June 6, 1883
-Jessica Killian-
Jesus and those other two left several hours ago to take care of the problem they had gotten themselves in. Or, I should say the problem those two got Jesus involved in. Something about this gang has daddy riled up like I haven't seen him. The name of the man Hardgrave shook him more than he was willing to let the others notice.
Daddy is, was, and always will be a soldier. He fought in the great war, and he fought the Indians for decades until he finally couldn't do it anymore. That last war he brought my husband Abraham with him. He didn't come back with him though. It wasn't something he did, but he always felt responsible for it. Like he didn't try hard enough to keep him out of harms way. Where that would be in a war, eludes me.
After the war, we stayed west of the Mississippi, finally settling at Utopia in the spring of 1878. A year later he was the Sheriff when the previous one died from a freak horse kicking accident. Daddy did what he could, but he needed help. He needed someone he knew he could trust. That someone he could trust was Jesus Dominquez.
Jesus hung up the uniform after Little Bighorn and went back to Texas. He was a ranch hand and trapper until he received the letter from my father. They had been in correspondence, but this was the letter that made Jesus pack up his life and come to Nebraska. I knew of Jesus, but I hadn't met him.
Jesus arrived in the summer of 1880. I remember him riding the wagon down with daddy to the station to pick him up. All he had when he arrived was one bag, and a rifle. He was the sole person to depart the train that carried on into the Wyoming territory. He placed his bag on the ground and shook daddy's hand.
"Thanks for coming, Deputy," daddy said to him.
"Thanks for the job, Sheriff," Jesus replied.
"This is my daughter, Jessica. I'm sure I've mentioned her a few times," daddy said, and Jesus tipped his hat to me.
"Ma'am," he said politely. "I'm sorry about Abraham."
"I'm not the only widow," I said, though I did appreciate his condolences.
"Let's get you settled in," daddy says, taking his bag for him.
"I got it," Jesus says, after it was apparent daddy was struggling to lift it up into the wagon.
"Not a young man anymore," daddy said with a laugh, as he patted Jesus's shoulder.
"You weren't young during the war old man," Jesus teased, then stayed on the ground to make sure daddy could get into the wagon safely.
What I liked about Jesus from the start was his effortless charisma and courteousness. Jesus carried himself proudly, but not like a pompous self-important man who uses it to hide his real insecurity. He was kind, respectful, and polite to everyone. Even to those who weren't kind to him. He turned the other cheek. Always.
But I knew, deep down, he a had trigger. Something he could pull that made him the most dangerous man in the world. A killer instinct that if he was pushed, he would not hesitate. Not for a moment.
Daddy got lazy as the Sheriff, because Jesus was such a good deputy. I got to know him when he'd have dinner with us some nights. Jesus lived above the station, and after daddy and I left for Wyoming, we left him our home. Daddy would always fall asleep first, so we talked all night. We talked until the cows literally came home.
I learned Jesus had never married. He was engaged during the war, but when he got back, she was sleeping with men too cowardly to fight when called upon. That made his decision to come to Nebraska that much easier. I learned he could read and write in English, Spanish, and Portuguese. He admits he's not as good at the latter because he rarely uses it. He taught me a little Spanish, though none it ever really stuck.
Daddy asked me to drop something off to Jesus at the station one night, so I made the short journey to town. I climbed the stairs to his small home and knocked on the door with the parcel grasped in my hand. He opened the door a little to see who it was, then fully when he saw it was me.
"Hola Senorita," he said to me.
"Tenga certa?" I asked, in horrible Spanish, as I extend him the letter.
"I have certain?" he asked, and I laugh. "Tengo una carta. Letra would be more accurate, because that's a letter, not a card. Carta is card. They're interchangeable."
"Tengo una le letra," I said, and then hand him the letter.
"Close enough," he said, and graciously received the letter. I probably got the pronoun wrong.
"What's that about?" I asked.
"This? Nothing. Damon and I have been writing letters for years. Even though I live this close, we haven't stopped. It's dumb, but, it's our thing," he said, and I smiled. It'd be romantic in a different context.
"I think that's rather sweet. Daddy really trusts you. I haven't known of many people he's trusted without question," I said, and he nodded. "Was it the war?"
"Of course. We'd be dead without each other," he said, and I ask to come inside to hear about it. "I'm not sure that's appropriate."
"I'm not a naïve little girl Jesus. By most standards, I'm an old widow. No one will bat in eye if they saw us," I said, and he relented and invited me in. He asked me if I wanted a drink, which I said whiskey sounded great. He poured us two glasses and sat down across from me.
"What happened at Little Bighorn?" I asked, and he fidgeted in his seat. He had never once displayed discomfort around others. One question about the war cracks his poise.
"Reno happened," he said, and I asked him to explain who that was.
"Damon...your dad, and I were under the command of Major Reno. We were in G Company, and we made the initial attack on the village. Both him and Custer ignored the crow scouts who told them we had vastly underestimated their size, and their fighting spirit. Reno didn't realize it until he nearly walked us straight into a trap. Damn fool then put us into a skirmish formation and we opened fire into the village. These weren't just warriors. They were camped with their families. Women and children.
"They came out, in mass. Our left flank held out longer than we thought it would, but it buckled, and Reno ordered a retreat across the stream. It was a slaughter; they were routed crossing. Your dad got shot when we were crossing the timber, and instead of fleeing like the rest of them, I stayed with him. We hunkered down in the brush, prayed they'd didn't find us. They were too busy killing the men stuck crossing the stream.
"We waited it out, and when it died down, we managed to cross without getting spotted and reconnected with our company. What was left of it. Other elements reinforced us, instead of Custer. Abraham was with Custer. If Reno hadn't walked us into a trap, maybe those men could have helped him hold the line."
"Or, they'd just be dead with him," I said, and he shrugged, not sure either way.
"Probably. Either way, we were outnumbered three to one at least. They ran us through a meat grinder of for no god damn reason," he said, and I finished my whiskey, placing the glass on the table with a clink.
"I didn't know Daddy was shot during the war. Didn't know they had guns" I said.
"He was shot twice actually. Left calf," he said, slapping his leg to show the spot. "And the neck, right over the collar bone. He got lucky. If that was an inch closer he would have died. I pressed the wound until we could get out."
"No wonder Daddy always smiled when he talked about you," I said, and he grinned a little.
We talked more over another glass. Both of our senses were dulled, but it was still us and not the whiskey. It started with him teasing my bad Spanish, and I playfully slapped his shoulder. That drew me closer, and I kissed him. At first, he looked more nervous than I did. I'm not just a woman to him. I'm Damon's daughter. That was a boundary he didn't feel comfortable crossing. At least before two whiskies he didn't. After two whiskies, all bets were off.
Jesus returned the kiss, and we immediately back peddled to the bed. I turned him before we arrived, making him sit as I started untying my dress. Jesus reached around and helped, the dress collapsing to the floor and I climbed on top of him. I've been a widow for a long time. Women can miss dick as much as men could miss pussy.
I surprised him several times as he made love to me. My demeanor in public betrays what he expected in bed. The only things out of my mouth were harder and faster. When he said he was close, I told him he wouldn't dare until I had climaxed twice. I need to be dominate somewhere in my life. This is as good a place as any.
Daddy was asleep when I got home, so I had no one to ask me questions.
After Daddy retired, and we migrated to Wyoming, Jesus visited at least once a month. Him and Daddy would talk, drink, and hunt. Jesus and I would fuck somewhere quiet. And it went that way, until Jesus rode onto our property bloody with two other bloody people in tow.
After they left to handle it, I make supper for Daddy and myself. It is well after dark when we hear hooves approaching and our plates are clean.
"Sounds like they're back," I say and start walking to the door. Daddy gets there first and looks out into the darkness. They're carrying lanterns, and I don't recall them having them before.
"Get my coach gun," Daddy says, and I do as I'm told. The gun is in his bedroom leaning against the wall next to the door. I pick it up and carry it to him as the stomping of horses gets louder. Daddy is standing firm at the door, and I tap his shoulder to get his attention. I extend the gun in front of him, and he takes it without looking.
"Loaded?" he asks, and I say I didn't check. Daddy cracks open the breach, sees the shell, the closes it. "Get inside."
"I'm staying right here," I say. I'd grab a rifle myself if we didn't loan it to Liberty.
Three men on horses arrive. One man dismounts to approach us while the other two remain on their horses. His hand is on his weapon in the holster as he walks, trying his best to look intimidating. Doesn't scare Daddy at all. He's dealt with far worse.
"You best go back son, you're fixing to make a mistake you can't walk away from," Daddy says, but doesn't aim the gun.
"Not here for you old man. Looking for a woman," the man says, and rotates his palm around the handle of his gun.
"The only woman here is my daughter. You're in the wrong place," Daddy says calmly.
"I was told a real looker. You seem to have a real looker behind you," he says, and that's gets the gun put on him. "Easy way or hard way old man."
"She isn't who you are looking for. Get off my land. Now!" Daddy says, and the man laughs, looking down as he does. He quickly draws his gun to fire, but Daddy cuts him down before it's out of the holster.
"Dammit!" the two others say at the same time and start scrambling off their horses.
Daddy pushes me inside and slams the door shut. He slides the table against the door, and tells me to get the ammo from his drawer. I run to his bedroom and pull the draw open. Before I can grab rounds, I look in the mirror and see a man at the window, and dive to the floor as a bullet shatters his reflection.
"They're at the window!" I shout, and crawl to the drawer, and reach over the top to feel for the shells. Another round makes me flinch back down after I managed to secure one shell. I crawl back to the main room as thud comes from the front door.
I hand Daddy the shell, and he steps into his room and fires through his window to make him think twice. The door thuds again, and Daddy walks to it and breaches the shotgun, so the man hears it. We both hear feet peddling down the stairs.
"I got plenty more! Get off my land!" Daddy shouts.
It's eerily quiet, so I take that moment to quietly step back to his room to retrieve the rest of the shells. I don't see him at the window, so I grab them and step back toward Daddy who reloads.
