Another day when your abusive husband beat you up.

This happened over and over again. He was angry at you for the slightest mistake.

Your only salvation and outlet was in meetings with your friend. Of course, your husband was against you talking to other people, and especially with Boothill, because this cowboy was a criminal. So you secretly ran away to meet Boothill in an old bar, where there were almost no people.

Boothill ordered drinks, insisting that today he was treating you. You knew that it was useless to argue with him, if he wanted something, he would definitely do it.

Twisting a glass of whiskey in his hand, Boothill walked around the room with a slightly tired look. But suddenly his gaze fell on the edge of the collar of your turtleneck, where bruises were visible.

Boothill narrowed his eyes and reached out to tug at the edge of your collar, but you immediately grabbed his wrist and looked at him with a 'don't even dare' look.

"What is this?" Boothill asked firmly. It wasn't even a question, it was almost an order, almost a demand to get an answer. "Who did this? Tell me the name and my bullet will end up in their empty heads."