🐇.

You woke up that morning cold and alone.

The fire had long since gone out, nothing but a heap of ashes in the hearth. The sun poured through the curtains, flooding the room so brightly that you had to shield your eyes when you first opened them.

You’d slept well, better than you had in a long time — longer than you’d like to admit.

You had a feeling you knew why.

It was as if it had been a dream, a product of your half conscious and slightly delirious imagination. 

The corded arm over your torso. The heat and weight at your back. The glaring, cold absence that morning, the reminder written in the wrinkled sheets beside you.

He’d been there. You’d fallen asleep without him, but he’d come back under the cloak of darkness, slipping beneath the quilt mere hours after midnight.

You thought you’d feel violated, uncomfortable. Ashamed. Troubled by the fact that you’d shared a bed with a man you barely knew, a man with a rap sheet longer than the main road in this town. 

But all that coursed through you was disappointment.

It was an odd feeling, one you weren’t quite ready to make sense of, to admit to yourself nor anyone else. For chrissakes, it was too early for it, too early to dissect the confusing thoughts and feelings stirring inside your brain, your heart, your soul.

You threw the sheets off of you, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. There was a dull ache in your limbs, in your back, but most of the pain from the past few days had eased. Not gone, not healed, but better. Even the ache in your temple had subsided, the swelling at your eye nearly gone. The wound was healing but still angry, still red and stinging.

Still in your undergarments, you bent down to pick your white dress off the floor when you saw it — a pile of garments folded neatly on the otherwise barren dresser. You stood up, straightening  as you approached it, sorting through the stack tentatively, as if you weren’t sure you were supposed to be touching it.

A dress, the cotton dipped and dyed a sky blue accompanied by a matching top with long sleeves, white lace trimming the necklace, small brown buttons trailing down the bodice. A new, fresh set of undergarments, the linen and muslin starched and clean, along with two pairs of stockings and socks laid out for wear. And finally, a brown belt, the leather carved with intricate swirls and lines, the buckle polished and gleaming gold.

You were speechless. A gift, a present — for you. 

It’d been a long time since you’d received one — not from your family and definitely not from your husband. After all, you’d been wearing the same clothes for so long they’d begun to rip at the seams, holding onto dear life by a needle and thread.

Your fingers traced the fabric, running over the intricate stitching — the sign of a professional, not some amateur with shoddy handiwork, which was what most of your garments back home had been. Hand-me-downs or throwaways taken from the church donation bin, most in desperate need of repair. This set, it had to have been expensive. The color, the lace — even the buttons. 

A knock at the door made you jump nearly right out of your skin. You dropped the clothes back on the dresser like your hands had been set on fire, quickly yanking the quilt off the bed and wrapping it around your body before you answered it. 

An unfamiliar woman with a kind smile and what looked like some sort of standard uniform stood on the other side, a silver platter in her hands. When you shook your head, insisting it was some kind of mistake, that you didn’t order anything, that she had to have had the wrong room — she simply waved you off. Already paid for, she told you.

Biscuits and gravy, a small stack of hotcakes, ham and eggs. It was the most delectable and luxurious breakfast you’d ever seen, had ever tasted. Nothing like it had ever been prepared for you — not once, not ever. You practically licked the plate and your fingers clean, devouring it without leaving a single crumb, a single trace of the feast. It hadn’t helped that you didn’t have much to eat the day before.

You weren’t sure who’d sent it, but you were grateful for it. Grateful to have food in your stomach — warm and delicious. 

Although, you had your suspicions about the sender.

Not long after you’d finished eating, there was another knock on the door. Another woman stood behind it — her skin a light brown, her hair dark and braided, her lips full and her nose wide. You’d never seen her before — yet, you hadn’t seen much of anyone in this town, so that didn’t mean much. 

“You Fawn?” She asked, piercing pale blue eyes scanning you up and down, her thick brows raised at your appearance, at the state of you.

You clutched the bedspread tighter around you like it could shield you, your hand wrapped around the edge of the door, using it almost as a barrier between you, one that you could slam shut at any time. The use of that name — Fawn — it was the only reason you had to believe that she had to have been a friend, not foe. 

Only the men called you by that name.

“Who’s asking?” You regarded her cautiously, hesitantly — looking precisely like your nickname implied. Timid, wide-eyed, skittish. A mere second away from closing the door in her face and running until your wobbly legs collapsed. 

The corners of the woman’s mouth tipped upward in a smirk, like something about you amused her. Like she was thinking the exact same thing.

“Yeah, you’re her.” She nodded to herself, eyes continuing their appraisal of you before landing on back your face, finally meeting your gaze.

“Rozlin,” She informed you of her name with a tip of her chin. “You can call me Roze.”

You just stared at her for a moment, still skeptical of what she was doing here, what she wanted. How she even knew your name, where to find you.

“Okay.” You inclined your head slowly but still unsurely. “Roze.” 

A beat passed and then another. Not a word exchanged, the air filling with wariness, confusion — at least, on your end.

 “Can I help you with something, Roze?”

“Johnny sent me.” She explained, folding her arms across her chest, the cream colored girdle she wore pushing her breasts up so high that they were almost spilling out. Your eyes couldn’t help but flicker down, tracking the movement. “Said you were in need of a new wardrobe.”

Your attention shot back to her face. “A new what?”

She shrugged, like she didn’t quite know herself but was merely relaying the message. “That’s what he told me. Said you needed some things, that I ought’ta take you into town. Said you hadn’t come here with much.”

Well, she was right about that. You had nothing but the undergarments you wore, your dirty white linen dress, your worn-in cowboy boots, and the shawl Kate had lent you — all that you had to your name. And your new set of clothes, of course, but still. They were only things you could claim as your own. Not much at all.

“Johnny told you that?”

“More or less.” She reached into her leather satchel and produced a small navy pouch, the felt cinched tightly with a drawstring. She gave it a little shake, and the sound was unmistakable — coins clinking, solid and metallic. “Handed me this himself.”

You were confused, surprised — the prospect of the man you’d just met mere days ago thinking of you kindly, entrusting you to a woman you’d never met but he must’ve known well enough to take care of you, to buy you some more new clothes with money of his own. It was a kind of care you’d never been given, not by anyone.

Of course your original, quiet assumption was wrong. The man you’d slept beside the night before would’ve never arranged this — not the dress, not the food, not the acquaintance nor the money. Of course it had been Johnny. 

Ghost would never. He wasn’t that type of man. You didn’t know much about him beyond the legends, but you knew that. You shook the thought away, the naive notion that he was anything other than the man in those stories and tall tales.

“Get yourself dressed.” Roze nudged her chin at you, fingers tapping against the wooden doorframe, slightly scuffed and a little splintered around the edges. “We’ve got a busy day ‘head of us.”

And so, you did. You hesitated only momentarily after you’d shut the door, the pile of new, beautiful and clean clothes staring at you from the dresser. Tempting you, calling to you. 

Who were you to let them go to waste, to collect dust? Unworn and unseen?

You tossed the quilt aside and shed your old undergarments with haste, taking great care while slipping in the new ones, their fabric so spotless, so delicate and silky — nothing like the itchy, rough ones you’d worn for far longer than you should’ve. 

Giddy excitement ran through you as you dressed, fingers combing through your tousled locks. Your lips stretched into a smile, a real one — your first in ages.

You stepped out of your room, finding Roze leaning against the wall outside of it. She took in your appearance, eyes scanning you up and down.

“New wardrobe, huh?” She huffed under her breath. She let out a small sigh before waving you forward. “Alright, let’s get a move on.”

You followed after her, new skirt clutched delicately in your hands as you descended the steps into the lobby, stepping through the archway and cutting through the saloon. It was empty, save for two people you presumed were employees — a man and a woman, one sweeping up the floor while the other polished some glasses behind the bar. They gave you both a nod in silent greeting, but their eyes lingered on you as if they were assessing, appraising.

You weren’t sure you liked it, their attention.

Your steps quickened, your head down as you shuffled closer to Roze. She was still as just as much a stranger as they were, but at least you knew her name. 

She tossed you a look over her shoulder, lips curved in a knowing smirk as she led you outside.

The town was in full swing as you stepped out, people milling about everywhere. Women and men, children running amuck, horses tied to posts or clopping noisily down the cobblestone streets. You’d never seen so many people in one place, walking like they had a purpose, a place to be. Some pulled off to the sides, taking solace in the shade as they chatted with others, likely friends or acquaintances.

You couldn’t help but stare, taking it all in. It was a much larger settlement than the one you’d lived in, the one you’d grown up in all your life — the one you hadn’t realized you’d ever leave until a few days ago. The buildings seemed to go for miles; blacksmiths and apothecaries, dressmakers and cobblers, saloons and eateries, bakeries and butchers, tenements and hotels for as far as the eye could see.

A city. You were sure of it. 

It was a word you’d heard before when your husband spoke about business. Trips that took him away every so often, presenting you with the rare occasion where you could take a breath, where you could let your tears fall in private without fear of retribution, of punishment. 

No. You wouldn’t think of him. You wouldn’t let him sully this moment, this place. This town, this city — wherever or whatever it was.

Your fresh start. Your new life.

You walked for some time, following Roze down that main road, the two of you side by side. You were quiet and so was she. Thoughts and questions, curiosities and considerations popped into your head, weaving through your mind, but you didn’t voice them. She seemed content with the silence, and you didn’t want to bother her. Didn’t want to poke the bear or make an enemy of a potential friend.

You really hoped she could be a friend.

She finally came to a stop in front of one of the many buildings, its brown brick facade much like the others around it, sun-faded and streaked with dirt and dust. The blue and white striped awning fluttered in the slight breeze, the two large glass windows beneath it displaying pretty dresses and skirts behind the sand-dusted panes.

“First stop,” She informed you, ushering you towards the door. You swallowed your buzzing excitement, trying your best to tamper your eagerness as you pounded up the wooden stairs and heaved open the heavy door. You must’ve not done too good of a job, though, as you heard Roze chuckle softly behind you as she followed you inside, the little iron bell ringing out to announce your arrival.

You spent quite a chunk of change that day, in that shop. It was the place of your dreams, cluttered with all types of fabrics and mannequins showing off the latest fashions. Bows and lace, ribbons and silk, petticoats and chemises, dresses and stockings — they were everywhere, littering nearly every surface and free corner. It was lively and warm, floral perfume and the faint scent of cotton and leather dusting the air.

It was your most favorite place you’d ever been.

The seamstress and her assistant were happy to oblige you, especially when Roze tossed the pouch of silver onto their counter, their eyes lighting up like freshly struck matches. They ushered you to the back, taking your measurements and draping fabrics over you, fussing over the color, the cuts, the hems and the seams.

You’d walked out with two dresses, three skirts, a new shawl, and a corset stitched with a floral design, one apparently made to wear over a dress, not hidden underneath. They urged you to come back, to make you some custom pieces from scratch. You were hesitant to make any promises no matter how badly you wanted to follow through, knowing that you couldn’t take advantage of any more of Johnny’s generosity.

“She’ll be back,” Roze answered for you, shuffling you out of the door, your bags nearly knocking into the doorframe as you went. You managed a wave to them with a wide smile, feeling all too spoiled and very reluctant to leave.

“Pretty sure you just financed them for the rest of the month,” Roze teased as you walked back down the main street, a teasing lilt to her voice and a smile that confirmed her jest. “Lucky girl.”

Lucky. The word struck you, stuck with you. It was never something you’d felt before, had resonated with. Luck seemed more like a taunt, a jeer — a cruel twist of fate that you’d never experience, something meant for someone else entirely. The opposite end of the card deck. Something utterly out of reach for a girl like you.

But for the first time ever, you began to understand what it meant. You were lucky, weren’t you? Lucky that your legs hadn’t given out on that day, that you’d stumbled into the right bar at the right time with the right people behind those saloon doors. Lucky that Kate had stitched you up, given you a place to rest, food to eat. Lucky that they’d taken you in, had whisked you out of town before you had to answer for your husband’s death.

Lucky that Ghost had taken that fateful shot.

Luck. It was a funny feeling, indeed. New and unfamiliar.

When you arrived back at The Prairie Rose, the sun much lower in the sky, you looked for Johnny, wishing to thank him for his kindness, his gifts — but he was nowhere to be found. Nor was Kyle. Not even Ghost. 

Panic seized you for a moment before Roze answered your unspoken questions and concerns.

“They’re just out for the day. Taking care of some business.” A pat on your shoulder that was supposed to be comforting. “They’ll be back.”

You weren’t sure if that were true. As the sun set, you stayed holed up in your room, your new belongings tucked neatly away into the drawers of the dresser. The music and the revelry of the saloon returned at the first sign of dusk, but you were too afraid to venture downstairs alone, too afraid of getting swept up in the crowd of drunken strangers and wandering eyes with nobody to save you if you needed it.

You thought for sure that they’d left you behind. That Roze and your little excursion had been some sort of ruse, a distraction so that they could slip out and get the hell out of dodge.

But dinner had come, delivered with the same knock on your door from that morning, paid for and taken care of. Roast beef and stew, cornbread and potatoes, green beans and okra. Just as delicious as breakfast had been. It had given you a sliver of hope that they hadn’t abandoned you.

But as night fell, your confidence faltered. You considered slipping out, going down to check if they were just simply drinking at the bar, taking part in the liveliness and debauchery below, but you couldn’t. You were paralyzed, afraid — too scared to find out the truth.

You were sure they weren’t coming back.

Your fingers trembled as you finally undressed, folding up your new blue dress and top before sticking them in the dresser with your other new purchases. You tentatively climbed into bed, the quilt wrapped tightly around your body as you sank into the mattress. The faded notes of the piano, the violin, and the fiddle traveled up through the cracks in the floorboards and those beneath the window, doing little to settle your mind, ease your fears. The oil lamps flickered, the fire that the maid had lit for you adequately warming the room, but you still shivered for an entirely different reason. 

This time yesterday, you’d prayed for your own space, desperate to get away from him. 

Now, you ached for a glimpse of that red metal mask and the big man hidden beneath it.

Sleep wouldn’t come. The sun had fully set, the stars twinkling as the crescent moon rose high in the sky, the fire nearly gone out by now. You weren’t sure what time it was, but it was late, far too late for you to still be awake. 

You’d just about given up hope of his return, beginning to accept the fact that when the sun rose that morning, you would be alone, when you heard those heavy footsteps outside your door.

The hair on the back of your neck prickled, your stomach dropping as your heart thudded wildly in your chest. You didn’t move, didn’t twitch — too afraid to break the spell, the possibility that it was all just a figment of your imagination.

The rusted knob twisted, the door creaking open slowly. 

Your breath hitched but you still made no movement, showed no sign that you were awake. Those heavy footsteps thudded against the old wooden boards, slow and leisured like you’d come to know them, expected them to be. You closed your eyes, squeezing them shut, unable to bring yourself to look, to confirm.

You heard the scrape of the poker, the soft stir of ash; felt the rush of heat as the fire came blazing back to life. You heard the sound of fabric rustling, a low grunt as boots were pulled off, as clothes were shed, falling to the floor in a careless heap.

Those footsteps drew closer, pausing right beside the bed. Your eyes stayed shut, your heart pounding so hard you were certain he could hear it. The mattress dipped under his weight, the hulking presence settling in beside you, your back still turned to him.

You could smell him, that familiar, heady scent — leather, smoke, a little bit of liquor; a tinge of tobacco and something tangy, coppery. It made your pulse thud in your neck, relief seep through your veins.

He was here. He hadn’t left, hadn’t abandoned you.

Ghost was here.

It was an overwhelming solace you never thought you’d ever feel, especially not in his presence. Especially not for him. 

You could feel the heat of his body, the closeness of him. There had to have been less than a foot between you, the bed barely big enough to accommodate him, much less the two of you. 

You thought you had him fooled. That he truly believed you were sleeping, that you were not completely and utterly wide awake. 

Then, you felt him. The light caress of his hands in your hair, strands twisted and wrapped around his thick fingers. You choked on a gasp, held in the sharp inhale for dear life. Your eyes still squeezed shut, your lips clamped together as you tried to remain still, tried to regulate your breathing.

He shifted, his chest just mere inches from your back, hands moving down to the exposed skin of your arm, fingertips gently stroking there — a touch so soft, so tender, you almost couldn’t believe it was real, that you weren’t dreaming. A man like him — a man so brutal, so rough and rugged, touching you like you were something precious. Something breakable.

That same hand shifted down to your hip and your heart stuttered, tripping over itself in your chest. Another slight shift of his body had his lips grazing the shell of your ear, warm breaths fanning across your skin, your lashes fluttering instinctively in response.

“Go to sleep.” His voice, lower and deeper than usual, crackled and fractured at the edges; the scent of whiskey and smoke on his tongue, as that hand on your hip tightened in what felt like — what sounded like — a warning. 

A reminder of the beast, the devil that lay at your back, lying in wait. Barely restrained, barely tethered.

You gulped, saying nothing — afraid to speak, to utter even the slightest sound. Unfamiliar heat surged through you, temptation curling around your mind like a thick fog, pooling low in your belly at the rough scrape of his voice — but you shoved it down, bottled it up, forced it somewhere dark and buried deep in the farthest crevices of your mind, places left untouched for months, for years. Certainly untouched during your unhappy marriage.

You did your best to listen to him, to abide by his command, but you couldn’t. Not with him so close behind you, his grip on you long gone but the lingering touch seared into your skin. It drove you mad, made your head spin, but you couldn’t make sense of it, couldn't sort through all the contradictions. Your body’s reaction, your heart’s song, your mind’s momentary lapse in its usual judgment.

It kept you up for hours before you finally succumbed to the heavy weight pressing down on your eyelids.

⋆˖𓄀˖⋆

Three more days passed before Kate and John Price finally arrived.

Three days left wondering if they’d ever make it, if they’d ever join you like they said they would, like Kate had promised. 

Three days left wondering if you were now left in the hands of three men you barely knew for the foreseeable future, a future you couldn’t quite picture as your own.

Three nights sharing the bed with Ghost. Three nights of him slipping into the room late at night, liquor on his tongue. Three nights of him shedding his layers and sliding under the covers beside you. 

Three nights of the brush of his limbs against yours when either of you shifted. Three nights of his abnormally high body heat that chased away the chill in the room once the sun set and the fire burnt out. Three nights of his heavy breathing and yours synchronizing in the darkness.

Three mornings of waking up to an empty bed and wrinkled sheets. Three mornings of him gone without a trace, nothing more than the faint, groggy memory of his arm around your middle left behind.

He didn’t call you out again during those three nights, didn’t accuse you of fake sleeping even though you absolutely were — and you knew that he knew it. He didn’t let his hands roam over your body, twist in your hair. Didn’t say much of anything, actually. In fact, you barely saw him when the sun rose — not in the hotel, not in the saloon, not around town when you and Roze wandered around town in the afternoons and window-shopped. You barely saw any of the men, save for Kyle, who you’d run into once. He’d simply smiled, tipped his hat, and hustled out of the hall.

Though, you knew you would’ve had to venture beyond your room if you’d truly wanted to find them, to converse with them. You knew that if you went down into the saloon at dusk, you’d be more than likely to find them at the bar, if Ghost’s strong scent of booze and tobacco every night was any indication. 

But, admittedly, you were still afraid. Still afraid of the large, rowdy crowd, of the leering men and the curious stares — even though the swelling around your eye had gone down significantly, your bruises fading to yellowish, purple tinges. Nobody would likely pay you any mind. 

You hated it, hated that you were still too scared to venture down there, into the drunken, smoke-filled abyss of raucous laughter and loud music. Scared that the men — your men, if you wanted to call them that — wouldn’t want you there. Scared of provoking them, of provoking any intoxicated stranger who came too close, who wanted a piece.

Scared of adding new bruises to your old ones. 

They never invited you, and you were content to stay inside the four walls of what had become your room as soon as the sun began to set. Dinner was always delivered — hot, fresh, and already paid for. A maid always came to light the fire for you, to ignite the oil lamps on each bedside table, providing just enough light for you to read the novel you’d purchased one of those days with Roze. There’d apparently been enough left over from Johnny’s gift to you that you’d been able to, and you were grateful for it.

It’d been a long time since you had time for yourself. No chores to do, no meals to cook, no livestock to attend to. No beatings to take, no glass to sweep, no blood to clean. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d picked up a book — so long that you were honestly worried you’d forgotten to read.

It would be so easy to give into the slices of peace, of comfort, of the safety you’d been provided thus far. Because you knew, against the voices in the back of your mind whispering your deepest anxieties and darkest fears, that you were safe. For now, at least. 

And what worried you and prevented you from doing so was that you weren’t sure how long it would last. How long it would take before the other shoe dropped. Because it always did. Always. 

With the pillows at your back and the quilt thrown over your legs, you read your novel by the fire and candlelight until your eyes hurt and your vision blurred. You folded the corners of the pages when you reached your stopping point for the night and tucked it under the mattress, afraid what would happen if Ghost found it. If he came back early one night and saw you reading it. Your husband would’ve hated it, would’ve struck you with it before taking it away. 

But he wasn’t Ghost. Ghost wasn’t him. It was something you always had to remind yourself. That — for all the unease he brought you, for all the discomfort and fear he stoked in you — he’d never done anything to hurt you. To prove to you that he was anything like the man you’d been married to. 

But old habits died hard.

That sixth morning since you’d arrived in town, you awoke to the same empty bed and rumpled sheets, that potent, familiar scent still clinging to them — the only proof he’d been there at all.

You went about the routine that you’d adopted since that first, full day. Breakfast was dropped off and devoured. Your hair was brushed, your face was rinsed. You dressed, slipped into your worn boots, and headed downstairs to where Roze usually lounged in one of the leather armchairs in the small lobby.

But, unlike usual, the brown haired beauty you’d come to call your friend wasn’t there.

The frown on your lips formed, your brows crinkling in confusion. She hadn’t mentioned anything the day before, hadn’t said that she wouldn’t be able to join you.

Though, Roze never did say whether or not she’d come into town with you. It was just that she’d always been down there waiting for you since that first time she’d knocked on your door with your nickname on her tongue and a pouch of coins in her satchel.

You tried to shrug off your dismay, your disappointment at her absence — your first real friend in a long time.

When you wandered into the usually empty saloon, though, you found out why. 

“There she is.”

That familiar cadence, that kind and easy tone with the slight accent spanning from another region somewhere in the vast country, called out to you. Your head shot towards the direction it came from, shock and surprise stopping you in your tracks, your footsteps stuttering against the dusty floorboards. There, standing beside the bar with the other men you hadn’t seen much of these days, stood Kate and John Price.

You couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your lips, the relief that seeped through your body and your bones, relaxing and dropping your unintentionally tensed shoulders. Kate laughed at your visceral reaction, pushing off the edge of the counter with her hip as she headed towards you, wrapping her arms around you in a warm embrace.

“It’s good to see you, honey,” She spoke into your hair as you hugged her back tightly, uncaring of the watchful eyes. She pulled away enough to smooth your hair and examine your face, hands on your shoulders as her gaze flitted from your hairline to jaw to temple. “Eye’s healing up nicely, yeah?”

You nodded, just barely wincing from the faint, leftover ache as her fingers softly brushed over the spot she’d stitched up a week ago now. She smiled, more to herself and her handiwork than to you, before her gaze found yours again. 

“You been okay?” She asked, her voice lowered to an octave that only you could hear, the question only meant for your ears. “They been treating you alright here?”

You didn’t hesitate to nod once more, knowing that even if they hadn’t been, you could tell her. There was something about the woman — another person you barely knew, could barely call your friend — that told you she’d take care of it if they hadn’t. That she would make sure they paid for any digressions they caused you, any lack of care they hadn’t given you in her absence.

“You’re sure?” With the way she scrutinized you, waiting and watching for any signs that indicated the opposite, you knew for a fact that you could unequivocally trust her, that she wouldn’t be okay with anything other than the absolute truth.

“I’m gonna need you to use your words, sweetheart.”

“Christ, Laswell,” Johnny blew out a disbelieving breath from where he stood just a few feet away. “What do ‘ya take us for, barbarians, huh?”

“Yes.” She answered without even turning to look back at him, and you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. Her eyes seemed to brighten at the sound, one that you weren’t even sure you’d be able to conjure up any day before this one, in that very moment.

“I’m sure,” You assured her, wanting to give the men credit where it was due. You knew, without any specific or direct confirmation from them, that they’d been the ones making sure the meals were delivered to your door, all three a day. They’d given you lodging — albeit, making you shack up with the scariest of them all — and new clothes, courtesy of Johnny. 

“I promise.” 

“Good.” Satisfaction bled into her features before her eyes scanned the rest of you, taking in your new clothes — you again wore the blue one you’d been left that first morning. “Nice dress.”

“Thank you.” You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Johnny got it for me. Well, at least I presume so.” When she raised her brow in question, you continued. “He—he left this woman named Roze with a bag of coins to buy me new clothes and this one…this one was left in my room that morning before, so…”

You trailed off, not knowing how to continue. Kate’s eyes widened slightly, head tilting back in what seemed like understanding.

“Ah, I see.” But her eyes, the way they shone with something else, something contradictory — something that looked a bit like surprise and mischief — told a different story entirely. Like she was privy to something you weren’t.

You glanced over her shoulder and met Ghost’s gaze, already fixed right on you.

“So,” You cleared your throat, pulling down the blue sleeves over your wrists, fingers clinging to the fabric for some sense of stability. “You’re here to stay?”

“For as long as we all are, I reckon,” Kate replied, arm thrown over your shoulder as she led you back to the group of men who waited, sitting or standing by the vacant, unused bar counter. No one else was there — no staff milling about, no workers polishing off glasses or cleaning off tables.

John Price tipped his hat to you in a wordless greeting, and you gave him a soft smile in return. 

They spoke for a bit about things you didn’t understand, conversations that sounded like business and profits and loose ends John Price and Kate had finished tying up in your hometown before they’d made the trek here. You tried to listen but ended up tuning them out, picking at the skin around your nails and trying your best to ignore the heavy stare that never left the right side of your face.

“I’m going to take Fawn around town,” Kate eventually announced to them, your ears perking up at the mention of their name for you. “Catch up with her, maybe meet up with Roze. Haven’t seen her in a bit.” 

You noticed the way her eyes traveled over Johnny, lingering on Ghost’s red mask. Like usual, he said nothing. Gave away nothing.

As you waved your goodbyes to the men, as you followed Kate out of the saloon, you couldn’t help but feel like you were missing something.  

You remembered then that you hadn’t gotten to thank Johnny yet for the clothes, for the book — but Kate tugged you on and out of the room before you got the chance. 

a/n: i am so sorry this took so long. this past semester absolutely wore me out, taking my creative process with it. hoping to crank out some more since i love this story and have so many ideas swirling in my head with where to take it. thank you for sticking with me <3 hope you enjoyed this little chapter and i hope to have more for you soon