Had any man ever been as cold as he was? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Matthew couldn’t quite tell whether his body was still cold, or if his mind was just intent on keeping him stranded in the dark rain, on reminding his feet of the freezing mud they had tramped through while searching for some safe haven.

He had found it, against all possibilities. Out in the distance, under an outcrop of gray clouds, he had found a town. The people had been kind; a portly woman and her bearded husband had ushered him into their home, where they promptly sat him next to a roaring fire and covered him with blankets. They had tried to interrogate him there as well, prodding for answers, searching for meaning. He didn’t really feel like talking, though. He didn’t really feel like doing anything other than staring into the orange flames.

Revenge coated his throat, thick and metallic, as he thought about the night, about being stranded in the rain, about his own niece pointing a revolver at him to defend a Mexican. Rage boiled in his gut as he poured over it in his mind, diving back into the toxic lake of memory for another drink of nauseating betrayal. She had made it clear who she stood with, and because of that his nephew was likely dead. Hell, they were all likely dead. Nothing could kill that red-eyed beast, and he knew it better than all of them.

The flames crackled as they curled over the wood and spat sparks into the air. He could smell again, and the odor in the home was lovely, if a bit pungent: burning wood, sweat, must, and beer hovered in the air. Still they questioned. Still they prodded.

“Who did this to ya?” the woman asked. Her jowls seemed to bounce as she spoke. “Who left ya out in the cold?”

“Luis,” Matthew spat, venom coating his tone.

“Who’s Luis?” the man asked.

“He’s dead if I ever see him again,” Matthew responded.

Then he focused back on the fire. On the orange flames. On the memory of Pa’s corpse, bloody and cold in the back bedroom.

Next Chapter: Emma