Quick! Get me a thirst aid kit!

But that doesn't mean you can escape all his attention. He might slip a finger into you now and again, when he feels the urge. Your cunt flutters around his knuckles whenever his palm grinds against your clit, and you try to hide the way he makes your whole body tremble. No good. He always notices. 

He likes to pull away just as your body starts responding to him, smiling at you when you whine.

"Hunger left half satisfied is far worse than hunger untouched, didn't nobody tell you that, princess?" he'll ask, one hand still on your thigh.

You're never sure how to respond to him when he does that. Part of you wants him to finish what he's started, and part of you doesn't want to be touched at all. But the decision is never really up to you, is it?

He likes having you sleep naked. Your bare chest pressed against his, your ass warm and plush in his hands. He likes slipping his cock inside you right as you're drifting off, too. Likes the slight hitch in your breath, the way you're usually too far gone to squirm away.

You don't know it, but most mornings he'll wake up and just watch you. Head propped against his fist, his fingers tracing your cheekbone.

"You're too young for me, darlin'. Far too young. But you need a man to teach you about this world, and if your daddy ain't around no more... Well, I'll just have to do it myself."

The boss is a mystery to you. He’s as hard eyed and sinful as the devil, and you can never really tell what he’s thinking. When he calls you out to the stables one afternoon, your first thought is that you’ve somehow done something wrong — the air is hot and close, and it makes your neck crawl.

He's grooming his mustang when you enter, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He has a way of making the spaces around him seem small. It's in the way he holds his six shooter, in the set of his shoulders. That sense of authority that makes you want to duck your head and agree with whatever he tells you to.

You watch him for a while. The muscles in his forearms flex whenever he lifts the grooming brush to his horse’s neck. He's strong, you know it intimately. But it's still frightening to see the evidence of that strength.

He smiles when he notices you. His blue eyes run down your body and it's the same analytical, proprietary look he uses on his horses and his gold.

"Noticed you looking at the horses the other day, girl. Not thinking of runnin' out on us, are you?"

"No, sir." You shift, not quite able to meet his eyes. "I just miss home, that's all."

"Come here. Let me look at you."

You stop a foot or so away from him. He isn't as heavy handed as the gunslingers, isn't as terrifying in his anger as the second in command. But you're still afraid of him — more so than all the rest maybe. You feel like a little girl around him, like your father is calling you into his study after you went and did something stupid.

He takes your jaw in his palm, surprisingly gentle.

"I ain't surprised you miss home, girl. I reckon your life would've been a helluva lot easier if we didn't come around." He traces a thumb across your cheek, his riding gloves cool and soft. "But this is where you belong now, you understand?"

He makes you look into his eyes. That ocean blue so deep you can almost see shipwrecks at the bottom.

"You gonna try runnin’?"

Yes, yes. A thousand times yes.

"No, sir. Never."

"Liar," he says. "But I ain't a heartless man. You miss home, and if handlin’ the horses makes that ache go away then I'll let you have 'em."

You can’t help the jolt that shoots through you when he says that. You’re a rancher’s daughter, and all your best memories feature horses. Learning to ride with your pa, getting your first pony when you were a little girl…being around horses is as natural to you as breathing.

He hands you the grooming brush and steps aside. His mustang is a mean old mare the colour of smoke. When you run the brush down her flank she flicks her tail irritably.

“She’s beautiful,” you say.

“Hmm, I reckon I like my girls pretty.”

It doesn’t surprise you when his palms come to rest on your waist. Like all the other outlaws, the boss can’t seem to keep his hands off you for long.

“Did you break her yourself, sir?”

“Of course. Don’t do it much now, but back in the day I could break any horse you gave me.”

You don’t doubt him. Didn’t he break you in, in just an afternoon? 

Being near the horses makes you brave. As the silence lingers, you find yourself asking him questions without really meaning to.

“How long have you been an outlaw, sir?”

He laughs a little at that and squeezes your waist. “Decades, darlin’. From before you were born.”

“Why?”

“Money. Adventure. Reckon I just couldn’t keep myself honest.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“No. Could never get a girl to stick. And there ain’t ever been a girl I liked enough to keep.” He pauses, and then presses a light kiss against your neck. “Except for you, pretty girl. You’re the one I’ve been waitin’ for.”

“I don’t understand you at all, sir. Why me?” 

“You don’t see it?” 

“See what?”

He sighs and runs a hand down the mustang’s neck. “We’re an awful bunch of bastards, I know that much. But we’re still men, ain’t we?”

You’re not sure what he means by that, but he doesn’t give you the chance to ask again. He turns you to face him and drops his head to your neck. His stubble scrapes your skin right before he kisses you.

“You’ll understand someday, darlin’,” he says against your skin, “And I reckon you’ll hate us even more when you do.”

The outlaws each take care of you in their own way. Sometimes it's a cup of tea brewed on a cold day, or a knitted shawl in your favourite colour when the weather takes a turn.

Other times, it's a bit more...forceful. Your period is one of those times.

The first time you get it around them, it's the boss who notices. You're hurting and sore and miserable, and he sees it. You're curled in front of the fireplace in your room, clutching your belly like you've been shot.

He squats down next to your armchair and presses a hand to your forehead, and then to your neck. No fever, which is good. But you're all scrunched up, which isn't. This ain't the flinching, sharp pain that comes from being fucked too hard. Nor is it the slow, dull ache of a bad bruise.

"What happened, girl?"

He doesn't blame his boys for getting a little rough. Lord knows, he struggles with it himself. But there's miles of difference between playing hard and breaking the toys. If you're so torn up, he'll have to knock a bit of softness into them.

"It's nothing, sir."

Is it his imagination or are you avoiding his eyes even more than usual?

"Don't look like nothin' to me. Which one of 'em did this to you?"

There's a flash in your eyes then, a vindictive streak he hasn't seen before. Are you going to give him someone to blame? Lie straight through your teeth to get a little revenge?

For a second, he thinks that might just be the case. Well, well. Little vixen finding her claws at last, eh?

But it goes as quick as it comes, and you pull your knees closer to your chest.

"It's...it's that time of the month."

Your ears go a shade or two brighter than the rest of you, and your cheeks are quick to follow. You're embarrassed. Despite the fact that he’s fucked you and tasted you and heard every small noise you make when you come, you’re still ashamed of telling him.

He laughs, already reaching for your hips.

"Is that all, doll? A little ache deep inside you?"

He slides into an armchair and pulls you onto his lap, his chin in the crook of your shoulder. You smell like fresh washed linen, and underneath it, a scent that’s so totally and irrevocably you. He presses his palm flat against your belly and half wonders if his cock can reach that deep.

"How do you usually take care of it?"

"My ma used to make me this tea, with all kinds of herbs in it. But I can't remember what."

He hums quietly, thinking. Eventually, "I'll have the boys look around for you. Someone in town will know what you need, I’m sure."

He starts rubbing slow circles with his palm, still lost in thought. You hate to admit it, but his touch helps. It eases the clenched fist inside you.

You relax against him a little at a time. The hard muscles of his chest press up against your back, somehow comforting. Kind of how your father used to hold you when you were learning to ride. Safe and sound, doll. I've got you.

"Do you trust me, girl?"

You startle, not sure when you started to drift off. You try to sit up but he pulls you back with a grunt and a half hearted tug.

No, of course I don't trust you. You're a monster wearing the face of a man.

"Yes, sir. I trust you."

"You trust I'll take care of you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then let me touch you, doll, and I'll make it all better deep inside."

He reaches for the hem of your dress, tugging it up in his fist.

"But the blood—"

You can't hide the slight horror in your voice. Your period is a filthy thing, doesn't he know that? Something barely spoke of, even between girls. What is he trying to do?

"Sweetheart, I sure as hell ain't scared of a little blood."

He stands and slips you down onto the armchair, and then gets to his knees in front of you. Your dress is still in his fist and and another tug is all it takes to get it out the way.

“Blood has been my business since I was a boy, darlin’. I don’t mind it one bit.”

He wraps his palm around your thigh and hooks your leg over his shoulder.

"No, wait—"

He doesn't. Of course he doesn’t. He leans down and shifts your knickers to the side before slipping his tongue down the slit of your cunt. He moves too fast for you to stop him.

You gasp, your nails digging into the armchair. Are you always this sensitive? Or does bleeding make it worse? His tongue catches on your clit and he gives it a slow, teasing lick.

"There, not complainin' now, are you?" he murmurs against your inner thigh, nipping your skin before refocusing on your pussy. His stubble scrapes your mound and makes shivers race down your spine.

You can't answer him —  not when he sucks on your clit and presses two fingers at your entrance. Feeling him touching you so low is enough to make you jump. You try to shove him away, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair. 

But then he pushes his fingers inside you and you damn near see stars.

He laughs a little at that, his warm breath ghosting over you.

"Just let me fix you up, doll. That's what a good father does, ain't it? And you're sure as hell my little girl by now."

You only half register him talking. It's true — you're hellishly sensitive. His fingers dragging out of you sends sparks all the way to your toes.

He curls an arm around your lower back and half lifts you closer to his face, his nose grinding against your clit. He's got his focus all on you now, those storm eyes latched onto the way you twist and turn. You want this, deep down, no matter how hard you try and deny it. You can scratch like a cat when you have to, but a little bit of cock — just a few fingers inside you — and you go all sweet for him. What else can he call that, besides wanting it?

Your cunt is slick with blood, burning so hot you make his whole hand feel feverish. Fuck. What would you feel like on his cock?

"Probably like a goddamn furnace," he says to himself. You're too far gone to answer him.

The taste doesn't bother him none. He's swallowed plenty of blood in his life, and it sure as hell never came with a pretty, moaning girl in the bargain. Your thighs are shaking, a little tremor in the muscles that you can't control or stop. It makes him feel stupid smug.

Eating her so good she can't even fight it.

He can tell you're getting close, can read it in your face. The way you have your eyes scrunched shut, the way you bite your lip to keep it all inside. No. No, that won't do at all. He deserves to see it when you come undone. Deserves to see the light and lust and longing in your expression.

"Look at me, little girl."

He barely recognises his own voice. It's low and thick, like his words are scraping over desert rock just to make it out his mouth.

Look what you do to me, girl. Got me sounding like a goddamn animal.

You open your eyes as quickly as if he slapped you. And oh, what a thing to see. Horror, yes. At what's being done to you, at the way it's being done. But something under that. Interest, maybe.

Your hands are still in his hair, and you let one drift down his cheek. Rub at his jaw with your thumb.

"You...there's blood on you, sir."

He closes his eyes for a second and tilts his head just a little into your palm.

Oh darlin', you'd soften the devil with the way you talk.

"That's fine," he says in that animal voice, "Just fine with me."

He curls his fingers inside you, and that's all it takes. You tighten up around him in pulses, a heartbeat to match his own. Your face twists up all pretty — in pain almost. You pull in a sharp breath that catches in your lungs.

He watches it happen, the animal inside him snarling like a dog.

Pretty girl. My pretty little girl. Too far gone now, darlin’. I've got your blood inside me, your tears, your cum. Can't let you go. Can’t ever let you go.

He doesn't let you go, not even when it's over and you're draped bonelessly against the armchair, weak and spent.

"Does it still hurt, darlin'?"

You blink at him, and he can tell your mind is far, far from here.

"No," you say absently, "Not like it used to."

He isn't entirely sure you're talking about the cramps.

"Good. Reckon we figured out a damn good cure to the bleedin’ blues, huh?"

He smiles and kisses your inner thigh. How many days do you bleed for? Three? Five? He'll just have to keep checking on you until it's all over. Can't have his girl hurting deep inside, not when he has a cock to scratch that itch.

And besides, he stole you from your home. From the pa who had the right to give you away, who didn't get to pass on that responsibility. 'Spose that makes you his little girl now. His to take care of, the way only a father can.

He reaches for his belt, that animal inside him smiling real big.

The boy is quiet most of the time. He goes about his work with his head down and his curls in his eyes. Part of it is shyness — he’s as skittish around the bit as a new broke colt — and part of it is inexperience. The other outlaws are hard-edged and hard eyed. You aren’t sure how the boy fell in with them, but you can tell he doesn’t belong. Or at least not yet.

The others must have been this young and sweet once, and you hate the thought of the boy becoming like them, hate watching his softness get worn away. 

You see them teaching him their ways a little every day. The gunslingers show him how to take apart a rifle and load a six-shooter, their hands slow even though they both have a tendency to lose their patience quick. The second in command teaches him to read maps. Even the boss takes the time to show him some card tricks now and again, old card sharp that he is.

They teach him things out loud, and they teach him things without having to say a word at all. It’s in his expressions, when you learn how to look. He has the wrangler’s quick eye and the boss’s laconic drawl.

You ought to teach him a little something, too. That’s only fair, isn’t it? He ought to learn a thing or two about civility and honour and justice. He should get the chance to choose his own life, away from the gang’s influence.

But you aren’t sure how to put a name to things like chivalry. You settle for teaching him how to garden instead.

There’s a small garden by the back door of the farmhouse. It’s poorly tended and the peppermint has run wild over all the other plants. Before you, the outlaws were always on the move and you suppose that meant no time to let things take root.

“Poor things,” you say to the boy. You’re looking at a rose bush that’s almost withered away. “My ma would have wept to see flowers kept in this state.”

“Why? They’re only plants.”

“They’re living things all the same. And it’s an awful waste of beauty."

He runs a hand through his curls. He’s wearing a bright red bandanna today and it makes the freckles on his nose stand out.

“I suppose…But what good does having flowers around do?”

“You’ll see. I reckon the rainy season will start soon, and if we work fast enough the flowers will bloom just in time for spring.”

There’s a smudge of black gun oil on his cheek. You lick your thumb and reach up to rub it away.

“You’ll help me, won’t you?” you ask.

He touches his cheek, his face turning a bright red. “Sure, whatever you say.”

When he’s done with the rest of his chores, he comes to find you. You’re on your knees in the dirt, your fingers already coated in earth.

“See these roots?” you ask. “We need to clear them away, otherwise they’ll strangle the new growth.”

He squats down next to you and nudges his cattleman higher up his forehead.

“But shouldn't we leave them? The strongest plant survives, right? Way of the world.”

“You think strength is all it takes?”

You set to cutting the dead heads away. It doesn’t surprise you that he thinks that way. In the lawless west, strength seems to matter more than anything. Even still…

“If we don’t clear it, all the plants will die eventually. The soil is shallow here. Let this one grow too much and it’ll strangle itself in the end.”

He doesn’t answer you. He just picks up a knife and gets to pruning. By the time you’re done, the setting sun is turning the fields golden. There’s a pile of weeds and old growth destined for mulch and the rich smell of fresh turned earth is thick in your nose. 

“Thank you for your help.”

He shugs and looks away from you. “‘S not a problem. Happy to.”

He jumps when you kiss his cheek.

“Still. I appreciate it, Red.”

“Red?”

“Mhm. On account of your hair.”

In the sunset, the copper sheen of it is hard to miss.

“I’ve got a name you know.”

You dust off your skirt and start heading toward the house.

“I’m sure you do,” you call over your shoulder, “but I like Red better.”

When he dishes out supper that evening, you can still see the dirt staining his nails. He brushes his shoulder against yours when he hands you your plate.

“Here. Used some of the herb cuttings.”

And true to his word, you can taste just a hint of thyme when you take a bite.

“‘S good. Really good. Where did you learn to cook?”

“My big sister. She was ‘round your age, actually.”

That’s more than you’ve gotten from him before. Progress maybe. It’s a good thing he’s telling you about his past. Most of the outlaws keep theirs locked away tight. And that would mean you were right in your guess — he really is just a few years younger than you.

The next morning, the boy is nowhere to be seen. The only hint that he was around is a single sprig of lavender left on the kitchen table, right where you normally sit.

You get back to the garden as soon as you can. It’s just as you left it last night. Your ma would be in a fit of tears over the state of the place, and you can half hear her scolding you for letting good growth go to ruin. Well, it’s not your fault the outlaws never took care of it. The best you can do is fix up their mess.

By midmorning, you’ve managed to clear most of the debris and neaten up the beds. It looks miles better, though the growth in some areas is still sparse. In addition to the roses and peppermint, there are some struggling daffodils and a pot of climbing jasmine. That would look mighty pretty on the porch, and it would almost smell like home.

You straighten when you hear the sound of hooves. The boy rounds the corner, leading his horse by the reins. His bandana is dusty with hard riding and his boots aren’t much better.

“Where have you been, Red?”

He doesn’t answer. He just drops a small bag in your hand and mutters something about being back to help you as soon as he can. He’s back on his horse before you can ask him to elaborate.

When he’s gone — and he goes mighty fast too, would think he was almost scared of you — you take a good look at what he gave you. 

Seeds. 

When they spill into your palm you can’t help laughing. Well, ain’t that sweet of him? No matter what sort of man he turns out to be in the end, you know there’ll be some trace of you in him. A lesson in softness and care he might not otherwise have learned. 

When the spring comes, the flowers bloom afterall.

The boy takes good care of you. That’s the one thing no one can argue. When you catch an early season fever, he's the one who fusses over you with cool cloths and snake oil.

His other duties lay abandoned in favour of you. The outlaws scrape together their own meals and the garden by the back door collects drifts of dead leaves. When the gunslingers complain, the boss just waves them off. The boy looks feverish himself, though his temperature is perfectly even. There are dark circles under his eyes from long nights at your bed.

The wrangler and the second in command both tell him you'll be just fine. That it's nothing but a passing weakness, brought on by the changing weather.

He nods politely, but anyone can see he's not really listening.

"Reckon he's just scared of losing her," the dark skinned gunslinger says to his partner when the boy goes rushing past them with a bundle of dried herbs and hot water.

"Ain't gotta be. Our girl is tough as nails deep down. She ain't gonna wilt away from a fucking cold."

"Ain't you a little nervous yourself?"

"Nah, she'll be just dandy come next week."

Still, the gunslinger follows the boy with his eyes until he's out of sight.

You're thankful for the boy, a lot more than you let on. Waking from your fever dreams to his cool fingers on your brow is a mercy you didn't think you'd find. You feel bad about making him worry, and you feel guilty about feeling bad. It's a whole mix of things, and they don't help your fever at all.

"I'm sorry," you half murmur, face pressed against your pillow and your throat an aching mess. "Didn't mean to get sick."

It's a hold-over from living with your parents, where even one sick day would throw everyone else a whole heap of extra work.

"Don't talk," he whispers, brushing your hair away from your forehead. "Just go back to sleep."

You do, the ghost of his touch following you into your dreams.

It goes on for a week, and then two. Your fever wanes a little, but always comes back just as strong. The strain of your new life finally catching up to you.

The boy goes from fussing over your blankets and sheets to almost never leaving your room. He sleeps in an armchair next to your bed, long limbs curled under him like a cat.

He talks to you too, though you can only half recall what he says. Stories about his older sister, long dead now, and the way she used to take care of him as a kid. Stories about his life with the outlaws and how he came to be part of their crew.

He confesses his dreams to you. But only when it's the dead of night and you're dead asleep.

"I'd like to be rich some day," he tells you, holding your hand in his. "And notorious. My face on wanted posters from Arizona to Montana. Like the boss."

You murmur something that sounds like encouragement. He smiles in the dark, a little giddy at having you all to himself.

"I'd like to take you away someday too. Just you and me, with our own place. It won't ever happen. They're all so jealously possessive of you, but I like to think about it anyway."

How wonderful would that be? An honest life and an honest wife, smiling just for him.

"I don't care if they hear me say it," he whispers to you. "I want you all to myself. You're the closest thing I've ever had to a real friend. I...I love you. I really do."

Maybe you hear him through your dreams, or maybe he just imagines the way you squeeze his hand.

Like you love him too.

He swallows and leans forward to check your temperature. Too hot, still too damn hot to be safe. It makes him nervous, makes him feel about as high strung as a rattlesnake at midday.

"Please, get well. This is how my sister went. The fever burned up everything she had. Burned her up from the inside out. I can't lose you the same."

You sigh in your sleep and it makes his breath catch in his throat.

"Please don't leave me. Please don't ever leave me."

When morning comes, you wake to find him half draped on your bed, his hand still clutching yours. You sigh and shift your blanket so he's covered too.

"Early morning cold gets in your lungs, kid," you say, quoting your pa. "Didn't anyone ever tell you?"

He smiles in his sleep, his face so much younger than his years. His curls are messy and you reach out and brush them back without thinking.

This life will age you before your time, kid, if it doesn't kill you outright.

But you don't have the nerve to say it out loud. Not when he's been so kind to you. You can only watch him as the sun turns the world bright, half praying and half hoping that he'll find a way out of this place.

Don't become like the rest of them. Please. I can't bear it if what's in them gets in you too.

He keeps dreaming and you keep praying and neither one of you cares to think how little it's all worth.

The others are nervous about your fever too, though they show it in different ways.

The boss comes to kneel by your bed now and again, the bandana around his throat dusty from work but his hands always clean. Always cool.

He rests his palm against your neck, his eyes creasing at the corners when he smiles.

"You can handle this, girl."

He sounds so sure of it that you start to believe him. Start to wonder when the sickness will break rather than asking yourself if it ever would.

He always kisses your forehead before he leaves. That perfect wall of certainty never wavering, no matter what he feels deep inside.

The wrangler and the second in command bring you more cures than the boy knows what to do with. Everything from folk remedies to the latest tonics. 

Both of them are a little detached, a little brusque. Never lingering long in the room though you can tell they want to. They put barriers around their fear, you realise slowly. Don't admit it exists, not even to themselves.

When your fever takes a particularly nasty turn, the second paces the hall outside your room for hours. And the wrangler sits in front of the fire for just as long, still as standing water.

They aren't like this with anyone else, you think to yourself when you're finally lucid enough to process the thought. If you were a horse with colic, the wrangler would have stayed by your side all night. If you were an outlaw bleeding out on the floor, the second in command would have you stitched up before sunrise.

It's like their instincts and experience are worth nothing at all when it comes to you. And maybe there's a compliment in there — strong and clever as they are, you're still their weakness.

You don't care to think about it longer than you have to. Two more outlaws leaving you alone is more than enough to keep you happy, regardless of their reasons.

Not so for the gunslingers. 

You don't expect them to care much, but it's yet another thing you're wrong about. They both come to spend a lot more time in your room than they ought to, cards spread on your duvet as they teach you to play poker. You're wary of them — worried that they'll take your sickness as just another excuse to have their way with you. And maybe the thought does cross their minds — how much hotter does your cunt run when you're burning up? But they don't act on it. They take turns sitting next to you, an arm around your waist or a palm on your thigh while they explain what a royal flush and a two of a kind is.

When you drop off to sleep with your head in one of their laps, or curled against their ribs, the way they go so perfectly still says plenty.

There is one perk to being sick. With you too weak to do much more than sleep, the outlaws are willing to leave you alone with the boy and go off on jobs as a crew. It’s nice to talk about things more freely. And it’s pretty damn nice not having them around. You always seem to get the best sleep when they’re gone. 

If it weren't for the medicine, you'd have called your fever a blessing. As it stands…

“Say ‘aah’.”

You look at the boy skeptically. The spoonful of medicine he’s offering you is thick as treacle and smells about as good as an outhouse in July.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes. Don’t argue.”

He’s picked up a bit of muscle since you first arrived and even though he’s still greyhound lean, there’s a wiry strength to him.

“What are you gonna do if I say ‘no?’ You wouldn’t want to drink that either.” 

He eyes the medicine for a second. “It don’t look good, but that don’t mean it won’t work.”

“Mhm. And you’d happily take it if you were in my place?”

“Yes. Yes, I would. Because unlike some people in this room, I would want to get better.”

“Take it then, little doctor. Show some solidarity.”

You’re teasing him mostly for the sake of it. And so it surprises you plenty when he does exactly what you suggested. 

He brings the spoon to his mouth and sucks up the medicine with a grimace.

“Hey, I didn’t really mean—”

He leans forward and kisses you. You’re too off guard to defend yourself, and when he pushes the medicine into your mouth you have no choice but to swallow.

When he pulls away, he’s wiping his mouth and looking immensely satisfied with himself. 

“There. Doctor’s orders.”

You try not to gag. 

“Never bring that medicine near me again. It tastes like something from an oil field,” you say.

“If it works then you’ll be drinking it night and day, little patient.”

You scowl at him. “I’m still older than you.”

“Yeah. But I’m taller. And stronger. Seems you look mighty little from over here.”

When did he get so cocky?

“Do you go about kissing all your patients, little doctor?”

He flushes and looks away from you. So, that cockiness isn’t as authentic as he pretends it is. He’s still just as shy deep down. 

“Only the pretty ones,” he mutters.

“You think I’m pretty, Red?”

“Of course you’re pretty. The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Must not get around much then.”

That annoys him enough that he looks up at you. “Don’t tease.”

“Why not? You gonna stop me?”

“If you make me.”

“I’m shaking in my boots, kid.” Still, you shouldn’t go too hard on him. He’s just a kid, as far from home and alone as you are. “Thank you for taking care of me, Red. I know it’s a lot of work and worry.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “‘Course. Any time.”

You lay back down and pull the covers to your chin. You hate to admit it, but you really do feel a bit better after the medicine. Drowsy too, though that shouldn’t be a surprise. Your ma used to say they used all kinds of fancy ingredients in these things.

“I’m proud of you, Red,” you say quietly, “You’re becoming a good man.”

When you finally drop off to sleep, he stays in his chair and watches you. A good man, huh? He hasn’t met a lot of those, and they never seemed to live long. Better to be a bastard in this line of work. Even the wrangler — soft spoken and patient — is a killer. You need to take what you want in this life or else someone will steal it right from under you.

Ain’t you proof enough of that? There’s probably a fiancé out there looking for you, a family who wants to keep you close.

“I’m not trying to be good,” he tells you.

He touches your forehead. Your fever is close to breaking. You’re still hot, but not worryingly so. After weeks of white knuckled worry, he finally relaxes a little.

You’re pretty when you’re asleep. Less worried, less afraid. There’s a trace of medicine around your mouth and he swipes it off with his thumb. Your lips are nice too. He didn’t get much time to appreciate them when he kissed you.

Kissing you…did giving you the medicine really count as his first kiss? Nah, that ain’t fair. He should get to enjoy his first kiss for a lot longer than that.

He thinks about what you looked like that first day, when the gunslingers forced him to eat you out. You were so scared — big doe eyes still wet with tears, your voice almost gone. You’ve changed since then. You don’t fight, and he never sees you cry. 

Maybe you’ve started to like it. Maybe you’ve gotten better at accepting the inevitable.

Hell, you sure seemed to like it when he was tongue deep in your cunt. You were crying, true. But your body was responding to him just fine. What pretty sounds you made…

It’s inevitable, right? That’s what all the outlaws tell him. You’ll have to get used to it eventually, your body will learn to like it. You might even fall in love.

It’s hard to imagine you in love. Who would you even fall for? The boss gets whatever he wants in life, sure, but he’s old. Wouldn’t you prefer someone closer to your own age? And the gunslingers are both handsome but there’s no hiding how cruel they are.

Maybe you’ll fall in love with the wrangler or the second in command. They can be sweet and patient when they need to be, and God knows they’re both stupidly in love with you. They think they hide it well, but a one eyed miner could see the way they fawn over you. Neither one of them cared about being clean shaven all the time until you showed up.

Yeah, maybe they’re the ones you’ll fall in love with.

…They’re both older than you, though. And they don’t spend as much time with you as he does. They’ve never been next to you in the dirt, hands covered in earth and roots. They’ve never coaxed anything to grow from the mud. How can you love them when he’s right here?

It should be him. If you love anyone, it should be him. He’s never forced you. He’s never taken what isn’t his. 

And he sure as fuck has never made you cry. Doesn’t that deserve a reward?

Sure, the outlaws said he couldn’t fuck you until he earned it. But they’re selfish, jealous bastards. He might never earn it. Who are they to say when he should and shouldn’t touch you?

He can shoot and he can wrangle and he can steal too, though you don’t know nothing about that last one. Doesn’t that pretty much make him a man?

Besides, what you don’t know can’t hurt you. Maybe just a taste of you. He’s been practically saintly in his patience. Not fair that they get to have you and all he’s left with are his fist and his memories.

Be a good man, some stubborn part of him insists, leave her to sleep off the rest of her fever in peace. You’ll get a chance eventually.

No. All goodness gets you is an early grave. It’s about time he did things a bit selfishly. And look at you; you’re dead asleep. Weak from the fever and knocked out with medicine. He won’t get this chance again. 

She won’t even know it happened.

And he’ll stop. If you wake up and tell him to, he’ll definitely stop. It’s harmless.

When he slips under the sheets with you, you don’t stir at all. You’re only in a thin nightgown and he can feel the fever radiating off you. He touches a hand to your thigh, trying his hardest to breathe slowly. 

It’s really happening. He’s really in bed with you, about to fuck you. God, how many nights has he spent thinking about this moment? He rubs his jeans against the curve of your ass. Fuck, that friction feels good. He’s getting hard fast.

It’s only fair that you’re his first. His sister used to tell him to only kiss the woman he loved, and how else can he describe you? 

Maybe he shouldn’t go all the way. Wouldn’t want to push his luck. Besides, when the time comes, he wants you to feel him inside. Wants to see you bite your lip and squirm like you did when he first made you come. He’d fuck you good, he knows that much. He’ll be the only one of them that doesn’t make you cry, the only one you willingly kiss. He can wait for that. Inevitable, right? He can be patient.

He just needs something to take the edge off. Just a taste.

His fingers are shaking when he undoes his belt and eases his cock out. Shit, his adrenaline is pumping like he’s at a midday duel. Do all the other outlaws feel this way when they touch you? Like they’re half about to faint and half about to scream. 

Just gotta move your nightgown out the way…

Oh God, your cunt is hot. He nudges his tip against your folds. With the way you’re sleeping — curled on your side, knees drawn in a little — he can run his tip across the entire length of you. Must be the fever. There’s no way you burn this much on a normal day.

His head gets caught on your entrance, and he bites down hard on his lower lip. You’re so close. All it would take is one little push…

No. Better to be patient. It’ll be so much sweeter when you’re awake and willing.

He ruts his cock against you, the shaft sliding through your folds until it's nudging at your thighs. He’s surprised when all it takes is a small nudge to force his way between your legs. With the way you’re sleeping, your thighs are tight together and pillowy soft. Your skin is warm and just a little humid. 

Fuck.

No fucking wonder they want to keep you to themselves. If you were his, he’d lock you away so tight not even the coyotes would ever pick up your trail.

He pulls back and then slides between your thighs again. Your clit and labia add a soft sort of texture to his thrusts, massaging his shaft as he uses your thighs. The head of his cock is the most sensitive part — pulling away from you makes him shudder.

You’re so much better than his own hand that it’s not even a competition. Silkier and warmer, your thighs heavy against his dick. 

You shift a little in your sleep and he fucking whimpers. 

Oh, that’s tight. Your thighs are damn near strangling him. 

He spits in his hand and reaches down to his cock. A little extra something to get things moving again. And it sure as shit makes a difference. When he ruts into you again it’s heaven sent. 

The spit also means he can move a little faster. Careful though, wouldn’t want to wake you.

He stuffs his fist in his mouth to keep quiet, but his breathing is ragged. No hiding that. No hiding the way his cheeks are flushing almost as red as his hair either.

How the hell do the others last so long with you? He swears the second in command and the boss spend hours fucking you when they get the chance. And here he is — about to come all over you after just a few minutes. It must be the heat of you, and the thrill of being so near. He’s dreamed of you every night since the day he saw you. Is it any surprise he’s so needy and desperate? 

Shit, he’s so close. A little faster, just a little. 

You murmur something and his heart damn near jumps out his chest. But no, you’re just dreaming. Maybe even dreaming of him. That would only be fair given how often you haunt his sleep.

“I love you,” he whispers against your hair, “I love you.”

He sounds just as desperate as he feels. God, he’s just some stupid boy rutting into your thighs because he’s too weak to hold back and too lovesick to know better. 

“All your fault,” he continues, his voice cracking. “You’re too nice to me. I don’t deserve it, but you still are.”

He pulls off his bandana, and at the very last second, rolls away from you and shoves his cock into his fist. He comes hard, his dick a sensitive mess. Fucking hell.

He stays on his back, his hair clinging to his forehead. He’s never felt so spent — his muscles are watery weak and his heart is loud in his ears. His cock twitches in his fist as the last bits of spunk shudder out.

Okay, breathe. Get yourself together. She’s still sound asleep and doesn’t have a damn clue.

That makes him laugh. Yeah, not a clue in the fucking world. I could do this to her again and again and no one would have any damn idea.

“Just our little secret, right?”

You’re too deep in your fever dreams to answer him. He pushes his hair backwards and grins.

“Not such a good man afterall, am I? Not when it comes to you.”

 He shoves himself back into his jeans and then straightens your nightgown. So what if you think he’s better than he really is? Let it be a sweet little dream. You don’t need to know the truth — not when the lie will get you in his arms eventually.

But Lord help you, there’s just something about the way he moves.

You’ve been following him all morning, trailing behind like a pup in heat while he does his rounds. And it ain’t like there’s much else for you to do. Not when you’re tucked away out here in the middle of nowhere, ranch-bound and leashed to him in every way that matters.

So you watch. You sit in the dry grass, chin propped in your hands, trying not to squirm while your outlaw works shirtless in the sun, haulin’ hay bales with thick, roped forearms, shoulders flexing beneath sun-slick skin, veins standing up along his hands like the roots of an old tree. Every time he bends over to fix a latch or check a hoof, his jeans pull tight across his thighs and your breath catches. You can feel your body reacting, core clenching, nipples brushing against the inside of your dress, needy for friction and attention he hasn't given you since sunrise.

He doesn’t even notice at first. Just tips his hat back, all casual-like, and tosses you a look over his shoulder. “You doin’ alright, sugar?”

You nod too quickly. “Mhm,” you hum, legs crossed tight, voice nearly a whimper. Not really. You’re hot and itchy and aching, and watching him do ranch work is somehow worse than any teasing he’s ever done.

Once he finishes, before noon, like always, he stalks toward you, knife in one hand and a ripe peach in the other. You sit up straighter, mouth already watering. But not for the fruit, no, you want that giant thing tucked in his pants.

But a good girl like you shouldn't be thinkin' like that.

He slices it without a word, just a grunt when he sits beside you, juices dripping down the blade, and feeds you the first bite right off the tip of his knife. Fingers curl beneath your chin, tilting your face just so as he slides it past your lips. You suck the juice off his fingers, and his brows twitch, jaw ticking when you press your tongue against the pad of his thumb.

You look up at him, sunlight glinting off his pretty eyes, scruff shadowing his sharp jaw, that cold-eyed gunslinger stare softened just a little, and you can’t help it.

“Can you…” your voice comes out breathy, almost shy, “put me in a chokehold?”

He stills for a moment, all you can hear is the buzz of cicadas and the wet, juicy drip of peach onto the grass. And finally in a gravely tone laced with heat, “…What the hell did you just say?”

“I said…” you crawl into his lap, thighs brushing his, heat pooling low in your belly, all sweet like candy, “Can you put your hand around my throat?”

He stares. Long. Hard. “You feelin’ alright?” he mutters, voice low and rough, “Ain’t been drinkin’ the shine, have you?”

“No,” you whimper, fingers curling into the rough denim of his jeans, pressing your mouth to the stubble along his jaw. “I just… want it. Please.”

He grunts, more sound than word, like it physically pains him to admit how much he likes you beggin’. That’s what finally cracks him.

“Alright then,” he drawls, shifting beneath you until your back hits the dirt, doesn't pay any mind to the way you’re looking at him.

Knowing better than to trust easy sweetness. Knows you’ve been quiet lately. Been watchin’ him too close while he works. Legs crossed tight in that little dress he bought you, eyes all glassy and lips all pouty. He ain’t stupid. He sees it. The heat clingin’ to your skin, the squirm in your seat when he flexes just right.

And when you crawled into his lap and ask, so soft and sugar-slick, for him to put a hand around your throat?

Oh, he don’t trust that one bit.

“What’re you plannin’, darlin’?” he mutters, even as his hand curls just beneath your jaw, his thumb brushing your pulse like he’s takin’ inventory of every thought racin’ through that pretty head. “Tryin’ to distract me? Make me soft on you so you can slip off when I ain’t lookin’?”

You shake your head, whimperin’ no. But that only makes him more suspicious. More obsessed.

Because he knows how smart you are. He’s seen the way you eye the fence line. The way your fingers twitch when you hear the sound of boots approachin’ like maybe you’re still hopin’ someone’ll come for you.

You’re still tryin’ to run.

That pisses him off.

So when he grabs you, strong hands locking under your thighs and tossin’ you over his shoulder, it’s not gentle. He storms into the barn like a thunderhead rollin’ in, muttering under his breath the whole time, “Think I don’t see what this is? Think I don’t know what you’re doin’, sugar? Tryin’ to make me come undone so you can sneak out while my seed is still buried inside you? You forget who you're dealin’ with?”

The barn door slams behind him, and next thing you know you’re flat on a pile of hay, the skirt of your dress hiked up, lips trembling. His hat’s discarded on the floor, eyes burning wild above you, like some rabid dog ready to sink his teeth in.

He yanks his belt free with a harsh snap, looming over you like a stormcloud during monsoon season.

“You wanna be choked?” he growls, hand gripping your jaw, “You wanna be roughened up a little?”

Then he’s between your legs, nudging them apart with his knee, shoving your pretty white panties aside, dragging two rough fingers along your slick folds and groaning at how wet you are. “Goddamn, you’re drippin’. What the hell am I supposed to do with a girl like you? You’re not right in the head.”

His hand returns to your throat. This time, a little tighter, claiming your breath. Feeling your pulse quicken as he lines himself up, his thick head already breaching past your fluttering lips. You've never been this sweet to him before.

So when he finally thrusts into you, hard enough to make the hay rustle and the air leave your lungs, it’s not just lust. It’s punishment.

“You don’t get to leave me,” he snarls against your neck, biting down hard enough to bruise, for your screams to echo against the walls. “You don’t get to play me. You don’t get to fuckin’ leave.”

You cry out, not sure if it’s from the force of the bite or the way he’s splitting you open like he wants to ruin you for anyone else, and he laughs wicked in your ear as he pounds into your slick cunt. Perhaps you shouldn't have tempted the bull just because you were feeling a little needy.

“You thought you could use this? Thought you could get me so pussy-drunk I’d forget to lock the door behind me? I’ll make sure you can’t walk by the time I’m done,” he hisses, voice trembling at the edge, slick obscene sounds bouncing off the walls in the barn. His pace quickens even more while his words come out in a hushed groan, “I’ll fuck the thoughts right outta that schemin’ little head.”

He doesn’t stop until you’re babbling, hands weak against his chest, legs twitching around his waist, your voice raw from cryin’ his name and beggin’ for more, for less, for anything. And even then…he doesn’t let go of your throat.

Not until he’s sure.

Not until he’s pressed so deep inside you that he swears he can feel your heartbeat around his cock that's pressed right up against your womb.