Chapter Text
Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?
You've been out ridin' fences for so long now
The prairie stretched out, swallowing up the horizon in a haze of dust under the harsh light of a steel-grey sky. Thunder clouds rose like dark indigo mountains to the south, promising the storm that had been threatening for days. The sun beat down in spite of it, relentless and unforgiving, even as the day bled slowly into dusk. The cattle were quiet, subdued by the foreboding weather, as Jon rode the line like always.
His horse moved steady beneath him, the rhythmic creak of his saddle leather the only sound in the vast, watchful landscape. Ghost padded at his stirrup, white fur dull with trail dust, tongue lolling in the heat. Some of the men swore that dog wasn’t natural, the way he kept so close and watched with eyes sharp as any man’s. Jon didn’t argue. Ghost was all he had left worth trusting.
He rode on, memory pricking uncomfortably like the sweat that clung to his skin and curled his black hair, drawn back from his face by a leather thong. His wide-brimmed hat sat low on his brow, shading his deep-set, grey eyes from the searing brightness which glinted off the revolver at his side, cast in silver the metal flask at his hip. His constant companions. A light blue scarf, the single point of colour in his otherwise dark attire, wound a little too tight around his neck and Jon raised a hand subconsciously to tug at the material as he gazed appraisingly at the thorny length of barbed wire which circled the perimeter.
Jon clicked his tongue distractedly as he tightened the reins and slowed the horse, dismounting at the far western edge of the ranch. The dust clouded his feet as his leather boots landed firm on the rust-coloured earth. He inspected the sagging fence for just a moment, then expertly set to work with hammer and wire, the sound of the tools echoing across the open land, breaking down his thoughts even as he mended the fence.
It was mindless work, honest but dull, but the empty rhythm of his days suited Jon just fine. He was just another nameless ranch hand here, just a drifter passing through; no one to ask questions, no one to get close, no one to spark a buried memory to life…
Jon’s hand slipped on the wire suddenly, a barb sinking into the flesh of his finger. He swore under his breath at the sharp sting of pain, dropped the hammer to the ground. Glancing down, he caught sight of the ruby droplets of blood beading on his skin, falling to the dry earth at his feet. For a brief moment, his vision blacked.
Carefree laughter and the clatter of broken glass. His own hands; too slow, too clumsy, too drunk. The crack of a gunshot. Blue eyes, wide with shock. Blood, so much blood…
Jon shook his head angrily and screwed his eyes tight against the images that played out there, an unending theatre he had tried desperately to forget. Ghost whined softly at his side and he rested a hand atop the dog’s head briefly, sinking his fingers into the white fur, whether for Ghost’s comfort or his own Jon wasn’t entirely sure. The sun was nearing the horizon now, darkness threatening. His jaw ground tightly.
At times like these Jon fell back on old certainties. His hand grasped unsteadily for the flask at his hip and it shook a little as he unscrewed the stopper, raised it hastily to his lips. The amber liquid burned as it hit the back of his throat, slipped down his gullet, settled heavy in his gut, but Jon hardly noticed these days. He waited a moment for the brightness of the memories to fade, the sharpness of the feelings to numb, face raised to the dying rays. Ghost pawed at the ground, nudged at his leg, alert and anxious.
Jon sighed heavily, ran his hand across his aching eyes, his bearded face. At last his heart eased, the storm inside quieting to a restless hush. Swinging up into the saddle, he turned the horse reluctantly back in the direction of the ranch house, his lone figure disappearing into the gathering gloom like one more ghost among many.
The glowing lights of the ranch house windows blinked in the darkness head, guiding him in like a beacon in a storm. The weathered timber, dark with age, creaked a little, the building settling in the cooling night air. Jon slowed his horse, swinging down swiftly, and led the animal towards the corral. The familiar smell of hay and horses filled the air, and the dogs on the porch whined and shifted uneasily as they sensed Ghost’s approach. Ghost stayed close at his heel. His pale coat gleamed in the half light, his soundless tread uncanny enough to unnerve the other animals. He’d always been a loner too.
The metal clank of a lantern and steady footsteps alerted Jon that he was no longer alone. He turned to find Edd, one of the motley crew of ranch hands, lantern in hand, halting a few yards away. The man’s perpetually doleful expression would have been almost comical if it didn’t seem to mirror Jon’s own grey mood back at him a little too closely. Ed cleared his throat, his voice gruff and gravelly.
“You’re late back.”
“Break in the fence, out west. Thought I’d better fix it tonight. There’s a storm coming.”
Ed nodded and glanced across the dark horizon. Under his grave exterior there was warmth in his expression that Jon knew he didn’t deserve.
“You coming in? Supper’s on the table already. That glutton Grenn’s eaten most of it but there’s still a little stew and some cornbread left.”
Jon gazed at the the ranch house, the glow of the lamps and the sound of laughter drifting across to where they stood. He swallowed hard.
“I’m real tired. Think I’ll turn in.” Edd nodded again, a slight frown on his face, but he didn’t push the point. He strode back towards the kitchen and the remains of his supper, Jon watching him go. When the wooden door shut behind him, Jon turned back to the prairie, his eyes tracing the distant hills where the sun had just sunk away. He could have gone in, sat among them, let himself belong for an hour. Instead, his boots carried him towards the barn.
Jon sank down onto a hay bale, his shoulders bowing under the day’s weight. He stared out of the open barn door at the storm clouds, monstrous black against the already dark skies. Thunder rumbled, low and menacing, rolling closer with every breath, and one of the dogs whined somewhere outside the barn. Without thinking, Jon reached for his flask again. The liquid in the vessel sloshed against the sides as he opened it, reassuringly full.
By morning, Jon knew, the storm would have broken and the flask would be empty, but he’d be no lighter for it.