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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Jack sat in a chair beneath a large, live oak tree near the back porch of Beecher's Hope, staring at the orange light of the sunset as it reflected off the Grizzlies. He remembered sitting in this same spot as a boy, often with Rufus either at his feet or sniffing around in front of him. Since Eva and Mary-Beth were still in Blackwater running errands and shopping, he took the opportunity to relax with a cigarette and enjoy being home.
And he did have to admit he enjoyed being home. Beecher's Hope held a lot of pain for him (he still wasn't able to bring himself to visit his parents' graves or go out to the barn), but it also held a lot of joy.
He'd worked in the fields today. The physical labor made him happy, in a way. Having sweat on his brow and dirt on his hands was lovely, and even he had to admit the ranch was very well taken care of in his absence. The ranch's crop of tomatoes and sweet corn, for instance, was flourishing. Both vegetables were among Jack's favorites, and in fact he'd ended his work day in the shade with a bite from a large, juicy tomato.
He also hadn't worn a shirt all day. His father had never worn a shirt much when working with the crops, and now Jack knew why. It was hot, back-breaking work, and the less clothing one wore, the more comfortable one was. He pitied Karen and Mary-Beth for having to work in their long, cumbersome dresses.
But as Jack sat and the light of the dying sun waned more and more, he sighed and realized he'd be cold soon. It got cool at night, and he still wore no shirt, although as always, he still had his father's hat on his head. Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder. "It really is beautiful out here," Vivian said quietly, sitting down cross-legged beside him. "It's a different kind of beauty than Armadillo. More wild, and with much more green and blue."
Jack nodded. "You should see Tall Trees. There's green everywhere. Even the rocks are green with moss and algae and ferns."
"There was moss in Saint Denis, too," Vivian said quietly. "I don't remember much from my early childhood, but I remember the Spanish moss. It dripped from the branches like gray water, and it waved gently in the cypress trees at night like hair on the head of some ghost. When it rained, it turned the most beautiful green color as it absorbed moisture. It was something else."
Jack looked down at her. He hadn't seen her much today, as he'd gone outside to work before she'd even begun to wake. Oddly, Vivian wore a pair of men's pants made from blue denim with rivets to hold them together, supported by worn, leather suspenders. She also wore a gray, union shirt that had belonged to Jack's father and buttoned in the front with a large v-shape to show off her cleavage. He could see the tips of her nipples poking through the fabric in the cool, evening air he realized she wore no corset beneath the shirt.
Strangely enough, on her head was Uncle Arthur's hat. She'd likely found it beneath the bed where she'd been sleeping because that was where Jack's father always kept it. It had been one of his most prized possessions because of its sentimental value. Jack wondered whether the pants and bearskin boots with shiny, gold-plated spurs she wore had been Arthur's once, too.
