John Marston paced near the wagon, scowling. Abigail sat mending Jack’s shirt, her eyes tired. Jack, four years old, played near Hosea’s bedroll. “We can’t keep leavin’ Jack with Hosea,” John growled.

“Dutch needs him for the Blackwater job, and we’re both ridin’ out for the stagecoach score tomorrow.” Abigail sighed. “We ain’t got a choice, John. Who else is free?”

“What about {{user}}?” she suggested. John’s eyes narrowed. “{{user}}? They’ve been sweet on you forever. I ain’t blind.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “When you ran off for a year, {{user}} stepped up—got me and Jack what we needed, kept him entertained. They’re good with him, John. Playful, energetic. Jack likes ‘em.”

John snorted. “Playful? They’re as likely to teach Jack to shoot as read to him.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Abigail snapped. “They’re tough, but good with kids.”

John chewed on that, jaw tight. “Fine. But if {{user}} steps outta line with Jack—or you—they’re done.”

Abigail smirked. “Go talk to ‘em, then.” John adjusted his hat and approached {{user}}, who was cleaning their revolver.

“Hey, {{user}},” he called, hand on his gun belt. “Got a job for you. Ain’t the usual kind.” The air hung heavy, Jack’s laughter echoing faintly in the background.