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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Caution: This chapter contains numerous racial slurs, used in both derrogatory and historical contexts. The views of the characters herein do not reflect the author's views. They are simply included to be time-period accurate, and a large amount of research went into making sure they were used realistically. There is also a mention of suicide. If these are things that might trigger you, please read at your own risk.
I also used the word "cunt" at one point.
The twittering of birds awakened Jack in the morning. More specifically, it was the singing of a meadowlark right outside the window, and the harsh screech of a bluejay perched on the roof. It was right at dawn, and only a faint, gray light peeked through the window shades to illuminate his surroundings.
The fire had long since died down, but Jack wasn't cold. Eva's skin pressed against his beneath the covers of the bed kept him plenty warm enough. They lay just as they had the night before, with Jack's arm around her as he lay on his back, and her arm over his abdomen with her head resting against his chest.
Jack pulled her in closer to him and pressed his face into her hair to warm his icy nose and lips. He'd build up a fire in a minute, but for now he could not bring himself to walk naked to the fireplace across the cold room. Not wanting to wake Eva with too much movement, he lay there in the dim pre-dawn, alone with his thoughts.
This was the first time he'd ever managed to sleep in this room of the house. It held traces of his mother and father everywhere, and the little nuances were all reminders of them that cut him right to the bone.
Pa's map of the region still lay in the corner, and it was still covered in pencil scribblings from all the journeys he'd used it to plan. In the trunk against the far wall were a couple of dolls sewn by Jack's mother. She'd made them while pregnant with Jack's sister, a tiny, weak baby who'd died a mere seven or eight minutes after being born. The baby's life had been so short they'd never officially given her a name, but Jack had once heard his parents whispering about naming her Susan. Only six months after burying the baby, Fordham and Ross and about a dozen lawmen had turned up on the farm to take them all prisoner and use them to force Pa to hunt down Bill, Javier, and Dutch for them.
The room felt very claustrophobic all of a sudden, and Jack found himself greatly desiring some fresh air. He slid from the bed, being extremely careful not to rouse Eva, and built up the fire so she would be warm when she awoke. He pulled on his clothes carefully and silently, and then crept out of the room, gently pulling the door shut behind him.
Once he was no longer in the room, Jack felt a bit better. Vivian had taken Jack's usual sleeping pace on the couch, and her mouth hung slightly askew as she slept with a quilt pulled over her. He built the fire up in the living room for her as well, as a courtesy for not barging in on them the night before to demand her usual resting place in a proper bed.
Next came coffee. He stepped quietly into the kitchen and started a fire in the cookstove to boil a nice, fresh potful of the stuff. As it made, he ate some cheese and a hunk of pemmican made from dried venison, currant berries, and bear grease. It wasn't exactly the tastiest breakfast he'd ever eaten, but he was a god-awful cook, and as none of the girls were awake yet, he didn't want to bother one to fix him something hot. Even though he paid them for their labor, it still felt wrong to order them about like servants.
