Requiem For Linny (standard:drama, 9643 words)
Author: J. Nicklaus	Added: Dec 22 2007	Views/Reads: 3362/2151	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Once in a while, the most important lessons we learn are the hardest. The passing of someone dear can both impart, even in their departure.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

that ever met her and didn't take to her. The rest of us . . .well . . 
.to say she was our sister doesn't say enough. We loved her too, always 
will." Both his breath and words hung listless in the piercing air, 
Nature allowing the moment to remain gently aloft before mercifully 
dissolving it. Jayce nodded his mute affirmation. 

"We'll back in a bit, Buck, keep ya company if you'd like," Jayce
offered . Buck patted the hand upon his shoulder, "Thanks, Jayce, but 
don't worry much about me. Walt'll be here for a while." Jayce tipped 
the brim of his hat then ambled off to his own horse, snow crunching 
with a whisper under each boot step. Walt eyed the sparsely powdered 
sepulcher before them. 

"We're almost done here, Buck. Jayce and Brant stripped some pine boughs
from those trees over there so we could lay them over the opening until 
tomorrow's service. I figured they'd come in handy for keeping the snow 
from piling up inside the--" he halted mid-sentence, suppressing the 
urge to apologize for a mistake he hadn't yet made. "Well, help me out 
then we'll get out of the cold." 

Most men would rub their hands together, or shuffle their feet and
bounce up and down to keep the heart pumping and blood moving. Buck, 
however, stood in place, the flakes which fell about him a blur 
compared to his inertness. As well protected as he was against the 
encroaching cold, he was numb from the soul outward. Walt leaned 
forward a bit, unsure if he'd heard him. "Buck?" Buck's eyes remained 
in a lost stare as he replied. "You know, Linny wouldn't mind a little 
snow in there, Walt." The stubble on his face made the cotton mist of 
his breath stand out. 

"I know, Buck. The thought crossed my mind too." Walt motioned toward
the boughs lying twenty feet away. "Give me a hand?" Quietly looking 
over, he simply nodded. 

The older a friendship gets, the less needs to be said. Things were no
different between Walt and Buck. Arguments, both grand and pointless, 
had come and gone, as had more auspicious times. They'd leaned on each 
other through several heartbreaks, more Walts than Bucks--but nothing 
between them came close to the loss of Linny. Walt's heart broke 
equally as much for Buck as it did for her passing. So much he wanted 
to say, if only to bring Buck some small measure of comfort, yet, he 
knew Buck well enough to know that simply being a presence was enough. 
Words were too small to be of much value. So the pair trudged 
wordlessly through the drifting snow, dragging the boughs behind them, 
leaving impermanent trails in their wake much like broom bristles in 
the sand. 

Buck walked around one end of the grave, reverently laying each bough
across the somber cavity. Walt was a little more utilitarian in his 
approach, tossing the boughs into place then kicking them as needed to 
cover the opening. Buck shoved his hands into his coat's extra large 
pockets again and walked back to the stand of pines bordering the grave 
site. Walt wasn't sure what he was doing, but stayed put and watched. 

Buck almost blended into the shadow of the trees dripline as he
manuevered underneath it. He seemed to bob and weave here and there, 
slowly stepping in a semi-circle as he looked up into the lowest 
branches, arms reaching up once in a while to tug on this branch or 
that. He'd almost completely circled the tree when he stopped and 
reached up again, his hand loosely running the length of a dead branch 
the size of his forearm. For whatever reason, it hung only partially 
connected to the trunk, so with a couple strong pulls Buck was able to 
break the branch free of its host. Walt watched, wondering what it was 
for, but knew Buck had a good reason. His friend turned the branch over 
and over in his hands, moving it from right to left much like the 
platen on an old typewriter would move. Apparently satisfied, he 
dragged the branch behind him, stopping once he again was alongside 
Walt, then just looked up at him. 

Walt pulled his left hand out of its protective pocket and thrust his
thumb behind them. "Let's go get some coffee or somethin' back at the 
house." Buck gave another look around, then nodded his agreement, 
"Yeah, get us and the horses out of this white mess." Both turned and 
headed for their horses, which were huddled against each other under 
the cloaking branches of a towering pine tree. Snow continued to fall, 
white and sedate, while the only other noise was the wet crunch of 
powder under their boots and the sliding of Buck's branch behind them. 

Minutes later they began the short ride back to the stables. The wind
sifted through the pines as they rode, reminding Buck  of Linny's 
gentle sigh. Often she'd get bundled up: scarf, full hood, heavy 
gloves--making sure every possible inch of skin was covered, then 
they'd go out to the stables and take the horses out, just riding 
around through the pines--no special reason other than to simply be 
enveloped by nature's beauty. Her voice echoed in his head, replaying 
the question she'd asked him, without fail, every time they rode in the 
snow: "Isn't it beautiful, Buck?" He hung his head and allowed the 
tears to mingle with the snow as it melted on his face. Walt's 
seemingly abrupt question violated the sullen moment. 

"Why that spot, Buck?" He looked back only after asking, immediately
noticing Buck's sagging shoulders and heavy head. "I'm sorry, you don't 
need to answer," Walt began, cursing himself under his breath. "I 
should have thought better of asking--" Buck raised his head, squinting 
a bit. His face was heavy with loss, eyes burdened with grief. "It's 
alright, Walt," he managed. 

"Buck, really, my fool curiosity overrode my good sense." Both men
swayed gently back and forth with each step their horses took. Buck 
straightened up a little, then reached up and adjusted his hat. 
"Walt--really--it's fine," he assured him. "Riding through here, 
through these trees--Linny and I," he paused, swallowing hard, "I can't 
tell you how many times we'd been through here before, on days just 
like this. Just like now, the only sounds were the horses hooves 
shuffling through the snow and the breeze making the trees whisper. I'd 
just as soon be working on something back at the stables than be out in 
this stuff, but she adored it, so I rode out here for her, just to be 
with her." He pulled back gently on the reins and his horse stopped, 
then shook it's mane; a dusting of white fell silently to the ground. 

Walt followed suit, his horse stopping as well. A light pull to the left
and the horse turned a bit to stand almost perpendicular to Buck and 
his horse. Buck looked over his left shoulder at the horizon. The earth 
rolled with small hills, up and down, and the stands of trees along 
them mimicked their rise and fall. Through the veil of drifting snow 
the scene took on an almost watercolor feel, the snow muting colors to 
shades of gray and scenery layered upon itself as if it were designed 
as a series of huge cardboard cut-outs for a stage production. 

"Look out there, Walt." Buck paused a second, caught within a moment of
insight. "To the untrained eye--hell, to the unappreciative eye--it all 
looks the same, don't it?" Walt scanned the view as he had countless 
times before, but never embedded within a moment like this. The 
turbulent mixture of disconsolation and pristine beauty slapped him in 
square in the face. 

"Buck, we've worked out here so much that I've come to take it for
granted." Walt dropped his head for a second, feeling ashamed to have 
confessed it aloud. "That's not to say I don't appreciate, or don't 
respect it. As much as we've worked to take care of it, it's given 
back. So I'd say it doesn't look the same. I say it looks as it 
should." Buck turned slightly in his saddle to eye Walt, trying to put 
his reply into some context within his own feelings. Walt seemed 
momentarily mesmerized by the sweeping view, then suddenly came to and 
drew his gaze back to Buck. "Is that part of your answer?" 

"In a way . . . yeah." Buck watched the snow swirl as it fell, trapped
in an invisible eddy, then continued. "This place, all of it . . . it 
was Linny. She belonged here. She loved every stone, every tree, 
everything. She was as beautiful as nature itself." Walt wanted to 
interject something comforting, but came up empty before Buck spoke 
again, voice cracking. "Walt--I can still see her standing in the same 
exact spot where we dug her final resting place. Her dark red hair 
blooming in the breeze. You know better than anyone the power she had 
over me." Both men sat still, flakes of winters touch dusting the brims 
of their hats and shoulders. "Anyways, she picked that spot herself. 
Told me years ago that's where she wanted to be buried when she died. 
The rest of her family had passed long ago, so there was no one to 
contest her wishes, and since we owned the land I promised her that's 
where she'd be placed, unless I went first, of course." Another wave of 
brute emotion washed over him, and his eyes welled to overflowing 
again. "How I wish it were me instead, Walt." 

Walt could only pat his friend reassuringly on the back. "C'mon Buck.
Let's get inside." 

Neither Mother Nature nor Father Time had bestowed much kindness upon
Buck or any of his friends. All day long the Montana sky had been 
draped in a shawl of pewter clouds, making the wind and snow sting a 
little more than seemed fair; each passing hour felt like the loneliest 
of years. Buck felt certain his horse could feel his heavy heart 
pounding against its side--it seemed to drop more with every passing 
thought and remembrance of Linny. His horse knew the way back to the 
stables from the path they approached on. 

Just as well as lost as Buck felt. 

Walt gently nudged his ride a couple lengths ahead of Buck, eager to get
both man and beast out of the elements and put something warm in their 
bellies. Both horses seemed to instantly recognize the stable as it 
slowly materialized into view, slightly weatherbeaten but well taken 
care of. Paint peeled a little here and there, and knotted wood proudly 
stood out upon every door brace and shuttered window. Walt's horse 
stopped without direction at the entrance, and he unmounted, patting 
the horse lovingly on the neck as he moved to slide the double-wide 
door open. He reached for the reins, unecessarily, as the horse moved  
forward on its own, well aware of the comforts to be had within the 
stable walls. Buck's horse followed suit with Buck still saddled up. 
Once clear of the door Walt slid it shut, staving off the chill in 
trade for the cozy warmth of the six-stall room. Brant and Jayce had 
properly stowed their gear and made sure their horses were attended to. 
Inwardly, Walt felt a huge sense of relief, having figured Brant would 
have taken off to stuff his face without thinking about the animals. 

Buck extended the long, thick branch he'd dragged back. "Take this for
me?" Walt hauled it off, setting it against a nearby wall, while Buck 
dismounted then brushed the remaining snow off his steed. "I'm sorry, 
Molly. Papa shouldn't have left you out there so long. I'm sorry . . ." 


"Buck?" 

Walt's voice snapped him back into reality. "Huh? Yeah--what?" 

Walt led his horse into the first stall, the clomping of hooves masking
the tension he felt. "Look, there's something I need to tell you . . . 
" he began, voice partially obscured by his reluctance to turn around 
and face Buck. He busied himself with getting his horse settled in and 
fed while he talked. "I got a call early this morning, before we set 
out with Jayce and Brant." 

"From?" 

Walt's conscience and stomach tangled in a constricting knot. "Glen."
There, it was out, although he still hadn't squarely faced Buck. He'd 
fully expected to hear the rare profanity bellowed from Buck's gut, but 
it didn't come. In its place was the angry clatter of an empty aluminum 
feed bucket as it rolled across the sawdust strewn floor and crashed 
into a wall. Molly turned her head and shuffled a bit. "Buck, you had 
to expect . . ." 

"The only thing I expect from him is to stay the hell out of my life!"
barked Buck. He stroked Molly's nose so she knew he wasn't upset with 
her. "How can you possibly side with him, especially considering the 
not-so-disguised fact that Linny is gone?" 

"I didn't say I was taking sides, Buck, I'm simply telling you he
called." 

"Fine, you've told me." Buck led Molly into her stall, mirroring the
same preparations Walt had done for his horse. Walt's news was the last 
thing he'd wanted to hear today, much less have weighing upon him. 

Walt wouldn't, couldn't, drop it. "You're not the least bit interested
in what he had to say? He's your brother, Buck--family." 

"Was, Walt . . . was my brother. You know that. I will never forgive him
for what he did to Linny. Never." 

"He lived with both of you for five years, Buck. For five years the two
of you tried your best to help him get on his feet. Don't get me wrong, 
you know I ain't making excuses for his actions, but it was, what, 
fourteen years ago? He's been sober twelve of those." He stepped out of 
the stall, then gently swung the gate closed and locked it. He couldn't 
help but turn and face Buck now. "From what you and Linny told me the 
man has tried, I can't tell you how many times over the years, to put 
things right." Buck looked up as he put the finishing brush strokes on 
Molly's mane. "Did I ever tell you how I found out?" 

Walt crossed his arms and furrowed his brow in thought. "I recall you
tellin' me 'bout his drinking problem, how he wouldn't give it up. I 
remember all the fights you two had when he was drunk, and three times 
you bailed him out of the sheriff's jail." He paused for a moment, 
hoping maybe Buck would jump in. After a few seconds, it was obvious he 
had no intention of interrupting, so he finished. "Not likely I'll 
forget how angry you were when you told me he was no longer living with 
you." Walt looked down at the floor and shook his head. "Even then, you 
never told me why." 

Buck finsihed scattering fresh hay, straws of gold and umber covered
most of the stall; little of the concrete peeked through. He stroked 
Molly's neck once more, then pat it a couple times, content to let the 
conversation hang leaden between them. He stepped outside the stall and 
swung the gate closed, latching it as well. He stood silent for what 
seemed like minutes, facing away from Walt, running his hand back and 
forth across the top of the gate, then finally turned around and simply 
said "C'mon, let's get in the house." 

The enclosed walkway between the stables and the house proper had been
built almost ten years ago, but served its purpose well. Large 
dual-pane windows could open in the warmer months to circulate the 
fragrant valley air, but closed tight against the cold during the 
winter, providing a much warmer walk between the two structures. 
Time-worn boots clapped along the hard floor as they walked. In his 
head, Buck could hear Linny's stride as she had traversed the hallway 
over the years. He'd always taken comfort in hearing her footsteps 
approaching when they'd left the old mudroom door open in the summer. 
From the kitchen he could hear her coming, and always watched the door 
until she stepped through. The hallway wasn't the same now without her 
footsteps to echo through it. 

Both men hung their coats in the old mudroom, gloves set upon the small
vented shelf that hung a full foot above an old cast-iron radiator. 
Though small, it was the perfect size to warm just the mudroom, and the 
ventilated shelf above allowed cold gloves to be warmed through. Walt 
slowly closed the door behind him as they entered the kitchen. The 
kitchen reflected none of the romantic notions of the open range; 
nowhere would be found a large blue and white speckled coffee pot, or a 
huge wood burning stove with a rotisserie. The main coffee maker was 
larger than most homes, due mostly to the number of ranch hands who 
drank it in the morning. Buck and Linny had a smaller 4-cup version for 
themselves, which he fumbled with at the moment. "Want some coffee?" he 
asked. 

Sure," Walt said. He welcomed the steam and warmth it would bring his
hands and stomach. 

"Help yourself to whatever you can find in the fridge," Buck added,
still fidgeting with the coffee machine. "There should be fixin's in 
there for a sandwich or two. You know where everything is." 

Walt wasted no time in getting plates out. "Want me to make you one?" He
knew Buck had to be hungry. 

"I really don't feel much like eating, Walt, you know?" He hit the brew
button, then pulled two plain mugs from the cabinet above. 

"You should eat something, Buck. Been a long, hard day for every one,"
Walt insisted. 

"Not right now, thanks. I'll stick with the coffee for now." Walt just
nodded and returned to pulling pickles, sliced meat, and various 
condiments from the refrigerator. 

"Linny told me two days later," Buck stated out of the clear blue. 

Walt swung his head around and stared at his friend. "About wha--" he
started asking, then it dawned on him what the reference was to. "Oh, 
okay." He turned back to one slice of bread and began spreading 
mayonnaise upon it. "You don't have to talk about it if you'd rather 
not." 

Buck slowly sat down at the large oak table. Eight chairs surrounded it,
which normally didn't feel lonely, but now took on a deep sense of 
foreboding without his late wife sitting with him. Thoughtfully he 
removed his hat, setting it almost soundlessly upon the tabletop. "I'd 
always promised Linny I'd never speak of it when she was around. Not 
much point in rehashing it anyways. She knew how much it upset me, and 
I certainly didn't want her to re-live it." He sat back and crossed one 
leg over the other. "But now, I guess it's just as well I talk about 
it." 

Walt cut his sandwich in half diagonally, then set the knife next to the
sink and sauntered to the table. The chair groaned against the floor 
when he pulled it aside to sit down. He was careful not to sit in the 
spot Linny had always used. "It's just these four walls and me," he 
drawled. "If you'd rather keep it between you and these walls, I can 
certainly understand that." Buck looked up at him. "These walls haven't 
been with me over thirty years, my friend." He wrung his hands 
together, trying to rub away some of the ache that always accompanied 
the cold weather. Walt lifted the sandwich, tearing a large bite from 
one corner. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Buck's hat, then 
respectfully removed his own and set it upon the table as well. The 
scent of fresh coffee began to permeate the room, and Buck looked over 
at the machine. 

"It's almost done," Buck noted. Walt continued his assault on the
sandwich. The mood indoors was no less somber than it had been outside, 
but at least there was physical warmth to be had with the ever-present 
melancholy. Buck's mind raced with memories of Linny--of her wavy 
tresses that seemed to bounce when she walked, the way her eyes 
partially squinted when she smiled, or how she sighed sometimes when 
trying to emphasize a point of conversation. Then his thoughts abruptly 
returned to his brother, causing malice and sorrow to collide within. 

"I'd been out doing some repairs on the far west gate that day," Buck
recalled aloud. "I remember it taking a while because I couldn't get 
the damn hinge to sit right and it kept binding up. My mind was working 
on Linny too 'cause she'd been acting different. She wouldn't admit it, 
even when I asked. Said things were fine, she just felt like being 
quiet. I shrugged it off I guess. I'd never known her to lie to me, so 
I let it go figurin' it would run its course. Well, by the time I 
finally got the hinge fixed I was late for lunch, so I rode back to the 
house and tethered Molly outside the stable. I noticed Glen's car was 
gone but thought little of it. I walked in the side door and saw there 
were only two places set at the table for lunch. 

"Where's Glen," I asked her, "he's never one to miss a meal." 

"She says "We needed feed for the horses and a few things from the
market, so I sent him on errands. He won't be back for a while."  I 
remember thinking she looked preoccupied, kinda nervous." The coffee 
machine beeped, breaking his train of thought. Seemed odd that 
something so important and deliberately emotional should hold equal 
rank with a fresh cup of coffee, yet as he paced to the machine he 
found one stream of thought didn't necessarily trip over the other. 
Walt had stopped eating for the moment, absolutely engrossed in Buck's 
recounting of the story. 

Cotton strands of steam vapor climbed out of each mug as Buck poured.
Even pouring coffee made him think of Linny; he could almost hear the 
tinking of the spoon as she stirred in her sugar and cream. He replaced 
the carafe on the warming plate and then stared at both mugs, as if 
hoping she'd appear in the wisps of steam, eventually delivering both 
mugs to the table and  dejectedly taking his seat again. Walt wrapped 
his large hands around his mug, raised it to his lips and sipped 
carefully. 

"We sat there, Linny and I, and got about halfway through lunch before
either of us spoke a word, which was unusual. She always talked about 
the horses, or some gossip she'd heard in town. But that afternoon was 
completely different. I couldn't steer clear of the feeling she was 
avoiding me." Buck's eyes went down to the mug of coffee, then closed 
as he lifted it and sipped. "So I finally grasped her hand, looked her 
dead in the eyes and asked her, "Lin, what's wrong?"" Walt sat 
motionless. 

Buck looked down at the floor, as if ashamed, as if he'd said too much.
"She . . . ," he began, but choked on the words as they tried to come 
out. He took a deep, if labored breath, and continued. "She started to 
. . . cry." His mouth turned into an excruciating frown, every facial 
muscle seemed to pull downward.  He looked away from Walt, mumbling 
weakly "I'm sorry." 

Walt leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Ain't nothin' to
be sorry for, Buck," he whispered. "Remember that girl I dated back in 
college, Allyson?" 

Buck nodded as he wiped his eyes. 

"Remember how crushed I was when we split up? Of course, now I know it
was for the best, but then--damn--I couldn't help myself but cry it 
hurt so bad. Wasn't long after that I remember someone told me 
something that made a whole lotta sense." He paused to make sure Buck 
was listening. "They said “Tears are words the heart can't express”. 
Remember who told me that?" 

"Linny?" he replied, wrapping his hands around the coffee mug again. 

"No . . . you did, Buck." Walt leaned back in time to see Buck's
expression. "I know I'd heard her say that before, so that's probably 
where it came from." 

Walt picked up his sandwich again, but stopped short of biting into it.
"Doesn't matter who said it--no disrespect meant to Linny," Buck 
nodded. "What matters, Buck, is that it's true. Hell, man, I'd be 
cryin' if you weren't, but it's my turn to help you out. You can help 
me later, alright?" 

Buck tried his best to manage a stoic grin. "Fair 'nough." He sipped his
coffee for a minute, and Walt polished off the first half of his 
sandwich. Then Buck mindlessly turned his mug a half turn. "So, 
obviously, she'd validated my suspicion--something was really wrong. I 
remember standing up, real sudden, and pulled up on her hand. I can 
picture it clear as day. She didn't so much stand as fell towards me, 
Walt. You know what a rock she usually was." 

"Shoot yeah. I could break ten wild horses before Lin would crack." He
washed down his last bite with some hot coffee. 

Buck pointed knowingly at his friend. "Exactly. So this wasn't any small
matter." Walt sat back again, ignoring his sandwich. 

"She sobbed for a couple minutes, and I just held her," Buck continued.
"I couldn't have felt more completely helpless." Leaning forward, he 
ran his fingers through his hair and stared at the tabletop. Telling 
the story was as bad as reliving it, but he needed to get it out. "Then 
she started with the list of things Glen had said--and done. About how 
he was angry drunk, mad as a badger 'cause we'd tried to hide his 
bottles. He only found one, but had hidden two others in places we 
didn't know of." Walt could see the anger beginning to take hold in 
Buck again. He'd considered that for the moment it was better than his 
sorrow. 

"She said "He was stompin' all over the place, arms flyin' and cursin'."
Buck threw his arms about wildly for emphasis. 

"You surely weren't in the house, 'cause you wouldn't have lthings get
that far," Walt interjected. 

"Damn right I wouldn't've. I honestly don't remember where I was." He
gulped at his coffee before returning to the story. "It must have taken 
her ten minutes to tell me everything. Accusations flyin' everywhere, 
threats--but that was the easy stuff. He'd cornered her against the 
pantry door, over there by the fridge," he said, sternly pointing at 
the area by their oversized refrigerator. "Kept leering at her, 
standing way too close. Linny would forgive a lot because he was drunk, 
but she was real scared right then. So she kneed him in the gut then 
pushed him away. Kept yellin' at him to get out of the house until he 
was sober. She said he staggered back towards her, calling her all 
manner of things." Buck stopped long enough for Walt to see the fire in 
his eyes, the same ones that peeked at his remaining half sandwich. 

"You gonna eat that?" he asked. Walt grinned. "Go ahead, it's all
yours," he replied, figuring it might be the only thing he eats for a 
while once the heat of his anger burned off. He scooted the sandwich 
quickly in Buck's direction, which Buck wasted no time in stripping a 
large bite out of, then chased it down with a heavy gulp of coffee. He 
took another large bite and chewed it good while considering how best 
to finish; reaching across the table for a napkin, he wiped his mouth, 
then picked up again. 

"By this time, Linny had backed away from me and was pointing here and
there, showing me we he stood when he said such-and-such, or where 
she'd moved to while trying to stay away. She told me he was furious, 
his face was red and eyes as glazed as an icicle, but he could hardly 
stand. Then he slurred four words that did the most damage to her." 
Buck agitated his mug to swirl the coffee, then gulped down another 
mouthful. 

"He hollared at her . . . "You're impossible to love!"" 

"Now, Buck, you know that's not true . . ." 

"I know, I know--but it came out of nowhere and Linny took it to heart.
Damn Walt, he knew she had no family left. Even now, I can't imagine 
how she she felt." Buck tore a the third quarter of sandwich away and 
talked from the side of his mouth that wasn't busy chewing. "I don't 
think I had ever seen that woman so deeply hurt in all our years--and 
heaven knows I'd done some damn fool things to upset her, but never 
anything like that. Not even close." 

Walt shifted slightly in his chair and rubbed his left temple. "Well now
I understand why you were so angry with him." He brushed a few stray 
crumbs off his jeans. "That's when you threw him out, right?" 

Buck shook his head. "Linny tried her best to pursuade me to let him
stay on, that it was the alcohol talking, but I put my foot down. Five 
years we tried to help him, and I wasn't about to let him treat my wife 
that way and get away with it." Walt crossed his arms. "That's a tough 
call, Buck." 

"No it ain't." 

"Buck, the man is your brother. . . " 

"And she was my wife. He should've treated her as such," he vented,
draining his coffee mug and setting it down heavily upon the empty 
plate for emphasis. "As far as I'm concerned that's all there is to be 
said about it." Walt just nodded respectfully, "Okay." 

"He didn't show up again until the next day, almost like he knew Linny
had spilled the beans. I told him he had a week, no more, to find 
someplace else to live. We didn't discuss why--didn't need to." He 
stood up and ambled back to the coffee pot again, pouring a fresh mug. 
"Want a refill?" he asked, gesturing towards Walt with the carafe. Walt 
walked the mug over. "Please." 

Mugs in hand, they walked through the large portal between kitchen and
the living room Linny had always kept immaculate and warm. Large area 
rugs covered parts of the hardwood floor, and most of the furniture 
centered around the stone fireplace set in the far corner. Exposed 
beams and plenty of bare finished wood gave the room a resort feel 
without all the stodginess. Though beautiful, the fireplace, with its 
impressive lodgepole shelf, wasn't the visual centerpiece of the room. 
That distinction belonged to the grand picture window which seemed to 
look out for mile upon mile of rolling Montana countryside. Outside, on 
the other side of the window, Buck had built a wrap-around porch, 
simple but elegant. On the far left he'd hung a porch swing, and facing 
the railing were two large rocking chairs with a small table 
in-between; Linny had chosen the spot and furniture for a specific 
reason: the view was unobstructed by colums, allowing for a stunning 
view of the sun as it dipped beneath the horizon each evening.  Buck 
walked up to the window, then stopped, seeming to lose himself in the 
view. 

"That whole week I never left Linny's side, Walt. Just before he left,
he tried to apologize to her." 

"What did she say?" 

"Nothing at first, just looked at me, like she wanted my approval. Then
she turned and said "You should be gettin' on now. It's getting late." 
She always felt bad about what happened, and every so often she'd try 
to convince me to patch things up with him, "What's done is done" she'd 
say." Buck paused to watch the breeze blow snow along the railing. 

"I made sure I took every opportunity I had after that day to insure she
didn't just know, but felt, how much I loved her." He looked down into 
his mug as if to summon a little more courage to stave off his grief. 
Turning to Walt, he asked, "Did she ever tell you about the card I gave 
her for our anniversary the year after all that happened?" 

"I don't think so," came the thoughtful reply. 

"She rarely cried, you know that," Buck intoned. Walt nodded
affirmatively. "I'm kinda proud of that card, because that's the only 
time I recall seeing her that emotional about a simple note." Walt 
stood quietly for a moment, waiting for the rest. "Well, what did it 
say?" 

Buck rubbed his forehead then shut his eyes tight trying to remember the
exact wording. "Love is not impossible, for if it is, then nothing is 
possible. I love you, more than any possibility, which surely means the 
impossible can't exist." He let his voice trail off, almost as if 
simply remembering had taken a great physical toll on him. 

"That's damned fine, Buck. You wrote that yourself?" 

"Imagine that, huh." Walt gave him a friendly pat on the back and
smiled. "I've never known you to wear your heart on your sleeve, except 
where Linny was concerned. I've seen you corral cattle, helped you 
build all kinds of things--I've known you since college, but rarely 
have I seen the heart inside the man. So, knowing how you've always 
felt about her . . . no, it's not hard to imagine, Buck." 

Buck gazed down at his rough hands, fingers chiseled from years of
gritty work outdoors. How many times, he wondered, had he reached for 
Linny's hand without a thought--and now, they only held and reveled in 
the warmth of the ceramic mug. He peered up again, eyes darting, 
searching, in the milky twilight for some minute solace, a reprieve 
from the dense affliction he couldn't feel past. 

Walt took another gulp of coffee, staring at his friend's profile. "Hey,
Buck, you should try and get some rest. You look like hell, man." Buck 
shook his head once. "I know, but I can't sleep. I'm so tired . . . but 
I can't sleep." Walt just nodded quietly. 

"Jayce and Brant should be back soon. If you're okay with it, we'll bunk
in the guest quarters downstairs tonight." Walt turned to step back 
towards the kitchen, when Buck looked up. "Hey, Walt . . . " 

"Yeah?" 

"All the same, I'd appreciate it if you stayed in the guest room up
here. The other two are certainly welcome to stay downstairs. There's 
food and . . ." 

Walt held up his palm. "I'll be across the hall then, if you need
anything. We know where everything is, so you let us know if you need 
something, alright?" Buck nodded weakly. "Yeah--yeah." Walt gave him 
another reassuring pat on the shoulder, then   headed back into the 
kitchen. Buck listened to his boots click across the floor as he 
walked, but kept his eyes on the painful blanket of white gathering 
outside. A steamy shower and an attempt at a nap might help help a 
little, so he turned his back on the vista and headed down the long 
hallway to the master bedroom, his steps ehoing as he went. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------
----- 


Walt lazily opened his eyes for what seemed like the tenth time,
noticing it was still dark. The blanched red glow from the bedside 
alarm clock reminded him to check the time--again: 6:15am. He rolled 
onto his back and crossed his long arms beneath his head and 
listened--no sound at all. No doors closing, no rattling from the 
kitchen, no running water rushing through the pipes in the wall. He 
thought for sure he'd hear Buck up and about. Perhaps it was a sign 
that he was still asleep, and if so, he certainly wasn't going to wake 
him up yet. The service didn't begin until nine, so he had lots of time 
yet. 

He got up and showered, dressing in the fresh change of clothes he'd
brought from the downstairs quarters last night. In the corner nearest 
the bathroom sat an overstuffed easy chair, a large floor lamp next to 
it for isolated reading. He hadn't turned the lamp on, opting instead 
for the light from the bathroom to spill into the cozy bedroom, now 
awash in the soft white glow it provided. He lowered himself into the 
chair sinking slightly in the abundant cushioning, then wiped down his 
boots in the pale light. When he was satisfied they looked proper for a 
funeral service he leaned back and let his eyes drink the room in. 
Being alone in it was one thing, but the loneliness of it this morning 
made him uneasy--not that today would be the least bit easy in any 
regard. 

Spreading his towel methodically across the towel bar at the foot of the
bed, he then turned off the bathroom light, leaving only the alarm 
clock's ghostly pallor to occupy the dark room. A couple steps further 
down the hallway and he leaned over to see if the light was on in 
Buck's room; no indication of any escaped from under the door, but he 
did notice it was slightly ajar. Walt hesitated, uncertain as to what 
to do. Stepping forward he gently pushed on the door, expanding the gap 
between the jamb and door roughly six inches. He waited a moment, 
listening for any movement--nothing, so he gently knocked. "Buck? You 
up?" No answer. Palm flat against the door, he slowly pushed it open 
and stepped in. The bed looked like it hadn't been slept in at all, and 
there was certainly no sign of Buck anywhere. Walt's brow furrowed as 
he turned and headed for the kitchen. 

All the lights were off in the dining area and kitchen except the pale
amber light spilling from the stovehood at the far end. Out of habit 
Walt glanced at the coffee machine. Most mornings Linny would already 
be up and about, the smell of frying bacon would linger in the air, its 
sizzle like a homing beacon to any who stepped into the area. He could 
hear her voice as he had countless times before: "Mornin' Walt. Want 
some breakfast?" she'd ask in her wonderful midwest accent. Unless he 
stayed overnight he would have a bumpy twenty minute drive to the 
ranch, and always arrived hungry. 

"You bet," he'd say. She'd grab a couple eggs and he'd listen to the
shells crack on the side of her cast iron griddle. 

"Buck'll join you in a few minutes," she would add. "Want some fresh
coffee? Just finished brewin'." 

"Thanks, Lin," he'd reply, "But I'll get it." She'd smile and turn back
to tend to the eggs. 

No smell of bacon frying this morning, and the small coffee pot was half
empty already, the warming plate indicator glowing red in the relative 
dark. Walt drew his eyes around the forlorn kitchen and sighed deeply. 
He grabbed a clean mug from the cabinet above and poured himself some 
lukewarm java. He sipped at it: not hot, barely warm enough, but it 
would do this morning. Opening the mudroom door, he donned his coat and 
stuffed his gloves into the side pockets. They were toasty warm from 
sitting above the radiator. Mug in hand, he stepped into the connecting 
walkway leading to the stables. Through the huge windows he could see 
patches of stars twinkling, and a blanket of snow covering everything 
visible. 

He sighed again, knowing Linny would have loved it. 

Cooler air greeted him as the interior door to the stables opened and he
stepped through. A couple of the horses swiveled their heads to look in 
his direction. All six of them had flanned blankets covering their 
backs and sides. Walt could hear occasional sawing coming from the 
workshop in the far corner. On his way, he stopped and rub the nose of 
each horse, then approached the open door. He should have known. 

Walt rapped gently upon the door. "Did you sleep at all last night?" 

Buck looked up from his work and wiped his brow. "More of a nap than
sleep," he said. In the bright light of the workshop Walt could see his 
eyes were bloodshot, dark circles underneath each one. "Have any 
breakfast yet?" Walt asked. 

Buck shook his head. "Still not hungry, really." 

"I can make a couple eggs real quick if you'd like. I'm going to have
some. Could use the company." Buck busied himself with measuring off a 
couple arm-length pieces of rope. "You're as stubborn as she was," he 
said, looking over his shoulder at Walt. 

"I'll take that as a compliment." 

"I guess it was, wasn't it?" He coiled the length of rope, laying it
gently at the edge of his workbench. Walt admired Buck's handiwork with 
the large branch he'd dragged in yesterday. He had removed the ragged 
ends and stripped away all branches, large and small, and left the bark 
in its natural state. Split into two different lengths, he'd created a 
notch on both pieces where they would intersect. The effect was 
beautiful for it's simplicity--the pieces came together as a proper 
cross, the marker for her final resting place. 

Buck had used his hand axe to roughly hew the top and horizontal ends
into knobby caps, and sharpened the bottom portion into a pointed stake 
so it could be driven into the ground. Without even thinking about it 
Walt had removed his hat, perhaps as a subconscious display of respect. 


"You've always been good with your hands, Buck," Walt began. "The porch,
the walkway, the stables . . . every repair this place needed. But 
this," he said, gesturing with his hat, "this is perhaps your best 
work--and by far your most important." Buck had rigged the vertical 
length between two vices as Walt spoke, but stopped thoughtfully as 
he'd finished. 

"Thank you, kindly, Walt. It's not much, but it will do until I can get
a proper marker for her." He then sat the horizontal piece into the 
small notch, assuring the two pieces nestled together. 

"Buck, I sure don't think there could be any more proper a marker for
Linny. I really don't." 

Buck grabbed the coiled rope and slowly unwound it. "Thanks again, Walt.
that mean a lot to me." Walt replaced his hat, then tugged the brim 
down just a little as a silent you're welcome. "I'll go start a fresh 
pot, and get the eggs cookin'. See you in a few." Buck just nodded, 
already absorbed in the task of winding the rope crisscross about the 
middle of it where the two pieces met. When finished he held it 
upright, briefly scrutinizing it for some imagined flaw, then whispered 
tenderly "I love you, Linny," and gently kissed the heart of the cross. 


------------------------------------------------------------------------
----- 


From treetop level, those gathered to pay their respects cast a mottled
scene upon the snow below, like pepper sprinkled upon an uneven tray of 
salt. Among them Walt, Jayce, Brant, and almost two dozen others from 
the nearby township of Hungry Horse, Montana. Walt scoured the crowd, 
and just beyond, for any sign of Glen, but never saw him--unless he was 
well out of view or obscured by the surrounding forest. 

Jayce and Brant had rode out about a half hour before the service began
and used an auger just slightly smaller than the cross's girth to 
loosen the hard earth so placing it wouldn't be an impediment. Father 
Whitten blessed the homemade marker, then stood aside as Walt held it 
and Buck drove it firmly into the ground with a sledgehammer. For a few 
minutes, the only sounds heard were Buck's labored grunts as he swung 
the hammer, and the dense clunk as iron met squarely with wood. When 
finished, he stepped just forward-right of the cross and knelt upon his 
left knee, head bowed. No one moved nor said a word while he remained 
quietly in place. 

The mid-November wind drifted across the valley, causing loose raiments
to flap and the boughs atop the simple casket to timidly jitter. Soft 
flakes began to glide and tumble amidst the gathering. Buck arose and 
took his place next to his beloved Linny. He wouldn't stand with the 
main body of mourners. His place was next to Linny, as it always had 
been. 

The service itself was somber, bereft of light despite the early morning
hour. Each and every soul in attendance stopped to impart their 
condolences to Buck: men shook his hand, women warmly embraced him. It 
took all he had to remain standing, his knees desperately wanting to 
buckle in spite of his willing them not to. Walt, Jayce, and Brant were 
the last to approach him, each man forgoing the handshake, opting for a 
heartfelt hug instead. Then the three slowly meandered off, leaving 
Buck and the pastor alone. Father Whitten stepped quietly in front of 
Buck and gently grasped his elbow. 

"Buck, there's little I can add that hasn't already been offered here
this morning. She gave so much to these folks, and today they all gave 
back." He paused, if only to let the first thought blow gently about 
them. "I assure you, her soul has returned from where it came--she's 
beginning her true life now, Buck." 

The preacher titled his head, trying to look into his downcast eyes,
finding only the expected darkness of loss and unfettered concession to 
sorrow. Buck's head remained hung and still. The preacher's voice 
playing out in his head. 

"At your ages so many couples are either divorced or working on second
or third marriages. You and the missus--well, you seem perpetually on 
honeymoon." Buck had grasped the mans hand and shook it, looking over 
his shoulder at Linny chatting with two other ladies, her Sunday dress 
gently stirring in the prairie breeze, dark autumn hair waving about. 

"Buck . . .," a soft voice called out. "Buck?" A sympathetic hand landed
carefully upon his shoulder, severing his connection with the quiet 
memory. "Sorry Father, I was  . . . uh . . . remembering." 

Father Whitten gave him a half-smile. "It's alright, son. That tells me
she's here, watching over you." A time and weather- worn cowboy stood 
before him, trying incredibly hard to be strong and resilient, yet 
quivering under the weight of his heartbreak. Father stood close, 
black-and-white Roman collar barely exposed by his coat, and thinning 
hair tousled by the crisp breeze as it sailed through the open meadow, 
kissed by pines dusted in icy white. Buck looked up, aching eyes boring 
into the cleric's own, then slowly wrapped his arms around the minister 
and let the squall of melancholy inside loose upon his shoulder. 

Walt looked on from a distance, Brant and Jayce on either side. He
turned to both men, gesturing towards the house and nodded. Both nodded 
back, glanced once more at the now solitary Buck and pastor graveside, 
then solemnly trudged off towards the house. Walt crouched down and ran 
his gloved forefinger through the snow, then scooped up a handful and 
sifted it through his fingers with his thumb. He looked up at the 
drifting clouds, gathering and grey, then back down at the pristine 
snow around him--and for the first time, allowed himself to openly 
grieve her passing, tears falling to the powder without a sound. 

------------------------------------------------------------------------
----- 


Minutes dissolved into the unrelenting cold as both men acceded to their
surging emotions. Mercifully, the breeze had died down and the snow 
continued falling amidst the utter stillness. 

Walt slowly stood up and turned about, satisfied for the moment that
he'd exhausted some of his pent up grief. Not far away stood his best 
friend and the minister. Then out of nowhere--a thought, a memory that 
had eluded him for far too many years. He stepped forward with a new 
sense of urgency, long strides eating up the distance. Once within 
proximity to the pair, he stood patiently and waited for them to 
finish. 

Father Whitten shook Buck's hand one last time and Walt began walking
slowly towards him. "Father, I can't thank you enough for being here 
for Buck." 

"Well, I was here for Buck and Linny. You'll let me know if there's
anything else I can do, won't you?" 

Walt shook his hand firmly, "Absolutely, father. Thank you again." The
preacher smiled warmly, then went to stand next to Molly and wait for 
Buck to ride back to the house. Walt continued walking a few more feet 
until he stood right next to Buck. 

"I remember, not long after the two of you met, you told me she'd found
you when you weren't looking." Buck looked up at him questioningly. 
"What do you mean?" 

"Linny. You told me you weren't looking when she found you. Remember
that?" Buck nodded, slowly at first, then more rapidly as the memory 
returned. "Yeah, okay, I remember that now. But I don't see . . . " 
Walt held up his hand. "I remember how much it took you to finally 
summon the courage to tell her how you really felt. I threatened to 
steal her from you if you didn't tell her, remember?" 

Buck looked down at his boots and kicked mindlessly at the snow. "I
didn't think you would do it, until you said "Try me"." Walt grinned a 
little. "I know you weren't real happy about that." 

"No, not at all. But I have to admit, that's what finally forced me to
tell her I knew I loved her." Walt shrugged slightly. "And? Wasn't I 
right?" 

"Yes, that time." Buck sniffed then produced a sheepish grin. 

"And what did she tell you once you finally opened up?" 

Buck dropped his head again, then looked up, straight faced. "She said
it was scary. She wasn't at all certain she was worthy of that kind of 
attention." Walt stepped sideways, for no good reason other than to 
change his view a little. "Obviously you didn't give up on her." 

"I couldn't, Walt. I told you that." 

"Several times, I recall." Walt waited, hoping to see the light go on
above Buck's head. 

"My point, Buck, is that I'd bet you have much the same feeling right
now--that same sort of scariness that she felt. Sure the  situation is 
different, but the emotion is probably much the same. If there are 
feelings where she is now, I'd bet the farm that she's just as scared 
now to be without you as you are without her." 

Buck stared intently at Walt, then turned and waved to Father Whitten,
acknowledging he'd be there soon. Turning back, he extended his hand to 
Walt, pulling him in to a hug only deep friendship can define. 

Walt knew he got the message. 

Buck stepped back, then, and turned to face the pine branch cross. Walt
asked what many others wanted to know. 

"Buck, y'know we'll be around to help as long as you need us; it's what
we do. But what about you . . . what're you gonna do now?" He looked 
around as if the answer would appear shimmering in the pallid air. 
"Maybe head somewhere warmer, without snow?" 

Buck knelt on one knee, gently embedding it in the snow, then
thoughtfully removed his hat, giving it a last careful brush off. 
Leaning forward, he hung the hat from the makeshift cross. The 
ever-present breeze rocked it lightly from side to side. 

"I've already begun," he said, still staring at the hat as it fidgeted
on the marker. 

"I don't getcha." 

"I always looked forward to seeing her at the end of the day." Buck
paused and wiped his eyes, wanting to blame the snow for stinging them, 
but knowing it was blameless. "Remember when we were kids, and we'd 
jump from the hayloft into those huge bales of cotton below?" 

Walt dug his hands deeper into his coat pocket and grinned. "Yeah." 

"Coming home to Linny was a lot like that, Walt. I mean, sure, sometimes
you'd be uncertain or intimidated by the drop. But the fall was always 
exhilirating, and the landing always soft . . . and warm." Buck arose 
and stepped back to stand alongside Walt, both men enveloped by winters 
wide expanse and the wind's bitter caress. For a moment the only sound 
came from the hat as it rapped against the cross. Buck's mournful sigh 
punctuated the moment.. 

"I've already begun missing her, Walt. I miss her voice and her smile. A
huge part of me is gone." He paused to pull his hankerchief from his 
back pocket and wipe his eyes again. Walt did the only appropriate 
thing he could do--just listen attentively. 

Buck's tired eyes never lifted from Linny's grave. "So, what will I do
next?" Walt looked up from the grave to his friends face. 

Buck exhaled deeply, his breath captured in the ensuing vapor, then
looked skyward and squinted, extendng his glove-clad hand, palm up. 
Both men watched silently as snowflakes lit upon the worn hide and 
melted. "I'm gonna start by learning to love the snow."


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