Temporary

Quick short story. It's a prequel to a collection of short stories I'm writing.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that felt like it was crushing you, like a physical weight on your shoulders. Henry hated quiet now. Only a month ago, the silence of the desert would’ve been a welcome relief from the almost constant noise of the inn he stayed at in town, but now, walking across the darkening landscape, it just reminded him of how alone he was. Cassidy had moved on quickly and with Henry’s refusal to work with him anymore, he’d decided to move up north. Said he needed a change of scenery and a fresh market for smuggling. Henry would probably never see him again and that suited him just fine. Rosy had yet to speak to him and Henry hoped she would just keep her distance. He already felt plenty guilty without hearing her opinion on the matter, which was most likely that Henry was irresponsible and simpleminded and whatever other colorful adjectives she could think of. In truth, Henry couldn’t disagree with her. He fully blamed himself for everything, and the idea that Rosy hated him just as much as he hated himself was strangely comforting. He was sick and tired of people pitying him when they damn well didn’t know the whole story and if they did they certainly wouldn’t be acting like they cared. 

It didn’t take Henry very long to reach his destination, and he could almost laugh at the sick irony of it. Only a mile or two away from safety was where they’d finally given up hope, and all that marked the spot was a lopsided wooden cross sticking out of the dirt. If they could’ve just made it a little bit farther, maybe they’d have seen the lights of the Haven and Henry wouldn’t be standing here next to a single grave to say goodbye for the last time. He looked around him, scanning the desert for any sign of a threat out of habit. He turned to check his back and froze when he saw a figure approaching. Henry pulled his revolver from its holster faster than he ever had in his life. He raised it to eye level, keeping it trained on the person. “Make yourself known, stranger, or else I’ve got a bullet with your name on it.” Henry called out, his hands shaking on the grip and his finger poised over the trigger. “You have one with his name on it too?” A familiar voice responded. Henry cursed, lowering his gun. Of course it would have to be Rosy. He ignored her question, knowing she was trying to get a reaction. “You sure know how to scare the wits out of a fella, Miss Fisher.” He said, trying to keep his tone polite. The woman was only a few feet away from him now, and he could see her roll her eyes. “Well it’s a good thing you haven’t got any wits about you then, Mister Taylor.” Rosy retorted, a mocking lilt in her voice. “You smell of whiskey.” She added, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

“Yes, well, we all have our ways of coping. Mine is drinking, yours is hating me.” Henry muttered, turning away. “It’s hard for me, too, y’know. You’re not the only one who loved him.” He heard a resigned sigh from behind him, and Rosy moved to stand next to him. They stood together, in silence, and Henry realized that for the first time in a while it wasn’t the horribly sickening quiet of loneliness. Rosy was the only person who could come close to understanding how Henry felt, and it gave them a sense of companionship. Henry reached up to feel the cold steel of the ring he had hanging from a piece of twine around his neck. He hesitated for a moment before pulling it over his head and holding it out to the woman next to him. She looked at it and then looked back up at his face, making eye contact with him for the first time in a long while. “Are you sure?” She asked softly, her brow furrowed with uncertainty. Henry looked back down at the grave, then to the last rays of sunlight that were slipping below the horizon. Henry made a decision. “Yeah. I don’t need it.” He said simply. 

The two stood there, watching the sunset with an understanding between them. As Rosy turned to leave, Henry made one last remark. “Wyatt always loved sunsets. His one complaint was that the beauty was only temporary. I always told him that most things are temporary, and now I know that what we had was just another one of those things.”