Orange and gold swallow the night as sparks whirl into a sky smothered with black smoke. The sharp crack of burning timber echoes through the darkness as the farmhouse and weathered barn slowly surrender to the fire, one beam at a time.
Men race around an old hand-pumped fire engine, passing dented buckets from one pair of hands to the next. Water crashes against the blaze, vanishing into the inferno almost as quickly as it's thrown.
A terrified horse bursts from the smoke, its dark silhouette streaking through the firelight before disappearing into the night.
On the porch, TWO WOMEN fight a losing battle, throwing bucket after bucket of water against the flames climbing toward the roof. The older of the two desperately searches the smoke, calling to someone we cannot see.
The fire drowns out almost everything.
Then—a MAN'S VOICE. Faint. Barely audible.
MAN (O.S.) Run...
The voice comes again, a little stronger this time, pushing through the roar of the flames.
MAN (O.S.) Run...
Looking to the right, we see an OLDER, HANDSOME MAN with a dark mustache. His kind face fills the frame, illuminated by the blaze. His eyes never leave us. He leans toward us with the quiet authority of someone who already knows what's about to happen.
MAN RUN, MARTHA! RUN!
CUT TO:
INT. CRAMPED CAMPER - DAY — 1980
A beautiful dark-haired WOMAN'S eyes snap open.
For a long moment, she doesn't move.
Lying on her back, she stares straight ahead, her eyes fixed on nothing as the nightmare still clings to her. Long chestnut hair spills across the pillow, framing delicate features and a complexion gently weathered by years beneath the sun.
Hands pressed to her face, she tries to wipe away the dream.
With a quiet sigh, she gathers herself, then takes in her surroundings.
The cramped interior of a well-worn 1970s camper surrounds her. A bridle hangs from a hook. A coiled calf rope hangs beside it. A white cowboy hat. A small framed black-and-white photograph of a glamorous young woman rests beside the bed.
She picks up the photograph and studies it for a moment, then stands and sets it back in place.
Faint announcements drift in from outside.
She settles into a chair before a small mirror. For a long moment, she studies the woman staring back at her. A fingertip brushes the faint wrinkle at the corner of one eye.
She draws a slow, steady breath... then lets it go. With practiced ease, she freshens her makeup before taking a sip of coffee.
She stands and places the white cowboy hat on her head. Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a small silver cross. She studies it for a long moment, then gently closes her hand around it.
Her lips move silently... the final words barely escape as a whisper. MARTHA
...so I carry a cross in my pocket,
reminding no one but me... that Jesus
Christ is Lord of my life, if only I'll
let Him be.
She exhales... then steps outside.
EXT. BEHIND THE ARENA – DAY — 1980 The distant murmur gives way to the unmistakable rhythm of rodeo.
Announcers. Horses. The clang of trailer doors. She steps to the ground, taking it all in for a moment.
A pair of hands slide around her waist, revealing a GOLD CHAMPIONSHIP BUCKLE at her belt: T.B.R.A. FUTURITY CHAMPION BARREL RACER 1975 — MARTHA JOSEY
COWBOY (quietly in her ear)
Well, Martha Josey.
She smiles before she even turns.
A HANDSOME COWBOY in his forties, with kind eyes and an easy smile weathered by the same sun as hers.
