The sun had almost fully dipped below the horizon line when Jack finally arrived home from avenging his father. The ride back had taken a few days, a few days that just felt like a blur looking back. It was as if they didn't even happen. None of it had sunk in yet.

He led his horse into the empty corral behind the barn and dismounted. He gently stroked the horse's face before giving her a little nudge in the direction of the barn's open door. She obeyed and took her place in the stable.

Jack shut the door before turning around and looking behind the corral up to the little cliffside where his family rested. He felt a pang in his chest at the sight of the graves and averted his gaze to the sky. The bright orange from the sunset was quickly being overtaken by a cluster of dark clouds, and a light, steady rain had begun to fall. He knew he had to get inside; the storms in those parts tended to get wild fast.

Dragging his feet, he exited the corral and walked around the barn, the rain slowly soaking his clothes. It would have been smarter to go through the barn; he knew, but he couldn't. He never went in there; he couldn't bear it.

Jack made his way to the porch, scanning the desolate ranch as he walked. The livestock was long gone; the few they'd had left had become too much to keep up with after his mother fell ill, so they had no choice but to sell them. The crops had died, tall prairie grass now overtaking the spot they once occupied. It was a shame to see the place in such a state; they'd once had such high hopes for its future. He reached the porch, already dripping from the rain, and opened the door.

He stepped inside and gently, meticulously closed the door behind him. His mother had always hated when he would slam it…. He lingered in the entryway for a moment, staring blankly into the now-lifeless void he called home. It was dead silent inside, save for the soft tapping of the rain against the roof.

He let out a shaky breath and stepped further into the house. He sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace and looked towards the kitchen, waiting for his mother to saunter out and chide him for soaking the furniture. But he knew she wasn't coming. She was gone. Jack stared into the dead logs of the fireplace and shivered; he never remembered the house feeling so cold.

He shifted focus to the various knick-knacks on the mantle; a thin layer of dust had settled over everything in his absence. He had once always made sure to keep up with the chores when his mother became unable to do so, as he knew it would destroy her to see the home she'd worked so hard to build for them in shambles. But he didn't care anymore; there was no reason to.

His eyes landed on the portrait of his parents on the mantle, and his heart dropped. He swore he could see their faces in the photo morphing in disappointment as they looked down at him, and the realization of what he had done finally started to sink in. He could see tears in his mother's eyes; she must be so ashamed of him. Several months earlier, when she had first gotten sick, he had promised her he would never go through with it.

He had spent that afternoon outside, pistol in hand, shooting birds out of the sky, as he had done almost every day for a year. After all, he needed to be an exceptional shooter to someday carry out the revenge he'd been dreaming of. Killing Ross was all he could think about after the initial shock and grief from his father's death wore off; it consumed him. Jack saw the man in every bird that fell dead from the sky.

He had headed home from his target practice once he began to feel the chill of nightfall nipping at his skin. When he entered the house, his mother's bedroom door was ajar, and he could see her lying in bed trying to read a book.

He hoped to be able to just slink by without her noticing him, but she caught his eye and gave him a small smile.

"Hey, Jack," she said as she lowered her book.

"Hi..." He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the door frame in a lame attempt to look casual. "What are you reading?"

"Where were you?" she asked, ignoring his question.

"I was outside."

"I see that," Abigail huffed. "What were you doin'? I heard all them shots."

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, averted his gaze to the floor, and shrugged. His mother sighed, closed her book, and set it on the empty side of the bed next to her.

"Come here," she demanded.

Knowing where this was likely going, he glanced out into the hallway and considered just walking away. But he knew if he did, she would surely run after him and give him hell for disrespecting her. So he sighed and shuffled to her bedside. She grabbed his hand and gently pulled him down to sit on the side of the bed. She moved her hand to his shoulder and tried to get him to face her, but he kept turning away. She gave up and just stared at him, studying him for a moment before sighing.

"You're not still obsessin' over killin' that man are you?" she asked.

He said nothing and looked down at his hands.

Abigail sighed again and pinched the bridge of her nose. "How many times have I talked to you about this?"

Jack turned to face her and snapped, "He ruined my life!" He bowed his head then faintly added, "And yours too."

"And you'll ruin it further!"

Caught off guard by her sudden stern tone of voice, Jack stared at her wide-eyed and mouth slightly agape as she spoke.

"What do you think killin' him is gonna do!? You think when he's dead everything'll just go back to the way it was? It'll undo everything?" She paused and took a deep, wheezing breath. "Only thing you'll get out of it is a target on your back. You ain't stupid, so stop actin' like it!"

Jack closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. He could feel his face heat up and his heart start racing as he mulled over her words; she just didn't understand. She refused to even try to understand. He wished his father was there; he'd get it. He had done the same years ago to Micah for Arthur. Jack felt like he could explode, but he didn't want to shout at his mother. So he just stood up and started stomping for the door.

"Jack!" Abigail yelled after him as she lunged forward and grabbed his hand with both of hers to stop him from storming out. Jack briefly looked at her face, turning away when he noticed tears forming in her eyes.

"You are so smart and so talented," she choked out. "You could be so many things, son, so many good things. Don't go and be a killer."

He sat back down on the end of her bed and took deep breaths in an attempt to quell his anger. A quiet sob escaped his mother's lips, and she squeezed his hand.

"Don't throw your life away for this nonsense," she said softly. "It ain't worth it."

"I'm sorry…" he mumbled, still refusing to make eye contact with her.

She gently placed a hand on his cheek, trying once again to get him to look at her. When he leaned away from her touch, she clicked her tongue in frustration and resorted to tugging the small patch of hair on his chin to force him to look her way. He let out a grunt of pain and swatted her hand away but finally gave in and looked at her.

"Please… Promise me you'll stop with all this."

"Okay."

"Promise me," she repeated, intensifying her gaze.

He faltered under her stare and swallowed hard before replying, "I promise."

He had lied to her. He looked her in the eye and lied to her on her deathbed. He wished he could say that he originally intended to keep that promise— that something just went wrong in his head after she died to make him break it. But that wasn't reality; he never meant it. He went out to practice shooting again the very next morning after that talk, only much farther away from the ranch so she couldn't hear. What a sorry excuse for a son he was. He'd never feel guilty for killing that double-crossing bastard, but he sure did for breaking his promise to his mother, for breaking her heart.

And, of course, as much as it killed him to admit it, she was right, as she always was. It didn't fix anything. He had been obsessed with killing Ross for so long, and now that it was done, nothing was different. Everyone was still gone. He was still so indescribably sad and angry. And now he could add the fear of being caught to the list of things tormenting his brain.

A sharp crack of thunder brought him out of his thoughts and back to reality. The rain's assault on the roof became louder. He was still staring at his parents' portrait, unable to peel his eyes away. They had wanted so much better for him. His eyes burned, and he buried his head in his hands. But he could still feel their unblinking eyes on him. He felt like he was suffocating. Desperate for some fresh air, he stood up and headed for the front door.

When he stepped out onto the porch, the violent wind blew his long hair into his face. He gripped the railing, his knuckles turning white, and tried to calm himself as the wind howled around him. His eyes mindlessly wandered about the porch, freezing when they landed on a dark spattering of stains embedded into the wood near the stairs. His breath hitched. It was the very spot where Uncle had bled to death after the army shot him.

He remembered watching, a couple of days later, as his mother sobbed while desperately trying to scrub those stains out of the wood. He remembered having to pull her away and lead her inside where he held her until she calmed down. Afterwards, in the middle of the night, he put a potted plant over top of the stain so she wouldn't have to look at it anymore. Unfortunately, the wind had knocked that pot over.

Jack's stomach turned as the memories kept flooding back to him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't stay there. No place on the ranch was sacred anymore. It was full of ghosts, of things he'd give anything to forget. He was flooded with an overwhelming urge to escape, to go anywhere else. He'd sooner go to Hell itself than spend another night alone on that cursed property.

Jack whistled for his horse and waited, squinting at the barn through the curtain of rain. There was no movement from the barn. He cursed under his breath; she couldn't hear him. He whistled again, louder this time. When there was still no response, he desperately shouted his horse's name, but the sound was carried away by the wind.

He groaned and ran off the porch, forgetting the stairs were there and nearly tumbling to the ground. He reoriented himself and sprinted through the downpour, mud splashing onto his pants with every step, to retrieve the horse from the barn.

When he reached the barn, he laid a hand on one of the doors to push it open, unwittingly grazing an old bullet hole in the wood. He ripped his hand away as if he'd just shoved it into a campfire. He whimpered and rubbed the hand on his pants, heart racing as the horrific images of his father lying dead, shot to hell in front of that wretched barn replayed in his head. He heard his mother's cries as she laid over him; they were burned into his mind. His need to escape the ranch intensified; he couldn't breathe.

Now hyperventilating, he shoved the barn door open with his shoulder, the excessive force with which he did so causing him to fling onto the ground inside. The horse inside whinnied and began fidgeting, spooked by the sudden commotion. Jack stumbled to his feet, holding onto a wooden beam for support, and promptly threw up.

He coughed and spit onto the ground, trying to get the sour taste out of his mouth. He staggered to his horse, clumsily mounted up, and made a break for town.

—

It was dark by the time he got to Blackwater. The rain had calmed to a drizzle, the streets now cloaked in a thick haze. Squinting through the fog, he made his way down the main street, heading for the town's saloon. There was a room that his father had owned on the second floor where Jack had often gone when he needed to get away, usually after arguing with his mother. He felt a pang of guilt at the thought but swiftly repressed it, not wanting to send himself into another frenzy. He wasn't sure how many more of those he could survive….

When he reached the bar, he hopped off his horse and tethered her to one of the hitching posts outside. He patted her neck and mumbled a few words of praise before stepping up onto the curb to head inside.

"Evening, sir," said a uniformed man leaning up against the building smoking a cigarette. The light from the streetlights glinted off the gold badge on his chest, and Jack scowled at it.

"Officer," he tried to muster up a polite response, but the uncontrollable venom in his voice betrayed him. Luckily, the man didn't seem to notice his disdain, or he simply didn't care. Not wanting to invite any further conversation, Jack slumped his shoulders and averted his eyes to the ground as he approached the saloon doors.

He entered the bar and froze in the doorway, his senses being instantly bombarded by the atmosphere of the place. It smelled strongly of alcohol, and the air was filled with tobacco smoke, making it look as if the haze outside had followed him in. It was packed full of people, as it usually was that time of night, and the building roared with a symphony of different voices accompanied by a lively piano melody. It was a stark contrast to the dead silence of the ranch, and he couldn't decide which was worse.

"Oh, good Lord…" Jack heard muttering from his left. He faced the source of the sound and found the bar's maid, broom in hand, staring at him, irritation clear on her face. Suddenly becoming very aware of his dripping wet, mud-caked clothing, he sheepishly looked down at his feet. He briefly considered heading straight upstairs and isolating himself in his room, but he knew if he did, he'd likely just get caught up in his head again. So he chose to drag himself to the bar instead, his wet boots squeaking against the floor with every step.

The bartender looked him up and down as he leaned against the counter. "Well, ain't you a sight," he said with a slight chuckle.

Jack ignored the comment and frowned at his hands.

"What can I get ya, son?"

"I dunno… Anything," he mumbled without looking up.

"Ah, one of them days, huh?" He set a glass in front of Jack and pulled a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar to fill it.

Jack tossed a few quarters onto the counter and downed the shot, grimacing as it burned his throat and filled his chest with warmth. The glass clanked against the counter as he set it back down.

"Ain't seen ya for a little while," the bartender said, already refilling the glass.

Jack narrowed his eyes at the man. "So?"

"Just curious where ya been is all."

"Just been busy," Jack said dismissively, raising the shot glass to his lips again. He sighed, grateful for the drink, and set the glass back on the bar to be filled again.

Thankfully, the bartender didn't question any further and just refilled the glass, as he would most certainly do many more times throughout the night.

—

He wasn't sure how long he had been there or how much he'd had to drink, but his head was spinning, his face hot and flushed from the alcohol. He laid his cheek against the counter in a fruitless attempt to cool his skin and stop the room from spinning.

The saloon was now almost empty, the only patrons left being Jack and an old man passed out at one of the bar tables, hand still tightly gripping a half-empty bottle. The music had stopped, the pianist now sitting facing away from the instrument, flipping through a book. The maid was busy sweeping up the mess left behind by the crowd.

Jack lifted his head, the heaviness of it making him sway a bit, when he felt a soft touch on his shoulder.

"You lonely, sweetheart?" a delicate voice hummed into his ear as the hand on his shoulder trailed down to rest on his wrist. He instinctively pulled away and turned to face the speaker; it was one of the saloon's working girls.

"Woah…" Jack squinted at the woman in front of him, his double vision making it difficult to focus on her face. He furrowed his eyebrows when she smiled at him. "You got a… weird face, lady," he said incredulously, making her face fall. "Do… Do people actually pay you?"

The woman took a step away from him and stared at him in shock and disgust.

"You… You should—" Jack wheezed, laughing at what he was about to say. "You should pay them!"

The woman huffed and gave him another look of contempt. She looked like she was a second away from slapping him, but the bartender stuck a hand in between them and gestured for her to calm down before she could. She frowned at the bartender and shot Jack a glare before retreating to the corner of the bar, where she crossed her arms and continued to stare daggers at him.

"Alright, kid, I think you're done," the bartender said as he removed Jack's half-full bottle of beer from the bar.

"What?"

"I'm cuttin' ya off."

"For what? I was joking!"

"Go up to bed, son." He nodded towards the stairs.

"Don't call me that!" Jack spat, suddenly enraged. "You're not… You ain't my daddy!" he said, shoving a finger into the bartender's face.

The older man leaned in closer and responded in a low tone, "Oh, I knew your daddy, kid, and you should be thanking Christ I ain't him. Probably turnin' in his grave hearin' ya talk to a woman like that." He straightened back up and waved his hand to the staircase. "Now, get."

Jack glared at him. "Asshole," he muttered under his breath.

He took his hands off the bar, stepped back, and started for the stairs. However, he misjudged his steps and immediately went tumbling to the floor. As he hit the ground, his hat fell off his head, landing a few feet away. He attempted to return to his feet but slammed the back of his head on the underside of a table and flopped back down with a cry of pain. He stayed lying on the cold floor, groaning and clutching his aching head.

The bartender sighed loudly in exasperation. "Mrs. Howard, Miss Lilly," he addressed the maid and pianist respectively, who had been silently watching the spectacle. "Can you ladies get him upstairs 'fore he cracks his damn skull open?"

Mrs. Howard leaned her broom against the wall with a sigh and blew a stray strand of graying blonde hair out of her face. She started for Jack, who was still sprawled on the floor holding his head.

The pianist stood awkwardly by, wringing her hands, seemingly unsure of what to do, as Mrs. Howard bent down to help Jack sit up. He whimpered in protest when the motion caused a sharp wave of pain to shoot through his skull. The woman briefly inspected the lump forming on the back of his head to confirm that no serious damage had been done.

"Miss Lilly, grab his hat, would you, dear?" Mrs. Howard addressed the pianist, pointing to where his father's hat had landed on the floor.

"Course," Lilly said softly with a light nod.

As the younger woman hurried to retrieve the hat, Mrs. Howard slung Jack's arm over her shoulder and hoisted him up off the floor. He swayed a bit as he returned to his feet. The dizziness was overwhelming, and he surely would've toppled over again if it weren't for the woman holding him up.

She led him to the staircase, holding tightly onto his shoulder to keep him steady. Jack slowly made his way up the stairs, leaning heavily against the woman for support. Lilly walked behind them, holding his hat in one hand and resting the other on his back to prevent him from falling backwards down the steps.

When they finally reached his little room above the bar, Mrs. Howard led him to his bed and let go of him. He flopped down on top of it, crying out in pain when his sore head hit the pillow.

The woman stepped back and observed him while wiping her hands on her stained apron. "Poor fool…" she murmured, shaking her head. She glanced over at the younger woman, who was standing at the end of the bed, looking at him sympathetically, his hat still in her hands.

Mrs. Howard moved to stand beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Come on, doll," she said, lightly tugging her towards the door.

The girl nodded and gently placed his hat on top of the chest at the end of his bed. She turned and exited the room with Mrs. Howard, giving him a final look of pity before shutting the door.

Jack passed out soon after they left.