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“I could never be a husband to Maria," he whispered, gazing up at the stars. "There'd always be that memory. It could never be the same as it was with Marybeth." He closed his eyes briefly when the painful recollections became stronger. Billy Marsh would have been about the same age as little Carlos now if he had lived... if those goddamn Yankees hadn't burned Galveston to the ground. Later, he uncorked the whiskey again and drank deeply. As the roan crossed a starlit ridge, he heard a coyote howl on a slope high above the trail. The sound made him think about how much he had become like the coyote, living out a solitary existence away from everyone else, seeking a mate who could not answer his lonesome call. He drank until the bottle was empty, climbing the silent Sangres with a similarly empty heart.” — Frederic Bean