Quickburned

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Five years and a day or so ago...

His foot was on the boot-scraper before he even realized what he was doing, and Caleb had to take a moment to laugh to himself in front of Ma's door. Been gone twelve years and still his body remembered well its childhood habits, including the hide tanning he and his brothers would get if they neglected to clean their boots before stepping foot on Ma's floors.

Not wishing such a tanning today, either, Caleb dutifully thumped the dust off his boots, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

The entry hall was exactly how he remembered it, whitewashed and scrupulously clean, with a woven tapestry on one wall and the home's single mirror opposite the door. It was shorter than he remembered it, and he had to duck his head a bit to see his own reflection. There was a bit of Pa that looked back at him, though Pa had never dressed so well nor been so freckled.

He pulled his hat off and hung it on the rack, fluffed his hair and tried to make it lay as though it hadn't spent all morning under a a hat in the sun (a battle long since lost). His vest was smooth, his cravat properly knotted—Caleb brushed a bit of imaginary dirt off the breast of his coat and stared at his reflection again.

It was no secret in the gang that Caleb was a bit vain (he wasn't fooling anyone with the gentleman's clothes) but it wasn't why he preened. He wanted his Ma to have nothing to complain about in his appearance, at least, to use cleanliness as armor, and maybe lessen the condemnation he was sure to receive.

His Ma had heard the door open, no doubt, because her voice echoed down the hallway at him.

"Jack? Jack, I thought I told you to stay out at the ranch till this brushfire blows out. What are you doing?"

Caleb took a deep breath and headed towards the kitchen.

"Ma? Ma, it's not Jack. It's me—Caleb. It's Caleb."

Something shattered; the hollow crash of pottery against hard tile, and Caleb's ma ran. Ran down the hall towards him.

Ma never ran.

Caleb tensed, anticipating a scolding or a smack or even a silent disappointed look and a heap of extra chores—the same treatment he'd received so often as a kid.

"Caleb!" Ma stopped in the threshold of the main living space and clapped her hands to her mouth. "Caleb. You're here! Have you come home?"

"Ah. Well. I'm here, for now. Ma, you gotta—"

All the breath was driven out of him in a rush as his Ma—when had she gotten shorter than him? And when had the white hairs outnumbered the black ones?—hugged him tight around the middle. He hugged her back, half-afraid she would break. When did she get so light, birds' wing fragile in his arms? She was the solid pillar of... of everything he'd left. He'd seldom cause to regret it over the years, first because he was doing so much better out with a gang and later on account of how could he go back, with what he'd done to get where he was still on his hands? She'd never forgive him. He wouldn'tve.

"Oh, you're home, mijo, and that is what matters. Come, come—" There were tears in her eyes but her smile was full of light as she stepped back and held him at arms' length. "Look at you! All dressed up. You're a right belvedere now, are you, baby boy?"

"Yes'm, suppose I am."

"It suits you, mijo. Now, come, you haven't broken your fast yet, no? It is early—" he followed her into the kitchen, ducking a little under the door frame which had always been too short for his eldest brother and was now too short for him. "There will be bread in the oven shortly, I can make—"