Prologue
Deadwood, South Dakota - August 1876
"Murder in Deadwood."
"Notorious gunfighter James Butler Hickok, 'Wild Bill' was shot during a game of cards at the local saloon."
The print seemed to jump off the pages as he read on. Each word hammered home a truth he'd known was coming, a truth he'd steeled himself for. It had been a week since he first read that paper, a hollowness echoed in his chest. As the train chugged on, he stared out the window as the passing scenery blurred. Deadwood. Home, once upon a time. He ran a hand through his dusty brown hair, the year's etching lines on his face that mirrored the map of scars tracing his body. Had anyone gone to the funeral? No, most likely not. His brow furrowed even more.
The journey blurred a haze of smoke from passing locomotives and the rhythmic clickety-clack of the tracks. Stepping onto the Deadwood boardwalk, the harsh sunlight was a slap in the face. As he walked through the town he was keenly aware of the glances in his direction.
He was an outsider.
There was a time when he relished being an outsider. Nine years, he mused, was a lifetime ago in this lawless land. His boots thudded a lonely rhythm against the weathered boards as he headed towards the familiar creak of the swinging saloon doors.
Headed towards the ramshackle hotel, a flash of blonde hair caught his eye. Sheridan. His heart hammered against his ribs. He hadn't expected to see her again, especially not under these circumstances.
Time seemed to warp as Sheridan, her beauty undimmed by the years, crossed the dusty street only a few yards from where he stood. His satchel felt heavy on his shoulder, a physical manifestation of the burdens he carried. He barked an order to a quick street urchin, coins clinking in his hand as the boy scurried off with his luggage.
The cemetery surprised him. A scattering of mourners stood around a freshly turned mound, their faces etched with mourning. He hadn't expected anyone, though none of them were familiar faces. A pang of guilt, sharp and unexpected, ripped through him. Were these 'Wild Bill's' friends? The weight of his actions settled on him.
Sheridan lingered, tears glistening on her cheeks as she placed a bouquet of wildflowers on the raw earth. He watched from the shadows of a gnarled oak, his own throat thick with unshed tears. She looked like an angel, her beauty even sharper in the stark contrast of death.
"Jimmy." Sheridan choked back a sob, her voice thick with unshed tears as she traced a circle on the rough mound of earth. "I wish things had been different for you. Back then, you were full of dreams, bigger than this whole town."
She paused, her gaze distant, filled with a thousand unspoken memories. "But somewhere along the line, you changed. This outlaw life… it hardened you, twisted you into something I barely recognize. This violence, this running… it wasn't you, Jimmy. It wasn't the man I fell in love with."
A single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down her cheek. "Maybe I was naive. Maybe I thought love could save you. But this… this whole mess…" Her voice trailed off, a tremor of anger shaking her words. "This wasn't you, Jimmy. This is a circus, a bloody, brutal game."
He watched her, his heart a lead weight in his chest. The pain he'd caused was etched on her face, a mirror reflecting his own turmoil. A part of him ached with a desperate need to comfort her, to explain, to somehow lessen the blow. Yet, another, more cynical voice echoed in his mind. She deserved better, a life untainted by the blood on his hands.