went to bed.
He dreamed of the Hole. Rain dripped down his back,
and he was cold, so cold. Then, the guards came and started to beat him.
“Wake up, son.”
Flynn sat up and blinked. Slowly, the room came
into focus.
Sam sat on the edge of his bed. “You were having a
nightmare.”
Flynn looked away. “I’m sorry I bothered you,
Major.”
“It’s no bother, son. I used to have the same dreams.”
Flynn stared at him. For the first time, he noticed
the pain in Sam’s eyes. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “What happened?”
Sam shrugged. “I healed.”
Tears burned Flynn’s eyes. “I don’t know if I can.”
Sam sighed. “Son, you are the strongest, most
stubborn man I ever met. If anyone can beat those demons, it’s you. Now get
some sleep. I expect you at the corral come sunup.” He grinned to take the
edge off his words.
Slowly, tentatively, Flynn smiled back. “Yes sir.”
Sam patted Flynn’s shoulder. Then, he turned and
left the room.
When he was gone, Flynn rolled over onto his back
with his arms folded behind his head and thought about what Sam had said. He
realized that he had begun to heal the day he stepped into the light of Sam’s
fire on Christmas Eve. At least a little.
He shut his eyes and slept, and this time, he did
not dream.
Flynn woke before dawn. He dressed quickly. He
rummaged in his saddlebag and took out the notebook with the names of the
dead. He put it into his shirt pocket and walked to the corral.
Sam sat on the top rail of the fence, bellowing at a
man who had his reins tangled up like a woman’s knitting yarn.
Flynn grinned, knowing that Sam’s bark was far worse
than his bite. He vaulted over the fence and took the reins from the man’s
shaking hands. “Here, let me show you.”
Swiftly, deftly, he untangled the mess.
The older man looked at Flynn with admiration. “I’ll
never get it right.”
“Maybe not the first time, but with practice, you’ll
be able to hitch up a team faster than it takes your pretty wife to dress for
dinner.” Flynn smiled at the woman who sat beside her husband.
She smiled back shyly.
The older man held out his hand. “My name is Tom,
Tom Lessing. This is my wife, Amy.”
Flynn touched his hat. “Pleased to meet you. My
name is Flynn. Now, here’s how you hold the reins...”
That afternoon, Flynn set up targets outside the
city limits and held target practice in the afternoons while the horses were
resting. Tom Lessing missed every time. Flynn waited until the session was
over, and then he went over to him.
Tom Lessing could not meet Flynn’s eyes. “I know.
I couldn’t hit the target.”
Flynn raised one eyebrow. “You know?”
Lessing nodded. He looked away. “I fought in the
war. I—I still have nightmares, Mr. Flynn.” He turned back to Flynn. “I see
the faces of the men I killed.”
Flynn drew a deep breath. “So do I.”
Lessing blinked. “But you’re a crack shot.”
Flynn nodded. “I know. That’s not how it affects
me. I have a lot of trouble sleeping.”
Lessing nodded slowly. “What do you do about it?”
Flynn grinned. “Work hard with thick-headed
city slickers who can’t shoot straight.”
Lessing laughed shortly. “Thanks, Flynn. It helps
to laugh about it.”
Flynn nodded back. He sobered. “All right, imagine
that’s an outlaw who is intent on hurting your wife.”
Lessing’s expression hardened, and his hand
tightened on his rifle.
Flynn tacked up the target once more. He walked
back to Lessing and nodded. Lessing raised his rifle. He fired until his rifle
was empty. Flynn checked the target. He still missed every time.
“How did I do?” Tom walked toward him.
Flynn crumpled up the paper target. “Better. Just
keep practicing.”
Lessing nodded.
* * *
April came. The air grew warmer, and the greenhorns
began to look more like
He dreamed of the Hole. Rain dripped down his back,
and he was cold, so cold. Then, the guards came and started to beat him.
“Wake up, son.”
Flynn sat up and blinked. Slowly, the room came
into focus.
Sam sat on the edge of his bed. “You were having a
nightmare.”
Flynn looked away. “I’m sorry I bothered you,
Major.”
“It’s no bother, son. I used to have the same dreams.”
Flynn stared at him. For the first time, he noticed
the pain in Sam’s eyes. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “What happened?”
Sam shrugged. “I healed.”
Tears burned Flynn’s eyes. “I don’t know if I can.”
Sam sighed. “Son, you are the strongest, most
stubborn man I ever met. If anyone can beat those demons, it’s you. Now get
some sleep. I expect you at the corral come sunup.” He grinned to take the
edge off his words.
Slowly, tentatively, Flynn smiled back. “Yes sir.”
Sam patted Flynn’s shoulder. Then, he turned and
left the room.
When he was gone, Flynn rolled over onto his back
with his arms folded behind his head and thought about what Sam had said. He
realized that he had begun to heal the day he stepped into the light of Sam’s
fire on Christmas Eve. At least a little.
He shut his eyes and slept, and this time, he did
not dream.
Flynn woke before dawn. He dressed quickly. He
rummaged in his saddlebag and took out the notebook with the names of the
dead. He put it into his shirt pocket and walked to the corral.
Sam sat on the top rail of the fence, bellowing at a
man who had his reins tangled up like a woman’s knitting yarn.
Flynn grinned, knowing that Sam’s bark was far worse
than his bite. He vaulted over the fence and took the reins from the man’s
shaking hands. “Here, let me show you.”
Swiftly, deftly, he untangled the mess.
The older man looked at Flynn with admiration. “I’ll
never get it right.”
“Maybe not the first time, but with practice, you’ll
be able to hitch up a team faster than it takes your pretty wife to dress for
dinner.” Flynn smiled at the woman who sat beside her husband.
She smiled back shyly.
The older man held out his hand. “My name is Tom,
Tom Lessing. This is my wife, Amy.”
Flynn touched his hat. “Pleased to meet you. My
name is Flynn. Now, here’s how you hold the reins...”
That afternoon, Flynn set up targets outside the
city limits and held target practice in the afternoons while the horses were
resting. Tom Lessing missed every time. Flynn waited until the session was
over, and then he went over to him.
Tom Lessing could not meet Flynn’s eyes. “I know.
I couldn’t hit the target.”
Flynn raised one eyebrow. “You know?”
Lessing nodded. He looked away. “I fought in the
war. I—I still have nightmares, Mr. Flynn.” He turned back to Flynn. “I see
the faces of the men I killed.”
Flynn drew a deep breath. “So do I.”
Lessing blinked. “But you’re a crack shot.”
Flynn nodded. “I know. That’s not how it affects
me. I have a lot of trouble sleeping.”
Lessing nodded slowly. “What do you do about it?”
Flynn grinned. “Work hard with thick-headed
city slickers who can’t shoot straight.”
Lessing laughed shortly. “Thanks, Flynn. It helps
to laugh about it.”
Flynn nodded back. He sobered. “All right, imagine
that’s an outlaw who is intent on hurting your wife.”
Lessing’s expression hardened, and his hand
tightened on his rifle.
Flynn tacked up the target once more. He walked
back to Lessing and nodded. Lessing raised his rifle. He fired until his rifle
was empty. Flynn checked the target. He still missed every time.
“How did I do?” Tom walked toward him.
Flynn crumpled up the paper target. “Better. Just
keep practicing.”
Lessing nodded.
* * *
April came. The air grew warmer, and the greenhorns
began to look more like
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