Read The Light, The Dark, And Ember Between Page 5

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  From treetop level, those gathered to pay their respects cast a mottled scene upon the snow below, like pepper sprinkled upon an uneven tray of salt, among them Walt, Jayce, Brant, and almost two dozen others from the nearby township of Hungry Horse. Walt scoured the crowd, and just beyond, for any sign of Glen, but never saw him—unless he was well out of view or obscured by the surrounding forest.

  Jayce and Brant had ridden out about half an hour before the service began and used an auger just slightly smaller than the cross’s girth to loosen the hard earth so placing it wouldn’t be an impediment. Father Whitten blessed the homemade marker and then stood aside as Walt held it and Buck drove it firmly into the ground with a sledgehammer. For a few minutes, the only sounds heard were Buck’s labored grunts as he swung the hammer, and the dense clunk as iron met squarely with wood. When finished, he stepped just in front and to the right of the cross and knelt upon his left knee with his head bowed. No one moved or said a word while he remained quietly in place.

  The mid-November wind drifted across the valley, causing loose raiments to flap and the boughs atop the simple casket to timidly jitter. Soft flakes began to glide and tumble amidst the gathering. Buck rose and took his place next to his beloved Linny. He wouldn’t stand with the main body of mourners. His place was next to Linny, as it always had been.

  The service itself was somber, bereft of light despite the early morning hour. Each and every soul in attendance stopped to impart their condolences to Buck: men shook his hand, women warmly embraced him. It took all he had to remain standing, his knees desperately wanting to buckle in spite of his willing them not to. Walt, Jayce, and Brant were the last to approach him, each man forgoing the handshake, opting for a heartfelt hug instead. Then the three slowly meandered off, leaving Buck and the pastor alone. Father Whitten stepped quietly in front of Buck and gently grasped his elbow.

  “Buck, there’s little I can add that hasn’t already been offered here this morning. She gave so much to these folks, and today they all gave back.” He paused, if only to let the first thought blow gently about them. “I assure you, her soul has returned from where it came—she’s beginning her true life now, Buck.”

  The preacher titled his head, trying to look into his downcast eyes, finding only the expected darkness of loss and unfettered concession to sorrow. Buck’s head remained down and still, the preacher’s voice playing out in his head.

   “At your ages so many couples are either divorced or working on second or third marriages. You and the missus—well, you seemed perpetually on honeymoon.” Buck had grasped the mans hand and shook it, looking over his shoulder at Linny chatting with two other ladies, her Sunday dress gently stirring in the prairie breeze, dark autumn hair waving about.

  “Buck…,” a soft voice called out. “Buck?” A sympathetic hand landed carefully upon his shoulder, severing his connection with the quiet memory. “Sorry Father, I was . . . uh . . . remembering.”

  Father Whitten gave him a half smile. “It’s alright, son. That tells me she’s here, watching over you.” A time- and weather-worn cowboy stood before him, trying incredibly hard to be strong and resilient, yet quivering under the weight of his heartbreak. The priest stood close with his black-and-white Roman collar barely exposed by his coat, and his thinning hair tousled by the crisp breeze as it sailed through the open meadow, kissed by pines dusted in icy white. Buck looked up, aching eyes boring into the cleric’s own, then slowly wrapped his arms around the minister and let the squall of melancholy inside loose upon his shoulder.

  Walt looked on from a distance, Brant and Jayce on either side. He turned to both men, gesturing toward the house and nodded. Both nodded back, glanced once more at the now solitary Buck and pastor graveside, then solemnly trudged off toward the house. Walt crouched down and ran his gloved forefinger through the snow, then scooped up a handful and sifted it through his fingers with his thumb. He looked up at the drifting clouds, gathering and grey, then back down at the pristine snow around him—and for the first time, allowed himself to openly grieve her passing, tears falling to the powder without a sound.