Yesterday's Dreams

Prologue

Grover, Colorado 1888

    Except for the damn endless whistling wind, the silence was deafening, a constant reminder to Chism Marshall of all he’d lost.  

His lanky frame filled the overstuffed sofa.  He stared unseeing into the flames, tapping his unlit cigarette against his crossed leg.  He noted one of his socks had a whole in it.  Discarded on the wooden floor, his newly shined black boots caught the gleam of the fire, and his Stetson sat beside him.  Absently, he thought he should get around to sweeping the floor one of these days.

The heavy door swung open, slamming against the wall.  "We found her, Chism."  Shane Marshall burst through, his spurs clanking.  A blast of wind followed as he struggled to close the door.  

Chism heard his brother, but didn't respond at first.  He wasn't sure if he wanted to know where she was.  Without turning his head, he said, "Get your boots off.  You're tracking your smell in here."

Shane muttered as he stomped back to the door.  His spurs jingling loudly in protest.  "For crying out loud, it's like she never left.  'Git your shoes off...none of that tobacco in the house.'"  He slipped his manure caked boots off.  "This still is a damn cattle ranch, isn't it?"

"Is she alive?"  Chism interrupted quietly, afraid to ask, afraid to know.  

His brother hesitated for a moment before shaking his head.  "Gosh-darn it, Chism.  Of course, she's alive."

"How does she look?"  He closed his eyes briefly, painfully recalling every detail.  The chestnut hair that curled just above her waist.  Those talking blue eyes that let him know right away what she was thinking.  Those same eyes that their son inherited.  

A sharp stab of pain clutched at him and wouldn’t let go.  He swallowed, hard, hoping to force it away.  It stayed, another constant reminder.

"Why, brother, she looks just as good as she always did.  She seems happier than when she left."  Shane dragged the dining room chair, settled it next to Chism, and straddled it.  "Of course, I didn’t get a real good look at her," he hastily added.

Chism didn’t want to hear that.  He wanted her to ache all over like something was missing, like he'd been doing for the past six months.  He took a deep breath before asking, "Where did you find her?"

"Greeley."

It was like a fist clenched tighter around his heart.  So close.  All this time, she'd been that close.  Less than sixty miles from Grover.  While he searched north, she'd headed south.  He should have figured.  The cigarette slid, up and down, through his fingers.  God, he wanted to light it.

Chism stood up, finally looking at his brother.  "Thanks."  Running his fingers through his gray-black hair, he jammed his hat on.  "I'll be heading out in the morning then."

"You going to be bringing her back?"  Shane asked the question, yet they both knew the answer.  "Then, I'll be going with you."

"I don’t need your help."  Chism grasped his boots and pulled them on before straightening.  

"Oh, but brother, that's where you're wrong."  Shane shook his head before rising.  He pushed the chair back underneath the table.  "Without me, you'll just mess it up again."

Chism leveled a glance at his brother, ready to argue the point, but something stopped him.  Probably the fact that Shane was right.  He'd made a mess of just about everything in the past six months—no, the past three years.  He sighed heavily.  "Yep, you're right, but who'll take care of things here?"

"Damn it, Chism.  For once, why don't you think of something besides this ranch.  You've already lost Colt.  Why not think of Rachel now?"  

Just the mention of their names rendered him numb.  Somehow, Chism thought if he didn't say their names out loud the pain would go away.  His son would walk through the door again pulling Rachel's hand and chattering endlessly--instead of his cold, lifeless body lying underneath the lone oak tree behind this house.  A house that used to be a home.  

Grimly, he surveyed his living quarters.  Hell, even Rachel wouldn't call this home anymore.  He might not track in manure anymore, but the rest of the house looked--well, it looked like a man's house.  Gone was the cozy feel of a woman and child living here.  He didn't bother with cleaning and rarely ate here, preferring the grub house with the hands.  It was a sight better than eating alone.  

"You're right again."  Chism lifted his hat, tiredly running his fingers through his hair.  He couldn't bear thinking about the life he used to have.  "It's time to do something about this, and I do need your help."  

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