A/N: Posting this a day earlier than expected because this weekend is going to be nuts.

It was only when Raoul turned twenty-one in August that it dawned on Christine (helped by a comment from Aman) that upon her own birthday in September she would be eligible to vote. When the day came, she, Sorelli, and Raoul went together to register, and it was a heady feeling thinking that, in just under two months, she would be able to vote for her husband, to help him in a more tangible way than simply being married to him.

Erik very nearly backed out of the race, in those weeks after he faced down Johnston, when he was finally well enough to think about it. The bullet that tore through his leg and arm left ragged trails of damage, brought in dust and debris. In the hours after the gunfight there was surgery to take the bullets out and stem the bleeding. Days later, his skin flushed and temperature soaring, pulse thready and rapid beneath her fingers, there was more surgery to cut the infection out of both wounds, and now Christine shudders to remember those days and nights of sitting at his side, of dabbing the sweat from his forehead and stroking his hair and murmuring to him softly when he woke fretful and upset, their love such a new thing, at such risk of being snatched away, and his hand clinging to hers was the dearest thing in the world. She would bathe his head and neck with cool water, and sing to him when he woke, and hold him close as he slept, careful not to jostle his wounded arm. It upset him if he woke to find her gone.

It was only afterwards, when the fever had broken, and Armstrong declared an improvement in the condition of his wounds, that she allowed herself to cry. She leaned into Philippe, and he rocked her gently, but he was crying too, with relief and exhaustion, from caring for Trev, and the fear that was sharp in them that all they could do for him might not be enough.

Erik was still sleeping off the effects of the ether that first day, face slack and pale, his whole form diminished beneath blankets and bandages, when Trev's condition worsened. His lips were blue, every breath a shallow gasp, sweat beading on his face, unaware even though his eyes were half-open, head tilted back with the effort to breathe, insensible even as he moaned in pain if anything touched his chest. Surgery was declared his only chance, ether a risk in his condition so chloroform was used instead, and the chloroform left him feverish and ill.

She sat with Philippe, neither of them able to speak, neither of them wanting to be alone to wait and wonder, helpless to do anything, each knowing the other was the one who would understand best.

Between a fresh episode of bleeding, and the pneumonia that followed, it was weeks before Trev was out of danger, and by then Erik was hobbling about with a cane, his arm in a sling (Philippe, in one of the rare moments where he could crack a joke, commented that they matched each other, but Erik's impediments were only temporary, compared to his lasting damage), under strict instructions not to strain himself, miserable and in pain and refusing to take laudanum, even though it was the only thing that would help him sleep, the only thing that would touch the terrible guilt inside of him.

Not even Aman, who came back to himself the fastest of the three, who avoided infections and complications though the heavy blood loss took a toll that left him lightheaded and confined to bed, could convince Erik of his own innocence.

It was Aman who gave her Erik's badge, come to him from Raoul, and as he pressed it into her hand, with a thin, weak smile, she knew that there could never really be another option, except for Erik to wear it again, and to carry on.

He could never have faith in himself otherwise, if he didn't.

She gave it to him on a quiet evening, Aman dozing propped with pillows in his bed, a book open on his lap, Trev sleeping more peacefully than at any time in weeks. She found Erik, standing in the garden, leaning heavy on his cane, looking up at the sky that had deepened from purple to dark blue, the first stars twinkling down at them from the heavens.

He turned to her, exhausted and worn, and she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, and pinned the badge to his chest.

Tears welled in his eyes as he shook his head, and she brushed them away with her thumb, her throat tight.

"I can't," he whispered, and she shook her head.

"You can. For your own sake. No one blames you." The truth of it was heavy on both of them, and she knew he was thinking of Trev, and how upset he'd gotten, with barely the breath to speak, when he heard Erik was thinking of backing out. "If you don't, it would be the same as letting them win."

By then the story was out, the truth of what had happened, and what had caused it all. Philippe wore Trev's badge and ignored Armstrong's insistence that he needed rest or else risk collapse (it had been three days, and Philippe had barely slept or eaten at all, his face haggard and grey, eyes bloodshot), and that Johnston was not well enough to be questioned, after Erik's bullet struck him high in the chest. But Philippe was afraid that Johnston would die and there would never be answers, never be reasons, so he pressed on, and learned what he needed.

It was a set-up. Johnston, always Walter Woods' right-hand man, had decided to play both sides, and secretly aligned himself with Rogerson the independent, who had once saved his life, to make it look as if Woods was sabotaging the election by targeting Erik and his men. Erik had made trouble for him in the past, and he wanted him dead. The man in the clocktower, who Raoul killed with a dead shot when his bullet struck Erik in the leg and he gave himself away, was Buquet, a terrible pianist, easily recruited because Erik had once made things difficult for him too, and Rogerson himself was caught by Max, sneaking into the tower. Everything came out at Buquet's inquest, that she could not attend because Erik was desperately ill, but Philippe made sure it was in all of the papers, a matter of public record.

It was the only thing that made him feel slightly less helpless, even as Trev still lingered, caught between life and death.

Woods decided to stay in the race, despite his reputation in tatters, hoping that Erik might still back out and give him a clear field, but once Erik, too, resolved himself to continue on, his campaign was helped by the ranchers, who decided, all of them to a man, Democrats and Republicans both, to come out to support him.

Woods doesn't stand a chance.

There were whispers, of course, over what had happened to Erik's face. He went out there bare to the world for the first time, and though there were only a handful of witnesses, they swore to what they saw, and their description went around the saloons and gambling halls. It was Raoul, as acting marshal in Erik's place, who made it known that anyone spouting anything about Erik's face would be pulled up for slander and fined, and face three nights in the cells. The threat was enough to kill the gossip, with how he stood at Erik's side, and how he shot Buquet, though the whispers remain in the shadows.

On this crisp November morning, she and Erik walk arm-in-arm to the polling station. The damage to his leg has healed, though it aches in the cold weather, and the new scars on his arm are hidden under his sleeve. She traces them in the night, kisses them, and sometimes those burning days of July seem so very far away, and sometimes it feels as if it is only moments since Raoul and Max carried him home between them, so much blood she thought the bullets had gone deep inside.

(She has had nightmares, though they are becoming less frequent, of Erik stretched in the dust, of Erik bleeding to death beneath her hands, of Raoul and Max carrying him in already dead, of him with a shattered arm and bleeding stump of a leg, of him choking on his own blood, and she wakes in the night in his arms, just to watch him breathe, to trace her fingers over his disfigurement and card through his hair, and lay her hand over his heart, and kiss him, lightly, as he sleeps. Wakes just to feel him alive and well beside her.)

It was three weeks after everything happened when Sorelli arrived, summoned by a telegram from Beth, who decided that with so much fear, and anxiety, that Christine needed her oldest friend. The first Christine knew of it was Sorelli's appearance at her door. Her head spun with the shock, and when she came back to herself she was on the sofa, Sorelli hugging her, and Erik sitting in his armchair, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips.

"You've been having the wrong kinds of excitement out here without me," Sorelli said, her forehead creased with concern, and she kissed Christine for old time's sake, and kissed Erik too, and as he stared after her in shock, Christine cracked up in a fit of giggles.

The first thing, she learned afterwards, that Sorelli said to Aman, was that she was staying whether he liked it or not. The second was a proposal of marriage. He grinned up at her from his pillows, pale and frail and weak, and said that he rather liked it a lot, and they have never been far from each other's sides since.

Trev's primary complaint, when he was well enough to be up to date on news and able to complain, was that he missed the excitement of Sorelli's arrival. He hit it off with her the moment he met her, and they trade stories of their debauched days in Dodge and elsewhere, and have found a couple of men in their backgrounds that they share. She has done wonderful things for his spirits, in his long convalescence.

The truth of it is that he will never fully recover from the damage to his lungs. He will always be prone to losing his breath with minor exertions, or if he talks too long, always be more likely to develop pneumonia, and for that pneumonia to be dangerous. He resigned his badge as soon as he was able to learn the details of his illness, and to make such a decision, and has decided to start a library.

(She was outside the door, and heard snatches of the words he and Erik shared. "I can't…do that again…to Philippe." Full sentences were still beyond him but he did his best, and Erik's voice when it came was a hush. "I understand. And I don't blame you. Not for anything." "I know." She could hear the smile in his voice. "But if you…ever need…a man to back you…" "I'll never doubt you a moment.")

Sorelli and Aman married at the end of October, with a wedding that was truly a celebration, for Erik's recovery, for Aman rebuilding his strength, and for Trev up and about in a limited way. Erik and Philippe were groomsmen (and there were tears in Erik's eyes that she teased him about afterwards until he kissed her into silence), while she and Beth were the bridesmaids, in green and blue respectively, and Sorelli in a pale pink that set off her complexion.

There is a photo that she loves, of all them together. Even there, Erik is proud, standing tall beside Aman, and Philippe is beside him, straight-backed and defiant, his cane sitting against the chair that holds Trev, gaunt from his ordeal, and too frail to stand for long, but grinning for the camera. Raoul, beside Philippe, looks ready to catch him should he stumble, but still his smile lights up his face. And beside Aman who looks as if he could never be happier, is Sorelli who looks more beautiful than ever, then it is her, and Beth, the flowers she carries hiding the faint bump of her stomach, and Max's arm is linked through hers, and he looks as if he knows all of the secrets of the world.

They, too, are to be married in a week. The baby is due in March, and it was Max's insistence that it be born to married parents. It was only in September, when things had finally settled, that Beth revealed she is expecting, and it explained her recurring illness of the summer. Max resigned his own badge once Erik was back at work, and put himself on the ballot for the role of assessor. From what Christine has heard, his chances are good.

It is all local offices up for election, because as a territory Wyoming has no say in national offices, and Christine will confess she is a little relieved. It's overwhelming enough, voting for the local positions with people she knows, and a thrill runs through her to mark her ballot for Erik.

To think, she can vote for her husband!

It feels surreal. As if she is dreaming and might wake in her old room in New Orleans with Sorelli sprawled in bed beside her. But she is not in New Orleans, she is here, with a husband she loves and who loves her and they play music together and talk about books and kiss (and, a small handful of times, they have done more than simply kiss, and she has learned his scars and their stories and how they feel beneath her lips, and he has learned that love-making is nothing to be afraid of), and he has given her friends who have become family; Aman and Trev and Raoul and Max who are brothers to her, and Philippe who is even dearer, who pats her hand and tells her in his own quiet way not to worry, and that he understands. He and Raoul will soon be departing to visit their sister in Texas, and though she has never met Adelia, not in person, they have struck up a correspondence, and she is looking forward to the spring, when Adelia will visit and Beth will have her baby that she, Christine, has already been named godmother to. It was suggested that Erik be named godfather, and Max wanted him very much to accept, but Erik, when it was put to him, thought the honour was too much, and suggested Raoul instead.

Raoul has been elevated to his right-hand man, and has taken charge of the new deputies, provisionally hired, pending the results of the election.

It is a far cry from a year ago, a far cry from even six months ago when she had barely accepted Erik's offer and was full of a thousand fears. But it is where she has found herself, and it is a thousand times better than she imagined, and she and Erik leave the polling station arm-in-arm, and kiss at the first opportunity, and she suspects Erik is going to win by a landslide, whatever his anxieties. There will be a party for him, when he is sworn in again, a new portrait taken that will make him look stately and wise, and she will wear a new dress and tease him that she might have to sell Ayesha's little foal Shalott to cover a new wardrobe, and they will dance and kiss and hold each other, and it will be better than her best dreams, better than her wildest and best imaginings, and she is going to enjoy every moment of having him in her arms.

She will look back on this summer, on the difficulty and how she almost lost him, and it will make her love him even more, will make every moment they spend together infinitely more precious. And though the memories will always be ones she prefers not to dwell on, it is a part of the story of who they are, and it took what happened to bring them together, to teach them of how they feel, the things they were not ready to admit until circumstance made them ready. The fear of what might have been will always live somewhere deep in her heart, but she will be thankful, every day, for the way it all worked out, for their friends, and especially for him.

He will smile that soft smile he keeps just for her, and kiss her and hold her close, and though he might not always be able to find the words, she will never doubt how he feels.

And they will be happy, and together, and in love, always, for as long as they both shall live.

A/N: And so it is done. The last chapter of what I intend to be my last fic (though, to be fair, it probably won't be long until I turn up with a one-shot or three). Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed all along. If you've enjoyed this fic, please do feel free to hit me up on Tumblr (same username) with questions or comments or just to say hello!

This fic owes its existence to a great many things - Chris LeDoux and his existence and his songs; the music of Brenn Hill, Western Underground, Ned LeDoux, Hozier, Mumford & Sons, Florence + the Machine, Loreena McKennitt, The Cranberries; James Drury in the 1960s; The Virginian (Owen Wister), Doc and Epitaph (both Mary Doria Russell), Doc Holliday's Woman (Jane Candia Coleman), The Sackett Novels (Louis L'Amour), Streets of Laredo and the other three Lonesome Dove novels (Larry McMurtry); an old fascination with injuries and ailments of the chest; Wynonna Earp; Tombstone (1993), High Noon (1952), The Plainsman (1936); thirty seconds on 26 October 1881; the memory of one Anglo-Irish second lieutenant killed at Neuve Chapelle in March 1915; a week of intensive shed cleaning in January; rjdaae for sending me the prompt that turned into this fic; a whole host of other fics and songs and assorted bovines and odd musings on varied and sundry topics; last but not least, it owes itself to all of you for supporting it and me all along.

Please do leave one last review. If you would like to read more westerns from me, then please do check out Running Through the Rain (Pharoga), the Delta stories - Meet You at the Delta, Run into the Sea, When It Feels Like Nothing Else Matters, Dust to Dust - (Erik/Christine/Daroga; also Erik/Christine, Pharoga, and Christine/Daroga in different ways and at different times), and Digging Up Bones, a quasi-western about palaeontology and TB and the Old West (Raoul/OMC). All of these can be found by searching my profile. RTtR has a whole host of follow-up fics but I won't mention them here.

This is the first western of mine that does not feature a consumptive. It is very strange.

Thank you for sticking with me and this fic for so long!