Chapter 22
When I die, if someone remembers me, I hope it’s for how I loved Katherine. It is the one good thing I’ve done.
—Austin Wilder’s journal, October 12, 1866
I t was finally time for the inaugural day of the Gold Rush Days Festival.
Austin had spent the night down at Millie’s, and she was running around in a prairie dress with the back open. He was sort of trying not to stare at the wedge of skin. But not really.
He was pretty damned obsessed with her. Touching her, kissing her, looking at her. Talking to her.
That day in Scallywag’s kept biting at him. It had been the sweetest thing, the way she had stood up for him.
But he always felt as if . . . he had tainted her. By association. Even if she didn’t feel that way. Even if he shouldn’t feel that way.
He supposed the problem was that they had all lived in this town for too long.
Millie would have bad blood with Danielle anyway.
But his presence had drawn fire, and he felt bad about that.
Still, today, he was dressing as an outlaw, giving tours in the exact spot where Austin had been shot and killed. But he would be telling the real story, solving the historic mystery of what had actually occurred between Lee Talbot, Butch Hancock, and the Wilder gang.
So far, they had been unsuccessful in getting the town council to change the plaques.
A lot of people who had been on board with reviving Gold Rush Days were not necessarily on board with all this new information coming to light. They worried about how the new narrative would affect business. Or reduce the standing of their family. He had been right about what he’d said to Millie. People didn’t always care about being good. They cared about being seen as good. And it was clear a lot of people worried that if they started turning over too many rocks, they were going to find inconvenient truths about their own ancestors.
Millie was incensed, which he thought was cute. But then, he had a much more cynical take on people, so he didn’t bother with rage.
“You should write a newspaper article,” she said.
“Right. Like the Rustler Mountain Gazette is going to print something written by Austin Wilder.”
“They should.”
He had been thinking about it ever since she’d said that. In truth, he had started fiddling with a piece. He was almost done with the book. It was just . . . writing the ending. Austin Wilder’s untimely demise. He felt he was missing something. Maybe the emotional insight to write it. Maybe he was resisting for that reason. He really hated that idea.
But here he was, dressed all in black, and Millie had finally gathered together all of her notes, binders, handouts, sign-up sheets, and everything else, so they could drive down to the old town hall building, which was serving as their staging ground.
They had gone into her building the previous week, the one owned by her family, and had been surprised by the number of artifacts in it. It was like an antique shop, and he’d wanted to spend more time poking around, but they were just too busy planning for Gold Rush Days, while also holding down their jobs. Millie had left the keys with him and said he could go back and explore when he had time. They had taken out quite a few pieces of old mining equipment, which they were using for a display during the festival.
Every station was thoroughly manned, and he had to admit, the event was admirably presented. The festival would run during the week for schoolchildren on field trips, and then for the next four weekends it would be open to the general public.
The number of volunteers it had taken was staggering, but much as he might complain about the willingness of the town to change its version of history, he couldn’t fault folks for the work they had put into the festival.
In the end, even Danielle and Michael had taken part. But he had a feeling it was because they knew it could benefit them.
He let Cassidy give him a ride down the main street in the covered wagon, and it felt surreal to jump out right there on Main where the original Austin had met his demise.
“Creepy, bro,” Cassidy said, tipping her cowgirl hat as she guided the wagon down the blocked-off street. There were a couple of cars that came up to the yellow cone roadblocks and honked, expressing outrage as if news of the detour hadn’t been printed in the paper, put on the local Facebook group, and generally bandied all about town.
But that was people, he supposed.
They wanted to complain.
He had a schedule that told him when each group of kids would filter through.
He knew a moment of fear, because schoolchildren were not in his wheelhouse.
Except then he thought of his sister. And how he had done his best to take care of her.
How he’d built a relationship with her, even though she had been a little girl, and he’d had absolutely no experience with girl children.
Maybe he could do this.
When the first group showed up, it took him a minute to work out the rough patches in his speech, to get used to the interruptions that occurred.
Children were not attentive listeners.
But later in the day there were some middle schoolers, and even if the boys were more preoccupied with trying to slam-dunk oranges from their lunch into nearby trash cans, he found he had a few captive members of the audience, including one girl with vivid green hair who frequently interrupted to talk about miscarriages of justice.
“Definitely agree with you,” he said.
“That’s good. You can always be a better ally.”
“Agreed,” he said, amused by all that fire.
But it was the people with fire who did things in the world.
The festival was nearly over for the day when Michael and Danielle approached the corner where he was standing. He fought the urge to curl his lip.
“Can I help you?”
“We need to have a discussion about the presentation you’re giving the children,” Danielle said.
“Why?”
“We haven’t verified the facts you’re relating.”
He couldn’t help himself—he laughed. “I’m sorry. You think you have a better handle on the facts than I do? Because I’ve been taking my information from primary sources, not handouts that I got back in fourth grade combined with my rudimentary knowledge of the Oregon Trail video game.”
He had far more than a rudimentary knowledge of the Oregon Trail video game, but that wasn’t the point.
“It’s just that you’ve submitted a petition to change the town plaques. . . .” Danielle started.
“I didn’t submit it. An entire historical review panel submitted it. Based on my research, and the research of several others. What we sent you is fact. You just don’t like it.”
“I don’t see how it’s relevant that the bank engaged in some unfair practices. Those policies were a product of the time,” Michael said.
“Well, it was a shitty time, and I’m not really sure why we’re pretending that it wasn’t. You don’t have to romanticize the past to make it interesting.”
“I’m just saying,” Danielle went on. “These changes all seem to line up in your favor, and we can’t trust that Millie is being.... It seems she’s been influenced by you. Poor girl.”
That did it.
“If you knew Millie at all, you would know that she wasn’t influenced by a damn thing. She knows her own mind. And she has no trouble speaking it, either. Just because you all have decided she’s mousy, because you can’t recognize the kind of strength she has, that doesn’t make it true.”
Millie started to walk up behind Michael and Danielle then, smoothing down the skirts of her prairie dress, her expression concerned. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve got it,” he said.
“Austin. . . .”
“I’m disappointed in you,” Michael said, turning to Millie. “I don’t understand. You were such a. . . . You are such a good girl when we were together. And now you’re openly sinning with him?”
“How dare you talk to me about sinning?” Millie asked. “I wasn’t a good girl for you. I was bored with you. You confused the two things.”
Austin couldn’t add anything to that, because it was one of the more scathing comebacks he’d ever heard in his life.
“Just a minute,” said Michael. “Your father would be so ashamed of you. He wanted you to have a good life, a good reputation. He wanted you to be respectable.”
“Did you ever want me to be happy, Michael? Because I wasn’t with you. And I am now.”
Austin had difficulty taking in her words, because he was starting to get angry. Very angry. Red haze descended over his vision such as he hadn’t experienced since high school. A kind of startling, malignant, pure rage that he associated with the lack of brain cells in teenage boys.
It was the unfairness of it. The years of unfairness. The decades of it. The centuries of it. That a little weasel like Michael could stand there and pretend to hold his head up high, pretend he was the good guy, when in fact he represented everything that was wrong with the world.
“Don’t you speak to her again,” Austin said, squaring up to Michael right there in the middle of Main Street. There were no cars; the road was still blocked off. Danielle dipped to the side, and the two of them were there, staring each other down, like an old-fashioned showdown. Well, if he had to die in the fucking street, he was perfectly comfortable that it would be over this.
“You’re not any good for her.”
“Maybe not. I would venture to say that’s true. But you are a weasel of a human being. Who doesn’t understand what it means to take a shred of accountability for anything. You don’t get to say what’s good for her, you don’t get to say what she wants, what her dad wanted, any of that. It’s not up to you to stand there and tell her who she is when you don’t even know who you are. You’re a weak man. You would never have started a bank in the Old West. You’d have fucking died of dysentery on the way over.”
Michael growled and took a step toward him, and without thinking, Austin cocked his fist back and punched him directly in the jaw.
Michael went down, and Danielle screamed.
And too late, he realized that there were police officers standing by, about to remove the roadblock.
“Did you see that?” Danielle shouted. “Officer Jamison! He just assaulted Michael.”
There was no point saying that Michael hadn’t been an innocent bystander. There was no point fighting it. Austin was about to be put back in handcuffs, and he damn well knew it.
“Don’t,” Millie said, rushing forward, putting her hand on his chest, standing between him and the police officer. “Michael was antagonizing him.”
“I saw Austin punch Michael, Millie,” Officer Jamison said. He looked genuinely apologetic, but also as if he felt obligated to do something. Danielle was shrieking hysterically and Michael was rolling around on the ground like a soccer player trying to get a penalty called.
Thank God all the kids were gone, so there were no small people around to watch as the handcuffs were snapped around his wrists.
“You have the right to remain silent,” Jamison said.
“No,” shouted Millie. “This is ridiculous. It was just a fight.”
“It’s assault,” Michael said.
Austin looked at Millie, who was devastated, and he realized that the problem wasn’t just him. It was the two of them together. Nobody was ever going to be okay with it. It was always going to be like this. This judgment, this bullshit. And then he was always going to do something like throwing a punch instead of just ignoring the provocation, not taking the bait. But he wasn’t a big enough man to do that, apparently.
Because for all that he had tried to be better and do better, he’d wound up right back here.
He went easily, because he wasn’t going to make a show on the street. Because he didn’t aim to get shot where he stood.
Millie was crying and speaking words, so many words, but he decided not to listen.
He didn’t know what he felt right now. Whether it was shame, or a bone-deep sense of relief. Confirmation. Because this was a reminder. Of who he was, of what he was.
He even knew how to put his head down so he didn’t hit it when getting into the back of the cop car.
Millie was still shouting, and when the cruiser started to pull away, she ran after them.
He was dimly aware that Cassidy was out there too.
He leaned his head back against the seat. It was just a three-block ride to the station.
“I had to do that,” Officer Jamison said, “but I have a feeling that once I get you back to the station, we’re going to decide to let you go.”
“Great,” Austin said. “Always happy to be an example.”
“I don’t want to get sued. Or thrown out of a job. She’s the mayor. But I have a feeling the DA’s not going to charge you with anything.”
“Well, you wouldn’t think so.”
He was pretty familiar with this dance. He’d never gone to trial.
No one had actually pressed charges against him. It was always catch and release, as though he was an inconvenient bass rather than a human being.
“Next time don’t do it in front of a cop,” Jamison said.
Austin barked a laugh. Because as pissed as he was, the guy did have a point.
“Wasn’t really calculated.”
“Well. He’s . . . I’m sure he earned it, let’s just put it that way.”
It was gratifying to know that even the police officer thought Michael was a dick.
“As long as we agree.”
But as he got out of the car, entered the station, and walked into the holding cell, as the door clanked behind him, Austin had a sense of finality.
It was a wake-up call.
He had tried to cross the line. It hadn’t worked.
And he couldn’t subject Millie to this degradation.
They had been playing house. It wasn’t realistic. And it couldn’t go on.
He was going to have to tell her so.
Probably after today, she would be all right with it. Yes, she had been upset—he could see that. But at the end of the day, his arrest reflected badly on her. After all, she was the one responsible for putting such a volatile, unstable man in contact with a group of kids.
Maybe she wouldn’t think so today. But she would someday.
This, he realized, was the real test.
He had to do what the original Austin Wilder hadn’t been willing to do.
He had to make sure he didn’t drag the woman he cared for into his mess.