Work Text:
Bessie died during the first frost of winter.
She and her husband were preparing for their second snow together; two years living in the heart of the Grizzly Mountains taught the young couple to chop wood early and sew heavy wool draperies for the thin windowpains. They had been prepared, ready to face the ungodly cold together, bundled in the warmth of each other's bodies and loving touches.
Hosea should have known better, to realize that he could never have anything so good and simple in his wretched life.
He was by her side when his wife died. It all happened so fast, before anything could be done to improve her condition. She worsened in the span of a week, her lungs struggling to take breath in the thin mountain air. Hosea held her pale, frail hand as she took her last. Held her hand until it grew cold, warmed only by his faint body heat. Until the hearth burnt out, the one room cabin was cold, lifeless. Their home, once full of warmth and laughter- Bessie’s laughter when she and Hosea would dance, and he would dip her with one arm and kiss her until they broke away laughing- felt dead.
When Bessie died, so too did a piece of Hosea die with her. The piece that loved, that cared. The part that was good. What was left behind was a husk of a man, replaced with an ache in his heart so dark that he secluded himself in his grief.
He stayed in the cabin alone that winter, the snow too treacherous to travel into. Bessie was buried in her garden in hopes that, come spring, the flowers would bloom, ensuring that each year she would have fresh blossoms covering her grave. It was all Hosea could offer.
When the snow thawed, he packed only what could fit on his horse. The rest he left behind in the shuttered cabin, memories of a time that would only make the pain in his chest hurt worse. Where laughter once carried, the walls now stood in silence like the dust that settled undisturbed on the windowsill.
The trail was slush beneath his steeds hoofs and the crisp morning air stung his throat raw. Reaching into his coat pocket, Hosea pulled out a letter and a small amber bottle.
The thick parchment had his name scrawled in elegant cursive. Dutch, from a month ago, letting Hosea know where the old gang was holed up. It was, in no uncertain terms, his way of telling Hosea to come back, to find his way home, if he ever wanted it.
He’d never taken the offer up. With his son grown, Arthur maturing into a fine young man, these past two years he’d spent with Bessie were enough to fill his heart.
Now, however, he was alone again. Broken more than he was before, with nowhere else to go other than back to where he started, Hosea kicked his horse into a trot. Wrenching open the little bottle with shaking fingers, he took a swig, throwing his head back to savor the burn.
It would be a long journey.
_*_
Having Hosea back should have been a good thing.
It was- of course it was good to have the old man back. His presence was strong and familiar in camp, a void had been left when he went off with Bessie. Arthur understood, though. He did. Bessie had been a good woman. Too good for me, Hosea would say, his words slurred on booze. S’ why she’s dead.
Arthur tried to remind himself that the man that came back to them was not Hosea. Not entirely. This man craved whiskey as though he was dying of thirst, a bottle found in his hand at nearly all hours. He was angry, agitated, snapping and spitting venom at the smallest of mistakes. The man who taught Arthur to read, to hunt and fish, his seemingly endless patience, all of what made Hosea the man he was; gone.
In his place stood a man he no longer recognized.
When he wasn’t drinking, Hosea was in his tent, sleeping, dead to the world. Or, he was by the fire, staring with glassy eyes into the flame with a cup of coffee cooling in his hands. It was no doubt placed there by Dutch, who had made it his mission to “cure” Hosea of his sadness.
Arthur felt it wasn't his place to say whether or not Dutch was right for doing so, but he agreed that it wasn't alright for Hosea to go on this way.
He was watching them both now from the implied safety of his cot, as the pair of them argued by the mouth of Hosea’s tent. A conflict that started like dry wood; sudden, it burned bright and fast and Arthur couldn't look away.
“No- now what you don’t understand, Dutch, is that this-” Hosea yelled, voice straining, as he gestured wildly with the amber bottle in his hand, “-is none of your goddamnned business!”
Dutch stepped up closer to the man, now two feet apart, his face pinched in abject rage. “What you do to yourself, my friend,” he spat the word, “is my goddammed business. Especially when you piss yourself because you're too damn drunk to undo your buckle! Especially when you live here, under my care!”
If Hosea’s face wasn't already flushed from the whisky, Dutch’s humiliating accusations would have had him turning red from embarrassment. Arthur could see from his place on his cot the way his jaw tightened, his chest and nostrils flared, saw his hand curl into a fist- it shook with rage. He saw Hosea- the man he loved and revered as a father- rear back the hand holding the bottle and brought it down on Dutch’s head…
Almost.
Arthur was up and out of the cot before Hosea even raised his hand, knowing all too well what was to come next. He was scared out of his mind as he ran, closing the distance between himself and his fathers, images flashing behind his eyes. Images of Dutch with glass in his skin, bleeding out, beaten, with a bullet in his head. Arthur found he couldn't breathe, he can’t breathe-
He’s bleeding from his head. He can feel the warm blood staining the dirty floor beneath him. He’s lying on his side, he’s crying. He can feel the tears stain his filthy face- covered in dirt and sweat. He’s holding his breath, he can’t breathe- oh God he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe and he’s shaking, he can't help it. He’s wound so tight, his head feels like it could explode. He’s focused on every little noise and far away from his body all at once.
His teeth are chattering in his skull and god it's all he can hear, he can’t hear his father yelling anymore, can’t hear the glass breaking anymore, the shards crunching beneath his boots. All he can hear is the clattering of teeth and feel the blood pooling under his head and smell the faint bite of whiskey. All he can understand is that his father is angry. So, so… so angry-
To both Dutch’s and Hosea’s surprise, Arthur was suddenly between them, his arms raised over his head. Blood and alcohol stained his worn flannel and glass stuck in his unprotected arms.
“You ain't gonna hurt him,” Arthur said, his voice shaking, quiet. Scared. He was twenty years old, he was a grown goddamn man, and he was scared of the man in front of him.
After a moment of stunned silence, nothing to be heard but the labored breathing of the three men, Dutch’s gruff voice cracked the stillness, like a crack of thunder before a storm. “Arthur… son, com’on,” Dutch urged. He was pulling on his shoulder, trying to lead him away. “Son, I- we… we gotta get you cleaned up. Jesus-”
Arthur was breathing heavily, his heart beating in his ears. He couldn't even feel the shards of glass embedded in his arms. Blue eyes met hazel, the fear and fire behind them palpable. “You… you ain' t hurtin’ him, ‘Sea.”
Hosea didn't say anything, his once-red face now pale and ashen. His hazel eyes glassy with tears and blown wide in horror, mouth stuck in an unheard gasp.
Dutch’s strong hands pulled on Arthur’s shoulders, the young man allowing for himself to be led away. As long as he was with Dutch, as long as he was safe. Cradling his bleeding arms, Arthur followed without a word. The pungent tang of whisky engulfed his senses, reminding him of steel blue eyes and a heavy hand.
It made him nauseous to think, but despite all the misfortune it had brought Arthur and his family, he couldn't help but crave a drink.