***WOW! Sorry it has been so long! Lots of reasons this has taken a while: 

1. Work has been a bit of a grind. Lots of sleeping in the woods with the mosquitos instead of at home with my dog as god intended.  

2. In my free time (in case you didn't see my wall message) I have been getting my skydiving license. Which is pretty rad and generally lifegiving and has lowkey pulled me out of a minor depressive episode. But ALSO it takes up most of what precious little weekend time I have and my drifty zen state post jump is not very conducive to writing.

3. This chapter resisted me. Just did not want to be written. So even when I did have time to sit down and write, I generally went "meh" and wandered off to something else. 

Bottom line, I'm sorry this has taken so long. The epilogue is already written . All I gotta do is polish it up and I'll have it to you by the weekend. Just a reminder, I'll be posting the first few chapters of Something Blue at the same time as the epilogue to this. I really hope you choose to follow me to the next story. I'm pretty excited about it. 

Anyways, as always thank you for your patience and thank you SOSOSO much for reading!!! 

Love! Liz***

Owen

Shame was a phenomenon. Unexpressed, shame was a festering wound-- sore and hot and sickly. It lingered beneath the skin, a disgusting secret, reeking of rot. The thought of exposing it to care, to the sight of others, was horrifying. Better to let it linger there, suppurating but at least veiled from judgmental eyes.

Then there was exposed shame. Expressed shame. Shame a man finally owned. It was so much more painful than its covert brethren. So much sharper and more distinct. It wasn't dull throbbing, it was the lancing agony of a broken bone brought back into place. It was the sharp stab of the physician's knife, slicing open the festering wound and draining out the puss. It was cauterization. Amputation. Debridement. Alcohol on an open wound.

It was good. Because after that first sharp pain came relief like he'd never felt. It was almost too easy. The worst conversation, in fact, was the one he'd had with himself. The one he'd carried out while lying on a hard straw mattress in the bunkhouse, staring at the ceiling. Forcing himself to relive his own words as he sent his son-- his boy-- to near certain death with words of hate. Asking himself what the hell Josh had done to deserve his loathing. Realizing that the answer was simple.

Nothing.

After that, the pain had lessened. Talking to Brent had been difficult. He loved his youngest, and explaining that he was transferring his inheritance hadn't been easy. But Brent had been rattled in his own right, and hadn't put up a fight.

Then had come the conversation with Josh. The man's wife had been a spitfire, as ever, and her temper hadn't wounded him at all. It was his son's disbelief, distrust, and disillusionment that had cut him deep and brought to life the reaches of his mistakes. But it had hurt in a healing way. Perhaps it wouldn't have, if he hadn't accidentally raised such a kind spirit of a son. After the initial outburst, Josh had mellowed to wary disbelief and suspicious gratitude. Had he been anything else-- cruel, angry, aggressive-- Owen wasn't certain he'd have been able to stand it. He was too raw from the shift in his own worldview.

Fortunately, Josh was as steadfast as ever-- quiet and dependable. He had showed up at the lawyer's office, as requested. Signed all the papers with neither mocking disbelief nor haughty triumph. He had continued, through everything, to see after his duties on the ranch. He had not lingered near the bunkhouse, flaunting his ownership, but had retreated to his home at the end of every day, leaving Owen and Brent in what peace they could find.

The problem with the shame, and the aching vacuum it left when it was excised, was that Owen no longer yearned for peace. For so long, it was all he had sought. It was why he drank. Why he buried himself in the church. Why he lashed out so hard at the scapegoat for his troubles. All he had wanted was peace.

Now... now he was sore and empty and he wanted more. He was a greedy man. He wanted his son back, and a place in his granddaughter's life. He wanted a place here, on this ranch he had once been so proud to helm. He wanted to teach Josh all the hard-earned lessons the man had yet to learn on his own, if there were any.

So here he was, standing once more at his son's front door. Five weeks had passed since he had signed the ranch over to Josh's name, and since then he had seen his son only in passing. He had not received orders to leave, so he had kept his spot in the bunkhouse and stayed busy stepping in with odd jobs on the ranch. He wasn't the rider he used to be, but he could still pitch hay, albeit a little slower than he once had. He hoped that the lack of eviction meant Josh and Amelia had decided to let him stay, but he was tired of being a passive actor in his own life.

The sun was sitting, somewhere beyond the house, casting long shadows on the snow and plunging the temperature from cold to frigid. Wind whistled and powder hushed over the frozen prairie behind him, stirred into whorls and waves by the shifting air.

Warmth hit him in the face when the door opened. Warmth and light, and relief. He'd seen the curtain twitch in the window. They knew it was him, and still they had opened the door. He'd take that as a sign of promise.

"Mr. Tucker," Amelia said coldly, one slender hand still gripping the door. His son stood just behind her, arms crossed over his chest. Both appeared agitated by his presence, but otherwise happy and hale. Amelia's face was flushed with health, her eyes sparkling. And Josh... damned if Owen hadn't ever seen his son looking so whole. The ever-present shadows beneath his eyes had all but vanished, and there was a permanent crinkle beside his eyes as if he was right on the verge of laughing, even now.

"May I come in?" Owen asked, glancing from Amelia to Josh, unsure who he should really be asking. It was Josh he was here to see, but the man's wife was clearly the gatekeeper.

The woman's jaw locked as she glared at him, her lips parting as she sucked in a breath. Owen clenched his teeth and squared his shoulders, bracing for rejection. Then Amelia glanced back at her husband. He shrugged, grimacing, and she turned the same careless look on Owen.

"Sure," she mumbled, stepping back so he could enter.

The sudden warmth and silence was jarring, and Owen sat heavily on the bench in the mudroom and pried off his boots. Amelia retreated, but Josh hovered in the doorway, suspicion emanating off his body in waves.

"You here to cause trouble?" he asked as Owen pushed to his feet, and pain lanced through him. This suspicion was justified, but deserving it did not make it less painful. On the contrary, it compounded the hurt. How could he ask forgiveness that he didn't deserve?

"No," he said simply, following in silence as Josh led the way to the sitting room.

"Grampa!" Rebecca exclaimed, abandoning her toys and flying into his arms as he stooped to catch her hug. Perhaps he had this child to thank for his change of heart. Without her, he may never have remembered the unfailing purity of a young child. He could not look at little Rebecca and imagine that there was anything evil in her. There couldn't be. She was a child and, he was finally forced to remember, children were absolute trust. Unparalleled goodness. Even when they misbehaved, they held no malice. Once upon a time, his son had been a child, and Owen had visited his sins on innocence.

"Hey, sweetpea," he crooned, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"Come look at my village!" she demanded, pulling away from the hug and dragging him toward a haphazard pile of blocks on the rug by the fire. This child had potential in tons, but Owen did not foresee her venturing into the realm of architecture or carpentry. As he sat beside her on the rug, nodding along as she pointed out each sloppy, half-toppled "building" and its purpose, he felt Rebecca's parents behind him. Even without looking, he knew they'd both be standing guard over their daughter, waiting for him to hurt her the way he had hurt them.

He should have loved his son that way. He knew the pride and purpose a man felt when he watched over his children. The fact he had done right by Melissa and Brent somehow made the pain of Josh worse. He ached for the lost privilege of being a father to his son. Even the selfish streak of vanity in him itched with self-reproach. To claim this man as his own, a product of his guidance, would have been a point of pride. Instead, he felt shame. Love, yes, but also a deep and abiding shame.

When Rebecca had bored herself of entertaining him, he quietly excused himself and followed in silence as her parents walked into the kitchen.

"Why are you here?" Josh asked. No 'sir' anymore. Certainly no term of endearment. Owen was a nonentity. A squatter. It was the one thing that didn't hurt, because he knew it was deserved.

"I hadn't seen you in a while," Owen said, twisting his gloves in his hands. "I came to see how you were getting by."

"We're fine," his son answered blandly, drawing his wife close with an arm around her waist. "That the only reason you came by?"

Owen felt the shame crest within him. He wished he could say yes, but he didn't want to add dishonesty to his long list of sins.

"No," he said to the floor.

"You want to know if you can stay?" Amelia asked.

Owen couldn't answer, and God bless his son for saving him from that burden. "You can," he said, before he could muster the will to respond. "Ames and I discussed it. We reserve the right to boot you off if you start talking crazy again, but you can stay. We've been drawing up plans for the new house by the ranch. We'll move there once it's done and you can take this place."

Tears stung Owen's eyes before he could pull them back, and he sank into a nearby chair. It wasn't relief that rattled him, but gratitude. Awe at these wonderful people and the godliness of their acceptance.

"Thank you," he breathed, resting his face in his hands.

"It's not--"

"No," he interrupted what he knew would be an attempt to brush it all off. "Thank you, Joshua. Amelia." He nodded at them both in turn. "I don't deserve your kindness or your... your acceptance."

"No," Amelia agreed, glaring at him. "You don't."

"Ames," Josh sighed, patting her hip, and Owen felt immense and confused gratitude that he had so cruelly forced these two into an unwanted union. They reminded him of he and his late wife, although their roles were decidedly reversed. He saw his old stubborn strength in Amelia's ferocity, and he felt his wife's gentle steadiness in his son's kindness. He remembered what it felt like, that balance. He yearned for the way her cool waters soothed his fire.

"We're going to town on Thursay," Amelia said, her tone bitter and hard. She glanced at Josh and he nodded encouragement. "We're going to do some shopping and get dinner. We... we'd like for you to join us," she grated out, and Owen knew for a damned fact that she didn't want any such thing. But he couldn't let his pride get in the way of a chance at rebuilding his family.

"Of course," he said. "I'll be there."

* * *

It was strange being sober, especially in a place like this. Owen looked around the dining room. The hotel's restaurant, hell the hotel in general, was a sort of comical affair. The owner had crafted the whole thing after some fancy establishment in Washington. All the carpets were a deep, regal red and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. At the end of the day, though, it couldn't hide what it was. Rich red carpet was spread over pine floors, and the chandeliers hung from chipped plaster ceilings. The brass-plated room keys were regular old iron underneath the chipped veneer, and printing the restaurant's offerings on a paper menu didn't magically teach the clientele to read it.

Even so, he liked the hotel. The proprietor was a good and honest man, and the food was decent when the cook wasn't playing at being some French chef and subjecting them to experiments. Being here sober only cemented his opinion. It was a good place. It smelled of cooking food and tobacco smoke, and there was a constant, steady hum of conversation from the other patrons. It wasn't rowdy and chaotic like a drinking establishment. This place was probably the closest to society most of these people would ever come.

Owen ate in silence, enjoying the atmosphere and the casual chatter between Josh, Amelia, and Rebecca. He felt like an intruder, but he cherished the opportunity to intrude and watch the family that had bloomed to life right beneath his nose. Rebecca clearly adored both of her parents, and Owen felt sick at the knowledge that he had sought to tear her from her father.

As they ate, other patrons stopped by their table on the way in or out. Owen felt a flash of anger that the majority of them dismissed him as if he didn't matter. But each time that annoyance pricked at him, it was washed away by a balm of heady pride. He'd spent so long avoiding his son, he had rarely seen the man interact with the public. The good Lord only knew how he'd done it, but the boy Owen had ostracized and condemned had turned himself into a well-spoken, well-liked member of society.

They had just ordered dessert when a hush fell over the dining room and a dark sense of foreboding rolled like a storm cloud into Owen's soul.

"Well..." The haughty lilt made his blood run cold, and he didn't have to turn toward the door to know the moment had finally come that would test his resolve. He'd managed to avoid the preacher all these weeks and had almost managed to trick himself into thinking he'd never have to face the man.

"Josh," Amelia breathed, reaching instinctively for her daughter. Owen watched the younger man's face grow hard, gaze turning to him, and despair clogged his throat. He knew he had no right to his son's trust, but it hurt nonetheless to see the suspicion in his eyes. In the end, though, the hurt was a blessing because it shored him against the preacher's onslaught. His own guilt and shame, now that they washed free across his soul, were stronger than whatever piddling seeds of doubt the man tried to sew.

"Stay here," he growled, tossing his napkin on the table and shoving his chair back. He turned to see Reverend Peters in the doorway, his wife standing a foot back from him, shoulders hunched as she clutched their daughter to her. Her eyes were downcast, one hand splayed protectively over the back of the child's head.

"It's been a while," the reverend said as Owen drew closer. "We were worried you had perished in that horrible fire. Had to hear through the grapevine that you'd survived. I'm relieved God spared your family any heartache."

"God didn't spare us anything," Owen grated out, glaring at the man. "Brent nearly died. He would have died if Josh hadn't pulled him out. Your plan backfired, reverend."

Peters had the grace to look confused, but Owen knew a lie when he saw one. The man's face twisted but his eyes remained cold and indifferent. "I can't imagine what you're implying, Owen."

"I'm not implying anything," Owen spat back. "I'm accusing."

"Pa." The voice was firm, accompanied by movement as Josh edged into his periphery. A steadying hand landed on his shoulder, and Owen could have wept for the sudden feeling of rightness. He was an old man, and he didn't want enemies, but if he had to have them he wanted to share them with his son.

"Joshua," the reverend acknowledged, his voice tight. "Your father seems to think you're quite the hero."

He goddamn well is a hero! Owen wanted to scream, but Josh responded first. "Not even close," he said, waving a flippant hand. "If you'll excuse us, reverend, we were just finishing our supper."

Peters snorted, reaching back and grabbing his wife's arm. He brought her even with him, as if to underscore his importance. Like the presence of the sweet, beautiful young woman and her daughter were some kind of validation to his ardor. Nevermind that the poor woman's face contorted with panic when he grabbed her. How had he never noticed her distress?

"Katherine and I have a reputation to uphold," Peters said, yanking his wife close to his side. "We can hardly be expected to break bread in the same establishment as your misbegotten spawn, Owen." If Owen didn't know better, he'd say the woman met his son's eyes with something akin to apology. And didn't he, now that the fog of hatred and alcohol had lifted, remember his boy sitting with a much younger Katherine? The two of them, and the whore's son, had been fast friends before Owen and Katherine's father had stepped in to draw them apart.

"Lucky for you we were just finishing, then," Josh said evenly, his hand tightening on Owen's shoulder. "You can wait here while we eat our dessert."

Before the reverend could argue, Owen was being dragged away. Josh pulled him back to the table and pressed him down into his seat. Not a word was spoken, but Amelia stretched her hand out over the table and Josh wrapped it in his as they quietly packed away their dessert. Rebecca chattered relentlessly, waving at her friend Isobel from across the room, but the other girl seemed to have adopted her mother's reserved way. While Rebecca prattled and laughed and generally made a mess of noise and nuisance, the dark-haired little girl across the room stood quietly at her mother's side, eyes downcast.

They finished their dessert in relative peace, and Owen managed to pay the bill, ignoring his son's huff of indignation as he returned his own bills to his jacket pocket. Amelia and Josh fussed over Rebecca, bantering as they cleaned streaks of chocolate from their daughter's face and hands and bundled her into her layers for the long ride home. Owen hefted the little girl into his arms before her parents good argue. He was just so damned grateful, he felt like he could carry the world. Rebecca's weight, the heavy burden of his shame, the threat of the reverend's anger... it didn't matter. He could carry it. With his family beside him, behind him, around him, he could carry it.

A hand closed around his upper arm as he brushed by the reverend. Amelia and Josh seemed to act as one as he was drawn up short. His son drew to a halt beside him, a shoulder pressed to Owen's in a silent show of support. Amelia darted in and snatched Rebecca from his arms, into safety. Owen found himself staring into the reverend's watery eyes.

"It's not too late, Owen," the man said under his breath. "Repent. Rejoin the congregation. God will forgive you."

A spark of doubt pricked at the base of his spine. For so long, the call of salvation had been the only light in his dark and fetid world. It was still powerful, at least insofar as the alternative threat of damnation held sway.

"Pa..." Josh muttered the word, and Owen remembered what he hadn't before-- the way his son spoke his name. That one syllable called back all the forgotten moments of doubt and pain. It was firm, but it rang with an undercurrent of desperation. Don't you dare let me down, old man.

Owen swallowed, his throat dry and aching, closing tight around the words. It was time to take this leap of faith, to remove his fate from the hands of the reverend and place it in his own concept of right and wrong.

"It's too late," he said, pulling his arm free from the reverend's grip and stepping back. He struggled to take a leaf from Josh's book and remain calm as the reverend's eyes flared. "I do repent. I repent for all the things I said and did in God's name. You led me astray, Jacob, but you won't do so again."

Peters jerked back as if he'd been slapped, once more yanking his wife to his side like a shield. She came placidly, one hand nonetheless locked protectively around her daughter's body.

"Don't be mistaken, Owen," Peters said under his breath, leaning close and speaking low enough to hide his voice in the din of the restaurant. "Whatever lies your bastard has been telling you will only lead you to damnation. God stands behind the man who keeps the true path, and the righteous are always victorious. You will not win this war."

Owen opened his mouth to ask when war had ever been on the menu, but closed it just as quickly. Reverend Jacob Peters was a wolf masquerading as a sheepdog. A mercenary dressed up as a diplomat. He could stand in his pulpit and preach the name of Christ every Sunday until the Second Coming, but that wouldn't change what he was. A man like that couldn't be allowed to persist in a place like this.

"On the contrary," he said stiffly, turning to Josh. "You hear that, son? The righteous are always victorious."

A wary grin split his son's face and he lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Guess there's hope," he returned, jerking his head toward the door. "You ready to go, old man?"

Owen didn't spare the reverend another glance. Together with his son, he left his shame behind in the stuffy, smoky warmth of the restaurant and strode out into the crisp, clean night air.