- CHAPTER TWO -

"The only sure thing about luck is that it will change."

Bret Harte

"Nothing is as obnoxious as other people's luck."

F. Scott Fitzgerald

I awoke with a start, jumping up in bed with my heart ricocheting around my rib cage as I scrambled out of the bed sheets. My legs were so tangled I tripped right into the wardrobe, smacking it into the wall with a loud bang.

For some stupid reason, I looked at my wrists to make sure I wasn't handcuffed or chained. The echoes of that monstrous man's speech were still rolling over in my mind. The Mexican government I once stood up for – my family once stood up for – now had my whole family killed. The man my sister so idolized and worshipped, praying he would deliver us, gave me away so easily to the confines of slavery. I was to be a whore in Canada, a whore to that awful man and his disgusting gang. I was so easily given away, as if I weren't a human being but something owned.

I realized my knees were shaking, and looking around wildly I spotted a window. The sun was up high in the sky and everything was starting to piece together. For now, I was safe.

I could remember getting on Sierra – Oh God, where was she? – and seeing the face of a stranger hovering over me just before I faded to black.

I put a hand against the cool wall and analyzed all of my body parts in the mirror. My arm was throbbing in pain but bandaged, my leg had some ointment on it.

I wasn't in my nightgown. I wasn't in anything at all. I was stark naked. Where was my nightgown? Who changed me? Who saw me naked? Who put me to bed?

My cheeks heated at this thought, knowing that a man had brought me here and had touched me in nothing more than a nightgown.

I knew I was stupid for getting embarrassed about that, considering my job, but in my mind there had been a sort of separation between career and home life. Whatever happened at Rathskeller Fork, it was a dream compared to who I was outside. Annabelle Koen was not Miranda Fortuna.

I heard footsteps outside the door and I scrambled back to the bed, pulling the sheets right up to my neck. The door swung open and a modest-looking girl walked in, smiling at me.

"I'm glad you're up misses. I thought you were damn near Death's door." She put a bowl of sickly-looking food on the table beside the bed and ripped open the white lace curtains. Sunlight streamed onto the patched quilt and sheets and I blinked tiredly against the glare.

"Thank you kindly," I replied, gesturing to the food with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. "Do you know where I am? And who brought me here? I'm so sorry but I am not in my right mind."

"It's no problem at all," she said, lacing her fingers together. "You're in Armadillo, miss, brought in by a kind gentleman who found you near Benedict Point. Got on the train with you an' everything, brought you all the way here."

"And my horse?"

"I'm sorry miss, I haven't a clue about any horse of yours." I blinked back my emotions and smiled at her again, analyzing her young features. She must have been no older than 13.

"Well, thank you. For all your help."

"The man who brought you in is still here, if you'd like to thank him yourself. I believe he said he was heading out on the train to Mexico, so you'd better be quick." She paused, eyeing me. "I'll get you something to wear. Your nightgown was really something - all blood and muck. I tried washing it but it really is a sight."

"Thank you, but just throw it out," I replied.

The girl opened the wardrobe I had bumped into earlier, and as she rummaged around I realized I had left a crack in the wall behind it. I swallowed quickly and practically snatched the clothes she handed to me – A God awful looking green thing that I suppose used to be a dress once upon a time, but now looked like a sad sack of potatoes.

"Thank you," I said again. She left and I changed in a hurry. She hadn't given me any shoes so I took the liberty of going through the wardrobe and picking out the nicest pair, lacing them on as I struggled to the door. Halfway out, I realized I left the food untouched so I dumped everything out the window and left the bowl on the table.

I headed into the blinding sunlight of the saloon. I almost laughed at the courtesans around me, finding it ridiculous that no matter where I went or in what situation I ended up I was always surrounded by these types of girls – my type.

"Why hello there," one girl crooned to me, taking my wrist in her hand. "Are you alright? We heard all about what happened, how some rogue shot you down and Mr. Marston found you."

"Marston?" That name set off a series of alarms in my mind, and after a moment of wordlessly staring at the woman I realized Marston was the name of the man who had accompanied me out of Mexico so long ago. What an exciting coincidence, that he saved me once again.

I smiled, "I'm alright, thank you," I sad as I slid from her grasp.

I crept down the stairs, my eyes looking for that face I remembered. The scars, the ragged, leathery skin from hard work in the sun, the hat with the feather, the kind eyes – I saw the hat almost immediately, and I headed down the stairs toward him with a bounce in my step. I don't know why.

"Marston! Mr. Marston!" I called. I realized some of my old accent had crept back into my voice and I cleared my throat. The man turned towards me – and I felt a slight disappointment.

It was obviously his son standing before me – similar features, though not quite the same. I walked towards him slowly, eyes raking over his face.

"Hello," I greeted, holding out a hand. He had the audacity to stare at it for a moment before lifting his eyes toward me again. He had a bandanna around his neck, a tan jacket and his Dad's old hat. He was freckled and very young looking, perhaps younger than me. His shoulders were slender, yet he was very tall. I leaned forward until my hand poked him in the chest.

"Hello," I said again, and this time he took my hand and gave it a curt shake, one brow raised as he appraised me.

"Ma'am," he greeted curtly. Then he turned back toward the bar and fiddled with his glass of whiskey.

"I don't know if you remember me-,"

"I do."

"Then I'd just like to say thank you for saving me. It was very kind... and I, I really appreciate it."

"It's what anyone would do, ma'am."

"I suppose." I watched him stare into his glass of whiskey and felt more and more disappointed that this was not John Marston. "You seem disinterested so I'll cut this short. Do you know where my horse has gone to?" I asked, leaning on the bar next to him. I nodded my head towards the bartender in greeting and his face lit up.

"She's still at Benedict Point. A friend of mine is taking care of her. That, or she's wandered off," he said.

The bartender poured me a glass, smiling. "Enjoy the drink, gorgeous," he said.

I took the glass and swallowed it in one gulp. It burned my throat in such a pleasant way. As the bartender poured me another glass, I really hoped he didn't expect me to pay for this.

"I'm Annabelle Koen," I said, facing Mr. Marston. "I think you should know the name of the woman you saved.

"Jack Marston," he replied, lifting his gaze to barely meet mine. His eyes rested somewhere on my cheekbone, before hurriedly going back to his whiskey. "And I save enough women that your name will be forgotten by tomorrow."

The clock chimed and he rose from the stool, dumping a wad of cash onto the counter. He swayed a bit, and I wondered how long he'd been drinking.

"Are you alright?" I asked.

"Miss," he turned to me with a troubling smile and his honest eyes looked dark and daring, "I'm real happy you're happy I saved you, but I think it's time you took your leave from me. Not because you have to, but because I want you to."

"We've hardly had a conversation," I said, taken aback. My hand flew up to my chest as if warding off his insult from my heart. He turned his back on me and strode out the door. The audacity! What a man, addicted to the drink, insulting to the thankful.

I followed him until I stood on the edge of the saloon porch, my pride curled at my feet and whimpering.

"Some man!" I called after him. "Saving people just to insult the likes of them."

He didn't look back, just kept striding toward the train station. I wanted to throw something at the back of his head, if only to make him stop ignoring me. I growled and stomped my foot, yes, like a child. My frustration was rising.

I was about to head back into the saloon, until I remembered there was nothing left for me there. I'd probably have to get on the same train as Jack Marston to get back to Benedict Point, unless I wanted to go back in there and face the bartender's wrath of an unpaid bill.

My pride was pretty much dead and gone as I stalked after Jack Marston. I felt like such a pile of crap, having to stand in the same vicinity as him as we waited for the passengers to unload their luggage.

I let him board the train first, and I immediately regretted this decision when the only spot left was behind a shady-looking fellow in dark clothes with a bandanna pulled up to his nose, or the seat behind Jack Marston.

I sat behind the man with the bandanna.

The train took off and I finally had time to just... Think. I felt a sense of apprehension. t was with only a stroke of luck that I managed to save myself by the skin of my teeth, and most of my survival was thanks to Marston. And what was I to do now? Would that awful man and his gang hunt me down to the ends of the earth, or was he dead? I knew I had stabbed him in the face, but I wasn't sure how extensive his injuries were. Where was I safe? Not Mexico, not New Austin. Where could I go?

No family left to turn to, no one to take me in. Would I just be a rotting corpse on the side of the road by this time next week? Or should I succumb to the task of being a prostitute all my life with that rotten gang. What were my choices? Where would I go?

I felt that same anxious desperation well up inside my chest, threatening to overtake me. What if I just rode the train for the rest of my life? What if –

"Drop to the floor! This is a robbery!" the man with the bandanna yelled, rising to his feet and pulling out a six-shooter from his holster. For a moment I just gaped at him – I was so close I could smell the leather of his chaps, the dirt and dust on his clothes and the tobacco on his breath. I could see the glint of his silver gun shining in the sunlight, the wrinkles on his face.

And I almost threw my hands up in disbelief.

Another brush with danger? Another one?

"God, you must be toying with me," I whispered as I clambered toward the floor. I felt a hand grab the back of my dress and heave me back up. I was spun around to face the other passengers and a cold gun pressed into my temple. With a start I realized two men were pointing guns at the bandanna-wearing fiend – at me. He was using me as a human shield.

"Don't waste your bullets or this broad dies!" he yelled, pointing his gun from one man to the other. Jack Marston was one of them. "All I want is your money and your goods. Put them on the floor by your feet and back away."

A woman in tears did as he said, but no one else moved. Jack Marston's gun safety clicked back and he closed one eye, aiming.

"Don't tell me you're honestly going to risk it!" I shouted. "You bastard, don't you dare try and shoot him!" I screamed.

"Listen to her. Boy, you don't even look old enough to handle that thing. Why don't you put it down. Just do as I say."

The other man lowered his gun.

"Atta boy. Put your things on the ground, all of ya."

The passengers did as he said, but Jack Marston remained, his gun trained on the felon. He hid behind me like a coward.

"Put your gun down, Marston," I hissed.

"Shoot him!" Another passenger yelled over me.

"Yeah, shoot the bastard!" someone else said.

"Shut the fuck up!" the bandanna man yelled. The woman who'd been crying now stopped, her eyes wide.

"No, just do as he says!" she said, tugging at Jack Marston's sleeve. He remained motionless. "I don't want any trouble," she sobbed. "I just want it to be over."

"Shut that broad up an' shoot him," a man said. "I gots to be in Perdido by tonight and I don't feel like bein' robbed."

"No-!" the crying woman said.

"No!" I mirrored. "Bastard! Bastards! Bastardo! Vete a la mierda! All of you!" I cried. I could feel the hatred welling up inside my chest, feel it burning my skin. What were the chances of being put through this, twice in less than a day? Was God that determined to kill me? Was it my time to go? Was it –

A gunshot sounded and I gasped. I could feel warm liquid running down my side, down my arm. I knew it was blood before I looked…

The thud of the man hitting the floor made me jump back, heart pumping and breath rushing out in high-pitched gasps. I was covered in his blood, and his mutilated form on the ground – shot between the eyes – made me back up.

Everyone started cheering and I turned, watching as several men shook Jack Marston's hand in congratulations, complimenting his sharp shooting ability.

And I stood there, covered in that man's blood. Didn't they care?

After the train stopped, I just kind of sat down on the ground by the train tracks and waited for them to get rid of the body and clean up so we could continue on our journey. The sheriff didn't even show up – no one cared. The dead man was just a criminal. He wasn't even buried. They just left his body there to be collected later on.

The sun was setting and my left side was all wet from the man's blood. It was cold against my skin now and I just couldn't wait to get back home and change.

"You have God awful bad luck," Jack Marston said. His eyes were teasing. I blinked at him in surprise, watching as he put a cigarette stub out under his boot.

"I was just thinking the same thing," I said, rising to my feet.

"So this one was a robbery. What did the other one want?" he asked.

"What other one?"

"The one who shot you last night. I know a bullet wound when I see one - I've had my fair share. I didn't rescue you for no reason, ma'am, so why are you going back to where the trouble is?"

"I'm going back for my horse and- Why are you here?" I asked, frowning at him. "Why are you talking to me?"

"You look down and outta luck. I have a soft spot for women who look all hurt."

"I don't need your sympathy," I said, getting to my feet, "Or your attention. As you said before, why don't you take your leave from me?"

I headed toward the train when suddenly shots rang out once more. I looked to my right, where the shots came from, and saw the conductor fall dead to the ground.

Jack and I both jumped, watching as the conductor's body hit the side of the tracks with a dull and dead thud. To my surprise, the woman who had been crying earlier about handing over her valuables to the robber held a smoking gun in her hand, aiming it directly at Jack through the conductor's window.

"You wanna try your luck, boy?" she drawled, ducking beside the wall so all but the gun and her hand were hidden. "I'll shoot 'em if you don't drop your guns."

I heard Jack make a sound beside me, kind of like a pfft. He was poised stock still, hands unmoving at his thighs, but his chest was rising and falling rapidly as if all the thoughts in his head needed more air to blow through. I blinked up at him, my mouth hanging open in disbelief at the events taking place. Now what would the amazing John Marston's son do?

The innocent people she was aiming her gun at held stunned looks on their faces, lifting their hands into the air slowly as if they didn't want to startle her into pressing the trigger.

"Too fucking slow!" the woman screamed, and the gun went off with a resonating bang around the canyon walls. One of the passengers fell, a bullet between the eyes just as Jack had done earlier. It was the man headed for Perdido, who had no time to get robbed. Now he had all the time in the world. Or none. Depending on your view.

The other passengers jumped back. Some started to sob, pleading Jack to put his guns down. I leaned forward, gaze darting from the woman to Jack. His Adam's apple bobbed but he stayed stock still. He had to be planning something, right?

"He was your partner, wasn't he?" Jack called to her.

The gun swung to Jack and the woman's face appeared from the window, aiming down the barrel, a tongue poked out between her lips in concentration.

"You played the crying wench to lead the others into giving up their valuables while he did the hard work."

"Shut up."

"You never expected him to hesitate so long in shooting the innocents. I'm sure others have held a gun to him, but he always shot them dead first, didn't he?"

"Shut up boy," she said. She took shot the gun. It missed. Jack was to far away for her revolver to be accurate.

"But he never went up against a Marston before," Jack said. "He didn't have a chance." And in one swift motion, Jack pulled his revolver from his holster and was aiming it, probably perfectly in between the woman's eyes.

"You think you're slick?" She ducked behind the conductors wall anyways, tucked safely out of sight, gun aiming back at the passengers.

"Tell me why he hesitated."

She was quiet. Then the train's engine hissed and it surged forward. Before it could pick up much speed, Jack lunged for it, scrambling on board just behind the coal cart.

And really, honestly, truly, deeply, if you asked why I followed him, even on my deathbed I could not give you an answer. It was instinct. I don't know what else it could have been. I saw him go and I felt the urge that I needed to be there too. Was it fate pulling me to my destiny? Was it my inexplicable stupidity to be around danger at all times? I don't know. I don't even remember making the decision. All of a sudden I was gripping onto the ladder on the side of the train, beside the box cars full of luggage.

The train picked up speed fast, racing towards Benedict Point. We must have been going full speed ahead.

I scrambled from the ladder to the box car, landing with a thud. Glancing up through the passenger cart and toward the front I could see Jack was crouching behind the coal cart, gun in hand. They didn't know I was here.

I crept forward, keeping to the shadows of the passenger cart until I was by the front doorway.

"YOU KILLED HIM!" the woman screamed, her voice carrying over the rushing winds and sounds of the engine. "He was going to be a father!" Her voice was an almost inaudible sob.

My eyes went to Jack. I crouched down to his level so the woman would not see me at standing eye-sight level if she were to glance behind her. I peeked out and saw him staring at his gun.

"He shoulda picked honest work if he wasn't prepare to lose everything he had," he said, rather then yelled. It was a phrase that strangely sounded rehearsed. Jack's eyes went to mine, but they were glossed-over and emotionless. He didn't seemed surprised at all that I'd followed him.

"YOU MURDERER!" the woman screamed, over and over again. With two fingers he gestured for me to crawl towards him, which I did. He passed the revolver into my lap and withdrew another, smaller, from his left holster.

"You know how to work one of these?" he asked, leaning close to me so only I would hear, but he still had to yell it to be heard over the wind. We were going so fast...

Wait.

"Are you expecting me to enter gun battle with you, Mr. Marston?"

"Do you know how to use it or not?" he countered with a frustrated frown.

"No!"

"Well," He shifted his weight onto his heels and crawled to the side of the train, gripping the stairs. "Maybe one day I'll teach you. For now, just shoot." And he disappeared over the side, crawling forward beneath the train so as to remain unseen.

I pounded forward on my hands and knees to watch him traverse the dangerous trek. He was edging toward where the woman was by using the pipes beneath the train to shimmy along.

And he wanted me to shoot? I stared at the gun in my hand. The woman didn't know I was here. She'd think it was him shooting, still from behind the coal cart.

I felt my heart jump into my throat but I gripped that gun, aimed it for the sky, and pulled the trigger. And though I was afraid, God knows I didn't hesitate not for one second.

The woman returned fire instantly, as if she'd be waiting for this moment. The bullets ricocheted off the passenger cart in front of me, each pingmaking me flinch.

There were only six bullets, five for me now with no extra bullets, so I waited for her to get through her 6 and reload so I could shoot again. Otherwise she'd see me aiming at nothing, or she'd notice the feminine hand holding the gun, and she'd know something was up. There was a pause and I shot again. I nearly jumped out of my skin when she returned fire almost instantly. She was fast at reloading, it must mean she was a good shot too.

"Hurry up Marston," I whispered, my breath carried away with the wind. The woman paused again, and I returned fire. How long was it going to take Marston to reach her?

She returned fire again. How many bullets had she wasted now? More then 12, for sure.

Then, in those few second intervals where she reloaded, I was about to return fire when I heard another gun go off, one that sounded completely different. My heart was pounding faster then a rabbit's.

"It's safe," Jack called, as if I couldn't see that for my self. He put the train's brakes on, slowing us as we came up to Benedict Point.

"You killed her?" I asked, but it wasn't a question. It was a statement - an accusation. I stared at him, stared at the slumped body he was straddling to get to the inner-workings of the train, then back to him. "She was pregnant."

"So what?" he asked. "So goddamn what? The child of two murderers."

I was done fighting, and if I wasn't I would have told him he was a murderer too. But I'd seen enough death for today, and I'd been through enough recently. I was almost home to the Scratching Post and yet I felt apprehension about returning. Stinson would know where to find me. Where would I be safe? Where could I go? What would I do?

My eyes fell to the gun in my hands as the train surged to a stop. Jack Marston leapt off in a carefree bound and strode into the station. I followed him, but only after letting my mind hesitate on the gun again. I felt the weight of it in my hands, felt the coolness of the metal on my skin. I could faintly smell the smoke that had all but blown away on the breeze. It felt... I wouldn't say it felt good, but it did feel right.

I entered the station. Jack Marston was explaining what happened to the train station clerk. He proposed the authorities be alerted to identify the bodies along the train tracks and to pick up the passengers stranded halfway between Armadillo and here.

I waited for him on the bench inside the station. Unless he was a saint he'd be wanting his gun back. And I was definitely wanting my horse back.

He strode towards me when all was said and done, that same scowling-blank gaze on his face. It hit me again to see how similar his and his father's faces were. It was a bitter-sweet pang of memory that I shoved aside almost as fast as it had come. But his face, there was something about it that made me want to stare and look away all at once and I hated that aspect of him. Whether it was because his father's face reminded me of the last moments my family were together or something else, I didn't know.

I passed the gun to him and he tucked it into his holster.

"I appreciate your help today," he said.

"Jack Marston," I replied, "I believe we need to talk."

"I believe we don't unless it's about that horse," he said, turning for the door. I followed, my heels clacking against the wood.

"I knew your father," I called, the door swinging shut behind me. The chilly wind swept through my hair and only reminded me of what little layers I was wearing and how cold it had gotten with the sun behind the hills.

Jack stopped but he didn't look at me.

"John Marston was a good man. A brave man," I said with a step toward Jack. "You look so much like -,"

"Don't talk about my father to me," he replied, and began striding away again. I ran after him and grabbed his coat sleeve.

"He saved my life -," I began.

"You think I don't know what you are?" Jack asked, leaning down to my height so he could look me in the eyes. "You're a prostitute named Annabelle. And if you're one of the whores he had -,"

"No!" I gasped, a hand flying over my mouth at the vulgarity and hatred in his voice. "I'm not a prostitute. Your father saved my life while I was in Mexico. He took me to the ferry when the Mexican army wanted me dead."

He stopped. It wasn't a lie exactly, so that meant I shouldn't feel bad over it. Right?

"Your face... You look so much like him," I murmured. His eyes darted to mine, boring into them with a mixture of emotions that were at war with each other. Anger and sadness, happiness and hatred. He turned away again.

"Your father saved my life, and you've saved mine," I continued. "And I haven't been the nicest lady about it. I'm sorry for treating you so terribly, Marston. I deeply apologize."

He looked at me.

"Your apologies are god awful and you're excused from apologizing to me ever again," he said. And then he... Well, it was almost a smile on his lips. I sighed out the breath I'd been holding and followed him as he walked across the yard to a small pen that had been built. I saw my Sierra immediately and my smile wouldn't go away as I sunk my hands into her warm fur.

"Safe and sound," Jack said, "As promised."

"I can't make out if you're a good guy or bad guy," I said, kissing Sierra on the nose,

"I don't think any one man is either good or bad," he replied.

I caught his eye again, yet for some reason I couldn't hold it. I turned my gaze back to Sierra, rubbing her nose and feeling the whiskers on it. "I was wondering something."

"Okay?"

"I haven't got any money on me, but I'd love to have a drink with you. Just to thank you for all the trouble you've gone through for me. I don't... I... Emotions aren't easy for me and sometimes I don't even know when I'm grateful but- but Jack, I am grateful. More so then I think you'll ever know."

I met his gaze. Why did it always feel like he was judging me, or waiting for me to put a gun to his skull? He always had a look on his face that screamed "distrust and resentment."

"Alright," he said.

"We'll drink?" I asked. I couldn't help but smile. Though I sometimes lost myself in the Annabelle persona that had to exist in order to keep me alive, I still had a girl's soul. I still wanted people to like me. I didn't want enemies. Especially ones that could put a bullet between my eyes faster then I had time to blink.

He gestured toward the road. "Let's go to Rathskeller Fort then." I swallowed past the lump in my throat that said this would be trouble and led Sierra out of the pen. He didn't know I was a prostitute there. I could refuse to go but...

I looked at him as I smoothed my hand over Sierra's back and sighed. I wanted him to like me. But he didn't know I was a prostitute. Taking him to Rathskeller Fork would be trouble.

"Actually, I changed my mind. I can't drink with you. I've got to go home and change and -,"

Jack whistled. When I turned, all the horses had come jostling toward the fence. He led one out, gave it a pat, and told me his name was Nero, an American Standardbred his father had caught in the wild. I gave the horse a pat and laughed when he bumped his nose against my hand.

Jack climbed on bareback, and I climbed on Sierra bareback too because her tack was at home.

"I guess I'll walk with you back to your place," he said. "Since the train is out of a conductor."

I laughed, then stopped. My hand flew up to my mouth. "Oh my God, I laughed. How horrible is that?"

He smiled, looking at his saddle horn as a way of hiding it. I thought I heard a chuckle.

"You are something," he said. "It takes seeing some evil things to be able to laugh at something like that." His eyes raked over me. "And to be fine riding home wearing someone else's blood."

"I'm not okay with it. I just don't have a lot of options at the moment."

"How about you meet me at Rathskeller Fork, after you clean yourself up?"

"I don't know-,"

"Come on. I'm offering to buy you a drink."

"A drink? Honey, I could out drink you. I bet you every dollar you got I could out drink you."