From atop the hill, Buck observed the mourners gathered below, their presence contrasting against the pure white snow, like pepper scattered on salt. Among the attendees were Walter, Buck's eldest brother, Jack, and Brian, longtime ranch hands who had aided Buck in transforming twelve thousand acres of land into a bustling cattle ranch alongside his wife, Jessie.

Searching the crowd, Buck hoped to catch a glimpse of Gary, his estranged younger brother. Either he was hidden from view, or lost among the encircling trees.

Jack and Brian had come about thirty minutes before the ceremony, using a tool to gently break the hard ground, ensuring that placing the cross would be manageable.

Father Whitmore offered a blessing over the hand-crafted marker, stepping aside as Walter held it, while Buck drove it firmly into the earth with a sledgehammer. The only sounds accompanying the hammering were Buck's heavy breaths as he struck the top of the cross.

Once finished, Buck approached, using his cane for support as he knelt, bowing his head. Silence enveloped the scene as everyone remained still, honoring his quiet moment.

A chilly wind swept through the valley, causing the flowers resting on the casket to quiver. Earlier, delicate snowflakes had danced through the air as the gathering took shape. Buck chose to stand apart from the crowd, positioning himself next to Jessie, where he felt most at home.

The service was heavy with sorrow, lacking warmth despite the morning light. Afterward, every attendee offered their condolences, with men shaking Buck's hand and women embracing him with warmth.

Buck fought to stay upright, his aging knees yearning to give way beneath him. Walter, Jack, and Brian were the last to approach, exchanging heartfelt hugs rather than handshakes before drifting away, leaving Buck with Father Whitmore.

The Father stepped closer, locking eyes with Buck, and grasped his elbow. "Buck, I have little to add that hasn't already been expressed today. Jessie contributed so much to these people, and they have returned that generosity."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "I assure you, her spirit has returned to its origin."

The preacher bowed his head, recognizing the depth of Buck's loss. Buck remained still, accepting the truth in the preacher's voice. "At your age, Buck, many couples are parting ways or starting anew. But you and Jessie, you always seemed to share a honeymoon phase," Father Whitmore remarked.

Buck shook the preacher's hand before he moved on to console others.

Turning to his memories, Buck recalled Jessie strolling to church, her Sunday dress fluttering in the prairie wind, her dark hair lifted by gentle gusts.

Then he heard Walter calling his name and turned to see his brother pointing at a familiar figure approaching—a weathered cowboy. Buck, though filled with emotion at the sight of his younger brother, managed a nostalgic smile.

Gary paused at a distance, and Buck nodded as if their separation had only lasted a weekend. Gary, glancing at the casket, tipped his hat, crouched to scoop snow into his gloved hand, and allowed it to sift through his fingers as he approached the casket.

Buck looked up at the gathering grey clouds and then back down, finally allowing his tears to fall freely onto the snow as he mourned Jessie openly.

Time slipped away in the frigid air as both brothers surrendered to their emotions. Thankfully, the wind had calmed, yet the snow continued to blanket the stillness.

It had been forty-three years since Buck and Walter had last seen Gary. Now, he was closer than ever, despite the long absence. Walter trudged through the accumulating snow toward Gary. "Thank you for being here for Buck," he said earnestly.

"Well, Walter, I'm here for Jessie," Gary replied softly, regret lacing his voice.

"Regardless, it's good to see you, Gary. I still remember how she found you first when you weren't looking," Walter reminisced.

"It was a long time ago," Gary responded.

"More than forty years. It's clear it was painful. Why did you say you weren't searching?" Walter pressed, recalling how difficult it was for Gary to reveal his feelings for Jessie.

Gary kicked aimlessly at the snow, his gaze lowered. "She wouldn't leave with me."

"I know, Gary."

"I suppose that’s what finally made me leave. I loved her." Gary dropped his head and then looked up, his expression resolute. "She believed she wasn't worthy of Buck, that he was the best man she ever knew. She intended to wait for him."

"Walter continued, "I suspect you feel similarly now—experiencing that same fear Jessie felt. The circumstances may differ, but the emotions likely remain unchanged. Wherever she is now, I bet she's just as worried about you and Buck being without her."

Walter extended his hand, but Gary pulled him into a familial embrace. "Talk to him, Gary," Walter encouraged. "I’m not asking you to fix everything, but have a word."

As Gary approached, Buck was deep in conversation with Jack and Brian. The ranch hands tipped their hats in respect as they passed.

Gary knelt in the snow, removing his hat and brushing it gently before placing it on the casket. Buck paused, wiping his eyes, wishing to blame the snow for the tears but knowing it was not at fault.

"Do you remember our childhood, Gary? Jumping from the hayloft onto those massive bales?" Buck asked, standing a few feet away.

"Of course, Buck. I remember," Gary replied, standing up and bowing his head.

"Sometimes we hesitated, feeling intimidated by the drop. But the thrill of the fall was always exhilarating, and we always landed safely."

The brothers stood surrounded by the vastness of winter and the biting wind, sharing a silent moment.

"I've missed Jessie for over forty years, Buck—forty-three years without her voice or her smile. A huge part of me is gone," Gary confessed, his gaze never leaving the casket.

Buck remained still, listening intently.

Gary's weary eyes stayed fixed on Jessie’s resting place. "It was one thing to know she was with you, the man she loved. But for all this time, I've felt lost."

Buck inhaled deeply and released a sorrowful sigh, his breath visible in the cold. He looked skyward, then extended his gloved hand to Gary, who took it firmly.

Both men observed in silence as snowflakes settled on the casket, melting away.

"What comes next for us, Buck?" Gary questioned.

Buck smiled gently. "Well, Gary, we are both going to cherish the snow while it lasts."