#he's also

It's less of a handshake and more of clumsily fumbling while trying to hold on to his hand —Tom casts an odd glance, but at least you can blame the awkwardness on milk and mud-slick hands. “Nice to meet you, Jim,” you tell him, smiling through the newfound ache in your chest. “C’mere and give me a hand.” You nod in the direction of old Bessie in her stall, knowing John Marston doesn’t know the first thing about how to milk a cow. “Thank you, Tom!” You call, waving to him as he heads back to the main barn to help Abe with the horses.

But then your attention snaps back to John —no, Jim. It’s been years since you last saw John Marston —more than that, it’s been almost twenty years. He and Arthur Morgan left you to your whims in a little livestock town in the middle of nowhere California after a successful stagecoach robbery. Pronghorn Ranch is the last place you ever thought you’d see him again, but it’d been the last place you thought you would’ve ended up too. “What the hell are you doing here?” You don’t know whether to hug or slap him, so you do neither, just gawk at him like you’d seen a ghost. “Thought you was dead.”

“Heard the same about you,” he says, remembering the day some of Colm O’Driscolls’s boys said they’d put a bullet between your eyes for making off with one of their scores. John had been enough of a fool to believe them —especially when the months started to pass and your paths never crossed again.

TOM DICKENS COMES to fetch the new hand after the day’s work is almost finished —to formally introduce him to David Geddes. Afterward, John goes to your cabin, knocking on the door, awkwardly shuffling from foot to foot as he waits. You motion him in and close the door. There’s a moment’s pause when you both stare at one another as though not quite believing the other is real, but then you surge forward, arms twining around his neck with little hesitation. John Marston stumbles back, stiff as a bonefish at first, but he quickly caves into the warmth of your embrace, arms wrapping around your waist and cheek pressed into the crown of your head.

You step back first, hands lingering on his shoulders for a fleeting moment before turning to sit in one of the rickety chairs at the table in the center of the room. “What are you doing here?” You’ve already asked him earlier, but now he can’t use the guise of working to avoid answering. 

John sits next to you and shrugs, staring at the rough floorboards under his boots. “I don’t know” —seems like nothing made sense anymore, not since he shakes his head— “I thought maybe…” he fumbles for the words and knows he’s making a fool of himself. John Marston lifts his dark gaze, finally settling on a piss-poor explanation for why he’s turned up at a small ranch in West Elizabeth.

“I’m trying to do better...be better,” he finally ousts. “Got a son now.” It’s a quiet admission and it strikes something deep in your heart. “He’s still in Strawberry,” John tells you, knowing that’d be the next question —his boy was helping the doctor prep tools and clean between patients for twenty-five cents and two meals a day. A better life than he’d had for the past eight years. “Wanted to make sure this arrangement was gonna work out.” 

“And his ma?” You ask, almost timidly. 

He shakes his head, eyes downcast. It won’t nothing pretty that night when the Van der Linde Gang fell apart. Abigail. Susan. Arthur. “She…” John takes a deep breath, remembering how he went to Copperhead Landing to find his family, but only Jack and Tilly were waiting for him. “It was a mess,” he tells you. “Dutch came full undone. Lost a lot of people.” Left me for dead too. 

You hadn’t known everyone in the Van der Linde Gang, just John Marston and Arthur Morgan from the few times you’d run into them on the road and in towns. But you remember how they both used to talk about Hosea Matthews and Dutch Van der Linde and reading about the train and bank robberies and all the murders —all seemed out of place given the two men you knew. “And Arthur?” But somehow, you already know the answer —doubt John would be here in the first place if Arthur Morgan was still around.

He just shakes his head again, not wanting to talk about that night on the mountain, about what Arthur did for him in the end. And how it feels like he’s wasted his life since then —chasing gold in the Yukon, still on the run at every turn, unable to raise his boy right on his own. “Never thought I’d see you again,” John says, the rasp in his voice turning to a crack.  

You nudge his side lightly, offering a fleeting smile to cut through the suffocating despair. “We always did have a habit of finding each other.” Even as ghosts, John thinks though he doesn’t say as such. 

“So, what happened to you?” He asks, not about to let you come away from this conversation unscathed. “How’d you end up here?” A ranch in the middle of nowhere West Elizabeth won’t where he expected to find you, either. 

It’s both a long story and a short one. “Left it all behind.” Living like a criminal wouldn’t carry you through life much further, especially not with the law and the Pinkertons rounding up the last of the outlaws. Was a surprisingly easy choice to make after you met the man who’d eventually call you his wife. “Got married.” The memory is enough to make you smile in earnest. You glimpse John, his dark gaze focused only on you, lips slightly parted to take a slow breath as he realizes.

“Had a little homestead further east.” It was a small two-room cabin in the woods, warm and welcoming. A home. “Quiet life. A good life,” you muse. But it didn’t last long enough. “Then I got a visit from Colm’s boys,” you tell him, still not understanding how they found you that far east. “Came to settle a debt from a score I stole off ‘em.” There’s a certain apathy in how you say it —cold and matter of fact, as though to say such is life. You stare out the window on the opposite wall, eyes nigh devoid of emotion as you recall that night. “Buried them and my husband six feet deep,” you tell John, and he grips your hand —the rough pads of his fingertips pressing into your palm.  

“Guess I had it comin’, in the end.” You’d long been afeared that your sins would return to visit. They had, and the cost was almost more than you could bear. In the days and months afterward, it seemed your punishment from the Almighty was to keep living and try to make amends for past misdeeds. “Don’t get to have good things happen to you after the things I did.” John doesn’t say anything, just nods —it’s a sentiment he knows well enough.

Ain’t much more either of you can say. Life hadn’t been kind since you last saw one another, but fate or some higher power must have a warped sense of humor to lead you back to one another after all these years. Sighing, you slip your hand free of John’s and reach for him, fingers following the new scars on his cheek and jaw —the one cutting across his thin, cracked lips too. “How’d you get these?”

His dark gaze flits across your face, and he lets out a trembling breath when you pull back your hand. “Wolves tried to make a meal out of me,” he answers —won’t a pleasant week between getting shot in Blackwater and mauled by wolves in the Grizzlies.

“Too rotten for ‘em?” You ask, teasing. “That why they spat you back out?” And John laughs, lips twisting into a ragged smile as he leans into you, resting his forehead against yours.

AFTER A FEW days of adjusting to the routine, John heads back into Strawberry on a late Sunday morning to fetch his son. Mister and Misses Geddes assured him there’d be a place for his boy on the ranch, and so long as he did his share, he’d even earn a few coins to fill his own coffer. If nothing else, Jack Marston would have a score of people to help look after him and teach him a thing or two about animal husbandry.

You’re starting a fire in the kitchen stove when you hear the wagon jostling to a stop and horses whinnying. Setting a pot of water on the burner, you turn to the door, wading into the cool spring evening air —equally excited and nervous to meet John’s son. The boy sitting next to him in the wagon seat climbs down with a book tucked underarm and glances around the ranch —to the big house and barns, the horses in the corral, and the ranch hands enjoying their day of rest on the porch with a bottle of whiskey.

He looks like his father, that’s for certain, but you imagine he must have his mother’s eyes. “Jack?” You greet softly, knowing John told the others his boy’s name was Lancelot.

The boy looks surprised that anyone would know him in this part of the country —especially given who his new persona is supposed to be. There’s a question budding in his bright eyes. “She’s a real good friend of mine from long time ago,” John explains before you can properly introduce yourself, wearing a little smile as he steps around his boy to grip your shoulder, a silent thank you almost for being so understanding —accepting of his sudden appearance back in your life. Jack’s gaze flits between you and John. Even he knows it’s been a long while since his pa’s looked this happy.

You step closer and extend a hand toward the boy, and he gives a timid but firm handshake. “It’s nice to meet you, Jack,” you say with a smile, but then your attention shifts to John. “How about you boys stay with me?” You suggest, pointing over your shoulder to the women’s cabin —empty for the past few months save for you. “Be easier to keep an eye on him that way.” It’s better than staying in the stuffy bunks with the other ranch hands and one he won’t pass up. After living on the road for so long, it’d do Jack good to have a motherly figure back in his life.

Jack starts to the cabin with his bag, and you fall back to keep stride with John, nudging his side with your elbow. “Least we know he won’t turn out like you.” There’s a hint of laughter in the way you say it, a twinkle in your eye, too.

“What’s that supposed to mean, missy?” John asks, knowing good and well what it is you mean, and he's unable to hide his own amusement. But you don’t say anything else —just smile for him.

IT’S A SLOW life. Routine and almost boring compared to always running, always having to have one eye trained over his shoulder, but to be a decent man working for his keep every day is enough to keep John Marston happy for now, especially knowing what it means to his boy. It’s the first time Jack’s ever known the same place for more than a few weeks or months at a time —first time he’s had a whole bed to call his own too. Despite the hard work, day in and day out, the ranch starts to feel like a home —like maybe he’s found his calling in life. Or at least Jim Milton’s calling.

The rooster crows at the break of dawn, but you’re already awake with a pot of coffee brewing and bacon in a frying pan. It’s the scent of the bacon that draws both John and Jack from their bunks and to the table. Taking breakfast and supper together every day is bittersweet —makes you think of what could’ve been had Colm’s boys never found you, but there’s no point dwelling on the past like that. John won’t ever be the man you buried, and Jack won’t ever be your boy, but for the time being, you’re content with this mismatched family. “Mornin’ boys,” you greet, cracking half-a-dozen eggs into the leftover bacon fat. “Coffee’s ready.”

John mumbles his appreciation as he pours himself and you a cup before sitting at the table with the most recent copy of The Blackwater Ledger. 

It’s a quiet life, too. Until shouts and gunshots break out in the night — until flames rise from the barns to lick at the night sky. John’s out of bed before you, pulling on his boots and starting to the door. You peer out the window above your bed, recognizing the men and their horses. The Laramie Boys. They’ve already set the cattle loose and the barn ablaze —another attempt to drive David Geddes off the land to make way for Abel Atherton. “Stay here with Jack,” John tells you. 

But you’re already throwing open the lid of an old trunk tucked away in the corner, pulling out a worn Lancaster repeater and bandolier of ammunition from a life you meant to leave behind for good. “You forget who I am, John Marston?” You ask, pressing a round into the loading gate. “Been dealing with this lot longer than you have” —you cock the handle of the rifle, starting toward the door, pushing past him— “and I’m tired of this bullshit.” 

Hanging Dog Ranch isn’t a long ride, but on a moonless and starless night, it feels like it’s miles and miles away. The shadow of the windmill rises from the landscape, almost blending into the backdrop of tall trees. Lanterns pock the stables and tents —and in one of the corrals is David Geddes’s stolen cattle. The Laramie Boys were there, all right. John lifts a hand, a silent gesture for everyone to stop and dismount. You’d go in on foot from here. He directs Tom to the windmill —a good vantage point to keep an eye on anyone and do away with any of them who try to flee— and Abe to the opposite side, near the ranch house.

You crouch behind one of the boulders next to John. He watches as you pull the rifle off your shoulder and reload it, cocking the handle —ready to go. John Marston knows you can handle yourself, knows your skills with a gun are on par with his, if not a little slower, but he doesn’t want to chance you getting hurt. Not when you and Jack are all the good he’s got left in this world. “Ain’t letting you just walk in there,” he says.

Had you been younger and more ill-tempered, you would have argued with him, but now there’s no point in it —one way or another, this whole feud would end tonight. “I’ll flank the backside then,” you tell him. Between the four of you, the whole place would be surrounded. You turn to cut through the grass and the tree line, but he grips your forearm ‘fore you can head off. He means to say something, but all he can do is offer a curt nod and let you go.

Once the first shot rings out in the night, you move in. Part of you thinks after putting up your guns for so long, it should be harder —killing folk— but it’s just as easy now as it had been when you first met John Marston on the road. You ram the butt of the rifle into the back of a man’s head, and it doesn’t take much to pull the trigger when he goes to his knees, dazed. All that’s around you are corpses. The rest must be holed up in the barn or around the front. You sidle your way along the back of the barn, then stick an arm through one of the barn windows at the back and wave it ‘round, but no one shoots.

The barn is quiet —seems empty, too, but you know it ain’t. Crouching behind a stack of hay bales, you reload your rifle to finish the job. Couldn’t be but a handful of them left after that. But one of them is the gang’s leader. Caleb Hensley. A vile man who didn’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer. Dried straw crunches underfoot, the sound coming from the loft above. “Can’t hide forever!” You shout, tracing the footfalls above. There’s a lull in the gunfire outside when you step out from behind on the wooden posts, thinking you’d have the leader of the Laramie Boys cornered for an easy shot, but there’s no one there.  

Caleb Hensley steps out from one of the stables and swings a rough-cut piece of lumber. It’s a narrow miss, and you pull the trigger before he can strike again, but the shot goes wide, and he’s on you again. “Always thought you were a real hard woman, didn’t you?” He mocks, wrestling the rifle from your grasp. You duck around him, making for the discarded gun, but Caleb Hensley kicks the rifle away and grabs you by the hair, hauling you back up. 

Off me! You aren’t sure if you shout it or if it’s just a scream in your head. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warns, twisting your arm behind your back. You can feel the bite of cold and sharp metal against your neck. “Hate to slice such a pretty neck.” It’s an acrid whisper as he runs his nose along your shoulder, inhaling a mix of smoke and flowers. 

John pushes open the doors to the barn, his gun drawn, but he lowers his revolver when he sees you —and the glint of the knife pressed against your throat. “Let her go,” he says —cool and collected. 

Caleb Hensley twists your arm tighter, a new rage building in his gut. “Won’t give me the courtesy, but you’ll fuck some piss-poor farmhand?!” It’s a venomous sneer, but the accusation doesn't get to you the way he thinks it will, not when your fingers brush against the hilt of the throwing knife tucked into the back of your bandolier. John sees the shift in your breathing, the slight nod of your head as though telling him to get ready.

Breaking one arm free of his hold, you drive the knife straight back into Caleb Hensley’s thigh, deep as it’ll go. The sudden shock is enough for his grip to slacken and for you to slip free entirely. “Bitch!” He shouts, unholstering his pistol, but John’s there before he can fire a single round —and it’s over with the blast of a shotgun.

John tosses down the sawed-off shotgun and turns to you, half-blocking the mess of blood, bone, and brains splattered across the dirt and hay. “You alright?” he asks.   

“M’fine,” you answer. But there’s a slow red flower blossoming on the white linen of your nightdress. He reaches for you, hand cupping your cheek and tilting your head to the side. “Shit,” John breathes, pressing his hand against the cut and the slick warmth of blood —it spans from the base of your neck and across a collarbone to the edge of your sternum. It’s not deep, at least, and it doesn’t hurt —or maybe the pain hasn’t settled in yet.

The ride back to Pronghorn is quicker and John dismounts his black bay Thoroughbred and turns to you, still astride your speckled Appaloosa —he scarcely lets your feet touch the muddy ground before sweeping you up in his arms, carrying you from the hitching posts and back to the cabin. “M’legs still work, Marston,” you mutter into the crook of his neck, and he shakes his head at your stubbornness. There’s even a hint of laughter in his deep sigh too. All these years and a moment like this makes it seem as though nothing’s changed.

“Jack!” He calls out, nearing the steps of the cabin, and his boy opens the door. Jack stumbles away, his eyes wide and full of fear as he looks between you and his pa. John eases you down onto the bed and glances over his shoulder. “Bring the wash basin, son,” he says, and Jack does, fumbling over his own feet.

“I’m alright, Jack,” you assure the boy with a feeble smile when he places the basin bedside. You can see the color fade from his round face when he looks at you and the blood soaking through your night dress —it reminds him too much of the day he lost his ma. “Just a bad scratch.” John huffs as he wrings out the wet cloth. It’s not exactly a lie, but it ain’t the truth either. He tilts your head to the side gently and starts wiping away the drying blood on your neck.

Under different circumstances, you might’ve laughed at the tinge of color on his cheeks as he silently asks permission to help you undress —poor timing to suddenly become a chivalrous man. With a grimace, you shrug out of the shift and quickly bunch up the stained cotton to keep your modesty intact. John’s gaze flits between the cut and your face, trying too see if he might be able to decipher the far-off look in your eyes, but then he presses too hard, and you wince. “Sorry,” he mutters, redoubling his focus. His brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a taut line —and he misses your hazy smile.

"Need to bandage it,” he says, voice dropping to a low rasp. You nod, turning to face away from him before offering up your shift to make crude dressings —he'll buy you a new one. The feel of his rough fingertips against your skin sends a chill down your spine and sets your heart to racing again.

John ties the strip of cloth off at your shoulder and lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Then he offers one of his shirts in place of your ruined night dress —a faded black flannel with colored patches at the elbows. He holds it up for you to slip your arms into, and you quickly do up the buttons, turning so you can face him.

“Thank you.” It’s a tired whisper, and John doesn’t say anything in turn, only kisses the back of your hand before returning to his bunk on the other side of the cabin.

THE WAGON’S PULLED up to the front of the barn, loaded with crates and other sundries to be sold at the market in Strawberry and along the path there. Most times, Jack goes with John to make the deliveries and pick up new supplies, but this time the boy is headed toward the stables instead of the wagon seat. He and Duncan Geddes had been getting along quite well, especially when it came to helping work and train the foals.

You lean against the split-rail fence of one of the corrals, watching Jack Marston longe a nine-month-old filly named Llamrei, after one of King Arthur’s horses —Mrs. Geddes had even been kind enough to let Jack name the new foal. “Not goin’ with your pa?” You ask.

He shakes his head. “Thought I’d stay and help with the horses, ma’am,” Jack answers, then he clicks his tongue to help Llamrei keep her gait.

“If you think you’ll be okay,” you start, “I’ve got a few errands to run in town myself.” It’s been a month or two since you made the trip to Strawberry, and your list has steadily grown to include fabric, sewing needles, and a new kettle for coffee.

“I’ll be fine, ma’am,” the boy assures you. Nodding, you head to the main barn, where John and Abe are finishing loading everything.

Coin purse tucked away, you climb into the wagon seat next to John. “Afraid you’ll have to suffer me today, Jim Milton,” you say, adjusting the brim of your sunhat and brushing down the creases of your canvas skirt. The corner of his lips twists into a smile as he takes hold of the reins and gives them a quick snap, setting the horses in motion toward the road and down the path to Strawberry.

It's good to get away from Pronghorn for a little while. Strawberry ain’t much, but it has everything simple folk could ever need for a good life. John pulls the wagon in front of the depot and waves you off to tend to your errands while he unloads everything and picks up the post.

You leave the general store with a ream of calico fabric tucked underarm and a small basket stuffed with linen and wool cabbage, new thread, and fresh sewing needles. It was almost time for autumn to set in, and wouldn’t be much longer 'fore the hands started bringing their coats and thicker denim to be patched up for the colder seasons.

John’s securing the last crate into the wagon from the post office and tying down the waxed canvas tarp, but you’re looking westward through the tall pines. “Those clouds don’t look good.” The sky’s gone dark since arriving in the early afternoon —smell of rain's on the wind too. He looks up, too, frowning. “Roads go right hell ‘round here in a storm,” you tell him. “We’ll break an axle tryin’ to beat it back.” Last thing you needed was a stuck wagon and ruined supplies, and the last thing you wanted was to be caught in a squall like the one brewing.

All Trackers can offer is a warm meal, but the innkeeper, Bartholomew Bogue, points you and John to the Welcome Center just up the road; they usually had a room or two to spare when the rest of town was booked. The fringes of the storm have already arrived as rain and howling wind. You start through the muddy street after John, holding down your hat to keep the wind from ferrying it away. “Room for the night, please.” He slides a dollar bill across the desk to the concierge, who quickly hands over a room key and motions toward the stairs by the door.

The room is simply furnished —a single four-poster bed caddy cornered, a dresser and vanity, and a table next to a cast iron heater. It’s warm and dry and almost more inviting than your cabin at Pronghorn. You drop your hat on the table and lay your shawl out to dry near the heater. “I’ll take the floor,” John offers —an attempt to be a gentleman— toeing off his muddy boots near the balcony door and setting his gun belt on the dresser.

It's a ridiculous suggestion. “Bed’s big enough for us both,” you counter, stepping behind the dressing screen, stripping off your wet outer clothes and corset. Wouldn’t be right to have him sleeping on the floor on a night like this —cold and wet. He doesn’t argue, and you’re glad for it. You slip between the sheets and quilted blanket, watching as John goes to add another log or two to the heater. And the bed dips with his added weight when he lays beside you. “G’night, John,” you tell him, turning onto your side.

“Night darlin’,” he echoes, reaching over to dim the oil lantern on the end table.

The steady rain turns into a deluge permeated by the flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder. It’s a jagged bolt that seems like it cuts through the window and a deafening clap that first wakes you in the middle of the night. You stare up at the ceiling, a knot rising in your throat as your heart starts to pound. John’s still asleep —dark hair falling in front of his face—and it makes you feel a fool for acting like this. After all these years, a storm can still send you into a panic. You roll onto your side and stare out the window, but the shift in the mattress and tug of the blankets is enough to stir John Marston. “What’s wrong?” His voice is a grating rasp.

You run your hands over your face, wiping away budding tears before they fall, shaking your head. “Can’t sleep,” you tell him, fighting the tremble in your voice. “The storm.” It’s a poor explanation, but John has mind enough to piece together why the thunder and lightning have you acting like this. Was on a night like this Colm’s boys came for you. Was on a night like this, you had to bury Bo and watch your home burn.

John sits up, reaches out, and wraps an arm around your waist, then pulls you back to him —closer now than you had been before the storm picked up. You settle back down, head resting on his pillow, noses almost touching, and breaths mingling.

“Spent years hopin’ we’d run into each other again,” he admits. You first ran into John Marston on the road. He and Arthur Morgan were planning to rob the same stagecoach you’d been scoping out for well over a fortnight. A fake limp, crocodile tears, and a little womanly charm stopped the driver easily enough —all according to your plan. That was until two hotheaded outlaws came kicking up dust and firing their revolvers into the air shouting about it being a holdup. At least they had half a mind to share the take when it was all over.

And somehow, after that, you and John found yourselves running into each other —at saloons, on the road, planning a heist or two. Arthur always told him he was a fool for not bringing you back to camp. Given your talents, the three of you probably could’ve walked into the New York City Assay Office or the Philadelphia Mint and made off with enough gold to buy a small country or two.

It was a good few years, but then John and his gang wandered off too far, and you’d decided it was time to hang up the illicit lifestyle ‘fore the law finally caught up with you. “Be lyin’ if I said I didn’t miss you a little too,” you tell him, eyes tracing the scars on his cheek and across his nose.

“Only a little?” John teases, hand moving from your waist to cheek —the rough pad of his thumb tracing a line beneath your bottom lip and over your jaw. That gets you to smile for him, even if it’s fleeting, and he’ll count it as a small victory.

“What was he like?” Curiosity gets the better of him —all he knows is it must’ve been someone special to handle you. You close your eyes, picturing the small cabin tucked away in the eastern mountains after a new dusting of snow —can still see Bo splitting wood to bring in for the stove and hearth. But it’s been so long, and now you can scarcely recall the color of his eyes. John almost regrets asking when he sees the new tears welling in your eyes, but then you smile and reach to fiddle with the ends of his hair.

“Good. Honest. Kind. Hard-working.” Bo had been a logger, a working man from a decent family, had even built his house with his own two hands. A stark contrast to how you had lived for all of them years —always on the move, robbing people, and killing folk. “Didn’t deserve him, I know that.” You didn’t deserve Bo after the life you’d led. And John knows he hadn’t deserved Abigail, either. Not really. But maybe, just maybe, you deserved each other and the chance to atone for past sins together. “John,” you whisper his name, and he can hear all your heartache, despair, and longing —it damn near breaks his heart and scares the hell out of him, too.

He acts without warning and without permission, settling his scarred lips on yours —something he’s wanted to do for years and something he should’ve done sooner. His kiss is achingly slow and painfully tender. And you sigh into his mouth, hand sliding from his chest to the back of his neck. It tugs at the corners of your heart, leaving you to shatter when he draws you closer, hand straying from the curve of your back to rest against your neck —his thumb finding the proof of your racing heart. John groans softly against your mouth, and it brings you both to part, breathless. “Sorry,” he mutters, resting his thumb against your lips. It’s the same one he’d stroked across your pulse.

You part your lips, just slightly, not enough to take his thumb into your mouth but enough to suggest. “You’ve always been a bad liar, John Marston.” And he kisses you again, his thumb sweeping up until his hand is cradling your cheek, then further still until his fingers are threaded into your hair. It’s not soft as his first kiss, nor as gentle —it’s keen and desperate, an attempt to chase away the years of loneliness and yearning. You graze your teeth across the flesh of his lower lip, catching it at the edges, and the sound that rumbles from him is sharp-edged, not unlike a warning. But you aren’t willing to retreat. There won’t be any running this time.

John pulls you close until his chest is pressed tight against yours, and the hem of your linen shift is rucked up at the waist, a leg lazily draped over his hips —and the thunder rolls.

The old bed frame groans under your combined weights when you both start shifting, fumbling with the ties and buttons of both your underclothes —a wordless understanding that you both want, no need, this. He’s quick with the buttons of his faded scarlet union suit, ridding himself of it as you shrug off the plain linen shift, letting the thin nightdress fall to the floor next to the bed. 

“Darlin’,” he breathes, tugging you into his lap as he starts pressing a short line of kisses across your clavicle, following the path of a new scar —thumbs brushing against the underside of your breasts and tracing sweeping lines across your ribs. His hands wander around your body. From your thighs, hips, waist, whatever he can reach —like he needs to touch you to stay grounded in this life. 

“John,” you gasp, threading your fingers into his hair, holding him against you. His lips twitch against your warm skin, halfway between a smile and smirk as his nose trails along your neck and over the swells of your breasts, leaving warm kisses here and there. The gentle shift of your hips pulls a low rumble from his throat. Nestled between your thighs, you can feel his cock twitch. 

The rough pads of his fingers trail from your sternum, across your belly, and lower still, slow enough to give you time to object if you wanted, but you don’t. You press your face into the crook of his neck, fighting to regain your breath when he parts the seam of your cunt. He pushes two fingers in, and you cry and sigh and keep whispering his name like a prayer. John slides them deep enough to stretch you good, to let his palm grind against your clit —then he moves them, slow and gentle at first, then quicker when you start to sing like one of those pretty songbirds in the early morning mist.

He bites his lower lip, curling and scissoring his fingers deeper inside you, making you squirm. Then repeats the same motion, this time achingly slowly, ensuring you feel the torturous drag of his scarred knuckles. But impatience wins out this time, and you let out a low keening sound as John pulls his hand away, palm giving one last squeeze to your hip —leaving a slick dampness behind.

Reaching between you, John takes hold of his cock, stroking himself thrice over with his slick hand, and when he pushes in, he does so slowly —impossibly gentle, too. Your legs quiver and tremble from strain and desire as John finally eases your body against his. He trembles —it’s heaven— and he gasps like the sound is wrenched out of him against his will, eyes closing tightly, and distress written over his face as his hands fumble over your body, finally settling an open palm to your back when your hips meet his —tight and flush.

Your hands grip his shoulders, palm pressing into one of the scars there. One day you’ll ask him about that one and the one on his thigh and bicep too. Some you know the story of —the wolves, a more crooked nose from defending you in a bar fight, the silvery line on his calf from getting tangled up in barbed wire cutting through grazing land running from the law.

John doesn’t move, not yet, and you don’t either. There’s something about this moment, being like this. His dark eyes gleam as he looks up at you with something akin to adoration. But the mounting heat in your belly is too much to fight against, and you rock your hips against him, and it shatters him. You sigh, soft and sweet between pants and heaves of breath. All you can focus on is his face —flushed cheeks, mouth drawing out impious noises mixed between grunts and moans, a slight quiver in his bottom lip. You cup John’s face in your hands and kiss the curse from his lips.

A calloused hand slides over your ribs, stomach, and up to your breast, kneading it gently as he rubs slow, teasing circles around a taut nipple. You gasp his name, clinging to him, moving in unison as John lowers his mouth to your neck —soft lips skimming your pulse, moving to suckle a sensitive patch beneath your ear.

You ache and burn, and it's one of the most beautiful feelings you've ever felt —like maybe you should have stayed with him all those years ago. John’s grip on your hips tightens, almost holding you still as his hips thrust up into you. The warmth. The rhythm. It’s almost too much for him to bear, and John Marston isn’t willing to let this moment fade so quickly. “Darlin’,” he chokes, and then it’s a breathy groan that sounds like your name.

He rolls to the side, taking you with him, and nestles himself between your thighs again. John rasps atop you, groaning, moaning in pleasure as your cunt takes his cock deeper with each thrust. His cock twitches. His lips shape your name. You warm every inch of him, and the aches in his bones from the last months of work thaw with relief with each movement. It’s soft at first, but his mouth is at your ear, and you can hear it. John is coming apart inside you, and your name is the one on his lips. You smile and turn your head, catching him off guard in a kiss, legs parting wider and drawing up his sides to pull him deeper.

Clinging to John, you think there’s nothing in the world you'd trade this moment for. Everything else means nothing compared to the weight of his arms around you, the feel of his cock buried deep inside you. His hand shackles one of your ankles, then runs up the length of your calf, over your thigh, and your stomach bunches up in knots as his fingers drift back to your calf, hooking his hand behind your knee and drawing your leg up around his waist.

“John, please,” you plead softly, and he will deny you nothing, if only for selfish reasons. He fully relents to the passion and desire —letting himself love and be loved. His thrusts are deep and slow, yet quick all at once, and you find your eyes already stinging with a sheened wetness from the way he feels buried inside you. John’s breathing intensifies, his lips finding yours. He needs your kiss, has gone too long without, and gladly swallows the little gasps and whimpers you make —savoring his hot skin pressed against yours. You feel everything. Each ridge and vein, the weight of his swollen cock striking the place which unravels you.

His hand slides down between your breasts, across your stomach, and still further until he reaches where you’re joined —his thumb pressing against your clit, starting to rub slow, uneven circles. You tense at the jolt of euphoria, walls clamping around his cock. John bares his teeth, almost growling as his thrusts became faster, desperate. There will be no coming back this time. A grounding touch of his lips at your ear, a hoarse —nigh silent— plea for you to relinquish into his touch. His arm slides around your waist, lifting you against him, bodies flush and trembling.

Before long, he feels the rhythm of your breathing change to short, sharp gasps and your body tensing under his hands, back arching, hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders and back. Fingers digging into his flesh as you cry out his name on a great, sobbing breath. Seeing you undone like this is enough to finish him off. He pulls his throbbing cock from your heat, and you almost protest at the empty feeling, but John shushes you with his lips as he presses himself tight against you —cock twitching, coating your stomach with his sticky seed.

John settles, bracing his weight above you on bent arms. Wearing a hazy smile, you reach up, tracing his brow and the scar cutting through it, and urge him to rest atop you completely. He gives in, pillowing his head on your breast, listening as the frantic beat of your heart returns to normal. His own slowing in sync as you trace constellations across his shoulders, finding new scars and old ones, too. It feels like he should say something —a quip about being grateful for the storm, but you’re both content in silence, only listening to the thunder roll on outside.

TIME IS A fickle thing, and before long, John Marston’s been a ranch hand for David Geddes for over a year. After supper one evening, just after Jack’s settling into his bunk, John asks you to ride with him —to the wildflower meadows and burbling creek just down the way. Twilight drops her curtain of orange and red, fading to indigo in the distance and pinned in place by the Moon and stars.

John glances at you and feels that warm tingle rise in his chest again whenever he sees you —whenever his fingers brush against yours while doing a chore, whenever you tuck your head under his chin at night, whenever your lips touch his cheek for a chaste kiss. He didn’t think it would be possible to feel this way again…and yet. He leans forward in Rachel’s saddle, arms crossed atop the horn.

“I, uhh–” he’s thought about how to say it all day, rehearsed it in his head since the crack of dawn, but now the words evade him. Always did have a way with words, you think, smiling as you dismount your Appaloosa and bend to pick one of the wild bluebonnets. “Been thinkin’ bout maybe gettin’ a place of my own,” he finally admits. 

It’s the first time you’ve heard the idea, even if you’ve noticed how he lingers with the newspapers when they come in —looking over the parcels of land for sale around the state and across the Montana River. “Have you?”

“Yeah” —he nods, as though assuring himself, too— “near Blackwater, maybe. Or down in New Austin.” But saying that’s the easy part. “Was–” his voice trails off and takes off his hat, scratching the back of his neck nervously “–was wondering if you wanted to come with me and Jack?” John asks. “If it works out,” he quickly adds. Won’t like he had many dollars to his name, after all. There’s still a bounty on his head, too, even if no one’s come looking to collect on it in a good while.

You go oddly quiet, and John sees the hitch in your breathing and the tears gathering in your eyes as you think about having a life like that again —like the one Colm O’Driscoll stole from you so many years ago. He slides from Rachel’s saddle and looks at you, surrounded by the golden light of a setting sun and violet wildflowers —a dream. “Will you come?” He asks again, doing well to hide the tremble in his voice, the fear of rejection.

But it’s the way John looks at you, eyes dusted with love, that does you in —the same way he looks at every new sunrise and sunset—body relaxed, mind at ease. You’re the spring flowers blooming and the snow falling, the gentle rain that pitter-patters against the roof. He looks at you the way you would look at the simple things in life so often forgotten but reminding him why the world is beautiful —why life is truly worth living again. “Only if you’ll have me.” You tell him, stepping to him, heart pounding.

Seems a silly thought to him to entertain —of course, he’ll have you. You’re probably the only person in the world who’d still have him, especially knowing the life he used to live. John reaches for you, his rough, warm hands settling on either side of your neck, thumbs affectionately running across your jaw. “Course I will, sweetheart,” he murmurs, leaning toward you —a kiss to your forehead, nose, cheek, a delicate peck to your lips, lasting just long enough for the scuff of his beard to start tickling. 

And that’s when you know this is another chance for a simple, good life and that wherever John Marston is, is the only place that’ll ever feel like home.