The sun was starting to set when Jack Marston hitched his horse outside the saloon in Armadillo. The long ride from Mexico had worn him out almost as much as the showdown with Edgar Ross. At least he had now finished what was started years and years ago. He had avenged his Pa – may he rest in peace – and could now move on with his life. The ranch at Beecher's Hope, could he really go on as he had once planned? Could he really sell the ranch, throw away all the work Pa, Ma, and Uncle had put on it? Well, not that Uncle would have worked that much, honestly...

He could work on that decision later on, for now, he needed a drink – or preferably three.

At some point after the third (fourth?) drink, Jack began to relax. All the things that normally haunted him appeared to become blurred to the point of almost disappearing. Pa lying outside the barn, dying. Ma coughing blood, gasping for air. Edgar Ross's wife, no, the bastard's widower, looking into his eyes. Jack's baby sister – no, he would not think of her now, or any other ghost that kept haunting his dreams as well as his waking hours. He caught the bartender's eye and ordered another.

"Get easy on that, boy. It's meaner than a horny rattlesnake," the man warned, but filled the glass nevertheless.

Jack was starting to feel pleasantly numb, when he suddenly realized there was a woman seated next to him. She was no prostitute, of that he was sure. She was dressed like a rancher, yet there was something lady-like in her appearance. Her blonde hair had been stylishly done in a fashionable bun of some kind, but it had started to come loose, and there were stray locks here and there. Her eyes were the most interesting shade of –

Shit, her eyes? If he could see her eyes, both of them, like he was seeing them right now, that meant...

She was staring right at him, with a faint smile on her face. Surely she had caught him staring before he had even realized that he was staring at her. He was staring at her, though, and he probably should stop it before things got awfully awkward. She did look somewhat familiar, he registered that much, but his alcohol-soaked brain refused to bring forth any details of where they had met previously. What was it he was supposed to do? Something to do with eyes?

"Had one too many, mister?" the woman asked. Even her voice was familiar. He had met her before, of that he was sure. Perhaps he hadn't stared at her like this then, and had thus made a somewhat more positive first impression. The social norms required an answer to her question, Jack noticed dully.

"Just a rough day, missus."

Well done, Jackie boy, you answered her question coherently! Now, if only she would stop smiling like that, so his brain could concentrate on something else – like stopping this goddamned staring business.

"Haven't we all?" she asked with a soft sigh.

She certainly wasn't going to start talking to him, was she? He was not only drunk but still somewhat confused with the whole losing his Ma and avenging his Pa thing he had gone through. Jack tore his eyes away from her face, hoping that would be enough to stop the impending small-talk, and stared at his half glass of whiskey.

"I got here from Coot's Chapel," she began. "Buried my Daddy."

"I'm sorry for your loss, missus."

"Oh, don't. It was not your fault, and I shouldn't bore you with this. A young man such as you must have better things to do on a beautiful evening such as this than to listen to a lonely old spinster."

"Not really, missus."

Oh Lord, it's the liquor talking. Shut up, liquor, Jackie boy doesn't want to talk to this woman.

"I lost my own Ma and Pa quite recently, to be honest. Not much of a talker I'm not, but I know how to listen. At least that's what my Ma used to say."

She gave him another small smile, he caught that much from the corner of his eye, as he daren't face her again, fearing he might start staring at her again. She was probably ten years his senior, but she didn't look half that bad for her age, spinster or not.

"Talking won't make it any better, will it? Daddy may have been old, but he was all I had. I'm going to miss him sorely, I will. I'm sorry for your losses too, however, mister. And now, since my glass is empty, I think I'm going to retire to my room. I gotta be heading back home to Hennigan's Stead at dawn."

At the mention of the place Jack's brain seemed to decide to sober up at the second. He suddenly remembered where he had met the woman – and even his recently deceased father. He remembered the long ride alone with his Pa, the discussions they had had, the beautiful cattle they had bought, and naturally the handsome woman who had sold them.

"I hope the ranch is still as grand as it was three years ago, Miss MacFarlane."

She had already got up and started her way through the room, but stopped dead on her tracks at the mention of her name. After the time of a few heartbeats she turned around and returned to him.

"Have we met before, mister...?"

"Yes, Miss MacFarlane. You sold some cattle to my Pa a few years ago," Jack answered, deliberately ignoring her veiled question of his name.

"We've sold cattle quite a lot during the past years," she answered with a wry smile.

"I believe my Pa was also a friend of yours. He told me you looked after him after he had hurt himself doing something stupid. John Marston was his name. I'm his son, Ja—"

He didn't have time to finish his sentence, as the female rancher turned deadly pale – a horribly vivid reminder of Ma's appearance on those last few weeks. She didn't faint, though, and of that Jack was grateful. Her eyes scanned him from head to toe over and over again, until she rested a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry about your parents, Jack. I read about your father on the paper and I just – The bastards, they lied about everything. And now your mother as well?"

He merely nodded.

She ended up ordering another drink, and they talked the night away, having their glasses filled every once in a while. They talked about Jack's Pa, as well as Bonnie's father, who had been killed by cattle rustlers. They drank for their fathers' memories, for their mothers' memories, and after a while, they were just drinking for drinking's sake.

Sorrows can swim, the wee bastards, but once they are drunk, they drown.