Page 102 of The Outlaw and the Heir

"Does that mean you consider me someone you love?"

He peered down at me, a flurry of emotions flying over his face and in his eyes before his expression finally softened. "You know, I guess I do."

I snorted. “That's the worst proclamation of love I've ever heard, you know that?"

"Do you think o' me as someone you love?" he asked wryly.

I grimaced. “I don't know...yet?"

I was a little surprised to see him continue to smile. “That's alright. We got time to figure it out...don't we?"

And I thought I knew what he was asking because he’d just talked about giving the other two the chance to leave if they wanted to be free of the ranch. Which meant the option was open to me as well. That would mean going back on the road and being free like I'd enjoyed, but away from here...away from him. Because against all odds, he had managed to find a way into my heart. Whether that was a place of love or something building to that, I didn't know, but what he wanted to know was if I was going to stick around long enough to find out.

"We do," I said, closing my eyes and resting my face against his chest again. "We've got plenty of time."

EPILOGUE

August 23rd, 1913

Well,if you’ve come this far in my plodding story, I suppose you want to know how it all ends. I could tell more of the whole story because there are decades still to tell, but my mother always reminded me that there are times to talk and times to be silent. That and not all stories need to be told. Sometimes, they exist in the hearts and minds of those who lived them and are for them alone.

The point of this journal, novel, long-winded explanation, whatever you want to call it, was to tell a specific story. So, I'll bring the focus back to the current day and share a little more before I finally get to my point.

I'm sitting here writing this last addendum to my tale, looking out from the second story of what is now known as The Big House. Yes, we added another floor to the already impressive house. That was Elizabeth's idea, and once she had me on board, well, let's just say Ambrose never stood a chance. He grumbled and growled about unnecessary expenses and how it was 'showing off,' but in the end, he gave in.

The sun is setting, casting the whole place in that eerie yet beautiful glow you only get in the desert. It's a little muddled, mostly because my eyes aren't what they used to be, but also because of the light in the room. Electricity came to the world, and we got it in 1901. That was another fight from Ambrose because change is hard for him, and he scoffed at the idea that it was the future. Twelve years later, I have proven him wrong, though he'll never admit it to my face.

Yes, yes, I know. I'm sure someone who’s come to the end of my attempt at storytelling is shocked that Ambrose is still as stubborn as a mule and as hard-headed as a boulder. Alas, after fifty-three years, I can't help but find those parts of him endearing. The man will be eighty in a few years, so I don't expect him to change, and neither will I.

The ranch has flourished, and I hope it's doing the same when whoever finds this reads my story. I hope the passion Ambrose threw into making this a place for those deemed hopeless and criminal, continues. Other than taking care of his family and being with me, it's the one thing he’s thrown all his being into creating and maintaining. His father never once interfered in the endeavor.

Ambrose believed up until the old man's death that his father simply didn't see a reason to argue and appreciated the extra hands. Because, of course, the man I love couldn't see that his father, for all his failings and challenges, was proud of his son. Perhaps he always had been, but I suspect it truly started when Ambrose decided to stand on his own two feet and forge his own path. But, of course, he never said such a thing, and Ambrose is a simple creature who cannot read between the lines easily and needed to hear the words.

There was a letter left for Ambrose after his father passed from cancer. He never shared that letter's contents with me, and I never asked. Some things are best left only to those theybelong to, and it was not mine to know. I don't know where he keeps the thing, but I know he reads it on occasion, and I only acknowledge his pain when he wants me to. All I can do is hope the old bastard managed to say the things in death that he never found the courage to say in life and that Ambrose gained some measure of peace from it.

Elizabeth, all the way up until she died in her sleep, had been fully supportive of the endeavor. She claimed me as their first success, which I still roll my eyes at. It also gave her a spot on the ranch that was perfect for her. She took over for Joseph when it came to business decision-making and maintaining order in the Big House. But that wasn't enough for her, and she took on helping Ambrose by keeping the men in line in a way only a woman could.

Meaning she scared the living hell out of them when they tried to toe the line too much, and it was always great to see.

Her death was hard on both of us. She had been his sister and, to me, a sister I’d never had and one hell of an impressive person. It had been both sudden and expected. She wasn't getting any younger, and while she could still get around, there was a slowness to her movements that had driven her crazy at times. Still, she had seemed like she had a handful of years left. In the end, she passed peacefully.

Of course, I'm sure you might be wondering what happened with our dear, always pleasant, forever reliable, and completely trustworthy friend, Joseph. Ambrose never wanted to find out. After he'd sent his brother away in what was basically the modern-day exile, he never sought information about his brother. He thought it was best that everyone forget and move on, choosing to ignore his existence as punishment. Even worse, in Ambrose's mind anyway, was that his ex-wife had stayed here with the kids to be raised on the ranch without their father's influence.

Admittedly, they did have very nice lives until they moved away of their own accord.

I'm not that generous. I did the digging. I paid a decent chunk to know where Joseph had gone and where he ended up. I'll tell you this, he didn't do himself a favor and go out into the desert and die or get caught by some vicious outlaw and murdered. No, the imbecile drank and whored himself to death. And if you think I'm joking, I'm not. Syphilis killed its fair share of the foolish and wise but impulsive men, and it was no kinder to that fool. He spent his remaining months wandering the streets of Boston, I'm told, until he was found frozen in a pile of his own vomit. His reputation as the man who talked to himself and smelled of piss and cheap gin came to its ultimate conclusion.

I spared Ambrose and Elizabeth. For them, it was a kindness not to know what happened to their brother. Whatever he had been at the end, he had been their brother, and hearing the news would have hurt them.

I'm not that kind, dear reader, but I did pay for him to be buried in a public lot with his name, date of birth, and date of death etched into the stone. It's more than he deserved if I'm honest, but I did that in memory of his siblings, not him.

That, of course, brings me to the main players in my story, which makes complete sense as I was telling half the story about me. I tried to weave in the things Ambrose told me about his experience during that time, so let's hope I pulled it off with some skill.

I'm sure you've guessed by now that we made it through everything with our hides and our lives intact. Admittedly, Ambrose has less hide than he used to, but years of hard work will do that to you. He can't work like he used to, but he can still supervise, advise, and occasionally chastise when he needs to. Writing this story has made me miss that old mutt, Bear. Itseems cruel to admit that after so many years, the memory of a dear pet drifts away. Now, though, I've been so wrapped up in the past that it's jarring to see Ambrose walk without that friendly beast at his side.

And if you are the animal-loving sort, worry not. He went the same way as Elizabeth. His end was peaceful, sprawled on the rug in front of the fire after managing to scarf down some of the goat meat we fed to him for dinner. Ambrose insisted he did that rather than in our bed so we wouldn't wake up to his body between us, but who knows what truly goes on in the minds of beasts? He was a good dog from start to finish, and that's what truly mattered.

But what about us? What, it's not enough to know that Ambrose found and fulfilled his purpose in life? Or that I'm still here?

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