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Shepherd opens his eyes to a sky black with thick smoke. He sits up slowly, pulling the hat from his head to cover his heart. He had always tried to be a good man, in spite of what he was—or maybe even because of it.
Some part of him, buried deep in the ash of his body where the sun could never touch, had chafed with the idea of his father, a pride too hard-won to submit to that old, golden image Rett had painted of the man. Shepherd’s father, a rough man, a hard man, but one who put food on the table, who never raised hand nor voice against Shepard, who existed in the patches of Shepherd’s childhood memories—and Shepherd, too proud to follow in his father’s footsteps, too desperate to be different.
Where had that gotten him? In hell, with all the others who shared his skin and horns, instead of the soil of the Deep Mother’s embrace. Abe Solomon should be around here, somewhere, ready with a million jokes to lay claim to Shepherd’s lonely soul. Grinning Jack Booth was supposed to be here, too, somewhere, no doubt waiting patiently for his revenge against Shepherd.
James Morgan, too. Shepherd looks down at his hands. Brimstone Jim was supposed to be here somewhere.
“Fuck that,” Shepherd mutters as he stands.
It was Rett who held Shepherd’s hands when he was small and bawling for the loss of everything he had ever known, comforting him with an awkward earnestness that had drained away over the years, leaving only his heavy arm around Shepherd’s shoulders and a mouth full of honest praise. It was Rett who sewed Shepherd’s weary heart back together each time he came back from a job gone bad, Gideon’s easy laughter and familiar teasing taking the bite out of bitter pain, and it was Rett who stroked Shepherd’s sweaty forehead when he was sick, it was Rett who weathered each storm that passed over and through their small family, it was Rett who had raised him.
There was a lifetime there that James Morgan didn’t—couldn’t—know about, even if Shepherd did find him. There weren’t enough words in the universe to explain that lifetime to anyone. Shepherd had never had Gideon’s way with words, just Rett’s gruff affectation and a tongue thick with curses.
A lifetime of sitting at Rett’s side through the night as he prayed fervently to the Deep Mother, unbelieving but sleepily keeping watch over his father’s bowed head and shaking hand; a lifetime of standing at the stove, slowly cutting vegetables under Rett’s watchful eyes and Gideon’s impatient eye-rolling, learning how to keep himself alive; a lifetime practicing his letters with Gideon, his voice softer and shakier than Gideon’s booming voice, unashamed of his many mistakes, the both of them waiting eagerly for Rett’s praise; a lifetime patching up his own scraped knees and small cuts as Rett’s rough voice ran through him like a river, wearing instructions into him, eroding a canyon of instinct into Shepherd’s bones, so when he was an adult, lost in the plains, he knew to chew on tough leather as he poured whiskey and hooked needles and tough thread into wounds he hadn’t been fast enough to evade. A lifetime learning from his daddy, a lifetime putting those lessons to work, a lifetime with the heavy weight of Rett’s regard and protection hanging like a poncho around his shoulders.
A lifetime of Gideon’s loud, belly laughter and passionate shouting, of fighting and joking, of Gideon’s dismissal of the ghosts that haunted Shepherd; a lifetime of standing shoulder-to-bicep with Gideon; a lifetime admiring how Gideon seemed to carry the weight of Glitterdeep on his broad shoulders, alone, steadfast despite how he tumbled exhausted and dusty into the larger bed in their shared bedroom late each night. A lifetime of getting down on his knees to rub Hank’s belly, of running around the dusty plains chasing after his beloved dog.
A lifetime shedding all the greedy, bitter parts of himself, stretching for a sterile, golden justice. A lifetime falling short, taking justice alone, learning just how far outside the word of law he had to step to keep Eden safe, keep Gideon safe, keep Rett and Hank safe. A lifetime of trembling hands that only Revelation could calm, a lifetime of short, harsh breathing, a lifetime of his voice scraping in the back of his throat, a lifetime of fear and the desperate scratching to overcome it.
A lifetime playing cards with Emmett, sipping at whiskey till the early morning, shooting the shit on a good night and sharing the warmth of a fire on a bad one; a lifetime joined at the hip with one of the few kids Shepherd’s age that wasn’t drawn by Gideon’s blinding light. It had been a long time since Shepherd lost Emmett. Shepherd presses his hat harder into his chest, like that would soothe the old ache.
How many years of Shepherd’s life had he spent with Emmett? How many years, now, had Shepherd spent without him?
Shepherd let himself, after so many years setting the grief aside in favor of the endless crises Eden suffered, to linger on those crystalline memories. Emmett and his mischievous smile, his little notebook full of chicken-scratch poetry, the blood that dripped from his split, knobbly knuckles that one time he tried to fight Gideon for running his mouth about Shepherd’s new hat. The grateful squeeze of his hand on Shepherd’s shoulder when Shepherd refused to suffer any asshole’s treatment of Emmett.
Emmett’s low voice in the dark, the glint of his eyes in the moonlight, the shape of his lips around the mouth of the flask he and Shepherd passed back and forth to stave off the cold night air. The gentle touch of his rough hands.
The days they spent out in the plains, silent only for their voices, the unguarded boyhood moments washing up in a river, water sliding over their then-small bodies and laughter ringing in their ears. The unguarded adult moments washing up in a river, water and eyes marking the lines of their muscle and fat and scar tissue.
Rett had been overjoyed when Shepherd told him about trying for sheriff—Eden hadn’t had one before him, had endured the waves of Bandits and crime and troubles at Glitterdeep without complaint. Rett’d kept Shepherd up all night, alternating between prayers to the Deep Mother, thanking Her for Her providence and begging Her to keep his boy safe, and stories of the rare justice the Brimstone Brotherhood had meted out. Gideon had laid in his bed the next room over, still sore and new to his work as foreman, no doubt listening along like he always pretended he didn’t. Shepherd had sat with Rett and tried not to feel like a child again, listening to Rett’s well-worn stories, Hank sprawled over his lap.
The next day, it had been all Emmett, grin sharper than usual as he tugged Shepherd around town. Here, Emmett had suggested, they could put the new jailhouse they would need. Here, they could set up a chair or two, subtle places to watch for incoming danger. Here, they could bury a weapons cache, just in case.
No one had bothered Shepherd in those days; he and Emmett had ran around unchecked by the town. What was there to bother? Just Silas and Emmett, Morgan and Tallow, sentences running into each other, messing around in the streets of Eden like it was their own backyard.
Shepherd had helped Rett and Gideon start Eden, but he hadn’t made his own name for himself yet. He was just one of the boys who lazed around town. Gideon had saved the miners countless times in Glitterdeep already, Rett held the town together, safe from illness, but Shepherd was still Silas. He was just Rett’s boy, only Rett’s boy, still coming into his own.
That day, that night, when Emmett had shed his tears over Shepherd’s shy invitation for Emmett to be his deputy, Shepherd’d been, briefly, Emmett’s and Emmett’s alone. Briefly, he had been Emmett’s man.
The next day, he gave himself to Eden. He built the jailhouse, built his reputation among the familiar faces of Eden anew, accepted his new name and title from Eden—Shepherd; Sheriff. He reached out to the other nearby camps and outposts in the drylands, became their vein to mine, their protector when they needed him and their contact when they didn’t.
Never once, in all this, had he been James Morgan’s anything. His blood, maybe, but nothing more than that. Didn’t need to be; didn’t fucking need him. Not then, and not now neither. Didn’t need the name he gave Shepherd, didn’t need Rett’s attempts to protect Shepherd from exactly what James Morgan was—from Brimstone Jim, head of the Brimstone Butchers. Didn’t need to see him in hell, now that Shepherd’s here.
“Enough of this,” Shepherd tells himself. He places his hat back on top of his cropped hair, wiggling his head so his horns slip into the holes Rett helped Shepherd put into the stiff fabric a lifetime ago. “I’m comin’, Emmett. Just you wait. I’ll pull your ass from the fire, one last time.”