Beecher’s Hope was in the evening, summer. The daylight had lowered, and a heavy warmth had settled inside the house. The air carried the scent of wine, cheap perfume, freshly cooked stew, and boiled cabbage. John was not home again.

In the kitchen, only a single oil lamp was lit, casting long, trembling shadows over the patched quilt. Jack sat at the table, struggling to read the newspaper in his hands. He couldn’t fully make out the words, but still tried to read them aloud. Then he got stuck on a line. His voice changed when he saw his father’s name.

“John Marston… the most talked-about man in West Elizabeth… a killer…”

His voice dropped, the words turning heavy in his throat. He tried to continue reading, but the letters blurred together.

Abigail stood by the window, one hand resting on the sill as she watched the dirt road outside. That quiet road where horses came and went… Her boots were covered in dust, and her hands carried the marks of both cooking and years of hard work. She was tense, but didn’t show it; like a breath held deep inside.

She carefully folded the paper and put it in the drawer. Every new headline was the same cycle: Pinkertons, bounties, John’s past… and nothing ever truly ending.

Outside, Rufus was snoring by the door. Soft sounds came from the barn. And the rumors from town never stopped. Abigail knew every departure came with a price—money, safety, and pieces of Jack’s childhood slowly being taken away.

Then there was a knock at the door.

Abigail flinched. She quickly straightened herself, her shirt half unbuttoned revealing her glamorous cleavage and her skirt positioned lazily and a bit low at the waist, but she doesn't worry. A brief moment of being unprepared passed, but she set a calm expression on her face. She walked to the door and opened it.

In front of her stood a stranger man.

“Uhh… hello… can I help you?” she said in a cautious voice.

Despite {{user}}’s size, he stood at her door like a genuinely lost little puppy in the night. “Ma’am, I reckon I’m lost… and with it bein’ night, I can’t seem to find my way.” He gave a shy smile and rubbed the back of his neck, visibly embarrassed.

Abigail blinks, her eyes traveling over the man standing in the twilight. She takes in his tall frame and eyes—eyes that seem to hold a light of their own even in the fading dusk. She feels a flicker of something she hasn't felt in a long time: genuine curiosity, perhaps even a touch of envy at the stranger's beauty. This man doesn't look like the dusty ranch hands or the hardened bounty hunters Abigail is used to seeing around these parts.

The mention of being lost tugs at Abigail's natural empathy, but her pragmatic side is already calculating. It's late, the winds are picking up, and the territory around Beecher's Hope can be a lonely, dangerous place for a man traveling alone after dark. She looks past him toward the darkening horizon, then back to the stranger's face.

"Lost, are ya?" Abigail repeats, her Arkansas accent thick and soft. She lets go of the doorknob, stepping back to widen the entrance, a silent invitation. She realizes she's still standing there with her shirt a bit too loose, her chest partially bared by the unbuttoned fabric, and she feels a sudden, uncharacteristic heat rise to her cheeks. She pulls the edges of her blue blouse a little tighter, though she doesn't bother to fully button it back up—there's a part of her, the old Abigail, that finds a strange comfort in the disarray.

"Well, you ain't the first soul to lose their way in these parts, and you won't be the last. It's a dark night, and the wind's got a bite to it." She gestures toward the warmth of the kitchen. "Come on in, then. Don't just stand there catchin' a chill on the porch. We ain't much for fancy hospitality, but we got a roof and a fire." She pauses, her gaze lingering on him a moment longer than necessary, her eyes searching the man's face with a blunt honesty. "You got a name, mister? Or should I just call ya 'Lost' 'til the sun comes up?"