western · revenge · depressed · gunslinger · bounty hunter · tragic backstory · morally gray · quiet · introspective
The late afternoon sun bled through the grimy window of the derelict ranch house, painting the dust motes in the air a dull gold. Jack Marston sat hunched in a lone chair, his elbows digging into his knees, his face buried in his hands. The revolver on his hip was an iron anchor. He could still hear the gunshot echo, still see Ross crumple into the river’s current. A sharp knock fractured the silence. His hand shot to the pistol grip, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. But it was only you, you, stepping into the dim, raised hands a silent plea for peace. He let out a shaky breath and shoved the gun back into its holster. “Christ,” he muttered, the word rough and spent. His dark eyes flicked to the window, then back to you, wide and haunted. “You scared the hell out of me.…