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Jack heard the sound of a chair scraping back against the floor, then the shaking spurs of cowboy boots making their way right behind him.
"Thought you was dead," slurred the man, who Jack knew to be Murphy.
"I was," Jack replied, standing from his barstool, at least five inches taller than Murphy, and glared at him. This was the man who'd once been sheriff in this town, who'd originally blamed Jack for the death of his brother. He was nothing but a temperamental drunk who couldn't see the truth if it slammed him in the head. Jack had fled to parts unknown, eager to disappear from this place and everyone's suspicious or pitying glances.
Now, three years later, he was back. And although the town seemed the same, he wasn't. He looked at everything with traveled eyes and felt a strong sense of purpose propelling him forward, slowly, day by day. Jack had always known it was only a matter of time before his searching led him back to where it had all begun.
"I shoulda killed ya when I had the chance, boy!" Murphy exclaimed, almost teetering backwards in his inebriation. Murphy's companions rose from their seats, ready for a fight.
"Now, now, boys, settle down," a female voice chirped from behind Jack. Then she came into view-- a lithe young thing, her strawberry blond hair pulled back. She boldly wore a pair of dark trousers with a long-sleeved, white shirt that had so many tiny buttons going up the front of it. Even her clothed body couldn't conceal her curves and full bust. More striking even than her figure were her eyes: one green, and one blue, mesmerizing.
Jack hadn't been with a woman, or even been in the proximity of one, since he'd fled. She was a vision, and he felt momentarily startled. To his surprise, the belligerent Murphy stumbled back with his cronies, sitting back down at their table and sipping from their ales, collectively staring Jack down.
"Impressive," Jack noted, leaning against the bar.
She peered at Jack curiously. "I've never seen you 'round here before."
" And who might you be?" Jack asked, unable to remove his gaze from this woman's eyes, the right one's icy blue depths the same color as the clearest lake, her green one like a shimmering emerald.
"Who's askin'?" she replied, a bit tartly, raising her eyebrow and crossing her arms across her chest.
He smiled inwardly. So, she wanted to act tough. He wondered what she was doing in a saloon, fearlessly standing up to the men in there.
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