The ranch flooded with the thaw. Everything became sodden; even the walls of the house seemed soft, as if they would dissolve to pulp with a hard enough press of the hand. Flowers bloomed. The garden was overhauled, but was so drenched by the fresh mountain streams it struggled to grow. Jack spent countless hours with Caledonia and Esther on her knees in the mud, planting and pulling.

Sometimes, Ianthe would come and watch. At the end of the day, with Jack bent and up to her elbows in dirt, she would feel the eyes on her backside. Where she expected one of the boarders she found the master of the house leaning on the fence, eyes lowered, smiling.

One day it was so fair that Daphne decided to wash everyone's undergarments. The boarders were giggly all day. Some, hardly dressed (or without clothes at all), sought out Jack and pretended nothing was the matter while bending low or stretching tall. Jack played along and treated them no differently, no matter how ridiculously they behaved.

The warm weather brought a reckoning to Jack's spirit. With the air so different, so sweet, there came fewer reminders. Yes, there were days when the grief still weighed on her. There were moments she could hardly move, paralyzed by the memory of spring days at Lazarus's side.

But most days were not like that. Most days were too busy for that. Jack welcomed the labor of the farm, thrived in the feeling of being so useful. This was her home, now. Every task she helped with, every burden lifted from a woman's shoulders brought her closer to becoming a new, better person. She was well on her way.

That was, before a certain someone came crawling back.

Jack had been out in the stables, working late. True darkness surrounded her. It was only by the light of her small lantern that she could see her surroundings as she tidied up. She was the lone figure in a lake of night, raking up the hay. The horses were still and asleep, as if under a spell. Even the other animals — the barn cats, the pigs — made no noise. At first, that’s what she thought he was. An animal.

She heard something, and her first thought was that it was Toms, who often spent the night in the barn, especially with the warming weather. But when she cocked her ear, she realized what she heard was a voice, quite far away. Jack lifted her lantern and looked out towards the ranch house. The valley stretched beyond in a long held breath. Only the house stood to break its tyranny, with its neat yellow windows. The back door was open.

There stood Ianthe in her velvet robe, a gun in hand. Someone — likely Daphne — stood behind her with a candle. The feeble light spilled out as doors and illuminated a shadowy figure on the doorstep: a hunched and dirty man.

Jack hefted up her rake. She was in the midst of rushing on into the conflict when she realized what she was doing — and that, if Ianthe were truly in danger, she ought to keep the element of surprise. She turned to the shadows along the wall and forced herself to creep forward, despite her desire to rush in headlong before things came to blows.

But then again, why would they? Ianthe was not cruel enough to shoot a beggar. And certainly a beggar would be smart enough, even in such a desperate state, to not take a risk with a barrel pointed at his head.

But there was a sick feeling in Jack's stomach that she could not shake. She grew closer. Desperate words spilled forth from the man's lips. “It ain’t my fault. I did what you asked me to do. It’s not my fault things got a bit twisted."

"I've upheld my end of the bargain," said Ianthe. "And now you must leave."

"That wasn't what I asked for, and you know it!"

"Isn't it tragic, how some things turn out?" Ianthe tilted her head. "That's what you get for not reading the fine print."

The man's face turned towards the light. The edges of his dirty whiskers were lit in gold. Spit from his lips. And Jack knew him.

“Please,” Aaron Fowler said, tears in his voice. “Please, just make them whole again. I ain’t wanting them in pain. I’ll do anythin’, anythin’ you want.”

Ianthe scoffed. “What could I need from you?”

“I…I don’t know…” He looked down. "I—I bet I could bring another to you."

Even as he spoke, Ianthe clicked her tongue. Still, he begged. Ianthe held the gun loosely in her hands, almost dangling. Only her eyes moved. They flashed sideways and pinned on Jack in the shadows.

What are you doing? Jack wanted to scream. What is he talking about?

But she was frozen in place.

When Ianthe spoke next, it was very gentle. "Sir, it appears to me that you are very sick. You should go and find someone to take care of you."

Aaron's face turned hard and strange. “You— you—”

"I have already given you food and money. I don't have any space."

“I ain’t askin’ for that, you bitch. I’m asking for my bro—” He made a move — in hindsight, hardly a flick of the hand. But it was enough to break the spell that had forced Jack into stillness, and her return to life was sudden and violent. She came for him, swinging the rake at his head. "Don't you touch her!"

Everything turned to chaos. Daphne cried out as she dropped her candle, which plunged the scene into darkness. Jack's swing hit empty air. Ianthe's gun — or it could've been Aaron's — went off.

Jack cursed and clawed and swore for God-knows-how-long. It seemed endless to her. It was only when she realized how small and cold the body was against her — and a new light was brought over — that she realized who she was spitting in the face of. Aaron must’ve run away, and Jack was just slapping her stony boss.

"It seems," Ianthe said, "that the Fowlers are back in town."

Back in town and gone mad. Served them right.

Jack hardly remembered the next bit; her body moved, her thoughts formed, and yet it was as if some separate organ — her heart as opposed to her brain, perhaps — moved her. She marched back to the stables, kicking up hay. She hoisted up the lantern and set it roughly on a hook. She dragged out a saddle.

He couldn't run that fast. He was weak, and stupid, and if she followed behind she could trample him. Rope him like cattle. Shoot him in the head.

“And where do you think you're going?"

Ianthe stood as if she'd been there all along. In all of Jack's fury, she hadn't heard nor seen her enter. Now Ianthe stood with her arms folded across her chest, leaning against a post. Watching Jack.

But this was not at all like the other times Ianthe watched her. There was nothing sensual about it. Jack was losing her grip on herself. She moved like a fire through the stables, looking for — for something! Anything!

"I know you want to kill them," Ianthe said. "I quite agree that it needs to be done. Since they've returned to Loveday, three more homesteads have been burned. It kills me to think of all the lives they've stolen."

Jack's hands shook as she let open the latch on the stall. “Where did you put my gun?”

Ianthe went on as if Jack hadn’t spoken. "Be that as it may — I doubt they'll be killing any more tonight. But you might be killing yourself by acting so foolish."

And still Jack went through the motions. She could not stop. The only thing she could do was plunge forward, and do what must be done. The horse would not budge; though the door was open, it stood still as a statue.

"You can rest tonight, Jack." Ianthe drew forward and cupped the horse's muzzle. "I have a plan."

"Don't need a plan. I'm going alone."

"You're riding towards your death."

"And what does it matter if I am?" Jack's voice rose suddenly. "My life ain't worth anything anymore!"

"It matters,” Ianthe said, "because what'll I do without you?"

Jack found herself a puppet with her strings cut. All thoughts of Aaron or her missing gun were blotted out. When she turned to face Ianthe fully, Ianthe had covered her mouth with a fist. She cleared her throat.

“I meant— what’ll we do without you?” she said. “The girls adore you, Jack.”

"I…" She was trembling.

Now Ianthe was closer, and touching her arm. "Don't you worry. I want them dead just as much as you — you do, right? Well then, it's important to do a thorough job. And if you just trust me… we can do it together."

And that was when Jack collapsed sobbing into Ianthe's arms. At some point, face pressed into the silken robe, Jack must've nodded. Ianthe rubbed gentle circles on her back. "There, there,” she said. “I’ve got you.”

Much fanfare was made in anticipation of Ianthe's departure. The girls clung to her as if she had just announced her death; they wept mangers of tears as they wrote eulogies for their dear, dear Master, who might not survive such a dangerous mission. They shed a couple tears for Jack, too — but Ianthe remained the center of their sorrow.

Jack got the impression that Ianthe was enjoying herself.

For three days, Jack woke early and sat outside in the gray morning light. She turned her face in the direction of Loveday; she could mark where it sat on the mountain by a faint trail of smoke. Knife in one hand, stone in the other, she sharpened and sharpened to the sound of waking birds. By night she sat awake with an oil lamp, staring dead-eyed into the flame as if it would reveal something to her. Always she snuffed it out, and went to bed feeling like a tether pulled taut.

The day before they were due to leave, all the boarders gathered in the barn to wish Ianthe farewell — leaving their clothes behind. Ianthe offered to let Jack join, but she politely refused. Jack helped Daphne wash up, instead.

Her hand prickled from the lye. A spring breeze carried a chill across the grass and lifted the back of her hair. It was as Jack lifted a hand to tuck a lock behind her ear that she suddenly realized — she hadn't cut her hair since…

Well, since Lazarus had done it, a week before he was gone.

Daphne went on working as Jack excused herself. She went into the kitchen, eyes peeled for a looking glass. No luck, though. Instead, she ended up just outside the barn, with the scummy surface of the pigs' trough as her mirror. From behind those closed doors came an awful lot of moaning and slapping (without even counting the squawking pigs in the hay). Jack held a lock of hair in one loose hand, the knife in the other.

"Not yet."

"Ah!" Jack dropped the knife in the water.

Ianthe watched the blade sink into the muck, but made no move to fetch it. She was dressed only in a loose robe. Lank curls fell across the bridge of her nose, and there were red marks all over her bare neck. "You can chop it later. Ask Daphne."

"I don't know if I can stand it that long. Makes me look so…" Jack made a face. “Girlish.”

Ianthe tapped her nose. “Exactly.”

And before Jack knew it, morning came. Ianthe was up before her, in the kitchen. Daphne had a little pot of glue and the collection of black horsehair trimmings. She leaned over Ianthe, cooing praises. “Oh, Master, you look just like a man! No one could ever see through your disguise. What a brilliant idea! You are so smart and handsome. I am so lucky to be your—”

Jack cleared her throat.

Daphne looked up. “Jack, sir! You look so darling!”

Jack's overgrown hair had been pulled out of her eyes and braided into twin, dinky little things that scratched at her neck. She was wearing one of Esther's frocks. It was pea green, with buttons all down the front. Jack's breathing was shallow against the corset — not that it was terribly tight. That it was there at all.

Ianthe draped an arm over the back of her chair. The only change in her appearance was the false mustache that she now stroked thoughtfully. "It'll do."

The only comfort for Jack was the weight in her pocket; even with the crinoline, she could feel her gun hidden between the folds.

Daphne said, “I think she makes a fine girl.”

“Not at all.” Ianthe huffed. “She’ll pass. Barely.”

Jack didn’t know whether to rebuke the insult — she was pretty as hell, thank you very much — or agree, because Ianthe was right. She didn’t look a girl, she didn’t feel like a girl. Her time at the ranch had spoiled her, walking around in trousers all the time.

Daphne said, “You are right, Master.”

After Ianthe's mustache was finished, Daphne blushed Jack's cheeks until she looked like a theater girl. She gave Jack the makeup to reapply for the trip. It was heavier than the revolver.

“Whore.”

“Shut— shut—!” Jack was forced hard to the brothel floor.

Ianthe rolled her eyes. “If I’m calling you a whore, that is a good thing, that means you’re convincing me.” She scoffed. “You really are a woman. Can’t take a compliment.”

“You ain’t saying it like a compliment!” Jack squirmed, but Ianthe had put her entire body weight into holding her down. She had brought Jack up to the back of the whorehouse, where Ianthe apparently knew the madam. From that contact came a tip about a certain outlaw coming every night. Ianthe had suggested they practice, so that Jack could play her "role" all right and proper. And, well, Jack was no idiot — Ianthe had been making eyes at her for months — and a part of Jack did want to let off some steam.

The ride to Loveday had been made in a small carriage; a nerve-racking, nail-biting journey, even though fucking nothing happened. It was the rocky ride up the mountain, it was the stupid dress, it was the hair scratching the back of her neck. And so Jack had agreed to the proposition, and Ianthe had tackled her to the floor.

“I don’t see how we would even get this far,” said Jack. “Ben Fowler comes in through that door, lights are off, I shoot him.”

“You have to at least wait until the door’s closed, or else he’ll just turn tail.”

“Fine. Ben Fowler shuts that door, I shoot him.”

“You’ll need some light to aim.”

“No, I fucking don’t!” Jack lied. Then, she dropped the tension in her shoulders and lay flat on the floor. She struggled to crane her neck and look at Ianthe.

“So, you going to treat me like a whore, or not?”

“Not.” Ianthe leaned back. "You're a bit too… feminine for me."

“You like Blackbird when she’s all girly.”

“I don’t fuck Blackbird.”

“But you fuck the other girls all dolled up.” Jack rolled over, bemoaning her thick petticoats.

“You are not the other girls.” Ianthe smirked.

Fucking hell, this woman was all hot and cold. The minute Jack asked for it, all of a sudden Ianthe was too high and mighty. As Jack stayed on the floor, Ianthe rose up and rustled her mustache. She sauntered over to a table, where a tray of booze had been set out. She poured herself a crystal tumbler of whiskey. Hand in her pocket, ring sparkling on her finger, she circled the room as the sun went down.

“Ben’s got a favorite girl, and this is the room she’s always in. The madam will send him up here, and instead he’ll find you. The wine—” She picked up the bottle. “ — his preference — is drugged. You gotta convince him to take it, and once he gets to sleep, you’re going to slit his throat.”

“Seems like a dirty trick.”

“If you set off a gun in here, the sheriff’ll notice, and we won’t make it out alive. We’ve got to make it quiet and slip out into the night. There won’t be much of an investigation after the fact — not like anyone will weep for a Fowler — but if it’s too much of a scene, the law looks weak if they just let it slide.”

“I shoulda just trampled the bastard...” Jack ran her hands through her hair.

“Come now.” Ianthe stood before her. “You’ll be fine.”

Jack was hoisted up onto the bed. Ianthe fed Jack a couple grapes from the tray — those were not poisoned, or so she claimed. Jack ate listlessly. She nearly nipped off Ianthe's fingers, she was so inattentive.

But soon night was falling, and Ianthe was gone. Jack lay on the dingy bed and listened through the thin walls to all the moaning and thumping. The dust along the striped wallpaper seemed to bounce with every thrust. The room smelled burnt; like tobacco and perfume were all they had to cover the other smells. Everything was dim and red, like the inside of an eyelid.

But Jack could not wait like that. She got up, Ianthe be damned, and took her weapon into her own hand. She checked that it was loaded, paced around, then checked that it was loaded again. Her pacing was so heavy and so fretful that she at first failed to notice the footsteps down the hall; she simply thought they were hers.

Thud!

But then, the slow stumbling thing hit the wall.

And Jack was there: alone in the dark, gun between her thin fingers. She became aware of her corset again. Her breathing hiked — but her diaphragm could only go so far, the boning like a wall every breath hit at galloping speed. This was nothing like a saloon shootout. It was slow, the anticipation a hot red ache. She wished this was just a fight; no subterfuge, no waiting, no cup of poisoned wine like she was some kind of Delilah. One and done.

The door opened, and in came a man.

It was Ben, for sure. He was drooped and stumbling, the very image of a drunkard. The light from the hall lit up the room, and for a moment any flame, however feeble, disoriented Jack. She still held her gun.

But Ben stared at her, and it was as if those dewy eyes could not see. He was dressed in dirty, ragged clothes, not a speck of silver on him. Unarmed. With that dragging step, he approached Jack.

"I — I can explain…" Jack couldn't, of course, but she fumbled all the same. Ben was only getting closer and she was torn between tossing aside the gun — and not inspiring suspicion — or just firing the damn thing.

He loomed over her. Ianthe had passed along a description of him as a swift, violent lover. He would practically rape that pretty blonde girl, night after night; she would scream bloody murder.

Bloody murder… The phrase echoed in Jack's mind.

Jack hit the wall; and where she expected him to force his way inside, he didn't. He didn't touch himself, didn’t loosen his belt buckle. He lifted his hand and touched her only by way of a clumsy hand on her shoulder.

"Maria…"

Ben clung to Jack, weeping. Jack was assaulted with a smell like dirt and mildew and… something more. Something sweet and rotten, burning her eyes.

Jack said, "I'm not…"

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Ben cried. “I know I’m supposed to act all mean, but I cain’t. It hurts too dang much. I wish it would just get it over with!”

“Get— get what?”

“Oh, Maria. It’s so mighty kind of you to even touch me, but it ain't getting any better. I saw her again. She wanted me to be mean tonight, and— and to beat you real bloody, but my poor knuckles can’t handle it. And the smell. I’m awful sorry about the smell.”

It was nasty. In the narrow space, something from Ben wafted. It was like meat left out in the sun, like stagnant water, like an aging barrel of fish.

Jack swallowed. “Why don’t we get on the bed?”

“Noooo…” Ben moaned, but he made no move to protest as Jack nudged him into the right direction. “No, no… I couldn’t hurt you… you’re the only one who has ever…who will ever love me, even though I…”

He choked up.

“Even though you… what?”

“I’m a dead man.”

Ben collapsed onto the covers. Jack’s hands shook as she picked up a glass and some wine; she struggled to pour it in the dark. “W—why don’t you relax now, and let Mary — I-I mean Maria — do all the work?”

He wasn't looking at her. He was looking up at the ceiling, where it rose into pure shadow. A fly landed on his cheek.

“I have no choice.” His voice was flat.

Wine spilled all over the front of her dress.

“I have no will.”

The liquid was purplish-red, almost black.

“I’m a dead man.”

Now the fly was crawling over his hand, where it rested on chest. Through the hairy expanse its tiny legs went until it crawled beneath the buttons of his shirt.

He looked at Jack. “Maria… run away with me.”

“W— what? Where?” Jack held out the wine.

“Anywhere,” he said flatly. “Somewhere she can’t find me. If I can’t die natural, then…”

Then what? His voice descended into mumbling. Jack pressed the glass against his lips. She said, “Who is she?”

“I dunno… I dunno… I just see her, and I need to… do whatever she tells me to do.” He began to tremble, now. “Oh, I know I deserve it. I am the worst kind of man… I rape, I burn… no sympathy, no sympathy…” The tears started again, and he gasped. “Grace, it hurts!”

“Drink.” She tipped the glass. He tilted his head back and gulped down the wine. It ran down his flabby chin. The corners of his mouth were purple. “What hurts?”

For a moment, Jack was frightened — by womanhood's way — again. Ben scrambled for his belt buckle; but he did not remove his trousers, only rolled his shirt up his abdomen.

Beneath Ben’s ribcage was a festering wound.

It spread out above his navel like a body of blistering water. Deep, red, half-scabbed over. It oozed with his every breath. The skin around it was gangrene, and — as Ben grabbed her hand and brought it forward — hot to the touch. Jack was no doctor, but she knew a thing or two about wounds. This was something that ran deep. This was not a stubborn annoyance. It was something fatal.

But there Ben sat, upright and crying, with a deadly wound rotting his skin. Jack was shocked beyond words or action, but it did not much matter. Ben's weeping grew wheezy, his body slumped, and the drugged wine took hold.

“Why couldn’t I die?” he cried. “God wanted me to die, but Aaron ain’t listening to God. He was listenin’ to the Devil, it was the Devil, I swear!”

Jack couldn't help it. "I'll kill you!"

Hope flickered in his hooded eyes, only briefly. "You can try… but I ain't expecting much…"

“Don’t underestimate me!”

It occurred to her, then: If he wants to die, and I want revenge, wouldn’t it be better to leave him to his misery?

But that thought quickly passed. She wasn’t thinking much of revenge right then. She was thinking of him more like a rabid dog: even when it was hurting someone, it's hard to feel much but pity. Jack was only doing what needed to be done.

Jack pulled out the knife. Ben was falling fast asleep — even snoring lightly — and his legs lolled off the side of the bed like a little child. Jack levied the blade against his stubble. He breathed out, then moaned in pain. His wound rose and fell, and every breath made it worse. Oh God. Oh God.

She swallowed. “I’m going to get help.”

“Noo…” His voice keened through closed lips. Purple spit dripped from the corner of his mouth.

She turned to the door; she had forgotten about the stupid dress, and tripped over her skirts.

“No!”

A cold hand pulled her back. Jack yelped.

“Maria, no! You can’t leave me!”

“Get off!” Jack hissed. “I’m not your fucking Maria. I’m Jack Hawthorne!”

"Huh...?" For a moment, everything stopped. He stared at her with bulging eyes, blinked once. "You…"

"Yes, me! Now, let me go, and I'll get a doctor."

"Kill me." His grip tightened.

Jack stopped arguing and tried to pull out of his grip. His jerky movements yanked Jack about, twisting her to face him. "If you don't kill me, then I'll kill you!"

Jack pushed him away with all her strength. He grabbed at the stupid, frilly dress, and tore a hole that left her sleeve dangling. "Let me go! I want to help!"

"No! No, no, no! Haven't I taken enough from you? Take that knife! Stab me now!"

And what would that do? Leave a fresh forever wound in his throat?

Ben lurched forward and forced Jack into the wall. His fetid breath filled her mouth. She began to slide downwards, dragging his iron grip with her. "Just tell me who did this to you."

He balled up his fist and tried to punch her in the face. Jack dodged at the last moment; he left a hole in the wall that made the couple in the next room shriek.

"Tell me!"

"So long as she's near, I'll walk…" He muttered. "So long as she holds me…"

And that was the last he said. Swiftly, he turned mute. All of his focus went on killing her. Tunnel-visioned, unable to reason with; he pushed her down to the floor, hands on her throat. Jack pressed the gun into his stomach. His wound was soft, like pushing into a towel soaked with blood. She wondered if she could punch her way right through, if it would matter. She remembered Ben's breathing like a rabid dog. She remembered the door opening, and a shot — not her own — going off.

But all she knew after that was: waking up on the floor of a dirty holding cell.

“You alive?”

Jack groaned. “No.”

Ianthe's boot nudged Jack's ribs.

When Jack next opened her eyes, she found Ianthe sitting on a bench, loose chains on the floor. She stared at the blank wall and not at the bars that held them. "What did I tell you?"

"What happened?"

"Gunfire, and then the sheriff came, and it went exactly like I had explained."

"It wasn't me, I swear —"

"I never said it was you. I had to do it, or else Ben Fowler would've strangled you to death."

"He's… he's dead?"

"Do you think I don't know how to shoot someone?"

Jack sat up, dust blowing from her hair. "Something was up with him."

"Emphasis on was." Ianthe's voice was droll. Her mustache was drooping, half-hanging from her lip. "It's not really our concern."

"No, like —" Jack struggled to get to her feet. Ianthe held out an arm, and Jack gripped it tight. Damn, her head pounded, and her body was all sorts of sore. "He was…"

Ianthe patted Jack on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. He's dead. And we still have two more to go, once we get out of here."

"Ianthe…" Jack stared at her, not quite knowing what she said. "I don't want to."

"What?"

"This whole revenge thing!" Jack threw up her hands. "Like, it's clear the Fowlers have gotten themselves involved in something nasty. I don't see the glory in killing them when they're obviously killing themselves."

"And Lazarus?"

"Is already gone!" Tears welled up in Jack's eyes. "And this isn't going to bring him back. Nothing will."

Ianthe sat silent. As Jack paced through the cell, Ianthe pulled her knees up to her chest and fiddled with her ring.

"Laz wouldn't want me to do myself in chasing the Fowlers."

It was dark, of course, in the holding cell — and quiet, too. All stone and iron bars. The only sound between their breathing was the thudding of boots in the station above. Ianthe twisted that red ring on her hand, and Jack thought it a miracle it hadn’t been stolen by the greedy sheriff. She turned it over and over again.

That movement, contrasted with Ianthe's flat and silent face, became the only thing worth looking at. Jack was exhausted. She quit her pacing; her fingers slid from her hips.

"I expected you to be upset," said Ianthe.

"No," said Jack, regretfully. "I know I ought to be. But when the moment came — well, it all seemed a waste, you know? I haven't been angry in a long while. It wasn't revenge that kept me through the winter."

Ianthe went back to an earlier tact. "How do you know what Lazarus would want?"

"I know him better than you."

"That wasn't what I asked, " Ianthe said. "How do you know?"

Jack blinked. When she did, it was as if someone had lit a fire under her nose. All she saw was red. "I… well, I'll never know for certain."

"Then you are not quitting for Lazarus's sake," Ianthe said. "You're quitting to save yourself."

"I'm not…"

“Do you even like yourself, Jack? Are you worth saving?”

“Hey now!” Jack surged forward. “You watch your—”

“Relax.”

Ianthe's command swept over Jack like a wave, and she realized that screaming would do nothing. She should relax. There was nothing that fighting like this would solve.

She dropped her shoulders.

"Good boy." Ianthe hummed, still looking at her ring. "I find it strange that you do not hold a grudge. How noble of you. You're like a saint amongst men, if you're willing to let the Fowlers go."

Jack furrowed her eyebrows.

Said Ianthe, "You're not a saint.”

“No.”

“You’re a sinner, a scoundrel, and a faggot,” Ianthe said.

“I’m a…” Jack’s head pounded. “What did you just say?”

“I said that you’re a sinner. Are you?”

“Well… yea…”

Ianthe tweaked her ring again, and a shiver ran down Jack's spine. She was a sinner, alright. Everything she had done with Laz was already enough to send her straight down. To say nothing of the ranch; Jack saw it all again, stretching out before her. Every sin she had committed: from her first memory of wetting the bed to earlier that day, when she wanted Ianthe — with her man's swagger and raw power — to fuck her.

Jack remembered, and she remembered wanting it, and yet it felt so far away. She stood under Ianthe's gaze, and she was so tired. She was so tired that she didn't realize she was sinking to her knees until she felt the cold floor. "Ianthe, I…"

Was this it? Was this what she was feeling? It wasn't like with Lazarus — but nothing would be. "Ianthe, think I love you."

"You think?"

"I — I don't know. I'm not sure, I just feel —"

"We can consummate our marriage," Ianthe said, with a roll of the eye, "after the rest are finished off."

Jack nearly whined — and even as she did that, she thought, What am I doing?

"The sheriff has gone to hunt down the other two. They'll be here soon."

Jack crawled towards Ianthe, and her skin prickled with the indignity of it all. "I don't care about Carter. I just want—"

"Well, that was fast.” Ianthe stared down with an unmoved expression. "You were just waiting to crumble, weren't you, boy?"

"Why do you want me to kill — ?"

Ianthe cupped Jack's chin. "Do you feel that?"

“Feel what?”

“That fire underneath your skin.”

She noticed. How had she not sooner? She was red-hot; and all of the heat was expanding, and she was still stuffed tight into that stupid satin gown. She wanted out. She wanted to lash and scream and tear.

“That dark grip on your heart.”

It was a drumbeat, pounding, pounding. Something roiled within her, something larger than herself, and it squeezed and squeezed and made it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything but listen on her knees.

"Your blood."

It was rushing like a river.

“That is rage, Jack,” Ianthe said. "You have been destroyed — hurt in the worst way imaginable. And now your opportunity to make things right is at last in sight. How could you keep your temper down? You are burning — burning — and you will not stop until those fucking bastards are fodder for the vultures."

“Yes.”

“What are you?”

“A sinner.”

“And what are you here for?”

“Revenge.”

“Will you stop?”

“No, no!” Jack gasped. “I can’t, I can’t!”

Her heart was going to burst. Oh god, fuck those motherfuckers, those wastes of womb water. They should’ve been shot a thousand times over. How could she ever have thought of turning back? How could she ever allowed the world turn on and on with those pieces of shit still walking it? She was a chickenshit coward for—

“You are that as well.” Ianthe smiled.

Ah. Jack hadn't realized, but she was speaking aloud.

Ianthe pressed her thumb into Jack's open mouth. Jack twitched at the pressure on her tongue — she was twitching all over, in fact. She should bite. She didn't want anyone sticking their dirty hands down her throat. She was so fucking mad. Bite, bite —

"Good boy."

There came a clatter that halted Jack's thoughts. All of her senses turned to it —protesting voices, the rattle of chains. They were heading down the stairs. They were so close. Jack could smell them.

Ianthe grinned. "Looks like our time has come."

Jack's lips closed gentle, no teeth, around Ianthe's finger.

ROCKY MOUNTAIN NEWS, APRIL 8, 1859

BREAKOUT IN LOVEDAY JAIL

Tonight the sheriff of Loveday was fatally injured in a violent brawl. Three prisoners escaped and engaged in some of the most cruel and capricious violence against their fellow man. The infamous outlaw Carter Fowler was found, having expired with no weapon in sight. His injuries were profound and bloody. His brother is still at large. It is advised that the surrounding towns keep on high alert, so that he might soon be brought to justice.