VALENTINE IS A FOUL PLACE, a place of avoidance, a place she dreads even more so now: it is a bad place of cruel association. Heated words are exchanged with the sheriff ( she can smell a CROOK from a mile away and that man positively reeks ). The storm with which she exits is enough to blow the sawdust right from the street, pushing past whatever poor bystanders might stand in her way. Feet carry her up the hill, past her horse tethered at the fence, and up to the only spot of reprieve in this godforsaken town: just a moment to catch her breath before she gladly leaves it behind her.
She resigns herself for only a moment on the steps of the church, chin cradled in her hands as she calculates her next move. The trail before her is cold; resolve wins out over the hopelessness, but frustration takes them all. You are allowed to be angry, she tells herself, you deserve to be.
The thought is only interrupted by the shadow coming up the path, cold eyes locking on the target as he makes his way towards her; she recalls shouldering the man as she hurried down the steps of the sheriff's office and frankly dreads whatever words he might have for her. She has so much more to worry about.
❝ Can I help you, mister ? ❞