A New Beginning

Stone Cold

"She really wants to talk to you. Been sitting here waitin' for you all evening. Miss, are you all right?"

Although Jones has been speaking kindly in your favor you can hardly rejoice. You must look like an idiot here you stand, jaw gaping and round-eyed like it's bigfoot himself standing in front of you. Admittedly, Arthur looks about as dumbstruck as you feel, making you wonder if he too has difficulty following the sheriff's monologue. From the what-the-hell look on his face, you guess not.

"I-I'm good, thank you sir," you stutter, whisking out the door in a haste clearly indicating you are anything but.

It must have been a while since sunset. The sky is dark and the air noticeably colder than when you went to see the gunsmith. You lean over a wooden railing as you draw a heaved gasp, though the succeeding exhale is far more serene. The cold air is doing wonders in assuaging your state of mind. The smog, however, is not.

A century-old mining town, Annesburg is filled with noise even this late at night. Chatters and hollers from late-night workers living in the small huts behind you, dogs yapping, metal clanging against metal, locomotives far and near... A door slamming! Your hands clutch the handrail. Upon realizing the noise came from one of the shacks behind you and not the sheriff's office, you loosen your grip a little. You should go. Now, before it is the door to the sheriff's office you hear. Then why aren't you? Because as fate would have it, Arthur Morgan is now your best and perhaps only chance at finding Nevans. Because as of now, a confrontation seems inevitable anyways.

Not quite ready to acknowledge the tingles deep in your stomach and their implication you stand idle by, absentmindedly watching ships and liners gliding over Lannahechee River, a tranquil view that is quite a contrast to the thunderstorm raging inside you despite your apparent equanimity. A sudden gust of wind has you tucking your knitted cardigan around you. Spoilt by temperate climate for months you had underestimated how cold it can get up here this time of the year, especially at night.

A door to your right swinging open sends another kind of shiver down your spine. You hear the scrape of a match being struck against a surface, followed by the distinct smell of a lit cigarette. There is hardly any doubt who it is. Arthur takes his time approaching you, dragging his feet along the dirt-caked ground. With only your ears and nose to pinpoint his movements, as you can't bring yourself to look, every step, every shuffle of pebbles and dirt, every puff followed by a whiff of cigarette smoke has shivers of trepidation, mortification and as much as you'd like to deny it, a rousing buzz of exhilaration shooting through you. When he finally steps up beside you it feels like your heart is about to burst through your chest.

"Sorry to hear 'bout your pa."

You can tell from his posture that he is not looking at you either. Your eyes are transfixed on his gloved hands circling the handrail, like yours.

"Don't you dare talk about him!"

"That's gonna be a bit hard if you want my help catching his killer."

"I do not want nor need your help!" you spit out, your knuckles white. Though the first bit might be true the second is not, no matter how much you want it to be.

"You go out there alone you ain't gonna live long enough to see the sun rise."

Seems like the sheriff has done a good job in detailing every bit of your conversation. You had meant to just throw a quick glance, but now that your eyes are locked onto him it's impossible to look away. His hair is longer than you remember, with shoulder-length, dirt-blonde locks floating around the collar of his jacket. You scrutinize every feature, like you had in the bath house where you first met him many months ago, instantly charmed by a friendly smile and a pair of teal-marine eyes framed by white bubbles in honey-colored hair. Now all you see is a bitter and sour-faced countenance hidden under a broad-brimmed hat. The thick, three-week beard does little to conceal his tense jaw. You can hardly believe it's the same person, both familiar and alien at once. He is unkempt and filthy, both looking and smelling like a hermit or a lumberjack returning from the woods end-season.