#alex dutton

The African night throbbed with a rhythm all its own. Cicadas buzzed like tiny saws, their chorus punctuated by the distant roar of a lion. The air hung thick and heavy, scented with dust and the promise of rain. Inside my small, canvas tent, I felt the heat prickle on my skin. I sighed, pulling at the collar of my dress. It was a ridiculous garment for the bush, a frivolous, emerald green silk thing I’d bought on a whim in London, mostly because the saleswoman had assured me it brought out the color of my eyes. 

Outside, laughter spilled from the main camp, the clinking of glasses a cheerful counterpoint to the wild symphony of the night. Papa and my sister, Alexandra, were probably holding court, regaling the other safari-goers with their tales of daring hunts and exotic encounters. I loved them both dearly, but tonight, I craved solitude.

I’d been in Africa for three months, tagging along on my father’s latest expedition, ostensibly to "broaden my horizons." But the truth was, Mama had grown worried about my increasingly independent streak. She thought a few months under Papa’s watchful eye, surrounded by the proper societal expectations of a safari camp, would tame my restless spirit. It hadn't.

I was tracing the outline of a flower on the dusty table when I heard a commotion outside. A raised voice, then another, louder and laced with anger. Curiosity piqued, I unzipped the tent flap and peered out. It was him.

He stood head and shoulders above the other men, a figure carved from granite and shadow. His broad shoulders strained the fabric of his khaki shirt, and his jaw was set in a hard line. He looked every inch the man of the wilderness, dangerous and untamed. I’d heard whispers of him, of course. Spencer Dutton. The legendary hunter. The man who’d stared down lions and outwitted leopards.

I watched, mesmerized, as he finished his argument with the camp manager, a weaselly little man with a perpetually worried expression. Spencer’s voice, a low rumble that carried across the camp, was tinged with an American drawl I found strangely appealing. He won the argument, of course. He seemed like the kind of man who always did.

As the manager scurried away, Spencer turned, his gaze sweeping across the camp. Our eyes met. For a breathless moment, the world seemed to shrink, focusing only on the intensity in his dark eyes. Then, he looked away, dismissing me as easily as he had the manager.

I felt a surge of irritation. He was arrogant, undoubtedly. But he was also undeniably captivating.

Later that evening, I found myself at the camp bar, a makeshift affair consisting of a plank of wood laid across two barrels. A grizzled old man with a missing tooth was pouring whiskeys with a practiced hand. I ordered a gin and tonic, hoping the cool, bitter liquid would quell the heat that still simmered beneath my skin.

It didn’t.

I was halfway through my drink when a shadow fell across me. I looked up. It was him.

He stood there, towering over me, his expression unreadable. He was even more imposing up close. His eyes, the color of dark amber, held a depth that both intrigued and intimidated me.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice deeper than I remembered. "I believe you dropped this." He held out a small, silver locket. I gasped, recognizing it instantly. It was a gift from Alexandra, a silly trinket I wore more out of sentimentality than affection.

"Oh, thank you," I stammered, taking the locket from his hand. "I didn't even realize it was gone."

"I saw it lying on the ground near your tent," he said, his gaze lingering on my face. "I thought you might want it back."

"I do," I said, a nervous flutter in my stomach. "Thank you again." 

He nodded, then turned to leave. "Wait," I blurted out, surprising even myself. "Would you… would you like a drink?"

He hesitated, then turned back, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "I wouldn't want to impose," he said, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"It's no imposition," I insisted, flushing slightly. "I'd like the company."

He smiled then, a slow, genuine smile that transformed his face and made my heart skip a beat. "In that case," he said, "I'd be honored."

That was how it started. A casual conversation over gin and tonic, which turned into another, and another. We talked for hours, about everything and nothing. He told me about his life in Montana, about the vast, unforgiving landscape and the hard-working Dutton family who carved a life from the wilderness. I told him about my privileged upbringing in London, about the stifling expectations and the longing for something more.

I learned that beneath his gruff exterior, Spencer Dutton was a man of deep intelligence and surprising sensitivity. He had witnessed unspeakable things in the war, things that still haunted him. He carried a weight in his soul, a weight I somehow felt I could help him bear.

As the days turned into weeks, our connection deepened. We spent our mornings exploring the bush, Spencer sharing his vast knowledge of the land and its creatures. We spent our evenings under the vast, starlit sky, sharing stories and dreams. I found myself falling for him, hard and fast.

Then, one morning, he told me he was leaving. He had a job to finish, a dangerous expedition into the uncharted territories to the north. He didn't know when he would be back. My heart plummeted. The thought of him disappearing from my life was unbearable.

That night, I found him at the bar, nursing a whiskey. He looked troubled, his brow furrowed in thought.

Taking a deep breath, I walked up to him. "Spencer," I said, my voice trembling slightly. He looked up, his eyes filled with a warmth that momentarily eased the ache in my heart. "Y/n," he said softly.

"I'm leaving tomorrow morning, Y/n,” he stated plainly with no room for argument. 

My heart shattered into a million pieces. "That doesn't matter to me, not tonight anyway," I said, trying to sound brave, though I knew my voice conveyed the heartbreak of the words I had heard. I meant it knowing that life was short. Meaning that we have to live everyday as if I could be our last one on this earth.

I pushed my way through the flap of my tent and yanked the famous hunter by the collar of his dress shirt. Spencer leaned his head down connecting my lips with his own since he knew I was shorter than him.

The kiss was fiery, desperate, a culmination of all the unspoken emotions that had been simmering between us. 

When it finally ended, we were both breathless.

Spencer Dutton and I had met earlier this morning at the bar after I had accidentally spilled my drink all over his shirt. He didn’t snap at me like most men in my family standing would have. Instead he helped me clean up my clothes and gave me his jacket to cover up some drink stains that had also gotten on me.

"Will you marry me?" Spencer broke the long kiss where he stared down at me and placed his hands on my hips holding me closer to his chest.

My mouth fell open at his question, he had to be drunk after all the drinks we shared at the bar. He wouldn’t be saying something like this if he was sober. "You’re drunk. My sister Alexandra told me to be careful of what men say when they’re drunk."

"I ain’t drunk." He attempted to reassure me but I didn’t believe him.

Taking a step away from him inside the tent I felt my short green dress flow up in the air. "Then prove it, cowboy." Leaving my hair loose down my back I decided to pair my dress with some muddy black cowgirl boots rather than those high heel shoes that my sister and the other girls would wear.

Spencer extended his hand out for me to take and I reluctantly did, getting caught on by what he did next. He raised our intertwined hands and twirled me underneath and out away from his chest until he finally spun me back in. "Could I have done that if I was drunk?" He nuzzled his nose against mine, knowing he hadn’t made me trip or fall once during the whole twirling.

I giggled at his actions shaking my head. "Who knows? You're a very talented drunk."

He sighed, stepping away from me for a second before looking back into my eyes. "I'm not drunk, I swear to you. I know we haven't known each other for very long, but I do know that I love you, Y/n."

He said it with such sincerity, such conviction, that the last of my doubts melted away."I love you too, Spencer," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.

He smiled, a bright, radiant smile that chased away the shadows from his eyes. "Then say yes," he said, his voice husky with hope. "Marry me, Y/n. Come back to Montana with me. Build a life with me."

I didn't hesitate. "Yes," I said, my heart overflowing with joy. "Yes, I'll marry you."

He swept me into his arms, kissing me again, a kiss that sealed our fate, binding us together in a love that defied logic and reason. He picked me up twirling me within his arms laughing as I clutched onto his shirt. 

He set me down with his hands holding onto my face once more before I spoke up. "What about Alexandra? She's very protective." I told him knowing she was going to kill me for wanting to marry him.

Spencer leaned his forehead onto mine again. "I'll convince your sister as best as I can cause I want to marry you."

"Okay, that's good enough for me." I giggled before connecting our lips once more.