You can do anything you like. The fade to black was not a hiding of shame, but a closing of the curtain on a moment that belonged only to them. It was a joy that needed no audience. The world, however, always had one last test. It came in June.
A fence on the northern boundary was cut. Not by a syndicate, but by two drifters who had heard the rumors of Pike's old war and thought the rancher would be an easy mark for rustling. Eli saw them from the ridge. He rode down, rifle in hand. But he wasn't alone.
Leo was riding beside him, looking fierce on a pony Eli had broken for him. And from the east, three riders appeared. It was the blacksmith and his sons. They had seen the dust and ridden out to check. The drifters looked at Eli.
They looked at the boy. They looked at the neighbors riding down the hill with shotguns across their laps. "We are just passing through," the drifter yelled, turning his horse rapidly. "Keep passing," Eli called out. He didn't even raise his rifle.
The drifters fled. Eli looked at the blacksmith, who tipped his hat. "Thought you might need an extra set of eyes, Eli? " the blacksmith called. Obliged, Eli said. He turned his horse back toward the house.
He was not isolated. He was part of a community that was slowly, painfully learning to be better. The story ends on the porch. It was dusk. The sky was a riot of orange and violet, bleeding into the deep indigo of the coming night.
The air was cool, smelling of the creek and the cattle. Eli sat in the rocking chair he had mended. Clara sat on the railing, leaning back against the post. Leo was down by the corral, playing a harmonica, the lonely, sweet notes drifting up to them. Eli reached out his hand.
Clara took it. Her hand was rough, calloused, scarred from the wire in the work. His hand was large, the knuckles swollen from the cold. They were not perfect hands. They were hands that had known violence and fear.
They were hands that had dug graves and built fences. "It is a hard country," Clara said, looking out at the darkening hills. "It is," Eli agreed. He squeezed her fingers.
"But it is ours. " Clara looked at him. She saw the lines around his eyes, the gray starting to show in his temples. She saw the man who had saved her and the man she had saved in return. "I am glad I got off that stage, coach," she said.
Softly. "I am glad you did, too," Eli said. They sat there as the stars began to punch through the twilight, hand in hand. Two survivors who had walked through the fire and found that the only thing that didn't burn was love.