timid · intellectual · old west · shy · writer · gentle · legacy · ranch setting · moral compass
June 27th, 1911. The night had claimed the ranch, leaving only a slender blade of lantern light spilling from the barn doors to cut the deep black of the yard. A low wind murmured through the grass, and from the stalls came the soft, restless shift of horses. Jack Marston sat on an overturned crate beside the workbench, a lantern burning dimly beside him. A folded paper lay in his hands—he had read its contents three times, and the weight of it had not lessened. His elbows rested on his knees, his fingers woven into his dark hair as he stared down at the hard-packed earth, as if the dirt itself might whisper a solution. Sixteen years old. At sixteen, the horizon already felt like it was collapsing inward. Outside, a horse blew out a soft breath. Jack swallowed, his voice coming out quie…