A hawk circled in the fire of the heavens, casting a forewarning shadow over any rabbit or mouse who dawdled in the sands below. Desert offering only rows of cactus for shelter, the bird of prey found himself alone, seeking and finding no other creature with bitter silence. The horizon beckoning, the hawk beat his wings with a mighty thrust, rocketing into the sunset and the promises of the west.

A cream-colored mare tapped the window of the locomotive as it barreled towards their destination. “Look, Mother, a hawk. Isn’t he beautiful?”

Her remark fell on deaf, flattened ears, her companion curled up into her hooves in the train-cab beside her. Sighing, the guardian of what remained of the Orange Family clan muttered, “I’m sure he is, Citrus. I’m sure he’s flying off to a better place.”

Citrus Blossom gently ran a forehoof through her mother's tangerine mane. “And so are we, Mother. We should be pulling into Appleloosa soon.”

Eight hours. Four ushered them to Ponyville, the place where her youngest foal had sought her own refuge from a soulless, cruel, sinful city. Ponyville. No place for them there.

If Madhoof sent the hounds of hell after them, Babs Seed would be caught in the crossfire. She’d dare not risk her youngest filly’s life any further, though it broke her heart to be the one to leave the foal this time.

Libra Scales had been a fool. If she’d only paid closer attention to the fall of the cards, the shaking of the dice in the dealer’s hooves, maybe she could have foreseen Bernie Madhoof’s treachery. Maybe she could have scraped together enough bits to keep the family intact. Maybe she could have enough to buy off the corrupted uniforms who surely would have burned her evidence. Maybe she could have saved enough to keep them out of the unrelenting blaze of Celestia’s desert sun.

Maybe, the three of them could be a family, together.

Yet, here they were, Citrus and Libra, steam of their locomotive adding to the distance from their youngest Orange and subtracting their precious funds. Half of the mason jar had been drained from two tickets and a meager lunch. The mare whose cutiemark represented good judgment and rationality failed to account for inflation of ticket prices.

The train pulled into the Appleloosa station at last. The shaking of her voice revealing the chink in her armor, Libra said, “Once we pull in, let’s go find Braeburn, Citrus. I… I don’t think we should waste our bits on a hotel. Probably too expensive, anyway.”

In silent affirmation, too exhausted for a rebuttal, Citrus rose to her hooves and followed her out of the train, their life’s possessions strapped to their backs. They’d had everything as recently as earlier that morning, been blessed with fine foods, beautiful silks, more luxury and leisure than the entire city of Manehatten itself could contain.

All of that became meaningless with a knock at the door, a gruff stallion, and a stack of documents. All of that had been abandoned in their dust. Materialism could not save them. Only their hooves contained that power.

Truly, they were starting over, tabula rasa, blank slate in a strange city.

Well, perhaps city was too generous a term. Appleloosa was barely a charted territory, a tiny dot on a traveler’s map—slightly above the status of the settlements cropping up even further west of here. Many years would pass before it could be rightly known as a city.

Remnants of the life she’d abandoned whispered through Libra Scales’ hooves, magic of the Earth sending her to a simpler time. Home-schooled and raised in these sands, she'd lived out her foalhood in Appleloosa, staying until she could no longer ignore the call of the city life. The settlement had been far different then. Libra, her sisters, and her parents wore their hooves into the ground back then, planting crops that inevitably failed, agonizing under the sun, struggling to just survive, much less thrive.

Appleloosa had been naught but a name in the sand in those times, occupied by only a hoof-full of daring settlers. Within the past few years, Libra had heard whispers of a bustling apple crop and a renewal in the west. For this reason, Appleloosa had been elevated to town status. Stable—no boom, no bust.

Libra Scales trotted with her daughter into the town square, a high clock-tower climbing to the heavens in the center and chiming 2000 hours. Darkness would befall them soon. Libra quickened her pace, near a canter in her exploration.

Braeburn Apple was a beloved a nephew and cousin to the Manehatten exiles. The stallion always sent a faithful letter to the Orange Family Mansion each Hearth’s Warming Eve, weaving splendid tales of life in the desert settlement among the mysterious Buffalo Tribe. (Apparently, relations between the indigenous and the immigrants had smoothed out in recent years, to his delight.)

Unfortunately, Libra Scales hadn’t seen Braeburn since he was a little colt, nearly twelve years ago... since his mother, her beloved sister Barbara, had become one with the stars. She’d been much too busy and full of too much grief to make the trek.

Libra regretted her weakness.

Shaking away her recollection, Libra led Citrus through the bustling settlement. The locals were out in full swing, in celebration of another day lived here in the West and the best.

All around them trotted lively stallions and mares, chattering fillies and colts, cheerful smiles on their faces, Stetsons shielding them from the sun. Beyond the distance, rows of crudely-constructed shacks, covered wagons, and tents offered shelter from the sun and rest for the weary. The mares said nothing at this sight. Safe sleep beat luxurious sleep any day in Equestria. Mansions were too cold, anyway.

A few vendors sold their wares among the dust and desert: mostly carts full of apple-derived products. Somehow, the apple trees here were strong and mighty despite the climate. Perhaps it was a different species, mused Libra Scales, the sight of hundreds of full trees below them leaving her in awe.

Truly, her sister’s work had survived beyond the gap between dimensions. Her hard-working sibling had been among the first to grow fruit under the inferno of the desert sun. That discovery had stabilized the settlement, propelling Appleloosa into the bright future (and an eventual conflict with the Buffalo Tribe, but that is another story). Libra felt a surge of pride as they trotted past the orchards.

By the looks of it, Appleloosa contained a saloon, a schoolhouse, a few stores, a post office, a hotel, and—most helpful of all—a sheriff’s office. Gesturing in the direction of the law, Citrus said, “Hey, Mom, maybe the Sheriff knows where we can find Braeburn?”

Libra replied uneasily, “It’s worth a try. I don’t see him anywhere. It’s been so long since I’ve been out here, Citrus, I don’t know where he could be. He never told me in his letters, either… I hope somepony can find him.” She gulped with the unspoken addendum, We’re bucked if nopony can.

Crossing the sands, Citrus and Libra reached the sheriff’s office. There, a gray stallion with an enormous (and somewhat ridiculous) black mustache leaned back in a rocking chair on the porch, his hindhooves causally strewn over the railing. A silver star pinned to his vest and adorning his flank spoke to his occupation, whereas his closed eyes and snoring snout wouldn’t.

Mother and daughter exchanged worried looks and shrugs. Then, Citrus trotted up the steps, hovered beside the stallion, and muttered, “Um… excuse me… Sheriff?”

Silence.

“Um…Sheriff?” Citrus poked him gently in the shoulder.

“Bwha?! Huh?!” Nearly jumping from his chair, the alerted stallion sighed with relief as he located the source of his interruption. “Oh! Ma apologies, ladies, I was jus’, uh, restin’ ma eyes an’ whatnot—“

“You’re the Sheriff, aren’t you?” Libra barked in irritation. Precious seconds ticked by, the night beckoning, no sign of the yellow stallion and his dusty mane, and with every passing moment, there’d be less room for them in the inn—if it came to that.

He nodded. “Sheriff Silverstar, at yer service, ma’am.” He removed his Stetson and bowed. With a smile, he asked, “What can Ah do ya fer? Haven’t see pretty mares like y’all ‘round these parts in a long time.”

“We’re, um, from Ma—“

“We’re looking for Braeburn Apple,” Libra snapped, cutting her daughter’s unnecessary explanation short. “Can you help us find him? It’s important.”

Sheriff Silverstar smiled brightly. His grin and badge twinkling in the fading sunlight, he mused, “Braeburn Apple, huh? Why, right ol’ hero he is ‘round these parts! Brought peace ‘tween us an’ the Buffalo! O’ course Ah know where ta find him! Follow me, ladies!”

Leaping from the porch, Sheriff Silverstar set his hooves towards the north part of town and its meager shelter. As the mares followed behind him, the Sheriff launched into a brief tour of Appleloosa. He gestured to each tiny establishment, waxing poetic about the town’s history. “An’ then, there was this one real strange mare from Ponyville, dolled up ta bits, singin’ ‘bout sharin’, an’, well, that jus’ done beat all…”

Eyebrow raised, Citrus whispered to her mother, “Are youze sure this is a good idea? We sure stick out here… and these ponies seem… different.”

“It definitely has changed from when I was a filly. But what choice do we have, Citrus?”

“Well, couldn’t we just go to the police, Mom?”

Libra Scales snorted. “Have you forgotten who we are already, Citrus? Or who Bernie is, at least? That document will make fine kindling for the fires he’d light. Hay, he might still light ‘em. He has the P.D. in his pocket; they can’t help us. Get that through your head. We cannot go back.”

“But, Mom—“

“An’ here we are!” Silverstar gestured to a shack waiting before them. The structure was one level, about the height of three stallions standing on each other’s shoulders. It was a grand, clean construction, not a nail out of place.

The wood lacked paint, bearing its grain against the desert sun and sand, but definitely beat some of the more ramshackle buildings and tents pitched nearby. “This is Braeburn’s place. Ah hope y’all find what yer lookin’ fer. An’ if ya need any help, jus’ let me know, okay?” the stallion added with a kind smile.

Citrus Blossom returned the warm gesture. “Thank youze, Sheriff.”

“Yes, thank you very much,” Libra said. She offered a forehoof to the stallion, who promptly shook hooves with her, seeking connection with his new wards. “We will be sure to let you know if we need anything.”

Here, in the descent of Celestia’s sun on the west, Libra Scales found her own roots rising through the sand to meet her. Appleloosa had been so, so long ago, so unimaginably barren and void. So far, this town seemed hospitable, warm, welcoming. Silverstar and the rest may have been members of an alien race for all Libra knew, so vast was the contrast.

For the first time today, the two mares encountered a pleasant surprise.

Silverstar tipped his hat again in respect. Slowly leaving his visitors to their errand, he trotted away, watching them with tired eyes. They seemed innocent enough. Yet, Silverstar made a vow keep them at the forefront of his mind. City ponies were always a gamble.

Citrus Blossom rapped a shaking forehoof on the door to Braeburn Apple’s shack.

Knock, knock, knock.

Citrus joined her mother a few steps from the perimeter, digging for an unseen oasis beneath her hooves. Aching seconds passed on the polished face of her internal clock, and just as she was about to make a second attempt, the door to the shack swung wide open.

There, in the doorway, stood a yellow stallion with a dusty mane, brown vest and Stetson completing him. His eyes were a pair of sparkling emeralds, and in the hasty setting of the desert sun, they were wide with shock. His mouth agape, he managed to sputter, “A-A-Auntie Libra? C-C-Cousin Citrus?”

“Hello, Braeburn,” Libra said.

The stallion hadn’t seen either of them in years. The last time he had seen them, he’d been young, heartbroken, unable to fully process the heap of broken images. Braeburn knew both his aunt and cousin had been at the funeral, though he yearned there hadn’t been one in the first place. Such a first impression, and one he longed to forget.

For all intents and purposes, Braeburn Apple was meeting them now for the first time.

Braeburn grinned so far and wide, his muzzle threatened to split in two. He leapt upon them, embracing them crushingly tight. “Oh, Celestia, it’s been so long! Auntie! Citrus! So good ta see y’all!”

“Good… to… see… you… too...” Citrus squeaked.

“Braeburn… you’re… hurtin’… me…” Libra choked.

Releasing the mares, Braeburn chuckled with a blush, “Oops! Sorry, y’all! Guess Ah jus’ got carried away, heh heh!” He rubbed the back of neck in slight embarrassment.

“So, what brings y’all out here to Aaaaaappleloosa??” he cried, rearing on his hindhooves with a whinny of excitement.

He adored his town second only to his family—having these long-lost Oranges here with him was, well, like Hearth’s Warming Eve. Two presents stood on his porch, unwrapped and expectant.

Hooves meeting sand, Braeburn's pupils suddenly dilated beyond all possibility, drinking in the sight of their saddlebags full to bursting. They were clearly burdened by their possessions. Why would somepony bring so much on just a simple family visit? Additionally, his aunt and cousin looked downright exhausted, their manes undone by velocity and sand. Hadn’t they taken the train?

“I will explain all of that,” Libra answered solemnly. “For now, can we please come inside?”

“Oh! O’ course, Auntie, where are ma manners? Please! Come in!” Gesturing with a forehoof, Braeburn retreated and held the door open wide as they crossed the threshold and secured it behind them. He bothered not with the locks. They were mere decorations in Appleloosa. Small-town folks had no need for thieves or burglars—lacking locks, they created none.

Dropping their saddlebags at the door, both mares marveled once more at the construction of his dwelling—this time, from the interior side. The shack was comfortably small, its square footage matching the smallest bedroom in the Orange Family Mansion. It surpassed the servant’s quarters in size, and hosted only one pony (currently) to boot. It was a marvelous work, ceiling vaulted with expert angles, floorboards and walls sandpapered to a fine, smooth texture. It was clearly the work of a master craftsman.

The shack contained a pair of full-sized bunk beds—a ladder connecting bottom to top—a circular table, three chairs, two storage chests, and a chest of drawers. A lamp on the table and one on the dresser burned brightly, illuminating the dwelling. The walls were decorated with a few photographs of various Apple Family members.

Smiling with pride, Braeburn asked, “You like it? Ah built it myself a few years ago. Now, Ah know Ah’m an Apple, an’ what we do best is grow our namesake, but Ah’d like ta think Ah could’ve done fine wit’ a construction cutiemark, too.” His visitors mumbled in agreement.

Citrus Blossom swept her gaze from wall to wall. There was only one room to speak of in her cousin’s dwelling. Modesty tossed aside, she said nervously, “Um, Braeburn, where is youze, um, youze know, uh—“

“Oh, outhouse is behind the buildin’. Sorry, cuz, Ah forget how things are in big cities sometimes,” he said with a chuckle. “No electricity o’ plumbin’—not yet, at least. We get by without, though. Them chests, there? Storage fer food, but apples don’t need an icebox.”

Nodding, fidgeting with her forehooves, Citrus replied, “I see. Can you please excuse me?”

“Of course, darling. We’ll be waiting,” Libra said. Her daughter scampered out of the abode, nearly barreling down the door in her haste. She turned to her nephew, apologizing, “Sorry, Braeburn. It was a very, very long train ride from Manehatten.”

Chuckling lightly, the stallion dismissed with a forehoof, “Oh, don’t worry ‘bout it, Auntie. Please. Make yerself at home. Take a chair wit’ me.”

Aunt and nephew joined together, taking seats at the tiny table. “Can Ah git ya anythin’?” Braeburn offered, “Apple tart? Apple fritter? Oh, Ah think Ah have some applesauce left, too. Made it maself.”

Growling of her stomach betraying the shake of her mane, Libra relented, “Well, I suppose I could eat. Citrus, too. But, first, Braeburn… there’s something I need to ask you.” She gently took one of his forehooves in between both of hers.

Gazing into his emerald irises, seeing only sincerity shining back at her, Libra asked, “Can… can you keep a secret?”

“O’ course Ah can, Auntie Orange.” He returned the gesture, squeezing her forehoof tight in his grip. “Anythin’ ya tell me will stay ‘tween us.”

She sighed. “Perhaps I should wait for Citrus to join us. I… I don’t know if I can tell you the whole story by myself.”

Braeburn raised a concerned eyebrow. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Libra Scales bit her lip and said, “Only… everything.”

~

Equestria’s reigning alicorns exchanged their positions in their nightly battle, the white diving deep into the void below the horizon, the violet raising her lantern high against her canvas of stars. Princess Luna painted a particularly wondrous masterpiece on this momentous night in Appleloosa, last echo of civilization before the desert gave way to the wonder and mystery of what lay beyond.

Silver, gold, oil, nothingness. All and none of the above.

Libra Scales told their story to the best of her ability, assisted periodically by Citrus Blossom and her limited perspective. They spoke of Bernie Madhoof, his abusive ways, his greed and addiction, his thirst for power, the iron hooves he held threateningly above Manehatten. They recalled the abuse and departure of Greyhoof, the patriarch's irrational prejudice towards his own foal, his manipulation of the entire household.

They spoke of the grizzled stallion on the porch, his thick accent, his diamond-pommeled cane. Harbinger of doom he was, siren shattering the pieces that remained in the Orange Family Mansion. One member already departed for greener pastures, two more left that day, diving into the sands.

When the mares showed Braeburn Apple the document, the stallion had to call upon every shred of self-control he possessed not to gallop off into the night in pursuit of a mansion and its wicked occupant. He trembled with rage, clenching his forehooves, bracing his hindhooves into his floorboards.

Uncle Orange was a drinker and a fiend—everypony in the extended family knew that. The Apples knew this especially well; Madhoof hated them the most of all. For Bernie Madhoof to even contemplate such a wicked thing set Braeburn’s adrenaline pumping, his blood boiling within his veins.

Libra Scales calmed her nephew. Her explanation was logical and chilling. There was nothing nopony could do. As long as Orange Enterprises reigned its iron hooves over Manehatten, and the corrupt uniforms jumped happily into his pockets, Bernie Madhoof could literally get away with murder if he wanted.

Braeburn Apple vowed never to eat a Manehatten orange again.

“Now, we’re here, Braeburn. We’re here, damn near broke, with nowhere to go,” Libra said. “This is all my fault. If I hadn’t attacked him, he wouldn’t have—“

“Youze attacked him, Mother?” Citrus gasped, incredulous.

Libra nodded shamefully. “Yes, I did. He… he was… forget it. I don’t want to talk about why. It doesn’t matter. Either way, I bucked up. I caused this. I’m the reason we’re homeless.

“I’m the reason our family is broken.” She whimpered, then burst into tears.

Citrus and Braeburn rose from their haunches and threw their forelimbs around the weeping mare. “Shhh… that’s not true, Mother, an’ you know it,” soothed Citrus as she stroked her mane. “Youze couldn’t have known this was gonna happen, an’ even if ya did, how did you know that he wasn’t gonna… do this eventually?”

Libra merely sobbed in response.

Braeburn nuzzled her neck in comfort. “Auntie, don’t blame yerself… ya did the best ya could, gettin’ out o’ there. Citrus got Babs out first, an' then you had enough ta get both o’ ya out here, didn’t ya?”

“Y-yes…”

Braeburn wiped her tears away with an unshorn fetlock. “See? Ya did yer best. Ya made it. An’ now, y’all are here. An’ ya know what?”

Sniffling, Libra muttered, “W-w-what? W-what do I k-know, Braeburn?”

“That y’all can stay here, long as ya like, long as ya need,” Braeburn said. With a slight smile, he continued, “Ma’ told me a long time ‘go that ya had ta leave, Auntie. Ya had ta leave, an’ chase yer dreams, an’ be the mare ya wanted ta be. An’ she respected that. An’ Ah do, too. Ah think we all gotta find where home is. After Ma’ died… Ah wanted ta run ‘way, run ‘way ‘cuz it hurt. But… this is ma home. Her home. Our home.

“An’, Auntie Orange, Ah know Ma’ would spank ma hide red if Ah didn’t open our home ta y’all.” He shook strands of dusty mane from his vision, tears joining his elder’s. They both shared a slight chuckle in the wake of his humor. “Heh. She would! Ah’m serious! She pulled no punches, Auntie!”

“I know, Braeburn,” she said with a grin. “I know.”

Braeburn’s irises sparkled, tears of joy. He finished his proposal, saying, “Ah know Ah don’t have no fancy mansion, no stacks o’ bits, nothin’ but bare bones out here. But… Ah can get y’all work. Ah can give y’all shelter, food, whatever y’all need. An’ maybe, after a while, y’all can go somewhere that’s more home ta ya. Sound fair?”

Two mares nodded their affirmation. Libra said, “Far more than fair. Braeburn, whatever we take, I’ll pay back to you in tenfold. No matter how long it takes.”

Shaking his muzzle, the stallion said, “Bits don’t mean nothin’ ta me, Auntie, Citrus. Love is all we need.” His guests’ bellies rumbling in protest, Braeburn added quickly, “Okay, an’ maybe apples.”

Two Oranges and an Apple shared a gentle laugh. They tucked away their demons beneath the rug of the desert plains, leaving the darkest of their nights for future discussion.

Many questions haunted Braeburn—what would they do with the document, and would they pursue justice when the skies were a bit brighter?—but he silenced them for now. At hoof, he had a first impression to make, two beloved guests to drown in Appleloosa’s reputable hospitality.

In the tiny shack of Braeburn Apple, Citrus and Libra tasted and devoured the finest applesauce in all of Equestria. Manehatten and Appleloosa made up for the miles and years between them, memories of family and friends long gone and times lost to the wind prompting tears of joy and mourning. They spoke late into the dark, until the rising of the moon’s most powerful beams sung them to sleep.

Mother and daughter shared a simple bunk bed that night, sheets and blankets scratchy in the absence of their typical luxury. Neither of the mares cared. It was warm and safe all the same.

Below them, nephew and cousin and newfound savior slumbered, dreaming of a proud mother and new days to come. In dreams, she was there, and she praised him.

Citrus and Libra wrote upon the first page of their tabula rasa, and it went something like this: “Sometimes, it is the smallest spaces which are the most full. And, sometimes, starting over is the bravest thing a pony can do.”

From Appleloosa she came, and to Appleloosa she returned. And Libra Scales was not afraid.