when the widow moved to face him, irritated by the woman's tenacity.

"If you wanted to be alone," the voice wavered, "why did you leave with that woman, that...Ella?"

Chris jerked his eyes from the ground, searching the face of the woman before him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes held the question. Chris' first impulse was to back away to tell her it was none of her damn business anyway, but he seemed unable to move. How could he explain it to her when he didn't fully understand it himself? How could he explain that Ella represented a safe place, a body he had shared in a simpler time? His feet felt like lead, his tongue heavy in his throat.

After a few moments of silence, Mary looked away. "I don't suppose it's any of my business anyway," she began quietly, "but it's rather difficult to see someone you care about, for...Buck and the others...that is...it's difficult to watch you...hurt yourself. When you left for Mexico, they were worried. And then, when you told them you were going to stay with that woman..."

Mary paused as Chris looked up at her questioningly. "J.D. told me," she explained quietly, "he was frightened you would all scatter every direction."

Chris refused to meet her gaze. He didn't want to see the concern in her eyes, didn't want to acknowledge her nearness. "They...care...about you. Doesn't that matter to you?"

"No." The word was clipped, more an exhale of breath than a sound.

Before him, Mary lowered her eyes to the ground, but not before he saw the shine of tears in the blue orbs. Guilt filled him and he wanted to reach out to the woman, to hold her and reassure her, to caress her and make love to her, but the raw emotions this woman elicited, and the deadly certainty that any relationship with her would place her in danger, kept him from reaching out to her.

Mary swallowed the lump in her throat and looked off to her side, unwilling to look directly at the man. When she was sure her voice wouldn't falter, she said quietly, "I guess I'll leave you alone then."

Chris watched her move past him toward her horse and then turned back to look out at the horizon.

"People that care about me get hurt." It was his own voice, but his mind didn't register that it was he who had spoken. The words seemed to have a life of their own, a purpose of their own, and they succeeded in halting Mary Travis, who turned back to look at the man in black.

When her hand rested on his arm, Chris glanced down at the small fingers that sent warmth through the thin material of his shirt and then up again to the clear blue eyes. Her face didn't hold any of the pity he fully expected to see planted there. Instead, there was empathy. Mary nodded slowly, taking Chris' hand in her own.

Chris watched the woman in surprise. Never before had she been so demonstrative. He held his breath waiting for her next move, anticipation dancing on every nerve fiber. He was surprised once more when she offered a dazzling smile. "You can't stop your friends from caring, Chris. And you can't protect us...them...that is...by hurting yourself."

Chris narrowed his eyes, waiting for the woman to continue. But she didn't. Friendship, it seemed, was all that she offered. When she didn't speak, Chris pulled back and turned toward his horse, anxious to remove himself from the acute surge of disappointment.

Mary raised her voice. "They'll follow you, you know. Wherever you go. They'll follow you."

Chris stopped in his tracks. "They shouldn't."

"But they will, because that's what friends do. They care about you even when you don't care about yourself," Mary replied from behind. "That's precious, Chris. Don't...don't cast it aside. It's so very, very precious."

Chris stared hard at the woman who seemed framed by the fragmented light that peeked through the trees. *So very precious* The words rang in his head as a cold breeze ran through his hair. *Precious* Once it would have been Sarah blushing shyly. Buck tugging on his uniform at reveille. Adam laughing. *Precious* Now, as the word passed through his mind, Chris saw new images. Vin tilting his head to save Nathan. Buck chasing J.D. with his hat. Nathan arguing with Ezra. Josiah talking about dogs and gods. Billy catching a small bass. Mary. *Precious*

"Precious?" he whispered, testing the feel of the word on his tongue. It could have been a question, but when he observed Mary's open, searching gaze, he nodded slowly, and let the feeling settle. It felt good. "Precious." It was a relief--a respite from the bitterness that gnawed at his soul. For a few quiet moments the two held one another's gaze, a tentative peace offered and accepted. Precious.

As quickly as it happened, the moment passed and the awkwardness of the meeting once again settled between them. Looking back at Mary, Chris commanded coolly, "It's getting late. I'll take ya back to town, make sure ya get back in one piece."

Mary frowned at the man before her, but she knew the conversation was at an end. He wouldn't share any more of himself tonight. The cool facade was fixed in place. But Chris had opened himself to her, if only briefly, and Mary found herself confused by the enigmatic man and the emotions he raised in her. Together, in an awkward, embarrased silence, the two rode back to town.

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J.D. sat sullenly at a table in the Saloon, a mug of beer before him. He didn't like the taste, but he wanted desperately to feel self-assured, certain the fear he felt in learning of Chris' departure was a sign of weakness.

Across the room, Ezra shuffled a deck of cards, the motion absorbing his attention. Across from him sat two young men, who, Ezra discerned, were anxious to be separated from their money.

At the next table sat Nathan, who, uncharacteristically, nursed a glass of whiskey. His face revealed no emotion.

Standing at the bar, Buck flirted with one of the girls, the action more perfunctory than sincere. Those around him assumed his only thought was of securing a partner for the evening. Few, if any, knew better.

Further down, Vin also leaned against the bar, his silence no different than usual.

Across the table from J.D. sat Josiah, who quietly read from a book of poetry.

From the entry of the Saloon, Chris observed his friends, a smile playing at his lips when he saw J.D. wince at the taste of his beer. Taking a breath, the gunslinger walked into the Saloon and up to the bar next to Vin. Five pairs of eyes watched him intently. J.D. moved to greet the man in black, but Josiah held the boy in place, motioning for him to be silent.

"Whiskey, Inez," Chris called to the barmaid. When the bottle and shot were placed before him, he took a quick gulp and turned to face Vin.

"I shouldn't ‘a..." he began, but was cut off by Vin.

"You gonna share that bottle, cowboy?" The blue eyes of the bounty hunter held no animosity.

Chris stared at the young man for a long moment before pouring him a shot. Turning back toward the bar, Chris smiled to himself, reassured his friendship was intact, and replied, "Don't call me a cowboy."

Down at the other end of the bar, Buck caught Chris' eye, and the ladies man nodded slightly to his friend before turning his attention back to the delectable creature before him.

End.

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