DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program"Lonesome Dove: The Outlaw Years" are the creations of Rysher Television, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. This story or the new characters created by the author are not to be published on any ftp site, newsgroup, mailing list, fanzine or elsewhere without the express permission of the author.
Christmastime in Virginia was never like this. Bitter cold froze everything, from water pumps and locks to fingers and appendages. The heavy snow broke tree limbs, their loud cracks echoing like gunshots in the silence of night. Days were worse. Gray clouds covered a barren landscape. There was little sun, and its dull rays died out in the mid-afternoon. It was night all day long in this cursed Montana. Clay Mosby wondered if he would ever get used to it.
Mosby threw down his cigar and ground it with his heel. He tightened his duster about him. It promised to be the start of another glorious day.
“Mr. Mosby,” Ike called out to him. The man rushed to meet Mosby’s pace. He looked cowed. Ike never had good news when he looked like that.
“What?” Already Mosby’s nose and ears were beginning to feel the burn of cold.
“You’re not going to like this,” Ike began.
Mosby gave him an impatient look as he gripped his gloved hands together. “Of course I’m not. What is it, Deputy?”
“Since Twyla’s raised her prices, folks’ve been upset. We’ve had to throw a lot of people out of the sporting house. We can’t keep them locked up in jail. We’re running out of room.”
The problem seemed elementary to Mosby. “Have them pay a fine and let them go.”
“We have,” Ike replied, “but that’s not it.”
Mosby scrutinized him. Ike appeared better dressed than he normally did. There was no doubt what was lining his pockets, and it was not his salary.
“I can’t see why you’re complaining, Deputy. You don’t look any worse for the wear.”
“Twyla’s gonna shut her doors, Mr. Mosby. She says we haven’t done enough to protect her girls. You remember what happened last time. Folks got real riled up.”
“Twyla won’t be shutting her doors, believe me. Just put a couple of more men over there.” Mosby continued his brisk pace.
“I’ve already got all the men on it. I can’t get anymore,” Ike said breathlessly, trying to keep up with him.
Mosby stopped and faced him. “Then you go over there personally.”
Ike’s face twisted in dismay. He obviously did not like physical confrontations.
Mosby’s patience was wearing thin. He never had this problem when Austin was sheriff. “I’m paying you for a job, remember? I expect you to do it.”
Ike took off his hat and scratched his head. “Folks just don’t have enough money to be paying higher prices at Christmas time is all. Twyla should lower her prices.”
Mosby could not believe he was having this conversation as he resumed his stride. Mosby did not begrudge Twyla from wanting to make a profit. Besides, she and Mosby had a little understanding between them. Her success benefited him, too. It all worked out very well. “You’re suggesting that Twyla run a charity? There’s a price for everything. You ought to know that better than anyone.”
Just then, Mosby and Ike passed by a circuit preacher that had the misfortune to stop in Curtis Wells.
“Christ gave away his life for you out of love,” the preacher called out to the small crowd gathered around him.
“See,” Mosby smiled wryly. “Even he agrees. There’s no such thing as free love. You get over there with more men, Deputy, and Twyla won’t see any need to close her establishment. Understand?”
Ike nodded begrudgingly and walked away. Mosby turned the other direction.
“May God’s grace find you,” the preacher called out to him.
“That’s unlikely,” Mosby muttered to himself. God had shut His eyes upon him a long time ago. Now He was intent on forsaking the entire territory of Montana. God’s wrath burned bright, and in Mosby’s case, it was an eternity.
“Merry Christmas to you, stranger,” the preacher called out.
“Merry Christmas, yourself,” Mosby replied with a false smile.
He pulled his duster about him and went about his way. He hoped Twyla would be satisfied with more protection. If not, he would have a little talk with her. She was sure to be unhappy.
Meanwhile, he had more pressing matters to attend to.
Just like he thought, it was the start of another glorious day.
Mosby stood upon his balcony early Christmas morning. He savored the taste of his cigar for a moment, then exhaled deeply. His eyes narrowed as saw a brief encounter between Call and Josiah. The men departed in opposite directions. Call headed towards the Number 10, no doubt getting an early start on the day’s drinking. Mosby knew that Austin was already drunk there or passed out somewhere in tent town. Mosby would be seeing Josiah downstairs later, as was the mayor’s drunken tradition for the past several years. Christmas was always a good time for such things.
Not that he could blame them, Mosby thought as he puffed on his cigar. Christmas brought back memories that were best forgotten. His eyes focused upon Call as the bounty hunter pushed a man off from him at the entrance of the Number 10. Call was lucky in some aspects. Call could remember if he wanted to. As far as Mosby knew, Josiah had never thrown out Hannah’s things. Call could go back and touch . . . .
Mosby did not have that luxury. Mosby had nothing of hers, except perhaps the memory of her laugh. Her laugh was the finest thing he had ever known.
Mary.
Mosby blinked and tried to stop the thoughts. He would be hitting the bottles later that night, too, but in the privacy of his own establishment. He would have to wait until then to fill the empty ache inside of him.
He was about to walk into his inner rooms when he noticed his mayor following the townspeople into the church. The circuit preacher stood at the doors, shaking hands and greeting each townsperson that entered. The preacher caught his glance and smiled up at Mosby. Mosby smiled wryly in return, nodding to him. The preacher frowned for a moment, and then continued welcoming the townspeople inside.
Mosby exhaled his cigar. The preacher would no doubt give a fine Christmas service. Every man and woman in town would feel lighter and freer when they stepped out of the church, but Mosby was certain of one thing. They would be back in his saloon the next day, and in Josiah’s case, the mayor would be in his saloon in the next few hours. Mosby would bet on it.
All he would need to do was to bide his time and wait.
Christmas was the longest day of the year.
Mosby returned to his rooms and sifted through a pile of letters that he had not had time to review. Most were business documents, but one letter Mosby regarded with interest. It was the finalization on the deed to the Owens spread. He had been looking at that piece of land for quite some time now. Things were finally falling into place. Soon Mosby would have his railroad, and Curtis Wells would have a prosperity it had never known.
Mosby smiled. It was a fine Christmas present.
He heard the church bell ringing the start of the Christmas service.
“Thank the good Lord,” Mosby added, his eyes looking up to the heavens.
Then Mosby returned to his paperwork. He had plenty of that to keep him busy.
Bentley and Haywood saw out Josiah and the remainder of the Ambrosia Club’s patrons. They looked to Mosby to see if he needed anything else. Mosby could tell they wanted to return to their homes and families. He nodded them away and locked up the Ambrosia Club for the night.
It was, in fact, the worst part of Christmas. It was the moment that the key turned in the lock of the door . . . the moment he had to turn and face an empty room that was both huge and confining at the same time. It was the moment he knew that the demons were waiting for him . . . there in the dark. Christmas night was so very long.
Mosby swallowed and turned away from the door. He walked behind the bar, aware of his own footsteps echoing against the walls. He grabbed a bottle of his favorite whiskey. His special stock was reserved for singular occasions like these.
Mosby pulled himself up to a table and began the festivities for the night. He poured himself a shot.
“To your health,” he toasted the heavens and downed the liquor quickly. He poured himself another and gulped the shot. He sighed, closing his eyes, listening to the silence.
And so it began.
They came unbidden, like thieves in the night. First a laugh, then a glimpse . . . the curls that would fall out of her bun and grace her neck . . . the way she smiled . . . how her hands curved into his . . . how she sang off-key. Mosby savored the memories of her . . . his wife . . . his beloved. Then he felt the ache of her not there. She should be with him. They should have children. They should have a life.
Mosby forgot the shot glass and drank directly from the bottle. He pushed himself away from the table and paced over to the roulette wheel. He spun it around, remarking his good fortune. This was the life he had now. There was no Hatton Willows -- only this place.
How he hated it.
He could make this new world into something he recognized, though. He would do it by his own iron will. He would defy anything that stood in his way. Anything, or anyone.
He took another swig.
Mosby could hear his father’s voice. His was a voice of command and respect. His father was capable of great love, as well. Mosby’s mother always told him so, although as a boy, Mosby often did not recognize it. But he did respect and love his father. Lawrence Mosby was a great man.
Mosby swallowed a gulp, sinking into a chair. His father. A great man -- butchered.
His lovely wife . . . his very treasure. The way her eyebrows furrowed when she was deep in thought . . . the way her tongue stuck out when she was hunched over her sewing . . . the way her body followed his when they danced. His hands . . . Mosby looked down at his hands . . . how they could encircle her waist. How her brown eyes looked up at him in adoration. How she laughed . . . .
Mosby shut his eyes when he heard her screams. Other hands touched her . . . other hands tormented her. He could see the fright in her eyes. He could see the life ebbing out of her.
She was his wife. He was supposed to protect her.
“Mary,” he moaned.
He took another swig, placing the bottle roughly on the table. He fumbled inside his pocket and pulled out the case. The paper was worn and thin, but most of the names were crossed off. Most of the bastards that tortured and killed his family were taken care of, but it was of little consolation. It was so very little. He wished he could have done more.
Mosby stared at his whiskey bottle. So much had been taken away from him – his home, his family, his love. When he was a younger man, he had asked himself why. Mosby gulped down another shot, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He no longer wondered.
He finished the bottle, waiting for the blessing of unconsciousness. He stumbled behind the bar and grabbled another whiskey bottle and drank half of it before he finally passed out at a table.
This had been his Christmas tradition for nearly twenty years.
Mosby woke up, focused on his whiskey bottle, and managed to stumble up the stairs. With a few more drinks, he might fall asleep and wake up the following morning in his cot. He still felt the blur of alcohol. With a few more drinks, he might be able to do it.
Moonlight illuminated his inner rooms. His cot seemed almost too far away. One step in front of the other, Mosby told himself. He had never passed out on the floor, and he was not about to start. He caught himself on his desk. Luckily, none of the liquor spilled out of his bottle. He laughed, a hollow sound echoing about the room. God forbid he should try to get more downstairs. He might not be able to do it.
Mosby eased himself onto his cot, bringing the whiskey with him. He sighed. Then he heard a soft noise.
No doubt he had knocked some papers off his desk. He would have to pick them up the next morning.
It was the sound of paper falling to the floor.
Mosby laid down on his cot, placing the liquor bottle on the floor within reach. His forearm stretched over his eyes. The moon was so bright. He should have drawn his curtains.
He turned, trying to get comfortable. The moonlight still bothered him. He would have to get up.
He cursed when his foot knocked over the bottle. He knew he should have kept some reserves in his chambers. He wondered why, of all nights, had he not brought an extra bottle up with him. He cursed again at his own misfortune.
Then something caught his eye. It lay directly at his feet, illuminated by the brilliance of the moon. It was an envelope. It was addressed to him. His heart began to pound.
It had her handwriting on it, and the liquor was racing towards it.
Mosby snatched up the letter, clutching it against his heart. It couldn’t be her handwriting, Mosby told himself. It was just a trick his mind was playing on him.
Mosby remembered how beautiful her hand was. She would write at her desk for hours. He remembered how he came behind her once while she was writing. She had turned to greet him with a smile, but she had an ink smudge on her nose. Mosby remembered how he could not resist her. He had made love to his wife then and there. Later, her ink-stained fingers had rested upon his chest.
Mosby sighed deeply, holding the letter to his heart. It was just a trick, he told himself. He had had too much to drink.
His heart pounded as he took the letter over to his desk. His hands shaking, he lit the oil lamp. He could not look at it. What if it wasn’t her handwriting? What if it was?
Resolving himself, Mosby took a deep breath. He opened his eyes to read the envelope:
Colonel Francis Clay Mosby
14th Virginia Regiment
He dropped the letter. He could not believe it. It was his Mary.
He wiped his eyes. It could still be some trick, some sick perversity his mind was playing with his emotions.
Yet, it was clearly her handwriting. It was addressed from Hatton Willows. It was a letter written to him.
He prayed to God it was true. Even God would not torture him in this way.
His hands shaking, he held the letter in his hands, staring down at it. It was if he did not know what to do.
He held his breath as his fingers opened the flap. He was afraid that the magic might disappear.
Several pages of handwriting awaited him inside.
Mosby still could not believe it. How could this be? After so many years, how could this be?
Trembling, he withdrew the pages. He awkwardly caught something that tumbled out from the papers.
He immediately brought it to his lips when he realized what it was. Her hair. He breathed in the essence of her, the flood of emotions promising to undo him.
“Mary,” he moaned.
He clutched the clipping of her hair to his heart as he began to read her letter:
Christmas 1864
My darling Clay,
I have so much to tell you, but I don’t know how to begin. We are all well, and the plantation is managing. You cannot know how much I love you and miss you, and I pray that you will return to my side. I love you so much. I ache for you. I pray for your safe return.
I know that you may never read this letter, darling. They told me that you have been captured. They don’t even know if you are alive, but I know that you are. I feel it in my heart. I feel it as if you were standing beside me now. I feel it as if you were holding my hand.
I have so many things to say . . . things that I wished that I had said . . . so many regrets for not saying them. It is only through God’s grace that I may be able to tell them to you now.
Clay, how did things ever come to this? Why does war have to be so ugly? It’s been so long now. It goes on forever. I just want peace. I want to be with you. I don’t care where we are. I just want to be with you.
Yet, I fear that something may happen. Should you be taken away from me . . . Clay, I don’t know if I can bear it. If it could only be me instead . . . but that is just foolishness. It is only because I ache for you that I say such things.
Clay, what can we do when there is such suffering in this world? Should something keep us apart . . . . Oh, my darling Clay. I know how you feel for me. I am to you as what you are to me -- a beacon, a hope, a ray of light. Yet, I know there is a much deeper love than ours. It is unfathomable. I search for it each day that I am parted from you, and I grow more and more unhappy when I seem unable to find it.
But, I know it is there, Clay, just as I find joy in the memory of your laugh. I know it is there when I remember the color of your eyes. Your eyes . . . how they gleam like sunset upon the water. It is there when I think of how you rub your lip while you are pondering over a perplexing matter. It makes me smile, laugh, and cry all at once to think of you. You are such a blessing, Clay. I love you so very much. I thank God that you exist.
Yet if I should never see you again, my darling, remember this. There is a safe harbor.
I love you.
Merry Christmas,
Mary
Mosby stared at the letter, stunned, unable to wipe the tears flowing freely from his eyes. Once again, he brought the lock of hair to his lips. She was real. It was real. It was if she was there in the room with him at that very moment. He kissed her hair over and over again. He had found his love.
He read the letter again. He laughed when he saw a fingerprint. She always did have ink smudges on her fingers.
He wanted to keep her hair in a safe place. He withdrew the silver case from his pocket. He took out the worn paper. He could not keep her next to it. He could not keep love next to hate. He wanted to get rid of it. He quickly burnt it in the oil lamp. He placed her hair in the case for safe keeping. He wanted to read her letter again. He wanted to sleep with it beside him.
He carefully placed the case in his pocket next to his heart. He took the letter over to his cot. He read it over and over again, laughing and weeping.
He fell asleep, the letter resting against his heart.
Mosby woke the following morning with papers in his hand. He dared not look at them. He was afraid his marvelous dream was just that – a dream. He did not know if he could stand it if it was not real.
Yet he knew as he opened his hand that something about it was not right. The paper was different.
The Owens deed.
Mosby moaned. Why would God give him such joy only to take it all away again? What had Mary said – it was only through God’s grace that he had received the letter in the first place? What kind of perverse God would delight in torturing him so?
Mosby swung himself to the edge of the cot, crumpling the Owens deed into a ball. He should have known better. A letter delivered nearly twenty years after it had been written was too miraculous to believe.
He sat with his head in his hands.
Yet his Mary felt so real to him. Her words, her heart . . . everything about it was so real. Why would God take her away again? Why would God give her to him only to take her back?
His heart began to race.
The silver cigar case.
He took it out from his pocket. What was inside was either life or death. He did not know what to do.
“Please, God,” Clay whispered.
He lifted the lid and gasped.
Later that day, Clay Mosby stood at the entrance of the church, clutching something to his heart. He took off his hat and stepped inside.
December 2003