Jime

Spencer didn’t like the times you whisked him away to visit your family. You didn’t like it either, and he had never been a fan of any of them. He only put up with them because they are the reason he met you and fell head over heels, and that was it. 

Quite frankly, Spencer despised your parents and your two older sisters. He’d always been a family man, but definitely not with yours. His in-laws were people he didn’t consider part of his family. Only you are. 

Your family isn’t nice at all, and he really didn’t like the way they treated and talked to you. It pissed him off a lot, actually, but he’d learned how to bite his tongue, simply because you’d asked him to, and he’d do anything for you. 

Every few months, Spencer would take you back to your parent’s house, where you and he would stay for a few days, catch up with everyone, then leave again. Every single time, you left with a seemingly permanent frown on your face, because your sisters had degraded you, or your parents had belittled you. 

Every single time, Spencer hated it. 

You and he had only been here for one day and one night, and Spencer was ready to pick you up and carry you home just to shield you from their harsh and false words. He didn’t understand how you could just sit there and take it, but then he realized that, before him, this was all you knew. Your family was all you had, and you didn’t know the right way to be treated until he came into your life and showed you. 

Spencer was sitting at the dining room table, your mother at one end and your father at the other, and across the table were your two sisters, Haleigh and Maya, who were looking as malicious as ever. Next to him was you, his sweet wife who deserved to be spending your evening anywhere other than here. 

He was moving around the vegetables on his plate when your sister spoke up, her gaze casted onto you. “Y/n, you’re looking a little plump lately,” Haleigh said as she picked up her glass of wine, and her eyes were full of fake concern. “Are you doing well?”

Spencer looked over at you and watched as your face fell a bit, and he felt that familiar feeling of protectiveness beginning to creep up his back, because you were fucking perfect, and she had no right to comment on your weight. 

Your family had watched everything you ate before you met Spencer, and you were quite underweight when he married you. You were constantly shamed and picked on, and you had let their words get to you until they almost killed you. Only recently had you reached a healthy weight, and he didn’t want to see you spiral again. 

Spencer moved his chair a little closer to yours, letting you know that he wouldn’t hesitate to jump in and say a few comments of his own. 

Your face heated up in embarrassment as you gave your sister a fake smile, one Spencer saw right through. “I’m fine, Hale,” you answered, subconsciously brushing your leg against Spencer’s under the table. You looked down at your plate, noting you’d barely taken three bites before you’d lost your appetite, and you knew it was because of Haleigh. “Spencer’s been doing a great job keeping me fed and taken care of.” you added, brushing your pinky finger along his knuckles. 

Spencer glanced down at your hand, his lips curling upwards instinctively, despite his mood quickly going south. “That’s right, darlin’,” he mumbled, leaning in so his mouth was close to your ear. “You look perfect.”

His words make your face heat up even more, but before you could say anything, your father cleared his throat pretty loudly, breaking the quiet, intimate moment that was happening between the two of you. “So, Y/n,” he said, making Spencer straighten up and drop his expression back to neutral. “When are you and Spencer gonna give us some grandchildren?”

You bite down on your lip as you quickly look away from your father. “Um, well, we’ve been talking a lot about that,” you say, leaving out the part where you and Spencer had been actively making love with the full intent of you getting pregnant pretty frequently. You reached for your wine glass and sipped on the cool liquid as you met Spencer’s eyes. “We’re both ready for that, if and when the time comes. But we’re not in any rush.” 

Spencer raised a brow as he looked over at you, sensing your hesitation about sharing more than that. He knew that if you told them you were trying, they’d make this visit all about it, because you both knew that they’d want to be around the baby at all times, trying to pretend he or she is their own. That wouldn’t be happening on his watch. 

He took your hand in his properly as he locked eyes with your father. “Once we do decide to start a family, I hope you’ll be respectful about our choices and not involve yourselves,” he stated, making sure your parents knew that when he and you had a baby, it would be just that, yours and his. They had their chance three times now, and both your sisters had inherited your parents’ bitterness. 

The table fell silent, your mother and father, as well as Maya and Haleigh, sharing offended looks, as if a husband demanding respect from his wife’s family was unheard of. 

But you were smiling up at him, clearly finding the protective tone in his voice endearing rather than offensive. 

You went back to picking at your food as you laced your fingers with his, but he could tell your appetite was lost after your sister’s rude and untruthful comment, and it just made his jaw tick.

“So, Spencer,” Maya was the first one to find her voice as she looked over at him and fluttered her lashes in an overly seductive way, as if she were talking to a man at a bar and not her younger sister’s husband. “I know you gave up hunting, and I was just wondering if you missed it at all? Or has my dear baby sister ruined that part of your life for you?”

Her blunt question surprised even you, and you glared over at her, yet you weren’t surprised she was talking about you as if you weren’t sitting across from her. 

Spencer, however, took the question harder than you did. He clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on your hand, needing to take a deep breath in order to refrain from going off on his in-law. “I gave up hunting for a reason, Maya. It’s in my past now, it doesn’t define me. What I have with Y/n, that’s my present and it’s my future,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm despite his anger brewing in his bones. “And let me make one thing clear, your sister hasn’t ruined anything. She’s given me something far more valuable. A reason to come home every night, and to build a life worth living.”

His words send a shiver down your spine while simultaneously shutting Maya up, and she sat back in her chair while her fork hit her plate rather loudly. She was clearly feeling embarrassed and she wore a petty look on her face. “Wow,” she mumbled, looking over at you with jealousy in her eyes. “Hard to believe my…little sister could mean that much to someone.”

Her bitter words barely registered in your mind as you looked up at Spencer. He’d always made sure you knew that you’d always have a protector in him as long as he lives.  

Spencer’s thumb traced circles onto the back of your hand as he met Maya’s icy gaze, her eyes daring him to say something else, to defend you some more as if she could keep this going all night, but he wasn’t having it. He’d actually heard quite enough degradation of you to last a lifetime, and he wasn’t about to sit and bite his tongue when she was clearly more than fine with continuing on as if you weren’t present at the table. 

“You know, Maya, there’s so much bitterness buried deep within you, I think you might want to take some time and try to figure out why your little sister is farther in life than you are,” he finally said, his gaze unwavering, and his voice deadly calm. He looked over at your mother, then at your father, “And as for the rest of you, if you can’t show some respect towards your daughter, towards my wife, then maybe it’s best to keep your comments to yourselves, ‘cause I’m sick of hearin’ ‘em.”

Maya was once again reduced to an offended silence, while the rest of your family looked at him like he had two heads. Meanwhile, you were looking up at him with such adoration, such love and happiness in your eyes, he regretted not saying something sooner. 

But he was done holding back now. If they couldn’t try and be decent to you, then he was done trying to be decent with them. 

He stood up from the table, the napkin he’d been told to place on his lap falling to the floor as he pulled you up with him, “Come on, darlin’,” he mumbled, “Take a walk with me.”

You willingly followed after him, leaving your parents and sisters at the table with their jaws hanging open. Spencer led you out of the dining room and out onto the front porch, where the cool air fanned across both yours and his heated skin. 

Once the door shut behind him, you turned to Spencer with wide eyes, but they weren’t holding any surprise, because you weren’t at all shocked he stuck up for you and set down some ground rules after all that. He held off on doing it for as long as he could, but it was inevitable. “Spencer,” you whispered, letting go of his hand and reaching up instead, your fingers weaving their way into his hair. “I can’t believe you just did that. Do you know how mad they’re gonna be?” 

Spencer shrugged all too casually as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you right up against his chest. “Let ‘em be mad. I’m not gonna sit there and listen to them if they can’t respect you,” he tilted his head down, his frame towering over yours in a protective shield. “I’m never gonna let anyone hurt you, including them. They’re lucky they’re still in your life after all the shit they’ve said to you.”

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then rested his own against it, feeling the way your body trembled in his arms. 

And then he kissed your lips, claiming you as his right there on your family’s front porch.

After you and he’d retired to your old bedroom for the night, you went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. You came out wearing a thin pink nightgown, and you avoided Spencer’s eyes as you walked over to the mirror in the corner and looked at yourself. 

He was sitting in bed, the sheets draped over his legs as he sat back against the headboard. He watched as you carefully studied your stomach and sides, turning to the left and the right as you inspected your reflection. He’d seen you do this countless times in the past, but not recently. Fuck, he couldn’t stand your family. 

“Darlin’,” he called out to you, and his brows furrowed when you turned to him with a frown on your lips. 

Before he could ask you what was wrong, you opened your mouth and asked him a question of your own. “Do you think I’m fat?” His eyes widened a bit as he sat up straighter, his arms coming up to cross over his chest. “Or that I’ve gained too much weight?” 

Spencer’s eyes flickered all over your body, the same body that drives him crazy. He’d never met a more sexy, more sweet and stunning woman, and he loves every single inch of you. He thought he’d finally been able to get that seared into your brain, but of course, your family had managed to fill your pretty head with doubts and insecurities he’d tried so hard to help you get rid of. “Come here, baby,”

When you stepped towards him and played with the hem of your nightgown, Spencer made sure you could see the way his eyes roamed over your body with an undeniable fondness. 

He reached out and grasped your hips, pulling you closer as he shifted on the bed so you were standing between his thighs. “Listen to me. You are fuckin’ perfect exactly how you are. Everything your sisters said today, get it out of your head, okay? They’re bitter because they’ll never be anything like you,” he wasn’t one for comforting, but he’d comfort you a thousand times over again, and he’d never complain about it. His hands slid up your sides, coming to rest just below the curves of your breasts as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You drive me wild.”

You bit your lip and Spencer got to watch the goosebumps form on your arms from his words, or maybe they were from the way he ran his thumbs along the sides of your breasts, or the way his lips brushed along your ear.  “So, you don’t think I need to lose weight?” you asked, bracing your hands on his bare shoulders as you lifted one of your knees onto the bed next to his hip. “And I don’t look plump?” 

Spencer’s big hands slid down to your ass, and he pulled you closer to him as he leaned in and nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. “I think you’re perfect,” he said, guiding your other leg up onto the bed as he placed open mouthed kisses along your skin. Then he turned and leaned back against the headboard again, bringing you with him so you were straddling his hips. “Look at you…prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

You were blushing profusely now as you looked down at him, the position altering yours and his height difference for the time being. “Really?”

“Mmhmm, and let me tell you somethin’, no man in his right mind would want to change a single inch of you. Especially not me,” he murmured, his voice full of promise as his hands moved to your waist and his hips subtly bucked up against yours. “You’re my dream come true, darlin’. Don’t you know that by now?” 

You looked like you were in a daze as you nodded slowly, and Spencer pulled you down for a deep kiss that left both of you feeling a little light headed. You opened your eyes when his fingers pushed down the straps of your nightgown, and you only had one final question for him, “And…you don’t regret giving up hunting for me?” 

Spencer never thought about it like that. He saw it as a way for him to be in an early grave if something were to go wrong, or possibly spend the next five or so decades with the best person he’s ever met. 

“Regret it? Baby, givin’ up hunting was the easiest decision I’ve ever made. It wasn’t even a choice when it came to you,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around your waist as he leaned his head down and buried his face between your breasts. “Being with you is exactly where I’m supposed to be. I’d give up everything a thousand times over for you.”

His hands found the bottom of your nightgown, and he slowly bunched the fabric up your body until it was pooled around your waist. You reached in between your bodies and pushed down his boxers, freeing his already hard cock. It really never took much for him to get hard for you, and that just made you feel every bit of perfect as he told you. 

As Spencer kissed along your breasts, you lifted yourself up and slowly sunk down onto him, your eyes closing as you dropped your head onto his shoulder. “Fuck, darlin’,” he groaned under his breath, his hands gripping your hips as he helped guide your movements. He had to grit his teeth together to stop himself from being too loud since he knew the walls of your parents house were very thin, and it was why you couldn’t get away with anything when you were a kid. 

The bed was old and creaked with every roll of your hips, but it wasn’t loud enough to be heard. At least you hoped it wasn’t. Spencer didn’t really care either way. 

One of his hands slid up your back, tangling in your hair before he pulled you down for a heated kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth to brush against yours. 

You moaned against his lips as you rode him, the muffled sounds you were making mixing well with the soft creaking of the frame. Your gown had slipped down your body, your chest now completely bare and brushing against Spencer’s with every roll of your hips, and you shivered as his chest hair pricked at your sensitive nipples. 

“Oh, God,” you moaned against his mouth as you moved on top of him, your hands caressing his face. “I love you.”

Spencer groaned at your words. “I love you too, darlin’. More than anything in this world,” he rasped, then he kissed you again as he flipped the positions, pinning you beneath him on the mattress. His hips never faltered in their pace, his cock driving into you with deep thrusts that had you squirming under him. 

One hand was braced beside your head, the other sliding down to grip your thigh and guide it higher around his hip, giving him better access to you. He swallowed every pretty sound you made for him, kissing you like this was his last night with you. 

“You feel so good, baby,” he murmured in between kisses. He couldn’t seem to keep his mouth away from yours, which was good, because it allowed you both to muffle the sounds. Sex had never been quiet with the two of you, and the fact that you were guests in your parents’ house didn’t seem to phase either of you. 

You wrapped your legs around his waist, your mouths connecting in messy kisses that left your lips wet and connected with each other’s saliva. Your fingers were in his hair, and his chest was pressed against yours, your breasts swaying softly with every thrust, and it was all too much but also not enough. 

Spencer could feel your body tensing beneath him, could feel the way your inner walls were beginning to flutter and tighten around him, and he knew you were close, so he picked up the pace a bit more and slid one hand in between your bodies until his fingers found your clit. “Cum for me,” he whispered against your lips, his voice a little strained as he held himself back. “I’m right there with you, baby, I’ve got you.” 

His words really did it for you. Or maybe it was the way he worshipped you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

You whimpered and buried your face against his neck, then let out a soft cry of pleasure as your eyes squeezed shut. You kept your legs around his waist as you came, and a sharp gasp left your lips as your nails gently dug into the skin of his shoulders. 

“That’s it,” Spencer cooed, feeling your warmth flood around him. He thrust into you a few more times before he was there too, and he buried himself deep inside you as he filled you up. 

He wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your hair, his hips rolling lazily against yours before he finally stilled, his big body covering yours entirely. He peppered your face and neck with kisses as he rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were cuddled against his chest. 

“You’re perfect,” he mumbled, one big hand stroking up and down your back as he caught his breath. 

You smiled, tracing lazy shapes onto his toned, tanned chest as you tried to regain control of your breathing. “I love how much you want to protect me,” you whispered as you and he bathed in the afterglow, your bodies sweaty and shiny. “No one has ever stood up to my family before. You make me feel special, Spencer. Every day.”

Spencer tangled his other hand in your hair and tilted your head back so you were looking him in the eyes. “Baby, you are special. You’re everything I’ve ever dreamed of. Even more, and your family doesn’t see what I do,” he promised, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your lips. “You’re beautiful, kind, sexy as hell, and I’ll always protect you. I can promise you that. It’s just you and me.”

You smiled up at him and leaned in to press another deep kiss to his lips before you tnageld your legs with his and reached for his hand. You spun his wedding ring around his finger a few times as you fell into a comfortable silence. “You and me,” you mumbled, pressing a kiss to his ring before looking up at him again. “I don’t want to stay here for another few days. I can’t do another dinner like that. I miss our home and our bed. This place never felt like home to me.”

Spencer ran his fingers along your lower back. “Then let’s go home tomorrow,” he said simply, not one ounce of hesitation in his reply. “I don’t need to be anywhere but with you. I know stayin’ here upsets you, so we’ll leave. You don’t belong here anymore, darlin’. We’ll leave first thing in the morning and go home.”

His words made a big, grateful smile take over your lips. He was only here for you, and that was it. “Yeah?” you murmured, reaching up to cup his face in your hands. 

“Yeah, baby,” he confirmed, resting his forehead against yours. “First thing tomorrow, we’re leavin’. And then, when we’re home, I’ll make love to you in our bed, cook you breakfast in our kitchen, and then we’ll sit out on our porch after dinner and I’ll let you talk my ear off until you fall asleep.” 

Your smile only grew and you nodded quickly before leaning in and kissing him again, a kiss of which he returned just as fiercely as he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you flush against his chest. “Sounds perfect,” you mumbled against his lips before you were once again rolled onto your back. 

-

The next morning, as breakfast was being prepared, you and Spencer quietly packed up your things and got dressed, attempting to be subtle about your sudden departure. 

When you got downstairs, though, your mother saw you trying to sneak out the front door, and she called your name. Her tone was firm and held a hint of anger, and you froze, your hand locked tightly with Spencer’s.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” she asked, getting the attention of your two sisters and father. She crossed her arms and looked between the two of you, then her eyes landed on the bags you were carrying, and she let out a harsh laugh. “You’re sneaking out? After everything we’ve provided for you? Did we really raise such an ungrateful brat?”

The rapid questions had you tensing up, and your body instinctively moved closer to Spencer’s. He instantly stepped in front of you, shielding you from the mean glares of your family. “Enough,” he all but growled, beyond fed up with the four people who were currently trying to ruin yet another day of yours. 

But he wasn’t having it. 

“I’m not gonna let you talk to my wife like that, not now, and not ever again, do you hear me?” he asked, but it didn’t sound like a question at all. And he didn’t intend for it to be one. “We’re leaving, because your lack of respect towards your daughter is pissing me off. She’s the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, but you’ve never cared about her enough to see that. But not anymore. She’s with me now, and I won’t have you trying to tear her down.”

His words were stern, a hint of warning behind them as he stared at your family, but when he turned to you, his eyes were filled with pure love and adoration. 

“Come on, darlin’, let’s go,” he said, guiding you back towards the door. Your mother’s mouth was wide open, and your father’s jaw was locked tight. Maya and Haleigh were fuming as they looked at you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care anymore. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry things had to come to this, but she comes first. Always. I hope one day you’ll all see what an amazing person you let walk out of your lives.”

With that, he led you out the door and down the steps of the porch, and once your feet hit the gravel, he had you in his arms. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, one big hand cradling the back of your head. 

You clung onto him and nodded quickly, holding him like he was your lifeline. “I’m more than okay,” you said back, burying your face against his neck as you finally let yourself be free from the expectations and cruel words of your family. 

The dust stung my eyes, but it was nothing compared to the raw, gut-wrenching fear that had seized me when I saw the open car door, the abandoned doll, Helen’s doll, lying in the driveway. Donald Whitfield. The name itself was a venomous hiss in my mind. He’d driven right up to my home, brazen as a wolf in broad daylight, and taken my baby.

My legs felt like lead as I scrambled out of the truck, the shotgun still heavy in my hands. Then I heard it, the rumble of another engine, the roar of a familiar truck. Spencer. He’d pulled up beside me, his face a mask of grim determination, the same expression I’d seen him wear before he’d faced down bears and outlaws.

He moved with an unnerving calm, a stark contrast to the frantic panic clawing at my throat. He reached for me, his calloused hand warm as it closed around mine, pulling me upright. The shock of his touch, the sheer unsteadiness of my own knees, was almost enough to make me buckle. It was still so surreal, him standing there, knowing. Knowing about Helen. Knowing he was a father, to a daughter he’d never known, with a woman who wasn't his wife.

“I’m going to rescue my daughter, and you can’t stop me, cowboy,” I blurted out, the words a desperate vow, laced with the tremor of my fear.

His grip tightened, a steady anchor in the storm. A ghost of a smile, more a flicker of shared resolve, touched his lips. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He knelt, retrieved the shotgun from the dusty ground where I’d dropped it, and handed it back to me, his fingers brushing mine. “We’re in this together now, Y/n. We’ll bring our daughter home.”

His words, simple and direct, were a balm to my frayed nerves. Together. The word resonated, a promise of strength, of a shared purpose. We’d always been like that, hadn’t we? Dancing around each other on the edges of our lives, the silent understanding, the stolen glances, the unspoken affection that had simmered between us for years. We lived on neighboring ranches, our families intertwined by the harsh realities of this land, always ready to lend a hand, to share a burden. And Spencer, with his roguish charm and that deep, thoughtful gaze, had always held a special place in my heart.

But he was married now. To Alexandra, the spirited British woman he’d met in Africa, a woman who seemed as wild and untamed as he was, yet polished by a world I could only imagine. My heart ached with a familiar, dull throb at the thought, even now, even with Helen ripped from our lives.

“Where do you think he’s going?” I asked, my voice raspy, my eyes scanning the open plains, searching for any sign of Whitfield’s dust trail.

Spencer’s gaze was sharp, honed by years of tracking. “He came from the north, heading towards the old mining road. It’s rough country, not many folks venture that way unless they have a reason.” He looked at me, his eyes holding a flicker of concern. “Are you sure you can handle this, Y/n? It won’t be easy.”

A fierce protectiveness, an instinct I’d only truly known since Helen had been born, surged through me. “I’ll handle it,” I said, my voice firm, unwavering. “She’s my daughter, Spencer. My blood.” The words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the truth he’d only just learned.

He nodded, a solemn acknowledgment. “I know.” He climbed back into his truck, the engine turning over with a powerful growl. “Get in. We can’t waste any more time.”

I slid into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of leather and horse sweat filling the cab. The shotgun rested between us, a silent promise of what we were prepared to do. Spencer drove with an expert hand, his focus entirely on the task ahead.

“Did you ever get the letters?” I asked, the question tumbling out before I could stop it. I’d sent him letters, so many letters, filled with my hopes and fears, my love and the growing reality of our child. They were my only connection to him during his time away, my way of bridging the vast distance between us.

Spencer’s jaw tightened, and he didn’t take his eyes off the road. “My aunt mailed them. I… I was in Africa. Things were… complicated. I didn’t read them properly, Y/n. I kept meaning to. That’s no excuse, I know.” His voice was rough, laced with a regret I could almost taste. “When I got back, and your father told me… I was stunned. Then when I heard about Whitfield, about Helen…” He shook his head, the words catching in his throat.

My heart ached for him, for the lost moments, for the daughter he’d been denied. But right now, there was no time for recrimination, no room for the tangled mess of our past. There was only Helen.

“Does Alexandra know?” I asked, the question a necessary hurdle, a bridge we had to cross.

Spencer took a deep breath. “She knows I’m here. She knows we’re looking for Helen. I told her… I told her you were an old friend, that we needed to work together.” He paused, his gaze flicking to me briefly, a flicker of something I couldn’t quite decipher. “She understands family, Y/n. She’ll understand this.”

I nodded, though a part of me remained skeptical. Alexandra was a force, I’d seen it in the brief moments I’d encountered her. Strong, independent, and undeniably in love with Spencer. How would she feel about this sudden revelation, this daughter from another woman?

The landscape blurred past, the vast expanse of Montana a silent witness to our desperate chase. Spencer pointed towards a narrow, winding track disappearing into a rocky canyon. “He’s taking the old mining road. It’s a dead end, mostly abandoned. He might be trying to hide.”

We plunged into the canyon, the truck bouncing violently over the uneven terrain. The air grew cooler, the silence broken only by the rattle of our vehicle. “Whitfield’s no fool,” Spencer muttered, his eyes scanning the desolate landscape. “He knows this territory. He’ll know we’re coming.”

“He hurt her, Spencer,” I said, my voice a low growl. “He tore her from my arms. I saw the fear in her eyes. If he’s touched her…” I couldn’t finish the thought. The image of Helen, my sweet, innocent Helen, in that man’s clutches, was a fire in my belly, fueling my resolve.

Spencer’s hand reached out, not to touch me, but to rest on the shotgun between us. A silent acknowledgment of my fury, and a confirmation that he shared it. “We’ll get her back, Y/n. And Whitfield will pay for this. I swear it.”

We rounded a bend, and there it was. A dilapidated cabin, barely more than a shack, perched precariously on the side of the canyon. A plume of smoke curled from its chimney, a tell-tale sign of life. A single, beat-up truck was parked haphazardly near the entrance.

“That’s him,” Spencer said, his voice a low rumble. He brought the truck to a halt, the engine falling silent. The quiet that descended was deafening, charged with anticipation.

“He won’t be expecting us to come this way so fast,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“He expected you to be alone, Y/n. He didn’t expect this,” Spencer said, his gaze fixed on the cabin. He looked at me, his eyes a deep, unsettling blue, filled with a shared history, a shared love, and now, a shared mission. “Ready?”

I nodded, gripping the shotgun tighter. “Born ready.”

Spencer opened his door, his movements fluid and controlled. “Remember, Y/n, stay behind me. Let me handle the approach. If he tries to use Helen… we’ll deal with that when it comes.”

“I’m not a damsel in distress, Spencer,” I retorted, though I knew he meant well. I’d handled myself on this ranch for years, and I wouldn’t falter now.

He gave a slight, humorless smile. “I know that. But this is different. This is our daughter.”

We dismounted, the gravel crunching under our boots. Spencer moved with a predator’s grace, his senses on high alert. I followed closely, the shotgun held at the ready, my every nerve ending alive. The wind whispered through the barren trees, a mournful sound that seemed to echo the fear in my heart.

As we neared the cabin, the door creaked open, and a figure emerged, silhouetted against the dim light within. Donald Whitfield. He stood there, his face a cruel smirk, and clutched in his arms was a small, terrified bundle. Helen.

My breath hitched. She was crying, her little body trembling.

“Well, well, well,” Whitfield sneered, his voice like gravel. “Look what the cat dragged in. Spencer Dutton, and the little ranch hand from next door. Come to play hero?”

Spencer stepped forward, his stance solid, his eyes locked on Whitfield. “Let the girl go, Whitfield. This doesn’t have to get messy.”

Whitfield chuckled, a harsh, grating sound. “Messy? It’s already messy, isn’t it? You’ve been gone for years, Spencer. Left her here, some say. And now you show up with… what is this? A new squeeze?” He gestured dismissively towards me.

The word stung, a cruel twist of the knife. But I held onto my anger, channeling it. “She’s not a plaything, Whitfield. She’s a child. And you’re a coward.”

“A coward?” Whitfield’s eyes narrowed. He shifted Helen in his arms, making her whimper. “I’m the one who’s got what you want. You want her back? You’ll have to come and get her.”

Spencer took another step forward, his hand slowly reaching for something tucked into his belt. I knew what it was. He always carried a knife.

“Don’t,” I warned, my voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you dare do anything to her.”

Whitfield’s smirk widened. “Or what? You’ll shoot me? And your precious daughter gets caught in the crossfire? Think about it, Y/n. Think about your little girl.”

My blood ran cold. He was right. The thought of a stray bullet, of harming Helen, was a horrifying prospect. But I couldn’t let him win.

Spencer’s voice was calm, measured, a stark contrast to the raging storm inside me. “Whitfield, you’re outnumbered. There’s nowhere to run. Give us the girl, and we’ll let you walk away. No charges. Just disappear.”

Whitfield scoffed. “You think I’m stupid? I know how this works. You’ll drag me back, throw me in jail, and I’ll rot. No, thank you.” He started to back away, towards the open door of the cabin. “I’ve got a better plan.”

Then, from inside the cabin, I heard another voice, a woman’s voice, sharp and clear. “Donald, what are you doing? Let the child go!”

Alexandra. My heart leaped. She was here? How?

Whitfield whirled around, his face contorted in rage. “Stay out of this, Alexandra! It’s none of your business!”

“It is my business!” Alexandra’s voice rang out, stronger now. “Spencer is my fiancé. And that little girl… she’s his daughter. I won’t let you hurt her.”

Confusion flickered across Whitfield’s face. Spencer’s gaze met mine across the dusty ground, a silent acknowledgment of Alexandra’s presence and her unwavering loyalty. It was a moment of unexpected grace, a ray of light in the darkness.

“Get behind me, Y/n,” Spencer said, his voice firm. He’d clearly sensed the shift, the potential for a new tactic.

Whitfield, blinded by his own twisted logic and the unexpected appearance of Alexandra, seemed to falter. He tightened his grip on Helen, who was now sobbing uncontrollably.

“You’re a fool, Whitfield,” Spencer said, his voice hardening. “Thinking you could get away with this. Thinking you could hurt a child and walk away.”

Suddenly, the cabin door swung open further, revealing Alexandra standing in the entrance, a rifle held steady in her hands. Her eyes met Spencer’s, a silent communication passing between them. Then, her gaze shifted to Whitfield, and her expression was one of pure, unadulterated fury.

“You have made a grave mistake, Donald,” Alexandra said, her voice dangerously quiet. “You have threatened the Dutton family. And that… that includes me.”

Whitfield, caught between Spencer, me, and now Alexandra, seemed to realize he was trapped. His bravado began to crumble. He looked from Alexandra’s rifle to Spencer’s steady gaze, to my determined stance.

“Helen!” I cried, my voice raw with urgency. “Let her go!”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting between us. Then, with a guttural curse, he shoved Helen forward, towards me.

I didn’t hesitate. I lunged, scooping my daughter into my arms, burying my face in her tear-streaked hair. She clung to me, sobbing, “Mommy! Mommy!”

Spencer, seizing the moment, moved with lightning speed. He disarmed Whitfield, his movements brutal and efficient. Whitfield went down with a grunt, the rifle skittering across the ground.

Alexandra calmly lowered her rifle, her eyes still fixed on the subdued Whitfield. “You’re going to wish you’d stayed wherever you came from, Donald,” she said, her voice deceptively soft.

Spencer knelt beside Whitfield, his face grim. “You’re going to answer for this. All of it.”

I held Helen tight, whispering reassurances, my heart still pounding. She was safe. My baby was safe. I looked up at Spencer, at Alexandra standing there, her expression a mixture of relief and something else I couldn’t quite place.

Spencer looked at me, his gaze holding a depth of emotion I hadn’t seen in years. “We did it, Y/n. We brought her home.”

Tags [ @kmc1989 @tallrock35 @pear-1206 @elenavampire21 @hcwthewestwaswcn @child-of-of-the-sunshine @frost-queen @summerrivera777777

The dust of this wild, untamed land clung to everything – my boots, my trousers, even the very air I breathed. It was a stark contrast to the verdant, rolling hills of my homeland, a contrast I often felt in my soul, a constant low hum of being an outsider. But then, I’d look at Spencer, riding beside me, his silhouette sharp against the vast Montana sky, and the feeling would recede, replaced by a quiet, fierce belonging.

We’d ridden into Livingston that morning, a place bustling with the urgent energy of a town poised between untamed wilderness and burgeoning civilization. Spencer needed supplies; I simply craved a cup of real tea and perhaps a moment of calm away from the endless creak of saddle leather.

"Stay close," he’d rumbled, his voice a low vibration that always settled something anxious within me, "This is no London tea party, Y/N."

I'd snorted, a laugh escaping. "As if I need reminding, Spencer. I believe my current attire of hardened leather and a rather impressive collection of dust mites speaks volumes."

He’d offered a rare, slight upturn of his lips, a flash of warmth in his often-grave eyes. That was enough for me.

We tied the horses outside a general store, its wooden façade weathered to a pale grey. Inside, the scent of canvas, cured meat, and something vaguely medicinal hung in the air. Spencer moved with that familiar, predatory grace, his gaze sweeping the room, assessing, categorizing, always alert. I, on the other hand, made a beeline for the small counter where a tired-looking woman was weighing out flour.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I began, my voice clear despite the din, "Do you happen to have any good tea? Proper black tea, not these… herbal infusions they seem to favour here."

The woman, whose spectacles were perched precariously on her nose, looked up. Her eyes, initially wary, softened slightly. "Tea, you say? Got some Lipton’s here. Best I can do."

"Lipton’s," I repeated, a small sigh escaping me. It wasn't exactly Fortnum & Mason, but it was better than dried sage leaves. "I suppose that will have to do."

A chuckle, loud and grating, cut through the quiet hum of the store. I turned, my stomach tightening. Three men stood by a barrel of salted fish, their clothes grimy, their faces hardened by sun and likely whiskey. They looked like prospectors, or perhaps just drifters looking for trouble.

"Well, now," one of them drawled, a man with a scraggly beard and missing teeth, "listen to that, boys. Sounds like a songbird got lost on her way to a fancy ball."

His companions snickered. I felt my cheeks flush, but I kept my gaze steady. "There's no need to be offensive, gentlemen. I merely asked about tea."

"Gentlemen?" another scoffed, stepping closer, his breath smelling faintly of cheap liquor. He was younger, but with a mean glint in his eyes. "Hear that, fellas? She thinks we're gentlemen! Ain't that a laugh?" He mimicked my accent, a crude, exaggerated 'gen-tle-men', twisting his lips in a sneer.

My grip tightened on the small pouch of coins in my hand. I hated this. I’d grown accustomed to the curious stares, even the occasional good-natured jest. But this was different. This was laced with malice.

"My accent is simply a mark of where I'm from," I stated, trying to keep my voice even, though a tremor ran through it. "It's hardly a crime."

"Crime?" the first man cackled. "Nah, just sounds like you swallowed too many marbles, little lady. What’re you even doin' out here, eh? Run outta princes to charm back in… where'd you say you were from? Pixie-land?"

My eyes flickered towards Spencer. He was still by the counter, ostensibly looking at some canned goods, but I saw the subtle shift in his posture. His shoulders had broadened, his head tilted almost imperceptibly. He was listening.

"I am from England," I said, my voice gaining a bit of steel. "And I am quite capable of handling myself."

This only seemed to fuel their amusement. The youngest one took another step, invading my personal space. "Oh, a feisty one, ain't she? Don't sound so feisty when you talk like that, though. 'Ello, guv'nah! Fancy a spot o' tea, eh?" He put on a ridiculous, high-pitched voice that made my blood boil.

The old woman behind the counter looked nervous, her eyes darting between me and the men. Spencer hadn't moved yet, and a part of me, the part that hated being seen as weak or needing rescue, bristled. But another part, a more vulnerable part, was starting to feel a cold knot of fear. There were three of them, and they were getting bolder.

"That's enough," Spencer's voice cut through the air, low and resonant, like a stone rumbling down a mountain. It wasn't loud, but it silenced the store more effectively than a shout.

The three men stopped their jeering, their heads snapping towards him. Spencer had turned fully now. He wasn't overtly threatening, no hand on a weapon, but his stillness was more menacing than any overt gesture. His eyes, usually a deep, thoughtful grey, were like chipped flint, cold and sharp.

"She asked for tea," Spencer continued, taking a slow, deliberate step towards me, closing the distance. "She's not asking for your opinion on her voice."

The scraggly-bearded man, who seemed to be the leader, scoffed, trying to regain his bravado. "Well, lookie here. Her big, burly friend come to save her. What's it to ya, mister? Can't she take a joke?"

Spencer stopped a foot or so from the youngest man, who had been closest to me. He was taller than any of them, and his sheer physical presence seemed to shrink the space around them. His shadow fell over the younger man.

"Some jokes aren't funny," Spencer said, his voice dropping another octave, a dangerous edge now present. "Some jokes are just rude. And when someone's being rude to a lady, I tend to take exception."

The youngest man, who had been so bold moments ago, suddenly looked less confident. He shuffled his feet, his eyes darting to his companions, then back to Spencer's unblinking stare.

"Easy there, friend," the leader said, a forced lightness in his tone. "Didn't mean no harm, just a bit of fun."

"Didn't you?" Spencer asked, his gaze unwavering. "Because it sounded a lot like you were trying to make her feel small. And that's not something I tolerate." He didn't raise his voice, didn't make a sudden move. He simply stood there, radiating a controlled intensity that was far more effective than any bluster. It was the quiet, dangerous calm of a predator, sensing prey.

The leader swallowed hard, his eyes finally dropping from Spencer's. He knew. He understood what Spencer was. "Alright, alright," he muttered, raising his hands slightly in a placating gesture. "No offense meant. We'll be on our way." He nudged his companions.

"I suggest you do," Spencer agreed, his voice still low, but with a warning rumble that made the hair on my arms stand up. "And next time you feel the urge to mock someone for how they speak, remember what it feels like to have someone stand up for them."

The three men, now thoroughly deflated, mumbled apologies, avoiding eye contact with both of us, and shuffled quickly out of the store, the bell above the door jingling their hasty exit.

A collective sigh seemed to ripple through the store. The old woman behind the counter gave Spencer a grateful, if still slightly nervous, look.

Spencer finally turned to me, his flinty gaze softening imperceptibly as it met mine. "You alright, Y/N?" he asked, his voice back to its usual rumble, devoid of the earlier menace.

I felt a sudden, profound wave of emotion wash over me – relief, gratitude, and a fierce, almost painful surge of affection for this complicated, quiet man. My hands, I realized, were trembling slightly.

"Yes," I managed, my voice a little breathless. "Yes, Spencer, I'm alright. Thank you."

He reached out, his large hand gently covering my own, still clutching the coin purse. His touch was warm, solid, and utterly reassuring. "Nobody gets to make you out to be less just because you speak differently," he said, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. "Your voice is one of the things I like most about you."

My heart did a strange flip. My eyes, which had been stinging with unshed tears of frustration and fear, now welled up with a different kind of moisture. Before I could process it, he leaned in, his gaze serious.

"They're just bullies," he murmured, his voice only for my ears. "Small men, trying to feel bigger. Don't let them make you feel small, Y/N. Ever."

I swallowed, nodding, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. He kept hold of my hand as he turned back to the counter. "We'll take that Lipton's, ma'am," he said to the now less-nervous store owner, his voice firm but polite. "And a tin of those biscuits you have by the flour."

As she bustled to gather our items, Spencer guided me gently towards the door, his arm brushing mine. Once outside in the fresh air, the harsh sunlight felt less oppressive, and the dust didn't seem quite so heavy.

He helped me onto my horse, his hands lingering on my waist a moment longer than necessary. I looked down at him, my heart full.

"Thank you, Spencer," I said again, my voice softer this time, a little shaky. "Truly. I… I appreciate it more than you know."

He reached up, his calloused thumb gently wiping away a stray tear that had finally escaped. "No need for thanks, Y/N," he said, his eyes holding mine. "You're with me now. And no one, not a single soul, gets to treat you with disrespect. Not while I’m around."

He swung into his own saddle, and we rode out of town, leaving the lingering tension behind. The sun was warmer, the vast landscape more welcoming. I glanced at him, riding silently beside me.

"You know," I said, a faint smile playing on my lips, "my accent also comes with a rather impressive vocabulary. I could have told them precisely where they could shove their opinions."

Spencer chuckled, a rare, deep sound that made a pleasant shiver run down my spine. "I have no doubt you could have, Y/N," he said, and I saw the glint of amusement in his eyes. "But sometimes, a man needs to step in anyway. Just to remind them what's what."

He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Besides, I rather like the way you say 'shove'. Much more elegant than any American could manage."

Your white cotton nightdress flutters in the cool air as you raise from the bed, snatching up the rifle. You hurtle down the wooden stairs, tearing open the door, stepping out onto the porch in bare feet. You cock the weapon, your jaw tensing as you jam the barrel against the space where the bullet infiltrated your body. Your sight adjusts to the darkness as you line up the gun with the man racing towards you on horseback. Your finger tightens on the trigger, squeezing and the gun bucks against you, your bullet sailing through his hat, knocking it clean off his head.

“That was a warning shot.” You call out as he tugs at the reins, staying his horse. “The next one goes through your skull.”

“Why don’t you put it through my heart? Lord knows I deserve it.” He says getting off his horse and tilting his head up toward you.

The moonlight catches his tanned features and the air rushes out of you because it can not be Spencer Dutton standing in front of you, it can’t be the man who promised you the world and then disappeared from it.

You don’t lower the gun as he steps towards you, instead you press it against his chest. His hand grips to barrel, guiding it higher so there’s no doubt about which organ your bullet will pierce if you pull the trigger.  

“You wanna kill me Kit, do it.” He tells you with a ferocity you feel in the depths of your soul. “I died the day I left you, you’d just be finishing the job.”

“You die, I die.” You say as you look into his eyes with a fierce look of your own. “Isn't that what we told each other before you took off to the front?”

If he’d died on that battlefield you would have followed him right into that grave, you both know it. You lower the gun and his gaze strays the scar peeking out from underneath the collar of your white night dress. He reaches out, his fingers drawing the fabric away so he can see the wound in all it’s glory.

Just half an inch lower, he thinks as he studies it. He flattens his palm against your chest, feeling the thrum of your heart underneath his fingertips.

“Do you still feel me here?” He asks, his voice raw with emotion.

“Yes.” You whisper, your hand covering his. “Every damn day.”

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