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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Eva held Jack's hand. He rested fitfully, and every now and then she had to take a cloth and dry the cold sweat from his brow. He'd been delirious for a couple of days now, mumbling things she didn't always understand.
He asked for his father a lot, and each time he grasped Eva's hand with his sweaty palm, he'd stare deep into her eyes and say something like, "Momma? Where's Pa?"
Other times, he would have whole conversations with hallucinations that weren't there. She'd heard him talking to someone he thought was his father for over an hour about the weather. But fortunately, he'd mostly been okay since his seizure.
He'd been lying in bed, mumbling to himself about bullet holes or something, and then he'd sat straight up in bed, eyes wide open, and acted as if he saw his father in the room with him. Moments later, his body had started to vibrate like the wings of a cicada, his eyes rolled back into his head until they were only whites, and he'd nearly fallen to the floor from the convulsions.
Eva had been holding his hand when it happened. In that moment, she'd been sure he was going to die, and the thought had crossed her mind that if he did indeed succumb to this terrible affliction, she would be highly upset and filled with grief. Never before in her life had she ever dreamed she'd feel grief for someone. Until Jack, there had been no one she cared about enough to worry for. No one that she loved.
And yet she'd told him she wouldn't marry him. Not until he quit drinking, and his attempt to quit cold turkey had caused his current predicament. He was suffering and in pain, and it was all Eva's fault.
She knew it was for the best, sure, but she had never wanted to hurt him. She hadn't dreamed that her refusal of his marriage proposal would ever drive him to this. He'd done this for her, and if he didn't get better soon, the effort would likely kill him.
This fact meant Eva hadn't left Jack's bedside in days. She took her meals in a chair by his bedside, and at night she curled up next to him to sleep, with her head on his chest so she could press her ear over his heart and make sure it was still beating. The sound brought her comfort, as did his slow, even breathing.
When he was lucid enough, she coaxed water and liquidy foods like honey and mashed potatoes down his throat to keep him fed and hydrated. Vivian and Jack's aunts had offered to take over for Eva a few times so she could rest, but Eva refused to leave. She sat and held Jack's hand and took care of him as well as she could.
"How's he doing?" asked a male voice, breaking Eva out of the trance she'd been in as she stroked Jack's limp, lifeless hand with her thumb.
"¿Que?" Eva asked, not immediately comprehending at first, until she realized he was speaking English. Her worry had made her get her languages confused sometimes, since she typically thought in Spanish and spoke in English these days.
But the man cleared his throat and spoke back to her in perfect Spanish, "Lo siento. ¿Cómo está él?" He'd asked how Jack was doing in Eva's native tongue. He spoke it well enough that Eva paused and looked behind her to see who it was.
