Two weeks of untroubled sleep and Clare’s good cooking helped Cort get his strength back. The time, however, for decision-making grew near.
Thaddeus, speaking for the others, asked Cort to stay on. It was a generous offer, but difficult to accept. Cort said he’d give it some thought, and he did. He thought about trying to fit into a dream that wasn’t his own. He thought about getting up every day and seeing his brother’s grave, right there next to John Bell’s. He thought about how the territory was growing, and how his reputation would almost certainly draw young gunslingers, making life that much more dangerous for those around him. And he thought about eastern Oregon. It was a fresh, open land. A place to build a new life, to fulfill his own dream.
While he was still bed-ridden, Clare brought him dinner every night. As he ate, they talked. She told him this and that, and, somehow, their small talk and easy joking made it seem as though they had always been together. Yet one subject never made its way into their conversations—whether Cort would stay or go.
On a late August night, a cool breeze from the north blew through the valley. It signaled the last act of summer and reminded Cort of the beauty of Oregon in Autumn. He had to tell them he was leaving.
The next day, before dinner, Cort took Clare aside and said, “I wanted you to know before I told the others. I’m goin’ back to Oregon. It’s where I belong. The Five Fingers is Thaddeus’ dream and was my brother’s, but it was never mine. There’s a part of me that wants to stay ... ” He looked straight and deep into her eyes. His message was unmistakable. “But there are too many memories here,” he went on sadly. “If I stayed, it would be no good for anyone, least of all you and me. I’ll be leavin’ in the mornin’. Early.”
Before they retired for the night, Thaddeus, Mark, Rusty, and Steve shook hands with Cort and Cassie and Linda kissed him on the cheek. They all wished him good luck and God’s speed. Clare, however, took no part in the farewells. She was nowhere to be found.
It grew late. Last good-byes were given and everyone drifted to their bedrooms. Cort stood alone in the warm, comfortable parlor as, throughout the house, lamps were slowly turned off and old friends went to sleep.
Cort shrugged his shoulders, then put out the kerosene lamp in the parlor. He wondered where Clare had gone and why she hadn’t said good-bye. “Perhaps,” he thought, “I’ll see her in the morning before I go ... or maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s better if we don’t see each other at all.”
At dawn, Cort shook himself out of a restless sleep, wrapped his few belongings in his bedroll, and quietly left the house.
The morning was still. A light dew had fallen in Broken Rock Canyon, making the air smell sweet. He let his eyes wander, taking a last, thoughtful look at what might have been his home. But it wasn’t his home, and never could be, so, pensively, he walked on toward the barn.
When he opened the barn door, Clare stood before him. In her hands were the lead reins to Cort’s dun, her own chestnut mare, and a pack mule. She was smiling.