Vin Tanner leaned against the doorway, watching the activity inside Nettie Wells' small cabin. She'd invited Vin to Christmas dinner, and told him to bring along anyone else who didn't have a place to go that day. He thought she may have regretted that offer when all seven of the town's peacekeepers showed up at her door, but she'd simply told her niece Casey to fetch more chairs and got out another bottle of whiskey. They'd had enough to food to feed an army, and with full bellies, had settled into a comfortable camaraderie.
Casey and JD sat in a corner playing checkers while Nathan talked to Nettie about some of the medicinal plants he'd seen growing behind her home. Around the large worn table, Buck, Josiah and Ezra finished the whiskey, each one trying to top the other with tales of their best Christmases ever. So far, Ezra's story of rescuing a princess kidnapped by a one-legged pirate named Black Claw and being rewarded with Christmas in an oasis surrounded by slave girls got Vin's vote as the most exciting story, and the biggest bald-faced lie.
"You're gonna have ta work hard to top that, Buck," Vin said from the doorway.
"Hell, my worst Christmas is better than that bull hockey," Buck replied. "But because there are ladies present, I'll tell you about the time I spent Christmas with General Ulysses S. Grant himself."
Ezra snorted in derision, and Vin smiled. He was glad he'd decided to come after all. None of them were all that sentimental and would probably have treated Christmas like an ordinary day otherwise, but being together, away from the town they were paid to protect, and sharing good food was a break they all needed and deserved.
"Vin," Nettie called. "Dessert's almost on. You want to fetch Mr. Larabee?"
Vin nodded and looked outside. The clear night was crisp, the midnight stars bathing the land in a silver glow. He looked over to the corral, where a figure was leaning against the fence; an occasional flare of his cheroot piercing the darkness.
Vin stepped off Nettie's porch and walked over to the corral. Chris turned to him and nodded.
"Sorry ya came?" Vin asked.
"No," Chris answered. "Just came out for a smoke."
"Ya missed Josiah's story about his best Christmas," Vin said. "I ain't sure what some of it meant, but there were cows, wise men with gifts, and a naked lady painted all in gold."
Chris smiled. "I guess Buck couldn't describe his best Christmas in mixed company."
"Nah, he just plum made one up. Something about Ulysses S. Grant."
"That ain't a lie," Chris said.
Vin looked at him warily, unsure if Chris was yanking his chain. Chris only smiled enigmatically.
They stood in silence for a while, leaning against the fence. Chris inhaled on his cheroot.
"You got a best Christmas story?" Vin asked quietly.
"Yeah, but it's boring. No generals or naked ladies. You?"
Vin looked off at the dark trees. "Nope. Haven't really marked the day in a long time, except when I was bounty hunting. Best way to catch a fugitive is to hide out at his ma's 'round Christmas time."
"You don't celebrate Christmas?" Chris asked.
Vin didn't reply.
"Ain't none of my business," Chris said.
Vin looked at him. "Ain't that. It's just not a real happy story."
"Only happy stories are made up ones."
Vin smiled. "True." He turned around and leaned back against the corral, resting his elbows on the fence. "Can I have one of them cheroots?" he asked.
Chris looked at him surprised, then handed him one the thin cigars and a match.
Vin lit it and inhaled, exhaling slowly. "Thanks," he said.
"When my ma was alive, we always went to visit my pa on Christmas," Vin began, again looking far off as he spoke, the hazy memories dancing like spider webs before him. "He was in Huntsville Prison for somethin', I don't recall what. Ma said he wasn't guilty of nothin' 'cept bein' a fool. Reckon he just fell in with the wrong crowd."
"Easy to do," Chris said.
They both glanced at the house, where laughter from inside carried over to them. They grinned, then Vin grew serious again.
"We'd leave early Christmas morning. Ma would pack a huge basket of food, 'cept we never got to eat any of it. It was fer bribin' the guards so we could spend the day with my pa. Ma would get dressed up in her Sunday best and scrub me behind the ears, and she'd say to me, 'Make yer pa proud.'" She was always so happy to see him, and he didn't want us ta leave." He took another drag on the cheroot before continuing. "I hated it. I know that sounds awful, but the prison was dark and cold, and I had to sit in itchy clothes with some man I didn't know. Other kids got toys at Christmas, but ma spent all our money on the clothes and food. I reckon my pa tried to make it better fer me, but there wasn't much he could do."
He pulled the cheroot away and stared at it. "Damn, Larabee, how do you smoke these things? Feels like my throat's on fire."
Chris shrugged and inhaled again. "You get used to it."
"Reckon a man could get used to hittin' himself in the head with a hammer too."
Chris smiled. "Reckon he could."
Vin tossed the cheroot to the grass and leaned back on the fence. "After my ma died, I got sent to the Catholic orphanage in Benavides. Didn't see my pa fer a few years after that, but I always wondered about him, if he knew she had died or if he thought we just fergot him. One year, I guess I was around 10 or so, the sisters had us all name the one thing we wanted for Christmas. They didn't have much money, but they always tried to get one thing for each kid. Most everybody asked fer toys or candy. Hell, I even had it in my head ta ask for a new Bowie knife, but when I got in front of Sister Vivian, I told her I wanted to see my pa."
He looked down at the ground, swallowing a lump that had formed in his throat. Chris handed him his cheroot. Vin took it absently and inhaled. "Sister Vivian hitched up their old mule to a little two-seater and drove us to Huntsville. Took us damn near a week to get there, sleepin' in barns and relyin' on strangers for food. She didn't have no food to bribe the guards with, but they were more respectful to her than they'd been to my ma. They did keep us waitin' near all day on hard benches. It was Christmas day."
After another drag on the cheroot, he continued. "Finally this man comes out. I reckon he was the supervisor. He says straight out my pa is dead, shot tryin' ta escape. Then he says he ain't been buried yet if we want ta see the body. Ol' Sister Vivian said no thanks and pulled me out of there right quick. You know, I can't remember what my ma's face looked like, or my pa's, or even Sister Vivian's, but I remember that bastard's face telling me my pa was dead. It's like it just made his Christmas to tell me that about my pa."
He looked at the cheroot in his hand, burning slowly. "I left the orphanage soon after, and started earnin' my own keep. First $50 I made I bought my ma a headstone. I knew where she was buried, behind a small church. Then I went to Huntsville. After so many years, it still scared me bein' there. I wanted to buy a stone for him, too, but they said they didn't know where he was buried. If there was no money, they just tossed 'em in unmarked graves, sometimes five or 10 to a hole. That ain't right. Treatin' people, even convicts, no better than you'd treat a dog."
He took a thoughtful drag on the cheroot, then glanced at Chris. The gunslinger's face was impassive, but not judgmental. He was listening in sympathy but not pity, and Vin appreciated it. They were an unlikely pair, for certain, but made stronger by their differences and their histories.
"This may sound crazy, but I wish Sister Vivian had let me see my pa. It just never took that he's dead. If I'd seen him, maybe I could let him go."
Chris didn't reply, but his jaw tightened. He recalled searching the charred bodies huddled in a corner of his home, looking for signs that it wasn't them, that somebody else's wife and son died in that fire, but seeing Sarah's wedding ring that she never took off and Adam still clutching the wooden horse Chris had carved for him, he knew. The knowing didn't make it any easier to let them go. "Maybe," he said finally.
"I ain't got a problem with death," Vin said. "Everybody dies, and the best you can do is live right while you're here. But my pa... I've still got that hope I'll run into him one day. I know it's foolish."
"It's not," Chris said simply.
Vin finished the cheroot and tossed it near the first. "I ain't really celebrated Christmas since then, until today."
"I'm sorry, Vin."
"Don't be. Nothin' ya could do then, and you're here fer this Christmas. You watch my back so I don't end up swingin'. That's the best gift a man can get."
"Good thing, since I didn't get you anything else."
Vin laughed. "What I want can't be tied up with a bow. Understandin' and friendship. Ain't ever had 'em before."
"You aren't gonna write a poem about it, are you?"
"I might," Vin said. "Call it Ode to an Ornery Cuss Who Don't Deserve It."
They both looked to the house. Warm light spilled out from the windows and open doors, and the smell of roast still hung in the air. As they watched, Buck appeared in the doorway, whiskey glass in hand, searching the darkness until he saw them.
"Vin, Miss Nettie says if you don't get back inside right now and bring Chris with you, she's feeding your pies to the hogs," Buck yelled.
"We're comin'," Vin shouted back, pushing off the fence.
Chris didn't move.
"You can stay out here. I'll bring ya out some pie," Vin said.
Chris raised an eyebrow. "You mean you won't eat it all?"
"Didn't say it'd be a big piece," Vin said.
"Thanks, Vin."
Vin nodded and stepped back to the house, feeling more at peace than he had in a long time. He glanced back at his best friend who was still struggling with his own loss but slowly returning to life again.
"Reckon this is my best Christmas," he said quietly, then stepped inside.
THE END
Summary: Vin recalls the best and worst Christmas of his life.
Categories: Old West
Characters: Chris Larabee
Genres: Angst/Drama
Warnings: None
Challenges: None