Jack Marston is at a low point in his life. His family is dead, Beecher's Hope is in ruins, and he has nothing left to live for. Most days he spends so drunk he can barely remember anything, he kills and robs people at will, and there isn't an ounce...
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The sound of Buell's hooves plodding against the dirt was the only sound for a while, minus the sound of the hot, dry wind whistling through the creosote brush and over the land as they traveled. Jack held the reins in his hands like a leadrope, leading Buell along at an even, steady pace while Eva sat in the saddle, refusing to take her eyes off him.
After the fear of the previous day's events had worn off, Jack wasn't shocked to find Eva was more afraid than he'd originally thought. Even coaxing her to eat something that morning had been difficult, and she had the look in her eyes of a deer that had smelled a wolf. At any moment, she looked ready to bolt, even if it wasn't safe for her to do so.
And it wasn't. Mario might still be after her. Jack hadn't liked the look in his eyes when he'd left them. He had beat him at his own game, and men like that did not take humiliation lightly.
He looked up at Eva, whose lonesome, sad eyes stared out across the desert with a dead, lifeless look in them. She might as well have been a corpse. The poor girl had no doubt been through a lot, and Jack knew nothing about how deeply seated her trauma was, and what sadness and atrocities lay behind her. She had to have ended up with Mario somehow, but she seemed tight lipped about that. She didn't seem to care about much, it seemed, except horses and her freedom.
Mentioning those two things were the only topics Jack had noticed so far that brought signs of life to her face again. She was already free. He had seen to that. Having her travel with him was only for her protection, until he was sure Mario was no longer a threat to her. But he wasn't sure how to make her trust him in the meantime. He'd tried humor, tried food, tried reassuring her. But nothing he did seemed to make a hill of beans. She was just as frightened as always, seemingly ready to apologize any time his mood was anything less than happy and satisfied.
Maybe a horse would help, he thought. She seemed to like them, after all. The look in her eyes as he saddled Buell earlier had been the closest he'd seen her to peace and happiness so far. He had no idea what the words she'd said to the horse meant, but they seemed quiet and soothing and kind. Buell had certainly seemed to think so. Jack had never seen the horse enjoy someone's touch so much, not even from his father. But then, John Marston hadn't been the most tender man on the planet.
In fact, Jack remembered him as somewhat rough. It had been only three or so years since his father's passing, and the memory of what he'd been like was still quite strong. He liked to yell at people, Jack remembered with a smile, whether that was people he passed on his horse or folk he'd come across and deemed to be incompetent. He wasn't the most patient man or the most tender, not being one to show physical affection except to Jack's mother, and he'd always been quite strict with Jack growing up.
Still, there was no doubt he'd loved Jack, in his own way, and that made the times he'd shown his son physical affection that much sweeter. John had never hugged him, for instance, except for a few times that he remembered. Once, when he'd collected him from the mansion of a man named Angelo Bronte, and then it had been some time until he'd hugged Jack again. Not until the day he'd come riding into Beecher's Hope after killing Jack's uncle, a man by the name of Dutch.
