Chapter One

Janie's world spun slowly as figures began to multiply in her drunkenness. Copious amounts of beverage had been consumed throughout the afternoon into evening, and she began to realize exactly how far she had gone. How had she let herself get so wasted? Through the hazy fog of drink, the day came back in splintered fractions. What had she been doing—what had happened that had made her want to drown her anxiousness? Hell if she knew at that point. She'd done a fair job at it if that had been her initial prerogative.

Throwing back a shot of whisky, Janie burped, fighting off the urge to gag. Milton, the barkeep, waved a hand in front of her face, causing dizziness to film over her heavily lidded eyes. What did he want? Janie tried to focus, ignoring the tingling numbness of her limbs. He was asking her to pay her tab. Squinting and feeling like she might very well vomit all over the man, Janie reached into the breast pocket of her jacket for money, her hand resting on the wanted poster. Ah. That's right, Ringo. Fuck him.

Janie found the money and plunked it down on the bar top, ordering one last shot of whisky, which Milton denied her. The amalgamation of the day's events bubbled to the surface. Rage at being cut off burned bright on her wasted face. Berating the poor man for simply doing his job, Janie complained about inequality— the disgusting behavior men harbored toward women. She was no less a man! She slurred at him. It was simply a pity that to get anywhere in life, someone had to be born with a cock between their legs.

"Go on home, Janet." Milton rolled his eyes, barely able to understand a word Janie had said. It was hard enough when she was sober.

"Go home, Janet." She mocked him, swinging herself from the barstool while stumbling to the door. "Kiss my lily white bum, s'what. "

The Scot's ramblings continued into the street, her feet shuffling in the dirt as they tried to carry her reeking body to the grand hotel. A little voice inside her soon-to-be pounding head told her she would regret attacking the bartender. If she had been sober, Janie would never have given Milton a tongue lashing the way she had. For all the things Janie was, she wasn't one to dig into someone for no reason other than a bruised ego and heart. God knew it hadn't been his fault for Janie's foul mood. To be perfectly honest, if you threw out Johnny Ringo's previous misdeeds against her, Janie didn't have a good reason to be as drunk as she was.

Putting all that aside for the moment, the expedition to her room in the hotel was at the forefront. This was no small task with seeing double in her condition. When Janie finally got to her room, she didn't bother locking the door or removing her boots. Swaying like a flag in the breeze, she eventually found the bed and collapsed. The coolness of the air around her was sickening. Once laying there, the stillness of the surroundings betrayed the vortex of her winding head, like a colorful top on a table. Janie's stomach flipped on itself. She groaned, reaching under the bed for the chamber pot; vomiting violently into it, she fell into a less-than-fitful sleep.

.

.

When the sun rose, beams cast on Janie from between the cracks of the darkened curtains. Her face was caked with the sickness from the night before. The putrid smell of stale booze clung to the stagnant air of the room, waking her with a head filled to the brim with pain and wooziness. Perhaps the only saving grace was the darker tone of Janie's room, which offered a chance for her to open her eyes without feeling blinded by the bright morning.

"Ow, oh, you stupid cow." She cursed herself, using her sleeve to wipe away the sick from her face. Having to peel away a layer of matted hair from her chin, Janie lamented. There was no one to blame but herself for the hangover; she fell back to sleep, not waking again until late afternoon. The second time around, the pounding in Janie's head was less, but the growling in her stomach was veracious. Deciding that there was no point in rushing out the door to track down her next prize, the only thing to do was opt to bathe, followed by a bite to eat.

Sitting up too quickly was folly. Still dizzy, she fell from her bed, crashing to the floor. Janie mumbled that she'd never drink again, which was a blatant lie to her suffering organs. A break then, at least, is what she could promise herself. No more booze until the job was finished.

By far, the best place for a bath and feed was in Tombstone's Chinatown, where you'd be hard-pressed to find another round-eye. Janie liked it there, not for the exoticness of the people, or their customs, mind you. She was never taken much by curiosities like most. Quite frankly, being born of lower stock herself, Janie found a familiarity amongst outcasts; being born to Scottish immigrants and living amongst the same didn't exactly put her on the high rollers list in the eyes of the country. The only thing she had that they didn't was the simple, indisputable fact that she was white and they weren't. Incidentally, this gave her far more opportunity in the world, despite being an ugly woman gifted red hair with an abundance of unsightly freckles. Yet for all of these observations on her part, Janie couldn't say she was welcomed in that area of town, butchering any attempt at communication in the Chinese language, but her coin was; In the end, that was all that mattered. Besides, it was a place to be unbothered, to collect her thoughts–make plans.

Sitting in a tub perfumed with fragrant herbs and oils (costing the same amount as a plain bath anywhere else), Janie sighed with relief, finally able to relax and care for her hangover. Her black broad-rimmed hat draped casually over her face while her pale legs draped over the sides of the cowboy bathtub.

Near scalding water—nothing else was acceptable to her—enveloped her body, drawing out the toxins. If Janie ever believed in spiritual experiences, it was here. Something about soaking and washing away the physical and emotional pain of life was therapeutic. Janie liked to imagine that she was a rock at the bottom of the ocean, anchored and unmovable. No matter what was currently pressed against her, she was steadfast—solid. Janie couldn't be broken, even when the demons of the past came to play.

Not to her surprise, while resting, Janie began debating the best route to take once leaving town. That only led to thoughts lingering on Johnny, remembering the last time they saw each other. That was nearly two years ago…

It was a winter night in Bisbee, holed up in a rented room between the sheets. They had always been good at that if nothing else, and God, it was good. Animalistic, passionate, primal even. Johnny got every bit as rough as he gave, his deep eyes shining with that wickedly distinctive smirk of his. He made Janie weak in more ways than one, surrendering her heart to a dark-haired man. She had some sort of pull over him as well. Ringo had not left her side the entirety of that day.

"Say that again." She remembered him practically begging her on top of him. His hands were all over her body.

Between the panting, Janie rolled her eyes. "Shut up, will you?"

Ringo's laugh was cut short with a moan, throwing her off him. He pinned her down on the bed, his chest heaving from their rigorous adventures.

Janie, on the other hand, grumbled. "You—."

"Nah, c'mon now, I'm serious," Ringo's lips pulled into a smile, growing into a grin. "I don't speak Gaelic, and I want to know."

A sprawling blanket of fire and gold draped over freckled shoulders, shivering at the sudden coolness. He made things extremely awkward. Grabbing a fistful of the sheets, Janie covered her chest and sat up. Lighting a cigarette, she rubbed her furrowed brows.

After a heavy pull, she exhaled the tobacco. "No, Johnny boy, you don't."

Tracing her spine with a rough hand, Ringo took in the sight of the thousand freckles which made the map of Janie's skin. She was nothing like anything he had ever known: brass, stubborn, rough around the edges. Johnny liked being with her; it wasn't complicated.

"What, you love me or something?" He teased.

Janie wasn't up for it. Swatting his hand away while putting out her smoke, her eyes answered his question where her voice fell flat.

She hadn't meant to say it—hell, she didn't even know why she said it, but she did. Now, it was out of the bag.

Ringo was propped up on his arm, tucked under a pillow. "Come here," He took her hand.

Doing as he asked without putting up a fight, Janie laid back on her side of the bed. It wasn't long before they were at it again, ravenous in their sexual appetites for one another. Ringo held her jaw firmly in his grasp.

"Say it again." He growled.

Falling into bliss, Janie gave in. "Tha gaol agam ort." …

Fading back from the daydream, Janie sank deeper into the bath until her head was underwater and her hat floated, bobbing on the surface. It was dark. It was peaceful.

That's where all your trouble started, you idiot. She told herself. You fell in love with the Devil, and he took his due, breaking your heart, in the process.

None of that was going to matter soon, though. Janie was going to find him. She was finally going to get some answers. Finally, she'd be able to drop some truth on Johnny.

Breaking the surface, Janie brushed her hair back with a deep breath. She decided then and there that she would leave that evening.

Grabbing a bar of soap, she began to wash herself and sing with a haunting voice.

"When on the road to sweet Athy,

Hurroo Hurroo

When on the road to sweet Athy,

Hurroo Hurroo

When on the road to sweet Athy

A stick in the hand, A drop in the eye

A doleful damsel I heard cry

Johnny I hardly knew ya…"

A/N: Another short chapter but a chapter nonetheless!

I want to thank you for the reviews and feedback. You guys are the very best. A deep thank you for the compliment on the cover art. (I'll admit it is my favourite.)

Hope you guys enjoyed it. Next chapter Janie will head to Mexico. Cheers! Xx