dare to dream

Morning is much quieter on MacFarlane’s Ranch.

First, the lanterns go dim. Then the voices fade into sleepy murmurs. Then the last of the party disappears into the pale wash of dawn, leaving behind trampled dust, overturned cups, and the faint, sweet smell of woodsmoke clinging to the air. The world looks softer in the first hints of morning light, stripped of fiddle music and whiskey laughter, but you can still feel the night inside you when you wake.

Arthur’s hand at your waist.

The turn of his body with yours.

The brush of his mouth at your kiss.

You tell yourself not to think about it. Naturally, that means it is the only thing you can think about.

Arthur is quieter than usual as he checks the horses. Not cold, not unkind, simply careful in that way he becomes when he is trying to pretend nothing important has happened. His hat is pulled low, his coat dusted at the hem, his hands moving with that steady competence.

You stand near your horse and pretend not to watch him.

It works poorly.

Your travel bag hangs from the saddle where it spent the night. Somewhere inside it, wrapped in cloth and tucked among ordinary things, the little stone woman waits. You have not touched it since before the party. You have barely thought about it, not with so much else crowding your mind.

The pass. Mexico. Arthur’s eyes in the lamplight. The kiss.

You reach for your saddlebag to tighten the strap.

The moment your fingers brush leather, something answers.

A pulse: low, warm, and intimate.

You freeze.

It moves through the bag and into your palm, not quite a vibration and not quite heat.  A slow throb, steady as a heartbeat. Your breath catches before you can stop it.

The feeling vanishes.

You stare at the saddlebag.

Nothing moves. Nothing glows. It is only a bag. Only leather. Only cloth and supplies and one peculiar stone trinket you ought to have sold the first chance you got.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

Arthur’s voice comes from behind you.

You turn too quickly. “No.”

His eyes narrow.

You smooth a hand over the bag as if that proves anything. “No, nothing. Just making sure it is secure.”

Arthur studies you a second longer, then nods. “We’ll ride south. See if this road gets us near the river.”

“The San Luis?”

“Should, if the maps ain’t lyin’. We make sure there’s water, make sure the country ain’t crawling with law, then we head back and tell Hosea what we found.”

Hosea. Dutch. Camp. Wagons. The whole impossible machinery of the gang.

You nod, but your chest pulls toward the south.

The word Mexico sits in you like a secret door. Salvation. Hope. A land wild enough that even Javier with his bounty could disappear into its sand and rock and go unnoticed.

Arthur swings into the saddle first, settling with a creak of leather. You mount after him, adjusting your skirts carefully, gathering the reins in hands that feel less steady than you would like.

The ranch begins to fall behind you.

A woman from the night before lifts an arm from a porch, her hair pinned loosely, her face soft with morning. “Safe travels, you two!”

Arthur gives a short nod, still too polite to be anything else.

You wave back. “Thank you.”

The woman smiles wider. “Come back anytime, Missus.”

Arthur’s shoulders stiffen.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from laughing.

The road spares you both the need to answer.

You ride south beneath a sky so wide it seems like there’s no beginning or end. Hennigan’s Stead rolls out in dry folds of land, its grasses pale and stubborn, its scrub brush silver-green in the sun. Dust follows the horses. Far off, ridges rise in blunted shapes, sun-baked and quiet. There is no soft mist here, no damp green hush like Big Valley. Everything is sharper, barer, sunbaked, more honest.

Arthur rides beside you for a while.

Not ahead. Not behind. Beside.

The morning stretches. The heat gathers. Your horse’s gait becomes a steady rhythm beneath you, familiar enough to soothe. Hooves strike the earth. Tack creaks. Leather shifts. The world narrows to motion and sun and Arthur at the edge of your vision.

For a time, nothing strange happens. Then the saddlebag pulses again.

This time, you feel it through the horse. Or through yourself, you can’t tell.

It begins low behind your hip where the bag hangs, a faint throb that seems to move through leather, saddle, skirt, skin. A soft insistence. A warm, secret pulse. You straighten in the saddle, startled, and the movement shifts your seat just enough that fabric drags against your most sensitive skin.

The sensation is immediate.

You inhale sharply and look away from Arthur.

Heat blooms low in your belly, sudden and heavy. Not the faint wanting you have been carrying since last night. This is something more physical, more urgent, rising up through you as if called from underneath the earth itself.

No.

You grip the reins tighter.

No, not now. Not here.

Your body answers before your mind can forbid it.

Warmth gathers between your legs, slick and humiliating, soaking into your drawers until every movement of the horse makes you aware of it. You shift, trying to find some position that does not press fabric against flesh, but the saddle offers no mercy. The rhythm of the ride becomes unbearable by degrees, each step sending a small, maddening friction through you.

You stare fixedly at the horizon.

Arthur glances over. “You alright?”

“Yes.”

The word comes out thin.

His brow furrows. “You sure?”

“Just warm,” you say.

It is not entirely a lie.

Arthur looks at the open country, then back at you. “Ain’t too bad yet.”

“It is to me.”

A faint crease appears beside his mouth, concern evident. “We can slow down.”

“No,” you squeak, too quickly. “No, we should keep moving.”

Because if you stop, you do not know what you will do.

The thought arrives fully formed and wickedly clear: Arthur dismounting, coming to your side, his hands at your waist to help you down. His thumbs pressing into you through your dress. His body close enough for you to smell tobacco and dust and the warmth of his skin under his collar.

Your thighs tighten against the saddle.

A small sound escapes you, but at the last second you turn it into a cough.

That gets his attention, of course.

You do not look at him.

The land rolls on. The sun climbs higher. A hawk circles above, somewhere to the west, a coyote yips. Ordinary sounds. Dry-country sounds.

The pulse comes again.

You feel it like a hand pressing insistently at the very core of your body.

Your breath trembles. Dampness spreads, mortifying and undeniable, your drawers wet enough now that the cling of them against your skin makes your face burn. Each rise and fall of the horse pushes you down into the saddle, and the pressure is so precisely wrong, so nearly right, that it turns your thoughts molten.

You wish Arthur could help.

The thought is so naked, so plain, that shame flashes through you.

Not just touch you. Not merely kiss you in a dark little room and leave you trembling for hours afterward. Help you. Ease this terrible, blooming ache. Put those careful hands to some use less decent and far more merciful. Let you lean into him and stop pretending your whole body has not become one long, desperate plea.

You glance at him before you can stop yourself.

Arthur is watching the road ahead, jaw shadowed with stubble, shoulders loose but ready. Sun catches the line of his nose, the edge of his cheek, the tawny ends of his hair beneath the brim of his hat. He looks carved out of the country itself, rough and steady and doomed to be wanted by you.

You imagine telling him.

Arthur, something is wrong.

Arthur, I need you.

Arthur, please.

Your face heats so fiercely you have to look away.

He notices anyway. Of course he does.

“You’re awful quiet.”

“So are you.”

“That ain’t unusual for me.”

“It is not unusual for me either.”

He gives you a look.

You lift your chin. “I can be quiet.”

“Sure,” he says mildly. “When you’re sleepin’.”

Despite yourself, a laugh slips out. It helps. Barely. The sound breaks some of the tension in your chest, and for a few seconds you can breathe like a normal woman riding through Hennigan’s Stead with a normal man beside her and not like some cursed thing burning alive from the inside.

Then the saddle shifts beneath you.

Your laughter catches and dies.

Arthur’s expression changes at once.

You force your gaze forward. “How far to the river, do you think?”

He lets the question sit, but you can feel him deciding not to press. “Few hours, maybe less. Depends how direct this road stays.”

“Good.”

“You that eager to see it?”

“Yes,” you say, and that at least is true. “If there is a crossing, or a place to rest, or any sign the route is passable, then it means something. It means we did not come all this way for a dream.”

Arthur hums low in thought. You look over at him.

He keeps his eyes ahead, but there is something softer in his voice now. Something that remembers last night whether he wants to or not.

You ride.

The hours stretch long and strange.

At times, the pulse quiets until you can almost believe you imagined it. Your body settles into a simmer, still too warm, still too slick, but manageable. Then, without warning, the saddlebag gives another slow beat and the heat rises again, dragging you back under. It leaves you gripping the reins, staring hard at dry grass, praying Arthur cannot notice what you are certain must be obvious.

The country begins to change as you move south.

The ground slopes gradually downward. The scrub thickens in places, then gives way to patches of open dust. The air grows warmer, but beneath it comes a cooler thread. You taste water before you see it. The horses seem to sense it too, ears lifting, steps quickening.

Arthur notices.

“River’s close.”

Relief and excitement rush through you so swiftly that for a moment, they overwhelm even the ache between your legs.

You sit taller in the saddle. “Really?”

“Smell it.”

You draw in a breath.

There it is.

Water. Mud. Green things. Life cutting through the dry.

The road dips, curves around a low rise, and the land opens.

The San Luis River appears below you, wide and glittering under the afternoon sun.

For a moment, you forget how to speak.

It runs like a ribbon of hammered light, broad and slow, the far bank shimmering in the heat haze. Beyond it lies Mexico. Not the idea of it. Not the word carried in your chest like a charm. The true thing. Earth and brush and distant rise. A country across the water, close enough to point at, close enough that it feels impossible you have not already crossed.

Your horse stops because you pull the reins without meaning to.

Arthur reins in beside you.

Neither of you speaks.

The river moves below, patient and ancient, unconcerned with gangs, warrants, Pinkertons, Blackwater, or Dutch’s plans.

Then joy hits you so hard it almost hurts.

You laugh.

It bursts out of you bright and breathless. Arthur turns toward you, startled, but you are already urging your horse down the slope, all caution loosened by the sight of that shining water.

“Easy,” he calls after you. “Watch the ground.”

“I am watching!”

“You ain’t watchin’ a damn thing.”

But there is no anger in it.

You reach the flat near the river and slide down before your horse has fully settled. Your boots hit the earth, knees shaky from the long ride and from everything else you refuse to name. You barely care. You gather your skirts and hurry toward the water.

The old place stands nearby, weathered and quiet.

Old Bacchus Place, if Arthur has the name right. A worn little cabin sits back from the river, its boards faded by sun and age, its roof sagging just enough to look tired. A few scrubby trees lean toward it, offering thin shade. It feels abandoned in the way frontier places often do, as if someone once meant to return and then the world swallowed them whole.

You hardly spare it a glance.

The river has you.

You drop onto a flat stone and begin tugging at your shoes. Your fingers fumble in your haste, and you let out a frustrated little huff as one lace knots itself tighter out of spite.

Arthur dismounts behind you. “What in God’s name are you doin’?”

“Taking my shoes off.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because I was hopin’ there was a sensible reason.”

You pull one shoe free and toss it aside. “There is. The river is right there.”

His mouth twitches. “That ain’t a reason to take your shoes off. That’s just geography.”

The second shoe comes loose. You peel off your stockings next, less gracefully than you might like, and leave them in a heap beside the shoes. The earth is warm beneath your bare feet. The sensation of it grounds you, real and simple after hours of maddening pressure.

You lift your skirts and step into the San Luis.

The first touch of water makes you gasp.

It is cool enough to cut through everything.

Cool enough to make the heat in your body falter. Cool enough to make your breath rush out of you in relief. The current curls around your ankles, then your calves as you wade deeper, tugging gently at your skin, washing dust from your feet and the hem of your skirts.

“Oh,” you breathe.

Arthur stands near the horses, holding both sets of reins, watching you like he has forgotten whatever he meant to say.

You turn in the water, laughing again, and lift your face to the sun.

“Arthur,” you call, voice bright. “Come here.”

He does not move. “I’m fine where I am.”

“You are impossible.”

“Been told that a few times.”

You splash a little water toward him. It falls woefully short.

He raises an eyebrow. “That your best?”

“For now.”

He shakes his head, but there is warmth in him. You can see it. The wary line of his shoulders has eased. His eyes, shaded by his hat, stay fixed on you with a strange softness that makes your heart trip.

You turn away before the feeling can become too large and look across the river.

Mexico. You lift one hand and point.

“There,” you say.

Arthur follows the line of your arm.

For a second, he says nothing.

You can feel the moment catching up to him.

“There,” you repeat, stronger now. “That is it.”

“Mexico,” he says quietly.

“Yes.”

The word comes alive between you.

You wade a few steps farther, water tugging at your skirts. “Do you understand? The pass brings us out west of Blackwater. This river gives us the south. If we follow it, if we find the right crossing or keep to the hidden routes, the gang could get through. We could bypass Blackwater entirely.”

Arthur walks closer, leading the horses to a patch of shade before tying them off. His eyes scan the bank, the cabin, the slope, the land beyond the water. You know that look. He is mapping it in his head. Measuring trouble. Counting risks.

You keep going because if you stop, you might burst.

“They won’t expect it. The Pinkertons are watching the roads, the ferries, the obvious places. They think we are trapped east of everything that went wrong. But we aren’t. Not if this works.”

Arthur steps down to the river’s edge.

You turn to him, skirts gathered, hair loose from the ride, water flashing around your legs.

“This is the gang’s salvation,” you say.

The words tremble because you believe them.

Not fully. Not foolishly. You know there will be danger. Wagons do not move like dreams. Children and wounded men cannot cross mountains on hope alone. Dutch may argue. Hosea may worry. The law may shift. The world may find new ways to close its teeth.

But still.

For one shining moment, salvation stands across the river in sunlit dust and distant hills.

“We can use the mountain pass to bypass Blackwater,” you say, breathless with it. “Then come south. Find the San Luis. Cross into Mexico if we must. No Blackwater. No ferry. No walking straight into a noose.”

Arthur looks at the far bank.

Then at you.

Something changes in his face.

You do not see it at first, not reallh. You are too full of the river, of the plan, of the wild hope leaping in your chest. You turn in a half circle, water rippling out from your calves, and laugh again because you cannot help it. 

Arthur sees you.

Not just looks.

He sees the dust on your dress and the sun in your hair. Sees your bare feet planted in the San Luis like you have claimed the river with joy alone. Sees the way hope transforms you, how it lifts your face and loosens your mouth and makes you seem lit from somewhere no lantern could reach.

He thinks, very suddenly and with no mercy at all, that he is in love with you.

The realization does not arrive gently.

It strikes through him and leaves him still.

Arthur has known wanting. He has known fondness, regret, hunger, loneliness. He has known the ache of looking at something good and knowing his hands are too stained to hold it. But this is different. This is not just the desire that has dogged him since Van Horn, not just the memory of your kiss or the fit of your hand in his while dancing.

This is worse.

This is tender.

This is the sight of you standing ankle-deep in river water, pointing at a country neither of you knows, and somehow making him believe there might be a life past running.

A life where you laugh like that more often.

A life where he gets to hear it.

A life where salvation is not just survival, but you looking over your shoulder and calling him toward the water.

His chest tightens.

He looks away because if he keeps looking, he fears something will show.

You do not notice.

You are still pointing across the river, explaining routes with your whole body, hands moving, voice bright. “If we can mark the way back through the pass, we can tell Hosea. He will see it. He will understand what this means.”

“Hosea will,” Arthur says.

You pause, hearing something in his tone.

“And Dutch?”

Arthur’s mouth pulls slightly.

You understand.

“Then Hosea first,” you say.

That earns you a quiet huff of laughter. “Smart.”

“I have my moments.”

“You got plenty.”

The words are low, almost too soft to hear over the river.

You look at him then.

For a heartbeat, the ache returns, not from the statue, not from the saddlebag, but from him. From the way he stands at the river’s edge, hands resting near his gun belt, hat shadowing his eyes, expression roughened by something he is trying not to show. Your body remembers the ride. The pulse. The humiliating wetness still cooling between your legs beneath your skirts. The wish that he would help you.

The river runs between your ankles and does its best to keep you sane.

Arthur clears his throat and looks toward the cabin.

“We should stay here a night.”

Your pulse jumps.

“What?”

He nods toward the old place. “We’ve ridden hard. Horses need rest. You found the river, and I’d like to look around proper before we head back. Make sure there ain’t some patrol tucked nearby or a road we missed.”

It is practical.

Entirely practical.

Naturally, your mind makes it dangerous.

A night here. By the river. Alone with Arthur. The old cabin just close enough to shelter you both. The saddlebag on your horse, with the little stone woman inside, quiet for the moment but never quite innocent.

You swallow.

Arthur watches you carefully. “Unless you’re set on headin’ back.”

“No,” you say, perhaps too quickly. “No. Staying makes sense.”

“Alright then.”

The words settle between you.

A whole night.

The thought moves through you, warm and uncertain.

Arthur turns toward the horses, busying himself with the reins. “I’ll take a look at that cabin. See if it’s fit to sleep in or if it’s full of snakes and worse.”

“Worse than snakes?”

“Plenty worse than snakes.”

“I ain’t sure I like the sound of that.”

“You stay by the water,” he says, glancing back. “Don’t go wanderin’.”

You raise a brow. “Yes, sir.”

He gives you a look, but the corner of his mouth betrays him.

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

Arthur unties one of the bedrolls and slings it over his shoulder. He checks the horses again, then starts toward the cabin, boots crunching over dry earth and scattered stone. He moves with that familiar wary ease, one hand free, shoulders alert, already half in the world of tracks and threats and broken floorboards.

You watch him go.

The ache in you stirs again, quieter now, threaded with something softer than before.

Arthur reaches the cabin porch and pauses, looking back.

You are standing in the river with your skirts gathered, bare feet pale beneath the clear moving water.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then he tips his head toward the cabin, as if reminding himself of his purpose, and disappears inside.

You let out a breath.

The river keeps running.

You turn back toward Mexico, letting the current wrap around your calves, letting sunlight glitter over the water in bright broken coins. Your shoes and stockings wait abandoned on the bank. The horses crop at sparse grass behind you. The old cabin creaks softly as Arthur moves within it.