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Tacitly, without much drama, Hunt and I closed the casket, carefully lowering the wooden lid and pressing it down until it settled with a quiet finality. Hunt reached for the metal latches on either side, fastening them with the slow, deliberate movements of a man who had done a hundred hard things in his life but never this.
We moved in silence, stepping toward the ropes we’d laid beneath the coffin earlier. Thick and sturdy, they were strong enough to bear the weight, just as we had to be.
Hunt took one side, I took the other. Without a word,we lifted, the wood heavy in our hands, and carefully guided the casket over the open grave. The ropes stretched, creaking under the strain, but they held—just like they were meant to, just as we had to.
The earth was dark and freshly dug beneath us, and its scent was thick and heavy in the cold spring morning air.
“Easy now,” I murmured, as we began to lower him.
The ropes groaned, sliding slowly and surely through our hands. Inch by inch, we brought Nash down into the dirt, into the place he had chosen for himself.
When the casket touched the bottom, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
We pulled the ropes back up, coiling them neatly on the side.
Nash’s grave was tucked away, out past the pastures, beneath a gnarled old cottonwood, far enough that no one would wander here unless they meant to.
Mama was already there, waiting. There wasn’t much of a tombstone for her, just a simple wooden cross, weathered and worn by years of sun and rain. Nash had carved it himself—not fancy, just her name, Maria Rivera, and the year she was born, and the year she died. No words. No loving woman, no devoted mother, no scripture etched into stone. Just her name because that was all she ever really had to call her own.
The grass around had grown wild, creeping up the base, half-swallowing the memory of her. No fresh flowers, no polished marble—just earth and time,keeping her the way the land always did. Now Nash was here beside her, where he’d always belonged.
I’d carved his cross the same way he had hers—simple, unadorned, meant to stand against the wind and time. There was no grand marker, just a rough-hewn piece of cedar planted firm in the dirt.
I didn’t write beloved father. Didn’t write husband. Didn’t write friend. He didn’t want that. Just N. Wilder. Because anyone who found their way out here, anyone who knew, wouldn’t need more than that.
Father McCay let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “Well. I suppose Ishouldsay somethingholy.”
“Or unholy,” Hunt chuckled, holding his Stetson close to his chest as I was.
“Wouldn’t be Nash if it was…holy,” I murmured.
Hunt huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Father McCay nodded, looking down at the coffin. “Alright, then.” He cleared his throat and murmured a prayer, more for his sake than Nash’s—who sure as hell never gave a flying fuck about salvation. But the good Father was a man of duty, and saying the words were as much a part of this as the dirt waiting to cover the casket.
"Lord, we commend Nash Wilder into Your hands. He was a hard man, a sinner like the rest of us, but he was honest in his sins. He loved this land, fought for it, bled for it. If there’s mercy to be had, Lord, let it be for a man who never asked for any."
He made no plea for redemption, no flowery wordsabout a heaven Nash wouldn’t have believed in. Just the truth. Plain and simple, like Nash would’ve wanted.
“Well, that sounded official enough,” Hunt declared, amused.
Father McCay chuckled. “That was for the Lord; this is for the man.” He let out a shaky breath. “Nash Wilder, you were a pain in my ass.”
Hunt barked out a short laugh. I didn’t. I just stared down at the coffin.
“You drank too much, fought too hard, and swore like it was a second language. But you were also a damn good cowboy. And even when you were wrong, which you were often, you weren’t wrong about giving a damn about this land.” Father McCay paused, then sighed. “If there’s a heaven, you’ll probably have to fight your way in.”
We all cackled at that because it was something Nash used to say.
“They won’t let me in, Father, but you know me, I’m gonna fight my way in ‘cause I hear they keep the good booze and the great broads there.”Andbecausehe’d told me, “Maria will be there,” and he wanted more time with her, a perpetuity.
Father choked up as he continued, “But if there’s a range on the other side, I hope the fences are straight and the cattle easy.”
Hunt tipped his hat. “Well, boss, you may not have gotten all you wanted in life, but we damn sure made it so you’ll have it in death.” His voice was rough, edged with grief that was deep.
Hunt reached down, scooped up a handful of dirt, and let it fall soft against the wood.
I did the same, the earth slipping through my fingers slowly as if I didn’t want to let go of it.