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Sins of the Past

By Bethany Klassen

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Sins of the Past

Chapter One

After living in a cloud of dust, trailing a herd of two thousand cattle for several months, a clean bed and warm meal sounded like heaven to Matthew Ellison. While many of the cowboys he had ridden with for the last several months took their pay to the nearest saloon, he remounted his weary horse.

“Hey, Ellison!” called one of them, noticing his departure. “Come get a drink with us!”

Matthew thought of his ma awaiting his return with a hot meal ready. “Not today, partner.”

With a carefree wave, he wheeled the chestnut mare around and urged her into a trot. He had never allowed himself to develop a habit for drinking, though many found it ironic. Matthew’s father, Butch Ellison, was the most well-known saloon owner on the south side of Kansas City.

It had never been his desire to follow in his father’s footsteps. As a sixteen-year-old, Matthew had found work at a nearby blacksmith shop, putting shoes on horses. Then, several years later, he had signed up for his first cattle drive. Now, at twenty-four, he was an experienced cowboy who had nothing in common with his father – other than his last name. The two were as different as night and day.

Matthew’s horse stopped at the barn door behind his parents’ house. It could hardly be called a barn as small as it was, but thanks to the spacious corral it was enough room for several horses. Matthew swiftly unsaddled the mare and let her into the fence. Snorting with pleasure, the horse rolled in the grass, then moved off to graze at the far end of the corral.

Matthew drooped with exhaustion as he tromped to the back door of his family’s home. The bottom level was his father’s saloon. Worn wood was mostly hidden beneath a fresh layer of paint, making the building appear much better quality than it actually was.

After washing at the pump outside the back door, Matthew slipped inside. The noise intensified as he entered. Raucous laughter mingled with the tinkle of glasses and the off-key pitch of a cowboy singing along with the piano. Matthew opted to stay in the shadows as he made his way to the staircase. Following the steps upward and away from the merry-makers, he opened the sagging door that led into his childhood home.

The room he entered was a tidy sitting area with a kitchen leading off of it to the right. Matthew eased the door closed behind him and stood still for a moment breathing in the familiar smell of home. His eyes traveled across the room to the small wood stove where Ma had sat with her two boys on winter evenings. They had sometimes popped corn and drank cider while reading from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Matthew smiled as his gaze came to rest on an old bullet hole in the wall. He vividly remembered the day his brother Lucas had accidentally shot through the siding with Pa’s gun.

So many warm memories had been formed in this room - memories that excluded Pa, centering instead around his mother. She had been the one Matthew and Lucas had come to when they were hurt or upset. She had raised them, nurtured them, and loved them.

The fact that she hadn’t noticed his arrival was strange to Matthew. Over the last many years he had been away from home more than not, but every time he returned, Ma came hurrying forward to give him a hug and a beaming smile.
Suddenly concerned, Matthew crossed the room to peer into the kitchen. It was strangely dark and quiet. Matthew glanced at the stove, but no flame glowed from within. He turned slowly to survey the room, but all was tidy, cold and empty.
He walked back out into the sitting room, his feelings rapidly changing from warm and sentimental to deadly serious. Something was very wrong.

The door at the stairs creaked open and a large man stepped in. “Matthew?”

“Pa,” he acknowledged, slowly coming forward. He studied the man, but his father’s eyes were dark and brooding like usual. “What’s wrong?”

Shoulders stiff, he spoke without emotion. “Your mother. She’s gone.”

“What?” Matthew panicked, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?” He desperately wished for the man to explain that she had left for the day, or even a few days, but He didn’t want to hear the words he was sure were coming.

“Dead, Matthew.” He pulled away from his son’s hold. “Passed away this morning.”

Matthew’s arms dropped to his sides and he stared unseeingly at his father. This morning? He had missed her by less than a day.

“Buried her under the tree out back,” his father went on, his voice indifferent. “She was sick for weeks. Lucas tried to get word to you several weeks ago.”

Matthew didn’t want to hear any more. He brushed past his father and hurried down the stairs. Making his way through the saloon, Matthew was unaware of anything going on around him. Outside, darkness had settled, enveloping the town in its somber shadows. Noises from the street mixed with saloon music struck an odd contrast to the news he had just received. Matthew walked past the barn and toward the old oak tree he and Lucas had played under for so many hours when they were little. Now it spread its huge boughs over a single grave marker in a futile attempt to protect.

As he stood before the grave, pain gripped his heart. The words Matthew had heard a minute earlier slowly sunk in as he read the name on the wooden cross. A soft wind moved the tree branches above him and a single leaf fluttered down, dry and dead. Matthew absently watched it land noiselessly on the ground. Not a tear blurred his eyes, despite the dark sorrow dragging him down from within. He remained outwardly calm, as always, but he was breaking apart on the inside.

Footsteps approached. Matthew glanced up to see his brother walk slowly forward.

“You’re back,” Lucas said quietly.

Matthew didn’t reply.

Lucas stood beside him, staring down at the grave in silence. “She missed you, Matt,” said his brother in a husky voice. “Ma asked for you several times in her last days. I tried to get a letter to you in time, but…” his voice choked off as tears ran down his face.

Matthew watched Lucas cry silently, but had no comfort to offer. He turned his gaze back to the ground. He felt angry at his father for making life so hard for Ma. He was upset that she had been forced to live as an outcast just because of her husband’s decisions - that no respectable woman in town would befriend his mother. He hated the fact that her short life had been one of sorrow and pain.

Lucas wiped a hand across his eyes and took a deep breath. He glanced at his older brother, but Matthew couldn’t meet his gaze. Finally Lucas turned and walked away.

Alone once more, Matthew reached out to touch the wooden cross at the head of the grave, his calloused fingertips running back and forth along the top. “Goodbye, Ma,” he whispered.

As he stood unmoving, Matthew slowly became aware of the ever-increasing noise in the streets. There was laughter and shouting, with an occasional gunshot. He wanted only to escape the racket and find solitude for his aching heart. Leaving the grave, Matthew retrieved a bridle from the barn and slipped it over his horse’s head. Swinging up onto her broad back, he pointed her toward the edge of town. He rode several miles until he had left the town’s activity behind him and entered the darkness of the forest. The shrill scream of some animal pierced the night. Then came a rustling of leaves and the nearby howl of a coyote.

His horse snorted warily, but Matthew calmed her with a low voice. Though the woods were dangerous at night, Matthew preferred them to the insanity of a drunken town. This was his territory. He knew the woods. He knew the meadows and the mountains. He had traveled back and forth through them for years. They offered privacy that a town never could. Here Matthew could relax and distance himself from all the pain life brought. Here in the solitude of the wild, he could bury himself in deep loneliness and forget everything else.



It was past midnight when Matthew returned to town. He rode back to his father’s saloon which now lay quiet and dark. Tying his horse to the back porch, he slipped inside and groped his way through a maze of tables and chairs. The room reeked of liquor and sweat.

Wearily climbing the stairs, Matthew let himself into the living quarters that he had called home for so long. It wasn’t home anymore. It couldn’t be without Ma. Matthew found his way to the bedroom he and Lucas had shared and quietly gathered the few things he had left behind before striking out on his most recent cattle drive. The rest of his things were still packed in his saddlebags.

Lucas turned over restlessly in bed, then sat up. In the moonlight Matthew saw him rub his face with one hand as he groggily watched the activity.

“What are you doing?” Lucas finally asked, his voice low and rusty from sleep.

Matthew added several knives to his pack and stuffed a pouch of bullets into his pocket. “Leaving.”

Lucas seemed confused. “Now?”

“Seems as good a time as any,” Matthew grunted bitterly. “What’s holding me here?”

“You’re coming back, though, right?” Lucas got out of bed and joined Matthew.

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“But why?”

Matthew paused in his work. “I don’t like Kansas City. Even less without…” his voice broke off. Taking a deep breath, Matthew looked at his brother. “I can’t stay here. You know, the memories and all. I can’t take it right now.”

Lucas watched him silently as Matthew tied his pack shut. “Where will you go?”

“Don’t know yet,” Matthew shrugged. He strapped his gun belt to his waist and swung the bag over one shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Lucas.”

His brother touched his shoulder lightly. “Are you sure about this, Matt?”

Matthew stared at him determinedly. He wasn’t sure about anything, except that he didn’t want to discuss this. And staying here was not an option.

Lucas sighed. “Alright. Keep in touch.”

Matthew ducked his head to avoid his brother’s hurt expression. He slipped downstairs and outside once more, shunning the idea of telling his father goodbye. He tied his saddlebags behind the saddle, then added his pack. Mounting the chestnut, he turned her south and tapped his heels to her sides. The horse stepped into a trot, carrying him away from his childhood, his brother, and his Ma’s grave.

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