𝖔𝖕𝖎𝖚𝖒&𝖕𝖔𝖎𝖘𝖔𝖓

Jack’s back slammed into the hard edge of the bar with a loud thud, and he wiped a bit of blood that trickled from his nose with the back of his hand. The man opposite to him wasted no time throwing another punch at his head. He ducked to the side. Jack’s skinnier frame allowed him to dodge and weave better than his opponent, but the head rush from the drinks he had earlier were making it difficult to stay steady enough to focus on the task at hand. Once the man’s arm was fully extended, Jack thought he saw an opening to be able to sock him directly under his ribs, and he took the chance— only for the man to spin towards Jack quicker than he could react. The man’s large fist had a death grip on the front of his shirt.

“I’m giving you one more chance. Take it back.”

Jack struggled to catch his breath. “I did nothin’ to you, you miserable bastard. You pushed me outta the way when I was gettin’ my drink.”

The man snarled. “You called me an inbred-looking ogre. You think that shit’s funny, boy?”

“Not funny, sir,” Jack smirked through his bloodied teeth. It was just enough of a smile so that the man could see it, and his nostrils flared like a bull’s in response. “Just truthful.”

In his peripheral vision, Jack could see the bartender waving his hands frantically. “Hey! You two take it outside! That’s enough, already!”

But the man paid no mind to his pleas. He shoved Jack to the floor so forcefully that his head knocked back violently against the wooden floorboards. The hit caused a sharp and excruciating pain to radiate from the back of Jack’s head. If the booze hadn’t already made him dizzy, then this certainly finished the job. Earl’s shadow loomed over Jack, and he grabbed onto his shirt again as he pummeled him.

The first time, Jack felt his nose gush blood like a fountain.

The second landed closer to his temple and made his vision turn white around the edges.

He had been mentally preparing himself for the third as he stared dazedly at the paneling of the ceiling, but it never came. He could barely register the large thud next to him. As his vision faded, he saw the blurry form of a new man over him— but this time with the familiar glint of a sheriff’s badge on his chest. The new man tried to speak to him. Jack could barely understand, and before he could attempt to reply, his grip on consciousness slipped away.

___

Before Jack could register that he was, in fact, awake and alive, he was hit with the sensation that his head was going to be split in two. He groaned immediately, slowly becoming more aware of all the horrid sensations his body had in store for him: namely pain, followed closely by soreness, grime, and a rapidly emerging nausea that tore up his stomach. He sat up faster than his body prepared for, and leaned over the side of the cot, anticipating the inevitable. Someone had done him a kindness and placed a bucket next to him. Jack vomited up whatever small amount of food he had left in his stomach from the night before, and he coughed weakly.

He looked around at his surroundings to see his meager belongings strewn around the bunkhouse. His coat, gun, and his father’s hat were draped across the assorted boxes on the other side of the room. Someone had taken him back home.

Miss MacFarlane is going to kill me, he thought.

His eyes shot open, and he quickly scrambled to reach his hand into the collar of his shirt. He pulled out a small ring tied to a worn leather cord draped around his neck, and immediately breathed a sigh of relief. The man from last night hadn’t stolen anything from him, thank God— a hat or gun is one thing, but he was sure most folks would steal a ring from him. Jack stroked the thin gold band with his thumb before tucking it back into his shirt and patting the lump it created beneath the fabric reassuringly. The sun that shone through the windows did nothing to soften the miserable throes of his hangover. He eyed the amber liquor bottle next to him before reaching out to uncork it and take a swig, praying that the hair of the dog would save him from a bit of his agony. Carefully, Jack finally got on his feet and made his way over to the small mirror posted on top of a washstand close to the window. He mentally braced himself for the sorry state he was sure to be in.

Swelling, discolored skin encircled a small yet jagged cut on his cheekbone close to his eye on the left side. It spread to a much darker purple bruise next to his temple. Jack’s natural dark circles added to the blues and yellows that developed in the delicate skin under his eye. His nose was just as battered, and the way the bridge of it was tweaked slightly had him convinced it was broken. Jack tried to touch the cut he had gingerly, but he hissed at the contact.

That fucker surely knew how to throw a punch.

A knock at the door startled Jack enough to face it, grasping for a gun that wasn’t at his side.

“You alive, Marston?” The man’s muffled voice was familiar, and his annoyed tone clued Jack in on who it was quickly. He relaxed his shoulders.

“Amos.”

Amos sighed deeply from behind the door. “Miss MacFarlane wants to see you.”

Jack closed his eyes and rubbed them in defeat. He had forgotten his bruises and winced.

“How pissed is she?”

“What do you think, son?”

He thought nothing good. Nothing good at all. “Can you at least tell her to give me a goddamn minute? I barely just woke up. I feel like hell.”

“She said to tell you to meet her at eleven o’clock if you’re awake. And if you don’t want her angrier than she is now, you would do well to keep that time, boy.”

Jack swore under his breath and looked at the clock hanging above his bed. It read ten forty-five. “Fine. Tell her I’ll be there.”

The crunch of dry grass from outside let Jack know he was alone once again.

Jack filled the wash basin with some of the stale water in the pitcher and splashed his face with it. He was more careful this time to avoid the tender areas, and he looked in the mirror again. Whatever dirt that remained had been washed away, but it still didn’t do any wonders for the rest of him. He used the remainder of what was left in the pitcher to rinse the bile from the bottom of the bucket, and he dumped the foul liquid from the back window. After putting his tan coat and his hat back on, Jack reluctantly opened the door, feeling the arid heat of Hennigan’s Stead flow past the front door.

Many of the MacFarlane ranch hands were already at work before the sun even came up, and many were already beginning to linger around the other bunkhouses as the temperature slowly climbed to its peak. Jack ventured into the sunshine, much to his chagrin. He tried his best to ignore the stares and whispers of the men he passed by, but he could feel each one’s gaze as he made his walk of shame past the other houses and general store to the main house. It wasn’t like Jack’s hot temper had endeared him much to some of these men. One man he argued with last week snickered loudly at the sight of Jack’s battered appearance.

The walk to the main house felt as though it were too short and an eternity all wrapped up in one. Jack paused in front of the stead; its height imposed a long shadow over him. Jack kicked at a rock before walking up to the front door and knocking.

He heard a muffled noise from deeper in the house before Bonnie MacFarlane opened the door. She had a tense look on her face, and seeing Jack made her jaw noticeably tighten in frustration. If looks could kill, he figured Bonnie would have had him dead many times over, but this time her expression carried an especially potent kind of venom.

Jack cleared his throat awkwardly. “Morning, Miss MacFarlane.”

She ignored his greeting. The silence felt louder than any harsh words she could have thrown at him.

“Before I come in, can I say, miss, that—”

“No. No, you may not,” Bonnie said. She cocked her head in the direction of the house. “Come in and sit in the parlor room. Wait for me.”

Jack crossed the threshold and walked into the room on the left, sinking into the red velvet fabric of the chaise. Bonnie walked past him and into the kitchen, and when she came back into view, she carried two mugs of black coffee. She offered the mug to Jack wordlessly. He took a large gulp, thankful for something to make him feel slightly more human. Bonnie walked over to the wall facing the front of the house, over by the bookshelf. She cradled her coffee with one hand and braced her weight on the side of the windowpane. They sat in silence for a minute as she lost herself deep in thought. Jack ran his fingers over the old burn on the arm of the chaise from when Drew used to smoke his cigars.

Bonnie tapped her finger against the side of her mug. “I don’t know what to do with you, Jack Marston. Truly, I don’t.” She turned around to face him once more, brushing a strand of blonde hair out of her face. “I wanted to believe our little talks would finally get through your thick skull, but here we are. Again.”

“He swung at me first!” Jack argued. “I was tryin’ to mind my own business, honest, miss. That jackass was already drunk, and when he pushed me—”

“And I have had enough of your sad excuses. I mean, you could have just ignored the man, for Christ’s sake!” She threw up her free hand in defeat. “It’s always, always something with you! If you aren’t causing trouble in Armadillo, you’re fightin’ with the other hands! You used to be such a sweet kid. Now… I don’t know what to make of you.”

Jack shook his head and looked off to the side. He wanted to scream and explode and curl up into a ball and fade away from the world all at once. He didn’t hate Bonnie— on the contrary, he tolerated and sometimes enjoyed her company more than most people he knew. She reminded him in a lot of ways of his mother, and she was always kind to him. Always trying to encourage him. Always giving him chances.

It’s just that he was always ruining the chances he got.

“Jack,” she said. It came off less sharp and more concerned. “Look at me.”

He did.

“I made a promise to your mother when she was real sick that I would keep an eye on you. She knew you weren’t doin’ well. And I don’t blame you for everything that happened to you. It was horrible. The whole lot of it.” Bonnie’s expression changed from frustration to a touch of hurt. “And I’m tryin’ my best with you. I gave you a job here because I knew you were hurtin’ staying at home. But you make it hard to take care of you. What with your drinking and such— I mean, what would she say about any of this?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his mother, and he could feel the back of his neck grow hot. “I don’t wanna talk about her.”

“I have tried everything I can to get you to see some sense, but you’re as stubborn as a peccary, and just as mean half the time. At least this makes you pay attention.”

“Maybe I would be in a better mood if you lay off me sometimes,” Jack snapped. “Let me breathe.”

“Maybe you should quit actin’ stupid, sober up, and learn to be a man!” Bonnie threw her free hand up in frustration again. “Maybe then I could let you breathe: when you quit takin’ your anger out on folks. You’re nothin’ but trouble here. Even before you came here, when Abigail had just passed away, I couldn’t even find you. You were gone for nearly a month doing… doing God knows what. All I saw when I came to look for you was her fresh grave. I feared the worst, Jack. I thought I failed you and her. I thought you were dead.”

Jack stared deeply into the inky, deep brown coffee. He knew where he had been and what he had done, but he could never say, especially not to her. Killing Ross would have to be something he took to his grave.

“This was the last thing John wanted for you,” Bonnie said.

Jack clenched his coffee hard enough that a knuckle cracked. “I don’t want to talk about him, either.”

“We have to talk about it. It’s why you are the way you are now, and I don’t see any other way to talk some sense into you. I have tried everything.”

“You aren’t making much sense, Bonnie,” Jack said, slamming his cup down on the coffee table in frustration. “You say you want me to be better. To not be angry. Now you want me to come into your house to discuss things that you know piss me off.”

“Because, Jack, I am gettin’ tired of your behavior. We all are. And it’s the truth; when John was alive, he wanted nothin’ more to protect his family and see you grow up well. He would roll in his grave if he could see you like this. And it pains me nearly just as much. I want you to be better for their sake, and for yourself.”

“Tell me,” Jack said. Every muscle in his body felt as though it were pulled taut like the string of a bow. He could feel the blood pulse in his veins. “What’s more upsetting to you? Seeing me be such a disappointment to my father’s legacy, or livin’ your whole life knowin’ you could never have him?”

The hurt in Bonnie’s eyes was immediate. She blinked twice in a daze and quickly faced the window again. The sudden regret from Jack’s cruel jab felt more sour in his stomach than the sick feeling he had when waking up this morning. When he tried to open his mouth, nothing came out, as if it were filled with the parched dust of the desert.

The silence fell thick in the parlor and made Jack feel as though he could hardly breathe. Bonnie took what felt to Jack like an eternity to compose herself and turned back towards him.

“I want you to pack your things and be gone by the end of the week,” Bonnie said.

Jack blinked in shock.

“What?”

“You heard me, loud and clear.”

“And go where?” Jack’s hand was squeezed so hard that his fingernails made marks in his palms. “And do what? What about that promise you made to my mother?”

“You got Beecher’s Hope. As for what… that’s your decision,” she said. “I have fulfilled my purpose the best I can, but I am not going to let you harm the ranch, the people under my care, and wound my spirit because you can’t control yourself. If you can get—”

Jack was sure she said more after that. But he didn’t hear. He couldn’t. The blood rushed in his ears, and his rapidly increasing heart rate made it hard to focus on anything but the spiraling thoughts that held him captive. His skin crawled as though there were a thousand bugs beneath it. He felt as though he couldn’t breathe, as though the air was thick with something other than oxygen. He needed a cigarette. He needed fresh air. He—

He needed to leave.

Now.

Jack got up so quickly that it made him woozy. He avoided any eye contact with Bonnie. She tried her best to reach out to him, but he walked briskly to the front door and shut it behind him, hard. He kept his eyes fixed on the dirt, watching each puff of dust as the toe of his boots made contact with the ground. He could feel the presence of the ranch hands all around him. It was quiet outside that day, save for the normal noises of the livestock and conversations among the people, but to Jack, it all felt like a mockery. Every stare made him feel as though he was being watched and judged for his actions. It was unbearable.

One foot in front of the other, Jack.

The second he walked up the stairs of his bunk again, he fumbled for the keys in his pocket and swiftly walked back inside before shutting the door. Panic was still there, just below the surface, but it felt lessened now that he was alone.

This place had always felt foreign to him, but it was safe. No matter what happened to him, and whether it was a good or bad day, the little cot that he could rest his head on was the one bit of stability he had left— and in a week, it would all be gone. His makeshift home. His only source of income. The last friend of his family.

You ruined it all, like everything else you touch.

Jack sat back on the thin mattress, feeling numb. This wasn’t better than being angry; it was more unbearable. He needed something to touch and control. He looked at the closest thing to him; it was a hammer he had used to repair one of the fences on the ranch last week, and he took it in hand and threw it against the wall with all his might. It hit the wall’s paneling with a loud, hollow thud. The claw end of the hammer splintered a part of the wood as it bounced off and skidded across the uneven floor. It hadn’t helped at all.

Jack’s head fell into his hands. He eyed the bottle again through the gaps in his fingers and swore as he uncorked it and took another swig.

Any dreams of his boyhood were long gone.