Bucky Barnes Fanfic

Part 1 - Prologue

Part 2 - Poker Face

Part 3 - The Four

Part 4 -

Part 5 -

Part 6 -

Part 7 -

Part 8 -

Short Fiction Masterlist

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Bucky had no memory of the impact after he fell from where he was dropped by Doctor Doom during his encounter with him. According to the log written later by the crew on the rescue helicopter, that had scrambled to respond to accounts of a man free-falling from a high elevation, he plummeted past them before landing in a murky shallow lake that was more marsh than anything else. His body hitting the surface created an explosion of mud and water creating a temporary crater which immediately refilled with water as his body continued to sink and bury itself in the now-softened sediment.

With barely any chance to think about their actions, two of the crew leapt out of the helicopter which hovered over the impact site and without hesitation dove into the muddy water blindly searching for something to grab hold of. One of them, feeling the unusually hard shape of an arm, grasped it and tugged upwards with it, hoping that it was still attached to the man who had landed. His partner, who had risen up to the surface to take a breath went back down and together they pulled the lifeless deadweight form of the man away from the mud that threatened to suck him back down into its grip. It felt like an eternity but they quickly managed to bring him up to where another crewman had already prepared a basket stretcher.

They were all covered in a layer of silty grime that hid any visible signs of life in the fallen man when he suddenly opened his severely bloodshot eyes; a sight that the rescuers had nightmares about for some time. He had the audacity to gasp out several words before losing consciousness.

"I'm Bucky Barnes," he gasped. "Don't let me die."

The treadmill slowed down to a relatively easy pace of two miles per hour as the physiotherapist / trainer watched Bucky run. She noticed Sam entering the room and nodded at him then continued checking Bucky's responses on her iPad. Giving him the okay to end the session she entered some notes on her device, then waited for him to finish. Sam, who was now watching from the other side of the treadmill handed Bucky a towel, then a bottle of water as he carefully stepped off. The super soldier looked expectantly at her after he took several swallows, then with one hand began to peel off the sensors she used to track his vitals from his bare chest.

"Truthfully," she began. "On a scale of 1-10, with ten being the worst, how was the pain in your knees and don't try to downplay it? I know you have a high tolerance for pain."

"Walking is about a five all the time," he admitted. "Running is a ten, but only by the end of the run."

"I'm not surprised," she said. "You still have a full physical exam and psychological assessment to pass before they consider whether to let you return to the field. They'll be doing imaging on your knees and I suspect it's going to show that your bone structure is still compromised."

Bucky drained the water bottle, then wiped his face with the towel. "Can I still function in the field?"

"Not at the level you were at before," she stated. "Your recovery has been remarkable, even for a super soldier, but falling from over 50,000 feet of elevation has really tested your healing capabilities. Everything else is coming along but your knees and spine are still very fragile."

"So what's your recommendation?" he asked.

"Knee replacement with extensive physical therapy after if you insist on going back into the field, but it would be limited duties. Rest and don't overdue lifting for the spine. The alternative is that you retire from active service and give your whole body more time to heal. There's a chance that eventually you'll be up to the task. I'll write up my report and they'll have it before you undergo that final examination."

With a nod of her head, she picked up the discarded sensors and retreated to her desk, while Bucky watched her briefly before turning to Sam.

"You should ask her out," murmured his friend, still watching her. "She's nice looking."

"Not my type." Bucky started walking towards the locker room. "So why are you here? You about to complain about Walker or Alexei?"

"I could but what would be the point?" retorted Sam. "Seriously, how did you put up with those two? I mean Ava and Yelena are good operatives, and to be fair so are the other two when we're in the middle of a situation but outside of a mission ...?"

He rolled his eyes and mimicked putting his hands around someone's throat and choking them. It was a bit over dramatic but fitting that Sam should get a taste of what it had been like for Bucky trying to wrangle the Thunderbolts (a name the others preferred to the New Avengers one foisted on them by Val) into competency as an active response team.

"Well, they're your performers now, in your circus," said Bucky as he stopped in front of his locker and stripped down, then grabbed his shower caddy and towel. "To be honest, I've been thinking of retiring but if my knees are that bad then I can leave without people questioning my motives."

"You're really serious about retiring?" Sam followed him, then stayed at the doorway to the shower room, raising his voice once Bucky turned the water on. "We need a super soldier."

"You have Walker, Alexei, and don't forget Carol is still around," replied Bucky loudly as he washed his hair first. "You have the new kids, and you still have Shaun, plus the enhanced humans that don't have a universe to go back to, and the normal humans that punch well above their weight. Bob wants to stay because of Yelena. I'm really not needed anymore."

"Aw man, don't say that." Sam, his sigh audible even over the sound of the water. "All that time when we were fighting, I didn't think there would come a time when we weren't back together, side by side. We lost some good people. I don't want to lose one of the best."

"You almost lost me anyways," said Bucky, as he cleaned his body, then rinsed. Strange how easy this conversation felt when he was talking to a wall instead of directly to his friend's face. "I fell over 50,000 feet, Sam. I should have died from oxygen deprivation alone, never mind from the impact. It took a lot longer to recover from this than any other time I got hurt badly and I still have a ways to go." He grabbed his towel and dried himself off, then wrapped it around his hips and tucked the edge in. Sam was still leaning against the edge of the doorway, his arms folded against his chest. "I can't do it anymore. I feel it in my head, my heart and my gut."

Shifting from where he leaned, Sam breathed out audibly. "Well, I'm sorry to lose you." He noticed how Bucky frowned as he passed by. "As a colleague, not as a friend. I don't ever want to lose you as a friend and I mean that with all sincerity."

"Same here." Stopping at the lockers he looked back. "Join me for lunch? I'll pay."

"Can I meet you? I've got a quick budget meeting but we should be done by noon."

"Sure. Sam? Don't say anything to anyone yet. Let me get used to the idea."

"Absolutely." Sam squeezed Bucky's right shoulder. "I'll stand with you when you're ready."

They settled on meeting at a Brooklyn sports bar and Sam left the locker room. As soon as the door closed behind his friend, Bucky sat wearily on the bench and rubbed his knees, wincing at the pain he still felt in them. Even though he could suppress displaying it, the pain was bothersome. The doctors had already discussed full knee replacements for him but admitted it wouldn't be enough to make him physically fit enough to rejoin the Avengers. Shuri had some ideas about treatments to help the pain in his legs and back but the thought of voluntarily exchanging his flesh and bone legs for vibranium ones didn't appeal to him at all. Retiring didn't really upset him but it left him in the position of once more finding a new way of living in a modern world, and politics wasn't going to cut it.

Out on the street later, with his workout bag in hand, Bucky took his time walking towards the train station to take him back to his Brooklyn apartment. As he sat on a seat in the half-empty car, he went through options in his head, trying to rank what would be enough to keep him from losing his mind. Nothing jumped out at him by the time his stop came up and he headed down the steps feeling like he was missing something. A block away he saw a car stopped in the middle of the street with its hood up and a woman leaning against it while on her cell phone. As drivers beeped at her for blocking traffic she gave them the finger, and occasionally yelled out to ask why they wouldn't stop to help. Up close he could see it was a Toyota Avalon, a model no longer in production. There was something about the word, Avalon, that sounded familiar but before he could put any thought into it she saw him.

"Hey, how strong are you?" she asked, brushing her pale blonde hair aside from where it blew across her face. Without waiting for an answer, she gestured to her car. "I'm blocking traffic but no one has offered to help push it to a side street. Do you think you could push while I steer?"

"Sure," he said, taking more notice of her and wondering if he had ever seen her before. "Just how far are we talking?"

"Well, the next street if you don't really have the time. Two blocks to a garage if you do." She held up her phone. "The tow truck company wants a couple of hundred just to show up, then a charge to tow me there."

"Show me on a map where we're going," he said, coming closer. He looked at the location on her cell phone, recognizing the name of the place. "I can push you all the way."

"Yeah?" She put the phone back to her ear. "Never mind."

"Would you like me to take a look first and figure out what's wrong? It might be an easy temporary fix to get it going so you can drive there."

"You a licensed mechanic?"

"No, but I know enough to have an idea." He waited for her to answer. "At the least, you could pop the hood and try to start it."

She exhaled, then nodded and got inside, pulling the hood release control. He opened it the rest of the way, then quickly looked around it to where she waited.

"Go ahead, turn the key," he said. She tried it and he heard a single loud click. "Okay, shut it down. It's your starter. I will have to push you."

He lowered the hood and latched it, then went to the back of her car, placing his bag on the surface of the trunk. Once she put it into neutral he began pushing. It put some stress on his knees but it was bearable and they were soon on their way. As he pushed the vehicle onto the lot, one of the mechanics came out and guided the driver on where to park it. He looked at Bucky for an explanation, who gestured to the woman. She told him what happened then added that Bucky had a look under the hood and thought it was the starter. After doing the same thing, the mechanic put the hood down.

"Yeah, sounds like it," he confirmed. "We'll hook it up to the computer and confirm but this is a what, 2021 model?" She nodded. "Yeah, they're known for that. Might be a few other issues as well but if it's still under warranty some of those may be covered by your dealership."

"Sound good." She turned to Bucky and stuck out her hand towards him. "Thanks so much for you help. I got it now."

It was a polite dismissal and he left after shaking her hand. He didn't even mention it to Sam when they met for lunch. In a way, it confirmed that the rescue business really didn't care what happened after, further reinforcing Bucky's belief that he needed to think of something new to do with his life.

The CT scan taken as part of his physical exam confirmed his legs were still damaged and likely unable to handle the stress of being an Avenger. It also indicated the trauma to his spinal cord was still repairing itself and they couldn't even guess at a timeline of how long that would take. After asking if he could ever do anything physical the three specialists that had been tasked with his assessment looked carefully at each other.

"If it was just a matter of lifting or pushing things around, your body could handle it. But fighting or jumping from heights or being blown around by explosions will set you back and possibly permanently disable you." The doctor tasked with giving him the bad news didn't try to sugar coat it. "You survived a fall that was almost twice the height of what the previous record holder survived, and she was partially cushioned by being in the tail end of the aircraft she was in. You didn't have that and your body took all of the impact. The serum kept you alive long enough to get you to a trauma centre. But your body isn't the same anymore because it appears your ability to regenerate has been severely compromised. Sergeant Barnes, we think the universe is telling you that it's time to leave saving the world to someone else and to try something new."

With a copy of their report given to him Bucky prepared himself for the final part of the process, the psychological assessment. Its conclusion was better although it didn't start out that way. Bucky had managed his PTSD and depression for years. The psychologist who sat across from him now truthfully told him there was a concern that this setback could plunge him into a major emotional crisis. Then she stopped and waited for him to assure her that he would manage. Instead, he agreed with her.

"I worry about that often," he admitted, then he looked her in the eyes. "Once before I tried to do something else and I wasn't good at it so I took the path of least resistance and went right back into the superhero business. Honestly, I'm tired of the fighting, and always being on call, of always being "on." What do they call it now?" She waited. "Burnout. I don't want to to do it anymore."

"Do you feel like giving up completely?" She didn't say the "s" word, but Bucky knew that's what she meant, as he had expressed to her right from the start that she be as honest as possible with him.

"No, I want to live but I want to do something that will make me happy." He smirked a little. "I'm open to suggestions."

"Were you ever happy?" She looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "Let me rephrase that. Were you ever in a state where you were satisfied with yourself?"

He took the time she offered him then he nodded. "Yeah, there was a time when I felt good and at peace with everything. If I could feel like that again, I could be happy with how things turned out."

It wasn't a big epiphany or a flash of inspiration but the memory he had brought up was something that he could aspire to. He could buy a little piece of land somewhere and get a couple of goats, some chickens, and find the calm he felt in Wakanda all those years ago. It seemed simple enough but it wasn't the complete answer. The therapist cautioned him about deliberately isolating himself. It was the same old story; trying to find someone compatible with his mostly introverted ways.

With all the reports in, the day finally came when the official retirement announcement was officially made. Bucky put up with the party the Avengers held for him, even though it was loud, with way too many people, held in one of those sports bars that was curated to evoke memories of events that happened long before anyone else there were even born. He even half-heartedly went along with the attempt at setting him up with a very attractive friend of a friend of Sam's. The initial physical attraction between them was enough to stop Bucky from making a face at his friend for once again trying to set him up. Her rich auburn hair reminded Bucky of someone, somewhere; maybe it was a WAC during World War II. He never did remember exactly who.

They talked and laughed and danced together most of the night, then shared an Uber to her place but before Bucky agreed to stay the night, he gently told her that he wasn't looking for anything more than casual. As he tried to explain how he was at a crossroads and that it was his intent to leave the city, she cupped one side of his face with her hand as they sat in the back seat. She studied him with a look that was both understanding and disappointed, then she kissed him goodbye on his cheek, and wished him luck at finding himself in his new life. Before he could get out of the ride share car and open her door she was already out on the sidewalk and let herself into her building without a backwards glance.

The waiting Uber driver asked if Bucky wanted to book him for the ride back to his place but he shook his head and stepped out of the vehicle, deciding to walk for a while. It had rained while his party was underway and everything was still damp but warm in the way cities are because they retain the heat. Enveloped in the twisting wisps of steam that wafted up from the pavement, it felt close and humid as he walked. Memories of times when he walked the streets of Brooklyn as a young man came to mind; memories that were much more authentic than the ones the sports bar attempted to induce. He was almost home before it occurred to him that he had just said goodbye to Brooklyn.

Five weeks later, Bucky stood in the front yard of a farmhouse, about 120 miles north of New York City at the northern edge of the Catskills. It was originally built in 1890, with extensions added in 1917, and 1950, then fully renovated in 1986. With the most recent work it had four bedrooms, kitchen, dining room, living room, two and half bathrooms, laundry room, double garage, a good well and an updated septic system. On the 12 acre rolling landscape there was a full barn, built in the 1990s to replace the original one, with an attached woodshop at one end; a shed from the original farm that held a riding lawnmower and plow attachment for a truck. The fully fenced property held mature trees, pasture and a half-acre pond, and a view that would be spectacular no matter which season. The area was zoned for active or hobby farming. If Bucky wanted to have goats and chickens and barn cats and a big goofy dog to walk the property with him, he could. If he wanted to make goat cheese to sell he could make small batches in his kitchen. For now, he would make cheese for himself and see if he still had the skills he learned in Wakanda. He made the offer to buy the property after he walked through the house, with closing as soon as possible.

Several of the Avengers helped him move, bringing a large rental truck to the storage locker that held the furniture he had to buy to make the house look lived in. Bucky bought a truck for himself, packing all of his personal items in it; his books, records, and clothing. Everyone who helped him move stayed overnight, bringing sleeping bags so they wouldn't leave him with a huge pile of bedding to launder after. Dinner and breakfast were communal, with lots of beer, stories and laughter that reminded Bucky of good times with the Howling Commandos. In the morning they began leaving for the two hour drive back to the city, until only Sam and Joaquin were left. The younger man was surprised when Bucky gave him a heartfelt hug.

"Thanks for coming. You help Sam keep everyone in line."

"I will, Bucky," replied Joaquin. He reached out for Sam's go bag then looked around the kitchen. "You have a really nice place here."

With a grin, he went out the door to where Sam's truck was parked and waited for the two good friends to say their goodbyes. Inside the kitchen, Bucky tried to find something to keep his hands busy but the others had already washed all the dishes and put them away. Even his cupboards, fridge and pantry had been organized the night before.

"You still have wifi out here, right?" asked Sam.

"Yeah, I do. We can do a weekly check in or something." He looked down at his hands, surprised to see he was twisting the dish towel and straightened it out, then hung it up. Sam watched him carefully. "I'm going to be okay."

"You'll be alone."

"Yeah, but I'm going to be part of the community. They have a weekly farmer's market and I already checked out the web page. Once I build a paddock, I can buy some goats and get into cheese making. I'll try my hand at some woodworking. They have the same Congressman from when I was in Washington, and I met him a few times. He was okay." He breathed out then smiled grimly at Sam. "I won't be a hermit. I promise." He stuck his hand out. "Go on now. Joaquin is waiting on you."

Sam grasped his hand and pulled him close for a hug. "I love you, man," he said, gruffly. "You better keep in touch."

"I love you, too, Sam," replied Bucky. "I will, I promise."

Stepping away from each other, they went outside. Bucky stayed on the porch as Sam got into the truck and started it up. Both he and Joaquin waved goodbye, then the truck was put into gear and headed towards the quiet road that went past Bucky's place. He watched them until they were out of sight. Now he really was alone.

Over the next few weeks Bucky eased into the community. He did a walkthrough of his property, finding lots of gnarled deadwood that could be turned into bowls, if he taught himself how to do that. Inspecting the fence revealed a few spots that needed repair. He figured out the dimensions of the paddock he wanted to build, and wood and wire fencing needed for that, as well as an auger for the post holes, quick setting concrete to keep them in place, and other odds and ends to make some repairs. On the first visit to Dahl & Sons Hardware, he felt the eyes on him as he browsed first before approaching the counter and putting his list down. The other customers didn't approach but they did listen in.

The owner tilted his head down a little to look at him over his reading glasses. "Looks like you're doing fence repairs there," he commented. "You also building an enclosure for goats? They aren't the easiest animals to take care of."

"I know," replied Bucky. "It's been a while but I had about a dozen before and this worked pretty well to keep them from wandering. Of course, all it took was one to keep testing the weak spots before I'd come out in the morning to find them spread over half the village, eating people's gardens."

"Yup, that's goats for ya." He put his hand out. "Frank Dahl, Jr. I'm the son in Dahl & Sons."

"Bucky Barnes." They shook hands.

"We heard a rumour it was you who bought the Westfield's farm. Shame about the son not wanting the farm after his father died."

"Guess the rumour was true." Bucky looked steadily at him. "I'm retired from the Avengers and I just want to live a quiet life."

"Well, you'll get that here, most of the time." He looked back down at the list. "Let me call Darryl to help you get everything together and write it up. Most places of business are open 8 to 5, Monday to Saturday, closed on Sundays. The farmer's market is open all day Saturday and Sunday until the fall when it's just Saturdays in the community hall until the snow flies."

"Thanks," said Bucky, finding the exchange a little odd.

Darryl, a pudgy thirty-something guy with thinning hair came out of the back room and looked over the list, frowning a little as he read it. He looked over to Bucky first then at one of the customers.

"That soil is pretty sandy and might not support your concrete as it sets. Chuck, do you still have those extra concrete forms that you didn't use?"

"Yeah." He looked at Bucky. "I can sell 'em outright to you if you want or we can trade services. You're pretty strong, right?" Bucky nodded, figuring out where this was headed. "Help me out with some heavy lifting and they're yours."

"How heavy are we talking?"

"Twenty hay bales, about 75-100 lbs each." He reached for his back. "Strained it a couple of weeks ago and the doc said I should limit my lifting."

Bucky almost laughed out loud but he was new and this was them assessing whether he would fit in.

"I have a bad back myself but I'll do what I can."

"Sounds good. You don't need to buy an auger. I have a power one that you can borrow anytime. Just fill it up with gas when you return it."

With that settled, Bucky drove his truck into the enclosed yard, joining Darryl in picking out the right fence posts, the rolls of wire, bags of concrete and all the other assorted items other than what Chuck would provide. Darryl said he would pass the word that help was needed and once Bucky was ready to do the work he could depend on others to come out.

The next day, he drove to Chuck's farm and easily stacked the hay bales from the yard into the barn. Together the two men placed the empty concrete forms into Bucky's truck, along with the power auger, strapping everything down. Chuck's wife Beverley came out with a big plate of sandwiches and iced tea for them, which they ate at a picnic table under a big oak tree. She commented about the goats, asking Bucky what his plans were for them.

"Making cheese," he said. "When I lived in Wakanda I had goats and made cheese for the village I lived in. They told me it was good."

"Goat cheese is a good product," she nodded. "People with allergies to cow's milk will probably like it. When you're ready we can sell it from our table at the farmer's market, just until you build up a clientele. Helps to have some samples ready for the people who come out from the city. Get a sign made up that talks about the health benefits. Vivi Hill can do any signage you want. She does most of it for everyone in the area, plus her brother Marcus makes metal art like weather vanes or decorative signs for the farms. You should talk to her."

It was good advice and Bucky got the sign maker's contact information from Beverley. They walked him to the truck where he was surprised by the presence of a young blue-eyed white cat sprawled on the front passenger seat of his truck who didn't seem bothered with his presence. Beverley looked inside and grinned back at him.

"I think you have a cat."

"I don't need a cat," he replied. "Apparently there are three already in the barn."

"Doesn't matter." Through the window she moved her hand towards the now awake feline, receiving a growl in return. "This one never did warm up to me, Chuck or the kids. She seems to like you, so you might as well take her."

He offered his hand to the cat, receiving a polite sniff, then a bump from its head to his hand. With a little huff, he realized that Beverley was right. The cat had decided to be with him. With a quickly made list of what he needed for it, and a reminder to visit the vet for vaccinations and spaying, he got into the driver's side, started up the truck and drove home with a cat that fell back asleep before he even left the couple's yard.

With everything ready for building the paddock, Bucky set a day in the middle of the following week, since the weekends were taken up by the farmer's markets, and was pleasantly surprised when half a dozen men showed up. Three of them, including Chuck, brought their wives who insisted on cooking up some lunch for the men.

Bucky soon realized the women weren't just there to provide lunch; they were on a mission to learn all they could about him that wasn't already public knowledge. Managing to find out he liked to read, listen to old music, was once a good dancer, currently very single, wasn't affected by alcohol, and had a lot of physical stamina, none of them were fully prepared when the day got warm and several of the men took their shirts off, revealing an assortment of physiques. Bucky debated about doing the same then realized it was probably better to get it over with sooner rather than later. No doubt they were all curious about the arm.

The moment his shirt was peeled off Beverley dropped a large sealed plastic bowl of Cole slaw, staring at Bucky as if it was the first time she ever saw a man without a shirt. While he draped the shirt over the stacked pile of cut wood, Rita and Shelley turned around to see what had affected their neighbour and had to sit down, with their mouths hanging open. Chuck and the other men, who noted the reaction of the women, looked at Bucky and began laughing.

"Um, maybe I should put my shirt back on," murmured the super soldier, reaching for it.

"Nope," said Rita's husband, Ted. "I figure by the look on my wife's face, I'm going to bed early tonight and not getting much sleep. It's the 2022 Green County firefighters' calendar all over again." Bucky frowned at him. "Ask me another time about that. Once those three get over the shock of your attributes they'll be coming up with a plan to find the right woman for you. Someone built like you shouldn't be left unattended."

The other men nodded their heads in agreement.

"I'm not really looking," said Bucky.

"You gay?" asked Chuck. "They can find you the right guy if that's what you prefer."

"What? No, I'm just not ready to date."

"Don't matter," said Ted. "I know that look and you're now a project. Might as well get used to being objectified."

It was a prophetic warning. At the farmer's market he noticed how many of the female vendors introduced themselves to him. It was all perfectly proper as many were married, but he could tell that the fix was in when several made sure to introduce him to the single women helping in their booth, of which there seemed to be many more than usual. He was about to abandon his visit to the market when Beverley called him over to their vegetable stall where a black couple stood. The man watched him approach then nudged the woman until she turned to face the super soldier. It was like feeling the sun come out from behind a cloud. She was beautiful.

"Bucky, this is Marcus Hill and his sister Vivi," said Beverley, warmly. "They have a shop in Platt River where Marcus makes all sorts of metal art pieces, weather vanes, signs for businesses and farms. Vivi is that commercial artist I told you about, but she also does her own pieces and sells them in the touristy stores in the area. This is Bucky Barnes. He bought the Westfield farm and plans to raise goats for cheese making."

"Bucky." Marcus, who was as tall as Bucky but not quite as broad across the shoulders, seemed friendly. He had a strong handshake. "Pleased to meet you. If you get your business going I hope you come see me about a sign for the farm. Vivi can help design and create any pamphlets or printed signage for your cheese."

"Yeah, I'll definitely come see you," said Bucky, trying not to stare at Vivi but feeling like he had seen her before. "Have we met?"

She smiled but shook her head. "No, unless you passed me in the street in the city. I've had a couple of showings there. I stick pretty close to home."

After a few more pleasantries, the brother and sister walked away, although Vivi did look back and wave at Bucky. He watched her until she disappeared into the crowded market.

"She's very single," said Beverley who was then distracted by a tourist asking about their heritage carrots.

That night Bucky called Sam and told him he met someone. He couldn't tell him anything more than her name and what she did for a living but admitted meeting her had stirred up something from deep inside the stoic super soldier. For that alone, Sam was happy for his friend.

After that first introduction, Bucky saw Vivi frequently; at the hardware store, at the regular market in Platt River, even at the gas station in passing. Each encounter felt too brief, as if something prevented them from having more than a quick hello and goodbye. Perhaps it was because each encounter happened in a crowd with curious onlookers who watched carefully for the briefest glimpse of a connection; something that could be shared as gossip. It wasn't until the most recent encounter, when Bucky was on the main highway and noticed Vivi at the side of the road with two flat tires on her car, while she was on her cell phone, that something changed. Pulling over ahead of her, he backed up and came out of the truck. The look of relief on her face made something warm bloom inside him.

"I'm so glad you stopped," she said. "I've been trying to get a tow truck for half an hour but there must be a convention somewhere as they're all busy." She gestured to her car. "One tire went flat as I drove and when I stopped I must have gone over a nail or something as it went flat while I watched it."

"You have a spare?" he asked. She nodded. "I'll change that one, then we can get that flat repaired and I'll bring you back and change the other one out. You can drop the other one off at the garage in Platt River."

"I don't want to tie you up," she began, then she got flustered. "I mean, you must have something better to do."

"No, I got all my out of town errands done. I'm yours." He grinned before rephrasing it. "I'm at your service for however long this takes."

Once back on the road with her one flat tire, Bucky stole a glance at her, liking how it felt to have her sitting beside him in the cab of his truck. He saw how she glanced back at him several times, since his peripheral vision was still better than the average person.

"What do you know about the 2022 Green County firefighters' calendar?" he asked. She choked a little at the question. "It was something Ted said to me but he keeps pretending he doesn't know what I'm referring to."

"It was a fundraising venture for the fire department towards the cost of a new pumper truck," she began. "That was the year we had several very fit and handsome young men who stepped up to be volunteer firefighters." She stopped, seeming to think over her words. "Let's just say that nine months after the calendar came out there was an increase in the number of births in the county. That increase didn't start to drop for several months, about the same length of time it took for the calendar to sell out nine months before." She looked sideways at him, noticing how he still seemed puzzled. "You're going to make me explain it completely, aren't you?"

"I'm not going to make you do anything," he answered. "But I'm new here and it was brought up after I took my shirt off because it was hot outside. Beverley dropped the Cole slaw and the other two women were ...." His voice trailed off. "Are you saying the calendar made the women in the county more likely to ... sleep around?"

"Not sleep around with other men," she corrected. "This is still a very conservative county even though there are a lot of progressive people here. I can count on one hand the number of people in an open marriage and there's only one confirmed polycule. But they work hard and sometimes things keep getting pushed to the back burner to deal with sick farm animals, fence repairs, or getting their products prepared for the next farmer's market. No other fundraising calendar produced since then has had an effect like that one did." She looked at him longer. "You must have quite the physique to have Ted Pulaski bringing up the calendar."

"So, having sex is a bad thing for the farmers?"

Her smile stuck with him. "No, as far as I know they all have the healthiest respect for it. They just don't always have the time and when a calendar moment happens, it kind of upsets their schedule. How many of the wives saw you with your shirt off?"

"Three. Beverley, Rita and Shelley." The nod of her head indicated she wasn't surprised. "Ted said I was their next project because I couldn't be left unattended."

That made Vivi laugh out loud and she turned so that she was leaning against the passenger side door, watching him carefully.

"I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"They set us up. I mean I suspected it after that introduction at the farmer's market but it's pretty obvious. There aren't many black people in this county and the ones they tried to set me up with before were ...." She put her hand out flat and wavered it back and forth. "They've been hesitant about setting me up with a white guy because they don't want to expose me to a closet racist. You and Captain America are best friends, so they figured you're not like that. They've been pretty respectful of you because ... let's face it, you almost died trying to save humanity, more than once. But if they get you married to someone from the county, then you truly become one of us."

"Even with my past." He pulled over to a rest stop and put the truck into Park, taking a few moments to consider his words. "I've been alone mostly by choice, because I've done terrible things and I don't want how some people still react to that be directed to someone I care about. It's made me wonder what they see in me to be so friendly with me."

"They are good people who believe that everyone has a right to living a good life with someone they love. Some of them have pasts that they are still making amends for. They'll respect your privacy but still show up at your door with a cooked meal because you haven't been seen in 24 hours and they're worried about you." She looked at her hands which were folded in her lap. "Marcus and I were adopted by an older couple who lived near Platt River. Our mother was an addict that hitched a ride with them. They weren't going to leave a lone woman walking along the highway late at night with a baby and a toddler in tow. They offered her a room in their home until she could get on her feet. She left before morning and we never saw her again. The Hills got themselves approved as a foster placement, then adopted us legally as soon as they could. They were the best parents we could have ever hoped for. They proudly supported us through school, paid for our college education and when Marcus came out, they put up a Pride flag with another flag that said, "Love lives here." If you want my advice it would be to just let that part of your life go, and open yourself up to the idea that there is someone to build a new life with."

Her words reverberated in his head; as they were familiar in a way that wasn't a coincidence but he had no idea when or where he heard them before. So much of his life was spent under the brutal control of people who wanted to use him as a weapon. Then he used his abilities to make the world safer, almost dying in the process. Now, he was here, in this rural area of New York State, seemingly in another circus not of his making. The strange thing was that he hadn't been stressed or unhappy at all in the few weeks since he got here. Right from the start people had been open, offering their time and help to him, and making him feel like he belonged. Sitting next to him in his truck, was a beautiful woman that he felt a connection with from the moment they met.

"Where do people who live in the county go on dates?"

She smiled. "There are a few pretentious restaurants of the farm to fork variety but everyone will know that you've been there and with who. Same with the bars in the smaller towns. I could invite you to our place for dinner but Marcus and his boyfriend will sit there and make fun of us." Turning her eyes to his, she gazed at him. "I could come to your place. We can cook a meal together, listen to music, and dance without anyone critiquing our style." She hesitated for a moment. "That is, if it was me you were asking about."

His face softened. "It was. Would you like to come over for dinner, listen to music and watch the sun set over the pond as we dance?"

"I would love to."

"6 pm?" She nodded. "I have to warn you that my cat, Alpine, isn't the friendliest."

"Is that the white cat that used to belong to Beverley and Chuck?" He grinned. "It's okay since I kind of get along with her. Marcus is allergic so we couldn't have her as a pet. I'm glad she found her person."

Starting the truck up again, he drove to the closest garage and waited while they fixed Vivi's tire, then drove her back to her car and changed out the second tire. They stood at the side of the road for a few minutes after, looking at each other without speaking then Bucky opened the driver's side door for her and waited for her to get inside. He watched her drive away, filled with the belief that something wonderful was about to start. Maybe he really was becoming one of them.

Thinking of making this a series.

One Shots Masterlist

Bucky had no memory of the impact after he fell from where he was dropped by Doctor Doom during his encounter with him. According to the log written later by the crew on the rescue helicopter, that had scrambled to respond to accounts of a man free-falling from a high elevation, he plummeted past them before landing in a murky shallow lake that was more marsh than anything else. His body hitting the surface created an explosion of mud and water creating a temporary crater which immediately refilled with water as his body continued to sink and bury itself in the now-softened sediment.

With barely any chance to think about their actions, two of the crew leapt out of the helicopter which hovered over the impact site and without hesitation dove into the muddy water blindly searching for something to grab hold of. One of them, feeling the unusually hard shape of an arm, grasped it and tugged upwards with it, hoping that it was still attached to the man who had landed. His partner, who had risen up to the surface to take a breath went back down and together they pulled the lifeless deadweight form of the man away from the mud that threatened to suck him back down into its grip. It felt like an eternity but they quickly managed to bring him up to where another crewman had already prepared a basket stretcher.

They were all covered in a layer of silty grime that hid any visible signs of life in the fallen man when he suddenly opened his severely bloodshot eyes; a sight that the rescuers had nightmares about for some time. He had the audacity to gasp out several words before losing consciousness.

"I'm Bucky Barnes," he gasped. "Don't let me die."

The treadmill slowed down to a relatively easy pace of two miles per hour as the physiotherapist / trainer watched Bucky run. She noticed Sam entering the room and nodded at him then continued checking Bucky's responses on her iPad. Giving him the okay to end the session she entered some notes on her device, then waited for him to finish. Sam, who was now watching from the other side of the treadmill handed Bucky a towel, then a bottle of water as he carefully stepped off. The super soldier looked expectantly at her after he took several swallows, then with one hand began to peel off the sensors she used to track his vitals from his bare chest.

"Truthfully," she began. "On a scale of 1-10, with ten being the worst, how was the pain in your knees and don't try to downplay it? I know you have a high tolerance for pain."

"Walking is about a five all the time," he admitted. "Running is a ten, but only by the end of the run."

"I'm not surprised," she said. "You still have a full physical exam and psychological assessment to pass before they consider whether to let you return to the field. They'll be doing imaging on your knees and I suspect it's going to show that your bone structure is still compromised."

Bucky drained the water bottle, then wiped his face with the towel. "Can I still function in the field?"

"Not at the level you were at before," she stated. "Your recovery has been remarkable, even for a super soldier, but falling from over 50,000 feet of elevation has really tested your healing capabilities. Everything else is coming along but your knees and spine are still very fragile."

"So what's your recommendation?" he asked.

"Knee replacement with extensive physical therapy after if you insist on going back into the field, but it would be limited duties. Rest and don't overdue lifting for the spine. The alternative is that you retire from active service and give your whole body more time to heal. There's a chance that eventually you'll be up to the task. I'll write up my report and they'll have it before you undergo that final examination."

With a nod of her head, she picked up the discarded sensors and retreated to her desk, while Bucky watched her briefly before turning to Sam.

"You should ask her out," murmured his friend, still watching her. "She's nice looking."

"Not my type." Bucky started walking towards the locker room. "So why are you here? You about to complain about Walker or Alexei?"

"I could but what would be the point?" retorted Sam. "Seriously, how did you put up with those two? I mean Ava and Yelena are good operatives, and to be fair so are the other two when we're in the middle of a situation but outside of a mission ...?"

He rolled his eyes and mimicked putting his hands around someone's throat and choking them. It was a bit over dramatic but fitting that Sam should get a taste of what it had been like for Bucky trying to wrangle the Thunderbolts (a name the others preferred to the New Avengers one foisted on them by Val) into competency as an active response team.

"Well, they're your performers now, in your circus," said Bucky as he stopped in front of his locker and stripped down, then grabbed his shower caddy and towel. "To be honest, I've been thinking of retiring but if my knees are that bad then I can leave without people questioning my motives."

"You're really serious about retiring?" Sam followed him, then stayed at the doorway to the shower room, raising his voice once Bucky turned the water on. "We need a super soldier."

"You have Walker, Alexei, and don't forget Carol is still around," replied Bucky loudly as he washed his hair first. "You have the new kids, and you still have Shaun, plus the enhanced humans that don't have a universe to go back to, and the normal humans that punch well above their weight. Bob wants to stay because of Yelena. I'm really not needed anymore."

"Aw man, don't say that." Sam, his sigh audible even over the sound of the water. "All that time when we were fighting, I didn't think there would come a time when we weren't back together, side by side. We lost some good people. I don't want to lose one of the best."

"You almost lost me anyways," said Bucky, as he cleaned his body, then rinsed. Strange how easy this conversation felt when he was talking to a wall instead of directly to his friend's face. "I fell over 50,000 feet, Sam. I should have died from oxygen deprivation alone, never mind from the impact. It took a lot longer to recover from this than any other time I got hurt badly and I still have a ways to go." He grabbed his towel and dried himself off, then wrapped it around his hips and tucked the edge in. Sam was still leaning against the edge of the doorway, his arms folded against his chest. "I can't do it anymore. I feel it in my head, my heart and my gut."

Shifting from where he leaned, Sam breathed out audibly. "Well, I'm sorry to lose you." He noticed how Bucky frowned as he passed by. "As a colleague, not as a friend. I don't ever want to lose you as a friend and I mean that with all sincerity."

"Same here." Stopping at the lockers he looked back. "Join me for lunch? I'll pay."

"Can I meet you? I've got a quick budget meeting but we should be done by noon."

"Sure. Sam? Don't say anything to anyone yet. Let me get used to the idea."

"Absolutely." Sam squeezed Bucky's right shoulder. "I'll stand with you when you're ready."

They settled on meeting at a Brooklyn sports bar and Sam left the locker room. As soon as the door closed behind his friend, Bucky sat wearily on the bench and rubbed his knees, wincing at the pain he still felt in them. Even though he could suppress displaying it, the pain was bothersome. The doctors had already discussed full knee replacements for him but admitted it wouldn't be enough to make him physically fit enough to rejoin the Avengers. Shuri had some ideas about treatments to help the pain in his legs and back but the thought of voluntarily exchanging his flesh and bone legs for vibranium ones didn't appeal to him at all. Retiring didn't really upset him but it left him in the position of once more finding a new way of living in a modern world, and politics wasn't going to cut it.

Out on the street later, with his workout bag in hand, Bucky took his time walking towards the train station to take him back to his Brooklyn apartment. As he sat on a seat in the half-empty car, he went through options in his head, trying to rank what would be enough to keep him from losing his mind. Nothing jumped out at him by the time his stop came up and he headed down the steps feeling like he was missing something. A block away he saw a car stopped in the middle of the street with its hood up and a woman leaning against it while on her cell phone. As drivers beeped at her for blocking traffic she gave them the finger, and occasionally yelled out to ask why they wouldn't stop to help. Up close he could see it was a Toyota Avalon, a model no longer in production. There was something about the word, Avalon, that sounded familiar but before he could put any thought into it she saw him.

"Hey, how strong are you?" she asked, brushing her pale blonde hair aside from where it blew across her face. Without waiting for an answer, she gestured to her car. "I'm blocking traffic but no one has offered to help push it to a side street. Do you think you could push while I steer?"

"Sure," he said, taking more notice of her and wondering if he had ever seen her before. "Just how far are we talking?"

"Well, the next street if you don't really have the time. Two blocks to a garage if you do." She held up her phone. "The tow truck company wants a couple of hundred just to show up, then a charge to tow me there."

"Show me on a map where we're going," he said, coming closer. He looked at the location on her cell phone, recognizing the name of the place. "I can push you all the way."

"Yeah?" She put the phone back to her ear. "Never mind."

"Would you like me to take a look first and figure out what's wrong? It might be an easy temporary fix to get it going so you can drive there."

"You a licensed mechanic?"

"No, but I know enough to have an idea." He waited for her to answer. "At the least, you could pop the hood and try to start it."

She exhaled, then nodded and got inside, pulling the hood release control. He opened it the rest of the way, then quickly looked around it to where she waited.

"Go ahead, turn the key," he said. She tried it and he heard a single loud click. "Okay, shut it down. It's your starter. I will have to push you."

He lowered the hood and latched it, then went to the back of her car, placing his bag on the surface of the trunk. Once she put it into neutral he began pushing. It put some stress on his knees but it was bearable and they were soon on their way. As he pushed the vehicle onto the lot, one of the mechanics came out and guided the driver on where to park it. He looked at Bucky for an explanation, who gestured to the woman. She told him what happened then added that Bucky had a look under the hood and thought it was the starter. After doing the same thing, the mechanic put the hood down.

"Yeah, sounds like it," he confirmed. "We'll hook it up to the computer and confirm but this is a what, 2021 model?" She nodded. "Yeah, they're known for that. Might be a few other issues as well but if it's still under warranty some of those may be covered by your dealership."

"Sound good." She turned to Bucky and stuck out her hand towards him. "Thanks so much for you help. I got it now."

It was a polite dismissal and he left after shaking her hand. He didn't even mention it to Sam when they met for lunch. In a way, it confirmed that the rescue business really didn't care what happened after, further reinforcing Bucky's belief that he needed to think of something new to do with his life.

The CT scan taken as part of his physical exam confirmed his legs were still damaged and likely unable to handle the stress of being an Avenger. It also indicated the trauma to his spinal cord was still repairing itself and they couldn't even guess at a timeline of how long that would take. After asking if he could ever do anything physical the three specialists that had been tasked with his assessment looked carefully at each other.

"If it was just a matter of lifting or pushing things around, your body could handle it. But fighting or jumping from heights or being blown around by explosions will set you back and possibly permanently disable you." The doctor tasked with giving him the bad news didn't try to sugar coat it. "You survived a fall that was almost twice the height of what the previous record holder survived, and she was partially cushioned by being in the tail end of the aircraft she was in. You didn't have that and your body took all of the impact. The serum kept you alive long enough to get you to a trauma centre. But your body isn't the same anymore because it appears your ability to regenerate has been severely compromised. Sergeant Barnes, we think the universe is telling you that it's time to leave saving the world to someone else and to try something new."

With a copy of their report given to him Bucky prepared himself for the final part of the process, the psychological assessment. Its conclusion was better although it didn't start out that way. Bucky had managed his PTSD and depression for years. The psychologist who sat across from him now truthfully told him there was a concern that this setback could plunge him into a major emotional crisis. Then she stopped and waited for him to assure her that he would manage. Instead, he agreed with her.

"I worry about that often," he admitted, then he looked her in the eyes. "Once before I tried to do something else and I wasn't good at it so I took the path of least resistance and went right back into the superhero business. Honestly, I'm tired of the fighting, and always being on call, of always being "on." What do they call it now?" She waited. "Burnout. I don't want to to do it anymore."

"Do you feel like giving up completely?" She didn't say the "s" word, but Bucky knew that's what she meant, as he had expressed to her right from the start that she be as honest as possible with him.

"No, I want to live but I want to do something that will make me happy." He smirked a little. "I'm open to suggestions."

"Were you ever happy?" She looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "Let me rephrase that. Were you ever in a state where you were satisfied with yourself?"

He took the time she offered him then he nodded. "Yeah, there was a time when I felt good and at peace with everything. If I could feel like that again, I could be happy with how things turned out."

It wasn't a big epiphany or a flash of inspiration but the memory he had brought up was something that he could aspire to. He could buy a little piece of land somewhere and get a couple of goats, some chickens, and find the calm he felt in Wakanda all those years ago. It seemed simple enough but it wasn't the complete answer. The therapist cautioned him about deliberately isolating himself. It was the same old story; trying to find someone compatible with his mostly introverted ways.

With all the reports in, the day finally came when the official retirement announcement was officially made. Bucky put up with the party the Avengers held for him, even though it was loud, with way too many people, held in one of those sports bars that was curated to evoke memories of events that happened long before anyone else there were even born. He even half-heartedly went along with the attempt at setting him up with a very attractive friend of a friend of Sam's. The initial physical attraction between them was enough to stop Bucky from making a face at his friend for once again trying to set him up. Her rich auburn hair reminded Bucky of someone, somewhere; maybe it was a WAC during World War II. He never did remember exactly who.

They talked and laughed and danced together most of the night, then shared an Uber to her place but before Bucky agreed to stay the night, he gently told her that he wasn't looking for anything more than casual. As he tried to explain how he was at a crossroads and that it was his intent to leave the city, she cupped one side of his face with her hand as they sat in the back seat. She studied him with a look that was both understanding and disappointed, then she kissed him goodbye on his cheek, and wished him luck at finding himself in his new life. Before he could get out of the ride share car and open her door she was already out on the sidewalk and let herself into her building without a backwards glance.

The waiting Uber driver asked if Bucky wanted to book him for the ride back to his place but he shook his head and stepped out of the vehicle, deciding to walk for a while. It had rained while his party was underway and everything was still damp but warm in the way cities are because they retain the heat. Enveloped in the twisting wisps of steam that wafted up from the pavement, it felt close and humid as he walked. Memories of times when he walked the streets of Brooklyn as a young man came to mind; memories that were much more authentic than the ones the sports bar attempted to induce. He was almost home before it occurred to him that he had just said goodbye to Brooklyn.

Five weeks later, Bucky stood in the front yard of a farmhouse, about 120 miles north of New York City at the northern edge of the Catskills. It was originally built in 1890, with extensions added in 1917, and 1950, then fully renovated in 1986. With the most recent work it had four bedrooms, kitchen, dining room, living room, two and half bathrooms, laundry room, double garage, a good well and an updated septic system. On the 12 acre rolling landscape there was a full barn, built in the 1990s to replace the original one, with an attached woodshop at one end; a shed from the original farm that held a riding lawnmower and plow attachment for a truck. The fully fenced property held mature trees, pasture and a half-acre pond, and a view that would be spectacular no matter which season. The area was zoned for active or hobby farming. If Bucky wanted to have goats and chickens and barn cats and a big goofy dog to walk the property with him, he could. If he wanted to make goat cheese to sell he could make small batches in his kitchen. For now, he would make cheese for himself and see if he still had the skills he learned in Wakanda. He made the offer to buy the property after he walked through the house, with closing as soon as possible.

Several of the Avengers helped him move, bringing a large rental truck to the storage locker that held the furniture he had to buy to make the house look lived in. Bucky bought a truck for himself, packing all of his personal items in it; his books, records, and clothing. Everyone who helped him move stayed overnight, bringing sleeping bags so they wouldn't leave him with a huge pile of bedding to launder after. Dinner and breakfast were communal, with lots of beer, stories and laughter that reminded Bucky of good times with the Howling Commandos. In the morning they began leaving for the two hour drive back to the city, until only Sam and Joaquin were left. The younger man was surprised when Bucky gave him a heartfelt hug.

"Thanks for coming. You help Sam keep everyone in line."

"I will, Bucky," replied Joaquin. He reached out for Sam's go bag then looked around the kitchen. "You have a really nice place here."

With a grin, he went out the door to where Sam's truck was parked and waited for the two good friends to say their goodbyes. Inside the kitchen, Bucky tried to find something to keep his hands busy but the others had already washed all the dishes and put them away. Even his cupboards, fridge and pantry had been organized the night before.

"You still have wifi out here, right?" asked Sam.

"Yeah, I do. We can do a weekly check in or something." He looked down at his hands, surprised to see he was twisting the dish towel and straightened it out, then hung it up. Sam watched him carefully. "I'm going to be okay."

"You'll be alone."

"Yeah, but I'm going to be part of the community. They have a weekly farmer's market and I already checked out the web page. Once I build a paddock, I can buy some goats and get into cheese making. I'll try my hand at some woodworking. They have the same Congressman from when I was in Washington, and I met him a few times. He was okay." He breathed out then smiled grimly at Sam. "I won't be a hermit. I promise." He stuck his hand out. "Go on now. Joaquin is waiting on you."

Sam grasped his hand and pulled him close for a hug. "I love you, man," he said, gruffly. "You better keep in touch."

"I love you, too, Sam," replied Bucky. "I will, I promise."

Stepping away from each other, they went outside. Bucky stayed on the porch as Sam got into the truck and started it up. Both he and Joaquin waved goodbye, then the truck was put into gear and headed towards the quiet road that went past Bucky's place. He watched them until they were out of sight. Now he really was alone.

Over the next few weeks Bucky eased into the community. He did a walkthrough of his property, finding lots of gnarled deadwood that could be turned into bowls, if he taught himself how to do that. Inspecting the fence revealed a few spots that needed repair. He figured out the dimensions of the paddock he wanted to build, and wood and wire fencing needed for that, as well as an auger for the post holes, quick setting concrete to keep them in place, and other odds and ends to make some repairs. On the first visit to Dahl & Sons Hardware, he felt the eyes on him as he browsed first before approaching the counter and putting his list down. The other customers didn't approach but they did listen in.

The owner tilted his head down a little to look at him over his reading glasses. "Looks like you're doing fence repairs there," he commented. "You also building an enclosure for goats? They aren't the easiest animals to take care of."

"I know," replied Bucky. "It's been a while but I had about a dozen before and this worked pretty well to keep them from wandering. Of course, all it took was one to keep testing the weak spots before I'd come out in the morning to find them spread over half the village, eating people's gardens."

"Yup, that's goats for ya." He put his hand out. "Frank Dahl, Jr. I'm the son in Dahl & Sons."

"Bucky Barnes." They shook hands.

"We heard a rumour it was you who bought the Westfield's farm. Shame about the son not wanting the farm after his father died."

"Guess the rumour was true." Bucky looked steadily at him. "I'm retired from the Avengers and I just want to live a quiet life."

"Well, you'll get that here, most of the time." He looked back down at the list. "Let me call Darryl to help you get everything together and write it up. Most places of business are open 8 to 5, Monday to Saturday, closed on Sundays. The farmer's market is open all day Saturday and Sunday until the fall when it's just Saturdays in the community hall until the snow flies."

"Thanks," said Bucky, finding the exchange a little odd.

Darryl, a pudgy thirty-something guy with thinning hair came out of the back room and looked over the list, frowning a little as he read it. He looked over to Bucky first then at one of the customers.

"That soil is pretty sandy and might not support your concrete as it sets. Chuck, do you still have those extra concrete forms that you didn't use?"

"Yeah." He looked at Bucky. "I can sell 'em outright to you if you want or we can trade services. You're pretty strong, right?" Bucky nodded, figuring out where this was headed. "Help me out with some heavy lifting and they're yours."

"How heavy are we talking?"

"Twenty hay bales, about 75-100 lbs each." He reached for his back. "Strained it a couple of weeks ago and the doc said I should limit my lifting."

Bucky almost laughed out loud but he was new and this was them assessing whether he would fit in.

"I have a bad back myself but I'll do what I can."

"Sounds good. You don't need to buy an auger. I have a power one that you can borrow anytime. Just fill it up with gas when you return it."

With that settled, Bucky drove his truck into the enclosed yard, joining Darryl in picking out the right fence posts, the rolls of wire, bags of concrete and all the other assorted items other than what Chuck would provide. Darryl said he would pass the word that help was needed and once Bucky was ready to do the work he could depend on others to come out.

The next day, he drove to Chuck's farm and easily stacked the hay bales from the yard into the barn. Together the two men placed the empty concrete forms into Bucky's truck, along with the power auger, strapping everything down. Chuck's wife Beverley came out with a big plate of sandwiches and iced tea for them, which they ate at a picnic table under a big oak tree. She commented about the goats, asking Bucky what his plans were for them.

"Making cheese," he said. "When I lived in Wakanda I had goats and made cheese for the village I lived in. They told me it was good."

"Goat cheese is a good product," she nodded. "People with allergies to cow's milk will probably like it. When you're ready we can sell it from our table at the farmer's market, just until you build up a clientele. Helps to have some samples ready for the people who come out from the city. Get a sign made up that talks about the health benefits. Vivi Hill can do any signage you want. She does most of it for everyone in the area, plus her brother Marcus makes metal art like weather vanes or decorative signs for the farms. You should talk to her."

It was good advice and Bucky got the sign maker's contact information from Beverley. They walked him to the truck where he was surprised by the presence of a young blue-eyed white cat sprawled on the front passenger seat of his truck who didn't seem bothered with his presence. Beverley looked inside and grinned back at him.

"I think you have a cat."

"I don't need a cat," he replied. "Apparently there are three already in the barn."

"Doesn't matter." Through the window she moved her hand towards the now awake feline, receiving a growl in return. "This one never did warm up to me, Chuck or the kids. She seems to like you, so you might as well take her."

He offered his hand to the cat, receiving a polite sniff, then a bump from its head to his hand. With a little huff, he realized that Beverley was right. The cat had decided to be with him. With a quickly made list of what he needed for it, and a reminder to visit the vet for vaccinations and spaying, he got into the driver's side, started up the truck and drove home with a cat that fell back asleep before he even left the couple's yard.

With everything ready for building the paddock, Bucky set a day in the middle of the following week, since the weekends were taken up by the farmer's markets, and was pleasantly surprised when half a dozen men showed up. Three of them, including Chuck, brought their wives who insisted on cooking up some lunch for the men.

Bucky soon realized the women weren't just there to provide lunch; they were on a mission to learn all they could about him that wasn't already public knowledge. Managing to find out he liked to read, listen to old music, was once a good dancer, currently very single, wasn't affected by alcohol, and had a lot of physical stamina, none of them were fully prepared when the day got warm and several of the men took their shirts off, revealing an assortment of physiques. Bucky debated about doing the same then realized it was probably better to get it over with sooner rather than later. No doubt they were all curious about the arm.

The moment his shirt was peeled off Beverley dropped a large sealed plastic bowl of Cole slaw, staring at Bucky as if it was the first time she ever saw a man without a shirt. While he draped the shirt over the stacked pile of cut wood, Rita and Shelley turned around to see what had affected their neighbour and had to sit down, with their mouths hanging open. Chuck and the other men, who noted the reaction of the women, looked at Bucky and began laughing.

"Um, maybe I should put my shirt back on," murmured the super soldier, reaching for it.

"Nope," said Rita's husband, Ted. "I figure by the look on my wife's face, I'm going to bed early tonight and not getting much sleep. It's the 2022 Green County firefighters' calendar all over again." Bucky frowned at him. "Ask me another time about that. Once those three get over the shock of your attributes they'll be coming up with a plan to find the right woman for you. Someone built like you shouldn't be left unattended."

The other men nodded their heads in agreement.

"I'm not really looking," said Bucky.

"You gay?" asked Chuck. "They can find you the right guy if that's what you prefer."

"What? No, I'm just not ready to date."

"Don't matter," said Ted. "I know that look and you're now a project. Might as well get used to being objectified."

It was a prophetic warning. At the farmer's market he noticed how many of the female vendors introduced themselves to him. It was all perfectly proper as many were married, but he could tell that the fix was in when several made sure to introduce him to the single women helping in their booth, of which there seemed to be many more than usual. He was about to abandon his visit to the market when Beverley called him over to their vegetable stall where a black couple stood. The man watched him approach then nudged the woman until she turned to face the super soldier. It was like feeling the sun come out from behind a cloud. She was beautiful.

"Bucky, this is Marcus Hill and his sister Vivi," said Beverley, warmly. "They have a shop in Platt River where Marcus makes all sorts of metal art pieces, weather vanes, signs for businesses and farms. Vivi is that commercial artist I told you about, but she also does her own pieces and sells them in the touristy stores in the area. This is Bucky Barnes. He bought the Westfield farm and plans to raise goats for cheese making."

"Bucky." Marcus, who was as tall as Bucky but not quite as broad across the shoulders, seemed friendly. He had a strong handshake. "Pleased to meet you. If you get your business going I hope you come see me about a sign for the farm. Vivi can help design and create any pamphlets or printed signage for your cheese."

"Yeah, I'll definitely come see you," said Bucky, trying not to stare at Vivi but feeling like he had seen her before. "Have we met?"

She smiled but shook her head. "No, unless you passed me in the street in the city. I've had a couple of showings there. I stick pretty close to home."

After a few more pleasantries, the brother and sister walked away, although Vivi did look back and wave at Bucky. He watched her until she disappeared into the crowded market.

"She's very single," said Beverley who was then distracted by a tourist asking about their heritage carrots.

That night Bucky called Sam and told him he met someone. He couldn't tell him anything more than her name and what she did for a living but admitted meeting her had stirred up something from deep inside the stoic super soldier. For that alone, Sam was happy for his friend.

After that first introduction, Bucky saw Vivi frequently; at the hardware store, at the regular market in Platt River, even at the gas station in passing. Each encounter felt too brief, as if something prevented them from having more than a quick hello and goodbye. Perhaps it was because each encounter happened in a crowd with curious onlookers who watched carefully for the briefest glimpse of a connection; something that could be shared as gossip. It wasn't until the most recent encounter, when Bucky was on the main highway and noticed Vivi at the side of the road with two flat tires on her car, while she was on her cell phone, that something changed. Pulling over ahead of her, he backed up and came out of the truck. The look of relief on her face made something warm bloom inside him.

"I'm so glad you stopped," she said. "I've been trying to get a tow truck for half an hour but there must be a convention somewhere as they're all busy." She gestured to her car. "One tire went flat as I drove and when I stopped I must have gone over a nail or something as it went flat while I watched it."

"You have a spare?" he asked. She nodded. "I'll change that one, then we can get that flat repaired and I'll bring you back and change the other one out. You can drop the other one off at the garage in Platt River."

"I don't want to tie you up," she began, then she got flustered. "I mean, you must have something better to do."

"No, I got all my out of town errands done. I'm yours." He grinned before rephrasing it. "I'm at your service for however long this takes."

Once back on the road with her one flat tire, Bucky stole a glance at her, liking how it felt to have her sitting beside him in the cab of his truck. He saw how she glanced back at him several times, since his peripheral vision was still better than the average person.

"What do you know about the 2022 Green County firefighters' calendar?" he asked. She choked a little at the question. "It was something Ted said to me but he keeps pretending he doesn't know what I'm referring to."

"It was a fundraising venture for the fire department towards the cost of a new pumper truck," she began. "That was the year we had several very fit and handsome young men who stepped up to be volunteer firefighters." She stopped, seeming to think over her words. "Let's just say that nine months after the calendar came out there was an increase in the number of births in the county. That increase didn't start to drop for several months, about the same length of time it took for the calendar to sell out nine months before." She looked sideways at him, noticing how he still seemed puzzled. "You're going to make me explain it completely, aren't you?"

"I'm not going to make you do anything," he answered. "But I'm new here and it was brought up after I took my shirt off because it was hot outside. Beverley dropped the Cole slaw and the other two women were ...." His voice trailed off. "Are you saying the calendar made the women in the county more likely to ... sleep around?"

"Not sleep around with other men," she corrected. "This is still a very conservative county even though there are a lot of progressive people here. I can count on one hand the number of people in an open marriage and there's only one confirmed polycule. But they work hard and sometimes things keep getting pushed to the back burner to deal with sick farm animals, fence repairs, or getting their products prepared for the next farmer's market. No other fundraising calendar produced since then has had an effect like that one did." She looked at him longer. "You must have quite the physique to have Ted Pulaski bringing up the calendar."

"So, having sex is a bad thing for the farmers?"

Her smile stuck with him. "No, as far as I know they all have the healthiest respect for it. They just don't always have the time and when a calendar moment happens, it kind of upsets their schedule. How many of the wives saw you with your shirt off?"

"Three. Beverley, Rita and Shelley." The nod of her head indicated she wasn't surprised. "Ted said I was their next project because I couldn't be left unattended."

That made Vivi laugh out loud and she turned so that she was leaning against the passenger side door, watching him carefully.

"I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"They set us up. I mean I suspected it after that introduction at the farmer's market but it's pretty obvious. There aren't many black people in this county and the ones they tried to set me up with before were ...." She put her hand out flat and wavered it back and forth. "They've been hesitant about setting me up with a white guy because they don't want to expose me to a closet racist. You and Captain America are best friends, so they figured you're not like that. They've been pretty respectful of you because ... let's face it, you almost died trying to save humanity, more than once. But if they get you married to someone from the county, then you truly become one of us."

"Even with my past." He pulled over to a rest stop and put the truck into Park, taking a few moments to consider his words. "I've been alone mostly by choice, because I've done terrible things and I don't want how some people still react to that be directed to someone I care about. It's made me wonder what they see in me to be so friendly with me."

"They are good people who believe that everyone has a right to living a good life with someone they love. Some of them have pasts that they are still making amends for. They'll respect your privacy but still show up at your door with a cooked meal because you haven't been seen in 24 hours and they're worried about you." She looked at her hands which were folded in her lap. "Marcus and I were adopted by an older couple who lived near Platt River. Our mother was an addict that hitched a ride with them. They weren't going to leave a lone woman walking along the highway late at night with a baby and a toddler in tow. They offered her a room in their home until she could get on her feet. She left before morning and we never saw her again. The Hills got themselves approved as a foster placement, then adopted us legally as soon as they could. They were the best parents we could have ever hoped for. They proudly supported us through school, paid for our college education and when Marcus came out, they put up a Pride flag with another flag that said, "Love lives here." If you want my advice it would be to just let that part of your life go, and open yourself up to the idea that there is someone to build a new life with."

Her words reverberated in his head; as they were familiar in a way that wasn't a coincidence but he had no idea when or where he heard them before. So much of his life was spent under the brutal control of people who wanted to use him as a weapon. Then he used his abilities to make the world safer, almost dying in the process. Now, he was here, in this rural area of New York State, seemingly in another circus not of his making. The strange thing was that he hadn't been stressed or unhappy at all in the few weeks since he got here. Right from the start people had been open, offering their time and help to him, and making him feel like he belonged. Sitting next to him in his truck, was a beautiful woman that he felt a connection with from the moment they met.

"Where do people who live in the county go on dates?"

She smiled. "There are a few pretentious restaurants of the farm to fork variety but everyone will know that you've been there and with who. Same with the bars in the smaller towns. I could invite you to our place for dinner but Marcus and his boyfriend will sit there and make fun of us." Turning her eyes to his, she gazed at him. "I could come to your place. We can cook a meal together, listen to music, and dance without anyone critiquing our style." She hesitated for a moment. "That is, if it was me you were asking about."

His face softened. "It was. Would you like to come over for dinner, listen to music and watch the sun set over the pond as we dance?"

"I would love to."

"6 pm?" She nodded. "I have to warn you that my cat, Alpine, isn't the friendliest."

"Is that the white cat that used to belong to Beverley and Chuck?" He grinned. "It's okay since I kind of get along with her. Marcus is allergic so we couldn't have her as a pet. I'm glad she found her person."

Starting the truck up again, he drove to the closest garage and waited while they fixed Vivi's tire, then drove her back to her car and changed out the second tire. They stood at the side of the road for a few minutes after, looking at each other without speaking then Bucky opened the driver's side door for her and waited for her to get inside. He watched her drive away, filled with the belief that something wonderful was about to start. Maybe he really was becoming one of them.

Thinking of making this a series.

One Shots Masterlist

July 2026

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes

☂️Microscopic? try massive by @slutdier | +18 | You spent the night roasting Bucky’s dick like it was the size of a Tic Tac. He spent the night proving it’s a weapon of mass destruction. By morning, your throat’s wrecked, your legs won’t close, and the only word you can choke out is “big.”

☂️Your Filthy Heart by @sweeterthanthis | +18 | series | Since the moment Bucky Barnes entered your life, you knew you wouldn’t be able to resist him. The fact that he was marrying your mother was just a minor block in the road. As you embark on a raunchy affair with your new Stepfather, you realise there’s a lot more to Bucky Barnes than first meets the eye. 

☂️steel and vibranium by @sheriff-bodecker | +18

☂️drunk on you by slutdier | stucky x reader | +18 | You only wanted them to prove how sorry they were, but with Steve’s sweetness, Bucky’s hunger, and both of them tangled around you, forgiveness has never felt this filthy.

☂️need a ride? by @superbassbuck | +18 | When you stole your dad's car keys to sneak out of the house to go to a concert, the last thing you expected was to break down in the middle of nowhere. So, you do the one thing a young, impressionable woman should never do: you stick out your thumb on the side of the road and hitchhike.

☂️go go juice! by @barnesandnoblecauses | +18 | Ouch! Your boyfriend cheated on you! What’s there to do other than day drink and text stale Hinge dates? That is, until your best friend’s dad enters the picture (accidentally) and shows you how a real man should treat a lady.

☂️COMING IN HOT by @vyxcondessa | +18 | series | When your best friend Sarah recommends a mechanic of her brother’s trust, all you can think about and pray is that he doesn’t rip you off. Your car is your prized possession, and amidst all the worry and concern of your medical studies, drowning in even more debt sounds as suffocating as it would be.

☂️he'll break first by @godmadeaterribleerror | +18 | you and Bucky get stranded on a mission, and the hotel... well, you know the rest

☂️The Chain by @herejustforbuckybarnes | +18 | 13k | What happens when fate has declared that two individuals belong together? You can run, you can deny it, you can complain, or you can surrender, but the chain that joins them will keep them together.

☂️Barnes & Son Mechanics by @bucky-is-my-favourite | +18 | You'd been coming to the Auto shop needing Bucky to take care of more than just your car.

☂️real people by @kinanabinks | +18 | series | you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.

☂️The Garden by @sjsmith56 | Architect Bucky Barnes, accepting his part in the possible end of his marriage, decides on one final attempt to save his relationship with his wife.

☂️i can't do this anymore by @wwilsonbarness | You overhear Bucky’s conversation with your friends and assume the worst but you couldn’t have been more wrong. 

☂️Wildflower by @superbassbuck | +18 | series | After your grandmother's passing, you inherit not only an empty house but also a failing floral shop teetering on the edge of closure. as you settle back in town, your bad day only gets worse after a horrible run-in with none other than the grumpy local farmer and single dad, Bucky Barnes.

☂️I feel it turning into addiction by @sinner-as-saint | +18 | series | He was too old for this. Crushing on his next door neighbour? Unbelievable. He should leave the poor girl alone. But fuck, he couldn’t. Could he? After all, you were so sweet, and gentle, and kind, and always baked things in the middle of the night and left boxes and baskets filled with sweet-smelling treats at his doorstep for him to find almost each morning. And what did he do in return? He imagined all the sinful ways he could make you whine and whimper for him. He was bad for you, he knew that. People called him all sorts of things: criminal, gang leader, outlaw. Bucky Barnes was bad news. But did that stop him? No. You being so forbidden just solidified his addiction. Bucky Barnes never claimed to be a good man, so he’d do whatever it takes to get whatever he wanted. And all he wanted was you. 

☂️Fear by @imhereforbvcky | When Bucky is out, someone comes for him in the home you share and you must defend yourself. Problem is, you’re no hero and you don’t know if you can morally compartmentalize like one.

☂️Tew Noitanicullah by @perdidosbucky-yyo | +18 | What started like a great day for Bucky Barnes ended up a complete nighmare.

☂️Approve it. Approve it now. by @imnotjustreadingg-volume-two | +18

☂️exit wounds by @buckysleftbicep | +18 | after you put yourself in danger once again during a mission, bucky finally snaps.

☂️plums and peaches by @rkiveinmarvel | pissing bucky off is one thing, making him fall is the same thing.

☂️VIOLENT DELIGHTS by @jamesbbcrnes | bucky barnes is head over heels for a girl who could say i love you and simultaneously try to kill him in the same breath.

☂️RUN, RABBIT by @dogboystory | +18

☂️Missed You by @mrs-elsie-barnes | +18 | You and Bucky have been dying for some alone time and there's a new thing he wants to try.

☂️Needy Little Puppy by @buckybabieboy | +18 | Bucky breaks one of your most important rules, don’t cum without Mommy’s permission, so you edge him until he’s trembling and sobbing for you to let him cum.

☂️love at first buzz by @w1nter-fairy | +18 | Most boyfriends give jewelry or flowers for Valentine's Day. Bucky Barnes ain't just a regular boyfriend. He gives you a battery powered gift and your Valentine's celebration ends up with you trying your new toy... together.

Benjamin "Dex" "Bullseye" Poindexter

☂️ you're too young for me by @clawxmoon

by @aquaticmercy

☂️ Dex’s Very Own Three-Body Problem

☂️Anatomy of a Smile | After breaking out of prison, you find out that Dex thinks you never broke up. 

☂️Finding the Perfect House with Dex

☂️I Could Drown Myself In Someone Like You | Dex was doing just fine being the only prisoner in Enhanced Supervision Housing until they put you in the cell next door.

☂️10 p.m. on a Tuesday | +18 | You finally find out who your neighbor really is.

☂️You Accidentally Push Dex Off The Bed

☂️Dex Takes Your Graphic Shirt Literally  | +18

☂️For When Else Would I Hear You? | +18 | 13k | You fall for Dex, a faerie hunter. Little did you know, he has already decided you belong to him.

☂️One Bad Day | +18 | Dex has to learn that you can have bad days, too. 

☂️Dex Thinks He Can Lock You Up In His Basement “For Your Own Good.” He Didn’t Expect This. | +18

☂️You and Dex Have a Complicated Relationship | +18

☂️Family Business | +18 | You invite Dex to your birthday dinner at your sister's apartment. Unfortunately for Dex, your sister is Elektra. 

☂️north star by @mcrdvcks | series | After spending years overseas with Doctors Without Borders, you finally come back home to Hell's Kitchen. When you meet a guy named Benjamin, you think things are finally going back to normal... except apparently your friends seem to know him, and not in a good way.

☂️SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL by @winteryn | +18 | 9k | dex escapes prison only to end up sleeping in half-frozen alleys, surviving on stolen food, spare change, and whatever shelter he can find before the winter cold kills him. until, on a freezing december night, you hand him a stack of blankets and a cup of hot coffee.

☂️messy by @layla4567

by @interloved

☂️play wife pt2

☂️pathetic loser boyfriend

☂️squirmed by @saintlea | +18

☂️middle of the night by @dexgirlfriend | three times bullseye wakes you up in the middle of the night, and one time you're waiting for him

☂️446.5 ly by @thenightwinggf | out of everywhere you've woken up after a night out drinking, wakin' up in your sullen, vaguely scary neighbors apartment after too many drinks might be the worst one.

☂️front & back by @poinandshoot | +18 | dex and shane

☂️freak by @mayhemi | +18

by @lonelypony-m

☂️virgin part 2 & 3 | +18

☂️easy fix | +18

☂️ball in your court

☂️Kiss It Better by @paniniimpressed | +18 | 15k | After witnessing something you weren’t supposed to, there’s a price on your head. It would be easy for the excellent marksman to finish the job, but something about you makes him reconsider.

by @n3ptoonz

☂️PLUG!Dex headcanons part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | +18

☂️What goes up must come down | +18 | Drug dealer x goody two shoes. What could go wrong?

☂️Brat tamer!reader x brat!Dex | +18

☂️a bet by @chvoswxtch | a handsome stranger makes a bet with you, and you're the prize.

☂️CHERRIES AND TIES by @machiavellia | One month after the violent incident at your workplace, you wake up in an lonely and unknown place. . . Tied up, sore, and bewildered, just to then realize you have been kidnapped.

☂️dex by @spaceyaemonds | the devil of hell’s kitchen saves your life. or, at least he looks like him.

☂️stains don’t fade by @kruegerspillow | fluff

☂️benjamin poindexter takes nights very seriously by @daystarpoet

☂️dex who loves to make you sweat by @little-miss-dilf-lover | +18

Other

by slutdier

☂️while mama's is out | lee bodecker x reader | +18 | maybe possibly a late night where the readers mom is gone out late with her friends and lee and the reader get some alone time which they kinda have this established relationship

☂️i trust you by sheriff-bodecker | nick fowler x reader

☂️Middle of Nowhere by @yearningforsolitude | +18 | shane maguire x reader

☂️blowing by @holeinthemattress | shane maguire x reader

☂️house by clawxmoon | shane maguire x reader

☂️Stardust by @after-avenging-hours | +18 | Chris Beck x Reader | After a mix up with NASA’s resupply, you find out that you’re going to run out of your suppressant medication.  The commander tries to come up with a plan to deal with your approaching heat, but how easily will she be able to control the only unmated Alpha on board?

by @darkficsyouneveraskedfor

☂️Director's Cut | +18 | Nick Fowler x reader | series | Powerful director Nick takes interest in a new project; you.

☂️Night Moves | +18 | Nick Fowler x reader | series | Many might complain for the short attention span of the male kind, but you can't agree.

☂️Blurred Lines | +18 | Nick Fowler x reader | series | Your relationship with your boss takes an unpredictable turn.

☂️False Flag | +18 | Nick Fowler x reader | series | A normal day turns out to be entirely unusual after you find yourself the target of some unseemly criminals.

☂️Nightlife | +18 | lee bodecker x reader | series | He helps you.

☂️Only Yesterday | +18 | Nick Fowler x reader | series | Isolated and lonely in your life as your grandmother’s caretaker, you find yourself living vicariously through your neighbour. 

☂️Unannounced | +18 | Charles Blackwood x reader | The reader is caretaker to the widow of the manor but one day she returns to an unexpected visitor.

☂️good enough to eat by @buckytakethewheel | +18 | lee bodecker x reader

<part18 | library | part20>

He told himself it was because he didn’t want to miss an emergency call from your mother. Or Wanda. Or Steve. Or Pietro.

That was half true.

The other half was that he checked your message thread like a ritual. Like if he looked often enough, the universe might reward him. Like if he kept his eyes on the door long enough, you might walk back through it.

It had become muscle memory.

Wake up. Check. Shower. Check. Coffee. Check. At a red light. Check. In meetings. Check. In the elevator. Check. Before he fell asleep. Check. When he couldn’t sleep. Check again.

He didn’t even register the movement at first – just the smallest change on the screen, an automatic refresh.

Then his brain caught up.

Read.

A tiny word. A single status change. A subtle shift in a corner of the interface that most people wouldn’t even notice unless they were looking for it with the intensity of an obsession.

Bucky froze.

The glass in his hand tilted slightly, water sloshing against the rim. He steadied it without looking, eyes locked on the screen.

You had opened the thread.

You had seen everything.

The first reaction that tried to rise in him was panic – sharp, familiar, immediate. A surge of adrenaline that told him to do something, to type faster than his thoughts, to call, to prove he was still here, still sorry, still trying.

But he didn’t.

He forced himself to breathe.

In.

Out.

His fingers twitched once toward the phone and then stilled.

Because he understood, in a way he hadn’t that night, that your silence wasn’t a punishment.

It was a boundary.

It was you taking care of yourself.

He set the glass down very carefully. The sound of it touching the counter was quiet, controlled. Like he was afraid of making any sudden movement in case it scared you away again – ridiculous, because you weren’t here, because you were hundreds of miles away, because he had no right to imagine he could scare you with a sound.

But his body didn’t know how to stop being afraid.

He stared at the screen for a long time.

Read.

No typing bubble. No reply. Nothing.

And he felt it anyway – the smallest flare of relief underneath the ache, because you were alive and you were reading, which meant you were here in the world enough to pick up your phone and let the messages in.

It also meant you’d read the worst parts.

The frantic messages from that first night. The apologies. The confession. The love. The fact that he’d told your parents. The end of things with Natasha.

It meant you’d also reread – maybe – what he’d said at dinner.

That was the part that made his stomach turn.

He closed his eyes briefly and leaned a hand on the counter, head bowed like he could physically hold himself upright against the weight of his own words.

Maybe that’s why your real parents didn’t want you.

A sentence he’d aimed like a bullet. A sentence he’d crafted out of every ugly, insecure fear he’d ever had – then fired straight into the place he knew you were most vulnerable.

The fact that you were silent now didn’t surprise him.

If anything, it made sense. It was the consequence he’d earned.

He picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

And he stopped.

Because the urge wasn’t to soothe you.

The urge was to soothe himself.

To force an answer. To relieve the suspense. To make the silence less unbearable.

He swallowed hard.

No.

Not that.

Not again.

He set the phone down, turned away, tried to move through the rest of his day like a person.

It didn’t work.

His mind kept circling back to that tiny word.

Read.

He wondered what your face had looked like as you read. If you’d cried. If you’d gone numb. If you’d thrown the phone across the room the way Pietro had thrown his mug that day. He wondered if you hated him more now or less. He wondered if reading his love had made it worse, because love didn’t undo harm. Sometimes it just complicated it.

By late afternoon, he found himself back in front of the thread again, thumb hovering.

He didn’t want to add pressure.

But he also didn’t want you to think your silence was going to make him lash out, spiral, punish you for not giving him what he wanted.

You had spent too much of your life around people who responded to distance with violence – emotional or otherwise.

He refused to be another one.

So he typed slowly.

Not a plea. Not an apology loop. Not a dramatic confession.

Just a message that put the choice back where it belonged.

I saw you read the messages.

He stared at the words for a second, then deleted them.

Too direct. Too much like I’m watching you, even though he was, even though he couldn’t stop himself.

He tried again.

You don’t have to reply.

He left that one.

He added more, careful, deliberate, making sure every sentence didn’t ask for something.

I mean it. You don’t owe me anything – not a conversation, not forgiveness, not closure. I know I hurt you. I know I can’t take it back.

His throat tightened. He paused, then kept going.

If you’re not ready, that’s okay. If you’re never ready, that’s also okay.

His fingers hovered over the next line for a long time.

Then he wrote it anyway, because it was still true even if it didn’t buy him anything.

I love you.

He swallowed hard and added, quieter, softer:

I’ll wait as long as it takes. Even if you decide you can’t forgive me. That’s your right.

He stared at the message.

Read it three times, like he was checking for hidden pressure, hidden manipulation, any trace of please come back disguised as something noble.

He found none.

Only truth.

Only consequence.

He hit send.

The message left his phone and disappeared into the void between you like a paper boat on dark water.

Bucky set the phone down again and let his forehead rest against the cool edge of the counter.

He wasn’t calm. Not really.

His heart was still beating too fast. His hands still wanted to shake. His stomach still felt hollow with fear.

But he didn’t chase you.

He didn’t call.

He didn’t demand.

He just… stayed.

For once in his life, he tried to sit in the aftermath without making it your job to fix him.

And in the quiet of his apartment, with only the hum of the fridge and his own breathing to keep him company, he whispered into the empty space, not expecting an answer.

“I’m sorry.”

You started calling your mom again every day.

Not long calls – not at first. Sometimes it was ten minutes while you stood barefoot in the kitchen with your coffee growing cold in your hands. Sometimes it was twenty, curled on your bed with the window open and the Miami air heavy against your skin. Sometimes it was just her voice saying your name and you swallowing hard around the lump in your throat, letting the sound of her breathe on the other end convince your nervous system that you were safe.

But you called.

And that alone felt like rebuilding something brick by brick.

At first, your mother didn’t ask for explanations. She didn’t try to pull the story out of you like she was entitled to it. She simply listened to the tone of your voice, the pauses between your words, the way you’d go quiet when you got too close to something sharp. She filled the silence when you needed it filled. She let it exist when you needed it to exist.

She didn’t make you earn being cared for.

You told her you’d come back for your thesis defense.

It came out on the third day of calling again – casual, almost like you were talking about the weather, because saying it too seriously made it feel too big.

“I’ll be back for the defense,” you said, staring at your laptop screen without really seeing it.

There was a small pause on the other end, the kind that meant she was holding herself still.

Then her voice softened. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, sweetheart. We’ll be here.”

Your throat tightened.

You heard the smile in her voice when she added, “I’m proud of you.”

You swallowed hard and forced a laugh that didn’t sound like yours. “Don’t make me cry before lunch.”

She chuckled softly. “I won’t. Not if I can help it.”

A few days later, you told her about Tony.

Not about him – she already knew you’d found your father, and she’d cried with relief when you said he hadn’t known you existed – but about what was coming next.

“Tony asked if he could come to New York with me,” you said, voice careful. “When I come back for the defense.”

Your mom’s breath hitched slightly.

Not in a bad way.

In the way someone reacts when the world shifts under their feet – surprising but not unwelcome.

“Oh,” she said softly. “He wants to come with you.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt. “I said yes.”

There was another pause, and your heart started to pound – old fear rushing in before you could stop it. Fear of doing something wrong. Fear of being selfish. Fear of hurting her just by needing something she couldn’t give.

Your voice went small without you meaning it to.

“Do you… do you hate me for it?” you asked. “That I… needed to find him.”

The silence that followed was brief, but it felt like your whole chest tightened around it. You stared at the floor, nails digging into your palm.

Then your mother spoke, and her voice was firm.

“No,” she said. “No, honey. I don’t hate you.”

You exhaled shakily.

“I was scared,” she admitted, softer now. “I was scared I’d lose you. And I was scared that you’d find him and he’d hurt you.”

Your throat burned.

“But you didn’t do anything wrong,” she continued, and you could hear the conviction in every syllable. “You are allowed to want answers. You are allowed to want to know where you come from. That doesn’t take anything away from me.”

Your eyes stung.

“You’re my daughter,” she said. “That’s not up for debate. And Tony being your father doesn’t change that.”

Your lips trembled. You swallowed hard.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“And,” your mother added, a faint smile in her voice, “if he wants to show up and support you for your defense, then good. Let him. You deserve people in the room who are proud of you.”

The warmth that flooded your chest was almost painful.

“Thank you,” you managed.

“You don’t have to thank me for loving you,” she said gently. “You never did.”

You didn’t tell her then that those words still felt foreign sometimes. You didn’t tell her how the orphanage had taught you that love was conditional and that asking for it was dangerous.

You just let her love land.

Bucky came up eventually.

He always did, even when you tried to steer the conversation away. Even when you told yourself you couldn’t handle it. Even when you promised you were focusing on the thesis and not on the ache that still lived under your ribs.

The first time your mother mentioned his name, it hit you like a reflex.

Your shoulders drew up. Your stomach twisted. You felt the immediate, irrational urge to hide – as if the sound itself could summon him.

Your mother noticed instantly.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I shouldn’t have–”

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s just… his name still–” You swallowed hard. “Sometimes it makes me want to disappear.”

Your mother’s voice went soft. “I know.”

You heard the crack in her tone, the anger she still carried – not just for what he’d said, but for the way it had echoed the deepest fear you’d spent your life trying to outrun.

You spoke about his confession too. Carefully. Haltingly. Like you were handling something fragile that might cut you if you held it wrong.

“He told you,” your mother said, and the way she said it made it clear she still couldn’t believe he’d let it live in silence for so long.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “That he told you. And George.”

“And you,” she added quietly.

You swallowed. “And me.”

There was a pause.

Your mother’s voice lowered, as if she didn’t want the walls to hear.

“And what do you feel?” she asked. Not accusatory. Not demanding. Just… motherly. Honest.

You stared at the ceiling, chest tight.

“I didn’t lie to you,” you said slowly, the truth scraping on the way out. “When I said his name still scares me.” A breath. “But I also… I love him.”

Your mother didn’t react with shock. She didn’t scold. She didn’t try to talk you out of it.

She simply listened.

“I think I’ve loved him for a long time,” you continued, voice quieter. “Maybe even before high school. Maybe before I understood what love was supposed to look like.”

Your throat tightened.

“And that makes it harder,” you admitted. “Because I can’t just hate him and move on. I can’t just… erase him.”

Your mother sighed softly on the other end. “No,” she said. “You can’t.”

You swallowed. “I don’t know when I’ll answer him.”

Another pause.

Your mother’s voice was gentle, but firm in the way she got when she was protecting you.

“Then don’t answer until you’re ready,” she said. “Not because he’s waiting. Because you’re healing.”

You blinked back tears.

“I’m scared that if I answer,” you whispered, “it’ll pull me back into it.”

“It might,” your mother admitted. “But you don’t have to answer in a way that gives him access to you.”

You frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, carefully, “a message is not a door flung wide open. A message can be a boundary. A message can be you saying, ‘I heard you. I’m not ready.’ That’s allowed.”

You let that sit.

You had been taught, your whole life, that communication meant obligation. That if you engaged, you owed the other person comfort, closure, resolution.

But you didn’t.

You were allowed to speak without surrendering.

You exhaled shakily. “Okay,” you whispered.

Your mother’s voice softened again. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “Not because you’re handling it perfectly. But because you’re still here. And you’re still trying.”

You closed your eyes, letting the words settle.

You didn’t know when you would text Bucky.

You didn’t know what you would say.

But you knew, now, that you could return for your defense with Tony at your side and your mother waiting in New York – and you didn’t have to decide everything else before then.

You could take it one breath, one day, one phone call at a time.

You didn’t answer Bucky for several more days.

Partly because you were busy – truly busy, in the way that left you with ink on your fingers and your brain buzzing when you finally crawled into bed. The defense was four months away now, which meant every chapter of your thesis suddenly felt like it had teeth. Footnotes needed tightening. Arguments needed sharpening. You caught yourself rereading paragraphs you’d written months ago with the cold, brutal eye of someone who no longer had the luxury of good enough.

You worked until your wrists ached.

You worked until the sun went down and Maria had to remind you – gently but firmly – that human beings needed to eat.

You worked until Tony knocked on the edge of the table and said, “Okay, Dr. Future Archeologist, you’re going to burn out,” and you’d rolled your eyes and closed your laptop only because you trusted him enough to accept the interruption.

In between thesis work, you started looking at Europe.

Not like a dream anymore – like a plan.

You made lists. Cities. Universities. Museums. Archaeological sites you’d been reading about since you were fifteen. Grants you could apply for. Post-doc opportunities. Temporary positions. Conferences. You opened maps and stared at coastlines you’d never seen in real life.

And when Tony – casually, like it was nothing – mentioned that Stark had European branches he “should probably visit at some point,” you pretended not to notice the way he framed it like you wouldn’t be alone.

Like it would be coincidence, not protection.

You didn’t call him on it.

You just felt something warm settle in your chest and kept scrolling through research programs in Rome.

The other reason you didn’t answer was simpler and harder: you were still digesting what you’d read.

All of it.

The panic from the first night. The guilt. The apology that didn’t try to rewrite history. The confession. The patience in the last message – the one that had landed like a hand held out but not closing around you.

You needed time to let the words sit without immediately turning into action.

You needed time to make sure that if you responded, it would be because you were choosing to – not because the pressure inside you had become unbearable.

So you waited.

You let days pass. You let your nervous system keep learning that nothing bad happened when you didn’t respond. That you could breathe and no one would force a door open. That your world didn’t collapse just because you weren’t managing everyone else’s emotions.

And then, one night, after dinner, after Maria had gone to bed, after Tony had left you alone with your laptop and your thoughts, you found yourself in your room with your phone in your hand again.

The house was quiet. The air-conditioning hummed softly. Outside, palm leaves scraped against each other in the dark like whispered conversation.

You stared at Bucky’s thread.

You didn’t feel ready.

But you felt… steadier.

That was new.

You opened the text box.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling faintly.

You started and stopped three times.

Deleted whole sentences. Rewrote them. Stared at the blinking cursor like it was judging you.

It wasn’t about being perfect.

It was about being honest without bleeding yourself dry.

And when you finally began to write, you didn’t try to make it neat.

You let it be long. Because the truth had been building in you for weeks, and it deserved room.

Hi.

I read everything. A while ago, actually. I just… needed time.

I’m doing better. Not “fine”, not like it didn’t happen, but better. I’m eating. I’m sleeping. I’m working. I’m breathing again.

I need you to understand something, though. You really hurt me.

I know you know that. I know you’ve apologized. I know you didn’t mean it the way you said it. But it still went exactly where it needed to go to break me.

So no, I don’t forgive you right now. Maybe I will someday. Maybe I won’t. I don’t know. And I’m not saying that to punish you. I’m saying it because it’s the truth.

I can’t talk to you on the phone. I can’t hear your voice. I can’t see you. I don’t want to see your face.

Even reading your name sometimes makes my stomach turn. It reopens it. Like I’m back at that table and I can’t breathe.

I’m safe. I’m in Miami. I found my father.

He’s… not what I imagined all those years. He’s better. He didn’t know I existed. And I know that now, for real. Not as a theory I tell myself at 3am, but as something I heard from his mouth while he looked at me like I mattered.

His mother is here too. She’s been kind to me in a way that still catches me off guard. They made space for me. They didn’t make me earn it.

I’m telling you this because you were wrong. About my “genes.” About me being unwanted. You were wrong, and I need you to know you were wrong.

I also need you to know… I still love you.

I hate that I do, sometimes. It would be easier if I didn’t. But I do.

And I’m sorry about Natasha. I’m sorry it ended the way it did. I’m sorry for the pain you caused her and the pain you’re in. Even if part of me feels like you deserve to sit with consequences, I don’t actually want you destroyed.

I miss you.

And I think that might be the worst part. Because I miss you even though I don’t want you near me. I miss you even though I don’t forgive you. I miss you even though I still flinch when I see your name on my screen.

So this is where I am. I’m not coming home yet. I’m finishing my thesis. I’m trying to build something that isn’t built around surviving you.

You don’t have to answer this right away. You don’t have to answer it at all. But I needed you to know that I’m alive, and that I’m not okay with what happened, and that I still love you anyway.

Please don’t call. Text only. If you can respect that, we can… maybe exist in the same world again. Eventually.

When you finished, your hands were shaking.

Not because you were afraid he’d be angry.

Because you’d just done something you’d never been taught you were allowed to do: you’d told the truth and held your boundaries at the same time.

You reread the message once, twice. You almost deleted it. You almost changed half the sentences to soften them, to make them kinder, to make them easier to swallow.

Then you remembered what Tony had said.

This wasn’t about easing his guilt.

This was about you.

So you hit send before you could talk yourself out of it.

The whoosh of the message leaving your phone was quiet, nearly nothing – just a digital ripple.

But your body reacted like you’d stepped off a cliff anyway.

You set the phone down and sat there, breathing hard, palms pressed to your thighs.

Outside, the palm leaves kept whispering.

Inside, your chest hurt.

But it hurt in a way that felt… real.

Honest.

And for the first time since that dinner, you didn’t feel like you were disappearing.

You felt like you were choosing where you stood.

Bucky saw it the way he saw everything now: by checking.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t be obsessive about it anymore. He’d told himself he’d give you space. He’d meant it, too – meant it in the only way he knew how, by not calling, by not driving to your apartment, by not asking Wanda and Pietro for scraps of information like a starving man.

But the thread was still there.

And his thumb still went there without him thinking. Morning. Night. Lunch break. Between meetings. In the elevator. In bed with the lights off, phone glow reflecting in eyes that hadn’t slept properly in weeks.

So when the notification came through, he wasn’t doing anything dramatic.

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like the world might explain itself if he stared long enough.

His phone buzzed against the comforter.

He froze.

The screen lit up with your name and a preview long enough that he couldn’t see the end of it.

His heart kicked so hard it felt like a punch.

For a second – just one – his brain tried to go blank. Tried to protect him from what was about to happen. Tried to convince him it was a glitch, a spam text, anything but you.

Then his fingers moved.

He opened it.

And there it was.

A long message.

Not a single line. Not an emoji. Not a polite “I’m fine.” A real message. Full sentences. Paragraphs.

His throat tightened so hard he couldn’t swallow.

He started reading.

The first lines made his lungs forget what they were supposed to do.

I read everything… I needed time… I’m doing better…

Relief hit first – hot and immediate, a wave so intense it made his eyes sting. You were alive, you were breathing, you were eating, you were sleeping.

He clutched the phone tighter like it might slip away.

Then he kept reading.

And the relief curdled into something heavier.

You really hurt me.

His stomach dropped.

Not because he didn’t know.

Because you were saying it. You were placing it in words that couldn’t be argued with or softened.

I don’t forgive you right now.

He went still.

So still it felt like his body was trying to disappear to make room for the sentence.

A part of him had expected it. Prepared for it. Had even written you that you had the right.

But seeing it in your words made it real in a new way.

His throat burned.

He read on.

I can’t talk to you on the phone… I can’t hear your voice… I can’t see you… I don’t want to see your face.

His hand shook.

He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, breathing through his nose like that would keep him from making a sound.

Because the instinct to call you surged so violently it almost knocked him off the bed. To beg. To explain. To promise. To fix. To be there.

But you had written it clearly.

Please don’t call. Text only.

And Bucky – shaking, sick with fear and grief – forced himself to obey.

He kept reading.

Even reading your name sometimes makes my stomach turn.

His eyes squeezed shut for half a second.

Your name had always felt like home in his mouth. He’d always said it like it mattered, even when he was angry. Even when he was distant. Even when he was trying to pretend you weren’t the axis his world kept turning around.

And now his name – his presence – did this to you.

He read the part about Miami.

About finding your father.

His breath caught.

He knew – logically – that this was what you’d gone to do. Pietro had said as much, in that brutal, exhausted way of his. But seeing you say it, seeing you write I found my father, made his chest tighten in a different way.

Then.

He’s better.

Bucky’s eyes stung again, but this time it wasn’t only pain.

It was something like relief.

A laugh almost escaped him – small, broken – not because it was funny, but because the universe had been cruel enough to make him say what he’d said, and then kind enough to prove him wrong.

He stared at the sentence.

You were wrong.

His vision blurred.

You were wrong, and I need you to know you were wrong.

He nodded to himself without realizing it, like his body had to physically agree.

“I was,” he whispered, voice hoarse in the empty room. “I was wrong.”

And then he read the line that made everything inside him lurch.

I still love you.

For a second, the world tilted.

He reread it. Then again. As if the words might change if he looked too hard. As if it couldn’t possibly be there, not after what he’d done.

His hand trembled so badly he had to set the phone down on his bed and press both palms against his face.

A sound broke out of him – half sob, half breath.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just… the kind of noise a person made when they’d been holding everything back for too long and their body finally let something leak.

He grabbed the phone again and kept reading, because he couldn’t not.

The apology for Natasha hit him like a bruise.

Not because he deserved sympathy – he didn’t think he did – but because you were still you, still capable of compassion even for the wreckage he’d caused, still unable to turn your heart off even when you were protecting yourself.

I miss you. And I think that might be the worst part.

His chest constricted so sharply he had to bend forward, elbows on his knees, phone clutched in both hands like prayer.

Yes, he thought wildly.

Yes.

He wanted to scream it into the world.

Because he missed you too. Because he missed you in ways that made his skin feel wrong without you near. Because he missed you in the quiet moments when he reached for a second coffee mug out of habit. Because he missed you when the elevator doors opened and you weren’t there, and his brain still expected you.

He reached the end of your message.

Please don’t call. Text only. If you can respect that, we can… maybe exist in the same world again. Eventually.

Eventually.

That word was both a lifeline and a punishment.

He stared at it until his eyes burned.

Then he set the phone down, stood up too fast, and paced to his window. He stood there, looking out at the city lights like they could tell him what to do with the fact that you’d spoken to him again.

He didn’t deserve it.

But you’d given it anyway.

Not forgiveness.

Not reconciliation.

Just… proof that he hadn’t completely lost you to silence.

His hands shook as he picked up the phone again.

He opened the text box and stared at it.

A thousand things tried to spill out of him.

I’m sorry. Thank you. I love you. Please don’t leave me. I’ll do anything. Tell me where you are. Let me come. Let me fix it. Let me see you. Let me 

He swallowed hard and forced himself to breathe.

In.

Out.

Your message had been about you. Your pain. Your boundaries.

His response had to be the same: about you, not his need.

He typed slowly, fingers trembling, as if he was carving each word into stone.

Thank you for telling me you’re okay. I’m glad you found him. I’m glad he’s good to you. I’m glad you were wrong about being unwanted.

I hear you. I hear all of it. And you’re right, you don’t owe me forgiveness. You don’t owe me anything.

I won’t call. I won’t show up. Text only, and only if/when you want.

I’m sorry. I know I can’t undo it. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure I never hurt you like that again, even if you never come back.

I love you. I miss you too. And I’ll wait. As long as it takes.

He read it twice, searching for hidden pressure, hidden selfishness.

Then he deleted one line – I’m going to spend the rest of my life… – because it sounded too dramatic, too much like a performance.

He rewrote it smaller.

I’m going to do better. Whether you’re in my life or not.

He stared at the message again, then hit send before he could overthink it into something worse.

The message went through.

And then there was nothing to do.

No next step.

No fix.

No certainty.

Only waiting.

Bucky sank back onto the edge of his bed, phone still in his hand, and pressed his thumb over your last line as if he could feel you through the glass.

He wasn’t serene.

He wasn’t okay.

But he was… steady.

Because you had spoken.

Because you were alive.

Because you had drawn a line – and he would rather bleed out than cross it again.

GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier | @alpinebarnesworld | @alwaysreenie | @iceyyycapsicle | @karlahan

BUCKY taglist: @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby-21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30 | @peachiestevie | @evilplansandstuff | @nicobidd | @i-lie-here-charmed | @sebastians-love | @bennyyion

It had been a cold winter and the recent spring equinox hadn't brought much in the way of warmer weather. The chilly wind of March 25, 1875 whipped around some leaves still scattered from the singular tree that overlooked Sunrise Hill Cemetery.  On the ground, the remaining tufts of dried prairie grass next to the individual tombstones rustled from the gusts that made it through the small group of mourners. As the preacher said the final words over the still open grave of Thomas Stone, his mother, widow, and son huddled together, each with a handful of dirt clutched in their fingers.

"We therefore commit his body to the ground."

The son, Ethan, a fair-haired gangly boy of eight, tossed his handful of dirt onto his father's casket.

"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Thomas's widow, Lorelei, her grief screaming from her entire body, dropped her handful of dirt onto her husband's coffin. A swirl in the wind sent some of the finer grains into the sky, soon lost to the view of anyone who noticed.

"Looking for that blessed hope when the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God, and the dead in Christ shall rise first."

His mother, Ruth, a grey-haired woman whose ruddy skin showed the effects of long hours toiling on the farm, stood with her hand outstretched over the cold hole that held the remains of her only child, letting the dirt fall through her fingers onto the plain wooden box.  Several clumps hit the wood with a dull thump. Beside it, the tombstone of her husband Martin served witness to the interment of his son. 

"Amen."

Several men watched the funeral service from a respectful distance.  At first glance, one would think they were there as friends of the deceased.  All of them kept their hats off, until the final "Amen" was uttered.  Their clothes, dark and somber, were clean, not layered in the dirt or grime associated with men used to working the land. Each of them had clean hair and their beards, for those who had one, were neatly trimmed.  One of them, an older man by the name of Alexander Pierce, wore a well-tailored suit that exemplified his superior status in the small town of Sunrise Hill.  His almost white hair added to the impression that he held all the influence and power in this part of Wyoming.

He watched the ceremony with the attention of a man used to having his way; nothing escaped his notice.  As the deceased man's family turned away from the grief that rectangular hole in the barely thawed ground represented, he stepped forward, still holding his hat and stopping in front of the two women and the boy.

"My condolences, Missus Stone, Miz Lorelei, Ethan," he intoned, his southern accent barely noticeable.  "Thomas was a good man.  His death is a great loss to the county."

Lorelei clutched her son close to her, while Ruth breathed heavily before looking up at the taller man.

"Don't," she said, through gritted teeth.  "We all know who killed my son.  You won't get away with it, not like you did with my husband."

"Now, Missus Stone, you know it was a bear that took your husband and an accident that took Thomas before his time.  The sheriff investigated...."

"Your sheriff," interrupted Ruth Stone, barely able to contain her fury.  "Your man, bought and paid for.  Now let us go back to our farm and mourn in peace."

"Of course."  He stepped back, presenting himself as full of esteem for the grieving family. If there was one thing Alexander Pierce was good at, it was presenting a civilized appearance when it was necessary.  "I'll come pay my respects after you've had a chance to mourn your loss.  I'm sure you'll listen to my offer when you've had time to grieve."

As the three bereaved remaining members of the Stone family stepped past Pierce and his men, he watched them get on the farm wagon.  The boy, now the man of the house, was already offering his mother a hand to help her up, then climbed past her to sit on the middle of the seat.  Ruth, still vigorous in her mid-50s, climbed on by herself, grasping the reins.  She gave Alexander Pierce a withering glare then clicked her tongue for the two horses to begin the journey back to the farm, built with the blood, sweat and tears shed by herself, her husband, son and his family.  Behind her, two grave diggers began shovelling the dirt onto the casket, entombing her son's remains to its eternal resting place.

The tall, white-haired man turned to his men, as they approached where he still stood.  Placing his hat back on, Pierce gestured to Brock Rumlow, his foreman ever since he showed up looking for work, just days after the death of Martin Stone; another hired gun in search of a new master. He had been a good replacement for his predecessor, who had suddenly found a conscience when Pierce asked him to make an example of Martin Stone. That foreman's body was yet to be found. Rumlow had proven himself several times over to the older landowner; almost always faithfully following Pierce's instructions as he continued his quest to own every piece of land as far as the eye could see and then some. That is, until recently.

"Keep a watch on them," he said.  "I want to know if the old woman sends word to anyone."

"We could just burn them out," said the dark-haired Rumlow.  "It's not like they'll put up a fight."

"You won't," declared Pierce, angrily.  "Not without my say so. Every death that can be connected to me increases the likelihood of federal marshals sticking their noses in my business." He glared at the younger man, still disturbed at the reports the death had been because of Rumlow's interest in Lorelei Stone. "You never knew Martin Stone, did you?"

"No, can't say I did," replied the foreman, as he pulled out a cigarette from a metal case and lit it from a match produced from another small tin, "other than hear he met a bear who didn't take kindly to him."

Rumlow grinned a little, learning after he was hired that the elder Stone had been left tied up some distance from his home, and smeared with honey.  It had been unfortunate that a bear found him first before a search party found his remains. Pierce's men had more than enough time to go back and remove the remnants of the ropes that kept Stone bound as the bear had its way with him. His smile disappeared when Pierce scowled at him.

"During the Civil War, there was an infantry force called the Iron Brigade out of Wisconsin, also known as the Black Hat Devils," said Pierce, still watching as the other mourners clambered on to their wagons or horses.  "Fought at Gettysburg against the Army of Northern Virginia who were under the command of General Lee himself.   They were at the Battle of Antietam which is where I encountered them.  The Devils were bound by blood and honour, and Martin Stone was a captain in the Brigade. A number of the men from the Brigade still live, several of them lawmen, known for their tenacity in tracking fugitives.  If she sends word to them about this then they'll come running. I want to know if any strangers show up looking for the Stone farm."

Rumlow nodded his obedience to Alexander Pierce and joined the others mounting their horses.  They would spread throughout the town, dropping a coin here or there, making a threat elsewhere, in order to get the information that was needed.  The fact that some of the men might be lawmen didn't matter, not here, not where Pierce was taking control of the land where the railroad would soon cross the northern part of Wyoming.  With cattle needing to be transported east to the Omaha and Chicago slaughterhouses, the person who owned the ranches and controlled the railroad would have a lot of power.  There was a lot of profit to be made from both ventures, and Alexander Pierce wasn't going to let a couple of widows and a boy stop him from taking their farmland.  He would make a fair offer, as offers went, and if they didn't accept it then he would take the land anyway.

As Pierce and his men rode back to his ranch, he wondered if Ruth Stone had already managed to send word in the time since Rumlow killed her son.  She was no fool and hadn't accepted that Tom's horse had lost its footing while descending into a ravine in search of a lost newborn calf.  He chastised himself for not having a man watching the farm right from the get-go. When he got back to the ranch he would write out a telegram. Sent to the right people, a $50 gold piece might be enough to buy their loyalty for a month or two, more than long enough to deal with the remnants of the Stone family. It might even be the turning point that would allow him to complete his plan to own everything.

On the ride back to the farm, Ethan tried to comfort his mother. Although she stopped crying, she took to looking out forlornly over the landscape, lost in the grief of his father's death. To his left, he hazarded a look at his grandmother. Her face was set like stone, just like their last name, with her mouth gritted in a straight line. She glanced at him.

"What is it, boy?" Whenever she was bothered by something she called him boy instead of his Christian name. "You want to speak? Let me know your mind."

"Why is Mr. Pierce that way?" he asked. "He has so much and he wants more."

"Better people than me have asked that," she answered, after a huff and grimace. "Someone like him is empty inside, and they try to fill it with whatever they can. Lord knows they try. He came here about two years after the war with a young wife and his little boy. Your grandpa recognized him as his unit fought Pierce's during the war but he didn't trust him, as he was a cruel officer to men he captured. Claimed he wanted to live a peaceful life. Then his son died from drowning. His wife died from grief soon after, and I think that's what made him empty all over again. He tries to fill the hole inside his soul with land, and cattle, and power but it's not the same, except he's too angry to know it. He thinks the world owes him for taking his boy and his wife." She looked at Ethan, as if noticing him for the first time. "Your grandpa and pa were taken from you too soon. Remember the good times with them, so that you don't become angry inside, and then empty."

"You're angry."

"I am but I still care about you and your ma." She looked over to Lorelei, who still seemed distracted. "I'll be kinder to her. So should you. Your pa loved her from when they were young and she loved him just as much. Maybe she'll find another good man. She has a tender heart that needs to be loved."

"But I love her," he whispered loudly. "Shouldn't that be enough?"

A small smile appeared on the older woman's face. "It is for some women ... like me. But your ma is younger and didn't have enough time with your pa. She's still pretty enough for some men, not like me."

"I'll never love again," said Lorelei, turning to look at both of them. "I would thank you both not to talk about me as if I'm not here."

Ruth studied her daughter-in-law for several long moments, turning her attention back to the horses when they went over a soft thawed spot in the dirt road and the wagon dipped slightly. There was still fire in Lorelei. That was good. It meant she wasn't as numb as was originally feared.

"Fair enough," she answered. "Did you post that letter I gave you the day we went to town to arrange for Thomas's funeral?"

"I did," answered the younger woman. "Who is Chester Phillips?"

"My husband's commanding officer," replied Ruth. "Thought he was dead, then I read in a newspaper that he was involved with the Pinkertons when they shot John Younger last year. He's now a federal marshal based in St. Louis. He's brought in some dangerous men." They hit another dip in the thawing road and she shortened the reins, as one of the horses shied a little. "He'll come and he'll bring help."

"How long will it take for him to get here?"

The younger woman looked directly at Ruth. She didn't ask more, not wanting to scare Ethan. Alexander Pierce wasn't going to wait long before he showed up at the farm offering them a pittance for it. It could take three or four days for the letter to reach its destination. Assuming Phillips was there when it arrived it meant he had read the contents by now. He would need time to assemble some of the men from the brigade to join him and they lived in various places. Then they would need three to four days to get to Wyoming by train, assuming they left from the railway hub in Kansas City today.

"A week is my best guess but could be longer seeing as how it's Easter this weekend. Everything slows down for it."

Lorelei nodded her head and looked forward. Until Phillips got there, they were on their own.

"We better stop in town for ammunition now, in case the general store is closed tomorrow," said the younger woman. "I hope we can hang on."

At the fork in the road Ruth guided the horses to the left, to town. They would pick up ammunition and food, then head home as soon as they could. Hopefully, Pierce's men hadn't already burned them out. She pushed down the fear that threatened to rise from her stomach into her throat. Normally, she wasn't one to carry regrets but she wondered at that moment if she could have prevented Thomas's death if she had contacted Phillips after Martin's remains were found. Maybe, but she didn't know where he was until recently and it didn't matter now. What did matter was hanging on until he came. She had faith in him, even though she never met the man. Martin had thought the world of him and her husband was a good judge of character.

As the two women and boy entered the general store, several people nodded their heads in recognition or murmured their condolences. They hadn't been able to spare the time to attend the ceremony. Life in this part of the country was hard enough and with Pierce shifting his attention from one farm to the next, most of the landowners were trying to keep what they had. Showing up at Thomas Stone's funeral could make it seem they were against the powerful landowner, possibly marking them as the next target for his ambitions.

Jasper Sitwell, the proprietor of the general store, fixed his spectacled eyes on the Stone family. He felt bad for them, in the sense that they had been loyal customers and had always paid him what he was owed. Even on the rare occasion when he had to extend them credit they had never let too much time pass before they settled their bill. But he knew that the day would come when only one customer would have to be kept satisfied, Alexander Pierce.

"Missus Stone, Miz Lorelei," he intoned, looking out his store's front window. "A mournful looking day for a sad occasion. I wasn't expecting you to come to town."

"No, but the responsibilities of farming don't wait for grief to subside," replied Ruth, fixing the man in her gaze. "We need some food and ammunition." She glanced at her grandson. "Handling varmints will be the boy's responsibility now, so he needs to practice."

Ethan opened his mouth to say he was already a good shot but his mother placed a hand on his shoulder and gently squeezed it. He held his tongue and watched the interaction between his grandmother and the storekeeper. Sitwell stepped to a cabinet and took one box of bullets out, then another when his grandmother nodded, placing them on the counter. Ruth listed off several other items that she needed from where they were kept behind the counter or in the back room. Lorelei released her son and walked throughout the store picking up some prepackaged basics like sugar, flour, and spices, bringing them to the counter. None of the other customers said a thing, but Ethan understood they knew exactly what the two widows were preparing for.

The bell on the door jingled as it was opened, and a gust of cold wind followed it before suddenly stopping when the door closed. Turning his head slightly, he saw Brock Rumlow and another one of Pierce's men, Jack Rollins, watching them from just inside the door. Neither his mother nor his grandmother paid either man any mind but the boy had no doubt they knew who had entered the store.

"That will be $2.85," said Sitwell, looking expectantly at Ruth.

She pulled a small change purse out of a pocket in her skirt, opening it and counting out the change, placing the amount on the counter. Looking at Sitwell, catching him as he glanced at the two men, she tilted her head slightly.

"Is there a problem?"

"No, no problem," he smiled, a little too quickly and with all the sincerity of a fox caught in the hen house. "I'll get a box for everything. Excuse me."

While he slipped away, Rumlow approached the two women while Rollins stayed put. The dark-haired man removed his hat, then stood close enough to Lorelei that she stepped away from him.

"That's a lot of bullets to buy," he said, picking up one of the ammunition boxes with his free hand and examining it.

"I have to practice shooting," said Ethan, without prompting, as he looked up at the man. "Someone has to kill the varmints."

He chuckled. "Already being the man of the house." Turning his attention towards Lorelei, he looked at her in a way that made something inside the boy churn with anger. "If you ever need help with something dangerous, like a bear, you know where to find me."

Ruth's jaw tightened then just as quickly relaxed at the reference to a bear. She didn't look at the man or say anything, not wanting to give him any sign that his words had any effect on her. Sitwell returned with a wooden crate, his face neutral although it was evident that the tension in the store was simmering. The last thing he wanted was for Rumlow and Rollins to become even more intimidating. He transferred the supplies into it.

"Let me carry that out for you," offered Rumlow, still looking at Lorelei.

"No thank you," she replied, icily, still looking straight ahead. "I wouldn't even let you carry my night soil."

There was a subtle gasp from the other customers and Rumlow's faced hardened at the implication that he wasn't good enough to carry her shit. She picked up the crate and stepped around him, heading for the door, then stared at Rollins as he blocked her exit. After a few seconds, the man stepped aside and the Stone family left. Placing the crate in the back of the wagon, Lorelei went to the driver's side, lifted her skirt enough to place her foot on the small step and pulled herself up. Ruth and Ethan watched, then joined her. Once they were out of earshot of the general store, Ruth looked over at her daughter-in-law. She had been impressed by the younger woman's display of furious restraint but there was also a time and place for it.

"That might not have been wise."

"I know, but it felt damn good. He's always looked at me as if I were something for him to covet." She looked over at Ruth. "You and I both know why he killed Thomas."

Back on the boardwalk in front of the store, Rumlow lit another cigarette as he and Rollins stood watching the wagon get further away. Nothing was said but the look on the foreman's face displayed the rage he felt at being publicly humiliated. Despite Pierce's instructions not to do anything without his say so, Rollins was concerned that Rumlow might take action that would draw attention to their employer. Then the foreman huffed a little and spat into the dirt street, before striding over to his horse and mounting it.

For now, Brock Rumlow would hold his wrath but he already pictured a future where Lorelei Stone became a fixture in his bed. Whether she came willingly or not didn't matter. He would have her either way.

Part 2 >>

Series Masterlist

It had been a cold winter and the recent spring equinox hadn't brought much in the way of warmer weather. The chilly wind of March 25, 1875 whipped around some leaves still scattered from the singular tree that overlooked Sunrise Hill Cemetery.  On the ground, the remaining tufts of dried prairie grass next to the individual tombstones rustled from the gusts that made it through the small group of mourners. As the preacher said the final words over the still open grave of Thomas Stone, his mother, widow, and son huddled together, each with a handful of dirt clutched in their fingers.

"We therefore commit his body to the ground."

The son, Ethan, a fair-haired gangly boy of eight, tossed his handful of dirt onto his father's casket.

"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Thomas's widow, Lorelei, her grief screaming from her entire body, dropped her handful of dirt onto her husband's coffin. A swirl in the wind sent some of the finer grains into the sky, soon lost to the view of anyone who noticed.

"Looking for that blessed hope when the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God, and the dead in Christ shall rise first."

His mother, Ruth, a grey-haired woman whose ruddy skin showed the effects of long hours toiling on the farm, stood with her hand outstretched over the cold hole that held the remains of her only child, letting the dirt fall through her fingers onto the plain wooden box.  Several clumps hit the wood with a dull thump. Beside it, the tombstone of her husband Martin served witness to the interment of his son. 

"Amen."

Several men watched the funeral service from a respectful distance.  At first glance, one would think they were there as friends of the deceased.  All of them kept their hats off, until the final "Amen" was uttered.  Their clothes, dark and somber, were clean, not layered in the dirt or grime associated with men used to working the land. Each of them had clean hair and their beards, for those who had one, were neatly trimmed.  One of them, an older man by the name of Alexander Pierce, wore a well-tailored suit that exemplified his superior status in the small town of Sunrise Hill.  His almost white hair added to the impression that he held all the influence and power in this part of Wyoming.

He watched the ceremony with the attention of a man used to having his way; nothing escaped his notice.  As the deceased man's family turned away from the grief that rectangular hole in the barely thawed ground represented, he stepped forward, still holding his hat and stopping in front of the two women and the boy.

"My condolences, Missus Stone, Miz Lorelei, Ethan," he intoned, his southern accent barely noticeable.  "Thomas was a good man.  His death is a great loss to the county."

Lorelei clutched her son close to her, while Ruth breathed heavily before looking up at the taller man.

"Don't," she said, through gritted teeth.  "We all know who killed my son.  You won't get away with it, not like you did with my husband."

"Now, Missus Stone, you know it was a bear that took your husband and an accident that took Thomas before his time.  The sheriff investigated...."

"Your sheriff," interrupted Ruth Stone, barely able to contain her fury.  "Your man, bought and paid for.  Now let us go back to our farm and mourn in peace."

"Of course."  He stepped back, presenting himself as full of esteem for the grieving family. If there was one thing Alexander Pierce was good at, it was presenting a civilized appearance when it was necessary.  "I'll come pay my respects after you've had a chance to mourn your loss.  I'm sure you'll listen to my offer when you've had time to grieve."

As the three bereaved remaining members of the Stone family stepped past Pierce and his men, he watched them get on the farm wagon.  The boy, now the man of the house, was already offering his mother a hand to help her up, then climbed past her to sit on the middle of the seat.  Ruth, still vigorous in her mid-50s, climbed on by herself, grasping the reins.  She gave Alexander Pierce a withering glare then clicked her tongue for the two horses to begin the journey back to the farm, built with the blood, sweat and tears shed by herself, her husband, son and his family.  Behind her, two grave diggers began shovelling the dirt onto the casket, entombing her son's remains to its eternal resting place.

The tall, white-haired man turned to his men, as they approached where he still stood.  Placing his hat back on, Pierce gestured to Brock Rumlow, his foreman ever since he showed up looking for work, just days after the death of Martin Stone; another hired gun in search of a new master. He had been a good replacement for his predecessor, who had suddenly found a conscience when Pierce asked him to make an example of Martin Stone. That foreman's body was yet to be found. Rumlow had proven himself several times over to the older landowner; almost always faithfully following Pierce's instructions as he continued his quest to own every piece of land as far as the eye could see and then some. That is, until recently.

"Keep a watch on them," he said.  "I want to know if the old woman sends word to anyone."

"We could just burn them out," said the dark-haired Rumlow.  "It's not like they'll put up a fight."

"You won't," declared Pierce, angrily.  "Not without my say so. Every death that can be connected to me increases the likelihood of federal marshals sticking their noses in my business." He glared at the younger man, still disturbed at the reports the death had been because of Rumlow's interest in Lorelei Stone. "You never knew Martin Stone, did you?"

"No, can't say I did," replied the foreman, as he pulled out a cigarette from a metal case and lit it from a match produced from another small tin, "other than hear he met a bear who didn't take kindly to him."

Rumlow grinned a little, learning after he was hired that the elder Stone had been left tied up some distance from his home, and smeared with honey.  It had been unfortunate that a bear found him first before a search party found his remains. Pierce's men had more than enough time to go back and remove the remnants of the ropes that kept Stone bound as the bear had its way with him. His smile disappeared when Pierce scowled at him.

"During the Civil War, there was an infantry force called the Iron Brigade out of Wisconsin, also known as the Black Hat Devils," said Pierce, still watching as the other mourners clambered on to their wagons or horses.  "Fought at Gettysburg against the Army of Northern Virginia who were under the command of General Lee himself.   They were at the Battle of Antietam which is where I encountered them.  The Devils were bound by blood and honour, and Martin Stone was a captain in the Brigade. A number of the men from the Brigade still live, several of them lawmen, known for their tenacity in tracking fugitives.  If she sends word to them about this then they'll come running. I want to know if any strangers show up looking for the Stone farm."

Rumlow nodded his obedience to Alexander Pierce and joined the others mounting their horses.  They would spread throughout the town, dropping a coin here or there, making a threat elsewhere, in order to get the information that was needed.  The fact that some of the men might be lawmen didn't matter, not here, not where Pierce was taking control of the land where the railroad would soon cross the northern part of Wyoming.  With cattle needing to be transported east to the Omaha and Chicago slaughterhouses, the person who owned the ranches and controlled the railroad would have a lot of power.  There was a lot of profit to be made from both ventures, and Alexander Pierce wasn't going to let a couple of widows and a boy stop him from taking their farmland.  He would make a fair offer, as offers went, and if they didn't accept it then he would take the land anyway.

As Pierce and his men rode back to his ranch, he wondered if Ruth Stone had already managed to send word in the time since Rumlow killed her son.  She was no fool and hadn't accepted that Tom's horse had lost its footing while descending into a ravine in search of a lost newborn calf.  He chastised himself for not having a man watching the farm right from the get-go. When he got back to the ranch he would write out a telegram. Sent to the right people, a $50 gold piece might be enough to buy their loyalty for a month or two, more than long enough to deal with the remnants of the Stone family. It might even be the turning point that would allow him to complete his plan to own everything.

On the ride back to the farm, Ethan tried to comfort his mother. Although she stopped crying, she took to looking out forlornly over the landscape, lost in the grief of his father's death. To his left, he hazarded a look at his grandmother. Her face was set like stone, just like their last name, with her mouth gritted in a straight line. She glanced at him.

"What is it, boy?" Whenever she was bothered by something she called him boy instead of his Christian name. "You want to speak? Let me know your mind."

"Why is Mr. Pierce that way?" he asked. "He has so much and he wants more."

"Better people than me have asked that," she answered, after a huff and grimace. "Someone like him is empty inside, and they try to fill it with whatever they can. Lord knows they try. He came here about two years after the war with a young wife and his little boy. Your grandpa recognized him as his unit fought Pierce's during the war but he didn't trust him, as he was a cruel officer to men he captured. Claimed he wanted to live a peaceful life. Then his son died from drowning. His wife died from grief soon after, and I think that's what made him empty all over again. He tries to fill the hole inside his soul with land, and cattle, and power but it's not the same, except he's too angry to know it. He thinks the world owes him for taking his boy and his wife." She looked at Ethan, as if noticing him for the first time. "Your grandpa and pa were taken from you too soon. Remember the good times with them, so that you don't become angry inside, and then empty."

"You're angry."

"I am but I still care about you and your ma." She looked over to Lorelei, who still seemed distracted. "I'll be kinder to her. So should you. Your pa loved her from when they were young and she loved him just as much. Maybe she'll find another good man. She has a tender heart that needs to be loved."

"But I love her," he whispered loudly. "Shouldn't that be enough?"

A small smile appeared on the older woman's face. "It is for some women ... like me. But your ma is younger and didn't have enough time with your pa. She's still pretty enough for some men, not like me."

"I'll never love again," said Lorelei, turning to look at both of them. "I would thank you both not to talk about me as if I'm not here."

Ruth studied her daughter-in-law for several long moments, turning her attention back to the horses when they went over a soft thawed spot in the dirt road and the wagon dipped slightly. There was still fire in Lorelei. That was good. It meant she wasn't as numb as was originally feared.

"Fair enough," she answered. "Did you post that letter I gave you the day we went to town to arrange for Thomas's funeral?"

"I did," answered the younger woman. "Who is Chester Phillips?"

"My husband's commanding officer," replied Ruth. "Thought he was dead, then I read in a newspaper that he was involved with the Pinkertons when they shot John Younger last year. He's now a federal marshal based in St. Louis. He's brought in some dangerous men." They hit another dip in the thawing road and she shortened the reins, as one of the horses shied a little. "He'll come and he'll bring help."

"How long will it take for him to get here?"

The younger woman looked directly at Ruth. She didn't ask more, not wanting to scare Ethan. Alexander Pierce wasn't going to wait long before he showed up at the farm offering them a pittance for it. It could take three or four days for the letter to reach its destination. Assuming Phillips was there when it arrived it meant he had read the contents by now. He would need time to assemble some of the men from the brigade to join him and they lived in various places. Then they would need three to four days to get to Wyoming by train, assuming they left from the railway hub in Kansas City today.

"A week is my best guess but could be longer seeing as how it's Easter this weekend. Everything slows down for it."

Lorelei nodded her head and looked forward. Until Phillips got there, they were on their own.

"We better stop in town for ammunition now, in case the general store is closed tomorrow," said the younger woman. "I hope we can hang on."

At the fork in the road Ruth guided the horses to the left, to town. They would pick up ammunition and food, then head home as soon as they could. Hopefully, Pierce's men hadn't already burned them out. She pushed down the fear that threatened to rise from her stomach into her throat. Normally, she wasn't one to carry regrets but she wondered at that moment if she could have prevented Thomas's death if she had contacted Phillips after Martin's remains were found. Maybe, but she didn't know where he was until recently and it didn't matter now. What did matter was hanging on until he came. She had faith in him, even though she never met the man. Martin had thought the world of him and her husband was a good judge of character.

As the two women and boy entered the general store, several people nodded their heads in recognition or murmured their condolences. They hadn't been able to spare the time to attend the ceremony. Life in this part of the country was hard enough and with Pierce shifting his attention from one farm to the next, most of the landowners were trying to keep what they had. Showing up at Thomas Stone's funeral could make it seem they were against the powerful landowner, possibly marking them as the next target for his ambitions.

Jasper Sitwell, the proprietor of the general store, fixed his spectacled eyes on the Stone family. He felt bad for them, in the sense that they had been loyal customers and had always paid him what he was owed. Even on the rare occasion when he had to extend them credit they had never let too much time pass before they settled their bill. But he knew that the day would come when only one customer would have to be kept satisfied, Alexander Pierce.

"Missus Stone, Miz Lorelei," he intoned, looking out his store's front window. "A mournful looking day for a sad occasion. I wasn't expecting you to come to town."

"No, but the responsibilities of farming don't wait for grief to subside," replied Ruth, fixing the man in her gaze. "We need some food and ammunition." She glanced at her grandson. "Handling varmints will be the boy's responsibility now, so he needs to practice."

Ethan opened his mouth to say he was already a good shot but his mother placed a hand on his shoulder and gently squeezed it. He held his tongue and watched the interaction between his grandmother and the storekeeper. Sitwell stepped to a cabinet and took one box of bullets out, then another when his grandmother nodded, placing them on the counter. Ruth listed off several other items that she needed from where they were kept behind the counter or in the back room. Lorelei released her son and walked throughout the store picking up some prepackaged basics like sugar, flour, and spices, bringing them to the counter. None of the other customers said a thing, but Ethan understood they knew exactly what the two widows were preparing for.

The bell on the door jingled as it was opened, and a gust of cold wind followed it before suddenly stopping when the door closed. Turning his head slightly, he saw Brock Rumlow and another one of Pierce's men, Jack Rollins, watching them from just inside the door. Neither his mother nor his grandmother paid either man any mind but the boy had no doubt they knew who had entered the store.

"That will be $2.85," said Sitwell, looking expectantly at Ruth.

She pulled a small change purse out of a pocket in her skirt, opening it and counting out the change, placing the amount on the counter. Looking at Sitwell, catching him as he glanced at the two men, she tilted her head slightly.

"Is there a problem?"

"No, no problem," he smiled, a little too quickly and with all the sincerity of a fox caught in the hen house. "I'll get a box for everything. Excuse me."

While he slipped away, Rumlow approached the two women while Rollins stayed put. The dark-haired man removed his hat, then stood close enough to Lorelei that she stepped away from him.

"That's a lot of bullets to buy," he said, picking up one of the ammunition boxes with his free hand and examining it.

"I have to practice shooting," said Ethan, without prompting, as he looked up at the man. "Someone has to kill the varmints."

He chuckled. "Already being the man of the house." Turning his attention towards Lorelei, he looked at her in a way that made something inside the boy churn with anger. "If you ever need help with something dangerous, like a bear, you know where to find me."

Ruth's jaw tightened then just as quickly relaxed at the reference to a bear. She didn't look at the man or say anything, not wanting to give him any sign that his words had any effect on her. Sitwell returned with a wooden crate, his face neutral although it was evident that the tension in the store was simmering. The last thing he wanted was for Rumlow and Rollins to become even more intimidating. He transferred the supplies into it.

"Let me carry that out for you," offered Rumlow, still looking at Lorelei.

"No thank you," she replied, icily, still looking straight ahead. "I wouldn't even let you carry my night soil."

There was a subtle gasp from the other customers and Rumlow's faced hardened at the implication that he wasn't good enough to carry her shit. She picked up the crate and stepped around him, heading for the door, then stared at Rollins as he blocked her exit. After a few seconds, the man stepped aside and the Stone family left. Placing the crate in the back of the wagon, Lorelei went to the driver's side, lifted her skirt enough to place her foot on the small step and pulled herself up. Ruth and Ethan watched, then joined her. Once they were out of earshot of the general store, Ruth looked over at her daughter-in-law. She had been impressed by the younger woman's display of furious restraint but there was also a time and place for it.

"That might not have been wise."

"I know, but it felt damn good. He's always looked at me as if I were something for him to covet." She looked over at Ruth. "You and I both know why he killed Thomas."

Back on the boardwalk in front of the store, Rumlow lit another cigarette as he and Rollins stood watching the wagon get further away. Nothing was said but the look on the foreman's face displayed the rage he felt at being publicly humiliated. Despite Pierce's instructions not to do anything without his say so, Rollins was concerned that Rumlow might take action that would draw attention to their employer. Then the foreman huffed a little and spat into the dirt street, before striding over to his horse and mounting it.

For now, Brock Rumlow would hold his wrath but he already pictured a future where Lorelei Stone became a fixture in his bed. Whether she came willingly or not didn't matter. He would have her either way.

Part 2 >>

Series Masterlist

It had been a cold winter and the recent spring equinox hadn't brought much in the way of warmer weather. The chilly wind of March 25, 1875 whipped around some leaves still scattered from the singular tree that overlooked Sunrise Hill Cemetery.  On the ground, the remaining tufts of dried prairie grass next to the individual tombstones rustled from the gusts that made it through the small group of mourners. As the preacher said the final words over the still open grave of Thomas Stone, his mother, widow, and son huddled together, each with a handful of dirt clutched in their fingers.

"We therefore commit his body to the ground."

The son, Ethan, a fair-haired gangly boy of eight, tossed his handful of dirt onto his father's casket.

"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Thomas's widow, Lorelei, her grief screaming from her entire body, dropped her handful of dirt onto her husband's coffin. A swirl in the wind sent some of the finer grains into the sky, soon lost to the view of anyone who noticed.

"Looking for that blessed hope when the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God, and the dead in Christ shall rise first."

His mother, Ruth, a grey-haired woman whose ruddy skin showed the effects of long hours toiling on the farm, stood with her hand outstretched over the cold hole that held the remains of her only child, letting the dirt fall through her fingers onto the plain wooden box.  Several clumps hit the wood with a dull thump. Beside it, the tombstone of her husband Martin served witness to the interment of his son. 

"Amen."

Several men watched the funeral service from a respectful distance.  At first glance, one would think they were there as friends of the deceased.  All of them kept their hats off, until the final "Amen" was uttered.  Their clothes, dark and somber, were clean, not layered in the dirt or grime associated with men used to working the land. Each of them had clean hair and their beards, for those who had one, were neatly trimmed.  One of them, an older man by the name of Alexander Pierce, wore a well-tailored suit that exemplified his superior status in the small town of Sunrise Hill.  His almost white hair added to the impression that he held all the influence and power in this part of Wyoming.

He watched the ceremony with the attention of a man used to having his way; nothing escaped his notice.  As the deceased man's family turned away from the grief that rectangular hole in the barely thawed ground represented, he stepped forward, still holding his hat and stopping in front of the two women and the boy.

"My condolences, Missus Stone, Miz Lorelei, Ethan," he intoned, his southern accent barely noticeable.  "Thomas was a good man.  His death is a great loss to the county."

Lorelei clutched her son close to her, while Ruth breathed heavily before looking up at the taller man.

"Don't," she said, through gritted teeth.  "We all know who killed my son.  You won't get away with it, not like you did with my husband."

"Now, Missus Stone, you know it was a bear that took your husband and an accident that took Thomas before his time.  The sheriff investigated...."

"Your sheriff," interrupted Ruth Stone, barely able to contain her fury.  "Your man, bought and paid for.  Now let us go back to our farm and mourn in peace."

"Of course."  He stepped back, presenting himself as full of esteem for the grieving family. If there was one thing Alexander Pierce was good at, it was presenting a civilized appearance when it was necessary.  "I'll come pay my respects after you've had a chance to mourn your loss.  I'm sure you'll listen to my offer when you've had time to grieve."

As the three bereaved remaining members of the Stone family stepped past Pierce and his men, he watched them get on the farm wagon.  The boy, now the man of the house, was already offering his mother a hand to help her up, then climbed past her to sit on the middle of the seat.  Ruth, still vigorous in her mid-50s, climbed on by herself, grasping the reins.  She gave Alexander Pierce a withering glare then clicked her tongue for the two horses to begin the journey back to the farm, built with the blood, sweat and tears shed by herself, her husband, son and his family.  Behind her, two grave diggers began shovelling the dirt onto the casket, entombing her son's remains to its eternal resting place.

The tall, white-haired man turned to his men, as they approached where he still stood.  Placing his hat back on, Pierce gestured to Brock Rumlow, his foreman ever since he showed up looking for work, just days after the death of Martin Stone; another hired gun in search of a new master. He had been a good replacement for his predecessor, who had suddenly found a conscience when Pierce asked him to make an example of Martin Stone. That foreman's body was yet to be found. Rumlow had proven himself several times over to the older landowner; almost always faithfully following Pierce's instructions as he continued his quest to own every piece of land as far as the eye could see and then some. That is, until recently.

"Keep a watch on them," he said.  "I want to know if the old woman sends word to anyone."

"We could just burn them out," said the dark-haired Rumlow.  "It's not like they'll put up a fight."

"You won't," declared Pierce, angrily.  "Not without my say so. Every death that can be connected to me increases the likelihood of federal marshals sticking their noses in my business." He glared at the younger man, still disturbed at the reports the death had been because of Rumlow's interest in Lorelei Stone. "You never knew Martin Stone, did you?"

"No, can't say I did," replied the foreman, as he pulled out a cigarette from a metal case and lit it from a match produced from another small tin, "other than hear he met a bear who didn't take kindly to him."

Rumlow grinned a little, learning after he was hired that the elder Stone had been left tied up some distance from his home, and smeared with honey.  It had been unfortunate that a bear found him first before a search party found his remains. Pierce's men had more than enough time to go back and remove the remnants of the ropes that kept Stone bound as the bear had its way with him. His smile disappeared when Pierce scowled at him.

"During the Civil War, there was an infantry force called the Iron Brigade out of Wisconsin, also known as the Black Hat Devils," said Pierce, still watching as the other mourners clambered on to their wagons or horses.  "Fought at Gettysburg against the Army of Northern Virginia who were under the command of General Lee himself.   They were at the Battle of Antietam which is where I encountered them.  The Devils were bound by blood and honour, and Martin Stone was a captain in the Brigade. A number of the men from the Brigade still live, several of them lawmen, known for their tenacity in tracking fugitives.  If she sends word to them about this then they'll come running. I want to know if any strangers show up looking for the Stone farm."

Rumlow nodded his obedience to Alexander Pierce and joined the others mounting their horses.  They would spread throughout the town, dropping a coin here or there, making a threat elsewhere, in order to get the information that was needed.  The fact that some of the men might be lawmen didn't matter, not here, not where Pierce was taking control of the land where the railroad would soon cross the northern part of Wyoming.  With cattle needing to be transported east to the Omaha and Chicago slaughterhouses, the person who owned the ranches and controlled the railroad would have a lot of power.  There was a lot of profit to be made from both ventures, and Alexander Pierce wasn't going to let a couple of widows and a boy stop him from taking their farmland.  He would make a fair offer, as offers went, and if they didn't accept it then he would take the land anyway.

As Pierce and his men rode back to his ranch, he wondered if Ruth Stone had already managed to send word in the time since Rumlow killed her son.  She was no fool and hadn't accepted that Tom's horse had lost its footing while descending into a ravine in search of a lost newborn calf.  He chastised himself for not having a man watching the farm right from the get-go. When he got back to the ranch he would write out a telegram. Sent to the right people, a $50 gold piece might be enough to buy their loyalty for a month or two, more than long enough to deal with the remnants of the Stone family. It might even be the turning point that would allow him to complete his plan to own everything.

On the ride back to the farm, Ethan tried to comfort his mother. Although she stopped crying, she took to looking out forlornly over the landscape, lost in the grief of his father's death. To his left, he hazarded a look at his grandmother. Her face was set like stone, just like their last name, with her mouth gritted in a straight line. She glanced at him.

"What is it, boy?" Whenever she was bothered by something she called him boy instead of his Christian name. "You want to speak? Let me know your mind."

"Why is Mr. Pierce that way?" he asked. "He has so much and he wants more."

"Better people than me have asked that," she answered, after a huff and grimace. "Someone like him is empty inside, and they try to fill it with whatever they can. Lord knows they try. He came here about two years after the war with a young wife and his little boy. Your grandpa recognized him as his unit fought Pierce's during the war but he didn't trust him, as he was a cruel officer to men he captured. Claimed he wanted to live a peaceful life. Then his son died from drowning. His wife died from grief soon after, and I think that's what made him empty all over again. He tries to fill the hole inside his soul with land, and cattle, and power but it's not the same, except he's too angry to know it. He thinks the world owes him for taking his boy and his wife." She looked at Ethan, as if noticing him for the first time. "Your grandpa and pa were taken from you too soon. Remember the good times with them, so that you don't become angry inside, and then empty."

"You're angry."

"I am but I still care about you and your ma." She looked over to Lorelei, who still seemed distracted. "I'll be kinder to her. So should you. Your pa loved her from when they were young and she loved him just as much. Maybe she'll find another good man. She has a tender heart that needs to be loved."

"But I love her," he whispered loudly. "Shouldn't that be enough?"

A small smile appeared on the older woman's face. "It is for some women ... like me. But your ma is younger and didn't have enough time with your pa. She's still pretty enough for some men, not like me."

"I'll never love again," said Lorelei, turning to look at both of them. "I would thank you both not to talk about me as if I'm not here."

Ruth studied her daughter-in-law for several long moments, turning her attention back to the horses when they went over a soft thawed spot in the dirt road and the wagon dipped slightly. There was still fire in Lorelei. That was good. It meant she wasn't as numb as was originally feared.

"Fair enough," she answered. "Did you post that letter I gave you the day we went to town to arrange for Thomas's funeral?"

"I did," answered the younger woman. "Who is Chester Phillips?"

"My husband's commanding officer," replied Ruth. "Thought he was dead, then I read in a newspaper that he was involved with the Pinkertons when they shot John Younger last year. He's now a federal marshal based in St. Louis. He's brought in some dangerous men." They hit another dip in the thawing road and she shortened the reins, as one of the horses shied a little. "He'll come and he'll bring help."

"How long will it take for him to get here?"

The younger woman looked directly at Ruth. She didn't ask more, not wanting to scare Ethan. Alexander Pierce wasn't going to wait long before he showed up at the farm offering them a pittance for it. It could take three or four days for the letter to reach its destination. Assuming Phillips was there when it arrived it meant he had read the contents by now. He would need time to assemble some of the men from the brigade to join him and they lived in various places. Then they would need three to four days to get to Wyoming by train, assuming they left from the railway hub in Kansas City today.

"A week is my best guess but could be longer seeing as how it's Easter this weekend. Everything slows down for it."

Lorelei nodded her head and looked forward. Until Phillips got there, they were on their own.

"We better stop in town for ammunition now, in case the general store is closed tomorrow," said the younger woman. "I hope we can hang on."

At the fork in the road Ruth guided the horses to the left, to town. They would pick up ammunition and food, then head home as soon as they could. Hopefully, Pierce's men hadn't already burned them out. She pushed down the fear that threatened to rise from her stomach into her throat. Normally, she wasn't one to carry regrets but she wondered at that moment if she could have prevented Thomas's death if she had contacted Phillips after Martin's remains were found. Maybe, but she didn't know where he was until recently and it didn't matter now. What did matter was hanging on until he came. She had faith in him, even though she never met the man. Martin had thought the world of him and her husband was a good judge of character.

As the two women and boy entered the general store, several people nodded their heads in recognition or murmured their condolences. They hadn't been able to spare the time to attend the ceremony. Life in this part of the country was hard enough and with Pierce shifting his attention from one farm to the next, most of the landowners were trying to keep what they had. Showing up at Thomas Stone's funeral could make it seem they were against the powerful landowner, possibly marking them as the next target for his ambitions.

Jasper Sitwell, the proprietor of the general store, fixed his spectacled eyes on the Stone family. He felt bad for them, in the sense that they had been loyal customers and had always paid him what he was owed. Even on the rare occasion when he had to extend them credit they had never let too much time pass before they settled their bill. But he knew that the day would come when only one customer would have to be kept satisfied, Alexander Pierce.

"Missus Stone, Miz Lorelei," he intoned, looking out his store's front window. "A mournful looking day for a sad occasion. I wasn't expecting you to come to town."

"No, but the responsibilities of farming don't wait for grief to subside," replied Ruth, fixing the man in her gaze. "We need some food and ammunition." She glanced at her grandson. "Handling varmints will be the boy's responsibility now, so he needs to practice."

Ethan opened his mouth to say he was already a good shot but his mother placed a hand on his shoulder and gently squeezed it. He held his tongue and watched the interaction between his grandmother and the storekeeper. Sitwell stepped to a cabinet and took one box of bullets out, then another when his grandmother nodded, placing them on the counter. Ruth listed off several other items that she needed from where they were kept behind the counter or in the back room. Lorelei released her son and walked throughout the store picking up some prepackaged basics like sugar, flour, and spices, bringing them to the counter. None of the other customers said a thing, but Ethan understood they knew exactly what the two widows were preparing for.

The bell on the door jingled as it was opened, and a gust of cold wind followed it before suddenly stopping when the door closed. Turning his head slightly, he saw Brock Rumlow and another one of Pierce's men, Jack Rollins, watching them from just inside the door. Neither his mother nor his grandmother paid either man any mind but the boy had no doubt they knew who had entered the store.

"That will be $2.85," said Sitwell, looking expectantly at Ruth.

She pulled a small change purse out of a pocket in her skirt, opening it and counting out the change, placing the amount on the counter. Looking at Sitwell, catching him as he glanced at the two men, she tilted her head slightly.

"Is there a problem?"

"No, no problem," he smiled, a little too quickly and with all the sincerity of a fox caught in the hen house. "I'll get a box for everything. Excuse me."

While he slipped away, Rumlow approached the two women while Rollins stayed put. The dark-haired man removed his hat, then stood close enough to Lorelei that she stepped away from him.

"That's a lot of bullets to buy," he said, picking up one of the ammunition boxes with his free hand and examining it.

"I have to practice shooting," said Ethan, without prompting, as he looked up at the man. "Someone has to kill the varmints."

He chuckled. "Already being the man of the house." Turning his attention towards Lorelei, he looked at her in a way that made something inside the boy churn with anger. "If you ever need help with something dangerous, like a bear, you know where to find me."

Ruth's jaw tightened then just as quickly relaxed at the reference to a bear. She didn't look at the man or say anything, not wanting to give him any sign that his words had any effect on her. Sitwell returned with a wooden crate, his face neutral although it was evident that the tension in the store was simmering. The last thing he wanted was for Rumlow and Rollins to become even more intimidating. He transferred the supplies into it.

"Let me carry that out for you," offered Rumlow, still looking at Lorelei.

"No thank you," she replied, icily, still looking straight ahead. "I wouldn't even let you carry my night soil."

There was a subtle gasp from the other customers and Rumlow's faced hardened at the implication that he wasn't good enough to carry her shit. She picked up the crate and stepped around him, heading for the door, then stared at Rollins as he blocked her exit. After a few seconds, the man stepped aside and the Stone family left. Placing the crate in the back of the wagon, Lorelei went to the driver's side, lifted her skirt enough to place her foot on the small step and pulled herself up. Ruth and Ethan watched, then joined her. Once they were out of earshot of the general store, Ruth looked over at her daughter-in-law. She had been impressed by the younger woman's display of furious restraint but there was also a time and place for it.

"That might not have been wise."

"I know, but it felt damn good. He's always looked at me as if I were something for him to covet." She looked over at Ruth. "You and I both know why he killed Thomas."

Back on the boardwalk in front of the store, Rumlow lit another cigarette as he and Rollins stood watching the wagon get further away. Nothing was said but the look on the foreman's face displayed the rage he felt at being publicly humiliated. Despite Pierce's instructions not to do anything without his say so, Rollins was concerned that Rumlow might take action that would draw attention to their employer. Then the foreman huffed a little and spat into the dirt street, before striding over to his horse and mounting it.

For now, Brock Rumlow would hold his wrath but he already pictured a future where Lorelei Stone became a fixture in his bed. Whether she came willingly or not didn't matter. He would have her either way.

Part 2 >>

Series Masterlist

It had been a cold winter and the recent spring equinox hadn't brought much in the way of warmer weather. The chilly wind of March 25, 1875 whipped around some leaves still scattered from the singular tree that overlooked Sunrise Hill Cemetery.  On the ground, the remaining tufts of dried prairie grass next to the individual tombstones rustled from the gusts that made it through the small group of mourners. As the preacher said the final words over the still open grave of Thomas Stone, his mother, widow, and son huddled together, each with a handful of dirt clutched in their fingers.

"We therefore commit his body to the ground."

The son, Ethan, a fair-haired gangly boy of eight, tossed his handful of dirt onto his father's casket.

"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Thomas's widow, Lorelei, her grief screaming from her entire body, dropped her handful of dirt onto her husband's coffin. A swirl in the wind sent some of the finer grains into the sky, soon lost to the view of anyone who noticed.

"Looking for that blessed hope when the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God, and the dead in Christ shall rise first."

His mother, Ruth, a grey-haired woman whose ruddy skin showed the effects of long hours toiling on the farm, stood with her hand outstretched over the cold hole that held the remains of her only child, letting the dirt fall through her fingers onto the plain wooden box.  Several clumps hit the wood with a dull thump. Beside it, the tombstone of her husband Martin served witness to the interment of his son. 

"Amen."

Several men watched the funeral service from a respectful distance.  At first glance, one would think they were there as friends of the deceased.  All of them kept their hats off, until the final "Amen" was uttered.  Their clothes, dark and somber, were clean, not layered in the dirt or grime associated with men used to working the land. Each of them had clean hair and their beards, for those who had one, were neatly trimmed.  One of them, an older man by the name of Alexander Pierce, wore a well-tailored suit that exemplified his superior status in the small town of Sunrise Hill.  His almost white hair added to the impression that he held all the influence and power in this part of Wyoming.

He watched the ceremony with the attention of a man used to having his way; nothing escaped his notice.  As the deceased man's family turned away from the grief that rectangular hole in the barely thawed ground represented, he stepped forward, still holding his hat and stopping in front of the two women and the boy.

"My condolences, Missus Stone, Miz Lorelei, Ethan," he intoned, his southern accent barely noticeable.  "Thomas was a good man.  His death is a great loss to the county."

Lorelei clutched her son close to her, while Ruth breathed heavily before looking up at the taller man.

"Don't," she said, through gritted teeth.  "We all know who killed my son.  You won't get away with it, not like you did with my husband."

"Now, Missus Stone, you know it was a bear that took your husband and an accident that took Thomas before his time.  The sheriff investigated...."

"Your sheriff," interrupted Ruth Stone, barely able to contain her fury.  "Your man, bought and paid for.  Now let us go back to our farm and mourn in peace."

"Of course."  He stepped back, presenting himself as full of esteem for the grieving family. If there was one thing Alexander Pierce was good at, it was presenting a civilized appearance when it was necessary.  "I'll come pay my respects after you've had a chance to mourn your loss.  I'm sure you'll listen to my offer when you've had time to grieve."

As the three bereaved remaining members of the Stone family stepped past Pierce and his men, he watched them get on the farm wagon.  The boy, now the man of the house, was already offering his mother a hand to help her up, then climbed past her to sit on the middle of the seat.  Ruth, still vigorous in her mid-50s, climbed on by herself, grasping the reins.  She gave Alexander Pierce a withering glare then clicked her tongue for the two horses to begin the journey back to the farm, built with the blood, sweat and tears shed by herself, her husband, son and his family.  Behind her, two grave diggers began shovelling the dirt onto the casket, entombing her son's remains to its eternal resting place.

The tall, white-haired man turned to his men, as they approached where he still stood.  Placing his hat back on, Pierce gestured to Brock Rumlow, his foreman ever since he showed up looking for work, just days after the death of Martin Stone; another hired gun in search of a new master. He had been a good replacement for his predecessor, who had suddenly found a conscience when Pierce asked him to make an example of Martin Stone. That foreman's body was yet to be found. Rumlow had proven himself several times over to the older landowner; almost always faithfully following Pierce's instructions as he continued his quest to own every piece of land as far as the eye could see and then some. That is, until recently.

"Keep a watch on them," he said.  "I want to know if the old woman sends word to anyone."

"We could just burn them out," said the dark-haired Rumlow.  "It's not like they'll put up a fight."

"You won't," declared Pierce, angrily.  "Not without my say so. Every death that can be connected to me increases the likelihood of federal marshals sticking their noses in my business." He glared at the younger man, still disturbed at the reports the death had been because of Rumlow's interest in Lorelei Stone. "You never knew Martin Stone, did you?"

"No, can't say I did," replied the foreman, as he pulled out a cigarette from a metal case and lit it from a match produced from another small tin, "other than hear he met a bear who didn't take kindly to him."

Rumlow grinned a little, learning after he was hired that the elder Stone had been left tied up some distance from his home, and smeared with honey.  It had been unfortunate that a bear found him first before a search party found his remains. Pierce's men had more than enough time to go back and remove the remnants of the ropes that kept Stone bound as the bear had its way with him. His smile disappeared when Pierce scowled at him.

"During the Civil War, there was an infantry force called the Iron Brigade out of Wisconsin, also known as the Black Hat Devils," said Pierce, still watching as the other mourners clambered on to their wagons or horses.  "Fought at Gettysburg against the Army of Northern Virginia who were under the command of General Lee himself.   They were at the Battle of Antietam which is where I encountered them.  The Devils were bound by blood and honour, and Martin Stone was a captain in the Brigade. A number of the men from the Brigade still live, several of them lawmen, known for their tenacity in tracking fugitives.  If she sends word to them about this then they'll come running. I want to know if any strangers show up looking for the Stone farm."

Rumlow nodded his obedience to Alexander Pierce and joined the others mounting their horses.  They would spread throughout the town, dropping a coin here or there, making a threat elsewhere, in order to get the information that was needed.  The fact that some of the men might be lawmen didn't matter, not here, not where Pierce was taking control of the land where the railroad would soon cross the northern part of Wyoming.  With cattle needing to be transported east to the Omaha and Chicago slaughterhouses, the person who owned the ranches and controlled the railroad would have a lot of power.  There was a lot of profit to be made from both ventures, and Alexander Pierce wasn't going to let a couple of widows and a boy stop him from taking their farmland.  He would make a fair offer, as offers went, and if they didn't accept it then he would take the land anyway.

As Pierce and his men rode back to his ranch, he wondered if Ruth Stone had already managed to send word in the time since Rumlow killed her son.  She was no fool and hadn't accepted that Tom's horse had lost its footing while descending into a ravine in search of a lost newborn calf.  He chastised himself for not having a man watching the farm right from the get-go. When he got back to the ranch he would write out a telegram. Sent to the right people, a $50 gold piece might be enough to buy their loyalty for a month or two, more than long enough to deal with the remnants of the Stone family. It might even be the turning point that would allow him to complete his plan to own everything.

On the ride back to the farm, Ethan tried to comfort his mother. Although she stopped crying, she took to looking out forlornly over the landscape, lost in the grief of his father's death. To his left, he hazarded a look at his grandmother. Her face was set like stone, just like their last name, with her mouth gritted in a straight line. She glanced at him.

"What is it, boy?" Whenever she was bothered by something she called him boy instead of his Christian name. "You want to speak? Let me know your mind."

"Why is Mr. Pierce that way?" he asked. "He has so much and he wants more."

"Better people than me have asked that," she answered, after a huff and grimace. "Someone like him is empty inside, and they try to fill it with whatever they can. Lord knows they try. He came here about two years after the war with a young wife and his little boy. Your grandpa recognized him as his unit fought Pierce's during the war but he didn't trust him, as he was a cruel officer to men he captured. Claimed he wanted to live a peaceful life. Then his son died from drowning. His wife died from grief soon after, and I think that's what made him empty all over again. He tries to fill the hole inside his soul with land, and cattle, and power but it's not the same, except he's too angry to know it. He thinks the world owes him for taking his boy and his wife." She looked at Ethan, as if noticing him for the first time. "Your grandpa and pa were taken from you too soon. Remember the good times with them, so that you don't become angry inside, and then empty."

"You're angry."

"I am but I still care about you and your ma." She looked over to Lorelei, who still seemed distracted. "I'll be kinder to her. So should you. Your pa loved her from when they were young and she loved him just as much. Maybe she'll find another good man. She has a tender heart that needs to be loved."

"But I love her," he whispered loudly. "Shouldn't that be enough?"

A small smile appeared on the older woman's face. "It is for some women ... like me. But your ma is younger and didn't have enough time with your pa. She's still pretty enough for some men, not like me."

"I'll never love again," said Lorelei, turning to look at both of them. "I would thank you both not to talk about me as if I'm not here."

Ruth studied her daughter-in-law for several long moments, turning her attention back to the horses when they went over a soft thawed spot in the dirt road and the wagon dipped slightly. There was still fire in Lorelei. That was good. It meant she wasn't as numb as was originally feared.

"Fair enough," she answered. "Did you post that letter I gave you the day we went to town to arrange for Thomas's funeral?"

"I did," answered the younger woman. "Who is Chester Phillips?"

"My husband's commanding officer," replied Ruth. "Thought he was dead, then I read in a newspaper that he was involved with the Pinkertons when they shot John Younger last year. He's now a federal marshal based in St. Louis. He's brought in some dangerous men." They hit another dip in the thawing road and she shortened the reins, as one of the horses shied a little. "He'll come and he'll bring help."

"How long will it take for him to get here?"

The younger woman looked directly at Ruth. She didn't ask more, not wanting to scare Ethan. Alexander Pierce wasn't going to wait long before he showed up at the farm offering them a pittance for it. It could take three or four days for the letter to reach its destination. Assuming Phillips was there when it arrived it meant he had read the contents by now. He would need time to assemble some of the men from the brigade to join him and they lived in various places. Then they would need three to four days to get to Wyoming by train, assuming they left from the railway hub in Kansas City today.

"A week is my best guess but could be longer seeing as how it's Easter this weekend. Everything slows down for it."

Lorelei nodded her head and looked forward. Until Phillips got there, they were on their own.

"We better stop in town for ammunition now, in case the general store is closed tomorrow," said the younger woman. "I hope we can hang on."

At the fork in the road Ruth guided the horses to the left, to town. They would pick up ammunition and food, then head home as soon as they could. Hopefully, Pierce's men hadn't already burned them out. She pushed down the fear that threatened to rise from her stomach into her throat. Normally, she wasn't one to carry regrets but she wondered at that moment if she could have prevented Thomas's death if she had contacted Phillips after Martin's remains were found. Maybe, but she didn't know where he was until recently and it didn't matter now. What did matter was hanging on until he came. She had faith in him, even though she never met the man. Martin had thought the world of him and her husband was a good judge of character.

As the two women and boy entered the general store, several people nodded their heads in recognition or murmured their condolences. They hadn't been able to spare the time to attend the ceremony. Life in this part of the country was hard enough and with Pierce shifting his attention from one farm to the next, most of the landowners were trying to keep what they had. Showing up at Thomas Stone's funeral could make it seem they were against the powerful landowner, possibly marking them as the next target for his ambitions.

Jasper Sitwell, the proprietor of the general store, fixed his spectacled eyes on the Stone family. He felt bad for them, in the sense that they had been loyal customers and had always paid him what he was owed. Even on the rare occasion when he had to extend them credit they had never let too much time pass before they settled their bill. But he knew that the day would come when only one customer would have to be kept satisfied, Alexander Pierce.

"Missus Stone, Miz Lorelei," he intoned, looking out his store's front window. "A mournful looking day for a sad occasion. I wasn't expecting you to come to town."

"No, but the responsibilities of farming don't wait for grief to subside," replied Ruth, fixing the man in her gaze. "We need some food and ammunition." She glanced at her grandson. "Handling varmints will be the boy's responsibility now, so he needs to practice."

Ethan opened his mouth to say he was already a good shot but his mother placed a hand on his shoulder and gently squeezed it. He held his tongue and watched the interaction between his grandmother and the storekeeper. Sitwell stepped to a cabinet and took one box of bullets out, then another when his grandmother nodded, placing them on the counter. Ruth listed off several other items that she needed from where they were kept behind the counter or in the back room. Lorelei released her son and walked throughout the store picking up some prepackaged basics like sugar, flour, and spices, bringing them to the counter. None of the other customers said a thing, but Ethan understood they knew exactly what the two widows were preparing for.

The bell on the door jingled as it was opened, and a gust of cold wind followed it before suddenly stopping when the door closed. Turning his head slightly, he saw Brock Rumlow and another one of Pierce's men, Jack Rollins, watching them from just inside the door. Neither his mother nor his grandmother paid either man any mind but the boy had no doubt they knew who had entered the store.

"That will be $2.85," said Sitwell, looking expectantly at Ruth.

She pulled a small change purse out of a pocket in her skirt, opening it and counting out the change, placing the amount on the counter. Looking at Sitwell, catching him as he glanced at the two men, she tilted her head slightly.

"Is there a problem?"

"No, no problem," he smiled, a little too quickly and with all the sincerity of a fox caught in the hen house. "I'll get a box for everything. Excuse me."

While he slipped away, Rumlow approached the two women while Rollins stayed put. The dark-haired man removed his hat, then stood close enough to Lorelei that she stepped away from him.

"That's a lot of bullets to buy," he said, picking up one of the ammunition boxes with his free hand and examining it.

"I have to practice shooting," said Ethan, without prompting, as he looked up at the man. "Someone has to kill the varmints."

He chuckled. "Already being the man of the house." Turning his attention towards Lorelei, he looked at her in a way that made something inside the boy churn with anger. "If you ever need help with something dangerous, like a bear, you know where to find me."

Ruth's jaw tightened then just as quickly relaxed at the reference to a bear. She didn't look at the man or say anything, not wanting to give him any sign that his words had any effect on her. Sitwell returned with a wooden crate, his face neutral although it was evident that the tension in the store was simmering. The last thing he wanted was for Rumlow and Rollins to become even more intimidating. He transferred the supplies into it.

"Let me carry that out for you," offered Rumlow, still looking at Lorelei.

"No thank you," she replied, icily, still looking straight ahead. "I wouldn't even let you carry my night soil."

There was a subtle gasp from the other customers and Rumlow's faced hardened at the implication that he wasn't good enough to carry her shit. She picked up the crate and stepped around him, heading for the door, then stared at Rollins as he blocked her exit. After a few seconds, the man stepped aside and the Stone family left. Placing the crate in the back of the wagon, Lorelei went to the driver's side, lifted her skirt enough to place her foot on the small step and pulled herself up. Ruth and Ethan watched, then joined her. Once they were out of earshot of the general store, Ruth looked over at her daughter-in-law. She had been impressed by the younger woman's display of furious restraint but there was also a time and place for it.

"That might not have been wise."

"I know, but it felt damn good. He's always looked at me as if I were something for him to covet." She looked over at Ruth. "You and I both know why he killed Thomas."

Back on the boardwalk in front of the store, Rumlow lit another cigarette as he and Rollins stood watching the wagon get further away. Nothing was said but the look on the foreman's face displayed the rage he felt at being publicly humiliated. Despite Pierce's instructions not to do anything without his say so, Rollins was concerned that Rumlow might take action that would draw attention to their employer. Then the foreman huffed a little and spat into the dirt street, before striding over to his horse and mounting it.

For now, Brock Rumlow would hold his wrath but he already pictured a future where Lorelei Stone became a fixture in his bed. Whether she came willingly or not didn't matter. He would have her either way.

Part 2 >>

Series Masterlist

It had been a cold winter and the recent spring equinox hadn't brought much in the way of warmer weather. The chilly wind of March 25, 1875 whipped around some leaves still scattered from the singular tree that overlooked Sunrise Hill Cemetery.  On the ground, the remaining tufts of dried prairie grass next to the individual tombstones rustled from the gusts that made it through the small group of mourners. As the preacher said the final words over the still open grave of Thomas Stone, his mother, widow, and son huddled together, each with a handful of dirt clutched in their fingers.

"We therefore commit his body to the ground."

The son, Ethan, a fair-haired gangly boy of eight, tossed his handful of dirt onto his father's casket.

"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

Thomas's widow, Lorelei, her grief screaming from her entire body, dropped her handful of dirt onto her husband's coffin. A swirl in the wind sent some of the finer grains into the sky, soon lost to the view of anyone who noticed.

"Looking for that blessed hope when the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God, and the dead in Christ shall rise first."

His mother, Ruth, a grey-haired woman whose ruddy skin showed the effects of long hours toiling on the farm, stood with her hand outstretched over the cold hole that held the remains of her only child, letting the dirt fall through her fingers onto the plain wooden box.  Several clumps hit the wood with a dull thump. Beside it, the tombstone of her husband Martin served witness to the interment of his son. 

"Amen."

Several men watched the funeral service from a respectful distance.  At first glance, one would think they were there as friends of the deceased.  All of them kept their hats off, until the final "Amen" was uttered.  Their clothes, dark and somber, were clean, not layered in the dirt or grime associated with men used to working the land. Each of them had clean hair and their beards, for those who had one, were neatly trimmed.  One of them, an older man by the name of Alexander Pierce, wore a well-tailored suit that exemplified his superior status in the small town of Sunrise Hill.  His almost white hair added to the impression that he held all the influence and power in this part of Wyoming.

He watched the ceremony with the attention of a man used to having his way; nothing escaped his notice.  As the deceased man's family turned away from the grief that rectangular hole in the barely thawed ground represented, he stepped forward, still holding his hat and stopping in front of the two women and the boy.

"My condolences, Missus Stone, Miz Lorelei, Ethan," he intoned, his southern accent barely noticeable.  "Thomas was a good man.  His death is a great loss to the county."

Lorelei clutched her son close to her, while Ruth breathed heavily before looking up at the taller man.

"Don't," she said, through gritted teeth.  "We all know who killed my son.  You won't get away with it, not like you did with my husband."

"Now, Missus Stone, you know it was a bear that took your husband and an accident that took Thomas before his time.  The sheriff investigated...."

"Your sheriff," interrupted Ruth Stone, barely able to contain her fury.  "Your man, bought and paid for.  Now let us go back to our farm and mourn in peace."

"Of course."  He stepped back, presenting himself as full of esteem for the grieving family. If there was one thing Alexander Pierce was good at, it was presenting a civilized appearance when it was necessary.  "I'll come pay my respects after you've had a chance to mourn your loss.  I'm sure you'll listen to my offer when you've had time to grieve."

As the three bereaved remaining members of the Stone family stepped past Pierce and his men, he watched them get on the farm wagon.  The boy, now the man of the house, was already offering his mother a hand to help her up, then climbed past her to sit on the middle of the seat.  Ruth, still vigorous in her mid-50s, climbed on by herself, grasping the reins.  She gave Alexander Pierce a withering glare then clicked her tongue for the two horses to begin the journey back to the farm, built with the blood, sweat and tears shed by herself, her husband, son and his family.  Behind her, two grave diggers began shovelling the dirt onto the casket, entombing her son's remains to its eternal resting place.

The tall, white-haired man turned to his men, as they approached where he still stood.  Placing his hat back on, Pierce gestured to Brock Rumlow, his foreman ever since he showed up looking for work, just days after the death of Martin Stone; another hired gun in search of a new master. He had been a good replacement for his predecessor, who had suddenly found a conscience when Pierce asked him to make an example of Martin Stone. That foreman's body was yet to be found. Rumlow had proven himself several times over to the older landowner; almost always faithfully following Pierce's instructions as he continued his quest to own every piece of land as far as the eye could see and then some. That is, until recently.

"Keep a watch on them," he said.  "I want to know if the old woman sends word to anyone."

"We could just burn them out," said the dark-haired Rumlow.  "It's not like they'll put up a fight."

"You won't," declared Pierce, angrily.  "Not without my say so. Every death that can be connected to me increases the likelihood of federal marshals sticking their noses in my business." He glared at the younger man, still disturbed at the reports the death had been because of Rumlow's interest in Lorelei Stone. "You never knew Martin Stone, did you?"

"No, can't say I did," replied the foreman, as he pulled out a cigarette from a metal case and lit it from a match produced from another small tin, "other than hear he met a bear who didn't take kindly to him."

Rumlow grinned a little, learning after he was hired that the elder Stone had been left tied up some distance from his home, and smeared with honey.  It had been unfortunate that a bear found him first before a search party found his remains. Pierce's men had more than enough time to go back and remove the remnants of the ropes that kept Stone bound as the bear had its way with him. His smile disappeared when Pierce scowled at him.

"During the Civil War, there was an infantry force called the Iron Brigade out of Wisconsin, also known as the Black Hat Devils," said Pierce, still watching as the other mourners clambered on to their wagons or horses.  "Fought at Gettysburg against the Army of Northern Virginia who were under the command of General Lee himself.   They were at the Battle of Antietam which is where I encountered them.  The Devils were bound by blood and honour, and Martin Stone was a captain in the Brigade. A number of the men from the Brigade still live, several of them lawmen, known for their tenacity in tracking fugitives.  If she sends word to them about this then they'll come running. I want to know if any strangers show up looking for the Stone farm."

Rumlow nodded his obedience to Alexander Pierce and joined the others mounting their horses.  They would spread throughout the town, dropping a coin here or there, making a threat elsewhere, in order to get the information that was needed.  The fact that some of the men might be lawmen didn't matter, not here, not where Pierce was taking control of the land where the railroad would soon cross the northern part of Wyoming.  With cattle needing to be transported east to the Omaha and Chicago slaughterhouses, the person who owned the ranches and controlled the railroad would have a lot of power.  There was a lot of profit to be made from both ventures, and Alexander Pierce wasn't going to let a couple of widows and a boy stop him from taking their farmland.  He would make a fair offer, as offers went, and if they didn't accept it then he would take the land anyway.

As Pierce and his men rode back to his ranch, he wondered if Ruth Stone had already managed to send word in the time since Rumlow killed her son.  She was no fool and hadn't accepted that Tom's horse had lost its footing while descending into a ravine in search of a lost newborn calf.  He chastised himself for not having a man watching the farm right from the get-go. When he got back to the ranch he would write out a telegram. Sent to the right people, a $50 gold piece might be enough to buy their loyalty for a month or two, more than long enough to deal with the remnants of the Stone family. It might even be the turning point that would allow him to complete his plan to own everything.

On the ride back to the farm, Ethan tried to comfort his mother. Although she stopped crying, she took to looking out forlornly over the landscape, lost in the grief of his father's death. To his left, he hazarded a look at his grandmother. Her face was set like stone, just like their last name, with her mouth gritted in a straight line. She glanced at him.

"What is it, boy?" Whenever she was bothered by something she called him boy instead of his Christian name. "You want to speak? Let me know your mind."

"Why is Mr. Pierce that way?" he asked. "He has so much and he wants more."

"Better people than me have asked that," she answered, after a huff and grimace. "Someone like him is empty inside, and they try to fill it with whatever they can. Lord knows they try. He came here about two years after the war with a young wife and his little boy. Your grandpa recognized him as his unit fought Pierce's during the war but he didn't trust him, as he was a cruel officer to men he captured. Claimed he wanted to live a peaceful life. Then his son died from drowning. His wife died from grief soon after, and I think that's what made him empty all over again. He tries to fill the hole inside his soul with land, and cattle, and power but it's not the same, except he's too angry to know it. He thinks the world owes him for taking his boy and his wife." She looked at Ethan, as if noticing him for the first time. "Your grandpa and pa were taken from you too soon. Remember the good times with them, so that you don't become angry inside, and then empty."

"You're angry."

"I am but I still care about you and your ma." She looked over to Lorelei, who still seemed distracted. "I'll be kinder to her. So should you. Your pa loved her from when they were young and she loved him just as much. Maybe she'll find another good man. She has a tender heart that needs to be loved."

"But I love her," he whispered loudly. "Shouldn't that be enough?"

A small smile appeared on the older woman's face. "It is for some women ... like me. But your ma is younger and didn't have enough time with your pa. She's still pretty enough for some men, not like me."

"I'll never love again," said Lorelei, turning to look at both of them. "I would thank you both not to talk about me as if I'm not here."

Ruth studied her daughter-in-law for several long moments, turning her attention back to the horses when they went over a soft thawed spot in the dirt road and the wagon dipped slightly. There was still fire in Lorelei. That was good. It meant she wasn't as numb as was originally feared.

"Fair enough," she answered. "Did you post that letter I gave you the day we went to town to arrange for Thomas's funeral?"

"I did," answered the younger woman. "Who is Chester Phillips?"

"My husband's commanding officer," replied Ruth. "Thought he was dead, then I read in a newspaper that he was involved with the Pinkertons when they shot John Younger last year. He's now a federal marshal based in St. Louis. He's brought in some dangerous men." They hit another dip in the thawing road and she shortened the reins, as one of the horses shied a little. "He'll come and he'll bring help."

"How long will it take for him to get here?"

The younger woman looked directly at Ruth. She didn't ask more, not wanting to scare Ethan. Alexander Pierce wasn't going to wait long before he showed up at the farm offering them a pittance for it. It could take three or four days for the letter to reach its destination. Assuming Phillips was there when it arrived it meant he had read the contents by now. He would need time to assemble some of the men from the brigade to join him and they lived in various places. Then they would need three to four days to get to Wyoming by train, assuming they left from the railway hub in Kansas City today.

"A week is my best guess but could be longer seeing as how it's Easter this weekend. Everything slows down for it."

Lorelei nodded her head and looked forward. Until Phillips got there, they were on their own.

"We better stop in town for ammunition now, in case the general store is closed tomorrow," said the younger woman. "I hope we can hang on."

At the fork in the road Ruth guided the horses to the left, to town. They would pick up ammunition and food, then head home as soon as they could. Hopefully, Pierce's men hadn't already burned them out. She pushed down the fear that threatened to rise from her stomach into her throat. Normally, she wasn't one to carry regrets but she wondered at that moment if she could have prevented Thomas's death if she had contacted Phillips after Martin's remains were found. Maybe, but she didn't know where he was until recently and it didn't matter now. What did matter was hanging on until he came. She had faith in him, even though she never met the man. Martin had thought the world of him and her husband was a good judge of character.

As the two women and boy entered the general store, several people nodded their heads in recognition or murmured their condolences. They hadn't been able to spare the time to attend the ceremony. Life in this part of the country was hard enough and with Pierce shifting his attention from one farm to the next, most of the landowners were trying to keep what they had. Showing up at Thomas Stone's funeral could make it seem they were against the powerful landowner, possibly marking them as the next target for his ambitions.

Jasper Sitwell, the proprietor of the general store, fixed his spectacled eyes on the Stone family. He felt bad for them, in the sense that they had been loyal customers and had always paid him what he was owed. Even on the rare occasion when he had to extend them credit they had never let too much time pass before they settled their bill. But he knew that the day would come when only one customer would have to be kept satisfied, Alexander Pierce.

"Missus Stone, Miz Lorelei," he intoned, looking out his store's front window. "A mournful looking day for a sad occasion. I wasn't expecting you to come to town."

"No, but the responsibilities of farming don't wait for grief to subside," replied Ruth, fixing the man in her gaze. "We need some food and ammunition." She glanced at her grandson. "Handling varmints will be the boy's responsibility now, so he needs to practice."

Ethan opened his mouth to say he was already a good shot but his mother placed a hand on his shoulder and gently squeezed it. He held his tongue and watched the interaction between his grandmother and the storekeeper. Sitwell stepped to a cabinet and took one box of bullets out, then another when his grandmother nodded, placing them on the counter. Ruth listed off several other items that she needed from where they were kept behind the counter or in the back room. Lorelei released her son and walked throughout the store picking up some prepackaged basics like sugar, flour, and spices, bringing them to the counter. None of the other customers said a thing, but Ethan understood they knew exactly what the two widows were preparing for.

The bell on the door jingled as it was opened, and a gust of cold wind followed it before suddenly stopping when the door closed. Turning his head slightly, he saw Brock Rumlow and another one of Pierce's men, Jack Rollins, watching them from just inside the door. Neither his mother nor his grandmother paid either man any mind but the boy had no doubt they knew who had entered the store.

"That will be $2.85," said Sitwell, looking expectantly at Ruth.

She pulled a small change purse out of a pocket in her skirt, opening it and counting out the change, placing the amount on the counter. Looking at Sitwell, catching him as he glanced at the two men, she tilted her head slightly.

"Is there a problem?"

"No, no problem," he smiled, a little too quickly and with all the sincerity of a fox caught in the hen house. "I'll get a box for everything. Excuse me."

While he slipped away, Rumlow approached the two women while Rollins stayed put. The dark-haired man removed his hat, then stood close enough to Lorelei that she stepped away from him.

"That's a lot of bullets to buy," he said, picking up one of the ammunition boxes with his free hand and examining it.

"I have to practice shooting," said Ethan, without prompting, as he looked up at the man. "Someone has to kill the varmints."

He chuckled. "Already being the man of the house." Turning his attention towards Lorelei, he looked at her in a way that made something inside the boy churn with anger. "If you ever need help with something dangerous, like a bear, you know where to find me."

Ruth's jaw tightened then just as quickly relaxed at the reference to a bear. She didn't look at the man or say anything, not wanting to give him any sign that his words had any effect on her. Sitwell returned with a wooden crate, his face neutral although it was evident that the tension in the store was simmering. The last thing he wanted was for Rumlow and Rollins to become even more intimidating. He transferred the supplies into it.

"Let me carry that out for you," offered Rumlow, still looking at Lorelei.

"No thank you," she replied, icily, still looking straight ahead. "I wouldn't even let you carry my night soil."

There was a subtle gasp from the other customers and Rumlow's faced hardened at the implication that he wasn't good enough to carry her shit. She picked up the crate and stepped around him, heading for the door, then stared at Rollins as he blocked her exit. After a few seconds, the man stepped aside and the Stone family left. Placing the crate in the back of the wagon, Lorelei went to the driver's side, lifted her skirt enough to place her foot on the small step and pulled herself up. Ruth and Ethan watched, then joined her. Once they were out of earshot of the general store, Ruth looked over at her daughter-in-law. She had been impressed by the younger woman's display of furious restraint but there was also a time and place for it.

"That might not have been wise."

"I know, but it felt damn good. He's always looked at me as if I were something for him to covet." She looked over at Ruth. "You and I both know why he killed Thomas."

Back on the boardwalk in front of the store, Rumlow lit another cigarette as he and Rollins stood watching the wagon get further away. Nothing was said but the look on the foreman's face displayed the rage he felt at being publicly humiliated. Despite Pierce's instructions not to do anything without his say so, Rollins was concerned that Rumlow might take action that would draw attention to their employer. Then the foreman huffed a little and spat into the dirt street, before striding over to his horse and mounting it.

For now, Brock Rumlow would hold his wrath but he already pictured a future where Lorelei Stone became a fixture in his bed. Whether she came willingly or not didn't matter. He would have her either way.

Part 2 >>

Series Masterlist

Part 1 - Prologue

Part 2 - Poker Face

Part 3 - The Four

Part 4 -

Part 5 -

Part 6 -

Part 7 -

Part 8 -

Short Fiction Masterlist

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Not in a forced way. Not in the polite, cautious way you’d expected. It happened because he made it easy without making it feel transactional. He didn’t demand your time, he offered his. He didn’t interrogate, he listened. He didn’t act like a father in the stereotypical sense – no lectures, no hovering, no “I know what’s best” – but there was a steadiness to him that began to settle in your bones. The way he checked in without pressing. The way he remembered small details you mentioned once. The way he looked at you sometimes like he was still trying to understand how the world had let you go so long without someone catching you.

Some nights, you sat with him and Maria after dinner, dessert half-finished, and talked about nothing important: movies Maria adored, Tony’s endless complaints about poorly designed products, Pietro’s dramatic voice notes from New York. Other nights, it was just you and Tony on the terrace with two glasses of wine, the humid air wrapping around you like a blanket, the sky dark and vast above.

It was on one of those nights – quiet, the house mostly asleep – that it happened.

You were leaning back in a chair, knees pulled up slightly, and Tony was pacing in slow loops the way he did when his mind was working. He had that thoughtful look on his face, the one that made him seem younger and older at the same time.

You’d been talking about your thesis – some obscure debate about interpretation, the kind of thing that usually made people’s eyes glaze over – and Tony had actually listened, asked questions, argued back in that sharp, playful way he had. It made you laugh. It made you feel – briefly – normal.

Then there was a pause.

A natural lull, like the conversation had run out of safe material and was hovering near something else.

Tony stopped pacing and looked at you.

“You’ve been lighter lately,” he said quietly.

You blinked, thrown. “Lighter?”

He shrugged, searching for the right words. “Not… happy. Not like everything’s fine. But…” He tilted his head. “You’re not braced every second. You’re here when you’re here.”

You stared at the rim of your glass. The wine caught the light in dark red flickers.

“I guess,” you murmured.

Tony watched you for a beat longer, then, very gently, “You haven’t talked about him in a while.”

Your chest tightened, automatic.

Tony raised a hand slightly, not to stop you – more like a preemptive reassurance. “You don’t have to. I’m not asking for gossip.”

You swallowed.

The strangest part was that, with Tony, you didn’t feel cornered. You didn’t feel like silence was being used against you. The question existed, but the choice was yours.

You exhaled slowly.

“I didn’t want you to judge,” you admitted, voice low.

Tony’s brows lifted. “Judge who?”

You hesitated, then let the words slip out before you could catch them.

“Him,” you said. “Or me.”

Tony leaned his hip against the railing, expression steady. “I’m not interested in judging either of you,” he said. “I’m interested in understanding what happened to my daughter.”

The word – daughter – still hit you sometimes, sharp and warm at the same time.

You swallowed around it.

And then, slowly, you started talking.

Not all at once. Not the whole story in one clean line. You gave him pieces at first: the way you’d grown up with Bucky under the same roof, the way feelings had blurred into something you’d never named because naming felt dangerous. The way you’d built your life around control and stability and not asking for too much.

Tony didn’t interrupt. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t get that tight, disapproving look people sometimes wore when they heard something complicated and decided it was wrong.

He just listened.

When you described the dinner – the announcement, your laugh that wasn’t laughter, the way the room had tilted – Tony’s jaw tightened once. Not at you. At the cruelty of it.

When you described the sentence – Maybe that’s why your real parents didn’t want you – Tony went very still.

He didn’t explode. He didn’t rant. But the temperature in his eyes dropped, the kind of quiet fury that didn’t need volume to be terrifying.

“Did he know what he was hitting?” Tony asked softly.

You stared at your glass again. “I think he realized halfway through,” you said. “But by then… it was already said.”

Tony nodded once, slow. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Words don’t unsay themselves.”

You expected questions that felt invasive.

Instead, Tony asked the kind that made you feel seen.

“Did he apologize?”

You blinked. “I… I don’t know. My phone–”

Tony’s gaze flicked to the side, not judgment, just confirmation of what he already suspected. “Still mostly off.”

You nodded.

Tony took a breath. “Do you think he meant it?”

The question made something in your throat tighten. You shook your head almost immediately. “No,” you said. “No. He didn’t. That’s… that’s part of what makes it so–” You cut yourself off, exhaling sharply. “It wasn’t truth. It was a weapon.”

Tony’s eyes stayed on you, thoughtful. “And he used it because he was hurt.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “He was hurt, so he made sure I was too.”

Tony didn’t argue. He didn’t defend. He didn’t try to simplify it.

He only asked, quietly, “And do you think he loves you?”

The question startled you, even though it shouldn’t have.

You stared out at the dark yard for a long moment, then said honestly, “Yes.”

Tony nodded, as if that confirmed something he’d already been piecing together. “That’s what I thought.”

You glanced at him, confused despite yourself. “What?”

Tony’s mouth twisted. “People don’t get that angry about losing control unless they care too much,” he said. “And people don’t panic like he did – like Pietro described – unless something in them knows they just burned down their own house.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t know how.

Tony looked at you for a moment, then added more gently, “It doesn’t excuse it.”

“I know,” you whispered.

“Good,” Tony said. “Because I’m not going to sit here and tell you to forgive someone who cut you that deep just because he’s sorry.”

That made your chest ache in a different way.

You nodded once, grateful without having to say it.

The conversation drifted after that, back to calmer waters. But something had shifted. The topic wasn’t a forbidden room anymore – it was just… a room you could choose to open when you were ready.

And, slowly, over the next days, you did.

More details. More truth. The weight of history that made the present so impossible.

Tony never judged.

He asked questions sometimes, the kind that didn’t feel like interrogation but like he was checking the shape of something he didn’t want to misunderstand.

“How long were you with Steve?”

“How did that end?”

“Did you ever tell Bucky how you felt?”

Each time, you answered what you could. Each time, you expected shame to swallow you.

Each time, it didn’t.

Then one afternoon, almost absentmindedly, as you were talking about New York – about your routines there, about the way life had been structured around proximity and old habits – you said it.

It slipped out like a stray fact.

“He works for you,” you murmured. “The New York branch. Stark Industries.”

Tony stopped moving so abruptly it was almost comical.

You looked up, realizing too late what you’d just revealed.

Tony stared at you, eyes wide for a second, then narrowed slowly.

“He works for my company,” Tony repeated, voice carefully blank.

You winced. “Yeah.”

There was a long beat of silence.

Then Tony let out a low, incredulous laugh, one hand dragging down his face. “Of course he does,” he muttered. “Of course the man who hurt my daughter works for me.”

You braced instinctively for anger – for the kind that erupted and demanded action.

But Tony didn’t explode.

He just looked at you, expression oddly controlled, like he was handling a volatile substance.

“Do you want me to do something about that?” he asked, voice low. “Because I can.”

The offer was simple. The power behind it was not.

You swallowed hard.

“No,” you said immediately. “No. Please don’t.”

Tony’s gaze held yours, sharp. “Why not?”

Because a part of you wanted him to. Because it would be so easy to let someone else protect you now.

But you didn’t want revenge. You didn’t want control over Bucky’s life. You didn’t want to become someone who used power the way pain had been used on you.

You shook your head, steadying yourself. “Because that would make it… transactional,” you said quietly. “And I don’t want that. I don’t want you to fix it for me by hurting him back.”

Tony’s jaw worked, emotion flickering across his face. Then he nodded, slowly.

“Okay,” he said. “I won’t.”

But his eyes stayed hard.

“Just know,” Tony added, voice softer but no less intense, “if he ever comes near you with cruelty again, I’m not going to be polite about it.”

You believed him.

And for the first time, that kind of protectiveness didn’t make you feel trapped.

It made you feel… held.

A few days later, you finally turned your phone back on.

The screen lit up immediately, vibrating in your hand like it had been holding its breath for weeks and could finally exhale. Notifications stacked on top of each other faster than you could register them – missed calls, voicemail alerts, message previews cut off mid-sentence.

The number alone made your stomach twist.

You locked the screen again for a second, heart racing, thumb hovering uselessly. The instinct to turn it back off was strong, almost overwhelming. This device was a door, and behind it were voices you weren’t sure you could carry yet.

Listening was out of the question.

You knew that without even trying. Hearing Wanda’s worry crack through the speaker, Steve’s careful gentleness, your mother’s fear held together by love, or – worse – Bucky’s voice, whatever shape it took now… it was too much. It would drag everything back into your chest at once, collapse all the distance you’d worked so hard to build.

So you didn’t open the voicemail app.

You didn’t even glance at it.

Text only, you decided. Silent words. Things you could read at your own pace. Things you could stop if your hands started shaking too badly.

Your fingers trembled anyway as you unlocked the phone again and opened your messages.

The list felt endless.

Names you loved. Names that hurt. Names that carried history you hadn’t sorted through yet.

You scrolled past Bucky’s thread without opening it. The preview alone – too many lines, too much space filled – made your chest tighten. You couldn’t do that yet. Maybe not today. Maybe not for a long while.

You scrolled past Steve next. You saw the date stamps, spread out, respectful. You swallowed and kept going.

You stopped at Wanda.

Your thumb hovered over her name for a long moment.

Wanda had always known when to push and when to wait. She worried loudly, loved fiercely, and somehow still managed to make space when it mattered. If you were going to start anywhere, it had to be her.

You opened the thread.

The most recent message sat at the bottom, unread.

But your eyes were drawn upward, to the first one sent after that night.

Please tell me you’re safe.

Your breath hitched.

You scrolled.

I don’t care where you are. I don’t care why you left. I just need to know you’re alive.

Another.

I’m not mad. I swear. I’m just scared.

You pressed your lips together, eyes burning.

The messages weren’t accusatory. They weren’t demanding. They were exactly what you’d expected from Wanda – raw concern wrapped in honesty.

You kept reading.

Pietro says you’re okay. I believe him, but I still worry.

A pause of two days between messages.

I made your favorite soup today and then realized you weren’t here to complain that it needs more salt.

Despite yourself, a weak, broken laugh slipped out of you. It came with tears immediately after, blurring the screen.

You wiped at your eyes with the heel of your hand and kept going.

You don’t have to talk to me yet. Or ever, if that’s what you need. Just… don’t disappear forever.

Another gap.

I’m proud of you. I don’t even know what you’re doing right now, but I know it took courage.

That one did it.

Your shoulders shook as a quiet sob escaped you, sharp and sudden. You curled forward on the edge of the bed, phone clutched to your chest like it might anchor you.

You hadn’t realized how much you needed to hear that. I’m proud of you.

Not come back. Not explain yourself. Not you hurt us.

Just pride. Just trust.

You stayed like that for a few minutes, breathing unevenly, letting the wave pass instead of fighting it.

When you straightened again, your fingers were steadier.

You scrolled to the bottom of the thread.

The last message was from earlier that same day.

Whenever you’re ready. I’m here.

You stared at it for a long time.

Replying meant breaking the silence you’d wrapped yourself in like armor. It meant opening a crack – small, but real. But Wanda had never punished you for honesty. She’d never demanded more than you could give.

So you typed.

Not a long explanation. Not an apology spiral. Just the truth, pared down to something you could manage.

I’m okay. I’m safe. I’m sorry I disappeared.

You paused, then added another line.

I love you.

You stared at the words, pulse loud in your ears.

Then you hit send.

The message whooshed away, and you exhaled shakily, like you’d been holding your breath for far too long.

You didn’t wait for her reply.

That could come later.

For now, it was enough to know you’d taken the first step back toward the people who loved you – not because you owed them access, but because you were finally starting to believe you were allowed to be missed.

Pietro’s thread on this phone was almost empty.

And it made sense in the most Pietro way possible.

When you’d written that you weren’t answering calls, he hadn’t tried to sneak around your boundary with a flood of texts. He hadn’t tested it. He hadn’t sent you twenty variations of please disguised as jokes. He had taken you at your word and stepped back – because he knew that when you asked for space, it wasn’t a performance. It was survival.

The few messages that were there were sparse, practical, almost military in their restraint.

I’m here. No pressure.

Text if you need me.

And then nothing for weeks.

Because after that he’d used the new number Tony gave you. Because he’d stayed close without clinging. Because he loved you in the way you’d always needed: steady, loyal, not demanding payment for his presence.

You swallowed, throat tight, and closed the thread.

One step at a time.

You went back to the list.

Your thumb hovered over Steve’s name longer than you expected it to.

Steve’s messages were a different kind of weight. Not heavier – just… complicated in a different direction. Steve had been your first everything in a way that wasn’t romantic anymore but still lived under your skin like a scar you touched sometimes without thinking.

A friend. A constant. A person who had loved you without ever making you feel like you had to earn it.

And you’d left him too.

You opened the thread.

The first thing you noticed wasn’t the content.

It was the spacing.

Steve hadn’t texted you in a panic spiral the way Wanda had. He hadn’t sent ten messages in one night. He had written like someone who knew you – like someone who understood that too much would make you retreat further.

There were gaps of days between each text. Sometimes a full week.

He had been careful with you, even while he was scared.

The oldest unread message sat near the top, sent the night you disappeared.

Hey. I’m not going to call. Just want you to know I’m here.

Your throat tightened.

You scrolled.

Wanda’s worried. Pietro’s worried. I’m worried. You don’t owe anyone an explanation right now. Just… let us know you’re safe when you can.

Another, two days later.

I’m not mad at you.

A pause.

I don’t know what happened, but I know it was bad. You don’t have to carry it alone.

You blinked fast, eyes stinging.

Steve’s messages didn’t have Wanda’s raw emotion. They had something steadier, quieter – like a hand held out in the dark without grabbing.

You kept reading.

A week in.

I saw your mom today. She misses you. She’s trying to be brave about it.

Two weeks.

I’m proud of you for doing what you needed to do.

The same words as Wanda.

Different tone.

Same punch to your chest.

Then, later – after enough time had passed that the date stamp made your stomach twist.

We went to your apartment today. Just cleaning. Nothing personal. I changed your sheets. I’m holding your spare key.

You stared at that message for a long moment, breath catching.

You could picture it too clearly: Steve’s careful hands tucking sheets tight, the way he always made a bed like he was preparing it for someone important. The way he’d do it not because he expected praise, but because he couldn’t stand the idea of you coming home to something neglected.

You scrolled past it quickly before your mind could snag on the details.

After that, the messages got shorter. Less frequent. Not because he cared less – because he was waiting for you to come back when you were ready.

Hope the weather’s good wherever you are.

Saw a dog today that reminded me of you. He looked annoyed at the entire world.

You let out a small, involuntary huff. Steve’s humor was always like that – dry, soft around the edges.

And then, a message that made your fingers go cold.

It wasn’t explicit. Steve would never make it explicit.

But you could read between lines because you’d spent years doing exactly that with him.

You don’t have to forgive anyone you’re not ready to forgive.

You stared at the screen, chest tight.

He knew.

Maybe not every detail, but enough.

Enough to understand the shape of the wound.

Enough to not try to drag you toward a resolution.

You scrolled to the very last message.

It was recent. Just two days ago.

Whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m here. If you don’t want to talk, I’ll still be here.

Your eyes blurred.

You held the phone tighter, as if that could keep the words from slipping away.

Steve had always been like this. A presence that didn’t demand. A loyalty that didn’t come with a leash.

You took a shaky breath.

Replying to Wanda had been hard, but Wanda was Wanda – emotion flowed with her like a river.

Steve was different.

Replying to Steve felt like acknowledging a history that had reshaped you, even if you weren’t in love with him anymore. It felt like stepping back onto ground that had once been yours together.

But he deserved something.

Not an explanation.

Just a sign.

You typed slowly, carefully, like each word had weight.

I read your messages. Thank you for… not pushing.

You paused, then added:

I’m safe. I’m sorry I worried you.

Your thumb hovered.

You could stop there.

That was enough.

But your chest ached with something else too – gratitude that had nowhere to go if you didn’t let it out.

So you added one more line, simple and true.

I miss you too.

And then, before you could convince yourself you didn’t have the right, you hit send.

For ten long minutes, you didn’t do anything.

You just stared at Bucky’s name on your screen.

Not even the thread – just the line in the list, the little preview beneath it cut off mid-sentence, the timestamp that told you he had tried again and again and again. A month’s worth of him sitting somewhere with his phone in his hands, writing into a silence you had built like a wall.

Your thumb hovered.

Your breathing went shallow.

Because opening that thread meant opening the wound. It meant letting his words back into your head. It meant risking that you’d read something soft and apologetic and sincere and it would crack the fragile, stitched-together stability you’d been living inside.

Or worse – reading something that still hurt.

You didn’t know which outcome scared you more.

You let the screen dim once, then tapped it awake again immediately. You watched the cursor blink in the empty space where your courage should have been.

You could do this, you told yourself.

You could at least look.

Your thumb finally moved toward his name.

And then your phone buzzed in your hand.

A notification slid down from the top.

Steve: Hey. I’m really glad you’re safe.

It was short. Steve always kept things short when it mattered.

Another vibration followed almost immediately.

Then another.

And another.

A cascade.

You watched the screen fill with preview bubbles like the universe had decided you weren’t allowed to open Bucky’s thread yet.

Wanda.

Of course it was Wanda.

Your heart lurched with that familiar mix of affection and dread. Wanda didn’t do short. Wanda did everything – in color, in emotion, in full volume.

You tapped Steve’s message first, because it was the safer one. The one that wouldn’t demand anything from you.

His reply was simple.

Hey. I’m really glad you’re safe. Thank you for texting me back. No pressure to explain anything. Just… keep letting us know you’re still there when you can. And if you want me to call your mom for you at any point – so you don’t have to do it alone – I will.

Your throat tightened on that last line.

Because Steve had always been like that. Quietly stepping in to carry weight without making you ask.

You stared at the message until the letters blurred slightly, then blinked hard and went back.

Wanda’s thread had exploded.

The preview alone was a wall of text.

You hesitated for half a second, then opened it.

The message kept going.

And going.

And going.

It started with relief.

OH MY GOD. I’M SHAKING. I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF MAKING TEA AND I SAW YOUR MESSAGE AND I DROPPED THE SPOON IN THE SINK AND I DIDN’T EVEN CARE BECAUSE YOU’RE OKAY–

You huffed a tiny laugh through your nose, the kind that came with tears already building behind your eyes.

Wanda, even in panic, still Wanda.

The message continued, the caps disappearing as her emotions shifted into something more controlled – but only barely.

I’m so relieved I can’t even explain it. I’ve been trying so hard not to imagine the worst, but you know me. My brain goes there. It went there a lot. You disappearing like that… it scared me. And I know you didn’t do it to hurt us. I know you did it because you had to breathe. But it still scared me.

Your chest tightened, shame and tenderness tangling together.

You scrolled.

I miss you. I miss you in my kitchen. I miss you stealing my socks and pretending you don’t. I miss the way you look at me like you’re listening to everything I’m not saying. I miss having you in the apartment even when you’re not talking, because you’re there. Your presence is there.

You swallowed hard, throat aching.

The next part made your eyes sting instantly.

I’m not going to ask where you are. I’m not going to demand answers. But I need you to hear something clearly: You are not a burden. You never were. You are not too much, and you are not unlovable, and you do not have to earn being kept.

Your breath caught.

Your vision blurred.

Your fingers tightened around the phone.

Wanda kept going, relentless in the way only love could be relentless.

If you need distance, take it. If you need silence, take it. If you can’t talk about what happened, don’t. But don’t punish yourself by cutting every thread. Let us love you. Please. Even from far away.

Tears slid down your cheeks before you realized they’d started. You wiped them away roughly, but more came. Quiet, steady, unstoppable.

Then – because Wanda was Wanda – she shifted again, anger flaring hot beneath the tenderness.

Also, I’m going to say this once and then I’m going to stop because I don’t want to put his name in your head: I am furious. I don’t know how someone can look at you and say something like that. I don’t care if he didn’t mean it. I don’t care if he regrets it. He knew where to aim. And that makes me want to throw him off a building.

A choked laugh escaped you – half sob, half disbelief.

Wanda, violent in her loyalty.

The message ended softer, like she’d sat back and forced herself to breathe.

I love you. I’m here. I don’t need anything from you except for you to stay on this planet. Text me when you can. Even if it’s just an emoji. I’ll take anything.

You stared at the last line for a long moment, tears dripping onto your hand.

You didn’t answer immediately.

Not because you didn’t want to.

Because your chest was full.

Because the love in those words hit you like sunlight after months in a dark room – warming and overwhelming at the same time.

You set the phone down beside you on the bed and pressed your palms to your face, breathing shakily.

Bucky’s name still sat there in the list, untouched.

Waiting.

And now, so did the weight of Wanda’s love and Steve’s steadiness – two hands on your back, gentle, reminding you you weren’t alone even when you felt like you were.

You picked the phone up again, thumb hovering over Wanda’s thread.

You typed a single line, because that’s all you had right now.

I’m still here.

Then, after a second, you added I love you too.

And you hit send – before you could let fear take it back.

This time, you opened Bucky’s thread.

The moment you tapped his name, your stomach dropped as if you’d stepped off a ledge. The screen loaded and you were there – inside the thing you’d been circling for weeks, inside the room you’d kept locked because you weren’t sure you’d survive what was waiting.

The first thing that hit you wasn’t even the words.

It was the sheer amount.

Message after message after message, stacked in relentless succession. Timestamps clustered tight together. Then gaps. Then clusters again. A pattern that looked exactly like panic.

Your thumb hovered above the screen. Your breathing went shallow. You made yourself scroll to the top, because you knew if you started with the later ones you’d never understand the shape of what had happened in his head.

And you needed to understand.

Even if it hurt.

The first unread message was from that night.

A few minutes after you’d closed his door with that soft, final click.

Please.

Just that.

Then another, less than a minute later.

Come back. Please. I didn’t mean

Three minutes after that.

Pick up. Just pick up. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Your throat tightened.

You scrolled slowly, the way you might approach a wound you were about to clean – careful, deliberate, braced.

The messages from the first hour were frantic and disjointed, like his fingers couldn’t keep up with his thoughts.

I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean that. God, please don’t Where are you? Please tell me you’re okay.

Then a missed call notification. Then another. Then another.

His texts started to shift as time passed, as if he’d run out of breath from panic and was trying to force himself into something steadier.

I’m going to come to your place. I have your key. I just need to see you’re there. Please answer. Even if you hate me. Even if you scream at me. Just… answer.

You flinched, a hot pulse of anger rising in your chest at the casual certainty of I have your key.

Even now, even after everything, the idea of him letting himself in – like you belonged to him, like your space was still his – made your skin tighten.

But then the next message came, a few minutes later, and you could see the moment something in him shifted.

No. No, I’m not doing that. You left for a reason. I’m not going to break your door down like I have a right.

You swallowed hard.

The next set came after a longer gap – after he’d clearly been somewhere else, doing something you couldn’t see.

The tone was different. Less frantic. More shattered.

I told Wanda. She hates me. She should. Pietro hung up on me. Steve’s going to I don’t even know what Steve’s going to do but I deserve it.

A message followed that was just a blank bubble, like he’d typed something and deleted it.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

You stared at the repetition until your eyes blurred.

You kept scrolling.

The next day’s messages were worse in a different way. Not the immediate panic of that first hour, but the hollow, relentless kind of fear that came when the adrenaline wore off and reality settled in.

I haven’t slept. I don’t know where you are. Please answer.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. A coldness spread through your chest.

He kept going.

I keep replaying it. The look on your face. The way you went quiet. I’ve never heard silence that loud in my life.

You had to stop reading for a second.

You set the phone down on the bed and pressed your palm to your sternum, breathing through the ache there. It felt like the words were trying to climb into your ribcage and live there.

You picked it up again and forced yourself on.

There were messages that were almost… procedural. Like he was trying to problem-solve the situation.

Are you with Wanda? Are you with Pietro? Are you with your mom? If you are, tell them to tell me you’re alive. I won’t come. I won’t show up. I just need to know.

Then the missed call notifications continued, scattered through the day like heartbeat spikes.

His tone shifted again on the third day – after you’d sent that message in the group chat telling everyone you hadn’t done anything stupid, that you weren’t answering the phone.

You remembered typing it. The detached clarity. The way it had felt like the only kindness you could offer from inside your own collapse.

Reading his response to it felt like being pulled under cold water.

You’re alive.

Then.

Thank you.

Then, two seconds later.

God, I’m sorry that I’m thanking you for being alive like it’s something you did for me.

You blinked hard.

The messages after that were pure panic wrapped in remorse.

I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know why I opened my mouth. I know you won’t believe me but I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it. I was hurt and I wanted to hurt you back and that’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

Your throat burned.

You scrolled, breath trembling now, your vision swimming.

You are not unwanted. You are not unlovable. You are not empty. You are the most alive person I’ve ever known.

The words hit like a bruise pressed too hard.

And then, lower down, the message you hadn’t let yourself read until now – longer, more structured, the one he’d clearly written after the initial wave of panic had settled into something steadier and more honest.

It started with an apology that didn’t try to soften what he’d done.

I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t fix anything. I know it doesn’t erase what I said.

You kept reading, heart pounding.

He wrote about being hurt. About reacting badly. About regretting it more than anything in the world. About knowing he couldn’t take it back.

He wrote about Natasha.

I ended things today. I’m not telling you this so you’ll come back. I’m telling you because you deserve the truth.

Your stomach dipped.

Then, he wrote it.

The line you’d been expecting and dreading at the same time.

I love you.

Your breath caught so sharply it hurt.

He wrote it again, in different words. Wrote about always loving you. About telling your parents. About being glad you’d found your father – about being glad he’d been wrong.

And then, at the end, the simplest sentence.

I miss you.

You stared at that last line until the screen blurred completely.

Your hands were shaking now – not violently, but enough that you had to curl your fingers around the phone to keep it from slipping.

All that panic. All that regret.

And still… the words he’d said that night lived in you like a splinter.

You could see his apologies on the screen. You could feel his fear between the lines.

But you could also still hear his voice in your head, sharp and cruel and precise.

Maybe that’s why your real parents didn’t want you.

You swallowed hard, throat tight with something you couldn’t name – grief, anger, love, exhaustion, all tangled together.

And you realized, with a kind of aching clarity, that reading his panic didn’t erase the wound.

It just proved what you already knew.

He hadn’t meant it.

And it had still broken you anyway.

You didn’t answer Bucky.

Not right then.

You sat on the edge of the bed with your phone in your hand, the screen still glowing with the last line he’d written, and your chest felt too tight for air to move through it properly. The words on the screen were soft – apology, regret, love – but the words in your memory were still sharp enough to cut.

You turned the phone face down on the comforter like it might bite.

Then you sat there for a while, staring at nothing.

When you finally moved, it was automatic. You walked out of the room, down the hallway, past the quiet corners of the villa you’d begun to recognize as safe, and you found Tony where you’d started finding him lately when your insides got loud – near the terrace, a glass in his hand, the night air clinging to his hair.

He looked up the second he heard your steps.

“You okay?” he asked immediately.

You made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Define okay.”

Tony’s mouth twisted, and he set his glass down on the railing. “Come here,” he said, not commanding, just… making space.

You stepped closer and leaned against the stone beside him. For a moment you just breathed. The air outside was warm, damp, carrying distant city noise. It smelled like night flowers and salt. It should’ve been calming.

It wasn’t.

Your fingers flexed around nothing, restless.

“I turned my phone on,” you said.

Tony didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. He simply waited, patient in that way he’d learned to be with you – like he understood that if he filled the silence, you’d shut down.

“There were… a lot,” you continued, voice low. “From everyone.”

Tony nodded once, slow. “Yeah. I can imagine.”

You swallowed. “I read his.”

Tony’s gaze slid to you, careful, not pouncing on the admission. “Okay,” he said softly.

You stared out into the dark yard. “He… he apologized,” you said, and the word felt inadequate. “A lot. He was… panicking. And then the next day, and the next, it was like–” You shook your head, searching. “Like he was trying to claw the words back out of the air.”

Tony’s jaw tightened in a way you recognized now as anger held in a cage.

“But,” you added, quieter, “the words are still… there.”

Tony exhaled slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the thing about words.”

You turned your head slightly, looking at him. “You’ve been on the other side,” you said. “You told me you said things you can’t take back.”

Tony’s expression shifted – something old crossing his face, guilt that still lived in him like a permanent bruise.

“I have,” he admitted.

You hesitated, then asked the question that had been pulsing behind your ribs since you closed Bucky’s thread.

“What do you think I should do?” you whispered. “Should I answer him?”

Tony didn’t speak immediately.

He looked out over the yard, one hand rubbing at his jaw like he was physically holding himself back from giving you a too-easy answer. When he finally turned back to you, his eyes were steady.

“That’s not a decision I get to make for you,” he said. “And it’s not a decision anyone gets to guilt you into.”

You nodded faintly, throat tight.

Tony continued, voice even but firm. “He recognized his fault. He apologized. That matters.” His mouth tightened. “But the damage still happened. And recognizing the harm doesn’t undo the harm.”

You felt a strange, aching relief at the validation – at hearing the truth spoken clearly, without minimizing anything.

Tony’s tone softened. “If you answer him, it should be because you want to. Because it helps you. Because it gives you peace.” He paused. “Not because you feel responsible for his guilt.”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can talk to him,” you admitted, the words scraping as they came out. “Not… not like an actual conversation. Not on the phone.”

Tony nodded once, as if that made perfect sense. “You don’t have to,” he said simply.

You stared down at your hands, fingers twisting together. “But I also…” You took a shaky breath. “I don’t want to leave it like this forever.”

Tony watched you, quiet.

“I think,” you murmured, “I can try a message.”

Tony’s brows lifted slightly. Encouragement, not pressure.

“Just… not right now,” you added quickly, as if the idea itself frightened you. “Not tonight. Not when I can still hear it.”

Tony’s expression softened in that way that still surprised you sometimes – like the hard edges of him knew exactly when to step back.

“Then don’t,” he said.

You looked up at him, blinking. “What?”

Tony shrugged slightly. “You said you’ll try a message,” he repeated. “That’s a plan. That’s progress. It doesn’t have to happen on anyone else’s schedule.” His gaze sharpened with quiet conviction. “You get to choose the timing. You get to choose the words. You get to choose what you can handle.”

Your throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t panic.

It was something like gratitude that hurt.

Tony hesitated, then added, more softly, “And if you send something, it can be small. It can be boundary and truth. It doesn’t have to be forgiveness.”

You let that settle.

A message that wasn’t forgiveness.

A message that wasn’t cruelty either.

A message that was simply… yours.

You exhaled slowly, the tension in your shoulders easing by a fraction.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Tony picked up his glass again but didn’t drink. He just stood there beside you, matching your silence.

After a moment, you said, very quietly, “I’m scared that if I answer, everything will come back.”

Tony didn’t look away.

“Some of it will,” he said honestly. “That’s what reopening a door does.” He paused, then added, gentler, “But you’re not the same person you were that night. You have more ground under you now.”

You stared out into the dark, letting the air fill your lungs.

Your phone was still in your room, face down on the bed.

Waiting.

Not for an answer tonight.

Just… waiting.

And for the first time, the idea of responding didn’t feel like a cliff edge.

It felt like something you could approach slowly, on your own terms – one careful step at a time.

GENERAL taglist: @mellowfurynight | @castielscaplan | @whatisanniedoin | @barewithme02 | @mathcat345 | @overwintering-soldier | @alpinebarnesworld | @alwaysreenie | @iceyyycapsicle | @karlahan

BUCKY taglist: @metal-armed-muse | @greatenthusiasttidalwave | @highhopes1008 | @phoenix-in-writing | @mollyherondale | @sassandscribbles | @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog | @pattiemac1 | @buckysdecaflove | @fantasyfootballchampion | @sebbymybaby-21 | @theoryxwaller | @apenny4thots | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @allthingswickedpodcast | @vicmc624 | @strangerthing93 | @galaxygoddess30 | @peachiestevie | @evilplansandstuff | @nicobidd | @i-lie-here-charmed | @sebastians-love | @bennyyion

Part 1 - Prologue

Part 2 - Poker Face

Part 3 - The Four

Part 4 -

Part 5 -

Part 6 -

Part 7 -

Part 8 -

Short Fiction Masterlist

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