a trampled hat.

Eleanor Crawford

Winter is beginning to melt away. It not a long one or a deep one; the only people who will remember it as such are the poets, for whom every winter is long and deep and colder than the last, darker than any. For those who do not put on such airs, it was just another winter. Ice melts off the trees and snow melts from the mountains, swelling Cherry Creek. The beer already being made here has a cold, crisp taste. Men who haven't accepted that the veins are running dry are already planning their next excursions to find gold. Supply lines have started running again.

Coaches have started arriving again, as well. The sort with people in them, not just tradeable goods. Families, or young men seeking their fortune. They usually come in groups, carried out on the road by experienced men whose lives consist of going back and forth between the East and this wild place where people trade property and estates at poker games, where some say that here, "a man's life is worth no more than a dog's".

A dog showed up at Trevor Clay's porch this past winter. A black and white collie, her eyes bright even though her speckled fur was matted with mud and her paws were swollen red from walking across snow and ice. Somehow he ended up letting her stay. Ended up giving her a wash. Started feeding her. Let her follow him to the sheriff's station, and the saloon, and all over town. Fur's not matted anymore and her ribs don't rub against his hand when he pets her. Eyes still bright. She's a good dog.

Tonight there's a cold snap, the sort that makes one think winter is never going to let go, no matter how long the sun shines every day, no matter how much snowmelt fills the rivers. There's a waxing moon in the sky whose light edges in past the curtains of every window in town.

Wherever he is, whatever he's doing, when Deputy Clay hears a wolf howling, the hairs on his arms rise slowly to attention, and a chill whispers down his spine like a touch.

Wolf's fairly close to town.

Trevor Clay

Half a decade or more now since that fateful blood-red day. Denver City's changed. Grown up. Grown big. Grown from a shantytown of tents and clapboard houses into something a little more townlike. A grid of three streets by four, and nearly as many families as there were wild-eyed miners frantic for that priceless yellow metal. Trade coaches come through this way now. There's talk of a railroad, maybe. Hell, last fall a dressmaker's even opened up next door to the bank. Folded halfway through the winter, but word is a new one's due to hang up the shingle come spring.

Sheriff's forces have expanded too. Seven men wearing the star now, plus John Lark himself. Still stretched thin. With people comes crime; all sorts of stupid misdemeanors, a pair of shoes stolen, a chicken taken and slaughtered. Sometimes bigger things. One year, a spate of shootings in the street. Some hotheaded young guns rode into town, rich boys from back east who'd heard too many stories and paid too much money for their shiny new guns not to draw on a dime's drop. Stopped after Lark laid down the law and hung one of those brats high.

Nothing again like Sherman Kane's raid of '58, though. Nothing so terrible, nothing so deadly. Nothing, either, that welded the community together quite like that, making warriors out of drunkards and lowlifes, heroes out of men. At least, so go the legends. No one's really sure anymore. No one seems to really remember all the details. The who and the where and the how and the what: of the dozen or so men who were there, who saw and survived the day, everyone has his own story, his own harrowing tale of horror and heroism. Most all of them aren't even in Denver anymore, anyhow. A good handful moved on when the veins ran dry. Oliver met some girl from the new state of Kansas, moved over there to be a farmer. Jack drank too much one night, took a tumble into a well and drowned. Sheriff's still around. Little greyer at the temples. Moustache still black as thunder. Eyes still blue as lightning. Wasn't there at the fight, though.

Leaves him. Trevor Clay, survivor, deputy. He remembers. He remembers in his bones -- in that arm that aches when the weather turns cold most especially. He remembers most everything, and most everyone. Even that strange girl with the pink hair. Even that god-like man with the golden arrows. Even that glorious, queenly woman, whose kind he's never seen again this far west, in this uncivilized a land.

--

Fire crackles in the hearth. Built this house two summers past, small but sturdy, better than the leaking frigid cabin he used to live in. Main room up front, scullery in the back. Second story even, though little more than a glorified loft. Cellar. Actual glass in the windows, even if he's only got two of them -- one up front, one upstairs. Indoor commode, what luxury! His own little well in the back, which he damn well doesn't plan to drown in.

And a dog napping at his feet.

And a wolf howling out in the dark.

Dog raises her head, ears perked up. Low growl in her throat, more fear than aggression. He sits up too, reaching down to give her a pat. Mutters for her to stay as he rises to his feet. Takes up the rifle leaning against the wall as he opens the front door. Sept would have his hide if he shot one of their own, but not all wolves are kin just as not all men are kin. Some wolves get a taste for violence, just as men do. Not as many as men do, maybe, but some. Man's got to protect himself out in this cold, wild land.

Bootheels on wood. He steps out on his porch, breath white in the night air. Didn't bother with his coat because he doesn't intend to be out here long. Shirt's cotton and thick, but cold still seeps through. He narrows his eyes into the darkness.

Eleanor Crawford

The summer of '58 should be the stuff of myth and legend now, but it isn't. People should remember the sun-spirit who stood on a roof and fired arrows made of pure sunlight into the hearts and limbs of monsters. They should remember the way the earth itself opened up beneath Sherman Kane and the Kane Brothers Gang. They should remember the flood. They should know it as gospel that the town drunk Mad Dog Caradoc died as a true hero. But no one does -- not quite. Not the details, or the truths. Even Sheriff John Lark and the other kinfolk in town have forgotten exactly what happened that searing, bloody afternoon.

They should remember Merriweather and Miss Lightfoot. But the only one who really remembers them is Deputy Trevor Clay.

And he does remember them. The small one who laid her hands on him when it was all over and healed a punctured lung, a shattered arm, either of which might have killed him, and slowly. Painfully.

The bright one, golden-haired, who caught his eyes once across the way and looked at him with something between regret and thankfulness, before she shapeshifted and went out to meet the devil.

The one who kissed him before she was gone.

He remembers.

--

Things have gotten turbulent since the war broke out. Denver, even as far west as it is, has not been untouched; volunteers went south to fight Confederate Texans one year in the bitter cold of February. Most did not return. Their families and businesses stagnated. That summer a fire took half the buildings downtown. Most of what's replaced them has been made out of brick. There are laws about these things now. People here, especially the people who were here five years ago, seem to want this place to survive with a fervor that borders on religion. Come blizzard, fire, or flood: this place seems like it's going to stay.

So he built a house. Near the edges of town, because it's quieter out here, and has a sort of peacefulness on days when he needs that. It's not uncommon for him to see coyotes past his property, or foxes darting for underbrush, but wolves are rarer. They, even more than other canids, seem wise enough to sense the danger that mankind poses. Humans are not good hunting, and they are not good neighbors, and this town is more of a dot on a supply chain from coast to coast than a gathering place for ranchers.

But Trevor is right: some wolves get a taste for violence. Some, especially in winter, feel hunger that betrays every other sense of what is dangerous or what is wise. So he takes his rifle and goes out on the porch, firelight at his back.

He sees nothing. No golden eyes peering at him from the shadows. No glint of moonlight on fur. The trees and brush that rustle are moved by wind. If it weren't for the dog's reaction he might think he imagined that howl, but

he's not really the sort whose imagination gets away from him like that.

Trevor Clay

So he stands there looking into the dark a while. Firelight at his back, dancing shadows between his feet. Dog pokes her head out from between his knees, too. She's small but she's smart. She sniffs the night, at least until he nudges her back inside.

Goes with her. And maybe that's it, maybe he's satisfied and will go to bed now. Except that's not it. Door opens again after a moment. Now he's got a vest on, a shearling coat over it. Jams a hat over his head as he steps down from the porch, feet crunching on thin snow.

Dog scratches on the door behind him. He doesn't let her out. "Stay," he calls over his shoulder. Rifle cocked over his shoulder, he steps away from the light and warmth and safety of the house, looking into the night.

Seems important, somehow, that he sees what's out there.

Eleanor Crawford

Seems important, but like so many of the important questions men ask themselves on long nights in late winter, early spring, it goes unanswered. Denver gets bitter once the sun goes down, even if the day was mild. Shearling against his shirtsleeves keeps him warm, as does the hike, but his breath steams in the darkness and after a while, it becomes clear that if there was really a wolf out here this close to town, it's long gone by now. Or is hiding. He doesn't come across the pawprints. Just a wildness in the air that lingers, keeps the hairs on his neck standing on end even after he goes back inside, hangs his hat and coat, and beds down for the night.

--

The next day is bright, and warmer than the last. The thin layer of frost he walked out on is melted, and while he sees no robins perching on branches yet, he does happen to be out near the main road when today's stagecoach comes through. It looks normal enough, one of those that carries six or more people, but it's in fine repair even after being on the road from the east. The roof is piled high with trunks and parcels. It comes to a stop outside the public house that serves as a sort of inn to travelers and newcomers, and this is where Trevor's general abstinence from town gossip fails him.

See, he does not know that the inn has been expecting these passengers, and that's why the rooms were cleared out and cleaned out last night. He doesn't know that Mary laid out fresh linens in the rooms, and even went out and cut wildflowers into vases for the nightstands. He has no idea that a great deal of lumber and brick and other such supplies have been set aside in recent weeks. There are new people coming to town all the time. There are people leaving, too. There are new buildings going up regularly enough. He doesn't know the flurry of town talk that folk like Mary have been casting about in anticipation of these particular newcomers, or whatever it is they're going to build.

He just happens to be outside, the sun on the tips of his boots, when the stagecoach bounces to a stop outside the inn and its passengers step out. They are sweaty and tired from the road, but quite well-dressed: patterned dresses and flowered bonnets on the ladies, clean shoes and new-fashioned hats for the gentlemen. And there is no word for them except ladies, except gentlemen. What else would you call the dark-suited man with the silver hair and gleaming blue eyes who steps out first, turning right away to hold out his hand for one of the ladies? What else would you call a the woman wearing the lace gloves, stepping carefully out of the coach beside the man and looking around the town from beneath the shade of her bonnet? Even the younger man who gets out behind them has bright golden hair, a handsome face, a neat and tailored suit.

There are others, coming out gradually, but it's that first young woman who arrests Trevor Clay's gaze. The flowers in her bonnet are real, and that bonnet is a fashionable sort they wear out east. Her dress and waistcoat are made for travel, so the sleeves aren't quite as puffed out, and she does not wear a wide hoop beneath her skirts. She is dressed in pale blue, and the flowers are pink, and her hair is gold, and her smile is

glowing.

It's been half a decade or more, but somehow she looks younger. And he saw what she did and how serious she was at the battle with Sherman Kane, but right now she's grinning, she looks effervescent, she looks thrilled. But it's her.

It's Merriweather.

Trevor Clay

Deputy Trevor Clay isn't much of a gossip. Doesn't care about the latest news in town, and now that he lives on the edge of it, even passing word comes rarer.

Deputy Charlie Ballard knew, though. Young Charlie, who's now family man Charlie. Married Dearest Anabelle after all, shakily written love letters or no. Little boy's two years old already. Got another on the way. Between his own good nature and his lively young wife, he keeps up on the news. Come to think of it, Charlie was talking about something of the sort this morning. Someone coming to town. Important man. Clay stopped paying attention; in his mind, a man's importance was judged by deeds. Still, must have been why Sheriff put stationed him at the public house (they have one now: opened up two years ago, because a public house sounded to be a more respectable establishment than a saloon) in the first place. Keep an eye on things, Lark said. Make sure there's no funny business today.

So that's what he's there to do. Stands in the shade of the overhang, batwing doors of the public house to his right, newly-crowned town drunk Sam Grady asleep and a-snoring to his left. Sunlight catches on his boots. No sunlight catches on his guns or the star on his chest, though both gleam all the same. Enough to catch the eye, and enough to keep the peace.

Stagecoach rolls up, crunches to a stop. Driver's quick to dismount today, quick to open the door. Fine-clothed gentleman steps out first, then some fancy lady with fresh flowers in her hat. Fresh flowers! Clay's mid-smirk when she turns his way, and the shadows under that wide brim are thrown aside, and he sees her face.

Must have been something like awareness and intent in the way he straightens up, because Sam Grady chokes on a snore and wakes up. Looks around, mumbling. "Go back to sleep, Sam," Clay mutters, stepping forward, but the proprietor of the house beats him to it. Comes bursting out of those swinging doors, hustling his way down the steps and across the dusty, rutted road.

"Good sirs!" Vickery is the proprietor's name: fat, redcheeked, friendly, huffing. "Sweet madam! Welcome! Welcome to Denver City!"

Eleanor Crawford

She doesn't recognize him. Heartbreaking, that; her eyes pass right over him but don't settle on him any more than Sam Grady. He's as much a part of the landscape as everything else: all new, all wild, all surprising to her. To be fair, though, she doesn't seem to even hear Vickery, but Vickery is really addressing the man who is obviously her father. She drifts away a bit, out into the street, taking in the town, and beyond it: the mountains. Her mouth is open with something like wonder. Behind her, her father is coming to chat with Vickery, As Men Do.

A bit of a breeze kicks up, as is wont to happen this time of year, and kicks the brim of her bonnet. It goes soaring off her golden head, rolling through the air and then bouncing along the ground.

Trevor Clay

The lady's hat goes skipping merrily along the dusty ground. Clay is a proud man, and a hard man, and hardly the sort to go gallivanting after a lady's bonnet -- or her favor. Yet here comes the hat, tumbling in his general direction, and he finds himself stepping out of the shade.

Three swift steps down to the dirt and then a quick, firm stamp: the hat caught, pinned, and one is honest, somewhat crushed. He frowns. He stoops to pick it up, his big gloved hands jarring against its big-city finery. The full, clear sun of the mountains is upon him now, picking out the traildust on his clothes. He raises his head and squints at the bonnet's owner, hesitating but a moment before he ambles toward her.

No one back East walks like this, looselimbed, bowlegged. He dusts the bonnet off -- for all the good it does -- then holds it out to her.

"Miss."

Beneath his hat, his gaze is direct, fixed. No one back East dresses like this either, weathered duster and battered, riveted trousers of heavy wool; a rough-shaven face almost hidden between bandanna and brim.

Eleanor Crawford

Clay catches the bonnet with his boot, and if he were looking right at her then, he'd see she looks a bit upset. More than a few petals fell off during its tumble, and now there's dirt and a bit of dried mud on it from both the ground and his boot. But he picks it up, and carries it to her, and tries to dust it off a bit, but the cream-colored fabric is a bit stained now.

She hesitates a moment before she takes it from him. She is looking at him now, sees him now, but there's no recognition now. Clear eyes take in his star, his pistol, but it's nothing like the way a woman identical to her looked at him for the first time from horseback: like she intended to ride him next.

Still: it's not innocence. It's something else in her eyes. The word pure comes to mind, but that's not quite it, either.

She doesn't try to put her hat back on. The breeze pulls her hair from how she has it pinned, and strands brush against her face. She squints a little at him, because of the angle of the light. Her father is still talking to Vickery; her brother is already headed inside, to see if he can get something to drink, perhaps.

"Are you the sheriff?" she asks him, without thanking him for her hat, but also: without demanding to know why he stomped on her hat.

Trevor Clay

He understands then: she doesn't know him. It isn't that she's forgotten him -- bruising enough in its own right, given what they survived together, given the way she'd looked at him before the fight and kissed him after. It's that she doesn't know him at all. Has never known him, perhaps.

"No, miss." The hat thus traded, and a little worse for wear, their hands fall apart without touching. His fall habitually to his gunbelts, strapped low and asymmetric, but never to the guns themselves. "A deputy. Clay's the name."

He looks over to her father; the proprietor. Her brother is nowhere to be seen. His eyes come back to her.

"You have family 'round these parts? Got a familiar look about you."

Eleanor Crawford

A flicker at the corner of her mouth; almost a smile, or a smirk, or even a laugh, but it never quite gets there. She tips her head to the side. She gestures over at her father. "Right over there." Her eyes flick briefly over him, thoughtfully: "Maybe others. I can't say that I'm sure yet."

Odd thing to say. She has a way of looking at the world that's odd, too: doesn't blink much. Drinks in everything she sees like she's thirsty for it, yet gasping for more. Up close, even though that was what made it clear that she didn't know him and never had, there's something else odd about her that is a little hard to name. Or would be, if he didn't know who he is. If he didn't know about the sept, about John Lark. If he'd never once in his life seen a wolf before, or stood next to one brimming with rage. Would be hard to name, too, if he hadn't felt it just last night, searching the darkness for something he never found.

Standing here in broad daylight he feels that wildness in the air again; with every breath the young lady standing near him takes, the hairs on his arms stand on end.

--

She has extended that lace-gloved hand, palm down, arm straight. "Crawford," she tells him. "Miss Eleanor Crawford. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Deputy Clay."

Trevor Clay

Though not a man of great polish, he does have certain powers of perception. At once he sees that her outstretched hand is not there to shake but to kiss, and even had he not just watched her descend from on high in all her feathers and finery, he would have known something about her station.

Her forwardness tells him something about her, too. Few are the fine young ladies who would extend their introduction to a strange man, even if he were a lawman. Fewer still are the ones -- ladies, young, fine, or otherwise -- who sear the very air around them with that unspoken quality she has.

He takes her hand, glove to glove, her lace catching on the dirt or rubble or debris embedded in his leather. It's possible he's never in his life kissed a lady's hand, and he certainly doesn't now. Chooses instead to merely give something of a perfunctory bow over it. As he rises, he adds a tug of his hat, as though to greet her greeting with one of his own.

"Trevor Clay," he supplies. Then another of those surveying glances around, followed by a terse nod and a step or two backward. "Welcome to Denver City, Miss Crawford. Sheriff's office is at your disposal. I'll let you get settled in with your brother and your pappy, now."

Eleanor Crawford

Even through the glove, her hand is warm. It's a delicate thing, like the bonnet, like the rose, but even if her appearance is that of spun silk and spring flowers, even this slight touch tells him that she is not like the bonnet, or the rose, or her own glove. She's not a spring flower. She's not a gentle rainfall or even a proper young lady.

But he's not the sort to dwell on poetry, or to try and sort out exactly what expression might capture her je ne sais quoi. He's not even the sort to kiss her hand.

She withdraws it. He makes to excuse himself, and she seems a bit curious, but she's not that forward. She simply nods, staying where she is as he steps away. "Thank you, Trevor Clay," she says. One dark brow lifts slightly. "For my hat."

She watches him a bit, as he walks away. Turns as well, to find her father frowning, and Vickery trying to explain that it's fine, that's Deputy Clay, good man, good man, all that.