#rdr2 angst

Charles Smith was no stranger to death. He had witnessed its cold hands grasping at his loved ones’ throats, and felt its fingers reach for his own. He had watched the light leave his enemies’ eyes before they hit the ground when he was guided by the reaper’s scythe himself, their faces contorted in fear and anger, their hearts pierced by his arrows. He never forgot, and he always hurt - whether it was through a death on his side, or one by his own hands. He learned to cope, and to forgive, but he never forgot.

A gloomy mist cast its long fingers over Clemens Point, as though the night was not ready to give way to the morning just yet. Charles was glad, in a way. The fog felt cool, clinging to his exposed skin in a more comforting manner than the unforgiving Lemoyne sun.

He still felt exhaustion settled deep within his bones, he never slept well when he couldn’t feel your hair tickle his nose, and the rhythm of your slow breathing beckoning him to join you in your dreams.

He never wanted you to leave; he knew that wherever Micah Bell went, chaos followed. The only reason protest never spilled from his lips was because he knew Arthur would protect you with his life, and he knew that you could handle yourself.

He was anxious, the feeling spreading through his entire body, from his heart hammering against his ribs to his trembling fingers. He cursed under his breath when his unsteady blade sliced into his skin instead of the piece of wood he was trying to distract himself with.

He was about to reach for the rag in his boots to clean up the blood the wound had drawn when he heard the galloping of hooves, and incoherent, anxious shouting.

Never had he been on his feet so quick. He knew something was wrong when he saw your horse uneasily trotting in front of Micah. Fear shot through his bones, fear and anger.

“Where the hell is she?”

It took him mere seconds to grab the man who had just dismounted from his horse by his collar and push him against a tree with ease.

“Calm down, you bastard, she’s-” Micah never got to finish his sentence, he was interrupted by Arthur breaking through the treeline at a concerning speed, your body slack against his chest. The sight reminded him of an injured doe; you were unconscious, but he could see your chest heaving, struggling to fill your lungs with air.

He discarded Micah on the ground and took no notice of his colourful language in response. He had a tunnel vision on you, and you alone.

Your hair obscured your face when Arthur dismounted and handed you over to Charles. Both of them treated you with a sort of care one would treat precious porcelain.

“We were ambushed.” Arthur explained hurriedly while following Charles to your tent. “O’Driscolls.”

A heavy feeling settled in your lovers’ heart. He knew what these men, these monsters were capable of. He had seen and felt it first hand, and had the scars to prove it.

“Fought like a cougar, that one. I think she took down most of them before I even got out my gun.”

“What the hell happened?” Charles asked again, calmer this time. His voice was quiet, broken. He laid you on your bedroll with all the care he could muster. Blood covered your chest and face, mingling with the one still seeping from his hand. He couldn’t pinpoint where it came from. There was so much blood.

“She took a bullet to the shoulder. Fell off her horse, too.” Arthur’s voice was laced with guilt as he continued. “I did the best I could, Charles. Killed everyone of them Bastards. Me and Micah.”

He knew his friend was telling the truth, and usually he would scold him for his vengeful ways, but God, how he wished to see every son of a bitch who laid hands on you swing.

“Get Grimshaw. And Swanson. I need them to help me patch her up.”

Charles tried his best to stay his usual calm, collected self, but his resolves were faltering with each gush of blood your wound emitted. He needed help.

A small crowd had formed around you in your tent, head in Charles’ lap, still unconscious. Susan said this was good, you couldn’t feel the pain, then. Swanson added that it was a clean shot, that you were lucky. The comforting words did nothing to calm his nerves. Neither did Arthur’s reassuring arm around his shoulder. The only thing on his mind was your shallow breathing and ashen skin.

Charles said nothing. He cleared your face of strands of hair sticking to your sweat-soaked forehead and closely watched your chest moving up and down, scared it might halt at any minute.

Arthur was by his side the whole time, guilt eating away at him. There was no sight of Micah.

Some time had passed. He didn’t know how long. Didn’t care. Your breathing was steadier now. His wasn’t.

“She’s gonna be just fine, Charles. She just needs some rest, and someone to look out for her.” Tilly placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve been here for hours now, get some sleep and let me take care of your girl. She’s gonna need you to be well-rested once she wakes up.”

If it were anyone else suggesting this, he would have told them to leave him alone, to tell them you needed him and only him. But the lack of sleep and the adrenaline wearing off made him feel almost drunk, in a stupor.

He nodded hesitantly, and Tilly knelt down next to him; a quiet gesture to hand over responsibility for your life.

Three days. Three days it took you to finally open your eyes.

You woke up in shock, mind still in the battle that had occurred days ago. It was the dead of night, and it took you some moments to realise you were back in your camp. You shot up from your bedroll and were immediately forced to lie back down by the throbbing pain in your shoulder.

A glance to your left and right revealed that Charles was nowhere to be found. In his stead, there was a bottle of water and, what you could only assume to be Pearson’s stew.

Your stomach emitted a low rumble in response, and you wolfed down the mixture of miscellaneous meat and vegetables in a matter of seconds. You did the same to the water, and felt the strength slowly creep back into your sore and tired body.

You assessed the damage: purple bruising bloomed beneath your chemise, and your ribs ached in protest as you lifted the fabric. You assumed some of them were broken, the fall you took from your horse explaining the seething pain and angry bruises. Your fingers continued up your body, reaching your shoulder. You felt the coarse thread of the makeshift stitches poking your fingertips, and the memory of the bullet burying itself within you made your heartbeat quicken and your body shudder.

Scars ain't nothing to be ashamed of. You remembered your words to Charles as he expressed insecurity about the jagged edges along his jaw. They're testament to your survival.

You decided to take your own words to heart instead of worrying about the cosmetic mishap the quickly-applied stitching would lead to.

The empty spot besides you felt cold, and you missed the way a pair of strong, heavy arms felt around you. Where could Charles possibly be?

For a while, you decided to wait for your love to return to you, until your joints and muscles ached for movement and you opted to find him yourself instead.

After a much needed stretch, careful not to tear the stitches in your shoulder, you quietly opened the tent flaps.

It was peaceful outside, nothing could be heard except for the odd cricket and the crackling of fire. You turned to the light source to find someone there, your Charles, leaning against a log. He was alone, the only company he kept was a bottle of Guarma Rum.

Your heart broke at the sight. Charles rarely ever drank, and it was even more rare he did so on his own. Especially since he had found you.

You made your way over to him in slow steps. Had he been sober, he would’ve immediately heard the cracking of branches and rustling of leaves you left on your clumsy trail towards the fire. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, though. Clouded by liquor and pain, by a lack of sleep, and the weight of the world on his sagging shoulders.

You placed a soft hand on his back when you reached him, and he swiftly turned around - knife at your throat. It took him some time before he realised you were real, and you were you, not some figment of his imagination, or the ghosts that had been haunting him ever since he lost you to the shadows.

His gaze softened and he lowered the knife. A calloused finger met your cheek as he touched you gently, still not quite believing his eyes. Still unsure whether you were a drunken hallucination, or an angel visiting in his dreams.

“Come back to bed with me?” Your voice was raspy from the prolonged lack of speaking, but it was your voice nonetheless.

“Thought I’d lost you.” His speech was slurred, and you could see tears glistening in his dark eyes. “Thought I’d lost my pretty lady.”

You gave him a soft smile and took his hand. Despite his state, he was careful to not touch your wounds. He let go of you briefly, only for his fingers to roam across your entire body, as though he wanted to make sure there were no more injuries. No more bruises for him to seek revenge for.

A fools business.

He remembered Arthur’s words when he admitted to him he ways in which he wanted to hurt whoever had hurt you.

By the time you had reached your tent, his racing mind had gone quiet again. His brain was consumed by thoughts of you, by the sight, the smell, the feel of you on him.

The best revenge was that he had you, and you had him.

He hummed to himself as he dressed, some tuneless half-song that made your stomach twist. He never looked at you, not once, as if your body had already ceased to exist the moment he was done using it.

“You keep quiet now,” he said, more habit than warning, as he put his hat back on. “Ain’t nobody need to know.”

As if anyone would want to.

As if you’d ever dare to speak of it.

As if anyone would listen.

He stepped back onto the narrow path leading toward camp, boots crunching over dry twigs. Every sound of his departure grew fainter, the scrape of spurs, the lazy whistle he’d slipped into, the cocky slur in his footsteps.

Then nothing.

Just the wind.

Just the trees.

Just you.

Finally, you exhaled, shaky, soundless, a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

You fucking hated Micah Bell.

You pulled your skirt down with tired fingers, sitting up slowly as the chill sank deeper. Dirt clung to the backs of your thighs. Pine needles scratched at your palms. You brushed them off, but the shame and his scent lingered, heavy and clinging in a way the earth never could.

-

Washing dishes was not your favorite chore. It wasn’t difficult, no, just dull. Repetitive. And that was exactly why it unsettled you. When your hands moved on their own, your mind wandered off wherever it pleased. To places you rarely visited. To places you hadn’t seen since the summer of 1899.

These days, most thoughts were kind. Gentle. Grounded in a life finally sturdy enough for the quiet to feel comforting instead of dangerous.

Most days.

But some days… some mornings when the sunrise found you alone, the dark had a way of slipping through the cracks of your cabin walls.

And sometimes it brought Micah Bell up with it.

Bastard.

The sponge in your hand dragged over stubborn potato skins clinging to the tin plate so hard it squeaked. You scrubbed harder. It didn’t help.

You didn’t know how you had stayed. How you survived that long. No, you didn’t know how. But with distance, with time, with more life lived than you expected to back then… now you understood why.

You couldn’t be unkind to her, the twenty-something you were then, she was only surviving. She knew the world outside camp far too well. She had hell for a home before a silver-haired conman with a soft smile and a rattling cough offered her a temporary tent and a warm campfire to sit around on breezy nights.

“Just until you figure it all out,” he’d said. And he meant it.

So yes, you stayed.

You stayed for the honest conman. You stayed for the safety of campfires and coffee brewed too strong, for the comfort of a girl named Mary-Beth who taught you how to read. For the mornings when a dependable, and very handsome, gentleman named Arthur tipped his hat respectfully and called you “m’lady”. You chuckled, your grip softening around the sponge.

As if you was one.

You stayed for the evenings when a girl named Tilly saved you a bowl of stew without needing to be asked. And the afternoons when another named Karen swore she’d teach you how to shoot even if it killed her, even though you were hopeless and never really learned. You wondered where she was now.

You stayed because you didn’t know where else you could go.

And of course…

Of course you stayed for him.

For a certain boy with long black hair that curled wild when wet, and wolf-claws forever carved into his right cheek. The one whose shoulders always hunched, whose eyes always brooded, as if the weight he carried was too big for one person, but he carried it anyway.

-

You couldn’t exactly explain how this thing between you and him had started.

You couldn’t even name what it was, had someone ever found out what you did when no one was looking.

The closest word you could think of—the only one that didn’t feel like a lie—was ‘agreement.’

You see, there wasn’t much work a woman could do for a gang of outlaws. Not real work. Not the kind that felt important enough to justify a bowl of stew, especially not when you were one of the most recent additions to the group, and nearly all the useful tasks were already taken.

Karen didn’t count, she was half gunslinger herself, fearless and loud, living on whiskey and trouble, and working shifts like the men did. Molly didn’t count either, for different reasons. She simply existed above it all, protected by the pedestal Dutch had carved for her.

Mary-Beth and Jenny handled the mending, Tilly the laundry, or sometimes the other way around. Point was, those jobs were spoken for.

Mrs. Adler had joined grieving, but even then, by the end of it all, she’d stormed her way into something fiercer, riding out with Arthur and Charles as if born for it.

Miss Grimshaw… she was cold to you, cruel some days, but you couldn’t deny she worked harder than anyone. Everything passed through her hands before it could be called done.

And Abigail…

She had… She had young Jack. And they always said that raising a child in a world that wanted to swallow him whole was more labor than anybody else’s combined. But what would you know. Plus her history with the gang ran deeper than yours ever could.

Sure, you helped with the other ladies’ chores, except Karen’s, Abigail’s, and Molly’s whatever-that-was. Laundry. Picking herbs nearby. Helping Mr. Pearson peel potatoes. Tending horses. Mending clothes. And sometimes when they were short of hands, you even assisted with medical tasks, even though the sight of an open wound turned your stomach and left your head spinning.

But none of it felt like real work.

A true, needed, exclusive contribution.

And as Grimshaw, and later bastard Micah, never stopped reminding you: If they decided you weren’t useful enough, Dutch would give the order and drop the dead weight. Discarding you like the stray you’d always been.

Yes. You’d heard variations of that threat your entire life.

You’d been sent to relatives as far back as memory stretched, their household the only “home” you knew. They fed you, yes, but not without reminding you what it cost them. How much of a burden you were.

You had to pull your weight then, too. First sweeping floors and cleaning outhouses at the saloon they found you a job in. Then serving drinks and waiting tables when they decided you were mature enough, because the owner’s daughter wanted someone else to take the men’s wandering hands.

Years went by like that. And you hated every second of such chore, the ass-grabs, the rotten breath in your ear when bending over to pour a drink, the fingers sliding under your skirt when a man wanted his table “wiped,” the forced kisses you narrowly avoided, and the times the owner offered you up to smelly strangers as if you were just another item on the menu.

“She’s also available for beddin’,” he’d say, and every single time you heard this your gut would twist.

You were lucky there was almost always someone prettier, younger, and more desperate to take the fall. Almost.

You remember the one time you tried standing up for yourself, told your boss you’d work double shifts if he’d stop offering your body to his customers.

He looked at you like you were ridiculous, then threw you out for your “audacity.”

Said you were wasting space and food.

Said “whorin’” was the only career someone like you could ever aspire to, and that eventually you’d have to cave.

He hadn’t even sounded cruel. Just truthful.

Practical.

Like he was educating you before releasing you into the world.

And maybe he was right…

Although you weren’t sure they could call it “whorin’” when you were only sleeping with one man…

He came back to camp one night with a busted lip, smelling of Kentucky bourbon, and a piece of the very same bottle embedded in his forehead. You were camped near Blackwater then. He’d gotten into a fight at the saloon, some lawman off-duty called him a pretty boy or something, and he’d answered with a “decent kicking,” or so he’d told Dutch.

None of that explained the glass shard sticking out of his skin.

You stood outside his tent while he got scolded half to hell, waiting until the gang leader stormed out before stepping inside. It was late, half the camp was asleep, but Miss Grimshaw had ordered you to tend his wounds and you weren’t about to protest. You had to pull your weight, after all.

Inside, he sat slumped on a cot, quiet, brooding, a storm barely contained.

You didn’t dare speak.

You’d learned drunk men didn’t like to be spoken to unless they did it first, and besides,you’d never talked to him before. Barely even knew what to look at.

“I’ll pull it out,” you warned, voice soft to match the midnight hour.

He grunted when you removed the shard, relieved when it came out clean. Besides a few hisses when you poured alcohol into the wound, he said nothing. Whatever thoughts he had were somewhere far from you.

“Miss Grimshaw will take a look at it tomorrow, stitch you up if you need to,” you announced. “I don’t know much about it. Don’t want it to scar ugly.”

It was partly true, you didn’t want to ruin anyone’s face, but mostly you couldn’t stomach the thought of sewing flesh.

“You don’t know?” he asked, voice deep and hoarse enough for you to wonder how many packs he smoked a day.

“I… don-,” you answered, cleaning the shallow cut on his lip. “I’m still learnin’ the ropes.”

He didn’t respond.

You were nearly done when he spoke again.

“How’d a pretty girl like you end up tendin’ the wounds of a fucked group of bastards like us?”

You scoffed quietly. He was drunk. You ignored him.

“You got pretty hands, missy,” he added after a moment. “They’re real soft.”

You hid a smile, not at the compliment, but at the audacity. He sure looked young, perhaps a year or two younger than you, yet he thought he could call you missy.

“How’d a pretty boy like you end up with a bottle to the face?” you asked as you put the supplies away, matching his tone. Not flirting. Just giving him a taste of his own.

He chuckled, amused. “I ain’t a boy. And I sure as hell ain’t pretty.”

“You sure talk a lot for someone with a busted lip, mister.”

“You sure enjoy bein’ mean for someone supposed to be nursin’ me.” He said, and you didn’t recall ever smiling at a drunk man before.

“Well, you sure get scolded a lot for someone who’s supposed to be the boss’ favorite son.”

You said it without thinking, forgetting you’d been around for way less than a month. Forgetting you weren’t supposed to speak unless spoken to.

His amusement vanished instantly.

“And you’re awful nosy for someone who’s been here a week,” he snapped.

Your stomach dropped. You regretted speaking at all. This was why you always kept to yourself.

“Mister—”

“You don’t know the half,” he muttered, “I ain’t his favorite,” not yelling, just irritated, tired. “I’m nobody’s—” he lowered his voice, bending over to take off his boots, “favorite.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Jesus,” he sighed to himself, “why does everyone keep sayin’ that?”

You stood up.

“I’ll leave now. If there’s anythin’ else I can do—”

“There’s only one thing you can help me with, missy, and I doubt you’ll want to.” He mumbled, tugging off his other boot, not even looking at you, speaking more to himself or to the air.

You had already dropped the tent flap behind you when you heard him add in a low voice, barely meant for human ears, not meant for you to listen.

“Doubt any woman here wants to, actually. Or any woman at all… ‘less I pay her.”

You stopped mid-step.

Your former boss’ words echoed in your ears and for the first time, they felt welcome… in a strange, twisted way.

There it was… the solution to your predicament. The thing that could put the constant anxiety to rest, the one that screamed you weren’t contributing anything meaningful.

A task exclusive to you.

Something useful.

Something no one else seemed to be doing.

Here was the thing you could offer.

The thing that could buy you some time until you ‘figured it all out’ as Hosea said.

You traced your steps back into his tent.

“I want… to,” you announced softly.

He looked up, startled, clearly not expecting you to return.

For a moment he just stared, confused, blinking through the fog of liquor and the weight of Dutch’s scolding. Then he sighed. Deeply.

“Listen, miss… forget it. I’m half-drunk and angry, and my head’s poundin’ like hell. Just go to bed, will you?”

His voice wasn’t irritated anymore, just tired. Bone-tired.

“Then let me help,” you offered with a small, wavering smile. You stepped toward him and took his hand, warm, startlingly warm against the cold night air. “It’ll feel real nice, I promise.”

A lie. You didn’t know if it would. But you had to sell the service somehow.

Your heart pounded. Shame pooled low in your belly, heavy and sickening. There wasn’t a soul in this world who truly cared for you, so there was no one to disappoint, and yet offering yourself like this made something inside you twist. Made you feel like a dirty thing. Like every mean-spirited warning that nasty saloon owner spit at you had been a prophecy.

You didn’t let yourself think further.

You just guided him, gently, insistently, pulling him by the hand to the small table beside his cot.

Then you turned around, bent forward slightly, taking shallow breaths so he wouldn’t hear how your chest pulled tight. You gathered the thin skirt of your white chemise, lifting it just enough. You usually didn’t sleep in drawers.

“Miss, you don’t have t—” he started, voice low behind you.

“But… I want to.” You cut him off by reaching back and taking both his hands, placing them on your hips, using them to hold the fabric in place, and your heart struggled in your chest. “You don’t?”

There was only silence for an answer.

Long enough that you wondered if he was just as uncomfortable as you were. If this wasn’t helping him at all, if you were making it worse. Torturing him with your presence.

But then you heard the soft metal clink of his belt. The whisper of fabric as his pants slid down. A quiet, shuddering breath as he stroked himself, palm slick with saliva, trying to get fully hard.

“I’m gonna—” he cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh… Is it okay?”

You swallowed. “Sure.”

The wet tip found you easily.

He pushed in just an inch, barely, and stopped.

“Just… tell me if it hurts,” he murmured.

You nodded, and since you didn’t protest, he slowly eased the rest of the way inside.

You were too wrapped in shame and dread and the impossibility of tomorrow — how were you supposed to look him in the eye in daylight? — to notice how slow he was moving. How long it took him to fully settle inside you.

You only realized once his hips met yours, his balls pressing lightly against the back of your thighs, that it hadn’t hurt. Not beyond reason.

He was… gentle.

He started moving, falling into a rhythm, cautious, steady. Like he didn’t know you, didn’t know what you liked, didn’t know how to move with your body, so he was treading carefully.

You could almost swear he didn’t want to hurt you.

And it felt… nice.

Surprisingly nice.

His thick cock nudged a spot inside you that made your breath catch, and every time his hips met the curve of your ass, the warmth of him lingered.

Wet sounds filled the tent, quiet but unmistakable. Skin against skin. And sometimes a low grunt from him, dragged out of his chest as your body tightened around him.

You kept your mouth shut. Clamped. No moans, even when one tried to rise when he hit that one angle just right.

It was quick.

Surprisingly quick.

No kisses.

No tenderness spoken aloud.

No pretense.

Just an exchange, a simple job, as simple and transactional as sweeping floors for money or mending clothes for a living.

You felt him twitch. You knew he was close. And you were still not, but this wasn’t about you. It never was.

He pulled out fast, but not fast enough, spilling hot across the back of your thighs.

“Christ, I’m sorry,” he said quickly. You heard him try to adjust, to angle himself away too late. “Let me—”

“It’s okay.” You straightened, letting your chemise fall. “I’ll take care of it. You should rest.”

You didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t. Your cheeks burned and the embarrassment thickened your throat.

He hesitated.

“Look, miss… we can pretend nothin’ happened,” he murmured, as if sensing your shame, maybe feeling it too. “Or never talk about this again. Either way.”

You nodded, gathering the small medical box, turning toward the flap of the tent.

Maybe this didn’t have to happen again.

Maybe he wouldn’t even want to.

“Sleep well, mister,” you whispered.

“It’s John.”

He said, voice impossibly raspier.

“John Marston.”

-

Your cheeks burned for days after that night, hot and embarrassed, especially whenever you caught sight of him across camp. Thankfully, it didn’t happen often. John was either out on guard duty or gone on whatever fool task Dutch had sent the men on. And he never mentioned anything about that night, not to you, not to anyone else. At least judging by the way nobody looked at you strangely, and the girls still treated you like always.

Maybe it didn’t need to happen again.

Maybe it had just been a strange accident, a one-time thing born of anger and whiskey and your own desperation.

Part of you felt relieved… and another part worried. You’d have to find some other way to contribute, then. Some other way to matter.

One evening, the air had turned sharply cold the way it did on the Great Plains, the kind of cold that nipped your knuckles even through your sleeves. The sun had long since disappeared. You were bent over a table wiping dried blood off it—those damn boys and their stupid knife games—when you heard a man clear his throat behind you.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.

Even with little time in camp, you had already learned the sound of his voice. It was pretty recognizable. It always came out just a bit hoarse, like years of tobacco had lodged themselves in his throat.

And you knew exactly what he was here for before he even asked.

“Miss,” he said, the first word he’d spoken to you since he’d told you his name a couple weeks ago. “You, uh… you doin’ somethin’?”

You straightened slowly, giving yourself a moment. Your grip tightened on the blood-stained rag. One breath. Two. Deciding.

Because if you said no, he’d leave.

And if you said yes… well, you already knew what you were agreeing to.

Your indecision didn’t last long.

Some minutes later, your left cheek was squished against the rough bark of a pine trunk, your palms braced against it, as his cock slid in and out of your cunt from behind. From this angle, you could see faint flickers of campfire light between the trees—a safe distance away. His hands didn’t touch your skin this time either; they only held your skirt up, practical and impersonal.

It was quiet.

Only the wet sounds of joined flesh layered over the wind sweeping through the tall, yellow grass of the Great Plains.

And like the first time, it didn’t hurt. Not during, not after. No bruises. No stinging skin. Just a soft, manageable shame… one that faded a little more every time.

And oh, there were more times.

The same tree line as that second night. A dense thicket halfway to Manzanita Post. An old abandoned cabin where the Lower Montana River met Flat Iron Lake. Behind a fallen oak by the lake shore during a storm, both of you soaked to the bone…

Always from behind. Always quiet. No kissing. No endearments. No eye contact. No conversation beyond his soft, hesitant warning: “Only if you want to. You don’t have to, miss.”

But somehow, you always… wanted to.

It was easy. Rehearsed. Predictable.

Your little unspoken agreement.

And it worked. You liked it that way. Almost.

It was clinical, physical, almost anonymous…

He simply accepted what you offered and never asked for more.

And then… what newspapers would later go on to call the Blackwater Massacre happened.

Chaos. Screaming. Blood. Lots of it.

Dutch yelling. Hosea pulling people by the arm. Arthur firing rounds you couldn’t even hear over the ringing in your ears.

One moment you’d been standing near your tent, the next you were being shoved onto a wagon and ordered to flee north. No time to pack. No time to think. The little you owned—your spare shirt, the thread kit, the book Mary Beth had lent you—left behind without a second thought.

Others lost more, however. So much more. Some even their lives.

Jenny gone.

Davey Callander coughing up the last of his life in Abigail’s arms.

His brother and Sean missing, presumed dead.

Mary-Beth crying so hard for everyone her whole small frame shook.

You hadn’t been with them long. So no tears fell from your eyes. But seeing all that grief—real grief, sharp and blinding—made you think about your own mortality for the first time in years. About how fragile you truly were. How easily you could be the next name whispered around a campfire, the next grave in the mud. And how even with all these men’s “protection,” the world was cruel, unforgiving, and absolutely did not care if you lived or died.

Out there, without them? You’d last maybe an hour.

John had gone ahead during the escape, scouting the path to follow… and then got himself lost in the snowstorm. Abigail begged for someone to go look for him, begged like a woman who’d lost her last hope. And then, Tilly whispered to you that John was Jack’s father, that he was practically… her husband. And you would have never guessed. They barely talked to each other, in fact you had never seen them together. The dynamic seemed messy and exhausting. Nothing you wanted any part in.

Arthur and Javier found him eventually. Hauled him back on horseback, limp and half-frozen, pale as the snow around him. John didn’t look like John. He looked like death. Freshly carved.

Miss Grimshaw—the only one among the women whose hands didn’t shake—treated his wounds with Reverend Swanson’s assistance, both in prayer and in practice. Abigail stayed by his side every hour she could. They still argued, somehow. Even with him half-conscious. Even in front of everyone: you, the rest of the women, Strauss, Swanson, poor widowed Mrs. Adler, and young Jack, playing with sticks in a corner.

Sometimes you’d help change his bandages. Carefully. Quietly. You didn’t say much. You didn’t need to. Up close, you felt bad for the man, genuinely. His skin was cold, his breathing uneven. The man who’d once bent you over a pine trunk now couldn’t even lift his head.

And that was that.

With him incapacitated, your late-night duties were naturally suspended.

A relief, honestly, because the cold up there in the Grizzlies was unbearable. You couldn’t imagine letting someone fuck you in a snowbank, your feet numb and your thighs shaking, snowflakes melting on your back.

But you didn’t have to imagine for long.

You didn’t know how he’d found out.

Micah Bell was opportunistic, observant, and predatory. And sometimes that was all a man like him needed.

Maybe he’d noticed John talking to you before conveniently disappearing out of sight together. Maybe he’d seen you return to camp some time after, flushed and a little breathless.

Maybe he’d just guessed.

And guessed right.

It didn’t matter how.

What mattered was that he knew enough.

He approached you the first time as you were discarding rabbit bones behind the old stable in Colter, the horses’ crude shelter from the snow. Your fingers were stiff from the cold, your nose numb, your breath white in the air.

You hadn’t even heard him approach.

“I’ve noticed you’ve been slackin’ off, little miss” he said, voice low, casual, like he was commenting on the weather. “Heard y’ain’t contributin’ enough,” he pulled out a box from his pocket, lighting a cigarette. “Dead weight, if you ask me. And I think Dutch oughta know. Can’t be draggin’ extra mouths around in times like these.”

Your stomach knotted. Not because of him, though that too, but because the words sounded familiar. Too familiar. You could almost hear him say them in your own voice.

“But now, don’t you worry, little miss” he added, taking a slow step closer. “I know a way even scroungers can be useful. Real useful. And it ain’t anythin’ you don’t already know how to do.”

You froze.

He leaned in, breath sour and scalding against your ear.

“Just help me,” he murmured. “Same way you been helpin’ Scarface.”

So he did know.

Your mind raced. You tried to decline—stuttered something about chores, about food prep, about helping Mr. Pearson. For a heartbeat, you even considered lying. Telling him you and John had something claimed, something that would get him angry if you were with another man.

But—

But what if Micah was right?

What if Dutch decided you were dead weight after all?

What if they left you here—

in the freezing, merciless jaws of Ambarino?

You didn’t want to die here.

And you couldn’t afford to choose.

You needed to be “useful” when “useful” was required.

You needed to surrender any little dignity a lifelong ‘scrounger’ like you had left, because at this point survival was the only commodity you could afford.

Your silence was enough for him. He didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t ask for one.

He grabbed your arm tight and dragged you into the old barn. Not for shelter from the cold but to avoid witnesses. He decided only the horses would see. Their breath clouded the air around them, hooves shifting anxiously on the frozen ground.

And then it happened for the first time.

Unlike John’s, Micah’s hands were everywhere, grabbing, groping, clawing like he wanted to leave marks that would last. He tugged your shirt apart so roughly the buttons flew. You had to sew them back later in secret, biting your lip the whole time.

Unlike John, Micah bared you. Stripped you open to the cold, to his gaze, to the stinging air biting your skin.

Unlike John, he wanted to hear you. Made you moan. Demanded it.

“Say my name,” he hissed, fingers digging bruises into your hips. “C’mon now. Say it.”

Unlike with John… it hurt. During. And after.

Especially after.

Between your legs. In the tender, torn places of your body. And deeper still, somewhere inside your chest, where the old fear lived.

When he was done, he left you there—half dressed, freezing, shaking more from shame than cold—before stepping into the storm like nothing had happened.

You pulled your clothes together.

You fixed your hair.

You breathed until breathing didn’t hurt.

And you swore you’d never let it happen again.

But deep down you knew that was a promise that neither you nor Micah Bell were ever going to let you keep.

-

The thin, ugly potato peels still clung to the plate where the previous night’s dinner had been served, showing no signs of surrender, sticking to the metal like a bad memory. You eventually decided to abandon them in the sink, a little water, a little soap. Some things just needed time. There was little in this world that time couldn’t soften, at least a bit.

You grabbed a burlap sack and your little shovel, and stepped out the back door into the slanting gold of early morning.

The sun hat fell low over your eyes, the breeze was cool, and the mountain air tasted clean enough to make a person believe the world had only ever been kind.

The morning was yours. Quiet. Unguarded.

You figured you could finish weeding before the heat settled in. Maybe even get some work done in the front patch too. The back garden was for food: tomatoes hanging heavy on the vine, fat little squashes trying to creep into one another’s space, and the damned potatoes that grew exactly where they wanted, not where you told them to. The front was for your little flower bed. And your ginseng. And your wild mint. And the yarrow.

You kept those herbs close always. Old habits. Old training.

Miss Grimshaw had taught you the basics once, in a land far away from this one. Hosea used to say he’d made so many tonics he could do it with his eyes closed.

You used to laugh at that.

Now you understood exactly what he meant.

You knelt in the dirt and started pulling weeds. Some came easy, thin little things that surrendered with a sigh. Others fought, clinging deep into the soil, roots thick and tangled, refusing to be dislodged unless you used both hands.

Some people were like that too. Stubborn. Unwanted. Hard to uproot once they’d sunk themselves into vulnerable places.

You wiped your forehead with the back of your wrist and reached for another weed when something shifted in your chest—nothing visible, just that small, familiar tug toward memory.

You had been picking herbs that morning too…

-

For the following weeks after the incident in Colter, the saloon owner’s words clawed their way back to the front of your mind.

You felt like a whore. Through and through.

The gang had somehow made it out of the Grizzlies alive and now you found yourselves in the Heartlands, camped near a cow town called Valentine. Horseshoe Overlook, a pretty enough perch overlooking the Dakota. Rough country. Wind sweeping through the grass, air crisp but merciful.

Rough, yes. But also beautiful.

John.

He was back on his feet. Weak at first, stubborn about it, but slowly regaining his former strength. You were happy for him. Almost. If you were capable of feeling anything between the misery and hopelessness Micah had carved into you, you would be happy for him.

John hadn’t touched you since Blackwater, before the ferry incident. He spent most days sitting beneath the huge shadow of an oak on the outskirts of camp, facing the cliff. Most of the time he’d be studying a map, sometimes he’d be bickering with Abigail; and other times, brooding with that hollow look in his eyes. And more than once, you wondered if he sat there debating whether to jump.

But, even with the John chapter closed, you didn’t have to worry. You could still make yourself “useful.”

Micah had made sure of that.

He was diligently trying to fill John’s boots—God, he was—and you hated yourself for letting him. At this point, you’d been with him almost as much as with John, and the thought alone made your stomach turn. It wasn’t just disgust. It was rot. A sickness deep in your chest, sour and shameful, like something festering where no one could see.

Each time he dragged you out of sight or behind a tree line, each time he pushed his weight on you, each time you heard his laugh too close to your ear… you felt the ground tilt under you. Felt yourself shrinking into someone small, filthy, unlovable.

Someone who existed only to be used.

And as if that wasn’t enough, the camp’s returning party boy made things worse.

Sean had come back—good for him, truly—but the drinking increased tenfold. One night, Javier had pulled you onto his lap, so drunk you were surprised he could stay upright. Asked for a kiss on the cheek, slurring and smiling. You hesitated but leaned down anyway, figuring it would get you out of there quicker. But just as your lips touched his cheek, he turned and pecked your mouth. A stupid, sloppy little thing.

Bill and Sean had laughed it off nearby, teasing him, hollering.

You’d slipped away fast.

No resentment. Javier was a good man when sober.

You just made a note: stay away from him when he wasn’t.

And Sean… well, there had been an incident with him too. You’d seen Karen slap him earlier and storm off, so you assumed they had some sort of thing. So when he tried to kiss you beside the campfire later—right in front of Uncle and Mr. Pearson—drunk on whatever poison was in the bottle he was holding, it took you by surprise. You turned your head just in time; and luckily, he only caught the corner of your mouth.

No one laughed this time.

But no one scolded him either.

You left quickly, praying Karen wouldn’t hear of it.

Of all this mess, only one thing had resembled good news: Micah getting locked up.

Young Lenny delivered it, breathless atop his reliable Maggie. “There are talks of hanging him,” he’d said. Arthur—and you, though more discreetly—were the only ones who celebrated. Probably only Dutch cared enough to send someone to fetch him. And he ordered his best man to do the job.

Luckily, Arthur took his time.

Heavens, you fucking loved Arthur. Thanks to him, you were free of Micah’s demands for a while, the Strawberry jail had bought you precious days of peace. But Arthur couldn’t delay the mission forever. Luckily, even after Micah was freed, he lingered around Strawberry. Wandering around, he claimed, looking for a “peace offering.” He didn’t want to return empty-handed to Dutch.

It was good while it lasted.

But one cursed morning, he returned. Like a bad winter does every year.

You’d been sent to pick yarrow and burdock root. Sweet Kieran had mentioned they grew near water, so you walked down to the Dakota River until you reached what was left of a burnt-out town. LIMPA­NY, the charred sign read. Even in daylight, it felt wrong to be there, haunted.

You’d strayed too far from Horseshoe.

Too far from the watchful eyes of Lenny or Bill or Karen keeping guard.

And maybe you should’ve listened to wiser people.

Because he found you.

Your sack was only half-full. You were bent over the cold ground, fingers numb, breath puffing white in the early morning air.

And behind you…

A shadow you pretended not to see.

A voice you prayed wouldn’t speak.

A man you wished you could rip from your life as easily as you tugged yarrow from the soil.

He wanted you to celebrate his return, his “rebirth,” he called it. Said he’d been sure he was gonna hang. And you… God, you wished he had. You wished you could turn back time and beg Arthur to let him die.

He took you in daylight.

Even rougher. Crueler. More degrading than ever before.

The sun hadn’t even climbed past eight. Not even enough time for camp to fully wake.

As you bounced helplessly beneath him, legs splayed and digging into the cold earth, you felt it again. That familiar collapse inside your chest. That awful certainty blooming like poison.

Worthless.

Just like your relatives always said you were. And from your current position under the most despicable man you’d ever met, it was hard not to believe them.

When he finally left—luckily he never lasted long, although every second in his arms stretched into a lifetime—you stayed still for a moment. Just breathing. Just existing under the open morning sky. Then you picked yourself up with stiff movements, grabbed your half-full sack of herbs, dusted your skirt, and stumbled toward the riverbank.

The cold water bit at your hands. You didn’t care. You splashed yourself clean as best you could, refusing to look at your reflection because you already knew what you’d see: a woman who kept finding herself in the same filthy place, and the worst part was that she wasn’t even trying to climb out.

Next time he tried to drag you somewhere, you told yourself, you’d resist. You’d object. Maybe even fight back. Maybe if you worked harder at your other chores—really poured yourself into them—maybe then you wouldn’t have to… pull your weight that disgusting way. What a silly thought it’d been, the one that had started everything that night in Blackwater. Absurd. In retrospect, one of the stupidest ideas that ever came to anyone. None of the other women were doing what you were doing, and they got to stay. They were safe. Fed. Kept. You told yourself that over and over, as if repeating it would make your legs strong enough for the climb back toward the Overlook.

By the time you reached camp, Miss Grimshaw was standing there waiting, hands on her hips. And you knew exactly what that meant. She always scolded everything that had ears—claimed you all as “my girls,” bossed you all around like a nest of hens—but on that day her glare was special, it could’ve cut a tree in half.

And you remembered why.

You were supposed to help Mr. Pearson with breakfast. But thanks to Micah, you hadn’t shown on time, so she’d had to do it herself while half the camp sat “hungry and irritated,” in her own words.

If it was true…Poor Jack. Poor Lenny and Bill after a long night on guard. You felt guilty for that. Ashamed.

Tilly tried to reassure you later, saying Grimshaw blew everything out of proportion, that it had happened to her before, but your nerves were shot. You’d already broken once that morning, you didn’t have it in you to bend again.

As punishment, Grimshaw gave you double the work for the day, and you did it all with the knot in your throat burning like fire. You didn’t cry when she scolded you again for good measure. You didn’t cry while you sewed socks, scrubbed blood out of shirts, and disposed of rotten carcasses. You didn’t even cry when you caught sight of Micah across camp later that afternoon, drinking a beer like he hadn’t ruined your morning.

But by the time the sun dipped behind the ridge and the stars took their places overhead, you felt like a single touch, the wrong touch, could shatter you into a million pieces. Your eyes prickled, ready to betray you the moment you blinked.

Micah was right, wasn’t he? Soon, they would decide you were dead weight, of course they would. Miss Grimshaw herself had said you were slacking off: “taking your sweet time under some tree like a lazy child instead of chopping vegetables for breakfast.” And you deserved it, for letting that bastard keep you like that this morning.

But that’s what faces from your past always said. That you’d amount to nothing. That you were good for nothing. That ‘whorin’ was the only way for you.

By the time Arthur, John, Charles, and Sean, who had been gone since the previous evening, rode back into camp, dinner had already been served. The firelight flickered across their faces, and everyone seemed in high spirits. Sean especially, hooting about a train heist gone spectacularly right. Good for them, truly, but in all honesty… you didn’t have it in you to care. Not after the worst day you’d had in a while.

You heard the laughter from across camp as you scrubbed the dinner dishes under the dim lantern light, and the sound made your chest ache.

A camp full of joy, and you the only sad soul in it.

When you were finally done, you slipped away toward the girls’ tent. You didn’t want to drink, didn’t want to pretend, didn’t want to be seen, and you certainly didn’t want to be around when Javier and Sean began to drink. The music from the campfire—warm, wild, happy—only made the tears press harder behind your eyes.

You sat down on the blanket you had for bed, work clothes and all. You didn’t have it in you to change. You dusted the thin fabric a little, just to keep your hands busy.

And then you heard footsteps approaching behind you.

Please, you thought, let it be anyone but Mary-Beth. You liked her, but you didn’t have a single word left in you.

“Hey.” A voice said softly.

Not Mary-Beth.

“Are you… doin’ something’?”

Your fingers stopped.

You hadn’t heard that voice in a while…

Long enough for the question to surprise you. Yet not long enough for you to forget what he meant by it.

John.

Indeed. It had been a while —two camps ago, to be exact— since he’d come to you.

You wiped a stray tear off your cheek before turning, hoping he hadn’t seen it glint in the lamplight.

He was smiling, a little. Never wide. You had never seen him smile wide. But the hint of one tugged at his mouth, relaxed and easy. You hadn’t seen his lips do that since the night you dug that shard of glass out of his forehead.

Tonight he looked… pleased. With himself. With the world. With the successful heist that Sean wanted everyone to credit him for, even though you’d watched John spend days sitting under that tree outside camp, map in his hands and charcoal tucked behind his ear, planning and recalculating and brooding.

You wanted to say no.

You were tired.

You were hurting.

You were barely holding yourself together.

But hey, you had helped Micah celebrate his return, hadn’t you?

How could you not help John celebrate his success?

You must have stared too long without answering, because he hesitated.

“If you don’t want to, I und—”

“No.” You cut him off quickly.

Because the thing is… you needed him tonight.

Not romantically.

Not lovingly.

You just needed something—someone—who didn’t make you feel like utter garbage.

You stood up, locking your gaze with his, letting your eyes beg for what you didn’t trust your voice to hold.

Yes, you needed him tonight. In a way Abigail wouldn’t have appreciated. Sorry to her, truly, but you needed her husband tonight. You needed the warmth of his body pressed to yours, the gentleness of his cock sliding in and out of you, the sweet sounds of his hips colliding against the soft flesh of your ass. You needed to drown in his scent, in the quiet kindness he didn’t even know he had. Needed him to scrub Micah off your skin, off your mind. Needed him to erase Grimshaw’s words, today’s misery and tomorrow’s dread.

And God, you hoped it wasn’t too much to ask.

“I want to,” you said, voice small but steady. “Follow me. I know a place.”

Limpany looked even more doomed under the moonlight, hollowed, skeletal, its shadows long and crooked. Yet somehow it didn’t feel as threatening or horrible as it had that morning, with Micah as company. Now it was just a dead town, nothing more. A place nobody cared about. A place nobody remembered. A place nobody would look.

You didn’t know what had happened here; the past was just char and ghosts. The fire must have been years ago. It might’ve once been a pleasant little town by the Dakota, with children playing by the river instead of the silence now settled there.

Not much was left. Under the pale light you could make out the carcass of a two-story saloon, a general store, the jail cells. And next to them, the sheriff’s office: roof half-gone, walls still standing. But most importantly, a desk intact enough for him to bend you over. So that’s where you led him.

His footsteps followed you in silence.

“Found this place while pickin’ plants this morning,” you said. First words uttered since you two left camp.

His eyes scanned the gaps where roof beams used to be.

“You shouldn’t stray too far from camp, miss,” he murmured, “This here’s O’Driscoll country.” He picked up a half-broken bottle, turning it in his hand. “A young lady all by herself can attract the worst sort of company.”

You watched him examine the glass. Despite your sour mood, the warning warmed you. It was… nice. Someone caring, even a little. Even occasionally. Maybe if you’d listened earlier, maybe that bastard wouldn’t have—

You took the bottle from his hand and set it back on the desk. He looked at you closely. You hadn’t brought him here to think about your misery. You had brought him here so he could help you forget.

You turned in the tight space he’d left between his body and the desk, his breath matching the river’s slow rhythm outside. Your fingers pulled your hair to the side and your skirt up, muscle memory guiding them, even though it had been weeks since he last touched you.

“Here, please,” you requested softly, directing his hands to your hips so he could hold your skirt. Then, you braced your palms on the dusty desk, bending over the hard surface. You’d done your part. Now all he had to do was what he always did.

His dominant hand undid his belt and suspenders. You heard him stroke himself, spit slicking his palm. Then the familiar, generous tip of his cock slid past your split drawers, pressing into you, slow, careful, gentle. He always took his time, easing into you inch by patient inch until he filled you completely.

As usual, he set a pace, unhurried and steady. He never fucked you fast. Never rough. Just deep, slow, thorough. And this was what you needed.

But when you closed your eyes to sink into the feeling, your mind didn’t empty. It flooded. Memories. Fear. The sting of the bruise on your neck. The crack in your voice earlier. The things you didn’t let yourself think about.

Your eyes burned. You opened them to the window frame, the silhouette of the burnt saloon blurred through tears. He wouldn’t see them. Couldn’t. Not from behind. And you were grateful.

The first tear slipped down your cheek. Then another. Silent. You let them fall. As long as there was no voice, no weeping sounds.

A low grunt behind you reminded you he was still there, hands steady on your hips, a tall, warm body pressed close. And that’s when it hit you: That—that exact moment—was the only time you ever felt safe. When he was inside you, Micah couldn’t reach you. Hell, even if he walked through that burnt doorway right then, he couldn’t touch you. Because John was already taking you. Because in those moments, you belonged to him. Him alone.

To John.

“John,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, your breath shaking. His name like a reminder that it was him behind you. Him and not Micah.

“John,” you said again, your body trembling under the weight of everything you’d carried alone. Your voice cracked, tiny, broken, not even meant for him to notice.

But he did. He always noticed more than people thought.

A comfortable weight settled across your bent back, solid, grounding, comforting. Warm breath touched your neck… and then…the unmistakable softness of lips.

His lips.

Pressed to the burning bruise Micah had left. A soft, gentle peck that made your heart stutter, as if bracing for a storm to break.

“John?” you whispered his name like a question you didn’t expect answered.

Yet he did.

He straightened and pulled you back against him, not roughly, not lustfully, just holding you. Welcoming you. Your spine pressed to his chest, his arms sliding around your waist, his hands meeting beneath your breasts. Holding you, not using you.

And as hot tears streamed freely down your face, you realized that was the closest thing to a hug you’d had in years.

There, in his arms, you were safe. Safe as long as he was inside you. Safe even if that bastard tried something. John would protect you. You knew it without knowing why.

You were always quiet, trained quiet, scared quiet. Always except tonight.

“John—” you moaned, louder this time, loud enough for anyone walking by to hear. Your voice cracked wide open, with raw pain.

And bone-deep pleasure.

You cried harder in his arms, quiet sobs slipping out with his name—his name you gasped again and again as he thrust into you, pushing hot tears and pent-up hurt out of you until they streamed down your cheeks, down your neck, pooling warm beneath your shirt…

But then, he stilled inside you.

Lowering his head.

His lips hovering beside your ear.

Something human.

Gentle.

Alive.

“John?” you breathed again, your hands sliding over his where they held you, just over your ribs, your chest rising and falling in unsteady rhythm.

“It’s alright, miss’.” He answered, voice low, soft, unguarded. Pressing another kiss to the bruise on your neck, reassuring you that he was still there. As if it would help it heal. A gesture tender in a way he probably was not aware of.

“You’re okay, darlin’.” He promised, breath warm against your skin. And for the first time all day, those sweet words, whispered so gently against your ear, made you believe you were.

—