Epilogue
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 they belong 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. It seems 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?
Fine, but I won't ramble for much longer. Writing is tiring work, and I want to finish this tonight. Then I will seal it and tuck it away in the safe where we keep the things we want to survive the years. Maybe some Isaiah descendant will find it, and I hope it comes into the hands of someone who made it this far rather than throw the book in the fire, disgusted by its contents.
But by then, I'll be dead and gone, and I'm not going to care.
What is there to say that shouldn't already be obvious? We've lived longer than we probably had any business living, and I've lived a lot longer than I ever thought I would, that's for sure. Then again, I never expected to spend my life with someone. Especially not double what I'd spent without a partner, but here I am.
But yes, we've been together this whole time, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. No, not even if it meant getting my parents back. For all the things I’d been forced to endure after their deaths and my subsequent revenge, I received so much in return. Maybe my life could have been better if my parents had lived and I’d kept on with the peaceful life I'd had before, but there was no way to know one way or another, and I wasn't interested in playing mental games.
Because I did have a wonderful life. It meant changing so much, but that was, by and large, the best thing for me. At the ranch, I found a place to belong, where these men have been my family just as much as my parents, where I found purpose and a place to rest my head to sleep peacefully at night. A place that, although it didn't start that way, has proven to be a place where I could ultimately settle down and find peace.
And, of course, there was Ambrose.
Ours was a good life, but it had its problems. Not just with one another, as, after all, our personalities bounced off one another quite frequently, and that wasn't going to change just because we wanted to make things work. We got on one another's nerves, and there had been times when I found myself sleeping in a different room because I couldn't stand the sight of his face. Of course, that would last only so long before I sought him out again, but sometimes that space was necessary.
Our relationship was never exactly broadcast to the rest of the ranch, and neither did we display our affection for one another in front of a witness. But people knew. They figured it out eventually. I suppose that's easy to do when we shared a room and were always around one another...and bickered like we did. If any had a problem, they generally kept it to themselves. And if their mouths began to run a little too freely with a sharp, nasty tongue? Well, remember I said that Elizabeth was damn good at scaring the piss right out of them.
Seriously, those shooting lessons Ambrose had given her made her a better shot than him, and she was not afraid to demonstrate.
It had always been a rule in the West to mind your affairs, and you'd be left alone...for the most part. Even when the wild freedom of the West had finally died out, taken over by the encroachment of the government and the modern era, that attitude still survived. People outside the ranch knew as well and kept their mouths shut around us, which suited us just fine. We didn't want the attention but to be left to our own business.
And that, my dear patient reader, is the point of this entire story. It wasn't just for me to relive the time in my life when everything changed but to make the point that has been the rallying cry of this ranch for decades now.
Change for the better is possible, and the opportunity doesn't always come in an obvious shape or guise. Sometimes, it sneaks up on you, and other times, it looks like a grumpy old man in a young man's body who somehow manages to steal your heart so thoroughly you never want it back. And sometimes, it means coming to some dusty ranch and discovering there is more to life than just survival.
So, if there is anything I want you to take from this, know this: there is more to life than just survival because that's not living.
Love is living, happiness is living, and peace is cobbled together from all the good things in your life in a warm circle around you.
So find that love, that happiness, and make your peace.
Yours, Samuel.
My fingers stroked the signature of a man who’d died a little over a century ago, and I wondered just how different things were...and how similar. Theirs had been a story that was so familiar to me but so different at the same time. His part-journal, part story had grabbed me from the moment I opened the pages and began to read. It had been carefully stowed in the back of a safe that contained family heirlooms. Mona had insisted on cleaning it out, and as always, my curiosity about the ranch had pulled me into helping her.
I stroked the cover, knowing it was a bad idea to do it with bare hands but unable to help myself, wanting to feel something physical, a connection with two men who’d been brave and infuriating at the same time. I would ask to have the book scanned and stored digitally and then tell Mona that things like this needed to be stored better, and I would probably consult some archivists. There was bound to be someone out there who would take better care of the original, though admittedly, it had lasted this long in their care.
The floor creaked behind me, and I chuckled softly. “When I'm not locked into a book, I can actually hear you skulking around."
"I don't skulk," he said in an annoyed voice.
"Mmm," I hummed, tilting my head back to stare up into his eyes. They had been the first thing I'd noticed about him...well, other than his scowls and bad attitude, much like someone else I’d just spent days reading about. "But you clearly aren't above pouting."
He huffed. “Done with the book?"
I smiled, not fooled by the nonchalant question. "Are you trying to tell me I need to come to bed?"
"I'm exhausted."
"So sleep."
"You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"
"Say what?"
He sighed, shaking his head in irritation I knew he didn't mean. "I hate trying to sleep without you in bed with me."
"And here I was going to run the book through my head a little longer," I said, stretching in the chair and preparing to stand up.
Strong arms wrapped around me and pulled me close, his rough voice low in my ear. “Then come tell me about the book. Tell me about these men you've been so obsessed with."
I laughed, breathing in the smell of horses and dirt still clinging to his clothes. “Jealousy, Max?"
"Riley," he growled.
I laughed and let him drag me back toward the bedroom, where I would proceed to irritate him by talking incessantly about the characters. No, not characters, the people I had just read about. It would all be pretend, though, because he loved listening to me talk, even when he wanted to get some rest. Maybe he would find another way to shut me up and make me tired, hoping I would tell the story to him another time when he wasn't worn out.
That was alright, though. We had all the time we needed.
Because, like Samuel and Ambrose, we had found our love, we had our happiness, and peace was with us in this warm cabin.