Slow Resign
With the trees slowly swaying far in the distance, John Marston began his journey home; his loyal and loving wife playing on his mind, caressing his young son. The sunset was foreboding, casting his shadow far along the dusty dirt track on which he was trekking with his trusty ride.
In the distance birds were calling, crying out to signal the night was near, and the dangers of which it involved. Strangers pass unseen, unnoticed, almost invisible against the darkness; just the whites of their eyes separating them from the black, John looking them up and down warily knowing the dangers of these ways. Birds soon quieten down and kicking his mare up into a canter, John begins to see the sight of his small hold of land, Beecher's Hope. Hope, as it seems, was the most accurate name for this little settlement.
Swinging his right leg over the saddle and firmly landing on the ground, he hears Abigail calling from the house, calling Jack. She is announcing his father's return, and how he needs to come in for his supper.
"Jack! Pa's home; get here now." Although Abigail was a sweet woman, with a heart too big for the life she's dealt with, she could have a sharp tongue and a scornful hand if you were not where you was to be when she wanted you. John watched as his eight year old son flew from the corral to the house within seconds, knowing of his mothers' short temper when she was not in the right mood; today was one of those days.
"You said you'd be home earlier today, not gallivanting with the folk in Blackwater." John saw what almost looked like betrayal in his wife's eyes. He had known he had lied to her. Even if it was not in spite, he knew he had hurt her. Wanting to hold her and apologise, he moved in to grab her in a lovingly way; he could not stand being away from her, the way she holds herself when he arrives home, gently leaning against the door frame of the front door.
As he took this one willing step up the porch onto the sun-soaked wood, Abigail slowly took a step back. "No. Not this time. I am so tired, John. I'm so tired of you telling me 'yes I shall be home early' and then failing. I'm so tired." One last look into the eyes of her husband, and she turned away, back to slave over the stew which had been cooking for hours. Perhaps now was not the best time to tell Abigail that he had, in fact, won them some money in order for him to take them away.
As John consumed this mouth-watering food – he would tell Abigail that she was an awful cook, but he faintly resented her abilities in the kitchen – he began looking towards her with a reproachful look. There it is he thinks to himself; the small glint within her eyes which she does not believe is there. Forgiveness. She is a very naïve woman when she wants to be, thus, a small smile finds itself extending across his scarred, weather worn face.
"What you smiling at Pa?" Jack was looking at his father with bewilderment; he only sees this smirk when his parents are not talking. He is only confused.
"Just your mother," he looks at her in a way that can only be described as true love. "Just your mother, Jack."
"What about her?" John relieves a laugh which has been held in his chest, his son is so delicate and so innocent, he cannot understand the emotions attached to a woman who has stood by your side, through both thick and thin, and still stood the test of time.
"You will understand when you're older."
In silence, the rest of the stew was eaten, with small remnants of gravy left behind, and a few green beans on Jack's plate. Abigail elegantly rose from her chair, with barely a few ear splintering scrapes, swooping in on those dirty plates that only she can clean with no complaints or leftovers left. The men in this house are incompetent in the cleaning department of life, what would they do without her.