I knew that he harbored great demons and regret, that in many ways he thought himself unworthy of a normal life, even if it was all he ever dreamed of. But I thought clearing his name would help him move on, see past the image people had of him and the feelings of inadequacy he suffered as a result. Instead, he’s just remained in hiding. He’s still running from the past.
It is perhaps unfair of me to expect anything different. If he needs time alone, he’s earned it. Besides, what am I hoping for, truly? That night before Kate went into labor, I returned to the Coltons’ because I admitted I had unfinished business with Reece Murphy. I owed him a farewell. That was all—a proper goodbye, a parting of ways.
He wanted a fresh slate, a new life.
I wanted a safe family, a promising career.
I cleared his name with my story, and my own name was cleared from the reports about Uncle and with a bit of help from the Coltons regarding my whereabouts the day Parker died. I still harbor some guilt about that. I never intended to kill him, and yet it happened at my hands. Perhaps I will always be haunted by those events. Perhaps this is the same type of fog that continues to haunt Reece.
But we both got our dreams, and this note is our goodbye. Justice has been served, and a deserving person earned a second chance. All is as it should be.
I stow the letter in my desk drawer and do not read it again. But, against my better judgment, I start glancing over my shoulder, searching for his face among crowds.
The wet season comes, and then the dry, endless stretch of summer.
I write in the stuffy Inquirer offices, windows open, surrounded by Ruth Dodson and my new family of female journalists and typesetters, the noise of a whirring printer always within earshot.
Mother holds on to the Gulch Mine but entrusts management of it to Paul. He reports weekly by wire and proves a fair and decent man, the type Uncle Gerald never was, which reminds me that family is fickle and blood alone does not define character. We vacation in Prescott come August, making sure to check in with Paul and his affairs. The rail has done good things for the mine, and the whole of the city, too. Prescott is bustling, and goods are shipped in at fairer costs. Numerous copper claims have been reopened now that materials can be transported with such ease. The P&AC seems plagued by delays, mudslides, and slipping rails, yet Father would be proud. Like him, the people seem to adore the inconsistent line, going so far as to call her Old Reliable. It brings new people to the capital, folks looking to settle and spread roots in the Territory.
I search for Reece among these faces, but with less determination than before.
As the weeks pass, multiple Territory papers begin theorizing that any surviving Rose Riders have fled Arizona or are, in fact, deceased. There have been no sightings of the outlaws in towns, nor train heists by men who match their descriptions. Still, mention of the gang makes people discuss Reece. In his disappearance, he becomes almost mythical, a legend I hear children whispering about on the streets. “I get to be the Rose Kid!” they argue as they reenact an epic shootout, thumbs cocking imaginary hammers.
It makes me smile.
He’s become bigger than himself, an entity people assume to know, when really, humans are far too complex to fit into one newspaper story. But at least some folk seem to think on him positively now, which is all he’d ever asked for.
Come October, the Inquirer office is abuzz with the news of Nellie Bly, who, having taken a job at the New York Post, went undercover in an insane asylum for ten days and published her findings on the treatment—and mistreatment—of patients. We talk about her late into the evening, our eyes wide with wonder, like little girls. My pieces covering life in the southern portion of the Territory—reports on politics and the rail and city developments—seem generic by comparison, but I stay focused and meet my deadlines. The truth is important, and even the smallest stories, if reported irresponsibly, can wreak havoc.
A week or so later, a letter with familiar script arrives on my desk. After so many months of silence, it is entirely unexpected. I tear it open so impatiently that I slice my finger on the stiff paper.
Firstly, I read the Bly piece. Yours are better.
Secondly, I bought a new hat. I know you hated the first, and it were lost on the train that day anyway, so it were time. I also cut my hair. I reckon I look different these days, but it’s still me, at least in all the ways that matter.
I miss you. —RM
My stories are not better, and he knows it. Some days I worry that I peaked with my debut article.
I read the note again, smiling. It sounds like him, I realize. After all this time, I can still hear his voice in my head.
I save the letter, but stop looking for him. He seems happy now, at peace, and I cannot spend my whole life searching for a shadow. I have stories to write and places to visit, and legends are like the wind—intangible and fleeting.
As November comes to a close and the chill of winter evenings settles over Yuma, I accept a journalist position in Pittsburgh. Cousin Eliza—or rather, her mother—has graciously opened her house to me, and Mother gives me her blessing to relocate. I am to write for the very paper Nellie Bly vacated in favor of the New York Post, and it feels as if fate has set the wheels in motion.
Standing at the depot on the first of December, I hold a small suitcase against my knees. I imagine I will greatly miss this Territory—its beauty and its harshness. It is wild in a way Pittsburgh is surely not, but it is also changing. The world seems to be closing in wherever I look, trains connecting even the smallest of towns. I have a feeling I’ll end up back here someday, after several years in the big city, maybe less. I am not certain I am cut out for reporting—at least not exclusively. Even at the Inquirer I favored the small stories to those of politics and campaigns. I’d find myself tempted to embellish details and give people dramatic flair—a blazer they did not don, a feature they hadn’t possessed. Perhaps I should try my hand at novels.
It’s funny, I think as the train approaches, how a person can spend so long chasing the truth only to find they love fabricated stories just as fiercely.
Maybe legends are tangible after all.
Perhaps they are created on the page.
Chapter Fifty-Three
* * *
Reece
I spot her the moment she arrives at the depot.
She ain’t changed much in the past eleven months, and still the sight of her in the flesh makes my heart kick a little faster. I were worried maybe I’d feel nothing. Maybe all that time away would’ve changed things.