Jack pulled back on the reins, slowing his horse as he crossed the threshold back into town. It was around three-o-clock, and he had just spent another morning out riding aimlessly around the plains surrounding Blackwater. Now, as his horse's hooves clobbered against the busy cobblestone streets, he wished he had stayed out in the wilderness. There were far too many people out and about that afternoon.

He bowed his head as he directed his horse towards the stables down the street, only occasionally peeking out from under his hat to ensure they were remaining on course. He didn't want to look around lest he catch the one of judgmental stares he was sure to be getting from some of the townspeople he passed.

He was used to the disapproving looks, but there had been a significant increase in their frequency after word of his incident with Lowe a couple of days ago had made its rounds in Blackwater's gossip mill. It wouldn't have bothered him as much if the story being passed around was the truth, but of course, it wasn't.

Lilly had come to him the night after he shot Lowe, wanting to know what had happened. After he told her, she proceeded to tell him the version of events she had heard from people in town. Somewhere along the line, the story had been twisted to make Jack out to be the instigator of it all. He had started the fight by cheating in the poker game, the duel was his idea, and poor old Lowe was just another innocent victim of the delinquent Marston boy's temper.

Of course, he wasn't the least bit surprised by this perversion of events, but it still angered him to no end.

They reached the stables, and Jack hopped down with a grunt, kicking up a cloud of dirt as his feet hit the ground. He grabbed the reins and tugged to lead Ace inside, but the horse huffed and dug his hooves into the ground. Sighing, he allowed the reins to fall out of his hand and reached out to pat the horse's neck. That horse was the only living thing in the world that hated being cooped up in that town more than he did.

"Trust me, I don't wanna be here either," he murmured. "But we ain't got anywhere else to stay."

Ace stared at him as if calling him out on that lie. There was somewhere else they could stay; he was just unwilling to go there.

"Don't look at me like that."

He shook his head and snatched the reins up again. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a man on a nearby bench peering at him from behind a newspaper, giving him a funny look, presumably for arguing with his horse. Jack turned his head slightly to flash a scowl at the man, who quickly covered his face with the paper.

Still scowling, he refocused his gaze in front of him and gave the reins another, more forceful tug. Thankfully, this time, the horse reluctantly obeyed and followed him into the stables.

He left Ace with one of the stable's hands and was out the door again in no time. Standing outside, he took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead, his skin stinging slightly from being exposed to the late summer sun all day. He replaced the hat on his head and shoved his hands in his pockets as he made the short walk back to the saloon.

He skidded to a halt when he rounded the corner and spotted a small group of people gathered on the sidewalk in front of the saloon. They were waving signs around and shouting at passersby, being particularly aggressive towards anyone who appeared to be trying to get into the building.

He squinted so he could read the signs they wielded; they were emblazoned with various anti-alcohol phrases like 'LIQUOR IS A CURSE'. Jack sighed. Temperance people…

They had been run out of town a few years ago but unfortunately had been making a quiet, gradual return throughout the year. He was surprised they were feeling bold enough to be yelling outside of the saloon and even more surprised at how successful they seemed to be in driving people away.

Jack rolled his eyes and continued walking to the building with his eyes glued to the ground. He didn't offer the group any reaction when they jeered at him for pushing past them to get inside.

He paused in the doorway and looked around, trying to adjust his eyes to the dimmer lighting inside. The place was devoid of patrons, and it was silent, something very out of character for the saloon at that time of day.

Mr. Weaver was standing behind the bar, leaning against the counter with his hands buried in his short gray hair. He was talking quietly to Lilly, who was sitting atop the bar beside him with her arms crossed, attentively nodding along to whatever he was saying.

Jack stepped farther into the bar, and Lilly looked up, giving him a warm smile when she recognized him. She nudged the bartender with her elbow and pointed Jack out to him.

Mr. Weaver lifted his head and raised his eyebrows when he spotted Jack. He straightened up and asked, "Did those morons out there finally leave?"

Jack glanced over his shoulder then shook his head. "No, they're still out there."

"Dammit." Mr. Weaver slammed his fist down on the bar, startling the woman sitting next to him. "They been runnin' everyone off all afternoon. Surprised you were able to get in."

"I ain't run off so easy."

"That's great. Though, unfortunately, it seems most of the other fools in this town are," he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Hardly made a cent since they've been out there. I'm gettin' real sick of all these people comin' from the east, ruining this town with their stupid ideals."

He stole a glance at Lilly, who was staring at him with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips. "No offense, darlin'. I'm not talkin' about you."

Lilly snorted and rolled her eyes. "From what I've seen, they're actually pretty tame here compared to how they are back east," she said. "A bunch of them smashed a bar to pieces in Boston a few months back. My brother wrote me to tell me about it."

Mr. Weaver stroked his forehead. "Ain't that delightful."

She chuckled. "Just sayin' it could be worse."

"Yeah, well, don't go givin' 'em any ideas."

"What's their problem anyway?" Jack cut in as he strolled to the bar to join them. "They ain't usually this loud."

Mr. Weaver sucked his lips in and shared a look with Lilly. She shrugged and looked down at her lap.

Sighing, he looked at Jack and told him, "They're upset about all the violence that's been occurring here as of late." His tone became slightly accusatory, and he added, "They think it's the liquor's fault some people can't hold their temper."

Jack frowned and narrowed his eyes at him. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean you gotta get a handle on yourself, son," he said, slapping his palms down on the bartop and leaning towards Jack. "I need this job. And y'know who the owner's gonna blame for all this?" He gestured broadly around the empty building then pointed at himself to answer his question. "I really don't wanna have to ban ya from the bar, but if it comes down to it—"

"Ban me? I ain't even the one starting the fights!" Jack argued, his face turning hot. "People provoke me on purpose."

"But you're always the one makin' the choice to escalate it," he rebutted. "And you have done your fair share of tryin' to start fights the past couple weeks."

Jack clenched his teeth. "You don't know what you're talkin' about. I—"

"I know exactly what I'm talkin' about, boy. You get drunk and antagonize people here like it's your job. But none of them lose it and shoot you, do they?"

Jack balled up his fists and blurted out, "I wish they would!"

Lilly drew in a sharp breath, and Mr. Weaver pulled back, shock flickering on his face. He furrowed his eyebrows and sighed, reaching up to rub his temple.

"Just start behavin' yourself, dammit," he grumbled. He took a few deep breaths before muttering, "I need a minute."

Mr. Weaver stepped away and stomped off into a back room, rubbing his temple as he left Jack and Lilly alone in the silence of the empty bar.

Jack took his hat off, tossed it onto the bar, and buried his head in his hands with a soft groan. If he had known he'd be chastised, he would have just headed straight up to his room. He heard a shuffling then Lilly's shoes clacked against the floor as she hopped off the bar to stand next to him. He could feel her staring at him, but he kept his head down and tried to ignore her.

When she softly rested her hand on his shoulder to get his attention, he tensed up. She pulled away immediately, as if she'd just touched a hot stove, and murmured an apology.

She stared at him quietly for another moment before softly saying, "He's not gonna ban you."

Jack lifted his head a little but still didn't look at her. "I know."

That man never seemed to run out of second chances for anyone— especially Jack. The odds of him following through on his threat were virtually nonexistent, but that didn't make the things he had said sting any less. Because he was right. Jack desperately needed to pull himself together; he couldn't keep drawing attention to himself. The way he was going, he feared it wouldn't be long before he had the law breathing down his neck. Maybe getting banned from the bar would be good for him at this point.

He sighed and rested his chin on his hand. Finally looking at Lilly, he said, "Don't think I'd blame him if he did though."

She mirrored his posture and gave him a sympathetic look. "I would."

He furrowed his eyebrows at her, expecting some elaboration.

"I don't fault you for what happened with Lowe," she explained, deepening his confusion. "People used to say all kinds of things about my father; it made me pretty angry too."

Jack clicked his tongue. "I'm sure you didn't shoot anyone over it though."

"No…." She sighed loudly then flashed him a subtle smirk. "Didn't have a gun, unfortunately."

Jack couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips at her quip. He bowed his head and put a hand over his mouth to hide it, though he was sure she had already noticed it.

She giggled and gave him a playful nudge on the shoulder. "Not to mention, Lowe's a complete piece of shit anyway— drunk or not. He needed to be knocked down a peg."

"Yeah? I don't think I've ever talked to him when he's sober," Jack replied.

Lilly nodded. "He pays me to play the piano at the little dinner parties he and his wife and all their rich friends have. Once, he took me aside and told me he'd pay me extra next time if I'd stop wearing such high-necked shirts." As she spoke, she tugged at the high collar of her shirt with a single finger.

Jack scrunched his face up. Maybe he should have killed the man in that duel.

The pair straightened up when the back door opened and Mr. Weaver stepped back out into the room, holding something at his side. He made his way to the bar and stopped in front of Lilly, eyeing her suspiciously.

"What?" she asked, folding her arms around herself.

He looked in between her and Jack, frowning. "I hear you snickerin' out here. You better not be encouragin' him."

"I wasn't," Lilly asserted.

He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows at her, and she averted her eyes to the bar, sucking in her lips to hide the smirk that was forming on her face.

"She wasn't," Jack butt in to back up her lie, and Mr. Weaver's look of disbelief was shifted to him. Firmly holding his gaze, Jack said, in an attempt to appease him, "I'm sorry for causin' trouble."

With a steely and unconvinced expression, he replied, "You can show me you're sorry by behavin' from now on."

Jack was a bit taken aback at not being immediately forgiven; he had really struck a nerve this time, hadn't he? He felt a pang of guilt and said more sincerely, "I will."

"We'll see," Mr. Weaver said, sighing and shaking his head.

He then set the object he had brought back with him onto the bar and slid it to Lilly. It was a book. "Ya left this back there last night," he said, nodding towards the back room.

She perked up when she saw it. "Oh, right. I left it there on purpose." She turned to Jack. "I was gonna give it to you today."

She pushed the book over to him and told him with an eager smile, "It's that book I told you about the other day." Her excitement dampened a little, and she added, "If you're still up for readin' it…"

Jack looked down at it and studied its simplistic cover before opening it and quickly flipping through the stacks of pages. It was a pretty thick book, and he mentioned this to Lilly.

"It should keep you busy awhile, then," she responded. "It did for me."

God knew he could use something to keep him busy.

He flipped the book over to read the synopsis on the back. It was, as she had told him before, another book about the old west, similar sounding to many of his favorites to read when he was a kid.

"Guess I can give it a try," he said, flipping it back right side up. "Sounds interesting."

"It is," she replied with a giddy grin. "It's better than the summary. I can't wait to hear what you think of it."

He gave a small smile; her excitement was contagious, and for the first time in a long time, he felt he had something to look forward to.

—

Another few days went by, each being exactly the same as the last. He spent the better part of most of these days in his room, trying to lose himself in the book that Lilly had lent him.

He was about a third of the way through it. A few years ago, he could have finished the book in an afternoon, but now he found it difficult to focus. He often had to go back and reread pages when his thoughts would rudely interrupt the flow of the story. Still, he was enjoying the book a lot. It was a welcome distraction, even if it wasn't always one-hundred percent effective at blocking out his thoughts.

Even more, he enjoyed heading down to the bar in the afternoons to talk about the book with Lilly. They would retreat to a small table in the corner of the bar, and he would tell her about the latest section he read and what he thought of it. It was nice to have someone to talk to about his reading who seemed to actually care about what he had to say; he had never had that before. He would sometimes talk about his books with his parents, but while they listened to him, he could tell they weren't very interested.

On this particular afternoon, they had settled into their table as usual— Lilly with a steaming cup of coffee in front of her and Jack a sweating bottle of beer. Earlier that day, he had finally reached a part of the book that Lilly was especially excited about, in which her favorite character was introduced.

She was going on about how much she loved the character while he listened silently, trying to figure out how he was going to tell her that he didn't really care for him. He wasn't necessarily a bad character, but his personality rubbed Jack the wrong way. The guy was insufferably mopey and reacted to every minor inconvenience or criticism with intense anger; it was exhausting to read.

"What do you think of him?" Lilly asked then raised her cup of coffee to her lips to take a long sip.

"Honestly?" Jack began hesitantly, and she looked up at him with raised eyebrows. He looked down and started fidgeting with the cover of the book. Sighing, he slapped his hand on the cover, resting it there, and admitted, "I don't really like him."

Lilly paused and pulled the cup away from her mouth. "What?"

"Yeah, he's… I dunno…" Jack scratched at the overgrown stubble on his chin as he tried to think of a nice way to put it. Unable to come up with one, he just came right out with it: "Kind of an asshole?"

She set her coffee on the table, leaned back in her chair, and gaped at him.

Jack shrugged. "Sorry."

Lilly shook her head and slumped her shoulders. "No, that's fine," she said, though her tone suggested otherwise.

She pursed her lips and stared at the hand he had resting on top of the book. Without warning, she reached out and laid her hand lightly on top of his. He furrowed his eyebrows at their hands then looked up at her, bewildered.

She gazed solemnly into his eyes like one would if they were about to give terrible news and said, "But I don't think we can be friends anymore."

Jack broke eye contact and breathed out a laugh as he pulled his hand out from under hers. "Didn't realize we were friends."

"Well, we're not anymore."

He looked back at her, and the soft smile on his face faltered when he saw the seriousness on her face. She stared at him, deadpan for a few moments before finally cracking and breaking out into a snicker.

He sighed in relief and rubbed his forehead. "You're too good at that. I hate it."

She giggled. "At what? Makin' you flustered?"

"At acting," he said and picked up his bottle of beer to take a swig.

Rolling her eyes, she said, "You really thought I'd toss you to the curb for not likin' a character in a book?"

"I dunno. Maybe."

"Well, I wouldn't," she assured with a shake of her head. Her shoulders slumped again. "I am really disappointed you don't like him though."

He shrugged. "You're gonna have to get used to bein' disappointed if you wanna keep talkin' to me."

She scoffed at his self-deprecation and lightly kicked his shoe under the table. "Stop."

Jack mumbled an apology and mindlessly looked behind her just as the saloon door was opening. His brows twitched together when he saw the town's sheriff step inside and begin walking with purpose towards the bar.

He felt a sinking in his stomach, as he always did when he saw a lawman nowadays. Every time he saw the glint of a badge, he feared that his time was up— that they were finally coming to arrest him for killing Ross.

Upon reaching the bar, the sheriff waved the bartender over and leaned in to say something to him. Mr. Weaver glanced at Jack, a look of concern spreading over his face as the man spoke to him. Jack's heartbeat quickened and he dug his fingernails into his knees. Why was he looking at him?

"What?" Lilly asked, bringing his attention back to her. She glanced behind her, and finding nothing of interest to her, furrowed her eyebrows at him in question.

"Nothin'," he said, struggling to keep his voice from shaking.

They weren't necessarily talking about him. Weaver just happened to look in his direction. There was no reason to freak out.

He stole another glance at the men at the bar, and his heart jumped into his throat when he caught Mr. Weaver pointing him out to the sheriff. They were talking about him. Cursing internally, he snapped his gaze down to the table and slouched to make himself look smaller.

Lilly quirked an eyebrow at his behavior and looked behind her again, just as the uniformed man began approaching their table. She whipped her head back to Jack and asked him something, but he didn't listen to what it was. He was too fixated on the sound of the sheriff's heavy footsteps thumping against the floor, heading towards them, and his heart's thumping against his chest.

The footsteps stopped in front of the table, and he heard the sheriff ask, "You're Jack Marston, correct?"

Jack hesitated, still staring down at the table. His instincts told him to say no, but he knew doing so would be pointless— Weaver had clearly already told him who he was. So, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat, he looked at the man and nodded.

"Alright, I need you to come with me for a minute." He pointed his thumb at the door behind him. "Gotta talk to you about something."

"About what?" Jack asked, trying to appear innocent like he had no idea what this could possibly be about. He wasn't sure how convincing he was, however.

"It's, uh"— the sheriff motioned to Lilly— "private."

Jack looked at the woman, and she stared at him wide-eyed, searching his face for some explanation of what was going on.

He gave her a little shrug before looking back at the sheriff. "I'm not leavin' unless you tell me."

The man sighed and put his hands on his hips. "Look, kid, this whole thing'll be a lot more painless if you just do what I ask," he said with the intonation of a man nearing the end of his tether. "Don't make me drag your ass outta here."

Of course, he couldn't get out of this that easily. He certainly didn't want to be dragged away, so it seemed his only option at that point was to do what the man said.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he slid his chair back, cringing at the sharp scraping of its legs against the floor, and slowly rose to his feet. His knees wobbled, and the sheriff reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, but he jerked back violently to prevent him from doing so.

The man clicked his tongue and nodded towards the door. "Start walking."

—

Jack's mind reeled as he followed the sheriff to the police department; he could hardly form a single coherent thought. This was it. They had finally found out about Ross. This was the last time he would freely walk down the street. His head screamed at him to flee, but his feet refused, remaining dead set on marching him straight to his doom.

When they reached the building, he was led to an office on the second floor. The room was small and windowless; it could have been mistaken for a jail cell if it weren't filled with lavish furniture.

"You can have a seat right there," the sheriff said, motioning to a simple wooden chair sat in front of a sturdy mahogany desk.

Jack complied and sat rigidly on the edge of the chair.

With a grunt, the sheriff sat down as well, in the plush leather chair behind his desk. The chair squeaked as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desktop. Pressing his fingertips together, he furrowed his eyebrows and stared at Jack in silence.

Jack shifted uncomfortably in his chair and focused on the various medals adorning the wall to avoid eye contact. His heart was racing, and he dug his palms into the arms of his chair in an attempt to ground himself.

Every second of silence that passed was agonizing, and the man's scrutinous stare was driving him mad. He wanted to yell at him, tell him to just come out with it, but he was paralyzed with fear. This was exactly how his nightmares often started, and he knew how horribly those ended. Though this time, there was no hope of waking up.

Finally, the sheriff asked, "You know why you're here?"

Because I was too stupid to run away when I had the chance, Jack thought. Outwardly, he flitted his eyes to the man's face for a brief second and shook his head.

"Don't remember shooting Henry Lowe? Almost a week ago?"

Jack's grip on the chair loosened as a wave of intense relief hit him like a speeding train. This was about the stupid fight with Lowe, not about Ross. His anxiety made a hasty exit, and irritation took its place. They dragged him in here, and nearly killed him with worry, all because of a stupid duel— one in which no one even died.

Jack locked eyes with the sheriff and glared at him. "What about it?" he asked bitingly. "It was a duel. That he started."

The man raised an eyebrow at his sudden shift in demeanor and leaned back in his chair. He said, "Governor wants us to crack down on the dueling. Says it ain't got no place in a civilized society."

Jack scoffed and crossed his arms.

Ignoring his derision, the sheriff calmly continued, "We're issuing fines for it now."

Jack scoffed again. This was the first time he had ever heard of this new punishment for dueling, so he suspected they were just singling him out. "Is Lowe getting fined too, then?" he spat.

"Uh, no…." The sheriff pursed his lips and glanced up at the ceiling.

Jack fumed. "Why not? He's the one who—"

"He's dead."

Jack froze and blinked a few times. "What—"

"He got a nasty infection from the gunshot wound and died last night," the sheriff explained. "His wife came in here this morning absolutely hysterical. Wanted us to hang you."

Jack's heart sank, and he looked down at the floor. "I wasn't trying to kill him."

And that was the truth. As much as the man had pissed him off, he hadn't wanted to kill him. If he did, he would have. But he didn't want more blood on his hands, more reasons for his parents to be disappointed in him.

"Well, it don't much matter what you were trying to do, does it?" the sheriff asked. "He's still dead."

Jack didn't answer.

The man studied him quietly for a moment then opened a desk drawer and pulled out a little notebook and pen. "If I were you, I'd feel lucky I'm only getting a fine. Come the turn of the year, they're planning to start treating duels as murder," he said, scribbling something down on the paper as he spoke.

Jack did feel lucky, though it wasn't for the reason the man thought.

The sheriff stopped writing and sighed when there was a sharp knock at the office door. "Door's open," he called out.

The door swung open and a man popped his head in. Jack felt the color drain from his face when he recognized him as that bureau agent he saw Archer Fordham yelling at the other day— the one who first told him where he might find Edgar Ross.

What kind of cruel joke was this? His anxiety returned just as quickly as it had left, and he slumped over in his chair, hoping the man wouldn't look his way.

"What you want, Sawicki?" the sheriff asked, impatience seeping into his tone.

"Fordham needs to talk to you."

"I'm a little busy at the moment," the sheriff sighed, pointing at Jack with his pen.

Jack wanted to strangle the man for calling attention to him. Sawicki looked his way, and the two made eye contact for half a second. His eyes widened, and recognition became clear on his face. Jack snapped his head in the other direction, resting his hand on his temple in an attempt to cover his face.

The agent opened the door wider and stepped into the room. "Who is this?" he asked with a tinge of urgency in his voice.

The sheriff disinterestedly replied, "Boy who shot Lowe last week."

Sawicki prodded, "What's his name?"

There was a pause before the other man curiously answered, "Jack Marston."

Jack cringed at the utterance of his name and stole a glance back at the agent to gauge his reaction. Sawicki just pursed his lips and nodded to acknowledge the sheriff's answer.

"What's Fordham want?" the sheriff asked.

"Um," Sawicki glanced out into the hallway then cleared his throat. "Never mind. It's not important." He took a step back. "I need to go take care of something."

With that, he hurried back out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

The sheriff stared at the closed door with furrowed brows before shaking his head, returning his focus to the paper he was writing on. "Damn lunatic," he muttered to himself. With a glance up at Jack, he said, "Anyways, as I was saying…"

The sheriff started going over the specifics of the fine Jack was receiving, but he couldn't focus on a word he said.

Sawicki definitely recognized him. There was no doubt in his mind. And now he knew his name. He was probably running to tell Fordham at that very moment. That short interaction had just murdered any hope Jack had left of not being found out. He was utterly screwed now— up shit creek without a paddle, as he'd heard his father say before.

He felt like the walls were closing in on him and had an overwhelming urge to get up and sprint out the door. But he stayed frozen in his chair, once again digging his hands into its wooden arms and staring blankly at the floor.

He knew his outbursts would catch up to him eventually, but he hadn't expected it to happen today. He thought he had more time to get himself together.

"Alright." The sheriff ripped the page he'd been writing on out of his notebook and slapped it onto his desk, making Jack jump. "Get on outta here."

Without a word, Jack stood up, almost mechanically, and grabbed the paper, the strength of his grip wrinkling the spots his fingers touched. He looked down at it, noting the amount of the fine: one-hundred dollars. He frowned at the number. There was no way in hell he was going to be able to pay that, not before the date the page demanded. Yet another thing to add to his growing list of problems.

Normally, he'd argue, he'd refuse to pay, but all he wanted at the moment was to get out of that building. He shoved the paper in his pocket and slinked out the door. As he stepped out of the office, a hushed conversation occurring at the end of the hallway abruptly ceased, and he felt eyes on him. They had been talking about him; they must have been.

He didn't dare look; he didn't want his fears confirmed.

Keeping his gaze fixed firmly ahead, he flew down the staircase and out the front door, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

He was at a loss for what to do next. The first nail had just been hammered into his coffin, and he felt like he was suffocating.