What if Ross hadn't been lying and Abigail really was killed in a prison riot a week before Dutch?
That's the situation John Marston finds himself in after watching Dutch commit suicide. He manages to shoot his way out of trouble after killing Edgar...
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John cradled Abigail to his chest. Half asleep, he held her closely from behind, burying his face in her hair. His eyes weren't open yet, but in his mind he could see her clear as day with her soft, pale skin that smelled so sweet and her pretty, blue eyes covered by thin, purple eyelids.
He felt so at peace with her in his arms that he chose not to fully wake up yet. It felt like a dream, the most pleasant one he'd ever had, and he could feel all the stress and tension melt away as the scent of her washed over him and his thumb softly stroked the skin of her arm.
Abigail seemed to stir somewhat, and she rolled over so that she faced him and buried her face in his neck. His arms encircled her back now, and he rested his chin gently on the top of her head.
After a bit longer, he felt her stirring as well. She curled into him for warmth and nuzzled even deeper into his neck, breathing deeply as though she liked the way he smelled, too. He could have stayed the rest of his life in this moment with her, but he knew he needed to wake up soon. Morning had come to Beecher's Hope, and soon the cows would be lowing because their udders were tight and they needed milking. The horses and sheep would soon begin to cry for feed, and the rooster would crow to welcome the dawn.
"Mornin'," John rasped tiredly, running his thumb up and down her spine through her nightgown. He still had not opened his eyes.
She stirred a bit more as his words roused her into another round of movement. He felt her stretch, yawn, and then she froze as though she'd seen a ghost. "Uh, John?" asked a voice that wasn't Abigail's.
John's eyes popped open. The woman he held wasn't Abigail. It was Bonnie MacFarlane.
He released her as though she was something poisonous, the pit of his stomach filling with pain and embarrassment as his face turned bright red. In his drowsy state, he'd forgotten the events of the day before, and since this was the first time in months he'd shared a bed with a woman, he'd assumed it was Abigail almost by instinct.
"Jesus," he said, his voice still creaking and raspy with sleep, "I'm so sorry, Bonnie. I... I thought you were my wife."
She was blushing as well, although her lips were smiling and her eyes danced. "It's okay," she reassured him. "Mistakes happen, and this would be an easy one for a man in your situation to make."
"But-."
"Really, John, it's nothing," she reassured him. "Besides, you're warm and this house is cold. There are worse ways to wake up." She blushed even brighter red.
He laid there in stunned silence with his head resting gently on the pillow as he looked at her curiously. "Still," John whispered, "I'm sorry."
"If you apologize to me again, I think I might actually hit you, Mr. Marston," she scolded with a grin. "Stop it."
"Sure thing," he sighed, beginning to grin as well. If he was honest with himself, this whole situation was kind of funny. She had a point there.
