Keeping it under wraps

Before Edward’s birth, Libby had moved out of the Smiths’ familial home and into a small, vacant dwelling near the schoolhouse. She had felt that bringing a newborn, who would surely cry through the night, into an already overburdened household was a step too far. There was only so much hospitality that could be endured.

And as Edward grew, Libby's exhaustion grew too. She spent hours rocking him to sleep or reading Shakespeare's sonnets to soothe him during the early hours when he awoke fractious and alone. Her every waking moment, when she was not teaching, was consumed by caring for Edward.

As she arrived at the schoolhouse every morning, the burden of a dual life pressed down on her shoulders. Running a home, a schoolhouse, and raising her six-month-old son left her worn out and feeling like she was barely holding things together. 

Months had passed since the news of the Triple Frontier Gang and their potential demise. Libby had grieved in private, hoping against hope that Frankie had survived, that the whole gang was alive. But no more news came and the excitement of their daring raid had faded in the minds of the Longshorn townsfolk. Stories of the Triple Frontier Gang soon became background gossip. No longer a burning topic of conversation around the township, they were passed over in favor of more recent news. Consigned to legend and folklore.

But not in Libby's mind. Deep down, she still clung onto the idea that Frankie might be alive. Perhaps he was still living in the wilderness, or hiding in bustling Sacramento. It was a shred of hope that kept her putting one foot in front of the other. But left in a state of perpetual limbo, the lack of further news was concerning.

And as the weeks passed, her hope, like the townsfolk's interest in their demise, began to wane. There was no sign of Frankie appearing unannounced on her doorstep. No evidence of him being in the vicinity. No whispers of strangers appearing in town. No letters slipped into mailboxes.

Instead, silence. Just an aching, empty void.

One particular late summer morning as all hope faded, Libby stepped inside her schoolhouse and was greeted by a letter waiting for on her desk.

It was an elegant letter, crafted with the care of someone who had put thought into every detail. The cream paper felt heavy and expensive in her hands, its texture smooth and delicate. Libby ran her fingers over the envelope reverently, But she knew no one who would use such expensive paper to write on. Her eyes dropped to the red wax seal, scanning for any identifying mark. But there was no clue as to who had sent it.

Both equal parts mystified and curious, her breath was unsteady as she carefully flipped it over, breaking the seal with trembling fingers. 

For a brief moment, she wondered if it might have come from Frankie, or perhaps from one of the other members of the Triple Frontier Gang. Maybe it contained news of his fate?

The thought was overwhelming. She had to stop, steady herself, and take a breath to recompose.

Inside, the letter was written in fine, cursive handwriting. Each word was perfectly formed by a steady, deliberate hand. She began to read, her heart hammering in her chest.

  "Dear Mrs. Green," it began.

  Libby flinched involuntarily. Although It was the name she had kept to avoid the judgment of the town, she still hated being reminded of her former husband. A name that she felt compelled to use like a shield. A shield that protected both her and her baby boy from the harsh realities of judgement, but a lie that she resented.

She read on, despite the tightness that was now rising in her chest.

  "It has come to my attention that you have been doing a sterling job in Longhorn. I have recently taken on the role of Mayor in Willow Creek in an attempt to clean up this town, and feel that the children of the good townsfolk could benefit from a teacher such as yourself."

  Libby paused, her eyes scanning the elegant script. There was no mistaking the sincerity in the words, but she felt something cold clutching at her heart. She wasn’t sure if it was hope or dread.

She skipped ahead to the bottom, hoping to recognize a name, but the letter was simply signed from the Mayor’s office. There was no signature she recognized.

Her eyes drifted back up to the next paragraph.

  "I would be willing to increase your current salary and offer you a home to live in next to the schoolhouse free of charge."

  At this, Libby’s chest tightened with an almost physical pain. The offer was too good to ignore. Too good for anyone in her position. 

Yet, as her fingers clutched the paper, a single thought raced through her mind, cutting through the haze of practicality. How could I leave?

She couldn’t do it. Not now, not ever. Longhorn was where she had told Frankie she would be. The place she had hoped he would find her, if he ever returned. Although she suspected that his continued silence meant that he was no longer of this world, she had no true way of knowing if he was indeed alive. Consequently,  at present, the thought of leaving would feel like abandoning the very thread of hope she had left. It would be tantamount to admitting her loss, but also, if she left and he was still alive, how would he ever find her? 

How could he if she moved on?

With a deep breath, Libby drew herself up. Her decision was made. She set the letter down, her hands shaking slightly as she read through the offer once more, each word an opportunity for a new life she couldn’t take. Then, with a steely resolution and shaky breath, she tore the letter into tiny pieces and threw them into the fireplace. She watched solemnly as paper fluttered into the fire. Gone forever.

The flames crackled as the tiny shreds of paper caught light and then disappeared into nothing. Libby sat back, feeling strangely empty and yet resolute.

She wasn’t prepared to let go just yet.

Not yet.

Too busy to dwell on the loss of that fleeting chance, she turned back to the task at hand, picking up the pieces of her life and carrying on just as she had been doing for the last six months. She would continue to juggle teaching with raising her child, always with the hope that one day, she might see Frankie again and that he might yet meet his son, but knowing deep down that she couldn’t let herself be distracted by dreams of what could have been.

  ****

Two more weeks passed. Two more weeks of juggling teaching, caring for her baby, maintaining her home. 

Homework marked, a baby fed, napkins changed, clothes washed. Exhaustion.

And then she repeated the process over and over again, never pausing to rest.

And then, another letter arrived.

This one was strikingly similar to the first—a pristine envelope of the same expensive, heavyweight paper. Libby felt a surge of irritation rising in her chest. Not again, she thought, her resolve hardening. She had no time for more temptation, more offers of a life she couldn’t take.

But, as her fingers brushed the delicate paper, a strange, insistent curiosity pushed her to open it. She hesitated, feeling a knot form in her stomach, but curiosity won out.

Carefully, she unfolded the letter and read, her eyes tracing the neat, looping script. The words were almost identical to the first letter, but this time, the offer was even more generous.

  "I would like to offer you an even greater increase in salary," the letter stated. "The funds I’m offering are substantial—more than enough for you to live on."

  Libby’s breath caught in her throat. The money was far more than she could have imagined. With it, she could afford help and ease the burden she carried, the endless cycle of teaching, cleaning, and caring for her son. It was a solution that made sense, one that would take a weight off her shoulders, a way to give her child the future he deserved.

She read on.

  “As a token, a small parcel of literary classics will be delivered to you as a gesture of goodwill.”

  She had to sit down at that, in shock. Who on earth would send her a collection of books? How did this person even know that she possessively clung to her books like a lifeline.

But as she sat there, the paper in her hand, the temptation to change her life, to choose a more comfortable path, whirled in her mind. Her heart, though, was still tethered to Longhorn, to the hope that Frankie might one day return, alive and redeemed. The letter seemed to promise so much, so much more than she had ever imagined for herself.

Libby read the letter once more, her eyes following the words. She could feel a conflict stirring deep inside her. It seemed so simple, the offer was so tempting and so full of possibilities. But it came with its own set of sacrifices, sacrifices that made her heart ache in ways she couldn’t quite explain. She tucked the letter carefully into her apron pocket. Tempting as this new letter was, she couldn’t afford to make a hasty decision. 

As she moved through the schoolhouse, she found that she could not focus on anything. The second letter burned a hole in her pocket. It whispered to herself all day long as a constant reminder of the decision she may be forced to make.

As the afternoon lessons wore on, her thoughts kept drifting back to the words she had read. She found herself fumbling through Latin phrases, her normally sharp mind slipping as she tried to teach her students. The children giggled at her mistakes, but Libby wasn’t really there with them. Her mind was far away, lost in the possibilities this new letter had provoked. Her natural rhythm was broken, and she kept losing her place during the afternoon story. The room buzzed, but all Libby could think of was her future. Edward's future. The choice she had to make between the life she had built and the one she might be able to create if she took the offer.

When the bell rang, she waved the children out of the classroom at the end of the day, thinking only of the letter.

She picked up Edward from Mrs. Smith. Her questions about his day were short, polite and perfunctory. Her mind was consumed with the letter.

The evening stretched on, and when Edward had finally fallen asleep, Libby sat in the dim light of her small house, brooding over the contents of that piece of expensive paper. The quiet of the house was almost deafening, and in the stillness, the weight of her decision became intolerable.

When she couldn’t bear it anymore, she moved to her writing bureau. Her fingers trembled slightly as she took out her own finest writing paper, pen poised in her hand. She had to write. She had to make a decision, or at least, take a step toward one. She dipped the nib into the ink pot and began to write. 

  Dear Sir,

  Thank you for your kind offer. I am very interested in taking up the position, but I have a few provisos before I make my decision. I would like to visit your township and meet you in person.

  Yours faithfully,

Mrs. Elizabeth Green.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. It was done. Sealing the envelope carefully, her hands became unsteady now that it was written. It was a small step, a tentative reach toward something she wasn’t sure she was ready for. As she placed the envelope on the kitchen table, she realized that even this felt like a betrayal. It was like taking a step away from everything that she had fought so hard to build in Longhorn. The thought of leaving, of moving forward without knowing what had become of Frankie, made her heart ache in ways she couldn’t bear.

Libby decided that she would sleep on it. She needed more time to think, to clear her mind. But as she slipped into bed that night, sleep refused to come. Her mind was restless, replaying scenes from her past, flashing moments of Frankie—his face, his touch, the way he had made her feel alive again, if only for a brief moment. In the quiet of the night, his voice seemed to echo in her dreams, weaving through the fabric of her sleep, telling her what she already knew deep down—that she had to take the job. You can’t stay here forever, she imagined him saying. You have a future, Elizabeth. You have to let go of Longhorn. Of me.

The dreams twisted and turned, blurring between the past and the present. Libby awoke with a jolt, her body weary and drained, as if she hadn’t slept at all. The sun was just beginning to peek through the curtains, but the morning light brought little comfort. 

The weariness of the restless night’s dreams carried over into her waking hours. She felt as though she was swimming underwater. Her body felt heavy and fatigued. Every time she looked at her son, sleeping peacefully beside her, all she saw was Frankie. She saw his eyes in Edward’s. Those same dark, soulful eyes that had captivated her. Eyes that still haunted her dreams regularly.

The future she had longed for, the one she had built in her heart, was slipping further away, and she didn’t know if she was ready to let go of the hope that one day, Francisco Morales might come back to her.

She sat there, frozen in the quiet, her hands clutching the edge of the blankets as the enormity of her decision pressed down on her. 

Could she really leave Longhorn, leave behind the life she had created, just to chase the possibility of something more? Or was she simply running from the pain of her past, from the life she had wanted but could never have?

Her son stirred beside her, a tiny frown pulling at his forehead, and Libby felt a wave of love wash over her, stronger than anything she had felt in a long time. She kissed his forehead softly, a tear slipping down her cheek, as she whispered to herself, For you, Edward. I will make the right choice.

But in her heart, she still wasn’t sure what that choice was.

Before dropping Edward off at Mrs. Smith's house, Libby decided to change her usual morning route to the schoolhouse. The weight of the decision she had made the night before hung heavy in the air, and today, she would drop the letter off at the town's postal service. With Edward cradled gently in her arms, she walked through the town, the cool morning breeze waking her up fully. Her fingers tightened around the letter she had written in response to the Mayor’s offer, a feeling of unease rising within her with every step.

She stopped outside the general store clutching the letter in her hand. Before stepping inside, she stopped to ask herself if this was what she really truly wanted. Once that letter was handed over, there was no going back.

Gathering up her inner courage, she stepped over the threshold and up to the post office counter inside. Her hand trembled as she handed the letter to the Postmaster. She tried to smile a cheerful good morning, but the action felt oddly forced. Her heart thumped in her chest as she watched him take it from her, sealing the envelope with finality. It would soon be on its way to Willow Creek. She had made the decision, and soon enough, it would be out of her hands.

After dropping Edward off at Mrs. Smith’s house, she forced herself to move forward with the day. The hours at the schoolhouse passed in a blur. The lesson plans she had carefully prepared unfolded as usual, and the children settled into their studies. For a brief moment, it almost felt like things could continue on like this—her life, her routine, the quiet but steady passing of days. But even as she taught, a part of her couldn’t stop thinking about what she had done. She had taken the first step toward a future without Francisco, without the hope she’d once clung to. The idea of leaving Longhorn, of taking Edward away, felt more real now. There was no turning back, no more waiting for the man who might never return. The hope she had kept alive for so long was slipping away, and with it, the last of her dreams for the life she’d hoped for.

When the third letter arrived quickly, it caught her by surprise. This letter looked just like the others. Its beautiful, high-quality paper with elegant handwriting seemed to demand all of her attention. She felt a sudden tightness in her chest as she reached for it, her fingers shaking as she tried to slide it from the envelope. Her breath caught in her throat, and she had to steady herself, sitting down at the table to regain some composure.

Her hands trembled, she carefully unfolded the letter and read its contents:

  Dear Mrs. Green,

  I would be delighted to accommodate you for a visit to our town and a viewing of our schoolhouse. I will send a carriage for you at 9 o'clock sharp on Saturday morning. If this is not acceptable to you, I await your updated suggestion. Otherwise, I look forward to meeting you on the aforementioned day.

  Libby read the letter over again, her heart pounding with each word. This was it. The offer had been accepted. It was real now, and there was no escaping it. The decision had been made. She could feel the weight of it all. The possibility of a new beginning, of leaving Longhorn behind, of starting fresh in a town where no one knew her.

The thought made her stomach churn anxiously. The idea of leaving the town she had come to call home was unsettling, but it was a step forward, a way to secure a better future for herself and Edward.

Her mind wandered to Francisco, to the man who had once held her in his arms and told her he loved her. She thought of the life they could have had, of what could have been, but she had to face the truth. He was gone indefinitely, and no amount of hoping and waiting would bring him back. She was alone, and it was time to move on. Edward needed stability, and Libby needed to build a life that didn’t depend on memories of what could have been with a better salary and prospects.

With a sigh, Libby picked up her pen and quickly scribbled a hasty reply, agreeing to the visit. She sealed the letter with a finality that made her heart ache, then placed it on the table, ready for the post in the morning.

  ****

A day after the letter, a parcel arrived at the schoolhouse. It was a small, but heavy parcel, wrapped in thick brown paper, tied with twine. The writing on the address was the same, neat script as her previous letters. She recognized the cursive immediately. She had spent hours reading and re-reading those letters over and over again. They seemed to have indelibly burned the stylish script into her memory.

She eyed the parcel with trepidation, as though it might detonate in her hands like a stick of dynamite. With a heavy heart, she carefully prised off the string and began to unwrap the gift.

As promised, it contained books.

Her heart caught in her throat as she picked up each book in turn. Several books by Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters and at the bottom, Shakespeare's plays.

The books felt like another stab of betrayal as she placed them on the bookshelf in the schoolhouse, alongside the books that had traveled thousands of miles with her. Accepting them was tantamount to admitting that she would be accepting the job in Willow Creek. And more importantly, saying goodbye to Frankie.

Before Edward’s birth, Libby had moved out of the Smiths’ familial home and into a small, vacant dwelling near the schoolhouse. She had felt that bringing a newborn, who would surely cry through the night, into an already overburdened household was a step too far. There was only so much hospitality that could be endured.

And as Edward grew, Libby's exhaustion grew too. She spent hours rocking him to sleep or reading Shakespeare's sonnets to soothe him during the early hours when he awoke fractious and alone. Her every waking moment, when she was not teaching, was consumed by caring for Edward.

As she arrived at the schoolhouse every morning, the burden of a dual life pressed down on her shoulders. Running a home, a schoolhouse, and raising her six-month-old son left her worn out and feeling like she was barely holding things together. 

Months had passed since the news of the Triple Frontier Gang and their potential demise. Libby had grieved in private, hoping against hope that Frankie had survived, that the whole gang was alive. But no more news came and the excitement of their daring raid had faded in the minds of the Longshorn townsfolk. Stories of the Triple Frontier Gang soon became background gossip. No longer a burning topic of conversation around the township, they were passed over in favor of more recent news. Consigned to legend and folklore.

But not in Libby's mind. Deep down, she still clung onto the idea that Frankie might be alive. Perhaps he was still living in the wilderness, or hiding in bustling Sacramento. It was a shred of hope that kept her putting one foot in front of the other. But left in a state of perpetual limbo, the lack of further news was concerning.

And as the weeks passed, her hope, like the townsfolk's interest in their demise, began to wane. There was no sign of Frankie appearing unannounced on her doorstep. No evidence of him being in the vicinity. No whispers of strangers appearing in town. No letters slipped into mailboxes.

Instead, silence. Just an aching, empty void.

One particular late summer morning as all hope faded, Libby stepped inside her schoolhouse and was greeted by a letter waiting for on her desk.

It was an elegant letter, crafted with the care of someone who had put thought into every detail. The cream paper felt heavy and expensive in her hands, its texture smooth and delicate. Libby ran her fingers over the envelope reverently, But she knew no one who would use such expensive paper to write on. Her eyes dropped to the red wax seal, scanning for any identifying mark. But there was no clue as to who had sent it.

Both equal parts mystified and curious, her breath was unsteady as she carefully flipped it over, breaking the seal with trembling fingers. 

For a brief moment, she wondered if it might have come from Frankie, or perhaps from one of the other members of the Triple Frontier Gang. Maybe it contained news of his fate?

The thought was overwhelming. She had to stop, steady herself, and take a breath to recompose.

Inside, the letter was written in fine, cursive handwriting. Each word was perfectly formed by a steady, deliberate hand. She began to read, her heart hammering in her chest.

  "Dear Mrs. Green," it began.

  Libby flinched involuntarily. Although It was the name she had kept to avoid the judgment of the town, she still hated being reminded of her former husband. A name that she felt compelled to use like a shield. A shield that protected both her and her baby boy from the harsh realities of judgement, but a lie that she resented.

She read on, despite the tightness that was now rising in her chest.

  "It has come to my attention that you have been doing a sterling job in Longhorn. I have recently taken on the role of Mayor in Willow Creek in an attempt to clean up this town, and feel that the children of the good townsfolk could benefit from a teacher such as yourself."

  Libby paused, her eyes scanning the elegant script. There was no mistaking the sincerity in the words, but she felt something cold clutching at her heart. She wasn’t sure if it was hope or dread.

She skipped ahead to the bottom, hoping to recognize a name, but the letter was simply signed from the Mayor’s office. There was no signature she recognized.

Her eyes drifted back up to the next paragraph.

  "I would be willing to increase your current salary and offer you a home to live in next to the schoolhouse free of charge."

  At this, Libby’s chest tightened with an almost physical pain. The offer was too good to ignore. Too good for anyone in her position. 

Yet, as her fingers clutched the paper, a single thought raced through her mind, cutting through the haze of practicality. How could I leave?

She couldn’t do it. Not now, not ever. Longhorn was where she had told Frankie she would be. The place she had hoped he would find her, if he ever returned. Although she suspected that his continued silence meant that he was no longer of this world, she had no true way of knowing if he was indeed alive. Consequently,  at present, the thought of leaving would feel like abandoning the very thread of hope she had left. It would be tantamount to admitting her loss, but also, if she left and he was still alive, how would he ever find her? 

How could he if she moved on?

With a deep breath, Libby drew herself up. Her decision was made. She set the letter down, her hands shaking slightly as she read through the offer once more, each word an opportunity for a new life she couldn’t take. Then, with a steely resolution and shaky breath, she tore the letter into tiny pieces and threw them into the fireplace. She watched solemnly as paper fluttered into the fire. Gone forever.

The flames crackled as the tiny shreds of paper caught light and then disappeared into nothing. Libby sat back, feeling strangely empty and yet resolute.

She wasn’t prepared to let go just yet.

Not yet.

Too busy to dwell on the loss of that fleeting chance, she turned back to the task at hand, picking up the pieces of her life and carrying on just as she had been doing for the last six months. She would continue to juggle teaching with raising her child, always with the hope that one day, she might see Frankie again and that he might yet meet his son, but knowing deep down that she couldn’t let herself be distracted by dreams of what could have been.

  ****

Two more weeks passed. Two more weeks of juggling teaching, caring for her baby, maintaining her home. 

Homework marked, a baby fed, napkins changed, clothes washed. Exhaustion.

And then she repeated the process over and over again, never pausing to rest.

And then, another letter arrived.

This one was strikingly similar to the first—a pristine envelope of the same expensive, heavyweight paper. Libby felt a surge of irritation rising in her chest. Not again, she thought, her resolve hardening. She had no time for more temptation, more offers of a life she couldn’t take.

But, as her fingers brushed the delicate paper, a strange, insistent curiosity pushed her to open it. She hesitated, feeling a knot form in her stomach, but curiosity won out.

Carefully, she unfolded the letter and read, her eyes tracing the neat, looping script. The words were almost identical to the first letter, but this time, the offer was even more generous.

  "I would like to offer you an even greater increase in salary," the letter stated. "The funds I’m offering are substantial—more than enough for you to live on."

  Libby’s breath caught in her throat. The money was far more than she could have imagined. With it, she could afford help and ease the burden she carried, the endless cycle of teaching, cleaning, and caring for her son. It was a solution that made sense, one that would take a weight off her shoulders, a way to give her child the future he deserved.

She read on.

  “As a token, a small parcel of literary classics will be delivered to you as a gesture of goodwill.”

  She had to sit down at that, in shock. Who on earth would send her a collection of books? How did this person even know that she possessively clung to her books like a lifeline.

But as she sat there, the paper in her hand, the temptation to change her life, to choose a more comfortable path, whirled in her mind. Her heart, though, was still tethered to Longhorn, to the hope that Frankie might one day return, alive and redeemed. The letter seemed to promise so much, so much more than she had ever imagined for herself.

Libby read the letter once more, her eyes following the words. She could feel a conflict stirring deep inside her. It seemed so simple, the offer was so tempting and so full of possibilities. But it came with its own set of sacrifices, sacrifices that made her heart ache in ways she couldn’t quite explain. She tucked the letter carefully into her apron pocket. Tempting as this new letter was, she couldn’t afford to make a hasty decision. 

As she moved through the schoolhouse, she found that she could not focus on anything. The second letter burned a hole in her pocket. It whispered to herself all day long as a constant reminder of the decision she may be forced to make.

As the afternoon lessons wore on, her thoughts kept drifting back to the words she had read. She found herself fumbling through Latin phrases, her normally sharp mind slipping as she tried to teach her students. The children giggled at her mistakes, but Libby wasn’t really there with them. Her mind was far away, lost in the possibilities this new letter had provoked. Her natural rhythm was broken, and she kept losing her place during the afternoon story. The room buzzed, but all Libby could think of was her future. Edward's future. The choice she had to make between the life she had built and the one she might be able to create if she took the offer.

When the bell rang, she waved the children out of the classroom at the end of the day, thinking only of the letter.

She picked up Edward from Mrs. Smith. Her questions about his day were short, polite and perfunctory. Her mind was consumed with the letter.

The evening stretched on, and when Edward had finally fallen asleep, Libby sat in the dim light of her small house, brooding over the contents of that piece of expensive paper. The quiet of the house was almost deafening, and in the stillness, the weight of her decision became intolerable.

When she couldn’t bear it anymore, she moved to her writing bureau. Her fingers trembled slightly as she took out her own finest writing paper, pen poised in her hand. She had to write. She had to make a decision, or at least, take a step toward one. She dipped the nib into the ink pot and began to write. 

  Dear Sir,

  Thank you for your kind offer. I am very interested in taking up the position, but I have a few provisos before I make my decision. I would like to visit your township and meet you in person.

  Yours faithfully,

Mrs. Elizabeth Green.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. It was done. Sealing the envelope carefully, her hands became unsteady now that it was written. It was a small step, a tentative reach toward something she wasn’t sure she was ready for. As she placed the envelope on the kitchen table, she realized that even this felt like a betrayal. It was like taking a step away from everything that she had fought so hard to build in Longhorn. The thought of leaving, of moving forward without knowing what had become of Frankie, made her heart ache in ways she couldn’t bear.

Libby decided that she would sleep on it. She needed more time to think, to clear her mind. But as she slipped into bed that night, sleep refused to come. Her mind was restless, replaying scenes from her past, flashing moments of Frankie—his face, his touch, the way he had made her feel alive again, if only for a brief moment. In the quiet of the night, his voice seemed to echo in her dreams, weaving through the fabric of her sleep, telling her what she already knew deep down—that she had to take the job. You can’t stay here forever, she imagined him saying. You have a future, Elizabeth. You have to let go of Longhorn. Of me.

The dreams twisted and turned, blurring between the past and the present. Libby awoke with a jolt, her body weary and drained, as if she hadn’t slept at all. The sun was just beginning to peek through the curtains, but the morning light brought little comfort. 

The weariness of the restless night’s dreams carried over into her waking hours. She felt as though she was swimming underwater. Her body felt heavy and fatigued. Every time she looked at her son, sleeping peacefully beside her, all she saw was Frankie. She saw his eyes in Edward’s. Those same dark, soulful eyes that had captivated her. Eyes that still haunted her dreams regularly.

The future she had longed for, the one she had built in her heart, was slipping further away, and she didn’t know if she was ready to let go of the hope that one day, Francisco Morales might come back to her.

She sat there, frozen in the quiet, her hands clutching the edge of the blankets as the enormity of her decision pressed down on her. 

Could she really leave Longhorn, leave behind the life she had created, just to chase the possibility of something more? Or was she simply running from the pain of her past, from the life she had wanted but could never have?

Her son stirred beside her, a tiny frown pulling at his forehead, and Libby felt a wave of love wash over her, stronger than anything she had felt in a long time. She kissed his forehead softly, a tear slipping down her cheek, as she whispered to herself, For you, Edward. I will make the right choice.

But in her heart, she still wasn’t sure what that choice was.

Before dropping Edward off at Mrs. Smith's house, Libby decided to change her usual morning route to the schoolhouse. The weight of the decision she had made the night before hung heavy in the air, and today, she would drop the letter off at the town's postal service. With Edward cradled gently in her arms, she walked through the town, the cool morning breeze waking her up fully. Her fingers tightened around the letter she had written in response to the Mayor’s offer, a feeling of unease rising within her with every step.

She stopped outside the general store clutching the letter in her hand. Before stepping inside, she stopped to ask herself if this was what she really truly wanted. Once that letter was handed over, there was no going back.

Gathering up her inner courage, she stepped over the threshold and up to the post office counter inside. Her hand trembled as she handed the letter to the Postmaster. She tried to smile a cheerful good morning, but the action felt oddly forced. Her heart thumped in her chest as she watched him take it from her, sealing the envelope with finality. It would soon be on its way to Willow Creek. She had made the decision, and soon enough, it would be out of her hands.

After dropping Edward off at Mrs. Smith’s house, she forced herself to move forward with the day. The hours at the schoolhouse passed in a blur. The lesson plans she had carefully prepared unfolded as usual, and the children settled into their studies. For a brief moment, it almost felt like things could continue on like this—her life, her routine, the quiet but steady passing of days. But even as she taught, a part of her couldn’t stop thinking about what she had done. She had taken the first step toward a future without Francisco, without the hope she’d once clung to. The idea of leaving Longhorn, of taking Edward away, felt more real now. There was no turning back, no more waiting for the man who might never return. The hope she had kept alive for so long was slipping away, and with it, the last of her dreams for the life she’d hoped for.

When the third letter arrived quickly, it caught her by surprise. This letter looked just like the others. Its beautiful, high-quality paper with elegant handwriting seemed to demand all of her attention. She felt a sudden tightness in her chest as she reached for it, her fingers shaking as she tried to slide it from the envelope. Her breath caught in her throat, and she had to steady herself, sitting down at the table to regain some composure.

Her hands trembled, she carefully unfolded the letter and read its contents:

  Dear Mrs. Green,

  I would be delighted to accommodate you for a visit to our town and a viewing of our schoolhouse. I will send a carriage for you at 9 o'clock sharp on Saturday morning. If this is not acceptable to you, I await your updated suggestion. Otherwise, I look forward to meeting you on the aforementioned day.

  Libby read the letter over again, her heart pounding with each word. This was it. The offer had been accepted. It was real now, and there was no escaping it. The decision had been made. She could feel the weight of it all. The possibility of a new beginning, of leaving Longhorn behind, of starting fresh in a town where no one knew her.

The thought made her stomach churn anxiously. The idea of leaving the town she had come to call home was unsettling, but it was a step forward, a way to secure a better future for herself and Edward.

Her mind wandered to Francisco, to the man who had once held her in his arms and told her he loved her. She thought of the life they could have had, of what could have been, but she had to face the truth. He was gone indefinitely, and no amount of hoping and waiting would bring him back. She was alone, and it was time to move on. Edward needed stability, and Libby needed to build a life that didn’t depend on memories of what could have been with a better salary and prospects.

With a sigh, Libby picked up her pen and quickly scribbled a hasty reply, agreeing to the visit. She sealed the letter with a finality that made her heart ache, then placed it on the table, ready for the post in the morning.

  ****

A day after the letter, a parcel arrived at the schoolhouse. It was a small, but heavy parcel, wrapped in thick brown paper, tied with twine. The writing on the address was the same, neat script as her previous letters. She recognized the cursive immediately. She had spent hours reading and re-reading those letters over and over again. They seemed to have indelibly burned the stylish script into her memory.

She eyed the parcel with trepidation, as though it might detonate in her hands like a stick of dynamite. With a heavy heart, she carefully prised off the string and began to unwrap the gift.

As promised, it contained books.

Her heart caught in her throat as she picked up each book in turn. Several books by Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters and at the bottom, Shakespeare's plays.

The books felt like another stab of betrayal as she placed them on the bookshelf in the schoolhouse, alongside the books that had traveled thousands of miles with her. Accepting them was tantamount to admitting that she would be accepting the job in Willow Creek. And more importantly, saying goodbye to Frankie.

Hours must've passed, and Pero's hands opened and closed as he tried to calm his breathing. The energy running through him made them tremble as he paced the small building he'd been thrown into. It was used for either sick thralls, or those who were being kept in isolation, and was never meant to be comfortable. But now it was colder than ever, and not just for the lack of a fire in the hearth. His head thumped, his ribs ached, but luckily not broken, and he could feel blood drying on his face as the cut on his cheek slowly stopped bleeding. No one came to check on him, but he hadn't expected it. He knew he'd made probably the worst mistake of his life, risked everything for both you and himself.

He sank down with his back against the wall, facing the door that he knew was barred from the outside. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm himself again, and think through his next steps, what he'd do in every scenario he could think of. If they came to execute him, he'd fight. If he was that close to death, he'd rather take his chances at fighting his way out of Ulvehi than to go meekly to slaughter. He'd take some of them with him before he succumbed.

If he was to be kept alive he'd be back in chains again, he was sure of it. Then he would have to find another escape once he knew what had happened to you. Or maybe he'd be sold, he couldn't imagine the Jarl keeping him at Ulvehi now. But most likely, he'd hang, or however the Norse men killed thralls. If he could, he'd fight his way out, but chances were slim, if it came to that, he knew he'd probably die here.

With a deep sigh he slumped down against the wall. He'd promised he'd find you, but in truth, he didn't know if he'd get out of this alive. He may never see you again, and the thought made him clench his fists again, forcing back the tremors as something caught in this throat.

I'm not dead yet. And they won't see me go quietly. But, please, let me see her again. Let me at least see her safe.

Nicholas hadn't been back since his hurried visit to this temporary prison. All he'd had time for was to scribble a few words on the parchment and tell Nicholas where the small statue was hidden under his bedding in the thrall's quarters. Hopefully he'd been able to get it to you, but Pero wasn't even sure of that. You might've been shipped off to England without another word from him or Nicholas. And for the first time in his life, Pero was afraid of dying. Things were unfinished, his life was unfinished. He'd had a brief spell of some sort of happiness, even here as a thrall, and he was afraid to lose it all too soon. And he had a promise to keep.

And a child…

You'd told him, and then everything had happened so fast, he'd barely had time to tell you what that meant to him. But there was a child growing inside you that shared his blood, something he thought he'd lost any hope of many years ago. But you said it, a part of him and a part of you, a small family. A small family for him again.

The thought made him squeeze his eyes shut, a sharp feeling rising in his chest as his nails dug into his palms.

Our child…There has to be a way, somehow, to keep them safe.

Sleep did not come easily, but he forced it upon himself the same way he had when he was a mercenary. His body and mind needed rest for the next few days, no matter what came. So he would take any sleep he could now even as his mind flitted back and forth, drifting back to your face whenever he drifted close to sleep.

The next morning it was the heavy steps approaching his prison that woke him from an uneasy slumber. He was on his feet in a heartbeat, rolling his stiff shoulders and flexing his hands. Whatever came next, if they meant to kill him, he would not go without a fight.

But there was no chance to fight, Thorsten stood in the doorway with a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Put his legs and arms in chains, beat him if he resists," he ordered the four men who'd come with him, "But don't break any bones, he won't sell if he's damaged. Although…" he added as two of the men roughly grabbed Pero's arms and forced them in front of his body, "A broken nose probably won't make much of a difference now. She'll never see you again, and I'll make sure you never see any other woman again. No women where you're going, thrall."

The last part he said with a grin and Pero bit his tongue, the sharp iron biting into his wrists as the lock clanked shut. If he was being sold he would wait for his chance, better opportunities for escape would come, he was sure of it. Thorsten was baiting him, hoping for a fight, but behind Pero's scowling face, he felt almost elated with relief. Being sold was the best outcome right now.

A ring of iron snapped shut around his neck too, and shackles were fastened around his ankles, a chain running from feet to neck and making his steps hobbled. One of the hirdmen tugged at the chain, and Pero shuffled forward, struggling to clear the high threshold out from the small building.

"Move, thrall," Thorsten spat, clearly not pleased with the lack of reaction from Pero at his needling, and gave him a sharp shove as Pero managed to step outside. The short chain pulled up short between his feet, and he fell, landing heavily on his arms, his face smacking down into the mud. Sharp pain stung his nose, and he felt the taste of warm blood in his mouth as someone grabbed his neck ring and yanked him up again, making him choke and cough as the force cut off his breath.

"Fall again and I'll drag you by that ring all the way to the dock, thrall," Thorsten snarled, as Pero took another stumbling step. Cold mud was sticking to his tunic and his skin, blood dripping from his lip, and maybe his nose, but he tried to keep his balance, focusing on the ships down by the fjord.

It took all his self control to not rage against the chains as he had when he first arrived, or to rage against Thorsten, at being called 'thrall' again like it was his name. One short step in front of the other, the way from Ulvehi lay on that ship, there was no escape just now. But soon…he kept that thought in his head as Thorsten yanked on the ring again, making the sharp metal cut into his neck.

Pero was roughly shoved onboard, pushed down in a corner of the deck and left to shiver in his wet and mud caked clothes. He watched Thorsten join the crew, and he wasn't sure if he was pleased about that or not, and for a moment he thought the Jarl would join them too, but he only jumped aboard and stepped up to Pero.

"I considered having Thorsten whip you until you bled out, like I should've that first time," he said, fixing Pero with his cold blue eyes, "But it would've been too easy. You'd die too fast, Hauknefr. For how you betrayed me, this family, I want you to die slowly and in pain. And I'm in luck, the foreman from the Falu copper mine comes to Skiringssal every spring to buy any strong thralls for sale," the Jarl said, pausing as he waited for Pero to react, leaning closer, "Do you know about the copper mines, Hauknefr? Did the other thralls ever tell you about them?"

Pero didn't reply, he just looked at the Jarl, fighting to keep his mind calm, but he could feel the scowl on his face, his tight eyebrows pulling at fresh cuts and bruises.

"The mines are where we send thralls to die," the Jarl told him when he realised Tovar wouldn't reply, "Forgotten by everyone, left to rot when their breaths give up from hot fumes and cold rocks. You won't die fast, you're too strong for that, but you'll die, and you'll never see my daughter again. Tell them this is what Jarl Agnar Björnsson does to thralls who dare to cross him."

"No moriré. Mi hijo crece en ella, mi sangre es ahora suya," Pero replied, spitting out the words he knew the Jarl wouldn't understand, but he still wanted to tell him; I will not die. My child grows within her, my blood is hers now.

The Jarl paused, as if trying to work out how he'd been insulted, and then pushed to his feet, sneering, "Your foreign insults won't do you any good, Hauknefr," he said, scowling as Pero forced himself to grin in defiance as the old man's knees protested, and the Jarl huffed.

"Thorsten! Get a good price for him, but not too good, won't do to let him be too valuable."

Thorsten nodded as the Jarl jumped off the ship and on to the dock again.

"I'll send the ship back with the money from the sale, Jarl, and then I'll ready Blodormr and set sail for Vinland."

"It'll be a great adventure for you and your crew, and I know you're worthy of this."

The Jarl paused and put his hand on the pommel of his sword, the great long sword he'd bought from the same man that had sold him Hauknefr. He'd told Hauknefr he'd kill him with his own sword if he tried to run, but this seemed more fitting. As Thorsten watched, he pulled the sword from its sheath and held out the pommel towards him.

"You're taking this treacherous thrall to his well earned fate, and then you're sailing on to your own. You should have the sword that was his, take it to Vinland and win us new land and wealth. He was not man enough to hold on to it, it's only fitting that you have it now."

"Jarl…" Thorsten said, bowing his head low, "This is a great gift. I will ask Thor to give strength to this blade and honour you on my journey."

The Jarl nodded, as Thorsten held the sword, looking at the sharp blade.

"The gods approve when we use the swords of our fallen enemies to win new victories, and this blade is thirsty, it hasn't seen blood in a long time."

Thorsten bowed again, and ran his hand over the steel, scraping his thumb over the cross on the pommel.

"I'm honoured, my Jarl, but I might need to scrape off this Christian symbol."

The Jarl chuckled, clapping Thorsten on the shoulder, "Do what you will with it, Thor will always give your sword arm strength enough to kill our enemies. Now, ready the men, they have many hours to row before their, and your, adventure really begins. Bring us home stories worthy of the sagas, Thorsten, Sigurd's son."

Thorsten grinned and stepped on to the ship's deck, Pero's sword at his waist, and he missed the look of rage that passed across the chained man's face at the sight of the sword, "I won't fail you, Jarl, we'll come back with stories and wealth."

Soon the ropes were cast, and Ulvehi began to shrink behind the ship as the men's oars dipped into the dark water and gave speed to the slim ship. Pero glanced back at the farm, craning his neck to see over the ship's edge. He'd hated the place since he first saw it, but at the same time, it was the place where he'd first met you, and, against all reason, fallen in love with the daughter of his captors. The kitchen garden looked fresh with the early spring green, the place where so many conversations between the two of you had taken place. He couldn't hate it anymore simply because of the memories it held with you, but still, he didn't want to return. You were no longer there, and more than ever he knew that he would need to find you again, to find some sort of peace. To see you disappear across the ocean and into the hands of some Anglo-Saxon lord was not how he intended to let this end.

He looked away, closing his eyes and leaning against the rough planks. This was not how he'd imagined his departure, but this was where fate had taken you both. Now he needed to remember, quickly, who he was before his thralldom, and call upon his years of experience to survive the next few weeks. His muscles would need to remember how to fight, and kill, without hesitation if he was to survive this, and reach England. And reach you.

The thump of the ship's side bumping against the dock at Skiringssal was what roused Pero from his uncomfortable slumber many hours later. It was late afternoon, and the sounds of the bustling trade port drifted up to him. The ship had been tied to the dock and soon rough hands pulled him to his feet. The long spring evening was turning into dark blue night, and after his chains were removed, he was shoved into a cage similar to the one he'd spent his first night in Skiringssal in. There were other men in it, and women in the next cage over.

As Pero tried to find a spot to rest in the cage, more men were brought in, shoving for space as it got crowded. A large dark haired man squeezed himself down onto to the wooden slats next to Pero, grunting as Pero scowled

"Tuck your elbows in, friend, we ain't gettin' more space than this," he said in English, "But don't worry, if you don't get sold tomorrow, they'll find an even more uncomfortable spot for you."

Pero shrugged, and pulled his thin cloak up over his arms, but the Englishman nudged his side, and nodded towards a couple of the men at the front of the cage. They were trying to get the attention of the guards, who were pointedly ignoring them.

"Must be their first time at the thrall market. As long as we don't freeze to death, those guards won't do anything," he said and then looked over at Pero, "Not your first time being sold I think?"

"No," Pero grimaced, "Second."

"I'm on my fourth I think", the Englishman replied, "Can't seem to find a good owner."

He said the last with a chuckle as if it was a big joke, and Pero glanced over at him, wondering if the man might be soft in the head. But the man caught his look and chuckled again.

"I'm not daft, friend. But either I laugh at it, or I wallow in despair and die."

"You have a point," Pero said, "Do they hold these markets often?" he asked and the man nodded.

"In the spring, almost every day. When the snow and ice gives up its grip they all sail to the big trading ports and trade for what's needed for the new seasons, including humans. You haven't seen the market before?"

"Only once, when I first got here two years ago. But I was too busy trying to find a way to escape than to notice the market."

"I see that the escaping bit didn't go too well," the Englishman commented, tugging at his own cloak as the noise at the front of the cage died down.

Pero shook his head, and rested his chin on his arms, "Not yet," he replied.

The next day Pero learnt exactly how far and wide the Norse men traded as he watched men and women arrive at the market, and merchants began to fill up their stalls, both permanent and temporary, with wares.

The cages with thralls were strategically located just next to the main market square, and as the day warmed up he watched how even here, on what was the edge of the world to him, goods from almost every corner of the world were put up for trade. Stacks of pelts and furs seemed to be of interest to the men who were dressed like the Franks he'd served many times as a mercenary. The Franks in turn traded finer silks with the local lords, amber and silver changing hands.

Nearby three dark skinned men were trading spices. He could smell the dried thyme and garlic, so familiar from his childhood, and even a trace of cinnamon. It reminded him of his journeys far to the east, Constantinople and beyond. He never would've guessed that the vikings commanded such far-reaching networks.

A Norse lord strolled down the market, and stopped by the stall, pointing to the bulbs of dried garlic. He was dressed in fine wool clothes, and looked wealthy, like he had money to spend on some luxury to brighten his day. The edge of his cloak was trimmed with a pattern that looked more Byzantine to Pero than anything Norse, and he thought Nicholas could probably tell him more about the man if he'd been there.

The three spice merchants recognised the wealth too, and were immediately bowing low to the lord, waving him closer, and lifting up delicately carved spoons to let him smell their ground herbs.

Pero watched the display, the merchants smiling and flattering the lord as he haggled for the price. He was too far away to hear what they were saying, but anywhere in the world you would recognise the body language of a deal being struck. The lord and the merchants finally seemed to agree on a price, and the lord waved behind him, calling over a servant to settle the accounts.

Pero straightened up and grabbed the bars of the cage. The servant, dressed nicely and with an important air, was Godric, his friend from England who'd been taken as a thrall at the same time as Pero. He was standing just by the lord, holding a tablet and a purse of silver while an armed guard waited nearby. The two or so years since Pero last saw him hadn’t made much of a difference to his old friend, and he must have fared far better than Pero when he was sold here at Skiringssal at the end of their journey across. He looked well fed and well dressed, a thick wool cloak over his shoulders.

He was too far away for Pero to call out to without everyone noticing, and no matter how much he willed Godric to look over, he didn't turn. Godric handed over the silver, scribbled something on his tablet, and took a number of small bags from the merchants. They in turn bowed low to the lord, and then Godric and the lord turned and walked away. Pero ground his teeth in frustration as his old friend disappeared into the throng of people, but at least now he knew Godric had survived, and survived well, it seemed. Maybe Godric would spot him when it came time for selling the thralls, but what good it would do Pero, he didn’t know.

Towards the middle of the day, when the bright spring sun was at its highest, the men’s cage was opened. One by one the male thralls were led out, chained together, and pushed towards a rough hewed dais. Pero clenched his jaw and pushed down his urge to fight against the chains again as it was his turn to be forced to the front, this was not the time.

The auctioneer prodded him with a cane, forced his head back to show off his neck, and rapped it across his leg as if to gauge the quality of the flesh. Pero felt his temper rising, and glowered at the man, his fists closing. But the man only glanced over his features, prodded his shoulder, and lifted the back of his tunic, exposing the scarred flesh.

“A strong male, but dangerous and disobedient, fit for hard work in chains,” he said in Norse, calling out to the crowd of prospective buyers. “Will the mines take him? He’s already been whipped once.”

“We’ll take him,” a man replied. “Put him with the rest.”

Pero's gaze snapped towards the voice, it was the wealthy lord he'd seen earlier, with Godric, but from where he stood, he couldn't make him out in the press of bodies.

“Anyone willing to outbid the Falu men?” the auctioneer asked, and when no one replied, Pero was pulled to the side, unchained from the rest of the men, and shoved into a new cage. He gripped the bars and craned his neck to see if Godric would be the one paying for him, but there was no trace of the Anglo-Saxon.

By the time the sun had begun to slope westward, more men had been thrown in with him. Some snarled and spat at the guards, straining uselessly against their irons. Others said nothing at all, their eyes wide and hollow. Pero marked them without thinking; the ones who might fight, the ones who would break. Some would not last a day in the mines. Some would not even survive the journey there.

He shifted his weight against the wooden bars. Solid. Thick. No give in them. But he needed a way out, just not now, not while the guards watched every movement, not while he was penned like an animal among dozens of others. Any attempt now would end with him cut down before he took three steps. Better to wait.

Once the journey back to the mines started, there would be more opportunity to break free, or at least he hoped so. He had no other plan apart from this, and there were many unknown parts to it, too many. He leaned against the sturdy poles of the cage at the very back, watching the rest of the auction while his mind worked through his options. He didn't have many, and the ones he had were filled with holes. For now his best choice seemed to be to simply wait, and hope for an opportunity soon.

The market wound down as the sun began to sink, casting long shadows over the stalls. But people still milled around, fires were lit, and food was sold. Some food was brought to the men in the cage, but it was certainly nothing like the fat pork ribs Pero could smell being grilled on the other side of the market. A bowl of thin gruel and rough bread was shoved into his hands, but his belly still felt empty when he was done with it. The Falu miners didn’t seem to feed their thralls very well.

Crouching on his haunches in the back corner, he tried to keep off the wet mud seeping through the slats. He tipped his head back, just for a breath of rest, and glimpsed a face he recognised.

It was one of your family from Steinvikr. The one you'd said you’d grown up with, spent long summers with as a child. Pero couldn’t remember her name, but he remembered her standing at your side during the funeral, and the stories you had told him with a grin, the things you used to get up to with the hirdmen at Steinvikr.

A memory rose inside him, a stolen moment in the tack room at Steinvikr as you teased him, crouching down on your knees, his cock swelling, and he forced the memory down. It was almost too painful to think of you like that now, now that you were gone…

Pero watched the woman as she wandered between the stalls, touching some of the wares. She seemed to be on her own, but there were plenty of guards around Skiringssal, and he presumed there was no danger for a woman to walk alone here in the light spring evening. And she reminded him of you. The cut of the dress, the way her hair was bound, it pulled something tight in his chest, and he couldn't look away. She was your blood. The closest thing to you he might ever see again.

As she drew near, it was as if she sensed his eyes on her, or perhaps she simply caught a glimpse of the way he was staring from the corner of the cage. Her head turned, and recognition flashed across her face. For a few moments she met his eyes, staring at him too. Pero thought she would come over, but then she turned and continued to walk between the stalls, not changing her pace.

Pero looked down at his hands, clasped between his legs, and closed his eyes. He needed rest. Another hard night was coming, and he would need whatever strength he could keep hold of.

Twilight settled over Skiringssal, and Pero fell into an uneasy sleep, but when a hand touched his shoulder lightly, he jolted awake and stumbled to his feet . The market was still filled with people, rowdier now, but night had properly fallen. The cage was dark, and most of the men were huddled together in sleep.

"Shh, quiet," a woman's voice whispered close to his ear, and he turned his head towards it.

"You're Pero Tovar," she said, "I'm Saga, I know you."

"You're…" Pero began, but Saga shook her head.

"I don't have much time. I saw Thorsten earlier, she's on her way to England. He told me he caught the two of you at Ulvehi."

"I was reckless," Pero muttered, "And I've been sold to the Falu mines. I need to escape and go after her."

"I agree, that's why I'm here, Pero Tovar," Saga said, glancing behind her, "I need to find a way to get you out of here. My brother Assar is also in Skiringssal, he knows about you, and he swore to her that he'd help if he could."

"He knows?" Pero asked in surprise, and Saga nodded, smiling for the first time, and he saw that her lips curled in the same way as as yours did.

"He saw how she looked at you," she said, "and how you looked at her. You two were not very good at hiding it."

Pero groaned and dragged his hands over his face, but Saga grabbed his arm.

"It is done, Pero Tovar. Now you need to save her from that English lord. Help me find a way to help you out of here."

Pero looked around the dark market and the thralls sleeping in the cage, "I saw an old friend earlier, a man called Godric. He was with a wealthy lord who was buying spices. He had a cloak with a foreign pattern on the trim, with gold thread. He's the one who bought me for the mines."

"Halfdan Austrfarar," Saga replied immediately, "he owns the mines."

"If Godric works for him, maybe he can help. Can you find him?"

Saga nodded, "I know where he is staying. But what are you thinking?"

"If Godric can unlock the cage so that all the thralls escape, I can disappear in the chaos and hide on a ship to England. With all this trade, there must be many heading west."

"I'll go now, I need to find an excuse to talk to Godric," Saga replied, "I'll send Godric here, but I can't be seen with you, so be safe, Pero Tovar, and keep my cousin safe. And make sure you are worth all that she is giving up for you."

The last she said with a firm voice, squeezing his arm as Pero met her hard look, "Don't make her regret leaving her home behind for you."

"If she does, I'll bring her back, and she can sell me as a slave again," he said, meaning every word.

Saga studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.

"The Norns have set your path," she said, "Now walk it."

With that she hurried off, and Pero could only watch her dark cloak disappear into the shadows and hope that she'd find Godric in time.

All that was left now was to wait, and watch the guards move across the market as it emptied out as the hour grew late. He was too tightly wound to sit and relax, even though he knew he should conserve his strength. The nerves creeping along his limbs were familiar, always the same tingle as a battle drew near, his body preparing to fight, or be killed. He hoped he'd be able to sneak away without a fight, but something told him it would not be that easy.

Suppressing a wide yawn, he shook his limbs, trying to shake some warmth into them as the night grew cold. The sudden yell startled him, one of the guards calling to the others and pointing. Against the dark night sky flames could be seen in the town, just a street or two away. Shouts went up, and the guards began to run towards the light just as the first hint of smoke in the air reached Pero.

He looked around outside the cage as the other men began to wake, stumbling to their feet and mumbling as they spotted the fire. Calls could be heard from around the town as word spread, fire in a town made of wood would be a disaster.

Suddenly Pero saw what he'd been waiting for. Across the now empty market a dark figure came hurrying towards the cages. It was a moment's work for the man to unlock the cages and release both the men and the women.

"Hurry, help with the fire, we need all the hands we can get to pass the water buckets," he called to the thralls as they streamed from their enclosure.

"Why would we?" a man called back to him as he took off at a run, away from the fire, clearly set on escaping rather than helping. And almost everyone else of thralls had the same idea, like birds set free they scattered.

Pero was the last out of the cage, and the man grabbed his arm and quickly dragged him around a corner, into the darkness of one of the market stalls.

"Tovar! I thought you were dead. I didn't know what to think when Saga from Steinvikr came to find me!"

"Likewise, friend," Pero grinned, grabbing hold of his old friend's arms and looking him up and down, "And you've done well for yourself it seems."

"Better than you at least," Godric replied, "You look rough."

"I would tell you all, but I need your help to hide on a ship heading to England."

Godric nodded, and pulled off his cloak, handing it to Pero, "I know, but you won't need to sneak. I've bought you passage on Aelfric's ship, he's a cloth merchant, and I know he's sailing at first light, he had bad news from York."

"Godric, you're a true friend," Pero replied, he couldn't believe his luck as he pulled up the hood of the cloak, hiding his face, "If I can, I will make it up to you."

"I hope so, because I'm coming with you. I can't exactly set free my master's thralls without consequences," Godric said, reaching into a simple cloth bag hanging from his shoulder, "I've got some gold, hopefully enough to bribe Aelfric and his men to not mention a dark faced man with a scar. Come, we better get going while the fire still burns."

Pero nodded, and followed Godric as they set off. He knew the streets of Skiringssal well by now it seemed, and he led them through back alleys and dark paths down to the docks. The many ships moored were quiet, but around a few of them men were moving back and forth, preparing to set sail as soon as the wind picked up. Godric led Pero to one of the largest, a broad hulled sailing ship with a ramp leading up. As they approached, Godric hailed a man standing on the deck overseeing the loading.

"Aelfric, are you ready for us to board?" he called, and the man waved at them, urging them to cross the ramp.

"As soon as the morning easterly wind picks up, we're off," Aelfric replied, "Get yourself tucked down, I don't want any trouble leaving."

Godric and Pero did as he ordered, hurrying across the gangway and dropping into the sunken hold. Most of the space was taken up by cargo, but there was some space carved out for provisions and sleeping space, and they sat down next to the hull, huddling down to not be seen from land. Pero pulled his hood down further over the scar that made him so damn recognisable, and silently urged the wind to pick up.

Soon, very soon, he'd be back on the ocean and finally sailing west, following you.

"Aelfric! Alefric!"

An all too familiar voice called up towards the ship, and Pero lifted his head as Godric looked over at him.

"Someone you know?" he asked in a low voice.

"Thorsten," Pero whispered, "He's the leader of the hirdmen at Ulvehi, the farm I was sold to."

"The tall blonde who was there that day? I remember him," Godric replied, "Keep your head down, we can't let him see you."

"But he has my sword," Pero growled, "I need it."

Down on the dock Thorsten was talking to Alefric about the thralls that had escaped, and the fire that was still burning.

"It's almost out, it only took two houses and a barn, the town was lucky. But now we must get men together to chase after the thralls who escaped."

"I'm setting sail to England as soon as the morning wind picks up, I don't have time to chase after some dumb thralls," Aelfric replied, "You should trade in cloth, Thorsten. Cloth bundles don't have legs, and they don't need feeding."

"I'll remember that the next time you need protection for your ships," Thorsten said, and even from up on the ship Pero could hear the annoyance in his voice.

Aelfric must've waved him off, because soon they heard the merchant call orders for more supplies and goods to be loaded as Thorsten stalked off.

"Your dagger," Pero said to Godric, holding out his hand, "Give it to me."

"Tovar, don't…" Godric replied, but Pero snatched the dagger from his belt and carefully stood up, glancing over the railing.

"I'll be back in no time, I just need to get my sword, and kill him if I can."

"Aelfric won't wait, you can get a new sword in England," Godric hissed, reaching out to grab his arm, but Pero shook it off.

"I'm not letting that bastard walk around with my sword," he replied, "I'll be back soon, just stall Aelfric if the wind changes."

"Tovar, he won't wait!" Godric protested, but it was too late. Pero jumped over the opposite edge of the hull and landed with a soft thump on the dock planks. In the distance he could see the dark shape of Thorsten disappear down one of the narrow pathways leading towards the edge of town.

This was rash, too rash, he knew it, but the sight of the sword, his sword, at Thorsten's side had filled him with rage. And now this bastard was within range, and Tovar was unchained and armed. This opportunity wouldn't come again. He could kill him, take the sword back, and leave with at least a small sense of revenge for the past two years.

His fingers flexed, finding a good grip on the dagger hiding under his cloak, and he felt his body changing, his mind finding its focus as he slipped back into his old self.

The mercenary followed Thorsten down the path, sticking to the shadows and keeping his steps light and soundless. He needed to choose a place to call out his challenge, a spot for a quick fight, and a swift retreat. The narrow road ran between the rocks at the water's edge, and a few sheds. Narrow enough to make fighting with a sword difficult, but perfect for a fight with daggers.

"Thorsten!" Tovar called, stepping out from the shadow of the shed as he shook off the cloak, the dagger held behind his back as if his arms were still tied.

The tall Norseman turned around, his surprised look turning to a grin when he saw Tovar standing behind him.

"Hauknefr, I knew you were behind this, but I thought you'd be hiding in the woods by now," he called back, taking a few steps towards Tovar and drawing his sword, "Or are you trying to get back to Ulvehi?"

"Where is she?" Tovar asked, his voice grim, taking a step back as Thorsten moved forward.

"Not at Ulvehi, dog," Thorsten snarled, his face turning dark at the mention of you, "You won't see her again, and you should've kept running."

He took another step, pointing the sword at Tovar's chest, "But now I can kill you, and keep the money for selling you."

Tovar let him move closer, the dagger behind his back tight in his hand, "She told me about you, that you wanted her and she spat in your face. It must sting, amigo, to see her choose me instead. The thrall, huh? The dirty, unwashed thrall with nothing but his cock to boast of."

Thorsten snarled and lunged at Tovar, who swiftly stepped to the side, bringing up the dagger and jamming it up into the other man's side with a satisfied grin. Thorsten grunted and stumbled as Tovar tried to push the dagger in. But it caught on the chain mail hidden under the tunic, and Thorsten shoved Tovar's arm away, swinging his sword. Only the close quarters stopped the sword from slicing Tovar open, it bounced off his hip as he yanked the dagger loose.

Now the element of surprise was lost, and Tovar stepped back as Thorsten lifted his sword, his other hand patting down his side where the dagger must've bruised him.

Tovar watched Thorsten's steps, circling around, aiming to get him too close to the slippery rocks by the sea shore. But Thorsten wasn't an inexperienced fighter, and he grinned as he realised that Tovar only had a dagger and no protection, taking a step closer. He kept him at range, forcing Tovar back, step by step.

"This is more poetic, thrall," Thorsten said, "Don't you think? The gods love a good fight!"

"I don't give a shit about any gods," Tovar snarled, "I just want to see you dead."

Thorsten attacked, fast and hard.

Tovar stumbled back, barely dodging the blow. He jumped over the slick rocks, scrambling back onto the path. He felt the air move as the sharp blade rushed past his ear, but it didn't hit.

He was slow, too slow. Two years away from the blade showed in every step, even now when the rush of the fight had his blood hot, he could feel the sluggishness in his limbs. Finding his balance again, he held the dagger up as a shield, ready to block or dodge when the big bastard Norseman attacked again.

Thorsten was still grinning, and he gave no pause. Attacking again, and again, he pushed Tovar backwards. Twice the long sword struck the dagger, making Tovar grunt as the hits made the bones in his arm tremble. But he was pulling Thorsten in towards the back wall of one of the sheds that lined the path. With a quick step to the side at the next attack, he managed to dodge the sword and in the opening, his dagger slid across Thorsten's cheek, splitting it open and drawing blood.

Thorsten roared and swung his sword wildly, but Tovar had already jumped back. Under his breath he was cursing. Thorsten was tall, and the dagger was difficult to get in where the chain mail didn't cover him.

With the sword up, Thorsten charged on Tovar, forcing him back across the path, towards the rocks and the ocean. He carved the air with brutal swings, any one of them would've sliced his arm clean off, and Tovar scrambled back, trying to find an opening. The ground under his feet turned slippery, sea weed wrapped around his ankle, dragging him off balance. He stumbled, going down on one knee, catching himself with one hand as he held up the dagger against the next wild swing. Behind him the ocean lapped at his feet, and he threw himself in as Thorsten stabbed towards his chest.

The sword caught him this time, but he kicked out, connecting with Thorsten’s leg as pain bloomed across his arm.The other man lost his balance and for a moment, he teetered on the edge of the slippery rocks, and Tovar jerked himself up, out of the water, scrambling clear of the blade.

Panting he found his footing again on the shore line as Thorsten turned to him. His face was triumphant now as Tovar suddenly realised; the dagger was gone.

"So much for the mercenary," Thorsten mocked him, "How would you like me to kill you? A cut to the front and watch your guts spill, or in the back, as you try to run?"

A trickle of fear ran up Tovar's back as the wind suddenly picked up, and Thorsten advanced on him. The way to the dock, it was behind Thorsten. Behind Tovar was only the edge of town, and then the endless forests.

He took a step back, and Thorsten's grin widened as he lifted the sword.

"Tovar," a voice suddenly called, heavy footsteps coming down the path as Thorsten frowned and looked behind Tovar at the newcomer.

Tovar risked a glance behind himself. Another Norseman was jogging down the path, his sword already drawn. He was tall, towering over both of them, and his wide shoulders seemed to fill the narrow path behind him.

"You know this dog, Assar?" Thorsten called in surprise, but the tall blonde man ignored him.

"You shouldn't be here, Pero Tovar," he said.

Tovar's brows rose high as he recognised the man. He'd only seen him at a distance at Steinvikr, but he knew who he was.

Your cousin.

And Saga's brother.

It dawned on him as Thorsten called out to Assar again.

"He's about to die, Assar. He's claimed our Jarl's daughter in secret, as if he were her equal."

"I know what he did, and what our Jarl did to my cousin. And if you try to stop Tovar from getting her back, it will be you who dies here, Thorsten," he replied coldly. His sword arm was up, and the sharp tip aimed at the man did not waver.

"What…"

Thorsten glanced at Tovar again, and Assar gave a small shake of his head.

"You were always a rash fighter, Thorsten."

That seemed to shift his focus, hesitation rather than rage as he looked back at Assar. He took a step back, but his heel found only wet stone beneath him. It gave way under his weight, and the moment his balance went, so did his control.

The wind rose along the shore, sharp now, pulling at their cloaks, and filling the narrow path with salt and noise.

Tovar moved before any thought could catch up, closing the short distance while Thorsten still tried to find his balance. It was the only moment he needed. His hand closed around the hilt of the sword, the other shoving Thorsten back, into the cold water and rocks.

His sword.

The weight of it in his grip was almost disorientating, like something long lost snapping back into place, and for a heartbeat he simply held it while Thorsten realised what had happened.

Thorsten’s expression stayed with Tovar; rage breaking into fear as the mercenary lifted the blade and drove it through his throat. Slipping in just where the chain mail left him exposed, dark blood gushed out as he gave a choked, broken cough. He collapsed onto the wet stones, his eyes emptied, turning blank.

For a moment, Tovar stood over him, breathing hard, sword still in hand, and then reality of everything beyond the fight returned.

Then the wind pulled at him again.

The ship would be leaving.

And there was no more time.

Chapter 17

Another cliffhanger! But at least now Pero is free, and Thorsten is dead. Some small revenge at least...

I really went back and forth over this chapter, writing and re-writing the final fight between Tovar and Thorsten, and I hope you enjoyed it and that it was as tense as I wanted it to be! Writing fight scenes is really fun, but it's also hard and I try to make the visuals clear so that you can see the fight in your head as you read it (I hope).

Max laughed softly against your skin, breath warm where his lips brushed your jaw. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Trying to traumatize the new neighbors already?”

You tried to retort something smart, but his next thrust ruined the attempt entirely. The only thing you managed was a broken moan that he swallowed immediately with a grin against your mouth. His own composure looked dangerously close to snapping too, dark eyes blown wide and fixed on you like he still couldn’t fully believe this was real.

The apartment around you still looked half-lived in. Open moving boxes lined one wall of the spacious New Orleans loft while stacks of records and books covered most available surfaces.

A warm lamp glowed in the corner beside the old record player Max had insisted on bringing across state lines himself, and somewhere beneath the sound of your breathing and the creak of furniture, Deftones played low and hazy through the room.

You had fully intended to spend the evening unpacking.

That plan had lasted maybe twenty minutes.

You had been kneeling on the rug sorting through records when Max walked into the living room and caught sight of you cross-legged on the floor in one of his oversized shirts, muttering to yourself while organizing vinyl sleeves into messy piles.

He had watched you for all of five seconds before abandoning any pretense of self-control. One moment you had been holding a Bowie record, the next he was behind you, kissing the back of your neck while pushing the shirt up your body.

That had become a pattern lately.

Ever since leaving New York behind and starting over down south, you had slipped into each other with terrifying ease.

The decision to leave the city had hurt more than you expected, but staying there had eventually begun to feel impossible. Too many ghosts lived in Brooklyn now. Too many memories stained every corner of it.

Before leaving, you had made sure enough evidence against Torres found its way into the right hands. Anonymous tips, hidden reports, overlooked details suddenly resurfacing. It would never bring Samantha, Keira, Lara or Abigail back, but at least their cases would find closure. At least their killer would no longer vanish into unsolved files.

For you and Max, though, closure meant distance.

So you had traded New York winters for humid Louisiana nights, moved into a sprawling apartment above a quiet side street in the French Quarter, and attempted to figure out what eternity together was supposed to look like.

Apparently it looked a lot like this.

Max finally pulled you away from the wall only to carry you a few steps across the room and set you onto the dining table. The wood was cold beneath your back as you laughed breathlessly and shoved aside two open boxes of cookies that had somehow become dinner decoration over the past week - Oreos and Thin Mints sitting absurdly beside unpacked cutlery and half-burned candles.

“Real romantic setup we got going here,” you muttered between breaths.

“I’m a man of sophistication,” Max shot back immediately, gripping your thighs to pull you closer to the edge of the table before thrusting into you again without warning.

Your head tipped back at the sensation. Your legs lifted instinctively around his hips while his hands held you open for him. The music playing nearby no longer covered the sounds you made together. Not that either of you seemed particularly interested in being quiet anymore.

From somewhere near the kitchen came an offended meow.

Oreo leapt off the counter with visible irritation, tail flicking sharply as he abandoned the room altogether.

Max laughed weakly at the sight only for you to lean up and catch his lower lip between your teeth the second he looked back at you. The bite drew another sound from him and your grin widened immediately.

“You hungry, my love?” he teased knowingly.

You rolled your eyes despite the way your body instantly reacted to the question. Feeding had become easier with time, though not necessarily simpler emotionally. Max had guided you through it carefully, showing you how to choose predators over innocents, how to control yourself, how to survive without losing whatever humanity still remained in you. You had adapted frighteningly fast compared to his own turning decades earlier.

You had told him, that it was because you had him at your side.

He came close to believing you.

Now his hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding the sensitive spot that made you jerk beneath him immediately. He circled it slowly while his other hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling the sharp sound that escaped you as pleasure crashed through you again.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your ear. “You’re doing so good for me.”

The praise alone nearly destroyed you.

You clung tighter to him as the climax hit hard and sudden, your entire body tightening around him while the table creaked beneath you. Max groaned at the feeling, grip on your hips turning bruising as he chased his own release seconds later, burying his face briefly against your throat while his movements finally lost rhythm completely.

You rested limply against his chest, laughing softly as you both tried to recover some semblance of composure. “Think the neighbors officially hate us.”

“They’ll get used to it,” Max said easily, helping you off the table when your shaky legs nearly failed you.

“I didn’t,” you muttered.

His grin turned unbearably smug at that. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You shoved weakly at his chest while pulling his abandoned shirt back over your head. Max only laughed and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind the second you finished dressing, pressing a kiss to the top of your shoulder.

“Come on,” you said eventually, leaning back into him. “Let’s go outside for a bit. I wanna see the Christmas lights before this city turns into tourist hell.”

“We should probably find you dinner first,” Max remarked while digging through an abandoned pile of clothes near the couch in search of something marginally presentable. The record player crackled softly as the song ended and he finally crossed the room to switch it off, pausing only to scratch Oreo behind the ears where the cat had claimed the armchair with dramatic exhaustion after being repeatedly subjected to your lack of restraint.

You snorted quietly while opening the wide drawer beside the front door, revealing an almost absurd amount of sunglasses lined up. It had been one of the very first things you unpacked after moving in, mostly because Max had declared them “survival essentials,” though you suspected vanity played an equally important role.

“Well,” you mused, running your fingers over the neatly arranged frames, “good thing New Orleans seems to have an endless supply of creeps wandering around after midnight.” You glanced back over your shoulder toward him. “Dior or Versace?”

Max tucked his shirt into the wide pants he had found and wandered over, sliding up behind you until his chest rested warm against your back. His arms folded loosely around your waist while he peered into the drawer over your shoulder like the choice required serious contemplation.

“You choose, sweetheart,” he murmured easily. “I trust your impeccable taste.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling as you picked out a dramatic pair of black Miu Miu sunglasses for yourself before selecting his favorite Chanel frames. You turned toward him and carefully slid them onto his face, adjusting them with exaggerated precision while studying him critically.

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “the first time I saw you wearing these, I genuinely thought you were the most pretentious asshole I’d ever met.”

Max gasped softly in mock offense. “And here I thought we had chemistry from the start.”

“Oh, we absolutely had chemistry,” you corrected while slipping into your coat. “The explosive kind.”

His grin widened instantly. “Turns out I’m just a simple style over substance guy.”

“Whatever helps you sleep during the day, 90s boy.”

He laughed under his breath and opened the apartment door for you with a dramatic flourish. Together you stepped out into the dim hallway and descended toward the street below, where cool December air curled around you the second you emerged outside. Compared to New York winters it was almost gentle, the night carrying traces of rain, old stone and distant music drifting through the French Quarter.

Max slipped an arm around your shoulders automatically, drawing you into his side as you started down the glowing street. You leaned against him without thinking, breathing in his familiar scent. It always flooded your system like an overpowering drug.

“How long exactly are you planning to call me that?” he asked, amusement threading through his voice as he pressed a kiss into your hairline.

You tilted your head up just enough to grin at him beneath the oversized sunglasses. “At least another century.”

Your laughter blended quietly into the hum of the city as the New Orleans night swallowed you both wholly, the endless promise of eternity ahead of you.

Taglist:

This fic will forever have a special place in my heart. It was a joyride to create and I am gonna miss Ashley's and Max's banter immensely. I have to thank all of you readers, commenters and supporters. I always hoped the twists and turns in the story would keep you on edge, all while the romance did not cut short.

So honestly thanks to all of you! I hope we will read each other somewhere else again 🤍🤍🤍

Masterlist

Redfly took the first watch as Ironhead checked through the supplies. He lifted one of the canteens, frowning slightly. Nearby, Pope corralled the horses and tied them to a nearby tree.

Libby’s legs were stiff and sore after riding and clinging to Catfish’s back for hours.  Every muscle was tense. She missed walking or riding in the wagon. Both were far easier than horseback, which left her body aching and sore. She walked in small circles, watching Ironhead, now helped by Catfish, sift through their dwindling supplies.

The incident during the trek earlier in the day still pressed on her mind and she wondered if she was sick. 

“We’re gonna need water,” sighed Ironhead, giving his canteen a shake, cutting through her thoughts.

“I’ve got enough to boil some beans,” added Bugs, moving in close.

Pushing potential sickness from her mind, Libby watched them from a distance. The others had seemingly lost interest in her. They were no longer tracking her every move or treating her like a threat. If she was quiet and careful, she might be able to sneak off. Grab a horse and disappear off, if she could.

But as her eyes settled on Catfish’s back, something held her there, tethered to him. She hadn’t yet worked out what it was, that kept her rooted to the spot.

“I’ll go,” volunteered Catfish, scrambling to his feet. His eyes drifted to Libby. Watchful. As though reading her intent silently. In a careful tone, he added, “Will you come and help me?”

Libby, lost in her thoughts, startled at his words and attempted to regain her usual composure, which didn't go unnoticed.

The walk to the creek was relatively short and silent. It was nothing more than a weak trickle, weeping down the mountainside on its way to join other tributaries and flow westward toward the sea. But to travelers and animals, it was a vital lifeline for survival.

They both sat down on the uncomfortable scree floor next to the creek, surrounded by the canteens. 

Libby dipped her fingers into the water, letting the cool liquid rush over them. She longed to dip her face in and wash away the dust.

As if reading her mind, Catfish scooped up a handful of water and splashed it over his face. He grimaced as the cold bit into his skin, before grabbing a canteen and holding it in the cold water whilst it slowly filled.

“What were you thinking about back there?” he asked idly, as he waited for the canteen to fill.

“What? When?” Libby replied, startled by his lack of preamble.

“Back when we were setting up camp,” he clarified, setting the full bottle down and carefully replacing the stopper. He raised an eyebrow, his expression probing.

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered, floundering under his gaze. The lies sat heavily on her tongue.

Catfish grunted and picked up another canteen. “If you were thinking of running,” he said quietly, “then Redfly will spare you no mercy.”

“I did think of running,” she admitted slowly. Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up another canteen and followed suit.

“But you didn’t?”

“I didn’t,” she echoed. A different kind of fear bubbled in her stomach. A tight knot of angst gnawed at her insides.

“Why?”

“I—I don’t know,” she confessed. “I don’t know why I didn’t run.” Her eyes flicked up to meet his.

The answer must have been written clearly on her face, because she had barely drawn breath when his hand reached up to touch her cheek. She flinched as his still-cold fingers lingered on her skin, moving to cup her jaw. His rough thumb pad rubbed in small circles, making her shiver.

“I think you do,” he said. He paused. 

Libby instinctively leaned into his touch.

“Have you ever been kissed?” His voice was raw and husky now. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto hers, searching for an answer.

Libby’s breath hitched in her throat. “M—my hand,” she stammered, her cheeks flushing. “And—And my cheek,” she pointed timidly to the side of her face, her voice trembling.

He scoffed softly. “Pshaw, lady,” he said, his tone low and teasing, yet laced with something darker, more dangerous. “That’s not kissing.” His gaze shifted, and his voice dropped even lower as he leaned in, bringing his hand slowly to her lips. His finger traced their outline gently, his touch rough against her delicate skin. She could taste the salt and sweat on him, the faint smell of leather. The close proximity of his body made her heart race. “Have you ever been kissed here?” His finger hovered at her lips, his breath warm against her skin.

Libby’s pulse quickened, and she stumbled for a moment, feeling the weight of his question. “Y-yes,” she whispered, barely audible, her chest tightening as the past came rushing back. “I have. But... but my husband was not a demonstrative man, as you well know.”

He was so close now, his nose almost touching hers, his breath loud in her ears.

“Would you like me to kiss you?” His words were quiet, yet full of an intensity that sent another shiver along her spine. The heat between them was palpable, the space between them practically nonexistent. His eyes never left hers as he leaned in, his lips a mere inch away from hers.

Libby’s heart skipped, and before she could even think of an answer, her own body seemed to betray her, leaning in just the slightest toward him. “Yes,” she whispered, barely audible. “Yes, I would like that very—”

Before she could finish the sentence, her words were lost to him, swallowed by his lips crashing down onto hers. His kiss was rough and urgent, his lips chapped from the dry heat. His beard and mustache tickled the soft skin of her cheeks, a strange sensation that sent warmth flooding through her chest. She leaned into the kiss instinctively, closing her eyes, allowing herself to experience the rawness of it—the taste, the sensation, the way his mouth moved with hers. His hand came up to cup her cheek, his touch gentle yet firm, like he was holding them together.

Slowly, he pulled back, breathing heavily. His forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling as his thumb gently traced her cheek, as though waiting for her judgment. His gaze was full of anticipation, a question hanging in the air.

“Was that okay?” His voice was a whisper, so close that they had ghosted across her skin.

Libby’s heart pounded in her chest as she nodded, unable to find the words at first. “Very much so,” she finally said, her voice barely a breath.

But before she could say anything else, his lips were back on hers again. The kiss was deeper, more desperate this time, and he pulled her upright, walked her backward, his hands guiding her gently until her back met the rough bark of a tree. His body pressed against hers with a hunger she had never experienced, and she could feel every inch of him as though he wanted to be inside her, to make her a part of him.

His tongue brushed at the seam of her lips, urging her to open to him. Libby’s lips parted in surprise, and before she could think, his tongue slipped inside, entwining with hers. If their first kiss had been a spark, this was an explosion. The intensity, the rawness, the desperation all hit her at once. Her heart raced, her breath came in shallow gasps, and her world seemed to collapse in on her.

When they finally broke apart, both of them panting for air, Libby’s head spun. Catfish moved back slightly, but his hand stayed on her cheek, his thumb lightly caressing the soft skin there. His eyes searched hers, still waiting for an answer.

“Was that good?” he whispered again, his voice a hoarse murmur.

Libby’s chest rose and fell as she tried to gather herself. Her mind was a whirl of confusion, her body still humming from the intensity of the kiss. “It was more than good,” she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t know that kissing could be like that.”

He smiled, a look of satisfaction in his eyes, but there was something else too. A depth, a vulnerability. “You were married,” he said matter-of-fact, his hand still tenderly cupping her jaw as he tilted her face up to meet his gaze.

Libby hesitated. “Yes,” she replied quietly, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “But he... he was never like that. Matters of the flesh were... were…” She struggled to find the words. “He was distant and cold with me. I was a wife by name.”

Catfish's eyes softened, and there was a flicker of understanding in his gaze. He took her face in his hands, his thumb brushing over her lips as he looked at her with such intensity that it felt as though he was seeing into her very soul. “Then let me be your teacher in everything you need to know,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, his voice low and seductive. “I’ll show you the woman that you are and who you are meant to be.”

Without another word, he leaned down and kissed her fiercely once more, his lips claiming hers with a newfound urgency. This time, it wasn’t just a kiss, it was a promise. And as she responded, her body pressing into his, all her doubts, all her fears, melted away, leaving a new-found trust between them.

Libby sighed into his kiss, her hands tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, drawing a groan from deep within him.

When they finally broke apart to breathe, Catfish rested his forehead against hers, their noses touching as they both struggled to regain their composure.

Libby attempted to straighten her skirts, embarrassed and confused by the passion they had just shared. She had never experienced anything like it. Even reading Jane Eyre when it was first published hadn’t prepared her for the multitude of feelings surging inside her.

Part of her, the part shaped by instilled Victorian values, was horrified by her own behavior. But the greater part of her, the part that had been lost to the wilds of the wagon trail, wanted more. More of that frenetic, frenzied kissing. More of something she couldn’t even name.

Her body felt alive. Her blood thrummed through her veins in a rhythmic pulse. A deep-low seated pulse in her lower abdomen. 

Desire. 

A desire to take what she wanted.

“We need to get back to the group,” he whispered thickly. “Man alive, I want to stay here and kiss you senseless all night, but we have a job to do.” His face was flushed, and his neck had turned a deep crimson.

Libby reluctantly nodded. It was an almost imperceptible acknowledgment that they needed to return before a search party came looking for them and found them together in a compromising position.

As they gathered the canteens, the sun was setting in the western sky, casting a golden glow across the landscape. The shadows of the rocky outcrops stretched long in the low light.

Their boots crunched over the stones as they walked from the creek back toward the makeshift camp. Neither of them spoke.

The burn from Catfish's beard and mustache still tingled on Libby’s lips and cheeks with a warmth that  seemed to pulse. It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, it was comforting in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

Something she wouldn’t mind repeating.

Looking up from his place beside the fire, as he stirred a pot of rice, Pope watched as Libby and Catfish returned to the makeshift campsite. He noticed the way Catfish walked, just a touch stiff, and the faint red flush across Libby’s cheeks and lips. The smirk that tugged at his mouth was slow and knowing. He raised his eyebrows at Catfish in silent amusement.

Catfish caught the look and shot him a warning glance. He lifted one finger to his lips, making a quiet command for discretion.

Pope chuckled under his breath, but gave a slight nod. Message received.

They both knew Redfly wouldn’t take kindly to a tryst, especially ones that could complicate things further.

Libby, meanwhile, could feel the blood humming through her veins, a heightened awareness of her own body, of sensations she couldn’t name. Emotions stirred beneath her skin, wild and raw.

It felt as though she were losing her composure and her carefully guarded sense of reason. She thought of the old stories, whispered warnings about women who suffered from hysteria, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if she was beginning to understand them. 

She sat, in quiet confusion, as Ironhead prepared dinner, wondering how it had come to pass that she was prepared to allow Catfish to touch her in such a desirous way. He was a known outlaw and her kidnapper. Realistically, she should back away, but something about his manner had given her pause for thought. He had never forced her or threatened her. It was quite the opposite. He had asked for permission to kiss her and only treated her with a quiet reverence. 

Around her, the others spoke in low voices, the firelight casting flickering shadows across their faces as they received their rations.

The hunger in her insides temporarily halted Libby’s train of thought and she could concentrate on nothing but salted meat and rice.

Catfish sat across from her, leaning back on his hands. He had been quiet through dinner too. His eyes wandered to Libby's. Whenever she looked up, he was there, watching, with his penetrative stare.

Was he thinking about their kiss too? Did he enjoy it as much as she did? Did he want more?

Her thoughts were broken by the sound of movement. The background scrape of metal against metal had ceased and the cleaning up began in earnest. The pans were cleaned and put away.

The evening was winding down and tired limbs were preparing for bed. She watched as Ironhead and Bugs pulled out their bedding roll and blankets.

Having spent two nights in comparable luxury on a lumpy straw mattress, Libby was now faced with the harsh reality of having to sleep on the hard, stony floor. She didn't have a mat. Hers was back on the wagon train, along with her other precious belongings.

She looked around in dismay, wondering what to do, but also not wanting to ask for assistance. That would make her seem weak and helpless, something she didn’t believe herself to be.

Sensing that something was wrong, Catfish stopped mid-way through setting up his own spot.

“‘S'matter?” he asked, confusion clouding his features.

“I don’t have a bedding roll,” she muttered back.

“Use my bedding roll,” he said. “It’s going to be uncomfortable otherwise.”

“If I use that, what will you use?”

“You,” snickered Pope from behind his hand. Ironhead and Bugs snorted quietly at his joke.

Catfish rounded on his friend. “Not helpful, brother.”

“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking,” Pope replied mischievously.

“Well, don’t, alright? This is hard enough as it is.”

Ironhead laughed louder. “Wrong choice of words there, Catfish.”

“Hardy-har,” Catfish replied sarcastically. “Still not helpful.”

Libby watched the bickering go back and forth between them. It felt like friendly familial banter, like siblings arguing. She supposed that was what they were: brothers, bound by something more than blood, brought together under circumstances she didn’t yet fully understand.

“I have a spare roll,” Bugs said, cutting through her thoughts. He threw it across the camp, and it hit Catfish square in the chest.

“Ooof,” Catfish grunted as the weight of the throw knocked him off-balance. Without further words, he unrolled the mat onto the floor and sat down heavily. The others followed suit, and Libby, hesitant but unwilling to stand out, did the same.

She looked at the floor for a space, when she saw Catfish indicating the spot on the ground next to him. 

She gave the mat a flick to unroll it and took the blanket that was rolled up inside. Laying down, the bedding roll beneath her smelled of him. She’d spent enough time near him, arms secured around his back, to recognize his scent. Smoke, worn cotton, and something steady. It wrapped her in an unexpected sense of comfort. She pulled a blanket up and over her body, tucking it in under her chin.

Redfly, tasked with the first watch, crouched low and doused the fire. Even the warm, fading glow was too risky, providing a beacon for sharp-eyed scouts or wandering animals. The sudden absence of light made the darkness more real and quieter. Libby’s eyes took a moment to adjust.

Someone coughed. A boot scuffed softly and then came the slow rustle of fabric as each person settled in, finding sleep in their own way. Ironhead snored within minutes. Bugs shifted a few times before falling quiet.

Libby lay on her side, the borrowed blanket pulled tight, warmed by the steady presence of Catfish just inches away. She could hear him breathing, slow and even.

Her body ached from the day’s ride, and the ground was as hard as she’d feared. But for now, she was still, her thoughts drifting. The tension in her shoulders loosened, and sleep took hold.

She didn’t know what woke her at first. There was just a sense that something was off. The air had shifted.

Libby blinked into the dark. The cold had pulled her awake. She was disoriented and shivering.

“C-c-cold,” she whispered into the darkness, her teeth chattering furiously as she tried to regulate her temperature. Her cold fingers tried to grasp the blanket and pull it more tightly around her body.

“C'mere,” came a hoarse reply from behind. “You need some body heat to warm you up.”

Feeling impudent but needing warmth, she scooted her mat closer to Catfish's, into the little space they had left.

“It’s alright, my sweet one,” he murmured into her hair, pulling her tightly into his body, spooning her. Her body relaxed into his, and she could feel the heat radiating from him. Catfish’s warmth seeped into her, and she wrapped her blanket more tightly around herself, nestling in.

Feeling the steady rhythm of Catfish’s breath, the way his ribcage expanded and contracted, helped her regulate her own breathing and the shivering slowed. She let the steady cadence lull her into a warm, dreamless, peaceful sleep.

When she awoke the next morning, Libby found herself alone. Catfish’s warmth was gone, and she blinked a few times in the early morning light, trying to make sense of her surroundings. There was bustling noise and hushed conversation around her. Normally a light sleeper, she couldn’t understand how she was the last one awake.

Her ears tuned into the low-volume, angry voices. Redfly was voicing an opinion, and so Libby kept her eyes closed, her head resting on the bedding roll, trying to listen in. She could only pull out the occasional word of conversation: "in deep," "attached," "sleeping together."

There was a scuffle of movement, then Catfish’s angry reply: "None of his business," followed by "it was cold", "she was shivering", and “she could've died.”

Realizing the conversation was about her, Libby decided to put an end to it. With a bit of effort, she made a show of waking up, stretching languidly, and letting them know she was aware of their chatter. The argument ended abruptly the moment she sat upright.

“Sleep well, did you?” Redfly asked, his voice tinged with sarcasm as he glanced over at her.

“I did, thank you,” she replied, arching an eyebrow and daring him to probe further. Her haughty response didn’t go unnoticed.

Before Redfly could respond, a tin of food was thrust into his hands by Bugs.

“Chew on that for a bit,” Bugs said. “It’s as tough as old boots and will keep us all quiet for a while.”

He moved around the group, handing out dried, salted meats and cold beans, which everyone accepted. Bugs then settled himself on the floor next to Libby, taking a few bites of the tough, salty beef.

“I dunno how much you heard,” he said quietly, “but not all of us think like Redfly.”

“I heard enough,” she admitted, her tone steady.

“He’s worried that Fish is really sweet on you,” Bugs continued, “and that it’s going to get us in trouble.”

“I don’t follow your logic,” Libby said with a frown, keeping her voice low.

“Well, if you get attached to someone,” Bugs explained between mouthfuls, “then if they get in trouble, you’re more likely to put yourself in danger trying to help them.”

“Oh,” she said simply. “That's…”

“Yeah,” he said. “You gotta know when to let go and save yourself.”

“But…but,” she stammered, “you greet each other as brothers—even though I can see that you're not.”

He smirked at her words. “Some are more brothers than others.”

Confused, Libby pressed on. “But you wouldn't hesitate to leave a brother behind?”

“Now, don't be puttin’ words in my mouth,” he said with a shake of his head. “We fight for each other out here. We know how to handle ourselves and can read a situation. But you…you are not of that mindset.”

“Are you ex-army too?” she asked, curiously.

He nodded in affirmation. “I am. We all are.”

“That explains your names at least,” Libby remarked. “My husband was a captain in the British Army. He had a stupid name, too.”

Bugs laughed, which caught Catfish and Pope’s attention. “It may be stupid, but we don’t wanna risk anyone finding out our real names.”

“I understand.”

He gave her a look. It was a look that said he believed her. That she truly did understand why they guarded their names like something sacred. Out here, being yourself was dangerous. Vulnerable. It was easier to put on a mask, to become someone else entirely, just to make it through the day. To survive. To sacrifice.

Libby held his gaze for a moment longer, then looked away. 

Bugs finished his meal and stood up, moving away from Libby, who was still chewing her way through her own. As he moved off, Catfish slipped into the still-warm spot beside her, sitting cross-legged with his own tin can in his hands.

He wore a hang-dog expression. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

Libby had felt a fresh wave of sympathy for Catfish as she overheard Redfly’s relentless haranguing. It stung her to hear him so harshly criticized, especially when he had been nothing but kind to her. If it hadn’t been for him, she might have been lost to the biting cold of the night.

There was much discussion during breakfast. Talk was brewing that the rations were beginning to run low again.

Libby felt an enormous sense of guilt hanging over her, knowing she was the reason for the rapid decline.

As Ironhead talked about their growing need to ambush another wagon train, the dry, claggy rice she was chewing seemed to stick in her throat, and she placed her half-eaten food on the floor, her appetite diminished.

A light tap on her knee brought her back to reality.

"You really should eat that,” whispered Catfish, looking at the contents of her tin. A look of concern passed over his face as his brows furrowed. “Are you feeling sick?” His thigh pressed against hers in a secret, small act of affection.

“I—I'm well enough,” she said, bringing her eyes up to meet his.

His face relaxed a little. “Then what's the matter?”

“I feel so guilty,” she admitted. “You're short on food because you've got me here.” She couldn't express her deep-seated fear that they would have to attack again and that maybe they wouldn't be lucky this next time, or the time after that. That somewhere along this trail, their luck would run out, and she would never see those brown eyes again. Her stomach dropped like a stone at the very idea.

“I'm the reason you ended up here. I brought you along,” he reasoned. “You weren't here of your own volition, you know.”

He picked the tin back up and held it out to her. “Please eat,” he urged. “You need your strength out here in the wilds.” He dropped his voice and gently bumped his shoulder into hers. “Eat it, or one of the others will.”

Reluctantly, Libby took the tin back from him and silently began to pick her way through it. He was right, missing meals did no one any good out here. Food was scarce enough as it was.

“Tie her up and gag her, Catfish,” ordered Redfly.

Before Catfish could answer or protest, Libby spoke up. She stared him directly in the eye, her voice clear and precise. “There's no need,” she insisted. “I won't give you away. I'll stay quiet.”

Redfly threw her a scathing look. “Tie her up, I said.”

The other four men looked uncomfortably between themselves. Bugs shuffled from foot to foot, his unease apparent.

“She sai—” he began.

“I said to tie her up,” he repeated.

Catfish cautiously stepped forward, his hands raised. “Let's not fight, brother. You have her word. You should take the word of a lady.” He cast a reassuring glance at Libby as he spoke.

Redfly scoffed.“Well, you would believe her,” he spat.

“Meanin'?” Catfish's hackles were raised now. He crossed his arms in front of his chest defensively, peacekeeping forgotten.

“You're a fool. You'd believe anythin’ that she told you. If she said grass was blue and the sky was green, you'd take it as the gospel truth.”

Silence fell abruptly across the group. Awkward and embarrassment ensued.

Libby felt the shock of Redfly's vicious attack as though she'd been slapped across the face. His reaction to Catfish protecting her from the cold had caused his anger against her to reignite.

She shuddered to think what Redfly's actions would have been if he knew about the kiss. And It had been a kiss. Just a kiss. It may have been the best, and most passionate kiss of her life, but to presume that it was love or that Catfish held her in that regard was preposterous. 

Catfish opened and closed his mouth several times, but no words came. Instead, he dug the dirt with the heel of his boot.

Pope cleared his throat and spoke up. “Look,” he said. “I think you're overthinkin’ this Redfly. She said she won't run or give us away. And I, for one, believe her. And I think I speak for us all.” He looked around the others for confirmation, who nodded or grunted in response.

“Then we're all set,” he continued. He turned to address Libby directly. “Miss. Libby, you will stay quiet and hidden out of sight. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

She was grateful to Pope for stepping in and acting as peacemaker. She didn’t dare look up though, she kept her gaze firmly on the floor, unable to meet anyone's scrutiny.

As the tempers cooled, last minute plans were drawn up in the dirt using sticks and stones. Positions were set. Tasks were confirmed.

Libby was left out of the planning meeting and whiled-away her time by watching the small Dutch oven and stirring the last of their supply of rice, thankful that she still had the use of her limbs.

Each member of the group rested on a high perch, watching the unsuspecting wagon circle in the valley below. Libby's heart thumped heavily in her chest.

It all seemed so peaceful and quiet.

“Don’t make me regret standin’ up for you like that,” whispered Pope, who was crouched next to her, behind a large rock. “Fish is my closest friend, and I know him well enough to know that he's plum crazy over you.”

She gulped and nodded, already in possession of that knowledge. She had reached that conclusion herself while stirring the rice, mulling over Redfly's words. 

It was obvious to anyone with any wits that he was in love with her, and now she knew it to be true. The way he had kissed her, held her tight, was unlike anything she'd ever known before.

The way he watched her, as though she was a piece of fine art to be admired. The way he would find any excuse to simply exist alongside her.

Before she could reply, Pope was gone. Swallowed up by the darkness of the night, he became nothing more than a speck against the grainy greynight, before he vanished entirely.

An unease settled over her, because this was a dangerous game. Falling in love with a wanted man was not something she could have foreseen when she set off on this journey. She had imagined that she would remain a widow until they lowered her into the ground.

Bugs’ words echoed in her head. These men looked after each other. They knew how to hold a weapon and fight. They had been soldiers. She, by contrast, only knew books and good manners, and although she had proved herself tougher than she had ever imagined over the last few months, she was no match for a gun fight.

Libby, feeling suddenly alone and vulnerable, could not see much from her vantage point behind the rock. She was too high up and the inky blackness of night made it impossible to make out anything other than vague shapes. If she strained her ears, she swore that she could hear the distant sound of footfall as they descended the slopes.

And she waited.

The attack was silent and swift. Shouts of surprise and screams echoed through the valley. Startled cattle stomped and lowed. Horses neighed and whinnied, as the panic rose in the wagon circle below. 

A gunshot rang out, causing Libby to freeze in horror. A feeling of dread washed over her, and she closed her eyes tightly, wishing she could drown out the noise. Under her breath, she began to recite Shakespeare's sonnets, much as she had during the worst storms that thundered across the prairies. A solace and grounding in something familiar. 

And she waited.

And waited.

The longer she waited, the more afraid she became. Had someone been shot? 

Unaware of how much time had passed, Libby jumped when a gloved hand pressed against her cheek. She gasped out loud, but the sound was swallowed by lips. Chapped, but impossibly warm pressing against hers with a sudden urgency. The roughness of a mustache scraped against her skin.

Catfish.

 Instinctively, she parted her lips and he took full advantage, driven on by a frenzy of adrenaline and passion. It was messy. Unrefined. An outpouring of relief, of the need to feel something solid and real.  

Her hands stretched around his neck, 

not wanting to let go. Not at any price.

When she finally surfaced for air, breathless and disheveled, she rested her cheek against his.

“Catfish,” she whispered to the figure shrouded in darkness.

“Libby, my darling,” he whispered, pulling her into a rib-crushing embrace.

“Go!” urged Ironhead, who was somewhere close by, camouflaged by the night. His voice was low and urgent. “Move!”

Before she could think, Catfish was hauling her to her feet, pulling her along behind him, as they raced towards his horse, her feet sliding across the gravel as she ran. 

In the valley below, she could just make out the sounds of yells and shouts of anger, which seemed to bounce off of the rocks around them as they wove a path.

The climb was steep and rocky, every so often one of them would slide over loose scree, issuing curses as they lost a foothold and slipped or slithered on the uneven ground. Once or twice, Libby fell, the sharp rocks stinging the palms of her hands as she tried to steady her grip.

Catfish urged her on with every breath. They had to move.

After what felt like hours, not minutes, they began their descent to where the horses stood hidden behind a jagged outcrop.

Breathless and full of adrenaline, Libby chambered onto Catfish’s horse, with assistance, and they set off at a pace through the higher ground, away from the trail, catching up to the rest of the gang.

Hands hurting, heart pounding, she clung onto Catfish, trying to regain her composure as the horses picked their way over the tricky terrain, putting distance between them and the wagon trail.

“What happened back there?” she asked, curling into his back, clinging on as he urged his horse on through the darkness.

“We got shot at,” he answered back, over his shoulder. “It's just what happens.”

Libby gripped him tighter.

Wanting privacy, and for her own protection, Libby had searched the other rooms. One, likely the master bedroom in better days, held a large bed with a straw mattress still mostly intact. It was a rare luxury, one she hadn’t known in months. The moment she saw it, she knew she wouldn’t be sleeping anywhere else.

But her claim on the room had unnerved Redfly. He didn’t trust her not to slip away in the night, despite Catfish’s dry reassurance that she couldn’t ride, couldn’t shoot, and would likely die within a day if she tried to escape. His words did little to ease Redfly’s suspicions.

So Catfish was posted to keep watch over her door. It was a reminder; a kind of punishment for bringing her along in the first place. Catfish didn’t mind at all. He was perfectly happy to have an excuse to stay close. And Libby was silently relieved that he had been chosen to watch over her.

She closed the door gently behind her, the creak of the infrequently-used hinges groaning quietly. The room was musty, the air thick with the scent of settled dust, but it still smelled like a good night's sleep. She approached the bed slowly, brushing her hand across the coarse blanket that was strewn on the lumpy mattress. It wasn’t soft, but it was dry and whole. It was more than she’d had in months.

She sat on the edge of the mattress, exhaling deeply, and began to unlace her boots. With her boots kicked aside, she reached for the buttons of her blouse, the fabric stiff with dust and sweat.

A soft knock on the door startled her.

“What?” she called out, more sharply than intended.

“It’s me,” came Catfish’s voice from the other side. “Don’t get undressed.”

“Excuse me?”

He cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Keep your clothes on. Just in case. If we have to leave in a hurry, there won’t be time to dress.”

She stared at the door, part of her bristling at the command. “I think I can manage to put on a pair of boots before running for my life.”

“It ain’t just boots,” he said, his voice lower now. “If we’re ambushed or scouted or worse, we won’t have minutes. We’ll have seconds. Trust me on this.”

There was no threat in his tone, just a grim sort of experience, one that made her shudder. She sat still for a moment, thinking through his words. She looked down at the half-unfastened blouse in her lap, then slowly began buttoning it again.

“All right,” she said quietly, not because he had told her to, but because he was probably right.

From the hallway, she heard him shift, then lean against the wall just outside the door. A long silence passed, broken only by the faint scuffling of fabric and a low groan. She imagined Catfish unfurling his bedroll, settling in for the night just outside her door.

“Catfish,” she whispered into the darkness.

“Yep,” came his muffled reply.

She hesitated. For a fleeting moment, pity stirred in her chest. He was out there on the hard floor while she had a straw mattress to herself. Part of her wanted to offer him space beside her, but the thought alone made her stomach flutter. That would be scandalous, she reasoned. Unthinkable. Unwise.

Still, something about his presence just beyond the threshold gave her a strange kind of comfort.

“Goodnight,” she called softly. 

“G’night,” came the gruff reply.

She lay in the darkness for a while, listening to the sounds of wild animals prowling outside, the creak of floorboards retracting in the cooler temperatures, and the rhythmic heavy breathing of Catfish.

Sleep came slowly. And it was uneven and restless. The straw mattress creaked beneath her whenever she moved on it, but exhaustion eventually won out.

At first, Libby dreamed of home. Her former home. Of London.

Horses hooves tramping on cobbled streets, the noise of horse-drawn carriages, the chatter of well-dressed women carrying parcels. She was standing outside Hatchard’s bookshop, her gloved hand resting on a stack of freshly bound volumes. She saw her reflection in the glass window. A woman with tidy hair and porcelain skin. She looked like a proper lady. Behind her stood a tall figure. He resembled her dead-husband, standing stiff and proud in military uniform. His scarlet jacket stood out against the gray city backdrop. He turned away before she could say anything.

The scene shifted around her and the polished streets melted into hot dirt and dust. She was at a campfire now, surrounded by smoke and strangers. Her hands were tanned and dirt-streaked, and someone was laughing, maybe Catfish, though his features were blurry. He passed her a biscuit, warm and crumbling, and when their hands touched, his fingers lingered. She looked up to find his face was clear now, brown eyes watching her intently.

Then suddenly, she was alone.

Libby woke suddenly, feeling startled and disoriented. Her breathing was heavy. The room was still dark. She guessed it must still be the early hours of the morning. Laying quietly, she listened for anything out of place. All she could hear was the gentle creak of old wood and the steady, light snoring of her guard outside the door.

When she next awoke, it was to brilliant sunshine streaming through the dirt-streaked windows, casting golden lines across the worn wooden floor. For a moment, she lay still, blinking against the light, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar softness of the straw mattress beneath her.

Then, the memory of where she was, and why she was there, returned sharply.

She sat up slowly, brushing wild wisps of hair from her face. Her clothes were wrinkled and dusty from the day before, her skin still gritty with trail dirt, but there was something wonderful about the solidity of the house around her. A roof, walls, a bed.

She rose, walking quietly to the grimy window. Outside, the others were slowly coming to life. Bugs was already tending to the fire pit, coaxing the embers back to flame with a coffee pot in hand. Redfly paced with purpose, barking quiet orders. Ironhead and Pope were stretching, shaking off the stiffness of the night.

Libby turned toward the door, steeling herself. She wondered if Catfish was still out there. There was a strange flutter of nerves in her chest at the thought of seeing him again.

She opened the door.

He was there, slouched in the hallway, arms crossed, head tilted back against the wall. His eyes cracked open at the creak of the door, and a sleepy smirk played on his lips at the sight of her.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Green,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. “Sleep alright?”

“Libby,” she reminded him. “It's Libby.”

She raised an eyebrow at the sight of him. He looked disheveled, bleary-eyed, and clearly stiff from sleeping on the floor all night. “You look awful,” she added, unable to suppress a smirk.

Catfish grunted, stretching his back with an audible pop. “That’s because the floor is as hard as it looks, Miss. Libby.” He pushed himself off the wall with a groan and added, “A man ain’t meant to sleep on planks when there’s a bed three feet away.”

She shot him a warning look, but her tone stayed playful. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replied with mock sincerity, raising his hands. “Though I think I’ve earned a wash at the very least.”

He sauntered past her, down the stairs and out the front door. Libby followed a few paces behind, curiosity piqued.

Outside, he found one of the large water barrels near the side of the house, its surface dark and cool. With a dramatic sigh, he pulled off his shirt, revealing deeply-scarred skin across his back, marked by what Libby could only assume was hard living.

She froze mid-step, eyes widening, and quickly looked away, though a sudden warmth crept up her neck and into her cheeks.

Catfish noticed and chuckled. “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll keep it decent.”

Then, with no further warning, he dunked his head and shoulders into the barrel with a loud splash. He came up sputtering, water running down his face, his brown hair plastered to his face and neck.

“Sweet mercy, that’s cold!” he gasped, blinking the water from his eyes.

Libby laughed despite herself.

“You laugh now,” he said, shaking his head like a wet dog and sending droplets flying in every direction, “but just wait. You’ll be in this barrel next.”

“I’ll wait until the sun warms it up, thank you very much,” she replied, hands on her hips.

He grinned at her, his teeth white against his tanned skin. “Suit yourself. But you’ll feel like a new person afterward. Like a proper outlaw.”

“I’ll pass,” she said, but there was something in her voice that was lighter than before.

He gave her a long look, then nodded, half-serious. “You’re tougher than you look, Libby.”

“And you’re softer than you pretend to be,” she answered.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, it was just them. No captor, no prisoner, no rules. Just two people.

The clatter of tin cups and the smell of strong, burnt coffee drifted over from the fire pit, bringing them both back to their senses.

Bugs waved an arm, beckoning them over. “Coffee’s on! And there’s biscuits.”

The spell tethering them together broke, pulling them apart. Catfish reached for his shirt, shaking out the water before pulling it over his damp skin. “Breakfast calls,” he muttered, though he gave her one last look that lasted longer than it should have.

Libby nodded, brushing her hands along her skirt and willing the heat in her cheeks to fade before she followed him over to the fire.

Breakfast passed in relative peace. Redfly was quiet, chewing methodically while eyeing the horizon. Pope and Ironhead ate quickly, each offering a grateful thanks to Libby for the biscuits. Catfish took his time, flipping between savoring each and watching Libby. Every now and then, he caught her eye, and she looked away, but never too quickly.

“Thank you, Miss. Libby,” Catfish said earnestly as he set his tin mug down as he finished eating.

The others looked up in surprise at the use of a name. Her name. Pope turned toward her with a flicker of amazement, as though he were only just realizing she was more than a nameless stranger and was actually someone with a history, a name, a place in the world.

“Your name is Libby?” he asked, brows raised.

She nodded politely. “Yes, sir. Elizabeth Green. But my friends call me Libby.”

Pope tilted his head, repeating her name slowly, as if trying it on for size. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss. Libby.”

He used the name with a kind of newfound respect. “Not from around these parts, are you?”

She shook her head. “England,” she said quietly.

A hush settled over the group. The revelation provoked a new found curiosity. 

It was Bugs who finally broke the silence. “All the way from England?” he echoed, disbelief softening into fascination. “Does it really rain as much as they say it does? How’d you wind up way out here?”

Libby hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around her mug. She glanced at Catfish, as if to steady herself before answering.

“It’s a long story,” she said at last. “But I came here looking for a new start. Not for gold or land… but to teach.”

No one spoke.

“And yes, it does rain a lot,” she added, with a small laugh, reminiscing about the feel of cool droplets of water on her skin. She never thought that she would miss the miserable English rain.

Bugs thought for a moment. “Teach? Like a schoolteacher?”

She nodded. “That was the plan, anyway. Before…” 

Pope rubbed his chin, considering her anew. “Well, I’ll be. A schoolteacher.”

There was no mockery in his tone, just surprise, maybe even a little reverence.

Feeling taken aback by the positive response, she looked at Catfish furtively and saw that he was watching her with a fierce kind of pride in his eyes. She scuffed her boot in the dirt, feeling a wave of embarrassment. It was the kind that came from suddenly finding yourself the main topic of conversation and not knowing how to handle it.

“I can't read much,” said Bugs, scuffing his boot in the dirt. “Will neither. O—my father,” he corrected himself hastily, “said that letters and numbers were not for boys who needed to earn their keep.”

Catfish spoke up. “Pope's the only one among us that is anything near literate.”

Pope raised his eyebrows at his friend’s admission and scoffed genially. “I am more than barely literate. I can read and I have to say that I have excellent penmanship. I was top of my class.”

“I could help you, if you like,” Libby eagerly offered. “Teach you to read better and write more than your own names. I taught the children and some of the adults on the wagon train.”

“Is there any point?” asked Redfly, his voice flat and empty. “We're all dead men walking. Outlaws.”

“I, for one, would like to learn more than just how to write my name and not struggle with simple words.” Bugs jutted his chin out as he spoke and glared at Redfly as though challenging him. “And we won’t be outlaws forever.”

Feeling the atmosphere tensing, Libby offered up a supporting smile to Catfish and changed the topic, shifting the focus, looking for something less contentious. 

“So how long are we staying here?” she asked, glancing between her captors.

Redfly threw her a suspicious look, but answered her question . “A day maybe. No more. We keep moving. Keep the law guessing. We cover our tracks.”

Libby nodded. It was easy to forget that she was a prisoner out here and these were the most feared outlaws on the trails because the way that they had just spoken to her made her feel that they weren't what their reputation claimed they were. These weren't hardened criminals. They were much more than that. These were men trying to survive on the run.

As Ironhead collected up the mugs and tins, the others settled off to manage jobs. Redfly moved to lookout duty, Bugs mounted his horse to go scouting in the wilderness, and Pope and Catfish set about caring for the remaining horses.

Without anything better to do, Libby tagged along.

“So,” began Pope, as he began to unfasten a horse. “You teach.”

“I do, sir,” she replied with honesty. “That's all I've ever known. I taught in a small private school in London after my late husband passed.”

Although she was sure that he would understand and probably reach a similar conclusion to his friend, she didn't feel the need to share the same personal history that she had shared yesterday with Catfish. Then, it felt intimate. As though they were building a connection, of sorts. This felt more conversational.

Pope chuckled at her formality. “And where are you on your way to?”

“I was following the California Trail to Sacramento. And from there to a small town further south, called Longhorn. I applied for a job in the newspaper to run my own schoolhouse.”

Catfish, who had untied the other two horses, was listening intently, but said nothing.

They began a steady walk toward a small creek at the back of the property, their boots crunching against the dry dirt. Libby followed without hesitation, letting Pope lead the way. They approached a wide, meandering channel of water lined with a lush, green riverbank. It was the ideal spot for grazing horses.

They let go of the horses’ reins and Pope and Libby sat on a nearby treestump. All four horses, now free, wandered towards the creek, snorting as they lowered their heads to drink or pulled at the long grass stems.

Catfish leaned against a tree, his attention flicking between the conversation and the horses.

“And that's what you want to do?” asked Pope as he looked thoughtfully at her.

“It's what I was destined to be,” she answered back quietly.

Pope glanced at his friend with a small smirk. “And now, by some quirk of fate, you've ended up in the hands of the infamous Triple Frontier Gang.”

Catfish shot him a glare as he untied the two nearest horses. “You know it was an accident,” he protested. “She pulled my scarf down. I panicked.”

Pope laughed heartily at his protestation. “A quirk of fate, maybe.”

Catfish merely harrumphed indignantly in response, but the wistful look that passed across his face as he looked over at Libby did not go unnoticed by his friend.

Libby glanced over at Catfish, who was standing watching the horses, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, listening to their conversation. Something in her gaze softened when she looked at him. It was all his fault. He had dragged her on this adventure, but she bore him no ill will or malice.

In fact, she was confused. Everything she'd been led to believe up to this point seemed to be a falsehood. These men seemed to not be as they had been painted and she wondered where the truth began. Nothing was as it seemed.

“No,” she admitted out loud. “Indeed I did not.”

Watching the horses grazing by the shady creek made Libby long to feel the freshness of water on her skin.

She felt grimy. The dirt kicked up by the horses and a night in an old dusty bed had left her feeling particularly unclean. She had gotten used to poor hygiene during her trip on the wagon train, but she felt gritty, too.

A sudden thought of Catfish and the barrel of water sprang into her mind. The way the water had plastered his hair to his head. The way it ran in rivulets down his neck and along the planes of his sinewy torso.

She swallowed hard, and felt the heat rising in her neck and face. An acute embarrassment at the idea of seeing him in a state of semi-undress. 

Was it embarrassment? 

She cast a glance in Catfish’s direction. He was leaning lazily against a tree, arms folded across his broad chest, talking to Pope, a roguish grin on his face. He looked carefree. Happy. Relaxed.

Pope laughed loudly startling Libby out of her reverie in a momentary panic. Terrified that her thoughts were so obviously written on her face, she stared at the dirt below her boots, waiting for the heat to dissipate.

When she finally lifted her gaze again, she found both Pope and Catfish staring at her. Pope was looking at her with a glint in his eyes and a mischievous grin on his face, as though he was the only person in on the joke.

Catfish though looked concerned. A frown clouded his features. “I asked if you were alright?”

Flustered, Libby forced out a thin laugh and a smile. “I was—I was just thinking. That's all.”

Pope, grinning wildly, answered, “You looked lost in thought. Anything you want to share with us?”

The heat instantly rose again in her cheeks. “N-no,” she blustered. “Nothing at all.”

Later that morning, with the sun higher and the promise of a hot day ahead, Libby slipped away with a bar of coarse soap obtained from Pope. She made her way back to the water barrel, now warmed by the sun. The others were busy, preoccupied with gear, guns and plans. She doubted any of them would notice her gone.

She dipped a hand into the water. Still cool, but not unbearable. Thinking about Catfish’s dunking earlier, she made a quick decision.

Glancing around once more, she stripped down to her undergarments, before giving them a good shake, coughing lightly at the plumes of dust that rose up. She would have liked nothing more than to launder them, but that would mean spending hours in her underwear. It was something she could not afford to do around five men lurking around.

Satisfied with her clothes, she dunked her arms and neck, scrubbing the grime of days on the trail from her skin. The water was cool and invigorating. She sighed, as she washed, half in relief, half in contentment.

Busy as she was, what she didn’t see was Catfish, rounding the corner of the house with a coil of rope slung over one shoulder. He stopped dead in his tracks.

His breath caught.

Libby, back to him, hair unpinned and hanging down in long, tangled waves, moved with purpose. Water glistened on her skin. Her petticoats clung to her form, modest but revealing enough to stir something in him he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

He knew he should turn away. But his feet wouldn't move. He was rooted to the spot.

Libby, sensing movement and an unwanted presence, turned and saw him.

Their eyes met.

Libby froze, one hand still cupping water at her chest. A flush crept up her neck.

Catfish opened his mouth. Closed it. Coughing and spluttering, he finally managed, “I—Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“You should go,” she said firmly, though her voice trembled slightly.

He nodded, backing up quickly, nearly stumbling over his own feet. “Right. Of course.”

And he vanished around the corner.

Libby stood still, heart pounding, unsure if she was more embarrassed, angry, or something else entirely.

Chest heaving, hands shaking slightly as the cool water dried on her skin, Libby stood still for a moment. Her heart was racing, not just from the shock of being seen, but from the way he had looked at her.

It wasn’t leering. It wasn’t crude. It was reverence. Like she was a piece of fine art. 

She finished washing and dressed quickly, cheeks flushed and jaw tight, and by the time she returned to the group, her face was composed, but her body was not.

Catfish, for his part, avoided her over the next few hours. He sat sharpening his knife by the fire, brows drawn low, his movements precise. He didn’t speak to her. Didn’t even look in her direction. But Libby caught the tightness in his posture. The guilt was there.

Later, while refilling a canteen, she passed by where he was checking the horses’ tack.

“You didn’t knock,” she said, voice low but clear.

Catfish paused mid-buckle. “I didn’t think I had to. Weren’t no doors in sight.”

Libby arched an eyebrow. “I was bathing.”

“I didn't know until I rounded the corner.” He still couldn't meet her eyes. “And I’m sorry.”

She crossed her arms, studying him. Libby didn’t respond right away. She felt his regret, but also her own confusion.

They stood in silence, the horses shifting quietly behind them, the sun burning hotter than it had a right to.

Catfish cleared his throat. “You want me to stay away?”

“No,” she said quickly—maybe a little too quickly. Then added, “Just… knock next time.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Reckon I can manage that.”

Time passed slowly during the daytime. With nothing to do. No oxen to drive, no children to talk to or to teach, Libby found herself at a loose end.

The gang were checking horses, making plans, keeping watch and in spite of the argument yesterday, Libby would happily cook again, if it gave her idle hands something more to do to pass the time. She jumped at the chance, making Redfly purse his lips and shake his head. He walked away muttering “contrary” to himself.

The fire crackled as the sun dipped behind the hills, casting long orange shadows across the camp. Around her, her captors spoke in low murmurs. There were rumors of soldiers spotted upriver, they argued over the best path west, or just sat silently, chewing tobacco and watching the sky change from orange to purple.

As they talked, Libby ladled out an unappealing stew into the dented tins. 

Ironhead accepted the first watch of the night, and lumbered off towards the front porch, with dinner and rifle in hand.

Libby sat down on an overturned bucket, eating slowly, chewing each bite as if it might make the time go by faster. The taste was bland, the texture rough, but it filled her belly and dulled the edge of her boredom.

Bugs slipped onto a log beside her. “So, England,” he began eagerly. “What's it like?”

Relieved to hold a conversation, Libby regaled him with tales of bustling London streets, factories churning out goods, of rolling countryside hills, and sheep. Resting his elbows on his knees, Benny was enthralled as Libby painted colorful pictures with her words.

He was not the only listener captured by her eloquence and enthusiasm. Both Pope, Catfish, and a reluctant Redfly were all reeled in by her voice.

As night threatened to cover the landscape with darkness, everyone stretched and yawned, their hunger was sated, for a short time, at least.The tins were stacked near the fire, and the last of the stew hissed into the coals as Libby rinsed the pot with a splash of water.

Boots scraped as each man stood, stretched stiff limbs, and wandered into their small routines—checking rifles, lighting short, hand-rolled cigarettes with glowing twigs from the fire.

Leaning in close, Bugs muttered. “Thank you. I now know why you are a teacher. Ain’t ever heard words as beautiful as that.” He stooped into a half-bow before tucking his bedroll and blanket under his arm and sauntering towards the ranch.

Libby looked up, catching Catfish’s eyes, as he extinguished the fire, snuffing out the last glowing embers with his boot. 

“Do you miss it?” he asked. “England,” he added, as though he needed to clarify the question.

Libby studied him for a second. “Yes and no,” she said finally. “I miss the noise. The familiarity. But I don't miss feeling small. Being alone. Out here, it's wild, but there's camaraderie. And there are things I'd miss if I were to go back.”

“What kind of things?”

“People,” she answered quietly.

Catfish nodded, but said nothing else.

As with the previous night, everyone but Libby and Catfish settled at one end of the ranch.

Catfish gave a small groan as he settled his body onto the thin mat, which offered no protection from the hard floor outside of Libby's room. A pang of pity struck her as she heard him lie down. Call it a prickle of conscience. Call it something deeper.

“Catfish,” she called out quietly. She didn’t want to alert the others. What she was considering felt like madness. Improper.

“Yeah?” he answered softly. “‘Sup?”

She swallowed hard. “Do you... do you want to sleep on the bed?”

“Where will you sleep?” His voice sounded confused.

“Here,” she whispered.

His silhouette appeared in the doorway. “You sure?”

“I'm sure,” she confirmed, patting the empty space beside her. “Just—just no funny business.”

Catfish ducked out of the room for a moment, before reappearing with his bedding roll tucked underneath his arm. 

He stopped and rapped lightly on the open door before stepping over the threshold and into the room.

Libby smiled to herself in the darkness. “You don't need to knock if I invite you in, you know.”

Catfish cleared his throat, amusement tinged his voice. “Just checking the coast is clear.”

He approached the bed and carefully placed his bedding roll on it, next to Libby. She felt the mattress sink and heard the old bed frame creak as he settled down on the other side with his mat acting as a barrier between them.

“This alright?”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

For a while, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the distant hum of insects outside and the occasional groan of the old bed as they adjusted, each trying not to shift too much.

Libby stared at the ceiling, or where she imagined it to be in the dark. Her mind unable to settle. 

“You alright?” Catfish's voice was low, almost hesitant.

“I didn’t expect you to be like this,” she murmured.

“Like what?”

“Kind.”

He let out a short breath. “Don’t go spreading that around. I got a reputation.”

She smiled again, letting her eyes close. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

The morning sun filtered through the window, waking Libby up from another hazy dream. Downstairs, Libby could hear the creaking, rustling, and whispering as the gang as they each woke up. The noise filtered up the stairs.

She turned her head slightly. Catfish was still asleep, his breathing deep and steady. His makeshift mat-barrier remained in place, a silent testament to his respect for boundaries. She felt an unexpected flicker of gratitude.

He opened his eyes as she stirred. Ever alert. Always on guard.

“Sleep alright?” he rasped, his voice heavy and dry with sleep.

“I did,” she smiled, propping herself up on her elbow to look at him, “if you don't count the snoring.”

“Heyyy,” he replied, mock offended. “I don’t snore.”

Libby rolled her eyes, teasing him. She smiled at his weak defense. “Of course you don't “

And then their eyes locked. 

The room fell quiet. His gaze, still heavy with sleep, held hers with a surprising intensity. They were curious, unreadable, and dark.

Libby's smile faltered, not from discomfort, but from a sudden awareness. Of how close they were. Of the strange safety she'd felt lying next to him. Of how, it hadn't felt like captivity. Of how it had felt like something else entirely. Of domesticity.

He was nothing like her late husband. Where her husband was cold and distant, Catfish was warm and open. There was an emotional honesty in his eyes. An openness that she hadn't expected to find.

He didn’t look away. Neither did she. If she leaned forward, she realised could kiss him. A sudden thought ran through her head; did she want to kiss him? 

And then, with a blink, the moment passed. She cleared her throat and brushed the creases from her skirt like it would clear the tension from the air, but instead it stirred a dull ache in her lower abdomen.

Sitting upright and stretching his muscles, Catfish yawned loudly, the sound echoing through the quiet room like a bear coming out of hibernation. “Goddammit, that was the best night’s sleep I've had in ages,” he declared, his voice rough with sleep but full of satisfaction.

With that, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the wooden frame creaking beneath him. He stood slowly, rolling his shoulders and arching his back in a deep stretch that seemed to make him a few inches taller. His joints cracked audibly as he reached his arms toward the ceiling, elongating his body like a cat rousing from a nap.

Libby watched him as he came to life. There was something mesmerizing about the way he moved. Unhurried, raw, centered. 

Something stirred deep inside her as she observed him. Something unidentifiable. Something restless, aching, maybe even a little dangerous. Elusive to name, but impossible to ignore.

Then he was gone, his boots clattering on the wooden floorboards as he headed downstairs to join his comrades.

Libby sat motionless, listening. She heard his footsteps fade on the stairs, followed by the low rumble of voices, a few bursts of laughter, and morning banter. The world outside their room carried on as normal, but something in her had changed.

Somehow, she knew Catfish wouldn’t be telling the others where he had spent the night. He would rejoin them with that same careless charm, slipping back into the role he wore like a second skin. No explanations. No confessions.

And yet, those feelings stirred again in her chest. Unsettling and persistent.

Swallowing down whatever it was that she felt, Libby clambered off the bed, rolled up the old blanket that she had used last night and carried it downstairs with her. It might be old and possibly a little moth-eaten, but it was still useful.

The coffee pot was already boiling on the small fire as she reached the back door. She could see the strong shape of Ironhead's back as he tended to it. Coffee, she had learned quickly, was a staple of the wagon train and although she was traditionally a tea-drinker and had found the beverage to be too bitter at first—she found that it had helped to fuel early morning starts and keep her body and mind going when fatigue would otherwise set in.

Taking a seat by the fire on a large tree trunk, she picked up a battered tin mug and held it out, waiting for it to be filled. The crunch of footsteps and the rustle of fabric, followed by a heavy grunt, told her that Catfish was settling in beside her.

“Mornin’,” he said, his outer thigh pressing against hers as he slipped into the small space. “Sleep well?” He picked up a mug and held it out expectantly as though their touching bodies had no effect on him. As though it was natural.

Libby was thrown off-balance for a moment. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. Hadn’t she just woken up next to him? Shared a moment, almost as though they were wedded? And here he was, acting as if it had never happened.

A sharp dig in her ribs made her exhale sharply and brought her back to her senses.

“Yes. Why, yes I did,” she exclaimed, staring into her now-filled mug, avoiding his gaze.

Catfish grunted. The arm that had just found her ribs came to rest against her back, hidden from view.

  ****

Libby watched silently as the gang saddled and repacked the horses, preparing to move on once again. They shifted about the harsh terrain with practiced ease, each of them driven by some unspoken purpose that remained a mystery to her. Dust rose in the dry air, clinging to their boots and coats, the sun casting long, unforgiving shadows across the cracked earth.

Her gaze lingered on Catfish more than the others. There was something about the way he moved. Cat-like efficiency, quiet, always alert. Maybe it was the mystery, or maybe it was the way his eyes flicked toward her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Either way, Libby couldn’t stop watching him.

Her insides twisted, a slow, aching tension winding through her, and her blood thrummed hot and insistent in her lower abdomen as she watched him. Every measured movement he made only tightened the pull inside her, stirring something she couldn’t quite name. Desire, curiosity, maybe even danger?

One by one, they mounted their horses, with the creak of worn leather and the soft snort of restless animals.

Catfish assisted Libby, before mounting his own steed. And, without a word, they set off across the rugged terrain, with a cloud of dust trailing behind them as the morning sun climbed higher in the sky.

Libby clung on tightly to him, her gaze filled with Catfish’s back, the tension in her chest riding with her.

The continuous rhythm of the horse’s movement, the close proximity of Catfish sent heat coursing through her body, each stride was a jolt of raw, rolling motion beneath her. She clung to the saddle, her thighs tight against the animal's flanks, the friction and movement igniting something deep inside her. All she could focus on was the strange, tightening coil low in her belly.

And then it hit. A sudden, overwhelming wave crashed through her. Her breath caught, back arching as every nerve lit up, pulsing with release. The world blurred, sound dulled, and for a moment, it was just her and the sensation. It was wild, unstoppable, and utterly consuming. Her mouth fell open in surprise.

Catfish felt her tense up behind him.

“Everything alright back there?” he grunted.

It took Libby a few moments to regain her composure. What had just happened? Had she fitted? Fainted? 

She wasn’t sure, but the persistent ache had dulled and she felt strangely relaxed.

“I—I'm fine,” she stuttered. She hoped she sounded convincing. “I—I just felt a bit light-headed. Must be the heat.”

“You need me to stop?” Catfish asked concerned, twisting his neck as he tried to look over his shoulder at her.

“I'm fine,” she reassured him, but not feeling so confident herself. “All's well.”

“Alright,” came the concerned reply. “Just let me know if you feel sick.”

Libby swallowed, dust sticking to her tongue. Her mouth felt thick and heavy. 

She didn't understand what had come to pass, only that something had been awakened within her, sudden and inexplicable, like a spark catching dry tinder, leaving her shaken, flushed, and unable to name the emotion it left behind.

Before their departure to Yorkshire, Libby's sister had become pregnant with her first child—a girl. She had shared her symptoms with her younger sibling, talking her through the raft of changes her body was undertaking. Libby now recognized the signs of early pregnancy as her own, and felt a heavy sense of foreboding.

She knew what she needed to do. She made an appointment with the visiting physician who would be in town the following week.

And then all she could do was wait. And worry.

Libby sat in the doctor’s waiting room, anxiety gnawing at her. She might have been naive about sex, but she had known enough married friends and heard enough whispered conversations to know what missed menses could mean. Her hands twisted nervously in her lap as she awaited her appointment. She was a widow now, and if anyone found out... the scandal would be unbearable. The thought of being pregnant in a small town filled her with dread. The idea of it was insufferable, and she had no idea how to navigate this new possibility. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let anyone know the truth. She had to think her way out of this, if she was pregnant.

Her name was called before she could sink any further into her anxious thoughts. She stood, her body stiff, dread passing through her. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she forced herself to move, crossing the threshold into the doctor's office.

The physician was a kindly, yet dull man, with an unremarkable face that didn’t put Libby at ease. He adjusted his spectacles as he listened to her spin a half-hearted tale of how she had lost her husband to cholera on the trail. As she spoke, the lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but she couldn’t risk revealing the truth. Her cheeks burned with shame, a deep flush spreading across her face as she fabricated the details of her life.

After a moment, she could no longer hold back the tears. They came in a flood, genuine this time, as the emotional weight of the situation overwhelmed her. Through trembling lips, she confided in the doctor, admitting what she had feared all along. She thought she might be with child.

The doctor’s expression softened in sympathy. He gestured for her to sit on the examination table, his demeanor calm and professional. Libby felt anything but calm as he asked her to remove her underwear. Her heart raced, her nerves frazzled by the intrusive nature of the examination. She couldn’t stop the trembling of her hands as she complied.

After what felt like an eternity, the doctor gave a slight nod, his face grave. “You’re pregnant, Mrs. Green,” he confirmed gently.

At the words, Libby’s world seemed to collapse around her. The world seemed to give way beneath her, and she began sobbing uncontrollably as she lay on the table. This was the worst possible outcome. She had no idea how she would manage. The schoolhouse, her sanctuary and her purpose, felt like a distant dream now.

How could she run it as a single mother? And what would the town say?

She imagined the whispers, the judgmental glances. Her mind reeled with the weight of the social consequences.

In the back of her mind, a flicker of hope still burned—maybe Francisco Morales would return. But it was a faint hope. A fragile thought. She could barely bring herself to consider the actual possibility that he was gone and that she was alone.

As Libby sat at home later, trying to digest the news, she calculated in her mind that she was three months pregnant. She knew exactly when it had happened. It was the night in the guesthouse, the night that had felt like perfection. It had been a moment of connection with Francisco, the man she loved, but it now held an entirely different meaning. That night had left her with a permanent reminder. Of him. Of their time together. Her heart ached at the thought of him and that their perfect night had come at such a heavy price for her.

Libby had never considered that she might get pregnant and neither she nor Frankie had been particularly careful during their time together. It had never happened when she had been married to her late husband Henry, even though they had lain together numerous times. They had come to the conclusion that she was simply unable to carry a child, when it was now very apparent that she could.

Now, with the undeniable signs of pregnancy growing inside her, she was forced to reckon with the fact that she could, and soon would, have a child. The reality of it hit her hard, bringing both a sense of awe and terror. How could this happen now, after everything?

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the reality of her situation sink in. She had never imagined her life would turn out like this. But now it had, there was no turning back. She would raise this child alone, in a town that might never forgive her, if they knew the truth. And somewhere, in the furthest part of her heart, she clung to that sliver of hope that perhaps, one day, Francisco might come back for her.

She needed a plan and it would have to be inventive. A plan that would conceal the truth until she could figure out how to navigate this new reality. When she had first arrived in Longhorn, she had carefully avoided discussing her past, especially the truth about her husband's death overseas while serving his country. Her whole story of her husband, her subsequent adventures on the wagon train had been too painful to share with anyone, too personal. No one in Longhorn knew about her history, so she decided to fabricate a new story, one that would shield her from the judgment of the town. She would tell them exactly what she had told the physician— that her husband had died shortly after joining the wagon train, and that she had only recently discovered she was pregnant. It wasn’t the whole truth, but an approximation of it. It was something she could live with, for the time being.

As the weeks slipped by, Libby’s pregnancy became harder to conceal. Her morning sickness worsened, leaving her exhausted and weak. The days when she felt like she could hold her head up and push through the relentless work of running the schoolhouse felt fewer and farther between. Every morning, the nausea would come as soon as she opened her eyes. The smell of breakfast, the sight of the children gathering, even getting dressed, all made her stomach churn. She forced herself to go through the motions, to appear composed, but deep inside, she was already struggling.

She was still managing, but just barely.

The thought of having to confess the truth to the family she lived with, the family who had taken her in when she first arrived, was an overwhelming burden. She had managed to keep up appearances, and the moment she started showing, there would be no denying the truth. What would they think? Would they believe her story about her husband’s death? Would they judge her for her secretive past, for the fact that she had been with someone else, someone like Frankie?

The weight of that impending revelation made her growing stomach tighten further.

Fortunately, thanks to her well-spoken manner and sharp intelligence, no one ever questioned Libby’s story too closely. No one in Longhorn had arrived on the same wagon train as she had. No one knew about her kidnapping—or her return. If they had, it would’ve been all too easy to connect the two events. And for that, Libby was eternally grateful. No one challenged her truth.

She watched and waited, ever cautious, as her belly grew rounder, her breasts fuller and heavier, and she felt the first fluttering of life stir within her. Each small movement reminded her that everything she knew had changed irrevocably.

Around her, the children and townsfolk went about their daily routines, ignoring the quiet transformation taking place inside her.

The months passed by, and Libby’s belly swelled, the baby inside her growing steadily. Thanksgiving came and went, followed by Christmas, each holiday passed by quietly with little celebration. By the time the new year rolled in, she started to feel as though she might burst.

Rather than stay up until midnight with the other townsfolk, she quietly excused herself and slipped off to bed early. She ached with the baby's increasing demands on her body. 

And then, as the cold of winter gave way to the warmth of spring, new life arrived in Longhorn.

The day Libby went into labor was, what she considered, one of the toughest challenges of her life. It was a trial that eclipsed even the hardships she had faced during her journey to the west. Hours of excruciating, indescribable pain, coupled with overwhelming exhaustion.

She fervently wished that Frankie could be by her side, that he could witness the birth of his child, but as the hours stretched on, she found herself alone with only the physician and Mrs. Smith in the room. The absence of Frankie’s presence was another sting, one more thing that had been taken from her, something she could never get back.

Labor was far from what she had imagined. It dragged on endlessly, each contraction an eternity, each wave of pain coming faster, more intense, than the last. Libby paced the room, desperate to ease the pain that seemed to grow with each passing minute. She hated being confined to the bed. The physician scolded her, his voice stern and tired as he instructed her to lie down again. But lying down was not an option. The pain in her lower back was unbearable. She refused to listen, moving from one position to the next, her body trembling with exhaustion. She huffed and puffed her way through each contraction, crouching on her knees, the bitter words of frustration slipping past her clenched teeth.

Each wave of pain felt like eternity. She swore it had been days, but when she glanced up at the clock, only twelve hours had passed. It was relentless, but Libby didn’t have the luxury of giving up. She had no choice but to press forward, pushing through the agony, her body now moving instinctively, responding to the power of birth.

At last, when it seemed she could go no further, Libby found herself kneeling beside the bed, her body bowed in exhaustion, as if in prayer. With one final, powerful push, the baby came, and Mrs. Smith was there to catch him as he made a grand entrance, holding the tiny, wriggling baby in her arms. The placenta quickly followed and Libby collapsed, her body trembling with exhaustion and relief.

Labor had left her utterly spent. But in the end, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

So overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment, she could barely lift her head as the nurse placed the child in her arms.

Exhausted, Libby gazed down at her son, tears streaming down her face. He was so small, so fragile, and so perfect. 

As she looked into his tiny face, a realization washed over her. It was said that newborn babies often resembled their fathers in the beginning, to help with the bonding process, and as Libby studied her son, she couldn’t help but see Frankie in every feature. The shape of his eyes, the curve of his chin—it was as though he had been born with a piece of Frankie inside him.

She tried not to look too hard, though. It was still too painful to focus on the features that reminded her of the man she loved, the man who might never know his child, never be there to help raise him. The thought brought a lump to her throat, and she quickly averted her gaze, trying to push the sadness to one side.

But the pain of missing him was a constant, always lurking just beneath the surface.

In her new role as a single mother, Libby was met with nothing but kindness and understanding. There were very few women in the town, but those who were there rallied around her, offering gifts of old blankets, gowns, and bonnets for her new arrival. They didn’t ask questions. They embraced her as one of their own; a fellow woman who was simply doing what she had to do to survive in a harsh world.

Despite her fears, Libby found solace in the support of these women. She was no longer alone in her struggle, and for the first time in what felt like a long time, she allowed herself to feel a sense of hope.

Her son, a little piece of Frankie and a little piece of herself, would have a chance at life here in Longhorn, surrounded by people who cared. And maybe, just maybe, with time, she could heal. For the sake of the boy in her arms, she had to.

When it came to registering the birth, Libby’s nerves overwhelmed her. She sat at the desk, staring blankly at the slip of paper before her, her hands trembling. She faced an enormous decision—one that ate at her conscience. Who would she list as her baby’s father?

Her heart and soul screamed that she should acknowledge Francisco Morales, the man who had given her this child, the man she had loved with all her being. But propriety and society had other demands. They told her that she should list her long-dead husband, Henry Green, the one she had claimed had died just after they had set out on the wagon trail. It was the story everyone believed. It was the story that kept her safe, that kept her from the harsh judgments of the townsfolk.

Libby sat there for what felt like an eternity, her eyes fixed on the paper, trying to decide. The future of her son weighed heavily on her heart. If she told the truth, would it be too dangerous? Would Francisco’s name on the birth certificate lead to unwanted attention, unwanted questions, from the law, from the sheriff, from those who might come looking for him? Would she put her son at risk?

Her mind raced with fear and guilt. The tension in her chest grew tighter with every passing second. She thought of the kindness she had found in Longhorn—the women who had taken her in, the sense of belonging she had begun to feel. But none of that mattered in this moment. What mattered was survival, and in this small, fleeting decision, her son’s future was bound to the choices she made.

Finally, in a wave of resignation, she caved. Her pen moved across the paper almost mechanically, writing Henry Green's name where Francisco’s should have been. The sickening weight of the lie settled in her stomach, but there was no turning back. She had made her choice.

As soon as the ink dried, Libby shoved the slip of paper back into the envelope with trembling hands and hurried from the Mayor’s office. Her heart pounded in her chest as she made her way outside, the bright afternoon sun blinding her.

Before she could stop herself, she doubled over and vomited behind one of the nearby horse troughs. The contents of her stomach emptied: a sickening mixture of guilt and the raw, physical toll of the decision she had just made. She wiped her mouth, her face flushed with shame and exhaustion, her mind reeling. She had just betrayed the memory of the man she loved, and the price of it had never felt so high.

Libby’s days in Longhorn quickly fell into a pattern of exhaustion and overwhelming responsibility. She had never anticipated how difficult it would be to balance her role as a teacher with the demands of motherhood. Every morning, after a restless night of tending to her son, she would rise before the sun, her body aching from the lack of sleep and the thoughts of the tasks ahead.

Her small, humble schoolhouse, which had been her sanctuary when she arrived, was now a burden. The wooden structure creaked in the wind, the walls too thin to shield her from the biting cold or the prying eyes of the townspeople. 

Each morning, she would breastfeed her son, now a few months old, before dressing quickly and preparing a simple breakfast. He was a quiet baby, often content to sleep for hours in his cradle while she taught her small class of eager young students. But there were days when he cried for hours, refusing to settle, and on those days, her patience was surely tested. Her attention split between the needs of her students and the wails of her baby, Libby found herself growing weary, and the guilt weighed on her heavily.

She had chosen to raise him alone, to pretend that Henry Green, her late husband, was the father, and yet every time she looked at her son’s face, she was reminded of the man she had lost. There were moments when the sight of his soft, dark curls or the way his eyes seemed to mimic Francisco’s sent a wave of longing crashing through her heart. But she couldn’t afford to dwell on it—not when there were lessons to teach and papers to grade. Not when the ever-present weight of motherhood pressed down on her in such an unforgiving way.

The schoolhouse was small, and so were her classes. Yet even the quietest days were filled with a constant stream of demands. There were papers to correct, lessons to prepare, and children to tend to. When the bell rang at the end of each school day, she would rush home with her son, who was often already awake and squirming in his cradle. There were days when she could barely muster the energy to prepare dinner or fix the small meal of bread and vegetables that was her usual meal. The nights were long, filled with the sounds of her son’s cries, and she found herself waking up more often than not with the weight of life pressing down on her shoulders.

Despite the difficulty, there were rare moments when her son would smile up at her, his little face lighting up in a way that made the exhaustion worth it. And at times, when she sat in the small rocking chair by the fire, gently soothing him back to sleep, she could almost forget the loneliness that had taken root in her heart.

The town had grown fond of her. Women often came by to check on her, offering to help with the baby or bringing over a dish of food. While Libby appreciated their kindness, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was constantly pretending. Pretending that everything was fine. Pretending that she wasn’t haunted by the absence of the man who should have been beside her, holding their child.

There were moments when the burden of it all threatened to break her—when she would find herself staring out of the schoolhouse window, wishing for a different life, wishing for a chance to be just a teacher. But she had made her choices. Necessity had meant that she had created this life for herself, and for her son. She couldn’t go back.

So, she kept going. One foot in front of the other. The rhythm of teaching, the rhythm of motherhood, a delicate balance that she walked every day, never quite certain if she was doing it right. But for her son, she would keep trying.

Eventually, she caved. She needed help. Mrs. Smith, the lady who had helped her deliver Edward into the world, saw her daily struggle with life and school and offered to take her son during school hours. Overwhelmed with guilt, she agreed. In exchange for a small sum of money, she dropped Edward off every morning and collected him at the end of the day, her body sore, aching, and swollen with milk.

But it meant that she could carry on.

Adjusting to her new routine, one morning, when Edward was about three months old, one of her students, a boy by the name of David, came sprinting into class late.  Libby admonished him for his tardiness, her tone sharp, but David was far too excited to care. He slid into his chair behind his desk and sat down, already whispering to his neighbors. Libby turned her attention back to the blackboard, trying to ignore the disruption happening behind her.

But the whispering grew louder. The noise spread through the classroom like a wildfire. There was a sudden tension in the air and a palpable shift of energy. Libby's teaching instinct told her that something big had happened. Spinning on her heels, she turned to face her students, her eyes looking out over the room. Her gaze finally landed on David, who had been the instigator of the disruption.

“What's got into you all today?” she asked, trying to maintain her composure. She raised an eyebrow, questioning. Her voice was full of curiosity and consternation, but David’s excitement was too much to ignore.

“Haven’t you heard, Miss?” David’s voice practically burst with energy. “The Triple Frontier Gang attacked the Army's gold wagons. There was a big shootout and some of them died, but they got away with lots of money.”

“I heard they all died,” piped up Harry, a small, dark-haired boy. “My dad is friends with the deputy Sheriff of Willsto—”

“They couldn’t all die, could they?” interrupted David impatiently. “Otherwise they couldn’t have run off with the money. Stupid.”

“I heard that they're all living like the Queen of England. Rich beyond belief,” exclaimed Lucy, one of Libby’s more sensible students. 

The restless excited chatter resumed, but Libby’s world stopped.

The room seemed to freeze around her, the voices of the children suddenly muffled as a deafening silence filled her mind. The chalk in her hand snapped in half. Her other fingers clenched around the desk as she was overcome with dizziness. She could feel the air tighten in her chest, the air suddenly too thick to draw in. 

The Triple Frontier Gang. Francisco.

Her heart pounded in her chest; it was so loud that she feared that she could hear it thumping in her head. For a moment, it felt as though the walls of the classroom were shrinking, as though she were trapped inside. Her legs felt weak and she could barely find the strength to stand up. The hope she’d clung to, the fragile thread that kept her from fully accepting that she would never see him again, snapped in that moment.

Francisco. 

The man she loved, the man who had made her believe in the possibility of happiness again, was involved in something dangerous. Something that would mean that he might never come back to her. He was either dead or an outlaw.

Forever.

The gang had talked of revenge and of plotting against the Army. And now she realized what they had been planning to do all along. All of that waiting in the hills. Waiting and watching. Ready to exact revenge.

She felt sick to her stomach. Maybe they had got away with lots of money, but that didn’t matter to her. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the weight of a new found truth: she would have to raise her son alone. The dream of a family with Francisco was gone. Lost in a way that was potentially irreversible.

Libby’s eyes filled with tears that she tried to blink back. Her vision blurred and she swallowed hard, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it all felt impossible. She didn’t know how long she stood there, fighting to keep her composure in front of her students, but it felt like a lifetime. The room was suddenly too small, too suffocating.

Her throat tightened, and the words, He’s gone, echoed in her mind.

Tamping down her emotions with great effort, Libby slowly forced her voice to steady. "Alright," she said, her tone more strained than she intended, "back to your work." Her eyes didn’t linger on any one student. She couldn’t look at them or acknowledge their excitement for something so trivial when her whole world was falling apart.

Her hands shook, but she turned back to the blackboard, her mind swirling, the weight of reality crashing over her with the force of a storm. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t feel. She just had to keep going, because that’s all she knew how to do now. Keep going.

Not sharp. Not immediate. Just a steady, invasive cold pressing against your back, seeping into your bones. It took your sluggish mind a moment to understand why it felt so direct, so unfiltered.

Because there was nothing between your skin and the tarp.

The memory surfaced slowly, like a photograph developing in chemical wash.

The tarp on the floor. The empty room.

Your clothes were gone.

The cold brushed over your bare skin in faint currents, night air slipping through a cracked window somewhere. It felt wrong - like a blanket that failed its most basic duty. The chill made your skin pebble, but your muscles refused to respond, refused to curl inward for warmth.

“They all looked so… peaceful at the end.”

The voice drifted down to you as though from underwater.

Familiar.

Trusted.

Your lashes fluttered weakly. A shadow leaned over you, blurring into shape through half-lidded vision. Features you had known for years. A face you had stood beside in crime scenes, in interrogation rooms, in cheap bars after long shifts.

Why did it feel alien now?

“When they finally let go,” he continued softly, “there was relief. You could see it. Like they understood they were safe.”

A hand brushed hair away from your forehead.

Warm.

Gentle.

Revulsion coiled somewhere deep inside your chest.

“Because I made them safe,” Torres murmured. “I set them free.”

There it was.

The fracture.

The place where familiarity turned inside out and became something grotesque.

Fear ignited in your gut, hot and violent. Adrenaline surged, colliding against the sedative flooding your system. For one suspended moment, it felt like your body might obey you again.

All it managed though was a soft, involuntary sound in your throat.

“I know,” Torres soothed immediately, as if calming a frightened animal. “It’s confusing. I understand.”

Metal entered your blurred field of vision.

A knife.

The sight of it should have snapped you fully awake. Instead it hung there, distant and unreal, its edge catching the faint light.

“I promise,” he went on, voice almost tender, “I won’t let you suffer. It’ll be quick. But I need you to understand first. You have to see what I’ve seen.”

The blade passed slowly over your body, before settling beside your head with a muted thud against the tarp.

“I’ve been hunting them for years, Ashley.”

His silhouette shifted as he leaned closer. You felt rather than saw him hovering over you.

“When I first learned what they were, I thought they were just another brand of criminal. Something we could arrest. Lock up.” His breath trembled faintly. “But they’re not. They’re worse.”

His hand cupped your cheek again.

“They prey on the vulnerable. They stalk. They feed.”

The word hung heavy.

Feed.

Through the haze, you registered the sharp snap of latex gloves sliding into place.

“I studied them,” he continued, pacing now, voice gaining momentum. “Patterns. Habits. There aren’t many, but once you know what to look for, they stand out. Gaps in records. Shifting identities. Moving like ghosts through the system.”

He clicked his tongue softly.

“And then one moves in next door to you.”

He stopped. You felt the shift in air pressure as he turned back toward you.

“What are the odds?”

The cold intensified as the drug ebbed and surged unpredictably. Your mind felt clearer for seconds at a time now - horribly clear - while your body remained inert.

“When you mentioned him,” Torres said, “I ran everything. The inconsistencies were glaring. I knew you were in danger.”

He moved toward the window, staring out over Queens, city lights flickering beyond him.

“They hunt people like you, Ashley. Strong. Driven. Bright. They’re drawn to that. It’s only a matter of time before they break it.”

His voice tightened.

“But then you did something I didn’t think would happen.”

Even through the fog, you knew.

“You fell for him,” Torres said quietly. “I thought your instincts would protect you.”

He returned to your side, the floor creaking faintly under his weight.

“I tried to steer you away. Tried to keep you focused. And you ran straight into his arms.”

His gloved fingers tapped your cheek lightly, patronizing. Condescending.

“How reckless.”

The scrape of metal against tarp made your stomach lurch.

The knife returned into view.

“But I need you to understand this isn’t punishment,” he said, tone almost pleading now. “You didn’t know what he was. You were seduced by something ancient. That’s not your fault.”

The blade hovered near your throat.

“But leaving you alive?” His voice thinned. “If he turns you - if you become one of them - then I lose you anyway.”

The cold edge pressed lightly against your skin.

Panic detonated inside your chest. Your heart slammed violently, desperate and useless.

“I’m sparing you,” he whispered. “Before the darkness claims you.”

Pressure increased.

A sharp, distant sting.

Warmth followed - a thin red line slipping down your neck.

“I wish I’d stopped it sooner,” Torres breathed. “I truly do. Maybe, in your last moments… you’ll understand. Maybe you’ll even forgive me.”

Consciousness flickered violently, like a faulty bulb.

Your body should have fought harder. Should have thrashed. Screamed.

Instead, as adrenaline peaked and terror surged to its highest crest, the darkness swallowed you whole - pulling you under before the blood had time to stain the tarp beneath you.

Consciousness really was a tricky thing.

Max couldn’t measure the time it had taken him to Queens - whether it had been minutes or some distorted stretch where the city bent around him - but he knew, with a clarity that felt almost mathematical, that delay equaled death. The night air burned in his lungs as he cut through it, faster than traffic, faster than reason. Streetlights smeared into pale streaks. The address repeated in his mind like a mantra he refused to let fracture.

He didn’t pause to assess the building. The second a tenant pushed through the front door, Max was there, slipping inside before it could swing shut. An indignant protest rose behind him but it dissolved into background noise. Language had no weight compared to the single fact hammering through him: you.

The stairwell swallowed him in concrete and stale air. And there - faint, then sharpening - your scent. Not perfume. Not soap. You. The iron warmth beneath skin, the electric familiarity that threaded through him like a compass needle snapping north. You were here. Every instinct, every ancient reflex, aligned around that certainty.

He took the stairs three at a time, shoes barely touching the steps. Up. Up. Up. The scent intensified, layered now with something metallic and raw. His jaw tightened. The hallway at the top floor stretched long and indifferent, doors evenly spaced, identical in their anonymity. But one stood out - not visually, not audibly - just a gravitational pull in his bones. A small nameplate beside it read Torres.

He didn’t knock.

The impact of his shoulder splintered wood from frame. The door burst inward with a crack that echoed down the corridor and darkness greeted him. For half a second he stood in it, listening.

Then the other scent hit him fully.

Blood.

Fresh and saturating the air so heavily it felt viscous.

His throat constricted around a call he almost made. He didn’t get the chance.

Torres appeared in the doorway of a back room, silhouette jagged against dim light. His chest rose and fell too quickly, his eyes widened - not in triumph, not even in rage - but in something closer to inevitability.

In his hand he held a knife, its blade dark and wet.

Max crossed the distance between them in a blink.

“Where is she?” The demand tore from him, reverberating off the walls. He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands locked onto Torres' shoulders with crushing force and hurled him across the room. The man’s body hit the far wall with a sickening thud, drywall fracturing under impact before he slumped downward in a stunned heap.

Max was already moving.

He hit the doorway to the back room and stopped only because the world forced him to.

You lay in the center of the floor atop a heavy plastic tarp, your body arranged with grotesque deliberation. Bare skin against sterile sheeting. Too still. Too pale. The dim light flattened you into something unreal.

And the wound.

A deep, violent slash carved across your throat, so clean and so catastrophic it explained everything at once. Blood poured from it in relentless waves, darkening the tarp, spreading outward in a widening halo. The scent was overwhelming, saturating every molecule of air.

“No. No - no.” The word broke apart in his mouth.

Max dropped beside you, sliding in your blood without care, pulling your head into his lap. His hands clamped over the wound, pressing hard, harder, as if pressure alone could reverse physics. Warmth oozed through his fingers instantly.

“Stay with me, Ashley.” His voice cracked around your name. “Stay with me, love.”

Your pulse fluttered against his senses, faint and thinning. Not the vibrant spike of irritation when he challenged you. Not the quickened rhythm of adrenaline. This was a fading line, tapering toward silence.

Movement erupted in the other room.

For one sharp instant he expected Torres to return, knife raised in some suicidal miscalculation. Max was ready - ready to tear, to end, to obliterate.

But the sound retreated. Footsteps. A door. The apartment exhaled emptiness.

Your head lolled, slack in his hands.

“Ashley! Fight. Please.”

Your pulse stumbled.

“No!” The force of his voice shook the room, but sound could not anchor a departing soul. He saw the tarp. The pool beneath you. The obscene practicality of it all.

Seconds. That was all that remained.

“Damn it, love.” His voice broke entirely now, grief stripping it raw. He rocked once, twice, then forced himself into stillness. Decision replaced despair with brutal clarity.

He lowered you gently to the floor. With shaking hands he swept your blood-soaked hair away from your neck, baring skin that was cooling by the heartbeat. He looked at your face one last time - the familiar lines, the stubborn set of your mouth even in unconsciousness.

Then he bent and sank his teeth into the unmarked flesh just below the wound.

For a moment, nothing.

Your blood pressure had collapsed so far that the first pull yielded almost emptiness. He pressed harder, hands bracing your shoulders, coaxing what remained. When it came, it came slowly.

And yet, the taste struck him like a revelation.

Not because it was sweet - though it was - but because it was yours. Alive with memory, with shared glances and arguments and unspoken promises. It flooded his senses, a current dragging him toward something feral and bottomless. Time fractured. There was only the rhythm of drawing and the diminishing resistance of your body beneath his hands.

He felt the precise edge where rescue would become consumption.

Stopping required a violence he had never felt before in his life.

Max tore himself away, breath ragged though he did not need it, eyes squeezing shut as if that could blunt the craving roaring through him.

Then he forced himself to focus on what had to follow. He bit into his own wrist, skin parting easily under his sharpened canines. Dark, almost black blood welled and spilled, thick and potent. He held his wrist above your mouth, using his other hand to part your lips.

“Come on,” he whispered, voice frayed. Drops fell onto your tongue, slid past your teeth. He tilted his wrist, urging more. “Come back to me.”

One stray bead clung to the corner of your mouth. He brushed it away with his thumb and pressed a soft, trembling kiss where it had been. “Please.”

He stroked your hair, over and over, a motion almost human in its desperation.

Your pulse dwindled.

Faded.

Vanished.

Silence fell with a weight that seemed to compress the room. Even the distant hum of traffic outside receded into nothing. There was no rhythm beneath his senses now. No spark.

He stared at your face, waiting for some sign he knew would not come. You looked… peaceful. As if asleep. The brutal gash at your throat mocked the illusion.

He had been too late.

His gaze drifted back to the softness of your features, memorizing them, imprinting them into whatever part of him could still ache.

And then - 

Sound returned.

The city bled back into existence. The faint buzz of electricity. The far-off wail of a siren.

Your eyes snapped open. Searching and finding his.

Gold meeting gold.

Next Chapter

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Lara Ruiz. Brown skin looking disturbingly pale, dark hair damp from the drizzle. She’d been arranged - that was the word that kept sticking in your throat. Laid out carefully, hands folded at her chest, head turned to the side as if she were only sleeping. If it weren’t for the jagged slash at her throat, she could’ve been waiting for a prayer.

You swallowed.

The first two had been near churches and both posed the same way. Now this one, behind what looked like an old parish building converted into something else. Coincidence, they’d said last time. Coincidence, again, this time.

Torres was crouched by the forensic techs, his tie loosened, his expression grim but steady. “Same M.O.,” he said when you joined him. “No sign of struggle. No witnesses. No prints worth a damn.”

You nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the small cross-shaped pendant placed at the victim’s side - not on her, but beside her, like a gift left behind. “He’s getting bolder,” you murmured. “Like he is feeling the need to show them to the world.”

Torres straightened, brushing off his knees. “Show them? Here? In a dark alley? I am not so sure about that, Vale. Maybe you read too much into it...”

“Am I?” you shot back, sharper than you meant to. “Because I see someone who takes his time. Who treats them like they’re -” you cut yourself off, forcing a breath through your teeth. “It’s ritualistic. It always has been. The location matters.”

He rubbed his temples. “We’ve gone over this. There’s no active link to any church or clergy. You want ritual? Maybe he’s just a control freak.”

A few uniforms nearby turned their heads. Torres’ voice dropped, but his tone hardened. “Because you’re looking for meaning where there might not be any. We follow evidence, not gut feelings.”

The words stung more than they should have. You’d been running on adrenaline since the first call; now it simmered into anger. “Right. Evidence. We’ve got three dead women and zero leads, but sure, let’s wait for the next one.”

Torres’ jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer. The silence stretched until you couldn’t stand it anymore.

You turned away. The alley felt too small, the air too thick. You pushed through the line of officers, past the perimeter, until you reached the front of the building. The brick façade loomed over you. A set of worn steps led up to a narrow entrance. You climbed them, if only to get your heartbeat under control.

Inside, it smelled faintly of coffee and cleaning products. The hallway lights flickered weakly. There were no icons, no pews - just a corkboard pinned with flyers: AA meetings, grief counseling, family therapy, self-help workshops. A thousand different kinds of healing, layered in uneven squares of paper.

You pressed a hand to the board, letting your forehead rest against your wrist for a second.

But the word healing kept catching in your mind, scraping against what you’d just seen outside. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t careless. He was choosing these places for a reason. Maybe the buildings weren’t churches anymore, but they still carried something sacred in them - or at least the illusion of it. Redemption repurposed.

Your eyes drifted over the flyers until one caught your attention - a folded corner, dated last week:

Women’s Bible Support Group – Thursdays, 7 PM. Open to all.

You pulled it free, folded it once, then again, and slipped it into your coat pocket.

When you returned outside, Torres was giving orders to the techs. He glanced up when he saw you but didn’t ask. You didn’t offer, either. The silence between you was taut enough to hum.

But as the medics zipped the bag and lifted the stretcher, you caught sight of the victim’s face one last time - peaceful, almost serene. Whoever had done this didn’t just kill her. He staged her. Crafted her.

And that thought settled like ice in your stomach:

He wasn’t just reenacting something. He was perfecting it.

By noon you sat at your desk with the photos spread before you - the alley, the body, the small silver cross pendant that caught the light like a smirk. Each image stared back at you in silence. Each one felt like an accusation.

Torres leaned against the edge of your desk, a folder in hand. “Pathology’s backed up. We won’t have full autopsy reports till tomorrow.”

You didn’t look up. “We’ve got enough to work with now.”

“Not really.” His tone was patient, which only made it worse. “We don’t even have ID confirmation. Let’s wait before -”

“Wait?” You laughed, short and humorless. “You mean do nothing. Again.”

He straightened slightly, eyes narrowing. “You’re exhausted, Vale. Take a breath. We’re all -”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked sharper than you intended. Heads turned nearby. You lowered it again, quieter but tighter. “Don’t tell me to take a breath when we’re three victims deep and no closer than day one. You think that’s normal?”

Torres sighed, lowering his tone too. “It’s not normal, it’s procedure. You know that.”

You stared at him, really stared, seeing the practiced calm, the detached rhythm of a man who could clock out at five and still sleep. “Yeah. Procedure. Because procedure’s been doing so much good for them.”

For a second, he looked like he might argue. But instead, he just shook his head. “You’re taking these cases too personal.”

Something inside you snapped - not loudly, but cleanly. “They’re women, Torres. Not ‘cases.’ They’re people who trusted someone enough to get close. You don’t get to tell me how personal that should feel.”

He didn’t answer this time. Just let out another slow breath, the kind that meant he was done trying.

Garcia appeared in the doorway then, her expression careful, eyes darting between you. “Captain wants updates on the scene before briefing. You coming?”

Torres nodded and left, grateful for the excuse. You gathered your files, your pulse still high.

In the briefing room, the conversation felt hollow. Leads were discussed, evidence logged, timelines pinned to the board. You stood by the wall, arms crossed, watching the words drift by - blood analysis, victimology, witness canvassing - all sterile, all empty.

When it ended, the others filtered out one by one. You stayed behind. The whiteboard loomed in front of you: three names, three photos. Beneath them, dates and red lines connecting them like an unfinished equation.

It looked clean. Neat. Manageable. It was a lie.

You felt the fury building again - not just at the killer, but at the system that dressed horror up as data and called it justice. Every rule you’d spent years defending suddenly felt like a leash.

You pressed your palms against the table, allowing thoughts you would have suppressed in a less loaded situation: Maybe Max could help…

The thought burned hot and wrong. You pushed it away, but it lingered. The man across the hall - unpredictable, dangerous, but efficient. Brutally so. When he wanted something, he found it. And part of you - the part that still believed in good - hated that you wanted him to be the one hunting this man.

You didn’t even have your keys out when his door opened.

Max filled the doorway like a shadow that had been waiting for its light. Sunglasses still on against the late-afternoon glare that slanted through the narrow windows; hands loose in the pockets of his jeans; the faint line of tension at his jaw giving him away.

“Shouldn’t you be hiding from the light?” you asked, voice rough, a half-hearted joke scraping your throat. “At least one of us should get a healthy amount of sleep.”

His mouth curved, tired but genuine. “Couldn’t,” he said, then after a beat, softer: “Wouldn’t.”

Something in your chest clenched before you could name it. You fumbled for your keys - and of course, they slipped right through your fingers. He caught them before they hit the floor, smooth as breath, the motion so effortless it barely existed.

“Thanks,” you muttered, not even impressed anymore. Just exhausted.

He didn’t answer, only tilted his head slightly as you tried to fit the right key into the lock. “How was it?”

“You already know what I can tell you.” You exhaled, but when you looked up, his expression wasn’t teasing - just quietly waiting. And maybe it was that look, or the sheer fatigue, or the way his presence seemed to steady the hallway - whatever it was, you didn’t stop yourself.

“Exact copy of the last crime scenes,” you said finally. “Same M.O., same goddamn everything. Only this time they dumped her behind a church annex. Everyone thinks it’s coincidence, that the first two being near religious sites was just random proximity, but -” You shook your head, pressing your fingers to your temples. “I feel it’s intentional, you know? He’s doing it on purpose.”

Max took your coat without asking when you shrugged it off, hanging it on the hook behind the door. You didn’t even register the gesture, just kept talking, pacing, too wound up to sit.

“It’s like they don’t want to see the pattern because it means admitting it’s not a one-off maniac. It’s ritual. Careful. Precise. He knows what he’s doing - and while they’re stuck debating terminology, he may already be picking his next victim.”

“He definitely does.”

His tone was quiet, dark - not in agreement so much as understanding. A few weeks ago it might have sent a warning bell through you, that eerie alignment in how he said it. Now, it just made sense. He thought like a predator - that was the point, wasn’t it? That was why he saw what they didn’t.

You slumped into the couch, rubbing at your eyes. “What else would you say about him?”

“He wants control,” Max said softly. “Not chaos. Control. He picks them for a reason. Makes them look like that - peaceful, pure - because it’s his way of rewriting the story. He’s not just killing them. He’s claiming them. Saving them, in his mind.”

Your stomach turned - not because he was wrong, but because he was right.

You looked up sharply. “That’s… disturbingly insightful.”

He gave the faintest hint of a smile. “Told you once, Detective: monsters recognize their own.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. He lingered in your living room, as if waiting for you to invite him to sit down. You lifted your head to catch his gaze and exhaled shakily. “You ever think about it?”

His brow lifted. “Killing?”

“No. Losing control.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked to your throat, lingered just long enough to make you aware of it - the pulse there, the skin.

“Every day,” he said finally, voice low. “But that’s the difference between me and him. I think about it. He doesn’t.”

It should have scared you. It didn’t. It steadied something inside you you hadn’t realized was shaking.

Your voice softened. “You shouldn’t have to deal with me when I’m like this.”

“Like what?”

“Angry. Useless. Wanting to burn everything down because no one else seems to care.”

“Maybe that’s the only sane way to feel.”

You laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it. “You’re not supposed to say that.”

“Then stop asking for honesty from people like me.”

Something flickered in your eyes - defiance, maybe, or relief. “I’m serious, Max. I just… I hate how helpless this job makes me feel.”

He nodded slowly. “Then do something about it.”

You blinked. “Like what? Shoot ghosts?”

“Start by seeing what no one else sees. You’re good at that.” His voice held warmth. It wasn’t comfort, not really, but it was close.

You took a long breath, eyes tracing his face - the calm, the restraint, the faint tension around his jaw. He looked like someone built for violence but living in discipline. And that contradiction was magnetic.

“Can I do something for you?” he asked suddenly.

It disarmed you more than any smirk would have. His tone was sincere, stripped of irony.

You hesitated, every instinct torn between accepting and fleeing. “You already are,” you said finally, voice quiet. “More than anyone at the precinct at the moment.” But one thought wouldn’t leave you. There was a question forming at the back of your mind, sharp and persistent, one you weren’t ready to ask - not yet.

“Let’s get you to sleep, Ashley.”

Your name, spoken without tease or superiority, was disarming. No smirk this time. Just quiet care - genuine, almost gentle. It made your pulse skip in a way exhaustion couldn’t explain. For one dizzying second, you imagined his arms around you, his hand steady on your back as he carried you to bed and stayed there until you drifted off. The image was ridiculous - dangerous - and yet it stayed.

You stood, stretching the stiffness out of your shoulders with a faint crack. “You’re right,” you murmured, and when you looked back at him, he’d already pushed his sunglasses into the mess of dark curls atop his head. His eyes caught the low hallway light - still so dark with not a flicker of gold.

He must be hungry, you thought.

“Thank you, Max.”

“Always.”

It was said simply, like a truth he didn’t need to dress up. He turned toward the door, already half in the motion of leaving, when your voice stopped him.

“Max.”

He turned back, one brow lifted, waiting. You crossed the short distance between you until the doorframe separated you by inches. He towered above you again, silent, unreadable - but listening.

“I want to come with you. The next one.”

His expression didn’t change. If anything, it became stiller.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Ashley.” His tone was low and controlled, leaving no room for discussion. You tried it anyway.

“Max, I need to see.” Your voice softened, pleading but steady. “Please.”

Something flickered across his features. For a moment, you thought he might refuse you outright. Then his gaze lowered, the faintest sigh escaping through his nose.

“Careful what you wish for, Detective.”

But it wasn’t a no.

Next Chapter

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