Well I’ll Catch You Later Then

“You knew the man who lived here?” Arthur asked, riding just ahead of you, easy in the saddle—as if the land itself had shaped him to fit it.

To your left, Lenora View rested like a postcard of domestic peace. Old, weathered fabric swayed on the clothesline in the morning breeze, grayed by years of sun. Garden tools leaned where they’d been set down and never picked up again. Wrapped parcels and paper bundles waited patiently on the front step, untouched since ‘99. The little blue cabin now belonged to the ivy spilling from its flower baskets, roots claiming timber and eaves with quiet, possessive insistence—telling the ending to a mystery you’d first heard about last century.

“Saw him around town a few times,” you said, your eyes drifting back to Arthur, watching him without meaning to—memorizing the lines of his back, the way his head lifted toward the peaks as if greeting old friends. If your hands held even a fraction of the talent his did, you’d pull the reins right there and capture every sharp line, every soft shadow until he was yours to keep, long after the seasons changed and took him with them. “Went missin’ around the time I left town, don’t know if they ever found him.” You finished, forcing your attention back to the conversation.

“Oh, they did,” he replied, his shoulders moving with the horse, not against it. Free. Untethered. “Poor bastard drove himself off a cliff.” He tipped his chin toward the bridge, where the land fell away into jagged, cruel stone. “Wanna know what’s worse than dyin’ like that?”

Your face contorted with a wince. You couldn’t imagine much worse than meeting the rocks face-first. Even if fate gave you the mercy of a quick death on impact, the terror of the fall would be enough to shatter even the bravest soul.

“Dyin’ like that on the very road meant to take you to your bride,” he explained quietly, his voice barely rising above the thud of the horse hooves. “Man never showed up at his in-laws’ porch.”

A cold shudder rippled through you. It was a most horrible fate, indeed. Two, in fact. A lonely corpse forgotten under the shadow of a bridge. And a widow hauling her trunks back inside, step by confused step, as the realization set in that he wasn’t coming for her.

You wondered which was crueler—if she ever learned the truth, if she knew her lover was now a broken heap at the bottom of a canyon, or if she spent her years believing herself simply forgotten. Left behind by a forever that had only just begun to bloom. Haunted by the promise of mornings—quiet and ordinary—that now felt borrowed from another life. Coffee shared in comfortable silence. A soft sleeve brushing hers as he reached for the tin. A faint smile she hadn’t realized she wore whenever he teased her about the years ahead. Small things. Domestic things. Fragile, beautiful things that had shattered before they could ever truly begin.

The kind that made one’s chest ache with both possibility and dread in equal measure.

You knew better than to let yourself imagine too far ahead.

A man like Arthur didn’t belong to a life measured in seasons and routines, in lavender gardens and evenings by the fire. He belonged to motion. To horizons. To roads that never truly ended. And yet—treacherous thing—your mind still betrayed you with images of him splitting wood outside your cabin, of boots much bigger than yours resting by the door, of his laughter carried on crisp forest air as he leaned down to pick bay boletes beside you. Of shared meals eaten off mismatched plates. Of his coat—heavy and smelling of cigarettes and highland sun—draped carelessly over the back of a chair that had never expected to hold the weight of such a man.

He glanced back then, just briefly, as if he’d felt the weight of your gaze. His eyes softened when they met yours, something unspoken passing between you in the space of a heartbeat. He didn’t pry. Instead, he tipped his head toward the sprawling Valley ahead—a silent come see this—and you smiled despite yourself.

“How ‘bout a little race, butterfly?” he called, the breeze playing with those caramel locks you yearned to be the one whose scissors he asked for when they grew too long for his liking. “If I win, you leave that husband of yours for good.”

“And if I win?” you shot back, almost certain that he knew there was no husband thinking about you in Saint Denis—that the lie was nothing more than a thin, pointless game you both kept playing because it was just too fun to quit.

“Doubt that’ll happen,” he said, a challenge sparking in his blue eyes as he spurred his Shire into a sudden, thundering gallop.

You swallowed your doubts and urged your horse onward, the ground beneath you beginning to blur.

“Well, look at you!” you shouted after him. “All healed and bouncin’ on a horse like you weren’t bleeding to death last time I checked.” Your lips curved and your eyes crinkled under the sun, a smile that carried the ache of all your thoughts gently, like something brittle yet still very much alive. “If I had known that was all those wounds needed, I would’ve let you ride much sooner!”

His answer was laughter. Bright and unguarded. A sweet sound carried on the fresh breeze rolling into the open greens ahead of you.

The wind kissed your cheeks and tangled your hair, rushing cold and clean through your lungs as you rode fast along the creek. Morning had long since shaken off its sleep; the sun stood confident now, catching on river water and mossy stone, setting the world aglow as if it had something to prove. It was a freedom so real you could only feel it in the flesh—and never imagine.

Whatever tomorrow held—whatever ghosts waited for him, whatever roads might pull him toward an inevitable horizon where you didn’t exist—this was yours.

The day.

The sunlight.

The man riding ahead of you through a land far too beautiful to promise anything lasting.

So you let yourself have it.

Fully.

Without apology.

All of it:

The warmth of his familiar hands on your waist as he helped you down from your horse once you reached the sun-drenched fields he’d promised. The air crisp and heady, a smirk gracing his lips after having won a race you would have forfeited anyway. The price of losing—the promise to leave a ghost of a husband behind—was a prize far greater than any victory.

You let yourself have the press of his honey lips against yours beneath the bright, unapologetic sun—a sweet, butterfly claim that took hold the moment your feet touched the emerald grass, dusted with clumps of rebellious purple that refused to listen to the seasons. A few sprigs bloomed around your boots just because they could. Just like his kiss—born of pure whim, done simply because he felt like it. Because he could.

You let yourself have the sight of him setting up the tents in the heart of that purple sea—lavender still too young to pick, yet perfect to drink in with your eyes—his broad shoulders working beneath a vast, cloudless sky. It was a fairytale scene you glanced back at now and then as you knelt in the cool grass a few feet away, picking wild mint for the lunch he’d promised to hunt—as if you feared that looking away for even a minute too long, meant the horizon would finally decide to take him back.

You let yourself have the comforting scratch of charcoal against paper beneath the mellow afternoon sun. He sat on a flat rock by the water’s edge, black hat resting atop his satchel, lost in the quiet sanctuary of his art and his thoughts. A few rocks away, your bare feet greeted the creek like an old friend, threading carefully over mossy stones, skirts gathered as cool highland water slipped past your ankles.

The sharp, clean scent of the creek mingled with the faint, ever-present aroma of his cigarettes, a perfume that had become your new definition of safety. And in the silence—between the birdsong and the rushing water, between the soft grazing of the horses in the field and the wind stirring drowsy leaves awake—there was a peace so profound it felt fragile, like a soap bubble that could burst at anytime if the breeze blew in the wrong direction. You watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his large, scarred hand moved with such surprising grace across the journal page. In the early afternoon light, he wasn't an outlaw or a face on a wanted poster. He was just Arthur—simple and still—sharing a piece of the world with you.

And for the rest of the afternoon, at least while sunlight seeped into skin and moss alike, the quiet was enough.

But as the first stars pricked through the purple silk of the sky, as the last brushstrokes of orange slipped behind snowy peaks, and the Valley finally surrendered to the evening chill, the fairytale day began to drift away on the night breeze—feeling more like a memory than the present moment you were still allowed to experience. The quiet ache in your chest nudged you toward him, seeking the kind of bone-deep warmth you knew no campfire could provide.

“Here,” you said softly, handing him a steaming cup of coffee. You lowered yourself beside him at the entrance of his tent, sitting as close as you dared. Your head found the reassurance of his shoulder, resting there as you bid the day a silent, reluctant goodbye.

He said nothing beyond a low thank you—the words a husky, honeyed rasp carried off by the wind somewhere in the purple sea—before finishing his coffee in just a couple sips.

His warm hand came to rest on your knee, a bittersweet reminder that today was still here. That he was still here. You took a sip from your own mug, the cool night breeze kissing your sunburnt cheeks as if to soothe the worries you wouldn’t voice to him.

Your free hand found his under the fire glow—soap-worn fingers lacing through violence-worn knuckles. The gentle squeeze of his palm felt like it was pressing the ache right out of the tight muscle of your heart.

You stayed like that for a long while, listening to the chorus of cicadas humming somewhere in the brush and basking in the quiet comfort of his hand resting in yours. The Valley had gone blue with dusk, fireflies began to spark in the distance, and the firelight from camp flickered low and gold against the canvas of your tents.

Your thumb traced lazy circles along the base of his forefinger, feeling the rugged, uneven ridge of a scar—thickened like a ring of old damage that told a story of its own. You lingered there—curious, thoughtful.

“How’d you get this one?” you murmured, the question more tease than concern. Your gaze drifted briefly toward the darkening woods surrounding the camp—somewhere out there, a cellar hidden under the Valley, and an old woman who might still be haunting it. “Was it the old lady?”

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound a low vibration in his chest.

“This? No,” he said, leaning back a little, eyes lifting toward the first stars blinking awake overhead. “Bastard down in the Bayou.”

You shifted slightly closer without meaning to, your knee brushing his thigh as the night cooled.

“We’d been trackin’ him and his buddy for weeks,” he went on, gaze unfocused as he was pulled back into the suffocating, muggy wetlands of Lemoyne. “Got ‘em cornered in some half-rotted shack. I got my man. My friend took the other. All clear, all good…” His jaw tightened just a touch. “Until a gator crawled out from under the bed.”

“Oh—God.”

“I got distracted. As one does when a gator shows up.” He huffed a dry laugh, eyes flicking back to you. “The bastard I was tying up thought he’d try his luck, broke free and caught my finger between his teeth. Wouldn't let go.”

Your hand tightened around his instinctively, wincing as the image bloomed in your mind. The ring of scarred flesh felt even thicker now that you knew the story behind it. “Christ—how come you still got to keep the finger?”

He shrugged, as if being bitten by human teeth was just another part of the job. “Punched his jaw until he couldn’t close it no more.”

You winced again, a phantom pain throbbing in your own hand and jaw.

“Don’t worry,” he added quickly, the corner of his mouth lifting as he caught your expression. “He’s fine. Happily livin’ behind bars until they decide to hang him and his buddy. Reckon the law shouldn’t take its sweet time, though. Those two are known for their talent of squeezin’ themselves out of tight holes.”

You shook your head slowly, gaze dropping to the fire as it snapped and settled, still making sense of the story you’d just heard.

“Are you a bounty hunter?” you asked after a moment, your voice barely rising above the hush of the wind.

“Somethin’ like that. More like an assistant, really.” His thumb brushed once against your knuckles. “My friend does the huntin’. I just help her out sometimes.”

“Jesus.” The word slipped out before you could stop it, your thoughts drifting to this faceless woman—this unnamed force of nature—wondering what kind of life sharpened a lady into a blade like that. “Your friend’s tough.”

“She is,” Arthur agreed, his voice growing heavy with a different kind of respect. “Tougher than most men I know.”

The fire cracked softly in front of you, embers glowing with a drowsy, orange heat, while above, the stars stitched a brilliant quilt across the open sky. You held his hand a little tighter, suddenly aware of the life etched into every ridge and scar along his skin—knowing, with an aching certainty, that a life like his was not something a man simply stepped away from to pick mushrooms and chop wood in a forest cabin until the end of time.

And yet…

That same hand rested gently in yours tonight.

The same hand you’d found clutching his side, shedding precious drops of life on your kitchen table one fateful winter day. The same hand you’d cleaned and bandaged every morning as you nursed him back to health. The same hand you lifted to your lips now, pressing a soft kiss to the skin the doctor had stitched back together what felt like a lifetime ago. Your kiss was a silent plea wrapped in warmth.

To always remember you.

Wherever the wind took him next.

After all this.

After you.

Your gaze drifted up to his, content to simply look at him. Then, drawn into the blue depths of his eyes, you rose to press a wistful kiss over the scar on his chin, wondering—briefly, uselessly—who had put it there, wishing he’d linger around long enough to share that story with you some other night. Under these same stars.

You nudged him back gently, his back meeting the blankets inside the tent with a soft thud. And then you were straddling him, your weight settling comfortably over his, as you traced a line of slow, honeyed kisses along the caramel bristle of his jaw.

His hands came to rest at your hips, easy and familiar. His chest rose steady beneath you as your mouth drifted to his neck, your kisses sweet, caring and entirely his. That was how you wanted him to remember them: the ‘pretty lips’ he’d written about in his journal. Just softness. Just sugar. Just his.

At the same time, your fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt. Slowly. Deliberately. Each eyelet freed with blind familiarity and careful precision. There was no rush in your movements. You had all night, after all; just the two of you and the scent of crushed lavender beneath the blanket.

You pushed the fabric off his shoulders far enough to reveal the rugged map of scars across his chest. His hands roamed the cloth over your thighs, a deep, satisfied rasp rumbling from within him as your lips met the iron-forged muscle of his torso—scattering butterfly kisses over every patch of skin where violence had stolen the chance for sandy hair to grow.

His hand tightened on your thigh when your mouth brushed the scorched, distorted mark on his left shoulder. You wondered if it still hurt—if the pain still haunted him despite the scar looking old enough to belong to another lifetime.

“And this one?” you murmured, kissing it again just to be safe—as if your warmth might help the skin finally heal, hoping the feeling of you might linger on him for days. “Who did this to you?”

“Some Irish clown,” he rasped, his voice low and molten, a pleasant whisper that melted like honey beneath your touch. “Distant time. Different life. Ain’t ‘round here no more.”

You glanced up just enough to see him—eyes closed, brow faintly furrowed, every last thread of tension dissolving beneath your care.

And for this moment, at least until the sun rose again and the horizon claimed him back, he was yours to soothe.

So you did.

You moved down from his shoulder slowly, reverently, kissing every patch of his history that didn’t include you—every chapter of a life that had existed long before your paths crossed. Every shiny, gnarled line of scar tissue that broke the smooth rhythm of his skin—each one a quiet testament to the man he had been before and the man he had become after them. The outlaw who’d appeared bleeding in your kitchen one winter afternoon. The gentleman who’d placed your favorite flowers in a vase just so you’d smile at the sight. The artist who’d sketched you like his muse instead of the simple country woman you’d always been.

The man whose chest now rose and fell beneath your fingertips, his lungs whistling placidly as your lips traced a downward path, following the coarse line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

His nails bit into the soft skin of your arm when you drifted lower, abandoning all pretense of ladylike restraint, pressing your butterfly lips to the hard, swollen shape of him—held captive beneath a suffocating layer of rough denim.

But not for long.

Your fingers worked the leather of his belt free, the quiet jingle of metal and the whisper of fabric setting your heart into a wild, impatient rhythm—one your hands did not mirror. Instead, they moved with agonizing control as you unbuttoned his jeans, savoring every second, every low grunt that left his chest despite the desperate anticipation running through your veins, despite the searing summer blooming between your thighs. Wet and unapologetic. Midday heat sizzling over sweat-pearled skin. A haze of a summer fantasy flickering through your mind—peach lemonade on a sunlit counter, sweet beads of condensation rolling down cloudy glass, reality blurring at the edges.

Your eyes lifted to his as you tugged the fabric down, denim and cotton together. He met your gaze, his eyes fixed on you as if you were the first ray of light to reach him after an endless, biting night. Unable to resist any longer, you surrender to your desires, your attention drifting lower, savoring the iron planes of his chest, the dip of his stomach, until you reached the part of him every nerve in your body ached to feel.

A whimper escaped your lips at the sight—the sound soft and honest, impatient yet reverent. Just like him: rising solid and proud between well-muscled thighs. The flushed tip already glistening with anticipation, sweet drops sliding down the swollen flesh, following the thick veins that disappeared into the coarse hair at the base.

Your eyes drank him in with gratitude. Unashamed.

He was the most beautiful sight the Valley had ever offered you.

His gaze was heavy, half-lidded, dark with a hunger that made your skin sizzle as he waited—ached—for your touch.

And who were you to make a gentleman wait?

You reached clumsily for the front of your shirt, your fingers betraying your eagerness. But you hadn’t even undone the first button when his hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you cold.

Your mouth parted to protest, but he sat up and pressed his lips to yours—soft and deliberate—as if to quiet any complaint before it could form. His experienced, gunslinger fingers took over where yours had faltered.

Your mouth curved against his in a smirk you didn’t bother to hide. He had said this was the fun part, after all.

He bared you without inconvenience, sliding the cotton down over your shoulders, revealing skin his lips only seemed to know how to worship. Your head tipped back, suddenly too heavy to hold upright, your neck turning liquid beneath the warmth of his breath. A feeble sound escaped your mouth—half-need, half-delight—as his lips pressed soft and tender against your chest, painting a trail of wet heat as they traveled lower, to where plump flesh spilled from the tight lace cradling your breasts.

Your body shivered, a small, involuntary tremor, as the cool highland breeze brushed over skin still damp from his kiss. His rough fingers worked the lacing open with careful, deliberate tugs, each eyelet slipping free until nothing remained between his gaze and the sight of you—bare, undone and aching for him.

Your nipples tightened in the night air, your chest rising and falling beneath his reverent stare, as if your body was thanking him for freeing your breasts from the constricting embrace of fabric.

You smiled at him, your eyelids heavy with want, and for a moment, you wondered if he’d reach for the charcoal behind his ear and start drawing you right then and there.

“You’re too pretty for a bastard like me,” he whispered, leaning down to press a butterfly kiss against the goosefleshed curve of your breast. “Too damn pretty.”

Your spine arched at his touch, at his praise, the weight of your upper body resting solely on your hands, palms pressed flat into the blankets beside you.

“Arthur—” you sighed his name into the star-freckled sky as his fingers guided your skirt up your hips and over your head, leaving only your lacy drawers between you. You lifted yourself slightly—an awkward, desperate motion—but it was enough. He slipped them away without making you leave the heat of his lap.

“Sweet butterfly,” he rasped, his hand drifting down to the summer raging between your thighs, sinking into it softly, unafraid to be burned. His fingers coaxed a fragile whimper from your lips. “Too damn sweet to be touched by nothin’ but the cleanest, softest hands.”

And yet you wanted his—blood-stained and bruised. Palms scarred. Fingertips calloused exactly where they curled around a trigger. You wanted those same hands that knew how to ease you open like this, gentle as a promise. Not teasing. Just preparing. Just reassuring. Only the sweetest pressure allowed in this fairytale.

Your hands found his face, cupping it, holding his gaze as the quiet, wet sounds of his touch filled the space between your bodies.

“Clean hands ain’t makin’ me feel this way,” you breathed, your mouth parting wide in a silent moan, gasping for the air you stole from his lungs. “A-Arthur…” He touched you exactly where he’d learned you liked it the night before, as though rewarding you for making his name sound so beautiful.

“Yours is the only name these lips won’t ever stop sayin’,” you promised, arching against the arm he kept around your back, drawing you closer. His neglected length—waiting with a painful, stoic patience between you—brushed against your belly as he shifted, a searing reminder of just how much he was holding back for your sake.

“God—yes…Arthur—”

He pressed the tender bundle of nerves between your folds with his thumb, the movement as careful and artistic as when he held a piece of charcoal between his fingers.

“Men like me don’t get to have this,” he murmured, his voice a bittersweet whisper—dark coffee with barely a sprinkle of sugar—a reminder meant more for himself than for you.

You stilled, your hands resting against the steady, heavy beat of his heart. You gently nudged him back until his head met the blankets, even though it meant losing the delicious fullness of his fingers inside you. You leaned down, pressing a soft peck to his lips, your voice a hush against his skin.

“You’re a gentleman, Arthur.” Your fingers slipped into the honey locks of his hair, combing through them as you hovered above him, sinking into the honest, blue depths of his eyes. “The sweetest man… and you don’t even know it.”

“Butterfly—”

“Shhh.” You pressed your lips against his again for good measure—half-kiss, half-smile.

Then, you left him there as you straightened back, your fingertips reaching carefully for his length. He jolted faintly at your touch, a small shudder running through his massive frame as your gentle hands wrapped around him, just enough to hold him steady. You shifted your hips closer, letting your aching, slick folds brush the prominent veins along his swollen cock.

A sound escaped you at the delicious contact. Though your legs felt liquid, you managed to press your knees into the blankets, rising just enough to glide your drenched slit along him—slowly, from tip to base and back again. Not taking him inside. Not yet. Just tracing the side of his length, letting your body become familiar with every ridge of him, coating him in your heat.

His nails pressed into your knee, his brow drawn tight as he looked up at you, then down to where your bodies met. Both of you were caught in the quiet spell of it, in the hush of that moon-drenched intimacy—in the slow, mesmerizing friction of flesh that had long ached for this. Velvet against silk.

“You’re one handsome man, Arthur Morgan,” you whispered, shifting your hips in gentle, swaying motions just to see his sharp features tighten in delight. “So damn handsome. Don’t know if they ever told you.”

He gave you a brittle, flickering smile through heavy lids—a small gratitude for a truth you weren’t sure he believed about himself.

You glanced down just in time to see the glistening tip of him brush your swollen bud, a thin thread of sticky desire stretching between you.

And you could tell—by the way his muscles shuddered under your worship, by the way his fingers sank into your skin as your velvet folds soothed the painful hardness of him—that he was not used to the softness. To the devotion. To the care.

To Arthur, all his body’d probably ever been was a tool for survival, a shield for others, a target for his enemies. But to you, it was something precious whose warmth you’d always crave, even after he was long gone from these lands.

“I want this, Arthur, ah—” your voice broke as the head nudged your clit again, a jolt of lightning sparking through your core. “I—I want us like this.”

Every day, of every season, back in our little cabin.

In the summer, after a long day under the sun, sweat-damp bodies tangled in freshly washed sheets.

In the fall, behind the reliable trunk of an ancient pine, a basket of foraged berries forgotten in the carpet of needles beside you.

In the winter, quilts spread before the hearth, snow falling onto the frozen surface of the Basin, your shadows dancing in black and orange against the worn timber walls.

And every spring, in this purple sea, just like now—the Valley flowers and the star-pricked sky the only witnesses to your lovemaking.

“Please—”

—don’t leave me.

You didn’t dare finish the thought aloud. It felt selfish to want more than what he was already giving you—greedy to ask for his future when this moment alone already felt like every beautiful thing this life had to offer.

“Arthur…” With a soft sigh of his name, you finally nudged him inside you, using your hand to tuck the glistening tip into your welcoming warmth—just barely at first, just enough for your body to bloom around the stretch. He grunted as you lowered your hips slowly, the sound like gravel over silk. You let yourself sink down inch by patient inch, your hungry walls closing possessively around him.

The soothing brush of his hands on your thighs was a caress meant to encourage, to praise you for how well you were taking him in. Yet as you lowered further, the increasing heat in your sensitive flesh brought a flicker of sharp discomfort, and for a heartbeat you wondered if you would be able to fit him fully at all.

But patience was a virtue these lands had long since taught you.

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his as you sank lower, as deep as the pain would allow. Until it numbed. Until the fullness grew so exquisite you could feel nothing but the solid, pulsing weight of him inside you.

“You okay, butterfly?” he whispered, the words breathless. His voice was soft as the breeze stirring the leaves outside, sweet as the press of his lips against the back of your hand.

You nodded, barely hearing anything beyond the rasp of his breath. Barely seeing anything but the gorgeous, moonlit fantasy before you: his mouth parted in silent praise, his brow drawn tight with a vulnerability people never expected from a man like him. But then again, they’d never seen him like you did.

He was such a gentleman, just lying there—hard and generous—letting you take your time, letting you move as you pleased, letting you use him as you pleased—utterly content just to see you happy.

And you were.

Happy to be the one taking him in like a compliment.

Like a lock that had finally found its key.

Your palms pressed against his chest as you lifted your hips a few inches, then sank back down again, a little more confident this time, the feeling of him so deeply a part of you now. A low sound escaped his throat—half-breath, half-praise—as his fingers tightened around the fat of your thigh.

You took it as encouragement.

So you did it again.

And again.

Soon, a comfortable rhythm formed between you, your bodies moving in harmony beneath the wide, starlit night. The clean mountain air brushed cool against your bare skin, raising gooseflesh whenever the wind hit your back, but the warmth between your joined hips burned bright enough to chase away any chill.

The world beyond the small tent of stitched blankets and dancing firelight seemed to fall away, leaving only the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh, and the steady cadence of your joined breaths.

“You turn me stupid, woman,” he rasped, his voice deep and rough, as if the words had to fight their way out of the breathless pit of his lungs. “Don’t know what you do to me.”

His gaze remained fixed on you as though you were the only thing in the whole Valley worth seeing. His hands slid along your hips, steadying you, guiding your movements without ever trying to take control.

You smiled down at him, your pace growing a little quicker, a little less careful, as the pleasure built inside you like a gathering midsummer storm.

His name left your lips like a prayer, your voice trembling as the sensation tightened deep in your core, spreading through your limbs until they were too liquid and too useless to serve you in this dance no more.

He felt it before you could say more.

With a sudden, gentle strength, he shifted, rolling you beneath him just as your knees threatened to give out. Your back met the blanket, the grass bristling faintly beneath the thin fabric, still warm from his body. He hovered over you, careful not to press his full weight down. One arm braced beside your head, his fingers lacing tightly through yours, while the other slid beneath your thigh, lifting and angling you just the way he needed you—just the way he knew would make you feel everything he wanted to give you.

“A—Arthur—” His name tore from your chest, loud and helpless, as though life wouldn’t give you another chance to say it after tonight, as though the Valley itself might carry the sound across the hills and keep it alive long after you were gone. The world blurred at the edges as the delightful fullness of him crested inside you, your body arching softly beneath his muscles, your fingers tightening around his knuckles until they went numb.

“You’re alright, darlin’,” he murmured, the low rumble of his voice more soothing than any touch. “I’ve got you.”

He kissed you through it—slow, deep, and steady—his tongue moving against yours with quiet devotion, as the combined depth of his thrusts became too much to bear. Your walls, swollen with sweet juice, finally surrendered—a summer downpour spilling between your thighs, drowning him in your delight.

But being the gentleman he was, he didn’t pull away from the storm he’d created. His lips stayed on yours instead—selfless, patient—holding you close without asking anything of you as you came undone in his arms, as fire embers sparked all over your skin, melting the tension away from your muscles. As your body softened beneath him, he continued to move with a deeper, searching rhythm, chasing his own release.

He found it a few heartbeats later. Your walls fluttered around him as he slipped free at the last possible second, just enough to bury his face in the curve of your neck. A low, broken sound escaped him—a grunt of pure, shattered relief—as his body tensed and shuddered. Sweet warmth painted beautiful shades of white across your belly before he finally stilled, his breath heavy and ragged against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Somewhere in the valley, a night bird called. Then another answered from farther off. The creek joined them, the cold water whispering over stone just a few feet away. Outside, the fire crackled softly—perhaps too small for the mountain cold, but neither of you felt any urge to tend it.

He stayed there, catching his breath against your shoulder, his weight warm and grounding. It was as if he feared that moving even an inch might burst whatever short-lived, beautiful bubble you were trapped in. Not just tonight, but these last few weeks.

And you understood. You stayed still too, only daring to move the hand that now traced slow circles across his freckled back, your fingertips savoring the strength beneath his skin, memorizing the map of his muscles before the trail could claim them back.

“Let’s go south through Black Bone Forest,” he broke the silence first, the words tickling your skin on their way out. “See that new ranch they built out there. Take it slow. Pick you some of those flowers you like. They grow ‘round there, too, those orchids.” His fingertips drifted along your ribs, slow and absentminded, as though he were sketching the path you’d follow come morning. “We can camp near Owanjila if it gets late. Leave at first light the next day… then we’ll make it south of the Montana before dark.”

You stayed quiet, listening to the low hush of the creek, the brittle crackle of the fire outside, the soft rustle of blankets whenever either of you shifted. You let yourself sink into the simple comfort if it—the grounding weight of his body, the lazy tickle of his fingertips at your side, and the wide, indifferent scatter of stars overhead.

You watched them as though they might hand down some ancient wisdom—something that would mercifully quiet the question your lips were aching to ask.

“And after that…” Your fingers moved slowly across his shoulders, counting freckles one by one, though your heart beat fast and uncertain beneath his body. And you wondered if he could hear it from where his ear rested against your chest. “Are you goin’ to Mexico, then?”

You felt the faint shake of his head.

“I gotta go to Beecher’s Hope,” he said quietly. “Ask John a favor.”

Your heart twisted. Mexico or Blackwater—it didn’t matter. Neither of those plans included you. Still, you liked the way he said that name—John—with a natural, lived-in warmth, as if you were supposed to know who he was. It made you feel, just for a moment, as though you belonged to some small corner of his world. You pictured the drawing you’d once glimpsed in a stolen morning—those men with their quiet smiles. One of them, perhaps. A brother.

“Will you come visit me, Arthur?” you asked, voice faltering just a little, the question barely rising above the hush of the wind. Your eyes stayed fixed on the patch of sky framed by the tent opening. “Sometimes. When you’re in the area.”

“Butterfly…” He drew in a slow, steady breath and lifted himself from the cradle of your arms, propping up on one elbow so he could look at you. The firelight from outside flickered softly across his godlike features, softening the hard lines of him. “You know I don’t much like the idea of you bein’ there alone.”

“Then don’t leave.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. The years you’d imagined together—the four seasons in the cabin—unfolded inside your head like a map you weren't allowed to keep. But what if…

You pushed yourself upright and cupped his face in both hands, as though you could anchor him to your life by sheer will alone. In that moment, you forgot every promise you’d made to respect the man he was—his drifting nature, his wild heart. Because the thought of a life where you didn’t fall asleep against his chest every night felt like the cruelest torture imaginable.

“You can still travel,” you whispered, your voice thick with a desperate, brittle hope. “Still see the world. Camp under the stars. Ride wherever the wind calls you. Just…” Your thumb brushed a slow, loving circle along the bristled warmth of his cheek—longing, wishful. “Just come back to me in between, Arthur. Come back to me every time, before you leave again.”

Please.

He looked at you for a long moment, the starlight caught deep in his eyes, the same pale glow it cast across the Basin on a clear summer night.

“Whether it’s a trip to Saint Denis for cookies,” he said quietly, his hand sliding to the small of your back, drawing you closer, “or just down to Manzanita for groceries…if I leave you alone for a second while ‘em pelt clowns still roam those woods… how am I any different from that imaginary piece of shit you call your husband?”

A smile broke across your face, his features blurring through the warmth gathering in your eyes.

He leaned in first, slow and careful, as if he were giving you time to change your mind. His lips brushed yours in a soft, lingering kiss—sweet and reassuring. An owl hooted in the distance, and somewhere beyond the tent one of the horses shifted, a sleepy huff drifting through the night air along with the faint, comforting scent of woodsmoke and pine.

“Ex-husband,” you smiled against his lips, your hand sliding to the back of his neck, your thumb stroking gently just below his ear.

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm and breathy between kisses. “So you’re single now, ma’am? Finally?” He pressed another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your cheek, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop.

“No.”

He pulled back just enough to frown, confusion flickering across his face—then understanding dawned, playful and sure.

“You don’t mind your new husband’s a wanted man in a few counties?” he asked, the weight of his past haunting his voice beneath his playful demeanor.

“And who’s gonna come find him in the middle of the woods?” you teased, though you could still feel the tension behind his question. “You and the pelt clowns are the only men I’ve seen in all the years I’ve lived out there. If the law ever comes, I could always hide you in my cellar.”

You stole another peck from his velvet lips, as if you could kiss his worries quiet.

“And if they see my boots ‘round the house?” he wondered aloud, his voice deepening as he let himself drift into the shape of the life you were offering—the shape of the husband who shared a little cabin in the woods with his butterfly wife. “If they find my shirts in you closet, my guns in a chest under the bed…”

“I’ll just tell ’em they belong to my husband.” You brushed your nose gently against his, smiling, perfectly content to spend the whole night spinning little stories if it meant one of them would convince him to stay. “My sweet husband who sells exotic flowers in Saint Denis.”

He huffed, amused. “You’re one clever lady, ain’t ya?”

You laughed softly as he pressed his lips against yours one more time before drawing you closer, turning you around so your back rested against his chest. His arms circled you in a warm, protective hold. The heat of him seeped into your skin, still slightly damp from your lovemaking, his breath slow and even against the crown of your head.

You stayed like that for a while, your fingers drifting absentmindedly over the soft hair on his forearms, tracing the faint ridges of old scars. Above you, the sky stretched wide and endless, stars scattered like spilled sugar. His chest rose and fell gently against your spine, the rhythm slow enough to lull your thoughts quiet.

“I mean it, butterfly,” he said after a moment, his voice low and thoughtful. “What I’ve done… it ain’t pretty.” The words slipped into the night, carried away by the soft murmur of the creek. “Out there… law’s still lookin’ for folk like me. Last thing I want is that kind of life to find y—”

“Where?” you cut in softly. “Where are they lookin’ for you? We could just avoid those places forever.”

He paused, then sighed, as if remembering that the woman in his arms was as stubborn as mountain stone.

“Let’s see…” he murmured. “Annesburg. The whole stretch of Scarlett Meadows. Blackwater still, though I’ve been there a few times lately.” He fell quiet again, listening to the creek as though it might whisper the rest back to him. “Reckon Saint Denis too. Though I’ve passed through without much trouble. City’s too big for the law to care who comes and goes.”

“S’okay,” you said softly, pressing your hands over his where they rested just beneath your breasts. “Never even thought of goin’ to Rhodes or Annesburg anyway. Heard there’s nothin’ to see there but dust and coal. And who even needs Blackwater?”

He chuckled faintly at your optimism—a low, melodic vibration that traveled from his chest straight into your spine.

“What about Ambarino?” you asked. It was the only place you didn’t want to leave this world without seeing at least once—but you’d gladly give up every mountain peak in the country if it meant he stayed by your side.

“Don’t recall ever doin’ anything nasty up there,” he murmured against yours ear.

“Then, I’d like to see the Grizzlies with you. That round house you drew. The Springs…” you let the fantasy take root as you spoke. “I read in the Ledger that the water there’s bluer than the sky. So bright it almost hurts to look at. They say it changes colors, like it can’t make up its mind. Little ponds of boilin’ water.” You smiled faintly at the memory of the tattered article. “Ever been there, Arthur?”

He only nodded against your head, quiet and content to simply hear you speak.

“An old traveler once stopped through Strawberry,” you went on, your fingers tracing the thick, prominent vein along his forearm. “Sat at Mr. Cooper’s counter all evening, talkin’ about the places he’d seen. Said there was a poppy field real high up north. Bright orange ones. Claimed the land for themselves, he said—wild little things.”

Arthur stayed still, save for the hand that drifted along your side, his fingers warm and reassuring against your skin, sketching the blooming shape of a future you both knew was a gamble.

“He told Mr. Cooper you could see the whole country from up there. The Heartlands, Cumberland Forest, O’Creagh’s Run…even Flat Iron Lake if the sky’s clear. Like the land just opens itself up to you. And up there…” you smiled faintly, picturing the two of you as tiny specks in that orange sea. “He said the wind never stops. Just rolls through the flowers and makes the whole hill shimmer orange.”

Above you, the patch of sky framed by the tent flap seemed to fill with that imagined color—the orange sea the traveler had described, the wide world unfolding beneath it. You could almost see it: a quiet picnic in the sun, his head resting in your lap while the wind stirred the poppies and lulled you both into a lazy afternoon nap. Your horses grazing nearby, tails flicking at flies in the tall grass.

And you wondered if, in his silence, he was painting the same picture in his mind.

“He said there’s a lookout tower near the ridge. And a little cabin folk call the Witch’s Hut,” you added after a moment. “Nobody seems to know who lives there. Or if anyone does at all.” You let out a quiet, wistful breath. “Said that field was the prettiest patch of land he’d ever seen, Arthur.”

“I can take you there,” he promised quietly, his voice brushing your ear like a secret. “Late spring, when them flowers are in full bloom. Camp under the stars, just like right now.”

You turned slightly in his arms, searching his face, trying to memorize every detail in the firelight—the tired kindness in his eyes, the way the shadows clung to the stubble along his jaw. The world felt small and gentle around you, no bigger than the blankets beneath your bodies and the slow rustle of the leaves dancing in the night breeze.

“That sounds real nice, Arthur,” you whispered, your lips curving into a smile the moment they shaped his name.

“Butterflies should always be ‘round flowers.” He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. Not hurried, not hungry—it was just warm and it was his. The kind of kiss meant for quiet goodnights, and not for farewells.

He shifted, the blankets rustling softly as he drew you down with him. One arm slipped around your waist as your back met the warm fabric beneath. You turned toward him without thinking, fitting against his chest like that was always where you were meant to rest. His hand settled at the small of your back, careful, protective—like you were something too precious he didn’t want the night to steal while he slept.

You listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing, to the faint thump of his heart beating life into his body beneath your ear. He caught your fingers in his and brought them to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that felt like a seal on a contract.

“I’ll take you everywhere you want,” he murmured again, as if he wanted the stars to be the guardians of this life you were planning to start together. “The Springs, the house on the hill, the poppy field.”

You smiled at the thought, watching the faint, pulsing glow of embers through the tent opening, basking in the fresh scent of the wildflowers crushed beneath your tangled bodies.

“There’s a place up north near the Reservation,” he went on, his voice drifting. “Where the Dakota’s born. Water’s emerald like this valley grass, but deep blue as the midday sky too… if that makes sense.”

You nodded against his chest, not quite able to picture a color so vibrant, but content to know that his plans—his future—included you now.

“You’ll love it up there, butterfly.”

Your fingers curled gently into his as a reply, wishing you could bottle this starlit night forever. Wishing you could fold it up like a letter and tuck it somewhere safe in the event that, despite your best efforts to build a fairytale together, the years eventually decided to take him away some day.

His arm tightened around you just a little more, soft and quiet as the valley itself. It was a wordless reminder that, though the future curled in uncertain, shifting ways beyond the canvas of the tent, the present moment was all you truly had.

And it was enough.

-

Rain hammered the roof in a steady, heavy rhythm, like a thousand angry fingers drumming on the planks overhead. It was the kind of summer storm that came down all at once, wild and unruly, carrying thunder and lightning in its wake. The scent of damp earth and crushed pine needles slipped through every crack in the timber, the forest air feeling softer for it—richer somehow—the oppressive heat of the day washed away and replaced by the cool, clean breath of the storm.

You stirred beneath the blankets, drifting in the hazy space between dreams and reality. Across the room, the fire in the hearth burned low, reduced to a blurry nest of glowing embers beyond your heavy eyelids, casting wavering shadows along the walls. The cabin was steeped in the soft scent of warmed sap and old smoke that had burned all night, while the world outside was reduced to flashes of pale light and the endless, roaring curtain of rain.

For a moment, you didn’t know if it was still night or if morning had come and simply forgotten to bring the sun with it. The sky beyond the small window by your bed was black as pitch, and the downpour made time feel slow and thick, as if the hours had melted into one another and settled quietly in the dark corners of the room.

You shifted, your body instinctively seeking a warmth that was no longer there.

Your hand brushed over the blanket beside you, searching for solid muscle, but found only the faint dip in the mattress where he’d been. The spot still held a trace of his heat—a ghost of warmth beneath your palm—and the sheets still carried the lingering smell of his skin. But the steady rise and fall of the chest you’d fallen asleep against was gone.

You blinked your eyes open, lashes heavy with sleep, and turned your head toward the corner where he liked to drink his morning coffee.

He stood near the kitchen window, his back to you, outlined by the dim, dying glow of the fire. The soft light traced the broad expanse of his shoulders and the strong line of his spine. It caught the firm, familiar curve of his ass before it artistically melted into the muscle of his thighs. There was something about the way he stood, the easy, unguarded posture of a man who hadn’t bothered with clothes after the night you’d shared.

He didn’t seem to notice you stirring. Just stood there, one arm bent at the elbow, a cigarette resting between his fingers—the ember at its tip pulsing faintly, a tiny orange star in the darkness.

He looked out at the black window where rain streamed down in silver lines, the storm turning the glass into a shifting, watery mirror that reflected nothing but the quiet life he had spent years searching for.

For a long moment, you simply watched him, listening to the distant thunder and the protest of the trees as they bent under the tempest. Every now and then, lightning flashed, outlining his powerful silhouette against the glass before plunging the room back into firelit shadows. The blankets were soft around you legs, silk against your skin, and in the cradle of their warmth you found yourself wishing—just a little—that this god of the wilderness you just so happened to call your husband would come back and lie down beside you again.

You rose from the bed, your bare feet meeting the cool floorboards with a quiet thud. You were only wearing the shirt you’d fallen asleep in—the same cotton shirt you’d brought him from Manzanita one distant spring afternoon. The fabric was faded now, worn thin by years of honest use and the countless mornings it had spent swaying on the clothesline beneath the bright sun.

“You have a beautiful ass, Arthur Morgan,” you smiled, giving the firm, plump muscle a playful squeeze before wrapping your arms around his waist. Your pressed your cheek snugly against the freckles on his back, skin warm and slightly damp from the heat of the room.

He huffed a laugh—easy, unguarded and entirely his. “Well, good mornin’ to you, too.” His voice came out a deep rasp, husky like the first words of the day always were—a quiet contrast to the storm raging outside. “Sleep well?”

You hummed your answer against his skin, breathing him in—salt, moist pine, premium tobacco, and the faint, lingering trace of lavender from last night’s bath.

“Mornin’?” You glanced toward the dark window where the Basin caught the lightning like a turbulent mirror, doubtful the clock ticked anywhere past three or four. “We can still sleep a little more. Come back to bed.”

“Was about to.” His hand came to rest atop yours, warm and heavy. “Thunder must’ve scared the horses, woke me up, too.” His fingertips brushed your forearm in an absent, affectionate stroke—the touch of a man who no longer had to keep his hands near a holster. A man who only cleaned his guns out of habit and fondness for the steel, and not necessity. “And then I felt like drawin’ somethin’.”

Your gaze drifted toward the scarred wooden table, where his journal lay open. A stick of charcoal rested across the center crease like a worker sleeping after a long day, proud of the finished lines it left behind on the page.

The firelight turned the paper a soft amber, making the woman in the drawing look even warmer, even more peaceful. She slept curled in thick, soft blankets, the folds of fabric shaded so carefully you could almost feel their weight. Behind her, a small window shimmered with rain, the glass streaked in thin, slanted lines as though the storm lived inside the page itself. You could almost hear the thunder roar, feel the hush of the dark room, the softness beneath her cheek, the deep, earned rest in her sleep.

And perched lightly in her hair was a butterfly, its delicate wings folded like a quiet ornament among the wild tangle of bed-mussed strands. He’d somehow made that unruly morning mess look soft, almost flattering—as if it belonged in a storybook instead of a real, ordinary routine.

And even after all these years, after all the lazy afternoons he’d spent trying to teach you the way of the charcoal in numerous, failed attempts, you still didn’t know how he did it—how he could turn something so simple into a fairytale.

“Oh, Arthur—” your brows drew together in fondness, a tender little frown and an even bigger smile taking over your face, letting him know how much you liked it. “It’s beautiful.”

“Good, ‘cause...” He reached for the journal, carefully tearing the page free so it wouldn’t crease. “It was for you anyway.”

You took the paper in your hands. Up close, the details felt even more alive. You couldn’t understand how he managed to capture something so vivid in the dim, smoky light of the hearth.

“I love it.” You rose onto your toes to plant a kiss against his caramel stubble, where a few lines of silver had begun to show, glowing faintly in the firelight.

He caught your chin softly, tilting your face up so he could kiss you a little longer, his lips still as sweet after all these years.

Just like that first time in your cellar, all those summers ago, with the Skinners’ threat hanging over your head and everything still waiting to begin.

The room beneath your feet was still your cellar—the cedar box still held quilts that smelled faintly of soap and dust, and the walls were still lined with jars of preserved plums and candied tomatoes. But now, an entire shelf was devoted to the journals he’d finished through the years. They sat tucked against the far wall, next to the corny romance novels you usually read for him under the mellow afternoon sun—after the chores were done, resting on a patch of grass by the shore, with his head in your lap and your fingers threading through his caramel strands…

No, the cellar was no longer a place meant for hiding. There were no more nights spent listening for footsteps above the floorboards, no more strangers with cruel intentions wandering through these woods.

Arthur had made sure of that.

On the distant sunset when you’d come back from Big Valley, he hadn’t taken you home to the Basin like you’d expected. Instead, you’d found yourself hitching your horse to the front porch of a sturdy farmhouse, the railings smooth and well-cared for, the timber still smelling faintly new beneath the crisp evening air. The sun sank low on the horizon, painting the tall yellow grass of the Great Plains a honeyed gold, just like the fur of the friendly Labrador licking your hands.

He’d bounded up to you the moment you stepped down from your horse, his tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggled. You’d laughed as the fur tickled your skin, kneeling to scratch behind his ears while his tongue slobbered happily over your fingers, the scent of hay and sun-baked earth rising from the yard.

The woman from Arthur’s drawing—Abigail, you’d learned—came through the front door at the sound of the dog’s excited barking. Her hair was gathered neatly into a bun, and the soft sway of her skirts made her look as though she’d simply stepped straight out of the journal page.

“John! Come here! Arthur’s back!” she called into the cooling air, hurrying down the steps to throw her arms around him. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Thought you were halfway to Mexico by now.”

“Oh, I’d probably be happily drowning my regrets in tequila at some bar in Chuparosa if it wasn’t for ‘em damn Skinners.” He joked, his arm light and familiar around her shoulder. “Two arrows and several knife cuts later, turns out I’m still standing.” He signaled briefly to his side and his thigh, his tone light despite the gravity of the scars you both remembered too well. “Long story. The important thing is I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for the gentle hands and the incessant scolding of this sweet lady. Butterfly, this is Abigail.”

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” you said, smiling back at her.

“Oh, just call me Abigail,” she insisted, moving without hesitation to pull you into a hug, her shirt warm against the evening breeze. “Thank you for savin’ this man. He’s one big stubborn fool.” She glanced at him, her brow furrowed in disappointment. “I don’t even want to know what he got himself into this time, but I’m glad you were there.” She turned back to Arthur, though her hand still rested kindly on your elbow. “How many times will I have to tell you? Someday you’re gonna get yourself killed, Arthur Morg—”

“What happened, brother?”

A man emerged from a nearby barn, short black hair under a sun-worn hat and long, deep scars carved into his right cheek. The marks were harsh—a jagged reminder of the same violent past Arthur had crawled out from—but his expression was anything but. His rough features were softened by the playful grin he wore as he approached.

“Finally decided to move in and help me run this mess?” he half-shouted, boots thudding tiredly across the yard. His voice sounded worn by years of trail dust and campfire smoke.

“John here was never much of a farmer, butterfly,” Arthur murmured to you, leaning close enough that you felt the brush of his breath at your ear. “Plays tough, but as you can see, he’ll always need me to save his ass. Ain’t that right, Johnny?”

“From where I stand, that could very well be yourself you’re talkin’ about,” John shot back, his lips curving in a grin. His gaze flicked toward you, tipping his hat in greeting. “Miss.”

“Good evenin’, mister—”

“What would any decent lady be doin’ anywhere within ten feet of a bastard like Arthur goddamn Morgan?” Laughter burst from the house, a voice too loud, too cheerful to belong to the body that followed it out the door. It was none other than the old man from Arthur’s drawing—long, untamed white beard and hair to match, face weathered like sun-bleached wood. He looked like he ought to be carrying a banjo, just to match the picture in the journal. “Have some self-respect, sweetheart,” he chuckled, giving your shoulder a friendly, yet heavy, pat that stung even through your shirt.

“Jesus, you still alive, old man?” Arthur greeted him, already stepping toward the doorway as Abigail ushered everyone inside. “Was hopin’ to come back to better news.”

“Ain’t that a fine way to greet your elders?” the old man scoffed, shuffling after Abigail. “Don’t go actin’ all tough just to impress a lady. I pictured you rottin’ in some ditch down in Casa Madrugada by now.”

“Just pretend he ain’t here,” Arthur murmured to you as you crossed the threshold. “He’s so ancient he might as well be a ghost and we don’t know it.”

You let out a small huff of amusement at Arthur’s comment, then quickly pressed your lips together, worried the old man might take offense. But he didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. He wore a smile that looked permanently carved into his cheeks as he settled himself at the table, an empty bowl waiting in front of him.

Once inside, the comforting scent of simmering stew, fresh bread, and clean wood wrapped around you like a blanket. The floors were smooth, well-swept planks that glowed honey-gold in the firelight. A braided rug lay beneath the table, its faded reds and blues soft under your boots. Decorative plates hung neatly along one wall, catching the flicker of the hearth in the salon. There, a piano stood silent but ready, and a large portrait of the master and lady of the house stood proudly above the mantel.

Just beneath it, sat a small statue of a squirrel wearing a hat and carrying a tiny gun. It immediately reminded you of Mrs. Hobbs’ work back in Strawberry—she used to make odd, charming things just like it. There was a word for that, she’d told you once, you just didn’t remember. You wondered briefly if she was still around.

Everything in the room felt cared for. Not fancy, not rich—but warm, lived-in, and honest. It was the kind of place where mornings began with coffee on the stove and evenings ended with tired laughter around the table.

“He’s been old his entire life,” John explained, dropping into the chair across from the old man. “You remember him young, Arthur?”

Arthur shook his head, placing his hat on a nearby peg. “He refuses to tell his age. Reckon he’s forgotten it.”

“That’s ’cause nobody ever asks nicely,” the old man said, folding his hands over his belly as if waiting for a miracle. Or, more likely, the stew.

“How old are you, good sir?” you asked with a polite smile as you took the seat beside him.

“You can just call me Uncle, miss,” he said, leaning closer and whispering the answer like a state secret.

“Oh my, really? You don’t look a day over sixty!” you said, perfectly mirroring the mischievous smile he was giving you.

“I know, sweetheart. My second wife always used to describe me as ageless,” he murmured, looking immensely pleased with himself. “See? That was easy.” He glanced at the younger men around the table. “Like I said, kindness costs you nothin’.”

“Yeah, yeah—like I said,” Arthur muttered, rolling his eyes as he pulled out the chair next to you. “Where’s Jack?”

“Jack! Come out! Your Uncle Arthur is here!” Abigail called, setting a heavy iron pot onto a thick wool pad at the center of the table. Steam curled from beneath the lid, carrying the rich scent of beef, onions, and herbs that made your stomach tighten with a sudden hunger you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying.

“Where’d he abduct you from, sweetheart?” Uncle asked, already dipping a ladle into the pot. “Blink twice if you need help.”

You laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it, and Uncle joined in with a wheezy chuckle of his own. He poured a generous helping into his bowl, thick, velvet drops of gravy sliding back into the pot. The sight made your mouth water, reminding you just how ravenous a long day of picking flowers in Black Bone Forest could leave a body.

“I wasn’t abducted,” you said, amusement still dancing behind your words. “Quite the opposite. I’d have lost my home and my horse, perhaps more, if it weren’t for Arthur.”

“Aww, well look at you, Mister Morgan,” Uncle teased. “Finally doin’ somethin’ gentlemanly for a lady.”

“Reckon Hosea would be proud,” John added with a playful grin.

“Oh, you two be quiet,” Abigail scolded, placing clean bowls in front of you and Arthur. The pottery was simple but sturdy, still warm from the wash water. “Arthur’s always been a gentleman. You two were just too busy with a bottle of bourbon or a damn Cattleman to even notice.” She turned to you, her expression softening. “Ain’t he a good man, miss?”

You nodded, smiling at her before turning your gaze to Arthur. He looked faintly uncomfortable with the sudden praise, shifting slightly in his chair as if he weren’t quite sure where to put himself when the spotlight wasn’t a threat.

“Finest gentleman I’ve ever met,” you said softly, your hand finding his knee beneath the table. “The sweetest, too.”

“Yeah, a regular dandy and a charmer,” he muttered, self-deprecating as everyone at the dinner table knew him. But despite the gruff words, his hand slid warm over yours beneath the wood, his thumb brushing your knuckles while the fire crackled in the little salon and the stew steamed between you all.

“Then you ain’t been around much, sweetheart!” Uncle burst out, a wheezy laughter that rattled in his chest, the sound so natural on him it felt as if he’d been born chuckling at the world’s expense. Abigail only shook her head, disappointed but used to it, as she took the seat beside her husband.

“Uncle Arthur.”

The young boy who’d always let you pick out the biggest eggs on a the busy mornings you visited Beecher’s Hope, stepped out of a room behind you. The lamplight caught in his light hair as he paused next to Arthur. He stood at once to greet his nephew, his rough hands turning remarkably gentle as he pulled the boy into a quick hug—the quiet, careful affection a sharp contrast to Uncle’s rowdy teasing.

You lifted your palm in greeting when he noticed you, a shy smile curving his lips as if he were surprised to find an unexpected face around the dinner table.

“Hello again, miss,” the boy said. His eyes were soft and thoughtful—the kind that made a person feel welcome without a single extra word.

“My lady here tells me you are one generous salesman, Jack.” Arthur said as the boy took the seat across from him.

“Is that so?” Abigail asked, smiling fondly at her son while she reached for the bread loaf and began slicing it, the crust crackling satisfyingly under the knife.

“The lady is one of our best customers,” Jack explained quietly, focusing on his bowl as he dipped his ladle into the pot. “She always buys more than anybody else.”

It was true. You always stocked up on eggs whenever you rode back from Blackwater. Trips into town were rare, and you liked having plenty set aside for the long weeks of mountain solitude ahead.

“And Rufus likes her,” Jack added, glancing toward his mother. “Because she’s kind. Doesn’t shoo him off like most customers.”

“Well, guess she’s a dog whisperer, ‘cause Arthur here clearly likes her too,” Uncle chimed in, craning his neck like a nosy crow to see if his jab had elicited the reaction he wanted from Arthur. “All that starin’ and holdin’ her hand under the table like a goddamn schoolboy’s got you lookin’ like a bigger fool than usual.”

John huffed a laugh, almost spitting out his stew, and even Jack let out a quiet snicker. You noticed John stealing a quick, contemplative glance between you and Arthur, as if trying to piece together a story no one had spoken aloud yet.

“Just let him be,” Abigail said, her tone a blend of warmth and authority. She set a slice of bread beside your bowl, her smile gentle, and knowing. “He’s happy.”

Arthur didn’t answer.

But his hand returned to yours beneath the table, despite Uncle’s teasing. His thumb resumed its slow, quiet circles against your skin—telling you, without a single word, that Abigail was right.

Later, as laughter rolled easy around the table—as John recalled the time he and Arthur had nearly blown themselves to pieces by lighting a cigarette beside a wagon full of dynamite, as Jack eagerly explained to Arthur a new kind of arrow his Uncle Charles had shown him how to make in his most recent visit—you found yourself sitting back, quietly taking it all in.

It was nice.

Nights like this.

For so long, your evenings had been made of quiet routines and dinners for one, the only sounds the crackle of the hearth and the wind brushing the eaves of your cabin. You’d forgotten how warm a house could feel when it held more than one heartbeat. How a fire seemed to burn brighter when it lit several faces at once. How a meal could stretch well into the night simply because there was always another story to tell, another memory to laugh over.

Yes, it was really nice.

To hold his hand beneath the table, hidden from the lamplight and teasing eyes.

To fall sleep to the distant grunt of bison somewhere out on the Plains, curled warm next to him in a clean, moonlit room. It was the same room he always stayed in when he visited, Abigail told you the next morning while you and Jack helped her wash the dishes from last night. The warm water had turned your fingers pink, the smell of soap and stew lingering in the air while plates clinked softly in the basin.

Jack was a good kid—quiet, polite—but there was something pensive about his eyes, something deep and restless beneath the calm surface. His mother mentioned he had a head full of ideas, maybe too many for someone so young. When she teased him about being so well-spoken he might grow up to be a writer, he’d flushed red as a beet, ducking his head as though the compliment blinded his eyes like the bright morning sun.

Watching him then, you understood why Arthur spoke of the boy with such quiet pride. Why his parents did.

And in the days that followed, you began to understand even more.

Because your stay at Beecher’s Hope lasted longer than you’d first expected.

As it turned out, Arthur hadn’t brought you there just for the pleasure of the visit. He’d wanted you as far as possible from Tall Trees while he, John, and their friend Sadie—whom you’d learned was the fearless bounty hunter he’d told you about—rode out to purge the woods of the rot and filth of the Skinners. They were gone several days. Long enough for you to notice how Abigail’s jaw tightened whenever the wind carried hoofbeats from the distance, only to relax in disappointment when it turned out to be nothing.

She hadn’t been happy about the plan. That much was clear. But she never took it out on you.

Instead, she let you help her around the farm—shelling peas on the porch while Jack played with Rufus in the front yard, washing shirts together by the river in the blue light of early morning, stirring pots over the stove while the kettle hissed softly beside you. And as you worked, she told stories.

Stories of 1899 and the years before that could have very easily filled a dozen novels. She spoke of muddy camps and long rides against snowstorms; of laughter around fires and silly arguments that lasted well into the night; of a man of the clergy who drank more than he ever prayed; of how Sadie had lost everything to the O’Driscolls before finding the steel she yielded now. She spoke of Hosea—an honest conman with a rattling cough and the kindest eyes—who was responsible for teaching both Arthur and Jack how to read, and a whole lot about life in the process. She told you how she’d almost lost John twice, first to wolves and then to lawmen. Of how he was mostly a family man now, but still remained wild and untamed, for the moments his friends needed him to ride with them.

She spoke of loyalty, heartbreak, and the strange, tangled family they’d all once been. Of how both Arthur and John still carried the invisible wounds of being left to rot by a man they’d once considered a father.

And by the end of your stay, between Abigail’s honest recollections and Uncle’s… more imaginative ones—as Arthur later called them—you felt like you understood better. The cold steel. The gunpowder. The endless, winding roads that seemingly always led to danger.

And it was because of those years—because of Arthur and the people who’d shaped him—that you now got to live this quiet, gentle fairytale in a remote—but never lonely—cabin in the forest. You had been his butterfly for years now. Perching on the edges of his journal pages while he drew, fluttering around him with little stories of things you’d seen while foraging in the woods, sharing memories from your youth in Strawberry that surfaced without warning—though there weren’t many left he hadn’t heard by now.

You pinned the drawing he’d just given you to the board in the kitchen. It hung across from the table, positioned perfectly to catch your gaze whenever it drifted—when you drank your morning coffee, when you scrubbed the lunch dishes in the sink, when you sat knitting across from him in the fading afternoon light.

The board had grown crowded over the years. Paper edges overlapped, older memories hiding behind newer ones, some curling faintly with age, others still crisp. Each one held a small, quiet piece of the life you’d built together.

There you were, sitting in the middle of an endless sea of poppies, your dress swallowed by the swaying petals, and though the charcoal was monochrome, your mind insisted on seeing the vibrant, fire-bright orange that had burned across the field that day.

There, bent over a patch of violet snowdrops near the so-called Witch’s Hut, a place you’d visited almost every summer now and which, as it turned out, held no trace of magic other than the quiet peace of the mountain.

Next to it hung a sketch of you perched on a sun-warmed rock at the edge of Cattail Pond—a fishing trip born on a crisp autumn whim, the water drawn so clear it looked ready to ripple at the slightest touch.

Another caught your horses grazing beside the round house near Bacchus Station, their manes lifted by the late spring breeze, your reliable horse looking delicate and small next to the midnight mountain of his Raven Shire. You could still feel the warmth of the sun as it washed the mossy roof in a liquid gold that afternoon.

And then there was your favorite, a masterpiece of perspective he’d simply titled: Sunset at The Loft.

It showed the world breaking open beneath that high Ambarino ridge. You could see it all—the rolling Heartlands, O’Creagh’s Run reduced to a shimmering pond in the distance, the deep shadows of Cumberland Forest, and the sliver of Flat Iron Lake on the horizon.

It had taken him three full days, perched at the high balcony of the tower, studying the light until his fingers were more charcoal than skin. You remembered those days with a longing, sweet fondness: the rhythmic scratch of his charcoal blending with the cries of birds flying level with the lookout; the focused lines of his face glowing pink under the cherry-colored skies, the way your legs had ached for a week from climbing that dizzying ladder just to keep him company. And when the daylight finally died and he latched his journal shut for the night, that same endless world would shrink down to just the two of you, the crisp highland air, and the low murmur of your voices as you traded stories beneath the cold, bright diamonds of the Ambarino sky.

Quiet moments.

Little fragments of peace.

Sometimes you thought the cabin was growing too small to hold all the bliss that had grown inside it over the years, ever since that day you’d met him in your kitchen with his mangled leg and your peaches in his satchel.

“C’mere,” he called softly from the bed.

He was already lying beneath the covers, one arm crooked behind his head, the other lifting the blanket in a silent, familiar invitation. You crossed the room and slipped in beside him, the sheets already cool from the brief absence of your bodies. He pulled the blanket over and wrapped his arms around you the way he had every night since that starlit evening in Big Valley, all those laps around the sun ago.

Outside, the rain kept pouring—hard and steady against the roof. Inside, you were warm and safe, tucked against his chest, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your ear.

“You think they’ll make it?” you whispered into the night, watching a flash of lightning leak through the thin curtains, illuminating the room for a heartbeat before fading back to ember-glow.

“Butterfly,” he murmured against the crown of your head, his breath stirring your hair, “in the years I’ve known John, bullets ain’t stopped him, snow ain’t stopped him, the law hasn’t stopped him…hell, not even a pack of wolves could.” His chest rumbled rhythmically under your cheek as he spoke. “What’s a little mid-summer shower gonna do but get his hat wet? If the man wants to fish, he’ll be here.”

You chuckled softly against the heat of his skin. John, Abigail, and Jack were meant to come fish in the Basin today. Some fisherman from the east near Rhodes had spun John a tall tale about a rare bass that supposedly inhabited these high-altitude waters—a "king of the mountain" that had eluded every hook.

But despite all the long, stubborn afternoons he and Arthur had spent trying to lure the beast out of the depths of the Basin, you’d never seen them pull up anything but good ’ol tiny Rock Bass. You and Abigail didn’t share their competitive disappointment, though. You were more than content with the "failure," enjoying countless afternoons picnicking along the shore, watching the water shimmer like shattered glass while Jack skipped stones and Arthur tried—with a persistence that bordered on cruelty—to convince John it was finally time to learn how to swim.

You loved every second of it. The laughter, the bickering, the simple peace of a family that had finally stopped running. You silently hoped the clouds would break by dawn, if only to see the look on John's face when he inevitably caught another finger-sized fish.

But for now, you’d rest. Cradled in the arm he tightened around you, his hand resting warm at your waist. For now, the world was just the size of your room. You let the song of the rain lull you back to sleep, drifting off in the absolute certainty that come morning—rain or no rain—the day would begin with the scent of strong coffee and the sweet, familiar brush of his lips.

—

It seems like we’ve made it to the end of this journey💜 When I started writing this fic last December, I never expected readers to connect with the story in all the ways you guys did. What an amazing time I’ve had with you in the comments every week! I hope the ending did the journey justice! Dying to know what you think about it! Also, you guys are amazing for putting up with my insane word counts, especially the last chapters which were absolutely deranged (what was even that?! lol) As always, thank you so much for your support.🦋💐

I’ll go ahead and link my Kofi here in case you’d like to support my work this way too☕️😊 ko-fi.com/missbubblesoda

Lastly, it goes without saying that I’ll be back with more stories soon! I’m currently working in two low-honor fics (for John and Arthur). If you’d like to be notified when I post the first chapters, don’t hesitate to reach out and let me know which one you’d like to be tagged in🌸 Until the next one!🫧💜

Instead, the front door creaked open.

Cold air rushed in, carrying the crunch of gravel and the scrape of more boots. The cabin filled with sound again—voices, fewer than before, perhaps only two or three had returned. You heard the wet thwack of someone spitting on your floor.

“She ain’t nowhere in these woods,” a voice grumbled. “Ain’t no fresh boot tracks. Only horses but if they—”

“Shh,” the man standing above the latch rasped, his voice thick and grainy from his nap. “She’s here.”

Your blood turned to ice in your veins.

“What? Where?” another voice scoffed, followed by the heavy scrape of a chair being dragged harshly across the floor. “She invisible or somethin’? This shack’s so damn small I can barely breathe, and you’re tellin’ us she’s hidin’ here?”

“I heard somethin’,” the man insisted. You heard the slow scuff of his boot as he nudged the rug—right over the latch. “I think it was her. Has to be.”

You looked at Arthur.

He lifted a finger to his lips—a silent, deadly command to stay quiet. His other hand reached out with the slow, liquid grace of a gunslinger, fingers closing around the cold steel of the Volcanic on the shelf.

“You ‘think’?” the other Skinner mocked. A knife bit into wood—your kitchen table, you realized dimly. “The boys are out there scourin’ the brush, wolves are nippin’ at our heels, and you’re tellin’ us you dreamed her up while you were nappin’?”

“He’s right. You’re full of shit,” a third voice chimed in. “I wanna go back to camp. I’m tired.”

“No, listen,” the one above you snarled, his voice darkening, sharpening. “I heard a whore moan. I swear.”

Jagged laughter exploded through the cabin. A glass bottle shattered against the hearth, the sound splintering through the floorboards.

“Shut up! I know what I heard!”

“Come on, buddy,” the high-pitched voice chuckled. Spurs jingled as they moved toward the door. “You’re just horny. Let’s hit Thieves Landing, get you a real lady with two big round references up front. This place is a ghost ship.”

“If she ain’t here now, she was just a moment ago,” the man insisted one last time. “Oh, but she’ll be back. And we’ll be here then.” His boot sat heavy on the latch. “We’ll come back tomorrow night. See if the little bird’s flown back to her nest.”

“Fine, fine. Let’s move out before Big Buck thinks we’re keepin’ her for ourselves.”

You listened, your heart hammering against your ribs as the boots finally tromped out of the house. The door slammed shut with a finality that sent dust drifting through the cellar air. Then came the snort of horses and the spray of dirt.

Silence returned to the cabin gradually as the thunder of hooves faded south. Arthur exhaled beside you—a long, unsteady breath—as his thumb eased the hammer of his gun back into place. He turned to you, his eyes searching yours in the gloom, heavy with the shared understanding that they were coming back.

That the nightmare wasn’t over.

But at least for tonight, the cellar still held.

The air remained thick with the scent of ripe peaches, drunk with the ghost of a kiss you already knew you’d spend the rest of the night thinking about, no matter how dangerous it was to want it.

-

Morning came slow and gray. Not with birdsong or needles of gold, but with a thin, bluish light that bled through the floorboards like a reluctant apology.

You had spent the entire night down there. Arthur had insisted, his hand firm on your shoulder when you’d tried to move toward the ladder after the Skinners finally left.

“We wait till the sun is up,” he’d muttered, his voice a welcome comfort in the dark, “then we’ll think of what to do.”

And so you had slept in fits and starts, sitting upright against the cold stone walls. The thick roots that pressed through the foundations pinched your back the whole night and left your neck sore and your limbs stiff. Yet despite it all, you’d remained cocooned in heavy quilts—and in the constant, overwhelming heat of his body sitting just a few inches away.

When you finally climbed back up, the cabin creaked as it always did when the air shifted—familiar sounds, comforting ones, reminders that your safe haven of old timber and homemade curtains still stood.

That you still stood.

But it looked like a crime scene.

Only missing the blood.

There was dried spit on the floor. Shattered glass scattered across the boards. Boot dirt ground deep into the blankets on your bed. Drawers hung open, white underthings and cotton chemises spilling out as if recoiling from the filth below. The air was stale, thick with old sweat and the lingering, coppery tang of fear.

“Pack your things,” Arthur said. His voice still carried that low, honey-thick rasp from the night before, though it was clear he hadn’t slept much—if at all. He stood by the window, the curtain pulled back only a fraction, his silhouette sharp against the pale light outside, jaw set tight. “Just enough for a few days. We’re leavin’.”

The small measure of relief the morning sun had brought vanished, replaced by a cold, leaden weight settling in your chest.

“Leavin’? Where?” You frowned, your heart sinking as you forced yourself straighter. “Mr. Morgan, this is my home.”

“Yes, and it’s also a target,” he countered, turning toward you fully. The movement made his side pull, just slightly, and you saw the flash of pain he refused to acknowledge. When his eyes met yours, they softened, but something resolute remained beneath. “They’re comin’ back tonight, ma’am. You heard ‘em.”

“Mister—”

“They think you’re a prize. A toy they can take and then toss once it breaks,” he interrupted, not sharp, just the right amount of firm to cut through. “Listen to me. They were drunk, tired, sloppy. Our luck held out once. Best not test if it’ll hold twice.”

The words landed heavier than any threat spoken the night before.

From where you stood near the cellar opening, he seemed miles away. You looked around your kitchen, the wounds on the table from their knives, the mud on your rug from their boots. This cabin was every cent you’d saved, every hour of back-breaking labor you’d endured just to own something you could call yours.

“If I leave now, where does it stop?” you asked, quietly. Not defensive, just desperate to understand. “I leave today, I leave tomorrow... when do I stop goin’? Where do I draw the line between leavin’ and livin’?” Your voice wavered just a little. “Eventually, I’m just a woman runnin’ until there’s nowhere left to go.”

You gestured vaguely toward the ceiling—toward everything you’d built with soap-worn hands and years of work. The little you had, all had gone into this place. Every penny earned. Every shift worked. Every fabric scrubbed clean in the icy waters of Hawks Eye Creek while the rest of Strawberry slept. You couldn’t afford to start over somewhere else. “I built this, Mr. Morgan. I can’t just leave everythin’ behind every time they come sniffin’ around.”

“You won’t have a life to leave behind if they find you tonight,” he countered, the words harsher than he meant to, and for a heartbeat, his face was the mask of the outlaw—hard, pragmatic, lethal.

They hung in the air between you—true, brutal, sobering. You sighed, more out of hopelessness than exhaustion, your gaze lifting to him in a silent plea for another answer—already knowing there wasn’t one. Not one where you survived the night again.

Something in him fractured at the sight of your defeat.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Then, he stepped toward you. When he spoke again, his voice was different—the granite in his expression crumbling, his shoulders dropping as he closed the distance until he stood as close as he had the night before. When you’d shared that peach.

That stare.

That kiss.

“Look, I know,” he said, his voice turning to honey—warm, sweet and slow, making your skin prickle with memory. “What it’s like to wanna hold onto a place.”

He reached out, his hand hovering near your arm, uncertain, before he settled for a gentle, respectful touch at your elbow. “This place… it ain’t just walls to you.”

His eyes stayed on yours, steady and honest, and something sweet—something dangerous—stirred in your chest at the memory of how close his lips had been only hours ago. How his breath had mingled with your own in the dark. How easy it had been to forget the entire world for the simple touch of his skin against yours.

“This ain’t gotta be forever,” he continued softly. “Just a couple nights. Let things cool off ‘round here.”

You offered a smile—barely there, brittle.

No matter if his name was printed on a wanted poster out there somewhere, to you he was a good man. And you tried not to dwell on how right his touch felt, how comforting the warmth of his hand was against your arm.

Better not get used to it, you reminded yourself. He was healing, and soon, he’d leave.

Back to his life outside.

To the vast world waiting out there, arms and claws outstretched.

“Thank you,” you whispered at last. “Truly. But I’ll be fine. I’ve handled them before.” You hesitated, then added quietly, “You should go to Beecher’s Hope. Finish healin’. It ain’t far.”

For a moment, he only stared at you—his gaze searching, weighing something you couldn’t quite name. Finally, he let out a huff of disbelief, a small, stubborn smile tugging at his lips.

“You really are a mule, ain't ya?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he spoke over you, his tone shifting—careful, like he was setting something fragile in your hands.

“How ‘bout Big Valley?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You said you missed it. Strawberry. The purple fields.” He leaned back against the table, his eyes growing wistful. “Spring’s hittin’ the Valley. Lavender’ll be bloomin’ right now. We take the long way—stop by Strawberry, if you want. Then camp by Little Creek. Get you sacks and sacks of the stuff. Enough to scent this cabin for a decade.”

The imagery hit you all at once. Like a sudden wave of the most beautiful memories.

Purple fields rolling under open skies. Cool water singing through emerald grass. Your hands perfumed for days with the fresh, clean scent of the flowers. The air sweet and no O’Driscolls around to ruin the calm no more.

To go back home. To Strawberry’s streets and familiar faces after years of solitude. A life you’d thought you’d closed the door on—waiting, just on the other side of the Upper Montana.

And not as a lonely girl.

But with him.

Trading stories by the firelight, under the bright Big Valley stars. Falling asleep under the watchful gaze of the distant Ambarino peaks, shining white under the moon. Waking to the birdsong of the Valley. Then sharing a cup of coffee on the misty morning. Existing in the same stretch of time instead of passing one another like ghosts.

He watched your face closely, reading every flicker of doubt and longing.

“It’s either that,” he added, his voice regaining its stubborn edge, “or we both stay here tonight. And I’m tellin’ you now, butterfly... I won’t be hidin’ in a hole again. I’ll be on that porch, waitin’, with every gun I got.”

Your breath caught.

The thought of him—still healing, still scarred—standing alone against seven Skinners settled the matter for you. He would die on that porch just to prove a point, the stubborn fool. And damn him. He knew you wouldn’t let that happen.

“Lavender’s a summer flower, Mr. Morgan,” you breathed, sorrow and guilt tugging at you as your gaze lifted to the worn, reliable ceiling boards. “Doubt we’ll find any this early.” It felt like abandoning the life you’d built, the house that had faithfully sheltered you from the sun, the rain, the snow, and the Skinners all these years…

“Then we’ll get you somethin’ else. It’s spring, ma’am, something’s gotta be bloomin’.”

But when you looked back at him, you understood why he was right.

If you stayed…there might be nothing left to return to.

“Big Valley it is,” you said, as if testing the promise aloud. “But it’s only for a couple days. And you’re helpin’ me pick every last sprig of those flowers you promised, mister.”

He chuckled, a warm, humble sound of victory that filled the kitchen.

“I reckon I can manage that.” He tipped his worn hat onto his head, and just like that he was the outlaw again—a wolf to the world, and somehow still the bravest, sweetest gentleman to you. “I’ll call the horses, saddle ‘em up. See you outside.”

He paused at the back door. “Don’t take too long. If we leave now, we can make it to Strawberry before dinner.”

Then he disappeared into the early morning.

You stood there for a moment longer, heart heavy—but undeniably alive—before reaching for the satchel by the door and beginning to pack.

-

Around you, the world felt deceptively calm. No shouting. No jagged laughter. No violence. Just morning—and the quiet, unhurried rhythm of your horses’ hooves as you followed the trail north.

You kept glancing over your shoulder all the same. Though you had rarely seen the Skinners this far out, every deer that bounded through the brush and every rabbit that darted across the path sent your heart leaping into your throat. Perhaps it was only the residue of fear clinging to you from the night before, but you half-expected the hiss of an arrow to slice through the trees at any moment.

That unease kept you company until the woods finally began to thin.

Tall Trees seemed to bid you farewell as the world opened wide below, revealing the rolling yellow plains of West Elizabeth to your right. And beyond them, Flat Iron Lake stretched endlessly in the far distance, glittering alive under the late morning sun, a vast mirror of liquid sky.

You had never been to the other side. You had never even ridden on a train. Never crossed the imposing heights of Bard’s Crossing into New Hanover. Never seen the Lake’s shores from the Lemoyne side, where it became one with the Lannahechee that curled around Saint Denis. You’d heard the East was an entirely different world—red dirt, thick wetlands, crowded streets…

Perhaps someday, you would see it.

The thought felt like a small indulgence, a quiet sign that the leaden weight you’d been carrying since leaving the Basin was finally starting to lift.

“You’re awful quiet, ma’am,” Arthur said as the trail began its slow descent toward the Upper Montana.

“Why?” you fluttered your lashes at him with practiced mischief. “You miss the sound of my voice, Mr. Morgan?”

He chuckled, sunlight melting into the caramel of his stubble. Your gaze traced the line of his jaw, and your skin remembered—far too vividly—exactly how that bristle had felt against your lips. Just the right amount of rough to linger for days.

“I’m just sayin’,” he drawled, “for someone who talks to the laundry and was sayin’ goodbye to furniture a couple hours ago, I find the silence a bit suspicious.”

A genuine laugh escaped you—light, unburdened, the first you’d managed that morning.

“I reckon you’re just as attached to that journal or those twin pistols of yours as I am to my reliable chairs,” you countered, your eyes flicking to the way the golden engravings of his right Volcanic flashed in its holster.

He only smiled. A secret, knowing thing.

“Tell me, mister,” you said after a beat. “What’s it like to travel by train?”

“A train?” He repeated, almost to himself, as if the notion surprised him. “Don’t use ‘em much. I prefer this boy right here.” He gave the Shire’s neck a solid pat. “And truth be told, I remember more about robbin’ ‘em than actually sittin’ in the seats.”

You laughed, and he shot you a grin in return.

“But it’s calm, I guess. Shakes just like a horse. Why? You wanna see the world, butterfly? Riggs Station ain’t far.” He tipped his chin toward the eastern treeline. “I could buy you a ticket. Take you clear to Saint Denis. Find that husband of yours,” he had the nerve to wink, “and leave him for good.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you knew damn well it wasn’t the sun’s fault.

There was a lilt in his voice, in his lips—too light, too curved at the edges. That wink. Or maybe it was your own liar’s remorse. You wondered, sharp and sudden, whether he still believed the lie…or if he was simply waiting for it to crumble.

“Very funny, as usual,” you replied, fixing your eyes firmly on the trail ahead.

But your lips tingled all the same. Humming with the memory of the night before.

Between the Skinners, the frantic packing, and the constant vigilance, you hadn’t allowed yourself the space to reminisce.

The kiss.

The moan that had nearly gotten you killed.

The way your heat had flared alive and desperate against the hard, undeniable proof of his want. It had been an accidental contact, brief as a heartbeat, yet the ache between your legs lingered, insistent, demanding the same kind of touch again.

His touch.

Yet beneath the clean light of a new day, it was as if none of it had happened at all. He hadn’t spoken of it. Neither had you. And for a fleeting moment, you wondered if you had dreamt it all in the cold of the cellar.

But no.

That playful spark that lit deep between your thighs at the memory, it was a quiet signal that the fire was still there, merely sleeping.

Waiting for the right kind of touch to wake it.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. He was humming softly, some carefree melody, looking wholly at ease—as if riding through open wilderness was his natural state of being. And you couldn’t help but wonder if he even remembered.

If his lips still tingled with the ghost of your touch.

Like yours did.

By the time you reached the river, the sun had already passed its highest point.

You’d left your clock where it always sat atop your vanity, but if you had to guess, you’d say it was a little past two in the afternoon. You’d grown good at telling time by the slant of sunlight across your porch.

Your porch.

If you were still in the Basin, you would’ve retreated inside long ago. In that corner of West Elizabeth, afternoons had become forbidden hours—when sadistic freaks haunted the woods like it was their personal graveyard.

If you were there—

You shook your head lightly, chasing the thought away.

It was foolish to mourn the cabin now. The day around you was far too beautiful to ignore.

The river ran high and fresh with spring melt, its waters clear and alive. Cool droplets splashed up as your horses waded through, misting your skin in their wake. You glanced upstream, toward the far bend where the water foamed white over clusters of mossy stones, and imagined Owanjila beyond—still and blue, a flock of loons washing themselves along the shore.

The weather had been kind all morning. The pure mountain air danced with your hair just as it always had back at the Basin, but without the faint metallic edge of danger. Instead, it carried something softer.

Maybe it was only your imagination, but the air seemed to grow sweeter the farther north you rode—as if Strawberry itself were welcoming you back. The road curved in ways that felt old and familiar, remembered rather than learned.

And then, there was him.

You looked at Arthur, riding easily at your side. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy overhead, breaking into pools of gold that scattered across his skin. His massive Shire threaded through the rushing water with surprising grace, each step deliberate and calm despite the animal’s sheer size.

You realized, with a sting of gloom, that this could very well be the first and only time you ever rode together.

He turned, sensing your gaze.

And smiled.

Not the crooked grin. Not the teasing smirk. But something quieter. Honest. Something his.

You didn’t try to stop your lips from answering it. There was no reason to.

“You hungry?” he asked, his voice soft and easy, drifting like the breeze skimming the river’s surface. The water had grown shallow beneath the horses’ hooves as you reached the northern bank. “Let’s stop for a bit. Let the horses rest. We can eat them biscuits I been savin’ in my satchel—waitin’ on the right moment.”

You chuckled softly, the sound bright against the rush of the river.

“And where did you happen to come across those?”

He huffed, looking thoughtful as he adjusted his hat, which the wind had been intending to steal for the better part of the day.

“Don’t rightly remember. Few weeks back, I reckon.” He paused, his eyes alive with mischief. “Probably some butterfly lady’s cabin in Tall Trees.”

You shook your head, smiling as you pulled your horse to a stop next to his, under the inviting shade of an ancient oak.

-

Nestled under the watchful guard of Mount Shann, Strawberry finally came into view as the skies dipped into melancholic shades of mauve and pink. The town looked as though it had been artistically colored into the Big Valley highlands—like a familiar illustration from a childhood fairytale you used to trace with your finger before bed. You hadn’t been back in years, and yet there it was, unchanged in all the ways that mattered. There was an odd, grounding comfort in knowing that the world hadn’t moved on without you.

The watermill still turned tirelessly at the heart of town, it’s steady rhythm the heartbeat of the Valley. The coach driver still tipped his hat and offered to take you anywhere your heart desired, despite the perfectly good horses beneath you. The rooms for rent at the entrance of town still sat vacant, patiently waiting for guests who seemed to never quite make it to their destination. On the bridge, the carpenters still lounged at the day’s end, boots hooked on the rail, smoke curling lazily from their cigarettes as they talked about nothing and everything at the same time.

And most importantly of all, the flower baskets beneath the Welcome Center’s windows still glistened, heavy and alive with highland dew.

Just as you remembered.

You smiled, the expression reaching the very corners of your eyes.

Strawberry was still the most beautiful town in the country.

“Let’s see if they’ve got rooms at the Center,” you told Arthur, glancing at him as you slowed your pace. “Beds at the Trackers Hotel ain’t half as soft.”

“Lead the way, ma’am,” he replied easily, his voice folding seamlessly into the roar of the nearby falls.

You had a feeling he’d much rather sleep beneath the open sky, but that could wait until tomorrow night in the Valley. After a full day of riding—and the scant few hours of rest you’d managed beneath the Skinners’ threat the previous night—a soft bed felt like a hard-earned mercy, a luxury you didn’t feel like forfeiting. Still, your gaze lifted briefly to the towering heights of Mount Shann, knowing Big Valley awaited just behind its snowy peaks. A shiver of excitement raced across your skin, raising gooseflesh along your arms. You could almost hear the creek singing in your ear. You could almost smell the lavender under your fingernails.

As you crossed the bridge, the sheriff’s office came into view.

Your eyes couldn’t help but drift toward the side wall of the jailhouse. You nearly laughed. So, they’d finally fixed the hole.

“You wanna know somethin’ terrible that happened here back in ’99, Mr. Morgan?” you whispered, keeping your voice low so the lawman smoking near the gallows wouldn’t hear. “The jailhouse—there was some gang, the Van der Lindes, I think they called ‘em. One of ‘em—real rough, real tough-looking they say—blew the wall clean open to—”

“Eh—ma’am,” he cut in quietly, just a touch too fast. “Maybe we ain’t gotta talk ‘bout things like that next to the sher—”

You gasped.

The way his expression stilled—just for a heartbeat—betrayed him more than any confession ever could.

“Christ. Mr. Morgan, you—” Your hand flew to your mouth. “You didn’t—”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, ma’am,” he replied calmly. “I’m clean now. Sheriff,” Arthur greeted, tipping his hat as he dismounted at the hitching post in front of the Welcome Center. The man returned the nod from the gallows.

Your heart thudded wildly in your chest. Was he one of ‘em Van der Linde—

“I’ll feed the horses, make sure they’re settled for the night,” Arthur said, hands already reaching for your waist to help you down.

You barely had time to register his touch before your cheeks flared alive, boots landing on the cold ground with a soft thud, your breath caught sharp in your throat as he leaned in again, close enough that only you could hear him.

“We can talk ‘bout whatever you want later,” he whispered, his voice indulgent and coarse as brown sugar. “But now I need you to go inside, butterfly. Check the rooms. Pick the one you like.” His fingertips seemed to burn your skin right through the fabric of your skirt, his broad frame effectively shielding the heat blooming in your face from the Sheriff’s wandering eye. “I’ll take whatever’s left.”

You only managed a dumb, helpless nod. The way his eyes flicked down to your lips for a fleeting second was enough to turn you stupid.

“Go on,” he nudged you gently, his thumbs tracing a slow, agonizing arc along the waistband of your skirt before he let go.

You climbed the front steps of the building, suddenly very aware of your own walk, of the sway of your hips, of the rustle of your skirts, of the way his presence seemed to follow you like the setting sun even after you turned toward the door. You pushed the sturdy wood open, the familiar creak greeting you like an old friend. You tried to focus on that sound instead of the phantom thumbprints still lingering at your waist.

The clerk emerged promptly from behind the counter. His eyes—now framed by more lines than you remembered—widened a little behind his spectacles, before he smoothed his surprise into a polite smile. Mr. Fowler had always been a man of proper forms. Still, you knew he remembered you. You had washed the bedsheets for this place and the hotel across the road for years. That was how you’d learned which rooms held the softest mattresses in town.

“Miss,” he greeted warmly. “Welcome back. I thought you—” He paused, clearing his throat. “Never mind. May I offer you a room for the night?”

You caught the exact moment his curiosity was outweighed by years of practiced customer service.

“Make it two, please, Mr. Fowler.”

He nodded, turning to retrieve the keys.

“Traveling with a companion, miss?” he asked casually, fumbling with the rack longer than necessary. You knew him well enough to recognize the pretense.

“Yes, we rode all day from—”

“Truly a shame what happened to your old place,” he interrupted, still searching in a drawer despite there being only two rooms to choose from. “Mayor Timmins debated for some time, not knowing if you’d return. Chip Cooper told him we wouldn’t be seeing you again.” He finally surfaced with a single key, clicking it against the counter. “And lo and behold. Here you are. That man’s always been trouble. Never trusted him. And the years have only proven me right. To run a moonshine business right beneath the Mayor’s feet… Christ!”

Your old place? A shine business? What had even—

“Are you married, miss?”

The question snapped you back to the present.

You opened your mouth only to realize you didn’t know why he was asking or what you were supposed to answer.

“Forgive the question,” he added quickly, “but I only ask because I have just the one room available. Room three.”

Of course he did.

“Room One was booked with weeks in advance. Mayor Timmins expects an extremely important guest from New York,” he added, scribbling notes on a ledger. “I could give you the room, but the guest could arrive at any moment, and it would be a shame to disturb you in the middle of a restful night to make you clear the room.”

“Oh—never mind. We’ll check the Trackers—”

“Booked. Every bed. Sorry, miss.” He offered a hasty, tight-lipped smile. “It’s either Room Three or camping under the stars.” He let out a small giggle.

And you forced one of your own—not out of amusement, but to buy yourself a moment to think.

If you took the room, Arthur would almost certainly follow Mr. Fowler’s advice to camp under the stars. You knew he didn’t need much encouragement to avoid a roof. And if you turned it down, then you’d both be sleeping on the cold ground. You didn’t usually mind, but tonight you could really do with clean water, a soft bed, a door that locked. You hadn’t washed since yesterday morning. And his wounds craved rest and care to heal, even if he always seemed to think otherwise. The image of him sleeping alone on the hard earth in the cold of the night…No. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t been sharing a cabin in the middle of the woods for weeks, anyway.

“We’ll take the room,” you said, just as the front door creaked open behind you.

Once upstairs, you’d find a way to convince him to stay. A warm hearth, fresh sheets, a soft mattress... how hard could it be to tempt a tired man?

“Excellent,” Mr. Fowler said, sliding the key toward you. His eyes flicked to Arthur, then back to you—assessing the pair of you, imagining a married life, fitting the pieces together into a story of his own making. Apparently satisfied, he beamed. “Welcome back, sir. I can also arrange a bath, if you like. A couple’s bath costs a little extra, but for just a bit more, we’ll include rose petals, champagne from—”

“A bath for the lady,” Arthur cut in smoothly, setting coins on the counter. “And one for me. Separate.”

“But of course,” Mr. Fowler stammered, visibly flustered. Then, scrambling for his lost propriety, he added, “I can have dinner sent up afterward. On the house.”

Arthur glanced at you, his mouth curving into a surprised, amused line. “Ain’t this gentleman generous?”

“That’s very kind of you, mister,” you smiled at Cecil Fowler, already turning as Arthur headed for the stairs.

A couple’s bath.

The thought lingered far longer than it had any right to, curling low and playful in your belly as you followed him up the creaking wooden steps. Absurd, really—but it still coaxed a quiet smile from your lips.

Upstairs, the little salon was hushed and mellow, the air steeped in aged cedar and the faint, clean perfume of soap. The late afternoon light bled through the windows, laying long, golden streaks across the polished floorboards.

Even as your hand found the door to Room Three and slid the key into the lock, your eyes betrayed you—darting to the washroom door beside it. You didn’t stop them. You didn’t stop your imagination, either.

Bare skin glistening under the amber glow of candlelight.

Playful bubbles pearling over broad, sun-kissed shoulders.

Water tracing over the expanse of a lavishly freckled back.

Perfumed steam softening the jagged lines of old scars until they blurred into nothing but gentle memories.

Strong, calloused hands working away the road’s dust and the day’s grit from the iron meat of his thighs, lavender oil clinging stubbornly to skin and hair alike.

Would he mind if you offered to do all that for him? If your hands helped? If your lips—

“There you go.”

His voice cut through the soapy fantasy like a splash of cold, sobering water. He held out your satchel and saddlebag, his knuckles brushing yours as you took them.

You blinked, heat rushing to your face as you turned the key on its lock.

“Thank you…” You stepped inside, the room an island of domestic peace amid the wild sprawl of West Elizabeth. It was modest in size but still larger than your cabin, honey-colored walls glowing wistfully in the pink streaks of the dying day.

“Mr. Morgan—actually…” your eyes darted to the bed—a heavy quilt of deep evergreen draped over a wide, inviting mattress, already welcoming you to the restful night ahead.

You sighed, releasing the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “Just…come here.”

Before he could question it, you caught his hand—his palm rough, warm and somehow familiar against yours, despite this being the first time you’d properly held it. You tugged him inside and closed the door behind him with a soft but decisive click.

The light thud of your bags hitting the floor echoed louder than it should have in the quiet space. Somehow, it felt easier to convince him to stay once he was already past the threshold, caught in the rosy glow of the room with you.

“There aren’t any more rooms,” you began, turning to face him. “They’re all booked. And no, before you start getting too excited about camping out on the outskirts by yourself…once again, the answer is no. We’re sharing this bed.” You held his gaze, your look firm as if daring him to defy you.

He turned his head slightly, glancing at the evergreen quilt waiting behind him. Then, his attention returned to you, standing with your back pressed against the hard door, waiting for the argument.

His brow furrowed slightly, blue eyes searching your face with careful, measured intensity—like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, debating whether the fall would be worth it.

Like he was deciding exactly how close he was allowed to stand.

How close you wanted him to be.

“Okay,” he said easily—surprisingly so—setting his own bags down. “Ain’t even said a thing, butterfly.” He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “No need to scold me,” he whispered.

Your lungs stalled, forgetting their purpose the moment they caught the scent of that premium tobacco he liked to smoke—rich, familiar, intoxicating.

“Good,” you breathed, victory tugging at the corners of your mouth, holding his gaze as he closed the remaining distance.

“Ain’t like we haven’t been sharin’ space already,” he added. His hands returned to your waist as if to prove his point—not gripping, just resting there, his thumbs hovering as if asking for a permission he already knew he had.

As if giving you the chance to stop him.

As if you’d ever want to.

“Bed’s big enough for two,” he whispered, voice deeper now—testing—as the space between you collapsed.

“Exactly.” You tipped your chin up, a smirk playing on your lips. Your hands rose of their own accord, settling against his biceps—hard, unyielding, and impossibly real. Iron beneath sun-warmed skin. You felt his breath shift at the contact.

In the honest amber of the sunset, every detail stood bare, every little thing the cellar’s darkness had withheld from you the night before. The freckles dusting his nose, the scar at his chin where stubble refused to grow, the rosy cheeks the long day’s ride had artistically painted on his features, and the fine lines carved into his skin by years of living under the sun.

“Even that husband of yours would agree,” he murmured, leaning close just enough that his words brushed your mouth. They melted against your lips like warm honey, lighting a delightful spark under your skirt— a puzzling combination of wrong and right— making you feel foolish for ever thinking he’d forgotten a single second of the night before.

“I don’t know about that,” you replied, your fingertips gliding up the powerful, tense muscle of his arms.

“No?” He shifted, bracing his knee against the hard wood of the door, right in the cradle between your legs.

The audacity of the movement stole your breath, his thigh between your own a temptation so cruel it felt like a taunt. Every nerve screamed for you to lean into that solid muscle of him, to chase the delicious friction you knew his denim could provide. The one he was denying you on purpose.

“Well,” he murmured, “there’s always the floor. Reckon I can—”

“Absolutely not,” your voice came out breathless, your folds slick with delight, aching for his touch. “Reckon my husband would want you to stay and take care of his lady.”

“His lady?”

A sudden, sharp moan escaped your lips when his fingers tightened abruptly in the fabric of your skirt, a grip so firm, so possessive it felt like a reminder that he could tear the wool away whenever he chose to. And Lord, you wished he would.

“Yes,” you dared to reply, the word barely more than a whisper. Your grip on his biceps tightened for support, your legs turning liquid as they threatened to surrender, to press your aching heat against the iron of his thigh, solid and determined between your legs.

“I see.” The intense blue of his stare burned your skin, drawing you in even as it scorched. “Bastard’s lucky I want nothin’ but takin’ care of her.”

He leaned in.

So slowly it felt cruel.

Your lips hovered a breath apart, warmth mingling, shared air trembling between you. Your body surrendered to the magnetic pull of him, tipping forward even as your mind screamed for restraint.

“Bath’s ready!”

The knock shattered the moment like falling glass.

You both pulled back at once, hearts hammering against ribs. His knee left the cradle of your legs, and his hands fell away from your waist, leaving only a ghostly warmth behind.

“Yes—thank you,” Arthur called, voice rougher than before.

He glanced at you once more, something raw and unresolved burning behind his eyes. “You can go first.”

You hesitated, just a beat too long, your gaze drawn to the inviting pulse throbbing in his neck.

Then, with a nod, you turned and left, the door closing softly behind you.

You stepped into the little salon, the cool mountain air from the open window rushing in to kiss your flushed skin. You pressed your back to the door, breathing deep to the rhythm of the waterfall beside you, trying to steady yourself—

—and knowing, with aching certainty, that the evening was far from over.

-

The first lights had begun to bloom, scattered across town like fallen stars. One by one, they flickered back to life—from the hotel windows across the road, from Mr. Cooper’s store below, from the doctor’s house and his neighbors on the far side of town, and from the lampposts lining the bridge, glowing like fireflies caught in iron.

You watched them all from your private balcony, elbows resting on the railing, the scent of flowers spilling from the hanging baskets and mingling with the dark coffee warming your hands.

The soft click of a door behind you painted a smile on your lips.

“Enjoyed your bath, Mr. Morgan?” You lifted the cup for a sip as the quiet thud of bare feet approached. “Come here and I’ll show you why that so-called Jewel of Lemoyne don’t hold a candle to my hometown.”

You heard his chuckle before you felt his presence.

When you turned, he stood inside the doorway—proper enough in his jeans and shirt, but only just. The fabric clung where it was still damp, barely buttoned, untucked. Pearls of water glistened in the golden hair dusting his chest, and the cotton was spotted where water dripped from his hair.

You took another slow sip and turned back toward the street despite yourself. You didn’t trust your hands—or your lips—if you looked at him too long. And you certainly didn’t need to give the Sheriff smoking next door a show.

Still, the clean scent of soap clung to him, fresh and inviting, and your skin prickled in response.

“You never told me why you left town,” He toweled his hair as he came to stand beside you. His voice was deep, steady, carried easily over the distant murmur of evening life below. “You seem…fond of it here.”

You let your gaze wander over Strawberry—the storybook charm, the pine-thick air of the highlands, the way the Valley cradled the town like a secret. Who in their right mind would leave a place like this?

But you knew why you had.

“One morning,” you began softly, “just like any other, I was washin’ bedsheets down by the creek.” You tipped your chin lightly toward the southern entrance of town. Under the shade of an old cedar. That was your favorite spot. “There was a stain that wouldn’t come out. Wine, most likely.” You smiled faintly at the memory. “I don’t remember how long I knelt there. Just scrubbing. Waiting for the red to surrender.” Your fingers tightened briefly around the warm mug. “At some point, I caught my reflection in the water—crooked, all broken up by the current.”

The evening breeze teased your still-damp hair, cool against your neck, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the bath still humming in your skin.

“And I knew,” you reminisced quietly, “that I didn’t want that to be all there was. I didn’t want to be the laundry girl forever.”

You lifted the mug to your lips, letting the steam kiss the evening chill away.

“Strawberry will always be the only place that truly feels like home, Mr. Morgan,” you admitted. “But I wanted to see more. Of the world. Of myself. To know who I was without this town telling me.”

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fidget or rush you along. He simply leaned beside you, forearms resting on the railing, listening like your words mattered.

Below, Mayor Timmins emerged from the general store—still sharply dressed, puffed sleeves intact, though the hair beneath his top hat had gone noticeably whiter.

“I always liked the solitude of the Valley,” you added after a moment. “I’d camp out there for days. Never felt lonely. Never felt like I needed civilization to remind me I existed.” You turned to him then, studying the lines of his face softened by the setting sun. “Though… this is nice too,” you lifted your cup towards town, “in its own jumbled way.”

He smiled, small and understanding, nodding once.

“What about you?” you asked gently—the words more an invitation than a question. “Why’d you leave the gang? If you don’t mind me askin’.”

He was quiet for a long moment.

Long enough for another lamp to flicker to life below, its glow spilling warm and gold against the flowing river.

“I didn’t,” he said at last. “The gang left me.”

His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, on the cherry-colored sky bleeding slowly into night.

“I got…real sick, toward the end,” he went on, voice barely more than a rasp, his words measured with care. “Breathin’ alone felt like work. Every morning felt…borrowed.” He let out a quiet breath that almost passed for a laugh, though there was no humor to be found in it. “Kinda thing that changes the way you look at the world. At people…at yourself.”

You didn’t miss the way his grip on the railing tightened—just slightly.

“Most of the folk I cared about,” he continued, “they made it out. And somehow, despite my best efforts to the contrary—I did too.” The corners of his mouth curved, faint and fleeting, and something in his tone told you this was an old wound—scarred over, but not forgotten, just lived with. “Even after all that, I’d still wake up some mornings, saddle my horse, tell myself I’d ride back to camp. Or whatever was left of it.”

He shifted, his grip on the wood loosening.

“But there weren’t nothin’ there no more.” He shook his head once. “Only memories. Buried cold under campfire ash. Shattered like bottles broken back in ‘99.” He smiled at the horizon—small, wistful, and heartbreakingly lonely. “After more than twenty years of ridin’ together, it was just…gone. Like it’d all been a dream I took two damn decades to wake up from.”

Silence settled between you, gentle and heavy all at once.

You looked at him then—really looked at him. And for a fleeting moment, you didn’t see the outlaw you’d found bleeding in your kitchen, nor the gentleman you’d been sharing a roof with for the last couple weeks. But the son who’d carried loyalty even when it crushed him. The big brother who’d nearly paid for it with his life. The ghost that had come back from the dead not because he wanted to, but because fate hadn’t finished with him yet.

Your chest ached—a phantom pain—like an old, half-healed bruise still tender to the touch.

All that loss. All that hurt. And still, here he was—standing beside you, breathing the clean mountain air, watching the lights come on one by one like quiet promises.

“Some days,” he added quietly, “I still wake up and saddle my horse. Reckon now I’m just lookin’ for a little bit of quiet.” His eyes searched the sky, as if the life he wanted was hidden somewhere behind the pink clouds. “Though I seem to bring a whole lotta noise wherever I go.”

A faint sound escaped you—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

You felt a strange, fierce gratitude that he had made it out of that long dream alive.

And an unbearable sadness for everything it had cost him to do so.

Suddenly, you understood why the Skinners didn’t frighten him. Why a morning plunge into icy water made him feel so alive. After all that—after walking out the valley of death itself—what were a few pelt-wearing clowns in the woods, really?

You reached out, allowing your hand to rest over his on the railing—a simple, caring touch. “The noise hasn't reached us tonight, Mr. Morgan.”

He turned his head and smiled then—soft and genuine—the last of the setting sun sparkling in his eyes, painting the blue of them a brief, brilliant pink.

A light knock at the door drew your attention.

Dinner.

You smoothed your thumb once over the back of his hand—a tender, reassuring pressure—before turning away and stepping back into the room to answer.

You took the tray from Mr. Fowler’s courteous hands, offering a polite smile as you noticed him crane his neck, trying to peer past you into the amber glow of the room.

“Enjoy! Oh—and ma’am.” His gaze flicked past you toward the balcony, toward Arthur. “The guest we’re expecting is very sensitive to noise.”

You nodded easily. “Rest assured, mister. We’re both so tired we’ll likely fall asleep before your guest even arrives,” you promised before closing the door on his inquisitive face.

The warm glow of the lamps cast a honeyed light across the small room as you carried the tray to the table by the window, setting it down with care. Arthur followed you inside soon after, lured in by the comforting scent of herbs and roasted meat.

And you understood the pull immediately.

After a long day of riding under the sun with little more than dry biscuits to sustain you, the contents of the tray felt almost sacred.

At its heart lay thick slices of roast venison, dark and glistening, the meat still steaming faintly, its surface lacquered with rendered fat and crushed herbs. Besides it sat a generous mound of mashed potatoes, whipped smooth and pale, the faintest hint of garlic warming the air. Biscuits, steaming and split, waited patiently at the edge of the plate near a small crock of butter already melting at the edges. Coffee had been freshly refilled, dark and fragrant.

And nestled at the center—

Sitting atop of a shallow porcelain dish like a trophy—

Perfectly ripe. Skins blushing soft pink and gold, split clean down the middle, the tender flesh glossy and swollen with juice. Golden syrup pooled lazily at the bottom of the dish, catching the lamplight like amber. One careless touch and they’d fall apart.

Peaches.

You swallowed hard.

Wet.

Tempted.

Your gaze lingered on the fruit—on the way the flesh curved, yielding and full, on the way the juice clung thick and sweet to the knife marks. They smelled like summer. Like warmth. Like a sin you weren’t meant to indulge in again.

The sin of lips.

His lips.

You remembered the shape of them when they curved into that knowing smile of experience. The softness you hadn’t expected when they’d brushed yours in the dark. They way their warmth still lingered long after, just enough to keep the spark between your thighs alive all day, humming quietly beneath every ordinary movement.

He shifted beside you. You felt it without even looking—the tension pulling tight in him, coiled and patient like a drawn bow, waiting for the perfect shot. You heard it in the way air left his lungs, slow and weighted, heavy with the same memory that was currently looping endlessly in your mind.

When you finally turned to him, he was already watching you.

Not teasing now. No guard held in place. No deflective smirk. Just open. Waiting. And looking every bit as starved as you were.

“So…” you whispered, your eyes flicking—traitorously—to his lips, “sweet.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, voice husky and low.

Still, neither of you reached for the peaches.

Instead, the space between you closed without either of you deciding to move. One breath. Then another. Your hand came up, slow—hesitant only for a heartbeat—before settling against his cheek, your thumb brushing over the rough, sun-warmed bristle.

That was all it took.

He leaned in, lips finding yours with quiet need, a thirst he’d been silently carrying since the first light of morning. A soft, desperate sound slipped from you into his mouth—one you didn’t bother to swallow. This kiss was nothing like the first; there was no fear to temper it, no restraint to hold it back. Just heat. Just want. The long, unbearable patience you’d endured all day snapping clean in half.

He groaned softly against your lips, his hands sliding to your waist as though he’d been waiting for permission all along. You kissed him harder, opening wider for him, tasting coffee and smoke, and sun and danger, and sugar and sin…

Your fingers threaded into his still-damp hair just as his curled into the thin fabric of your chemise.

The world tipped.

You nudged him back, the backs of his knees catching the edge of the bed. He went willingly, without protest, bringing you down with him as the soft mattress dipped beneath his weight.

And then you were straddling him.

Again.

Just like the night before.

Only this time, there were no Skinners pacing upstairs. No looming threat. No stolen urgency. No cold cellar floor.

Just a locked door. A safe room. A warm bed.

And the two of you—finally alone.

You hovered there, breathless and flushed, staring down at him like you’d just realized something both dangerous and beautiful all at once.

Arthur’s chest rose sharply beneath you, his heart a frantic rhythm against your own.

The evergreen quilt bunched under your knees, soft and thick.

His lips were swollen from your kiss, glistening with the traces of you, his eyes hooded and heavy with a burning, shimmering delight. The sight of him like that—undone, wanting, utterly yours to kiss—made a smile touch your mouth before you leaned down again. Savoring him slower this time. Deliberate. Claiming. Pressing butterfly kisses against his mouth, lingering just long enough to make every pull-away ache. Letting the wet, soft sounds of your lips releasing his tell him exactly how badly you’d wanted this.

His hand slid along your thigh, the warmth of his palm burning through the fabric as it traveled up to your hips, only to retreat again—as though he feared the moment might shatter if he dared too much. Your skirt gathered higher under his touch, the heat suffocating you with every restrained caress.

“Your room is right here, mister.”

You pulled back just slightly as Mr. Fowler’s polite chatter carried in from the salon, boots thudding elegantly against the boards outside.

“So glad you could make it, sir. Your room has been waiting for you since the very same day your letter arrived. What is it, sir?”

You shifted on Arthur’s lap, bringing your focus back to him. You searched for the solid proof of his desire—the one you’d been craving since you’d first felt it pressing against you in the dark of the cellar. The conversation outside didn’t concern you. The world beyond that door mattered very little when you had him under you.

His hands tightened at your hips when you finally found it. Hard. Impatient. A giant barely restrained under dark denim, begging you to free him.

“…No need to worry, sir,” Mr. Fowler continued, his voice cheerfully oblivious. “The couple in Room Three is decent folk. Known the lady since the last century. And the gentleman—well, he’s stayed here plenty. Never had trouble with him. Since ’99, at least.”

You straightened slightly, palms flattening against the iron planes of his chest. You met his gaze and rolled your hips just once—slow, deliberate—creating a sinful friction that was enough to draw a sharp breath from him, his jaw tightening as he fought himself. You whimpered softly—testing him—your brow furrowed in delight as your eyes swam in the blue of his gaze. His mouth parted slightly in silent pleasure, fingernails buried so deep into the fat of your hips you knew the marks would linger for days.

You angled deeper, letting the tender bud between your folds enjoy the friction too, and the contact tore a moan from you before you could stop it—your whole body shuddering, giving way, crumbling against him at the exquisite, sharp pleasure of it.

A small, reckless part of you wondered if the sounds of your delight carried through the open balcony door. And you were sorry—to Strawberry, to the neighbors, to anyone passing below—but the gentleman beneath you was making it impossible to care—

A hard, impatient knock struck the door, making your shoulders jolt.

You scrambled off his lap, smoothing your chemise as you leaned back against the headboard, your breath coming fast and uneven. Arthur rose with visible reluctance, running a hand through his hair as he crossed the room, every step heavy with frustration.

“Yes?” he huffed, voice edged and dangerously thin, opening the door only a narrow inch.

You could easily imagine Mr. Fowler on the other side, craning his neck at an awkward angle, checking—discreetly, unsuccessfully—that everything inside remained in proper order.

“Sir!” he chuckled nervously. “I know you’re both very decent guests, but I must ask that you enjoy your dinner as quietly as possible. The guest in Room One—”

“Sure. Good night.”

Arthur closed the door before the man could finish, the click of the lock echoing like a final gunshot in the small, silent room.

He returned to your side slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed with his shoulders tense, as if weighing the gravity of the moment that had just been stolen from you both.

For a moment, only the pop and hiss of the wood in the hearth dared to interrupt the silence.

“He said—” he began, his voice a rough scrape of gravel.

“Yeah,” you cut in softly, your heart still hammering against your ribs like it wanted to break free.

“I reckon we—”

“Exactly,” you agreed instantly, not giving him the chance to talk sense into the situation.

“Jesus, you always talk this much?” He huffed a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. The bed groaned under his weight as he leaned over you suddenly, a dangerous smirk tugging at his outlaw lips.

“Only when I don’t feel like waitin’.” You smiled back, your fingers already finding their way back into the thick locks at the nape of his neck.

“That explains a lot.” He pressed his mouth to yours again—slow, certain—his broad frame pinning you gently against the headboard as the world outside faded into insignificance once more.

His kiss was sweet, carrying the lingering sugar of the peach you’d eaten the night before, and agonizingly patient—like a gentleman who understood the value of waiting for fruit to ripen.

He pulled back, just barely—just enough for your lips to part in protest—his nose brushing yours in the dim light, your skin already aching for the scrape of his stubble.

“You like my lips, Mr. Morgan?” you whispered, the lines from his journal flashing through your mind like a secret you weren’t supposed to know. Your hand rested comfortably against the iron-hard bicep braced beside your head.

“What use is there in askin’ the obvious, butterfly?” he said, years of tobacco, trail dust, and woodsmoke lodged deep in his husky, tempting voice. “Prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” His thumb slid slowly over your bottom lip, tugging it down just enough to reveal the damp heat inside.

“Is that so?” You pressed your thighs together, chasing friction where heat had already begun to bloom. “What else do you like?”

“Hard to know,” his hand left your mouth to settle heavy and possessive on your thigh, “if I haven’t tasted it first.”

“Then taste it,” you dared, the invitation barely out of your mouth when your legs parted slightly, the cool mountain air from the balcony whispering against the sticky syrup that glistened between them.

He only smirked.

Instead of claiming you, he shifted, lowering himself to your side, propping his head on his hand as though he had nowhere else to be. As though he had all the time in the world to spare. As though he had no intention of touching you at all.

“What about the cookie-man?” he asked, his voice dropping into that dangerously intimate register. His free hand returned to your thigh, but instead of parting them, he pressed your legs together, locking your desire within suffocating walls. You almost whimpered in frustration.

“Who?” you managed, your thoughts unraveling beneath the heavy, commanding pressure of his fingers against your thigh.

“Your husband.” His gaze traced a slow path from your mouth down the line of your throat, lingering where your pulse fluttered beneath thin fabric of your chemise. For a moment, you thought—hoped, wished, prayed—he might kiss it. “Reckon he’d be real upset,” he continued, voice low and deliberate, “if these hands were to peel this nightdress off his pretty wife.”

Your body reacted before you could stop it, your thighs trying to bloom open for him—but he didn’t allow it. His grip remained firm, trapping your want in place.

“Open ‘em impatient thighs,” he murmured, his eyes dark with the fantasy he was spinning. “Touch her where she wants,” he squeezed just enough to draw a breathless moan from you. “Till my name’s the one she sings. And not his.”

Another sound slipped free of you—half-gasp, half-sin. Your cheeks burned as you pressed your thighs together again, desperate for any relief, any friction at all. Your folds—dripping with delight—glided deliciously against each other.

“Don’t wanna think ‘bout him no more,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a breath. “Bastard left me in the woods. All by myself. Until a real gentleman showed up.” Your legs shifted once more—insistent—and this time, seemingly pleased with your answer, he let you open for him.

His large, rough hand—the same hand that sketched careful lines of those he loved and placed bullets cleanly into those he didn’t—slid under the hem of your chemise with a devastating lack of ceremony. A sharp, hitching breath left you as his fingers found the slit of your drawers, brushing against the hair hidden there, and the cool touch of moist fabric against your skin told you exactly what he was about to find: you were already a wet, aching mess.

“Jesus, butterfly,” he whispered, the light tug of a smirk playing on his lips as he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. “All this ‘cause of a peach?”

You nodded helplessly, your brow knitting in pleasure, lips pressed tight together as you fought to keep quiet. The rough, exquisite pads of his fingers moved with reverent precision, exploring your slick folds, coaxing you gently until they discovered the tender bud hidden within—hot, aching, and swollen with want. His touch remained slow, deliberate, as though encouraging the most delicate flower to open for him.

“A—Arthur,” you whimpered, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

“Shh,” he hissed softly, his thumb circling the tender flesh in an unhurried, torturous rhythm that sent your hips bucking involuntarily into his hand. “Gotta do this quiet, remember?”

He said it—yet two thick fingers sank deeper inside you in the same breath, a sudden, possessive invasion that made your toes curl into the quilt.

“You sure you don’t miss him?” he groaned against your ear, a low guttural sound of triumph accompanying each deep, unrelenting stroke.

“Y—yes,” you managed, the word breaking into a soft whimper against his shoulder. “Hope he stays in Saint Denis forever.”

“Poor bastard.” His voice melted against your ear like caramel, and you didn’t need to see his face to know he was smirking.

“Exactly—ah—” you broke off, moaning into his shirt as his palm pressed hard against you, cupping you flat as his fingers continued their steady, indulgent rhythm that began to fracture your world into sparks of white and orange behind your closed eyes.

“Look at me, butterfly,” he commanded, his breath hot against your ear, each stroke of his fingers deeper and needier than the last. “Let me see ‘em pretty lips when I touch you like this.”

You obeyed instantly, against all better judgement. There was no way to keep quiet now—not when his fingers curled inside you like that, not when the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you echoed obscenely in the room, only making you wetter still.

“Shhh,” he brushed his nose against yours as if to soothe the desperate hitch of your breath. “You’re real pretty, butterfly,” he gifted you the mercy of a peck against your lips. “So damn tight.”

You bit back a scream of pure, unadulterated pleasure at the compliment, his fingers working a magic that sent shivers through every nerve in your body.

He leaned in to claim your mouth again. His lips urgent, desperate, tasting of hunger that had turned wild. His tongue pressed against yours, mirroring the unrelenting rhythm of his fingers below. You kissed him back with a greed you hadn’t known you possessed, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, starving for more of him.

Beyond the walls, the world went on—murmured voices drifting up from the street, the distant, eternal rush of the waterfall, cicadas humming their evening song, and the cool night air inviting itself through the open balcony door. But inside this room, wrapped in the heat of his body, you were burning. The air was thick with the quiet, illicit sounds of your shared desperation: the soft pull of lips, the slick glide of his fingers inside you, the broken gasps you couldn’t contain when his thumb brushed just the right spot, the mattress creaking as you arched toward him…

You savored the moment, the sweetness coating his lips, a dizzying blend of dark coffee and premium cigarettes that made your head swim.

His pace quickened, fingers burying deeper and harder into your sensitive walls as you swallowed them whole. The smell of lavender drifting from his damp locks drove you higher and higher, promising that the fall would hurt. Pressure bloomed low in your belly, a sweet, agonizing ache spreading through your core. You whimpered, a helpless, desperate sound that was lost in the hungry open mouth he pressed against yours. You clutched him tighter, your nails digging into the rough fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as the edges of your vision blurred.

Then it crested.

With a soft, broken cry of his name—a sound he swallowed whole— you shattered.

Your body arched against him, every muscle seizing as pleasure gushed out of you in bright, blinding waves. You convulsed around his fingers, a silent, beautiful explosion at dusk. Satisfaction rumbled deep in his chest, his hold on you tightening as he pressed you against him, riding the aftermath with you. The sweet, heavy scent of your pleasure filled the small space, an intoxicating perfume that seemed to settle in the very grain of the wood.

He kissed you through it all, slower now, tender—soft presses of his mouth, butterfly kisses to your lips until your trembling eased. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing the same ragged air.

“A—Arthur.” Your eyes fluttered open to the amber glow of the lamp with a sigh of his name, feeling warm, sated, and utterly cherished. Your hand drifted down, finding him hard, eager and neglected beneath his jeans. You stroked him gently, a silent offer.

He caught your wrist, his grip gentle but firm.

“S’okay.” He kissed the back of your hand, his voice thick with an emotion you’d never heard in a man before. “Just you’s more than enough for me.” One so steady and so deep it sounded almost like a promise. “Reckon you must be real hungry. Ain’t had a proper meal since that stew from last night.”

You melted into the pillows, your skin humming with the ghost of his touch as you watched him rise from the bed.

The world remained blurred at the edges, your senses beautifully clouded with delight as your eyes followed him to the washbasin in the corner of the room.

You watched the play of muscles across his back as he cleaned his hands, water splashing softly in the quiet. And all the while, a single thought looped through your mind:

How could a man with bounties on his head and blood on his hands—capable of robbing trains, shattering jail walls, ending lives with cold precision—be such a gentleman to you?

So careful.

So sweet.

So selfless.

“A little cold but—” he broke the silence, shoving a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth, the simple domesticity of the act making your heart ache. “Reckon this still works for me.”

You smiled absentmindedly from the bed, your fingers drawing idle patterns over the bruising flesh of your thigh, where his hands had just been. As you watched him under the fairytale glow of the lamplight, the realization settled over you with a quiet, soul-crushing certainty. After Big Valley—after he’d seen you safely back to the Aurora—the gentleman and the outlaw would both vanish into the wild.

He was a man of the trail. A son of the wilderness and open skies. A memory meant to drift in the wind. A shadow that belonged to the horizon. He was the kind of stranger you tipped your hat to when you crossed paths on lonely roads at dusk—not the kind of forever you kept chained to the domestic rituals of a cabin in the woods.

Your gaze drifted to the empty space beside you on the bed, still warm, still bearing the shape of him. Once his debt of care was paid, he would ride out of your life atop that raven Shire of his, just as abruptly as he’d crashed into it—leaving nothing behind but the lingering scent of cigarettes and leather.

A scent you already knew no soap, no “magic solution” of yours, could ever remove from your skin.

—

next chapter

taglist: @photo1030 @reineheit @lacm-ac @lilienzoe @mellwsu @fionaapplelover2010 @kaeyaszlut @gaarasgirlfriend @chloeee20 @shackspossum @bonesaltacc @mysunlights @gallantys @friendlyspacemartian @ivybeeloved @jensenacklesballsack @midnightmystique04 @saturnknows @hoeforicecream @nyxisnotok @twistermollis @kiwifishy @canofcannedsoup @muffin1304 @nightblossms @carcassbreakfast @joelmillersbabygirll @emsziewrites @pubblepoo @drydoves @maiz @talia-the-gemini @myhomethesea @maria-dit @shhhaligator @scribel-doodel @fleouris @shittingonyourgrave @rosewoodrevolver @pull-ups69

Knowing he was there, a sentinel by the hearth, was the only reason you’d eventually found rest.

Slowly, you sat up now, blinking the last of sleep from your eyes. You glanced down toward the fireplace, expecting the familiar sight of a mountain of wool blankets and the steady rise and fall of a broad set of shoulders—details that had become as ordinary to you as the cupboard or the stove in your kitchen.

But the floor was empty.

The blankets had been neatly folded.

The thin mattress pad had been tucked away.

He was gone.

You slid out of bed more urgently than usual, bare feet quickly finding the cool floorboards as you padded into the kitchen. Through blurry eyes, you scanned the room until your eyes landed on two things that eased your racing heart: his satchel resting on your vanity, and his worn journal on the table, next to the heavy glass ashtray where a roll of cash sat forgotten.

He’d tried to press it into your hand after lunch on the day of your grocery trip to Manzanita. You’d refused, of course. Told him you were more than even—that he’d saved your life, your home, and your horse from the Skinners. Besides, the rabbit stew had been delicious enough to count as payment in itself.

But Arthur Morgan, as you’d learned over the two weeks you’d now lived together, was as stubborn as a mule.

He’d left the money there anyway, refusing to take it back.

When he’d stepped outside for a smoke, you’d quietly inspected the bills, and your jaw had nearly hit the floor. There were presidents on those notes you’d never seen before—not while working at the general store, not at the post office in Strawberry, not ever.

You glanced at the orchids in the vase—now wilted into a sad, muted mauve—and felt a slight twinge of regret. What if you’d sold them instead of keeping them for yourself? Perhaps you could’ve made the small fortune he’d mentioned.

When he’d come back inside and you’d asked how a “drifting draftsman” came by that kind of coin, he’d only given you that dry, unreadable smirk and muttered something about being “real good at findin’ ol’things that fences wanted to keep.”

You couldn’t help but wonder if the orchids and that contact of his in Saint Denis had contributed to that fortune too—or if he sold his sketches instead. You’d heard folks in the city paid a pretty penny for art.

You also knew people paid just as well, or even better, for things that later earned a face on a wanted poster tacked outside a sheriff’s office.

You moved toward the window to check the weather, more out of habit than intention—and your heart nearly plummeted straight into your stomach.

Someone was in the Basin.

At this hour? The sun hadn’t even climbed high enough to melt the frost from the air, let alone warm the mountain water. You stared for a long, breathless beat before realizing there was only one man in all of West Elizabeth insane enough to strip down and plunge into near-freezing water with half-healed wounds. No, you didn’t think even the Skinners were that crazy.

You sighed as you watched him disappear beneath the dark surface, your breath fogging the glass. You had officially given up on protecting his wounds. Or maybe not—maybe you’d try again later.

But not now. It was far too early in the morning to fight a battle you were doomed to lose.

Turning back toward the stove, you noticed the tin pot already sitting there. He’d warmed the coffee before heading out for his “dip,” likely knowing he’d need the heat to thaw his bones later. You poured yourself a cup, the steam rising to kiss your face with the rich scent of roasted beans and the promise of another quiet, domestic day tucked away in your little corner of the wilderness.

You added a spoonful of honey, watching the golden syrup bloom and swirl through the black.

And then you saw it again.

Sitting right there on the table.

Alone.

Looking far more tempting now that the strong scent of coffee had chased away the last of your morning drowsiness.

You didn’t mean to. You truly wanted to be a decent lady, a woman of her word.

You glanced over your shoulder. The Basin was swallowed in heavy morning mist, but you could still hear the faint splash of water carried on the air. He was occupied. He was far away.

Let him have his fun.

You would have yours.

He had given you permission, after all.

And your fingers simply could not resist the pull as they reached out—the chance to glimpse that vast, strange, unknown world through his eyes. A world you had yet to see…and likely never would.

Just a fingertip away.

Your heart leapt with a guilty, excited flutter, something forbidden tugging at the corners of your mouth as you opened the pages of his journal.

You landed on a two-page spread—a large, sweeping drawing of a group of people. It was a study in warmth. On the far right sat a woman with dark hair swept into a neat bun, her features rendered with such care you could almost feel the softness of the skirt she was smoothing over her knees. Beside her, an old man with a long, unkempt beard hunched over a banjo, his fingers caught mid-pluck. You could nearly hear it—the jolly, off-key singing, the laughter carried between notes, and the rhythmic clapping of the men behind them. One tall and broad, his angular face and thick braid suggesting unyielding strength; the other leaner and rough-hewn, so much like Mr. Morgan himself, dark hair brushing the collar of his shirt, scarred cheeks etched with familiarity rather than menace.

But it was the face in the foreground that stopped you—a young man, barely more than a boy, his eyes so surprisingly familiar you were almost certain you’d seen them before somewhere, though you couldn’t quite place where.

Beneath the drawing, written in flowing, graceful curves, was a single word:

Family.

The date sat just below it. Only a few weeks old.

You took a sip of your honey-sweetened coffee, the warmth blooming across your tongue and settling deep in your chest, making you smile. Mr. Morgan seemed to care for these people deeply; you could tell by the way his charcoal had lingered on every expression, by how patiently he’d trapped that peaceful moment of shared laughter on the page.

“You’re quite the family man, Mr. Morgan,” you giggled softly to the empty room. “I would’ve never guessed.”

The pages made a satisfying crunch beneath your fingertips as you turned them. A beaver, frozen mid-motion along a riverbank. His Shire grazing peacefully by a creek. A delicate prairie poppy, its petals rendered with surprising tenderness for such rough fingertips.

A snort escaped your lips when you saw the familiar sight of the Manzanita General Store, complete with the doctor perched on the porch in his usual, sour-faced glory. The resemblance was uncanny; he’d captured the man’s very essence in a few sharp, charcoal strokes.

You shook your head, smiling.

Then, you turned to the next page, and the sight took your breath completely out of your lungs.

This one was more detailed than all the rest.

It was a woman in a kitchen.

You couldn’t see her face completely; she was turned toward a window, her back to the viewer as she washed dishes. Yet, there was so much life drawn into her. He had captured the way her shoulders tensed as she scrubbed a stubborn pot, the loose strands of hair escaping their pins to dance in a breeze you could almost feel, the bubbles leaping from her hands mid-gesture as if she were speaking. The light spilling through the sketched window seemed to kiss her cheek with a soft, reverent glow.

A sister?

A friend?

A lover?

You wondered what she’d been telling him about.

Beneath the drawing, the handwriting was rougher—pressed hard, almost hurried. Most of it had been scratched out with a sharp, regretful line, but you could still make out the words underneath.

‘Sweet lady. A bit air-headed, maybe, but kind. Soft hands. Pretty eyes…and even prettier lips. If I’m allowed to say that last part. Probably not. What a low-life years of driftin’ have made of a man.’

“Who’s this sweet lady with the pretty hands and pretty lips and pretty everything, Mr. Morgan?” you whispered, lifting your coffee and taking a sip, only to realize it was actually a little more bitter than you liked. “Must be nice.”

Life must come so easy if everythin’ about you’s pretty, you thought as your eyes dropped to the date at the bottom of the page.

The cup nearly slipped from your fingers.

He’d drawn this just last week.

Your heart thudded alive against your ribs as you turned the page again.

It was the same woman, this time seated by the water. A cloud of butterflies dominated the foreground, their wings rendered so delicately they looked ready to flutter straight off the paper. She sat beyond them, in the distance—a small, graceful silhouette against the vastness of the water.

You realized it wasn’t just any shoreline.

You knew that rock.

That tree.

Your cup met the table with a soft clink as you placed it down. Your forefinger trembled, as you slid it beneath the words written below the drawing.

‘Feel like a fool ‘round her. Can’t help but bein’ mean and nasty and stupid when she talks to me. Today I decided to complain about that flowery smell of her soap, Lord knows why, and she told me if I wanted to smell like a swamp, I could go sleep on the pier. Deserved, gotta admit. What an idiot I am. Though I reckon the pier sounds nice. I’ll try swimmin’ tomorrow. Miss the feel of it. Miss feelin’ fresh, like only nature can make you feel.’

Dated two days ago.

You shut the journal with a soft, final thud and lifted your coffee again, your hands unsteady.

You remembered that conversation.

Vividly.

Heat bloomed red across your face, and you knew it had nothing to do with the steam curling from the cup.

Wrapping your shawl tight around your shoulders, you pushed the door open and stepped onto the porch, your breath blooming white in the biting morning air.

You leaned against the railing, cheeks still warm—still burning—and the cold did nothing to soothe them. To numb them. If anything, it only made you more aware of your own skin.

And his.

Out there.

Moving through the Basin with long, steady strokes, well-muscled arms cutting through the glass-sharp water as if it were no obstacle at all. The lake was bitter enough to numb bone, bitter enough to steal the breath from a lesser man—but Arthur Morgan swam like he’d been sculpted from the very mountains surrounding the lake.

He glanced back toward the cabin, lifting a hand to wipe water from his eyes when he caught sight of you.

“For a man who couldn’t even button his shirt last I checked,” you called out, forcing your voice to play teasing instead of reverent, “you’ve turned into quite the mermaid, Mr. Morgan.”

A grin broke through his stubble as he angled toward the pier, water lapping at his waist. “Water’s fine, ma’am,” he called back, his voice carrying over the misty surface. “Better than coffee for wakin’ the soul.”

“I’ll stick to the bean,” you replied, lifting your cup in a mock toast as he reached the shallows. “I prefer my heart stay inside my chest. Not frozen solid in the Basin.”

He waded through the reeds, water sliding down his chest in shimmering sheets. You told yourself—briefly—that you ought to look away. Now while it was still foggy and easy. Before he got any closer.

You didn’t.

The early light caught every bead of water as they kissed the slope of his broad shoulders, then the iron-forged plane of his chest, clinging to every dark hair they found along the way, following the thick, coarse line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his long johns, riding low on his hips with every step he took.

The scars you’d spent over a week tending gleamed stark and pink against his skin, now missing the silk stitches he had stubbornly removed last night under the firelight after complaining they were too itchy. His muscles tightened reflexively against the biting air, solid and alive as he climbed the porch steps. Wet fabric clung possessively to the powerful lines of his thighs, the veins below his navel more pronounced and detailed now that he was close.

Close enough that you could smell the clean sharpness of lake water and the lavender of your own soap on his skin.

“Seems a waste,” he drawled, stopping directly in front of you. Pearls of water were sprinkled over the golden hairs on his chest, exactly like dew did on the flower baskets back home in Strawberry. “How come you have a private lake this beautiful and you don’t never use it?”

“I’m not a good swimmer, Mr. Morgan,” you replied, your voice steadier than your pulse, forcing your gaze to stay on his face so it wouldn’t linger where it so desperately wanted to—on the slow rise and fall of his chest mere feet away, comfortable, completely unashamed of his state

“Is that so?” He tilted his head, dripping onto the porch boards. His eyes flicked to your lips for just a second—long enough to remind you of his words, inked and honest, in that journal on the table. “Well, I’m a patient teacher. Come on in. I’ll hold you up.”

Heat bloomed at your neck and crept higher until it burned across your entire face, and you knew it had nothing to do with the sun now spilling gold across the floorboards. He looked at you, his blue eyes dark and searching, and for a brief moment you wondered if he could read the lingering traces of his journal in your expression.

You let out a forged, shaky laugh, tightening your grip on the mug. “I don’t think that’d be appropriate, sir. I’m a married woman, remember?” You said the words, but your eyes betrayed you anyway, catching on a lonely droplet sliding along the thick vein that disappeared beneath his waistband. “I shouldn’t be touchin’ water with a half-clothed outlaw.”

A low chuckle rolled from his chest, vibrating through the damp air between you.

“Who says I’m an outlaw?” he murmured, stealing another glance at your mouth, subtle but unmistakable. “And who says we’d be half-clothed?”

Your face caught fire—heat traveling fast down your body, lower still, curling tight and heavy in your belly. You knew this wasn’t what a decent, married woman should say, but reacting to his teasing felt like a slow-burning rope you had no desire to loosen.

“Tell me, Mr. Morgan,” you began, something forbidden tugging at the corner of your mouth, “is all this talk… this generous invitation just an excuse to get a lady to undress in front of you?”

His lips curved—dangerous and unhurried—as he leaned back against the porch post. His hair, usually a wind-tossed mane of sunlit brown, was slicked back now, dark with water, clinging to the sharp line of his jaw and the nape of his neck. You preferred it when he let the wind have its way with it, but this suited him, too. Standing there dripping wet, looking like a god of the wilderness, something dangerous that had decided, just for a moment, to be peaceful.

“Why would I make the lady undress herself in front of me, when I could do it with my own hands?” he asked quietly, the fire-blue in his gaze threatening to melt both the frost off the porch boards and your skin all alike. “That’s the fun part, ain’t it, butterfly?”

The air vanished from your lungs completely. The steam from your forgotten coffee curled into the mist as you stared at him, your mouth slightly agape. The sheer, blunt honesty of his remark sent a jolt of delight straight through you, between your thighs. Delight you hadn’t felt in a while, years perhaps, making your fingertips tingle against the tin and your toes curl against the boards.

“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Morgan,” you managed at last, gripping the railing with your free hand and shifting your weight so he wouldn’t notice the way your legs dissolved like liquid beneath his expectant gaze. “A lady’s allowed her secrets.”

You broke the spell first, not trusting yourself to remain decent a second longer. You snatched the towel he’d left on the railing and pressed it firmly into his hands. “A married woman doesn’t just shed her skin because a gentleman asks nicely. No matter how patient he promises to be.”

You offered a small, playful smile and turned toward the door, trusting, with every fiber of your being, that he would follow you inside.

-

The rest of the morning passed in a strange, heightened blur. You found yourself uncharacteristically careful with the placement of your hairpins and more attentive to the way your skirt creased when you sat. It was foreign behavior within these familiar walls, but then again, no one had ever sketched your profile before. No one had truly observed you like this, translating every little detail about you into lines and paper.

Each time you passed the mirror, you caught yourself lingering on your own reflection—touching your fingertips to your mouth, wondering exactly what he saw when he looked at your “pretty lips.”

The thought alone was enough to make a giggle tickle in your throat, threatening to escape. It lingered there all morning until, sometime after lunch, his voice startled you clean out of your reverie.

“You look just fine, ma’am,” he said, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror’s reflection from where he sat at the table, journal splayed open in front of him.

“You’ve spent half the day lookin’ at that mirror like it’s liable to tell you the lottery numbers,” he went on dryly. His charcoal was poised between his thumb and forefinger, expectant, ready to return to the drawing he’d been working on since noon. From your angle, you couldn’t quite make out the shapes on the page, and the not knowing made your curiosity ache.

You wondered if—

“You remind me of someone I used to know,” he murmured, quieter now, more to himself than to you, before lowering his gaze back to the paper.

You let out a shaky sound—half breath, half giggle—trying to ignore the flutter of delicate wings in your belly. You were being silly, you knew that. But it had been so long since you’d felt the weight of a man’s attention resting on you like this. And longer still since you’d returned it.

Your thoughts drifted back to Strawberry, to one summer too many laps around the sun ago, when Mr. Cooper’s eldest son had started helping out at the family store. You remembered the smiles, the furtive glances shared across the crowded saloon on payday, his sun-warmed cheeks when you helped him load the delivery wagon and your fingers accidentally brushed.

Silly young things, the both of you. You’d been barely more than a cub then—a girl not yet finished becoming herself.

This was different.

It felt different.

You were a woman now. Had been for a long time. And the man making you smile these days was no shopkeeper’s boy.

“And who would that be, Mr. Morgan?” you asked lightly, feigning an ease you did not quite feel as you crossed to the shelf to gather your supplies. You’d decided to spend the afternoon knitting a new quilt. Winter had long since loosened its grip—you didn’t truly need another—but sitting across from him on a breezy spring afternoon felt like the only plan you could imagine wanting today.

“I hope that ‘someone’ was pretty,” you added playfully, taking your seat at the table.

He only chuckled—a low, private sound—and left you to your knitting as he returned to the page.

The flutter in your belly had eased by the time the sky began to blush pink, replaced by the rich comfort of the duck stew he’d made for dinner. The sun sank low on the horizon, your belly pleasantly full, your hands already itching to return to your needlework. He’d volunteered to wash the dishes before bed, but you’d only allowed him to help with the drying. You doubted his hand was healed enough for soaking—considering it was the only wound he’d taken the care to keep stitched, you assumed it was still far from mended. That injury had seen enough water for one day.

But the dirty dishes could wait in the sink.

Right now, you were content with the crackle of the fire on the other side of the room, the distant hoot of birds as they sang their final songs outside, and the soft rustle of pages as he turned them across from you.

“What a fool,” he muttered, the candle between you flickering as he spoke. “Actin’ all tough when we all know his momma’s expectin’ him home by supper.”

You chuckled, fingers caught mid-stitch in the heavy wool. Since the very first chapter, he’d been verbally attacking the novel’s protagonist—over the course of a single afternoon, he’d called him a fool more times than he’d called your imaginary Saint Denis husband over the span of two weeks. Still, you were convinced he secretly enjoyed the drama—the twists, the mess of it all. You’d lent him the book earlier, right after he’d finished the drawing he’d refused to let you see.

“I thought you’d enjoy a good story,” you teased, your eyes focused on the growing quilt. “But maybe I should find somethin’ else for you to read. The newspaper, maybe?”

“Oh, I enjoy a good story, ma’am,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “But this guy’s a piece of shit.”

You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips as you looped the yarn over your needle and pulled a fresh row of stitches tight—practiced and sure.

“Say, Mr. Morgan,” you began, still not looking up from your work, though you could feel his attention settle on you. “You said earlier I reminded you of someone. May I ask who that was?”

He set the book down on the table, his movements deliberate as though he needed the pause. Then, he spoke again.

“It was the mirror. Not the physical resemblance exactly,” he explained, his eyes traveling somewhere far beyond the cabin walls. “I used to run with a…gang…back in the day.”

I knew it, you thought.

This was the “ugly secret” he’d been hiding. This was why he’d refused a doctor even as he was shedding his weight in blood.

An outlaw. It made sense—the money, the scars, the way he carried himself like a man who always expected violence to find him. Still, you chose not to interrupt, sensing the rarity of this candle-lit honesty.

“There was a very elegant lady. Irish. Sharp as a whip,” he explained, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “Used to spend the whole day lookin’ at her reflection in a little mirror she carried. Brushin’ her hair, checkin’ her pins… just like you were doin’ today.”

You smiled under the warm glow of the room, drowned in the pinks and lavenders of the sunset, cherishing the fragment of his past he’d decided to share with you today. You wondered if that lady had also suspected she was being sketched and simply wanted to look her best for the artist.

“Where is she now?” you allowed yourself to ask.

He shook his head, just once, and you understood immediately.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured.

You’d heard stories. The outlaw life was brutal. Very few survived the transition into the new century, and even now, they were still being hunted. You remembered the newspaper headlines from back then, the way folks in Strawberry used to bolt their doors when the O’Driscolls or the Van der Lindes were mentioned in the same breath as Big Valley, Riggs Station, or Owanjila.

Hell, you even remembered walking by the massive, blackened hole blown through the town jail—the one the Van der Lindes had left behind while breaking one of their own free. It had stood as a jagged scar on the town for years. And to make matters worse, right in front of the mayor’s house. It used to make him so mad. You wondered if they’d ever fixed it.

And then there were the O’Driscolls too, whose hooting laughter and off-key singing could be heard coming from Hanging Dog Ranch on quiet nights when you camped in the Valley, gathering lavender. You’d stopped going there because of them; the fresh air always reeked with the threat of them.

“You keep in touch with ‘em?” you asked, thinking of the sketch of the family by the fire—the one he didn’t know you’d seen—and wondering whether they were his true kin…or just the ghosts of his gang. “The others, I mean. From back then?”

He sighed. It was a heavy, soulful breath, the kind that seemed to draw the very air from the room. The candle flame flickered violently in response, shadows leaping across his features as if he were momentarily transported back to a campfire long since gone cold.

“Some of ‘em,” he answered quietly after a moment. “The best of ‘em.” He smiled then—pure and genuine. It reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. You had never seen him like this. So peaceful. So unguarded. So…vulnerable.

Your own lips curved without permission, mirroring his. You could tell that despite the violence, the bloodshed, and the years spent looking over his shoulder… he loved these people with everything he had.

“I was on my way from visitin’ a few of ‘em when I stumbled across your cabin,” he admitted. “Then ‘em damn pelt-clowns cut my journey short.”

“Oh really?” Curiosity threaded through your words like the needles in your hands. “They live ‘round here, mister?”

“Near Blackwater,” he said after a beat, studying your features as though weighing a decision. Concluding, perhaps, that a woman who’d crossed Skinner territory to fetch him a doctor—and then nursed him back to health with her bare hands—wasn’t someone he needed to guard his loved ones from. “They’ve got a ranch there. I stay with ‘em every now and then.”

Your breath caught.

You finally knew why the boy in his drawing had felt so familiar.

“Beecher’s Hope?” you blurted.

He blinked, surprised. Then gave a slow nod. “You know the place, butterfly?”

“I do,” you nodded eagerly, trying not to smile at the pet name that, these past couple of days, had begun to slip from his tongue as easily as the sweetest syrup. “I buy eggs from them sometimes. Never met the couple, but their boy always lets me pick the biggest ones. Sweet kid. His dog, too.”

Your words earned a quiet chuckle from him, his chest lifting with something warm and unmistakably proud.

“The boy’s my nephew,” he said.

“Well, would you look at that, Mr. Morgan!” you smiled wide. “Small world, after all.”

And it was. Of all the far-flung, forgotten corners of the world… life had carried him to your door. You let the thought linger, wondering at the impossible odds.

“Where were you headed?” you asked after a moment. “Before you decided to stop and loot my peaches?”

He snorted.

“I was headin’ for the MacFarlane’s Ranch. Figured I’d rest a spell. Then head south. See the border.” He sounded like a man mourning a plan that never came to be, listing an itinerary that never fully materialized beyond the paper. “I heard the country’s wilder down there. Law hasn’t managed to tame it yet.”

“Must be nice, mister,” you smiled, your needles clicking rhythmically on your lap. “Just driftin’ freely wherever the wind takes you.” You paused, gaze lifting to the wooden beams above. “I’d love to visit Big Valley again someday. Set my tent by Little Creek like I used to… fall asleep to the sight of the stars and the lullaby of the water on my ear.”

You let your mind travel there for a moment—your bare feet threading through the purple fields of the Valley, the cool grass brushing your ankles, the air smelling of perfume and freedom.

You looked back down, and the beautiful transition from the lavender of the flowers to the blue of his eyes made you smile.

“That sounds nice, ma’am,” his lips mirrored your own, his voice dropping an octave—weighted by something unspoken that you began to feel, too, the longer you stared into those blues. “Real nice.”

Real nice.

You agreed, realizing it wouldn’t be difficult to imagine him riding beside you, in the Big Valley reverie. Setting his tent next to yours, warming his hands around the same fire, spending the night under the same stars, drinking coffee from the same pot in the morning mist…

That’s when you knew—with quiet, unsettling certainty—that whatever was growing between you had already drifted far beyond harmless conversation.

Would he mind if you pulled your chair a little closer?

Close enough that the warmth of his chest—broad and inviting beneath the tight embrace of the shirt you’d chosen for him—could chase the early evening’s chill from your bones. Close enough to rest your cheek against the solid, gold-furred planes of him; to find out if his heart rose and fell as fast as yours, to listen to the stories his heartbeat might tell as those iron arms wrapped around you. Arms that looked as though they could break you into a million pieces if he held too tight.

But he wouldn’t hurt you. He was a gentleman.

There was something about the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the cold pressing in from the orange-pink windows, the way his eyes held yours from the other side of the candlelight. As if you were made of mist, of imagination rather than flesh. A creation of candle smoke and memory instead of bone. A vision he’d once conjured in a distant dream and never expected to see brought to life.

You just wanted to—

His stitched hand shot out suddenly, his fingers firm—possessive—as they closed around your own across the table.

You froze.

The needle stalled halfway through a stitch, your body locking in place. Only your heart moved now, hammering wildly, so frantic it felt as though it might splinter your ribs from the inside. The flutter in your belly returned in full force—a storm this time, curling hot and low.

Did he want it, too?

“Mr. Morgan, I—”

“Shh,” he hissed, utterly still, his head tilting sharply toward the door.

You stayed quiet, as still as you could manage. Your heart continued its painful hammering, though now it had nothing to do with the protective warmth of his hand gripping yours tight.

“Arthur—”

“Quiet, butterfly,” he commanded. His other hand reached for the Volcanic resting on the table, his fingers ghosting over the cold steel.

The smile was gone.

The storyteller was gone.

The menacing eyes you’d met that first day in this very kitchen had returned, icy and lethal.

At first, you heard nothing. Only the soft pop of the dying fire, the distant hoot of an early owl high in the pines, the untroubled lap of water against the pier outside.

But then…

Then, it came.

That high, discordant whistle.

That low, rhythmic thudding that trembled through the floorboards. And this time, you were certain your mind wasn’t making it up.

Galloping. Not the skittish clip of a stray deer, but the heavy, coordinated beat of multiple horses.

And they were coming from the south.

From the deep woods.

“They’re comin’,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash in your mouth.

He was already on his feet.

His chair scraped back with a harsh, grating shriek that made you flinch, the sound too loud in the small cabin. He didn’t even wince as his side pulled—only a sharp, involuntary jolt through his body that told you everything you needed to know.

He wasn’t healed.

The adrenaline had simply burned the pain away for a moment.

“They’re close,” he muttered, moving toward the back door with the silent, measured grace of a wolf. He cracked it open just enough to slip his arm and head outside.

“Go! Now!” he whispered into the setting sun.

You heard him whistle—low, sharp—and seconds later the thunder of hooves broke away toward the northern woods, both your horses fleeing into the trees.

Good.

You dropped your knitting where you stood, lunged for the table, and blew out the candle in one breath, plunging the room into the amber-and-ink shadows of the fireplace. There was no time to douse the hearth.

You rushed to the center of the kitchen, where your knees hit the floor hard. You dragged the woven rug aside, fingers fumbling against the familiar boards. The cellar latch felt heavier than ever, slick beneath your sweaty palms.

He crossed the room to the front window. He didn’t look out—not fully. He stayed to the side, peering through a narrow slit in the curtain.

“Six, maybe seven of ‘em,” he announced.

“Do you see ‘em?” you whispered. Terror—old and familiar— boiled up from where it always lived, coiled tight in your gut. You’d be all right. You just needed to hide. You’d done this before.

“Not yet,” he said quietly. “But I hear ‘em.”

So did you.

The sound was unmistakable now. Heavy. Coordinated. Closer.

“The cellar.” You lifted the hatch wider until the sturdy wood fell back against the floorboards. “Come with me. They won’t find us here.”

He glanced at the dark mouth of safety, as if weighing your plan against his own, then back at you. You could see the internal war raging in his eyes—the tactician, the outlaw versus the gentleman who didn’t want to bring yet another war into your kitchen.

“Look, I’m gonna shoot ‘em dead as they come. Clean. One bullet to the head,” he promised. Calm. Cold. Rehearsed—as if reciting rules he’d learned long ago. “You hide. Don’t come out till I say so.”

The gentleman who picked you flowers…

The man who offered to teach you how to swim…

The artist who’d drawn beautiful renditions of you in lines of charcoal…

He was gone.

The outlaw had won.

This was the man who made a living out of death.

But you weren’t giving up just yet.

“Absolutely not.” You rose to your feet. Your breath was so scarce, so thin you could barely form the words. He was not going to make you talk reason into him now, of all times. Was he? “Come with me. Arthur, please.”

“I ain’t hidin’ in a hole and lettin’ ‘em think they can barge whenever they want into a lady’s home,” he growled, cocking the pistol with a terrifyingly efficient click that made your pulse spike. “I’ll put ‘em bastards down as they come through that door. Solve your nasty neighbor problem for good.”

You rushed to his side before he could step away.

“I know, I know,” you said quickly, grabbing his free hand with both of yours. “But you’re not healed. If they’re lookin’ for the man who killed two of their own—maybe more—and they see you here, they’ll burn this place down just for the sport of it,” you pleaded, your brow furrowed so tightly it hurt. Just as tight as your grip on him.

You had no doubt he could kill an entire horde of those freaks on his best day.

But this wasn’t his best day. His body was still mending. His shooting hand still shook, just barely.

“Ma’am,” he spoke softly now, eyes dark with something heavy, urgent. “You need to hide. I can’t protect you if you’re up here.”

You recognized that feeling.

It was the same one clawing at your own chest—raw and desperate—trying to reason with someone stubborn who refused to listen, yet whose life you deeply wanted to protect.

“They’ll loot a few things and leave,” you said, voice shaking but insistent. “They always do. I can replace a few tins of fruit. A little coffee…”

But I can’t replace—

The shouting and laughter outside grew louder.

At least seven. He’d been right.

“Look, if they do find us in the cellar,” you added quickly, grasping for his arm as if it were a tether to logic, “the angle’ll be better for shooting ‘em, won’t it?” You didn’t know much about guns, but it sounded right. You’d be in the dark, and they’d be silhouetted against the orange glow of the world above, easy targets for him. “I promise I’ll let you shoot ‘em as much as you want then.”

He stared at you, then toward the door as the hollering grew louder. Closer. Uglier.

“Fine,” he muttered at last, exhaling sharply through his nose. “But know you’re as stubborn as mules go.”

Relief hit you so hard your knees nearly gave.

“You’re one to talk,” you breathed, already moving.

You snatched up the half-finished quilt from the chair and tossed it into the darkness below. Then his journal. His satchel from the vanity. If you were going underground, it just felt wrong to leave such vulnerable, personal things behind for them to paw through..

You descended the ladder first. He followed close behind, pulling the latch closed over your heads with a practiced finality. You knew the rug had fallen neatly into place because no ring of light leaked through from above. You’d tied the rug to a small hook on the underside of the latch long ago, ensuring it stayed “glued” to the wood. It had worked every time; those bastards never noticed the hollow floor beneath their feet.

In that moment, despite the terror clawing at your ribs, a flicker of grim pride sparked in your chest. You felt like the cleverest person in all of West Elizabeth. Or at least in these woods.

Darkness swallowed you whole as Arthur landed beside you with a soft thud. You couldn’t quite see him, your eyes still adjusting to the gloom, but you could hear the rasp of his breath—shallow, controlled, carefully measured. The scent of sun-kissed leather and premium tobacco clung to him, mingling with the smell of damp earth and old timber from this dark, cool tomb you called your cellar.

Your eyes were just beginning to make out the shapes of your storage crates when the unavoidable thud hit.

Not a knock.

Not a push.

A brutal, splintering crack as a boot slammed into your front door.

The impact shook the very earth above you, shuddering through the cabin and down into your bones. Directly above your head, you heard the clatter of ceramic and metal as your dishes rattled in the cabinet.

They were inside.

Your blood ran cold. Your jaw locked so hard your teeth ached, your body turning into a single, rigid wire of nerves.

Heavy boots tromped across your wooden floor. Not one pair. Not two. Rough, guttural voices filled the cabin—a nightmare of slurred words and jagged, harsh laughter that scraped your ears raw. You never understood what these clowns found so funny.

“Well, look at this,” a voice boomed, thick and grating. “Seems that old idiot Finney was right.”

Through the narrow cracks between the floorboards, you watched a shadow pace back and forth directly over your head.

“Said he saw a pretty little thing ‘round here,” the man continued. “Looks like this is the place.”

Another voice, further off—near your vanity, perhaps—sniffed loudly. “Smells like a whore’s been livin’ here. All them flowery soaps and such,” he drawled. You heard the violent wrench of a drawer pulled too far, wood protesting under careless fingers. “Oh, look at this. Too clean.”

Your stomach lurched. You prayed they hadn’t found your lacy cotton.

“Just the gift we need,” he went on, pleased. “Big Buck said he wanted a new girl for the camp. Man’s gettin’ old and lonely.”

A sharp laugh followed. “Make her wear only this when we take her to him.”

A wave of nausea washed over you. Big Buck? Who the fuck—

“Reckon he oughta treat ‘em toys better if he wants ‘em to last,” another voice chimed in. It was higher-pitched, and even without seeing his face, you knew you wanted to punch it. “Let’s say we find this one, assumin’ she exists and Finney had at least half of his brain when he saw her, we take her to the boss and then what? She won’t be breathin’ by the time the sun rises. Last one was a cowgirl, yet couldn’t even take a little group ridin’ by the fire.”

They burst into laughter, a jagged, wet sound that made your stomach coil into a tight, sick not. You knew what happened to women who fell into the hands of the Skinner Brothers. You’d seen the charred remains along the road, the heads missing their scalps, you’d heard the screams that occasionally echoed through the Basin on the wind.

Beside you, you heard Arthur shift.

The movement was subtle—but it carried weight. You felt it more than saw it, the way his body tightened, coiled like a spring pulled too far back. You brought your hands to your lap, wringing the wool of your skirt just to feel a bit of heat. The cellar was far colder than the world above. That was why you always stored your quilts down here in a cedar box, tucked between jars of candied tomatoes and preserved plums. Ready, meant to smother cold, sound and fear alike.

You’d heard these conversations before. It was never easier, but not as paralyzing as the first time it had happened, a few years back, just months after you’d moved here. There was no such thing as getting used to strangers with sick intentions barging into one’s home at dinner time, but it had happened enough that you knew the rhythm of this nightmare far too well.

You glanced at the man next to you, silhouetted under the thin slivers of amber bleeding through the boards above. His eyes were burning like fire, fixed with a predatory intensity on the filth walking over your heads.

You didn’t truly need what you wanted. You’d survived this nightmare alone before.

But now—

Now you wanted it.

His warmth. His solid presence. The iron strength of the arms you’d spent the better part of the day pretending not to imagine around you.

Arms that could turn lethal in a heartbeat without hesitation.

“Think she’s here?” One of them grumbled. “Ain’t no horses outside. Cabin looks empty otherwise. Finney’d lost a lot of blood and an eye when we found him. Claims he saw a woman comin’ outta the woods, but it was probably just the bastard who shot him.”

“Or Death herself, comin’ for his old smelly ass.”

A low chuckle followed. “Yeah, looks like one o’them traveler’s shacks to me. Nobody stays out here long. We never find anyone. Don’t know why we keep comin’.”

“Yeah, and the only time we do find someone, bastard shoots Finn—”

“Fools!” the first voice snapped, sharp with irritation. “Fire’s still burnin’ in the hearth. Dishes piled in the sink. Her damn cunt wear is still in the drawer. And look at whatever this trash is!” Something slapped against wood. “Who reads this kinda stuff if not a woman?”

The book. Your stomach dropped. Poor thing. You’d forgotten it on the table.

“You know how to read, Billy?”

“Course not, but one look at the cover and you know it’s for the ladies. Point is, she ain’t been gone long,” he explained, his voice thickening into something uglier, crueler. “Her and her cowboy husband probably heard us comin’ and ran into the woods. I don’t know ‘bout the bastard, but tremblin’ legs ain’t carryin’ a woman far.”

The mental imagery made your skin crawl, a cold and invasive shiver racing down your spine.

“Aye, she won’t run far,” the high-pitched voice snickered. “When I find her, I got a special treat in mind. Boss won’t even notice his new plaything’s already been used.”

You heard Arthur’s breathing next to you—controlled, lethal. His body turned toward yours, heat and tension radiating off every muscle. You looked up just as the last light of day fractured through the gaps in the floorboards above, shattering across his face like a million fire embers.

“If they ever touch you,” he whispered, that fierce, molten glow in his eyes promising you that in this moment you were his to protect. “I’ll find ‘em. Every last one. And God help 'em then.”

You nodded, certain that as long as there was lead on his belt and air in his lungs, no one was going to touch a single hair on your head. You believed him. And that certainty was what moved you next.

Carefully, quietly, you pressed yourself against him without permission. Your arms slipped around his broad frame, your hands meeting behind his back, your fingernails clutching the fresh fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to safety. You buried your face in the warmth of him, your cheek resting against his chest—solid and comfortable, breathing him in.

He reacted instantly.

His free arm came around you, firm and sure, pulling you so close not even a whisper of air could’ve fit between you. You felt the hard shape of his off-hand Volcanic pressed against your side in his holster, its twin sister still gripped firm in his other hand. His body a wall of tense, unyielding muscle shielding you from the world above.

And somehow, you knew you’d be alright.

You had never felt so safe.

Not once in your life.

Not even back in your bed in Strawberry—when there were no Skinners to fear.

A sudden, loud creak groaned from the other side of the room, followed by the coarse rustle of fabric.

“This bed’s soft enough for me,” a new voice grumbled.

The bed.

One of them was lying on your bed. You could almost smell the lingering stench of him through the floorboards—the stale sweat, the dried blood, the rot of an unwashed body seeping into the mattress you’d slept on night after night.

“Maybe I’ll let the whore offer me the full service on this very mattress, once we find her.”

You felt Arthur stiffen around you, every muscle in his frame turning to steel. A low, vibrating growl rumbled deep in his chest, right beneath your ear. You felt it before you heard it—he was a heartbeat away from detonating. His grip on you tightened until it almost hurt. You knew he wanted to erupt from that hole and paint the kitchen red like he had before.

You clung to him harder in response, burying your face deeper into the heat of his chest—a silent plea to stay hidden. To stay safe.

To stay with you.

“I’ll keep watch here,” the voice above continued lazily. “You boys go scout the woods for that little bird. Bring her back quick. And if you find the cowboy, tell the bastard Big Buck says hello.”

Boots scuffed across the floor, moving toward the door—its hinges rattling, wood slamming heavy and final as several of them spilled back out into the trees.

One stayed.

The remaining Skinner shifted on your mattress, settling in. The springs groaned beneath his weight, a sound that felt like a physical violation.

Your poor bed.

Your poor home.

You drew in a slow, shaky breath, forcing your pulse to steady as you breathed in Arthur’s scent—clean cotton, sun-kissed leather, fresh lavender from your soap. They weren’t gone, but the odds had shifted.

“Your cellar’s cold as hell, butterfly,” Arthur lowered his head until his chin rested gently against the crown of yours.

A soft, involuntary chuckle escaped you. You knew a man who swam half-naked in frozen waters for the sport of it wasn’t truly bothered by a root cellar’s chill. And the warmth of his thumb, stroking slow circles at the nape of your neck, told you the truth anyway.

He wasn’t complaining,

He was anchoring you.

Pulling your thoughts away from the rot and filth lingering above. And it was working. The dread was so much easier to endure like this—against his chest, held, shielded—his fingers brushing the fine baby hairs at your nape in a gesture so careful, so tender it didn’t seem to belong in a night like this.

“Let’s get you warm, Mr. Morgan,” you whispered back, tilting your head up toward him. “One would assume the cold in my humble cellar is no match for the mermaid I saw swimming the ice waters of the Basin this morning.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, relief flickered across his expression at the tease woven gently into your words.

“I’ve got just what we need to survive a night like this,” you murmured.

Letting go of him felt wrong. Your arms protested as you eased back, every movement deliberate, careful not to betray yourselves with the wrong sound. You crossed to the cedar box, lifting the rigid lid with agonizing patience. The quilts inside were thick, a little dusty beneath your fingers—but heavy. Warm.

Perfect.

You spread them in the corner against the wall, where thick tree roots grew in harmony with the foundation of the cabin. Kneeling, you arranged them into a soft, uneven nest on the cold floor, silently praising not just your needlework—but the foresight of keeping them here.

Arthur lowered himself beside you, his broad frame filling the narrow space you’d left for him between the jars shelves, the stone wall, and your body. The moment his back touched the rustic wall, a sharp, aching urge clenched through you. Your muscles tensed with the need to nuzzle closer, to lean back into him, to reclaim the safety of his chest and let the world vanish again.

But you opted for restraint.

You didn’t know if that sort of closeness would be allowed a second time. Didn’t know what he would think of you. You’d told him you were a married woman, after all.

So instead of seeking his warmth, you settled for the wool’s, pulling the edge of the quilt over your knees.

“You were right, ma’am.” He set his main Volcanic down on a low shelf within easy reach. “These clowns ain’t even thought of the possibility we’re hidin’ right below ‘em.”

“Most folks don’t,” you whispered, rubbing your hands together, savoring the small bloom of warmth between your palms. “Not unless they see the entrance from outside.”

“That’s why they’re clowns.”

A faint smile tugged at your mouth. “And would you know, Mr. Morgan? If you were the one barging into my home in the middle of the night, and I were hidden here, right under your feet… would you know to look?”

He huffed softly, mock-offended. “First of all, m’lady, I would never barge into a lady’s house in the middle of the night without permission.”

His hand drifted to a nearby shelf, fingers closing around one of the jars. He turned it slowly, squinting at your handwriting in the fractured light.

“And second,” he continued, “yes, I’d know. I’ve looted cellars like this.”

The honesty of his answer almost made you chuckle. For the briefest moment, you wondered if he’d slip the jar into his satchel and call it his, bold as brass, right in front of you.

“Robbed an old lady once in Big Valley,” he said easily, as though recalling a pleasant afternoon. “Had a cabin and a cellar just like yours. Got a nice shotgun outta it, too. But don’t worry, it was a peaceful robbery, and I ain’t that man no more.”

You muffled a snort against the back of your hand. “I thought you said barging into women’s homes without permission wasn’t your style, Mr. Morgan?”

“It ain’t,” he said. “The lady gave me permission. Told me to deliver her groceries down to the cellar. Thought I was a delivery boy or somethin’.”

You shook your head lightly, wondering if you’d known that woman—if you’d passed her on the road, shared a nod in town. If she was from Big Valley, you likely had. You were convinced you’d seen every face around Strawberry back then. You wondered if you ever passed him, too. To think he’d been roaming those same woods and fields while you were working shifts and doing laundry. The thought that your lives might’ve brushed past one another before this…Life was strange, twisting, folding in on itself and—

A sudden, heavy thud overhead shattered the thought.

The Skinner on the bed had rolled over. The springs shrieked—a sound burned into your memory—followed by the sharp crack of glass breaking against the floor.

You jolted despite yourself, your shoulder bumping into Arthur’s arm.

“Where’s that damn woman…” the Skinner groaned, his voice thick with sleep and filth. You heard him shift again. “I’m hungry,” he muttered, seconds before the wet, rhythmic rasp of snoring settled back into the silence.

You looked at Arthur. He shook his head slowly, weary and unimpressed, as if the absurdity of it all offended him more than the danger.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “Just go back to sleep, fool.”

His hand reached for his satchel. “Reckon I’m a little hungry myself.”

“Mr. Morgan,” you hissed, watching him angle the bag toward the light so he could see inside. “We had dinner an hour ago.”

“Ma’am, this useless body’s recoverin’, remember? It needs the energy.”

He reached into the shadows of his bag and emerged with a large, perfectly formed peach.

You gasped—half-surprised, half-scandalized. “Why you still hidin’ my peaches in that satchel? You can just take ‘em from the basket like a normal person.”

“For moments like this,” he said simply, lifting the fruit to his lips.

You watched the flash of his teeth sink into the plump, velvet skin. The peach was overripe—heavy with a summer’s worth of sugar—and it showed in the way its pink walls yielded, surrendering precious juice to the indulgent pressure of his lips.

A single drop of nectar escaped, glimmering like liquid sunlight beneath the fractured glow from above. It trailed down the corner of his mouth, a glistening path that disappeared into the sandy scruff of his stubble.

He licked his lips clean, a slow, distracting flick of his tongue.

And you couldn’t look away.

Not when his jaw worked like that in front of you—a solid, steady rhythm, eyes darkened, half-lidded and intent, focused entirely on the tender flesh kissing his lips.

He caught another stray drop with his thumb and brought it to his mouth, licking the rough pad clean. The wet sound of it vibrated through the narrow space between your bodies, igniting the slow-burning trail of gunpowder he’d been laying since morning—perhaps before—all along your skin, coiling hot and heavy in the lowest, hungriest depths of you.

Under the quilt, you discovered your hand resting against the soft flesh of your inner thigh, dangerously close to the summer blossoming between your legs. Your mouth watered, and it had nothing to do with the fruit.

The air in the small, cramped cellar felt suddenly ten degrees hotter, the weight of the quilts forgotten as your gaze followed the corded line of his throat as he swallowed.

He lifted the peach once again—then abruptly stopped mid-bite.

His eyes flicked to yours, noticing your attentive stare. Under the scant light, you saw the exact moment the outlaw vanished, replaced by the gentleman who couldn’t bear to see a lady wanting for anything.

He held the fruit out to you—a silent, sticky invitation that you couldn’t resist.

The tips of his fingers brushed your chin as you leaned in, your eyes locked on his as you took a bite from the exact same spot his lips had claimed just seconds before.

Juice spilled down the side of your mouth.

His gaze tracked it—hungry, intent—as it threatened to journey down the column of your neck.

He didn’t let it.

He reached out, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

Cleaning.

Lingering.

Tempting.

Pressing just firmly enough against your lip to force the bud between your thighs to bloom.

You swallowed the sweetness, still holding his gaze, basking in the warmth of his hand against your cheek—slightly sticky with nectar. In the haze of the orange glow and overripe fruit, it was impossible to tell whether he was drawing you closer or you were already leaning in.

His lips met yours with a gentle touch.

Sweeter than the fruit in his hand. Twice as intoxicating.

It was the softest brush, a feather-light caress that made you wonder how lips that told stories about looting old ladies’ cellars could taste so smooth, so impossibly sweet.

You parted your mouth just enough to catch his lower lip between yours, tugging gently, patiently. The wet sound when you released it echoed through the dark like the softest kind of sin.

He followed, pressing another careful peck to your sticky lips. Your hand found his face, palm rasping against bristle as your fingers slid into the caramel strands at the nape of his neck.

And that’s when you opened for him—wide and hungry. His tongue accepted the invitation to dance with yours—a slow, unhurried waltz tasting of summer fruit and premium tobacco. A delicacy that didn’t last long.

He did say he was hungry, after all.

His hands found your waist, arms closing around your frame, fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you closer. Urgency bled through the cracks of restraint as his tongue explored your mouth with a desperate, starving curiosity. Suddenly, you were straddling him, your knees finding purchase in the narrow space, thighs settling on either side of his hips. Your fingers tangled in his hair as if it could anchor you there forever. His hands kneaded your back, drawing you flush against the hard, muscled truth of him.

Peach. Cedar. Lavender. Smoke. Danger.

His taste was tilting your compass wild.

You shifted without thinking, finding the unyielding iron of his thighs beneath you. When you angled just right, the aching heat between your legs brushed the hard, delightful evidence of his own desire, trapped under a rough layer of fresh denim.

A moan slipped free at the sweet contact.

Soft. Obscene. Unforgivable.

A sound so sinful, so ungodly for a married woman to make against the lips of a man who wasn’t her husband. It cut through the dusty air of the cellar like a gunshot.

You both froze.

Your hand remained in his hair, the other pressed against the frantic rise and fall of his chest as you listened. To see if the monster on the bed had awaken to the sound of your undoing.

After a heartbeat of agonizing silence, you both helplessly leaned in for one final, lingering peck—a desperate, bruising claim in case you both decided this could never happen again.

You climbed down from his lap, settling back against the wall. Your chest heaved as you fought to remember how to breath. Besides you, Arthur was a mirror of the same storm, his silhouette a jagged rise and fall of muscle in the dark.

For a long while, neither of you said a word. The cellar held only the uneven rasp of air filling lungs that had forgotten their purpose. You looked at him—hair tousled, lips still glistening—and the sight made you ache to crawl right back into his warmth. He looked at you too, caught between the urge to apologize and the temptation to pull you back against his lips.

But the world above did not wait for his decision.

The bedsprings creaked.

A sharp, sobering squeal of metal and reality. Followed by a low, guttural groan. Then the heavy thud of boots hitting the floor.

The Skinner was awake.

—

next chapter

taglist: @photo1030 @reineheit @lacm-ac @lilienzoe @mellwsu @fionaapplelover2010 @kaeyaszlut @gaarasgirlfriend @chloeee20 @shackspossum @bonesaltacc @mysunlights @gallantys @friendlyspacemartian @ivybeeloved @jensenacklesballsack @midnightmystique04 @saturnknows @hoeforicecream

“What do they look like?” he asked instead, glancing up at you.

“They’re purple. Both the bulb and the leaves,” you explained, bubbles popping and sliding down your wrists as you drew the shape in the air, enthusiasm making your hands as clumsy as his. “Don’t smell like anythin’. I tried cookin’ em once. Tried dyein’ cloth with’em too. Useless as can be.” You smiled to yourself, the memory of your failed experiments still fresh in your head. “Just real pretty to look at.”

“Sounds like a lotta folk I know.”

“Exactly.” You laughed softly. It had been seven days together now, and his dry, gravelly humor was starting to feel familiar—comforting even. It felt nice, talking to a room that talked back. When you lived alone long enough, even silence got loud. “But like I said, they’re easy to miss. ‘Cause they don’t grow in clusters. You find one, then the next is scattered a good ways off. They’re real shy.”

“You half-butterfly or somethin’?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothin’. Just ain’t never heard someone talk about a flower like that.” He huffed a quiet breath. “Especially one that seems dead set on not bein’ found.”

He shifted, then set the gun aside, finally conceding defeat to his injury. He rested the pistol beside his worn leather journal and a small bowl of freshly picked berries.

“Speakin’ of,” he added, glancing back at you, “where’d you find ‘em, ma’am?”

“They grow ‘round here. I reckon I’d find more deeper in the woods, but…” You shrugged slightly, rinsing a bowl clean and setting it to dry with a quiet clink. “With Skinners about, I’m content lettin’ that mystery be.”

“Wise decision,” he said, his voice holding a faint note of approval. He flipped through his journal, pages whispering softly as he searched. “Leaves got little dots in ‘em?”

Your head snapped up. “Yes! And I always thought they looked like a slipper.”

“Well,” he said, turning the notebook toward you across the scarred wood of the table, “that’s ‘cause they are.”

You abandoned the sink without thinking, water still dripping from your fingers as you stepped closer into his space. You leaned over his shoulder, the heat from his body and the scent of gun oil and old leather wrapping around you like a blanket in the chill morning air.

“That’s it, Mr. Morgan!” you exclaimed, your eyes widening to confirm the claim. There, in delicate lines of charcoal was a perfect rendering of the flower you’d seen. “Lady Slipper Orchid.” You read the name slowly, reverently. “Would you look at that. I’d have spent my whole life wonderin’.”

Your gaze drifted from the page to him, and only then did you realize how close you were. From here, you could see the small pink blemishes scattered across his cheeks, and the deep lines etched around his eyes—quiet evidence of a life lived under the sun. Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice, his eyes remained fixed on the book in his hands.

“You’re half butterfly too,” you said, straightening back again, looking at two more flower drawings below the Orchid. He liked flowers too.

Your eyes moved to the page beside the orchids.

It was a drawing of a house—if it could even be called that—with a roof rounded and lush, covered in a thick carpet of moss and grass. There were no windows that you could see. Just a single door, tucked into the earth like it’d been grown there instead of built. It looked like something out of the same storybook the orchid had come from, belonging more to folklore than flesh-and-blood people.

And yet the lines were careful. Precise. So detailed you could almost feel the moss of the roof under your fingertips. So intricate you wondered how such a thing could be imagined. Either he’d seen it with his own eyes, or he possessed a staggeringly vivid imagination. Whatever the case, his talent was undeniable.

“You’re a draftsman, Mr. Morgan,” you murmured, leaning in closer again, although a bit more aware and careful this time. You studied the way he’d shaded the curve of the roof, the way the ground seemed to cradle the structure like it had always belonged there and not drawn by human fingers. Your eyes were completely lost in the small world held between the lines of his charcoal. “An artist.”

He shifted in his seat, gaze sliding away as if he weren’t quite sure where to put it. “Nah, I just scribble things I see.”

“These are more than scribbles,” you insisted, unable to hide the awe in your voice. You looked at him, your heart giving a strange little thump of curiosity. “I’d love to see more. May I?”

“If you want,” he said, his fingers tapping against the edge of the journal. “Just reckon I oughta warn you, ma’am… you’ll find a fair amount of nonsense written in there too.”

You chuckled, the sound soft and easy. So it was a diary—something private. You had no business digging through the intimate thoughts of a man you’d only known for a week, so you let the pages rest where they were.

Still, you couldn’t ignore the gentle, unexpected warmth blooming in your chest.

You’d assumed Arthur Morgan was a name printed on a wanted poster—an outlaw the law hadn’t quite managed to catch, or something close enough. But you hadn’t imagined the patience in his lines. The care. The quiet way he put pieces of himself onto paper. You’d never pictured him as an artist.

Mr. Morgan was proving to be a man full of surprises.

“Is this a real place, mister?” you asked at last, pointing to the house.

“Sure,” he replied. “Might not have much sense left in my head, but I ain’t gone so far as imaginin’ strange houses like that.” He tilted his head slightly, his eyes distant for a moment. “Ever been to Bacchus Station? There’s a hill nearby.”

You shook your head. You hadn’t traveled much at all. West Elizabeth was about the extent of your world.

“Ambarino,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “You seem to drift wherever the wind takes you, Mr. Morgan.”

He chuckled, a low, dry sound. “Usually. When I ain’t full of arrows.” Then quieter, almost to himself. “Or under the surveillance of a lady who takes offense when I use my damn legs.”

You let out a huff and returned to the sink. “Well, you’re free to go, sir.” You splashed the last of the bowls in the water. “Just as soon as you prove to me you can walk to the porch. Walk. Not limp.”

He shook his head, something tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You know, those flowers you like… they sell for a small fortune,” he said casually, leaning back in the chair. “Some folks’ll pay real good money for ‘em. I know a man in Saint Denis who could show you the way of it.”

He paused, and his eyes darkened just a touch, a spark of mischief making the blue sparkle. You knew exactly who he was about to trash-talk.

“Or,” he continued, his voice dropping an octave, “you could ask that husband of yours to take ‘em to my contact. Make yourselves a tidy sum. Leave the cookie business behind and get you outta this damn place for good.”

The words hung there—too easy, too pointed—like he knew exactly where to press to see you squirm.

And somehow, you got the feeling he enjoyed pressing it.

-

The rhythm of the world outside shifted over the next couple of days, spring shyly blooming into buds of baby pink and soft yellow—the early strokes of a painting unfolding just beyond your window. It was still too cold to leave the panes open, but every time you stepped outside, the wind would invite itself in for a moment, making the air smell sweet with witch hazel and rain-kissed dew, instead of the bitterness of frost and wilted trees.

But when you closed the door, the cabin still carried the forever familiar scent of woodsmoke, leather, and fresh linen. Inside, the everyday unfolded at a gentle pace, soft and unremarkable in the best way possible, quietly mirroring the shift beyond the weathered timber walls.

He no longer slept in your mattress, having finally reached a point of stubborn recovery where he refused to take your bed, no matter how much you protested. At some point during a particularly cold night, he’d migrated to the floor, claiming he’d slept on “cots harder than your floorboards” for half his life. He’d grumbled that your bed was too soft, that it pulled at his ribs when he turned. You suspected pride had more to do with it than comfort, but you let him have that. That, and the thick blankets you’d knit last winter, plus a thin mattress pad you’d dragged up from the cellar.

Now, every morning, you woke to the sight of a mountain of wool spread out by the hearth and the melody of restful, heavy breathing. And you’d had to admit that the arrangement left you better rested than you’d been in days. Rested enough that, one morning, you woke with a list already forming in your head.

You needed supplies.

Manzanita Post wasn’t exactly close, but it was close enough if you left early while the world was still dark, and kept your wits about you. The pantry had grown thin. Coffee was running low. Flour, too. And you’d been living off what little fresh scraps you could forage nearby.

You were sitting on the edge of your bed tying your boots when he noticed.

“Finally movin’ to Saint Denis, ma’am?” he asked, his voice husky with the kind of deep rasp that only came with the first spoken words of the day.

You snorted. Very funny.

“As much as you’d celebrate if I left you to your own devices so you could comfortably pull open those half-healed wounds, Mr. Morgan, I’m sorry to say the answer is no,” you announced, finishing a messy but tight ribbon on your bootlace as the dawn fog blurred the dark world beyond the windows. “We’re outta coffee, and if I gotta eat one more bowl of plain porridge, I might just walk straight into the lake and tear the head off the first fish I see with my bare teeth, mister. I’m headin’ to Manzanita.”

He was on his feet before you could even finish the word, his hand instinctively reaching for his gun belt resting on the table. “The hell you are. Not alone.”

You didn’t even look up. “Already saddled my horse.”

“Ma’am, it’s barely five in the morning. I’ll come with y—“

“Absolutely not.” You slung the satchel over your shoulder and reached for your coat. “You’re barely healed. Had a fever just yesterday, remember? You can hardly make it to the porch without huffin’ like an old dog, Mr. Morgan,” you reminded him. Your voice was gentle, as the quiet hour of the day demanded, but firm all the same. “I ain’t havin’ you bounce around on a horse for half a day like you’re invincible.”

“I ain’t helpless.”

“No,” you agreed calmly. “But I ain’t either. I know this land and I’ll be fine.”

“I ain’t lettin’ you wander though these woods while ‘em bastards are still breathin’,” he grunted, reaching for the denim the doctor had butchered and you hadn’t yet had the chance to mend. He turned away under the pretense of dressing, thinking you couldn’t see him wince as the movement pulled at his side.

“I’m takin’ the north road,” you added, already stepping past him, your fingers tightening around the door handle. “Skinners don’t go that way,” or, at least, that was what the general store owner had claimed once. “It’ll take longer, but I’ll be back before the sun’s high past the middle of the sky.”

He looked like he meant to follow you anyway, still fumbling up with his clothes, scanning the firelit room for his boots as if you hadn’t just laid out every logical reason why he couldn’t.

He couldn’t walk properly yet. There was no way he could reach the stables, let alone mount that massive Shire with his mangled thigh. But you weren’t about to give his pride the chance to argue nor prove you wrong. Before his stubbornness could catch up to your resolve—or the Skinners to your recklessness—you slipped out the door, and set off while the woods were still half-asleep.

-

The dark morning ride had been brisk and blessedly quiet. Somewhere along the way, the sky had tipped from dawn-lavender to sunrise-pink, eventually blooming into a vast, cloudless blue. By the time you’d come out on the other side of the dense canopy of Tall Trees, the world was fresh and wide awake. You’d hitched your horse at the general store, where you’d found everything on your list, save for the assorted biscuits. And you couldn’t resist adding a few treats and surprises to replace them. Saddlebags loaded, you turned back a little later than expected, the light weight of a certain brown parcel in your satchel feeling like a secret you couldn’t wait to share.

The road back home was quiet too, though you still caught yourself glancing over your shoulder more often than you meant to, reins gripped hard, muscles tightening at every rustle from the nearby brush. Just old habits you end up picking up when your neighbors are insane freaks.

When you finally rounded the bend and saw the familiar column of smoke curling peacefully from your chimney, the sun sat high in the sky, a little past the middle—still, proof you’d kept your word.

A light breeze kissed your cheeks like the softest lips the moment you saw his black Shire grazing nearby—proof that he’d kept his.

He was still inside. You only hoped his stitches were all in the same condition you’d left them that morning.

You guided your horse to the stable, unloading the heavy saddlebags and parcels, and then slipping him a fresh carrot from the bag with the murmured promise to return and unsaddle him properly once everything was inside.

As you climbed the porch steps, arms full and bags brimming with paper-wrapped bundles and twine-tied parcels, an unfamiliar scent drifted toward you on the soft breeze.

It was earthy and minty.

Sharp. Tangy. Full-bodied.

Not unpleasant, just deeply, almost shockingly, unfamiliar.

Just as you were about to nudge the door open with your shoulder, it pulled inward from the other side. The midday sun spilled through the doorway, catching in his deep blue eyes the same way it did on the surface of the Basin on the brightest, warmest summer day.

“Took your sweet time,” he said, already reaching for the parcels in your arms.

You let him take a couple—judging them light enough not to pull at his stitches.

“Got a little distracted,” you explained, your hand reaching into your satchel to confirm the brown paper parcel was still safely tucked there. “Somethin’ caught my eye at the store. They’d just gotten a shipment in from Blackwater.” You tipped your head toward him, your lashes fluttering with deliberate mischief. “Why, Mr. Morgan? You miss me?”

“But of course,” he grumbled softly, turning back into the cabin to set the bags down by the sink. “The shirts and the skirts did too. Who else is gonna ask ‘em how they’re doin’ if not you?” he said, pulling a can of pineapples from the bag, though the ghost of a smile lingered at the corner of his mouth.

You smiled back, making your way to the sink too.

It felt…nice. To have more than an empty cabin to come back to.

“Flour, sugar, coffee,” you murmured to yourself, unpacking alongside him. “Salt. Beans. Apples—don’t touch those yet!” You warned, your hand instinctively flying out to catch his forearm as he moved to bite into the crunchy skin.

“They’re for…a pie,” you said, glancing up at him. Your palm felt far too comfortable against the warm, thick muscle of his arm, the lush hair of his forearm golden in the light. “You’ll thank me later when the syrupy chunks melt in your mouth,” you joked, withdrawing your hand quickly before those sky-colored eyes staring down at you could take offense at your sudden familiarity.

Now that you were inside, the scent was stronger—richer. This wasn’t the thin porridge you’d both endured the past few days, nor the familiar sweetness of the squash soup that usually comforted you through lonely winters. This was different. Something homely. Something shared. A table for two set next to a warm hearth on a chilly day.

Your eyes followed where your nose had already led you: the pot simmering gently on the stove, its contents bubbling in time with a strange, sweet heat blooming in your chest.

“Mr. Morgan, you…” you began, setting two tins of ground coffee down on the counter, only to pause when you noticed the cleaned rabbit carcasses resting in your sink. The smell of wild mint and oregano coaxed your senses awake.

“Figured you’d be hungry,” he said, unpacking cans of corned beef and jars of pickled eggs with careful hands, eyes deliberately fixed on the groceries instead of yours.

“I am. Thank you,” you whispered, smiling for the second time in less than two minutes. It seemed to come especially easy today.

It felt…nice. To have someone waiting. Someone expecting your return with a warm pot already on the fire.

The warmth bubbling in your chest, the scent of herbs simmering softly on the stove—you figured now was the right moment. If you made too much ceremony of it, it would only make things uncomfortable for him—and you got a feeling that a man like Arthur Morgan didn’t handle “presents” with much grace.

“I got you more tonics,” you said, just loud enough to catch his attention over the rustle of paper as he unpacked beside you.

“Thank you, ma’am,”

You nodded, reaching into your satchel and pulling out the brown paper parcel. “And this, too.”

He glanced over, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “This’ for me?”

You nodded again, another smile easing onto your lips—this one as reassuring and gentle as you could make it. “Open it.”

“M’lady, this—You didn’t have t—”

“I realized you’ve been livin’ in a borrowed blanket and a shirt held together by prayers and my best silk thread,” you cut in softly, deliberately fixing your attention on the groceries in front of you when you caught the faint trace of pink coloring his cheeks—a shade that had nothing to do with the heat of the stove. He wouldn’t accept it if it made him uncomfortable, so you looked away, giving him space to process the gift without the weight of your gaze.

“I figured on the size,” you added before he could protest, your eyes settling on the Basin’s glimmering surface through the window. “Shirts are easy enough. Jeans are always trickier to guess, but I’m certain both’ll fit. I’ve worked with clothes my whole life.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw him turn toward you. He smelled of wild mint, damp earth and expensive tobacco. You felt the warmth of his body radiating beside you. Even with the bandages still wrapped around his torso, his presence filled the small space of your kitchen, making it feel half its size. He was incredibly out of place among your lace curtains and floral porcelain, and yet, somehow, strangely right.

“…Thank you,” he said at last, voice low and sincere, underscored by the crisp rustle of paper as he unfolded his new clothes.

“Well, go on, Mr. Morgan,” you urged, setting two cans of sweetcorn on the counter. “Try’em on. If they’re too tight or somethin’, I can take ‘em back to the store tomorrow and exchange ‘em. But I’m fairly certain of my eye.”

You turned your attention back to the window, watching a small flock of geese drift across the far end of the Basin—granting him a measure of privacy as your hands continued stacking tins and hanging sacks on their hooks.

Behind you, the quiet rustle of denim and cotton began to fill the space. You reached for the wooden spoon he’d been using and gave the stew a stir, slow and absentminded, when a thought struck you so suddenly it made you snort into the steam.

If the doctor were peeking through a hole in the wall, he wouldn’t doubt for a second.

Husband and wife.

You shook your head, smiling to yourself at the absurdity of it.

“Somethin’ funny, ma’am?” his voice drawled from across the room. “Didn’t know my cookin’ was such a joke.”

“It’s not,” you said, your smile lingering as you turned around. “Just a thought—”

The words died in your throat.

Next to his journal on the table—sitting in a chipped ceramic vase you’d forgotten in the cellar years ago—was a speckled, vibrant cluster of purple.

Your breath hitched.

They were beautiful. The delicate, swollen bulbs you hadn’t seen since last year. The dotted leaves looking like a piece of a fairytale forest brought indoors.

You knew exactly what it had cost him to gather them. He’d had to walk deeper into the woods, his leg still stiff and his side still tender, just to find the shy flowers you’d mentioned in passing.

Words lined up on your tongue, waiting their turn. Joy came first—bright and sudden. Gratitude followed close behind. And then came the sharp urge to scold him. To tell him he was a fool for risking his stitches for a weed.

But the scolding died before it could reach your lips or erase your smile.

You picked them up carefully, the petals like velvet against your fingertips. They were fresh, still damp with the morning, their color vivid against your skin.

No one had ever brought you flowers.

Not once.

Not a single person in Strawberry had ever looked at a plant and thought of you.

“You’re a gentleman, Mr. Morgan,” you said quietly, the words sliding off your tongue like syrup.

He shifted his weight, suddenly very interested in the floorboards. The jeans fit him well—the dark denim hugging the powerful lines of his legs—but the shirt still hung open, the buttons undone.

“Found ‘em near the river when I went huntin’,” he muttered. “Figured…you might like to see ‘em when you came back.”

You did. More than words could say.

You looked at him—really looked—standing there in clean denim, his bandaged hand clumsily struggling with the buttons of his new shirt. And for the briefest, strangest moment, you found yourself wondering. About whoever had his heart. Wherever she was…how lucky she must be.

A wife, perhaps, tucked away in a distant memory. A lover waiting for him on a farm somewhere. Another in Saint Denis, receiving sketches and orchids alike. A man who knew exactly which flower to pick—how to present it—wasn’t new to making a lady smile.

“They’re lovely,” you said softly, watching his wounded fingers try to pinch a small button, his movements weak and stiff. “Truly.”

He abandoned the effort for a second, his gaze lifting to meet yours. His eyes were unreadable and vast—like the unknown depths of the Aurora you had never dared to swim in—yet warm as the surface glittering under the brightest sun.

“They suit you, ma’am,” he said, voice raspier than you remembered. “Since you live alone out here like ‘em. Shy things. And you’re… half-butterfly.”

You chuckled, your heart aching in a way that fogged your thoughts.

"Here," you murmured, setting the vase back down and stepping into the narrow space between him and the table before you’d even decided to. "Let me."

It wasn’t exactly proper. You knew that. You also knew this was a bit unusual for a man and a woman who weren’t married to each other and had barely met a little over a week ago. But the impropriety of it all didn’t truly register until your knuckles brushed the firm plane of his abdomen through the open cotton. And it was too late to turn back.

Or maybe not. Maybe you should’ve stepped back. You should’ve asked if he needed help before offering it.

But he didn’t pull away. Nor did he protest with that snarky wit of his.

Instead, he went still—hands falling to his sides. Under your care, he became a solid, breathing statue of sturdy bone and thick muscle, towering over you.

“Damn thing,” he said quietly, almost intimately. A breath of a whisper that tickled your skin, audible only because you were mere inches away.

A chuckle escaped your lips, more delighted than you meant it to be.

“S’okay,” you reassured him, your fingers working the buttons with the ease and calm of a hundred practiced afternoons. Even though this was a first. “It’ll heal.”

The fabric was stiff beneath your touch—stiff in the way only new things ever are—still faintly carrying the scent of the store. As you reached the middle buttons, your knuckles brushed the heat of his skin through the thin cotton. He was so much larger up close—so much more powerful. And yet, not as dangerous as you’d once imagined he might be, healed, standing on his own feet again.

Because the shirt was still mostly open, your eyes were drawn to his chest without permission. Met with the sight of a rugged expanse of hard-earned muscle and golden-brown hair, mapped with the deep lines of old scars—pale and weathered—and crossed by newer ones still faintly pink. They spoke of a life you could barely imagine. A body shaped by hard work and violence in equal measure.

Your fingers lingered a fraction too long as you guided another button through, thinking of all the stories those scars could tell. Stories you realized you wouldn’t mind hearing someday—by the hearth on a starry night, wool blankets around your shoulders, a warm cup cradled between your hands.

You could smell your floral soap on him—a scent that felt almost scandalous on a man like him—but beneath it lingered what was unmistakably his: the scent of sun-warmed leather, tobacco, and woodsmoke.

Your fingers worked the last button into its hole, though you deliberately left the shirt partially open at his chest, just as you preferred it. Open enough to feel fresh, while revealing the expanse of hair and hard muscle that now looked far more inviting than it had a week ago, when your hands were getting to know him only through blood and bandages.

You stayed there, even though there was nothing left to button—because he didn’t seem to mind, because neither did you, because it felt nice. Your palms rested flat against the solid rise of his chest, feeling it lift and fall comfortably beneath your touch.

Without thinking, your gaze drifted up—straight into eyes that were already waiting for yours.

You could feel his heartbeat under your hand—steady, strong, beating life into his mending body.

For several of those heartbeats, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. The silence in the room had changed. It was no longer the quiet of the woods, but the hush of a match right before it strikes—burning the world down to this cabin and the two souls inside.

“Fits like I thought,” you finally murmured, your lips curving into a small smile. The words were barely a whisper, meant only for him.

His gaze flicked—just briefly—to your lips before finding your eyes again.

“Yeah,” he agreed, voice coarse like sugar. “You were right, butterfly.”

You couldn’t help the quiet chuckle that slipped out. Nobody’d ever called you that before—or nothing special really. To the world, you’d only ever been miss, ma’am, lady, or laundry girl.

The heat of his breath stirred the loose strands of hair at your temples, making the skin tingle. You noticed the way his collarbones carved deep valleys on his chest, the way the muscles of his neck tensed as he looked down at you.

And there—in the blue of his eyes—you found a thought you’d never imagined to find just a few weeks ago, when you still lived alone in this far end of the world.

It sent a foreign tickle through you, like butterfly wings fluttering against your skin, radiating down your body until even your fingertips felt warm. The flowers he’d picked for you. The rabbit he’d caught for lunch. The raw concern he’d shown that morning. The visible relief when he’d seen you return. All of it swirled together in your mind.

You had to admit, Arthur Morgan was a better husband than your imaginary one in Saint Denis could ever be.

—

next chapter

Your boots crunched softly over dried twigs as you ventured toward the tree line, bending now and then to inspect the carpet of copper-colored pine needles. Nestled near the damp, mossy roots of a decaying trunk, you found your prize—bay boletes, round and firm, a cluster of orange caps still unspoiled by frost. You knelt, smiling as you carefully twisted them free, brushing away the dirt with a thumb before tucking them into your basket. Good for stew, good for bait, and a treat for your horse—little rewards for another winter survived.

You straightened up, sunlight seeping through the dense canopy overhead. And you let it melt into your skin like warm honey, savoring the sensation as your eyes wandered over the clearing. The snow had finally retreated, and green had begun to claim back the landscape, lush and alive. You wouldn’t have minded finding one of those flowers again—the ones with the swollen purple bulb and speckled leaves you’d stumbled upon by sheer accident. You hadn’t seen one since last year, but you kept an eye out anyway, more out of fondness than expectation. Perhaps they would bloom once spring set its roots more possessively into this place. They were so beautiful—shaped like little slippers, almost too pretty to belong out here. Too whimsical to exist anywhere outside the pages of a fairytale.

And that was the thing about Tall Trees, it felt whimsical. It had its perks, living out here. This bountiful land most folks deemed too haunted—too wrong—to bother hunting, foraging, or fishing. Which meant the Basin—all its game, its fish, its untouched mushrooms pushing stubbornly through the cold earth—belonged entirely to you.

But as generous as Tall Trees was, you weren’t immune to its moods. The forest felt watchful, as though the leaves themselves were a million little eyes always paying attention. It didn’t feel haunted, exactly—just occupied. That was why you only ever came out in the mornings, when the light was gentle and forgiving. The moment the sun crept past the middle of the sky, signaling early afternoon, you always traced your steps back toward the Basin, and the safety of your porch. There was always laundry to tend to, wood to split, sage to dry, or a snag in a skirt to mend anyway. So you didn’t wander. You didn’t stray far. Some places demanded a certain respect—and Tall Trees was one of them.

You had just spotted another orange cluster, glowing like embers in the shade a few feet ahead, when a loud bang tore through the forest. The echo drilled into your ears, splitting the midday quiet so cleanly it felt like a physical blow. Birds burst violently from the trees, a frantic cloud of wings thrashing against the branches as they fled for the sky.

You froze mid-step, the forest suddenly, unnaturally still, save for the painful hammering of your heart against your ribs as you waited for the follow-up.

A hunter’s second shot, perhaps?

No.

Two more shots rang out in quick succession, followed by the jagged edge of angry shouting—at least three men, raised voices, overlapping in a cacophony of rage. This was no hunter.

Your breath hitched as the basket slipped from your numb fingers, mushrooms scattering across the forest floor like discarded coins. The realization hit you with the weight of a falling tree. You knew exactly where the noise was coming from. You knew the direction, the distance, and the perpetrators.

Damn Skinners.

“No, no, no,” you muttered under your breath, already moving, boots skidding as you rushed toward the narrow trail leading back to your cabin. Not again

You shared this land with those sick bastards—vicious, cruel butchers who turned the beauty of Tall Trees into a graveyard. They were everything that was wrong with humanity, patrolling the roads with cursed intentions, haunting them like demons who tortured anyone and anything unfortunate enough to cross their path, sometimes even wandering as far as the Basin. You knew the way they crept, the way they watched. Every time you heard their hollering, you dropped everything and ran to hide.

Your mind raced ahead of your feet, already mapping the quickest path inside, already picturing the heavy rug you’d yank back, the wooden mouth of the cellar waiting beneath the floorboards, the safety of the dark. You could be hidden in seconds. You had been before.

Another crack echoed, closer now, followed by a raw, guttural scream that died off into a wet choke. You pushed harder, your heart pounding in time with your footsteps as you leapt over a fallen trunk, lungs burning as branches clawed at your sleeves as if the forest itself was trying to hold you back.

Maybe you could reach the cellar before they noticed you. God—you hoped they hadn’t touched your horse.

The cabin finally came into view through the trees, smoke still lifting gently from your chimney as though nothing had changed since you left. A cruel image of domestic peace that vanished when you smelled the sharp, metallic air, heavy with the scent of burnt powder.

And that’s when the realization cut though the fear like ice water.

Skinners didn’t use guns.

They hunted quiet. Arrows that hissed against flesh, knives that whispered against muscle, traps that doomed futures.

You ducked behind the thick trunk of an ancient pine, peering toward your home. A man wearing a hideous skunk-pelt hat was limping away from your porch, moving as fast as his mangled, bleeding leg would allow. He hissed a curse, trailing behind three other dark shapes that scattered back into the dense tree line.

To your left, your horse whinnied, ears pinned back and teeth bared in a defensive snarl, but he was still standing.

Unharmed.

Thank God.

But relief fractured within a heartbeat, because the silence that rushed back into the Basin was somehow worse than the gunshots. It pressed tight and suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, indifferent slap of the water against your old wooden pier, and the fading rustle of the brush where the four Skinners had vanished.

You waited, counting your breaths until the forest felt empty again. Then crept toward the porch, following the wet, crimson trail the limping man and his companions had left behind.

The sight made your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat until your breakfast threatened to come back up. You hated blood. Always had. You hated the metallic tang of it in the air, the way it clung to everything, the heavy implication of pain and gore it carried. It was why you’d never taken work at the doctor’s office back home, no matter how steady the pay. You’d preferred the chaos of the post office instead, even when the shifts ran long and loud.

You reached the porch steps, your eyes darting to the door. It was kicked halfway open, red footprints guiding you inside like a gruesome map leading to a nightmare. You swallowed thickly, your skin crawling and your fingers numb as you crossed the threshold.

Two bodies lay sprawled near the hearth, unmoving, their blood dark against your floorboards. Unmistakably Skinners.

A few feet away, in the shadow of your kitchen, slumped against the worn table was a man you’d never seen before. Very much alive, even as he pressed a blood-soaked hand to his side.

He lifted his head when he heard you, eyes blue and icy as the water of the Basin, sharp and assessing beneath the brim of his hat.

For a moment, you simply stared. Your mind scrambled uselessly between run and hit him with something, while your heart thundered painfully against your ribs.

You did neither.

“Uh—” You cleared your throat, the sound far too loud in the quiet, your own voice too small, too polite to belong in a room that reeked of gunpowder and death. “You ain’t a Skinner.”

A sound escaped him—half-snort, half-wheeze—and you couldn’t decide if it was incredulity or sheer indignation. If he rolled his eyes, it was subtle, but unmistakable.

“Most folk would be screamin’,” he said, his voice a hoarse rumble edged with tired irritation, despite the alarming amount of blood soaking through his shirt. “And here I was, havin’ a dull day, until you walked in to enlighten me with the obvious.”

He was right. Up close, it was clear he was no butcher. No hideous pelt fashion. No human bone trinkets. No filth stitched together in mockery of clothing. He wore leather and denim, dust and road stitched into every seam.

And somehow, against all reason and despite the two bodies cooling on your floor, the realization made your knees go weak with relief.

“Dear God—thank you, good sir,” you gasped, a frantic, shaky smile tugging at your lips as you stepped closer. “You saved my home! I was mostly worried they'd burnt the place down… or hurt my horse.” Your gaze dropped to the satchel at his side, hanging open where he’d likely been fumbling for a bandage, blood dripping down the leather. “And those are my peaches in that bag, mister.”

He let out a huff that might have been a laugh if he wasn’t so pale. “I’ve killed the two men in your kitchen, lady,” he said flatly, “and gave the rest a reason to stay clear. I reckon I earned a peach.”

You nodded quickly. Of course. Of course. A juicy peach was the least you could offer this gentleman, who seemed to be deteriorating with every breath he took. His face was the color of old parchment, and a fine sheen of sweat made his skin glint ghostlike in the firelight.

You leaned closer, and then you saw it—the deep track of a blade carved through his hand from back to palm, and two arrows buried deep in the meat of his thigh, the shafts shivering slightly with every pained breath he took. Dark, heavy drops of crimson hit the floorboards like a ticking clock.

“No, no, no, no…” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, your head spinning. “I hate blood.”

The man looked down at his leg, then back up at you, his expression flat and unimpressed.

“Well, I’m real sorry, ma’am,” he grumbled. His free hand trembled, but still managed a mocking little wave. “I’ll stop bleedin’ now.”

You spun around, eyes darting frantically in search of anything useful. But all you saw was your unmade bed. A jar of sugar cubes. Big Valley Canned Apricots. The two Skinners with clean bullet holes in their heads. Sloppy Molly’s Salted Offal. The Schmitz Canned Salmon you’d picked up at Manzanita Post last week—

There it was. The moment of clarity you needed.

“Wait here, good sir,” you said, voice certain like a promise. “I’ll go find help.”

“No,” he cut in sharply, as if you’d suggested a mercy killing. “No doctor—” The words came too fast, breaking into a ragged cough that made him wince in pain. “No doctor,” he repeated more quietly, voice dropping to a stubborn growl.

The audacity of such a request nearly took your breath away.

Who else would you bring if not a doctor? The undertaker? He was bleeding all over your scrubbed pine, slumped against your table with two—possibly poisoned—arrows in his leg and a knife wound to his ribs and hand, and somehow you were the unreasonable one for suggesting help.

“You a wanted man, mister?” You asked, already snatching up your satchel and coat, shoving a clean rag into his hand. “Just stay put. I won’t be long.”

You were halfway down the porch steps when another thought struck you—sharp, unwelcome, and oddly specific.

Where was the box of Hedley Baking Company’s Assorted Biscuits you’d also bought at Manzanita last week? The ones you’d been rationing carefully, knowing Saint Denis shipments didn’t always make it as far as Tall Tress. They were supposed to be right above the canned salmon.

You turned back.

Why was he here in the first place?

“Sir,” you retraced your steps into the cabin, “you were lootin’ my home,” you announced. It wasn’t an accusation—more like commenting on the weather.

“I wasn’t lootin’ ‘your’ home,” he said, knuckles turning white as he pressed the rag to his side. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

“Well, you were still robbin’ whoever you thought lived here.”

“I wasn’t. I was inspectin’.” His breath was shallow now, chest hitching with a wet, ragged sound.

“Inspectin’ for what?” You challenged, folding your arms.

“The idiot.”

“What idiot?”

“The one,” he wheezed, his blue eyes narrowing, “who decided to live in a cabin in the middle of Skinner territory.”

You scoffed, feeling a flush of offense crawl up your neck. You knew, however, that his reasoning carried a stinging amount of truth.

You took a steadying breath, doing your best to ignore the way the cabin smelled like a butcher’s shop.

“Just don’t bleed to death while I’m gone,” you said firmly. “You’ve got a lot of explainin’ to do, mister.”

You turned to leave—then stopped halfway through the doorway.

“One more thing—”

“What now?” he muttered. The edge in his voice was sharp with pain, and you understood the urgency, but if those devils came back and found him wounded and alone, they’d torture this poor man to shreds.

“I don’t know how wise it is for you to move in that condition, or if you even can, mister,” you said, already crossing the room, “but those bastards might be thinkin’ of comin’ back as we speak.” With a soft grunt, you hauled the heavy, hand-woven rug aside, revealing the wooden latch set into the floorboards. “So please, hide here.”

He stared at the dark opening in the floor, then slowly lifted his gaze to yours.

“Jesus,” he muttered, studying your face as if trying to decide whether he’d misjudged you entirely. "Is that where you hide the bodies?"

“What bodies, mister?”

“I’m just sayin’,” he half-grunted, each word sounding like it cost him precious breath, though that didn’t stop the snark. “A lady livin’ all by herself in the middle of the most cursed woods in the country. I ain’t accusin’ you of nothin’, but it is suspicious.”

You rolled your eyes, leaving the latch open in case he decided he needed it, and grabbed your coat.

“Just hide if you can, please,” you said shortly, heading for the door for good this time.

-

The gentle firelight spilled across the cabin walls in dusty orange slants, catching in the steam rising from a basin of warm water on your bedside table. It was that fragile hour before dawn, a moment of absolute stillness, when the birds hadn’t yet stirred, and the only sound was the soft, rhythmic lap of the lake against the pier outside. It was a hauntingly peaceful contrast to the red chaos of the day before.

Your lower back and neck throbbed from hours of scrubbing, and your hands felt like cracked rubber from the harsh lye and all the water it had taken to scour the blood and brain matter from your porous floorboards. You hadn’t been able to stomach a single bite of dinner after that. And when you’d finally been ready to collapse for the night, the realization had hit you like a splash of icy water: you’d be spending the night in the rocking chair.

Your bed was already claimed.

You wrung out a clean cloth, water dripping back into the basin with a soft plop. Your eyes drifted to the man currently resting against your lacy pillows.

He was still out cold, his breathing deep and slightly raspy, but steadier than it had been when you’d hauled the doctor through the front door. You’d found the physician exactly where you’d hoped—perched on the porch of the general store at Manzanita Post, spectacles slipping down his nose as he turned a page of the Blackwater Ledger.

He’d been a godsend, though he’d grumbled incessantly about being dragged into Skinner territory and the bodies cooling on your kitchen floor.

You’d found the stranger sprawled in a heap of denim and leather right next to the cellar door he’d been too stubborn to enter. For a terrifying moment, you’d thought he was a third corpse. But no, he wasn’t cold like the Skinners lying beside him. Instead, his skin had been burning.

Between the doctor’s grunts and your own aching muscles, you’d managed to get the arrows out and the man into your bed.

Now, as you pulled the quilt down to reach the bandage on his side, you couldn’t help but stare.

You’d handled the laundry of half the men in your hometown since you were old enough to work—the mayor’s soft, expensive shirts; the store clerk’s and his sons’ spindly long johns; the butcher’s oversized, blood-stiffened aprons—but you’d never seen a man built like this.

Even in repose, he looked powerful. Dangerous.

His shoulders were broad and unyielding, sinking into your mattress as if forged from iron. His chest was a rugged, hairy map of old scars and hard-earned muscle—a landscape of a life lived violently. But the mark on his left shoulder was different: a gnarled, puckered mess of twisted tissue that broke the rhythm of his skin. It was shiny and distorted, a scorched patch of history that looked like it had been sealed by fire and grit rather than a doctor’s hand. There was a weathered strength to him that made your small cabin feel suddenly, startlingly cramped.

You carefully began to dab dried blood away from the edges of his bandage, shuddering at the sight of the red staining the white. And yet, your fingers couldn’t help but linger just a second too long against the warm, solid skin of his ribs.

“You’re a lot of work for a man who tried to loot my home, mister,” you whispered, the words barely more than breath.

The doctor had left you with two bottles of tonic and a stern warning:

“Your husband’s got a constitution like an ox, but he’s lost a lot of blood. Keep him warm, keep him clean.”

A tiny, involuntary giggle bubbled in your throat at the sight of your rough “husband” tucked into dainty floral bedsheets. You still couldn’t believe the lie had worked, but instinct told you that a man who refused a doctor was a man with ugly secrets. You didn’t want to know who he was running from; you just knew that “husband” was an easier explanation than “armed looter who saved my life.”

You moved the cloth over the curve of his bruised bicep. It felt like tempered steel beneath your palm. You’d never touched muscle like this before. What kind of life carved a body like his? Besides looting homesteads, that is. You doubted any ordinary life could produce a build like that.

You studied his sleeping face, searching for an answer in the sharp jaw, and the golden stubble catching firelight. Without his hat, he looked less like a threat and more like a man. A very tired, very wounded man who currently had your favorite quilt pulled to his waist and a battered satchel, still holding your peaches, sitting brazenly on your vanity.

You dipped the cloth back into the water, your mind wandering through a forest of unanswered questions. You didn’t even know his name.

Pulling the quilt down further, you moved to the stitched mess on his thigh. The doctor had been forced to cut away much of his denim and drawers to let the wounds breathe, leaving thick, corded muscle exposed to the cool morning air.

As you moved the rag over the skin, something pressed against your hand from his remaining pocket. Driven by a mix of curiosity and the need to clear any debris, you reached in, pulling out a crumpled box of Millicent’s Premium Cigarettes and a sturdy folding pocketknife.

“You loot many strange men, ma’am, or just me?”

The low, gravelly rumble vibrated through the mattress, making you jolt so violently you nearly fell off your chair.

“Jesus!” you gasped, the rag dropping to your lap as you clutched your heaving chest. “Don’t do that again, mister. I ain’t used to hearin’ other voices ‘round the house.”

He didn’t move much—couldn’t—but his eyes tracked you with a sharp, heavy intensity. “You live out here alone?”

“Well—yes. Mostly,” you answered, your heart still hammering too hard for you to think clearly. “I mean… except when I don’t.”

There was a long, skeptical silence.

“…That ain’t exactly reassurin’,” he said, shifting his head slightly, the rough gold of his stubble scraping against your lacy pillowcase.

Seeing him like that—awake and observant, gears turning inside his head in God knows which direction—it suddenly hit you: you didn’t know him at all. He was helpless now, sure, but what about tomorrow? Or next week? When he was all healed and towering over you? He was so broad, so dangerously strong. He’d stood against at least five Skinners all by himself and came out alive. What could you do against a man like him? What if he decided he liked your cabin for his permanent home? What if he decided he didn’t want a witness to his “inspecting”?

“I mean, except when my husband’s here, of course,” you added quickly, the lie slipping off your tongue with alarming ease for the second time in twenty four hours.

“Your husband?” he asked, sounding surprised though not entirely incredulous.

“Yes. Why?” You busied yourself with the cloth again, hands trembling.

“What kind of worthless piece of shit leaves his lady alone to fend for herself in a cabin and in the middle of Tall Trees, of all places?” he grunted, his breath catching as your gentle touch met the wound on his thigh. “If it was me—”

“He…he’s travelin’,” You blurted, staring at the tender wound, your stomach churning at the sight and your mind scrambling for an explanation at the same time. “For work,” you cleared your throat, “he travels a lot.”

When there was only silence for an answer, you glanced up to meet his gaze.

And there it was. His blue eyes were clouded with fever, but there was still a spark of that dry, defiant wit behind them.

“He works for…” you averted his inquisitive gaze, desperate for a detail. Your eyes darted to the vanity, landing right on his satchel where your biscuits still remained taken. “The Hedley Baking Company.”

He cocked one sandy eyebrow.

“You know… the biscuit factory,” you added weakly.

“Saint Denis?” he asked. You nodded fervently.

He let out a long, pained huff of air that might have been a scoff under other circumstances.

“Well, if it was me, I’d take my lady to the city. Buy her a floor somewhere nice and make sure she was safe every time I came home from... makin' cookies. Wouldn't leave her to her luck, only to come back and find a rottin' body in this cabin. Just sayin’.”

“And I'm just sayin’,” you countered, fingers careful as you cleaned the edge of his wound, “for a man who was stealin’ peaches and biscuits from my kitchen just yesterday, you’re awfully rude to my good husband—considerin’ he ain’t even here to defend himself.”

“Or you,” he murmured.

You opted for silence. He was impossible. You pretended to focus on the task at hand, but your mind couldn’t help but wander to that absurd image: a version of you living in bustling Saint Denis, wearing a perfectly starched apron and pristine hair, baking cookies all day while the trolley rattled by your window. It couldn’t be further from the reality of your raw, scrubbed hands and the smell of pine and smoke you woke up to every morning. You almost chuckled at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“Sorry,” he added suddenly. The word was so quiet, so unexpected, it took the breath right out of you. “Didn’t plan on gettin’ stabbed yesterday.”

“That’s all right.” You offered him a small, genuine smile, pulling the quilt back over his broad chest to keep the morning chill at bay. “I ain’t done yet, mister. Still gotta clean that nasty cut on your hand. But I figured you must be hungry. Doctor said you’ll likely sleep for days, but not before you eat. Can’t take your medicine on an empty stomach.”

You turned toward the kitchen counter, aware of his gaze lingering.

“And no, before you ask, I didn’t tell him your name—which I don’t even know—nor did I mention you were a stranger who just happened to be…” you reached for a spare bowl you kept on the top cabinet, “…inspectin’ my home when those Skinners arrived.”

You glanced back, mischief flickering on your lips.

“Rest, assured mister. I told him you was my husband.”

You’d expected a scowl or a grunt. Instead, you found the corners of his mouth twitching, his cheeks pulling back to return the smile. It transformed his face, smoothing out the hard edges of the bleeding man you’d met on the kitchen last afternoon.

“Thank you,” he murmured. His voice was so weak and heavy with exhaustion that you knew he’d be back in the dark of sleep within minutes. You needed to get some broth into him, and fast.

“It’s Arthur,” he said, the sound of his name stopping you mid-step.

You turned around, wooden spoon in your hand. He was watching you from the pillows, his eyes half-closed.

“Arthur Morgan.”

-

You woke before the sun had fully crested the treeline, the world still caught in that pale, breath-held quiet between night and morning. The Basin lay glassy and still, mist curling low over the water as you knelt at its edge, sleeves rolled tight, fingers aching as the cold bit into your skin. The water was bitter this early, but you’d never minded. You liked to work before the day truly began—an old habit learned back home, when the hours were long and the laundry had to be finished and folded before the town ever noticed you were there.

The past four days had been uneventful—about as uneventful as having a wounded stranger occupying your bed could possibly be.

He’d spent most of it sleeping, just as the doctor had warned. The first two days, he’d burned with fever, stirring only when you pressed a careful hand to his shoulder and coaxed him awake to drink broth. He hadn’t complained about the soup itself, only about being “treated like a baby,” his voice hoarse and obstinate even through the haze of pain.

The two days after that, he’d improved enough to sit up on his own. He’d remained stubbornly grumpy, but his stomach had managed solid food at last—starting with the very peaches he’d looted from you, now soft and ripe and disappearing faster than you’d expected.

And now, it was the fifth day.

You twisted the heavy fabric of his shirt once more, your eyes flicking toward the cabin without meaning to. A man like him wasn’t built for stillness. You could see it even in his sleep, in the tension that never quite left his frame. Five days confined to a bed would drive a man like him to the brink of madness—of that you were certain.

You only hoped he wouldn’t decide to prove you right by tearing open his half-healed stitches.

You wrung the shirt between your hands, watching the water cloud faintly pink before running clear again. It had taken four days of patient scrubbing and soaking in your carefully guarded “magic solution”—a mix of lemon, salt, and secrets—to get the blood out completely, but you’d done it. The fabric was finally clean, saved from ruin.

You huffed a quiet breath through your nose, more satisfied than you cared to admit.

“How could I ever have called myself a laundress if I couldn’t rescue you, Mr. Shirt?” you murmured, speaking to the fabric more than to yourself—a habit you’d picked up living alone in the woods, just to keep you from going insane in the silence.

“Now we just have to get you dried, and then I can stitch you up,” you explained to the shirt, giving it one last soak for good measure. “You’ll look even newer than when your grumpy owner first ordered you from that catalogue.”

“You always this talkative or did the Skinners rattle your brain loose?” A voice, husky with a morning rasp, drawled behind you.

You let out a small shriek, spinning around with your heart jumping straight into your throat. No, you would never get used to hearing another voice in this clearing.

“Mr. Morgan,” you said, half-greeting, half-scolding.

“M’lady,” he replied, tipping his head as if doffing a hat that wasn’t there.

He stood on the porch, chest bare save for the clean bandages you’d wrapped snug around his torso the night before. He was clutching his satchel’s strap in his hand. And you didn’t care how good he thought he felt or how strong he believed himself to be—it was too early for this. Too cold.

“Why are you upright?” you demanded, crossing back toward the line.

“Cause I got two legs?”

“You had two arrowheads deep in one of those legs,” you reminded him, pinning his freshly cleaned shirt to the line with unnecessary force. “I didn’t spend the last five days of my life cleanin’ and re-wrappin’ bandages just for you to tear ’em open again ‘cause you “got two legs”, mister.”

He let out a long, heavy breath, shoulders dipping.

“Ma’am,” he said quietly, the edge leaving his voice. “I really do appreciate what you’re doin’. I do.” He paused, a ghost of a rueful smile playing on his lips. “But if I gotta stare at that ceiling one more day, I swear I’m liable to lose what little sense I got left.”

You shook your head, opting for silence instead of an argument, and turned back toward the water. There were still bloody rags to wash. If he was determined to ignore common sense, you weren’t going to exhaust yourself trying to provide it for him.

The Basin was beginning to wake with you. The sun crept higher, pale gold spilling through the ancient trees and catching on the water’s surface, breaking it into a thousand scattered coins of light. You knelt at the edge, skirts gathered, and dipped the rags into the cold. The soap bloomed white between your fingers, sharp and clean against the iron tang that still lingered in the fabric.

The water numbed your hands first, then coaxed them awake, just as it always did. You worked on instinct, movements smooth and practiced, muscle memory guiding you where thought wasn’t needed. Bubbles rose where small fish darted near the shore, quick silver flashes disappearing the moment your shadow shifted. Somewhere deeper in the trees, a bird began to sing—then another—the woods slowly filling with melody.

Behind you, the porch boards creaked softly.

“You… do this for a livin’?” he asked after a moment. His tone careful, as if testing the waters of your temper.

“Used to,” you replied, wringing out a rag and watching the red bleed into nothing. “Back in Strawberry.”

“Strawberry?” he echoed.

You nodded, not looking at him.

“Been there, mister?”

“A few times,” he said. “Pretty little town.”

“That it is.” You smiled despite yourself, the memory bubbling up easy and warm inside your chest, a stark contrast to the icy lake water. You could almost hear the river running straight through the heart of town, the steady melody of the waterfall singing by your window day and night. You remembered the way mist clung to the flower baskets on the bridges in the early mornings, the petals heavy with pearls of dew.

He was quiet for a moment.

“You don’t miss it? Up there?”

“I do,” you admitted. “Most beautiful town in the whole country.” You paused, scrubbing gently, thoughtfully. “Miss ridin’ out to Big Valley. Campin’ there. Pickin’ lavender so the clothes’d smell nice after.” A small smile curved your lips. “Heard there’s a ranch up there now.”

You hadn’t been back in years. Too many to count.

“Looks like there ain’t a stain stubborn enough for you,” he said, his voice closer now. And you could hear the rustle of the floral blanket he’d wrapped around his waist.

You shrugged, dunking the cloth once more into the water. “Some things just stick with you, Mr. Morgan.”

The words settled between you, soft as the morning mist.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him shift on the porch, head turned in your direction.

“Say, ma’am,” he drawled, “how’d a hardworking woman like yourself leave the quaint little capital of Big Valley just to end up livin’ in a graveyard?” He asked gently, not like a man judging or measuring, but like someone trying to place himself into a life that wasn’t his.

A quiet chuckle slipped out of you. Some days, you wondered the same thing—whether there was an explanation that didn’t sound like good ol’ lunacy.

“I was workin’ a shift at the general store back in Strawberry,” you began, wringing out a rag until only a couple lonely drops fell. “Customer comes in to buy a newspaper. Well—he eyes it. Doesn’t buy it. Mr. Cooper got real mad. Didn’t say nothin’, but I could tell.”

You smiled faintly at the memory. “Anyway, the man starts readin’ the headlines out loud. Then he mentions an advertisement—cheap property, right here in the Aurora. I’d been here once as a cub. Remembered how alive it felt. Thought… how bad could it be?”

He listened without interrupting. The only sounds were your voice, the gentle creak of porch boards beneath his bare feet, and two does grazing along the far shore, heads lifting now and again as if listening to your story.

“Next day, I went to the bank with all my savings,” you finished, heading for the clothesline. “And the rest is history, Mr. Morgan.”

“So,” he said at last, his voice a low rumble, “you hear one strange conversation and decide to move into the woods?”

“I thought it sounded… affordable,” you replied, pinning a damp rag to the line beside his shirt.

“That ain’t usually a good sign, ma’am.”

“Well,” you said lightly, “I haven’t been eaten or tortured yet.”

“Yet,” he echoed, the word heavy with the weight of experience.

“You’ll laugh at me,” you added, hanging another rag, “but I thought bears would be my biggest problem.”

He let out a low chuckle that vibrated in the morning air. “And? Are they?”

“Sometimes.” You sighed, finally turning to face him, clutching a clean, wet rag to your chest. “I figured folks just… exaggerated.”

“They usually do,” he said, glancing around the treeline. “Just not out here.” He leaned a shoulder against the porch post, the blanket around his waist shifting. “That husband of yours oughta have done more research. Ask ‘round or somethin’. Man can’t just drop his wife in a den of wolves and go back to sellin’ cookies.”

You winced inwardly. Right. You had completely forgotten about your “husband” from Saint Denis. Now you had no way of fitting a biscuit-maker into this story of a woman buying land on a whim. You would have to come up with something later, because your imaginary husband was starting to tangle with your reality like unbrushed hair, and you had the distinct feeling that Mr. Morgan was far more observant than you’d given him credit for.

“Are you goin’ somewhere, Mr. Morgan?” you asked, eyeing the satchel clutched in his hand, desperate to divert attention from the crumbling logic of your “marriage.”

“Like this? No, ma’am,” he said with a huff of amusement. “Just waitin’ on a friend.”

A friend? How did he—

Before you could ask, he lifted two fingers to his mouth and whistled—sharp, clear, and commanding. It echoed off the surface of the Basin and died into the trees.

A heartbeat later, you heard it. The heavy, rhythmic thud of hooves drumming against the damp earth. The frantic rustle of brush on the opposite shore.

Your breath caught in your throat when you saw it.

The largest stallion you’d ever seen burst from the treeline on the far side of the water, raven-black and gleaming, mane streaming like silk as he rounded the water’s edge to reach the porch. His reflection rippled alongside him, dark and imposing against the gold-lit surface.

“C’mere,” he murmured as the horse slowed to a snorting halt. “You alright there, boy?” His voice dropped—a softer, gentle register—as he reached up to ruffle the animal’s thick mane. “I’m sorry, boy.”

“That your friend, mister?” you asked, stepping closer, helplessly drawn in by the sheer, raw power of the beast.

He nodded, reaching into his satchel. “Sent him off when ‘em damn Skinners showed up,” he explained, offering the horse a handful of oats. “Didn’t want no arrow findin’ him.”

You watched the animal as he ate happily from his owner’s palm. You’d seen far too many horses on the roads near Tall Trees with Skinner arrows buried in their flanks, still hitched to carriages driven by corpses. To see this one whole, healthy, and loved felt like a small miracle.

“And he waited for you all this time?”

“Figured he’d manage,” he said, his eyes never leaving the horse. “Plenty to eat out here. He’s smart.” He gave the stallion a firm pat with his wounded hand. “Ain’t you, boy?”

The animal snorted, a deep, vibrating sound of contentment, clearly pleased to be back at his rider’s side.

“He a Shire, mister?” you asked, your hand already reaching out. He nodded as the horse leaned his velvet-soft nose into your palm.

“He’s massive,” you continued, your voice breathless. “And beautiful. You should’ve told me sooner. I would’ve gone lookin’ for him. Could’ve stayed in the lean-to. My horse could’ve used the company, and this handsome boy wouldn’t have been out in the cold all alone.”

He smirked faintly, the expression reaching his eyes and making the "stranger" look remarkably human. “Hear that, boy? Lady here’s sweet on you already. You’re quite the charmer, ain’t you?”

You laughed softly, the sound warm and ticklish like the horse’s nose under your palm.

And then he tipped his head back, the early sunlight catching his face—five days worth of stubble glowing like gold, eyes shifting from cold blue to a warm, honeyed hazel under the morning sky. You realized, distantly, that this was the first time you’d seen him properly in the full honesty of daylight.

The next thought hit you before you could stop it.

This “stranger” in your cabin—this wounded, stubborn man with blood on his hands and your biscuits in his satchel—was actually quite handsome when he wasn’t covered in Skinner gore.

—

You missed your mother and brother terribly, your cousins Lothíriel, Amrothos, Erchirion, and Elphir, and even your uncle, Prince Imrahil. After your father’s death when you were still a young child, your uncle had filled the role of a second father, sparing you a wise word when he could.

But once again, you also found yourself missing your husband. It had been days since Éomer and Prince Théodred rode out with their Eoreds in response to an attack on a village in the Westfold. This time, it was not orcs, but Dunlandings.

You were still learning the deeper histories of Rohan, but Éowyn told you of the legendary conflict between the Rohirrim and the wild Hillfolk, who once sought to take control of the West-march, as well as the throne of Rohan.

You only didn’t know that a band of them were camped just beneath the hill.

One of them saw you—a thin woman with dark eyes, dressed in animal skins and a long coat of white and gray fur. She shouted at their leader. He was tall and broad, not unlike Éomer, except his hair was black as pitch, and his eyes were just as piercing as the woman’s as they locked with yours.

Your breath stilled in your lungs. You had enough instinct to yank at the reins of your horse to urge him backward, and then quickly away. You heard the man shouting from down below. The gallop of horses thudded on snow-laden earth.

An arrow whizzed by your ear. You gasped and ducked, unconsciously peering around your shoulder. Not everyone from their camp had horses to spare for hunting you, but the few that did were gaining. The woman’s back curved as she prepared to let loose another arrow.

This one made its mark. Sirion brayed terribly as his left hind leg buckled. The momentum threw you from your saddle, but even that was a mercy. The horse could’ve crushed your body if he’d taken you underneath him. Instead, you fell roughly into the snow with a shriek.

You lost all sense of time after that. Your vision blurred as the sky danced above you in grays and winter blues. Frigid cold bit at your cheeks, but the heavy crunch of snow was an alarm that trembled through you as you lay dazed.

The man was there, their leader. He looked down on you like you were an opportunity worth taking. He bent down at the knees and framed your jaw with his hand. He turned your face one way, then the other, examining your features like you were some exotic creature.

“Who are you, little one?” he asked, in an accented common tongue. “You don’t have the look of the Rohirrim. Too fragile.”

You had enough strength to shove his hand away, hoping to prove him wrong. But he grabbed your wrist in an iron grip and startled a gasp out of you. You were still winded and weak from the fall. Fear kept you frozen.

His other bare hand traveled down your neck, over your coat. He smoothed the edge of fine fabric between his fingers. He eyes drifted down the emerald fabric of your dress, embroidered thinly with gold. They were the colors of Rohan. He smiled then, deciding you were a treasure he would claim.

You could hardly keep his looming figure in focus, but just as you opened your mouth to scream, there were heavier, louder hoof falls upon the earth. The wild man’s face darkened with surprise, his head snapping up.

The moment he let go of you and stood, an arrow with red fletching pierced him between the eyes.

His people yelled in outrage, but the sound of their death throes was the last thing you remembered before the world was lost to you.

You woke slowly, and slowly in the dim.

You felt the warm hearth at full blaze, then lifted your lids to see its steady flames. Thick furs covered your body as you lay on your side. You breathed in deeper, and as you blinked, your vision eventually brightened enough to see that you were in familiar chambers, and something firm, yet gentle laid at your back.

It was Éomer, whose arm tightened around your middle. He spoke your name in a baritone rumble, and you relaxed further at the sound of it. Of him.

“Are you awake?” he asked.

“Yes,” you breathed, taking comfort in his hold. Your hand slid down his arm now that you felt it there. His lips skimmed the side of your neck, and you sighed.  

“You were frozen to the bone,” he said. There was displeasure in his voice, even as he asked, after a suspect pause, “Are you well?”

Your throat tightened as it came back to you: falling off your horse, being cast into the snow like a ragdoll, the man who stood above you, touching you…

“If I am, no doubt it is because of you,” you rasped.

Slowly you tried to twist in his arms, wanting to see his face. You gritted your teeth at the soreness in your entire body, but he helped you settle. It created a little more distance between you, and you were sorry for it. Though it allowed you to see the familiar furrow of his brows, the frown disrupting his usual stoic face.

“Was it really you who found me? The Hillfolk…”

Éomer confirmed your half-spoken question. The darkness in his eyes told you what you need not ask. His Eored either slaughtered them or ran out the survivors.

“Why did you ride so far from Edoras?” he asked.

“I did not think it was that far. Regardless, I was ready to turn back,” you said honestly. “But the snow disguises the hills. By the time I saw them, they were upon me…”

Your next breath came out shuddering. Your eyes stung with tears as your lips trembled, your fingers curling in his tunic, over his warm skin.

Éomer drew you closer within his embrace. Anger burned in his gut, but not at you—at the men who hunted you like wild game.

Who sought to claim what was his.

But that was a baser thought, one he firmly shoved away within his mind. He was meant to reassure you, to give you a solid foundation once more.

“You are safe,” he promised. His fingers tangled themselves in your hair, almost without him realizing. “From now on, do not ride without me past the boundary of Edoras. Foul things worse than men have grown too bold within our lands.”

You hesitated, realizing what he meant. Orcs.

You nodded and rested your cheek against his chest. Your nose pressed to the hollow of his throat and found the lingering scent of leather and soap. His hand escaped your hair and ran up and down along your back over your shift, soothing you to sleep again.

The next time Éomer rode out to patrol the Westfold for Dunlandings, Éowyn became your near constant companion. You had a feeling your husband asked her to keep you closer company, but you didn’t mind. You now considered her a good friend, and you marveled as you watched her train in the stables with her sword. The smooth metal cut the air while her wheat-gold hair moved like a swift veil behind her.

She was an impressive Shieldmaiden. You observed that the women of Rohan were perhaps less refined than the women of Gondor, certainly less adorned, but like Éowyn, many were bold as well as beautiful.

And more capable, you thought, as your gaze fell to the novel in your lap. You’d read the same page three times already in your distraction.

Éowyn slowed, taking a moment to catch her breath and discreetly check on you.  

“If you’re tiring, we can return to the keep,” she said.

You smiled slightly, closing your book. “Of what should I tire? Sitting here, while you are hard at work?”

She smiled back, though there was some concern hiding in her eyes.

“How do you feel today?” she asked.

You resisted a sigh. “I was not hurt, sister. You needn’t worry.”

Éowyn gives you a knowing look. Her brother told her how he found you ice-cold in the snow, your face splattered with blood from the man who meant to take you captive—the man Théodred shot and killed.

When Éomer reached you, he didn’t know if your body was broken from the fall. He didn’t know if you’d hit your head. He didn’t know if you would wake up. All he knew was that your pulse told him you were alive.

Late that night, Éomer admitted it all to Éowyn with an expression she’d never seen across his face. Brooding, yes, but deeply worried also. Even as you lay in bed, safe in Meduseld, the healers said you were still too cold. Éomer wasted no time in stripping off his armor and joining you to lend his body heat. When Éowyn saw that you were stable, she and the healers left you in his care.

That was already two days past. Now, she considered how she might respond to your latest deflection.

“But you are still unsettled,” she said. And she caught the way your eyes widened slightly. “It is understandable. You are not…”

“I am not a Shieldmaiden,” you finished for her. Self-deprecation colored every word. Your gaze fell as you stood, leaving your book on the ledge of the stall where your horse, Sirion, was once kept. You still mourned his loss.

“I am not accustomed to violence,” you added. “I am…rather unfortunate.”

“You haven’t learned,” Éowyn corrected. “Because you haven’t needed to.”

She approached you and rested a companionable hand on your shoulder.

“I believe you wish to learn,” she said, seeing the small spark of it in your eyes. “I could teach you.”

“Would you?” you asked, beginning to smile. “I only fear I would be a lost cause.”

“Nonsense. We shall make a Shieldmaiden of you yet,” she said gamely. Though she caught you eyeing the sword sheathed at her hip with some trepidation. “But perhaps we should start small.”

You nodded in amusement. “Yes, I think that would be best. Though I do wonder what Éomer will think of it.”

“Hmm.” Éowyn’s smile deepened as his Eored approached the stables. “I dare say he’ll worry over you more.”

You blinked at her in confusion, but before you could ask her what she meant, Éomer himself dismounted from his horse, Firefoot, and led him into his stall. The men did the same with their horses, giving you and Éowyn respectful nods and greetings. 

Éomer was surprised to see you both here, but his attention lingered on you as you went to greet him. He smelled of horse and sweat, but he was home, and you were relieved.

“How long have you been out here? The cold worsens after it snows,” he said.

“Yes, husband, I am well. I’m glad of your safe return,” you said wryly, but your smile lessened it.

Remembering himself, Éomer inclined his head in acknowledgement, his lips tugging upward. He took up your hand and pressed a more gentlemanly kiss upon it, even as his eyes met yours.

“And I am glad to see you well,” he said cordially, but there was underlying warmth in his words that made you blush.

Behind you, Éowyn wore a kind of smirk that only Éomer and Eothain saw. The former ignored her, and she left the stable with the latter, when Eothain offered to escort her back to the keep. They both knew you were well in hand.

Within the privacy of your shared chamber, you heard Éomer stoking the fire while you defrosted in the warm waters of the tub. Even though he had just come in from a long day’s ride, he had your bath prepared before his own, and he was giving you privacy, remaining behind the partition.

It had been a few weeks since you’d drawn the courage to join him in any more bathing adventures, or in fact, invite him into yours. You were, perhaps irrationally, afraid of deepening your feelings for him. You knew he was at least fond of you, and he was conscious of his duties as a husband. You were also certainly compatible with him…physically. But you doubted very much that his thoughts of you went beyond that.

You doubted that he loved you.

It is one thing to be dutiful, even kind, you thought, but it is another thing entirely to love and be loved.  

You sighed at the thought, and you left the bath, thinking to save him the warm water. You told him so as you dressed quickly behind the partition. Then you went to sit at the vanity, now exclusively populated with your things. You spared him a look as he passed you, a brief acknowledgement.

You discreetly watched him venture behind the partition and begin to undress. You heard the shedding of belt and boots and clothing, then quiet splashing into the tub. You shifted your attention to the box of stationery you spied on the nearby writing desk. 

You remembered then that you needed to send out the letters you wrote to your family in Dol Amroth, especially with Yule approaching.

“Éomer?” you asked tentatively.

A pause in the scrubbing. “Yes?”

“How is Yule celebrated in Rohan?” You began to work on your hair as he told you.

“I suppose it is similar to how it is celebrated in Gondor. Yule was once a grand affair in these halls,” he said. “Only…in recent years, my uncle’s interest in celebration has waned. All has become quieter in Meduseld.”

That disappointed you to hear. Yule had always been one of your favorite holidays.

Perhaps Éomer sensed it. He added, “In Edoras, the houses are decorated with garlands and ribbon. Gifts are exchanged between family, friends, and neighbors. Wassails drunk in copious amounts, and feasting too, of course.”

You heard more splashing. It sounded as if he too was cutting his bathing short. Maybe the water had already grown cold. But soon he came out from behind the partition wearing a warm evening robe, not unlike yours. 

“If you want to know more, you should speak to Éowyn,” he said, smiling a little. “It was her favorite time of year as a girl.”

You nodded. “I will tomorrow, then.”

Éomer went to sit on the edge of the bed. He eyed you subtly as you continued to detangle your hair with nimble fingers, preparing it for the comb.

“I have never understood how women dealt with such long hair,” he said.

You smiled, meeting his gaze through your vanity mirror. You saw him rise to his feet, and soon enough, you felt his presence just behind you.

“May I?” he teased, just stopping himself with his hand poised. “I know it’s no small thing for a woman of Gondor to let another touch her hair.”

“Would you like to braid it for me?” you countered. “I know you are no stranger to self-grooming. I often find your blonde strands tangled in the bedsheets, not to mention wherever you decide to leave your brush.”

Privately, Éomer thought you were partly responsible for the bedsheets. The way you gripped his hair when you two made love, it was a wonder he had any hair left.

“And what of those globs of hair I find at the bottom of the washtub, nigh a footlong?” he rejoined. “Are those mine as well?”

Your lips pursed so you wouldn’t smile.

“Fine. How about your socks, left muddy and stinking on the washtub’s edge? Is that my doing?”

Éomer had to give you that one, his mouth threatening a smile as well.

“Do you suppose you’re neat as a pin, my lady? What of this convoluted collection here?” He gestured to your cluttered vanity, filled with potions and lotions he didn’t have a prayer of putting name to. He then pointed to the writing desk currently stacked with stationery. “Or better yet, the mess of letters I have to sort through each morning to find my own missives?” 

You blushed. “Well, those letters are for my family. I write to them individually, so each of them knows that I think of them.”

Éomer sobered at that. He paused, for a moment considering his words.

“How is your family?” he asked.

“They are well. My brother is courting a young lady who’s giving him some trouble. He always thinks he is more charming than what actually escapes his mouth,” you said, smiling in fond amusement as old memories echoed in your eyes. But all too soon, they became tinged with melancholy.

“You miss them,” Éomer said. It wasn’t a question, because he could see the truth clearly, even before you spoke.

“Of course I do,” you said.

Éomer nodded. He squeezed your shoulder once in comfort, but he didn’t follow the path of intimacy you two began as he moved to stoke the hearth. You realized that was your fault, however unintentionally.

You couldn’t help but be disappointed as you both readied yourselves for bed in silence.

Éowyn was more than happy to tell you more of Rohan’s traditions as you shared afternoon tea in the garden. Yule was celebrated for three nights toward the end of December, with much feasting and drinking, and especially snacking on wassail-soaked cakes. The Rohirrim did love their spirits.

“What sort of gifts are given?” you asked.

In Gondor, gifts were exchanged only between family and courting couples, and they leaned toward earnest, but expensive things. You had a purse of gold and silver coins given to you from your uncle Imrahil—a traditional wedding gift, ordinarily from a father to his daughter. You still hadn’t spent it.

Just then, Éowyn gave you a slyly amused look.

“Éomer will accept anything you give him with as much grace as he possesses,” she said.

Your face began to warm in a blush. “I did not necessarily mean for him. I think of you and Théodred as well…but perchance, what might your brother like?”

Éowyn laughed. Admittedly, she saw right through you.

“Éomer is more practical than sentimental. Nor does he often indulge in finery, despite his station. He is rather humble in that way, but I’ll admit, it’s always been difficult for me to find a gift he might truly appreciate,” she said.

That gave you food for thought as you sipped your tea.

Éomer all but slammed the door against the wall as he exited the council chamber. Théodred followed after him, more controlled, but with enough haste in his steps to match his cousin as they rounded the corner.

“Éomer,” he cautioned, “do not lose your head. At least allow the steam to vent.”

 Éomer tossed him a narrow look over his shoulder. He barely paused in his path, continuing more decisively down the hall. To where, he didn’t care, as long as it was far away from those cowards who claimed to serve the people, as well as their king.

“That spineless wretch somehow grows bolder. Speaks more cleverly and more cunning enough to turn once good men into white-livered fools,” Éomer said, mindful enough to keep his voice low. “Even now, families are displaced from the Hillfolk’s raids. Homes have been destroyed, their food and supplies burned. They will not live through this blasted winter if we cannot send aid.”

Théodred hesitated to agree with him, to disrespect his father’s council, but he allowed it with a nod.

“Grima did make his point. He played on their fears of risking our own stores depleting this winter. The omens say it will last through March.”

“We will endure, as we have every year,” Éomer said. He grasped his cousin’s arm as they stopped in the hall. “Théoden must intervene.”

Théodred gave a somber shake of his head.

“My father would not even open his eyes to see me this morning. His attendants said his illness worsens with the cold.”

That fell between them heavily. And yet, only then did Éomer notice the new tapestries and tastefully colorful decorations than spanned the halls. Wreaths and springs of holly were alternately hung on every door.

“Éowyn has outdone herself, no doubt aided by your fair wife,” Théodred said.

Éomer found himself smiling, ever slightly. It soon faded as guilt crept into his chest once again.

“This is her first Yuletide not being surrounded by her family and those she loves,” Éomer said of you. He pictured your face when you spoke of them, so full of melancholy. Perhaps you lamented the fact that you had been brought to an unfamiliar, dangerous place, simply for the sake of politics.

“Have we not become her family?” Théodred posed.

“That wasn’t the purpose of our union,” Éomer said, almost bitterly. 

“But the result is the same,” Théodred said. His voice was firm, earning Éomer’s attention.

In that, he saw the beginning of the king Théodred would become—a king Éomer could easily follow. He could only nod in agreement.

When Éomer later entered his bedchamber, you were already there bundled up by the fire as you read your fourth book of the month. This one was something about the fall of the Númenóreans, or so you told him. You marked your place with a dog-eared page and smiled up at him in greeting, but your face soon fell, all too quickly reading his mood.

“How was the council meeting?” you asked knowingly.

Éomer sighed harshly, taking the seat across from you near the fire. He explained the morning’s events in brief detail, but it was enough to make you frown in concern. You watched him stare into the fire and brood in discontent. Underneath, you came to understand that this was how he worried. He worried his people would starve.

You didn’t know how you could ease that burden. Words and platitudes were easy to give but wouldn’t offer him much comfort. You contemplated it harder, turned it around in your head…

Until an idea began to grow. It brightened your eyes as you set down your book.

“Éomer, I have need to go into town,” you said. “Would you be able to spare a few men…and a caravan? Possibly two.”

He frowned. “For what reason do you need a caravan?”

You, Éomer, Éowyn, Théodred, and Eothain ventured into the city of Edoras, where you purchased bread and meats, warm clothing and furs, among other necessities. Éomer watched you do it with his own eyes, and still he could hardly believe you were spending all that you possessed in that meager purse of yours—all to feed his people.

At first, it made him somewhat uncomfortable. He even grew irritated that this was what his country had come to, that not even he or Théodred could make a difference once the majority of Rohan’s inner council decided what could and could not be done with their resources.

“I have to admit, it’s clever,” Théodred said to him quietly, guessing his cousin’s thoughts as you ordered two dozen hams and several barrels of grain. “Not even the council can tell her how to spend her money.”

Éomer had to nod in acknowledgement, and even agreement. While Théodred went to help Éowyn in recruiting a few more men for the delivery of all this cargo Eothain was situating in the caravans, Éomer went to you, resting a hand at the small of your back as you counted the last of your silver coins.

“Thank you very much,” you said to the miller.

“May Béma bless you, your ladyship,” he said. He stared at the money in his hand with awe as he returned to his wares. It was likely more coin than he would see in a season for his efforts. No one could afford to buy entire barrels of grain in bulk. 

“You know you don’t have to do this,” Éomer reminded you once again. “The responsibility of providing for my people does not fall on you.”

“Are they not my people too?” you replied.

That very afternoon, you all went to the scattered small villages of the Westfold that were pillaged. The people were given food and supplies to replenish at least some of what was lost.

You gave rolls of blankets to two young children who approached the caravan on their own. They told you that their mother was injured and couldn’t come herself. You not only gave them a jar of medicinal ointment for her, but you treated some of their scrapes and burns yourself. They were too young to have that look in their eyes—the look of hunger and loss. It very well broke your heart.

What mended it were their smiles afterward. Their childish waving goodbye with their arms full of goods. Their hope.

I desire a family of my own, you realized. The thought had trembled in the back of your mind for the last couple of months, but it solidified into something too strong to name as you held yourself against a chill on the air. 

Éomer surprised you when his arm came to wrap around your shoulders. He purposefully positioned himself to block the wind from you.

“We have given out the last of the supplies. I think we have done as much as we can here for today,” he said. And after a brief hesitation, “Thank you, my lady. Even those words do not satisfy. This is beyond…”

You smiled up at him, a hand on his chest stopping his struggle with those words.

“’Tis the season, my lord,” you said, with a hint of teasing.

He smiled back, and something stirred behind his eyes that you couldn’t quite read. You surrendered the moment as he began to lead you back to his horse.

You wondered if a man like Éomer, so focused on his duty as Marshal, as a protector of his people, has ever truly wanted children.

The first day of Yule brought a moderate feast to Meduseld, thanks to Éowyn and the chatelaine. All within the castle were gathered in the main hall, where for the first time in months, there was good food and jaunty music, merrymaking, laughter, and even dancing.

Éomer watched from his seat at one of the long tables, drinking with his cousin and some of their men. He watched while you danced.

The skirt of your brilliant red gown swished as you laughed. You were seemingly in high spirits when another man turned with you, his hand holding yours.

Théodred noticed where Éomer’s attention was aimed, and he hid an amused smile behind his tankard.

He leaned over and spoke, “No one would begrudge you a dance with your wife, cousin.”

Éomer glanced over at him. “It’s no amusement of mine.”

“Dancing?” Théodred shook his head. “You do impede yourself, don’t you.”

Éomer’s response was to take another hefty sip of his ale.

Meanwhile, you could feel your face flushing from exertion, giddiness, and likely the wassails. You’d indulged in a cup or two, and the wassail cakes were delicious as well. Éowyn had tugged you by your arm into the dance, but the song was livelier than you were used to, where you were meant to switch partners often while turning about.

You always seemed to be spun back into the orbit of Bram, one of the king’s own guardsmen. You had crossed paths with him before, and twice you had seen him speaking with Grima. You supposed that made sense, as the man was the king’s closest advisor. 

Bram himself was tall and lean without his armor, his beard well-kept and his auburn hair unadorned. His gaze on you now was polite, if at times lingering at your neckline.

“You are a lovely dancer,” he said. “As expected from a noble lady of Gondor.”

You gave a gracious nod, a slight smile. “Thank you, though I must confess I’m only endeavoring to keep up. Rohan’s celebrations are lively indeed.”

“I dare say you are succeeding, and in many ways, so I hear,” Bram replied as he turned you.

You became more curious, and more guarded. You hid it behind a more reserved smile.

“Oh, really? What is said of me now, I wonder.”

“That you are most generous,” Bram said, with a knowing look. “Did you think your visit to the outland villages had gone unnoticed?”

Your face warmed in a blush, your gaze falling toward your feet rather than your partner’s face.

“I did not intend to be noticed,” you said.

As the song came to a close, Bram’s curled hand tucked beneath your chin and raised your face to his.

“Your humility only makes you shine all the brighter here, my lady,” he said. A smile drew across his lips. “It is a pleasure to watch.”

You blinked in surprise. His words were polite and amiable, but the way he said them struck the wrong chord in you, lacing uncomfortably down your spine. You took a slight step back to withdraw from his touch and gracefully descend into a respectful curtsey.

“That is kind, my lord,” you said, as another song started up. This one was more moderate, but still lively.

Bram offered his hand. “Another?”

“Thank you, but I’m afraid I’m in need of a respite,” you said. You looked toward the far dining tables where you’d dined with Éomer and his family. You didn’t see him there now, though Théodred seemed animated as he recounted a story for his men.

“If your husband is otherwise occupied, I can escort you for a bit of refreshment,” Bram said, earning your attention.

You hesitated, almost frowning at his boldness, but you quickly calculated another tactful decline. Just as you opened your mouth to speak, you felt a presence behind you, as well as a warm hand at the small of your back.

“I have only been occupied with finding my wife,” Éomer said. His tone was stoic, yet direct, just as his gaze was on other man. 

Bram straightened, addressing Éomer with deference.

“Of course, Marshal.” Bram then gave you a respectful nod, a slight smile. “My lady. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

He withdrew and soon disappeared into the merry fray of the grand hall. Éomer watched him go, until he felt a touch on his arm. He glanced down and met the thinly veiled unease crossing your face. Éomer took pains to soften, however slightly. He laid a hand over yours.

“Was he disrespectful toward you?” he asked.

“Not explicitly,” you said. “That is…I didn’t encourage his attention.”

At that, Éomer broke into a smile, if a reserved one.

“Of that, I’m sure. It isn’t you I doubt,” he said, though he didn’t explain himself further.

You didn’t need him to. You simply smiled in relief.

He led you to one of the refreshment tables, though its main offering was either cups of wassails, or entire casks of ale. He poured you a cup of the former and gave it to you with both hands. You may have indulged in two or three cups with Éowyn before she lured you into dancing.

“Waes hael,” Éomer said. You accepted the offering with an intrigued brow raise.

“What does that mean?” you asked and sipped.

“‘Be healthy,’” he said. “A blessing, as is tradition.”

“Then I am blessed,” you replied, smiling as you drank a bit more. The spiced drink had notes of apples and cinnamon, cloves, and ginger, but the edge of brandy. It scored down your throat but settled in your belly pleasantly. You hummed to yourself.

You were only a little surprised when Éomer moved a few strands of your hair that loosened from your braids and twists, curling them behind your ear. His thumb brushed along your cheek as he did so.

He smiled. “Either you exerted yourself indeed on the dance floor, or you are blushing.”

Your brows rose, but you were now all too self-aware of your burning cheeks. That warmth began to spread down your neck at his scrutiny, and at his touch. It wasn’t unpleasant.

“I am not blushing,” you said, though you wished you had a fan. “Nor am I so very winded.”

“Then you are drunk,” Éomer said, his smile growing into a smirk.

You gaped at him, incredulous and amused. “I am not!”

He gestured at the way you clutched your cup. “You may jealously defend your drink, but don’t worry. I will not take it from you, nor will I judge you for indulging yourself.”

“Oh, it is not I who’s displayed jealousy, my lord,” you countered, with a smile of your own.

Perhaps he did speak some truth, otherwise you wouldn’t have been so daring without the alcohol warm and buzzing within you. But somehow, the way his eyes shifted, lowering, then dragging up your body, lingering on your lips, and finally your eyes…it was headier than the brandy.

His hand brushed over the sleeve of your gown. Even in the dim, thin threads of gold woven into the fabric made the red all the more vibrant. The neckline was just low enough to be appropriate, but enticing. It only reminded him of what laid underneath, and what only he was permitted to see.

“Is that what you intended?” he asked. “To rouse me?”

Somehow you loosened your tongue from the roof of your mouth. Your lips parted…

“Well,” you said, “I had hoped you would dance with me.”

You knew he wasn’t usually one to take to the floor. He’d barely allowed two turns on your wedding day, though tonight, you’d thought to entice him somehow. You supposed you had succeeded, however unintentionally. 

Éomer’s smile became a touch more genuine. His hand grazed down your arm and took your hand in his.

“Then I suppose I can oblige, if you still wish it,” he said. “Unless you’ve grown tired.”

You smiled. “Not just yet.”

You left your cup of wassails half-finished on the table, allowing him to lead you back to the merrier floor.

“Where are you taking me?” you said, laughingly as Éomer still refused to move his hand from covering your eyes. “The smell of horse is definitely stronger.”

“Then it should be obvious where we are,” he said. After the feasting came to an end, he insisted on a detour before returning to your chamber. He claimed there was something he wanted you to see.

Ironically, he asked you to wait at the edge of the stable with your own hands over your eyes this time. You heard the whine of a door hinge, then the gentle clop of hooves on the earth. Was he taking you for a ride on Firefoot at this time of night? Why should you need to close your eyes?

“Can I open?” you asked.

“Yes, now you may.”

With a snort of laughter, you let your hands drop.

Your face fell, your lips parting…

A white mare dappled with gray plodded forward with Éomer leading her. She stopped right before you, as if seizing you up and reading your heart. Slowly, you extended your hand. After a moment, the horse began to sniff your palm, then gently nudged it with her snout.

“He’s beautiful,” you said quietly. “What is his name?”

“Her name is Cyne,” Éomer said, a gentle correction. “She is Firefoot’s younger sister. Already she has accepted you.”

You smiled and stroked her side. “What an honor.”

“More than you know,” he said, drawing your attention. “The Mearas are noble beasts. They will only bear the Kings of the Mark and their royal line. You have married into it, but I honestly did not know what she would decide.”

Again, your surprise took hold. You looked upon Cyne in wonder, whispering a quiet thank you. It made Éomer smile.

“And thank you,” you said to him. Tears stung in your eyes. “Sirion had been with me since I was a child. He was gentle and reliable, but I’m sure Cyne will be as regal and strong as her name suggests.”

Éomer nodded. His gaze on you gentled, though you didn’t notice. You were too enamored. To say Cyne was yours didn’t feel right. She had chosen you to be her rider. That was enough for you.

But eventually, Éomer did lead Cyne back into her stall. It was too late tonight for riding, but he promised you there would be time in the morning.

You two returned to the main keep, where the revelry had died down to embers. Éomer later stoked the fire in your shared chamber while you lit more candles. You were about to send for a maid to help you reach the many small buttons of your gown, but you paused, glancing at your husband over your shoulder.

“Éomer, would you help me?” you asked. “I don’t wish to bother a maid at this hour.”

Éomer looked up from where he was crouched by the fire. You were already taking the delicate pins out of your hair, unraveling braids and twists. You certainly knew how to get his attention.

He stood and crossed the room to reach you. You soon felt his hands brushing your hair over your shoulder, then along the top of your spine, undoing buttons as carefully as his male fingers would allow.

“Thank you again for tonight,” you said. “The friendship of a Mearas horse? It’s perhaps the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever been given. I only…I wish I could’ve found the right Yule gift for you.”

Éomer paused. By now he was barely halfway done with these infernal buttons, so he kept going.

“Do you really not think what you’ve done is enough?” he said. “You spent all you had to feed my people. Our people.”

You smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “That was for them. Do you want nothing for yourself?”

Éomer finished his task before he answered. He turned you around by your shoulders and took your face into his calloused hands. His half-lidded eyes found yours, and captured them.

Because he realized, only then, that everything he wanted was right before him: a woman who cared for these lands, and his people, as he did.

As was his nature, he attempted to put that thought into action.

He guided you into a kiss fueled by passion and deeper things lying in wait, just under the surface. It soon grew into a devouring need, one that compelled him to move his hands down your hips and yank down the bodice of your dress. It yielded to him, baring you to his gaze, save for your satin shift. You helped rid him of his tunic, then his breeches, and soon all the rest that joined your shift upon the floor of your bedside.

Tonight, he let himself savor the way your body melted against his, the way you moaned in his ear while his lips ravished your neck, his beard rasping against your skin, the way you clung to him with increasing desperation when his fingers sought between your legs, before he even let you make it to the bed.

He held you to him, standing there in flickering candlelight. Your head lolled against his shoulder, your hot breaths panting against his skin while his fingers rolled that swelling bud above your entrance. Enough arousal had formed between your folds that his fingers found no resistance slipping into your channel either, choking a gasp out of you. Your hips rolled into his hand, seeking an innate rhythm.

“Éomer,” you breathed, a choked gasp as he took you higher.

But it wasn’t enough. At least not for him. He wanted to see you fall apart for him.

He led you down to sit on the edge of the bed. He knelt at your feet.

You were confused, blinking at him, but he just smirked and moved in between your parted legs. His hand slid up your thighs in a warm caress, then positioned them over his shoulders. He met your eyes before his mouth descended on you, seeking between your folds and sucking your pearl between his lips.

A shocked curse fell from your own. Your hand flew into his hair, gripping tight.

“Éomer, what—”

You had no chance to complete those words, as his fingers joined his mouth to slip into your heat, into your aching cavern. His nimble fingers curled and stroked, finding that most sensitive place deep inside. You leaned back on one shaky hand while the rest of your body trembled with release.

The coil inside you tightened and pulsed a needy rhythm. Then finally, it broke to warmth and starbursts, your cry echoing in the room. But Éomer didn’t stop. Not until your hand clenched in his hair, and you gasped his name in a more pleading way as you began to writhe away.  

He had mercy on you and relented. He was heaving for breath just as much as you when he was done, wiping his face with the back of his hand. His pupils were blown wide, as if he’d just come off the battlefield. Except now, his gaze was singularly focused on you.

He drew up on his knees and allowed your legs to slide off his shoulders. You leaned forward shakily and held his face in your hands this time. A beat of stillness formed there, just enough for you to look at the man your heart had taken in.

I love you.

The words were teeming for release, but you still didn’t allow it. You didn’t think you were strong enough to bear what he would say if it was not what you wanted to hear. Instead, you let one of your hands drift down his chest, a gentle caress down and down, with singular purpose.

Your hand closed around his manhood and moved slowly, eliciting a hiss of pleasure from his lips. Your thumb brushed over the weeping cockhead, circling that sensitive hole, and stroking down the thick vein that ran down the side of his shaft.

You had come to learn what he felt more keenly. You knew it by the way he gripped your hips, just like he was now, nearly bruising. And by the way a grunt gave way to a guttural moan, his forehead meeting the side of yours.

“I must be inside you,” he said, rough, but not without care. His hands stroked your thighs, as if working you open for him once more.

You nodded and released him, just so you could move backward on the bed. You grabbed his hand in invitation and led him off the ground. He not only joined you, but wasted no time in grabbing you by the waist and heaving you higher, until your head met his pillows with a giggle. He smiled and settled in that perfect cradle between your thighs.

He gave into the urge to caress your cheek with the back of his hand, then brush several stray hairs from your forehead. Your breaths rose to meet him when he entered you, his cock nestling deep inside. You moaned in relief, especially as your sensitive nipples brushed against his chest. His head dipped to sample them, tease them with his grazing teeth as his hips rocked a smooth rhythm.

Another ragged sigh, but you held him grounded and steady as your arms wrapped around his middle, your nails trailing down between the muscles in his back. Each of them knew the way you liked to tease him that way, even if you didn’t realize it in the throes of your passion.

Your thighs wrapped tightly around his hips as he rutted into you harder, more deeply. You felt each impact as he began to angle himself just right.

“Éomer,” you uttered, more desperate.

Your hand slipped down your own body, squeezing your breast, then dipping down where you were joined to him. Your fingers once again rolled that bud until it swelled once more, and your head pressed back into the pillow.

Éomer watched your eyes close and your mouth fall open in a wordless whimper. He did his best to withhold his own release until he felt your inner walls spasm around him once more, clenching tight, then pulsing as your hips rolled against his.

Éomer captured your cry with a kiss, deep and messy.

You held him though, when his end had him bucking hard once last time. His voice choked, and he held himself inside you tightly as he came. You felt him. He was everywhere, and so very deep.

“Are you all right?” he said, still panting breaths against your chin. You nodded, smiling as you traced his kiss-swollen lips with two fingers.

His skin shone with sweat, not unlike yours, but when he unsheathed from you, you still sighed in disappointment. He caught you in it, smiling slyly.

“I believe you might be insatiable,” he said.

You smiled and shook your head in amusement, but you still cast an arm over your face to hide your embarrassment. Éomer laughed and moved your arm back to your side.

“No, you are not allowed to hide,” he said. He settled at your side, even though he still loomed above you. His thumb stroked your chin.

In only a matter of months, not years, you had found a deep, indisputable, unyielding place in his heart. He thought tonight would help you understand, even if he held himself from admitting it in words.

You were also contemplating your own desires. You took his hand and traced his skillful fingers. You looked on them rather than his face when you asked your question.

“I suspect that you likely see this as merely a duty of marriage, but what are your thoughts on children?” you asked.

That was not at all what he thought you might say. It stunned him for a moment, though it probably shouldn’t have. He found an honest answer for you though.

“I knew one day I would eventually marry and sire children, though I admit, beyond that faraway knowledge I never gave it much thought.”

You nodded, but Éomer had come to read you well. He smiled.

“Motherhood would suit you well,” he said.

Your shy smile warmed him.

“May I tell you a secret?” you asked.

Always. “Tell me,” he said.

“My dream is to have a family of my very own. One that is whole, and one where we are content.”

And I will not be alone if you are taken from me in battle, you thought, as your throat constricted.

Éomer’s smile gentled. “Then let us make haste to fulfill that dream.” 

You grinned and blushed madly as he moved to cage you beneath him again.

“Haste, is it?” you laughed.

His hazel eyes held a rare mischievous spark. “Are you not up for the challenge?”

You laughed, though you accepted his kiss, realizing that his manhood had roused against your lower belly. He was ready for you once again. 

You had to wonder if, just maybe, your husband returned your love.

But you were soon distracted from asking.

AN: 😘 Sorry for the tease, but I hope you enjoyed the biggest installment of this little series yet! If you'd like to see more, please let me know in the reblogs and comments. It'll fuel me to continue on in my outline! 💜

Tag List Form || Fic Library Blog -> (you can follow and turn on notifications)

Join My Patreon ⟡ Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories. Top-tier patrons can even send me requests!

Series Masterlist

LOTR/The Hobbit Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Eomer Tag List:

@kmc1989 @eddie-munson-stories @lamaudite @lamentationsofalonelypotato @luci-in-trenchcoats

@disappearintofanfiction @alwaysthebiggerbear @mistressofallthingsgeeky @kiddieclaws @roseblue373

@stephv213 @castielscaplan @eri-s-big-sis @neoqueen306 @notlisaning

@mblaqgi

Most mornings, Arthur would stop by the betting shop, maybe with a meat pie in hand or rubbing his forehead from an already forming headache. Then, he’d stop by your desk to flip through the bookkeeping or talk for a bit, and finally meander into Tommy’s office in the back to talk business. As far as you were expecting, this morning would be no different. But when the bell above the door rang to announce Arthur’s arrival, the usual pause– his leaden boots stuttering to a halt by your desk– never came. Instead, the hem of his overcoat whipped past you, a dark blur heading straight for Tommy’s lair.

You huffed, a bit amused, and resumed scratching your calculations in the ledger. It seemed he was turning tail now, ashamed of himself. Your plan had been simple– to tell him that his apparent love for you was not unrequited, not in the slightest. Then you’d let the conversation go from there… and now that you thought about it, perhaps this wasn’t the master plan you’d thought it to be. You hadn’t even worked out how you’d get him alone in the first place, and today was a busy day.

And so the clock hands ticked on. At 9, you finally set your pen down, just as the back office swung open again and Arthur burst through, looking crankier than ever.

“Oh– Arthur!” you started, scraping the chair back almost a bit too fast. “I’ve done the books. They just need your mark.”

Usually, this was one of the highlights of your workday. Arthur would have you sit down and lean over your shoulder while you pointed out any revisions or new calculations you’d made. You’d get to breathe in the scent of him while you spoke– the peppermint on his breath tingling from your cheeks to the tips of your ears, the lye of his shaving soap, and the edges of his tobacco. The rough wool of his coat would brush your shoulder when he leaned down to scrawl a jagged “A.S.” in the corner of your work.

Today, however, Arthur barely broke stride and stuck out a blind hand, leaving you half jogging after him on the crooked floors. His large hands caught the edges of the ledger and quickly signed while he turned his head to bark some order at a Peaky boy near the entrance. The entire interaction lasted barely a minute– clinical, achingly professional. You leaned against the threshold to the shop and watched him stalk off down the street into the cool morning air and shook your head. This was going to be difficult.

By midday, all three brothers had returned. The anticipation for the afternoon races was cloying in the air, the other clerks buzzing like worker bees in a hive. You prepared a strong black tea and something light to fill the Shelbys’ stomachs, as you usually did around this time, and began the walk to deliver it.

The hallway leading to the back office was a drafty tunnel of peeling floral wallpaper and the scent of cold soot. You stood there, the unwieldy silver tray biting into your palms, the porcelain cups performing a nervous rattle that sounded like a drumroll. From behind the thick oak of the door, John’s sharp, rasping cackle cut through the wood like a saw.

“—and then what, Arthee? Did you ask her to bless the bedsheets while she was at it?”

You froze. Your grip tightened on the tray until the metal edges dug into your skin.

“I was three sheets to the wind, John! Blind!” Arthur’s voice was a ragged, desperate growl that made the very walls shudder. You could hear the desperate, weighted thud-thud of his boots as he paced in a circle so tight he was likely dizzy. “I don’t remember a single word. It’s a fog. A black, whiskey-soaked fog.”

“Funny kind of fog,” John shot back, followed by the distinct creak of a chair being tilted dangerously far back. “Usually a fog hides things. Yours seems to have a bloody megaphone. ‘Take ‘em off, angel,’ you said! ‘And don’t stop at the laces! I’m a nasty piece of work and I need a saint’s hands to rub the devil out of me!’”

John’s voice dropped into a suggestive, breathy moan that made your blood run icy and the heat roar to your cheeks.

“‘Come on, love... show me where the light is. I’m cold in this bed, I am—’”

“YOU SHUT YOUR FILTHY HOLE!”

The roar was followed by a sudden, violent whoosh of air and a loud shatter. The sound of thick glass meeting plaster echoed through the oak, followed by the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of liquid hitting the floorboards.

“Missed me!” John’s voice rang out, full of laughter and sounding entirely too proud of himself. “Oi, Tom, he’s got the shakes! Can’t even hit a stationary target!”

You didn't wait for the next projectile. You kicked the door open with the toe of your shoe.

The room was a frozen tableau. A Rorschach blot of black ink was currently sliding its way down the far wall, the jagged shards of a glass inkwell glittering like diamonds in the rug. John was gripped to the edges of his chair, a single black droplet tracing a path down his cheek, giggling like a schoolgirl. Tommy sat in the corner, calmly flicking ash from his sleeve as if his inkwell (or what now remained of it) hadn't just whistled past his ear.

Arthur, however, looked like a man who had accidentally set his own house on fire. He was leaning over the desk, his chest heaving, his knuckles white. He looked up, his blue eyes meeting yours for a fraction of a second before he jerked his head toward the window, his neck turning a shade of red that was frankly impressive.

“Tea,” you said, brusquely, the word rolling off your tongue like a bullet, strained and tight.

You marched forward, the tray tilting as you set it down with a deliberate, rattling clack. You didn't look at John—who was now slowly dabbing at his ink-stained face with a silk handkerchief—and you didn't look at Tommy. Your eyes were fixed on the side of Arthur’s head, where a single pulse was thrumming violently in his temple.

“Cheers, love,” John managed to croak, his voice cracking slightly. “Arthur was just... showing me his aim. Needs work, don't it?”

Arthur didn't even reach for the sugar. He pivoted on his heel, stumbling a bit as he aimed himself at the exit. He didn't breathe; he didn't look at you.

“Got to check the horses,” he muttered, his voice a sandpaper rasp that barely cleared his throat. “The... the brown ones. The ones with the legs.”

Arthur brushed past you so quickly that the draft nearly blew the steam off the teacups. The heavy door swung shut behind him, leaving you in the small, stifling office with the smell of spilled ink and John, who was now staring at his black-stained fingers.

“He’s a bit sensitive today,” John remarked, looking up at you with a cheeky wink. “Must be the weather.”

The latch hadn’t even fully clicked shut behind you before the first bubble of a laugh threatened to break through your ribs. You didn’t walk back to your desk; you marched, your heels clicking a staccato, triumphant rhythm against the floorboards that matched the hammering of your heart.

You reached your corner, practically falling into your chair, and immediately buried your face in your hands.

The ones with the legs?

The image of Arthur—the fearsome, legendary Arthur Shelby– scurrying out of a room because he couldn't think of a better excuse than the anatomy of a horse was too much. A muffled, hysterical snicker escaped your fingers, sounding like a tea kettle coming to a boil. You had to bite your lip so hard it stung just to keep from howling.

But as the laughter subsided into a shaky breath, the heat in your cheeks remained for a different reason. You lowered your hands, staring down at the columns of numbers in your ledger, though they were currently a blur.

He remembered.

He remembered the boots. He remembered you as his angel, moonlight glimmering around your hair. He remembered the way he’d looked at you in the dark of his bedroom, stripped of the gin, the outside world, and all inhibition, and he told you he loved you.

The fact that he was currently running away didn't scare you anymore. In fact, it emboldened you. A man didn’t throw an inkwell at his brother’s head for a lie; he did it because the truth was so loud he couldn't drown it out.

A slow, wicked little smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you glanced toward where he’d vanished. 

“You coward,” you whispered to your desk and your books, a fresh laugh catching in your throat. “Just you wait.”

The hours ticked by as usual. Customers and family alike came and went throughout the day while you worked, the anticipation building higher and higher for the 2 o’clock race until suddenly it was seconds away.

The betting shop was a throat-tearing cacophony, and the air was a choking soup of Shag tobacco, unwashed wool, and the feverish energy of men about to lose their weekly wages.

You saw him from across the room. Arthur was backed against the main pillar, his flat cap pulled low over his eyes. He was nodding along to some punter’s nonsense, his eyes darting toward the exit every few seconds. He looked like a man counting down the minutes until he could bolt for the Garrison and drown the day in a bottle.

You didn't hesitate. You shouldered your way through the sea of tweed and sweat, ignoring the grumbles of the men you shoved aside until you were standing directly in his space.

He saw you, and for a split second, he looked like he might actually vault over the counter to get away. “Right! The grey in the third!” he barked at the man next to him, his voice cracking. “Bold choice, that– very bold–”

“Arthur.”

You didn't shout, but you stood your ground, stepping so close your chest nearly brushed his waistcoat. The heat coming off him was immense– sharp peppermint and that frantic, underlying scent of a man who’d spent the morning trying to outrun his own shadow.

“Busy, love,” he croaked, staring at a smudge on the wall behind you. “Big race. Big money. I’ve got things to do.”

“I don’t care about the race, Arthur.” You reached out, your fingers hooking into the rough wool of his lapel. You didn't tug, you just held on, anchoring him. “And I’m done watching you walk away from me every time I get within three feet.”

Nearby, a roar went up as the bookies started the final call, but the noise seemed to dampen into a dull, underwater thrum. Arthur’s breath hitched. He finally looked down at you, his blue eyes bloodshot and desperately tired of the act.

“I heard what John was saying,” you whispered, leaning in so the punters couldn't catch a word. “About the boots. And the angel. I heard every bit of it.”

Arthur flinched, his jaw tightening until the muscle in his cheek jumped. “He’s a prick. I was blind drunk. I was... I was talking to the walls, girl. Don’t listen to a word of it.”

“You weren't talking to the walls. You were talking to me.” You stepped into his shadow, forcing him back against the cold stone of the pillar. There was nowhere left for him to go. “You said you loved me. You said you’ve always loved me. Was that the drink, or was that you?”

The shop erupted. The race had started. A hundred men began screaming at the chalkboard, pounding on the walls in a violent, pulsing chaos. In the middle of it all, Arthur Shelby looked like he was about to break into pieces.

“You don’t want this,” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the shouting. “You’re too good for it. Look at me. I’m a wreck. I’m a bloody disaster, and I’ve got nothing but scars and a bad name to give you.”

“I’ve seen your scars, Arthur. I’ve seen all of it.” You reached up, pressing your palm flat against his chest, right over his thundering heart. “I don’t want a saint. I want you. And I think you’re a liar if you say you don’t want me back.”

Arthur froze. For a long second, the world was just the roar of the crowd and the heat of your hand on his chest. Then, the tension snapped. He let out a long, shuddering breath and slumped forward, resting his forehead against yours. His hands came up, hovering for a heartbeat before they gripped your waist with a desperate, crushing strength.

“God help me,” he breathed against your lips. “John’s never gonna let me hear the end of this.”

You let out a small, shaky laugh, your fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Then we’ll just have to keep throwing things at him until he shuts up.”

“Damn it– damn it, Arthur, pick your legs up!” you grumbled, internally cursing Ada and her brothers for leaving you with the older man, who’d picked a few minutes ago to start croaking some unrecognisable drinking song that sounded more like a death rattle than a melody. You and Ada were close– you slightly older than her– but being best friends didn’t mean you weren’t going to wring her neck tomorrow.

Your heels were definitely not helping with Arthur’s swaying gait either, his arm draped over the back of your neck while you stomped your way down the cobbles.

“You’re so– so tall,” Arthur slurred, the scent of gin heavy and cloying on his breath. "When’d you get so tall? Eh? Stop movin' the ground on me. I'm tryin' to stand... tryin' to be a man on it, and you're movin' the bloody ground." He slumped again, making you bump your elbow on the brick wall lining the street.

“Same height I’ve always been,” you huffed. “Lift your head.” Arthur’s head lolled, looking up at you with a wide grin and dazed eyes.

“That’s right. There she is. There’s my angel,” he murmured back, shifting his weight again. You could feel the warmth spreading in your ears almost instantly. It was your curse– you’d always been relatively friendly with all of the family through Ada, but for some reason, the eldest Shelby had always made your stomach do somersaults and have you scampering out of the room ever since you were a girl, much to Ada’s amusement. That hadn’t changed as you’d become a woman, but it had tempered into a bittersweet acceptance that nothing was going to come of it. You’d probably end up marrying some boring clerk or maybe the handsome grocer’s son you’d seen in town. That didn’t mean you didn’t fantasise about it, but you were a realist.

All that to say that the proximity had been driving you mad. You could feel the weight of Arthur’s arm around your neck, and the mere heat from his skin was making you dizzy with emotion. You began thanking God when you finally arrived at his house, wrangled the keys from his coat pocket, and half-walked, half-limped into his bedroom. It was a jagged, graceless dance– you heaving his shoulder up every time he sagged, your heels catching in the floorboards until you finally spilled him into the room.

“There– there!” you gasped, finally throwing him onto his bed back first, like a sack of coal. He didn't even bounce; he just stayed there, limbs tangled like a discarded marionette.

"Right," you huffed, voice shaky with exertion. "Boots off."

You crouched at the side of the bed, grabbing his ankle. His boot was caked in dried mud, heavy and stubborn. You pulled, but he reflexively clamped his leg, kicking out slightly.

"Don't," he grunted, eyes still closed. "Leave 'em. I’m fine."

"If you sleep in your boots, you’ll ruin the linens, and you’ll have not just a nasty headache tomorrow, but a very cross maid," you countered, planting your heel against the floorboards for leverage. "Give."

"It’s not right," Arthur mumbled, his voice dropping from the boisterous, slurred shouting of the street to a low, ragged whisper. "You shouldn't be... shouldn’t be helpin’ a man like me. You should be out dancin'. With someone who doesn't smell like a distillery."

You tugged hard, and the boot finally slid off with a satisfying thump onto the rug. You didn't answer him, just glancing at him and biting the inside of your cheek.

"Why do you stay?" he asked, his voice suddenly sharp with clarity– the terrifying, sober-sounding clarity of the heavily intoxicated. "Everyone else... they either fear me or they’re waitin' for me to pay 'em. You’ve always been around. Cleaning up my wounds. Lurkin’ around the doors. And now dragging me home. Why?"

You paused, your hands resting on his ankle. You looked up. He was staring at you now, his blue eyes glassy but searching, stripped of all the bravado he used to survive the day.

"I stay," you said, your voice steady, "because if I didn't, you’d probably decide the gutter was a perfectly comfortable place to sleep. And then I’d have to worry about you all night. It’s selfish, really. I just want a good night's sleep."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his face– the first real, soft thing he’d shown all evening. He let his leg go limp, finally offering no resistance.

"So good. So good to me,” he whispered, throwing an arm over his eyes.

The second boot was being particularly stubborn. You were braced at the edge of his mattress, huffing with the effort, while Arthur lay back like a felled oak tree. His waistcoat was hung open, his tie a lost cause somewhere near his left ear.

"Hold still, Arthur," you grunted, tugging at a knotted lace. "If you kick me, I’m leaving the other one on, and you can walk in circles tomorrow."

"Wouldn't kick you," he drifted, his voice thick and velvety with grain whiskey. He rolled his head on the quilt to watch you, a crooked, lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. "Never. S'against the rules to kick an angel."

You gave an indignant huff and paused to wipe a bead of sweat from your temple. "I’m hardly an angel. I’m just the person currently fighting a losing battle with your footwear."

You gave a final, triumphant heave, and the second boot came flying off, thudding onto the rug. You blew a stray lock of hair out of your face and looked up, expecting him to be out cold.

Instead, he was reaching out. His hand, calloused and scarred and oh so beautiful, hovered uncertainly in the air.

"You’re so sweet to me," he whispered. The humour from before was completely gone, replaced by a heavy weight that settled low in your spine and almost made you flinch. "Why are you so sweet to me? I’m a nasty piece of work. Ask anyone. Ask the devil, he’s probably got a seat saved for me."

"Arthur, stop it," you said softly, moving to tuck the duvet around his legs. "You’re just drunk."

"In vino veritas," he slurred, a ghost of a laugh catching in his throat. "That’s what the posh blokes say, eh? Truth... truth in the bottle."

He shifted, his weight creaking the bedframe as he leaned up on his elbows towards you, his eyes suddenly burning with a terrifyingly sober intensity.

"I look at you," he breathed, his hand clasping on your wrist, his thumb tracing the pulse there. "And I think... maybe. Maybe if I was a different man. A clean man. A better man– I’d ask you to stay. Not just to pull off my boots and fix my messes. I’d ask you to stay for good."

Your heart skipped a beat, the air in the small room suddenly feeling very thin. You weren’t sure if you wanted to pass out, vomit, or kiss him hard on the mouth. "Arthur– you’re– it’s just the whiskey talking." 

“God, I love you,” he cut in, the words being torn out of him. The world seemed to tilt as the words left his mouth, blood rushing violently to your head. “I–ha– I love you, always have. It’s fookin’ killin’ me every time you walk into a room. Knowin’ I’m not the one who’ll get to keep you– take care of you.”

Your breath was coming in short gasps, your jaw trembling with emotion. You slowly, hesitantly pressed your palm against his face, fingertips brushing his sideburns. Arthur groaned, low in his chest, turning into the warmth of your hand. You could feel the whiskers of his moustache tickling your skin and the rhythm of his breath shakily easing.

His grip on your wrist loosened as the alcohol finally dragged him down to the bed and the embrace of sleep, his eyes fluttering shut even as he tried to hold your gaze, like you were the very last thing he wanted to see before the world went dark.

"But you’re too good," he murmured, his voice fading into a sleepy, rhythmic rasp. "You’re far too good... to love a man like me."

Within seconds, he was dead to the world, leaving you in the utter silence of the bedroom. Your hands were trembling, your eyes locked onto Arthur’s softly snoring body for what felt like hours. And then, you spun on your heel and raced out of the house.

The walk back to your flat was never usually this long. The only sounds were the night air, an occasional horse and cart click-clacking its way down the street, and, of course, the violent roar of your thoughts drowning out anything rational.

“I love you, always have. I love you, always have. I love you, always have.”

You were moving with a frantic, buzzing energy, your pulse thrumming in your fingertips as you fled the ghost of his voice. Your nerves were frayed, sparked white-hot by a truth you weren't prepared to carry. 

“'I love you?'” you whispered to the wind, the words turning into a giddy, hysterical laugh that you had to stifle with your palm. 

"Oh God. Oh God.” You stopped, breathing heavy and leaning against the cool brick of a nearby building to soothe the flush that had spread across your entire body.  Out of all the ways your brain had imagined your feelings would be returned, this was certainly not the way you expected. Well, maybe a bit, but it was definitely low on the list.

“Arthur, you absolute fool,” you whispered, finally arriving at the front door to your flat.

You turned the key in the lock, the click echoing in the dark. You looked back toward the direction of Arthur’s house. Tomorrow, he would wake up with a pounding head and a tongue that felt like lead. If you knew anything about him, he’d probably hide behind a bottle of gin or avoid you altogether, convinced he’d dreamt the whole thing or, worse, that he’d disgusted you.

You stepped inside and closed the door, leaning your back against the wood.

The trail winds through the trees, up a small rise, down into a hollow. And there, almost invisible against the darkness, is a cabin.

He moves forward, careful, quiet, his heart pounding so loud he's sure they can hear it. He doesn't know who else might be out here — the men who attacked the first cabin, maybe, or worse.

He keeps his hand ready, though he doesn't have a weapon. He didn't think to bring one. He only thought of you.

The cabin door is old, solid. He raises his hand to knock—

And then it opens. Hopper is standing there.

For a second, neither of them moves. Then Hopper's face shifts — relief, maybe, or something like it. "Took you long enough," he says quietly.

Steve laughs, a shaky, breathless sound. "Is she — is she okay?"

"She's inside. Asleep." Hopper steps back, letting him in. "Go on."

Steve doesn't need to be told twice. The cabin is small, warm, lit by a single lamp. A kitchen in the corner, a little sofa, a door that must lead to the bedroom. He's halfway across the room when said door opens.

And there you are. You're standing in the doorway in bare feet and the sweater he gave you — his sweater, you're wearing his sweater — and your eyes are wide and wet and fixed on his face. "Steve?" you whisper.

He can't speak. He can't move. He can only stand there, drinking you in, alive and whole and real.

You cross the room so fast you nearly fall, and then you're in his arms, your face buried in his chest, your hands gripping his jacket like he might disappear. He holds you just as tight, his face pressed to your hair, his eyes squeezed shut.

"I found you," he breathes. "I found you, angel."

"You came," you breathe. "You came, you came, you came."

"Of course I came." He pulls back just enough to look at your face, to cup it in his hands. "I'll always come. Always."

You look up at him — your face wet, your eyes shining, your smile so bright it hurts — and then you're practically climbing at him. Your legs wrap around his waist, your arms lock behind his neck, and you press yourself against him like you're trying to crawl inside his skin, like you always have been trying so.

Steve stumbles back a step, catching himself, and then his arms are under you, holding you up, holding you close. You stay like that for a long time. Steve doesn't mind. He could hold you forever.

Eventually, you pull back just enough to look at him. Your hand comes up to touch his face, your fingers tracing his jaw, his cheek, the dark circles under his eyes.

"You look tired," you whisper.

He laughs. "I've been walking all night. I couldn't sleep. I had to find you."

"You found me." Your smile is small and soft and everything. "You always find me."

He presses his forehead to yours. "Always."

Hopper clears his throat gently from the kitchen. "Maybe sit down before you fall down, kid."

Steve laughs again and carries you to the couch, settling down with you still in his lap. You don't seem inclined to move, and honestly, he doesn't want you to. He just wants to hold you and never let go.

Hopper pours two cups of coffee — black for himself, lighter for Steve — and brings them over. He sits in the armchair across from you, his eyes tired but alert.

"We need to talk about what happened," Hopper says quietly.

Steve feels you tense against him. His arm tightens around you. "I know," Hopper continues, his voice gentle, "that you've been through a lot. But there are things I need to understand. Things that might help us keep you safe."

You nod against Steve's chest, but you don't look up. Steve's hand finds its way into your hair, stroking gently, the way he knows you like. You relax against him just a fraction.

Hopper leans forward, his voice careful. "I'm not trying to scare you, kid. I'm trying to understand. The lab — they don't send that many men for just anyone. They want you bad. Worse than they've ever wanted anyone." He pauses. "I need to know why."

Steve feels you tremble. His hand slides from your hair down to your back, slipping just under the edge of his sweater — your sweater now — and rests against the warm skin at your side. He rubs slow circles there, soft, soothing.

"You don't have to tell us everything," Steve whispers against your hair. "Just what you can. Just what you want to. We're not going anywhere."

You turn your face into his neck, and he feels your breath against his skin. "In the lab," you start, your voice so quiet he has to strain to hear, "they test me. For everything. Telekinesis, like El. Pyro..." You try to remember. "Pyrokinesis. Many times." You pause. "I fail. Every time."

Steve keeps rubbing your side, slow and steady. His other hand stays in your hair.

"They said they are going to terminate me," you continue. "Kill. I think." Steve's jaw tightens, but he doesn't let it show in his touch. He just holds you closer. "Before I run... ran away," you correct your tense, which makes Steve press a kiss to your temple, "they said they are going to terminate me."

"But they didn't," Steve whispers. "They didn't terminate you. You got out."

You shake your head against his neck. "Before I left. The night I left. They found out."

Hopper leans forward, his face carefully neutral but his eyes sharp. "What do you mean, kid?"

You're quiet for a long moment. Steve can feel you gathering yourself, feel the way your fingers grip his shirt tighter.

"There was a guard," you whisper. "His name was Raymond. He was... bad. The worst." You swallow. "He hurt El once. A long time ago. I made him forget. Made him tired. Made him go home."

"But that night — the night I left — he came back. To my room. He was angry. He said he remembered. He said he didn't know how, but he remembered what I did. He remembered me... pushing into his head."

Your voice breaks a little. Steve holds you tighter.

"He said he was going to tell Dr. Brenner. He said they would finally know what I could do. That I wasn't a dud. That I was maybe the most powerful one of all." You pause. "He laugh. He said they will use me forever. That I would never see sun again."

Hopper's jaw is tight. Steve can see the anger in his eyes, but his voice stays gentle. "What happened then?"

You're quiet for a long moment. Steve feels your fingers twisting in his shirt, feels the way your whole body has gone tense.

"Angel," he murmurs, his lips against your hair. "You're okay. You're safe. Take your time."

You take a shaky breath. "I was so scared," you whisper. "He was so big. So angry. And he was going to tell them. He was going to—" You stop, swallowing hard. "I did not think. I just... reached out. Inside his head. And I told him—" Your voice breaks.

"Told him what?" Hopper asks gently.

You press your face harder into Steve's neck. "I told him to stop. To go away. To never hurt anyone again." A pause. "But it came out wrong. Or right? I do not know. I was so scared. I just — I pushed so hard. And I told him—" You stop again, and Steve feels you shaking.

Steve's hand keeps moving on your side, slow circles, warm and steady. "It's okay, angel. Whatever it was, it's okay."

You shake your head. "I told him to die." The words come out in a rush, barely audible. "In his head. I told him to die. And he—" You gasp, a sob catching in your throat. "He reach for knife and..." You stop, your whole body shaking now.

You can't finish. You don't have to.

Across from you, Hopper has gone rigid in his chair. His face is pale, his eyes fixed on you with an expression Steve can't quite read.

"He killed himself," Hopper says quietly. It's not a question.

Steve goes completely still beneath you. For a second, he doesn't breathe.

Mind reader.

You're a mind reader. You can get inside people's heads. You can make them do things. You can make them—

You've been in his head.

The realisation hits him so hard he feels dizzy. All those times he held you. All those whispered endearments. All those moments when he thought you were just learning to trust him — you were listening. You knew every thought. Every feeling. Every stupid, embarrassing, vulnerable thing that passed through his mind.

Did you know he was falling for you? Did you know he lay awake at night thinking about your smile? Did you know he'd already started imagining a future where you were his?

Did you know everything?

His heart is pounding. His palms are sweating. He can feel his own panic rising, a wave of it, unstoppable—

"Steve?"

Your voice. Small. Terrified. He looks down.

You're staring up at him with eyes so wide, so wet, so scared that it punches the air out of his lungs. Your lower lip is trembling. Your whole body has gone rigid in his lap.

"You're — you're scared," you whisper. "I can feel it. Your heart is beating so fast. You're—" A sob catches in your throat. "You're scared of me."

"What? No, angel, I—"

But you're already shaking your head, frantically, tears spilling down your cheeks. "I did not read your thoughts. I promise. I swear. I would never — I never—" You're gasping between words, your hands clutching his shirt like a lifeline. "Sometimes feelings slip through. I cannot help it. But I never — Not on purpose."

He stares at you. At the absolute terror on your face. At the way you're looking at him like he might push you away, like he might leave.

"You're my Steve," you sob. "I would never — I could never — please. Please do not be scared of me. Please."

Something in his chest cracks wide open. He thinks about everything you've been through. All the people who used you. All the people who hurt you. All the people who looked at you like you were a thing instead of a person.

And now you think he's going to be one of them.

"Angel." His voice comes out rough, broken. He cups your face in his big hands, forcing you to look at him. "Sweetheart, stop. Stop. Look at me."

You look at him with those huge, terrified eyes, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

"I'm not scared of you." He says it slowly, clearly, so you can see the truth in his eyes. "I was — for a second, I panicked. Because I thought about all the embarrassing things you might have heard. All the stupid thoughts I have when I'm around you." He laughs, wet and shaky. "But I'm not scared of you. I could never be scared of you."

Your bottom lip trembles. "But you — your heart—"

"My heart was racing because I'm an idiot who panics before he thinks." He presses his forehead to yours, his thumbs still gently wiping away your tears. "I'm not scared of you. I'm not going anywhere. You're my angel. You hear me?"

You stare at him, searching his face for lies. For pity. For fear. Your breath comes in short, shaky gasps, your whole body still trembling in his lap.

"I love you," you whisper, so quiet it's almost lost. You've never said it to anyone before, but here, with Steve, you can say it. "I love you so much. I would never — I would never hurt you. I would never—"

"I know." He pulls you closer, one hand cradling the back of your head, pressing your face gently into the curve of his neck. "I know, angel. I know."

You cling to him, your fingers twisting in his shirt, your breath hot and uneven against his skin. He can feel your heart pounding, rabbit-fast, terrified.

"Shh," he murmurs, his lips against your hair. "Shh, I've got you. I've got you. Just breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe."

Steve holds you through it. Through the shaking, through the tears, through the gasping breaths that slowly, slowly begin to steady. His hand never stops moving on your back, slow circles, warm and soothing. "I love you," he murmurs against your hair.

"I'm gonna step outside," Hopper says quietly, already standing. "Check the perimeter. Give you two a minute." He pauses at the door, looking back at you both with something soft in his eyes. "I'm glad you found each other."

Then he's gone, the door clicking softly behind him.

"You... you love me?" you whisper then, like you can't quite believe it. Like the words are too big, too heavy, too good to be real.

Steve's heart cracks open all over again.

"Yeah, angel." His voice is soft, steady, sure. "I love you. I've loved you since—" He laughs, a little shaky. "I don't even know when. Maybe that first night, when you took my hand in the shower. Maybe when you smiled at me for the first time. Maybe just... always. Like I was always waiting for you."

"I love you too," you murmur. "I did not know what it was. I did not have a word. But it is—it is like sun. In my chest. In my head. Every time I see you."

Steve's eyes sting. He presses his forehead to yours again, breathing you in. "Like sunshine," he replies gently, tucking you closer to him.

You give him a wobbly smile, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Then you look back at the front door, checking Hopper's okay. Your eyes flit back to Steve. "He is... he is good. Hopper."

Steve nods, brushing a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering on the underside of your chin. "Yeah. He is."

"He is like... a dad." You say it slowly, testing the word. "I never had a dad. But I think... he is like that."

Steve's heart swells. "Yeah, angel. I think he is."

You're quiet for a moment, your fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. Then you look up at him again, shy and hopeful. "Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"You are... my Steve." You say it like it's the most important thing in the world. "Forever?"

He cups your face, so gentle, and kisses your forehead, your nose, the tip of your chin. You giggle — actually giggle — and the sound is so bright, so free, that Steve thinks he wants to bottle the sound and put it in his pocket, never let it fade away.

"Forever," he promises. "And ever and ever. You're stuck with me, angel."

You smile and curl back into his chest, your hand over his heart, your breath warm against his skin.

"Good," you murmur. "I want to be stuck."

Later, after Hopper comes back and the fire has burned low, you talk.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Let me make sure I understand. You can read minds — thoughts, feelings, memories. And you can also... plant things. Suggestions. Images. And if you push hard enough, they'll act on them."

You nod. "Like seeds. Small at first. Then they grow. They think it is their own idea."

Hopper leans forward in the armchair. "And Raymond — you didn't just plant a seed. You pushed hard. Made him see himself doing it. And then..."

Your face crumples slightly. "I did not mean to. I was so scared. I just — I wanted him to stop. I wanted him to never hurt anyone again. And he—" You stop, swallowing.

Steve's hand rubs your back gently. "It's okay, angel. You don't have to go over it again."

Hopper nods, understanding. "That's enough. I get it." He pauses, rubbing his jaw. "Here's what I'm thinking. The lab, they know you're a mind reader. Probably. They might have suspected for a while. But they don't know about the planting. The way you can influence people's actions. That's our advantage."

You look at him, curious. "Advantage?"

"Leverage," Hopper says. "If it comes down to it — if they find us, if there's no other way — you might be able to use that. Not to hurt anyone. But to protect yourself, and us. To make them forget they ever saw us. To make them look the other way."

Steve feels you tense slightly in his lap. He squeezes you gently.

"I'm not saying we're going to put you in danger," Hopper adds quickly. "I'm saying — what you can do, it's not just a curse. It's a gift. And if we're smart, it might be the thing that keeps you free."

You're quiet for a long moment, processing. Then, slowly, you nod.

"Okay," you whisper. "I... I can try. If I need to."

Hopper's face softens. "That's all I'm asking, kid."

The fire crackles, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind has picked up, rattling the windows gently. Everything feels warm, safe, right.

But something nags at you.

You can't explain it. A feeling, deep in the back of your mind. Like everything is too okay, that something is coming.

You shift in Steve's lap, trying to shake it off. His hand automatically soothes down your back. "You okay, angel?" he asks.

You nod against his chest. "Just... tired."

He kisses the top of your head. "Close your eyes, then. I've got you."

You do. You close your eyes and listen to his heartbeat, steady and strong. You listen to Hopper's breathing across the room, slow and even. You listen to the wind, the fire, the quiet.

But underneath it all, there's something else.

A presence. Faint. Distant. But there. Like something is crawling under your skin, lingering. You try to reach for it, to identify it, but it slips away like smoke. Every time you get close, it vanishes.

Probably nothing, you tell yourself. Just your mind playing tricks. You're exhausted.

Steve's hand moves in your hair, gentle, soothing. You focus on that. On him. On the warmth of his body, the safety of his arms.

The feeling fades.

You let out a breath you didn't realise you were holding. Relief, maybe.

"Love you," you mumble, already half-asleep.

Steve's arms tighten around you. "Love you too, angel."

Hopper watches from his chair, a small smile on his face. He reaches for his coffee, takes a sip, and settles deeper into the worn cushions.

For a while, everything is perfect.

You don't know how long you've been asleep when it happens.

A voice. In your head. Not Steve's. Not Hopper's. Not El's. Someone else.

—can hear me, can't you? Number Nine.

Your eyes fly open.

The cabin is dark. The fire has burned low, it is just embers now. Steve is still asleep beneath you, his breathing slow and even. Hopper is slumped in his chair, his chin on his chest.

You didn't think you could really escape, did you?

You know that voice. You've heard it a thousand times, in the white halls, in the testing rooms, in your nightmares.

Dr. Brenner.

You press your hands to your ears, but it doesn't help. The voice is inside your head, not outside.

I'm closer than you think, he says, and there's something like amusement in his tone. Did you never wonder why the headaches never stopped? Why your walls never stayed up?

Your blood runs cold.

I'm inside them, he says. I'm inside your head. Does that scare you, Nine?

You reach up, without thinking, and touch the back of your neck. Just below your hairline. There's a spot there. You've always assumed it was a scar. A birthmark. Nothing to worry about.

But now, under your fingertips, it feels different. Hard. Like something small and smooth, just beneath your skin.

Three years ago, Brenner's voice continues, soft and pleased. A routine procedure. You were asleep. You never even knew.

Your breath catches. Your fingers press harder against the spot, and you feel it—a tiny bump, a foreign object, something that shouldn't be there.

A chip, he explains, like he's teaching a slow student. State of the art. It allows me to — how shall I put this? — visit. Whenever I want. Wherever you are.

Steve shifts beneath you, mumbling in his sleep. You don't move. Can't move.

I've been watching you, Nine. These past weeks. Your little boyfriend. The Chief. Your sister. A pause. You've been busy.

Horror crawls up your spine.

Don't worry, Brenner says, and his voice is almost kind. I'm not coming for you tonight. I just wanted you to know. To understand. You can run, but you can never hide. Not from me.

Sleep well, little ghost. I'll see you soon.

You sit there in the dark, trembling, your hand still pressed to the back of your neck. Steve sleeps on, unaware. Hopper sleeps on, unaware.

No one knows.

No one but you.

You look at Steve's peaceful face, at Hopper's relaxed form, at the door to the bedroom where El sleeps. They think you're safe. Free. You'll never be free, not really, not while he's inside you. A part of you. A little piece of the lab, buried under your skin, whispering in your head.

And he can find you. Always.

You don't sleep for the rest of the night. You just sit there, in Steve's lap, and wonder how long you have before they come.

taglist — @maxverstappentwink @exooojongdaeee @hazzaisonfirelol @sunsetenthralled @starblushed @harringtonsboy @superlegend216 @madaboutjoe @digurcinema @lowmillions-lvr @middle-of-the-earth @mividaluka @charlston-chews @spr0utkeery @devotedlyteenagemusic @marcihq @selenewowww @m4iilvy @peterthehorseisinhere @madilyn-grace @middle-of-the-earth @scorpiodolll @ahead-fullofdreams @beautiful-wishes-for-all @sunsetenthralled @simsimstay2017 @mrtonystark @hello-nah817 @1011008