between two lungs it was released

He’s the only patron this early in the morning. It’s maybe an hour and a half after sunrise, most everyone else is already working for the day, but Jack never works. At least not that you know of. Those long legs of his are crossed at the ankle, his boots on the table with the spurs hanging off, as he lounges in his chair. Sipping beer real casually, one arm on the backrest of the chair next to his. He acts like he runs the fine establishment of your employ.

Complete lack of manners and utterly handsome, strong, high cheekbones with tanned skin. Silver curls peaking out from under his hat. He looked like he was carved from stone with soft, sweet eyes that make you feel like he’s truly seeing you.

“You certainly act like one.”

He did act like one. Road into town one day with his hat brim low, red bandana over his mouth. Jack said it was to keep the dust out of his mouth, but you think he likes the mysterious air it gives him. Two long rifles slung over his back,  jostling with every step of his horse as he led it to the saloon. Gait was real slow and casual, like he ain’t ever had a worry in his life. You think it’s more to cover up for that limp he’s got with his right leg. Everyone’s daddy was ready to draw their guns, fingers itching near the trigger, when they saw him. 

One thing about Jack, you might not know how he makes his money, but he’s got a lot of it. Well, more than most people here. Tossed his coins on the counter like it was running out of style.

“What’s it matter to ya’ darlin’?” Jack tilts his head back, looking at you from under the brim of his hat. His eyes flick down to your chest briefly before going back up to your face. 

“Don’t matter to me. Just curious, is all.” You shrug, standing up straight, feeling very exposed. 

Mr. Zachariah Moultman, the Red Western Rose’s owner, had you and the other barmaids wear these corsets that pushed your chests up real high. Yours is a pretty baby-blue shade with this elegant white lace trim that the girls had found in New York when visiting. You got it from Annabelle before she left town, all shaken up. Made your girls sit real pretty, but it also made the male patrons think they were owed something extra because of it. It didn't help that Mr. Moultman also owned the brothel. 

And the gambling hall.

And the general store.

And about every other business and building in town. 

Hell, he even owned half the next town over. 

“Ain’t ya know curiosity killed the cat?” Jack drawls, uncrossing his legs and stretching with a roll of his shoulders. He stands, walking his now-empty glass over to the bar for you. 

You reach for the glass, fingers bumping against his own as you do. He holds on tight to the glass, not letting you fully take it from him. There’s a little game of tug-of-war he plays with you, the side of his mouth curving up into a smirk before you get the upper hand and take the glass from him. 

Triumphant, you smile. “I ain’t no cat.”

He leans against the bar, forearms resting against it. His eyes look hungry, real low and serious as he stares at you with that smirk on his face. It makes your heart flutter in your chest, and your tummy turns in a way you’ve never felt before. 

You swallow it down and lift your chin. Never once have you liked someone telling you who you are and what you can do. 

“Damn shame that is,” he drops his head, chuckling before looking up at you. “Ya see, I’d just love me some pussy.” 

Your face turns hot instantly as you go rigid. 

“And you, sir, are no gentleman!” 

Jack laughs, full-bellied, leaning back away from you. It’s a throaty one that shakes his shoulders. He got the reaction he wanted. “Now ain’t that the truth, darling? If I were a gentleman, I’d’ve taken you to the church by now and had the pastor do the Lord’s work.”

The implication of his interest in you isn’t lost.

“You oughta learn some manners.” you grumble, choosing to ignore it and move on.

He puts some coins on the table, and you turn to pull him another pint. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the bar's back mirror. Jack’s watching you very intently. That unspoken offer hanging in the air. It makes you tense. Haunches raised like a cat caught in a corner, but nothing repulsive. More flustered than anything. 

“Say, how come you’re here anyway?” You look over your shoulder at him as you speak, pulling the lever for the beer. 

“Mr. Moultman put out work.” The scratch of a barstool being pulled out follows his statement as he plops down on it. 

You slide him over his new pint and stand with your hand on your hip. “What kinda work? I mean, you blow in and out of town quicker than a dust devil. Always spend money here, too. I feel like I oughta be owed an answer now.” 

“What did I just tell ya?” He grabs the glass and takes a sip. The corner of his eyes crinkled.

“Yes, yes, I know. Curiosity killed the cat, but there’s a second part of that phrase.” You lean over the bar again. “Satisfaction brought it back.” There’s a little smirk on your face when you finish.

He tilts his glass, balancing it on the edge of the bar. 

“Well, I do lots of things. Mostly with a gun. Hunting, trapping, extortion, bounty hunting, you name it. Any issue you’ve got that can be solved with a clean shot or the threat of it.”

Mr. Moultman was a known shady guy. Can’t own that many things without doing something above the law. The man had swallowed the town whole. Guess that came with being out west. Real gentlemen were all settled back east, like your momma used to say. A man with clean hands ‘round here just meant he had the coin to pay others to do the dirty work.

“So you’ve got to shoot someone then?” 

You aren’t sheltered. If he’s around, it seems like someone might be dying soon. 

“Not necessarily,” he gives it a second thought. “Depends on if he pays up. If he does, I just take the money back to Mr. Moultman.”

It hangs in the air as the humidity does in the Carolinas. “If he doesn’t…” he trails off, tilting his glass by the rim before knocking it back center and flat on the bartop. “Well, I know better than to tell a lady what’ll happen.” 

“And do you do this often?” you ask it real low and quiet, like it’s some secret.

“More often than I’d like,” both his hands are on the bar now. “But the money’s good.”

“That makes sense.” It’s easy to justify it. “Living out here ain't cheap… but neither is back East.” 

He hums in agreement. The conversation lulls, staggering around like a drunkard as the question weighs on your tongue. You fiddle with the fraying edge of the bar towel. Daddy always said a lady like you should never handle a weapon. Momma would have shut it down with just a look. But that’s when you were still livin' in New Jersey. 

Men out here didn’t care about proper civility. You’d seen it. 

“Say, Jack…”

He finishes what's left in his second glass of beer. “Yes’m?” 

You look him dead in the eyes. “Would you teach me how to shoot?”

He narrows his eyes, searching for something in you, but his posture doesn’t change. Still relaxed as ever. “Sure. I’ve got some free time this week.” 

Half of you didn’t have the heart to believe he’d accept in the first place.

You blink, surprised.“I’m off on Sunday if you’re free after church.” 

“No church for me, but I’ll be around.” The corners of his mouth curl up in a small smile.

───※ ·❆· ※───

“Amen.” 

The church hall echoes as the service finishes. Footsteps, bibles closing, skirts rustling. Everyone had to go to the same church, with the different denominations having services at different times. As god would deem it, the Baptist service was at 9:00 in the morning, so after breakfast, you and your daddy would head down to listen to the pastor's sermon. Not to say you’re something of the religious type, but in a town like this, you oughta be. At least for appearances. 

Today’s sermon was all about human relations in the eyes of God and the commandments surrounding them. How a wife must be subservient to her husband, that both must uphold the sanctity of marriage, blah blah blah. Ironic considering you know for a fact the pastor’s been at the whore house more times this week than he has been at home. But as god and the good book said, “Judge not, lest ye be judged.”

So you keep that to yourself. 

You’re itching to get out of the building, boots tapping on the wooden floor, and to where you agreed to meet Jack for a shooting lesson. But of course, everyone wants to hang around and chat till 10:15 when they’ll be kicked out for the Protestants to set up. Daddy’s been chatty too, speaking with the local seamstress, Mrs. Taylor, with a contemplative look on his face. 

He’s bargaining for something, but you aren’t sure what. 

“How’s my favorite barkeep doing today?”

Hot breath hits the back of your neck, goosebumps rising like little pinpricks across your skin. You’d recognize the heavy gravel of that voice anywhere. 

“Good morning, Mr. Moultman.” You turn and face him with a smile. While you’re not a big fan of the man, he is your employer. 

“And how are you this fine and blessed morning, young lady?”

You’d think for how much money he had, he’d be a big fella, pot belly and all. Maybe with a golden pocket watch tucked into a vest that doesn’t fit right. But Zachariah Moultman was a weasel of a man. Tall, thin, gangly, and all angles. Every time you shook his hand, you could feel every single one of his bones poke into you. Like all the fat had been rendered out of him, and he was just skin stretched over sinewy muscle and bone. 

“I’m doing well, thank you, sir.” He’s leering at you now. The same way he does to the working girls. 

Mr. Moultman smiles, too wide with teeth too straight, too white. It’s unnerving. “That’s what I like to hear. Good, well-kept woman such as yourself seems to shine in the house of our good lord.” 

You don’t quite understand what he’s saying, so you laugh politely. He keeps getting close to you, uncomfortably so, eyes trailing a little too far down your body. “Thank you, sir.”

“Sir, sir, sir,” he repeats it in a sing-song voice, tucking a loose curl behind your ear. It’s slow, like he’s been waiting to get his hands on you. “Please, Missy, call me Zachariah.”

The blood in your body turns to ice. Your skin prickles under his touch, like millipedes are crawling over it, heartbeat heavy in your throat. Being this bold in the church, where everyone and their mother could see you, means Daddy already knew this would happen. You catch his eye across the pew, and that bastard smiles at you, goes back to talking to the seamstress, and your stomach sinks.

Something awful is about to happen to you.

“That wouldn’t be proper, sir. You are my employer.” You try to play it off like he’s joking with you, but it's shaky, nerves showing through as you try to take a step back.

“Well,” he’s grabbed your hand now, keeping a steady hold on you. “I’m more than that now.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles as he brings it up for a kiss. You must look absolutely terrified as he lets your hand down. “I take it your father hasn’t told you yet?”

You blink, and the church tilts on its axis. This can’t be happening. He knows that Mr. Moultman is a terrible, terrible man. He once beat a girl, Jessie, from Little Rock, so badly that she's been left with a permanent limp. He knows that he’s a violent drunk. He knows that no one can calm him down when he gets going. Mr. Moultman had bought the jury out after he killed a man for not paying on his debts. 

“Told me what?” It's barely above a whisper, all tangled up in the back of your throat.

“Your father’s given me permission to take your hand in marriage,” you’re going to be sick. “Granted, I did have to overlook a few things, but I’ll not bore you with specifics.”

Oh God. 

Daddy sold you.

He had promised Momma, on her deathbed and again at her grave, that he’d never let anything bad happen to you. Swore it on the good book. But that son of bitch, bless your granny, has thrown you to the wolves. Mr. Moultman’s mouth is moving, but you can’t hear anything. You can barely breathe, the corset now squeezing you too tightly; it feels like your ribs are breaking.

“Good morning, Zachariah,” Daddy comes over and puts a hand on your waist. His voice just about cuts through the fog. “How are you doing this sabbath?”

“I’m doing mighty, Mr. Wells. Thanking Jesus, I’ve got such a beautiful bride to be.”

He kisses the top of your forehead. “That you do, that you do, “ he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I do apologize for her behavior. I hadn’t had the chance to tell her just yet, but looking at her, you can tell she’s overjoyed.”

The two continue to talk. Over you, around you, about you. Like you aren’t even there, having your whole world torn apart. Like you’re a goddamn racehorse they can trade. It takes all your willpower not to scream like a banshee and run out of the church. 

Then it’s over. Daddy’s leading you out the double doors.

You follow silently out of the church and to the horses. He tries talking to you on the ride home, but it's impossible to acknowledge him, the betrayal he’s done. It’s just another day for him.

The front door slams shut behind him as he comes in from putting the horses in. You had grabbed the nearest thing to throw when you came in before him.

“How could you!” You throw the ceramic pitcher past this head. “You promised momma you’d protect me and you’ve sold me off like I’m some damn broodmare to repay your gambling debts!”

“Honey, Zachariah told me he’d take good care of you.”

“Good care of me? Like he did to Jessie? Or Clara? Or Elizabeth?” 

His face hardens for a second before that little ember of guilt is stamped out. 

“You’re overreacting, darlin'. Every man's a little wily before he gets married. You’ll calm him down.”

“Were you wily? Did you beat women before Momma?”

His mouth opens and then closes.“You know I’d never.”

“So you lied again. " You grabbed a basket with a snack you had prepared before heading to church. “I can’t stand the sight of you.”

And you’re out the door, slamming it shut behind you and heading off to meet Jack. 

───※ ·❆· ※───

Even after three weeks of practice with Jack, you’re still a lousy shot.

You’re standing in a little dead-end street that faces out into the great, wide open plains. It’s peaceful on this side of town. Less developed. Like you could just wander off and never be seen again. The thought has been on your mind an awful lot now that everyone knows about your predicament. Just leaving. Walking away from it all. Letting the great beyond swallow you whole.

Some of the younger boys have set up to use it as an impromptu shooting range. There are some hay bales with old glass bottles, mason jars, hell, anything made of glass, lined up on them that you’re doing a terrible job of hitting. 

You’re doing a real bang-up job not hitting them. Squint. Breathe. Fire. Miss. Again.

“You gotta slow your breathing. You’re too anxious.” Jack is off to the side, arms crossed, looking on as you imagine a general would. His skin looks like he’s made of bronze in the sunlight.

“I am slowing my breathing, thank you very much. He’s had the brunt of your frustration the past couple of weeks. You really do try not to snap at him. It’s not his fault that any of this has happened. He didn’t make Daddy marry you off.

“Are ye?” He spits some chewing tobacco on the ground.  “Yer looking as tense and wound up as a spring.” 

He’s up behind you before you can snap again. A solid, broad chest meets your shoulders. He smells like cedar wood, his hands firm on your waist. 

“Y’need to tense here,” he says, sliding his hands up along your sides to your shoulders, the butt of the gun resting against your right, “and relax here,” his knuckles brush your collarbone, light as the breeze, as he takes his hand away. “Otherwise, yer gonna shoot yer shoulder off.”

Stubborn as you might be, you didn’t have the money to see the town doctor, so you listened, even if you wanted to tell him to take his hands off you.

So you steady your breathing. In through the nose and out through the mouth. Relax your shoulders, tense your waist, and line it up. The world narrows to the green bottle in front of you. Your finger presses against the trigger, and the gun goes off, shoulder pushed back from the kick. The shot rings out like thunder. Gunpowder fills the air as the glass bottle explodes, green light filtering through all the shattered pieces. 

“I hit it!” you gasp, stunned. After missing so much, it's shocking that you managed to land the shot.

Jack gives a lopsided grin. Over the sporadic periods of time he’s come to town, he likes to think he’s gotten a good read on you. Reading people ain’t hard for him, so knowing that you’ve been upset isn’t difficult. You get this little pout that makes him focus on your lips. Not one that's super obvious, just a little downturn of your lips. He’s often staring in that direction far more than he should.

“Nice to see you finally smile today,” he’s testing the waters, seeing if he can get you to open up with him. “Was thinking that a snake bit you on the ass and that's why you’re so sour.”

A laugh slips out before you can top it, hand flying to clamp your mouth shut.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be a downer.”

“S’alright.” He shrugs, easy and low, grin still plastered on. “Didn’t think it was personal. Unless it is?”

“No! Not at all.”

You might have responded a little too quickly. Jack catches that flicker in your eyes, the same one horses get when they’re about to bolt.

“You haven’t been smiling as much lately.” He’s careful now. Trying not to spook you. He just wants you to stay close. 

The wind picks up. It whistles through the dry grass, stalks of wheat swaying in the distance. 

You sling the rifle on your back. “Ain’t had much reason too.” Your eyes stay fixed on the horizon.

“Not happy about your upcoming nuptials, then.” 

You give a brittle, dry scoff. “Ugh, not at all.”

“I hear you.” He hesitates, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Jack likes you; he knows that. Thinks you’re as pretty as the sunrise. “He’s not… polite. The way he talks ‘bout you when you ain’t around.” 

Brows furrowed, you turn to face him. “How do you mean?” You only meet his eyes for a second before he looks away.

“It ain’t proper to tell you.”

“Truth be told,” your voice breaks. “I’m frightened of what he might do to me.”

He’s quiet. “All you gotta do is tell me you’d like to leave and I’ll take you where you want to go. No strings.”

“Thank you, Jack. I might just have to take you up on that.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

He left town for a gig shortly after that. Now you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere till he comes back. But you thought about it. Hell, you prayed on it. Going with Jack seemed like the best option for you. Maybe he could take you to California. Or North. 

Somewhere that wasn’t here.

Mr. Moultman invited you round to the gambling parlor to “get to know each other” before your nuptials next week. You’d imagine a man would want to spend time actually getting to know his wife, but all he’d done since you got here was sit you on his knee, arm loose around your waist, and play poker with his usual band of hooligans. 

“Now, Mrs. Moultman, should I call or fold?” 

“Fold.” 

He doesn’t listen and calls. The dealer flips the next card and reveals a second eight. The man across the table lays his cards down, as does Moultman. He’s only got a pair, but the other man has three. 

“Suppose I ‘oughta listen to you.” 

He leans in and sniffs at your neck. “You smell good. Like peaches. You ripe for the plucking?” Teeth graze across your skin. 

“I’m afraid not, sir.” It’s hard not to shy away from him and remain confident. 

“Now don’t be like that,” his hand slithers up your back. “It ain’t sinful for a man and wife to be together.”

“We aren’t married yet.”

Rage flashes across his face, a hurricane in his eyes. “You talk back an awful lot.”

You didn’t think it possible to get stiffer, but his hand on your neck proves you wrong. 

He squeezed the back of it far too tightly for comfort, dirty fingernails scratching the skin.  

“Now you’re gonna behave, girl. We’re gonna give the boys here a nice show of what matrimony means.” His other hand undoes the laces of your stays.

There are moments in life when you oughta think before you act, but sometimes your body just moves faster than your head. It’s a swift crack across his cheek, a small thunderstorm, as your palm connects with him. Mr. Moultman’s head swivels to the side, and the men in the room grow quiet. You’re not a prey animal, but you’ve been hunting enough times to watch them still. Seen how they pause when they know something sinister wants them.

Your stomach sinks hard and faster, falling right out of you and onto the gambling parlor floor.

“It’s alright, darling,” Mr. Moultman sniffs and turns to face you, eyes dark. “We’ve got a lot of time to educate you. Don’t we gentlemen?”

Rabbits have nothing on you with how fast you fly off of him and out the door. Fear squeezes your heart, and you clutch your chest. In part to keep your stays up, and another part because you're so afraid your heart might leap out of your chest. You’ve never been much of a runner; you prefer soft activities and hobbies, but by Mary and Joseph, you wish you had been. 

Shame, embarrassment, some nasty mixture of the two, laced with anger and humiliation, bite at your heels as you tear through the quiet streets. No one's out tonight, it seems. The whole town’s hiding from a girl who got too big for her britches.  Despite how much you run, your blood stays cold.

The band of men chasing after you isn’t quiet at all. Hoots and hollers bounce off the sides of buildings as they leer. Tell you how soft your skin's gonna feel under their hands. That you should have let them watch, since now they’ll get a taste. Said they’d do to you what they did to Annabelle. 

It’s hard to know where to run to for shelter as they chase behind you like wild dogs. Daddy wouldn’t be no help. He wouldn’t stop them. Hell, he’d open the door for them and step outside the house to let them do whatever they wanted. You prayed Momma wasn’t looking down and seeing all of this. 

Your head bangs against the ground as you’re tackled from behind, air rushing out of your lungs. Pebbles dig into your front, shirt shifted with your stays undone. You thrash and writhe, but the men gather round as Mr. Moultman turns you over and pins them above your head. Another man helps hold them down. 

“Wriggly little thing ain’t ya? Gonna have to fix that.” He has the audacity to chuckle. Like you’re some show pony for him, moving when he says move. All the men laugh at it, too. Like it's a funny joke to treat a woman like this.

You gather all the spit you can in your mouth and fire it at him. It lands squarely on his cheek. Mr. Moultman’s face goes flat, laughter dying in his throat. Hell, you don’t even see his hand move, don’t know the smacks coming till your heads wrench to the side. Ear ringing, face burning, all you can do is stare down Main Street. He craned your neck so hard to the right that you could see the church hall at the end of the street. The second one’s just as abrupt, though you give yourself some grace on it. The first ones still got your head ringing mighty bad. 

If you squint just a bit, the stars dance across your vision like the Fourth of July, all bright and sparkly. 

“Always knew you’d be fun to break,” the sleazy scumbags got you straddled to the ground. “Just had to get your daddy on my side.” 

He reaches down to his belt buckle. The metal clinking brings you back into yourself real quick. “You’re gonna be a dutiful wife and take care of me and my rights now, y’hear?” 

“Get off me!” It’s wet and angry. Scratches the back of your throat nonetheless as you yell through clenched teeth. “I’ll kill you, I swear I’ll kill you.”

There ain’t ever been a moment in your life that you’ve felt so hopeless as you do now. All the men around you are laughing. Sneering at you. 

Mr. Moultman chuckles. “You don’t got much say in this here, sweetheart.” 

His fingers dig into your jaw as he wrenches your jaw open and pushes them down your throat. They taste like metal and dirt and make you gag. God help you. If you made it through tonight, they’d see you hung not long after. You’d grab daddy’s rifle and shoot these men like wild animals, they are. 

A gun goes off. 

Maybe Dod did hear you callin’ out to him. 

Mr. Moultman goes limp and slumps to the side, his brains spilling out. Blood splattered across your face, warm and sticky. His corpse slumps over you, exhaling from the force. 

The men around you are slow to move. Too drunk to process what was happening until another one of them crumples to the ground dead. It sends the remaining three men scrambling. Pulling out their pistols and kicking up dust as they try to locate the shooter.

It’s dark. Has been on this side of town since the sun went down. No street lamps have been lit. Only the moon, hung high in the sky so big and white, produces any light.

Nothing about the past month feels real. Maybe you’d died, and this was penance for your sins. The ringing in your ears only gets louder. Your part doesn’t feel real. Maybe your souls are being taken into the rapture, the archangel Michael coming down to bring you to the pearly gates. You sit up slowly, shoving off Moultman’s body as you do so. He’s heavy. Dead weight. Doesn’t laugh or jeer at you. Just flops to the side like a fish. 

Another gunshot rings out, and another one of the lackeys hits the ground. 

“Come out, you fucker!”

“I’m gon’ rip yer face off!”

The three remaining men sound scared when they scream. Too far gone to notice the glint of silver from around the corner. A third shot echoes in the empty street, hitting one square in the chest. The fourth hits Moultman’s right hand in the throat, tearing open his jugular. The last man standing doesn’t even try to fight. He just takes off running. 

Then the streets are quiet. Still. Crickets make music in the night. 

Gunpowder clings to your hair. All you can smell is the smoke of it and the metallic stench of blood. Can’t tell if you were near an ember, if you’d burst into flames, or if it’d be doused out by all of the blood on you. Everything hurts. Your fingers, wrists, arms, neck, and by Jove does your face hurt. 

You don’t even know you’re sobbing. 

“Cmon girl, up.” It’s Jack’s voice, but he sounds so far away. “Up, girl. We don’t have time for this.” 

You know you should move, listen to what he says. But all you can do is continue to sob.

“Right now, don’t get mad at me for this,” Jack bends and tucks his arms under your knees and picks you up. Carries you like a bride. You thrash; the feeling of his hands on you is painful. “I know, I know. You gotta let me do this.” 

“Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me!” You’re screaming at him. 

Jack just grips your face, forcing you to look at him. He looks tired. “Sweetheart, it's me.”

“Jack?” You stutter. It finally clicks that it's him and not someone else as you wrap your arms around his neck.

“I’m here,” His hand cradles the back of your head, the ghost of his lips in your hair. “We gotta get outta town.”

“Okay.”

He whistles low, and his horse comes out from the dark. You always knew he was strong, and if you didn’t believe it before, the way he hoists you up on the mount before hopping on behind you proved it. Leaning against his chest, you let the sway of horseback numb your mind. 

Let your head go blank. Trying to forget everything that's happened in the last few weeks, few months, hell, the past few years. Maybe if you squeezed your eyes real tight, you’d wake up back when Momma was alive, and none of this mattered. When you still lived in Virginia, before Daddy took up gold mining out west. Be under that big oak tree in the back by the crick, hair in pigtails with dirt on your hands. Happier. 

It’s easy to retreat into yourself and let life happen around you. You aren’t sure how much time passes like that. 

The sun rises at some point, but you pay it no mind. Blood on your hands is flaking off now. Like little paint chips floating off in the wind. Still would swear it’s running fresh across you, but it ain’t. It dried hours ago in the summer heat. 

You raise your eyes and see a mountain range you've never seen before in the distance. The peaks still look like squiggles on the horizon, but the shape of them's so distinct you’d’ve known it from others. 

“Where are we going?” Mouths dry as you talk. Tongue darting out to wet your lips. 

It feels unnatural to talk. You ain’t done it since you left town those days ago. 

“Forget already?” Jack chuckles in your ear before he leans back to look at you. It feels like he sees every single secret you’ve tried to hide. “You alright, doll?”

You look back at your hands. They’re perfectly clean. 

“I don’t know,” it’s truthful. You don’t know if you’re okay or not. But you do know one thing. “I go where you go.”

“You sure?”

It’s the third day you’ve been riding with him. Stopping at night to rest while he hunts. He went into a small town two days ago and got you new clothes. Took you to a river and let you wash off. 

There’s no hope of coming back to town even if you wanted to. New York is out of the question for you. Too many loan sharks after your last name. It ain’t practical for a woman to be out on her own. 

You haven’t felt a safety like you feel in his arms in many a moon. 

“I’m sure.”

“Alright.” 

Jack’s lazy smile walls off his face as he clicks his tongue. The horse protests a bit, but he pulls the reins and rights it. You’re headed to a slightly different location than you were before. Just a tad more to the North of North West instead of just Northwest. 

You just hope things will stay the same when you get to town.

───※ ·❆· ※───

It’s been four months since you came to town. The Montana Territory. It’s different than anything you’ve ever known. With thin air, tall trees, and a glacier in the mountains, Jack took you there previously. It's rugged and remote. Removed from any real connections. Though the people in Bozeman say they’re gonna build a railroad  

It’s different. Ain’t a bad thing or a good thing really. It's just different. 

Your days are different, too. You don’t wake and make breakfast for Daddy, you make it for Jack. But Jack doesn’t come stumbling down the stairs hungover to eat it. He’s been up since before the sun has, herding the cattle and dealing with the ongoing. When you got to town, Jack traded in some stuff plus a whole lot of gold and bought a ranch. 

The whole town thinks you’re his wife. 

You ride into town in the late morning to go get some more flour. The bins are running low, and you want to make a pecan pie this week. Jack goes for it more than the berry pies you’ve made in the past. Likes them soft and gooey with cream poured on top. 

One of the first things Jack bought when you got here was a bay colored mare for you to ride. Said it’d be best if you had your own way around. He just showed up with her one day, told you she was yours, and taught you how to ride her properly. You can still feel his hands on your waist, steadying you when you close your eyes. 

Now you take Juniper out and ride to town or around the valley whenever you feel like it.

Dust kicks up around her hooves as she brings you down the main road. The town’s small and quiet, but given the time, people are milling about. You give your pleasantries as you tie Juniper to the post out front with a soft pat to her muzzle and head into the general store.

Betsy notices you instantly from her spot behind the counter. 

“Howdy, Mrs. Abbot. How y’all doing?”

“We’re good, Betsy, thank you. How’s your oldest?”

She’d just given birth. She’s near your age, you think. Maybe a few years younger, but in the general range.

“Good!” Betsy beams as she talks. “That baby of hers has got some real lungs. If we aren’t careful, she’ll have every cow from here to kingdom come in the valley before the days done. What can I get you?”

“Aw, bless her. 10 pounds of flour would be great.”

“Of course,” she bends down and mills about some before putting a sack of flour on the counter. “Now, when are we going to see some mini Abbots running around?”

It catches you off guard for a second. 

“Oh. We aren’t. That’s not in the cards for us.”

Betsy’s smile softens, a glassy look in her eyes.

“Oh, honey,” she reaches out and grabs your hand across the counter. Her skin’s soft like worn leather. “God will see you through. I’ll pray for y'all.”

“Thank you, Betsy.”

“Course.”

───※ ·❆· ※───

Jack's got a cigar between his lips, sitting on the porch, smoking it when you get back on Juniper. The sun's lower, not hanging high in the sky, but there’s still a couple of hours before sunset. You’re in a good mood when you take the saddle off Juniper and send her to pasture. Even though Betsy’s question still lingers in the back of your head, you ain’t fixated on it. 

Walking up to the porch, he gives you a small smile. One of the barn cats that came with the ranch is on his lap. It’s the grey one that keeps bringing dead mice to the kitchen door like she’s proving her worth on the ranch.

“You look comfortable.” 

“She crawled up on me and well,” he scratches the top of the cat's head, who leans up into it. “Didn’t have the heart to kick her off.” 

“It’s cute.”

“You mean she is.”

“Yeah.” You look down at your skirts, smiling. “Betsy’s got the gossip mill going again, but I think I got her to stop.”

“What this time?” 

“Asking about babies. Told it to her wasn't in the cards for us.”

Jack merely hums and looks back down at the cat. 

You feel awkward. Like a snake’s crawling in your skin, slithering to and fro. “I can tell her we’re not married. I don’t want to ruin your prospects.”

“My prospects?”

The cat jumps off his lap and scuttles away. 

“Of actually gettin’ married,” you mumble, watching the cat go.

Jack stands with a stretch and a small groan before he bends at the waist to snub out the cigar. He walks down the creaking porch steps towards you. His right leg is dragging a bit more this afternoon; he must have overdone it in the morning round-up. 

“You tryna get rid of me?” He asks it with that signature crooked smile of his. Bastard loves teasing you.

“No, but I don’t want your life to be dictated by me.”

“Well,” Jack laughs a little bit. “I already got me a wife, just ask Betsy.”

“But it’s not true.”

“Only takes a pastor to make it true.”

Your stomach flips, butterflies swarming inside it.

“Surely you’d want a wife who’d perform marital duties, no? That means we’d need to… y’know…”

“Sweetheart,” his voice is low and controlled. It makes a shiver run down your spine. “I’m a grown man. I’d take care of the ‘martial duties’ just fine.”

Your face feels like a forest fire. 

“Oh.”

“Oh indeed.” He touches your waist as he walks past. “I’m going to bring the steer in before it gets too late. Don’t get lost in that head of yours.”

You do try. Honest to God, right hand on the bible, you do try not to overthink what Jack said. But it’s hard not to when you sit across from him at dinner and can't help but notice his forearms when he pushes his sleeves up. You can’t help but notice how he washes the dishes once you’re done eating, even though you know his leg is bugging him. You can’t help but notice the way he watches you from the corner of his eye, making sure you’re alright. He’s a provider, in every sense of the term.

And you’re not dumb. You’re an educated woman from St. Mary the Venerable’s Day School for Girls. You know he’s interested in you; he made that clear months ago. But you’d never even considered him as an option. He left town too much, Daddy wouldn’t have approved, excuses you’d tell yourself. But now he’s settled. A rancher. A good one too. 

Jack Abbot is a good man. A rare thing these days. Everyone in the town respects him, despite the short time you've been here. They trust him with their livestock, their children. 

And he is very, very handsome.

Thunder cracks again. The storm had started just after Jack brought all the cows in. It gives a right chill to the air that even with the wood stove burning, there are goosebumps up and down your arms. Maybe that's why you slide on your house slippers and pad over to Jack’s room. 

“Jack?” You knock on the door real soft. If he doesn’t answer, you can say it's a lapse of judgment, grab the extra quilt, and call it a night.

His voice is muffled through the door. “What is it, darlin’?”

You wet your lips. “Can I come in?”

“Course.” 

You wrap your hand around the brass handle and push. 

Out of respect, or maybe modesty, you try not to come into Jack’s room too often. Only there to clean or change the bedding. It feels different when he’s in here. Like the whole room was focused on him. 

“You alright?” 

His voice is rough. You must have woken him up. 

“Yes. I’m just cold.” 

“I’ve got a spare blanket in the chest.” 

“No, I was thinking,” lord almighty, you feel juvenile. “I was thinking I could just share a bed with you.” 

Jack doesn’t say anything, and you can’t really see his face with the little moonlight there is. It’s far too quiet for a moment, and you feel like you’ve made a massive mistake. The anxiety pricks your neck, and you move to cover it up, but before you can speak, he throws open the covers. 

“Come on in.” 

You climb into bed with him and lie still on your back after adjusting the covers, careful not to touch him.

“You ain’t getting warm like that. Roll over.” 

Jack nudges you onto your side and siddles up behind you. It’s then you realize he’s not wearing a shirt, and you can feel the direct heat of him through your thin chemise. His arm comes over your waist, pulling you tight against him. 

It feels right. Wrapped up in him like this. 

You both settle into it quickly. A comfortable silence between the two of you. And it's only when things have stilled that you truly feel him behind you. All of him. Every part that makes him a man. 

You shift back experimentally. Seeing if you can feel more of him against you, and boy, can you. Every inch of man behind you. 

Jack shifts back. 

That curious nature of yours comes rearing its head, and you push back against him. He’s firm. That budding restlessness comes back, too, and you wiggle a bit more.

“Darlin’,” his voice is right in your ear, and oh, do you like that. How strained he sounds. “I am tryna keep you an honest woman as best I can, so I am begging you to keep still.”

“You said all it takes is a pastor to make it official,” you whisper, voice all soft and airy. “What’s the matter if we see Father Adam tomorrow morning?”

His arm around your waist tightens. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I do, Jack,” you reach down and grab his hand, bringing it to your chest. “I do. I’m not some little girl, y’know?”

Jack’s fingers dig into your breast, cupping the weight of it. “Lord, do I know.” 

It’s like a flip switch in him, gone with that gentlemanly persona he put on. He moves faster than a rattlesnake, flipping you onto your back and leaning over you. Takes your breath away. His hands are back on your waist, thumb caught on the fabric of your chemise, pulling it up. 

He leans down, face inches from your own. 

“You sure about this?” his eyes meet your own, searching for any hesitation. “Once we do this, there’s no going back. We’ll meet with Father Adams in the morning, and you’ll be Mrs. Abbot in every sense.” 

Your voice catches. “I’m sure.” 

With that, Jack surges forward, his mouth meeting your own. He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s been wandering the desert and you're an oasis. Like he’s trying to mark you, flesh and bone, fill you with parts of himself. He tastes like salt and heat, tongue against your own. 

You arch off the bed, and he takes the opportunity to slide a hand under your chemise and pull it up with a slight tremor. Only the thin cotton of your drawers covers you. Jack leans back on his haunches for a moment to appreciate the view. The soft swell of your breasts, the curve of your waist, how you’re breathing heavily now. 

The sound of the rain on the roof seems louder now, drowning out anything else but the feeling of his hands on you. 

“Mother Mary,” he whispers, a prayer and a curse all tangled up.

Insecurity bites at your heels. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, darlin’,” his hands slide lower, pulling at the edge of your drawers. 

“You’re beautiful, y’know that? Already knew you were beautiful enough to kill for, hell, I’ve done it before. But this…” 

He pulls your drawers off completely with a groan. “This is enough to make a man lose his mind.” 

Jack leans back down to kiss before trailing kisses down your neck. He sucks on your nipple before letting go with a loud pop. He takes his time, going down your body till he meets between your legs. 

“What are you doing?” You’re flustered. No one’s ever told you about this before. 

“Just relax. Let your husband treat you right.” 

When his mouth meets your clit, a sort of primal understanding courses through you. Your head hits the pillow, your fingers dig into the bedding. Jack’s a man of action, always has been. Good with his hands. He takes care to learn your body, focused on making sure you feel good. Taking note of what makes you tighten your thighs around his head, what makes those beautiful little whines of yours louder. 

He sets a deliberate rhythm to his movements. Giving you a steady pulse to ride and ride and ride. Let that heat burn brighter under your skin. The tension in your belly tightens. 

Now, you’re no saint, you’ve taken to the pleasures of the flesh by yourself before, but it feels so different with his mouth on you. The weight of him against you, your legs over his shoulders. His hands are on your body, one on your waist, the other kneading your breast. 

Jack can tell you’re near your breaking point when you let out a low moan of his name. Your hands fly to his hair. He can’t tell if you’re trying to pull him away or pull him closer, but he doesn’t move. Greedy girl. Don’t you know he’s already giving you exactly what you need? You oughta trust your husband and just ride his face like that. 

Your orgasm hits like a flash flood. One strike in the sky and then the rains come pouring. It's a violent shudder that draws you taut, curling in on yourself like a babe, and then pushing you out reborn. Your hips jerk against Jack’s face, but he keeps you put, only slowing his tongue a bit. There’s ringing in your ears and a headrush so intense you feel lightheaded. 

“Jack,” you whimper, tears on your lashes. 

He finally pulls away from you. 

“I just love me some good pussy.” He jokes as you catch your breath.

“So you’ve said.”

Jack smirks and sits up to pull off his pajama bottoms. He’s got no breeches on, so his cock springs out an angry red color. 

“You want to keep going, darlin’?”

He’s always so good to you.

“We'd better consummate the marriage.”

He doesn’t rush into it like you heard most men do, but you shouldn't be surprised. He sticks two fingers in his mouth and pulls them out before bringing them to your pussy. You’re wet and messy, loose from your orgasm. He slides in with no issue. He pumps them in and out a few times, opening you up further before taking them out and lining up his cock. 

The head of it catches on your hole.

“Tell me if it hurts, alright?” 

You nod, afraid that you can’t even speak now. 

Jack's taking it slow. Letting you feel every centimeter of him. Let’s you know the girth of him as he sinks inside you. Let’s your body get accustomed to something that he knows is going to be a very, very regular occurrence with how tight your velvet walls are squeezing him.

“Easy,” his voice is raspy, and you swear you feel it in your bones. “Let me take care of you.” 

Jack stills when he bottoms out, cock buried deep inside you. But you don’t want to wait. Having him so close but so far feels like torture. You want more, you need more. 

“Move,” you beg,  grinding up against him, lost in the feeling. “Please, Jack. I need it.”

Who is he to deny Mrs. Abbot when she pleads so softly? Like he hung the stars in the sky for her. 

Jack finds a rhythm quickly. One that cooperates with his bad leg but still gives you enough to feel sickly sweet pleasure. It’s driving and steady. Take the breath out of your lungs. You feel every inch of friction as he fucks you. He lifts your hips just a smidge, but it shifts everything and makes it more intense. His grip never falters either. He just drives deeper into you. 

Maybe it's untoward for a married woman, but you snake an arm between your two bodies and your fingers find your clit, sliding it back and forth. It’s messy and wet and feels so good.

Your pussy clamps down on his cock. 

“That’s it,” he groans, head tilted back in pure, delicious pleasure. “Play with that sweet little pussy o’ yours. Show me how bad you want it.” 

Jack leans down, mouth crashing against your own again. The rough graze of his stubble against your jaw makes your heart skip a beat. He swallows your moans, your pleasure his own. The overwhelming desire to be inside you clouds his judgment as he loses a bit of himself inside the tight, wet heat of you. 

For the second time that night, you cum. This time with a whine before your body goes limp. Jack lets out a startled cry from how tightly you squeeze him, but he doesn’t stop. Even as your pussy flutters around him. He’s close too. Can feel that wave about to crest. 

“My girl,” Jack starts, the slap of skin echoing in the room. “My lady. My wife. I’m gonna treat you so good, sweetheart. You won’t want for nothing.”

Finally, the wave breaks. Jack's body stiffens as he spills his load inside you. It’s hot, leaks out the small gap between you too. His head meets the crook of your neck, his breath long and shaky. It feels natural for you to reach up, one hand playing with the curls at the base of his neck, the other running up and down his back. 

“Did you mean it?” The question gnaws at you. 

Jack pulls back enough to look you in the eye. “Darlin’, I have meant every word I’ve ever said to you.” 

You smile at him, and Jack’s never been so glad to be alive. “Alright.”

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