Chapter 8
There’s no life for a good woman with a bad man.
—Austin Wilder’s journal, September 18, 1855
T he box of papers he had taken from the museum was a hot mess of miscellaneous items. Order sheets and invoices, mine claims. There were some personal letters, but most of them were from family members who had lived on the East Coast, writing to the Talbots in Oregon.
None of it provided the insight he was looking for.
Austin pinched the bridge of his nose and opened up his manuscript. It was deeply uncomfortable for him, putting words on the page. Trying to articulate the feelings he had every time he opened up Austin Wilder’s journal. Because there were a lot of them. And he couldn’t say that he was especially articulate about matters of the heart.
He never had been.
But he had done a lot of reading. He knew what he wanted out of a story. He knew what he would want to know. What he would want to feel. He was trying to convey that.
It was like therapy in a way he hadn’t quite imagined it would be. Which made him a little bit resentful. Especially writing about the love that Austin had shared with his wife.... Yeah. That was way outside his scope of emotion.
He turned away from the computer again and went back to the box.
He pushed through a few more papers and then paused. Because right there was something he hadn’t expected to see. Not even in his wildest fantasies.
It was a receipt. Neatly made out to Lee Talbot from Butch Hancock.
Holy shit. He couldn’t believe what he was staring at. This was so beyond anything.... Well, that wasn’t true. He’d wanted a journal entry. He’d wanted a mustache-twirling, tied-to-the-railroad-tracks, maniacal-villain confession. Something that indicated a deal had been struck allowing Butch Hancock to get away, that the Wilders had been double-crossed. That they had been implicated for murder even though they hadn’t actually committed it.
But this proved that Lee Talbot and Butch had had contact. It proved that money had changed hands. Butch had given money to the honorable sheriff, in fact. Money that was likely to have been stolen.
The front door to the house opened, and he stumbled out of his office.
“Carson,” he said. “This is fucking crazy.”
“We might have different definitions of crazy,” Carson said.
“I don’t really care.” He shoved the receipt at his brother.
“What is this?”
“Why are you here?” he said, looking at Carson.
“I just . . . I didn’t want to be alone. I figured that you were probably done working for the day.”
“Yeah. I am.”
Concern for his brother suddenly overshadowed everything. “What’s up?”
“Usual sad-sack bullshit,” Carson said.
“No, what .” He wasn’t going to let his brother do this. Deflect and stew in his own misery. Because Carson might not think he was on the path to an early grave, but Austin wasn’t so certain.
“It’s my wedding anniversary.”
“Shit,” Austin said. “I mean, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t remember.”
“Why should you?”
“Because. I’m your brother. And I should.”
“You barely remember your own damned birthday, Austin.”
“That’s not true. I actually know everybody’s birthdays. I just don’t always know what today is.” Unless he had a library book due. And then he would check.
“Anyway, it’s not that tragic. I don’t need to be talked off a ledge. I’m just waiting for Perry to get off work.”
“You’re going out with Perry?”
Carson grimaced. “Well, don’t say it like that.”
“I didn’t say it like anything.”
“Everybody says it like something .”
“No. That is in your head, little brother. But considering what a cesspool I imagine your head is on any given day, I’m willing to let it slide.”
“Gee, thanks,” said Carson. “Can we go back to whatever thing you were excited about, because it’s more interesting than my old demons.”
“I can talk about your demons all day.”
“You can’t cast them out. So. I find talking brings diminishing returns. My wife is dead. It sucks. I’m fucking sad. About . . . well, a lot of things. Someday maybe I won’t be sad. It just feels pointless and terrible and I don’t have a clue how to reconcile with it. First, I’d have to figure out a way to picture a different future. I haven’t done that yet. So.”
Austin understood that difficulty. It hit him, right in the pit of his gut. The challenge of picturing a new future, a different future. That was some pretty miraculous shit. It certainly wasn’t anything that he’d mastered. Not yet. He was working on it. Because there was a future now up-and-coming, something other than an early grave. Most likely. But he still didn’t have a clear image of it. He was working on that.
“Truth is,” Carson said, “I’m not sure we’d still be married if she’d lived.”
This was the first time Austin had heard his brother say anything along those lines. “What? You were happy.”
“Mostly. But . . . you know, at this point in my life it feels like nothing I do goes like I want it to. Why would that?” He sighed heavily.
“I understand,” he said. “And I mean that. Not in a flippant way.”
“Yeah.”
“We ought to be dead,” Austin said.
“Not me,” said Carson. “Not yet. But you already know that when Alyssa died, I figured. . . .”
“An early death would be a favor you weren’t getting.”
Carson looked away. “Damn straight.”
Austin sighed. “Life is a trip.”
He stared at his brother for a long moment and their shared history stretched between them. All the dumb stuff they’d done when they were kids. All the trouble they’d caused as young adults.
He could remember Carson putting a cherry bomb inside a trash can one time, just to make a loud bang in the public park and cause some mayhem.
Austin had laughed his ass off.
And now here they were. Men. Carson’s face was lined with grief and Austin . . . wanted something different. Wanted something to change.
It was easier to be a young, angry kid, actually. When you’d never had something precious and lost it, like Carson. When you never wanted anything but to cause mayhem, like Austin. Because now he wanted more, and it made him aware of all the things he couldn’t know, all the things he couldn’t control.
“Tell me what this thing is,” Carson said. “Because I meant it when I said I really don’t need to go through all my bullshit.”
He decided to honor Carson’s request.
“Okay. So I found this receipt. It looks like Butch Hancock paid Lee Talbot two hundred and fifty dollars. That is a lot of money. You know, adjusted for inflation and the time period.”
“Wow,” Carson said. “But what does that even mean?”
“It points to what I think probably happened.”
“I don’t really understand what you think this discovery is going to get you, Austin. Because the bottom line is, the Wilders were criminals. And if the Talbots were dirty too, what difference does it make?”
“It changes things. Aren’t you tired of everybody seeing you as that kid you were? Or even dumber, seeing you as a reincarnation of your ancestors, or a carbon copy of Dad?”
“I was. I was tired of it, and that’s why I left. That’s why I joined the military, because I could put hero on. It was a uniform. And people really are that simple. If the United States military says I’m good, then I’m good. Plus, I found a woman, away from here, who said that I was good. And.... Yeah, Austin, I get it. But I didn’t sit down trying to sift through the past to make people think I was good enough.”
“Is that what you think this is? That’s what you think I’m doing? I’m just . . . sitting down? I have done plenty of stuff, Carson. I lived my entire life in this town not being a criminal. I work this land. I . . . I didn’t sit down and. . . .”
“I’m not insulting you,” said Carson. “Sorry if it came out that way. I’m an asshole. At least these days. But what I really meant was that it just.... Yeah, I get it. Maybe nobody gets it more than me. Flynn thinks it’s all a joke. He thinks it’s fucking hilarious, doesn’t he? And Cassidy doesn’t care. She’s . . . I dunno, it’s different for her, moving into all this when she was nine. I think she still finds it romantic or wild or something. She likes that she’s with the outlaws. Because we kept her safe, didn’t we?”
“Yeah. And all Flynn really cares about is that he gets laid.”
“I wish I could care about that.” Carson shook his head. “That was never enough for me.”
It wasn’t enough for Austin either. There had been times in his life when he would’ve said it was. Times in his life when he hadn’t thought about the future. Maybe it was why books had always been more comfortable than the world around him. And if he could disappear into somebody else’s life for a while, then he could live differently. Be different. Maybe it was why he was trying to write Austin Wilder’s book. Because it was giving him a chance to look at himself from a different angle. His legacy, his family. To see something other than what the townspeople did, other than what his father always claimed.
“I don’t think that the original Austin Wilder was innocent,” he said. “But I think that’s the point. I think that he was in some ways a good man. Who did some bad things. But I don’t think he was a murderer, and I really do think that’s an important distinction. I think he was shot in the street for no reason except that the sheriff wanted to bolster his legacy. He has this whole town, six generations on, believing that the Talbots are the best of everything and the Wilders are the worst. Congratulations to him. But I have to wonder how it would’ve been different, for you, for me, if that wasn’t our legacy. What if Dad wasn’t born thinking something was wrong with him? What if we weren’t?”
“I have bad news for you. Dad was a selfish prick. I don’t think history played a role in that.”
“I do. You just said it all right here, didn’t you? You went and put on a military uniform to turn yourself into a hero. Because somebody made you feel like you weren’t one. You went and found a certain kind of life and—”
“I loved my wife,” Carson said softly.
“Sorry. That’s not what I meant. It’s just . . . it put you on the path. The past matters. It echoes into the future. And the present.”
“I just realized,” Carson said, looking at him as if he’d grown another head. “You’re a romantic.”
Austin recoiled. “What the fuck is romantic about that?”
“I don’t know. It just seems romantic. This idea that everything is connected. The idea that the past matters.”
“It does. It’s true what they say—and I really do mean it—if you can’t learn from history, you are doomed to repeat it. Our family is an example of that.”
“Are you trying to learn from history, or are you trying to change it?”
“I want the record set straight. Because we have to be learning from the truth, don’t we?”
“So you think you’re gonna prove that the Talbot family doesn’t deserve the praise they’ve gotten all this time. But they did a lot of good over these past decades. You can’t erase that.”
“I don’t want to do that.” He thought of Millie. Of the fact that she was the only one left. Of the fact that this little bit of truth might actually hurt her. But she loved history. He knew that much. And she would care about the truth. He was pretty damn certain of thattoo.
“What is it you do want?”
“To introduce some complexity to the narrative, to our thinking about the past?”
“Wow,” Carson said, laughing. “You have actually amused me today, and that was a tall order.”
“What?”
“You’re not going to get complexity of thought here. Small minds.”
He thought of Millie again. “That isn’t true. You have a pretty dim view of humanity.”
“You have a weirdly optimistic one.”
“We stayed here for a reason,” he said. “And you came back for a reason.”
“Yeah. I did. Because there was land. I wanted to buy a piece from you. Because I was supposed to start a family. Sorry. I just brought the room down again.”
“Well, I want to fix this. For the family you will have eventually.”
His brother laughed. “Please. I’m done with that. I’m never doing that again. Ever. I don’t know much, but I do know that. I can’t take it. I cannot fucking take it. Not ever again.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“Legacy,” he said. “That’s the real mindfuck, man. If you live long enough, you can’t escape that pull toward making yourself into something more. We might disagree on how, and who should care. But I tried it with marriage, with the military, and you’re doing the same with your book.”
“Eventually it’s going to get Flynn too. And probably Cassidy. Whether she believes it or not.”
“Maybe your book will change my mind. Maybe I’ll read about Austin Wilder, his life and great loves, and I’ll suddenly see the light.”
“Just maybe,” Austin said.
Carson’s phone buzzed. “Oh. Perry’s off work. She’s cooking me dinner.”
“Well. That sounds nice. As nice as a shitty day can be.”
“True enough.”
Austin clutched the receipt in his hand, and replayed the conversation with his brother after Carson left. He decided not to think about it too much, and took his phone out to tap in Millie’s number. It was still saved in his call list from when he had dialed himself from her phone. She answered immediately. “Hello?”
It was strange to hear her voice on the other end of the line. “Hi. I have some information that I want to share with you. Some historical stuff that I discovered.”
“Oh. What?”
“I’d like to meet up. Anyway, we were going to discuss the Gold Rush Days.”
“Sure, would you like to go get coffee?”
“No,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the library. When you’re closing up. I think it would be better if we speak in private.”
“We close at four today.”
“That’s just fine,” he said.
Austin hung up and let out a long breath. This was the victory he had been waiting for. It didn’t feel as good as he had expected itto.
Not for the first time, he thought that he was stuck in a pretty useless space.
Not an outlaw, and definitely not a hero.
At least when he was a kid, he hadn’t cared what anybody thought. He never would’ve worried about preserving Millie Talbot’s feelings.
He thought about her mother, about the library, and for a moment, he questioned whether he’d ever really been so tough.
The problem was, he might have been a troublemaker in his youth, but he had never been without feeling.
Would’ve been nice.
All his acting out had come from a place of anger. None of it had been for the maniacal joy of it. He might’ve told himself that sometimes. Might have said that he got off on being a completely uncontrollable element. But the truth was, he had just been an angry kid. With a dad who had put too much weight on his shoulders, a town that hadn’t seen him as anything but trouble, and a mother who hadn’t wanted him at all.
His discovery was vindication, in some ways. He was going to cling to that belief.
Because he didn’t need any more guilt.