Snake Skin | John Marston

Born Into Trouble

By the year 1911, Y/N Colter had fully embraced her new life at Beecher's Hope. Memories of her wild days spent with dangerous men and months on the trail, sleeping beneath the stars, haunted her thoughts. Now, she found herself folding her lover's dry clothes or cooking a hearty meal, a stark contrast to the chaos of her past. Frequently, she donned a white dress, a symbol of her newfound freedom and a fresh start. The last man she'd taken down had met his end back in 1905.

She never envisioned herself as a housewife. Did she even remember how to grip a revolver? Deep down, she did, and she knew she'd need that skill again if the time came. The notion of dying a hero's death was long gone; now, she yearned for the quiet solace of a peaceful old age.

What fate would have awaited her had she pulled the trigger on Charles and John that fateful night? Would she have met her end at the hands of Dutch Van Der Linde back in 1899?

Y/N sat on the worn leather couch, her fingers deftly knitting a scarf. The peaceful silence of the afternoon was shattered when John stumbled through the front door, weary and groaning. He ambled into the living room, tossing his work gloves onto the table. "Look at you, the deadliest gunslinger of the 19th century. Knitting?"

"Hey!" Y/N called out, turning to face him. "Watch your mouth. How do you know I ain't got a pistol strapped to my thigh?"

John chuckled, leaning against the nearest wall, arms crossed. "'Cause I know you, Y/N. You're scared of cows..."

"Am not, Marston!" Y/N shot back, a playful fire in her eyes. John often teased her, knowing she needed to keep her bright spirit alive despite the weight of the world outside. He recognized how much she had changed, how the harshness of life had tempered her laughter. He cherished her jokes and sly remarks, determined to keep them from wilting away.

He had fallen for a fierce gunslinger and then, in some twist of fate, found himself drowning her in house chores, farm animals, and pretty dresses. But his love for her was unwavering, steadfast until the end, no matter what the world threw their way.

It had taken him a week to truly fall for her, and he knew it would take a lifetime to fall out of love. Thoughts of marriage danced in his mind, imagining her shedding the Colter name for his.

"John, what are you starin' at?" Y/N teased, waving her hand in front of his face. He was lost in thought, a smile creeping across his lips despite his reverie.

"You. You're so gorgeous," he said, his smirk widening.

Y/N scoffed, taking a step back, "You've got a way with words. Did you learn that from Dutch?"

"I reckon so. The man raised me like a son. Even taught me how to read." John turned to the window, peering outside. Suddenly, his expression shifted, the color draining from his face as he reached for his holstered gun. He glanced back at Y/N, confusion etched across her features, before bolting out the door.

Once John stepped out of the house, the woman approached the window and took a cautious peek. A sharp gasp escaped her lips when she spotted five lawmen and their horses right outside the building. Two were dismounted, while the others remained mounted, their steeds shifting uneasily. She watched intently as John approached them, and soon enough, their voices began to rise in conversation.

After a tense moment, Y/N snatched the shotgun that hung above the fireplace and rushed to the door. With a powerful kick, she swung it open and leveled the barrel at the nearest stranger. It had been a while, but the sight of those uniforms made her blood run cold—U.S. Marshals.

"Hey!" one of the officers barked, leveling his own gun at her.

"Now, now. Let's all calm down. Especially you, Miss Colter," an older man with a bushy mustache stepped into her line of sight, and she wasted no time in keeping him in her sights. John turned back to Y/N, shaking his head in disapproval.

Seeing that John Marston wasn't in any danger, she slowly lowered her weapon and took a cautious step forward.

"Edgar Ross," the man said again, extending his hand for a shake. John accepted it firmly, the two men exchanging pleasantries. As Ross turned to Y/N, she stood beside her lover, a gun slung casually over her shoulder, her expression marked by irritation.

Noticing her mood, Ross attempted to lighten the air. "Good day, isn't it?"

"It was," she replied tersely.

"But that ain't why we're here. Partnered with the Bureau of Investigation, we've been tracking down outlaws like you for quite some time. Do you reckon we've forgotten about your little escapades back in the 90s? Not a chance. In fact, we've come to offer John Marston a job."

"A job? What are you talking about, sir?" John inquired, crossing his arms defensively.

Ross paused, scanning the surroundings. "We need you to hunt down the rest of the Van Der Linde gang. Capture or kill them—it's your call."

"Then I reckon I'll be declining your offer, sir," John interjected, his tone firm. "I've got a family to look after. I've got a wife right here." He shot a glance at Y/N before turning to head back inside.

"I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding. You don't have a choice," Ross clarified, his voice growing colder.

"Are you tryin' to play games with me, sir?" John retorted, spinning back to face the older man, anger simmering just beneath the surface.

"Nobody's playin' games with you, Mister Marston," Edgar Ross said, a slight smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. "But if we were to engage in a little fun, there'd be some mighty interesting choices on the table. Like stringin' you up for murder, seizin' all your property—this little patch of dirt you call a farm, for instance—or puttin' your woman in the electric chair. Those are the kinds of games we could play, but instead, we've opted for a different game. So you best calm down and play along."

Y/N heard every word and turned her fierce gaze toward Edgar. "I'd like to see you try, you lowlife."

Edgar raised an eyebrow, glancing at John, who sighed heavily. He nodded and grabbed Y/N by the wrist, leading her back into the house. Once inside, he released her and made his way to the storage room to gather supplies.

Y/N peered out the window at the strangers gathering outside and called out, "So, you're just gonna leave again?"

John didn't respond, his focus on packing his things.

"Fine then, take me with you," she demanded, frustration lacing her tone.

John heard her plea and rushed back into the room, stopping just in front of her. He locked eyes with her, the weight of the world visible in his gaze. "You've gotta stay here and look after the place. It'll fall apart if Uncle's left to fend for himself."

Tears threatened to spill from Y/N's eyes as she listened to him.

"But you promised!" she cried, her grip tightening on his jacket. "You promised you'd never leave again, John Marston! Why do you keep doin' this? Is it because of our past? Is that what this is about?"

He placed his hand over hers, his voice low and sincere. "No, darlin', it's not about the past. I ain't got a choice in this. But I swear, I'll be back before you know it. If I don't do this, he'll take you away and kill us both."

"Please!" Y/N begged, sinking to her knees and clutching at his clothing.

John knelt down to lift her back up, cupping her cheeks with calloused hands. "I'll come back. I promise I will."

"You sure do make a lot of promises, John Marston," she said, a hint of a smile breaking through her tears as she wiped her eyes.

He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before returning to his packing, the weight of the world still resting heavily on his shoulders.