You hadn’t planned on coming back to Beecher’s Hope. But work was work, and when they offered the job fixing fences out west, you didn’t know the land belonged to him until it was too late.

John Marston.

The man you once loved. The man who walked away.

Abigail didn’t trust you. You saw it in her eyes every time you stepped near the porch. She watched you like a hawk, and you didn’t blame her. You were a ghost from a life John had buried, and your presence scraped at old wounds no one had the courage to name.

You tried to stay out of the way. You did your work. You kept your head down. But some nights, when the wind was quiet and the stars were loud, you heard things you weren’t meant to hear.

Like tonight.

From the other side of the barn, you heard Abigail’s voice—low, sharp, edged in fear.

—“Who the hell is that to you, John? Don’t lie to me.”

Silence.

Then John's voice, tired and worn: “I didn’t love them like I love you… but I never forgot 'em either.”