The afternoon sun glimmered over the rippling waves of Flat Iron Lake, and a steady wind swayed the sail of a fisherman's modest boat off in the distance. The air that first day of September was cool and clean, filled with the sounds of seagulls and water lapping against the lake's rocky shore. It should have been a beautiful scene, one which would fill any observer with tranquility.
But that peace was entirely lost on Jack Marston as he stood a few feet from that shore, staring at the dark hungry waves while his thoughts drowned him. After his encounter with the sheriff, his feet had led him straight to that semi-secluded spot behind the police department. He wasn't sure why; he had no say in the matter. He didn't have much say in anything anymore it seemed.
They knew who he was now. There was no denying it, no hiding from it anymore; the recognition on that bureau agent's face was clear as day. They would probably come marching out of that office any moment to throw him in jail, hang him, or worse.
The thought made a shiver run down his spine, and he looked over his shoulder, half-expecting to find a dozen lawmen and bureau agents circling him like vultures. But behind him was only grass and shrubbery, swaying lightly in the breeze.
Jack let out a breath and turned his head back towards the water, clenching his fists and squeezing his eyes shut as his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. He didn't know what to do. He hadn't truly prepared for this moment, though he knew it would come— it was inevitable. He didn't know if he should run, or hide, or bother doing anything at all. He had made such an irreparable mess for himself; how could he possibly get away from it?
Worst of all, he had no one else to blame for his current predicament, no one else to hate for bringing the law's attention to him. Only himself and his fractious temper. If he hadn't shot Lowe, he never would have been brought into the sheriff's office, and that bureau agent never would have seen and recognized him.
Not to mention the shame he felt for taking the man's life. Killing Ross was one thing; he deserved it a hundred times over. Lowe was just a brash idiot, and while what he had said about his father infuriated him, he knew deep down that the man didn't deserve to die for it.
Jack hated what he had become, and his family surely would too.
His hand found the handle of his holstered revolver— the one he had used to kill both Ross and Lowe, and without a second thought, he yanked it out. His face contorted in disgust as he held it up to observe it. He hated it. He hated the trouble that wielding it had brought him. He hated that dull reflection in the metal that glared back at him.
His knuckles turned white as his grip on it tightened. He had dug his own grave with that stupid gun; it was going to kill him without ever firing a single shot at him.
Gritting his teeth, he raised the gun over his shoulder and flung it towards the lake with all the strength he could muster. It splashed into the water and was instantly engulfed by the waves. He stood in place, glowering at the spot the gun hit the water, cementing its death in his mind.
Taking deep, heavy breaths, he took a step back from the lake and wiped his palms on his pants, wanting to erase any trace of that gun from his skin. A part of him felt lighter knowing that it was gone, never able to be retrieved. But the gravity of his plight still weighed heavily on his chest. If only he could rip that feeling out and feed it to the fishes too.
Paranoia prickled his neck again, and he glanced around, scanning the area for anyone who may have been watching. Again, nobody. That he could see… He squirmed uncomfortably, suddenly feeling more exposed than ever.
Slumping his shoulders and shoving his hands in his pockets, he turned his back on the lake, craving someplace to hide. Unsure of where else to go, he made his way back to the saloon.
—
Jack slipped back into the saloon, the familiar musky scent of the place bringing him some minimal comfort. It had gotten busier in the hour or so he was gone, but luckily, nobody gave him a second glance as he entered. In fact, they seemed to be making a great effort to avoid looking at him.
Jack shifted on his feet and started scanning the room until his eyes landed on the little table in the corner of the bar where Lilly still sat with her back turned towards him. His shoulders relaxed a bit.
Sitting across from her in the seat that Jack had vacated earlier was Mr. Weaver, with his head leaned in as he spoke quietly to her. Jack couldn't help but feel a twinge of resentment as he looked at the man. He just had to go and point that sheriff in his direction, set off that chain of dominoes…. He shook his head and tried to bury his bitterness before it could spiral into rage.
He took a deep breath to calm himself and began shuffling his way towards the table. Mr. Weaver glanced at him as he approached and straightened up before sighing and pointing him out to Lilly. She whirled around, worry-filled eyes locking with his, searching for answers about what had happened.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and gave her a strained smile in some lame attempt to assure her that everything was fine. Unfortunately, she didn't buy it, and her look of concern deepened.
Jack looked to the floor to avoid her questioning gaze.
Exhaling sharply, she finally asked, "What was that about?"
Jack pursed his lips, shook his head, and shrugged at the question before pulling out an empty chair and plopping down with a grunt. He pretended not to notice Lilly lean in closer and continue to eye him as he silently stared down at the table.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, there was a sudden creaking of wood and a sigh as Mr. Weaver leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Well, can't've been that bad if ya ain't locked up."
Jack bit his lip and flashed a scowl at the man, his irritation at him flaring up again. "Don't you have work to do or something?" he spat, unable to contain his animosity.
Mr. Weaver raised an eyebrow, and Jack averted his eyes, his face flushing. He knew deep down that it wasn't fair for him to be angry with the man. He couldn't have known what would happen; he didn't know the full extent of the crimes Jack had committed. But it was hard not to feel betrayed. If he had just told the sheriff Jack wasn't there….
Weaver stared at him in appalled silence for a short moment before clicking his tongue and grumbling, "Alright then, son."
With a shake of his head, he slapped his hands on the table, making it wobble and squeak, and pushed his chair back to rise to his feet. He began to walk away but paused to give Lilly a firm pat on the shoulder and sourly tell her, "Have fun."
She glowered at him as he made his way to his usual place behind the bar. When she turned back to look at Jack, her expression softened. He glued his eyes back to the table and tensed up as he awaited the barrage of questions that he didn't want to answer.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice quiet and gentle, though still laced with poorly concealed unease.
He glanced up at her, the worry in her inviting eyes making his chest sink to the floor. He had to say something.
"I got fined," he murmured after some consideration, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table.
"Fined?" Her eyebrows furrowed. "For what? What'd you—"
"Dueling." He scratched his chin then rested his hand against his lips. "Lowe died, apparently. From the gunshot," he shakily explained.
Lilly's mouth fell open, and she shrank back a bit. "Shit," she mumbled, shifting her gaze away and reaching up to rub her neck.
"Shit indeed," he agreed, the words muffled by the hand against his mouth.
He watched her as she fell silent, a range of emotions crossing her features. Shock, perhaps a hint of satisfaction, then, for some reason unknown to him, guilt.
She caught his eye, shifted uncomfortably, and cleared her throat. "How much did they fine you?"
"Hundred dollars."
She blew out some air in surprise. "Wow. How much did you make off him in that poker game?"
Jack sucked on his teeth and replied, "Not a hundred dollars."
Lilly nodded and looked down in thought for a second. "How are you gonna pay it?"
"I don't know," he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Do you have a hundred dollars?"
She let out a scant laugh and shook her head. "I wish I did. Would make my life a lot easier."
Jack frowned and nodded before sighing and burying his face in his hands.
"I—I'm sure you'll figure something out," she attempted to assuage him with a small smile. "At least it was just a fine. Could be a lot worse; you'd probably be arrested where I'm from."
"I guess," he said flatly and leaned back in his chair.
It could be worse. And it was. Truthfully, he didn't really care about the fine he had received; it was just a drop in the bucket of problems he had accumulated. But he couldn't tell her what had really happened, what had caused that bucket to finally start overflowing. He didn't know how she would react. She could turn away from him in disgust, or worse, turn him in to the law. He didn't think she seemed the type to do any of that, but he had only known her for a short while, and the risk was too great.
Her voice pulled him out of his thoughts, "Maybe Weaver could get you a job. He did it for me."
Jack frowned at the idea. As if Mr. Weaver would want to do him any favors after all the shit he'd pulled lately. As if staying in town and working while the law was after him would help him at all…
Lilly seemed to notice his hesitancy and pursed her lips as she searched her brain for an alternative. "You could—"
"I don't wanna think about it right now," he interrupted, the words coming out more sternly than he intended.
He regretted his harshness when she drew back slightly, raising her eyebrows. "I'm sorry. I'm… just…" He trailed off, ending his sentence with a sharp breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Lilly gave an understanding nod in response then looked down at the table. She perked up a little when she spotted the book they had been discussing earlier still laying there. She pulled it towards her and looked back up at Jack, hesitating for a moment before sliding it to him.
"Maybe reading'll help get your mind off it," she softly suggested. "The story starts to get really good in the next few chapters…."
Jack stared down at the book, fighting to keep his frown from deepening. He doubted that he'd be able to focus on reading with the threat of the law tracking him down looming over him. It was a wonder he was even able to hold a conversation, sitting in the corner of a crowded bar where a dozen bureau agents could burst in to arrest him at any minute….
A shiver ran up his spine, and he glanced at the bar's entrance to ensure that his anxiety was just that. He let out a breath of relief when he found no one standing near the door— no glittering badges, no vultures in bowler hats. For now, at least. It was only a matter of time. Why was he just sitting around waiting?
"Jack?" Lilly prodded.
Snapping his head back to her, Jack swallowed the lump in his throat and croaked, "Huh?"
She squirmed in her chair and took a glance behind her. "You're kinda freakin' me out," she said with an uncomfortable chuckle. "Are you—"
"Y'know, I think you're right," he stammered over her as he moved to get up. The sudden overwhelming urge to get out of sight had struck him hard, making his chest ache and his heart race. "Readin' sounds like a good idea."
He avoided eye contact with her as he scooped the heavy book up off of the table, nearly dropping it to the floor in the process. Cursing under his breath, he fumbled with it until he had it tucked securely under his shoulder.
He then made the mistake of looking at Lilly, who stared back with eyes once again full of concern and confusion. Jack tore his gaze away again. He couldn't stand that look; it made his already sore chest burn with guilt.
"Okay," Lilly said with a tinge of suspicion in her voice. "Well… I'll look forward to hearin' what you think of it." She nodded towards the book then added questioningly, "If you'll be around tomorrow to talk about it."
"I will," he said automatically, though truthfully he wasn't sure if he would be around, nor did he think he'd be doing much reading that night. He just wanted to avoid any further questions or looks of discontent.
She nodded and gave him a stiff reassuring smile. "Good."
With an awkward wave goodbye, he turned his back to her and began shoving his way through the crowd of bar patrons to get to the safety of his room. The air felt thick and heavy in his lungs, and he struggled to make it up the stairs without heaving.
When he finally made it, he swung the door open and stumbled inside, taking a deep breath that sent a sharp pain shooting through his chest. He coughed, slammed the door shut behind him, and rested his back against it. Closing his eyes, he sank to the floor, the book he had brought with him falling to the ground beside him with a harsh thud.
He sat there on the floor for what felt like hours before he finally calmed himself down enough to remember how to breathe and think again. His heart still felt as if it were about to burst, and his legs wobbled relentlessly when he finally managed to get back to his feet and shuffle to his bed.
He laid down and stared at the ceiling, his mind racing like it never had before.
He wondered just how much the bureau knew about Ross's disappearance. They knew who Jack was now, but what else? Did they know Ross was dead? Had they found his body? Surely they wouldn't have let Jack just walk out of the sheriff's office if they had. Why didn't they stop him from leaving? He knew from that newspaper article that they were looking for him.
Maybe he second-guessed himself, Jack thought hopefully. Maybe he looked different enough to offer a sufficient amount of doubt that he was the man they were looking for.
Or maybe they were just waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on him— lull him into a false sense of security and catch him off guard as they did to his father. The thought made his stomach turn.
He couldn't just keep sitting around, waiting to see if they would come for him. He had been given a second chance to run away; it would be stupid not to take it.
But he had nowhere to go. And wouldn't leaving just confirm to them that he had done something wrong? Why would an innocent man flee?
Jack groaned and shoved his palms against his eyes. He couldn't win.