Save a horse, ride a cowboy

“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.

—

chapter (5) and possibly the ending coming February 13th🥹

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once he told you that the engagement ring belonged to his mother, beatrice, you got even more choked up. warm tears slipped down your cheeks, sniffles filled the air, and you couldn't tear your gaze from the ring. not then, not now, even months after the wedding. somehow, the heirloom made your engagement that much more sacred, and special. engraved with little flowers and complete with a pretty pink gemstone.

he admitted later on that he had no clue what type of jewel it was, his thumb brushing over it gently during that quiet bubble of peace he shared with you. he said he was glad it found a new home with you, and that his mother would've been pleased. overjoyed. he'd knew you'd love it - it suited you perfectly - and you did.

you adored it, and you adored him, and you practically worshipped your new life as his wife.

so, as you stood over the sink in the sun-basked kitchen, carefully freeing little blackberries from thick canes and ivory-coloured bramble flowers, your thoughts drifted to your husband.

working. always working. he hadn't let up, not since the two of you purchased the property, a little ways south-west from beecher's hope. you both yearned to settle down further west, where wild horses roamed, saguaro cacti bloomed, and far, far away from the stifling mugginess of lemoyne, or the polluted and corrupted cobbled streets of saint denis.

arthur was able to acquire the land for a decent price, securing the deal from a sweet, elderly couple. they could no longer keep up with the demands of maintaining a property, and wanted to move eastbound to be closer to their grandchildren. you had been in constant fits of happy giggles ever since, and made the effort to write to the couple whenever you could. it was touching, undeniably so, and offered you a subtle glimpse into your future with him.

arthur would give you the world if you asked. he'd pluck every individual star from the sky, along with the moon, if you said you wished for it.

in defiance of his endless probing and questions regarding what you wanted, the only thing you asked for in your new marital home was a garden. a big one, preferably. you wanted to grow an entire furry of plants; all types of fruits, blackberries, blueberries, juneberries, and more practical things, like tomatoes and potatoes, bell peppers, garlic and ginger too. but you wanted to bake, you told him, almost shyly. like it was something silly, much too big of an ask.

the garden was fixed up for you before the week was even over.

it was the first thing he did, the first big task he focused his efforts on. well, aside from patching the holes in the roof and ensuring the windows were no longer rickety as they once were. the last thing arthur wanted was his pretty little wife getting rained on within the four walls of their home.

that was three months ago. and although the fruits were a little on the smaller side, (you harvested them too early in excitement) you figured they'd do for now. you chewed the inside of your cheek, and slowly freed more petals from the berries, watching as they fluttered down to the drain. he had been out there for hours now, labouring through the extensive list of tasks he set for himself.

yet, relief loosened your slightly tense shoulders at the click of the front door. followed by the jingling of spurs and the sound of boots being shucked off, and that rough, southern drawl. “where are you, angel?”

“in here!” you chirped softly, not looking up just yet.

at the sound of footfalls growing closer you pivoted, eyelashes fluttering rapidly at his state. of course. of course, he would torture you by walking in here half-naked.

a noise caught in your throat, something between a gasp and a squeak. “where's your shirt?”

“'s far too hot outside for clothes, mrs. morgan.” arthur chuckled, making his way over to your spot in front of the sink. you, with your blue dress sleeves rolled up to your elbows and worn apron wrapped around you with a loose bow at the back. then, him, freckled shoulders glistening with a thin sheen of sweat from a long day's work out in the yard.

warmth pooled in your lower tummy for just a second at the sight, until worry flooded your system at notice of his light panting. “y'need to come inside 'n rest more,” you frowned, shaking water droplets off your hands quickly to grab the porcelain pitcher from the counter and a clean glass for him. “what if you get heat stroke?” you turned around fully, offering fresh, cool water to him.

he gave you a pointed look in return, the two of you able to communicate wordlessly for a long, long time now. arthur had always thrown himself into work and had done since the day you met him, during the gang's heyday. it should've come by no surprise that he'd be the exact same with just the two of you, though arguably, he worked even harder now.

“ain't gonna get heatstroke.” he grumbled, but took the glass from your hold, and gulped down its contents in a matter of seconds. satisfied with your husband's hydration, you swivelled back to the sink, clothed back grazing his chest. “you will, 'f y'don't stop acting like a workhorse.”

“what'chu been doin'?” he took a softer tone, and shuffled closer to close the gap between you. you continued with one of your few evening chores, gently rubbing circles over the bunch of wild blackberries to free them of dirt. “gonna make a pie to bring to john and abigail tomorrow. wait - does john even like blackberries?” you tipped your head up to glance at him, and arthur took the opportunity to press the softest of pecks on your lips.

he reached over and picked up one of the wet blossoms from the sink, the shade reminding him of your wedding dress. that gorgeous dress, how the lace draped over your dainty shoulders akin to a waterfall, and how the wearer - you - looked even more ethereal.

he too was in a constant condition of disbelief. he had a habit of waking up in the dead of the night, unwillingly. years of a nomadic lifestyle, combined with abrupt wakes from being forced to take over someone's guard shift, impromptu and spur of the moment jobs, or just plain restlessness, rendered it difficult for arthur to sleep through the night. yet, the serenity of your shared homestead offered him not just comfort, but a peace he was never quite sure he'd find.

when the house was silent, and the only noises that could pass through the walls included just the hum of cicadas, the occasional squeak of an opossum, or sometimes the hoot of the great horned owl that took a liking to the barn; he could rely on you, the gentle rise and fall of your breaths, and the faint, but unfathomably reassuring thrumming of your heartbeat, to lull him back to sleep.

“marston's gonna eat that damn pie, regardless of if he likes blackberries or not. and anyways,” his large hands cupped your waist, thumbs swiping over the slight protrude of your hip bones. “how come he gets baked goods n' i don't?” you scoffed at the sass coming from your husband, able to read his smug expression even from his position behind you. “you always say y'don't have a sweet tooth.” a giggle rolled off your tongue at the end of your sentence, while your hands made careful work to discard the muddied water.

“yeah, you're right,” he leaned in closer then, attention diverted from the simplicity of one of your domestic activities. “you're already sweet enough.” his voice lowered, and you felt the familiar scratch of his beard against your neck as he peppered sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the skin, making you squirm — and, blush profusely, the addition of sacred vows and gold wedding rings to your relationship did little to negate how flustered he made you.

you tried, god, you tried, to focus at the task in hand. though the four of you, plus jack, had only settled on your respective properties just a few months prior, you never dared turn up to the marston ranch empty-handed. arthur countered that all the times he'd pulled john out of scrapes was more than enough, but you relented.

so far, you'd whipped up mostly pies, able to display your gratitude for the garden arthur dug out for you, even though you were the one who tended to it. you were a real good baker now. abigail was always gleeful and pulled you into bone-crushing hugs at the gifts, and jack turned into a regular dessert-thief on the occasions you'd bring cookies.

“arthur -” you wiggled in his firm grip, but it was futile. he towered over you, always had, and his thick arms kept you caged against him. “when did you turn into such a romantic sap?” you mumbled out the words breathlessly, hoping he wouldn't catch on to flustered you truly were.

oh, but he did, and he revelled in it; his lips wandered up further, teeth catching at the flesh between the junction of your neck and jaw. “right 'round the time i met you, i reckon.” he suckled then, and you mewled softly, biting back the whine that started to bubble in your throat. “you're distracting me ... still need t' make dinner,” of course, arthur paid your light protests no mind, instead spurred on further when your much smaller hands interlaced with his over your tummy.

you struggled to contain a whimper when his tongue darted out to lick and soothe the sore skin that would likely be a shade of angry burgundy tomorrow. you'd have to wear your hair down.

“y'know, i could make you a pumpkin pie. when autumn rolls in. 'n with homemade cream?” you drew out the final word in a sing-song manner, squeezing his hands underneath yours.

your wedding bands clinked together lightly and he laughed, momentarily distracted from his assault on your neck. “that your way of tellin' me you want a cow?”

“cows are cute ! we should get cows.”

“yer supposed to get livestock based on usefulness, not cuteness. 's why we got all those chickens last month.”

“well, they're cute 'n useful,” you countered, tiptoeing to reach one of your hands up and card your fingers through the sandy blond hairs at the base of his neck. “'s the best combination, don't y''think so?” you looked up at then, meeting his eyes with a twinkle in yours and a beaming smile.

he melted.

“alright, y'got me. we'll get some cows, sweetheart.” he gave your much smaller figure another squeeze, head dipping back down to your throat once more, until you whined. loudly. “you need to take a bath.”

he blinked, and debated nuzzling his cheek in the crook of your shoulder just to rile you up. he decided against it. “you sayin' i stink, mrs. morgan?”

“m sayin' you're dirty, mr. morgan!”

he swivelled you around, placing two large palms on either of your shoulders. “mm.. well. can't argue with you there.”

he did stink, actually. not terribly, but of the salt from sweat and all the dirt he kicked up while working outside. it didn't bother you, though. not one bit, in spite of your playful teasing. instead, you viewed it in the polar opposite way, seeing it as a testament to your love, your marriage and it existing as the sweetest of visual displays of arthur's pure devotion.

the familiar tickle of butterflies licked at your insides as he hummed lowly, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours. “go wash up.” the words, light, airy, and so obviously reluctant as soon as they left your lips. you always despised saying goodbye to him.

it was worse, all those months ago. when arthur would mount up and you'd stare, with watery eyes, never knowing if he'd meet his death out there. the times when he'd collapse on the tiny shared cot wordlessly, the dark circles heavy under his eyes and him always being far too exhausted to even tug off his day clothes.

but now, your biggest inconvenience and heartbreak meant your husband disappearing for just a short twenty minutes to scrub off the grime from the day.

“got that big cut of beef to cook all nice f'you.” you smiled, sliding your palms down his bare chest before letting them rest behind you on the countertop. “you need to eat good.”

“you,” he breathed in deeply, pulling away with equal reluctance. “are the perfect woman, y'know that?” you ducked your head then, but he stole another feather-light kiss from you. that was one of his favourite things about settling down. how, he could touch you, hold you, kiss you, without all the hootering, hollering, and wolf-whistles from the others that always made you so, so embarrassed. you were always a shy thing, and while marriage hadn't changed that sentiment much, it used to tear him up at how the - somewhat harmless - teasing gnawed at you.

sure, there were a few things he missed from that old life, that way of living that felt so foreign and far away now; bidding good morning to jack, pouring out coffee for the girls (always the gentleman, but he begged to disagree with you), and petting the flock of the gang member's horses, though he loved his mare the most. few and far between bittersweet memories, but it couldn't compare to this new life. married life.

if the last three months had taught the ex-outlaw anything, it was that he loved being your husband.

A/N : im a lil worried about uploading this piece bc i think the writing is repetitive ... (◞‸ ◟) i have to rely on certain phrases since my english is terribleeeeeee at times n i had to translate some words ... anywhos thank u for reading !! :3

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.

—

chapter (4) coming February 6th🫧

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Edgar Ross is dead, his body now floating somewhere in the San Luis River and so is Jack, in a sense. It's been how many days now, since he had killed that godforsaken man? He can't tell. All he knows, is that he's been wandering along the banks, along the border of Mexico and the US, unable to move on. Where would he go anyways? Back home? If he can even call it that anymore. Nothing awaits him at the empty ranch, only two graves on a hill.

Edgar Ross is dead, but so are his parents. He has avenged his father, but that won't bring either of them back, will it? Revenge, he has read about it in his storybooks many times before, but no description seems to be accurate to the real deal. Usually the main character feels, what? Fulfilled? Satisfied? All he feels is, well, nothing at all.

Edgar Ross is dead and he does not feel the way he had expected, what he had sought after. That rage, that grief, both still roar inside him, even after he had put a bullet in it's source. No, revenge is a fool's game after all. It doesn't change his situation, but taking a life sure changes him as a person. None of the man's blood has gotten on him, there was too big of a distance between them for that to happen.

But when Jack kneels down by the shore to wash his face, he could swear that the skin on his hands is drenched in red. The water feels cool and refreshing against his face, somewhat snapping him out of his grim thoughts. Then he takes a moment to examine his reflection in the river, but a stranger is staring back at him, blurred by the rushing stream.

It's only fitting, really. He entered his mission for revenge as a man and has left as a ghost. He fears that it won't get better either, fears that he will never feel complete or content again. A sudden shuffling behind him rips him out of his daze and he whips his entire body around. Is it the law? Have they found the body already and are now here to arrest him?

A mental image of himself at the gallows appears before his inner eye and panic settles in. What would his mother think of him? When all she ever wanted was for him to live a good life, an honest life. Look what has become of her little boy, of little Jack. When his head snap up to gaze at the person infront of him, he freezes.

It's a woman, her wide eyes trained on the gun that he had instinctively fished out of it's holster. She's beautiful, no, stunning the way she stands there on that hill. If someone would ask him for a description, he'd say that she reminds him of the moon, providing a guiding light during the blackest of nights.

Or maybe a single, blooming rose surrounded by a field of dead plants. All air is knocked out of his lungs and for a brief moment he forgets himself, forgets how terrified she must be right now.

"I'm sorry, Miss. You startled me.", he murmurs quietly, perhaps even too quiet for her to hear and puts the gun away.

She answers, though on Spanish. He doesn't understand a single word, but judging by her expression and gestures, she might be apologizing for the same reason. When her eyes land on his clueless face, her own lights up in realization.

"Ah, sorry, I thought you- oh, well." The laugh leaving her lips is sweet and has a beautiful ring to it. "I didn't mean to scare you."

When Jack notices that she's waiting for an answer from him and he's been doing nothing, but gawking at her like a complete fool, he awkwardly clears his throat.

"No need to apologize." He stands up and swats off the dust from his pants. "I was about to leave anyways."

"No, don't let me disturb you. I was just passing through." Her eyes dart around, over the ground, as if she's searching for something. "This spot usually has herbs."

That's when he let's his own gaze wander as well, but he doesn't believe he will find any. He remembers his father coming home with some herbs every now and then. They put it in his mother's stew, but nothing was ever able to save the taste of her meals. The memory sends a stabbing pain through his chest and he immediately banishes it to the far back of his mind.

"I won't be in your way for longer than necessary, Miss.", he says and makes his way towards the horse.

Although it seems like a pair of invisible strings are pulling him to the woman. Jack feels the urge to stay and listen to her voice some longer. Her head turns to where he's standing, next to his stallion and he almost squirms under her intense stare. It's as if she's examining him.

"Are you hungry?", she then suddenly asks and he blinks a few times.

"What?"

"I mean no offense, but you look like you haven't eaten in a while. I have food at home, that only needs to be warmed up."

That he hasn't and now that she's pointing it out, his stomach begins to rumble. All he has done the past days was move around and occasionally stop to rest. He shoves his hand into his satchel and finds it empty of any food. He could swear that he had packed an apple and assorted biscuits. Has he really eaten them all?

Even if he did, those things aren't nearly enough to keep a person going for several days. Should he go with her? The wiser choice would be to leave, to get as much distance between him and this place as possible, before anyone finds the body.

Oh dear Lord, now he's thinking of Edgar Ross again.

"I'm sorry, if I was too pushy.", the woman speaks up, ripping him out of his thoughts and Jack hastily shakes his head.

"No, I just- I'm a bit distracted, is all." He takes off his hat to runs his hand through his filthy hair. "I think I'd like a meal, thanks."

That gets a wide smile from her, one that would have any sane man drop down to his knees instantly. When she goes to climb onto horseback, he extends his arms to help her, but she politely waves him off. Once he's sitting in his saddle, she points to the right and they ride off.

Her hands are holding onto his jacket, on his sides and he gets so distracted that he almost misses how she gives him her name. It's fitting, he thinks, suiting her quite fine.

"I'm Jack. Jack Marston."

"It's nice to meet you, Jack Marston.", she replies and he's tempted to disagree.

She wouldn't say that if she knew what he had done.

"Nice to meet you too, Miss.", he mumbles instead.

"So what are you doing out here?", she asks and he chews on the inside of his cheek.

"Just passin' by.", he grumbles, the words coming out flat.

Much to his relief she notices that he's in no mood to elaborate on that and so she refrains from questioning him about it any further. It doesn't take long to get to her home, which he can't say is too much of a surprise, considering she walked by foot towards the river. The property isn't anything big.

There's a house, that could easily keep a small family, without it ending up too cramped. Infront of it is a garden in which she seems to be growing some vegetables. Over to the side is a coop and the chickens are roaming around freely. Another thing that catches his eye, is the lack of a wagon and horses and if he remembers this area on the map correctly, then the next town is quite a distance away.

Although she owns no horses, there's still a hitching post to the side and he leaves his stallion there. Once again, she waves off all offer to help her dismount. His gaze wanders over her home a second time, starting to feel awkward. Now that he thinks about it, wouldn't he be intruding on her and her family?

"Is it really alright that I'm eatin' with you?", he asks, the question leaving his lips, before he even considers it.

"I invited you, didn't I?", she answers, a hint of amusement accompanying her words.

There's more of it gleaming in her eyes when she throws him a quick glance over her shoulder.

"What about your family?"

"Don't worry, I'm alone here." Then she feigns seriousness and raises her finger in a conspiratory way. "But no funny business, Jack Marston. I can work a gun."

The threat is half-hearted and lacks all bite. She's not really believing that he will cause any trouble, but he still plays along and lifts his hands in surrender.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Miss."

Inside, she ushers him to take a seat at the dining table and tells him to make himself feel at home, while she heats up the food. He watches her rummage around in her bag, before fishing out a handful of fresh herbs. She must have managed to collect some then, before running into him.

Now that her back is turned to him, he takes off his hat and reaches up to touch his hair. It's greasy and hasn't been washed in ages, so he'd rather much prefer keeping the hat on. Though he feels a bit rude doing that. Then his gaze drifts to the interior, which isn't a lot.

There are the necessities, furniture one finds in every house, some embroidery and photographs hanging on the walls and a lot of potted plants. They're breathing some fresh life into the old building, with all the green and the occasional colored blossom. Two doors are behind him, probably leading to bedrooms and maybe a bathroom. Ah, what he wouldn't give for a bath.

Maybe he could ask her for that? Since she seems to be nothing but kind and inviting, but he wouldn't want to inconvenience her like that. She's already going above and beyond in his eyes, by preparing food. Lost in his own thoughts, Jack doesn't notice her staring at him at first and he straightens his back.

Judging by the look on her face, she must have said something and is now waiting for an answer.

"I'm sorry, Miss. I didn't catch that.", he awkwardly admits and fidgets with the hat in his hands.

"I was asking where you're from. If you don't mind sharing.", she repeats with that sweet laugh of hers and begins to set the table.

When he crossed the border, he didn't exactly intent on letting anyone know who he is or where he's from. Just in case someone would find Edgar Ross. Jack's initial plan was to slip in and then out again, completely unnoticed and then head back to the ranch.

Well, obviously that didn't happen and now he's sitting here with this wonderful woman, who, for some reason, is treating him similar to an old friend. He's convinced that he doesn't deserve her kindness and she definitely wouldn't be extending it, if she'd only know about his sins.

But she brought him to her home, so it's only fair and proper that he tells her about his. Besides, it doesn't look like she's hiding a whole squad of detectives in her basement or something. Perhaps in the kitchen cabinets then? The mental image makes him almost huff.

"Near Blackwater. My family- I mean, I own a ranch there."

At his correction, she briefly tilts her head to the side, as if wondering what he meant by that. Thankfully, she doesn't question it and instead fills his bowl with a steaming hot stew. The smell makes his mouth water instantly and when he picks up the spoon, his hand almost trembles.

After thanking her yet again for the meal, he tries his first bite and it nearly brings him to tears. When was the last time he had eaten a home cooked meal? The stew doesn't remind him of home, it's way too good for that, but it fills him with the same warmth. Jack grips the spoon so tight, that the whites of his knuckles are showing and he forces the food down his dry throat.

"Is something wrong?", his host, who has taken a seat infront of him, asks with worry lacing her voice.

That's when he realizes how his reaction must look like to her and his eyes go wide in horror.

"No! No, it ain't like that." His gaze drops down onto the bowl and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, the first one since forever. "It's delicious. Really."

In a matter of seconds, he clears his bowl and she goes to give him a refill. Although he's pretty certain that he could finish the whole pot in one sitting, he still tries to deny the second serving. But he's half-assing his protests, so she continues, as if he never said anything. By the time both of them are full, he helps her wash off the dishes or at least attempts to do so.

"It's the least I can do.", Jack insists.

"Don't be silly! You're my guest.", she insists as well.

All the talking and bickering makes him feel like a person again and so dread hits him like a slap to the face, when he realizes that it's time to go. Through the windows, he sees that she sun is setting and he doesn't want to abuse the hospitality of his lovely host. The thought of leaving her pains him, something telling him that he should stay, that things well be alright with her.

"Thank you for everything, Miss, but I think I should go now."

"What? In this darkness?", she argues and vaguely gestures towards one of the windows.

"I wouldn't wanna impose on you for longer than necessary.", he counters, but she firmly shakes her head.

"Nonsense. It would be rude of me to send you out in the middle of the night." Without so much as giving him room to protest, she moves over to take his jacket. "Come on, I'll run you a bath too. No offense, but you kinda need it."

That gets a chuckle out of him.

"None taken."

As he already expected, behind one of the doors is a bathroom. A tub is ready and waiting in the middle, to the side a lit hearth to keep the room warm and next to the tub is a small table with soap and a cloth. Inside here as well, there are plants placed on every surface. Very cozy.

After he takes in everything and inhales the soapy scent, she comes rushing in with a pile of clothes.

"These belonged to my father. They should fit.", she says, putting them down on a stool.

"I can also put these back on.", he suggests, tugging at his shirt and she looks at him, as if he grew a second head.

"What good will the bath be, if you change into your dirty clothes? No, no, I'll wash them tomorrow."

Before he could tell her that it won't be necessary, she already vanishes out of the room and shuts the door behind her.

Once he's finished and slipped into the new pair of clothes, that are slightly too big for him, but still good to wear, he steps out of the bathroom. While he was in there, she had prepared a spot to sleep for him. What he at first assumed was a sofa over at the wall, was in fact a bed. It didn't look like one before, with the amount of pillows she had thrown on. Must have been intentional.

With a full stomach and as clean as a baby, he drifts off to sleep faster than he had ever before. In the next morning, when they're both up and eating breakfast, the dance continues.

"I can't just send you off with dirty clothes. Let me wash them."

"Alright, ma'am."

Then in the noon, when the clothes are washed, he approaches her outside, the laundry basket on the ground beside her.

"And you're just gonna put on wet clothes? Nonsense, they need to dry first."

"Sounds fine to me, Miss."

The clothes take all day to dry in the sun and by the time they're done, it's suddenly too late to leave again. What terrible host would kick him out in the middle of the night, she'd argue yet a second time and Jack would just nod along in agreement.

The next day, when he catches her preparing a basket with vegetables and eggs, looking like she's about to leave, he steps in her way.

"You're walking?", he asks to which she nods. "Let me give you a ride on my horse."

She doesn't argue and with her hands full, she this time accepts his assistance. His calloused hands find her waist and he hoists her up onto horseback. The contact sends a jolt through his body and he hides his flushed face under the rim of his hat.

"How come you don't have any horses?", he questions, once they're on their way.

"I didn't have any money when I lost my family. Had to sell the horses and the wagon.", she explains in a matter of fact way.

Jack doesn't answer, but instead thinks about the wagon he has back on his ranch. It wouldn't be too difficult to transport all her chickens over to Beecher's Hope and then she'd never have to walk again. Her vegetable garden would need to be sacrificed though. Unless they fill the back of the wagon with dirt and dump the crops on it. Would that work?

On the third day, it's obvious that none of them want to say their goodbyes. The excuses become more ridiculous and shallow, until it's nothing but a running joke. Jack starts to help around the small farm and they develop a routine over time. They share the work and one day, after taking a bath, he stops to inspect his reflection in the mirror.

Staring back at him, isn't the stranger from weeks ago anymore. It's Jack Marston or more so a glimpse of the Jack Marston he could be, if he'd stay by her side. He still isn't a welcoming sight for sore eyes, he thinks. That mop on his head that he calls hair, still frames his face in a disheveled way. That nose, still crooked from the time he had broken it.

But the crease between his eyebrows isn't as deep anymore and the corners of his mouth aren't constantly pointing down. There are still remnants of his signature scowl, the Marston special that he has inherited from his father, but he looks closer to relaxed than to brooding.

When he steps into the main living area, he finds it empty. Jack turns his head to look through the window and finds his sweetheart sitting comfortable on the porch. It feels wrong to refer to her as his host at this point. If one would ask him, he'd call her his savior, his personal guardian angel, but she'd smack his arm at that.

So sweetheart it is, though she has no clue about the nickname. It's a secret between Jack and whoever is looking over him. He doesn't believe that he will ever have the guts to tell her how he feels. His gratitude for her generosity, patience and kindness, he tries to shower her in everyday. What she had done for him, is more than he could ever repay.

But he has also fallen for her. It was inevitable, really, from the day they met. The way she had appeared in his life, like a gift from the heavens, like a sweet apology for putting him through all hell. Jack had crushes before obviously, but none of them had hit him like this, like a freight train going at full speed.

Maybe he should have insisted on leaving, instead of allowing these things to develop, because he knows that he doesn't deserve her. She's too wonderful, too good. Guilt is gnawing at him, day in day out, because he still hasn't told her about the baggage he carries. It doesn't feel right to keep her in the dark, when she has been nothing but honest.

Sighing, he walks out and shuts the door behind him. She beams at him, delighted to see him and he could have screamed and punched the air right then and there. The setting sun drowns the farm in a deep orange and his knees go weak at the sight of her. Excitedly, she pats the spot next to her and he joins her on the wooden bench.

"I got us something from town. For a job well done.", she tells him and hands him a glass.

With a triumphant grin, she holds up a bottle of whisky and opens it up with a plop. He forces a smile when she fills up their glasses, not wanting to sour the mood, but she notices. She always does.

"What's wrong?", she asks and places a warm hand on his knee.

The contact makes it difficult to grasp a single clear thought and he downs his whisky for courage.

"I gotta confess something, Miss." He swallows the lump in his throat. "And I won't blame you, if you decide to hate me afterwards."

"I could never hate you, Jack Marston."

Just you wait.

And so he lays down all his cards, telling her exactly what he did and what had lead to it. From his father being forced to hunt down his former friends or more so family to Jack wandering along the river. He tells her about Edgar Ross, the reason why he has lost both his parents and that he's now floating somewhere in the San Luis River.

Unless he's been washed up to the shore or someone has fished him out, that is. By the end of it, he's gripping the glass like his life depends on it and he stares at his feet, unable to meet her gaze. The bench creaks softly when she leans back and the long stretched silence torments him.

"That's why you were so jumpy that day.", she speaks up after a while and he nods.

"I thought you were the law or something."

There is a long pause.

"He sounds like a bad man. This Ross. If you ask me, he kind of had it coming.", she then answers and his head snaps to the side. Her expression is one of confusion. "What?"

"You ain't upset?"

"Why would I be?"

"I killed a man and I kept that from you.", he points out and she takes a sip from her whisky.

"You really thought I didn't know that you did something wrong? Do you not remember what you looked like when we met?", she argues and he runs a hand over his face.

Hearing this, he's not sure if she's a saint or a fool.

"So you knew I was bad news and still took me in?", he questions, almost sounding accusatory.

"You weren't bad news. You were..." The liquor in her glass sloshes in circles, as she swirls it around. "Lost."

Lost.

She hit the mark with that description. Jack Marston was a lost soul during that time, wandering the border like a ghost that simply couldn't move on. This woman, his sweetheart, has taken him in, clothed and fed him. Now he's admitting that he's done one of the most horrible crimes one could think of and she's not even judging him a little bit.

No, she says that Edgar Ross had it coming. He doesn't know if he should laugh or cry or do both.

"Thank you. For everything.", is all he manages to bring out.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end at some point. He knows it, she knows it. It was only a matter of time until they had to part ways, with Beecher's Hope waiting for him back by Blackwater. The way she's standing by his horse and biting down on her lip, as if to prevent it from quivering.

"I'll write to you.", he says and wraps his arms around her.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He cups her cheeks and stares into her lovely face, memorizing every detail, before leaving. A voice deep within him demands to lean forward and kiss her, but he knows better. A kiss would make things harder and so he let's go.

She has packed food for him, for his journey back home. Calling it home doesn't sit right with him, not when it's abandoned and empty. After a long time of riding along dirt roads, he finally reaches it and it looks just as hopeless as it did the day he left to take revenge.

His boots sound hollow inside his house and he wrinkles his nose at the thick layer of dust that coats every piece of furniture. It's strange to be all alone again, to not hear her voice from the other room or feel her gentle touch on his back whenever she talked to him. There's also an alarming lack of plants in here, he now notices.

So at the next best opportunity, he goes out to town to buy pots. In Blackwater, he grows back to his jumpy self. He gets a sense that every pair of eyes is watching him, judging him. Have the news gotten around that Edgar Ross is dead? Has anyone found his body? Although terrified of the answer, he still buys a newspaper.

His eyes dart from article to article, but none covers the death of the retired Detective. Perhaps the river has carried his body away, to a place unknown or unreachable to man. God, he sure hopes so.

The following days, he busies himself, working hard to fix the house and the rest of the property. It's partly to distract himself from the sense of impending doom and partly, because he has gotten so used to the physical labour back on her farm. When he's not imagining to be gunned down by a group of armed lawmen coming for his hide, then his mind is filled with thoughts of her.

Sometimes he gets so lost in them, that he hears her laughter in the wind or sees her dress in the corner of his eyes. It drives him mad in the worst and best possible ways. At times, when he wakes up from a particularly realistic dream, he swears he could smell her cooking in the air.

Jack writes letters regularly, the moment he gets an answer from her. It tends to take a while, since she has to walk on foot to the next town, but he learned to be patient for her. He mainly writes about his work on the ranch, joking about how much he misses her home cooked meals. His dreams, thoughts and feelings, he keeps to himself though.

Some of her letters are partly written in Spanish in an attempt to teach him. During his stay at her farm, he had picked up a couple words, but she makes a point to continue the lessons. Oh, how he yearns to hear those sentences from her lips, to meet her again in general.

It torments him, this distance. He feels elevated thanks to her, but also more lonely than ever. One day, he tells himself that it's enough, that he must see her again otherwise he feels like he will perish. Though he can't just show up empty handed.

Should he get a bouquet of flowers? He knows what her favorite ones are, but they will whither and die by the times he gets there. Jewelry then? He has never seen her wear any, but that doesn't necessarily mean she doesn't like it.

No, none of them are enough. If he'd have any ounce of decency, then he'd take the moon and stars down for her, but alas that's out of his capabilities. Instead, he heads to town, buys the sturdiest Shire the stable has to offer and attaches it to his wagon. They could throw the chickens into the back and bring them here.

But what if she doesn't want move to him, to the states? Well, then both the Shire and wagon stay there. Jack can't stand the thought of having his sweetheart walk one more mile in this heat. On his way to her house, his mind is spinning and running laps. What will he say? Most importantly, what will he do?

He imagines scooping her up in his arms at her doorstep and kissing her senseless, like they do in those romance novels. Though something tells him that he should refrain from doing that. He has never been a ladies man and smooth is at the very bottom of his characteristics. If he'd attempt anything of that sort, they would both fall and probably break a limb or two, if he knows himself right.

The palms of his hands are growing clammy from sweat and his heart drums against his ribcage, when her house appears in the distance. He parks the wagon to the side and jumps off the driver's seat, kicking up some dust in the process. Nervous and fidgety, he takes off his hat and quickly pats down his dark hair to make it look like he at least put some effort into looking decent.

The chickens are outside, as always and some of them flock to his legs, having recognized him. Their presence has a strange relaxing effect of him and he takes in a deep breath, before knocking at the door. Nobody answers and he can't hear any movement coming from inside. So he slowly opens the door and pokes his head through the crack, while calling out her name.

No answer and he let's himself in. Surely, she won't mind after he had practically lived here for a month or two. Her basket is in it's usual spot, so she couldn't have gone into town. The gears in his head are working on overdrive, as he thinks about the many different possibilities. What if something happened to her during his absence?

Quickly, he banishes those grim thoughts and steels his nerves. Obviously she must have headed to the river then, to pick some of the herbs, she mentioned on their first meeting. As much as he'd prefer to avoid the river, his legs carry him towards it nonetheless.

Jack stops at a hill and gazes down at the shore. Someone is crouching down on the ground and cutting some plants free. His heart skips a beat at the sight and he finds himself unable to move a single muscle. She's beautiful, the way she kneels there, her dress pooling around her legs. How on earth he had gone without her, back at his ranch, is beyond him.

The thought of leaving her again seems oh so ridiculous now. Slowly, she rises back to her feet and he watches her stuff the herbs into her bag. The knife she's holding, she slides into some kind of holster attached to her belt and then she turns around. Their eyes lock and Jack forgets to breath for a moment.

A strong sense of déjà-vu overcomes him and he recalls the two of them standing here, not too long ago. Only now their spots are reversed and she's the one gawking at him, as if she had seen a ghost. The surprised expression on her face is quickly replaced by pure joy.

They both move at the same time and basically crash into each other for a bone crushing hug. Her fingers are digging into his back and he buries his face into the curve of her neck. Inhaling, he fills his nose with her scent and lets her overpower his senses entirely.

"You're here!", she exclaims in both shock and delight and they pull away to look at one another.

"I'm here."

Not knowing what possesses him, he slides one hand to the back of her neck, the other around her waist and presses his lips on hers. It was an instinct, kissing her, an act purely based on impulse. His emotions are boiling over and he pours it all into this moment.

She doesn't move and he fears that she will reject him, but then she grab the collar of his shirt, deepening the kiss. He melts into her, their bodies fitting together like two puzzle pieces.