#cod imagine

You were finally beginning to settle in, finally beginning to accept your new life as your own.

The morning after Kate and John Price arrived, you were put to work. It had been a nice reprieve — those first few days, you’d had nothing to do but sleep, eat, shop, read, and wander around town — but you’d begun to grow bored. You’d never had so much free time in your life, and you weren’t sure you liked it all that much — at least not for the foreseeable future. The idea of it seemed much better in theory than in practice, to have nothing but time for days and days on end.

You’d been grateful to finally have something to do, something that made you feel useful. Something that made you feel like you could pay them back for all that they’d done for you, for all the trouble they’d taken on by bringing you into their fold, even if they insisted it’d been no trouble at all.

Kate had assigned you with the task of some light cleaning, some basic maidservant duties. Upon her apparent return to town — because it became increasingly obvious she wasn’t new to this place, just like the men weren’t — she had assumed the role of proprietor, of manager of The Prairie Rose.

It seemed that everywhere she went, every space she entered, she was in charge. Everyone listened to her, heeded to whatever she said, whatever order she gave — even the men, who you thought could never be tamed, could never bend to the will of another — god forbid that of a woman. It was impressive, the way she commanded a room, the way a simple string of words had everyone falling into line.

You wanted to please her, to impress her even. You wanted her to be satisfied with the work you’d done, with the tasks she assigned you. The effort you put in to sweeping, to scrubbing, to stripping used linens and dusting shelves had nothing to do with the fear of retribution for a poor job done and everything to do with appeasing her, of gaining her approval you so desperately craved. It didn’t hurt that you were paid a small salary, too — the first time you’d ever made money of your own. 

It gave you a renewed sense of purpose, you realized. It was easy work, simple; nothing that required much thought or skill, but you were more than happy to take it on, to be of service. It wasn’t an obligation or a chore that could bring about any kind of punishment for anything less than perfection — not anymore. 

That alone gave you a sense of peace.

Once your cleaning duties of the day were fulfilled, Kate let you have the rest of the day for yourself. Usually, you strolled through town, exploring streets and shops you hadn’t yet visited and getting to know the city. It was vast, expansive — seemingly never-ending roads of uneven cobblestone and dusty paths winding every which way, stretching endlessly for what felt like miles. You tried to take a different route each day to see more, to learn more about your new home — for however long it would be your home, at least. 

These days, you never knew what to expect.

Sometimes, when she was free and willing, Roze joined you. You’d found out that she worked at The Prairie Rose, too, mostly serving as a barkeep in the saloon. She’d tried to get you to work the night with her, had suggested it once while you were out on a walk together. You’d immediately declined, shaking your head at the mere idea of it. 

You had yet to venture back down there since that first night you’d arrived, when you’d almost been swallowed whole by the chaos and drunken raucous of the night crawling crowd — so, you couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like to be on the other side of things, trying to manage the madness, to keep up with shouted demands and orders, the spills and the inevitable mess patrons left behind. 

The thought alone stressed you out, much less the reality of it.

You knew that the men often spent their nights down there, drinking and smoking and generally taking part in indulging their vices. It was why Ghost came to your shared room late every evening, the moon high in the sky, sweat and smoke and liquor clinging to his skin, his breath, and his clothes. He’d never mentioned it to you, never confirmed where he was, but he didn’t need to. You knew.

Not that it was really any of your business what he did with his time, how he spent his days. You didn’t see him nor the other men much as it was. He always slipped into the room late at night like clockwork, well after the sun had set, and he was gone long before you woke up, nothing left behind but rumpled sheets and the lingering scent of him etched into the wrinkled linen. 

Sometimes, it felt like he was just a figment of your imagination, like he was someone your twisted and tired brain conjured up to make you feel less alone.

After all, it’s not like you had any real idea of what he looked like.

As the days stretched on, as the nights came and went, you felt yourself growing more and more comfortable around him, sharing that room and that bed with him. It was a gradual transition, a slow change over time — it didn’t happen overnight, wasn’t something you were doing consciously. In fact, you weren’t even sure when it shifted, when his mere existence around yours didn’t make the hair on the back of your neck stand up, didn’t make your spine stiffen and your shoulders bunch up to your ears. 

It was just something you finally noticed, a feeling you finally acknowledged. You were half asleep, drifting towards unconsciousness, when you heard the telltale creak of the hinges, the leaden footsteps you’d learned to recognize as his, that slight hitch in his left leg. You didn’t react, barely even stirred as he went about his routine — stirring the ash and reigniting the fire, kicking off his boots and stripping off his clothes. The mattress dipped beneath him, the ropes underneath creaking as he climbed in, tossing the quilt aside like he always did, his body running like a furnace and providing him with more than enough heat for the cold desert nights.

The familiar smell of him filled your lungs, clouding your thoughts as a soft hum slipped from your lips. Eyes still closed and brain still a little foggy, you readjusted instinctively, drifting closer to him without even meaning to. It didn’t occur to you to move away, to put space between your body and his. No, if anything, you were waiting to feel the weight of his arm around your middle, the warmth of him at your back — a sensation you’d grown accustomed to, the way it had been since you’d arrived here.

And it was like he noticed the shift in you, the absence of any hesitation and tension; saw the way your body remained relaxed, your breaths slow, sleepy, and even. Comfortable. Cozy.

He took all of one second to hesitate, the only evidence of his surprise, before he shifted closer to you, erasing the small gap that remained. His thick arm was a band around your stomach, pulling you the rest of the way against him, his neck craned and gaze silently locked on your face to watch for any signs of that usual agitation, the typical discomfort your body showed even when you couldn’t find your voice.

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

It wasn’t until the morning — his warmth long gone — that it occurred to you how monumental that was, how big of a change that had been for the both of you.

You never thought you’d ever be comfortable around a man again, much less one whose face you’d never even seen. Much less one tied to you by these circumstances — a man who’d killed your husband without hesitation, who’d defended your honor without even knowing your name, who’d saved your life and given you a future you never thought you’d have.

So maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that you felt more at ease around him, more comfortable. It wasn’t like your uncertainty around him was completely gone — of course, the man still terrified you in more ways than one. You’d seen what he was capable of, witnessed why his reputation preceded him. Capable of taking a life in cold blood, firing bullets without pause, utterly unmoved and unbothered by the bodies that dropped or the last breaths stolen from gasping lungs.

But you’d seen another side of him, too. One that most people never got close enough to witness, never even considered to be a possibility. A side that those who whispered his name, who shivered at the mention of the man behind the red mask, could never possibly fathom.

A side that was aching gentle, painstakingly kind. Caring, even if it came off as blunt and crass and sometimes rough around the edges.

He cared about you. Whether or not he would ever use his words, would ever admit it to you, it showed. He’d come to your rescue more than once and not just when he killed your abusive ex before he could kill you. 

It showed when your father had turned up, demanding to take you back after your husband was no longer able to call you his property. When you’d almost gotten swept up in the tide of the rowdy saloon. When he helped you on and off his black stallion, your legs too short and too weak to mount the giant animal by yourself. 

When he let you doze off on the ride towards town, tucked right into the crook of his arm without complaint. When he, and admittedly the others, provided you with lodging and meals every day, multiple times a day. 

He slept beside you each and every night, the first line of defense against any threat that might come your way from beyond those four walls. Yes, it was possessive — that much was painfully clear. The way he claimed you in front of others, called you his; the way he refused to let you stray too far from his sight or someone he trusted for too long. But beneath it, there was something else too. Something protective. Preserving. Quietly safeguarding you in a way you’d never known before, had never experienced.

Or maybe, you were falling victim to another version of Stockholm syndrome.

It made you question everything, overthinking it all as you went about your day, changing used sheets and sweeping rooms, scrubbing down surfaces and washing the bathing spaces. 

Was it wrong that you felt safe around him, or were you losing your mind? Was it wrong that you were slowly beginning to trust another man after everything you’d gone through, or were you completely brainless?

You weren’t sure what you were supposed to feel, what you were supposed to think. If a more sane, a more reasonable person would feel the same in your position, under your circumstances. 

It had been three weeks since you’d arrived in town, about two weeks since Kate and John Price followed behind. Your bruises had long since faded, and the aches in your body had dissipated; the cut on your temple nothing more than a thin, reddish scar. Kate had taken the stitches out awhile ago now, aiding you in keeping it clean. She always checked in on you, always made time for you even amongst her busy schedule, the full plate you knew she had every day without fail. 

Now, nothing from your previous life remained but your old brown boots and the old scars scattered across your body. You’d even thrown out your old white dress, the thin hand-me-down that you’d had for far too long — the one that you’d been wearing that day when you’d stumbled into their bar, the one Kate had scrubbed your husband’s blood out of. 

You wanted no evidence, no piece of your old life to taint your new one — ridding yourself of anything left behind, anything tangible that could be tossed. You wanted nothing to show for that time — that dark, endless pit that you endured for far longer than any person should’ve.

Later on, once your work for the day was complete, you mindlessly ambled around town, alternating between left and right turns, letting your feet take you wherever they wanted as your mind went elsewhere. You were still completely and utterly fixated on your inner self, overanalyzing and scrutinizing every thought, every feeling, every choice made that related to Ghost. Considering whether or not you were being idiotic and foolish, whether you were letting yourself fall into another trap set by a man with nothing but bad intentions.

You must have been wandering for hours, lost in a mindless haze as the sun dipped toward the horizon, beginning to slip behind the orange mesas far off in the distance. Thankfully, you ended up just a few blocks away from The Prairie Rose, able to spot the red brick building from where you stood. Even though dusk approached, the town was still as busy and vibrant as ever — clomping hooves from passing horses, ragtime tunes spilling out from open doors and windows, laughter and loud chatter, street vendors shouting over one another as they peddled their goods.

You knew better than to linger, quickly making your way back to the saloon and inn. It wasn’t safe to be alone out there once evening fell, once the night sky blanketed the town in darkness. This place, like most towns, morphed into a different beast entirely — people emboldened by their liquor, believing that the twilight hid their depravity, their transgressions. 

You always made sure to get back before then, well before then — but you were so caught up in your own head that you hadn’t even noticed what time it was. 

Thankfully, you made it back without issue, slinking through the saloon before it got too full. There were already a good number of patrons occupying spots at the bar, lounging in booths and taking over a few tables. You spotted Roze behind the counter — dark hair pinned up, a few loose tendrils hanging around her pretty face, framing her strong features.

Just as you were about to dart into the lobby, you heard her voice call out to you, catching you before you could disappear.

“Fawn!” Her slightly raspy tone rang out, cutting through the loud conversations and clinking glasses. “Don’t think I don’t see you over there!”

Heads turned and bodies shifted, attention drawn to you as you came to a sudden halt, closing your eyes in resignation. You felt your cheeks heat, not all but most observing you, regarding you with intrigue. You tried to ignore it as you made your way over to your friend, who wore a knowing, amused smirk.

“You really thought I wasn’t gonna catch ya?” She arched a dark brow at you as you approached, taking advantage of the few empty spots near the corner of the bar.

You shrugged, propping your elbows up onto the counter. “I mean, I was really hoping not.”

She chuckled as she continued to polish the clean glass in her hands, rag buffing out any leftover streaks and smudges. 

“Nothing gets past me, sugar. You know better than that.”

You smiled — because yeah, you did — but it vanished as soon as you glanced over to your right, catching leering gazes already fixed on you. The way some of the men looked at you, watched you, made your skin crawl, eyes dragging over you like you were a slab of fresh meat.

“You’re a pretty little thing, ain’t ya?” One of them jeered with a low whistle, a greasy grin spreading across his face, his eyes gleaming with something wicked, something that made your spine stiffen.

You immediately looked away, shifting uneasily on your feet, fingers nervously picking at the skin around your nail beds.

“Hey. Enough.” Roze snapped, slamming the glass she’d been holding down on the counter, rattling the cups already resting there and gaining everyone’s attention. “Say another word to her and I’ll cut your fucking dick off. That clear?”

The culprit and the others around him straightened immediately, nodding obediently at her warning before pointedly turning their attention anywhere else. Relief loosened the knot in your chest at how quickly they listened to her, how none of them dared challenge her twice.

It, also, thoroughly impressed you.

“Wow.” Your voice was low as you leaned forward, watching the way the men all went back to their business as if you were never even there, didn’t even exist. “How’d you do that?”

Roze didn’t even seem to notice, didn’t seem to be fazed as she started polishing off a new glass. “Do what?”

“Uh, that. Just now.” You tilted your chin subtly in the direction of the chastised patrons. “How you managed to get them to fall in line.”

She scoffed, rolling her blue eyes. 

“They’re pigs. All of ‘em.” She didn’t bother lowering her voice as she spoke, completely uncaring whether or not they heard her — and they definitely did. “Gotta treat ‘em like it. And—” she shrugged, “they know there’s a long list of people willing to follow through on the threat I just made. Myself included.”

You had a feeling you knew the entirety of who made up that list.

You bit back a smile, that increasingly familiar warmth unfurling through your chest once more — that same strange sense of safety that seemed to follow you wherever you went these days.

“Can I get you a drink before you disappear for the night?” She asked, eyes flicking back over to you as she topped off a glass of what appeared to be whiskey for one of the patrons who’d actually been quiet during the whole exchange. “On the house.”

You shook your head. “I’m alright. Promise.” 

Your gaze drifted over her, taking in her appearance — eyes lined with kohl, black and red corset cinched so tight that her breasts nearly spilled over the neckline. 

“You look good,” You complimented her earnestly, even though it wasn’t your own personal style, wasn’t something you had the nerve to ever wear yourself. 

A grin tugged at the corners of her lips. 

“Really? Huh. I was aiming more for ravishing.” She adjusted herself shamelessly, pushing up her ample chest even higher as she leaned closer to you, lowering her voice so only you could hear. “Gotta make coin somehow. Like I said.” She wrinkled her nose. “Pigs.”

You laughed, the sound catching the attention of a few of the men, but their eyes darted away just as quickly once Roze turned sharply toward them, sending them a warning glare.

You exchanged goodbyes and good nights shortly thereafter, very much ready for the safety and solitude of your room. The music started up as soon as you reached your door, the sounds of the piano and the fiddle traveling all the way up to the third floor.

For the rest of the night, you let yourself relax, your mind and body too worn down from the day’s strain to do much else. You pulled your new book out from beneath the mattress, still wary of Ghost discovering it, of him taking issue with you having it at all.

Deep down, you knew he likely wouldn’t care, probably wouldn’t even mention it — but you still weren’t ready to take that chance, to give him any reason to snap the tenuous balance between you.

You tried your best to focus on the words, to absorb the tales of the dime western you’d purchased with your own earnings, but you couldn’t concentrate, the faded black ink on the page blurring into indecipherable blobs. After a few more minutes, you gave up, finally accepting that you were too tired to actually comprehend any of it. You tucked the book back into its hiding spot and blew out the oil lamp on your bedside table, leaving the other one illuminated for Ghost for whenever he returned, knowing he’d need the small bit of light when he came back.

Settling under the covers, your head resting on the fresh pillowcase you’d changed that morning, you drifted off almost instantly, falling right into a restful sleep.

You weren’t sure when you woke, how much time had passed since you’d first closed your eyes. The fire in the hearth had long since fizzled out, the room significantly cooler. It was quiet, dark — save for the dim glow of the oil lamp still flickering weakly on the far nightstand. Slivers of moonlight trickled in through the sheer curtains, hinting to you of the late hour.

Everything felt normal, typical — except for the fact that beside you, the bed was glaringly empty.

There was no sign, no indication that he’d ever been there, had ever come back while you were sleeping like he usually did. No pile of clothes thrown over the chair, no boots left by the door. Nothing.

It settled over you, your stomach dropping like a stone in a lake as worry seeped through your veins.

He was always back by now. Always.

Sure, he often returned late, never quite at the same hour and usually well after the moon had risen. And sure, it wasn’t as though you had a clock to measure the passing time, but you knew. Knew it was later than it had ever been before. 

Something was wrong.

You sat up straight, the sheets pooling around your waist as you stilled, training your ear and listening best you could, trying to see if you could hear any music or sounds or voices trickling in from downstairs. 

It was quieter. Much quieter than usual — the faint melody of a guitar, chatter so distant and muffled you could barely make it out. Nothing like the loud, lively revelry that usually raged into the wee hours of the night.

Your heart stuttered, anxiety flooding your chest. You couldn’t shake the feeling, couldn’t ignore the way your gut insisted that something was wrong. 

But you were being ridiculous, weren’t you? This was Ghost after all. The man with a reputation that far exceeded itself, a notorious outlaw with a body count higher than you could ever possibly imagine and more blood left in his wake than you cared to know about. He was the biggest man you’d ever seen — the kind that could kill without flinching, could instill fear with just a simple look. You still weren’t even sure he was human, was even susceptible to the same type of harm the average person was.

He was more than capable of handling himself. 

Right?

You tried to convince yourself that he was fine, that everything was fine. That you were just overthinking, stressing out about nothing. That you were being completely unreasonable.

But you couldn’t shake the feeling, the unease that took root in your stomach. 

You threw off the covers, bare feet landing against the cold floorboards as you rose from the bed. You didn’t know what you were thinking, what you were even doing. Where would you even find him? Where would you even start? Would you go down to the saloon to try and find Roze? Kate? The others? What if they weren’t there? What if they didn’t know where he was, assuming he’d been with you this whole time?

As the questions and uncertainty swirled around in your head, you kept hearing that small nagging voice in the very back corner of your mind — this was absurd. You were absurd. What on earth could you even do in this situation, if he wasn’t down in the saloon? March out into the streets in the middle of the night and search for him yourself?

It didn’t stop you from pulling on your stockings and stuffing your feet into your boots with shaking hands, your pulse thundering in your ears.

He was probably downstairs. He was probably just having an extra drink as the night wound down, draped over an old leather booth with Johnny and Kyle, women all on their laps and begging for their attention.

Wait — where did that come from?

You paused, shaking your head to yourself. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have cared that he was gone or what women, if any, were wrapped around him. In fact, you probably would’ve relished in his absence, the freedom it finally gave you, the reprieve from the attention and strange interest he had in you. Sure, you’d gotten used to his presence, the safety he provided by sleeping beside you; comfortable in the way he’d never tried to hurt you, to force himself on you — even if he called you his, claimed you as such in every opportunity he had in front of watching eyes.

And sure, he’d scared you once before, that night not all that long ago where you hadn’t seen him or the others all day and night, when you thought they’d all left you behind. But he’d come back then, and even though it had been late when he did, this surely surpassed it.

…right?

God, were you truly losing your mind?

Swallowing hard, you ignored the racing thoughts, the competing emotions that threatened to take over and render you completely useless. You needed to focus, needed to get your head on straight.

You were just going to look downstairs. If he was there, good. If he wasn’t…well, you’d deal with that when the sun rose.

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a brief moment to center yourself, to steel yourself for whatever you were about to find, whatever you were about to encounter. The wooden planks creaked under your feet as you crossed the room, tugging the quilt off the bed and throwing it over yourself — there was no way you were going down there in nothing but your thin, white nightgown.

Your hand wrapped around the brass doorknob, fingers curling around the metal as you pulled the door open and nearly jumped right out of your skin, a startled gasp escaping you at what — or rather, who — awaited on the other side.

Ghost. In the flesh.

You stumbled over your own feet, your grip tightening on the handle to keep you from toppling over. You blinked — once, twice — just to make sure you weren’t seeing things, that your mind wasn’t playing tricks on you.

But no, he was there, right in front of you. Cloaked in black from head to toe, his Cattleman pulled low over his eyes, the dim hallway lamp glinting off the red metal of his mask.

“Jesus Christ almighty,” You clutched at your chest as your eyes swept over him, almost like you were looking for further proof that he was real, like your initial glance at him wasn’t enough to prove it. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”

He didn’t say a word. He just stood there, staring down at you through the holes in the mask, dark eyes barely visible. Watching, waiting. Taking in the frazzled state of you, the blanket wrapped around your body and the worn boots on your feet. 

A beat passed and then another before his eyes lifted back to yours. You could almost picture the raised brow, the small smirk beneath the mask.

“Going somewhere?”

The low rumble of his voice, the knowing edge to it — it made your cheeks heat, embarrassment crawling through you. There was something infinitely more humiliating about being caught like this than pretending to be asleep.

“I-I was just…” You trailed off once you saw it, having somehow missed it during your first pass of him. 

Skin. Pale hands, stark against the black fabric of his clothes. It took you aback for a second, the rare glimpse of it — the flesh of the man that was so often concealed beneath layers of leather and cloth.

But the lack of gloves wasn’t what truly made you pause. No, it was the blood that caught your attention, dark and red and splattered across his battered knuckles. 

“You’re bleeding.” 

It was obvious, of course it was, but the words slipped from your mouth anyways. Your gaze traveled back up to his, noting his lack of response. There was no urgency, no concern. Not even a twitch of discomfort.

He merely tilted his head in the barest acknowledgment, as though you’d only pointed out a bit of dust on his coat.

“Ghost.” 

His eyes remained fixed on yours, seemingly ignoring the worry in your voice, painted all over your face.

“’s not mine.”

You huffed out a breath, as if that was supposed to make you feel any better, to reassure you. Your attention flicked back down to his hands for a moment before you tentatively peeked up at him — almost shy as though you couldn’t fully look at him, like you hadn’t shared a bed with him every night for weeks. 

“Can I…” The rest of your question was left unspoken, unsaid. He knew what you were about to say, knew you were looking for permission to approach him, to touch him.

As if you ever had to ask.

His eyes held yours, neither of you making a move, the quiet tension making you swallow to try and soothe your suddenly very dry throat. You thought he was going to ignore you entirely until he shifted, extending a hand out in your direction. It was slight, just barely an adjustment, a gesture so small that anyone else was unlikely to notice it.

But you did. You knew that it meant, what he was allowing you to do. You had a feeling not many people could safely lay a hand on him, could touch or even glimpse at the skin beneath the mask and the darkness he wore like a shield, like a coat of armor.

You shuffled forward, taking a step into his space, your movements so slow as if you were afraid to make any sudden movements, to scare him off like he was some kind of petrified animal. You could feel the weight of his stare the entire time, silently observing as you cautiously took one of his hands in yours and turned it over beneath the candlelight shining in from the hall, examining the split, broken skin marring his knuckles.

“Not yours, huh?”

Your voice was little more than a murmur as you absentmindedly dragged your thumb through the dried blood, smearing it across his skin and revealing more of the damage beneath.

He didn’t say a word. 

Your eyes flicked back up to his, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as you weighed your next move, unsure if he would even allow it, if he would hate what you were thinking, what had suddenly popped into your head. It was a foreign feeling, a thought that hadn’t once crossed your mind before, but somehow, it still felt right. Like you owed it to him, at the very least.

“Stay here. Please.”

You hoped he’d listen but doubted it nonetheless, tacking on the polite request more for yourself than for him. He wasn’t exactly the type to bend to the will of anyone — the only exception being Kate, which you only believed because you’d witnessed it with your own two eyes.

He tracked your movements as you stepped around him, his eyes following you all the way to the door. Letting the quilt fall off your shoulders to the floor, you ducked out into the hallway and hurried off to gather what you needed, returning a few minutes later with a pitcher of fresh water balanced against your hip and a clean cloth draped over your arm. 

To your surprise, Ghost was right where you’d left him, leaning against the wooden dresser with his arms folded across his chest. His head lifted the moment you stepped back through the doorway, his gaze immediately dropping to the items in your hands, lingering on the pitcher and cloth before returning to your face — but he still didn’t say a word.

“Do you, um…do you think you can…” 

The request trailed off awkwardly as you gestured toward the bed with your chin. A low grunt escaped him as he pushed off the chest, silently crossing the room and taking a seat on the edge of the mattress, resting his forearms on his thighs. You blinked in slight surprise, not expecting him to acquiesce so quickly and without argument, but you were quick to move into action, not wanting him to give him a chance to change his mind.

You set the items down before crossing over to the hearth, crouching before it as you stirred the ash and brought the fire back to life. Once the familiar warmth and light slowly spilt into the room again, you moved back over to Ghost, his dark eyes still pinned on you. Your feet brushed his as you stepped closer, eyes sweeping over his bloodied knuckles.

The room was completely quiet, not a word exchanged between either of you, the crackling logs and flickering flames the only sounds breaking up the silence. You tried to ignore the weight of his gaze — heavy, unblinking — as you knelt, dipping the cloth into the pitcher and dampening it just enough before your free hand slowly reached for his, fingers gingerly circling his wrist. 

You glanced up at him, wordlessly asking if it was okay, but he still said nothing, did nothing other than stare.

You quickly averted your gaze, focusing instead on the task at hand. As gently as you could, you dabbed the damp rag over his skin, watching the white cotton stain with every careful pass, deep, crimson red soaking up into the fabric. Your movements were tender, delicate — almost like you were afraid of hurting him further, worried that your efforts would somehow worsen his wounds — because it was becoming increasingly clear that the blood was, in fact, his and, very likely, someone else’s. Maybe even more than one someone.

With each swipe, the extent of the damage came to light. The cuts were shallow, likely only surface level, his knuckles scraped raw and beginning to swell in places, violet bruises blooming beneath the surface. You gently flexed his fingers, testing the joints, listening for any pops and watching for any winces of pain, but he remained utterly still as a statute. 

If it wasn’t for the visible flesh and blood, your lingering suspicion that he really was anything but human would’ve taken further root.

“Do I even want to know?” Your voice was soft, nothing more than a hush, gaze flickering up to meet his.

Ghost merely grunted in response. You weren’t sure why you thought you’d even get a real answer out of him, anyway.

Dipping the cloth back into the pitcher once more, you wrung it out before you returned your attention back to his hand. Your efforts were more focused now, more thorough as you carefully scrubbed at the blood caught under his nails, between the creases of his fingers.

His hands fascinated you. You couldn’t stop staring at them, and you couldn’t chalk it up to the sole purpose of cleaning them. No, it was the sheer size of them that caught your attention. They were enormous, just like the rest of him, probably double the size of yours if you lined them up. Broad palms, thick fingers, callouses built over years of riding, shooting, and lord knew what else. A number of scars crisscrossed the backs of them — some thin enough to be barely noticeable, others larger, thicker, and raised with age.

Your thumb grazed over one in particular, the largest of them, tracing over the path between his middle and ring finger and snaking down to his wrist, following it until it disappeared beneath the cuff of his sleeve. You could’t even imagine what had caused it, what he’d gotten himself into that nearly cost him half his hand and probably his lower arm if it continued as far as you guessed it did.

You decided you didn’t really want to know.

Satisfied with your work, you gently placed his hand back down on his denim-clad thigh before reaching for his other, the skin just as bloodied and battered there.

“There,” You murmured a few moments later, draping the stained cloth over the lip of the pitcher, the water now a cloudy pink. You turned his hand gently, inspecting your work in the light the fire provided. His knuckles were raw, slightly swollen, but clean.

“They’ll heal.”

He let out a low hum as he straightened, causing you to instinctively lean back on your heels, suddenly very aware of how close you were to him, eyes level with his abdomen.

“Always do.”

You glanced up at him with a small frown tugging at your lips. If the old scars scattered across his hands were any indication, he knew better than anyone that they would heal up fine. This wasn’t exactly new to him, after all. With enough time, they’d fade into pale, silvery lines just like all the others etched across his skin, just another addition to the collection spanning there.

“You should, um…you should probably wrap them up tomorrow.” You stood from your crouched spot on the floor, knees stiff and aching after kneeling on the wooden floor for so long. “Make sure they stay clean.”

Still, he said nothing, those dark eyes still half-obscured from beneath his Cattleman and giving nothing away. You pursed your lips and nodded to yourself, something akin to disappointment seeping under your skin as you bent at the waist to grab the pitcher, avoiding his gaze.

“Leave it.”

His gruff voice stopped you, the low rumble sending shivers down your spine. All the time you’d spent around him hadn’t eased the effect it had on you since the day you’d met. 

“I’ll take care of it.” 

He rose from the bed, unfolding to his full height until he towered over you, tall and broad and looming at least an entire foot or so above you. In an instant, the whole room seemed to shrink, drawing inward as though it, too, had to readjust to the fullness, the intensity of his presence. It was like you forgot how big, how imposing he was when he wasn’t sitting before you.

Your head was level with his chest, the familiar scent of him filling your nostrils. Worn leather, whiskey, woodsmoke, and tobacco. Something heady, masculine; something else just entirely him that you recognized immediately. 

You hadn’t realized how accustomed you’d grown to it.

The silence that enveloped you this time felt heavier, thicker. You couldn’t explain it, couldn’t put your finger on what exactly had changed, but you knew that it had. The closeness, the proximity, the lingering feel of his skin beneath your fingertips, the way he’d allowed it — it was all too much all at once.

You took a step back, desperately needing to put space back between you. You thought, for a fleeting moment, that he was about to say something, anything — but instead, he kept quiet, jaw clenched under the fabric covering the bottom half of his face. Your neck craned slightly, your eyes drifting over the red mask as though it would reveal what was going on inside his head, what he was thinking.

It never did.

With a quiet breath, you tore your gaze away, stooping to collect the quilt from the ground where you’d let it slip to the floor. Giving it a quick shake, you crossed back to the bed and spread it over the rumpled sheets, smoothing out the worst of the creases with the flat of your palm.

The simple task gave your hands something to do, somewhere to look. 

Anywhere but at him.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind you, his boots thudding against the floor as he moved towards the door, the hinges creaking in protest as he yanked it open. You stole a glance over your shoulder — a small, foolish part of you worried he was going to disappear again — until you spotted the pitcher in his hands, realizing that he was following through on his word. Without so much as a glance back in your direction, he stepped out into the hallway, the door shutting behind you, the room falling quiet once more. 

You knew, this time, he’d be back.

You sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off your boots and your stockings that you’d thrown on in a hurry, cheeks flushing as you recalled your panic, your inner turmoil at his absence. What could he possibly have thought of you once he’d seen you on the other side of the door? Looking at him as though you'd been expecting the worst, as though you had any right to fret over where he’d been or when he’d return.

The truth was, you had no idea what he thought of you at all, what he saw in you. Why he’d kept you around all this time. Why he’d claimed you as his. Why, after three whole weeks, he hadn’t gotten his own room when another had more than likely opened up by now. 

Why his presence made your stomach dip and your skin hum like a cicada on a summer evening.

There was so much uncertainty, so much uncharted territory that you didn’t even know where to begin. You didn’t even know if you’d wanted those answers, if you wanted a glimpse into the inner workings of his mind. Ghost was an enigma — every answer seemed to give rise to two more questions, every small bit of kindness and humanity at utter odds with the ruthless reputation that followed him from town to town. 

The first hints of dawn were beginning to break through the darkness of the night outside the window, reminding you of how late it really was, how soon you would have to wake to start the day. You slipped back into the bed, facing away from the door as you settled under the covers.

Not long after, those familiar leaden footsteps returned, growing louder and louder until the doorknob twisted and the hinges creaked, the lock sliding back into place. You didn’t turn, didn’t look back as he undressed, the thud of his boots, the clink of his belt buckle and the stretch of fabric filling the air. 

Your body didn’t tense, didn’t stiffen up as he slid in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. A soft sigh fell from your lips as you nestled deeper against the pillow, the exhaustion and crash of adrenaline hitting you all at once, your eyelids growing heavy.

There was a moment of comfortable silence, of nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths and the occasional hiss of the flames across the room. You were beginning to doze off, finally able to relax and get some rest now that you knew he was back, knew that he was in one piece, when you felt the mattress shift beneath you, his arm wrapping around your middle and drawing you back against his chest. Your heart fluttered but you didn’t say a word, didn’t even open your eyes, instead letting his warmth and weight settle over you like a familiar, worn blanket.

Before long, the crackle of the fire and the steady rise and fall of his chest lulled you right towards sleep. You were on the precipice, just about to tumble headfirst into the darkness when you heard it — so faint, so low that you barely registered it, almost missed it completely.

“Thank you.”

When you woke that morning, you were sure you had dreamt it. That it had been nothing more than a figment of your imagination, of fatigue. But you were sure you felt it, the rumble of his chest against your back as he whispered the words into the night, likely believing you were already asleep.

Even if it was all in your head, even if it was just your brain conjuring up what it knew you wanted hear, you chose to believe you’d heard it, anyways.

As always, the bed was empty when you came to. You didn’t think much of it, of the way he always disappeared when morning came. It was just routine, just part of his procedure.

You let yourself linger in bed for a few minutes, listening to the city outside as it came to life under the morning sun, before you forced yourself up. You had things to do, daily tasks to complete for Kate.

It was just like any other day.

After you combed your hair and dressed — a standard, simple black dress that swished around your ankles, clean white apron tied around your waist, old worn boots on your feet — you headed downstairs into the empty saloon to get started.

Except, that morning, it wasn’t empty. There, beside the bar, stood Kyle and Johnny, chatting away with Kate. Your footsteps alerted them of your presence without you having to say a word, all three of them turning to you as you entered. 

“There’s our girl!” A bright grin stretched across Johnny’s face as he wrapped his arms around you in a big hug that nearly knocked the wind out of you from how tight he squeezed.

“Haven’t seen ya in ages, lass.” He gripped your shoulders as he pulled away to get a good look at your face. “You been alright, Little Fawn?”

You smiled back, just as glad to see him. You didn’t get to see them much these days, so any glimpse you got of the men who’d done so much for you was entirely welcome.

“Not too bad.” You turned towards Kyle, who tipped his hat at you in greeting, his warm brown eyes and kind face a sight for sore eyes. “You men make yourself scarce around here, don’t you?”

The corners of his mouth curved upwards.

“Laswell’s got us on a tight leash,” Kyle teased, shooting the blonde woman behind the bar an amused glance before turning back to you. “Kept us far too busy lately.” He gestured towards you with a hand. “Eye’s all better now, yeah?”

You nodded, fingers instinctively brushing the spot on your temple where the wound had been, the scar that had been left in its wake. 

“Can’t complain.” Your eyes met Kate’s, remembering the day you’d met, the way she’d taken you under her wing and fixed you up with a second thought. “Helps when you’ve got a very capable hand to stitch you back together.”

“Aye.” Johnny agreed with a wink. “Would cheers to that if I had a drink.”

“So, what are you guys doing here?” You asked, settling your hip against the bar top, unable to help your curiosity at their surprise appearance. “You here to help me with my job today?”

“Nah,” Kyle shook his head, stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his light denim jeans. “Don’t think Kate trusts us enough to give a proper clean to those washrooms.”

“You’re right.” She nodded as she polished off a clean plate. “I don’t.”

Her eyes flickered with amusement as she turned her attention to you. “But you’re off for today, Fawn. Best take that apron off.”

You had to do a double take at her words, unsure if you’d heard her correctly, divots forming between your brows in confusion. 

“What? Why?” Dread filled in your gut as your biggest fears began to take root in your mind, panicked that you’d let her down in some way. “Did I do something wrong? I swear, I can fix it, whatever it is, I—”

“Fawn. Honey.” Kate cut in, gently interrupting you before you could continue to spiral. “You did nothing wrong, sweetheart. Nothing at all. In fact, you’ve been absolutely fantastic. It’s just an afternoon away from work.”

Her eyes were kind, her tone reassuring as she smiled warmly at you. It instantly settled you, calmed your racing thoughts and worries. You cared far too much about what she thought of you, never wanting to disappoint her in any way, shape, or form.

“Well.” Johnny shifted the wad of tobacco to the other side of his mouth, leaning back against the counter with his forearms braced against the edge. “Think y’all forgot the most important part.”

All three of you turned to him — you with a confused frown, Kate with an exasperated sigh, and Kyle with an amused chuckle. 

“Would it kill you to have a little more tact, MacTavish?” Kate fixed him with a look that you could only describe as one you wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of, one that promised she’d get him back for needling her. 

Johnny, however, was utterly unbothered by it, just flashing that gold tooth of his in a wide grin before spitting into the brass spittoon at his feet.

“Probably.” He turned his attention to you with a shrug, but you saw the way his gaze flicked up and over your shoulder, catching on something behind you. You turned to follow his gaze, your pulse quickening when you spotted him leaning against the doorway, Ghost’s hulking frame nearly swallowing up the entirety of the open space.

“You’re coming wit’ me.”

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest, the way it always did when he was near, when his eyes locked on you. 

He must’ve been the important piece Johnny was talking about, likely the reason you had the day off at all.

“For what?” 

You couldn’t help the question from slipping from your lips, always showing your cards without meaning to, a slight bit of unease and apprehension painted across your face. While you’d never really been given a reason to doubt them, to believe that they were leading you into some sort of elaborate trap, you still found yourself waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was instinct now, an unfortunate habit carved into you over long years of experiencing that very reality, the part of you that expected kindness to come with a price refusing to quit. 

Maybe over time, it would, but certainly not now. Four weeks were not enough to erase that kind of trauma. 

But, as usual, Ghost didn’t respond, didn’t utter another word. Just jerked his chin towards the door and expected you to follow. A silent command, like that was all the instruction you needed as he left through the swinging doors just as quickly as he came.

With a sigh, you untied your apron and draped it over your shoulder. You had to change first, certainly not about to run amok in your maidservant clothes. 

“If he comes looking for me, will one of you mind telling him I’ve just gone to change?” You directed the question to all three of them, hoping at least somebody would relay the message. You knew making Ghost wait was a bit like tempting fate, so to speak, but you didn’t have much of a choice. If he’d just stayed in bed that morning for once, you wouldn’t have to make him wait at all while you readied yourself.

The man could survive a gunfight without so much as blinking, yet carrying on a normal conversation seemed beyond him.

“Sure thing, doll.” Kyle gave you his customary tip of his hat, two fingers brushing against the brim like he always did — the perfect gentleman. You still weren’t quite sure how he fit in with the band of outlaws. You smiled in return, about to head back to your room when you realized what you’d been meaning to do for far too long. 

“Oh, Johnny?” You doubled back to the young man while Kyle and Kate fell into conversation, paying the two of you no mind. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for my dress for ages.” 

You hesitated as you considered that wasn’t quite encompassing all of what he’d so kindly done, a sheepish smile on your lips as you shrugged. 

“Well, dresses, I should say. It was incredibly kind of you, and I cannot tell you enough how much it meant to me.”

A puzzled look flashed across his face, his pale blue eyes — clear and bright as the afternoon sky — searching yours for a beat before understanding dawned, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.

“Well, I’d love to take credit for that, lassie, but—” Another wad of tobacco pinged against the metallic tub next to his boots. “—that wasn’t me.”

For a moment, you thought he was joking, thought he was just messing with you like he seemed to have a penchant for, particularly with the others.

You blinked, staring at him like his answer would change. “What?”

Johnny shook his head, still wearing that easy, boyish grin as he held your gaze casually, like everything you thought you knew wasn’t suddenly crashing down around you.

“Nah, wasn’t me. I don’t got that kind of coin.” He gestured towards you with his sun-spotted hand, tanned from years beneath the unforgiving sun and dusted with tufts of dark hair. “But seein’ that look on your face…can’t say I ain’t tempted to claim it myself.”

“But…” Your chest tightened, throat strangely dry as your mind raced a mile a minute. “Why would…”

Johnny huffed a laugh through his nose. “Lassie, you’re askin’ the right questions to the wrong man.” 

You started to believe that maybe you’d gotten it all wrong. That maybe, you had just let yourself believe it had been Johnny all along, had wanted him to be the one who’d gone out of his way for you. It made sense, after all. He was friendly, kind. Easy to talk to. Had always treated you like he’d known you all your life, were a close friend instead of a mere stranger. 

After all, it made more sense that it had been him instead of the man who slept beside you every night, the man who hadn’t strung together more than five words in your presence. The man who couldn’t even wait past sunrise to leave you behind. 

But, you distinctively remembered what Roze had told you that morning when she’d come knocking on your door. That it had been Johnny who’d sent her, claiming that she was there to take you into town for some new things. That he’d given her the pouch of coins to pay for it.

So, why had she lied to you?

“But if it wasn’t you…” You trailed off, all of the pieces beginning to fit together. Now, seeing it with fresh eyes, you knew it could only have been one person, one man — the only one with a key to your room besides yourself to have left that blue dress there for you in the first place. Even if it didn’t make sense, didn’t seem like something he’d do, something a man like him was capable of — it had to be him.

And he hadn’t said a word about it.

The corners of Johnny’s mouth twitched as he watched you put it together.

“My, my, I wonder who it could be.”

a/n: i am so so sorry this took so goddamn long to update, but i hope you enjoyed <3 words cannot describe how much i love and appreciate you all so much for your patience, kindness, and support of my little passion project!! hopefully this longer part makes up for it for now :)

"i think this is good for him," simon says as he sits on the garden furniture (it's the perfect summer day again. you're making the most of it, before it get's too hot and your feet get too swollen and it gets too uncomfortable).

you're tucked against his side, head on his shoulder. humming, you shuffle as close to him as you possibly can. "maybe we could keep him around," you suggest, only halfway joking. (because your kids really do love him. and he is good company. and you know simon likes having him here).

simon chuckles. "sure he'd love that," he say, fingers coming to rest on your chin. with two fingers, he gets you to look at him. "i think he likes you, too," he whispers and kisses you once. it's quick, so quick you're not even sure it really happened. but your husband would never torture you like that.

your arms wind around his neck. "yeah?"

he kisses you again, humming against your lips. "can't say i blame him. my wife is fucking sexy when she's pregnant."

you scratch at his scalp and scratch. "wanna go up stairs while the kids are entertained?"

you could have. you so easily could have let him take you upstairs, let him pump his cock into you and fondle your tits until your legs are spasming on either side of him. but you don't. you can't. you can't leave johnny down here, an unwilling babysitter for your kids.

reluctantly, you push your husband away. "later," you promise and press one last quick kiss to his lips.

simon grunts before he lets you go. you stand, hand on your swollen belly, and waddle over to your children and your guest.

all three of them look up at you. the kids squint and johnny puts his hand over his eyes, shielding them from the sun. "having fun?" you ask the three of them.

"yes, ma'am," johnny answers and trinity giggles. "the weans an' i thought we could handle lunch today," he says and sits up.

you breathe out, unable to hide your smile. "thank you, johnny," you say, grinning down at him. "that's really sweet of you."

johnny looks at your kids, still laying on the floor, staring up at the clouds. "what's a we-ain?" trinity asks, her brows furrowed. but she's still looking at the clouds, like she's still trying to figure out all the shakes the clouds can show her.

the laugh johnny releases isn't malicious; he's not making fun of your daughter as he gets to his feet. "you are, bub," he says and helps her up. he does the same with noah, getting him up.

they lead johnny to the kitchen, pulling him after them. you're calling after them, like every mother does. telling them to be careful, to wash their hands and let johnny do the chopping up.

as they head inside, you head back to your husband. "i like him," you say as simon uncrosses his legs and reaches for you. he pulls you onto his lap, not caring for the extra weight you're carrying. "but i thin trinity and noah already having him wrapped around their pinkies."

"wouldn't surprise me." he squeezes your hips. his fingers toy with your dress, with the material of your skirt. "we could be really quick," he whispers. "come on, love. let me fuck my pregnant wife."

you breathe out like he's being ridiculous. "fine," you say anyway and raise yourself up.

simon pulls your underwear down your legs as you fiddle with his belt buckle. he touches you, touches your thighs as you manage to get his belt off and free his cock.

as badly as he wants to take his time with you, as he normally does when you're in the privacy of your bedroom, simon doesn't. he can't, not when johnny and the kids are whipping up sandwiches. it's bound to be chaos that the two of you have to clean up after.

you sink down onto him, a hiss leaving your lips. you've much rather be lying back, his strong muscles keeping him above you. but this'll do for now.

thank god your husband is strong, built like a beast. he raises the both of you up and thrusts into you. over and over again, his pace already rapid. he just has to get you there, just have to have you spilling over the edge and squeezing his cock until he's following closely behind you.

your head falls onto his shoulder, making the sweetest noises. he grunts, squeezing whatever he can grab.

it's such a relief when you finally finish, when he finally manages to take you over the edge. simon gives a few shallow thrusts before he finishes, spilling inside of you. "wanna get you pregnant again after these two," he whispers.

"fucking hell, riley," you reply as he slips out of you. "gonna have a small army on our hands."

and johnny watches from the kitchen window. eyes transfixed as your kids fill the sandwiches with the toppings he'd prepared before he caught sight of you and your husband.

he watches now as simon meets his eye. his scarred lips tip up and he whispers something in your ear.

you turn around and smile at johnny. it so warm, it doesn't feel right. but then you stand, still covered up. but he can see your underwear, near your knees. you pull it the rest of the way down, putting on a little show for johnny, and drop it into simon's lap.

"johnny." trinity tugs his hand for his attention. "can you cut the sandwiches into triangles? they taste better that way."

"of course we can," he says and comes over to cut up the sandwiches. he tries one and hums, nodding his head. "you're right, trin! delicious."

***

bed time has been and gone. johnny can't help but feel bad as he sits on the sofa. you and Simon had to deal with reluctant vegetable consumption and bath time while he got to read the bed time story (noahs request. he loves johnny's accent.)

simon sit beside him, a wide space between them. there's something playing on the TV, but he doesn't know what it is.

he's too busy thinking about you.

you, pulling your underwear down your legs. you, dropping your underwear into your husband's lap before you headed inside to help with lunch.

you're upstairs, getting ready for bed, and he's thinking about you. it's not fair; you're married.

he hears you come down the stairs. a sigh leaves your lips as you walk into the room. both men turn their head when you pause, looking at whatever crappie is playing on the television.

"those kids love you," you say as you walk in front of simon and sit down between them. "noah wanna a mohawk now."

Simon chuckles as you ease yourself down beside them. "no way," he says, shaking his head.

but you look at johnny, hand on your bump. "how you doing?" you asked, your free hand reaching for his.

johnny breathes out, his body sinking into the cushions. "great," he says honestly. "seriously. thanks for having me."

your shoulder touches his. you're warm where you touch him, leaning against him. "you can stay as long as you need to, you know that?" your hand leaves his, touching his thighs instead.

he should be between you and your husband, caged in by you. but you work with what you've got.

"johnny," you whisper, dragging your nails up his thigh. "I know you were watching us earlier."

he swallows thickly and looks past you, looking at simon. but he's just touching your back, letting you do what you need to do.

"can I touch you, johnny?"

he doesn't know. but simon makes no move to stop him. he doesn't pull you away and kick johnny out.

so, he nods.

you're still smiling when you free him from his shorts. no underwear, he's already ready for bed. "wow," you say, moving closer. "it's so pretty, johnny."

you pump your hand twice. johnny's breath in is sharp, but he let's you move, hands by his sides.

and then, you spit on it. its not violet, more of a dribble. just something to make this hand job easier.

a noise is pulled from johnny's throat. a moan, a whimper, you're not sure which. but you keep going, swiping your thumb over his tip.

his body shudders. "you're doing so good," simon whispers. johnny isn't sure who he's talking to as he grabs the bottom of your shirt and lifts. "good boy."

his eyes are shut, head thrown back when you whimper. he shudders, the sound getting stuck in his head like a song on a loop. you do it again as johnny hisses, his eyes opening.

"fuck." it's the first thing he's said since you started touching him. but it's not because of you touching him, not from the pleasure you're bringing him, but from the sight of your husband, his hand in your underwear to touch you.

and simon just chuckles. "she's fucking soaked," he says, other hand coming to fondle your tits.

you don't kiss his lips. but your lips find his shoulder, his neck. it's almost sweet as he's bucking his hips up to meet your hand.

he feels like a kid again, an intense orasgm he can't control, making a mess and spilling onto your hand. he's panting, your fingers still wrapped around him, hips still moving as he comes down.

and you? you're shaking, coming apart of your husband's fingers. he'd picked you apart, pressing all the right buttons to have you finishing, breathing heavily against johnny's neck.

he's still, stiller than he has been with any other woman. but this is an experience like no other. he breathes in a deep, shuddering breath as you bring your hand to your mouth. fuck, he thinks when you lick it clean.

but simon stands. "come on, love," he says and helps you to your feet. "let's get you to bed."

you accept your husbands help and stand. johnny watches you, both of you. the way simon holds you, as if that's the only thing keeping you standing. he hands you your shirt and you pull it over your body.

"goodnight, johnny," you whisper and lean in to press a kiss to his lips.

he doesn't know if he can kiss back. he's still, letting your lips move against his. and, just when he works up the courage to kiss you back with your beast of a husband standing behind you, smiling like an apex predator, you pull away.

he watches the two of you, your retreating forms. "night," he calls because he doesn't know what else to say. he tucks himself into his shorts and sits there for a moment, willing his heart to stop beating so damn fast.

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