Chapter Text
Jesse McCree considered himself one of the best bank robbers in the country, if not the state. Sure, he had only pulled off two successful jobs. And the prize was a couple hundred dollars, but it was a damn good start. He had yet to be caught and worked alone. He had his eyes on a bigger prize this time.
The Reader Mutual Bank sat in the center of Brookvale, Texas. It was guarded, but from what McCree had surveyed, severely understaffed and unprotected. Plenty on tellers, but only two guards that he had seen. One was a mountain of a man, but a loaded gun seems to bring everyone down to the same size. And these guards were only armed with batons. If he was able to pull this off he might even be able to become someone respectable. He couldn’t think of a career he’d enjoy, but if he had a mountain of money to sit on and think about it real hard, he was sure he’d think of something.
His main concern at the moment was shelter. He had a large head start on the Hilldale Police if they were still after him. He couldn’t risk being caught at some inn. He’d hoped the train to make it to Brookvale. Stealing a horse would be too risky.
Instead he looked for the most expensive carriage with no attendant and climbed in to the luggage trunk, hoping to God up above his career of crime wouldn’t end with the trunk being thrown open with the carriage owner's guns drawn and trained on him.
McCree felt the carriage jostle as what felt like a parade of people climbed inside. He couldn’t understand a word, but they sounded like a merry bunch. After what felt like an hour, which in reality was about fifteen minutes, the carriage stopped. McCree felt the passengers leave, then the carriage was pulled into a carriage house. The Horses were put up and McCree was safe to escape the trunk.
He peeked through the slit of the lid, looking for any signs of life. Nothing. He quietly crept out, seeing a few other well-maintained carriages. He crept out of the carriage house, hearing voices back at the large mansion. In the other direction was a huge expanse of land, rolling hills of green grass. Black Angus cattle dotting the hillside. The sun would be setting soon, he needed to act.
His eyes followed a thin break in the tall grass. He looked left and right then dashed across dirt road to the path. Down the hill was a small cabin and what looked like what used to be a stable. No lights in the windows. The path was worn, but certainly not by a group of people.
It was a risk. But it was also a start.
You had lost track of the amount of times you had run away to this refuge, not that there was any point in keeping track. The path was overgrown with hay, you let you hand graze over the tall stalks. The warmth of the setting sun still trapped in the densely packed foliage. It needed to be harvested or the cows let loose to feed, but this part of the land laid forgotten, despite it being just a stone’s throw away from your house. Nothing mattered anymore, not really.
Your father had more money than he needed, certainly more than he deserved. He had found the oil fields when he was young, now in his later years he appeared fat and happy.
Appearances are deceiving.
He had married your mother when she was young, the belle of the once small town of Brookvale, Texas. Your mother told you as soon as he arrived in town “it was like a whole city built itself around him” she said. She had loved him dearly. His love wasn’t nearly as long lasting. Once she became pregnant with you, he lost interest in her and since you weren’t a son that could carry on the family name, he had no interest in you.
It was never mentioned openly in polite company, but the whole town knew he had mistresses. It broke your mother’s heart, she was one of the kindest people you had ever known, she was taken from you too soon. The doctor said it was tuberculosis, she withered and wasted away. But you knew. You knew everyday your father ignored her, belittled her, wished her away and out of his site, she got sicker. When she could no longer get out of bed you were by her side constantly. Her last breath was wishing to see your father. Just remembering it made your blood boil. How you were the one to tell him she had passed, how he hadn’t even gotten up from his chair to see her even if it was too late.
The funeral was a closed casket, you wanted to see her one last time. You were held back by your father, his hands had a firm grip on your shoulders, his fingers digging in. You bowed your head in prayer. A prayer for your mother’s soul and your father’s damnation.
It had been five years since she passed. Your father drank and had endless mistresses to the house, along with his wealthy friends. Hearing their jovial laughter, the clinking glasses, the salacious whispers that weren’t whispers at all after multiple drinks.
You wanted to burn the whole house down with them all inside.
But you didn’t. You couldn’t. In all your rage and pain, it held the echoes of your mother, it was your daytime haven. When your father returned home from the bank, bringing his friends and lovers for another night of drinking, you left.
The dilapidated cabin was your twilight haven.
The stable was rotting away, you could smell the damp wood as you got closer. The Stable Keeper’s cabin was in a similar state, but the interior was still dry. The small stove in the corner enough to keep you warm and cook a small meal for one. It had a large bed you had once shared with your mother when the pair of you would come to ride the horses. Father had sold the horses the day after you lost your mother. He claimed they were childish things that neither of you had time for “If they can’t pull a carriage, they aren’t worth glue.”
You pushed the cabin door open and took a deep breath. It calmed you, forcing the negative thoughts from your mind.
You set your pile of books on the small dining table and got to work lighting the stove.