RDR Holiday Exchange!

Ten years... ten years since Arthur's passing, and two since he and his family had found a home, amid their struggles, at Beecher's Hope.

In a way, it seemed to pass both in the blink of an eye, the beat of a heart... and at the same time, it felt like an entire lifetime ago.

It was a life John Marston had never dreamed of, not even in his wildest imagination. A life that was his own, a path that he had paved himself, after he was shown the golden way by a brother, a friend... and ultimately, a sacrifice.

The retired outlaw sat on his front porch, watching the sun rise, a cigarette balanced between his lips. It was quiet in the mornings, a place to reflect and be alone with his thoughts. Before the roosters cried, before Abigail awoke from bed and started keeping track of the day's chores... before Jack awakened to do work on the farm, and before Uncle (well, if he was awake at such an hour) started yapping away louder than Rufus did.On such a morning, things felt heavier. The air felt oddly thick, and the ranch seemed deathly quiet, the rustle of bushes in the wind more perceptible, the slight chill in the early morning air more biting. As he adjusted the collar of his jacket, John swore he could hear the birds chirping more sorrowfully than usual.

He'd told the household the night before that he'd soon be off... on a journey he hadn't made in quite some time, but one he felt necessary. A familiar face from the north would be expected soon, to accompany him in their pilgrimage. Jack had wanted to come, too, but John reassured him that he'd be the man of the house while he was traveling. Taking care of Abigail and defending the ranch seemed to motivate the young man. Besides, his poor lady wouldn't be left alone to (quite literally) kick Uncle into actually helping around the place.

As John dropped his cigarette and stamped it out with his heel, in the distance, the steady trot of a horse's hooves was heard, the dusty ground kicked up from the majestic Appaloosa's feet.

It had been a burning question in your mind for a while now. For months now you had watched him haunt the fire long after anyone else had called it a night. Now, with your veins hot with liquor and your courage artificially boosted, you dared to speak your mind. He took it in stride, not all offended. Micah shrugged. “Never been one for sleeping. There's plenty of sleeping to be done when a man's dead.”

“But isn’t it… boring?”

“That’s what the whiskey's for.”

The logic seemed sound to you and you took another swig when he offered you the bottle. You both settled in, growing more comfortable in each other’s company. “It was a stagecoach.” You announced after a long bit of silence.

Micah turned, giving you his full attention. “There was just a driver, so I thought it was going to be easy. And it was, until…” you sighed heavily, exasperated at the memory.

“Your horse run off?”

You sat up, surprised. “How’d you know?”

He chuckled. “Few things make a person fall asleep sitting up. Walking all the back to camp is one of those things.”

“Wolves!” You cursed into the night, “Wolves, of all things! O’Driscolls would be less embarrassing!”

“O’Driscolls would’ve been worse. Nature screwing you over? That’s…” he waved his hand and shrugged, “nothing you can do. But a man screws you over? Well that’s on you.”

You watched him light a cigarette, then watched as he misread your look and lit a second one off of his own. You weren’t much of a smoker yourself, but you accepted it, taking a drag as you tried to decide how to thank him. It was a bit gruff and veiled, but he was doing a pretty good job at cheering you up. Gratitude wasn’t something he was very good at taking. After another long stretch of silence you settled on this quite companionship between you being enough to convey your feelings.

“So, you stay up by yourself every night?”

“Til the whiskey's just a bottle and the fire's ash.”

“Whiskey and ash.” You mused, “Sounds mighty lonely.”

He paused for a moment and for the first time, you saw what might be considered a genuine smile.  “Some nights it is,” he looked over at you, the fire reflecting his eyes, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it, “Some nights it ain’t.”