A stunned silence met Vin’s quiet declaration and three men stared at him in numb disbelief, their minds reeling before such an appalling truth. Thirteen? Each tried to remember himself at thirteen, tried to remember the struggles and concerns that had darkened his life at that age, and could come up with nothing more traumatic than girls, pimples, grades, parents and raging hormones. All the problems and anxieties of adolescence had then been seen as disasters and tragedies of epic proportion, but never, not once, had any of them literally had to fight for their lives, or kill someone else to save them.

They hadn’t even been capable then of imagining a world where such a thing could happen.

Vin saw the shock in their faces, the incomprehension in their eyes, and bowed his head, wrapping his arms tightly about himself in an instinctive defensive gesture. He knew that look, remembered it from the faces of the police and the doctors and the social workers who’d said they were there to help but had come much too late for any help to be possible. They’d all looked at him then just like Chris and Buck and Josiah were now, like they’d finally realized exactly how fucked up he was. Seeing that look again, only this time on the faces of his friends, made him remember why it had been so important for him to forget.

If he could make it go away, convince himself and everyone else that it had never happened, then no one would ever look at him like that again.

"’S all right," he said softly, flatly, repeating without conscious thought words that had become his litany for survival all those years ago. "Don’t matter none. What’s done is done ’n cain’t be changed. Jist gotta fergit about it ’n go on. Ain’t nothin’ can be done about it now. Jist gotta…" He swallowed hard and licked dry lips with an even dryer tongue. "Jist gotta let it go."

"How?" Chris asked roughly.

Vin looked up in surprise at the question no one had ever asked before. "What?"

Chris turned on the couch to face his friend and frowned deeply at him. "You were abused, beaten, for three years solid, from the time you were ten until you were thirteen. And when you were thirteen, when you’d been beaten nearly to death and couldn’t take it anymore, you stopped it the only way you could, by picking up a gun and shooting the bastard responsible to death. Now," he leaned forward, his confused green gaze locked on Tanner’s startled blue one, "you wanta tell me just how in the hell you plan to let that go, just forget about it and go on?"

Vin tightened his arms about himself, trying to hold together the fractures he could already feel running through the walls he so desperately needed if he had any hope of getting through this. He couldn’t understand it. No one had stopped him before, no one had questioned him before. Everyone had always understood that it would be easier for them all if he just locked it away.

Everyone except Chris Larabee.

"You killed a man, Vin," Chris said softly, never taking his gaze from Tanner’s face.

Panic rippled at the edges of Vin’s mind and he tried to look away, but that ruthless green stare wouldn’t release him. "I d… I didn’t wanta," he protested, trembling uncontrollably. "I jist… I jist wanted–"

"I know," Chris interrupted in that same soft but unrelenting voice. "You just wanted him to stop hitting you. To stop hurting you. Because he’d been doing it for three years and no one ever stopped him. No one ever came. Isn’t that what you said? No matter how bad it got, no matter how loud you screamed, no one ever came. Isn’t that what Castro told you when he had you? That no one would come?"

"C… Castro?" Vin whispered, pulling his knees up against his body.

"Yeah, Charlie Castro," Chris said calmly. "You remember him, don’t you? The bastard who held you and beat on you for three days, then locked you in that little room. That little room with the carpet. Like the closet–"

"Don’t, please!" Vin moaned, his wide, unblinking eyes flooding with terror. He clenched his hands into fists, heedless of the pain it caused his injured one.

"Chris," Buck warned quietly, edging from his place at Josiah’s side toward the couch. "You can’t–"

"What?" Chris asked, never taking his eyes from Vin. "Make him remember? Somebody has to, Buck, or he’ll just forget it again. Push it down again. Until it all explodes again. And he goes for a gun again. Only what if he gets off a shot next time? What if he shoots one of us? Or himself? Or some poor innocent bastard who doesn’t even know why the hell he’s been shot?"

Anger ripped through Buck. "He wouldn’t–"

"He might," Josiah agreed softly, solemnly. "He held a gun on you and that nurse at the hospital, Buck. He was looking for a gun when he and Chris fought. And he found one just a few hours ago. A gun he had to have put in that drawer because Chris locked all his away. We all know how safe Vin feels with guns. What we haven’t known until now is how unsafe he feels without one. And until he feels safe," he turned sad but steady eyes upon Buck, "I’m not entirely sure the rest of us can, either."

"Jesus!" Buck groaned sickly, turning away and going to sink dispiritedly into the nearest recliner.

"You can’t forget this, Vin," Chris said, watching as the stricken man pushed himself into the corner of the sofa and huddled miserably there. "Don’t you see? You can’t forget, because it won’t be forgotten! It might lie dormant for a while, but it’s still there, like a volcano that’s been quiet and calm so long folks stop watchin’ it for any sign of danger. But ‘dormant’ doesn’t mean ‘dead,’ Tanner, and when enough heat and pressure build up, even the quietest of volcanoes will erupt and destroy anything in their way. You could’ve gotten three of us here tonight, Vin," he said in a low, even voice. "How many are you gonna get next time?"

Tears coursed in streams down Vin’s white face and, with a choking cry, he dropped his head onto his knees and began to rock, sobbing softly, helplessly. He held his arms as tightly about his body as he could, clenched his hands as hard as he could, but couldn’t fight back the agony that poured from him in raw torrents.

Chris moved in at once, sliding as close to his friend as he could and wrapping his own arms tightly about the sharpshooter’s huddled, heaving body, cradling Vin to him in a fierce embrace. He said nothing, merely rested his head against Vin’s and held him, never even bothering to fight his own tears.

Josiah looked at the two men locked in that desperate embrace on the sofa, then turned his head and saw the same agony written in every line of Buck’s slumped body. The big man was leaning forward in the recliner, his elbows on his thighs, his head in his hands, his broad, bowed shoulders shaking as he wept silently. Wiping a hand roughly over his own wet face, Josiah heaved his body out of the rocker and rose tiredly to his feet, then headed with leaden footsteps toward the kitchen to make the biggest pot of coffee he could.

It had been a long damn day, and was looking to be an even longer night.

7~7~7~7

Vin had no idea how long he cried, didn’t even know when his sobs finally quieted. And somewhere along the line he’d drifted off to sleep, but he couldn’t say when *that* had happened, either. He knew it had, though, because he could feel himself waking now, and felt that peculiar heaviness in his body that only came from sleep. He also knew that Chris still held him, could feel the hardness of Larabee’s chest against his head and the warmth and strength of the man’s arms about him. He suspected he should feel embarrassed at having fallen asleep in his friend’s arms and figured he should probably pull himself free immediately, but just couldn’t do it.

He’d spent so much of his life – too much of it, maybe – crying and fighting and falling alone. It felt nice to have someone catch him for a change, and to know that he’d finally found somewhere safe to rest.

Made him wonder what all might have turned out differently if he’d had this all those years ago…

Chris heard the change in Vin’s breathing, felt the subtle tensing and then relaxing of his muscles, the slight shift in the weight of his body, and knew the younger man was awake again. He expected Vin to bolt at once from such close, even intimate, contact, knowing how uncomfortable he was with such, and was both surprised and touched when Tanner seemed content to remain where he was. He understood the incredible level of trust that implied, and couldn’t help but wonder exactly what he’d done to earn such faith from a man who, with every right and reason in the world, so rarely gave it.

He also made a silent vow never to do anything to lose it.

"Hey, Junior," Buck called softly from the recliner, seeing a slit of blue through the strands of hair veiling the sharpshooter’s face, "you with us again?"

Vin frowned distractedly, trying to pull his thoughts together, and licked his lips as he smelled a familiar and enticing aroma. Coffee. He sniffed again, waited for the cobwebs in his mind to clear, then set his bandaged hand against Chris’s chest and slowly pushed himself upright. Chris opened his arms to let him go, but not before giving him a gentle pat on the back. He sat up and gave Larabee a small, shy smile.

"Y’ don’t make a half-bad pilla, cowboy," he drawled, his voice still rough from sleep. "I ’preciate it."

"Any time, pard," Chris said quietly, knowing better than to make a joke just now. "Josiah made coffee. You up to some right now?"

Vin absently raised his right hand to rub his gritty eyes, but stopped it only inches from his face and frowned in confusion at the blood staining the white bandaging. He curled his fingers slowly and gasped softly at the painful pulling of the stitches in his palm.

Chris watched him, noting the utter bewilderment on his face, and wondered how the man could do so much damage to himself and not remember. "We need ta talk about your habit of clenching your hands and digging your nails into your palms," he said at last. "I don’t wanta think about how many of Doc Stone’s stitches you ruined. If you’re *real* lucky, Nathan will be able to fix any damage, and the good doctor will never have to know."

Vin continued to stare at his hand and flex his fingers, strangely fascinated by the sight of his blood and by the sharpness of the pain that bit into his injured palm.

But Chris could stand no more. As gently as he could, he reached over and caught Vin’s hand between his two, hiding the blood and stilling the long fingers. "Stop it," he ordered quietly, waiting for Vin’s eyes to meet his. When they did, he gazed steadily into them and said, "No more hurting yourself, okay? Too many others have done too much of that already. You don’t need to add to it." He searched Vin’s eyes intently, saw the shadows of exhaustion and doubt clouding the usually clear depths, and suddenly made a connection that had eluded him until now. "You have ta stop punishing yourself, Vin," he said softly, knowing by the alarmed widening of Tanner’s eyes that he was right. "You don’t deserve ta suffer, you don’t deserve ta hurt, and you sure as hell don’t deserve ta bleed for sins that were never yours."

"Then how come it keeps happenin’?" Vin whispered hoarsely, staring at Larabee like a child waiting for someone to explain the evils of the world.

Chris sighed and bowed his head, tightening his hold on Vin’s hand. "I don’t know," he admitted sadly. "I been waitin’ for somebody to explain that to me, too, but, so far, nobody has. And I don’t think anybody ever will. Hell, I don’t think anybody can. But I do know this." He raised his head and again met Vin’s lost stare. "What happened to you all those years ago, and what you had to do… None of that was your fault. You didn’t deserve the beatings, and you didn’t deserve havin’ to kill a man just to make the beatings stop. You hear me, Vin? It wasn’t your fault!"

"Then how come they locked me up fer doin’ it?"

Chris merely blinked and stared stupidly at Vin as the softly voiced question – with more pain and bewilderment behind it than one man should know – again knocked his mind off track and stripped him of his reason. Locked… but… that couldn’t…

"They did what?" Buck asked sharply, certain he had to have heard wrong. "They couldn’t possibly–" Words failed him and he, too, gaped helplessly at Vin, trying to make some sense of the younger man’s words. "That just can’t be right!" he muttered weakly.

"I was there, Buck!" Vin snapped defensively, snatching his hand from Chris’s lax hold and again folding his arms against his chest, his expression turning belligerent. "Mebbe I ain’t the smartest feller who ever wore boots, but even I know when I been locked up–"

"Whoa, hold on," Josiah put in calmly, holding up his hands as if to impose order on the men around him. "Let’s all stay calm, and let’s take this one detail at a time. And, Vin," he turned wise eyes to the glowering sharpshooter, "I want you to keep one thing in mind – we’re on your side. We don’t doubt you, and we sure as hell don’t think you’re stupid. We’re just trying to understand things that, in all honesty, defy understanding. We’ve been, and are being, patient with you." He gazed steadily at the younger man. "I ask you now to be the same with us."

Vin exhaled heavily, his anger leaving him in a rush. "I’m sorry," he breathed, dropping his hands to his lap, his thin shoulders sagging. "I know… I know y’all’ve been patient with me, prob’ly more patient than I ever had a right ta ask. Tolerated a lotta craziness that ya shouldn’ta had to…" He winced and bowed his head. "I don’t know what’s wrong with me!" he whispered hoarsely, desperately. "I don’t know… why…" He raised his head suddenly and turned to Chris, blue eyes filled with pleading. "I jist want it all ta stop! I want it all ta go away!"

Chris swallowed hard and shook his head slowly, holding that tortured gaze with his own. "It won’t," he said softly, sadly, hurting at the brutal truth. "It can’t. Not if you’re ever gonna get better."

"Then mebbe I don’t wanta get better," Vin sighed in defeat. "’Cause I jist don’t think I can take this."

Chris sat back, laced his fingers together against his flat stomach, and steeled himself to strike. "So," he said coolly, forcing himself to speak the hurtful words, "you’re just gonna sit there, fold up on yourself, and let that bastard win."

Vin reacted as if he’d been shot. What little color he had drained from his face, his blue eyes widened and filled with hideous pain, and a low, broken sound of sheer agony escaped him.

"Then fight!" Chris said harshly. Leaning forward, he reached out and took Tanner’s shoulders in a firm grasp, trying to infuse some of his strength into his friend. "You can’t quit now, Vin," he said urgently, holding that shadowed blue gaze with his clear green one. "Not after all you’ve already been through, not after all you’ve already survived! And you have survived, Vin, more than anyone should ever have to, and more than most people would be able to. But if you quit now, you’ll be throwin’ all that away, and the bastards who tried to break you all those years ago will have won. You don’t want that, do you?"

Vin stared fixedly at Chris, trying to figure out exactly what he did want. Peace, he knew that much. The kind of peace he used to have, before Charlie Castro had torn open the door in his mind and thrust him back into hell.

"I want out," he rasped brokenly, a single tear sliding down his white cheek.

"Out of what, Vin?" Chris asked gently, absently raising a hand and wiping away that tear with a thumb.

"Out…" He slowly raised a shaking hand, then wrapped it with all his fragile strength around Larabee’s strong wrist. "Please, Chris," he pleaded, another tear spilling, "please… help me get outta the quicksand!"

Chris groaned and pulled Vin to him in a fierce embrace, exhaling unsteadily as he felt his friend’s thin arms wrapping around him and holding on just as tightly. "We will, Vin," he vowed. "I swear it! You just hold on to us, and we’ll pull you outta this yet!"

7~7~7~7

Josiah and Buck left the den and went into the kitchen, ostensibly to make sandwiches, but in reality to give Vin the chance to pull himself together without three pairs of eyes watching. They were well aware of their younger friend’s deeply private nature and could imagine how his soul must be writhing in humiliation at so open a display of his emotional fragility. With all that he’d suffered already, and with all he was sure to suffer still, the two figured the very least they could do was to give him some space while he tried to pick up whatever pieces of himself he could. Neither man had missed the small, grateful smile he’d given them as they rose to leave, just as neither had missed the way he’d reached for Chris’s arm to hold him on the couch when Larabee, too, would have left.

Seemed Vin was finally learning that he didn’t have to go through everything on his own.

"So, how’re you holdin’ up?" Josiah asked casually as he opened a loaf of bread and spread its slices on a platter while Buck ransacked the refrigerator for sandwich makings.

"Hell, I ain’t the one with my soul cut open and left to bleed out on the floor," Buck said roughly, handing jars of mayonnaise and mustard over his shoulder to Sanchez, then digging out deli packs of ham, roast beef and cheese.

Josiah arched a heavy gray brow as he unscrewed the lid from the mayonnaise. "Oh, I don’t know about that," he mused, dipping a knife into the jar and then spreading the stuff over a piece of bread. "Seems to me there’s more than one soul bleedin’ here tonight. Any soul that wouldn’t bleed after what we’ve heard… I’d have ta worry about that."

Buck raked in all the fruits of his pillaging and cradled meats, cheeses, tomatoes and a head of lettuce to his chest, shoved the refrigerator door shut with a foot and carried his plunder to the counter, depositing it next to Josiah. His handsome face wore none of its usual jovial look and his deep blue eyes were subdued. He picked up a sharp knife and began slicing a tomato.

"Buck?" Josiah prompted softly, not liking the big man’s uncharacteristic silence.

He swallowed hard and shook his head slowly. "I just… don’t know he got through all that," he rasped softly, still haunted by Vin’s chilling story.

"By the skin of his teeth, I’d say," Josiah sighed. He took one of the tomato slices and a leaf of lettuce and laid them on the slice of bread. "That boy’s got reserves of strength we can’t begin to understand. Guess he’s needed ’em just to survive the life he’s had."

Buck abruptly and vehemently drove the blade through the tomato. "Nobody should have that kind of life!" he snarled through clenched teeth. "’Specially not a kid!" Again the blade sliced savagely through the helpless tomato. "God, when I think about what he went through–" the blade bit into red pulp – "what all those kids went through–"

"Stop," Josiah ordered firmly, grabbing Buck’s wrist as it launched another downward stroke. "I think you’ve done all the damage to this poor fruit that it can take." He pried the knife from Wilmington’s fingers and set it out of the man’s reach, then swept the mangled remnants of tomato into the sink.

"Tomatoes are vegetables," Buck countered flatly.

Josiah sighed and bowed his head, uttering a silent prayer for patience. "This tomato," he breathed, "is a mess."

"Want me ta take over the mayonnaise and mustard?"

Josiah turned his head and arched two brows at the man. "Can you do it without destroying the bread?"

Buck exhaled sharply and grimaced. "Probably not." He shoved his hands into his pockets and began pacing about the spacious kitchen with an agitated, long-legged stride. "How the hell am I s’posed ta feel?" he asked sharply, anger snapping in his eyes and thrumming along his every nerve. "Goddamn it, they beat Vin so bad he had ta kill one of ’em just ta make it stop– He was thirteen, for chrissakes! He was just a kid!"

"No," Josiah sighed sadly, turning and leaning back against the counter, folding his arms across his broad chest. "I think Vin stopped bein’ ‘just a kid’ long before he ever pulled that trigger."

Buck pulled his hands from his pockets and dragged them through his hair. "I hate this," he whispered, ceasing his pacing and bowing his head, closing his eyes tightly. "I hate ever’ word that’s poured outta that boy’s mouth, I hate ever’ bit a’ pain that he’s havin’ ta relive–"

"He has to remember and let it out–"

"That don’t make it easy ta hear!" Buck cried harshly, whirling on Sanchez and fixing anguished eyes on him. He stared at the older man for long, taut moments, torn between anger and agony, then deflated with a ragged breath. "God!" he groaned, feeling almost sick. He turned and made his way to the small breakfast table, sinking heavily into one of the chairs and burying his face in shaking hands.

Josiah went to the table and folded himself into the other chair, gazing compassionately at the younger man. He sometimes wondered how a man who felt the hurts of the world as deeply as Buck Wilmington had ever survived a career in law enforcement, wondered how such a heart could endure the almost daily assaults upon it.

And he wondered if any of the victims the man had encountered had any idea just how fierce and dedicated a champion they had in him.

"You know you don’t have to stay," Josiah said quietly. "You could leave here right now, and no one would begrudge you that."

Buck raised his head and turned a pale face to Sanchez. "Except the man I see in the mirror," he said hoarsely. "How could I leave? How the hell could I justify that? Ain’t we been tellin’ Vin he can’t run? That he’s gotta face up ta this? Just how in the goddamn hell can I tell that boy ta spill his guts, t’ open up and bleed for us, then turn around and walk out on him when he does? What the hell kinda friend would I be?"

Josiah smiled slightly. "Certainly not the kind you are."

"Aw, hell," Buck breathed, wincing and shaking his head, "I ain’t done anything–"

"Except stay where you don’t want to be and listen to what you don’t want to hear," Josiah countered. "Except sacrifice your own comfort and peace of mind for a friend who’s in pain. Except take his pain into yourself and make it your own because you refuse to let him suffer alone–"

"Well, hell," Buck said softly, seriously, "what else am I supposed ta do? I mean," he shrugged, "if I can’t take this from him, at least I can help him carry it. It’s not a lot, but–"

"Oh, I think if you asked Vin, he’d say it’s more than you know." He sat back in his chair and gazed at Buck through wise eyes. "Sometimes, brother, the greatest gift we can give anyone is ourselves. No magic words, no grand, heroic gestures, just our very presence."

"Don’t sound like much," Buck sighed.

Josiah shrugged. "To us, no, it doesn’t. Because we’ve always had someone. We simply take it for granted that when we’re hurting, someone will come along and ask what they can do to help. But when all you’ve ever known is a world of blind eyes, deaf ears and wall after wall of backs turned to you, think how wonderful it must be just to have someone sit down next to you and pull you to them, inviting you to rest a while in the shelter of their arms. Of their heart. Vin has never expected us to take his pain from him, Buck," he said quietly. "To him, after the life he’s had, it’s enough that someone knows he’s hurting, and that someone cares enough to want to take the hurt away. Sometimes just havin’ someone with you is a healing grace in itself. *Especially* if you’ve never had that before."

Buck grimaced and looked away, suddenly embarrassed by Sanchez’s words. "Ain’t ever thought of myself as a grace before," he protested softly, not wanting the man to make more of him than he thought he deserved. "Makes me sound like a damn miracle or somethin’."

Josiah lifted his thick shoulders in a shrug. "Who’s to say you aren’t? Miracles are instances of the Divine reaching into human existence. And what’s more miraculous than the capacity of the human heart to love? Maybe, just maybe, God sends us friends as His way of walking with us."

Buck looked sharply back at Josiah, startled by that notion. But as he turned over the man’s words carefully in his mind, he gradually recognized the truth in them. He’d known only that he felt compelled to stand by Vin because he was a friend, and that was what friends did. He truly didn’t know any other way to be, any other place to be. He’d never imagined what a revelation it might be to Vin to have him at his side.

Because he’d never had anyone there before.

But, hell, if it meant so much to Vin to have someone stand at his side and walk with him…

A broad, bright smile spread across Buck’s face at that thought, and his bowed shoulders squared once more as the burden of helplessness fell from them. Oh, yeah, he could definitely do that!

"Well, then," he said, sitting up straight and smacking an open palm against the table top, "let’s get this show on the road! C’mon, preacherman," he urged, rising to his feet, "we got sandwiches ta make." He winked. "I’ll show ya how a true artist slices a tomato."

"Now that," Josiah murmured as he stood, "would be a miracle!"

7~7~7~7

"How you holdin’ up?" Chris asked softly, unknowingly echoing the same question being asked in the kitchen.

Vin sighed and raised his head slowly, regarding his friend through exhausted eyes. "’Bout like a balloon that’s been shot fulla holes," he breathed. He ran his right hand through his disheveled hair, wincing and hissing in pain as the bandage got snagged in some tangles. "Shit, I’m a mess!" he groaned, pulling his hand free and letting it fall back to his lap.

"Yeah," Chris said honestly. "But I figure you have a right ta be."

Vin stared at him, then gave a soft chuff of wry laughter. "Yer bedside manner needs work, Larabee. Yer s’posed ta tell me I’m doin’ fine."

"You are doin’ fine." One corner of his mouth quirked upward and a gleam shone in his eyes. "For somebody who’s a mess." Vin laughed again, and, while there wasn’t much strength to it, it was still a welcome sound to Larabee’s ears. "You want some coffee?"

Vin thought a moment, then arched a questioning brow at his friend. "Think what’s left a’ my nerves can take it?"

"Since you didn’t make it, I think you’ll survive." He leaned forward, retrieved the cup Josiah had filled for Vin from the table and handed it to him.

Vin took the cup, ignoring the slight to his coffee-making skills. Instead, he snared Larabee’s gaze with his and held it. "Ain’t told ya yet," he said softly, "how much I… I ’preciate… what y’all’re doin’."

Chris knew he could say it was "nothing," but he knew that would be wrong. As little as he and the others felt it might be, it was more, far more, than Vin had ever had in his life.

He chose not to dwell on how much that saddened and angered him.

"I hate like hell that we have to do this," he said quietly, returning Vin’s gaze steadily, "but there’s no way in hell we wouldn’t do it. When I told you we’d get you through this, I didn’t mean that we’d just stand back and watch it happen. I meant that we’ll be right here with you every step of the way, no matter how small the steps and no matter how long the way. That bastard back in Texas and then Castro told you that no matter how loud you screamed, nobody would ever come." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes hardening, his jaw setting. "I’m here to tell you they were lyin’."

Vin dropped his gaze to the coffee held between his hands and frowned into its depths. "I ’member some… from the hospital," he rasped. "Not a whole lot, but… pieces. ’N I ’member… screamin’…" He lifted his head and looked again at Chris. "You was there," he breathed. "You was always there… Cain’t’ve been easy on ya."

Chris winced and looked away, still haunted by the memories from those terrible days and nights. "Wasn’t," he admitted roughly. "Seein’ you hurt like that, hearin’ you scream or beg not ta be hurt again or, worse, hearin’ you cry… God, it felt like I was bein’ dragged body and soul over broken glass."

"Then why’d ya do it?" Vin asked in confusion. "Why’d ya stay? Why put yerself through that?"

"Because you needed me," Chris said simply, returning his gaze to Vin’s. "And because I’d be damned if I was gonna add my name to the list of people who hadn’t been there when you needed them."

Vin thought about that, then gave a small smile. "Don’t think I gotta worry about that," he said softly. "You ’n the boys… y’all’ve already stuck by me through more shit than I ever figgered anybody would. ’N knowin’ y’all like I do, I don’t reckon that’s gonna change any time soon." He grimaced suddenly. "Ain’t many folks who’d stick around after I done pulled a gun on ’em."

"Yeah, well," Chris said lightly, refusing to let his friend get mired down in shame, "we’ve always known your people skills need work."

Vin blinked, startled by the joke, then snorted weakly. "Aw, hell, look who’s talkin’! Shit, I seen riled-up badgers with sunnier natures’n yers!"

"Spend a lotta time irritatin’ wildlife, do ya?" Chris challenged.

"Keeps me in practice fer dealin’ with you," Vin retorted with a smirk.

Chris scowled darkly at the sharpshooter, but felt a deep relief at the return of Tanner’s prickly humor. As fragile as he looked, as he undoubtedly was, Vin still had some fight left in him.

The bastard wasn’t gonna win after all.