Molly Stockholme blocked the doorway of Frank's canteen. Not only the doorway, as Sheriff Bailey noted, but the daylight behind her as well. That woman commanded your eyes. As middle-aged as she was, and no one knew exactly how middle-aged that happened to be, the lady took the very air from the room.

Bailey glanced around to check the other clients' reaction to her. Some prospectors lowered their gaze to the plates in front of them. Memories of comforting nights in her arms playing havoc with their sense of honour. Probably at the thought of their wives left behind, while they searched for fortune and stability in the foothills of the mountains.

Right and wrong did not necessarily exist in Serenity.

Molly shook back her chestnut tresses behind her bare, smooth shoulders and stepped into the Canteen.

Bailey caught a piece of gristle in between his two bottom teeth and fought to free it with his tongue, all the while his visual attention focused on her next move.

The lady was an enigma. He'd helped her out no end of times with the more physical interactions she'd had to endure. More than once, he'd questioned as to her position in the world of the 'Spirit of the West'. Such a charming, educated lady surely wasted her life away in that establishment.

Something held her there. It had to be the only reason why she stayed. Molly reminded Bailey of his own mother. A woman he'd barely known but who waltzed her way into his life whenever she wanted.

She'd kept her distance after the shooting.

His father had moved the two of them to Serenity. He'd set up their new life after the slaughter of Bailey's brothers. He was the one who'd begun their life again. Not her.

Molly bustled her way to the back of the queue for breakfast. Bailey picked at the final rashers of meat.

The owner of the establishment, Frank, scampered through the line of outstretched plates and slapped on bacon and scrambled eggs. When he finally reached Miss Molly Stockholme's platter he drew in a deep breath and grinned widely.

The Sheriff managed to free the irritating nodule of bacon from between his teeth, perhaps that's what made him grimace rather than the unfolding scene before the breakfast bar?

"Why, Miss Stockholme." Frank's spindly body shook as he addressed the buxom lady in the maroon dress. "It's always a pleasure to serve you."

The lady in question awaited her nourishment then threw her head to the side before striding off.
"I bet."
Her reply came short and sharp.

Bailey watched on. Molly's ankle boots clipped upon the cleanly swept floorboards as she looked for a seat.

Wait. She's coming straight for me.

Quickly lowering his eyes onto the remains on his tin plate, Bailey fought to come up with a reasonable excuse to get the hell out of there.

Too late.

A rustle of taffeta and a solid portion of woman sat down on the small, wooden bench opposite Sheriff Bailey. She banged her dish onto the scratched table and sat, leaning backwards.

She watched him. Sea-blue eyes flooded into his mind.

Bailey's neck began to sting. The itchy sensation of heat made him scratch frantically at the base of his neck.

"Why, Calvin Bailey, are you embarrassed to be seen breakfasting with the likes of me? I would have thought your mamma taught you better. God fearing, true Christian woman that she was." Her smooth voice, trained to a high elocution, washed over his frazzled nerves.

Bailey fiddled with his fingers. How did the mention of his mother manage to send him reeling back into the awkward teenager he'd fought to escape? He stabbed his fork at the meal and mumbled at her.
"Then I suppose you came to know her much more than I had the honour of doing."

"Now, Calvin." Molly's tone took on a softer edge, but Bailey refused to look up into those piercing eyes again.
"Why bring up the sourness of the past? Let's focus on the wonderful gifts your poor departed mother did leave us with. For starters..."

Molly's pale, freckled hand reached across the table and slid its way on top of his clenched fist.
"Don't you remember how she loved taking you boys to the summer fête? All those packets of popped corn and sugary treats? Even when you lost your temper that time and got into a rage and beat on that poor Hamilton kid? Your mother loved you boys and don't you forget it."

The following, thick silence between the two of them joined the dull murmurs of the other diners. A chink of tin plates from beyond the breakfast bar, to the far left of the building meant that cleanup had begun in the kitchen, and the patrons had outstayed their welcome.

Bailey put down his fork and raised his free left hand to twirl the end of his sleek moustache. He dared to lift his gaze and immediately caught her eye.

Her smile began at her rose-tinted lips, then mirrored its warmth in the mesmerising colour of her eyes. Her hand gripped tighter on top of his.
"Are you ever going to forgive her, Calvin? It must be eating your soul away. Wouldn't your father want you to let it go?"

Bailey yanked his hand out from under Molly's control. He lowered his line of sight and dug his elbow into the slumped figure of Bill Dawson to his left.
"I'm sure that you would happen to know more on my father's wishes than I ever could."

His words shot out quicker and rougher than he'd expected.

Molly's head tilted to the side and she fixed her stare on her breakfast. Her full lips pinched together.

Immediately uncomfortable, the Sheriff of Serenity rose and bid the lady good day.

He shook Bill awake.
"Hey, Bill, get up, I'll keep you company on your road home."

Bill snorted in mid-snore. His bloodshot eyelids peeled open.
"I ain't in need of no nannying."

Calvin ignored his grumpy dismissal and pulled the old man up onto his feet. The sooner he got Bill to his bed, the quicker he could get to his. It had been a long night riding out on the trail of cattle rustlers and his encounter with Bill had delayed his rest. Now, with a full belly, sleep hung onto his heavy head.

After a few steps of assistance, old Bill managed to take back the strength and control of his legs. He swatted away Calvin's hands and muttered under his breath.
"I know the way."

Calvin took a step back and shadowed Bill down the dusty road. Never further than an arm's reach, with his left hand atop of the weapon in his gunbelt. His eyes searched around the buildings and doorways that watched them pass by.

He swallowed dryly.

The soles of Bill's scuffed and broken boots tripped him, causing him to curse and splutter.

"Hey," the Sheriff checked in with him. "You got this, Bill?"

In answer, Bill slapped his hands hard against his trousers, a cloud of dust rising from the impact.
"Heck, yeah." he threw back over his shoulder. "Never been better."

The sarcastic tone creased Calvin's smile and his attention drew away from the surrounding walls.

A hot surge seared along the edge of Calvin's right earlobe. Followed by the scream of a bullet.

Pfffsshhheeewww...

The Sheriff dove for Bill and dragged him away. Racing under the shelter of the porchways.

Bill offered no resistance, instantly light on his feet, age considered.

The two men huddled under the woodwork outside the undertaker's doorway and tentatively poked their heads out to try and catch a look at the shooter above them. Calvin scanned the line of windows, Juliet balconies and possible positions from the roof tops.

"Well, Mister Sheriff," Bill sniggered and inclined his head backwards towards the shop doorway. "At least we ain't got far to go."

Calvin smacked the old man hard on his arm, making him fall back against the woodwork of the building.
"You're not going anywhere." He hissed while he drew out his weapon and scoured above. "Stay here and keep your trap shut."

Leaving the old man grumbling to himself, Sheriff Bailey paced backwards along the veranda until he reached the step down at the end of the boardwalk. Quickly, he slipped around and into the alleyway between the undertaker's and the bank.

Nobody stirred. He glanced up through misty eyes at the windows on the opposite side of the street. Some lace netting swept shut immediately. Others stayed open, with the occupants blatantly watching the unfolding action.

Experience had taught Calvin that these were the concerned citizens who would never be available for eyewitness accounts, under any circumstances.

He glared up at the window directly opposite his position. The hard lines of Carl Zimmerman's face stared down at him. His gloved hand clutched at the curtains.

Damn.

So Zimmerman had coerced a hired gun to do his dirty work for him. Blood pounded through Calvin's temples and his teeth ground together. For a second he asked himself why this had really surprised him. As if to add insult to his oversight, Zimmerman nodded slowly and with purpose before letting the lace net fall and cover his image.

His black shape remained behind the curtains. Lurking.

Calvin checked his weapon. He clicked back the trigger and took a deep breath. Today may as well be as good a day as any. Maybe one day he'd have a wife and family to think about. Until then, his decisions were his own.

He gripped the wooden post of the Undertaker's shopfront and leaned out to catch a glimpse of the top floor windows above the property.

The second window to the left had been left open. The net curtains flapped free in the warm summer breeze.

Daylight had begun to claim its greasy, sweaty grasp on Serenity. Even if the night air still fought to whisk around the town.

Nobody could be seen at the window. Whoever had made the shot had legged it. Calvin clipped back the hammer from his pistol.

Show over.

Energetic sparks died down inside him. The pressure of expectant violence ceased. There would be no more trouble this morning. Calvin holstered his weapon and keeping one eye on the bank owner's private rooms with Zimmerman's shadow in the window, he snuck back to Bill.

Slunk down in a heap, Bill nodded his head up at the Sheriff and sneered his top lip.
"Can we get outta this shit show, ya think?"

Calvin tipped back his tan hat and smiled at him.
"I'm guessing this is your lucky day."

With that, Calvin forced his arm under the old man's armpits and shouldered him up onto his feet.
"I reckon Mr Zimmerman's giving you a heads up is all."

"Ah. That so?"

Bill's sour breath wafted under Calvin's nostrils made his face crumble.
"Shit, Bill." he couldn't help but say. "Remind me to get you some of that mint root for your morning habituals."

Bill sniggered and allowed himself to be put right onto his unsteady feet.

To tell the truth, Calvin didn't have much strength to them either. The adrenaline of the moment had left him. He tapped his teeth together, his top lip rising as he did so.

Bill turned and caught a glimpse of what was going on.
"Hey, Mister," His voice had recovered its strength and southern slur. "I guess that asshole scares you more than me, right?"

Calvin immediately dropped his support from under the old man. He straightened to his full height and glared out from under the porch.
"That man's got nothing on me. Mark my words. I'm not afraid of nothing or nobody."

Bill stared directly into the Sheriff's dark eyes.
"I would have reckoned so. But that there's no usual asshole. He's an asshole of one whole other level."