Dearest Arbuckle,
I reckon what I’m about to say ain’t going to be what you want to hear. But you been coming around now for years, and I think on you as one of my own. I am glad that you found in my daughter and me a place of comfort. A home. But even though we think you family, you ain’t family. You got a family. Well, a pa at least. And I know that he treats you something terrible and for that I am more sorry than there are words for. And I ain’t in no place to make excuses for that man, because you ain’t wrong. He’s awful to everyone, including me. But he’s your pa, and that hatred that you feel in your heart ain’t going to get you nowhere. It’s forgiveness, Arbuckle. I don’t mean you need to go and forgive your pa for all he’s done. It ain’t him that deserves forgiveness. But you do. Don’t you know I see you brooding? Don’t you know I see you hating who you are? I’m here to tell you you got every right to hate that man. You got every right to want to be far away from him. You don’t let that go, well, it’ll eat you alive. Find peace, boy, and know in your heart of hearts you do the best you can.

She watched the ink spread from her tears, little pools of black dotting the page. The letter had no date. Her mother must’ve slipped it in the envelope without Lady Mae knowing. How long had her mother thought of forgiveness? How long had she butchered with the desire to absolve not only her patients, but herself? Had she forgiven herself for letting that little boy go? For knowing what that meant? Maybe that was the thing: her mother had done what she needed to in order to right her own way in the world. She left it with a clear conscience; she’d stayed alive until Lady Mae could go on without her. She’d birthed her and loved her and protected her. Arbuckle had protected her, too—from her own loneliness and unrest. And here she was dying all alone on the mountainside, the words of her mother and lover spilling into her lap. They’d say go and do what you need and it’ll be alright in the end.

She put the letters back, stacked the envelopes neatly, and tied the twine around them. She held them close to her heart, her head bowed. Once the poison set in—and she still had time as the wound was not yet black by the edges—she would not be able to walk. If she could take her leg before then, she might live. And if she lived, maybe Deputy Iverson—what would she do if she had the chance? Her mother had been right. Arbuckle, too; she should forgive, but what then? Let him rot underneath the courthouse?

She grabbed her boot, took a deep breath, and slid it back onto her foot. Then she took the laces and pulled and pulled until her fingers and palms turned white. Knotting the laces, she stood, and put her foot flat on the ground. She lurched forward and bit her tongue, sucked in air through narrow lips.