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Every jingle of the coins in that purse of yours had another drunk, thirsty, nasty, and ruthless cowboy putting their hand on their hip.

McCree took a long drag from his cigarillo, blew the smoke out slow and easy, and then put it out on the table. “Sweetheart… wish ya had come to me in private, didn’t have ta go and make a spectacle outa askin’ for my services.”

You shook your head, greatly confused, and ignorant. “I’m makin’ no spectacle, mister.”

“Ya most certainly are, and you’re ruinin’ a perfectly good poker game while you’re at it.” McCree tossed down his winning hand onto the table. He wasn’t gonna win much, not one of those men had much to their name. But for the sake of pride, and all the mess they were spitting he was looking forward to showing them who had the better poker face.  

While you were stammering your griefs at him the unwarranted, less than desirable offers started to come your way.

“Don’t gotta pay me to let ya ride my saddle, baby.” Your eyes blew wide and glassy as the old, smug cowboy sucked on his teeth, sat back and patted his lap. “Come hop on, it’s free.”

McCree carefully stood up. Everybody in the room went stiff as a board. A few shot up out of their chairs, guns drawn from their holsters. Alert and hostile, every pair of eyes (just an eye in some cases), trained on him.

The pretty payday you were offering up on a silver platter could have been salvation for more than one gambler, outlaw, or lowlife in that room. More than one of them hadn’t had anything substantial to eat in over a week, hunger could make a man do crazy things. For a few the money was an afterthought. They saw you as something nice, something pristine. Shiny and untouched in a dirty dust filled town… something they wanted to possess.  

“Darlin’ why don’t ya go wait outside for me,” McCree said.

“So you accept my offer?!”

“I do.” One of the men grumbled at the declaration, a man with hollowed out cheeks. McCree side eyed him and the twitchy fingers that hovered over his gun. “Now, git,” he demanded.  

You turned swiftly on your heel, dress flaring out at the ankles, ready to bolt on out of that saloon. One of the men, who in his mind already believed you belonged to him stood in your way, and would not be budging.

McCree had six shots in his gun. There were seven men. He had to discern which one was the most yellow-bellied out of the lot. Which one would back down once the bodies hit the floor?

Hard to say because every gunslinger in the west thinks they’re the quickest draw. But every one of them but one would be wrong. Jesse McCree; he’s the only one who’s right.

Before you could understand the gravity of what was happening McCree drew Peacekeeper and gave six men their own individual, crippling bullet.

Pop! Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop!

In the time it took for McCree to reload a bullet a man of decent skill could have shot him dead. It was a short opportunity of one-point-six seconds. The last man standing had a fully loaded gun. If McCree were in his place, McCree would have already been dead.

The last man standing wasn’t McCree and wasn’t so much as half as good as him. He could have lit up a cigar, threw back a glass, readjusted his hat, and then reloaded his gun with all six shots, and McCree still would have been faster.

He pointed the gun at the man. “Ya feel like livin’ today, partner?”

The man nodded desperately.

“Throw your gun behind the counter then. Go on.”

The man complied without hesitation. Threw the gun with such vigor it broke several bottles of liquor and the dingy monogrammed mirror behind the bottles of liquor.

You hadn’t screamed once. You stood there, wide-eyed, hands pressed to your belly, perplexed.

“That’s some quick shootin’,” you said, out of breath even though you had been standing perfectly still.

“The quickest.” McCree grinned, he winked at you as he motioned for you to head out the saloon doors. “Let’s get goin’.”

Two and a half weeks later

“Alright, sugar… I think you’ve had just about enough.”

‘Just about enough’ was an understatement of grand proportions. The bartender had been keeping you well watered. Used you for his entertainment. Seeing as the drunker you got, the more you rambled, and the man had thought that was the funniest thing.

That was all fine and good to McCree. The bartender kept you out of trouble so he could do work. While you were getting piss drunk at the bar McCree was negotiating transport. Securing your ride out of there. A private train car, owned by the very gentleman he was speaking to, that would take you out of state, and to safety. Your deal with McCree would come to a close, you could move on with whatever life you were after, and he could move on with his.

McCree pulled you up and off of the barstool by your arm, tugged on the brim of his hat and nodded towards the bartender.

“Thank you kindly fer babysittin’ her for me,” McCree said.

You used both your hands and all your surprisingly strong, fool-drunk strength to shove him in the chest. Nearly stumbled backward and flat onto your ass in consequence. You managed miraculously and somewhat comically to stumble back into balance.

“I… am not– a child.” You stomped your foot. Crossed your arms. Narrowed your eyes, and swayed to and frow. Looked a lot to him like a God-damned child.

“My most sincere apologies, princess.”

McCree carefully reached out to you. Eyed what he knew was a spring in your step and the means to make him chase after you. Before you could bolt he snatched up the collar of your dress, yanked you forward, picked you up, and tossed you over his shoulder.  

He carried you up the stairs to your shared rented room. Several ladies and gentlemen whistled and hooted at the sight. He thump, thump, thumped up the stairs. Heavy steps on hardwood. McCree kicked open the door with a grunt. He had every intention of laying your ass down on the bed and leaving. He’d get piss drunk himself, seeing as you sure did look like you were having fun. He’d have you sleep off all the liquor and let you in on the next plan of action in the morning.

As he was slipping you down off of his shoulder you wrapped your legs around his waist. You clung to him, dug your heels into his back. Cupped his face in both of your hands, and kissed him roughly. Moaned, opened your mouth, and flicked your tongue over his lips. You smelled like a straight bottle of liquor, tasted like one too, but that wasn’t something McCree was adverse to.

He’d be a liar to deny that there had been tension building as he escorted you across the state. No use in pretending the times he had to avert his gaze to keep from catching you in an indecent position didn’t happen. That he was disappointed that he never did catch you just shy of covering up. He wouldn’t mind seeing you in an indecent position. Dreamed about it a couple of times.

McCree’s only a man. A lowly one at that. He kissed you back. Returned your tongue with his own. Dragged his fingers down your back, and groped his hands down the length of your waist. Stopped when he had two hands full of your backside. Electricity shot down his spine, fire coursed through his veins, it was hard to stop.

He’d come to have a general understanding, why the man: a rich, powerful sheriff (something you had failed to mention when you pitched him your deal). A lawman you were proposed to had been trying, come hell or high water, to get you back in his clutches. The deal had turned out to be far more than what he had bargained for. Not anything McCree couldn’t handle. For that reason, and that reason alone, he didn’t call it off.  

A few shootouts with the men hired to bring you back home. Adrenaline rushed horseback chases. Several fistfights. One son-of-a-bitch who thought he could touch his gun and you in the same breath…

McCree came to his senses when something crawled into his guts and gnawed on them. Whether it was guilt or something else he wasn’t willing to come to terms with… the feeling had him pulling away, and moving his hands to a more respectable place on your body.

Of course you couldn’t make it easy for him. Since you couldn’t have his lips you planted yours on his neck. Licked and nibbled your way to his ear. “Make… ’n honest woman outa me,” you said.

McCree chuckled. “Uh, uh, sweetheart… ‘fraid I’m not ready for that kind of commitment.” McCree pried you off of his body. Threw you down onto the bed. You groaned, sprawled out. A cheeky grin plastered on your face.

“How decent of you, sir,” you slurred.

McCree huffed. “It ain’t decency. If I settled between your legs, honey, by the time I pulled away you’d be quite attached,” he shook his head, “can’t have that.”

You shrugged your shoulders, tried and failed to lift up your dress. “‘M already attached… so what’s your excuse for not takin’ advantage now, huh?”

He scoffed at the confession. “Do me a favor?” McCree said. “Shut up and go to sleep?”

You threw your hands down on the bed. “Fine.” Turned over grumbling some nonsense that he couldn’t catch. You passed out as soon as your eyes closed.

He tossed a blanket over you, then made his way back downstairs.

“Damn, man, you fire off fast,” the bartender teased.

McCree took a seat. Dismissed the comment with a sigh. “Can this man get a glass a whiskey?”

“Sure thing.” He poured him a generous amount. Slammed the glass down in front of him. “Free, if you’ll answer me a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Outa all that ramblin’ she did she never did fess up whats so damn bad about the feller she’s runnin’ from, would ya happen to know?”

McCree took a long sip from his glass, put it down half empty. “That fella yer speakin’ of? Has had four wives. All of his wives perished from what the official reports say are accidents.” McCree downed the rest of his drink. Let the man draw his own conclusions.

Another bar, another town, another week of dodging his demise. Sheriff Morrison wasn’t the only lawman after him. McCree’s had a bounty on his head from the moment he joined the Deadlock gang as a kid. He’d have one on his head until the day he died. The men who came after McCree this time thought maybe you needed saving from him.

It was a close call for the both of you. By the time the ordeal was over, you and he had gotten into a shouting match over just who was to blame for it. He almost went to the hanging tree, you almost went back to Morrison.

“Yer a big idiot!” you shouted. “Why you gotta challenge every alpha male that comes yer way, huh!”

“If I’m an idiot then yer a dumb fuckin’ broad!” he shouted back. “It’s inhumanly possible the miss that many shots!”

“Well maybe if ya bothered to teach me like I been beggin’ ya, then I’d hit a few!”

“Oh?! So it’s all my fault then?!”

“You got it, mister!”

He left you fuming with the family who was hospitable enough to offer discreet housing just outside of the town the train would be picking you up from. Three more days. He couldn’t wait for the conductor to take your ass away. He can go back to looking out for himself, the one thing he’s been doing his whole damn life. The one thing he’s good at.

He must have look pissed. Like a man not to be messed with. The bartender gave him his drink and swiftly moved on to the next customer. The seats next to him empty. Groups seated at tables out of the vicinity of his fumes.

Good. He didn’t much feel like being cordial. Except…  

“Hear you’re the John escortin’ my fiance…” A man took a seat next to him. Motioned for the bartender to give him the same thing that McCree was having. “That money she’s offerin’ you? That’s my money. My money. There’s plenty more where it came from. You know what else I got? Jesse McCree? I got influence. Influence as far as the eye can see.”

McCree cautiously took a look at the sheriff. Dressed nice. In a suite with silver chains hanging from the pockets and everything. Silver badge pinned over his heart. Silver hair, matching a silver beard peeking out from under his black hat. Out of all the shootouts, all the running, he never did see him. He never came to do the dirty work himself. Guess he realized if you want something done…

“You like cigars, don’t you, Jesse?”

McCree made no motion to confirm or deny. He despised being called Jesse, made him feel like he was a dumb runt again. He looked back over his shoulder to see how many bounty hunters the man had brought with him. A quick scan showed no one. He came alone.

Morrison reached in his breast pocket, fished out two cigars. He lit one and slid the other over to McCree. It rolled past him, came to a stop at the end of the bar, ignored.

Morrison sighed, clicked his tongue. “I’m tired of the theatrics. They make a man such as me look bad.” He puffed on his cigar, drank his liquor. “Not having control over your woman is embarrassing, I hate being embarrassed, Jesse. So I’m gonna make you a deal.”

McCree stayed silent, grinding his teeth together. The presence of both him and the sheriff became too much for the people sober enough to sense danger. Most had gotten up and taken their leave. Left only the bartender and a few drunk patrons too slammed to care.  

The sheriff fished into his jacket, pulled out a leather-wrapped document. He untied it, opened it up, and threw it down on the bar, thud. “That right there is a pardon, it’ll remove the bounty off yer head, give you a clean start. Already got yer name on it too. Don’t it look pretty?”

It sure did. Fancy writing, on fancy paper. Not yet signed. “That sure is somethin’,” McCree said, low toned and skeptical.

“Can’t keep you from goin’ and putting a brand new bounty on yer head once you’ve got it removed, or do anythin’ about the folks who just don’t like ya, but I bet you never thought you’d see one of those in yer lifetime.”

He was right about that.

“I’m willin’ to sign this for you. Pay you double whatever petty cash that girl is promisin’ you. If ya take me and my wagon to her, right now.” He took another drink, another drag. “You have ’til I finish my liquor to decide, once I leave I ain’t given this offer again.”

Sherif Morrison puffed on his cigar, pulled his hat low and let McCree ponder.

That damn document was beckoning to him. Sang siren songs. Implanting pictures, tempting visions of what kind of life he could have without being a notoriously wanted criminal. Just a severely dislike individual. Over time them feelings would fade, bounty hunters would move on to the next payday. He hadn’t chosen the life of a wanderer, a low life, rather was orphaned into it. He could get a nice plot of land with the money. Raise some horses, chickens, get himself a herd of cows. He did love taking care of the Deadlock animals.

He could see the pens, the hard work that would need to go into building them. Could hear the cows mooing, the pigs snorting, the rooster crowing at dawn. A couple or so little brats fighting over something trivial, the way little brats are supposed to. Could hear his wife tell them to settle down or they won’t be getting any supper.

He looked at the pardon. Sheriff Morrison took another sip of his drink.

“How do I know yer not gonna double cross me?” McCree asked.

“Ya don’t.” Morrison sat the glass down, barely any liquor left. “Some way my girl didn’t know you wouldn’t double cross her. Gotta put yer bets on the right cards; I’m the right cards.”

McCree sincerely wished that the man hadn’t given him such an undeniable offer. If the sheriff is putting up this much to get you back then you must mean something to him, right?

He felt stuck to his seat. Tongue a useless rock in his mouth. But then the sheriff reached for his glass. “Alright, alright… follow me.”

Morrison grinned. “Knew you were a smart man, McCree.”

“Sure,” he grumbled.

McCree had instructed the sheriff to follow him, but it was Morrison who led the way out of the saloon. His wagon waited outside, along with five of his men who needed to be commanded to put their guards down, and guns away. Not alone after all. Morrison wanted him to get in the wagon. Like hell. He had his own horse, he’d use her, and they could follow.

The little house on the hillside came into sight in short time. McCree halted his horse, she protested with a whinny. “I wanna see that pardon signed ‘fore I go in ’n get her. A nice family lives in there. Their pa’s quite protective of ‘em, it’d be fer the best if I grab her by myself.”

“I’ll do ya one better,” Morrison grabbed the pardon, signed it, and threw it over to him. McCree caught it out of the air. “There ya go. If you betray me, I’ll just have teh put that bounty right back on yer head. Them papers no use without my good word.”

Interesting after sight. McCree slipped the papers into a pocket on his horse’s saddle. Rode the rest of the way up to the house, and hopped off. As he thumped up the steps you opened the door, leaned on the frame, and crossed your arms.

“Yer loud as hell.” His body blocked your view of the men behind him. Unaware, you smiled and asked, “Still mad at me? I, for one, am over it.”

“Ain’t mad at ya.” McCree swallowed a hard lump in his throat. Looked down, couldn’t bear looking right at you. “Need ya to follow me.”  

“Where we goin’?” You take a step out of the door without even knowing where you’re going first. It sickens him to see the trust you have in him. The destination didn’t matter to you.

You trotted down the steps before coming to a dead stop. Horrified by the sight laid before you. “McCree? McCree, what the hell is this?” Your voice cracked with hurt. You clutched your belly, your mouth fell open in disbelief. “McCree?”

“Alright, doll face, that’s enough. You’ve bothered this man enough,” the sheriff said.  

Morrison closed the distance between you and him quickly. Reached out to grab your arm. You swatted him away with an animal like growl. Backed up, shook your head, and spit demands at him. “Don’t touch me!” You backed up more, almost tripped over your own feet. He reached for you again. “No! Don’t fuckin’ touch me, you monster!”

The third time he reached he made contact. Yanked you hard. You collided with his chest, face grimaced in pain. “That’s no way for a lady to talk,” he said. He dragged you alongside him, feet kicking up dirt, cussing with every single demand that you continued to hurl at him.

At the wagon, your fighting dissolved into begging. “McCree! Please don’t let him take me! Please!”

The sheriff picked you up like you didn’t weigh nothing more than a bag of feathers, and tossed you into the bed. You hit, however, like a bag of rocks. “Want you to hush up now, girl.”  

“Yeah?!” you barked back. “And I want you to go to hell!”

McCree wished you’d listen. Go quietly for your own good, for the sake of the hot, breathtaking guilt weighing him down. Then he wished you would keep on keeping on because he likes hearing your fighting words, and he’d done nothing to deserve any sort of relief from the turmoil churning bile in his belly.  

Morrison hopped up into the bed with you. Looked at the man holding onto the reins and nodded towards something he was holding in his hand along with them. A riding whip. The driver handed it over. He reared it back and brought it back down on you at a merciless velocity. You screamed out in shock and pain. He did it again, and you screamed louder.  

“Stop,” he said too quiet for any of them to hear over your wailing. McCree repeated himself, still too quiet. Walked forward before he was fully aware of what he was doing. Went for Peacekeeper, no thinking. All of the sheriff’s men watched you take a beating, didn’t notice him run up to the back of the wagon. Didn’t notice him point a gun at their leader’s head. “Hit her one more time and yer fuckin’ dead.”

Morrison stopped mid-swing. Threw the whip over the side into the dirt.  

McCree was so fucking stupid. That dream them papers had given him; his wife on the porch; her voice, it belonged to you. It belonged to you whether he liked it or not. What good’s a dream without the one person featured in it? Was about the right time for him to stop being a fool and just admit he was stuck on you. Like most of the lessons he had learned in life he had to learn it the hard way.

“The hell are you doin’?” Morrison asked.

“Changed my mind,” McCree said. “Let her go.”

Jack slowly turned around. Motioned with one hand for the men surrounding the wagon to keep cool heads. He pointed to you. “She worth the piece of mind them papers would’a given you?” he asked with genuine confusion and shock.

“Yeah,” McCree said. Plain and simple. Wouldn’t have been much peace of mind putting his fate and you in that man’s hands.  

Morrison closed his eyes, tilted his head up towards the sky, and breathed in deep through his nose. Opened his eyes in such a way that seemed he had heard words from God himself.

He looked down at you and shook his head. “You ain’t worth that much to me. You’re barely worth any more of my fuckin’ time, my money, my effort. You’re common, sweetheart.”

“Sounds like you should toss her then, asshole.”

“Yer right, Jesse McCree. But its a matter of pride.” The sheriff eyed the gun pointed at his face. Sucked on his teeth. “I’m not arrogant enough to believe we stand a chance against you and six bullets.”  

McCree reasons with him: “Nobody’s gotta know ya stood down.”

He stood back, gave you space to crawl your way out of the wagon bed. Barely enough. You bumped against his shins, and he looked down upon you like a dumb dog who doesn’t know right from left. Looked like he wanted to kick you for the transgression.

Morrison said, “Should’a never bothered with you.”

You opened your mouth to throw something back at him but thought better of it. McCree breathed a sigh of relief when your mouth snapped shut. You jumped down onto the ground, backed away from both him and the wagon.    

“Sir.” One of the men piped up. “Are we really leavin’ her?”

He looked towards the sky once more, nodded his head. “You feel like dyin’ for her?” Morrison asked.

The man turned up his nose. “No.”

“Then we’re leavin’ her… feel like questionin’ my decisions some more?” A threat, not a question.

“No, sir.”  

McCree kept his weapons trained on them until they were all saddled up and on their way. Kept it pointed at their backs as they rode off. Felt too easy. He’d be keeping watch for the remainder of the night. Wouldn’t be sleeping, or drinking until you were on that train. Had to stay sharp, had to make up for the colossal mistake he had made.

His arm was shaking, tired by the time it dropped down to his side. He looked behind him to see you had snuck off. You were sitting in one of the rocking chairs on the porch. The man of the house was tending to your lacerations. One across your face, two across your arms. Several red lines accompanying the wounds. He’d observed the entire scene, shotgun in hand. He did not have a kind look for him as he walked up.

“Don’t appreciate you bringin’ them dangerous men to my doorstep.”

“My apologies.” The man gave him a gruff “mhmm” in return. He looked at you, removed his hat. “I am deeply sorry.”

McCree asked if he could finish patching you up. The man handed that choice over to you, and you granted him the privilege, albeit with a well-deserved glare. He sat there quietly while he took care of your wounds. Every sniffle burned his heart, every wince twisted knives in his gut. Eventually, he coaxed you in his lap, convinced you to let him hold you and rock you in the chair. He begged for your forgiveness until the Sun started to rise in the east, continued to beg until it set again in the west.

“Woman, stop lookin’ at me like that ‘n get on the damn train.”

You complied with long coy strides, but only partially. One foot planted firmly on the first step into the train, one foot planted on the ground outside of it. You gripped the silver bar and dangled there with an angelic smile on your face.

“Come with me,” you whispered.

“Can’t do that darlin’.”

“And why not?” you asked as if you knew for a fact he’s had no good reason.

“Cause I‘m no good, you of all people should be well aware’a that by now.”

You shrugged, face softened. Your cheek was bruised something fierce, purple and yellow. “You realized yer wrong, ‘n ya made it right.”

“I’m gonna have a bounty on my head fer the rest of my life, pretty sure it just when up times two with that last stint of ours.”

“Don’t care.” You hopped off the train’s step. He knew exactly what you were coming for. Should have stopped you in your tracks. He didn’t. You threw your arms around his neck and kissed him. A hell of a lot more feeling, more sober passion behind it than the first time. He leaned into it returned what you gave him twice over.

The conductor poked his head out the window, impatiently waiting for you to get inside the train, the hold up was solely on your shoulders.

McCree pulled away, held you at arm’s length. “Yer supposed teh be runnin’ from trouble, not beggin’ it to follow you.”

“I’ll pay ya extra,” you said with a cock of your head and a cheeky grin. “Could use yer protection, trains get stuck up all the time y’know.”  

McCree stepped forward, acting as if he was going to get on the train with you. You walked up the steps backward looking him in the eyes. He closed the half door as soon as he got the chance. He tapped regretfully on the ledge and took a step back. Tried not to let your disappointed face change the decision he felt was right.

“Somethin’ tells me yer gonna have a safe transit.” He tugged the brim of his hat down, hooked his thumbs into his belt. The train came to life, got to chugging with a loud, long whistle.

Just before your solemn face left his line of sight you said, “I love you, Jesse McCree.”

He stood at the edge of the platform watching your ride leave at full speed, regretting. He’d been full of that lately. He should have said it back. It wasn’t like it wouldn’t have been sincere. He just… felt it might be harder for you to move on if you had heard it from him. Didn’t feel like hurting you more than he already had.

His horse whinnied, stomped restlessly on the ground. “We’ll get to goin’ soon, girl,” he called back to her. Then something caught his eye, something so unbelievable he had to remove his hat and nearly threw the thing out onto the tracks. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ yankin’ my chain.”