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The first year, Taylor noticed them because of the hat.
Two old men at bar on Christmas Day wasn’t much to write home about. On her fourth year of working the holiday, Taylor knew that it was a popular day to drink for those lacking the requisite holiday cheer. And where better to forget your Christmas woes than a dive bar pretending to be an Irish pub in the middle of a Florida swamp? No, their presence wasn’t unusual. But the black Stetson, trimmed with silver and a spray of feathers, wasn’t something you saw all that often in conjunction with mangrove trees and pontoon boats.
They were both thin and aging, deep lines surrounding sharp eyes. The one without the hat was shorter, hair receded halfway across his skull and shot brown with grey. Sleeves rolled up to combat the muggy heat that prevailed even in December revealed faded barbed-wire tattoos that snaked around both of his forearms as he leaned on the bar, eyes never leaving the man with the unusual hat.
He had thick silvery hair, trailing down the tops of his cheekbones into short sideburns. When Taylor cocked her head to peer surreptitiously around the bar at them, she could see that he had cowboy boots to match the headgear, one foot tapping nervously against the bar rail, like he wasn’t sure being there was a good idea. His eyes kept darting from his drinking companion to the door to the patrons, like he was sure armed gunmen or something equally dire would come bursting through the screen door at any moment.
Taylor liked her job, prided herself on it, in fact. Tending bar was messy, sometimes tedious, and in a place like this, full of rednecks and more than a few criminals, often dangerous. But Taylor liked people, even the stupid, dangerous, or angry ones, and as her third foster mom had said, she ‘could talk the ear off an elephant.’ So, it was with good cheer and more than a healthy helping of curiosity that she leaned over the bar towards her two new customers.
“What’ll it be, cowboy?”
The other man chuckled, flashing perfect bright white teeth. Cowboy hat shot him a look.
“Whisky, neat.”
Taylor turned to his companion.
“How about you?”
“Why, young lady, you know I think I’d like somethin’ festive this evening, evoke a bit of that much-extolled holiday cheer. I don’t suppose you have some mulled wine or hot buttered rum bubblin’ away behind that bar of yours?”
The man with the hat snorted, seemingly having none of the other man’s theatrical way of speaking.
“Now Raylan, I know you’re not much for the season nor the reason, but surely you won’t deny me the celebration of my first Christmas of freedom in a long, long time?”
“Boyd, you know if I had my way, you’d still be eating your Christmas turkey off a plastic tray in an orange jumpsuit, so forgive me if I seem less than excited about your celebratory plans.”
The other man, Boyd, smirked, and leaned towards Raylan and his cowboy hat.
“And yet here you are, celebratin’ with me.”
Taylor, filling Raylan’s glass of whiskey, tried to seem like she wasn’t wildly interested in the argument taking place before her.
Raylan’s mouth tightened, and he stared back at Boyd like he couldn’t decide how he wanted to respond, eyes blazing. In the tense silence, Taylor heard the bar speakers play the opening chords of that quintessential Christmas song of Irish pubs, Fairytale of New York.
It was Christmas Eve, babe. In the drunk tank, an old man said to me, won’t see another one…
The man in the cowboy hat sighed. It had a resigned edge to it, like this was an argument they’d had before.
“Boyd, against all my better judgement, yes, here I am. You asked me to meet you, and I have to admit that my curiosity as to your presence in Florida overcame the vast reservations I have with regard to ever seeing your face again. So tell me what you want, and you can leave and we can go back to never seeing each other again.”
Taylor placed the whisky on the bar in front of Raylan.
“Sir, I’m afraid I can’t help you if mulled wine is what you’re after, but how would a slug of bourbon in store-bought eggnog strike your fancy?”
“God bless you, miss. Make it a double! And have a drink with us. On him.”
Boyd grinned widely and gestured towards Raylan, whose mouth flattened again into that frustrated line, like he had a lot to say but wasn’t sure he actually wanted to say any of it.
In the background, Shane McGowan sang:
So Happy Christmas, I love you baby…
Taylor poured Boyd’s eggnog and another slug of whisky for herself, as his eyes got distant, like he was listening to the song.
“You know, Raylan, I always liked this song. Now I know it strains credulity, Southern boy like me, listenin’ to this here Yankee tune, but somethin’ about an incarcerated man dreamin’ about a better life on Christmas always held a certain degree of appeal.”
“Boyd. Cut the crap. Why am I here?”
For a second, Taylor was sure that Boyd was going to drop the façade, stop the charming patter and tell the truth. His eyes got sharp and dead, entirely focused on the other man. Taylor couldn’t tell if he wanted to have a drink with him or murder him.
But then the grin returned, and he took an ostentatious sip of his drink.
“I’m a free man, Raylan Givens. Is it so hard for you to believe that I just want to celebrate the holiday with an old friend?”
Boyd said Raylan’s name like he was savoring it, enjoying every consonant and vowel. Taylor had rarely been so curious about a customer.
Raylan’s response was tired, resigned, delivered as he stood and tossed enough money to pay for all their drinks and tip Taylor generously on the bar.
“Boyd, it’s been nearly twenty years, and I gave up trying to figure out what’s in your head a long time ago. You’re not supposed to be in this state, so go back to Kentucky or I’ll call the parole board.”
He gave the other man a long look, still caught up in whatever unconscious struggle was keeping them both from speaking their minds. Then he tipped his hat to Taylor and strode out the door, screen door swinging behind him.
Boyd watched him leave, staring through the torn mosquito netting until the other man’s headlights were receding into the Florida night.
Happy Christmas your arse, I pray God it’s our last…
Taylor raised her whisky towards him and downed it in one, scooping the bills into her apron with her other hand.
“So, what did you do to him makes him hate you so damn much?”
Boyd’s eyes flicked up to her, immediately, something inscrutable in his expression. Oops. Curse her loose tongue. She never could keep a question to herself, not when her curiosity had been so thoroughly piqued.
But then he laughed, startled, like he wasn’t used to people speaking to him so bluntly.
“Young lady…I’m sorry, where are my manners? What might your name be?”
Taylor grinned. She liked Boyd, and was extremely glad her judgement had been right and he wasn’t offended by her question, especially given Raylan’s parole board comment.
“Taylor. Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine, Miss Taylor. And as you may have already gathered from my prior meetin’, my name is Boyd Crowder.”
He stuck his hand across the bar and shook hers jovially. It was kind of like meeting a politician.
“Now, as I was saying, if you could go far enough back through the long and tumultuous history that is the tale of myself and Raylan Givens, I have no doubt that you could furnish numerous compellin’ reasons to proffer in response to your question.”
He took another sip of his eggnog.
“But as time is pressin’, and the reason for my presence in your place of business just made his precipitous departure, I suppose I’ll simply reply that a long time ago, he and I dug coal together.”
Boyd drained his eggnog and replaced the glass neatly on the bartop.
“Thank you kindly for your excellent bartendin’, and I certainly hope that you will have a blessed and holy Christmas Day.”
Taylor was left leaning on the bar, full of more questions than answers, and so distracted that two men in hunting camouflage and trucker caps had to try three times to get her attention.
Taylor didn’t see either man again for the rest of the year. Charlie, the old man who owned the bar, hurt his hip in a fall down the storeroom stairs and decided to take a step back from the day-to-day management of his business. Taylor was only too glad to accept the promotion to bar manager, but it left her far too busy to ponder the mysteries of the two Kentucky men who had appeared and disappeared on a Christmas night.
On top of that, she and Yocelin were having issues. They broke up in the spring, got back together over the summer, and by the next Christmas were in the middle of an argument so monumental that Taylor was certain her girlfriend was going to leave her again before the new year.
She probably would have forgotten about the Christmas customers for good, but on Christmas day, as she wiped down the bartop, a voice distinctly tinged with Kentucky hailed her from the door.
“Why if it isn’t Miss Taylor! It is truly wonderful to see my favorite Floridian bartender. I sincerely hope you have a glass of that incomparable eggnog of yours waitin' for me.”
Taylor chucked and began to make the drink as he took a seat.
“Boyd, wasn’t it? You dug coal with the cowboy.”
“One and the same. And speaking of Raylan’s unfortunate choice of headgear, I suspect that both he and his hat will be joinin' me again this very evenin'.”
But Raylan did not appear immediately, as he had the Christmas before. Half an hour passed as Boyd finished his eggnog and ordered another, chatting with Taylor when she wasn’t taking orders. She found out that he’d been called to serve as a deacon in a church in a town she’d never heard of in southeastern Kentucky.
“Boyd Crowder, you are just getting more and more interesting! An ex-miner ex-con turned man of the cloth whose mysterious history with a man in a cowboy hat brings him to my bar every Christmas. I sure hope Raylan shows up, because I don’t think I could stand the suspense if he didn’t.”
Boyd smiled, more to himself than to her.
“Oh, you mark my words, Miss Taylor, Raylan’ll be here.”
Another half an hour proved Boyd’s statement true when the screen door swung open and the man in the cowboy hat entered. Taylor was at one of the four-tops talking to three young women who were already drunk enough to take twice as long as normal to tell her what they wanted, so by the time she emerged from giving their order to Javi in the kitchen, Raylan had already taken a seat.
Boyd cocked his head and chuckled.
“Raylan, I do believe we are listenin’ to the exact same song was playin’ a year ago when you and I frequented this here bar. Miss Taylor, I’m beginnin' to suspect a setup of some sort.”
Taylor smirked over the bar as she dried wine glasses.
“It’s an Irish bar, Boyd, we’ve only got Springsteen, U2, and the Pogues to choose from when it comes to holiday tunes. What can I get you, Raylan?”
Raylan didn’t seem too surprised that she knew his name. Likely he was aware of Boyd’s propensity to chat with anyone in earshot. He ordered a whisky, neat, and in the momentary silence as she filled his glass, all three of them could hear the lyrics of the song.
They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me…
Raylan’s mouth twisted and he took the glass from Taylor and downed it in one, gesturing for another. Boyd caught the look, eyes sharpening to that gaze that was more honest than any of his flowery words.
“Raylan, it’s been over forty years since you and I first parted ways. Surely you can finally speak your mind to me.”
Raylan froze, new glass halfway to his lips. Then he relaxed, hand sinking back down to the shiny wooden surface of the bar.
“I’m thinking about promises, Boyd.”
“Promises made? Or promises broken? I suspect I could come up with a fair few in each of those categories with all the years between us.”
Raylan stared into the depths of his cup, like it held the answers to the universe. Taylor had moved on to polishing shot glasses, even though they didn’t really need it.
“Look, I don’t even know why I’m here.”
Raylan looked frustrated, that same thin-lipped expression Taylor had noticed the year before, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know exactly how.
“I’ve…I’ve had a good life, since I left Harlan. Since you went to jail and Ava…”
He cut himself off, like there was more to say but he physically couldn’t say it. As he said the name, all the lines in Boyd’s face tightened.
“Willa, my daughter, she’s in college. Wants to join the Marshal Service too. I keep trying to talk her out of it but…” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m even telling you all this.”
“Raylan, perhaps it would put your mind at ease to hear that I no longer have any intention of harm towards you or anyone you hold dear. I’ve had a long time sittin’ in that prison cell, thinkin’ about everything that has happened between me and you, and I want you to know that I’ve forgiven you your trespasses. Promises made and promises broken.”
Raylan’s gaze snapped up from the still-untouched glass.
“Forgiven me? Remind me again, which of the two of us decided to become a crime lord? Follow the path we swore we’d never go down?”
“Goddammit, Raylan Givens, of all the men I’ve ever met, you are hands down the one that makes it the most difficult to keep the spirit of God’s understandin’ in my heart.”
“Then why on earth did you invite me here? For the second time, I’d like to point out.”
“Do you know, in this moment I truly cannot begin to answer that question.”
Both men returned to their drinks in frustrated silence. Taylor filled a beer at the tap for a man wearing more alligator teeth around his neck and wrists than could ever possibly be legal.
You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot…
As the lyric blasted through the bar Boyd began to laugh, the sound of a man who has just heard the world’s funniest inside joke. Raylan snorted, shaking his head, and finally downed the whisky in one.
“Raylan, I told you I liked this here song.”
“I can’t deny it has a certain flavor. Makes me think of Christmases with Arlo. God, we were young, Boyd.”
“I can’t deny you the truth of that statement. You and I were young enough to deny who we were, what Harlan is. We forgot the reality of ourselves, Raylan. We didn’t once stop to think that in truth someday you were always goin’ to want revenge on the men like your daddy, and I, well, as I believe you one time so eloquently put it, was always going to want to ‘get money and blow shit up.’”
Boyd stood up from the bar.
“As always, Raylan, it was a pleasure. Miss Taylor, I thank you most sincerely for your hospitality.”
Once Boyd was gone, Raylan signaled to Taylor for another drink. She brought the bottle of Jim Beam over to where he was sitting and gave him a generous pour.
“So, you’re a Marshal?”
“Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens.” He tipped his hat like a man in an old western film and took a sip of the drink.
“Nice to meet you, deputy. Can’t say I see too many of you ‘round here.”
“No ma’am, we tend to stick to Miami. Plenty of cartel nonsense going on to keep us busy.”
“Miami? I was sure you were from Kentucky, same as Boyd.”
“I grew up with him. Boyd and I were both born and raised in Harlan County, near the Virginia border. But I haven’t called Harlan home in a long time.”
At that point, the drunk girls at the four-top waved to get her attention, and kept her busy long enough that by the time she got back to the bar, Raylan was also gone.
The next day Taylor cooked Yocelin dinner and apologized for everything.
The third year, Taylor was hoping Boyd and Raylan would show up. She’d told Yocelin about her mystery Christmas men from the two years prior, and her girlfriend had immediately insisted that the two of them were ex-lovers.
“Think about it, mami. Weird tension, major history, meeting up years later on Christmas to offer forgiveness? Men don’t just do that.”
“I don’t know, baby. They’re really southern. Like, pickup trucks and shotguns. And the marshal and criminal thing? That’s like somebody turned a bad western novel into real life.”
“Ok but the Irish Christmas song? It’s literally about a relationship gone bad. I’m telling you, they’re in love.”
“Yoc, it’s a backwoods bar, not a daytime tv set! I’ll let you know how it goes tomorrow.”
Taylor was crouched under the bar, peering into the mini-fridge to make sure Javi had brought the eggnog out front that afternoon when she heard the now-familiar Kentucky voice.
“Miss Taylor! Working on Christmas for yet another year. You know, I’ve never asked you. What on earth drives you to work here every year when you could be out celebratin’ the holiday?”
“The girl could be Jewish, Boyd.”
This was Raylan, who had walked in right behind, cowboy hat and all. He shot his companion a pointed look.
“Raylan Givens. What a pleasure to once again be the recipient of your fine company on this most holy of days.”
Taylor interjected.
“Hi there Boyd, hi Raylan. Jewish I am not, but when you grow up in the system, Christmas doesn’t always have that same allure it has for most.”
Raylan nodded, like he knew exactly the kind of present-less, sad Christmases she was talking about.
“It’s just another day, Boyd. Not much different than any of the others.”
“Now Raylan, I know better than to argue theology with you, although I do believe in my very soul that you would be better off for letting our Lord and Savior into your life.”
“Well then, Boyd, I suggest you follow your own remark and keep me and your Savior out of the same sentence.”
During this exchange, Taylor had been making their usual drinks, and placed them in front of the two men. Boyd looked down and let out a pleased laugh.
“Miss Taylor, you have outdone yourself. And will you listen to that?”
Given that Taylor used the exact same Spotify playlist every single year from the day after Thanksgiving through New Years, it was hardly surprising to hear Fairytale of New York.
I can see a better time, when all our dreams come true…
Taylor had inventory to finish, so she crouched back down to peer into the mini fridge as Boyd spoke.
“Raylan, do you ever think about what would’ve happened? If you hadn’t left Harlan.”
“No Boyd, I don’t. And I’m far too old to be apologizing for it now.”
“Goddamn, Raylan Givens, did I ever hate you. For years I let that hatred grow in my heart and soul until I was convinced to my core that the only way things could end was with one of us killin’ the other.”
Taylor froze under the bar, half-full bottle of cranberry juice in her hand. What the hell? Maybe Yocelin was right. This was exactly like a bad western.
“But you didn’t take the shot. You saved me Raylan, for the second time in my life, and it took me a while to realize it, but I now know that whatever we might have had down in that mine at the age of nineteen, you still felt it same as I did.”
Raylan didn’t say anything. Taylor heard the knock of the glass against the bar.
We kissed on a corner, then danced through the night…
Boyd was silent for a moment too, then:
“How might Willa be doin’? Now, if I recall correctly from our previous rendezvous, she was studyin’ at a university.”
“What the hell?”
“I am sorry Raylan, I thought we were makin’ polite conversation, one of the many and various diversions available to intelligent adults such as ourselves.”
Taylor closed the fridge and stood up in time to see Raylan’s nonplussed expression.
“Willa’s…fine. She’s great. Good grades and everything. Still won’t listen to a word I say.”
Raylan’s eyes softened when he talked about his daughter, lost some of the suspicion that was never far away when he was talking to Boyd. His next words were tired.
“Boyd, honestly, what am I doing here? It’s been three years. For reasons beyond my comprehension, I drive out here to see you while Willa has Christmas dinner with her mom and grandparents, only to get cryptic comments about our past digging coal together.”
Boyd stared at him incredulously, eggnog glass frozen halfway back down to the bartop.
“Why I declare, for someone supposedly so clever, you truly excel at playing the fool. Now, I am many things, for better or worse, but one thing you cannot possibly hope to affix to my character is the label of stupidity.”
He set his glass down with a loud clatter.
“I know you, Raylan Givens, and I’m not expectin’ any kind of apology for the way you run off back then. I told you, I forgave you that a long time ago now. I know you probably can’t even acknowledge the reality of what we were to each other. Deputy US Marshal, formerly in love with a criminal.”
Taylor had to work extremely hard not to react. Turning her back on the two men she began studiously refilling the garnish containers. Yoc was going to be completely insufferable about this.
“But we’ve got a whole lot more life behind us at this point than we do ahead, and if you can’t see this as the invitation to let all that nonsense go that it is, well then maybe it’s you ought to be called stupid.”
Taylor turned around to see Raylan’s expression, intense eyes and thin mouth revealing what she now realized was his reaction to any evocation of his and Boyd’s past. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again, brow furrowed.
Boyd stared him down right back. Raylan tried to speak again, then huffed frustratedly. In the next moment he had reached out to pull Boyd’s chin towards him and they were kissing, right in front of the camo-clad poachers and the Christmas Day alcoholics and Taylor’s astonished and delighted face.
The kiss wasn’t erotic. In fact, if Taylor hadn’t had any context, she would have classed it as one of the more boring kisses to occur in the bar. But Boyd had his hand on Raylan’s knee and Raylan had his hand on Boyd’s cheek like they needed each other to stay upright.
I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you.
Taylor looked away, down the bar, unwilling to intrude in their moment, and saw a trio of men glaring back towards her amorous customers.
Reaching under the bar, she set the sawed-off down in front of them.
“Gentlemen, if you have a problem with the goings-on in my establishment, I suggest you take it up with the management.”
All three returned studiously to their beers.
Behind her, Taylor heard Boyd’s telltale delighted laugh.
“Miss Taylor, am I seein’ things or did you just threaten those men with that there sawed-off?”
Taylor turned back around. Boyd’s eyes were more genuine than she’d ever seen them, charming façade stripped away.
“Boyd Crowder, this is one Christmas I’ll admit to finding pretty damn special.”
All the regulars had seen them at least once. They didn’t come often, but they always sat together at the bar and chatted with Taylor, the new owner after Charlie retired for good, who seemed to know them well. The taller one wore a black cowboy hat, like in those old western movies, and the other man had the most dazzling smile you’d ever seen.
Cowboy hat was a Deputy US Marshal, anywhere from one to five years away from retirement, depending on his mood when you asked him. Some people said his companion was a man of God, but some of the more unsavory elements that frequented the bar swore he was the mastermind behind a drug-running ring stretching across the South.
But one thing everyone could agree on was that come hell or high water, Raylan and Boyd would be there at the bar on Christmas day, listening to Taylor’s horrible Irish-American Christmas playlist over eggnog and shots of whisky.