One Man's Revenge draft

I have three different versions of this scene, and I would like your thoughts on the final

Jarrod’s cigarette dangled from his mouth as he hitched up his trousers. Lucille, a black-haired twenty-something working girl, sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair in the dim lamplight. She smiled faintly, pulling the sheet across her chest as she counted a handful of crumpled bills — all a man on the run could spare.

“I tell you what, Lucille,” Jarrod said, glancing over his shoulder, “I’ll be back for you soon.”

Lucille smirked. “You said that last time.”

He grinned, buckled his belt, and crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Yeah, but I mean it this time.” He pecked her on the cheek, then stepped into the hall.

Downstairs, The Good Horse Saloon was thick with smoke and chatter. Cards slapped against tables, spurs clinked against the floorboards, and the piano in the corner fought to stay in tune.

The batwing doors creaked open. A tall man stepped through — coat weathered, jaw rough with stubble, eyes colder than the whiskey behind the bar.

Justice.

He’d been chasing whispers for months. But the trail always led somewhere like this — a cheap room, a bad drink, and a man running from something.

He didn’t have to ask the bartender who’d just come down from upstairs. He already knew.

“How many rooms you got up there?” Justice asked.

“Six if you don’t count mine,” the bartender said, not looking up.

“How many open?”

“None.”

Justice nodded. “Then whiskey. Leave the bottle.”

He poured a shot, struck a match, and lit his cigar. As the flame flickered, the upstairs door opened. A black-haired woman in a red corset stepped out, followed by a familiar figure — hat pulled low, grin easy, eyes never still.

Jarrod.

Justice felt it like a punch to the gut — the same man who’d stood on his land months back, rifle in hand, too bold to be afraid. He looked different now. Wilder. Thinner. But the swagger was the same.

Jarrod tipped his hat as he passed. “Afternoon.”

Justice raised his glass, voice low. “We’ve met before.”

Jarrod paused, squinting. “Can’t say I recall.”

Justice smiled — just barely. “You will.”

Jarrod chuckled and kept walking. The saloon doors flapped behind him.

Justice turned back to his whiskey, the cigar smoke curling like a stormcloud over his shoulder. He’d waited this long. Another hour wouldn’t hurt.