Jack Marston's luck begins to run out a mere three days after his return from Mexico, and the completion of his grisly deed. Not that he'd expected it to last. Not that he wants it to, anyway.
He's left a bloody trail behind him, all the way from Blackwater to Cholla Springs to Nuevo Paraiso and back again. Surely by now, Edgar Ross' brother has found his body, and figured that the strange kid asking after him had brought Ross not a letter, but a bullet. He's likely broken the news to Ross' wife- a widow now- who recalls meeting a similar stranger on her property. And after putting two and two together, it's possible they've traced Jack all the way back to Blackwater, where the appropriate lawmen have been alerted. Now it's only a matter of time before the inevitable.
Returning to Beecher's Hope is out of the question. Not because Jack fears the law waiting for him, like they had three years ago when they took him and his mother away, but because he's already said his goodbyes. There's nothing left for him on that ragged patch of land but a pair of graves, and memories he's liable to drown in. And he's not ready to face society. Not yet- perhaps not ever. Anyone who's dying to get their hands on him must come to him first. The last thing Jack wants is to make the chase easy.
So he's taken to the wild with nothing more than his guns and a few leftover belongings he'd swiped from the ranch, riding blindly from sunrise to sunset. Nighttime is a purgatorial, liminal space spent solely to refuel himself and his horse, and daytime is hardly an improvement. As a child, Jack had always romanticized the life of a lone desperado, but in the stories he'd read, the desperado usually ended up helping people, or setting right some grievous wrong. Now, Jack is inclined to laugh wildly when he compares the stories to the life he's currently living. What good is helping people if he's still going to be alone at the end of the day? Why should he bother to rectify any errors when so many guilty men are still walking free? At least now the world is short one guilty man. No matter what happens next, Jack knows he'll never regret his actions at the Rio del Toro. What Ross had coming to him was long overdue.
After setting up camp, Jack discovers that his provisions have come down to a single can of beans. He considers trying his hand at hunting, but the thought is quickly abandoned. Right now, it feels like more trouble than it's worth. Might as well slaughter the horse… That doesn't sound like a bad idea. It'll give him an excuse to stay out here for at least another couple days, waiting for the lawmen to play catch-up. If they don't find him by then… well, Jack's never been the most patient person. His weapons will be the next to go. Unarmed and on foot, he won't last long before attracting some sort of predator. And if one doesn't get him, then starvation certainly will. It won't be a noble death, not in the least, but he's learned not to hope for such things. Look how well it turned out for Pa.
The campfire is fizzling by the time Jack is done eating. Ordinarily he'd let it die, but instead he begins to rummage through his satchel for potential fuel. There's no point in lugging so much junk around, especially since very soon, he's not going to need it. Half of it belonged to his pa, anyway- stuff he's rarely touched or looked at, if ever. A twinge passes through Jack at the thought of destroying what his father had clearly seen as valuable, but he ignores it. It's not like he's attached to any of it himself.
Jack's fingers slip against what feels like the spine of a book. At first he assumes it's the journal that his pa and Uncle Arthur had shared, but that was bound in worn leather. This feels smoother and newer, and it's a slimmer volume to boot. Somewhat confused, Jack pulls the book out to stare at it. In the dying embers' dim glow, he can barely make out the title: The Lady of the Manor, by Leslie DuPont.
Jack's confusion grows. His father hadn't been much of a reader, and this doesn't seem like the type of story that would have interested him anyway. It couldn't have belonged to his mother, either, for she hadn't been a reader at all. Where the hell did this come from? The only explanation Jack can conjure is that his father had picked up the book as a present to his son. But when Jack begins to read the first page, it doesn't strike him as anything he would have enjoyed as a child. Even less so anything he'd enjoy now.
Hastily Jack rebuilds the fire, though he's not sure why this mysterious book should warrant so much attention. He'd once had a voracious appetite for books, but such interests had to be put aside in favor of gunplay and combat skills. Nowadays he'd just as soon use a book as kindling than read it. But if his pa had held onto this book for so long, it's got to be worth something. As soon as the fire burns brightly, Jack resumes his reading.
He's only five pages in when it dawns on him that The Lady of the Manor is actually worth very little. Even that might be too generous. The characters are silly caricatures, and the plot is pure, contrived fluff. Yet Jack can't tear his eyes from the page. He groans aloud at the conclusion of each chapter, but keeps flipping until, several hours later, there are no chapters left to read.
Sitting back, Jack rubs the back of his neck, sore from bending over the book for half the night. Printed letters swim before his eyes. He's half-inclined to toss the book in the fire, but something in him balks at such an act.
A resounding voice echoes through his head- Even I could write better than that.
But you haven't, Jack reminds himself. And you won't. There's no point to it, just like there's no point to anything. He arranges his bedroll and stretches out, but the voice keeps pestering him.
Come on. ANYONE could write better than that. Why not try? If there's no reason to do it, surely there's no reason NOT to do it.
The thought brings Jack up short. It's been so long since he last considered putting pen to paper. Those ambitions flew out the window the day his pa was murdered. But The Lady of the Manor has stirred something within him. Not the way his favorite Western and Arthurian tales once had, setting him to bursting with creative inspiration. Rather, the story is urging Jack to improve it, to test his skills against that of a published author.
It's an odd feeling, but at least it's something new. Something besides the constant wave of apathy pressing around his ears. Jack dozes off in the middle of wondering where he can find a typewriter.
Beginning a novel, Jack quickly discovers, is not an easy task. Not for an orphaned gunslinger who'd sooner raise the sword than the pen. None of his stories seem worthy to tell. And yet the urge that the romance novel had sparked remains with Jack, strengthening every time he opens his satchel and spies it nestled among his belongings. It seems to be silently mocking him- I made it to publication and you can't even write a single word. At least there's comfort in the fact that the publishers accepted such trash. If they'll take The Lady of the Manor, surely anything Jack sends them will see print.
After leaving the wilderness, Jack squares himself away at an inn in some tiny town he's never heard of, a place where folks won't ask questions if they recognize his face. Not that he's given them much of a chance; since the day he rented the room, he's essentially confined himself to it, staring dully at the stack of blank paper in front of him. Just one word, one sentence is needed to coax the rest of the story free, but for the life of Jack, he can't seem to hit upon the right one.
Sunlight infuses the room, streaming from the broad windows. Jack rises from his chair and gazes down upon the dusty street below, hoping the sight will clear his head. Maybe he's trying too hard. Maybe the story he wants to tell is right in front of his nose. Start with the basics. What was it that he used to enjoy about books?
Well, a story is nothing without a strong central character, someone to whom Jack can both look up and relate. The brave, wily heroes of his storybooks had kept him burning a lamp at his bedside, frantically turning pages long after his parents had gone to sleep. He'd craved to see how they would fare in their battles against numerous foes, and what clever plan would allow them to escape with their life, because they always did. The villain was always punished, the maiden was saved, and the hero rode off into the sunset to fight another day.
But Jack no longer has any use for such idols, because at nineteen, he's already seen enough of the world to know that it rarely works out the way the stories claim. He'd rather invent a character more like himself, or like his pa, or like one of his long-forgotten uncles- a bad man trying to do good, and suffering for it, because no crimes are truly forgiven.
Briefly Jack wonders if romance novels are similarly misleading. The Lady of the Manor is the only one of its ilk that he's read, and he has no life experience to compare it to. But sifting through the memories of his ma and pa, their romance doesn't strike him as anywhere near as dramatic or declarative. His parents hadn't needed to exchange lofty vows to assure each other of their devotion. They'd proven their love through teasing and jabs, through gentle welcome-home embraces, through whispered, closed-door conversations that Jack had often tried, but failed to overhear. Actions speak louder than words… and Jack's mother falling devastated to her knees over his father's body had been the loudest action of all.
Jack sits down heavily on the bed and reaches down into his satchel. He draws out the two books- The Lady of the Manor and the journal- and lays them out on his lap, side by side. He hasn't dared to pick up the journal since he first stumbled across and read it, three years prior. It had been too much to take in all at once- his Uncle Arthur's life story combined with his father's into one volume. But now he cracks it open, desperate to explore its pages. He isn't sure he can touch the back half of it, not yet, but Arthur's story might shine insight on the kind of character he wants to depict.
Though Jack hardly remembers Arthur personally, what he recalls of the journal strikes him as far more believable than an invincible protagonist conjured by an author. Of course, dummy. Arthur was real, and those characters aren't. But it runs deeper than that. Both Arthur and his father had been reflections on injustice and the futility of redemption, proof of how harshly and carelessly society continues to treat outlaws long after their death. If, in showing the world through their eyes, Jack can manage to shed some light on the complexity of their struggles, he will feel he's succeeded. It's all he can hope for- that someone will listen to the truth as he knows it. What else can I write about, anyway?
Unlike with The Lady of the Manor, Jack doesn't finish the journal in one sitting, but only because the perfect starting sentence has come to him, straight out of the blue. He jumps up to write it down before it can escape, and before he knows it, he's filled up the entire page.
Just you wait, Jack thinks tauntingly towards the novel still sitting on his bed. He wonders if taunting a book is cause for concern, but at least he's not speaking to it aloud. We'll see who the real writer is.
After a week spent slaving away on his newborn story, Jack emerges from the depths of his imagination to reach a startling conclusion: I'm still alive.
After killing Ross, he'd never expected to live this long. Not after giving the Ross family plenty of evidence in his favor, and the law plenty of time to hunt him down. But Jack's alive now, all on account of a silly little story and a rediscovered interest. And strangely enough, he's okay with that. The thought of leaving his manuscript unfinished fills him with displeasure. At least if I die soon, let them bury me with it.
No less surprising is how much progress Jack's made on his story. Surely the random whim to write wouldn't last. Surely he'd grow frustrated, burn it to ash, and go turn himself in. He's never kept so long at a seemingly-pointless task before. But this is different from hunting or fishing, which he'd only done to survive, not for love of the sport. This means something. This is the chance to tell a real outlaw story, to familiarize an audience with the pain and harshness that comes with living such a life. More than that, it's a chance to immortalize the ones who've fallen, whose names will never be revered in polite society. And of course, it's a chance to one-up Miss Leslie DuPont and her fanciful tale. Jack's found himself reading the novel multiple times, much to his distaste, as if one day its quality will have miraculously improved. It hasn't so far, but somehow it's easier now to believe in miracles, even if he doesn't put stock into them.
It's during Jack's third re-read that he notices the name and address of the publishing house printed in the back. He's never bothered to look too closely at it, but now it commands his full attention. Questions stir in the back of his head, the same questions that had filled him when he first discovered the book. Who's Leslie DuPont, and why would Pa have carried her book around? If anyone can provide answers, it's got to be the folks who published her book in the first place.
Jack sends a letter first thing the next morning, explaining that he'd recently come across one of Miss DuPont's books and inquiring as to her identity. He doesn't fully expect a response, at least not a helpful one. Most likely they'll just thank him for reading the book and get Miss DuPont to sign it. But to Jack's total surprise, the letter he receives in return is handwritten and addressed to him personally.
Dear Mr. Marston,
Thank you for your interest in my book, The Lady of the Manor. If you enjoyed it, I'm sure you'll enjoy the other titles I've published, including Love on the Moors and my most recent work, When Roses Bloom.
I should very much like to discuss my books with you in person. Please write me at the following address, and I'll arrange a meeting.
Below the address, the letter is signed, in a flowing hand, as Miss Leslie DuPont.
At first, Jack isn't sure what to make of the response. Do authors generally express interest in meeting with their reading public? He's never known any authors, so he can't be certain. He reads the letter over and over, trying to decipher some hidden meaning. An alarm bell rings in his head- is this a trap? Is this how the law finally finds him? But it seems too great a coincidence.
Finally, Jack makes up his mind to go. He's got nothing better to do, and he'll confess that the letter has piqued his curiosity. Rather than respond to her letter, he packs up and rides out to find her address on his own, in case she really is plotting to turn him in. With the element of surprise on his side, he'll manage to thwart any kind of ambush that Miss DuPont might have planned.
Leslie DuPont's home turns out to be a cabin not far from the banks of the Kamassa, over in New Hanover. Birds cry out from the shady trees that shield it. Jack slows as he approaches the modest dwelling, a strange surge of nervousness overcoming him. He knows there's nothing to be afraid of. Miss DuPont's probably a harmless old biddy who's just overly grateful that someone read her book. Yet he takes care not to make a sound as he slips across the grass towards the inviting porch.
Not long after Jack has knocked on the worn wooden door, it slowly creaks open, offering him a glimpse of the woman he's here to see. Apparently he was mistaken about the old biddy part. The woman before him is young and slender, her hair tumbling over her shoulders in brown ringlets and her eyes a piercing azure. She wears an apron over her pink dress, and for a moment Jack feels bad for having interrupted her.
"Hello?" she says, quiet and cautious, and Jack begins to get the feeling that he's seen her somewhere before. Maybe not in person, but perhaps he's spotted her portrait hanging- or was it a wanted poster?
"Ma'am." With one hand, Jack removes his hat, and with the other, he thrusts out the letter that Leslie DuPont had sent him. "I received this letter a few days ago from Miss Leslie DuPont- she told me to write to this address?"
The woman's eyes widen, and she throws the door open, before wiping her hand on her apron and offering it to Jack. He hastily stuffs the letter away.
"Mary-Beth Bingham. Leslie DuPont's my pen name." The woman shakes Jack's hand vigorously, peering sharply at him. "You must be-"
"Jack Marston," Jack supplies. Mary-Beth nods, her mouth on the verge of a smile, but her eyes wild. "Come inside!" She gestures to her surroundings. "Come in…"
Obligingly, Jack steps through the door, all the while racking his brain for where he's seen Mary-Beth. Even the name sounds familiar, though it is a common one. Have they met, or is he just imagining that they have?
Now that they're indoors, Mary-Beth seems to have grown calmer. She clasps her hands and inhales through her nose, while Jack observes the main room. It's rustic, but homey, with a fire burning in the hearth and a thick rug underfoot. Books are lined up on the mantle, and an unfinished knitting project is draped over the arm of one of two easy chairs. In a way, it's almost a smaller, cozier version of Beecher's Hope. Jack quickly tears his gaze from the room and focuses on Mary-Beth, who's smiling softly in his direction.
"I thought it was you when you wrote," she says. "But I had to meet you to make sure. You look… you look just like…"
Fright grips Jack, though he's sure it's irrational. "Where do I know you from?"
"You don't remember me? Auntie Mary-Beth?" Mary-Beth unclasps her hands. "Your mama and daddy and I, we used to run together in Dutch Van der Linde's gang. I suppose you wouldn't remember… you were just a child then…"
At that, Jack's stomach lurches. Now he remembers where he's seen Mary-Beth: sketched to perfection in Arthur's journal. Now he begins to get an inkling of what The Lady of the Manor was doing among his father's possessions.
"I'm not sure I do, ma'am," he says. "My pa owned one of your books…"
"I gave it to him as a gift, the last time I saw him," says Mary-Beth. "It must have been… oh… about six years ago. And just look at you now!" She steps warmly towards Jack, but Jack automatically moves back. Mary-Beth clears her throat, refusing to let the awkwardness linger.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" Without waiting for an answer, Mary-Beth gathers her skirts and turns toward the kitchen. "I'm afraid I don't have much else to offer. My husband won't be returning from his hunting trip until this evening."
For a moment, Jack is too busy processing what's going on. This author, the one who writes soppy romances that failed to reflect reality, had once been an outlaw tough enough to ride with his father. And now she's offering him tea. A slight stutter enters his voice as he responds, and he mentally curses at it for betraying him. "Don't mind if I do, ma'am."
Mary-Beth leads the way into the tiny kitchen at the back of the cabin, its sole window letting in the speckled late-afternoon sunlight. Uncertain, Jack hangs in the doorway, taking in the odd knickknacks that clutter a small table- knit tea cozies, embroidered napkins, smooth stone paperweights that appear to be hand-painted. He feels profoundly out of place in such a tidy setting- a grimy, rugged relic of a time that's long faded.
"How have you been, Jack?" Mary-Beth asks, delight in her voice as she puts the kettle on. "My God, last I saw you, you was only about this high."
There's no easy way to answer that, so Jack mutters a quick "Fine" and turns the question around on Mary-Beth. "What about you?"
"I've been… I've been doing well." Mary-Beth reaches for a jar of teabags on the kitchen counter. "I started writing not long after the gang split… few years later I found me a good husband, and we moved out here so he could make a living trapping and hunting. It's kind of a peaceful life, away from all the bustle of society." Turning slightly, Mary-Beth gestures for Jack to sit down, and he pulls out a chair at the table while she collects two teacups.
"I haven't spoken to anyone from… er, from the old days in years," Mary-Beth remarks. "I write Tilly every couple months- you remember Aunt Tilly?" She searches Jack's face with a hopeful expression, while he nods, matching her name to Arthur's drawing and vaguely recalling a pair of arms wrapped around him on a frantic ride to safety. He tries not to show it, but he's finding Mary-Beth's talk to be downright enthralling. This is more information about the past than his father ever cared to share with him.
"But face-to-face… well." Mary-Beth sighs. "We all lead such different lives… I guess it's not very respectable to keep in touch with folks who was criminals. But I never cared too much about a person's background." The kettle begins to whistle, intruding upon the burgeoning conversation. Jack watches as Mary-Beth removes it from the stove and places one tea bag into each cup, before pouring the steaming water. She hands one of the cups to Jack and takes a seat.
"Thank you, ma'am." Jack sips from the cup, and struggles not to recoil from its searing heat. The flavor appeals to him, though, strong and hearty. Mary-Beth smiles softly as she raises her own cup to her lips.
"John told me the last time I saw him that y'all had settled down near Blackwater." Mary-Beth returns her cup to the table, a touch of wistfulness entering her voice. "I always meant to go visit, or write, but… I guess I never got around to it."
"Oh, it's all right," Jack says gruffly. "I don't live there no more." Not since… He doesn't finish the thought. Doesn't want to picture the two graves, silently guarding over their abandoned ranch below.
It would be fine if Mary-Beth stopped there, but she has to say, "I heard about what happened to John." In the blink of an eye, her face is cloudy. "I'm so sorry, Jack."
There's a multitude of ways that Jack could respond to that- thank Mary-Beth, brush her off, ignore her- but he settles on a harsh chuckle. "Bad business, all right." It's an inadequate descriptor, but how in the world is he supposed to put to words what it felt like to know even as he turned tail for home that he was too late? To see his own father stretched out in front of him in a pool of blood, a ripe feast for the flies? To watch his mother retreat inwards, and know there was nothing he could do to keep her from wasting away until she passed in her sleep one night, and the better for it? To leave the only place that had felt like a home because he'd be damned if he let Ross get away with what he'd done, even though he knew in his heart that Ross had already gotten away with it, and nothing he could do would change that?
"Abigail, how's…" Mary-Beth trails off, apparently realizing that she's made another misstep. There's no way Jack would be running around with guns on his back and his father's hat on his head if his mother were still alive.
"Buried her a few months back," Jack mutters.
"Ain't that a shame." Mary-Beth's eyes are wide, her teacup all but forgotten in her hands. She looks truly heartbroken, and Jack wonders how close she had been to his parents. "She was such a strong woman, and smart, too…"
"For sure." Jack notices his hands are starting to shake, the way they did sometimes as a kid when he was all wrapped up in uncontrollable worries. He grips his cup of tea and attempts to divert the ensuing sorrow with a dry half-laugh. "She was always right. About life, and… about me, and Pa…"
He's seconds away from clamping up and saying no more, but something about the way Mary-Beth is looking at him, her blue eyes soft and her brow furrowed, compels him to elaborate.
"He was a fool. He saved us, y'know? It weren't like how the papers made it to be. Acting like those military men were the heroes." Jack wants to laugh again, but the sound gets stuck in his throat. "But Pa weren't no hero neither. I mean…" He chews on the inside of his cheek, struggling to fit his emotions into words. "I don't know what I mean. It's just…" A sigh escapes through Jack's nose. "He let himself die, and for what?"
For what?, echoes through Jack's head. It's the same doubt that's plagued him ever since he left Mexico. For Ma to die of a broken heart? For his son to repeat his mistakes and turn into a vicious killer?
Mary-Beth is silent for a moment, sipping from her cup, and Jack realizes that maybe he's spoken too much. He doesn't want to talk about his family anymore, yet he's desperate to break the silence, and no new topics immediately spring to mind.
Then Mary-Beth puts her cup down and pins Jack with her no-nonsense gaze.
"Your daddy loved you, Jack."
"I know," Jack mutters automatically, even though he doesn't. Sacrificing your life to a bunch of government officials for the sake of your family's survival has got to count for something, right? But Jack's never been wowed by grand, sweeping gestures. It's the little things that imprint themselves across his memory- the harshness in one's voice, the shake of one's head, the weeks spent away from home.
"He might not have shown it often, but he did," Mary-Beth insists. Jack only shrugs. He's starting to wish he hadn't come here, though he never could have anticipated this meeting. Why should he care about some stranger's opinion of his father, even if he used to call her his aunt? His own conflicted memories are all he needs. But Mary-Beth doesn't let up.
"Why, when some terrible folks we was dealing with took you away from us, you'd never seen a man so enraged, so determined. He'd have torn them all to pieces if it meant getting you back safe. From what I heard, he might as well have."
Curiosity pricks Jack. "What folks took me away?" It's hard to look back on such a hazy, distant time. All he recalls is being constantly on the run and on the move, tension underlying even the good days. Seems that's been my whole life. But among all the hardships, a momentary oasis stands out, a few days spent around strangers and among luxuries. Jack remembers eating and sleeping better than he ever had out in the wild, content with a toy box and soft slippers… Jesus. Had that really been a kidnapping?
Mary-Beth dismisses the question with a wave of her hand. "They're all long gone now. Mostly thanks to your father and the other boys." She distractedly plucks at a loose thread on her sleeve, but her voice remains as warm and focused as ever. "We might not have talked long, me and John, last I saw him… but he seemed real happy, I can tell you that. Happy, and proud. It's no wonder he saved you, Jack." A slight tremor appears in her voice, but she pushes on. "Your folks 'd be smiling if they could see you now."
At that, Jack wants to push his chair back from the table. The sentiment is nice and all, but… She has no idea what she's talking about. All Mary-Beth sees is the innocent, baby-faced Jack she'd known so long ago, not the dangerous man he's become.
"That ain't right, ma'am." Jack swallows heavily. "You don't know the things I've done…"
"I don't need to know," Mary-Beth says softly. "I told ya. A person's background don't matter to me."
Jack shakes his head. "Maybe it should." At once, the confession is flowing out of him. "I killed a man in Mexico. And I ain't sorry. I'd do it again, a hundred times, if I had to." He's startled even as he speaks the words. Maybe he hadn't believed it until he'd said it aloud.
"I know it ain't the life my ma and pa wanted for me. They was always pushing me to be sensible, before…" Ugh. He can't even bring himself to think about it anymore, the blood on the ground and his mama's wrenching sobs.
"But now… I don't know. Now I'm no better than Pa was, throwing away his life for us."
In one quick motion, Mary-Beth pushes her teacup aside and reaches across the table to lay her hand on Jack's. Ordinarily Jack would jerk his hand away, but she's caught him off-guard- and, admittedly, the contact doesn't feel too bad.
"I won't pretend to know what your father was thinking the day he died," Mary-Beth says. Her voice is still quiet, but passionate sincerity infuses it. "I don't know how he felt. But I can tell you right now, just from meeting you, I know what he done was right." Her eyes have trapped Jack, to the point where he can't even blink. She pats his hand. "Maybe you ain't done so well with your life, but it's surely better that you were given the chance to live it how you see fit. And you still got time!" Slowly, Mary-Beth withdraws her hand, but she doesn't look away. "Don't ever give up on yourself, Jack. It's never too late to change. Take it from someone who has."
Stunned silence follows Mary-Beth's proclamation. For a moment, Jack can't speak past a growing lump in his throat. He wants to put his head in his hands, but he doesn't want to alarm Mary-Beth. Somehow, he feels as if he's shrunk inside his clothes.
"You saved my life just as much as he did," he finally manages to get out. "After that business in Mexico… I was lost. I had nothing to do. Nowhere to go." And no one to turn to. No, he can't say that. He already sounds weak enough, admitting how close he'd been to giving up.
"But… then I found your book, and…" Jack takes a deep breath, trying to quell the rising storm inside him. "It reminded me… well, I always loved a good story. After reading yours, I started writing myself…" He decides not to mention what it was about Mary-Beth's novel that had inspired him to write. "And I'm here now, instead of lying in some grave, or… or worse than that, all because of you."
Mary-Beth folds her arms across the table, and Jack pointedly glances downwards, not ready to meet her eyes. He focuses instead on the strength of her words, the care in her voice that he's not sure he deserves, but secretly desires.
"It's a funny thing, as a writer, to hear how your stories have spread," says Mary-Beth. "We might have been far apart, but I was with you when you read that book. And if you ever need the help… I'm happy to be here for you again. You've got no reason to be alone."
Jack nods quickly, before steadying himself with the rest of his tea. Ain't about to start bawling in front of her. Not if he can help it. Across the table, Mary-Beth mirrors his actions, downing her tea in one gulp. She then sits back, a warm smile lighting her face.
"So… I take it you liked my book?"
Heat rises to Jack's cheeks, giving him away before he can concoct a lie. "Well, um… being truthful, ma'am, it… wasn't exactly a masterpiece."
Mary-Beth begins to laugh, a startling, full-throated whoop that completely betrays her poise. "Oh, I fully agree!" She shakes her head, the amusement dying down. "You never write a masterpiece your first try. I did so enjoy it, though… Perhaps you'll find my new book more to your liking. It's about a ship that flies among the stars, and men from the Moon."
Jack gives a tentative chuckle. "That don't sound like a romance novel."
"It's not." Rising to her feet, Mary-Beth brushes off her skirt, before picking up her empty cup. "Figure it's about time for Miss DuPont to retire. She's had a good run of it, and I'm in the mood to try something new." She reaches for Jack's cup, and he hands it over, before getting up himself.
"Thank you for the tea, ma'am."
"You're surely welcome." Discarding the cups, Mary-Beth steps toward Jack, and this time he doesn't back away. "I can't tell you how happy I am that we've run into each other. I know it's been a long time, but I still think about everyone I knew back then… I miss your mother and father, and all the good folks that fell." She sighs. "Time certainly changes everything."
"It certainly does," Jack agrees. He flinches slightly when Mary-Beth puts her arms around him, but manages to return the embrace.
"Feel free to drop by any time you like," Mary-Beth murmurs in Jack's ear. "You're always welcome here." She steps back, folding her hands together. "Maybe I could help you out with your own writing, if you'd like."
"That'd be much appreciated, ma'am." Jack clears his throat. "Speaking of which, I'd… best get back to it."
"Take care." Mary-Beth turns to the kitchen counter, but her words drift towards Jack. "And stay strong!"
As Jack leaves Mary-Beth's home, remnants of their conversation reverberate through his head. I'm happy to be here for you again. You've got no reason to be alone. For once, he doesn't ride like the devil is after him. Instead he takes it slow, reflecting on Mary-Beth's hospitality and the parts of himself he'd dared to share.
One conversation isn't enough to erase the insecurities, doubts, and anxieties that still trouble Jack. A thousand conversations might not be able to do that. But Jack isn't seeking peace of mind. Mary-Beth's offer of companionship is more than enough. She's simultaneously his last remaining link to a past he barely remembers, and the key to a hopeful, uncertain future.
In a couple hours, the sun will be setting, and Jack isn't keen on falling prey to the wild. Not when he's carrying his manuscript in his satchel. He decides to head to an inn for the night. The first thing he'll do after settling in is scour the pages of Uncle Arthur's journal for mentions of Mary-Beth. Maybe he'll find things Arthur had commented on that would be appropriate to ask Mary-Beth about. And then… it's back to writing, for a new chapter is just starting to bloom, and Jack is eager to decide what will happen.