He chose to drive alone.

The Bronco was already in the parking lot when we arrived at St. Luke's.

Ruby holds onto the door handle sighing heavily not quite ready to get out of the truck; Cady leans forward and gently squeezes her shoulder.

"We will be ok, Ruby." I'm lying but it's all I got right now. My class A uniform is sharp and crisp as only a new uniform can be while my hair is perfectly coiffed in a tight bun with a black ribbon.

Walt is standing with his back to the pews, next to the casket, his hand on the draped flag; dressed in his Class A's he is almost unrecognizable. His hair is trim, his face is smooth and his uniform is pristine. That's what people will notice because that's what he wants them to notice but I see the rage just beneath his steely skin. I can feel his desperation.

"Hey," I say to Ferg whose eyes look for and find Cady.

"Hey, Vic." He pauses, "How's Cady holding up?"

"Good considering." I don't offer any more because there's no more to give. There's no etiquette book on grieving a former lover who was slain by his father.

Walt's eyes stay forward, his hand still pressed against the flag. I step in behind him and gently touch his shoulder blade, for only an instant, and my hand moves to the casket.

"Walt." I say just above a whisper.

My voice breaks through the silence surrounding him and he glances over as his fingers clasp mine for only a moment of comfort.

"Are you ready?" I ask not really expecting an answer.

I look over at him a bit overwhelmed at the striking figure he cuts and the totality of the circumstances that bring us to this point. I think of how unscathed I really am and I wonder how he is going to survive all of this and if he is going to survive all of this.

I'm trying to keep my shit together, to keep everything in place, and keep my feelings in the realm of appropriateness which makes me think there is something wrong with me because I can feel this immense pain and still notice how good he looks standing here next to me near wallowing in grief and how much I want him. I'm fucked up, I think, and I hate myself for it.

Ferg stands next to me, his face is solemn, and he looks so serious, so unFerg like, so foreign just as we all are in our grief.

The organist starts and it's our cue to move to our places. Barlow is in the front row, his face grief stricken, and I feel sorry for him. Accidental shootings happen all the time but this this is so incomprehensible.

We rehearsed the ceremony last night with the State Troopers Honor Guard and our seats were reserved for the second row behind Barlow and the distant Connolly family but as we turn around Walt stands between Barlow and Lucian. Lucian doesn't say a word but moves over and Walt sits between the two men. His knarred-knuckled hands fold in his lap while Ferg and I take our places behind them.

I look at Walt and think that I will never understand him as I watch him sit as the pillar of strength for these two men. I think for the first time that Walt can't help but protect us, all of us, it's his nearly singular purpose.

The ceremony otherwise goes as planned but when Walt presents Barlow the flag I swear I hear Lucian catch his breath and I lose it; snot, tears, and heaves. It's all there. It's all loud. It's all genuine and I can't really control it and Ferg puts his arm around me. His thick arm and meaty fingers press into my flesh like this huge emotional crutch. His jaw is set and I feel oddly comforted by him.

Walt stands, salutes, and goes through the perfect steps like he rehearsed and this time he sits in the second row, as designed, next to me, and Ferg's arm falls back to his lap his shoulder still leaning into me. Walt is sitting tightly his entire left side against my body and I think it's on purpose. I wipe my eyes, take a deep breath, and put forth my best effort to get my shit together because now I'm embarrassed.

Walt reaches over and takes my hand, "It's ok to cry." He whispers all light and reassuring and I'm pretty sure it's a tone I've never heard before it's really soft but hard all at the same time.

His fingers collapse tightly around mine and he moves our hands into his lap wrapping his other hand around and for the first time, in a very long time, I feel totally and completely safe, emotionally safe.

We stand on signal and Walt holds my hand a moment longer, looking at me his lips purse up, letting me know he's here for me and for all of us and that really we will be fine. Singing our last hymn I'm grateful that Barlow is having Branch cremated because I just couldn't make it through a gravesite ceremony let alone be a pallbearer.

Sitting in our assigned seats at our designated tables throws me back to adolescence with my mom after my grand-mother's funeral where I was too young to understand the implications of death, the ceremony of death, and the pain all of that entails.

Cady looks up, "We really should eat our food to keep our strength up." She gives a faint smile, masking the pain she must be feeling inside.

"You're right of course," echoes Ruby and like good little kids we comply eating the homemade potato salad, fried chicken, and green beans on our paper plates.

"Walter, are you ok?" Ruby is the only one with courage enough to ask out loud.

I look at him as he shakes his head, barely chewing, "Yup." His eyes go back to his plate and we all perform to our potential for the citizens of Durant and Absaroka County.

"I have set aside a 23 year old bottle of Pappy Van Winkle's Family Reserve which is fitting for this situation. I hope you all will join me at the Red Pony after the repast has concluded." Henry offers and Walt just nods another acknowledgment.

"Can we use your office to change?" Cady asks the relief that alcohol will be consumed in short order fills her voice.

"Of course you may."

At the Pony, Walt lifts his highball glass and toasts, "To us and those like us. Damn few left." The bourbon burns the back of my throat as it washes the anger and frustration down just a little further.

I need to keep my shit together because Walt is going to lose his as I watch him down more than a few shots of Pappy's.

He pours his long lanky legs into the passenger side of my truck as I head toward his cabin having drawn the short straw to drive him home.

"I have a confession." He mumbles.

I don't say anything at first, when I look at him, deciding if it's serious and I do.

His hat is down a little too far and he holds his head up to look at me. I quickly decide that in his current inebriated state whatever he is going to say that this is the wrong place and this is the wrong time but it's here because he is making it so.

"What?"

"I wasn't a good husband."

I look at him and I think he can almost see the words swirling around my mind.

"You must be drunker than you look."

"I'm not drunk." My eyes connect with him as I reassess.

"I wasn't there with Martha, in Denver; I wasn't there to protect her."

"You think that makes you a bad husband?" My voice tilts a little to match my head.

"It can't get much worse than that." He says but there's more and now that he's started I want him to finish it.

"I was working a case. I put work before her. I always did."

"I know what that's like. It certainly doesn't elevate you to husband of the year."

"Nope." Walt hangs his head and looks down at his ropers – dirty and worse for wear.

He lets his hat slide forward over his eyes, arms folded against his chest, maybe feeling the shame of his confession.

"Why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why are you telling me this? Why now? Why me?" I ask as I peek at him staring out into the darkness of the summer night. My open window blows wisps of hair around like they are frantically dancing on my head.

"You needed to know." He says to me flatly like I should know that without him saying.

"Why? I haven't till now."

"You need to know that I hate myself for it." He pauses, "and it's what keeps me from you."

I look over at him, my eyes off of the road, my foot off of the gas pedal and I stop the truck in the middle of the highway.

"What?"

"Vic, pull over or keep going."

"We're in the middle of bum fuck Egypt I'm not worried about it. What the fuck kind of thing is that to say to me?"

"I didn't mean to piss you off."

"Too late."

"Why are you mad?" He says in his way as if a few words will explain everything.

"When you want to talk to me, I mean really talk to me; I don't want you to be drunk. I want you to fucking mean it, Walt and not be sorry about it later." I stare out into the space between us and I can feel my lips quiver just a bit from the anger I am suppressing beneath them.

"I'm not drunk."

"Then why the fuck am I here driving you home?"

"I needed a ride."

"I'm not your personal taxi service, Walt."

I roll my eyes and stare back at the road and start down the road again.

"You are such an asshole."

"That's the point I think I was making."

I stop in front of his cabin, the lights from the truck illuminating the classic wooden frame home, and I wait.

"Vic, come inside."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow when you're sober."

"I'm not drunk but I'll make coffee if you come inside."

"Walt, I don't know if I can hear this."

"You mean if you want to hear this."

"No, that's not what I mean."

I put my hands at ten and two, "I don't know if I can hear this."

It's then that I see it and I didn't expect to see it. His eyes are full and they are soft and I know that he has surrendered to whatever forces keep him at bay.

"You better have some cream and sugar or I'm going to be pissed."