Soul Searching - Part 1

Chris Larabee sat on the porch outside the jail, cradling a cup of coffee in his hands and puffing idly on a cheroot. To casual observers, the gunman appeared relaxed, his long, lean frame draped like a black shadow over the chair, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, flat-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes as if to shade them against the early morning light.

To those who knew him, however, the narrowed slits of his green eyes, the slow, rhythmic puffing on the cheroot held between clenched teeth and the hard set of the chiseled jaw spoke of anything but relaxation. Larabee's body was still, but his mind was working. And working furiously.

But even Buck Wilmington, his oldest friend and the man who once would have sworn he knew Larabee better than any other, would have been badly startled, even shocked, by the object of that mind's working. Hell, Chris was more than a little surprised by it himself.

The cold, logical, rational part of that mind assured him it was natural to be concerned. An unexpected rift had appeared in the ranks of the seven, revealing a level of mistrust, of suspicion, that had caught him completely off guard. And all because of ... what? Love? Hate? Prejudice?

He shifted the cheroot from one side of his mouth to the other, the only physical movement that revealed the incessant turnings of his mind. The man locked in a cell inside certainly bore the lion's share of the blame. The Reverend Owen Mosely, renowned "Evangelist to the Indian," a man supposedly dedicated to saving the heathen soul by bringing the enlightenment of the Lord to "savages" and converting them from their barbaric ways. Man of the cloth. Man of God.

Worse still, murderer of his own child, his only daughter. Claire. Whose only crime, whose only sin, had been falling in love with ... marrying ... conceiving a child with ... one of the heathens, the savages, Mosely had been trying to "save." And the man who had preached the Word of God, the love of the Lord, had been so outraged by her betrayal that he had choked the life out of her with his own hands.

Had murdered the daughter he loved because of his inability to accept her love for the young Indian warrior, Chanu. Because, at its core, the great man's missionary zeal had been based not on love but on hatred. On contempt. On prejudice. On his inability to see the "savages" he intended to "save" as people rather than animals not fit to touch, not fit to love, his pure white daughter.

Maybe the God he preached about could overlook the differences in His Indian children, but in the end Mosely could not. And so love had gotten twisted into hate.

And Claire and Chanu, knowing this, had chosen to run away, to seek a place where - God, where? - it wouldn't matter that she was white and he was not, where the differences in their skin color would be outweighed by the depth of their love. But Mosely had managed to twist even that, had said Chanu had taken Claire, stolen her from her family in his hatred for the white man. In a vicious act of treachery against the man who had dedicated his life to helping the unfortunate, Godless Indian.

Mosely had enlisted the help of the seven in finding and restoring his daughter to him, and Larabee, in what he considered a natural, logical decision, had sent JD Dunne, town sheriff and a signal that all legalities would be strictly observed; Buck Wilmington, his oldest friend, JD's mentor and a man who could be counted on to keep a cool head should things turn ugly; and Vin Tanner, sharpshooter and tracker, a man who could read sign that no eyes but his could see and whose knowledge of and experience with Indians might go a long way toward preventing any outbreak of hostilities between Chanu's people and Mosely's.

Chris had counted on Buck to help keep Mosely, his son or any of the posse from allowing their hatreds, suspicions and prejudices from erupting into violence. What he had not counted on, had not even foreseen, was that the big man would have prejudices and suspicions of his own. Or that he would direct them at Vin.

And that was what troubled Larabee now. Because Buck had not been alone; his mistrust had been shared by Ezra Standish. From the moment Vin and Buck had returned to town with Claire safe, Chanu in custody and the posse far behind; from the moment it had become clear that Tanner would not allow the outraged, vengeful townspeople to take "justice" into their own hands and lynch the young Indian from the first available tree or beam; from the moment Vin had shown that he was willing to give Chanu the same benefit of the doubt he would give anyone else and would not be swayed by the man's skin color or beliefs, then Buck and Ezra - and a good portion of the town - had begun doubting the quiet tracker.

They seemed unable to trust a man who did not share their suspicions. Who did not share their prejudices. Townsfolk began throwing around words like "renegade," "Injun-lover" and "squaw man." Buck and Ezra had questioned Vin's instincts, expressed doubts in his ability to put aside his regard for Chanu's people and do what had to be done. Disliked his ability to look beyond issues of "red" or "white" and see only "truth."

Vin had never judged any of the other six regulators, had accepted each on his own merits and each with his own flaws, and, to a man, they admired him for it. But when he showed that same open-mindedness to another, to an Indian, they distrusted him for it. Called it a "blindness." Buck had admitted he and Ezra didn't think Vin was right for this particular job. He had assured Larabee it was nothing personal ...

But Chris had taken it very personally. Had taken every slight against the tracker personally, had seethed over every insult, every rumor, every ugly name. Had felt a deep, burning anger as if each offense had been aimed at him instead of Tanner. Had wanted to throttle or shoot any and every son of a bitch who dared speak against the man. But Vin had never said a word, had never shown the slightest reaction, had never given any indication that he heard any of what was being said about him.

Except that Chris, who knew Tanner better than anyone alive, had seen the quiet man grow quieter still, had seen him draw up deeper than usual inside himself, and had seen the confusion, the hurt, darkening blue eyes that revealed every facet of the man's soul to one who knew how to look. Hurt not at the townspeople's venom, though he had risked his life for them more times than Chris could count; but hurt at his friends' doubts, and confusion that these men, who'd trusted their lives to his instincts so many times before, suddenly considered those same instincts unreliable. This new distrust had deeply shaken Tanner and had outraged Larabee.

And now left the gunman asking why. Why did it so bother him ... no, anger him ... hell, infuriate him that Vin had been made to suffer such abuse? Why was the tracker at the center of his thoughts, his concerns, when others involved in the nasty little tragedy had suffered far worse than he? Mosely had lost his daughter, his unborn grandchild and his soul. Rafe Mosely had lost his sister, would likely loose his father to the hangman's noose and had seen everything he believed about the man ground into dust. And Chanu ... God, Chanu had lost the woman he loved and the child he would never know. Had damn near lost his life for no other reason than that he had dared to love a white woman. He and Claire were the true victims in this, the ones who had suffered and lost the most.

So why, why could Chris Larabee think about, worry about, no one except Vin Tanner?

The green eyes narrowed further, and he puffed deeply at his cheroot as he recalled the one moment this strange concern had crystallized in his mind, the single instant in time when his whole world had tilted on its axis and his gut had clenched so hard in sheer terror that he had feared he might be sick. JD had come running into the saloon all in a lather, looking for him. Finding him, the young sheriff had whispered frantically in his ear that there was trouble at the jail ... Vin was hurt ... Chanu was gone ... Nathan was there ...

But the only words Chris heard had been, "Vin's hurt ... strangled ..." The pain of it had seared through him from his head to his toes, robbing him of breath and light, sending his world spiraling into a black hell of sheer, mindless terror, all of it centered about the quiet tracker whom Larabee had come to ...

To what? The question pounded through his mind now as it had all morning, hell, as it had since he had all but flown to the jail that night and discovered that Vin was alive. And relatively unharmed. The force of that relief had driven him to the floor, had left him unable to do anything but squat before Vin and stare at him, watching the blessed rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, seeing color and consciousness slowly return to the man he had come so near to losing.

But, Christ, why did he think of it in those terms? Why did everything that had gone wrong in the past few days, and gone wrong for so many people, center in his mind solely around Vin Tanner? When had the younger man's safety and security become the gauge by which Larabee measured the rightness or wrongness of his world?

He'd only known one other person who'd served as such a barometer in his life, one other person whose smallest smile assured him the sun would rise again, or whose slightest frown brought a darkness and chill to his heart that nothing except the return of that smile could ease.

And he'd buried her three years ago ...

He pulled the cheroot from his teeth and flung it into the street, not at all comfortable with the turn his thoughts were taking. He'd known Buck for some twelve years now and never once felt stirred by his smile, been moved by his touch, made truly content or put deeply at peace by his mere presence. And never once, not in all the years of their friendship, through good times and bad, had he found himself studying Wilmington raptly and noticing his every habitual gesture, committing each one to heart.

As he did with Vin.

God, after only a couple of months he knew that man like the back of his hand! Knew the slight tilt of his head and subtle lift of his brows - that was a question. Then those same brows would draw down, his head lower a fraction and his mouth tighten almost imperceptibly - disapproval, or disagreement with some decision. The mobile brows would knit together, the blue eyes beneath them darkening a shade, his forehead would furrow and that tongue would appear, moving slowly over pursed lips - Tanner was thinking, or "ponderin'," as he put it, his mind moving with a lightning quickness belied by his stoic demeanor and slowness to speech. Or the brows would arch, those eyes would sparkle like sapphires Chris had once seen in a jeweler's shop, and that mouth would curve slowly into a wide, lopsided grin - God help them all. Tanner's wry, dry and sometimes downright wicked sense of humor had sprung to life.

And from the first, Larabee had responded to that grin with an ease and willingness that had shocked him to his core. After Sarah's death, he had all but forgotten how to smile, how to laugh, had felt his own dry humor shrivel and die within him. Not even Buck, whose broad, bright smile could light the desert at midnight, had been able to revive it, much to the big man's sorrow. Wilmington's booming laughter had fallen on dead soil, just as his ribald jokes and wild stories had fallen on deaf ears. Maybe Chris had managed a forced, sparse chuckle here and there, but certainly nothing more.

Until a long-haired bounty-hunter with mischievous eyes and a talent for drawling quips at the goddamnedest times had resurrected Larabee's smile and reminded him how to laugh. And, damn Tanner's hide, he'd made it all seem so easy!

Chris shifted slightly, feeling again the strange warmth he'd come to associate with the younger man. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to analyze it, and certainly didn't want to put a name to it. But he wasn't at all sure he wanted to ignore or deny it, either. It seemed too ... what? Too right? Too perfect? Too ...

Natural? God, how could this be natural?

Except that it was, and he'd known it almost from the first.

A soft chuff of laughter escaped him at that. The first. Yeah, he remembered that first. He'd been standing outside the saloon, watching with a growing feeling of unease as a black man - Nathan - had been dragged from his room and carted down the street by some Texas trail crew intent upon hanging him. He'd wondered idly if anyone would stop them, then watched in detached amusement as a lone woman, Mary, had tried. But the cowhands had easily overcome her, and it had seemed the black man would hang after all.

Until Chris, prodded by that damned inconvenient pricking at his conscience, had looked across the street and felt, actually felt, his eyes connecting with another's. God, how the force of it had gone through him! Like the aftermath of a desert storm, leaving his flesh tingling and his hair standing on end ...

Young. That's what he'd first thought of Vin Tanner. Too young, too thin, a skinny boy with long curly hair and wide eyes, wrapped in an apron and awkward as hell with that broom, some green kid with no business being in such a hard, harsh land. Far too pretty to survive amidst such ugliness.

But then the skinny, pretty, awkward boy had gone inside the hardware store and minutes later someone else had emerged. Still skinny, still pretty, but no longer awkward, no longer a boy. He'd carried a rifle instead of a broom, and those long fingers had curled about it in a loving, knowing caress that, for a moment, had made the lifeless wood and metal something to be envied.

And then, damn, those eyes ... Even across the street, they'd hit him like the kick of a mule.

He'd made his way into the street with a lithe, feline grace, long limbs moving with a fluid, flowing ease, that rifle hefted carelessly over one shoulder, and Chris Larabee had realized that he'd badly misjudged the stranger. Young, yeah, but no green kid and certainly no helpless innocent. His eyes proved to be blue - hell, bluer than blue - and, despite the youth of that face, seemed older than the hills, ancient in their knowing and wise in ways no eyes so young should be. And if he'd been awkward with that broom, it was only because his hands - long-fingered, slender but strong - were clearly more comfortable clasped about the Winchester they now held.

As they'd gone together to face down the cowhands and free a man they'd never met, Larabee had stolen measuring glances at his companion and images had filled his mind. A hawk wheeling against the sky, blood-soaked feathers slowly drying; a wolf, hungry, but edging nervously away from civilization, made uneasy by the scent and nearness of man; a cougar, beautiful, lithe, deadly, snarling defiance as it leapt for the kill. And in that flash of recognition, he'd known that his young companion could not only survive in these wilds but belonged in them, was part of them, and had no business being anywhere else.

Like other beautiful predators - the hawk, the wolf, the cougar - take Tanner from these wilds, chain or cage him, break his spirit and civilize him, and he'd die. And something irreplaceable would die with him.

As would Chris Larabee.

Larabee shifted again, then uncrossed his legs and pushed himself straighter in the chair, not liking at all the direction of his thoughts or the intensity of the heat sweeping through him. But there was no denying it. Since first Tanner's eyes had locked with his across the street, since first he'd seen the questioning tilt of the shaggy head and subtle lift of the brows, he'd known there was no turning back. Something within him, something long dead and deeply buried, had stirred to life and arisen from the ashes of his soul. And it had only grown stronger as he'd gotten to know Vin Tanner.

He called it "friendship" but knew how inadequate a word that was. Josiah called it a "spiritual communion," yet even that somehow fell short of the mark. He had no idea what Vin called it because Tanner had never said. Yet that, to Larabee, was answer enough. Vin kept many of the Indian ways and among them was his habit of not revealing the true names of what he held most sacred, not wishing to give away such power.

And even Larabee, civilized white man that he was, knew there were some things simply too profound to name.

He sat back in his chair, willed himself to relax and dug another cheroot from his pocket. Vin had ridden out early this morning, before the sun had begun to rise, feeling cramped and crowded by the confines of the small, dusty town. His instincts had been proven correct, but he was haunted by the fact that such proof was necessary. Chris had seen the confusion, the hurt, in those blue eyes and had known the moment he'd seen it that Tanner would high-tail it out of town to work it out in his mind.

The wolf had edged too near civilization and gotten kicked for its curiosity.

Larabee sighed, put the unlit cheroot back into his pocket and drew himself to his feet, uncoiling his black length like a serpent warmed and animated by the sun. He'd never been one to hide from the truth, whether pleasant or painful, had yet to find anything he couldn't face. And this was a facing long past due.

Indian ways or no, it was high time he and Vin gave this thing between them a name.

7~7~7~7

Vin Tanner crouched among the rocks and brush of White Rock Ridge and gazed down at the vast land spreading before him, searching intently for any sign that he'd been followed. Only emptiness greeted him, however, and he finally allowed himself to relax. Confident that he was alone, he rose to his feet, rifle in hand, and made his way back to the small camp set far enough back from the face of the ridge that it could not be seen from below and near enough one of the caves that pocketed this mountain that he could take cover should the rain return.

He glanced at Peso, saw the horse had sufficient forage and water where he was, and nodded. He never spoke, never broke the deep silence of this place. He had no need to. To him, the silence was sacred, held a power all its own, and words would only shatter that power.

Besides, he was not a man who took comfort in words, who looked to words to keep the silence at bay. He didn't like words, didn't trust them. He knew how easy it was for folks skilled in their use to turn them and twist them until they had lost all honest meaning, had been stripped of all truth and turned into something like those little blue bottles the peddlers sold - pretty to look at but empty as they could be. Or, worse, fashioned into weapons that cut deeper than any knife he'd ever raised.

He sighed and sank cross-legged onto his blankets, removing his hat and running fingers through his long, sweat-matted hair. Shadows darkened his blue eyes and an unseen weight lay heavily upon his slumped shoulders.

Yeah, he'd expected it. He'd been caught too many times between the Indian and white worlds not to. But he'd only expected it from the townsfolk and never from any of the six men he counted as friends. That had caught him by surprise, had dealt him a blow for which he hadn't been prepared. He hadn't realized just how much he'd come to count on these men's trust until they'd suddenly yanked it away.

Sighing, he stared into the wood laid for the fire he had yet to light, but saw instead Buck Wilmington's face as it had been that night outside the saloon. Unusually somber, anxious, even grim. And while the big man's soft voice had asked one question, his accusing eyes had asked another.

How well do you know him, Vin? was what he'd asked.

How can you take an Indian's side against your own kind? was what he'd meant.

He grimaced at that and shook his head slowly, again feeling the stab of pain that had gone through him time and again that night. Maybe Buck hadn't asked the question aloud, but lots of others had. That's what had driven him out of the saloon and onto the porch in the first place - the blatant, blazing anger he'd felt directed at him from all sides; the hard, unforgiving stares; the harsh, hurtful questions and the insults he'd been meant to overhear.

He let his gaze drift upward to the cloud-studded sky above, searching the vast expanse as if looking for answers there. Now, just who in the hell would "his own kind" be, anyway? He knew who the men in the saloon - and Buck and Ezra - had meant: white folks. Decent folks. Civilized folks.

And these were the folks who looked down on him because he didn't share their hatreds and their prejudices ...

He sighed and shook his head again, his gaze dropping to the ground, his shoulders slumping further. "His own kind." Hell, how could they be "his own kind" when he just flat didn't understand them? He'd tried; Lord God, how he'd tried! He kept watching them, studying on them, turning their ways and their words over in his mind and trying to pick his way through the puzzle like he'd pick his way through a trail in the hills. But those ways and words were tracks he just couldn't read no matter how hard he tried.

Maybe because the ways and the words so seldom matched. And that was something he'd just never been able to understand.

So many folks around him, all saying different things, doing different things, believing different things. So many of them saying one thing, doing another, and all the while believing still another. Spouting words and professing beliefs that never quite matched their actions, and so many of them never seeming to believe in anything at all. Lord God, sorting it all out was trickier than tracking a bunch of sidewinders!

He shifted slightly on the ground, then frowned thoughtfully and rested a hand against the firm, unyielding earth. This was what he understood; this was what he could read. It never lied, and even when it changed he knew the reasons why, could understand and take from that all he needed to know. But people ...

Hell, he had a better chance of reading one of Chris's goddamn books than he did of reading people!

Immediately the man's image sprang to mind, wringing from him the shiver and soft gasp it never failed to evoke. A long, lean shard of black broken only by the bright gleam of golden hair, the flash of ivory and sheen of conchas at his gunbelt, the silver shimmer of his spurs. And beneath the flat black brim of his hat, deep green eyes that alternately smoldered with the heat of raging passion or gleamed as hard and cold as ice. A dark and brooding figure, the deadly menace sometimes rolling off him in palpable waves, yet that was only a part of him and not his true heart at all. That true heart - battered, broken and cruelly scarred, yet still capable of infinite tenderness - was one he guarded fiercely and kept carefully hidden even from those closest to him.

Except from the one man who'd protect it as if it were his very own.

Which was exactly what it had become.

Vin winced and bowed his head, then raised a hand and absently rubbed his chest as the familiar ache again rose through it. He'd wanted Chris from the first instant he'd seen him, had felt desire shoot through him in a hard, hot wave the moment those green eyes had locked upon him. But he'd learned in the Seminole village that Larabee was still mourning the deaths of his wife and son and had abandoned all hope of ever expressing and fulfilling that desire, telling himself he'd have to be content with friendship. Except that, by then, it had been too late.

By then, he'd already fallen in love.

He had to laugh at that, at the sheer stupidity of even dreaming that he could ever have a man like Chris Larabee. Hell, he was smarter than that! Or he'd thought he was. He should've been. Who the hell was he to think even for a second that he might have anything that Chris could want? Larabee had to be about the smartest sonuvabitch he'd ever met. He could talk to the Judge and to Mary about politics, to the ranchers about land and livestock, to Josiah about history, and when he wasn't talking about those things he was reading about them in one of those damn books he always had with him. And he'd had a family, for God's sake, a wife!

What was he anyway? A rough, uneducated, barely civilized tracker who'd hunted buffalo and men for money and had a price on his head to boot. Hell, he couldn't even read his own damn wanted poster! He'd been bent and twisted and broken in so many ways by so many people that he wasn't sure he could ever get straight again, and he'd long since forgotten how to fit into "polite" society. If, that is, he'd ever really known.

Hadn't the past few days been reminder enough of that?

He sighed heavily and dropped his hand from his chest, willing the ache there to go away. There wasn't any sense in pining over Larabee. Wasn't any sense in wanting what he would never have. That only brought heartbreak. And worse.

The past few days had been a powerful reminder of that, too.

Claire and Chanu had been stupid enough to think that wanting something was enough to make it so. Had been stupid enough to think that love really was all that mattered and that it really did conquer all. Now, Claire and the child she'd been carrying were dead and Chanu was left with nothing.

Well, hell, that's what love and wanting got a body - nothing. And Vin Tanner had already had enough of nothing to last a lifetime. No sense in courting any more. It was high time he accepted what was and settled for what he had. Lord knew he'd done it often enough in the past. He'd just gotten careless was all, had let himself believe it could all be different this time. Would all be different this time. Because he wanted it to be different.

It was a mistake he wouldn't make again.

He scowled and shook his head in disgust at his own stupidity, silently cursing himself for having slipped up so badly. With an impatient snort, he thrust a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small box of lucifers, then opened the box and drew out one. Forcing himself to stop thinking, he struck the match and leaned over, finally lighting the fire he'd laid a good hour ago.

And wished to hell his chest would stop hurting.

7~7~7~7

Larabee guided Pony carefully over the broken shale of the wash, wishing that, just once, Tanner would pick a more easily accessible spot to seek refuge. The sharp, stark line of White Rock Ridge loomed before him, and frustration simmered into the slow boil of anger within him as he tried to pick out some remotely passable trail.

Goddamn tracker and his goddamn horse had to be half goddamn mountain goat!

Pony scrabbled at last out of the litter of shale and onto more solid ground, and Larabee breathed a sigh of relief. He reined the gelding to a stop and stood in his stirrups to look around and get his bearings, then nodded decisively and settled once more into the saddle as he chose his path. He wasn't worried about losing Tanner's trail; hell, there wasn't any trail to lose. If the Texan had left any tracks, which Chris doubted, he'd covered them with all the skill at his disposal.

The only trail Larabee had been following was the one in his mind.

He could never have explained why he was so certain Vin had gone to ground on White Rock Ridge. He just knew it with instinctive certainty. Knew it because he knew Vin. The high and inhospitable ground would appeal to the wild and wary wolf in Tanner's nature, would give him a sense of safety, of sanctuary, from the world he found so hurtful. It also lay far from town and in the opposite direction from the reservation so that he would not be caught again between his two worlds.

Unlike the last time, when he'd nearly been pulled apart.

Chris felt another surge of anger at that and uttered a soft, foul curse. Not at Vin this time, but at all the forces that had aligned themselves against him. Tanner had done no more and no less than what had been asked, expected, of him and had been attacked at every turn by friend and foe alike. He'd been used, lied to, insulted and damn near killed. And for what? For what? What good had come from any of this? A girl was dead, her husband was mourning the loss of his wife and their child, and her father would likely hang. A town was in shock, its belief in a so-called "man of God" shattered, and seven men who'd learned to rely on and trust each other as they never had anyone else were now looking around and questioning the very instincts that kept them alive.

Goddamn it all to hell, what good could possibly come from any of this mess?

He reined Pony to an abrupt halt and exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching hard. Then his eyes again sought the jagged pale gray line of White Rock Ridge, and he willed himself to relax. Gimlet eyes softened, the rigid line of his mouth relented and a faint sigh whispered from him. In his mind's eye, he pictured again the deep, dark blue eyes, the faint, crooked grin, and let the slow, raspy drawl caress his mind. The scents of leather, sage and a desert morning seemed to float about him on the slight breeze, and he let himself sink into them, his anger abating at once.

That was the good, the only possible good, and it was waiting for him now. Whoever else had died, whatever else had died, Vin Tanner was alive and he was up on that ridge, alone and probably still hurting. Chris spurred Pony onward, now knowing exactly where his path lay.

Hell, it was time, it was past time, for that hurting to end. Too many people had been hurt more than enough already.

7~7~7~7

Vin saw the dark shadow moving slowly but steadily up the difficult, winding trail and just stared in utter amazement. He knew without the smallest doubt who the rider was and for once found himself caught completely off guard by the man's actions.

Just what in the hell was Larabee doing here?

A hundred questions, a hundred fears, raced through his mind as he watched the man's progress in complete bewilderment. He figured there could be any number of reasons for Larabee's presence on the ridge and not one of them was good. Mosely had escaped, or Rafe had broken him out. Or killed him. Maybe Chanu had gotten into the jail and killed him. Or even from his cell the man had managed somehow to stir up the town again, convincing folks that Chanu and his people were to blame for everything that had happened and setting them off on another blood hunt. One possibility after another tumbled through his mind, each more unnerving than the one before.

He remained in his small "nest," screened by rocks and brush, and watched through his spyglass as the shadow climbed ever higher. Finally, realizing that the man would likely be in need of food and coffee by the time he got here, Vin snapped the glass shut and shimmied down from his perch. Still gripped by anxiety, he went back to his small camp and crouched down at the far edge of it to skin the rabbit he'd snared earlier.

Lord, he had no idea what he'd do if Larabee had come to ask him to track Mosely or Chanu again.

And he knew that if it needed doing, Chris would ask him; hell, who else was there to do it? He just wasn't sure what the man would say or do if he refused. And right now, refusing was a very real possibility. He'd forgotten how tiring, and how hurtful, it could be to get bogged down in other people's lives. And he just wasn't up to another go-round with the town.

Or with his fellow peacekeepers ...

His knife stopped in mid-stroke and he stared unseeingly down at the rabbit, his thoughts again straying to the men he'd come to look upon as his friends. They were, weren't they? He'd thought so, but he had precious little experience with such, still wasn't always sure what to make of it or do with it.

And Lord knew the past few days hadn't made it any clearer to him ...

What would Buck and Ezra have said if he'd told them why he knew how Chanu's people thought? If he'd told them he knew because he'd been taught to think that way himself? Because he'd lived with them?

He sighed heavily and shook his head slowly, then went back to work gutting the rabbit. Hell, they hadn't trusted him when they'd just thought he knew an Indian. What would they have done if he'd told them he'd lived as one himself? Or if he'd told them just why he'd been so sure Chanu hadn't taken Claire to have his way with her? And why he could understand why she'd been afraid to tell the truth herself?

Oh, shit, yeah, wouldn't have been any "might" about it!

He gathered the discarded entrails in his hands and rose to his feet, unmoved by the gore he held. Walking away from his camp and to the edge of a sheer drop-off, he glanced down, judged the distance suitable and threw the mess over. The pelt he'd already decided to keep, though more out of habit than true need. He'd always had a fine regard for rabbit fur, had always loved its softness, and simply couldn't see wasting a skin as nice as this one. He'd been taught too well for that in his time among the People.

He returned to the rabbit, spitted it and carried it to the fire, setting it up to cook. When he was satisfied it wouldn't burn, he went back to the place where he'd worked and carefully covered the blood with dirt so as not to draw any scavengers. Then he picked up his knife and walked with tired, heavy steps to the small stream nearby, settling himself on his knees beside it and washing his hands and his blade in the cool water.

Lord, he hoped Larabee wasn't coming to ask him to track Mosely or Chanu again. He was just too damn tired of trying to pick his way over trails that wouldn't lay straight in his mind.

7~7~7~7

Chris finally crested the ridge, still fuming at the difficulty of his trek and wishing that Tanner had picked an easier spot to go to ground. Why couldn't the man be more like him and seek refuge in a saloon instead of at the top of some goddamn mountain?

Once at the top, it took him another twenty minutes to find Vin's camp, and then he was led to it only by the smells of cooked meat and brewing coffee drifting on the light breeze. Turning Pony upwind, he followed the tantalizing aromas, knowing they were a signal that he'd been spotted and was being awaited.

Why the hell couldn't the man just stand up on a rock and wave?

When he reached the site, he had to smile at its rough hominess. A fire burned low in the center of a small space cleared of rocks and brush and a battered coffee pot sat atop it. Tanner's bedroll had been spread out near the fire, the man's saddle at its head, and two portions of meat had been set out upon the blanket, each resting on a neatly folded bandanna from Vin's seemingly inexhaustible supply of the things.

But Tanner himself was nowhere to be seen.

A horse nickered from somewhere nearby and Pony turned his head and answered. Chris nodded and let the gelding lead him toward the source of the greeting. He found Peso secured - or as secured as Peso ever was - a short distance from the camp and within easy reach of water and decent grazing. Knowing Tanner wouldn't appear until he was good and ready to and that nothing could be done to rush him, Larabee turned his attention to his horse, untacking him and rubbing him down thoroughly, then picketed him near Peso.

"Don't let any of his bad habits rub off on you," he warned with a slight smile and an affectionate pat to his horse's neck. "And if he manages to wander off, you stay here, or he'll have you on some track even goats couldn't climb." He patted Pony once more, then picked up his gear and went back to the camp.

Vin was still nowhere in sight when he got there. He swept his gaze over the rocks and brush though he knew it would serve little purpose to look. Tanner was a damn master at fading into the scenery, at hiding in plain sight; he had to be just to survive. So Chris merely shook his head and ceased searching for what likely was right in front of him. Choosing a fairly smooth and level spot near Vin's, he set down his gear and spread his bedroll, knowing all the while that he was being watched.

"Might as well come on out," he called into the stillness of the day. "You know I'm alone." He sat down on his blankets and eyed the food waiting on Vin's. "We had a rule when I was growin' up. If you weren't at the supper table when everybody else sat down, your food went to whoever could get it first. And I do love the taste of rabbit."

He'd prepared himself for it, yet, even so, the suddenness of it caught him off guard. One moment, he saw nothing but a high outcropping of rock with a sparse covering of brush. The next, Tanner was rising silently to his feet like some damn piece of the earth come to life. Chris rose abruptly to his feet, startled though he'd known it would happen, and stared in amazement at the man about ten feet before him and a good six feet above him. Vin's rifle rested lightly in the crook of his right arm and his hat hung down his back, his long hair stirring slightly in the afternoon breeze. Their gazes locked, and for a moment Larabee was back in town and staring across a dusty street at an awkward, skinny store clerk who looked too young and too pretty to survive for long in such a rough and ugly place.

Then the moment passed and, as he had that day, Vin changed before Chris's eyes into the man he really was. Without a word, and never once shifting his hold on his rifle, Tanner descended from his rocky perch as nimbly as any mountain goat, lightly leaping the last few feet. He strode toward the fire with the easy, loose-limbed grace that seemed his alone, making not a single sound, his steps barely raising the dust. Chris couldn't look away, was held in thrall by the man's natural beauty. He was, he realized, watching a wild creature in its proper element.

The tracker's eyes held his as he approached, and once again Larabee realized just how blue they were, how deep and dark and dense, infinite as the sky and fathomless as the sea. He knew he was staring but couldn't help himself. At the moment, and for maybe all his moments to come, those eyes were the only place on earth he wanted to be.

Vin was caught completely off guard by the flame that kindled suddenly in the gunman's gaze, by the look of intense, almost predatory longing that crossed the handsome face. The force of that longing hit him like a bullet to the chest, stopping him in his tracks and wringing a sharp gasp from him. He reeled dizzily, his own eyes widening, his lips parting, his heart launching itself against his ribs. Wanting desperately to believe what he saw in those eyes but unable to, unwilling to be made a fool of by the man who was all he'd ever wanted and all he'd never have, he shook his head slowly, dazedly, his heart and mind hopelessly at war.

It just wasn't possible!

Chris saw the realization hit Vin, saw the shock run through him and the confusion and denial that chased immediately after, and knew his own face had given him away. He wanted to go to Vin, to offer an explanation, but didn't dare. Tanner had a look on him like a wild animal caught somewhere between flight or fight, and Larabee knew that the slightest movement, a single word, would send the Texan running so fast and so far that he might never see him again.

And he just didn't think he could take that.

So he forced himself to remain silent and still, to let Vin come to him in his own time, in his own way. He wanted Vin, wanted him as he hadn't wanted anyone since Sarah and as he'd never imagined he could want another man. But he knew there was more to it for him, and suspected there was more for Vin, than just physical desire. He'd come up here to find out exactly how much more there was, and such a thing was much too important to be rushed.

Vin sensed the determined patience and it, too, was a revelation to him. He'd had men want him before, that was nothing new. Some had asked, some had demanded, one or two had simply taken. But no one, no one, had ever just waited, with all his want and his hope and his trust in his eyes. No one had ever looked at him like he might actually be worth waiting for.

In all his life, no one had ever looked at him the way Chris Larabee was doing right now.

Frowning slightly, more puzzled by Chris than he'd ever thought he could be, Vin took a step forward, and another, then stopped again. His frown deepened and he licked his lips, then shook his head to clear it. Lord, he had to be imagining this! But he looked again and saw that nothing had changed. Chris was still watching him with the want plain in his eyes, but he wasn't doing anything about it. All the man had to do was reach out and take whatever he wanted; wasn't like he'd have much of a fight on his hands. Instead, he just stood there, waiting, like it mattered what Vin wanted ...

Unable to puzzle it out, Tanner gave an audible sigh and bowed his head, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. "Damn, I must be more tired than I thought!" he breathed.

That changed Chris's expression as longing gave way to concern. Vin did look tired. Dark circles smudged the skin under his eyes and his whole body was bowed, as if he lacked the strength to stand upright. Or as if an insupportable burden was crushing him.

The answer came to him in a startling flash of clarity, and he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. Mosely might have confessed, but Vin blamed himself as well. Hell, how could he not with more than half the town still muttering ugly accusations against him? Anger stirred within Larabee, and his mouth set into a thin, tight line.

Well, hell. He couldn't do anything about the fools in town, but he could damn sure take care of the fool before him.

"Wasn't your fault," he said quietly, firmly, wondering why the hell he hadn't thought to say it before; probably because it seemed too obvious to mention. "Mosely's the guilty one here, not you."

Vin raised his head and grimaced, shaking his head slightly. "I shoulda figgered it out. I knew somethin' wasn't right ..." He shook his head again and looked away, into the distance. "Jist wasn't thinkin' straight, I reckon."

Chris snorted sharply, his green eyes simmering. "Hell, as far as I can tell you were the only one thinkin' straight! Everybody else was so caught up in hate or fear that they couldn't see past it. But you-"

"If I hadn'ta let Chanu escape," Vin broke in softly, pain heavy in his voice, "she might still be alive."

Chris gaped at him, not even trying to understand that. "If you hadn't 'let' Chanu escape," he said at last, his voice hard. The memory of seeing Vin slumped unconscious on the floor was still painfully vivid, and the dark bruising and abrasions at the tracker's throat were ugly reminders of how close a call it had been. "The man damn near strangled you, as I recall. I'm not sure how that constitutes 'letting' him do anything."

Vin shot an irritated, impatient glare at the gunman, anger rippling through him. "I shoulda known he'd try somethin' like that!" he snapped hoarsely, his voice still affected by Chanu's assault. "I shoulda never got that close, shoulda never let my guard down-"

"JD said there was food on the floor of the cell," Chris broke in quietly. "Wrapped in a napkin from the saloon." He arched a blond brow and smiled slightly, wry humor in his eyes. "You feed enough strays, you're bound ta get bitten."

Vin's anger deserted him at that, leaving him more tired than ever before. He walked past Larabee with heavy steps and dropped down onto his blankets, crossing his legs and bowing his head.

Chris followed him silently, determined to see this whole thing through however long it took. He wasn't normally a patient man, but Vin seemed to inspire that in him. Good thing, he figured, since getting the man to talk required the patience of Job.

He went to his gear and crouched down beside it, then opened his saddlebags and rummaged through them. He pulled out a battered cup and a bottle of whiskey, then turned to face Vin. "You got a cup?"

Tanner nodded without raising his head. "'S over by the fire," he rasped, absently raising a hand to his throat.

Chris saw the gesture and frowned, his eyes darkening with worry. "Can you eat?"

Vin grimaced, still rubbing his throat. "Kinda hurts ta swallow, but I reckon I've had worse."

"Yeah, well, I've been shot in the arm and I've been shot in the chest. And I gotta tell ya, pard, gettin' shot in the chest don't make gettin' shot in the arm hurt one damn bit less. Now, answer my question. Can you eat?"

Vin raised his head at that and scowled at Larabee. "Pushy damn bastard, ain't ya?"

Chris gave a slight, cocky grin. "So I been told." The smile faded and one golden eyebrow lifted. "And you still haven't answered my question!"

"Aw, hell!" Vin spat, blue eyes filling with fire. "Yeah, I can eat! Gonna hurt some, but I can do it. There, ya happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Chris said dryly, rising to his feet and crossing to the fire. As he walked by Tanner's bedding, he pointed down at the portions of rabbit still resting on the bandannas. "Nice plates. Bring any forks?"

Vin smirked and held up his hands, wiggling his fingers. "Only the ones the good Lord gimme." He swept an insolent gaze over the gunman's sweat-damp and dust-covered clothing. "But I reckon I ain't as elegant as you."

Chris narrowed his eyes at the tracker. "I don't suppose Nathan mentioned anything about you needin' ta stop talkin' until your throat healed, did he?"

"Nope."

"Damn," Larabee sighed, shaking his head. He stepped forward to the fire and knelt beside it. Digging in his pocket for a handkerchief, he pulled it out and wrapped it around the handle of the pot, then poured two cups of coffee.

"Well, I'll be damned," Vin rasped in surprise, watching the man avidly. "Who'da thought ya could actually fit anything in them pockets?"

Chris sighed again and bowed his head, closing his eyes and counting to ten. "I'm gonna have ta have a talk with Nathan," he muttered darkly when he'd finished.

Vin regarded him through innocent blue eyes. "Feelin' poorly, are ya?"

"I was feelin' fine," he turned and fixed a pointed stare on Tanner, "until I came up here."

Again, Vin's lips twitched in a smirk and his eyes gleamed wickedly. "The ride too hard on them old bones?"

Larabee pulled his face into the most threatening scowl he could manage, but inwardly he was immensely relieved by the return of Tanner's humor. He couldn't remember seeing Vin smile since this whole mess had started, and it had startled him to realize just how much he missed that smile. How much he needed it. How far it went to putting light and warmth and meaning in his day.

And how cold and empty he'd felt without it ...

"I haven't shot anybody all day, Tanner," he growled, "and you're just too damn close ta miss."

"Cain't shoot me," Vin said smugly. "Gonna need me ta show ya how ta get down an' back ta town."

"Got here without ya all right, didn't I?" Chris asked with a flash of self-satisfaction.

It was Vin's turn to frown. "Well," he muttered, not at all certain he liked the idea of Larabee not needing him, "reckon it's about time ya learnt somethin' from me."

"Oh, yeah," Chris snorted, "I can't imagine how I ever managed ta find my way around until you came along." His tone was jesting; the words themselves were as true as any he'd ever uttered.

Vin read that truth in the green eyes that shone with feeling, and it unsettled him to realize that all that feeling, and all that truth, was for him. He couldn't imagine why that would be, couldn't think of a single reason why this man, who could have anyone, should want him. Yet there it was, burning in those eyes like a flame. And confusing the hell out of him.

Chris watched the change settle over Vin, saw the blue eyes darken with doubt and wished he could read Tanner's mind as well as most folks thought he could. The younger man seemed not to understand this, seemed almost afraid of it, and, for the life of him, Larabee couldn't figure out why.

How could anyone be afraid of something that felt so right?

More determined than ever to give this the time and care it warranted, to give Vin the time and care he clearly needed, Chris swallowed his questions, mustered a smile and held out a cup of coffee to Tanner. "Here," he said quietly. "Looks like you could use this."

Vin looked down at the offered cup, then lifted his gaze back to Larabee's. "Now who's feedin' strays?" he asked softly, a trace of bitterness in his voice.

Chris looked into Vin's eyes, saw the shadows there, and knew the bitterness was not for him but came from some old wound that had been re-opened by all that had happened. He sank slowly into a crouch, his gaze never leaving Vin's. "Don't see any strays here," he said in a low and gentle voice. "You've got a place. Always will, as long as I'm around."

The words, and that voice, flowed like a balm over Vin's bruised soul, soothing all the places in him that had been scraped raw. The concern and the trust in Larabee's eyes warmed him, strengthened him, and reminded him that, through all the mess of the past few days, this man had never once lost faith in him. He hadn't had that in so long that he'd forgotten how good it felt.

Until now.

He swallowed hard and reached out, taking the cup from Chris. Their fingers brushed together for an instant, and the light, fleeting touch went through him in a hard, hot thrill. He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes widening, and damn near dropped the cup.

"It's all right," Chris soothed in a throaty voice, feeling the same jolt sear through him. "We got time, and we're gonna figure it out. That's why I'm here."

Vin nearly dropped the cup again. That Chris felt anything for him was hard enough to believe. That the man had ridden out all this way just to figure out what he felt was just flat unthinkable.

Larabee frowned as Tanner gaped at him in open-mouthed surprise. "What'd you think I came out here for?"

Vin tried to force his brain and throat to work. "I figgered ..." His rough voice cracked, and he had to clear his throat and try again. All the while Chris's brilliant gaze bored into him, all but driving the air from his lungs. "Figgered ... there musta been ... trouble in town," he rasped, curling his free hand into a fist and shoving it under one thigh to keep from touching the man again. "I thought you's comin' ta git me ... ta track somebody again. Mebbe Mosely 'cause he'd escaped, or Chanu 'cause he'd killed him ..." His voice cracked again and he broke that somber gaze abruptly, bowing his head and shaking it. "I been tryin' ta figger out how ta tell ya I couldn't take bein' caught up in all that again."

"I wouldn't ask you to."

Vin looked up at that, into Chris's eyes, and gave a slight, sad smile. He was grateful for the words, knew Larabee believed them, but also knew they weren't true. "Yeah, ya would," he breathed. "Ya wouldn'ta had no choice. Ya wouldn'ta liked it, but you'da done it 'cause ya knew it had ta be done." He shrugged tiredly. "'At's jist how y' are."

Again Chris had to marvel at how well, how completely, Vin knew him, even when he wasn't certain he knew himself. And though it rankled, he had to admit that the man was right. "I guess I would've," he allowed. "But I would've understood if - when - you said no. And I would've accepted it."

Vin's smile widened a bit and shed some of its sadness. "I know." But the smile faded and he dropped his gaze. "'At's why it would'a been so hard ta say no. But I'da had to." The hurt returned and he flinched from it. "Couldn'ta took goin' through all that again," he whispered.

Chris moved to sit beside the tracker on his blankets, turning so that Vin was in profile to him, one knee just brushing the younger man's thigh. He knew that Vin didn't always care to be touched; he also knew that he wouldn't mind it from him. Knew that, just now, it was exactly what Tanner needed.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, the words bringing the tracker's startled blue gaze flying to his face. His own eyes drifted down Vin's throat and fixed on the ugly marks left there by Chanu's attack, but he knew Tanner bore other wounds, less visible but no less painful. "I just keep thinkin' there was somethin' I could've done ta stop all this before it got so outta hand-"

"There weren't," Vin sighed, resignation in his voice and eyes. "'At's jist how it is." He shrugged. "I ain't what most folks think I oughtta be. Don't act like they want me to, don't think like they want me to. Mosely and the folks in town needed somebody who could track an' needed somebody who understood Indians good enough ta catch one. They needed what I knew, but that didn't mean they had ta like what I thought. And they didn't. 'Cause it weren't anything like what they thought, and most folks jist cain't take a feller who thinks diff'rent from them. Not even if he's their friend," he added on a breath.

Chris reached out and gripped Vin's shoulder, long fingers squeezing gently. He didn't say a word, though. Couldn't think of anything to say. He knew it was Buck and Ezra's apparent rejection of him that had cut most deeply, but he had no explanation for that and wouldn't demean Vin's feelings by dismissing it.

Vin wrapped both hands around the cup and stared down into his coffee. "I knew all along why ever'body wanted me ta bring Chanu back," he said softly, tiredly, unconsciously leaning into the strong hand that still held his shoulder. "Knew all's they wanted was a lynchin'. An' I knew I wasn't gonna let that happen. But I also knew they was gonna hate me fer it. I knew what they was gonna say 'bout me, even knew the names they was gonna call me. Ain't a one of 'em I ain't been called before."

"Can't make it any easier," Chris said quietly, remembering his own fury at hearing the insults directed toward Tanner.

Vin shrugged again. "Reckon I jist don't pay it no mind. Folks get all twisted up inside when there's Indians involved. Cain't say why, jist know it's so. Seen it all my life. And they jist cain't understand it when ya don't get all twisted up the same way as they do. Makes ya diff'rent. And folks jist flat don't trust anybody who's diff'rent." He lifted his tired gaze to Chris. "Buck and Ezra believed Chanu'd took Claire ta have his way with her an' kill her. They jist couldn't think 'a no other reason fer what he done. Likely they didn't even try. Why would they? Indians ain't like us, right? Ain't got the same feelin's. Only I know better. And as soon as Buck and Ezra knew I didn't see things their way, well, hell," he sighed, wincing and bowing his head, "I wasn't no better in their eyes than Chanu. I didn't have the same feelin's either."

"How did you know?" Chris asked softly, not bothering to defend Buck and Ezra's actions.

Vin raised his head and turned a hard stare on Larabee. "'Cause we didn't find her body. And if that's what he'd intended, we woulda. Wouldn'ta had no use fer her after that, woulda jist killed her an' dumped her off on the trail so she wouldn'ta slowed him down. And he took care of her. Went outta his way ta find water, didn't make her walk no more'n he had to ta rest the ponies ... B'lieve me, Chris, if all he'd wanted her fer was ta show how much he hated whites, he'da took her, used her up, then killed her. And we'd likely still be huntin' fer him."

"You tell anybody that?"

Vin gave a soft snort of disgust. "Tried. That's when they all started thinkin' on me as an 'Injun lover.' They still needed me, but they sure as hell didn't trust me."

Larabee squeezed Tanner's shoulder once more and pulled his hand away, and silence fell between them. Chris was still trying to piece it all together in his brain, while Vin sipped at his coffee, just trying to let it all go. He was tired, more tired than he'd been in a long while, and still burdened by his failure to save Claire. But there wasn't any use trying to figure it all out now, not when the damage had already been done.

Chris, however, wasn't so ready to let it go. "I just don't understand," he said softly, frustrated by the utter senselessness of it all. "I can see Mosely not tellin' us the truth, if he even knew it. But Claire and Chanu ... Didn't they know we'd protect 'em? Why didn't they just tell us the truth from the beginning?"

Vin stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Protect 'em from what? And how?"

"From her father!" Chris said sharply, angrily. "Hell, they were married-"

"Not accordin' ta no white laws," Vin interrupted harshly. "I seen it before. White women captured as kids who grew up as part of a band, got married, had kids ... and they still got took away and sent back ta their 'own kind.' Ain't no protection. And the women ain't got no say. 'Cause havin' an Indian husband an' havin' Indian kids jist don't count ta them decent, God-fearin' white folks."

Chris flinched before the unconscious bitterness in that soft, hoarse voice and from the barely leashed anger he felt in Vin. And he couldn't help but wonder just how personal all of this had been for the tracker.

"Cain't really blame Claire fer not sayin' anything," Vin went on in that same rough, hard-edged voice. "Fer all she knew, the town was gonna lynch Chanu. Then what? Y' ever see how white folks treat a woman who's 'let' herself get took by an Indian? She'd be lower in their eyes than any workin' girl. 'Specially once it got out she was carryin' his child. His half-breed child." He fixed cold and challenging eyes on Larabee. "Now you tell me how we coulda 'protected' her from that."

Chris swallowed hard and asked the same question Nathan had, only with a far different meaning. "How do you know so much about this?"

And there it was, Vin figured with a sinking heart, the inevitable end to his dream. He set his cup down with a sigh and bowed his head, wondering why the hell he hadn't seen this coming. Or why he had, but was foolish enough to ignore it. He scrubbed his hands over his face, then ran them through his hair. Then, knowing Chris's nearness would only make this worse, he rose to his feet and walked away, stopping on the other side of the fire with his back to Larabee.

"Vin?" Chris prompted softly, worriedly.

He dropped his head and folded his arms against his chest. He remembered Nathan asking that question and tried to remember how he'd answered. Not with the whole truth, that was for damn sure. He'd learned better than that.

But now he was with maybe the one man in all the world who he figured deserved the truth, and for certain the one man he knew he could never lie to. He had no idea how Chris would take it and that scared the hell out of him, but he knew he had no choice. Telling the truth might put Larabee forever out of his reach, but lying to him surely would.

Well, hell, whatever else Chris thought about him after this, at least the man would know he wasn't a coward.

"I told ya once," he began in a flat, tired voice, "that I'd lived some with Indians back in Texas. Comanches mostly, but Kiowas, too. But I ain't sure I told ya ... how long I lived with 'em or that I wasn't jist ... visitin'. Hell," he sighed, raising his face to the sky and closing his eyes, "I reckon I's about as much one of 'em as anybody not born to 'em coulda been. Fer almost four years, they was the only family I knew, and I couldn't imagine ever leavin' 'em."

Chris knew he should've been shocked and frowned in surprise when he wasn't. Figured he should've been appalled and exhaled sharply in relief when he wasn't. He wanted, needed, to understand Vin, to know everything that had shaped the tracker into the man he was. He'd suspected that some of it, maybe much of it, wouldn't be easy to hear, and part of him had feared that he might not have the strength to hear it.

Apparently, though, where Tanner was concerned he had more strength than he knew.

Vin kept his back to Chris, unable to bear seeing the disgust, the contempt, he knew the man was bound to feel toward him after this. He'd seen it too many times in too many others, and it had always hurt. From Chris he figured it might just kill him.

"Near as I can figger," he said, opening his eyes and staring into the distance, into his past, "I's about thirteen when I got took in by 'em. Didn't have no white kin that I knew of. My ma died when I's five, an' my grandpa raised me after that. But he died when I's ten, an' after that," he shrugged easily, "I jist sorta got took in by whatever fam'ly had room fer me at the time. Weren't so bad, most of 'em was good ta me, but ... I weren't theirs, y'know? And most of 'em barely had enough fer their own kids. 'Specially once the war started an' took all the menfolks away. Left an awful lotta families jist scrabblin' ta get by. They tried ta do right by me, I know they did, but," again his shoulders slipped up and down in the familiar, resigned shrug, "a kid learns quick when he's more a burden than a help."

Chris winced at that and bowed his head, liking neither the words nor the ease with which they were spoken. Vin should have been furious or hurt or ... or something. Anything but so accepting. A child deserved more from life than being passed from family to family, had a right to think of himself as something more than a "burden."

God, no wonder the man considered himself a stray!

"Anyways," Vin went on, raising a hand to rub his abused throat as speaking put a painful strain upon it, "after a few years of that, I got kinda tired of it and took off. Reckoned I could do jist as well on my own. An' I did, fer a while. I always been real good at trackin' and huntin'. Grandpa saw ta that. An' I'd learnt some 'bout what all was safe ta eat growin' wild an' what weren't. So at least I wouldn't starve. An' sometimes I'd find folks willin' ta pay me a bit of money fer some job I did fer 'em. That always helped a bit."

Sorrow, anger and a fair bit of horror churned inside Chris as he tried to imagine a thirteen-year-old boy living on his own, fending for himself because there just was no one else to do it. At that age, he'd been sneaking into his pa's whiskey and cigars and getting sicker than a dog behind the woodshed. He'd started noticing the girls on the neighboring farm, and bristling when the boys there had noticed his own sisters. He'd been convinced he was ready to take on the world, and had crumbled inside when something he'd done had earned his father's disapproval or his mother's disappointment. And he'd gone to sleep each night secure in the knowledge that he was safe, that he was loved, and that, whatever befell him, there was a pair of hands stronger than his nearby that could make it all right again.

And he had never once considered that it might not be that way for everyone.