Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sound of hooves tore across the prairie — fast, hard, relentless — a thunderstorm of muscle and panic pounding the dirt flat behind us.

Scarlet was running hot. Foam flecked her neck, breath ragged through her teeth, every stride more desperate than the last. I didn’t blame her. The sun was slung low and mean over the horizon, baking sweat into my back, and behind us, three bounty hunters were kicking up enough dust to choke the goddamn sky.

I didn’t know their names. Didn’t care. They had guns, badges, and a half-baked sense of justice, which meant they wanted me dead or shackled. Preferably dead.

A bullet snapped past my ear like a drunk whisper.

“Close, boys,” I muttered, ducking low. “But not close enough.”

I yanked the reins hard, veering Scarlet down a sudden slope. Her hooves slid, skidding through loose shale as we dropped into a patch of trees — dry pine, brittle bark, and not near enough cover. Another shot cracked. Bark exploded near my head, spraying splinters.

Scarlet grunted beneath me, powering forward, dodging trees like she read my mind. I could feel her pulse through the reins, could hear the blood in my own ears.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.

What did I do to deserve three armed bastards chasing me across the plains?

Well, it’s a longer list than I care to count — but the short of it is, I don’t play nice. Not with bounty hunters. Not with lawmen. Not with men who think a price on your head means they own your story.

I’m not the devil some say I am. But I ain’t your redemption song, either.

I’ve been called a lot of things: thief, killer, liar, snake. Hell, I’ve answered to worse. But the truth?

I’m just good at surviving. Better than most.

Another bullet zipped through the trees, too wide to matter. I smirked. Predictable. All bark, no aim.

The train whistle cut through the wind like a war cry.

I snapped my head toward the sound — steel and smoke barreling along the tracks in the near distance, just beyond the tree line. That train was moving fast. My shot at a clean escape was moving faster.

I looked back once — three riders, gaining — then forward again, where the trees broke open to a stretch of earth and rails. My gut clenched. My hands tightened.

“Hold on, girl,” I whispered. “One last push.”

I smacked the reins hard against Scarlet’s flank. She surged forward, hooves pounding like war drums. We hit the open stretch, dust flying, wind ripping the breath from my lungs —

The train roared closer, a monster of steam and metal, screaming down the tracks.

Scarlet didn’t slow. She leapt.

For a second, time shattered. All I heard was the train, the wind, and the sound of my own heart refusing to quit.

We landed hard. Scarlet stumbled, caught herself. The train thundered past behind us, a wall of iron separating me from the bastards chasing my name.

I didn’t stop riding ‘til the trees swallowed us whole.

Only when the gunfire faded and the pounding in my chest eased did I let Scarlet slow. Her sides heaved, soaked in sweat. I reached down and stroked her neck.

“Dumb bastards,” I muttered. “Didn’t even bring the right ammo.”

We weaved deeper into the woods, pace easing, quiet settling in like smoke after a fire. I took a deep breath.

They’d catch up eventually. Someone always does.

See, folks like to think outlaws are running from something — the law, the past, the weight of guilt they can’t carry.

Not me.

I’m not running from anything.

I’m running toward something.

I just haven’t decided what to do with it when I catch it.

Chapter Text

Ever ridden an angsty red mare with a grudge and a flair for dramatics?

Word of advice. Don’t.

Scarlet had been prancing like a ballet dancer with her shoes on fire ever since we left Blackwater. I didn’t blame her. Trouble rolled through that town hard, and the air still carried the stink of it. Even I got that tingling down the spine — the kind you don’t ignore unless you’ve got a death wish or a full bottle.

You’d have to have some serious brass to rob a ferry for $150,000.

Even I ain’t that stupid.

Limpany came into view — or what was left of it. Used to be a pretty little town. Now it’s charcoal. Just bones of buildings and ash where folks once gambled on a better life.

No one really knows what happened. Me? I’ve got my suspicions. Wouldn’t be surprised if Cornwall’s fat hands were somewhere in the mess. Man squeezes blood from rocks when he’s thirsty.

The afternoon sun caught the river just right — water glinting like oil paint on canvas. A damn fine day for a swim, if it was on my terms.

Scarlet tossed her head, and I swear, that mare rolled her eyes.

“Don’t even think about it,” I muttered, shooting her a look. Ever since that little fiesta in Tumbleweed, she’s been giving me attitude like I’m the one who jumped the saloon bar and kicked a deputy in the chest. Which, to be fair, I did. But she started it.

Scarlet settled near the riverbank, snorting softly. Poor girl was probably desperate for a drink.

While she dipped her nose into the water, I stayed in the saddle, eyes tracking the deer upstream. Three of ‘em, maybe four. Muscles coiled tight like springs, ears twitching at ghosts I couldn’t see yet. That still tension that usually comes right before thunder — or bullets.

I reached down and gave Scarlet’s neck a quiet pat.

Ten years, me and her. Against the world and not much else. Still remember the day Wegner’s boys rounded up her herd — needed help breaking a few of them in. She was three, wild as they came, and meaner than a stepped-on rattler. Eyes full of that untamed fire. Took me all summer to get a saddle on her without needing stitches and whiskey.

Worth it.

She turned into a hell of a horse. Smarter than most folks. Loyal in ways people forgot how to be.

The deer snapped their heads up again, scenting the air. That tight-wire stillness returned — muscles tensing before the spring.

Time to move.

I nudged Scarlet forward, and she responded instantly, hooves slapping soft and certain against the trail as we passed the ruins of Limpany and headed north. The scent of rain drifted downwind — wet stone, moss, and the kind of quiet pressure that said the sky was getting ready to weep.

Scarlet hadn’t let go of the bit since the ridge. She was feeling it too.

Something was brewing.

As we turned near the brush fire clearing, Scarlet eased into a trot. Not her usual, easy-going swing I could sit for miles. No — this was that jarring, choppy kind of trot that rattled your teeth loose.

Even posting didn’t make it tolerable. Felt like trying to dance on gravel during an earthquake.

Between the bouncing and that gut-twisting instinct churning in my stomach, my right hand dropped close to my revolver out of habit. Just in case.

Scarlet gave a little lurch, tried to break into a canter, then changed her mind halfway through and did this awkward tranter — part dance, part tantrum. Tossed her head like she was warning me of something I hadn’t seen yet.

That’s when I heard it.

Voices.

Low. Muted. Not close, but close enough to make my skin crawl.

The trail ahead was bare, just us and the occasional rabbit darting into the brush. Scarlet’s ears pinned forward, twitching toward the overlook to our left.

I glanced up.

There they were.

Newcomers. Camped near the ridge.

Smoke, light and tentative, curled into the overcast sky. Worn Canvas tents. Gear that looked like it’d been through hell. They had the scent of trouble.

No one’s used Horseshoe for months. Maybe longer. Most folks steer clear since the last lot cleared out, and that was before Blackwater blew up like a busted whiskey still.

I didn’t like it.

Not my business, though.

Something about that camp made my gut twist, same as those deer did. But Valentine was waiting, and I wasn’t about to get tangled in someone else’s recklessness.

So I did what I do best.

Rode on.

The land flattened some as we approached the edge of town. Noise started to filter through the trees — hammering, shouting, that particular clatter of metal on metal that only happens when someone’s angry and underpaid.

And the smell hit me next.

Valentine always smelled like piss and pretension. Like someone tried to clean a slaughterhouse with perfume. You could smell the desperation layered between the whiskey and the horse shit.

I tugged Scarlet to a slower walk, my shoulders tightening the closer we got.

Plan was simple: supplies, maybe a drink if the barstools weren’t too sticky, and then out. No lingering. No talking.

But somewhere between Limpany and the livery yard, a little crack split through the quiet I’d built around myself.

Just a flicker of it — loneliness.

Fast, sharp, and ignored as soon as it surfaced.

I buried it the same way I buried everything else.

Scarlet snorted beside me — that deep, grumbling sound she made when she was unimpressed.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I know. Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter Text

The train station went quiet the second I walked in.

Boot heels clicking, spurs jingling—nothing fancy, just the sound of someone you probably shouldn’t mess with. Apparently, that alone was enough to make the whole place hold its breath.

I didn’t mind.

“Copper.”

The clerk behind the bars said it like a prayer. Or a curse. Maybe both.

His face turned pale, like someone had swapped out his morning coffee with snake oil. I gave him a slow look, then leaned my elbows on the counter like I had all the time in the world.

“Mornin’,” I said, all syrup and sharp edges. Gotta keep up that sunny reputation.

He swallowed hard. “How can I help you?”

That voice tried real hard to come off pleasant. Ended up landing somewhere between polite and panicked—like a man trying not to wet himself while petting a wildcat.

“Mail,” I said, flicking my gaze to a pair of lingering eyes nearby. They dropped to the floor real quick. I smirked. Fear's a funny thing—it doesn’t age.

The clerk rifled through the slots with fingers just a little too jittery. After a minute, he handed over a single slip—no name, no return, just a lockbox number in Saint Denis. The kind of letter that starts something. Or ends it.

I gave it a once-over, tucked it into my coat, and left without another word.

Scarlet waited outside, already side-eying the townsfolk like she’d been born suspicious. Good girl.

I swung up into the saddle with a grunt and clucked her forward, heading for the main street. Valentine always looked like it was trying too hard not to rot—muddy streets, sagging buildings, and faces that had seen too much and learned too little.

At the bend, I slowed her down in front of the newspaper boy.

“How you been, kid?”

He flinched like my voice was a gunshot, then gave a wary shrug. “Good. You?”

Straight to the point. I liked that.

“Could be better,” I said, fishing out a coin and holding out my hand. “New paper?”

He passed it over without a word, barely meeting my eyes. Clean exchange. No fuss, no chatter. My kind of transaction.

I gave him a curt nod and nudged Scarlet toward the stables.

A quick glance at the front page caught my eye:

PITCHED BATTLE LEAVES MANY DEAD.
OUTLAWS SEND TRAIN ON DRIVERLESS JOURNEY.
OWNED BY LEVITICUS CORNWALL

Well now. I smiled to myself. Poor bastard. Can’t say I’ll shed a tear for a man like Cornwall. He’s the kind that bleeds money, not red.

Flipped another page.

BANK BOAT HEIST LARGEST ROBBERY IN YEARS. DUTCH’S BOYS ACCUSED, BOUNTIES PLACED.
FURNISHES A SENSATION AMONG RESIDENTS.
MONEY BELIEVED STASHED BY OUTLAWS.

Now that was something.

I folded the paper and slid it into my satchel just as we reached the stable. The boy who came out to greet me looked like he’d rather wrestle a bear than take my reins. Smart lad.

I tossed him a few coins. “Don’t scratch the saddle. Don’t harm the horse.”

He nodded fast enough I thought his neck might snap.

Saddlebags over one shoulder, shotgun and rifle slung over the other, I walked toward the hotel. The sky broke open halfway there—soft at first, then steady and mean.

Valentine rain always felt personal.

By the time I stepped into the hotel, I was dripping and unamused. The clerk barely looked up before sliding a key across the counter.

“Here y’go, Copper.”

He didn’t ask for my name. Didn’t need to.

I climbed the stairs, boots squelching with every step, and made my way to the end room. The key clicked in the lock like a sigh of relief.

Inside smelled like old soap and older mildew. Thin linens. Cracked windowpane. Perfect.

I dumped the gear by the wall, peeled off my coat, unbuckled my bandolier, and collapsed into the rickety chair by the window. My arm still ached under the bandage—old wound, newer regrets.

I reached for the gin in my bag, found the newspaper with the same hand.

Window cracked open just enough to light a smoke. The match flared bright, then settled into a hiss. Rain drummed against the glass like it had something to prove.

I stared down at the headlines again, muttering to myself.

“Cornwall first. Dutch’s Boys can wait.”

A private train owned by the railroad, sugar, and oil magnate Leviticus Cornwall was robbed in broad daylight by masked outlaws…

The article read like a damn novel—bloody struggle, stolen bonds, a ghost train barreling through the wilderness. No suspects, of course. Just rumors and carnage.

Poor Cornwall. What a loss.

I snorted.

“Idiot undercut me once to guard a shipment of bonds. Thought he was moving biscuits by the way he paid.”

Flipping the page, I found the real gem:

After a bloody shootout that resulted in the seizure of a large quantity of banknotes being shipped by boat, Pinkerton Agency officials have restricted access to the town of Blackwater while a massive manhunt is underway…

$150,000.

That’s not a robbery. That’s a declaration of war.

Dutch’s Boys, huh? Never met ‘em. Don’t need to. You don’t cross people who steal that much and vanish into the smoke.

But you do watch the ripples.

Authorities believe the men may have stashed the money in Blackwater before fleeing. Reports indicate many are searching high and low…

Buried treasure. Wild stories. Bounties and blood.

I leaned back, cigarette dangling between my lips, gin warming my throat.

“Hell of a mess,” I muttered.

And messes like that?

They don’t stay contained for long.

Chapter Text

The sun blared through the blind I must’ve forgotten to close last night.

God, I hated summer. Between sleeping in your own sweat and the sun biting down on your ass like you owed it money, I couldn’t decide which part made me grumpier.

A low groan slipped out as I sat up. The bandage on my forearm had come loose sometime overnight, and now the damn thing was itching like hell. I stood slowly, bent down to stretch, and my back cracked loud enough to wake the ghosts of everyone I’ve ever shot.

That’s what years of sleeping rough’ll do to a woman. You can spring for hotel beds all across the West, but a patch of grass under the stars can still feel kinder — even if it comes with mosquitoes and the occasional rattlesnake.

I peeled the bandage away from my arm and hissed through my teeth. The wound was scabbed now, angry and red from a barfight in Tumbleweed. I didn’t start it. I might’ve called the so-called cowboy a few choice words that questioned both his riding skills and his manhood, but I didn’t throw the first punch.

I just threw the last one.

With what was left of a bottle of gin, I poured it over the cut. It burned like the fires of Saint Denis in July. I cursed in five different languages, then wiped the skin clean and rewrapped it.

Technically, it didn’t need the wrap anymore. But after that dust infection last year — and the godawful tonic the quack in Saint Denis gave me, which tasted like something that had dripped outta a mule’s backside — I wasn’t taking any chances.

Once I stopped sulking about it, I geared up. My coat had finally dried from yesterday’s shower, but I left it slung over my forearm. The sky outside looked clean enough to gamble on.

My rifle and shotgun crossed over my back, the copper glint of the metal warm and familiar. Same with the twin revolvers at my hips. Iron always knew how to carry a girl’s sins quiet.

I slung my saddlebags and stepped into the hallway, boots hitting the floorboards with that rhythm people recognize before they look up.

Down the corridor stood a blonde woman — new face, polite smile, maybe a flicker of recognition behind the eyes. She was guiding some drunk bastard along, his bottle swinging with each step. They passed me with barely a glance, and disappeared into the room next to mine.

The door clicked shut.

Thud.

Someone got pushed into it — probably him. I didn’t stick around to hear the rest. 

At the front desk, I tossed the key to the clerk. He caught it one-handed, nodded like he didn’t want to be involved in anything I was about to do.

Smart.

The sun outside nearly blinded me. Mud was drying in streaks across the street, the air thick and hot enough to chew. I adjusted my hat and was halfway down the boardwalk when I heard it:

“Well now, ain’t you somethin’ sweet. Bet you’d melt right into a man’s hands.”

My skin prickled. I didn’t stop, just turned my head enough to track the voice.

There he was. Grey-bearded, slumped on a bench like a man who hadn’t worked a day past thirty. His hat was crooked, his boots scuffed, and he was nursing a whiskey bottle like it was the last thing in the world that loved him.

Next to him, stretched out like a bored cat, was a younger man — long legs, hat tipped low, arms crossed. I couldn’t see much of his face, just the faint rise of a cheekbone and the way he made a point of not reacting.

Probably trying to tune out the monkey beside him. I respected that.

Didn’t mean I liked either of ‘em.

I kept moving toward the stables.

I walked in like I owned the place. I didn’t. But I sure as hell got treated like I did.

The stable hands, all wide-eyed and tight-lipped, busied themselves real fast. I didn’t stop until I reached the end stall.

There she was.

“Scarlet,” I said, softer than I’d meant to.

She perked up, ears forward, snorting like she’d been waiting for me all morning. I reached for her face and ran my hand down her neck, shoulder, legs — a full inspection. No bruises, no cuts. Good.

I draped the saddlebags over the stall door and let her finish her breakfast. I wasn’t stupid. Girl’s got a mean bite when you interrupt her oats. Still got the scar from last time to prove it.

While she ate, I grabbed a brush and worked the dust from her coat in long, even strokes. It was the closest thing to peace I ever got — me and her, quiet and breathing. Not two wanted souls ducking bounty posters and swapping favors with sheriffs.

Speaking of—

“Sheriff Malloy,” I muttered, loud enough to startle a pigeon off the rafters.

Me and that man had a history. And not the fun kind. We were like two loaded guns on a poker table, just waiting for the other to blink.

I shook it off. No sense in borrowing trouble. I tossed the brush into the bag, swung the saddle onto her back, tightened the cinch, checked the bridle and collar. She stood still, mostly, flicking her ears at me when I got a strap wrong.

“Alright, sweetheart,” I murmured, adjusting the reins. “Let’s see if anyone’s still stupid enough to try me today.”

We made our way back toward the general store.

The drunk from earlier? Still there. Still catcalling.

This time he aimed it at me.

“Got enough ammo on you, darling? Or you lookin’ to be disarmed?”

He cackled. Loud, stupid, smug.

I hitched Scarlet to the post, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. Didn’t say a word. Just made sure the revolvers on my hips were nice and visible.

You’d think two pistols and three bandoliers would be enough to make a man shut up. But some fellas get off on the idea of danger. Think a woman’s anger is cute until her bullets aren't.

He spoke again — quieter, like he thought whispering made it clever:
“I could holster her. All that fire, someone oughta tame it.”

I turned my head, slow.

The old bastard was elbowing the younger man beside him, who hadn’t moved — hadn’t even flinched.

But he was watching me now. His hat still low, but blue eyes caught mine just long enough to register something unreadable. Curious. Not challenging.

The older man froze when he saw my hand twitch toward my holster.

Good.

I walked toward him with the kind of deliberate pace that made townsfolk tense up and step aside. That old bastard looked like he wanted to melt into the wall. My hand reached out, fast as lightning, and snatched the whiskey bottle from his grip.

I took a long swig. Never broke eye contact.

Then I shoved the bottle back into his chest and leaned in close enough for him to smell the gin on my breath.

“You know,” I said, voice low and sweet, “it’s funny. You keep talkin’ like that, and someday your teeth are gonna wind up in someone’s stew.”

He didn’t reply. Didn’t even blink.

Smart.

I walked into the general store like nothing had happened, muttering curses under my breath. The door creaked shut behind me.

Inside, it was quiet — the kind of quiet where folks pretend they didn’t hear what just happened. A few heads dipped back down as I passed the shelves.

I browsed without hurry.

Canned peaches. Salt pork. Oatcakes. Two bottles of cheap gin. A sack of feed. New pack of matches. I tossed them into a basket without ceremony.

Looked over a stack of work shirts. Found one in black, held it to my frame, figured it’d hide blood better than the blue one.

The shopkeep watched me from behind the counter, eyes careful, hands still. When I dropped the supplies in front of him, he flinched a little and rang me up too fast.

“You’re, uh… welcome back anytime,” he stammered, sliding the change across the counter.

“Yeah?” I said. “Next time I’ll bring a choir.”

I walked out.

Back on the boardwalk, the old man wouldn’t look at me. Bottle still in his lap, untouched. He knew better now.

The younger man lifted his head — just a little. Enough to let the brim of his hat tilt back and give me another glimpse of those eyes.

He didn’t leer. Didn’t smirk.

He just… saw me.

I hated that.

Being seen meant being known. And being known? That got people killed.

I loaded the supplies into Scarlet’s saddlebags, adjusted her saddle, and glanced down the street toward the saloon.

One drink wouldn’t hurt.

Right?

Hell with it.

I needed something to keep me from going back there and finishing what I started.

And if a little whiskey meant I got out of Valentine without spilling blood, well…

That was practically charity work.

Chapter Text

God forbid a man get peace around here.

Uncle’s mouth nearly got him shot this morning — again. This time by a woman with two pistols, three bandoliers, and a glare that could’ve blistered paint. Honestly, if she’d shot him, I might’ve offered to buy her a drink.

The girls were finally settled in the wagon, bruised but breathing. I helped Tilly up, checked on Karen, then gave Mary-Beth a nod. None of them needed coddling — but after the mess they just walked out of, they didn’t need any more damn noise either.

Uncle took the reins with all the confidence of a man who’s never deserved it.

"Don’t do anything stupid," I’d told ‘em.

So naturally, they’d done everything stupid. Mary-Beth snooping in some fella’s house like a cat with a badge. Tilly getting cornered by some bastard she used to run with. Karen in a hotel room with a drunk man twice her size. And me? Playing goddamn cleanup while Dutch whispered about opportunities like that was supposed to mean something.

I watched the wagon rumble off down the road, dust kicking up behind them. My shoulders ached. My jaw was still sore from the scuffle. I was tired. Tired of running, tired of fixing things that never should’ve broken. And tired of pretending I didn’t care when I did.

Still. I cared.

Especially about them.

I turned toward the saloon with that “let’s just get through the damn day” kind of thinking. It didn’t help.

The saloon door creaked open under my hand. Dim light, smell of old beer and sweat and wood soaked in regret. The piano was playing slow in the corner, some tune I didn’t know, and didn’t much want to.

Javier was at the bar, whiskey in hand. Charles stood beside him — arms crossed, eyes on the room like he expected it to bite.

I walked over and leaned a forearm against the bar. Didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. Javier grinned.

“Heard about your morning,” he said. “Girls alright?”

“They’ll live,” I muttered. “Uncle might not if he opens his mouth again.”

Charles didn’t smile. “Valentine’s crawling with snakes lately.”

“Yeah. Feels like the whole West’s turning sour.”

I took a sip of whatever swill the barkeep handed me. Let it burn down slow. Let it settle.

Then I saw her.

Back corner of the saloon, just left of the rear exit. Propped on a barstool with her legs stretched, one boot resting on the next stool like she owned the whole damn place. Hat tipped just enough to cast her eyes in shadow — but not enough to hide the way they were watching.

She wasn’t drinking to forget. She was drinking to observe.

Still. Ready.

Like a match that hadn’t been struck yet.

I didn’t recognise her this morning. Not really. That moment with Uncle had been half-dream, my boots barely tied and brain still full of sleep. But now — now I saw her. And something in me shifted.

She had a face like trouble earned. Scar down one cheek, old but mean. Not fresh — too practiced for that. She’d lived with it, owned it. A woman doesn’t walk through the world with a mark like that unless she knows how to stop people from asking about it.

Javier followed my gaze. Smirked.

“You got a type, compadre? Fire and fury with a drink in her hand?”

I gave him a look. “You think I’m suicidal?”

He laughed. “She don’t look like the type to leave a note.”

Charles frowned, eyes narrowing. “She’s not here for fun.”

“No.” I took another sip. “She’s here for distance.”

“From what?” Javier asked.

“From everything.”

He didn’t argue.

The saloon door crashed open.

“Speak of the goddamn devil,” I muttered.

Bill barreled in like he was hunting applause, already swaying, already half-gone. He walked straight into a man. Didn’t even pause. Just lowered his head and headbutted the poor bastard like it was the natural next step.

The man dropped like a sack of flour.

Chairs scraped. Voices rose.

Then the first punch landed.

And the saloon exploded.

“Goddammit, Bill.”

I shoved my drink aside just as a bottle flew past my shoulder. Charles was already stepping between two men near the fireplace, calm as ever but ready to break bones. Javier laughed like this was sport, like he’d placed bets before breakfast.

Someone grabbed me — I shoved them off with a twist of my arm, ducked under a wild swing from a man who wasn’t even aiming at me. The barkeep had disappeared behind the counter. A table flipped. The piano player bolted. A lamp cracked against the wall, flames licking for half a second before sputtering out.

And through it all — she hadn’t moved.

Still in her corner. Still quiet. Just watching .

Then, something shifted.

She sat up. Slowly. One hand still on her glass, the other hovering — not drawing, not yet. But ready.

Her fingers twitched.

She wasn’t tense. She was poised . Like she’d been here before. Like she’d seen worse than broken glass and blood on the floorboards. And walked out clean.

And maybe she had.

She looked at the fight not like someone afraid of it, but like someone measuring if she needed to join in. Calculating. Calm. Dangerous.

The brawl built toward a crescendo — someone yelled, someone else hit the floor. My fist cracked against the jaw of a man I half-recognized from the general store. He staggered back, but didn’t swing again.

Then—

A whistle .

Sharp. Clean. Not shrill. Just one single, cutting note that sliced the air in two.

It wasn’t panic. It wasn’t warning.

It was a command .

The kind that didn’t beg for attention — it took it. Quiet and controlled and certain. It said enough — not loud, but final.

And everything froze.

Boots stopped moving. Fists hung mid-air. Breathing halted for a second like the whole saloon forgot how. The sound had come and gone, but the echo of it lived in everyone's bones.

Even Bill — red-faced and wild-eyed — turned toward the sound like a dog snapped to heel.

And I—

I stood there with my hand half-raised, breath ragged, and watched something strange unfold.

The townsfolk stepped back.

All of ‘em. Quiet as sheep. Like they knew something I didn’t. Like they’d heard that whistle before .

The man I was fighting — regular fella, local — dropped his arms and backed away. Didn’t speak. Didn’t explain. Just… stopped.

Meanwhile, a few travellers and passersby still stood tense, fists clenched and confused. Me among them.

Because I didn’t get the memo.

I scanned the room, slow.

Who the hell owned a whistle like that?

It wasn’t barkeep, that was for sure — he was still crouched behind the counter. Piano man was long gone. Javier had his head tilted, amused. Charles had already picked out the likeliest source.

I followed his line of sight—

And saw her.

Standing now.

Same corner. Same poise. Just... vertical.

And looking right at me.

Our eyes locked — brief. But real. Sharp blue to deep brown. Not recognition. Not yet. But something that felt like it. Like two cards drawn from the same deck, unsure if they matched or meant war.

She didn’t blink.

Neither did I.

Chapter Text

“Please, Copper… do something. I can’t afford to fix this place up again…”

Those sweet little pleas came from the barkeep, crouched behind the counter like a man praying not to get glass in his hair. A bottle smashed somewhere behind me. Someone shouted. Someone else answered with a punch.

Don’t get me wrong — I love when people beg for my help. Makes me feel all noble and heroic in my own sideways way.

But God . If this man came crawling to me one more time with puppy eyes and a bleeding payroll, I might just start charging by the minute.

Here’s a thought, genius: maybe stop serving drinks to full-grown monkeys who throw chairs when they lose at cards.

Still — my boots were getting splashed, and I wasn’t in the mood to dodge furniture tonight.

So I whistled.

Nice, loud, and sharp. A single clean note — not shrill, not desperate. A command.

And like always… it worked.

Most of the locals froze mid-swing. A few dropped their fists like the fight had been slapped outta them. One even apologized under his breath and backed up like I’d just pulled a knife.

The smart ones — the ones who’d been around Valentine long enough — they knew. When I whistle, the party’s over.

But then there were the travelers. Outsiders. New faces with fists still clenched and chests still puffed like they hadn’t quite caught up. One by one, they got the message. Sat down, looked away, found a chair that didn’t have blood on it.

All except four.

Four still standing. Eyes sharp. Shoulders squared. Not posturing — not exactly. Just… holding.

The Mexican — lean, smirking like he was halfway through a joke.

The Indian one with sharp eyes and a stillness that made my skin itch — reading the exits like he’d memorized the damn floor plan.

The tall man in the middle — relaxed, calm, but too aware. Blue eyes, bruising on his jaw. Boot scuffed just so, like he’d spent all morning scrapping in the street and all afternoon pretending it hadn’t happened. Our eyes met, and something slow and curious twisted in my gut.

And then, there was the last one — the goat-stinking mess of a man with fists like overcooked ham and the temper of a kicked mule. Red in the face. Shoulders twitching like he was two bad words from exploding.

He was the problem. You could smell it on him.

I stepped toward him, slow and steady. Spurs jangling just enough for effect. Arms crossed, head tilted like I was looking at a bad meal nobody told me about.

“You don’t seem to have much sense,” I said, voice low and quiet, the kind that sticks to your skin. “But I don’t know your name. Don’t want to.”

The man’s face turned red, jaw clenched tight. “You got some nerve, woman.”

I shrugged like it was nothing. “Maybe. But if you’ve got problems with someone, next time take it outside. Or I’ll drag you out by your damn ears.”

He flexed his fists like a beast ready to pounce but didn’t say a word. Smart move.

“Don’t think I’m scared of you,” he growled.

I leaned in just a fraction, close enough for my breath to brush his cheek. “Good. ‘Cause you should be.”

His lip curled, ready to retort, but then his eyes flicked past me — to the tall man with the bruised jaw and blue eyes.

He was looking for backup. Waiting for a nod.

I turned slowly toward him.

“You’re the one holding the leash, huh?” I said.

No reaction.

Just calm blue eyes, sharp as a knife’s edge, meeting mine without a flicker.

The Mexican, who’d been watching from the side with a grin, stepped forward, raising his glass.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, voice thick with amusement. “Looks like the lady’s making friends.”

I shot him a sharp look. “Funny, coming from you.”

He laughed and took another long swallow of whiskey.

The blue-eyed man finally spoke, voice low and careful.

“Seems like you don’t waste words.”

“Neither do I waste time,” I said.

He smirked faintly. “A rare quality.”

“Sure beats wasting breath on fools who think they own the place.”

His gaze flicked briefly to Goat Man. “You’ve got a way with words yourself.”

“Only with the ones who need correcting.”

I glanced around at the others — the Mexican with the easy grin, the Indian watching exits — and added, “And you lot’d do well to remember that.”

The Mexican chuckled again. “Careful, chica. You’re making enemies.”

I smiled like I was sharpening a blade. “Good. Just means I’m still standing.”

And with that, I turned my back on all of them.

Walked straight back to my corner and dropped into my seat, one boot on the stool again like none of it happened. The barkeep peeked up from the bar with the expression of a man who’d just been spared a very expensive execution.

I set my glass down a little too loud. Let the silence echo.

The saloon stayed awkward for a beat — boots shifting, throats clearing. Like no one was sure if they could breathe again.

But eventually, it resumed. Slow. Hesitant. The way a town does after the dust settles and the thunder moves on.

I didn’t look back at the men. I didn’t need to.

Men like that — they don’t get shaken easy.

But I saw it. That flicker. That itch behind the ribs. The one that says trouble just sized you up and didn’t blink .

One of ‘em’ll come find me again.

And when they do?

They’d better come correct.

Chapter Text

The saloon started breathing again.
Not loud — not yet—just little gasps of life easing back into the walls. Cards got picked up off the floor. Someone laughed too loudly and got hushed for it. Glass clinked on wood. The piano man stayed smart and kept his hands off the keys.

I stayed where I was at the bar, elbow resting loose beside Charles, with Javier on his far side and Bill sulking two stools down. The barkeep slid a new bottle our way like he was offering a peace treaty.

Across the room, the redheaded storm cloud who stopped the whole damn thing had reclaimed her corner table — one boot up on the stool again, drink in hand like she hadn’t just brought a brawl to heel with one sharp whistle.

Didn’t even draw a gun.

Didn’t raise her voice.

Didn’t have to.

Bill groaned beside me, muttering into his glass like it’d done him a personal offence. “Ain’t right,” he grumbled. “Some woman just… just whistled and commanded the whole damn room like that. I seen military men who couldn’t manage that kinda control.”

“She’s got a hell of a whistle,” I said, reaching for the bottle. “You ever think maybe the problem wasn’t her, but the mess you helped start?”

Bill shot me a sour look. “Oh, come off it. She was the one actin’ like she owns the place.”

“Didn’t act like she owned it,” I said, pouring a slow measure into my glass. “Acted like she knew how to keep it from falling apart.”

Charles gave a thoughtful nod. “She didn’t even flinch. Just whistled, and everyone froze.”
He looked between us. “You ever seen that happen before?”

Javier chuckled into his whiskey. “Hell, no. That whistle near knocked the soul outta me.” He tilted his head toward her, grin sharp as a knife. “Gotta admire a woman with teeth.”

Bill snorted. “Teeth? She nearly tore the damn roof down.”

“Still,” Javier went on, elbowing me lightly, “you’ve been watchin’ her since you sat down. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“I ain’t watchin’,” I said flatly. “Just observin’.”

“Uh-huh.” He smirked like he’d just caught me naked in church. “Well, your eyes are observin’ awful hard.”

I took a sip, ignoring him — mostly. Truth was, I had been watching. Not like some greenhorn gawking at a pretty face. It wasn’t that. It was the way she sat — like every inch of her knew where the exits were. Boot tapping once. Hand never too far from the holster. The calm she wore looked earned. Real earned.

And then she shifted.

Just a little. Head tilting like she was adjusting for light — or sound — or the fact that four grown men were still half-turned her way.

Her eyes cut across the saloon like a knife through burlap — didn’t land on us exactly, but swept past real deliberate-like. Like she knew. Like she always knew.

Javier sat up straighter. “Did she just—?”

“Yeah,” I muttered.

She didn’t smirk. Didn’t nod. Just turned her gaze toward the window like none of us were worth the dust on her boots.

The barkeep wandered closer then, wiping glasses like it was a nervous habit. He caught where we were lookin’ and made a face somewhere between pity and warning.

“Word of advice,” he muttered, voice low and dry. “Don’t stare too long. That woman don’t take kindly to being studied. Not by men. Not by law. Not by God.”

We quieted. Even Javier, who never shuts up, just scratched his cheek and looked away.

Charles arched a brow. “You know her?”

The barkeep snorted. “Nobody knows her. But folks call her Copper.”

Javier repeated it, amused. “Copper, huh?”

I leaned in slightly. “Why’s that?”

The barkeep didn’t miss a beat. “Temperament of a snake and hair like its namesake. That’s what folks say. Copperhead, if you want the full version. Don’t recommend sayin’ that to her face, though.”

I glanced her way again. The tension in her frame hadn’t eased. Not defensive — just ready. That coiled kind of stillness that don’t break until it strikes.

“Snake, huh,” I muttered.

“Mean one,” the barkeep confirmed. “But smart. Never seen anyone clear a saloon that fast without firing a shot. She’s been around a while — comes and goes. Doesn’t cause trouble unless it’s brought to her.”

“Bounty hunter?” Charles asked.

The barkeep gave a little shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. She don’t brag, and I don’t ask. But I seen the way lawmen get real quiet when she’s around.”

Javier gave a low whistle. “Now that is interesting.”

Bill scoffed and muttered something about cursed women and whiskey.

I finished my drink in silence.

Didn’t feel afraid. Didn’t feel impressed, either. Just… alert. That tick behind the ribs, the one that says trouble’s sittin’ real pretty in the corner, and it knows exactly where your pulse lives.

I looked down into my glass, watching the dregs roll slow across the bottom.

“Copper,” I said under my breath. “Storm name, that.”

A storm in boots and burn scars and a whistle that cut sharper than most bullets.

I didn’t know her.
Didn’t need to.

Not yet.

But hell, I wanted to.

Chapter Text

I heard them before I saw them.
Boots—heavy, deliberate—cutting slow across warped saloon porch boards. Two sets. Too measured to be locals. Too quiet to be drunk.

My whiskey paused halfway to my mouth. I set it down without tasting the last sip and slid my coat off the back of the chair in one smooth motion. Already had one arm in a sleeve when the doors creaked open.

Broad frames, stiff postures. Clean weapons carried low and wrong for casual wear. Bounty hunters—smelled like it.

My stomach didn’t jolt, not exactly. Just… shifted. The way it does when instinct outruns thought.
I didn’t know if they were here for me. Didn’t plan to stick around and ask.

I stood slow, calm, like I had all the time in the world. Tilted my head just enough to pull my hat low and angled, brim shadowing the worst of my face.

Saw the right one’s eye twitch as he scanned the room. He already had names in his head. Maybe mine.

I slid a hand across my hat, brushing the third bandolier buckled along the crown.
Loaded. Full.
Damn it. Should’ve left it a few bullets short—look less like I was ready for war.

I moved, weaving easy between tables, just another tired drifter headed out for a piss or a smoke. Didn’t rush. Didn’t hesitate.

Passed them with a murmured, “’Scuse me. Thank you,” soft enough to be polite, firm enough to leave no question I wasn’t to be followed.

Didn’t look back.

Not until I hit the doors.
And even then, I wasn’t looking for them.

I was looking at him.

Blue eyes—still, steady—set just under the brim of a worn hat. Same man from earlier, tucked at the bar with his friends, glass in hand like it held more than whiskey.

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched me.

I don’t usually look twice.
But hell if I didn’t.

Looked once, looked away. Then looked again.
Stupid, Cassidy.

I stepped out into cold air that bit my lungs on the inhale. Valentine always smelled like old horses and cold mud after sundown.

Scarlet stood where I’d left her, reins looped neat on the hitch rail. She twitched her ears once when she saw me, like even she knew it was time to go.

Didn’t think. Just moved.
Cinch. Saddlebags. Rifle. Recheck the stirrups. Count the steps.

My fingers worked by habit, but my mind lagged a beat behind.
Saw him again in my head— that stillness.
He didn’t look like law. Didn’t act like a bounty man. But something about him sat too clean. Too quiet.

Still men shoot straight.

Still men don’t miss.

I cast one last look back toward the window, heart ticking a little fast.

Couldn’t see him anymore. But I still felt those eyes on me.

I swung up into the saddle with a grunt, boots light on Scarlet’s ribs as we moved off slow.

Didn’t bolt. Just rode like I had business a few streets over. Nothing suspicious about a woman stretching her legs after dark.

Passed the sheriff’s office. Train station. Some fella leaning on a post gave me a lazy nod; I didn’t return it.

Once the last building thinned behind us, I gave Scarlet her head.

She surged forward like she’d been waiting to run since I sat down in that saloon.

The rhythm of her hooves hitting packed dirt was the kind of silence I liked best.

And finally— finally —my thoughts caught up.

He looked at me like he already knew.
Not who I am, not by name. But what I am.
An outlaw running with no map.

The way most of us are now.
West ain’t wild anymore. It’s just dying loud.

I leaned low into Scarlet’s neck and whispered, “Don’t go falling for cowboys with pretty eyes now, Cass.”

She huffed like she agreed, and I laughed under my breath.

Didn’t trust lawmen. Didn’t trust deals, either.
But I’d made a few to keep my name off the wrong boards — dragging in a few worse criminals for the sheriff here or there. No pay. Just free labor to keep the noose from tightening.

Funny world.

I loosened my reins and dropped my stirrups, letting Scarlet stretch her stride. She thundered across the prairie like she owned it. Maybe she did.

I held out a hand to the wind, fingers splayed wide like I could catch something that didn’t have a name. Something like freedom. Or peace.

Didn’t matter. It passed through just the same.

Emerald Ranch came into view under a bleeding gold sky, the whole place washed in that late-day light that makes ghosts outta buildings.

Scarlet snorted once and slowed on her own. Smart girl. Knew this place even better than I did.

A ranch hand watched me ride in from the porch, face blank as fence wood. No wave. No greeting.

Didn’t expect one. They knew me here.

I swung down and unsaddled Scarlet slow. Checked her hooves, brushed down her neck with a gloved hand. She nudged me once, soft. I clicked my tongue.

“Not yet. Business first.”

Boots crunched behind me. Gravel.
Steady pace. No rush, no nerves.

I stood before I turned.

Seamus. Grinning like he thought it meant something.

“Well, well,” he said, arms wide like a man greeting kin. “If it ain’t the ghost who don’t knock.”

I peeled off one glove and brushed the dust off my thigh.

“Didn’t think I had to,” I said flatly. “You’re always watching anyway.”

Chapter Text

Seamus chuckled, a gravel-slick sound that didn’t reach his eyes. He rocked back on his heels and scanned the barn like it might’ve changed since last time. It hadn’t. Still smelled like leather and secrets.

“I heard whispers outta Blackwater,” he said, voice low and cautious. “Bad business. Wasn’t just the law gettin’ jumpy, either.”

I didn’t answer at first, just re-looped Scarlet’s reins and double-checked the saddle’s balance on the rack. Busy work. He waited.

“You were headed south,” he pressed. “Figured if anyone knew what really went down, it’d be you.”

I kept my voice low and even, patience thinning fast. “Didn’t stop to ask questions.”

“Ain’t my problem unless someone makes it mine,” I added, clipped.

He snorted. “That so? Seems folks got plenty of reasons to make it theirs.”

I shot him a look sharp enough to cut fence wire. “Get to it, Seamus.”

“Fine.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded scrap of paper, held it between two fingers like it was dipped in oil. “Got word about a delivery coming up. Wagon’s sittin’ over at Carmody Dell — Bob Crawford’s joint. You know, my cousin by marriage.”

I hid a smile, careful. Crawford’s place was a good spot to watch. Especially since I wasn’t planning on waiting for that wagon to leave.

Seamus went on, “Name on the manifest’s Mullins. Passenger’s a fake. Quiet run up near Saint Denis. No questions asked. Not for tomorrow — more like a few weeks out. Thought you oughta know.”

I nodded slowly, letting the pieces settle where they belonged.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Cassidy.”

I folded my arms, voice clipped. “I’ll take it when the time’s right.”

Seamus grinned, like he thought that was enough.

“You’ve got charm,” he said with a crooked smile. “The kind that scares folks good and proper.”

I sighed, letting the weight press back down.

Before I could reply, he added, quieter this time, “Wegner’s colt’s givin’ the boys trouble. Wants it broke sooner than later. Says you’re the only one mean enough to do it right.”

I let out a dry laugh, sharp as tumbleweed scraping a dry creek bed.

“Ain’t that the truth. You want it broke, or just scared into obedience?”

He shrugged, clearly not having a choice.

“You do it, or no one does it. I figured you’d rather keep busy than bored.”

I glanced at the rifle and shotgun holster on the saddle. Work like this kept me fed, busy, and out of trouble. I didn’t get to pick the jobs much, but that was the way of it.

“Fine,” I said finally. “Send the colt my way.”

Seamus tipped his imaginary hat and turned, boots crunching gravel as he left. Always sounded like he was walking away from a mess he didn’t intend to clean up.

I watched the barn door swing shut behind him and leaned back against the rail.

Scarlet snorted softly, steady as ever.

The barn was quiet except for the creak of settling wood and the occasional shuffle of a restless horse. I ran a hand along Scarlet’s neck, feeling the warmth through her thick coat. She was steady — the one constant I trusted in this ever-shifting mess.

Still, the weight on my shoulders pressed down harder here than it did on the trail or in a mud town.

I tossed my coat over the saddle rack before picking up the saddlebags and guns, before climbing the rickety ladder to the loft, careful not to jostle the loose boards beneath my boots.

Up here was mine.

Dust motes floated in lazy shafts of fading light, settling on the old bedroll, the crate turned table, and the half-empty lantern. A few dog-eared books leaned against the wall, their spines cracked like old bones.

I dropped my saddlebags with a thud and pulled down my rifle and shotgun, setting them beside the bedroll. The weight of the weapons was familiar — a cold comfort.

Peeling off my boots, I flexed sore ankles and rubbed my calves, muscles stiff from the ride.

I sat on the edge of the bedroll and pulled my pistol from its holster, laying it carefully on my lap. The slow, methodical act of cleaning it — disassembling, wiping, oiling — was a small prayer, a ritual that steadied the storm in my head.

But no amount of routine could wash away the image of those blue eyes — calm and unreadable — from the saloon in Valentine.

The man with the worn hat had looked at me like he saw through the scar and the gunbelt and the cold armour I wore. Like he recognised something buried deep, or maybe just understood the weight of running with no map and no mercy.

He hadn’t moved like a lawman. He didn’t smell like a bounty hunter. But he watched .

Not with suspicion or hate — more like a quiet reckoning.

I didn’t trust lawmen. Didn’t trust bounty hunters. Didn’t trust most men.

But him?

He felt like a match left unstruck — a fuse waiting for a flame.

I finished cleaning the pistol and set it beside the lantern, then leaned back against the rough wooden wall and let my hat slip low over my eyes.

The barn creaked softly, and the wind shifted outside, sending a faint chill through the cracks.

I thought about the colt Seamus mentioned — the one giving the boys trouble. Maybe tomorrow I’d be breaking wild horses instead of running from ghosts.

Maybe I’d find a bit of quiet.

But I knew better.

There ain’t no such thing as peace.

Just quieter kinds of noise.

Chapter Text

Frost crept in through the cracks before the sun did.

The barn held its breath in that colourless hour before light — all creaks and cold silence and the ghost of sleep not quite gone. I woke stiff under the thin wool blanket, jaw clenched, shoulders curled in like I’d been bracing for a hit.

Might’ve been.

Didn’t remember the dream, just the weight it left behind. The kind that settled in the spine and didn’t let go.

I sat up slow, rubbed at the ache in my neck, then pulled on my boots one at a time. The leather was stiff, chilled from the night air. Belt next. Holster. Everything tightened in order, like armor. I didn’t need to think about it. Just moved through the motions while the cold bit at my skin and the breath misted out of me like smoke from a dying fire.

Didn’t want to break a horse today.

Especially not that colt. The one Seamus said was too much trouble for his boys and just enough for me.

I already knew the type. Didn’t need to see him yet to understand the shape of his fury — all flinch and power and no good way to carry either.

Didn’t want the fight.

But I went anyway.

The corral steamed faintly in the early cold, the breath of beasts caught in the morning hush. Wegner’s boys stood a ways back, arms crossed, muttering low like that might keep them safe.

The colt was already awake. Already angry.

Big for his age. Broad-shouldered and mean-eyed, with a coat that hadn’t quite decided if it wanted to shine or stay dull. His hooves churned up frostbitten dirt like he meant to bury something beneath it.

He saw me and charged the fence without warning. A blur of muscle and teeth.

Dust kicked. One boy flinched hard enough to drop his hat.

I didn’t move.

Just watched him. Calm. Steady.

Predatory stillness.

Always the same with ones like this. Head high. Ears pinned. Not mean. Just born scared, with too much weight behind it.

He bucked and spun and kicked out like he was trying to shake off the world. I leaned against the gate post, arms crossed, and waited.

Let him burn some of it out.

He didn’t.

I stepped in alone. No saddle. No bridle. Just a rope and the taste of iron on my tongue.

The colt came for me fast, dirt exploding beneath him. I barely cleared the panel — fingers catching wood, body twisting midair. Felt the wind of him graze past as I landed.

Didn’t curse. Didn’t yell.

Just climbed down again, boots hitting dirt quiet.

Kept my voice low. Calm. A hum beneath the chaos.

He circled me now, wary. Ears twitching. Foam already slick at the corners of his mouth.

I held the rope loose in one hand, the other open. Waiting. Reading him.

Then it hit.

Not him. Not hooves.

The thud of boots on wood.

The stink of whiskey and blood.

A voice, rough as thunder over broken glass:

“You learn to obey, girl. Or I’ll teach you what happens when you don’t.”

My stomach dropped.

Not from the horse.

From the past.

It rose up sudden and sharp, unwelcome as ever. I blinked hard. Ground myself in the cold. The fence. The pain in my calluses.

I wasn’t there.

Not anymore.

But my hands still shook when I looped the rope.

Got it around his neck the second time. Just one clean cast. Taut enough to remind him I was there.

He reared, of course. Yanked and flailed like he meant to tear the sky open.

But I held. Voice still steady. Still soft.

Inside, though?

I was wildfire.

Not fear. Rage.

Not at him.

At them .

Men like Wegner who wanted the fight just to prove they could win it.

Men who thought breaking something was the same as building trust.

Men like my father.

I thought about bruises that didn’t show. The kind you couldn’t cover with sleeves.

The barn on fire. The silence afterward. The shallow grave dug out back like it didn’t deserve deeper.

No names in my head. Just smoke and blood and shadows with boots.

I gripped the rope tighter.

My hands trembled anyway.

The colt lunged again, but this time, I moved first.

Sidestepped clean. Turned him before he could think. He slipped on the frost, stumbled, righted himself.

We both panted.

Dirt stuck to my coat. My hair stuck to my cheek. I didn’t brush it away.

He faced me square — chest heaving, eyes white-rimmed and wild.

And I saw it.

The fear. The fury. The need to survive with no map but instinct.

I saw me .

In the way he didn’t trust stillness. In the way he braced to be hurt again.

We locked eyes.

He trembled.

But didn’t run.

Didn’t charge.

Didn’t bow.

Just stood.

I looked away first.

Lowered my gaze. Loosened the rope.

Waited.

And, like a miracle born of misery, he took one step toward me.

Just one.

But enough.

The boys behind the fence were silent. One of them muttered, almost reverent, “Meanest mare I’ve seen tame a meaner beast.”

I ignored him. Didn’t look up.

Didn’t want praise.

Didn’t want to feel what I was feeling.

Didn’t break him. Just showed him the weight he’s carryin’ ain’t gotta be used to crush.

If only someone’d done that for me.

I let the rope fall.

Wiped sweat and grit from my brow. Leaned on the rail as the colt stood there — still shaking, still uncertain — but not broken.

My hands were trembling again.

I clenched them hard until they stopped.

Some things don’t buck to survive.

They buck because they remember.

Chapter Text

By midmorning, the colt was calmer than I was.

My arms throbbed from the fight, a deep, grinding ache that settled in my joints and didn’t let go. My back twinged every time I breathed. My skin still carried the bite of rope, dirt, and cold sweat. But none of that mattered now.

Because tucked inside my coat pocket was something worse than pain.

Seamus hadn’t said much. Just lingered by the fence like he was waiting for the wind to change, then handed it over without a word — a single envelope, stiff and official, sealed like a noose.

Cassidy Lane.
Not Copper.

I knew before I opened it that it’d be trouble. Felt it in my chest. Like gunpowder pressed too tight.

I ripped it open, fast and instinctive, like maybe the paper’d scream if I gave it time to think.

Miss Lane,

You will report to my office in Valentine by week’s end for a matter requiring your particular skill set. Consider it compensation for the leniency shown regarding your warrants.

Refusal will result in full reinstatement of your bounty across New Hanover, West Elizabeth, and Ambarino.

Do try to be civil this time.

— Sheriff Curtis Malloy

I read it once. That was all I needed.

Fury set in like a fever.

“Son of a bitch,” I whispered.

Didn’t wait for questions. Didn’t even look at Seamus. Just turned and barked toward the stable, “Saddle my horse. Now.”

The stablehand fumbled with his hat like I’d just shot at his feet.

I climbed to the loft with steps that could’ve cracked floorboards. Threw my few things into my saddlebags like they’d insulted me. Bedroll. Flint. Loose ammo. The half-empty bottle I hadn’t touched since Tall Trees.

Didn’t matter if I was packed or not.

I was going.

The ride started with silence.
Then it turned to thunder.

Scarlet felt it in my hands. I didn’t kick her, didn’t need to — just leaned forward and let the anger ride out through the reins.

We tore across the hills like fire, cutting through sagebrush and wind, hooves chewing up the dirt like it owed us blood.

The world blurred, but my thoughts didn’t. They just got louder.

Malloy had waited. Waited until I was quiet. Until I was tired. Until the colt had drained something from me I couldn’t name — and then he came knocking with that damn letter like he was offering mercy .

He’d always liked the dance. Push, pull. Threaten, then smile like you owed him thanks for not killing you outright.

Leniency, he called it.

Blackmail’s what it was.

Ride into Valentine or be hunted again. My face tacked on every wall, my name spat like poison across three states. A fresh bounty on the back of a stale threat.

I’d spent too long digging out from that last hole. Too long dragging myself out of swamps, over frozen ridges, under fences while dogs snarled and bullets chased shadows.

I wouldn’t survive it again.

And Malloy knew it.

That was the part that boiled me down to the bone — he knew .

And still sent the letter anyway.

“Power-hungry bastard,” I muttered through gritted teeth. “Can’t stomach losing control so he wraps it in law like it makes it clean.”

I leaned low over Scarlet’s neck. The wind snapped tears from my eyes but I didn’t blink them away.

Valentine showed up on the horizon like a bruise on the land — red roofs, dirt roads, smoke curling from chimneys like no one inside knew what was coming.

Scarlet slowed on her own, sides lathered and blowing hard. I didn’t dismount so much as slide off in one angry motion, hit the ground, and tied her off before she’d even stopped fidgeting.

Didn’t pat her. Didn’t check my coat.

Just walked straight up the steps of the sheriff’s office and kicked the damn door open.

“You call me back here just to threaten me like a coward with a badge?!”

Sheriff Malloy was mid-sentence. Half-risen from his chair behind the desk, one hand frozen mid-gesture. His eyes widened, just for a breath — then narrowed like he remembered who he was pretending to be.

He didn’t get a word in.

“Don’t give me that look,” I snapped, already striding into the room. “You think you can snap your fingers and I’ll come running like a damn trained dog?”

He opened his mouth.

I raised my voice.

“You wanna post my bounty again? Do it. You wanna see if I’ll kill the next bastard you send after me? Hell, line ‘em up. I’ll carve my name in every bullet if that’s what it takes. But don’t you dare sit there and pretend like this is some favor .”

Malloy’s jaw clenched. “Lane—”

“No,” I snapped. “You listen now. I’m not your mercenary. I’m not your little errand gun with hips. You think writing a letter makes this legal? Makes it decent? Makes it right ?”

I was pacing now. Hands tight. Voice high and shaking with heat.

“I’ve bled enough for men like you. Done the dirty jobs and kept my mouth shut while you cleaned up in whiskey and praise. But that don’t make me yours. And it don’t make this justice .”

Silence fell like a gavel. The kind that echoes.

Malloy looked like he wanted to speak. Like he had some final word ready, preloaded and polished — but I wasn’t watching him anymore.

Something shifted behind me.

Leather creaked. A boot moved slow on the floorboards.

I turned.

And there he was.

Not from memory.

From the saloon.

From the weight of eyes that had seen more than they were supposed to..

The man who hadn’t flinched when I threatened his men. Who’d watched me in the saloon like he was seeing someone he didn’t have words for.

Now he was standing in the corner of this room.

Watching this version of me.

And something sharp twisted inside my ribs like a knife slipped between them.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

Just looked at me.

Still. Level. Unreadable.

And I hated that I couldn’t look away.

Chapter Text

I’d been standing in the corner of Malloy’s office for ten minutes. Maybe more. One boot crossed over the other, arms folded, hat pulled low enough to shade the boredom. The sheriff had been running his mouth about something or other — “opportunities,” maybe. “A fair shake,” like that meant anything coming from a man who couldn’t look you in the eye without measuring your worth in dollars.

Then the door blew open like a gunshot.

And there she was.

Same woman from the saloon. Same one who’d whistled down a barfight like she was commanding dogs. Same one whose voice had drawn every head in the room, mine included.

Only this version wasn’t calm.

She was thunder.

Boots slammed the floor like they had something to prove. Her coat swung behind her like a flag on the battlefield, and her face — Lord, her face — looked carved from something fierce. Auburn hair pulled tight, jaw clenched, eyes burning with purpose that wasn’t for show. The kind of rage you don’t fake.

She didn’t see me right away. Too busy chewing Malloy alive, piece by piece. Her voice cracked and coiled like a whip, dragging the room behind her wherever it landed. The desk. The walls. My ribs. I watched, arms still folded, listening without really meaning to. You don’t get many women who speak like that — not out loud. Not to men like him.

But she did. Loud enough to rattle the windows.

And when she finally turned, when she saw me — I saw the change hit her like cold water.

She went still. Eyes narrowed. But not afraid. Just assessing.

Just measuring .

I pushed off the wall slow, uncrossed my arms. Tipped my hat just a little and said, real casual-like, “Afternoon, ma’am. You always greet the law like that, or just the ones with a desk?”

Her head tilted like a snake about to strike.

“I don’t remember telling you to speak,” she said.

I shrugged. “Just figured you’d like to know you had an audience before you kept barkin’.”

She didn’t bite, not with words. Just stared at me like she was deciding which part to shoot first.

Malloy finally cleared his throat behind the desk. “Lane. Sit down. You too, mister… what the hell did you say your name was?”

“Didn’t,” I said. 

Lane scoffed. “Perfect. You let the drifters in now, do you?”

“Careful,” I said, deadpan. “You’re two insults away from me wanting to stick around.”

She gave a half-step forward. Her hand twitched near her coat, not to draw — just to remind me she could . I didn’t flinch. I’d seen that kind of move before — from gunslingers twice her size with half her certainty. But there was a difference. She didn’t need to puff up her chest. She meant it .

This time, I felt it all the way to my boots.

Malloy slammed a paper down on his desk. “Enough. Both of you. I got a damn job and no patience.”

She stayed standing. I didn’t move either. Malloy didn’t seem to care.

“Cass– Copper here,” he said, waving a hand, “owes me a favour. You”—he pointed at me—“want work. Well. I got one job, and I’m sick of waiting.”

He shoved a poster across the desk. A black-and-white face stared back — Benedict Allbright. Real oily-looking bastard with a pasted-on smile and too many teeth.

“Snake oil salesman. Pushed some tonic that made half a town sick. Two of ‘em dead. Others wish they were. Been hidin’ out up near the Dakota. I want him brought in alive.”

I looked at the reward. Fifty dollars.

Lane—Copper laughed — sharp, humourless. “Fifty? For a killer?”

“Not a killer. A fraud. He just got lucky this time.” Malloy leaned forward. “Alive, or I ain’t payin’.”

I caught her glance. Jaw tight. Chin high. She hated every part of this. Her fingers curled and uncurled at her sides like she was holding back something hotter than words. It wasn’t just the job. It was him . Being summoned. Being cornered. You could see the shackles forming around her wrists, even if they were made of paper and threats.

I didn’t blame her.

But me — I just nodded slow. “Fine by me. I don’t much care who I ride with, long as they don’t shoot me in the back.”

Her eyes flicked to me again. “Don’t tempt me.”

This time, I let a smirk crack through.

Small one.

Just enough to say I see you .

She didn’t return it.

Malloy slapped the desk again. “You bring him in together, or don’t come back at all. Alive. That clear?”

“Crystal,” I said.

She didn’t answer. Just turned on her heel like the conversation had ended the moment she decided it had.

I followed.

Outside, the sun was high and mean. She stalked down the steps like her bones were made of fire, every step rattling the boards underfoot.

“You slow me down,” she said without looking back, “I leave you behind.”

I mounted up easy. Branoc snorted, sensing the tension but not caring one lick. “Just try and keep up, Lane.”

She froze halfway to her horse. Looked over her shoulder, eyes dark as nightfall.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

“Easy,” I said, reining Branoc around. “No need to get all… Rattling.”

She swung up onto her mare like she’d done it a thousand times — which, judging by the way the animal moved with her, she had. Real harmony, the kind that takes years and blood and more than a few hard landings.

We didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

We just rode.

Toward a river. Toward a bounty.

Toward something I couldn’t name yet, but felt in my blood like the first crack of a coming storm.

Chapter Text

Didn’t say a word, didn’t spare me a glance. Just followed the trail like it owed her money. The mare moved underneath her with this kind of coiled grace — hooves quiet but sure, ears twitching to every snap of a branch. I’d seen good riders before. Hell, I’d been one most of my life. But this… this was different. The mare didn’t follow her lead. She was her lead. Same spine. Same fire. Same look in their eye that said Don’t touch unless you’re ready to bleed.

I kept Branoc a few paces back. Not ‘cause I had to — just figured she liked her space, sharp-edged as she was. One look at the set of her shoulders told me she hadn’t relaxed since we left Valentine. Probably hadn’t for years.

Didn’t stop me from watching.

Didn’t stop me from thinking about how the afternoon sun caught in the red of her braid, or the way she scanned the woods like she could hear something I couldn’t. Like she’d lived long enough to stop trusting anything that looked peaceful.

I ain’t sure what bites harder — her horse or her mouth.

We kept on like that a while. No talk. Just hoofbeats and birdsong and the occasional creak of a saddle. Peaceful, if not for the tension thick enough to chew. My coat stuck to my back and Branoc snorted at flies, but she didn’t shift once. Rigid as a loaded trap.

Finally, I broke it.

“Sheriff said last he was spotted near the gorge,” I called ahead. “S’pose that’s where we’re headed?”

She didn’t stop. Didn’t even turn. Just tossed it over her shoulder like a knife.
“You got ears. Use ’em.”

I huffed a breath through my nose. Alright then.

We hit a fork in the trail not long after. Trees closing in, leaves thick and green overhead like we’d wandered into a different world. She reined the mare to a stop. Didn’t speak. Just looked.

Left. Then right.

She listened, real still. Eyes narrowed. Head tilted just slightly, like she was tracking something on the wind. Then — something shifted. A breath, maybe less. Her mouth twitched. Not a smile, not quite. Some quiet knowing passed through her and then vanished just as fast. She pointed the mare left and moved on.

I followed.

Didn’t ask how she knew. Figured she wouldn’t answer anyway.

Watched the way she rode — how her hand stayed near her coat but never touched the handle. How her eyes kept drifting toward the brush. She wasn’t just ready. She expected trouble. Girl like her didn’t walk into a place without checking every shadow for the worst thing that might live in it.

I respected that.

After a bit, she turned in the saddle and looked at me. Just for a second.

I thought maybe I’d earned another jab. A threat. Something barbed, maybe a little cruel. But she just… nodded. Real small. Like confirmation. Like she’d decided I wasn’t dead weight.

Didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Didn’t stop the corner of my mouth from twitching, though.

We kept riding ‘til the woods thinned again and the land opened up onto a ridge. Rocky slope, sharp with scrub and wind. Above us — a clearing. Barely a scrape of earth and fire ring, but there it was. A lean-to tent, smoke curling lazily from a dying fire, a couple of bottles glinting in the grass. Looked like a rat nest for a man who sold poison.

Benedict Allbright. The man of the hour.

She brought the mare up beside me and dropped her voice low. Closer than she’d been all ride.

“How you wanna do this?” she asked. “If I go first, we got a chase on our hands. Fella jumps like a jackrabbit. But if you walk in like a sad story, he might buy it. Might buy you .”

I raised a brow. “You want me to play bait?”

She smirked — real faint. Blink and you’d miss it. “You’re real polite-lookin’ when you want to be. Figure that might help.”

I snorted. “That’s a new insult.”

She tilted her head. “Ain’t meant as one.”

That gave me pause.

Not long. Just enough.

“Alright,” I said, nodding toward the camp. “Sick mother it is.”

She gave a short nod, eyes narrowing again. Focused. “I’ll stay close. Down slope, near that dead pine.”

“Good cover,” I agreed, scanning the land below. “Wind’s in your favour. He won’t hear you.”

“We ain’t got long. You get too close, or he offers to share the tonic — you back out fast.”

I gave her a sideways look. “That stuff really that bad?”

“Burns skin,” she said, flat. “Don’t let him touch you.”

There was something in her voice then. Not sharp. Not mocking. Just… low. Warning wrapped in something else I couldn’t quite name.

I shifted in the saddle and gave a small, dry laugh. “Y’always so gentle?”

“Only when I like someone,” she said, heels nudging Scarlet back. “You ain’t there yet.”

She didn’t look up as she got in position.

I watched her. Let myself watch her, just for a second longer than I should’ve.

Then I exhaled slow, fixed my hat, and turned Branoc toward the bluff.

Time to meet the jackrabbit.

Chapter Text

The bastard was conspiring.

Coat buttoned, hat snug on his head, bottle of something noxious dangling from one hand like he was pitching to a doctor about his miracle cure. Benedict Allbright, tonic salesman, known coward, alleged genius. I’d seen raccoons with more dignity.

From my spot down the slope — tucked behind a scrubby pine and a sprawl of rock — I had a clean line of the ledge. No wind at my back. No snap of branch under Scarlet’s hooves. She stood stone still beneath me, ears flicking, waiting for the next command like she already hated this man on principle.

Didn’t blame her.

Then he stepped into view.

Cowboy.

He moved easy. That careful, studied kind of slow men used when walking into saloons full of strangers or rooms that smelled like gunpowder. Hat dipped, one hand loose near his belt, the other hanging casual. He even put a little weight in the limp — just enough to suggest hardship, not enough to beg pity.

Smart. Subtle. Almost convincing.

“’Scuse me there, friend,” he called out, voice warm enough to sip. “Ain’t mean to interrupt, just—wonderin’ if you might help a man with a sick mother.”

Benedict sat up straighter. Squinted. I could practically see the gears stalling behind his eyes.

I watched.

Watched the angle of Cowboy’s shoulders, how he kept ’em loose even when Benedict’s fingers curled tighter around that bottle. Watched how he shifted one foot forward like he was ready to lunge or bolt — whichever the moment called for. Watched the way his mouth moved with the lie like he’d chewed on it before.

He was good at this.

Not impressive , exactly — but… familiar. Reliable. Like a match that always struck, even if it burned close.

I clicked my tongue against my teeth, eyes narrowing under my hat brim.

Didn’t trust him. Not really. But I’d trusted him to play this part. Not because he earned it. Because he couldn’t have.

I didn’t know him. And more importantly — neither did Benedict.

Nobody remembers the man they ain’t seen before. And that made him the perfect fool for the job.

Recognition — that was the thing that got you killed. I'd walked into more than one room thinking I was just a shadow in the corner, only to find some drunk bastard shouting “I know that voice!” like it was a goddamn miracle. Didn’t matter if it was five years or five drinks ago — some men remember spite better than faces.

I stayed quiet. Watched the play unfold. Thought of one time in Saint Denis — too much light, too many names — where I’d had to put a bullet in a man’s boot just to buy myself five seconds to run. Another inch higher and I’d have died a little more famous than I meant to.

So I watched the stranger do what strangers do best — stay unmemorable.

And for a moment, it almost worked.

Then I saw it.

Fidget.

Subtle. But there — Benedict’s fingers twitching on the glass, eyes bouncing between Cowboy’s boots and the saddle cinch behind him. Too much math for a man like him. His shoulders tensed. He was gonna run.

I’d already kicked Scarlet forward when he reached out — maybe to calm him, maybe to grab him — didn’t matter. The jackrabbit jumped.

Cowboy caught him mid-scramble, arms locking tight, and that’s when I rode out.

“ Hey, Cowboy! ” I barked, voice cutting sharp across the clearing. “You got him or what?”

He grunted, twisting with the weight of a squirming man in his arms. “Mostly!”

I swung down and moved fast, boots crunching small rocks, hand already out to grab a wrist or collar.

But Benedict — slippery bastard that he was — twisted hard, panic giving him strength he didn’t earn. His hand caught my sleeve — no grip, just panic-flailing and sweat — but it was enough.

I lost footing.

The slope didn’t give a damn.

Everything lurched.

I saw sky, then nothing but river.

Cold hit first. Then sound. Then pain.

The Dakota swallowed me whole.

I crashed into the current sideways, shoulder-first, dragging half a man and a full fury with me. Water roared in my ears, nose, mouth — couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Just limbs and rocks and freezing weight.

Hat — my hat — snapped off and spun out ahead of me, dancing like a damn leaf across the surface.

Goddamn hat cost more than the bounty.

I thrashed, tried to kick — one boot hit rock, the other hit nothing. Benedict clawed at me like a drowning spider, mouth wide, gasping, blind. He dragged me under once. Almost twice.

I elbowed him square in the chin.

Felt it crunch. Didn’t care.

We surfaced again in fits — half-drowned, fully pissed — and I wrapped one hand around my hat, the other clawing at anything that wasn’t him.

The water was relentless. Slammed me into a root tangle, spun me sideways, and yanked me free again like it didn’t care what I broke. My lungs screamed. My ribs burned. My shirt was half off. Somewhere in the chaos, one of my revolvers tore loose from the holster. I didn’t even feel it go.

Couldn’t think. Couldn’t scream. Just cold.

Cold in the bones. Cold in the lungs. Cold in the teeth.

Then — quiet.

Not silence. Just… less.

Current slowed. Water still moved, but the rage of it thinned. I was floating, maybe. Or sinking. Couldn’t tell.

I felt Benedict’s grip slacken. His head bobbed beside mine, slack-jawed, sputtering like a kicked chicken. Still breathing. Damn him.

I held on. Just barely.

Eyes blurred. Ears rang. Hat gripped tight to my chest like a relic.

And just before the dark closed in, I thought:

If I die ‘cause of some slippery bastard in suspenders, I’m hauntin’ every saloon from here to Saint Denis.

Chapter Text

They vanished.

One second, she was upright, cutting across the slope like she’d done it a hundred times. The next—gone.

No cry. No drama. Just a splash big enough to drown two fools for a bounty not worth half the mess.

I stared for a beat, jaw set.

“Shit.”

Her mare flinched next to me like she’d heard a gunshot, but I was already moving. Swung into the saddle rough and wrong, damn near landed sideways. Stirrups too short, seat too tight. She tensed at the weight but didn’t buck.

Didn’t bolt either.

Just shifted once, ears flicking back to feel me out, then charged like she’d been waiting on my word all morning.

Hell of a horse.

Hell of a woman, maybe, to make a horse like that.

I dropped my weight low, leaned forward to push her faster. Trees blurred past in streaks of green and gray. River thundered off to my left, all whitewater and bite. No sign of her yet.

Could’ve hit a rock. Could’ve cracked her skull.

Could’ve drowned.

I kicked harder.

She surged forward across a bend in the bank, hooves slicing through gravel and mud. Didn’t even need a word. Neck rein, light spur, and she moved like smoke—half wild, half trained, all heart.

Lane hadn’t just broken this mare—she’d bonded with her. Every cue, every shift, the horse read like a book already half-memorized.

That kind of trust didn’t come easy.

Didn’t come cheap, either.

Didn’t come without scars.

The river opened wide just ahead, flattening into a stiller pool framed by weeping trees and jagged shale. I caught a flash—something pale—then another splash. A boot, maybe. Then her.

There.

I swung out of the saddle before she even stopped.

Boots hit earth and kept going. Water cold up to the knees, leeching warmth fast as I could give it.

She was dragging him.

Benedict flopped like a sack of wet flour, limbs tangled, mouth open. He was breathing, barely. She had one arm hooked under him, the other clenched around a sodden hat like it was a goddamn gold bar.

Her face was pale. Lips cracked blue. Whole body shaking like a kicked wire. But she stayed upright, shoulder-deep in river water, teeth clenched against the cold.

I waded in fast, boots filling, coat dragging, eyes on the prize.

“Got him,” I muttered, grabbing the limp bastard and hauling him up into the shallows.

She let go without a word.

Just collapsed forward onto her knees, head down, water sloshing around her. Hat still clutched tight to her chest like it was stitched to her soul.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t sob. Just breathed like it hurt.

I dropped Benedict on the rocks and tied him fast—wrists, ankles, same rope, no ceremony. He groaned once and tried to roll, but I planted a boot near his spine and kept knotting.

Lane stayed where she was.

Soaked. Shivering. Quiet.

Didn’t ask for help. Didn’t even look my way.

I stood there a second longer than I meant to, staring down at her. Didn’t know what I was supposed to do. Touch her? No. She didn’t want that. Say something? Useless. She wouldn’t hear it, not right now.

Still. I stepped closer.

Just enough to offer a hand.

She flinched before she even saw me.

Then waved me off, breathless.

“Go get the damn horses.”

Voice ragged. Barely more than a rasp. Not angry. Not proud. Just done.

But the hat didn’t shake in her grip.

I nodded, once.

Didn’t push.

Didn’t speak.

Just turned.

Her mare stood near the edge of the trees, reins slack, watching. Her ears tipped back when I came near—listening, maybe. Checking if she was with me.

Wasn’t sure how the hell she even knew.

But she looked disappointed when she saw I was alone.

“You and me both,” I muttered.

Climbed up slower this time, boots dripping, seat more even. Reins in hand, I let Scarlet find her own pace through the brush.

I looked back once.

Lane hadn’t moved.

Still crouched in the river, hunched over like her spine forgot how to stand. One hand sunk into the shallows, the other gripping that ragged hat like it was holding her together.

Not a cry. Not a curse. Just stillness.

Not frozen. Not paralyzed. Just… refusing to fall.

That was a different kind of strength. I’d seen it before. In war. In fire. In the back corners of bad camps where no one asked how you slept.

It wasn’t the kind of strength you bragged about. It was the kind that got buried with you.

I glanced down at the empty holster slung across her hip—missing one revolver, strap torn. Her shirt was soaked halfway down to her ribs, one sleeve shredded, the whole thing clinging like it wanted to fall off but hadn’t gotten the nerve. Fabric sagged heavy with water, half-draped over bare skin, like she’d barely made it out of a fire and didn’t care who saw the smoke. Cuts on her arm she hadn’t noticed yet. Or maybe she had. Just didn’t care.

The mare picked her way around a dip in the path, ears twitching like she was counting every step back to her.

I patted her neck without thinking.

“She’s all right,” I lied.

Truth was—I didn’t know.

And I didn’t know what to do about that.

“Hell of a way to make an introduction,” I said under my breath.

She flicked one ear back like she agreed.

And we rode on.

Chapter Text

Every inch of me screamed.

Not out loud—God forbid I give the universe the satisfaction—but bone to tendon, skin to soul, everything ached. My knees sank into cold silt. My teeth wouldn’t stop knocking together. My lungs burned like they still hadn’t forgiven me for the swim.

I stared at the water a while longer, half-waiting for it to pull me back under. Half-wishing it would try.

It didn’t.

So I got up.

Not fast. Not brave. Just stubborn.

One hand pushed into the rocks. The other still clutched my hat like it held the last thread of dignity I had left. My clothes hung like wet hide, sticking in all the wrong places. I could feel blood under the fabric, dried and fresh both, where shale had scraped skin raw. My spine popped when I stood, knees buckling once before I bit it back down.

Didn’t limp.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t curse the water, or Benedict, or God. What good would that do?

He was still breathing, the bastard. Hog-tied and half-drowned, lying like a sack of soaked oats beside the riverbank. Might’ve felt sorry for him, if I wasn’t two steps from joining him in a shallow grave.

Hooves approached.

I turned—slow, steady—and there he was. Scarlet under him, ears pinned back in protest, reins slack but her eyes sharp. She saw me. Took one step forward like she meant to come to me, then stopped when she caught the weight of him still riding her.

Behind them trailed two more horses—Cowboy’s, and Allbright’s sway-backed nag.

I didn’t wait for a greeting. Didn’t offer one.

Just reached up, jammed my hat back onto my head like armor, and nodded once toward the Grey horse with the medical bags.

“I’ll take his horse. You carry him.”

Voice like gravel in winter. Barely a whisper. But it wasn’t a question.

His brows ticked up. A pause. A flicker of hesitation behind those pale eyes—he didn’t like it. Knew I could barely stand, let alone handle a random horse down a winding trail. But he didn’t argue.

Just gave a slow nod and dismounted.

I moved stiff toward Scarlet first. She nickered, low and careful, like she could hear my joints grinding. I didn’t pet her. Didn’t say anything soft. Just leaned against her shoulder for a beat and let her heat bleed into me. She didn’t move.

Then I patted myself down.

Left hip: revolver. Still there, heavy and familiar.

Right hip—empty.

I froze. Looked down. Strap torn, leather dark and sagging with water. Holster empty.

“Damn it.”

I turned back toward the river, took a few dragging steps to the edge. Current was slower here, but deep. Fast enough to carry steel if it wanted to.

Cowboy came up behind me, boots scuffing once in the gravel.

“You—”

I cut him off, reaching into Scarlet’s saddlebags and pulling a spare Schofield. Didn’t meet his eye.

“Ain’t the first one I’ve lost,” I muttered. “Got tired of cryin’ over ‘em.”

He didn’t say anything. Maybe smirked. Maybe not.

Didn’t matter.

I turned toward Scarlet and squared my shoulders like my spine wasn’t screaming. Got a hand on the pommel. Reached up—

Leg wouldn’t lift. Not properly.

I gritted my teeth. Tried again. Still no give.

“Son of a bitch,” I whispered. Not angry. Just… tired.

I grabbed my thigh and hauled it up like dead weight, arm shaking with the strain. Almost had it when his hand landed on my leg—quick and light. Just enough to push, steady, help without asking.

I didn’t look at him.

Didn’t thank him.

Just swung into the saddle and kept my eyes forward while he tied Benedict across his own horse like a deer carcass.

And then we rode.

Valentine came up slow.

Every hoofbeat echoed through my ribs. Every jolt was a kick to the lungs. The saddle horn went slick in my grip more than once—sweat, blood, or river water, I didn’t know which. Didn’t care.

I didn’t speak.

He didn’t either.

Somewhere between the ravine and the ridge, I scratched dried blood off my forearm with the edge of a thumbnail, pretending it didn’t sting. Skin came away with it. My knuckles were split open, raw from the rocks or the climb or just too much goddamn living. I could feel him watching—just for a second. But he didn’t say a word. Didn't offer pity. Good man.

My head kept wanting to droop forward, but I forced it up. Neck stiff. Jaw locked.

If I gave the pain an inch, it’d take the whole damn mile.

I’d ridden injured before. Shot, bruised, starved, hunted. This wasn’t new. But something about the silence—that raw, wet quiet inside me—felt worse than any wound.

Like something had come loose I couldn’t patch.

We reached town just past dusk. The lanterns were lit. Drunks stumbling near the saloon. Farrier hammering something out behind the stable. Two kids giggling near the well like the world hadn’t cracked wide open hours ago.

Too normal.

I slid down first, graceless. Nearly fell. Caught myself on the horn before I could eat dirt. My knees buckled, then locked.

Scarlet leaned close enough to nose my shoulder. I tied her off without a word, then looped reins for Allbright’s nag to the same post.

Behind me, Cowboy dismounted clean and hauled the bounty over his shoulder like he weighed nothing. He grunted once under the weight but didn’t complain.

Didn’t look at me either.

I led the way inside.

Boots loud on wood. Door creaked when I opened it but I held it steady. Sheriff Malloy looked up from a desk cluttered with papers and a tin coffee cup. He didn’t blink at the sight of us—just nodded like we were two regulars showing up for a job already half-finished.

He dumped Benedict on the floor with a thud. He groaned.

Sheriff grunted. Stamped a form. Forked over two bills without a word. Twenty-five apiece.

I took mine without flinching. Didn’t thank him. Didn’t check if it was short.

Just pocketed it.

I turned for the door.

Cowboy said something then—I didn’t catch all of it. Voice low, words too far back to matter. Something like “Thanks for the work, Sheriff.” The first thing he’d said since the river.

I didn’t stop walking.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t say goodbye.

Just stepped out into the night, the money hot in my pocket and every muscle in my body begging for a bed I couldn’t afford to stay in.

Chapter Text

She didn’t look back.
Didn’t need to.

Lane hit the porch rail like it owed her money and used it to swing herself into Scarlet’s saddle, stiff as dried jerky. Not a grunt. Not a hiss of pain. But I saw it — the way her right leg lagged a half second behind, the way her fingers locked white on the saddle horn.
She moved like every inch of her hurt… and like she dared the world to notice.

Allbright’s nag clopped after her on a trailing lead, tail swishing like it had any pride left.
She turned her mare toward the stables, shoulders square, head low.
Didn’t spare a glance my way.

Tough as old boot leather.
Maybe tougher.

I stood there a second longer than I ought to’ve.
Just watching.

Not that I expected her to tip her hat or throw a wave. Hell, I’d have been more shocked if she had. But I guess part of me waited — not for thanks. Just… something.
Some signal that it hadn’t all been just another goddamn job.

Didn’t get one.

So I swung up onto Branoc.
He let out a grunt — a cross between a snort and a complaint — and tossed his head like I’d just interrupted something important.

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, patting his neck. “We’re goin’.”

I gave the street one last look — Cassidy disappearing into the stables, moonlight catching the edges of her coat. Then I nudged Branoc forward, and we headed out of town.

The ride to Horseshoe Overlook was quiet.
Not the peaceful kind.

The sky stretched black and wide, pinpricked with stars. The moon floated heavy and yellow above the trees. Wind stirred the grass just enough to whisper, and the crickets made sure I knew I wasn’t alone. But it all felt… still. Too still.

Branoc’s hooves thudded softly against the packed trail. I kept my eyes on the path, but my thoughts didn’t follow.

Lane.

Not in a soft-focus, warm-light sort of way.
Just… her.

The way she didn’t ask for help. Didn’t expect it. Hell, she damn near kicked it in the teeth when it showed up uninvited.
The way she said, “I’ll take his horse. You carry him.”
Not a question. Not a suggestion.
Just a fact.

She’d barely been able to stand. Could hardly get her leg up without grabbing it like dead weight. Still didn’t complain.
Didn’t flinch when the saddle horn bit into her gut.
Didn’t curse when I gave her that push — just took it, silent and proud, like everything else.

Ain’t many like her.

I told myself it was just curiosity.
Just tryin’ to make sense of her.

Why someone like that rides alone.
Why she took less money than she earned.
Why she spoke so little — and only when it counted.

But that weren’t the whole of it.
Not really.

Something about her stuck.

Camp came up slow between the trees, lights low and flickering. The fire had burned down to lazy coals. Someone snored from Pearson’s tent like a grizzly stuffed in a bedroll. A couple bottles clinked near the wagon. Nothing urgent.

Charles sat by the fire, knife in hand, whittling something down to nothing. He looked up when Branoc and I came in, gave a nod.

“Arthur.”

“Charles.”
Didn’t need to say more.

I slid down, boots hitting dirt with a sigh I didn’t mean to let out. Branoc shifted under me, tired but steady.

“Good boy,” I muttered, brushing his shoulder. He’d earned a proper rubdown, but I was about three notches past done.

Still, I took the time.
Saddle off. Blanket smoothed. Hooves checked.
Brushed him slowly while he chewed on a tuft of grass, half-listening to the frogs.

I tied him out with the others and gave his flank a final pat.
He flicked his tail once. We were square.

I lay under my canvas and let the quiet swallow me.

Not lonely — not exactly. Just… still.
The kind of quiet that ain’t empty, just waiting.

Lantern lit low, I pulled out my journal and flipped it open. The paper smelled like smoke and sweat. The pen felt heavy tonight — not in my hand, just in what it might say.

Started with Valentine.
Sheriff Malloy: terse as ever.
Benedict: slippery, soaking, and somehow still full of air.
Noted the river crossing. The mud. The way he flailed like a fish already halfway gutted.

I sketched him from memory — crooked jaw, eyes like wet marbles, moustache thick enough to hide secrets.
Annotated: “Will clean this up later.”
Probably wouldn’t.

Flipped to a new page.

Didn’t mean to sketch her.
Just… let the pencil move.

Started with the shape of her shoulders — drawn tight, like she was holding herself together through will alone. Shirt clinging to her. The curve of her spine forward in the saddle, but not slumped. Just… braced.

Then the angle of her neck, head turned over one shoulder.
That glance.
The one she gave me right before we reached Benedict — quiet, unreadable, like she was trying to decide if I was worth the trouble. Like she already knew how it was going to end.

I caught myself drawing the way her jaw set. Not in defiance, exactly. Just permanence.
Then her cheek.

The scar.
That rough, ridged burn running from cheekbone down to the base of her neck — drawn clean, no soft edges. The kind of mark that never fades, only deepens. I sketched it without thinking, pencil dragging slow as if I could trace where the heat had been.

Her eyes next. Not angry. Not scared.
Just there .
Sharp enough to flay. Quiet enough to haunt.

Then the rest of her face started forming — bone structure like a chiselled bluff, one long braid pulled over her shoulder. That hat, bent just right with a weight to it. I gave it texture. Weight. Shadows down the brim. Somehow, I remembered every line of it without trying.

And the way she sat — not relaxed, not stiff. Just ready.
Like the kind of person who didn’t flinch first.

It hit me, somewhere between the lines and the shadows — I was drawing her like she looked that night.
Like she looked now .
Not as someone I met by chance. But like someone I’d known a long time and never quite figured out.

I leaned back.

What the hell was I doing?

This wasn’t for a bounty. Wasn’t something I needed to remember. And yet here she was, etched in charcoal across the page like I’d been carrying her around longer than I realised.

I stared at the sketch. Too much detail. Too much care.

Didn’t cross it out.
Didn’t finish it either.

Just flipped the page and scrawled a line in the margin:

There’s folks you forget quick. Others… not so much.
Some show up like they’ve always been there. Just hidin’.

I closed the book.
Blew out the lantern.
Let the dark fold over me like moss on stone.

I lay back with my hands behind my head and stared at the canvas above, moonlight filtering soft through the seams.

Ain’t the first time someone’s surprised me. Sure as hell won’t be the last.

But I’ll be damned if I ain’t curious what she does next.

Chapter Text

Light came on slow — not sharp, not clean. Just a grey smear over the ridge that made the trees look half-wet and the ground like it hadn’t made up its mind whether it wanted to freeze or not.

Dew clung to the canvas above my head, gathered like sweat. Tent walls damp and heavy. I didn’t move for a while. Just lay still, arm across my eyes, the ache of sleep that didn’t stick still settled in my bones.

Didn’t sleep much.

Lane was still in my head. Not like a memory. More like a bruise you forget’s there ‘til something presses on it.

Didn’t need to look at the sketch. Knew it by now — the scuffed knuckles, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the way her eyes dared anyone to point out she was hurting. Woman walked like she owed pain no damn favour.

She hadn’t looked back when she rode out. That part stuck too.

Outside, the camp was slow to stir. The kind of morning where everyone moved like they’d rather not be up at all.

Pearson shuffled past with an empty pot and a bad mood.

“We’re outta meat,” he barked, like I’d personally eaten the last deer on earth. “Unless you want to be chewing turnips ‘til you lose teeth, get somethin’ fresh.”

“Later,” I muttered. “Maybe.”

He scowled like I’d just told him his stew tasted like horse piss. Maybe it did.

Smoke curled weak from the fire pit, and that sad excuse for coffee Strauss had boiled looked more like oil than anything drinkable. I passed on it.

Branoc was already watching me from where he stood tied near the edge of camp, ears twitching. He knew what was coming. Hell, maybe he hoped I’d get distracted.

“Tough luck,” I told him, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “We’re riding.”

He blinked, slow. Resigned.

I’d just crouched to check his front hoof when I heard the steps behind me. Light, familiar.

“You were up late last night,” Hosea said.

Didn’t look back. “Mm.”

“Journal again?”

“Yeah.”
I scraped mud from Branoc’s hoof, kept my tone flat. “Just jotting down bounty details. Don’t want to forget ‘em.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.

“Well,” Hosea said, easing down onto a crate nearby, “must’ve been a mighty detailed bounty.”

I gave a grunt. “Wasn’t clean. Slippery fella. Tried to lose us in the Dakota.”

Us.

Shit.

It just came out — easy, unthinking, natural. But it hit the air wrong. Even before Hosea caught it.

“…Us?” he echoed, mild as ever.

I hesitated just a beat too long.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “Pulled her into the river when he slipped.”

Another silence. This one sharper. Like a stick dragged across glass.

“She alright?”

“She’s fine.” I grabbed the saddle blanket, folded it a little too hard. “Handled herself.”

Hosea didn’t say anything. Just sipped from his coffee like it might answer something I hadn’t.

“She the same one Charles and Javier were jawing about last night?” he asked finally. “The one that made Bill rethink drinkin’? Uncle’s been swearing he won’t set foot in Valentine again ‘less someone carries him.”

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

“She helped,” I said, eventually. “That’s all.”

“You usually let someone help with a bounty?”

“She didn’t ask for the job. Just saw it through.”

Hosea hummed. “Kind of her.”

“Guess so.”

“She the reason you didn’t sleep?”

I met his eyes for just a second. He didn’t press. Just let the weight of the question hang there between us, like wet laundry on a cold line.

I looked away first. Tightened Branoc’s girth a little more than necessary.

“She’s just another gun, Hosea.”

He nodded, slow. “Sure.”
Then: “You usually give ‘just another gun’ a page?”

I didn’t answer that one.

Branoc shifted under me, tail swishing. The sound of birds was starting to return to the trees — just a few, early and cautious.

“She was hurt?” Hosea asked after a bit.

“Wasn’t nothin’ she couldn’t carry,” I muttered.

Which was true. Didn’t mean it didn’t leave a mark.

Hosea leaned back on the crate. Looked toward the horizon, not at me.

“You ever notice,” he said softly, “some folks bleed quiet?”

I didn’t respond.

He drained the last of his coffee and stood, brushing dust off his coat. “Ride careful.”

“I’ll be back by sundown.”

I swung up into the saddle. Branoc steadied under me, solid and sure like always.

The trail west was open, the kind that made a man feel like he could outrun things if he just rode hard enough.

I didn’t look back.

Didn’t have to.

I could feel Hosea watching me. Not suspicious. Just... aware.

And the thing about Hosea — he never pulled a thread fast.
He just waited.

Waited until you pulled it yourself.

And damn if I hadn’t just handed him the loose end.

Chapter Text

Woke up face-down in the dirt. Again.
No tent. No fire. Just cold ground and a blanket that smelled like horse and river muck.

Took a minute before I remembered where I was. Somewhere east of Valentine. Birch trees, light grass, nothing useful for cover but a downed log and whatever half-ass lean-to I rigged last night. Didn’t remember setting it up. Didn’t remember sleeping.

Shoulder screamed when I tried to move.
Ribs joined in, then knees, then the rest of me like a goddamn choir. Might’ve been bruises from the rocks in the river. Might’ve been from life in general.

Didn’t matter. Still had to get up.

I rolled slow, breath tight. Everything ached, sharp and ugly. No groaning. No cussing. Just the sound of wind stirring through the leaves and me dragging one stubborn boot under myself.

Pain’s like pride. Can’t show it, or someone’ll try and take it from you.

Scarlet stood nearby, reins loose over a branch. She watched me with one ear turned and her tail flicking slow, like she didn’t trust what I was about to do next. Fair.

“Told you I don’t sleep pretty,” I muttered.

She nosed the blanket I kicked off, then stepped closer.

“Don’t start,” I rasped when her muzzle brushed my cheek.

Didn’t mean to sound cracked. Just did.

Took three tries to get the saddle on.

First time I dropped it. Second time I didn’t get the girth under proper. Third time my hands shook so bad I missed the damn cinch loop.

Scarlet didn’t move. She stood there, patient as sin. Knew I hated help. Knew I needed it anyway.

Tears came but I didn’t cry. Just let ‘em fall while I worked. No sound. No breath. Just that hot sting across my face while I fumbled with leather like it was iron.

Finally got it buckled. Cinch was too tight but I didn’t fix it. Didn’t have it in me.

Getting in the saddle took longer than I’d admit.

Had to brace off a stump and throw my leg like it weighed twice what it should. Pulled something in my side — felt like a knife. Slumped forward, arms over Scarlet’s neck, breath stuck somewhere between grit and air.

Didn’t stay down long. Couldn’t.

Straightened. Sat up. Didn’t feel strong for it. Just... mean.

Wind hit my face. Cold enough to burn. I let it.

Didn’t whistle. Didn’t hum. Just rode.

Emerald Ranch came up slow over the hill, quiet as a ghost.

Didn’t look like anything had changed. Still that long fence. Still that wood barn. Still that same damn colt in the pen, rope around his neck, watching the world like it might try something.

He saw me coming and didn’t move. Just stared.

I stared back.

“You ain’t the only one still stuck,” I told him, voice raw.

Stable hand came out when I pulled up. Same kid, maybe. Couldn’t tell through the haze behind my eyes.

I swung a leg over. Misjudged it. Foot caught in the stirrup. Nearly hit the ground face-first. Caught myself on the fence rail, teeth gritted so hard I heard one creak.

Didn’t look at him. Just handed the reins.

“Brush her down,” I said. “She’s earned it.”

He blinked. Took them like they were hot.

I leaned into the rail, hands braced, every inch of me shaking behind my skin. Just needed a minute. Maybe two.

He hovered. Like he wanted to ask if I was alright.

I waved him off without looking. “Don’t.”

Climbing to the loft felt like the last damn thing I’d ever do.

Each step dragged. Legs didn’t work right. Felt like moving through molasses and pain at the same time.

Wasn’t no glory in moving. But you stop, you stay stopped.

The hay smelled clean. Dry. The air up here was sharp with dust and warm light from the high windows. I dropped down into it, hard. No care for grace.

Didn’t even take off my coat. Just let it twist under me like another bruise.

Lay there. Breathing shallow. Eyes on the rafters. Watching dust drift in the sun like it meant something.

Hat lay nearby. Damp from the river. Dented from a fall. I lifted it and set it on my chest.

Like armor.

Didn’t cry. Didn’t swear.

Just breathed.

Slow. Shallow.

Waiting on something to shift.

Chapter Text

The mirror was cracked straight through the middle — spiderwebbed from a punch, or maybe just the weight of time. Dust clung to the corners like it was holding on out of spite. I’d wiped a streak clean with my sleeve earlier, enough to see the damage.

Sat on an old stool that wobbled when I breathed. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t moving again ‘til I had to.

My shirt was off. Bandages loose. Skin caught the morning light just enough to remind me how purple I was. Ribs looked like I’d lost a fight to a bar brawl and a stampede at the same time. One breast swollen and off-color — like it didn’t know whether to bruise or just fall off.

The compress was still warm in my hand — vinegar and chamomile steeped in an old cloth I boiled twice just to get the barn stink out. Pressing it to my ribs stole the breath straight outta me.

I hissed. Low. Not dramatic. Like steam sneaking outta a busted pipe.

“River tried to drown me,” I said to no one. “Life just kept takin’ turns after.”

Didn’t even get thrown from a horse. Just bad footing, bad timing, and a current with teeth.

Might be the ugliest I’ve looked in years. Not that I’ve had much reason to look nice.

The bruises were blooming deep — greenish yellow near the edges, purple-black along the bone. Real artwork. Flesh like rotted fruit. I traced one with a finger and winced.

Mirror caught more than just bruises. It caught the way my hand trembled after.

And just like that, memory flared.

My father’s grip, too tight on my wrist. Me, seven or eight, maybe younger. Mama flinching when doors slammed, when boots hit the porch too fast. I remembered how her eyes would lock on nothing at all.

“Don’t go there,” I said under my breath. “Ain’t nothin’ useful waitin’ in that part of the dark.”

Sunbeam on the barn floor moved slow, like molasses in winter. I watched it crawl across the plank while I counted my breathing.

After a spell, I peeled the compress off. Steam rose faint from it, even in the warm air.

Dropped it into a dented tin pail. The water inside had gone murky. My reflection in it looked half-ghosted.

Next came the poultice — thick green-brown mix I slapped together from memory. Comfrey, yarrow, pine mash. Smelled like a wet dog got into a doctor’s bag and rolled around.

I smeared a palmful across the worst of it, teeth clenched. Then took the bandage and started to wrap. Fumbled it first try. Didn’t cuss. Didn’t quit. Just started again.

“One rib at a time, sweetheart,” I muttered. “You break easy enough. Let’s not push it.”

Each pull tightened the wrap across the bruises, made my head spin with pressure. Breath came shallow. Not cause I was scared — just survival.

Once I got it bound tight, I slumped forward on the stool, elbows on knees, arms limp. For a second, I just stayed there. Not resting. Not thinking. Just... not moving.

Eventually, I reached for my shirt — the loose cotton one. Dragged it over my arms slow. Fabric clung to the poultice in places. Felt like dragging bark over sunburn.

The corset still hung from a nail on the post nearby. I looked at it once. Left it there.

Got the outer linen halfway buttoned before giving up. Fingers didn’t work right and the effort felt pointless.

So I grabbed the brandy bottle instead.

Took two swallows. The burn licked through my chest, sharp and angry.

“Doctor’d tell me I’m killin’ my liver,” I muttered. “I’d tell him he ain’t seen what livin’ does to a body.”

I stood. Slowly. Everything inside me protested. My legs had enough strength to hold me, barely.

Walked over to the loft window and braced one hand on the frame.

Outside, the world hadn’t stopped.

Emerald Ranch moved like it always did. A wagon creaked past the stable, a man hauling hay paused to wipe his brow, two dogs chased each other like they had something to prove. The colt was still in the pen — that same Wegner-blood line, too twitchy for his own good. He stood stiff, tail twitching, like he was waiting for someone to make the first move.

My fingers twitched. I hated this.

Hated sittin’ still. Felt like I was bein’ boiled alive in my own skin.

I could maybe make it down the ladder. Three steps, maybe four, before my knees gave out and I ruined what little healing I’d managed.

Didn’t matter. Didn’t stop the itch to do something.

I kept watchin’ the colt. He watched me back.

“Not the only one still locked up tight, huh?” I muttered.

Footsteps on the ladder broke the quiet. Slow, deliberate. Familiar.

I didn’t move.

Seamus’ head appeared in the loft hatch a second later. His eyes clocked me in one glance — shirt half-done, wrap under it, bottle still clutched loose in one hand.

“You look like hell,” he said. Not unkind. Just fact.

I didn’t smile. Just raised a brow. “You climb all the way up just to insult me?”

“Nah.” He lifted the small bundle in his hand. “Brought this. Figured you’d be too damn proud to ask.”

He stepped fully into the loft and set it down near the stool. Dry bread, strip of salted pork, bruised apple. A tin cup beside it, steam curling from inside — smelled like weak coffee and honey.

I eyed it. Didn’t say thanks. Didn’t say anything.

“First food I didn’t steal in a while,” I said. “Might taste strange just for that.”

He crouched near the ladder, arms resting on his knees. Didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Just watched me a long moment.

His voice came softer then.

“Ain’t askin’ what happened. You’ll tell me if you feel like it.”
He nodded toward the bandages. “But if you need time, take it. I’ll keep folks off your back.”

I nodded. Barely. Just enough to be seen.

Seamus tipped his head in return and climbed back down without another word.

The silence that followed felt different. Less hollow. Still sharp around the edges.

I looked at the food. Didn’t eat right away. Just sat. Smelled the coffee. Let the steam fog up the bottom corner of the mirror.

Picked up the apple. Turned it in my hand.

“World’s still turnin’,” I murmured. “Damned if I know how.”

Laid back down on the bedroll. Bottle beside me. Shirt sticking to one side. Brandy low.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t curse.

Just breathed.
Still hurt.
Still here.

Chapter Text

We rode into Valentine mid-morning with a black Shire dragging behind us like a shadow that hadn’t figured out how to die yet. Big, heavy, dumb-eyed horse — the kind that looked like he was born tired and stayed that way. Hosea had named him “Sunday” since he turned up loitering near a church like he’d wandered in late for a sermon and forgot how to leave.

“Could be divine punishment,” Hosea said with a grin. “Or just a good Christian horse takin’ a nap on holy ground.”

“Still smells like he rolled in sin,” I muttered.

Hosea barked a laugh but didn’t press. He knew when my mood had dropped too far for small talk. And I wasn’t exactly in the mood for small.

Valentine looked the same as always: weathered, cranky, crooked. The saloon’s front porch slanted a bit worse than last time, like it was slowly giving up on holding drunks upright. Mud coated the main drag from the last rain, drying in thick, cracking ridges. A dog dozed near the butcher’s stand. A man swore at a chicken near the livestock area.

Normal, but... tight.

Like the whole town had flinched and hadn’t unclenched yet.

I kept my gaze moving. Windows. Rooflines. The alley behind the gunsmith. I wasn’t looking for anyone.

Not really.

Just... scanning.

“You ever blink anymore?” Hosea asked. “Your eyeballs are gonna shrivel up.”

“I blink when I’m bored.”

He gave me a long, sidelong look. “You should take up lying full-time. You’re just good enough to be interesting.”

I didn’t respond.

“Mmhm. I’ll get the bait,” he said, peeling off toward the post office. “You handle the beast.”

The Shire snorted like he agreed.

I led him toward the stables. The closer we got, the more the horse felt like a weight I wasn’t meant to carry. Not just in size. In timing.

There was a man standing outside the stable gate, watching a mare get hosed down. Mid-thirties, lean, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His shirt was patched at the collar. Face drawn and narrow. He didn’t recognise me, and I didn’t know him.

“You the stablemaster?” I asked as I approached.

He turned. “I am. Amos Levi. You sellin’?”

I nodded. “Horse turned up by the river. Big, slow, solid. Don’t kick unless provoked.”

Amos stepped forward, eyes roaming over the Shire’s legs, shoulders, jaw. “Good muscle. Can’t promise what price he’ll fetch unless he’s papered. He?”

“Gelding,” I said. “And I ain’t got papers. But he hauls like a plow team.”

He took the lead rope. “You local?”

“No.”

“You passed through, though.”

I gave a short nod. “Couple days ago.”

His grip tightened on the rope a hair. “Came in with someone. Short woman. Red hair. Rode like she was born in the saddle and hated every minute of it.”

My jaw clenched. “Maybe.”

“She called herself Copper?”

There it was. That name again. The one that echoed lately in the back of my skull, even when I wasn’t thinkin’ of her — which was never, really.

“I didn’t ask what she called herself.”

He paused. Then, slower, “Well... folks here do.”

He dropped his voice a notch. “Truth is, no one’s seen her since. Not in town. Not on the trail. Not anywhere.”

I stared at him. “What’re you gettin’ at?”

He shifted his stance. “Word is she came in bruised up. Real bad. Limpin’. Said nothin’. Left quick.”

“She ain’t exactly a social creature.”

“No,” he said, “but that don’t usually mean vanishin’ outright.”

I let that settle a moment.

Amos lowered his voice even more. “There’s a rumour she’s out at Emerald Ranch. Up in Seamus’ barn. Folks say he’s keepin’ her there. Quiet. Maybe hurt. Maybe worse.”

The air went colder behind my collar. I flexed my hand once, slow.

“You believe that?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “But you don’t either. That’s why your face looks like it’s fightin’ your boots about where to go next.”

I bristled. “You always read strangers like a damn book?”

“Just the ones who look like they left somethin’ they ain’t sure was gonna make it.”

My lips pressed into a thin line. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I knew the look on her face when she left. And I recognise it on you now.”

Before I could speak again, Hosea called down the road. “Arthur! You settin’ up shop or what?”

Amos handed the rope to another stable hand and turned back. “You’re good. I’ll take him from here.”

I turned to go, but his voice caught me once more. “If you’re waitin’ for the right time, it already passed.”

Didn’t respond. Just turned Branoc and wheeled around toward the east road. Hosea fell in beside me, watching me out of the corner of his eye like he always did when I was tryin’ too hard not to think.

“Stables got a fortune teller now?” he asked.

“Just a man with opinions.”

“Mm. Seems like you’re gettin’ those everywhere lately.”

We rode out of town in silence. The road opened up between tall birch and dust. Light played in gold patches through the branches, and the air smelled of wet wood and horsehair.

Still, the knot in my stomach hadn’t loosened.

She was alive. She had to be.  Lane wouldn’t just disappear. Not without leaving claw marks in whatever tried to keep her.

“You gonna tell me?” Hosea asked softly.

“Nothing to tell.”

“That so?”

“Man said he heard a rumour.”

“About a redhead?”

I gave him a side glance. He didn’t smile, just raised one brow.

“Even if I did tell you,” I said finally, “there ain’t nothin’ to be done right this second.”

“That the lie you’re gonna stick with?”

I didn’t answer.

We crested the rise at O’Creagh’s Run. The lake stretched out below, quiet as glass. An old campfire smoke curled skyward. Hosea rode on, humming something tuneless.

But I stayed at the top of the hill for a beat longer. My eyes weren’t on the campfire. They were back west. Toward fences and barns. Toward a ranch where stubborn might be bleeding in silence.

Where someone could be waiting.

Or already gone.

And I didn’t know which scared me more.

Chapter Text

Woke slow.

Real slow.

That kind of waking where your body clocks in for work before your brain does. Every nerve took inventory like it was filing a goddamn tax return. Shoulder — sore. Hip — worse. Ribs — still felt like someone’d tried to scoop them out with a soup spoon.

I lay there, flat on my back in the loft above Emerald’s tack room, staring up at a ceiling beam that looked dangerously uncommitted to structural integrity. Dust motes twirled in the sunbeam slanting through the cracks. My hands were stiff from the weather. My side ached like a bad memory.

I swung my legs over the cot and hissed when my right hip made its opinion known.

“Don’t start,” I muttered at it.

The barn was quiet. Still early, judging by the angle of the sun and the lack of yelling.

I dressed slow. Pulled on a loose linen shirt I hadn’t stitched since I got knifed in the gut and dragged off the back of a wagon. It still smelled like liniment and sweat. Shrugged into my boots without socks, because effort. Hair got a half-assed braid. Face got nothing but a scowl.

The limp was worse today. Weather shift, maybe. Or guilt. Could be both.

I slipped out the side door of the tack room and made a wide berth around the main stable where Seamus would be. No point locking horns before breakfast. He’d gone quiet again since our last argument — the kind of quiet that says I’m furious, but you already know that, so let’s both stew in it like adults.

Which was fair. I had promised not to do anything stupid.

Technically, I hadn’t done it yet .

The pens were mostly empty. A couple of old nags stood in the shade near the paddock rail, heads low, eyes half-shut. Flies buzzed lazy around their ears. No one was brushing them. No one ever did.

I grabbed a stiff-bristled brush from the hook and crossed the yard without thinking.

There was a swaybacked mare — pale gray, maybe black a long time ago — who didn’t even look up as I approached. Just blinked slow and stood there, resigned like a woman with seventeen children and no help. I set a hand on her flank and started brushing with short, slow strokes.

She sighed once. That was the extent of her enthusiasm.

Didn’t need more.

I let the rhythm take over — scrape, flick, drag, flick — until my mind drifted. First to Scarlet, then to the colt.

That damned colt.

He’d been brought in by Wegner two weeks ago. Not even halter-broke. Snapping at the rope like it had personally insulted his mother. Kicked two boards loose in his pen, bit one of the stablehands, and tried to climb the rail sideways when a dog barked near him.

I liked him.

Didn’t mean I was dumb enough to touch him.

Not really .

Well.

Maybe a little.

I let the swayback go with a pat and a nudge. She ambled toward the paddock with the gait of a horse who remembered better years and no longer gave a damn.

Then I turned toward the colt’s pen.

He was pacing, same as always — tight, coiled, muscles twitching under a bay hide too shiny for how wild his eyes were. He looked like he’d been born in a thunderstorm and raised by nightmares.

The closer I got, the tighter my own shoulders pulled.

Don’t do it, said the part of my brain that had seen reason once in its life.

But my feet didn’t listen.

I reached the rail. Rested both hands on the top. Felt the scrape of old wood against my palms. He stopped pacing. Turned. Ears pinned.

Good. Still got his spirit.

I let one hand slip through the bars — slow. Deliberate. Not reaching. Just testing.

He lunged.

A front hoof lashed out and cracked against the fence rail, inches from my wrist. Wood splintered. Dust flew.

I didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink, either.

Just looked at him.

That wild, furious eye.

That trembling lip curled back over yellow teeth.

That fury that had nowhere to go.

“Easy,” I muttered.

From across the yard, a voice cracked sharp and angry:

“LANE!”

I didn’t move.

Didn’t even glance his way.

Seamus was coming fast. Boots hammering gravel. Shouting something else — maybe my name, maybe profanity. Didn’t matter.

I unlatched the pen.

It opened with a groan and a hitch.

The colt spun to face me like he’d heard death whispering.

I stepped inside.

“Whoa,” I said, soft, hands up.

He snorted — a sharp, fast exhale. The kind that means you better not .

I took another step forward.

Too fast.

He dropped his head. Ears flat. Rear hooves dug into the dirt.

“Copper!” someone shouted — stablehands, maybe. The whip cracked once from someone.

Too late.

He charged.

I didn’t move.

Just stood there like a goddamn idiot with a death wish and a bruise count that hadn’t finished settling.

His hooves thundered. Ground shook. Time staggered sideways.

I braced.

Didn’t scream. Didn’t duck.

Didn’t do anything.

Until I was yanked backwards by the back of my shirt so hard my teeth clacked together and my boots left the dirt.

I hit the ground outside the pen like a bag of coal, side-first, vision flaring white hot from the impact.

A snap tore the air again — the whip this time — and the colt veered off hard, crashing into the far rail. He skidded to a stop, eyes rolling, flanks heaving.

I groaned.

Didn’t even bother pretending I wasn’t in pain. My ribs felt like they’d rearranged themselves into a question mark.

Seamus stood over me, whip in one hand, jaw locked.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

I stared up at him, chest heaving, dirt in my teeth, eyes hot for no good reason.

I didn’t say thanks.

Didn’t say sorry, either.

We just looked at each other, and whatever passed between us wasn’t something worth putting to words.

The stablehands had scattered. Pretended not to look.

Smart of them.

I rolled to my feet with a grunt and staggered toward the back fence. Every step fired a flare of pain through my hip, but I didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t breathe until the barn disappeared behind me.

And even then, it wasn’t a full breath. Just a broken one.

What the hell was I even trying to prove?

That I wasn’t scared?

That I still mattered?

That something wild could still look at me and see its equal?

All I got was more bruises and the silent judgment of the only man who gave enough of a damn to save me from myself.

I limped past the empty trough and leaned on a post until the nausea passed.

My hands shook.

Not from fear. Not really.

From shame.

Because part of me wanted that moment — wanted the charge, the fury, the crash.

Wanted to be needed by something too wild to tame.

And now?

Now I just felt hollow.

Still breathing.

Still not healed.

And every step away from that pen felt like walking backward into myself.

Chapter Text

Woke quiet.

Pain didn’t scream this time — just hummed. Low and steady. Like a background tune I’d been hearing so long I almost forgot it was playing.

I stretched slow, letting my bones complain in peace. Hip gave a grumble. Ribs echoed with a low, dull throb. The one high on my side still felt like a cracked fencepost in a windstorm. The one on my hip had a spread to it — mountainous. Could trace its outline with a finger like I was mapping the Rockies. The bruise on my ribs was more of a fault line. No tectonic plates involved, just dumb decisions and one very pissed-off colt.

Seamus hadn’t said much since that day. Not that I blamed him. I hadn’t said much either.

We were doing that mutual silent treatment where nobody’s winning but we’re both too stubborn to fold.

And I hadn’t gone near the colt since. Not even close. Not even a glance when I crossed the yard.

But Scarlet?

Scarlet was safe. Scarlet didn’t judge. Scarlet didn’t look at me like I was something pathetic.

She was a damn horse, sure. But she was mine.

I found her standing in the back paddock, half in shadow, one ear flicked toward the barn. She looked at me like I was late. Like I’d said I’d be by earlier and she’d been patiently waiting while the world spun without her.

Didn’t bother with a saddle. Didn’t need one.

Bridle stayed on the wall. I grabbed the halter and a long rope — nothing fancy, just enough to say this ain’t work. This ain’t anything but the wind and a little space.

Scarlet watched me limp up with that expression only mares can manage — half patience, half suspicion, all knowing. I rubbed her shoulder, felt the twitch of muscle under my fingers.

“Don’t throw me today,” I muttered. “I’ll snap like a damn wishbone and you’ll have to explain it to Seamus.”

She blinked.

Close enough to a promise.

Getting up was a two-step process involving gritted teeth, a lot of hissing, and a creative curse or two. My hip pulled hard when I swung the leg over. My ribs pinched when I settled. Everything else just sort of whined in sympathy.

Scarlet waited.

Then, when I was finally still, she walked.

We didn’t go far. Just out past the ranch’s edge, where the fields got bigger and the sky opened up a little. Air smelled like cut hay and dry earth. Wind found its way through my braid and pulled loose strands free.

The rope was slack in my hand.

I let Scarlet choose her pace. We weren’t in a hurry.

Wasn’t sure what I was chasing anyway — comfort, maybe. Punishment, more likely.

The way I’d been acting lately, it was hard to tell the difference.

Hell, maybe I was turning into that damn colt. All fire, no direction. Wound tight with nowhere to go.

I thought about him .

How he rode. How Scarlet had listened to him like he spoke her language. Calm. Centered. Quiet as a creek at dawn. Nothing in him shouted.

And me?

I was all shout.

No wonder the colt didn’t trust me.

Seamus hadn’t yelled after the pen incident. He hadn’t needed to.

His silence said enough.

Still, it stung more than if he’d lit into me. At least yelling means someone thinks you’re worth hollering at.

Clearing opened up near the fence line. I slid down from Scarlet, landing rough. My body called me an idiot again. I ignored it.

Found a few empty cans in the grass. Couple bottles, half-buried in weeds. Propped them up on the fence rail.

Revolver came out of the holster slow. My hand still remembered how, even if my side objected.

I held Scarlet’s rope in my left hand, gun in the right.

First shot? Wide.

Second? Clipped the grass.

Third? Might’ve scared a bird.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.

Scarlet flicked an ear.

I took a breath. Re-centered. Felt the ache in my ribs and used it as ballast. Let the world slow a little.

Next shot hit.

So did the one after.

Not perfect. But better.

I mounted back up and tried again. Shooting from horseback ain’t just about aim — it’s about rhythm. Balance. Trust in the animal beneath you.

Scarlet was steady.

My hips? Less so.

Each shot jostled something tender, but I kept on. Gritted my teeth. Found my line. Let the sound of the revolver fill the quiet instead of my thoughts.

The last chamber clicked empty.

I sat there.

Scarlet stood calm.

My hand fell to my thigh, gun still warm.

I wasn’t healed.

But I was here.

Still here.

Scarlet whickered soft, like she was agreeing with something I hadn’t said aloud.

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered. “Let’s get back before somebody thinks I fell off again.”

We turned slow toward the ranch. Grass whispered under her hooves. The sun had risen higher, casting long shadows behind us.

But just before the barns came into view, I tugged the rope gently and stopped her.

Looked back.

Toward the clearing.

Toward the field.

Toward something I wasn’t ready to name.

Didn’t say much. Just a breath, half a word, maybe a promise.

Didn’t even know who I was talking to.

The colt.

The wind.

Myself.

Then I clicked my tongue and gave Scarlet a nudge.

And we disappeared down the slope like we’d never stopped at all.

Chapter Text

Left camp early. Sky wasn’t even colored yet, just a bruised kind of gray.

I was already saddling Branoc when Hosea stepped up behind me with a quiet grunt and the creak of old knees. He held his coffee like it was his last possession in the world.

“You’re up early,” he said.

I shrugged. “So are you.”

“Difference is, I got a reason.” He took a sip. “Got wind of a new fence out past Emerald Ranch. Might be worth checking.”

I nodded. “Alright.”

That was it. No questions, no fuss. Just grabbed my rifle and swung into the saddle like I’d been waiting on the invite.

Hosea raised a brow. “Well now, aren’t you eager.”

I didn’t answer. Just nudged Branoc into motion and let the morning do the talking.

He followed without another word. But I felt his eyes on me.

Sun came up slow behind us, lighting the hills in soft gold. We rode in that kind of half-quiet Hosea liked—room enough for thought, but not so much silence it got heavy.

He tried to fill it.

“Dutch is talking about money again. Wants to make more money.”

I grunted. “Course he does.”

“Plans to rob a bank, like it owes him money personally. Swears it’ll be easy.”

“Then we’re in real trouble.”

Hosea chuckled, but it was thin. He glanced sideways at me.

“You been quiet lately.”

I didn’t answer.

He tried again. “Emerald Ranch’s changed since the last time I passed through. New barns. More hands. Might be a good spot for business.”

“Maybe.”

We rode another stretch in quiet. Then:

“Alright, son,” Hosea said, his voice soft but sharp. “What’s eatin’ you?”

I didn’t look at him. “Nothin’. Just tired.”

“You been ridin’ like a man with something stuck in his teeth for weeks. And it ain’t Dutch, though Lord knows he’s irritating enough.”

I shrugged again. “Maybe it is Dutch.”

Hosea gave a long breath through his nose. “Uh huh.”

Didn’t press it. Not yet. Just let his horse match mine, watching the road ahead like he wasn’t really watching me.

Then, after a beat:

“This got anything to do with that redheaded girl I heard about?”

That earned him a look.

He met it, brows up. Innocent as sin.

“What redhead?” I muttered.

“Oh, I don’t know. The one who chased a bounty down the Dakota with you. The one who got the boys talking about copperhead in the form of a woman. That redhead.”

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

He saw the stiff in my shoulders. The pause. That was enough.

His tone changed. Less teasing now.

“Same one from Valentine?”

I nodded once. “Sheriff called her Lane. Might be Cass—Cassandra, maybe. I ain’t sure.”

Hosea tilted his head, eyes thoughtful. “Lane. Hm.”

“In town, Amos called her Copper.”

That stopped him.

Hosea hummed, real low. Thoughtful, like he’d just picked up the corner of a puzzle piece.

“Copper, huh?”

I waited, but he didn’t say more right away. Just shifted in his saddle, chewing over something in that sharp old brain of his.

“I’ve heard stories,” he said finally.

I looked over. “What kind?”

He didn’t meet my eye.

“Saloon talk. Bits and pieces. Hard to say. You know how names travel.”

“But you think it’s her.”

“I think,” Hosea said slowly, “that if it is, you oughta be careful.”

I frowned. “Why’s that?”

“She’s been on her own a long time. Doesn’t stick. Doesn’t stay. Doesn’t trust easy.”

I gave a quiet snort. “Ain’t news to me.”

He nodded. “Figured.”

Branoc shifted beneath me, ears flicking at a crow overhead. Hosea’s horse kept steady pace beside us, like the two beasts had settled into some quiet agreement of their own.

“You ever meet her?” I asked after a minute.

“No,” Hosea said. “But I’ve met women like her.”

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Ones who’ve been through more than they say. Ones who keep their claws sharp and their vulnerability locked up. Never for no reason.”

I didn’t answer that either.

Didn’t have to.

He watched me a second longer, then let it go. Didn’t push. Hosea never did unless he had to.

The road curved through a shaded patch of birch. Light flickered like it was blinking between branches. Quiet, save for the breeze and our horses’ steps.

Then, Hosea asked — careful this time, but not idle:

“So… what exactly happened, back there? With that bounty?”

I shot him a glance.

He kept his eyes forward, but the question hung there anyway.

“I know he dragged her into the river. But I don’t know how bad it was. You never said.”

I hesitated. Then finally gave the truth of it, low and even.

“Bastard tried to jump the water. I had him once, but he slipped free. Took her with him.”

Hosea’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“She hit hard,” I said. “Didn’t scream. Didn’t flail. Just... went down. Next thing I saw, she was draggin’ him up onto the rocks herself.”

He exhaled. Quiet, steady.

“You said she was alright, was she?”

“She didn’t look it. She just—” I paused, trying to find the right shape for it. “She knelt at the river’s edge. Breathing like she was trying not to shoot him right there. Hat in her hand like it was the only thing keepin’ her steady.”

Hosea hummed again. No judgment in it. No surprise, either.

“That sounds like her,” he said softly.

We let the rest go unsaid.

Emerald Ranch came into view like a painting. Fences neat, barns tall and proud, early smoke curling from chimneys. A rooster called somewhere behind the main house.

We rode in slow.

Hosea gave a low whistle. “Place’s grown up.”

I didn’t answer. Just scanned the yard.

Paddocks were quiet. Couple horses moving slow in the distance. Barn doors cracked open, shadows shifting inside.

My eyes searched without thinking — checking corners, checking stalls. Looking for red hair. A familiar mare. A shadow I knew better than I had any right to.

Didn’t see her.

Not yet.

Branoc snorted beneath me, his ears flicking like he caught something I hadn’t.

I sat straighter in the saddle.

Hosea said nothing.

We crossed the yard slow.

And I kept looking.

Chapter Text

Every damn step was a handshake with hell.

Scarlet’s hooves clipped slow across the packed dirt, each one landing like a personal insult to my spine. Breathing hurt. Sitting hurt. Existing was a goddamn punishment.

She moved careful beneath me—like she knew. Of course she did. Scarlet always knew.

I leaned forward just enough to take the pressure off, hand in her mane, jaw clenched so tight I could feel my pulse in my teeth. To anyone watching, maybe I looked focused. Stoic. Determined.

Truth was, I was one pothole from throwing up.

Didn’t stop me, though. Nothing would.

Not after what I saw tied out front.

Two horses. One wiry and light-footed, standing with the patience of a seasoned trail beast. Probably belonged to whoever. But the other?

Big. Rugged. Built like a damn church pew.

I’d know him anywhere.

“That’s Cowboy’s horse. Son of a bitch. Of course he’s here.”

My fingers slid near the butt of my revolver before I caught myself.

Not today.

Not yet.

I kept my eyes ahead and guided Scarlet toward the barn, shoulders stiff, pain threading sharp beneath the surface with every rock of her stride. The sun was climbing now, bleaching the fences and baking the yard. Buzzing heat, distant birdsong, somewhere a hammer tapping. It all sounded too calm for the irritation bubbling in my gut.

Then I saw them.

Seamus looked up first. Always watching, that one. Next came Cowboy, turning like he’d already felt me before he saw me. And beside him, and Older Man.

Didn’t recognize him. Didn’t like him.

He had a calm way of standing, like a man used to conversations where he says the least but learns the most. His eyes tracked me in slow appraisal, not unkind—but not naive, either.

Great. An audience.

Scarlet halted near the barn. I slid down slow, and the second my boots hit the ground, my side lit up like someone lit a match under my ribs. I hissed sharp between my teeth, steadying myself with her wither.

Seamus took a step forward, already scowling.

“This don’t concern you, Copper,” he said, voice firm.

I straightened—slow, but straight. Ignored the way my hip nearly buckled.

“You think I can’t ride?” I asked.

His mouth thinned.

Go on. Say it. Tell me I can’t. I dare you. Say it and I’ll saddle Scarlet blindfolded and gallop backwards just to prove you wrong.

The Older Man glanced between us. “Well now,” he said lightly, “she’s not short on spirit.”

I shot him a look. “Don’t need your commentary, old man.”

Cowboy muttered something under his breath—sounded suspiciously like “she’s always like this.”

Seamus raised a hand. “Copper—”

“No.” I stepped forward, jaw locked. “You hand off jobs behind my back now? That it?”

He stiffened. “You weren’t well enough. I didn’t think you’d be ready.”

“So you decided for me.”

“It wasn’t—”

“You handed off my job,” I cut in, sharp and low. “Bob Crawford. You think I wouldn’t find out?”

The Older Man shifted, brows lifting slightly. “Crawford, huh. That name rings familiar.”

I ignored him.

Seamus exhaled, slow. “You were laid up. I figured—”

“You figured wrong.”

There it was—too loud, too honest. My voice cracked at the end. Just barely. But enough.

I masked it fast with a crooked, too-tight smile. I could feel the damn blood flushing into my ears. Shame, bitter and hot.

So that’s how it is. Step outta the ring for one second and they think you’re out for good.

No one said anything for a breath too long.

The Older Man cleared his throat, eyes still on me. “She’s ridin’ now, isn’t she?”

Seamus didn’t answer.

“I’ve seen men do less with more excuses,” he added, like he was just tossing observations into the wind.

“Don’t need you speakin’ for me, Old Man,” I muttered.

He gave the faintest smile. “Wasn’t.”

I glanced between them—Seamus with his arms crossed, the Old Man all quiet calculation, and Cowboy... not saying a damn word. Just watching. That unreadable way he had, like he’d already decided something but wasn’t gonna let anyone in on it yet.

I turned toward Scarlet, tugging gently on the reins.

“Where you going?” Seamus called behind me.

“To get ready.”

“You don’t have to—”

I stopped, looked back over my shoulder.

“Don’t I?”

The loft was a furnace. It always was. I used to like the heat up there. Used to find it comforting. Felt like a place to sharpen your bones, sweat out the fear, get your head straight.

Today it just felt cruel.

Climbing was agony. I bit down so hard I tasted copper. Every rung was a curse.

By the time I got to the top, I was seeing black spots. Had to brace against the wall and wait for my breath to catch up with me.

Corset. Blouse. Gunbelt. Coat.

Might as well’ve been armor. And I was trying to wear it over wounds.

Stupid damn garment. Whoever invented these should be buried alive in one.

It took me three tries to get the corset halfway straight. Four to lace it. My hands were slick with sweat, arms shaking. I cursed the entire history of women’s fashion, then cursed my own pride louder.

Finally—belt slung low on my hips, coat shrugged over aching shoulders—I looked like someone ready to rob a stagecoach.

Even if it felt like my ribs were stitched together with barbed wire.

Scarlet nickered soft as I led her out. She smelled the resolve on me, same way she smelled fear. I dragged a little—couldn’t help it. My limp wasn’t hiding itself today.

Didn’t matter.

They wanna doubt me? Fine. I’ll show ’em how a crippled outlaw handles a goddamn stagecoach.

I tightened Scarlet’s girth. Checked my guns. Let the silence stretch before I turned and walked her toward the barn again.

Cowboy was still out front.

So was the Old Man.

Seamus stepped out to meet me halfway, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed.

“You really think this is smart?”

“Nope.”

“You look like death.”

“Then death better move over,” I snapped.

He didn’t smile. But the Old Man gave a low chuckle behind him.

“You always this friendly?” he asked me.

“Only to people I like.”

He glanced at Cowboy. “She like you?”

Cowboy didn’t answer. But there was something in his look that made the Old Man’s brow go up.

Seamus sighed and shook his head.

“Fine,” he muttered. “You want back in? You got it. But if you collapse halfway through—”

“I won’t.”

“—and if you so much as hesitate—”

“I won’t. ”

He held my gaze a moment longer, then gave a reluctant nod.

“Be ready then. It’s a short haul, but we gotta move it clean.”

I gave a slow nod, hand firm on Scarlet’s reins.

“Try not to kill each other before we even leave,” the Old Man said dryly.

I didn’t promise him anything.

Chapter Text

Didn’t mean to stare.
Really didn’t.

But the second she walked out that barn, dressed in black and storm-eyed, the world went a little quieter.

She moved like she was in pain. Not that most folks would’ve noticed—but I’d seen enough busted ribs and bad hips to know what I was lookin’ at. Every step pulled a thread somewhere deep. But she held it together. Walked like she was built from the same stuff as old revolvers—reliable, worn in, dangerous if you didn’t respect it.

Don’t look. Don’t be stupid.

I looked.

Couldn’t help it. That coat flared behind her like it had its own goddamn opinions. Black duster, black shirt tucked just enough to draw the eye, gunbelt snug at her hips, legs moving tight and precise beneath those chaps. Nothing flashy. No sway. Just control. Like a fuse walking around, waiting for the wrong spark.

She didn’t strut. She didn’t flirt. Hell, she didn’t even try . But there was something about the way she moved—angry and coiled up, like a threat with good posture.
And yeah. I thought she was pretty.
Not soft, not delicate. Not the kind of pretty that bats lashes or twirls a parasol.
She was the kind that made you check your holster first. The kind that left a mark whether you wanted it or not.

Pain hadn’t dulled her. If anything, it just made the edge sharper.

A walking storm.

And every piece of iron strapped to her only made it worse.

My gaze drifted to Scarlet.

That damn horse looked like she could trample a cavalry line and ask for seconds. Bear pelt draped across her back like a war banner, twin rifles tied down neat, shotgun nestled in tight, saddlebags full to the seams.

Symmetry. That’s what it was. Lane and that mare looked like two halves of the same weapon.
Loaded.
Dark.
Still.
And just a little too elegant to be fair.

Not just a gunwoman, I thought. She’s ready for war.

“You keep starin’ like that, son, you’re gonna sprain something,” Hosea muttered beside me.

I blinked, shifted my stance. “Ain’t starin’. Just… observin’.”

“Uh-huh.” He sounded amused. “She got a certain presence about her, doesn’t she?”

I didn’t answer. Not right away.
Then—quiet—“Yeah. She does.”

He gave a low chuckle. “You always go for the dangerous ones?”

“Who says I’m goin’ for anyone?”

“I’ve seen that look, Arthur. That’s the same one you had in Blackwater when you were lookin’ at that banker’s wife.”

“That was different.”

“That woman had a wedding ring and a temper.”

I sighed. “This ain’t the same.”

“No,” Hosea said, gaze tracking Lane as she moved to the mare’s side. “This one might actually shoot you instead of yellin’.”

“She’d do it clean,” I muttered, almost to myself.

Hosea looked at me sideways. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

He smirked. “Sure you don’t.”

She stepped up into the stirrup and mounted without help. It wasn’t graceful—but it was damn sure determined. Her breath caught sharp in her throat, and her jaw set so tight I thought I heard her teeth grind. Still, she got up.

Sat tall, even if her ribs weren’t playin’ nice.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t complain. Just adjusted her seat and let the reins fall between her fingers like she was ready to command a cavalry.

She turned her mare toward us, face unreadable.

“We ride now, we arrive at dusk,” she said, voice flat and clear. “We hit the stable first. Then the house. Quick, quiet, clean. No casualties unless they give us no choice.”

She paused. Her gaze flicked between the three of us.

“And we do it my way. Or not at all.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Just turned the mare toward the trail like it was already settled.

I swung into my saddle, boots slipping into the stirrups smooth as breath. Branoc shifted under me—solid, patient, watching the mare ahead like he’d just remembered what competition smelled like.

Hosea mounted slower, joints creaking but steady. He didn’t take his eyes off Lane.

“Not sure whether I’m impressed or worried,” he muttered under his breath.

“Little of both, probably.”

“Mm.” Hosea clicked his tongue. “You know who she reminds me of?”

“Who?”

“Me. When I was still stupid.”

I gave a soft snort.

“She’s not stupid.”

“No,” Hosea said, settling into his saddle. “She’s just got something to prove. That’s always the dangerous kind.”

Seamus stood back by the door, arms folded, face unreadable. Didn’t say a word as we passed.

Didn’t need to.

She never looked back.

Just rode forward, like everything behind her was already dead and buried.

We followed her out past the yard fence. Dust kicked low under her mare’s hooves, and she didn’t so much as flick an ear back at the sound of the others. Not outta fear. Not even outta caution. Just didn’t care. She was locked in on the trail ahead, same as her rider.

The sun had started to dip behind the trees, spilling long shadows across the grass. Wasn’t full dark yet, but it was coming. That kind of late afternoon hush, where even the birds seemed to hold their breath.

Nobody said much at first. Lane kept a tight pace, steady but not rushed, and we kept formation without speaking. Hosea rode on my right. His horse wheezed under its breath with the rhythm of age, but it held the line fine. I caught him watching her a few times, eyes narrowed in that quiet, thoughtful way he had when he was sizing someone up.

“She ever say where she’s from?” he asked finally, low enough it wouldn’t carry.

“Nope.”

“Family?”

I gave a half-shake of my head. “Don’t ask. Don’t think she’d answer anyhow.”

“Mm.” Hosea looked ahead again. “That’s the thing about folks like her. The silence says more than the words ever could.”

The mare crested the next ridge and paused there for a moment, her silhouette cut sharp against the burn-orange sky. She turned slightly, just enough to glance back over her shoulder.

Not to check if we were keepin’ up.
More like she was makin’ sure we were still listening.

“You two gettin’ tired back there?” she asked, voice like dry whiskey.

“Just letting the queen lead the parade,” Hosea drawled.

Lane didn’t smile. But her eyes crinkled at the corners. Barely.

She turned back around and clicked her tongue once. The mare moved forward again, smooth as riverwater.

Hosea leaned closer to me. “You’re awful quiet.”

I shrugged. “Ain’t much to say.”

“No?” His brow lifted. “Not even about how she looked at you like she might shoot you and kiss you just to see which felt better?”

I scowled. “You’re full of shit.”

“I’ve been many things,” he said, “but rarely wrong.”

I didn’t reply. Just watched the way she moved in the saddle—controlled, clean, like her body was held together with tension wire. Even in pain, she made it look purposeful. She wasn’t fakin’ strength. She was forcing it.

Maybe that’s what I liked. That hard kind of beauty. The kind forged outta survival and grit.
Not pretty like a Sunday girl. Pretty like a struck match.

The mare’s tail flicked once as she led us off the ridge, down toward the treeline. The path narrowed, brush coming in tighter on either side. Birds flitted away ahead of us, the forest cooling with the sun’s retreat.

“Reckon we’ll have light left?” I asked.

“Barely,” Lane called back. “We’ll get into position before full dark. Ride clean, and we’re out before midnight.”

“And if we don’t ride clean?”

She didn’t answer for a moment.

Then: “Then we make it up as we go.”

Hosea smiled behind his reins. “That’s what I like to hear.”

We rode on.

And as the last of the sun dipped low behind the trees, I found myself watching the sway of her coat again, the way her spine never slouched—even when it probably should’ve.

Not weakness.
Not pride.

Just that same thing I’d seen in fighters before the bell rings.
That quiet promise of hell if you crossed the line.

Chapter Text

Every breath feels like chewing glass.

Ribs pulled tight beneath the bandages, each inhale like someone was draggin’ a file across bone. The ride didn’t help. Scarlet moved smooth, steady, but pain didn’t care about grace. Every jolt was a reminder. A grind. A curse whispered right under the skin.

I kept my back straight. Eyes ahead. Didn’t flinch. Not with either of the men behind me.

Couldn’t give ‘em that.

Couldn’t give me that.

Anger simmered in the ache. Fury at how slow I was healing, how the body I’d spent years sharpening like a damn weapon now felt like it had rusted overnight. I’d done everything right—rest, binding, stretches that made me want to spit nails—but it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

Not when it counted.

Sun was slipping lower now. Treeline thickening, trail narrowing. Stillness crept in—the kind that only comes when a job’s close and everything that ain’t the job starts to feel real damn far away.

“You ever seen a prettier evening?” The old man asked.

He came up beside me, calm as anything. Just... appearing. Like he’d wandered out of the dusk itself, reins slack in one hand and nothing but polite mischief in his tone.

I looked at him, sceptical. “You always talk weather before a heist?”

“Only with the quiet ones.”

I gave a soft, short snort. Didn’t want to smile—but my mouth twitched anyway.

“I’m Hosea,” he said after a beat.

That made my head tilt. Hosea.

I knew the name. Somewhere. Not recent. Not sharp. But it sat in the back of my mind like dust on a bottle.

I studied his face. Laugh lines, eyes that saw more than they let on. The kind of man who’d been underestimated one too many times—and survived because of it.

“Cassidy,” I answered. Then added, automatically, “But I go by Copper. Most days.”

Old habits. Don’t hand out your real name unless you mean to bury it after.

He just nodded like that meant somethin’. Didn’t push. Didn’t prod.

Scarlet slowed near the trees, her gait adjusting like she sensed the plan before I gave it. I shifted my weight—mistake. Pain flared down my ribs like lightning on raw nerves. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.

Hosea looked over but said nothing.

Smart.

I lifted a hand, signalling them both to slow as the homestead came into view.

The Crawford place sat tucked into the bend of a field, half-shadowed now by the slope behind it. Light burned behind one window—faint orange glow flickering like candlelight. Stables sat off to the right, fencing low, gate open. Smoke curled from the chimney. Peaceful, almost. Deceptively so.

Scarlet halted on my cue. I slid down stiffly, boots thudding into dirt. Tried to make it look smooth. Failed.

Reached into the saddlebag, pulled out my cloth-wrapped binoculars and an old kerchief, then made for a rock flat enough to brace on.

Settled down—slow, like a woman easing into a bath of broken glass. Propped my elbows. Held my breath. Peered through the scope.

Two inside. One moving. One seated. Lamplight flashed off what might’ve been a pistol on the table. No sign of others. Yet.

The barn was darker. But a shape moved past the side window—someone sweeping or checking stalls. Stablehand, maybe. Or maybe not.

I watched longer. Timed the rhythms.

Then I turned back, squinting at the figures behind me. The two men were murmuring, heads close.

“Coach is along the west wall,” I said, voice low but sharp enough to cut through thought. “I’ll stay here. Cover you on exit.”

They both looked over.

“Hosea,” I added, “take the long way. Walk both horses around the east slope. Trees’ll give you cover.”

He raised a brow. “You trust me with both?”

“No. But I trust you not to screw up.”

That got a smile out of him.

“And them?” Cowboy asked, nodding to the house.

“You’re up,” I said. “If you’re brave enough.” 

He gave a tight nod.

I stood. Pain flared again—white and biting. I staggered slightly, hand clutching my side.

“Don’t fall apart now,” I hissed under my breath.

Scarlet was still. Watchful. I made it back to her and pulled the rifle free from the holster. Loaded it one round at a time. Slow. Precise. My hands were steady. Everything else felt like it was made of splinters and wire.

I climbed the rise near the treeline and went prone, scope braced against my coat. The world narrowed to a circle of glass.

They moved.

Hosea slipped out wide with the horses, weaving through shadow and low brush, calm as you please. He took his time. Smart. His gait wasn’t fast—but it was quiet.

Cowboy crept toward the house. Weight balanced. Focused. He paused under the porch shadow, hand drifting near his sidearm. Then he vanished inside.

The minutes stretched.

Then—

The barn doors slammed open.

Coach wheels hit the dirt hard, wooden frame groaning as Cowboy hauled it out fast, reins tight in his fists. Hosea broke into a run beside it, grabbing the side rail and swinging up just as it cleared the stables.

That’s when I moved.

Or tried to.

Gunfire cracked from the house—first one shot, then two. Yelling spilled out after it, voices raised, frantic.

I scrambled down the slope, rifle half-slung, legs stiff. My ribs screamed.

“Shit—”

Scarlet tossed her head, sensing my panic. I stumbled the last few steps to her. Another gunshot cracked too close. The coach was already turning down the bend, Arthur and Hosea vanishing into the treeline.

I grabbed the saddlehorn.

Pain shot through my side, bright and dizzying.

Tried to lift my leg.

My boot caught the stirrup wrong. Slipped.

My body didn’t move right. Arms locking, breath too shallow to pull.

Another gunshot. Bark splintered near my head.

I ducked, heart hammering. Scarlet danced sideways, eyes wide with fear. I gripped the reins tight, grounding her, grounding myself, but I couldn’t breathe—couldn’t get up.

Couldn’t leave.

Couldn’t move fast enough.

More shouting. Someone at the porch now. A shape raising a rifle.

Scarlet backed up half a step, confused.

“Come on,” I breathed, voice trembling more than I liked.

I wasn’t scared of dying. Not really.

But I was scared of her getting hit.

Of leaving her behind.

Gunfire lit up again, this time wild and ragged. I flinched.

Still not in the saddle.

Still not moving.

Just me and the mare and the dust—caught in the space between run and ruin.

Chapter Text

The coach rumbled hard beneath me, wheels biting into the trail like it owed them money. I had the reins in a white-knuckled grip, jaw tight, eyes fixed on every twist and branch like they might jump out and take a piece off the horses. They moved fast, spurred by the gunfire we’d left behind—ears twitching, breath loud. Hosea rode beside me on the bench, calm in the way only a man who’s been shot at more times than he’s had birthdays can be.

He glanced back again. Second time in as many minutes.

Didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

I’d already looked back three.

The trail twisted sharp through the trees. I guided the team steady around the bend, but my gut pulled hard in the other direction. That silence behind us… it wasn’t right. I could feel it pressing in. Thick. Heavy. Wrong.

She should’ve been here by now.

“She’ll be fine,” Hosea said, finally. Soft. Like he meant it to soothe.

Didn’t help.

“Don’t mean I leave her,” I snapped.

It came out harder than I meant. Too fast. Too loud.

Hosea looked over at me. Long, quiet look. One brow raised just a little, like he was seeing more than I wanted to show.

Then he nodded. Once. Slow. Respectful.

Didn’t press.

Didn’t have to.

We cleared the next ridge and I hauled back on the reins, dragging the coach to a sharp stop. The horses whinnied in protest, dust kicking up around their legs.

“What’re you—” Hosea started, but I was already climbing down.

Tossed the lines off. Stepped to Branoc. Unhitched him like I’d done it in my sleep—which I practically had, most nights. Checked the straps, adjusted the harness, cinched a few straps with a pull hard enough to sting my shoulder.

Hosea watched, arms crossed. “Arthur. We’ve got the goods. Don’t waste it.”

“I’ll catch up.”

A beat.

“You always had a soft spot for the lost ones,” he murmured.

That one landed.

But I didn’t answer. Just swung up onto Branoc’s back and turned him with my knees. He knew where we were going before I asked.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t need another look from Hosea telling me I’d gone soft.

Branches clawed at my sleeves as we cut back toward the Crawford place. The wind slapped my face, cold and fast. I ducked low, letting Branoc run, heart hammering like a second set of hooves in my chest.

Where is she.

Where is she.

Goddammit, where is she.

The world shrunk to that.

No gunfire. No smoke. No screaming. Just that hollow, brittle kind of quiet you only get after something breaks.

I spotted Scarlet first.

Wide field, grass bent under wind and dusk.

She stood alone. No Cassidy. Just reins trailing in the dirt like a question mark.

Branoc slowed beneath me, sensing the shift in my posture. I swung down and moved careful, leading him forward slow, like we were walking into a trap.

“Where is she, girl?” I whispered, my voice barely carrying past the grass.

Scarlet whickered, low and uneasy.

Didn’t bolt.

Didn’t approach.

Just stood watch.

Then I saw it.

Through the brush near a fallen tree, something shifted.

Not a deer. Not a shadow.

Her.

Lying half in the dirt, pressed into the roots like she belonged there. Motionless. One hand on her ribs, the other buried in leaves.

Two men paced nearby—rifles slung, steps sharp with frustration. They didn’t see her. Not yet. But they were close. Too close.

Cassidy didn’t breathe. Or if she did, she hid it well.

I slipped behind a rock, crouched low, revolver loose in my hands. Watched. Waited.

One of the men kicked at a log. “She couldn’t’ve gotten far.”

The older one cursed under his breath. “She was right here— like a stuck pig. Ain’t no way she vanished.”

“She must’ve had help.”

He swore again, angrier. “You check that damn gully. I’ll sweep the fence line again.”

They split off.

I stayed still, countin’ their footfalls until they disappeared into the woods.

Cassidy stayed still longer.

Then she exhaled.

Not relief. Not really. Just... survival letting go of the chokehold for a second.

She moved to sit up, hand trembling as it pressed against her ribs. Her face was pale under the dirt. Eyes glassy. She was shaking. Not from fear.

Pain.

I stepped out from the trees slow.

“You alive?”

She opened one eye. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile. Didn’t answer.

That was a yes.

I crouched beside her, hand outstretched. “Come on.”

She looked at the hand like it’d insulted her. Then used the log instead, dragging herself up with a hiss and a grimace.

Her knees buckled.

I caught her by instinct—hands at her waist, steadying her before she hit the dirt.

She didn’t thank me.

She did scowl, though.

Pride. Always the first thing to show up, even when everything else was broken.

“Why’re you still here?” I asked, quiet.

No answer.

Just limped past me toward Scarlet like she had someplace better to be than six feet under.

I followed.

Didn’t say a word.

She reached the mare, hands braced on the saddle. Stared at it like she might will herself up there.

Then looked at me.

One long look.

No shame. No plea. Just... grit.

I stepped forward. Hands light. Gentle. Gripped her hips and lifted her up slow, careful.

She didn’t curse, but the hiss through her teeth was close enough.

Settled into the saddle like a woman stitched together by stubbornness and will alone.

We didn’t speak on the ride back.

Didn’t have to.

Her jaw stayed clenched, body slumped but upright. The kind of posture that says don’t help me unless you want to bleed too.

We rode side-by-side through the trees, moonlight dripping silver over the brush. Our shadows stretched long across the trail, touching but not tangled.

I stole a glance at her once.

Wanted to say something.

Didn’t.

Didn’t need to.

Let the quiet ride speak instead.

By the time we reached the ridge above Emerald, the lights below looked warm and far-off. Almost peaceful.

I slowed Branoc, glancing over.

She didn’t look at me.

Just muttered, voice low, dry as dust:

“Don’t make a habit of rescuin’ me.”

Didn’t have the heart to tell her I already had.

Chapter Text

Wasn’t supposed to end like that.

Wasn’t supposed to need saving.

And yet here I was, slumped like a sack of regrets in the saddle, ribs screaming with every step Scarlet took. My spine felt like it’d been scraped raw, nerves frayed down to wire. Eyes fixed dead ahead. Not lookin’. Not talking. Not acknowledging the man ridin’ beside me like a silent shadow.

Pain does funny things. Makes the night too loud and the thoughts louder.

Scarlet moved steady beneath me, bless her stubborn heart. But I could feel it—how close she was to coming apart under me. Just like her damn rider.

She’d stopped cold when I threw the reins over her neck.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t bolt.

Just stood there, confused, ears swiveling back at me.

I’d slapped her flank with my hat, teeth grit against the fire in my ribs. “Go,” I’d rasped, and she finally did—bolted for the horizon like a shot, vanishing into the dark. Smart girl. Always listened better than people did.

I didn’t wait to see where she ran. Just turned and staggered. Each step like I was dragging splinters through my chest. Every breath a knife. Couldn’t run. Could barely walk. But I kept going.

Found a fallen log half-covered in brush and collapsed behind it like a prayer. Curled up like I was hiding from the world itself.

Could’ve kept running—if my ribs didn’t feel like kindling.

Could’ve fought—if I wasn’t already broken.

Instead I laid there, breath shallow, praying the pain would outpace the men chasing me.

Spoiler: it didn’t.

The stable lights cut through the night like judgment.

Cold. Bright. Unforgiving.

I didn’t look toward ‘em. Just rode in slow, Scarlet’s hooves soft on the packed earth. She was tired. I was wrecked. Felt like the air itself might split me in two.

Seamus stood by the fence, jaw tight. Hosea next to him, hat in hand, brows drawn low with quiet worry. His horse hitched to a nearby rail, Cowboy’s saddle gear was slung on a rail like it lived there.

Great. Everyone was home.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t trust myself to.

My boot hit the ground harder than it should’ve, pain jolting up through my spine like lightning. I kept my face blank, eyes on Scarlet as I loosened the cinch. My hands moved like they weren’t mine. Slow. Careful. Every gesture precise.

“Cassidy?” Hosea’s voice was gentle. Like he already knew the answer. “You alright?”

I didn’t stop moving. Just gave a curt shake of my head.

“Fine,” I muttered, which was the biggest lie I’d told all week.

Let that hang in the air a second before I turned and started toward the loft.

Behind me, Hosea called again, more casual this time:

“You alright too, Arthur?”

That made me stop.

Just half a step. Barely a pause. But my ears caught it.

Arthur.

I glanced back. He was already dismounting, slow and quiet, like he’d been riding behind a storm and didn’t wanna wake it.

Arthur.

Hosea.

Huh.

Each step up to the loft was white fire. The kind that stripped thoughts bare and burned the bones beneath.

I climbed them anyway. Not like I had anywhere else to go.

Dropped my coat near the wall. Peeled off my shirt with one arm like I was skinning a snake, careful not to scream when the fabric tugged my ribs. Boots followed. Gunbelt unbuckled with fingers that didn’t want to cooperate. Everything took twice as long. Everything hurt twice as much.

The second I sat down on the edge of the bedroll, the pain flared behind my eyes. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision.

Didn’t matter.

I had bigger things to think about now.

Arthur. Hosea.

Those names weren’t new. Weren’t strangers.

I’d seen them before.

Blackwater.

A few weeks back.

I’d passed through quick—didn’t plan to stay long. But I’d lingered just long enough to see the posters outside the sheriff’s office, flapping like grim little flags in the wind.

WANTED: Dutch van der Linde. Hosea Matthews. Arthur Morgan.

Faces worn from too much sunlight and not enough conscience. Dutch with those wild, too-bright eyes. Hosea’s quiet, weathered stare. And Arthur—

Yeah. That was him.

Even with the shadows of time and dirt, I remembered that jaw. That mouth always on the edge of frown or fight.

Of all the damn outlaws in this state, I rode next to him.

I rode beside him.

Trusted him, for half a breath, with my damn life.

Son of a bitch.

I laid back slow, body stiff with ache. The ceiling above the loft was dark, boards warped by years of dust and weather. I stared at it like it might offer answers.

It didn’t.

“Arthur Morgan. Hosea Matthews,” I whispered to the quiet.

Van der Linde Gang.

The ones from Blackwater. The ones the Pinkertons whispered about like a ghost story with guns. I hadn’t paid them much mind before. Didn’t need to. I kept my head down. Worked alone.

But now they were here.

Close.

And I—

I clenched my jaw, fingers curling over the edge of the blanket like I could anchor myself to the wood.

Well.

Ain’t that somethin’.

Chapter Text

Woke before the sun did.

Not sure what roused me. Maybe it was the pain — quieter now, like a dull blade instead of a fresh one. Maybe it was the ache behind my ribs, or maybe just habit. Either way, the loft was still cloaked in that pre-dawn hush, all grey-blue and ghostlit through the slats. Dust floating in the air like it didn’t know where else to go.

I stretched slow, inch by inch, cautious. Didn’t wanna wake anything that’d bite back. Bent forward, fingertips brushing my socks.

Hissed.
Grinned through it.

“Still kickin’,” I muttered. Sounded like a curse. Felt like a win.

The breath after hurt less than the one before. That was something.
Ain’t sayin’ it was easy — but the edges weren’t as sharp now. Just bruised and lingering. Like me.

For a blink, I thought about that tree.

The one I’d slumped against, roots like hands reachin’ up to drag me down. Thought for sure that’d be it. Thought I’d go quiet right there in the dirt, a memory no one’d bother missin’.

But the image was gone as quick as it came. I shoved it back into the dark like a bad tooth you ain't ready to pull. Not now. Not today.

I dressed in silence, shirt slid over tender skin, ribs wrapped tighter with each grunt. Took a knee to do my boots, teeth grit while my fingers worked the laces.

Braid got smoothed back like armour. Hat stayed off for now.

The ladder creaked under me as I climbed down — slow, stiff, every rung a quiet negotiation with my body. I reached the bottom and paused, one hand still curled around the wood.

Wasn’t alone.

Arthur was leaned against a post like he’d grown there, arms crossed, hat low over his eyes. Hosea wasn’t far, half-slumped on a saddle blanket like a man who’d done this a hundred times before.

I blinked once, then again.

Didn’t know they were stayin’.

Seamus hadn’t said anything. Neither had they. But hell — it was late when we rode in. Too late to go anywhere worth going.

Still. Seeing them here, asleep like they belonged — that sat strange in my gut. Like findin’ wolves curled up in your barn and callin’ it luck.

Two men with more blood on their hands than most rivers got. And yet there they lay — peaceful as church mice. Like the night hadn’t chewed us up and spit us out sideways.

I watched ‘em for a beat.

Could’ve walked past without a sound. Could’ve left ‘em to their dreams and regrets. But something in me stilled.

Not trust. Not warmth. Just recognition.
6Ghosts know ghosts.

The sun was just breakin’ along the horizon, soft and gold through the slats. I turned toward it.

Set my hat on my head.
Boots near silent on the dirt.

Didn’t look back.

The colt was already pacing by the time I reached the pen.

Kicking up dust, nostrils flared, ears pinned flat like the world had pissed him off and he hadn’t forgiven it yet. The lasso was still half-loose around his neck, a slap of rope he couldn’t shake.

He saw me.
I saw him.

Neither of us moved.

I climbed the rail slow, quiet, like I belonged there. Swung one leg over, then the other, settling on the top bar. Balanced. Watchful.

Lit a cigarette. First drag felt like it punched clean through my lungs, then settled somewhere behind my ribs.

Medicine.

Didn’t say a word. Just watched him move. Wild and angry and scared. Like something with its back to a wall.

Ain’t just fire in him. There’s fear.

Same as me, I guess.

He snorted hard, pawed the dirt. Eyes white around the edges. He didn’t like being looked at. Hell, I understood that too.

Suddenly he reared — high and violent, front legs slashing air. Tried to bolt.

But his back hoof caught on the rope, jerked him sideways. He jackknifed, almost hit the dirt. Caught himself last second and stumbled back upright, breath heaving.

I didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move a muscle.

Just watched the rise and fall of him, the fight in every tendon.

“Ain’t the fall that breaks you,” I muttered, mostly to myself. “It’s what don’t heal after.”

The smoke curled from my lips. Slow. Steady.

Got lost in it for a while.

The rhythm of him pacing. The smell of sweat and dust. Morning warming the air.

My ribs throbbed, but they didn’t own me. Not anymore.

I was thinkin’ — maybe he needed time. Maybe he just needed someone to see him. Not break him. Not tame him. Just see what he was.

Sound of boots behind me.

Slow. Measured.

Didn’t even need to look. Could feel it.

The quiet tension of a man who knew how to move without spooking a horse.

I flicked ash off the edge of the rail.

Didn’t turn ‘til I wanted to.

Arthur.

Hat low. Eyes watchful. Gait like someone walking beside a fire, not toward it.

Speak of the devil. Or maybe just a man with the devil behind him.

Didn’t say a word.

Just looked back at the colt. Let the cigarette burn low between my fingers.

If he wanted to speak, he could speak first.

Chapter Text

I heard her boots before I opened my eyes.

One step, then another — slow, but not dragging like they’d been. Stronger now. Determined. Sounded like someone relearning her own weight.

I kept still. Hat pulled low over my face, arms folded like I hadn’t moved in hours. Just listened.

Rung by rung, she climbed down the loft ladder. Careful. But not cautious the way folks are when they’re afraid of breaking. This was the kind of slow that meant she’d already broken — and stitched herself back together enough to move through it.

Tough girl.
Most folks would still be laid up, whinin’ about breathing too hard.

She hit the dirt floor soft — not a thud, not a stumble. Just… there.

I cracked one eye from under the brim. Watched her pause, hand on the ladder rail, eyes cutting across the barn like she was cataloging threats.

She looked at me. And Hosea. Didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Then she turned and walked out, boots near silent, dust rising behind her like a ghost was followin’.

I waited a beat. Maybe two.

Could’ve let her be. Probably should’ve. Ain’t my place.
But I was already sitting up.

Rubbed at the stubble on my jaw, stiff from sleep. Watched the barn door shift with the light where she’d slipped through it. Already gone.

I stood slow. Shoulders cracked loud enough to make me grimace. Too many nights sleepin’ like I was still twenty.

Let it go, Morgan, I told myself. Ain’t none of your damn business.

Still… my boots carried me out after her.

The sky outside was just startin’ to stretch itself awake. Pale gold creeping across the dirt, the kind of hush the world holds when it ain’t sure if it wants to breathe yet.

I spotted her up ahead, perched on the top rail of the colt’s pen like she’d been born there. Cigarette in one hand. Hat low. Back straight.

Still hurtin’. Still here.

She didn’t hear me come up — or maybe she did and didn’t care.

I stopped by the stable post, arms crossed, watching her from a distance.

She didn’t move. Neither did I.

The colt was pacing again, eyes rolling white, tail twitchin’ like a fuse about to catch fire. Mean little bastard, still tied up with too much rope and too little patience.

Cassidy watched him like she was seeing a reflection. Not just the fight in him — but the fear too.

I stayed there a moment longer than I meant to. Just taking her in.

There was something about the way she sat. Balanced. Like someone who wasn’t afraid of fallin’ anymore. Like the bruises just made the seat feel earned.

I stepped forward, slow. Careful not to crowd her.

Gravel crunched under my boots. That finally got her attention.

She didn’t look back — just tipped her chin a fraction, like she knew exactly where I’d stop.

I leaned on the rail beside her, one boot up on the lower rung. Close, but not close enough to spook her. Or the colt.

“Want that thing broke, huh?” I asked, voice low.

She didn’t answer.

I smirked anyway. Eyes on the colt.

“How the hell you gonna touch it, let alone ride it?”

Still no answer. But I caught the faintest twitch in her mouth — not a smile. Just a flicker. Like the idea amused her.

She shifted to dismount the rail.

My hand moved before I could think.

Not to grab her. Just… there. Steady. Open.

She took it without lookin’.

Her palm was warm. Rough. Familiar in a way I hadn’t earned.

She didn’t say thank you. Didn’t have to.

Something in that touch stuck longer than it should’ve. Like a match struck but not thrown. Didn’t matter how brief — I felt it.

She stepped down and turned back toward the pen, arms resting on the top rail again. I stayed beside her, gaze flicking between her face and that twitchy pile of fury inside the fence.

“How you plan to break it?” I asked, curious now.

She glanced up at me — real up. Had to tilt her chin to meet my eyes.

Didn’t realize how close we were ‘til then. She looked small next to me, but somehow didn’t feel it.

Stubborn set to her jaw. Fire in her eyes. That colt had it too. Proud and reckless, half-wild and ready to bite anyone who looked at ‘em too long.

Damn fool’s got fight in her.
More than most men I’ve known.

I let out a slow breath and rested one arm along the top rail, weight shifting easy. Something about it felt… comfortable. More than it should’ve.

There was a pause — longer now. The kind that hangs heavy with all the things neither of you are saying.

Like how she looked like she hadn’t slept properly in days. How her shoulders were still stiff, even when she tried to hide it. How that colt was the first thing she’d gone to this morning, even when her ribs probably screamed at her to stay put.

She was hurtin’, but she wasn’t hiding.

I could respect that.

She was watching me now — not guarded, but waiting. Like she was braced for the next doubt to come out of my mouth so she could shut it down before I finished the sentence.

I didn’t give her one.

Instead, I reached up slow — no rush, no pressure — and tilted her hat back just enough to see her eyes clear in the light.

Brown. Darker than most. Steady as hell.

“You want help with him?” I asked, voice soft.

She blinked. Once. Then again.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t spit some smart-ass line. Just looked up at me like I was speakin’ a language she hadn’t heard before.

No walls. No grin. Just her.

The colt behind us snorted, a sharp, hot breath through flared nostrils.

Neither of us flinched.

The air held still. Dust hung in the light like it was caught between falling and floating.

And her eyes — wide, watchful — stayed on me.

My question hung there between us.

No answer yet. Didn’t need one.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

His fingers barely grazed the brim, but it was enough to knock the damn air clean out of me.
Ridiculous, really. I’ve been shot at, thrown from a horse, damn near drowned in the Dakota — but apparently a man touching my hat is where my nerves draw the line.

And now there’s butterflies.
Ugly, fluttering things, beating their wings like they own the place. Unwanted. Uninvited.

Pull it together. It’s just a hat. Just him. Ain’t nothin’ worth lookin’ twice at.

My grip on the top rail tightens without me telling it to. The wood’s cold, rough under my palm, and that’s where I make myself focus — not the shadow of his arm as it passes mine, not the faint scrape of his thumb against the brim like he’s got any right.

I set my jaw, forcing my breathing into something steady. One inhale. One exhale. Mask back on.
No point lettin’ him see he’s rattled me.

I nod — once, slow. It answers his question, maybe, but mostly it’s to buy time.

I keep my eyes on the colt, because I don’t trust my voice yet.
The longer I stay quiet, the heavier the air gets — not bad heavy, just… close. Close in a way that makes me aware of too much.

I hear the faint shift of his weight on the rail, the slow grind of leather as his coat brushes wood.
The colt’s ears twitch toward him, not me, and I hate that more than I should.

Finally, I manage words. They come out steady, but softer than I meant. I hate that too.

I feel him more than I see him.
The difference in height when I finally flick a glance his way. The shadow that runs along the ground, cutting over my boots.
And then there’s the scent — leather, tobacco, and that faint edge of woodsmoke that clings like it’s got nowhere else to be.

What the hell’s wrong with you? You’ve been around men before. You’ve been around worse.

I drag my gaze back to the colt, but it doesn’t matter — I can feel my eyes giving me away. That tiny shift in my expression that I can’t pull back once it’s there.

“You think you could handle him?” I ask, slow.
It’s not really a question. It’s a challenge, sharp around the edges, just to see what he does with it.

He only grunts in reply. Not insulted. Amused.
The sound’s low and unhurried, the kind that stays in your ear.
He steps back just enough to give me space — not much, but enough I notice.

“You don’t think I could,” he says finally. Not a question, either.

“I think he’d eat you alive.”

That earns me the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe. But I ain’t so easy to chew.”

I tilt my head slightly, keeping him in the corner of my vision while I talk.
“I don’t force anything on a horse,” I say. “Never works. Not for long.”
The colt’s ear flicks toward my voice, tail twitching against his flank.

“You build a partner,” I add. “Not a slave. Anything else is just asking to get thrown.”

I say it like it’s the only way worth knowing — because it is.

He doesn’t argue. Just watches me.
It’s almost worse than if he’d interrupted — makes me feel like every word’s laid out on a table and he’s weighing them piece by piece.

“That how you are with people too?” he asks after a beat.

I glance at him. “People’re harder.”

“Harder to trust?”

“Harder to keep.”

That gets no comeback — just that steady blue-eyed look that makes me feel like I’ve already said too much.

The colt stamps the dirt, tossing his head hard enough to whip his own ears.
Dust rises in the morning light, drifting between us, catching in the crease of his shirt sleeve before it falls.

“You think he trusts you yet?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not yet. But he’s watchin’ me different.”

“Kinda like you’re watchin’ me,” he says, easy.

My mouth tightens. “You’re not near as dangerous.”

That gets him to huff a laugh, low in his chest. “Don’t be so sure.”

When he finally steps away, I think he’s gone.
Then I glance sideways and see he’s only shifted, leaning on the next post like he’s settling in.

I should tell him to go.
I should walk away myself.

But my boots stay planted, and the space between us feels like it’s holding something I can’t name.

It’s just a man. Just a damn question. Don’t make it more than that.

But my chest still flutters, traitorous as ever. And the faint trace of woodsmoke follows me long after I force my eyes back to the colt.

Chapter Text

I lean my elbows on the top rail, letting my weight settle like I got all the time in the world. Truth is, I’m watching her closer than I let on.

She’s got that steady look on the colt, but I catch it — that flicker when her eyes shift my way. Not soft, exactly, but something quieter. Like a door she don’t open much just creaked an inch.

There’s a pause before she speaks, the kind most folks wouldn’t notice. I do. Feels like she’s rolling each word around in her head, deciding if they’re worth letting out.

Ain’t often she slows her tongue.

It does something to my stomach I don’t care for, and I step half a pace away, pretending it’s just to stretch my legs.

She’s still looking at the colt when she says it — how horses ain’t slaves. How they’re partners. The way she says it’s got enough steel behind it to stop a man mid-step. Makes me wonder who taught her that, and how rough the lesson went.

I don’t ask. I just tuck it away.

“So,” I break the quiet, “how you want it done?”

She hesitates again — and lowers her voice, like the colt might get ideas if he hears. Says she’ll go in, grab the rope, and I can step in if she needs me.

I give her a long, slow look.
“Ain’t happenin’. You’re not goin’ in there hurt.”

Not a suggestion.

She straightens, chin tilting, meeting me square.
“That wasn’t me askin’ permission.”

“Good,” I say, “’cause I wasn’t givin’ it.”

Her mouth twitches like she’s weighing whether to bite back or not. Then she tries to slip past me toward the gate.

I plant my hand on it before she gets there. I’m not glaring, but I ain’t moving either.

“You done?” I ask, quiet.

She huffs, rolling her eyes like I’m the unreasonable one here.
“You act like I ain’t been in worse shape.”

“Probably have. Doesn’t mean you oughta make it worse.”

She folds her arms, eyes narrowing just a touch. “And if you get yourself kicked in the skull?”

“Then I’ll be the fool who earned it.”

That earns me a scoff. But finally, she lets out a breath — long, reluctant — and nods once.
“Fine. You walk in there. Try not to get killed. Grab the rope. Maybe pat him if you’re feelin’ brave.”

That gets me to smirk. I tip my head toward the colt.
“Easy as pie,” I mutter.

I swing the gate open slow, keeping my eyes on the colt as I step inside. He’s standing off near the far fence, ears pricked forward, watching me like he’s already measuring the distance to run me down.

“Morning,” I say under my breath, not that I expect him to care.

Two steps in and his ears flatten — sharp, fast — like I just told him something he didn’t like. His head dips a fraction, nostrils flaring.

I angle myself sideways, moving slow toward where the rope’s hanging on the ground.

Behind me, I hear her voice — low, dry.
“Yeah. Real easy.”

“Stay out there,” I call back without looking.

I make it three more steps before the colt shifts — weight forward, muscles bunching in his chest.

“Uh-huh,” I mutter, and reach for the rope.

That’s when he lunges.

It’s not a full charge — not yet — but enough that the dirt jumps under his hooves. His ears are flat to his skull, teeth bared just enough to show he’s thinking about it.

I don’t back up, but I keep my shoulders angled, my voice low.
“Alright now… ain’t lookin’ to take nothin’ from you. Just need this rope.”

He stomps once, tail flicking like a whip. My fingers close on the rope and I lift it slow, not jerking, not showing I’m ready to run.

Over my shoulder, I hear her murmur something I can’t quite catch — probably a bet on how fast I’m about to get flattened.

The colt takes another step in, close enough I can see the white ring around his eye. He’s not just watching me — he’s daring me.

“Yeah,” I say under my breath. “Pie, my ass.”

The colt shifts again, front hooves planting wide, head snaking toward me like he’s looking for a place to land teeth.

I keep my stance loose, rope coiled in one hand, the other low and open.
“You’re a handsome bastard,” I tell him, slow. “Mean lookin’, but handsome.”

From behind the rail, she snorts. “Flattery ain’t gonna save you.”

“Don’t hurt to try,” I call back.

I take one step to the side, keeping my eyes on his shoulder. He mirrors me, muscles rippling under a hide that’s still carrying the wild in it. His ears flick forward for half a second before pinning again — a fake-out.

Then he comes.

It’s fast — all four feet digging in and shoving off like he means to go through me, not around.

I sidestep hard, letting him blow past my hip. The rush of air and heat off him rattles the rope in my hand.

“Damn,” I mutter, straightening. “He’s got opinions.”

“Try ‘murderous intent,’” she corrects, leaning just far enough over the rail to watch. “You blinked first.”

“I did not.”

“You did. Right before you moved.”

I glance at her, deadpan. “That’s called not gettin’ trampled.”

The colt’s wheeled back around already, tail up, head tossing. He stomps again, dirt spraying, and gives me that wide-eyed look that says round two’s coming.

I adjust my grip on the rope, slow and deliberate.
“Alright, partner. You had your say. Now let’s try mine.”

I angle my body toward his shoulder again, stepping in just enough to make him shift his weight. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t lunge — not yet.

Cassidy’s voice drifts over the top rail, quieter now.
“He’s testin’ you. Wants to see if you’ll stand.”

I don’t answer, but I stay where I am, breathing even, rope dangling loose in my fingers. The colt snorts, one ear twitching toward me, the other still halfway pinned.

I ease a step closer, waiting for him to decide whether I’m worth the trouble.

“Easy,” I murmur. “Ain’t here to break you.”

For a second, he just stares, breathing hard. Then his head lowers a fraction — not much, but enough I can see it.

I don’t smile, don’t move faster. Just take the space he gave me, inch by inch, until I can lay the rope over my arm without him flinching.

Behind me, I hear her let out a slow breath she probably didn’t mean to.

“Pie,” I say under my breath, almost grinning now. “Told you.”

“Don’t get cocky,” she warns. “He’s still thinkin’ about killin’ you.”

“Yeah,” I admit, keeping my eyes on him. “But he’s thinkin’ about it less.”

Chapter Text

The colt’s mood snaps faster than a dry twig.
One second, he’s just standin’ there, ears flickin’ like he’s half-listenin’ to Arthur. Next, they pin flat, his neck snakes out, and he strikes — quick enough I hear the swish of air before Arthur’s already moving.

He sidesteps neat as you please, boots sliding, rope still in his hand. The colt spins on him before the dust even settles, this time with real heat behind him — teeth bared, shoulders driving forward.

I’m already at the gate, swinging it open just enough for Arthur to slip through without givin’ the colt a clean shot.

Arthur doesn’t run flat-out — not the panicked kind — just quick enough to make it out without tempting the bastard to follow. Soon as he’s clear, I throw my weight into the gate and slam it shut.

The colt hits it a heartbeat later.

The rails shudder like a struck bell, the sound sharp in my ears. My boots scrape back in the dirt, but I don’t go down — mostly ’cause an arm catches me. Solid. Warm. Smells like leather, dust, and a faint note of tobacco.

Arthur’s.

I meet his eyes for half a second. They’re steady, but close enough I catch the faint crinkle at the corners. Then I’m stepping away like nothing happened.

A laugh gets out before I can stop it.
“Guess he don’t like pie much,” I say, grinning without permission.

Arthur’s still catching his breath, smirking like he’s already expecting my mouth to run. So I give him more — hands up, eyes wide, mimicking that bug-eyed look he threw mid-charge.

“That’s you,” I tell him, widening my own eyes further, “right before you jumped.”

He shakes his head, muttering something I can’t catch, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s biting back a smile.

It’s enough to make me pull the reins on myself. Arms crossed, expression flattening. Don’t like how quick he gets a laugh out of me. Feels like it gives something away I’d rather keep.

I lean my elbows on the top rail, eyes fixed on the colt. He’s pacing now, tail flicking hard, ears dancing between us like he can’t decide who to be mad at first.

“You ready to try that again?” I ask, still watching the pen.

Arthur just nods. Quiet. Steady.

I step back as he swings the gate open. This time, I keep my mouth shut — maybe ’cause there’s something in the way he moves that makes me want to see how it plays out. His steps are measured, weight right, body angled — never timid, never pushy. That’s the kind of work you can’t fake.

He’s near the rope when the colt bolts into the air, rearing high, front hooves slicing the space between them before slamming down and spinning to buck past.

Arthur plants his boots, rope snapping taut, and turns the colt’s head just enough to stop the escape. It’s not a win, not fully — but it’s something.

My lips twitch, but I bite it back.

“Move him!” I call, low but sharp.

Arthur picks it up without question, sending the colt into a tight, angry circle. Dust puffs up, clinging to his boots, the muffled thud of hooves running under the rails into my bones. I lean forward a fraction, elbows on the wood, eyes fixed on every twitch in the colt’s muscles, every dart of his ears.

Bootsteps crunch behind me, slow and unhurried. Hosea.
He rests his hands on the top rail beside me, leaning just enough to see over without crowding my view. His voice comes low, easy.

“Don’t reckon he’s makin’ it easy on Arthur.”

“Wouldn’t be much point if he did,” I murmur, eyes fixed on the colt. His tail lashes once, head high, still circling.

Hosea chuckles under his breath. “You know, most folks woulda called it quits after seein’ him come at the gate like that.”

I don’t look at him. “Most folks don’t get much outta horses, then.”

“Mm. Guess not.” There’s a beat, his voice still easy but dipped in something more knowing. “You reckon Arthur any good at this?”

“He’s standin’ still, ain’t he?” I say.

That earns another quiet chuckle. “Fair enough.” His gaze flicks sideways — I can feel it — but I keep mine on the colt.

Arthur’s moving the horse tighter now, the rope keeping just enough pressure to hold his line. Hosea’s voice drops another notch, almost a whisper. “You’ve got an eye on more than just the horse, Copper.”

That tugs the corner of my mouth, but I keep it straight. “You talk like a man with too much time on his hands.”

He hums like he might press it, but doesn’t. Instead, we both watch as the colt’s head dips a fraction, his stride loosening. It’s not surrender, not yet — but it’s the closest we’ve seen.

Arthur eases him down from a lope to a trot, not rushing. I finally let a grin slip.

“Not bad,” I call. “Still think he’s sweet on you, though. That’s why he’s tryin’ to kill you slower.”

Arthur shakes his head, muttering, but I catch the faintest curve of his mouth. Not much — but it’s there.

Chapter Text

The colt’s ears flick with every step, shoulders rolling like he’s looking for an excuse to throw himself sideways.
I keep him circling, watching those ears more than his eyes. Shoulders tell you where he’s goin’ before his feet do. Ears tell you if he’s thinking about it.

Boots drag dust in a slow rhythm, rope running loose enough to give him room, tight enough to let him know I’m still here. He’s young, quick on his feet, and just as quick to take offence. Every little pull is a question. I’ve got to make sure the answer’s always the same: Nope. Try something else.

In my peripheral, there’s movement along the rail.
Cassidy.

She’s propped against a post beside Hosea, chin resting on a gloved hand. Hip cocked, one boot toe idly tapping the dirt. Looks relaxed, but her eyes track the colt like she’s counting every twitch, every flick of his tail.

Hosea says something low. She doesn’t look at him, but the corner of her mouth curves just enough to call it a smile—quick, almost like it slipped past her by mistake. Then it’s gone, face smoothing back into that unreadable thing she wears like armour.

I keep my attention on the colt, but part of me files that look away. Some expressions don’t just happen—they come from somewhere.

Breaking a green one’s mostly patience. Let him learn that bolting won’t work, bucking won’t work, spinning won’t work. Takes time for it to stick. And if you get impatient, he’ll remember that faster than anything else.

Cassidy shifts her weight on the rail, leaning forward just a fraction. It’s not much, but it’s the kind of lean that says she’s riding this in her head. If it were her, she’d be trying him this way instead.

She doesn’t call me on anything, though. Which, somehow, feels more like a nod than if she had.

The colt tries a sudden dart toward the far rail. I block with a snap of the rope, turning his head before he builds any speed. He throws a buck in protest, hindquarters kicking high, but he’s back to the circle when his feet hit dirt again.

My eyes slide toward the barn doors for a beat. Her red mare os tied out there, ears twitching toward the noise in the pen. When Cassidy glances her way, the mare tosses her head, lets out a sharp snort—like she’s making sure her rider’s still in sight.

Cassidy flicks two fingers—small enough gesture most folks wouldn’t catch it. The mare’s whole body shifts, easing her weight to a back leg, head lowering like the tension never happened.

I think back to the Allbright chase, how the mare moved under me—like she knew what I was going to ask before I asked it. Makes me wonder what else Cassidy’s taught her that I haven’t seen.

“Stop him and turn him the other way.”

Her voice cuts clean across the yard. Not loud, but sharp enough to slice through everything else.

Boots plant in the dirt, rope snaps, and the colt comes up hard, front legs pawing the air. I step into his space just enough to send him spinning the other way, dust kicking against my shins.

When he bolts off in the new direction, I catch the flicker of her smirk. Small. Approving. Gone before it can settle.

I keep him moving, watching his stride even while Hosea and Cassidy trade quiet words.
Hosea gestures toward the colt. She shrugs, palms up, like He’s doin’ fine without me.

Her laugh follows—a short, low thing—but it hits like a warm draft against the back of my neck.

The colt starts testing less—no more quick darts for the rail, just keeping the circle. His head bobs lower, stride stretching out. Sweat’s darkening his flank now. The smell of it rises with the dust—sharp, hot, edged with that tang horses get when their fire’s burning down.

I let him keep working at a trot, rope moving steady in my hand. Cassidy’s quiet now, but I can feel her eyes. That kind of watch isn’t casual—it’s measuring.

He flicks one ear toward me, the other toward her. That’s when I know I’ve got him thinking.

I ease him down another gear, just walking the circle. No rush to end it. The first time he decides to stick around instead of trying to bolt—that’s when you set the hook.

Still, my head’s half on other things—the way she stood there, the easy nod in her silence, how she and that mare mirrored each other without a word.

Colt might be worth something in the right hands.
And I’ve got a feeling Cassidy’s already decided whose hands those are gonna be.

Chapter Text

Arthur lets the rope slide from his fingers, slow and deliberate, like he’s easing the colt back down from a cliff. His other hand comes up for a quick pat to the neck—just behind the jaw, cautious enough that it reads more like a question than a praise.

The colt stiffens under it, skin twitching, but doesn’t flinch away. Just stands there, breathing hard, blowing little gusts of dust from his nostrils.

Arthur steps back without turning his back, pushing the gate shut behind him with a quiet click of the latch.

Hosea shifts beside me, tilting his head toward the colt.
“Mean streak’s still there,” he says, eyes narrowing in appraisal. “But not near as bad as I figured he’d be at this point.”

Arthur’s mouth curves a fraction. “Guess we’re both surprised then.”

I keep my eyes on the colt—still pacing the fenceline, though slower now—tracing his steps like I might be able to map out the thoughts ticking behind his ears. “He’s young,” I say. “Got time to decide whether he wants to work with you or against you.”

Arthur hums. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

I don’t take the bait. Just let my shoulders rise and fall once. My voice stays neutral. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see which way I turn.”

Hosea chuckles under his breath, like he’s picked up a current he’s not going to comment on. He tips his hat back, glancing between us. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Camp’s not gonna keep itself together.”
He fixes Arthur with a look. “You comin’?”

Arthur shakes his head. “Nah. Got a couple things to see to first.”

I file that away. Don’t ask.

Hosea gives me a polite nod. “Nice meeting you, Copper.”

“Likewise.”

And then he’s gone, boots crunching down the yard until the sound fades into the distance.

The quiet he leaves behind feels heavier than it should. My stomach flips—just enough to make me shift my weight, like it’s the dirt under me that’s off balance. The yard feels bigger now. Emptier.

Scarlet’s tied by the barn, ears flattened while the stablehand drags a brush over her shoulder. She whips her head just far enough to snap her teeth—not quite catching skin, but enough to make him jerk back with a muttered curse.

“What’s her name?”

Arthur’s voice is close, low enough I can feel it hum behind my shoulder.

“Scarlet,” I answer, eyes still on her.

“How’d you build her like that?”

That gets me to turn—just enough to meet his eyes. They’re steady, interested, but not the kind of interest you get from most men. No weighing, no measuring for an angle. Just looking, like he wants the truth of something.

“Wegner rounded her up when she was three,” I say. “Wild, mean as they come. Worse than that colt, believe it or not. Took a few years to get her like that. Even now, she still checks the lock every so often.”

He huffs with quiet amusement. “Guess you two match then.”

I should roll my eyes. I don’t.

He watches me while I talk, jacket sliding off his shoulders with that unhurried way of his. The sleeves are shoved up past his forearms, skin catching in the light where the dust doesn’t. My gaze sticks a second too long before I drag it back to Scarlet.

Men are no good.

Henry’s face tries to crawl into my head—sharp-edged, uninvited. The sound of his voice, the weight of his shadow. I slam the door on it before it can get a foothold, forcing my breathing even.

Hat brim comes down lower. My side aches as I take a few steps away, more to shake the heat in my chest than to check the colt’s water.

The breeze carries the smell of sweat and dust, leather warmed by the sun. His boots scuff behind me—close enough I can feel the edge of his presence, not close enough to crowd me. He doesn’t speak. Just waits.

When I glance back, Arthur’s already watching me.

Our eyes hold, still and unreadable. Something in his gaze feels like the moment right before a storm—quiet, charged, waiting for something to tip.

I should look away first.

I don’t.

Not until the colt stamps hard against the dirt, snapping the spell like a gunshot.

I start walking toward the barn where Scarlet’s tied, but my eyes drift back to the colt still pacing slow circles in the pen. “He’ll be chewin’ on today for a while,” I say, mostly to myself. “Might even think he learned somethin’.”

Arthur doesn’t answer, but when I turn away, I can feel his gaze lingering—not on the colt this time, but on me—all the way to the barn door.

Chapter Text

I watched her round the corner, hat brim cutting off the last sliver of her face before she disappeared into the barn. My eyes kept to the spot too long, waiting like she might reappear. She didn’t.

A sharp breath dragged through my nose. I pinched the skin between my brows, muttered, “Get a damn grip.”

The colt flicked an ear at me from the pen, still pacing slow like he hadn’t made up his mind about me yet. Should’ve been easy enough to keep my focus on him. A horse, I can read. They don’t play games. They don’t give you looks that stick in your chest hours after.

But my mind wasn’t having it—circling back to her like a horse that don’t know any trail but home.

Her eyes. The way they lingered when I slid my jacket off. Felt the air catch between us then. I almost flexed, just to see if she’d keep lookin’. Christ. Shook my head, muttering, ain’t a damn teenager no more.

Didn’t matter. I’d wanted her to look. Wanted it too much.

And worse—worse was remembering the way my hand had tilted her hat back. Just my fingers on the brim, nothing more. But the light had caught her face full, eyes steady under it, like she hadn’t meant to let me see her that clear. That picture burned sharper than it had any right to.

I dragged a hand down my face with a groan, earning a snort from the colt, like he knew exactly what kind of fool was standing in front of him.

Didn’t see the man ‘til I near walked into him.

“Watch yourself,” he said.

Short fella, sharp-eyed. Wore his confidence quiet, but sure.

“Sorry,” I muttered, stepping back.

He gave me a once-over, then glanced to the colt. “Eugene Wegner,” he said. “Owner of this place.”

I tipped my chin. “Arthur.”

His gaze went from me to the colt and back again. Appraising. “You want to take him on?” He jerked his chin at the pen. “Copper’s laid up. Figure she won’t be back at it soon.”

Didn’t bother hiding the offer: “Two hundred and fifty dollars if you break him proper.”

I let the number sit between us, heavy. It wasn’t small money. But I asked what I needed to. “She gettin’ paid for her work?”

He laughed—quick, sharp, dismissive. “Her payment is I ain’t collected the bounty on her head. Girl’s overstayed her welcome for free. Best remember that.”

The words landed like grit in my teeth. Something flared in me, hot and sudden. Took effort to swallow it down, jaw tight, breath slow. My head dipped just enough. “I’ll think on it.”

He didn’t much care either way. Just gave me that thin smile and turned, boots kicking dust as he headed back toward the house.

I watched him go, unsettled. Didn’t like the sound of him—like a man holding all the cards, knowing full well the other player’s got no good hand to match. Didn’t like how he spoke of her, like she was a nuisance he hadn’t gotten around to sweeping out with the rest of the dirt.

Didn’t like the bounty part either. Not at all.

The colt stamped against the fence, dragging me back. But it wasn’t the horse keeping me rooted anymore. Something else twisted in my gut, sharper than expected.

By the time I noticed, my boots were already carrying me toward the stables.

Her voice reached me before she did.

“Not like that, you idiot—you’ll take her hide clean off!”

Sharp, commanding. No give in it. I slowed, close enough to hear the ranch hand stammer an apology while Scarlet snapped her teeth, ears pinned. The mare’s hooves scuffed restless against the packed dirt, brushing quick against the post like she wanted to make her point.

“Don’t just stand there, fix it,” Cassidy barked, and I could damn near see the poor bastard’s hands shaking as he fumbled with the brush.

I stayed back in the shadows of the doorway, listening.

She wasn’t just loud—there was a weight behind her words, the kind that made men freeze without thinking why. Clear. Certain. Authority as natural as drawing breath.

And I couldn’t help but picture her standing there—hat brim low, shoulders squared, chin lifted in that way she does when she’s daring the world to test her.

My throat felt dry.

Hell, I thought, steadying myself against the frame of the door. Maybe it ain’t just her face or figure that’s got me off balance.

The ranch hand finally muttered something close to obedience and scuttled off, leaving Scarlet flicking her tail and blowing hard through her nose. Cassidy stayed a moment longer, hand brushing over the mare’s neck, quieting her with a touch. Her voice dropped lower—still sharp, but softer at the edges.

I watched, unseen, the way Scarlet leaned into her hand despite the bite in her tone. Trust carved out of fire.

The sound of her boots shifted, light on the packed dirt. I leaned back just enough into the shadow, heart beating harder than I’d like to admit.

She didn’t see me. Not yet.

And I wasn’t sure if I wanted her to.

Chapter Text

Stablehand had his hands all wrong again. Too rough, too clumsy. Scarlet pinned her ears, lips peeling back like she meant to make a meal of him.
“Not like that, you idiot—you’ll take her hide clean off!” I snapped. “Don’t just stand there, fix it,”

He stammered, red-faced, like a boy caught stealing bread. The brush wobbled in his grip, jittery as his damn knees. Scarlet didn’t miss it—she never missed anything. Head darted, teeth snapping close enough to make him yelp and jump back like a rabbit.

“Useless,” I muttered under my breath, more to myself than him. Still, my voice cracked sharp enough to slice the air.
Wasn’t just temper. I’d been trying to train Scarlet into tolerating other hands, into not treating every stranger like they were plague-ridden. She couldn’t always be mine alone—though she thought so. Though I thought so, too.

Problem was, Scarlet was too much like me. Distrustful. Quick to bite before thinking. Testing the ground just to see what’d give.

I waved the stablehand off before Scarlet decided to leave him with fewer fingers than he walked in with. “Go shovel muck. You’ll do less damage.”
He bolted like the barn was on fire.

Scarlet snorted, smug. Damn horse.
“Yeah, you’re real proud of yourself,” I told her, grabbing the brush myself.

My strokes were brisk, efficient. She leaned into them after a moment, grumbling low in her throat. I gritted through the flare in my shoulders—my ribs still pulling mean, my arm giving its little reminder I wasn’t near mended. Didn’t matter. Couldn’t let it.

Blanket next. I hauled it up, pain lancing hot across my chest. I sucked in a hiss through my teeth, biting down on it. My hands didn’t shake, but it was close. Scarlet flicked an ear, watching. I muttered, “Don’t you start.”

I reached for the saddle. Weight near tore me in half when I lifted it from the rack. My teeth clenched, every rib screaming rebellion. Then I froze.

Because someone else’s shadow fell across mine.

Arthur.

He stood a few paces back, quiet as a damn ghost, blue eyes steady on me. Before I could bark at him, he stepped in, hands closing around the saddle like it weighed nothing.

“Don’t—” The word shot sharp from my throat, instinct first. Scarlet doesn’t allow strangers near her tack. She’d put her ears back and split him open before she’d let it happen.

Except—she didn’t.

Arthur moved like he had all the time in the world, one hand on the saddle, the other raised slow and calm toward Scarlet’s neck. She curled her lip, teeth flashing, ears flattened—but then he let out this low, rumbling growl, more wolf than man. It rolled deep in his chest, sharp enough to catch her.

Scarlet froze. Neck arched, eyes wild, but… she stilled.

My own eyes went wide. No one stopped Scarlet like that. Not me. Not anyone.

Arthur didn’t make a show of it, didn’t even look my way. Just laid the saddle across her back, careful, deliberate. Confident. Scarlet stamped once, testing—but she tolerated it.

I found myself staring. Annoyed, curious, unsettled all at once. Scarlet letting him near her felt wrong, like watching a storm bow to a tree.

Arthur’s hand left the saddle. His eyes cut toward me.
“Where you ridin’ off to?”

I blinked, then forced a shrug. “Just goin’ for a ride.”

“Uh-huh.” His tone was flat, heavy with disbelief.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know I’m up to something.”

His mouth ticked, not quite a smile. “Ain’t hard to figure.”

I turned back to Scarlet, tugging on the cinch even though he’d already done it right. “Maybe I just don’t like sittin’ still.”

“Could be,” he said. “Could also be you’re fixin’ to do somethin’ stupid.”

I rolled my eyes. “You think everything I do’s stupid.”

“No,” he said, slow and deliberate. “Just most of it.”

That earned him a sharp glare. “You’re real funny.”

He shrugged like it was gospel truth. “I been told.”

Silence stretched. His gaze pressed too heavy on me, too steady. My jaw clenched. Fine. If he was gonna stare a hole clean through me, he might as well know.

“There’s rumours,” I admitted, words dragging like I had to drag ‘em over barbed wire. “Cabin near Wallace Station. Could be worth a look.”

Arthur’s brow dipped, thoughtful. “What kind of rumours?”

“The kind that don’t get better the longer you sit around.”

“Meanin’?”

I snapped my head toward him. “Meanin’ I’ll find out when I get there.”

His stare held, unreadable. Then he turned without another word, heading toward the spare stalls.

My stomach dropped. “What are you doing?”

“Gettin’ my horse.”

“For what?”

His voice came back flat, like a door shutting. “You ain’t ridin’ there alone.”

My hackles shot up. “The hell I ain’t. I don’t need a damn babysitter.”

He didn’t even pause, didn’t even glance my way. Just kept at the saddle straps. “Ain’t about what you need.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“It’s about you bein’ too damn stubborn to turn back. And me not lettin’ you ride headlong into a mess without someone watchin’ your back.”

I barked a laugh, harsh and sharp. “That’s real noble. But I don’t recall askin’ for a saviour.”

Arthur finally looked over his shoulder. Not angry. Not riled. Just steady, calm as still water. “Ain’t a saviour. Just not lettin’ you get yourself killed over pride.”

My mouth opened—closed again. Anger warred with something else I didn’t want to name.

He went back to his horse, unhurried as ever.

When he finally led the stallion past me, he brushed close enough that my shoulders went tight. He didn’t stop, didn’t look, just tossed the line over his shoulder like it was already settled:

“Get your damn horse and gear.”

And then he walked out, leaving me seething in the dust, Scarlet watching with what I swore was amusement in her damn eyes.

Chapter Text

Couldn’t rightly tell you why I agreed to ride with her.
My head told me one thing—leave her be, let her go burn herself out against her own damn stubbornness. But my boots and hands had other ideas. Next thing I knew, I was cinching Branoc’s saddle like the decision’d been made long before I thought on it.

Maybe it was duty. Maybe it was plain mule-headedness. Hell, maybe it was just me being too stupid to walk away from trouble when it had red hair and a scowl sharp enough to gut a man.

I stood outside the barn, running a palm over Branoc’s neck. The stallion flicked an ear back, steady and patient, unlike me. I checked the cinch again, tugged at the straps, glanced at my rifle, revolvers, knife. All fine. Truth was, I was stalling.

Didn’t take long for her to show.

Cassidy led Scarlet out of the barn, stiff in the shoulders, jaw set like stone. Every step screamed she was still hurting, but her glare dared the whole world to point it out. She looked like a knife that refused to admit it’d been dropped in the dirt—still sharp, still deadly, even if the edge was dinged.

Scarlet pinned an ear when I stepped close. I laid a calm hand on her neck and she tolerated it, eyes rolling once but nothing worse. Cassidy caught the sight and narrowed her gaze.

“You need a hand mountin’?” I asked, casual as I could.

The look she gave me near took skin off my face. “Say that again and I’ll put you in the dirt.”

“Alright,” I muttered, mouth tugging. “Guess that’s a no.”

She set her boot in the stirrup, bounced twice, then hauled herself up, grit and stubbornness doing all the lifting. Pain flickered across her face, just for a second, raw and unguarded. My hand hovered near her waist, ready to steady her, but I dropped it before she noticed. My chest twisted all the same.

“You sure you’re up for this?” I asked, softer than I meant.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t start motherin’ me, Cowboy.”

“Ain’t motherin’,” I said. “Just don’t fancy pickin’ you up outta the mud when you fall.”

Her lips twitched like she wanted to bite me or laugh—hard to tell which. “If I fall, I’ll take you down with me.”

“Reckon you would,” I said, patting her thigh near her knee before stepping back. She slapped my hand away like I’d brushed a hornet’s nest.

I swung into Branoc’s saddle smooth and easy, didn’t even think on it. Couldn’t help but notice the difference between us—me movin’ like second nature, her fightin’ tooth and nail just to sit tall. It unsettled me some, though I kept my mouth shut.

We rode out in silence, hooves drumming steady. My eyes swept the horizon, scanning ridges, tree lines, shadows between rocks. Habit I couldn’t break. Trouble had a way of finding us no matter how clean the road looked.

Mind wandered anyway. To Dutch, pacing and raving, to Hosea trying to keep the fire from spreading. To the gang, stretched thin and fraying at the edges. And somewhere in all that, Cassidy Lane, riding beside me like a storm that didn’t care where it landed.

After a mile of quiet, she shifted in the saddle. “You plannin’ on starin’ at trees all the way to Wallace, or you gonna talk?”

“Trees don’t sass me back,” I said.

“Maybe they should. You might learn somethin’.”

I snorted. “Like what?”

“Like how to shut up.”

“Mm,” I drawled. “Seems I ain’t the one who broke the silence first.”

That earned me a glare sharp as a spur. “Don’t get smart.”

“Too late,” I said. “Already there.”

She huffed, clucked Scarlet into a trot. Branoc matched pace easy.

I let myself watch her ride. She sat the saddle like she owned the damn road. Didn’t ask permission. Didn’t leave room for doubt. Dangerous, magnetic.

Made me think of that first day in Valentine, sittin’ with Uncle outside the general store. He’d been drunk, hollerin’ after women, crude as hell. Cassidy had walked by, eyes sharp as blades. I half expected her to shoot him dead where he sat. Spent the next week wonderin’ if I’d have stopped her—or let it happen and bought her a drink after.

“You’re quiet,” she said suddenly.

“Thinkin’,” I muttered.

“That your way of sayin’ you don’t wanna answer?”

“Depends,” I said. “You askin’ me somethin’?”

Her mouth crooked, sly. “What the hell made you ride with me? Don’t tell me it’s ‘cause you enjoy my company.”

“God forbid,” I deadpanned. “Truth is, I just didn’t trust you not to start a war by yourself.”

She smirked, leaning forward a little in the saddle. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“That’s what worries me,” I said.

She chuckled, low and sharp. For a moment, the road almost felt easy.

We crested the last hill and Valentine spread out below, smoke curling from chimneys, dogs barking distant.

Cassidy straightened in the saddle, chin high, back rigid. Scarlet stepped proud beneath her, copper mane flashing like a warning. Folks stopped in their tracks, eyes wide, mouths open. Some near stumbled into each other. Most dropped their gazes quick, like lookin’ too long might bring the devil on ‘em.

I caught the whispers. Last time I passed through, they swore she was dead. And here she was, cutting through their main street like a ghost returned.

“Lot of gawkin’,” I muttered.

“Good,” she said, voice flat. “Let ‘em choke on it.”

I let my gaze follow her, presence heavy as thunder rolling over the street.

Guess some legacies don’t stay buried.
The Copper name still carried weight enough to make a whole town remember.

Chapter Text

Valentine had never been quiet, not once in its godforsaken history—but the second Scarlet’s hooves clipped down Main Street, you could’ve sworn somebody pressed pause on the whole damn town. Men stopped halfway through tying their horses, women froze with baskets hanging from their arms, and some poor fool carrying lumber nearly brained himself when he forgot how to walk straight.

I rode tall, chest full with something halfway between pride and mischief. Couldn’t help it. I’d always liked proving folks wrong, and nothing proved ‘em wrong faster than sauntering back from the grave they swore you were in.

Rumors of my so called death had a way of catching fire, but instead of burning, I found ‘em downright entertaining. Amused me more than they ever stung.

Quick cut to a memory:

Some bounty hunter—I never bothered remembering his name—stood in Armadillo’s saloon, drunk on cheap whiskey and his own tall tale. Bragged loud enough for the rafters that he’d shot Copper clean through the chest. Said he left me “for the coyotes.”

Truth was, the man never even checked. Fired his shot, rode off puffed up with pride.

A week later, I walked through those saloon doors, fresh scars still raw, leaned on his shoulder like an old friend and asked, real polite, “So—ever find her?”

I can still remember the way he near swallowed his teeth. Worth every ounce of pain I’d dragged with me just to see it.

The memory fizzled out with a chuckle under my breath.

Arthur shot me a sidelong glance, brow furrowed like he wanted to ask what was so damn funny. I rolled my eyes. Man was about as subtle as a horse kick. Broody type, quiet and watchful, but not fooling a soul about why he was really trailing me.

I doubted even he bought that half-hearted excuse about “keepin’ me outta trouble.” Trouble was my middle name, and he damn well knew it.

Scarlet jolted to a stop in front of the general store, iron shoes clinking sharp. I dismounted fast, forcing myself not to wince, not to grunt, not to give an inch. My ribs lit up anyway, but if Arthur noticed, he didn’t say. Just gave me that half-concerned, half-annoyed look of his, like he was waiting for me to crumble so he could mutter “told you so.”

“Supply run,” I said flatly, yanking my coat straight. “Quick in, quick out. Then Wallace.”

That shut him up—for now.

Inside smelled of flour, soap, and stale tobacco. My shoulder brushed Arthur’s on the way past as I plucked a pack of cigarettes from the shelf. Slid the card from the box, flipped it over, and—of course—duplicate.

“Story of my life,” I muttered under my breath, jamming it back inside.

Then, low enough so the clerk wouldn’t hear, I added, “We’re stoppin’ at Clawson’s Rest tonight.” Kept my voice casual, eyes fixed anywhere but Arthur’s. I wasn’t about to make it sound like a request. Truth was, it was.

Arthur didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head like he was filing it away, not pushing, not prying. Infuriatingly steady.

At the counter, the clerk made the mistake of staring too long at the burn scars trailing down my jaw. His eyes flicked lower, lingered, and I narrowed mine. He dropped his gaze so fast he near lost it in the till. Coins fumbled, clattered, and rolled off the counter.

I didn’t bother speaking. Paid clean, tucked my things, and stalked for the door before my temper got the better of me.

Arthur lingered, slow and deliberate, like he was giving me space and still watching the whole damn time.

Outside, I packed Scarlet’s saddlebags with sharp, practiced motions. Pain screamed in my ribs, but I locked my jaw tight and swung into the saddle like it was nothing. Scarlet flicked an ear back at me, catching the strain I tried to hide.

Arthur came out a minute later, bag in hand, climbing onto his stallion with that quiet, irritating ease. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to. I could feel his eyes on me just the same.

We left Valentine as the sun dipped low, shadows stretching long across the road. Horses’ ears flicked constant, uneasy with something they could feel that I couldn’t see.

The further we rode, the heavier the air got. Trees leaned closer, dark at the edges.

My eyes kept sweeping the treeline, restless energy prickling under my skin. Could’ve been nothing. But in my life, it never was.

I didn’t voice it. Didn’t need to. I knew by the set of Arthur’s shoulders and the way his hand drifted closer to his revolver that he felt it too.

Chapter Text

Heads up: This chapter touches on Child Neglect and Tragedy. Nothing Graphic, but it’s Heavy.

By the time we reached Clawson’s Rest, the night had settled deep and thick across the trees.
Air heavy, pressing down so close it felt like it was crawling over my skin. Horses felt it too—Scarlet tossed her head, ears twitchin’, while Branoc shifted under me like he’d rather be anywhere else. Couldn’t say I blamed him.

The shack crouched in the clearing like it had been forgotten on purpose. Roof sagged, boards bleached grey with rot. One shutter dangled half broke, knockin’ against the siding when the wind cut through. The main door had been barred from the inside, the second hanging loose, bent off its hinges. I knew the kind of silence places like this carried. Not peace. Just emptiness.

I slid down from Branoc, hand already on my revolver. Felt natural. Instinct. Places like this never stayed empty forever.
“Hold him,” I muttered, shoving the reins at Cassidy before she could argue.

She shot me a look sharp enough to draw blood, but she took the leather anyway. Ribs or no ribs, the woman worked steady as ever, stripping tack with quiet efficiency. Stubborn. Fierce. The type to rather choke on her own blood than admit to hurt.

I left her to it and stepped into the shack.

The smell hit first. Damp, mold, and something else… a sweetness turned wrong. Floorboards groaned loud under my weight, near splintering with every step. A broken chair lay in the corner, table on its side, dishes scattered across the dirt-tracked floor. Dust clung to everything, thick and unmoving.

My eyes tracked the barred door at the far wall. Rusted chain wrapped tight, wood gouged deep around the frame. No reason to keep a room shut that long, unless what was inside didn’t need to get out.

Wind threaded through the cracks in the walls, whisperin’ like a voice that couldn’t quite form words.

Empty. Too empty.

I came back outside, jaw set, finding Cassidy halfway done with Branoc, hands movin’ sure even as her shoulders stiffened with the pain she wouldn’t name. She didn’t glance at me, just worked, face half shadowed by the low light.

I joined her with Scarlet. Didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Horses fed, tied out back with nosebags, their ears pinned and eyes restless. Animals always knew when a place carried ghosts.

Inside, I dropped my gear against the wall and went to the hearth. My hands worked kindling without thinkin’, coaxing flame from the half-rotted scraps. Cassidy’s boots clicked soft on the boards as she wandered the room, sharper eyes catchin’ on details I hadn’t cared to notice.

Toys on the floor. A wooden soldier missin’ an arm. A rag doll with one button eye torn out. Plates cracked down the middle. All of it left where it fell, like somebody walked away and never came back.

She stopped by the small bed against the wall, spine tight as a bowstring. Fingers brushed her nose, like she was tryin’ to ground herself.

Then her voice cut the quiet. “You believe in spirits, Arthur?”

I looked up from the fire. “Can’t say I put much stock in ‘em. Why?”

She tipped her chin at the room. “This place… it ain’t just empty.”

Her voice went flat as she told it.
Two boys. Glenn and Eddie. Locked in by their own blood. Left with scraps until the scraps ran out. Screams gone unheard. Little hands poundin’ against wood until their skin tore. By the time anyone opened the door, they weren’t boys anymore. Just two husks curled up on that bed.

Cassidy didn’t dress it up. Didn’t soften it. The way she said it was worse. Like she carried it around with her, like the weight of it had sunk into her bones and made a home there.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. My chest burned like I’d swallowed coal. All I could see was another cabin. Another bed. A boy with eyes wide as the sky. A woman smilin’ at me like she knew me better than I deserved. Isaac. Eliza. Names I didn’t speak, couldn’t. Didn’t matter. They sat heavy all the same.

I gripped my knees until my knuckles whitened.

Finally, words came rough out of me, softer than I meant: “Poor kids. Ain’t no way to go.”

Fire snapped, throwin’ shadows long across the walls. We didn’t touch the bed. Neither of us could. Cassidy slid down against the far wall, folding herself into the floor like she meant to disappear. I set myself across from her, revolver in hand, cleaning more for distraction than for use.

The silence between us was thick, heavy, but not unkind. Just the sort that pressed down ‘til you felt your ribs creak under it.

I caught her watchin’ me through the firelight. Steady. Unblinking. Made the back of my neck itch.

“What’re you starin’ at?” I grunted, more defensive than I meant.

She only tilted her chin, faint smirk playin’ on her lips.

“What?” I pressed.

“Just realizin’ I been ridin’ alongside the most wanted man in the West.”

That landed hard. My hand froze on the revolver. Gut clenched. Suspicion pricked up my spine.

“Don’t know what you think you know.”

“Oh, I know enough.” She pulled a bottle of whiskey from her pack, teeth barin’ as she worked the cork loose. Took a long pull without wincin’, though I saw the way her ribs jolted from the burn. She didn’t let it show. “Man like you don’t just show up in Valentine. Not with that look. Not with that horse. And sure as hell not in the company you keep. Hosea Matthews—been seein’ that name on wanted posters since I was fifteen. And you? Show up right after Blackwater goes sour?” She let out a short laugh. “Ain’t much of a puzzle.”

My jaw ticked. She weren’t wrong. Still, the way she said it, like she’d pinned me to the wall without breakin’ a sweat, dug under my skin.

She handed me the bottle, smirk tugging her mouth sideways. “Don’t look so shocked. I ain’t just a pretty face.”

I grunted, took it, tipped it back. Whiskey burned hot all the way down, sittin’ heavy in my chest. Didn’t need it, but God, I needed it.

She leaned back, head against the wall, eyes still on me through half-lids. “Besides… you look like you need it more than me.”

I stared at her over the fire, bottle hangin’ loose in my grip. Didn’t say nothin’. Couldn’t.

Because the truth was, she’d seen too much already. The ghosts in this place weren’t just hers to carry. They were mine too, and I wasn’t ready to let her see their faces.

The fire cracked again, throwin’ sparks into the dark. Outside, the night pressed close. Inside, the air was heavier still. Not from spirits. From us. From everything we weren’t sayin’, and everything we might if we let ourselves.

Chapter Text

Firelight had a way of stripin’ a man down to his bones.
Arthur sat across from me, flame glow crawl’n up his jaw, every line in his face carved deeper by shadow. When I’d told him about Glenn and Eddie, I’d seen somethin’ shutter in him—sharp, sudden, like a door slammed fast before you could see inside.

Not disbelief. Not pity. No, I knew those looks well enough. This was different.
This was memory.

And it wasn’t mine.

His jaw worked like he was grindin’ down rock, eyes gone distant, stare fixed somewhere I couldn’t follow. It hit me then—I’d pressed too close to somethin’ raw. Too close to the kind of wound that didn’t heal right.

The silence stretched long, heavy enough that my ribs hurt under it. I should’ve left it there—let him keep whatever ghosts he was strugglin’ with—but sittin’ across from that look, I felt somethin’ stir I didn’t like one bit.

So I smiled. Small, sharp, false as a counterfeit coin. Nodded once, like I could push past the weight sittin’ between us.
“Just realizin’,” I said, voice easy when I didn’t feel it, “I been ridin’ alongside the most wanted man in the West.”

His head snapped a fraction, blue eyes cuttin’ toward me sharp. The air in the room bristled. If I hadn’t smirked when I said it, maybe he’d have thought I meant it soft. But I did smirk—because that’s safer.

Safer for him. Safer for me.

I grabbed the whiskey before he could answer, tipped it back. The burn lit my ribs up like kindlin’, made my teeth grit so hard I swore sparks would fly. Still better than the quiet. I shoved the bottle toward him, rougher than I meant, like I was throwin’ down a card in a losing hand.

Not just a jest. Not just a dare. An olive branch, though I’d never admit it, not even under threat of a bullet.

He took it without a word, throat workin’ once as he drank. That silence still sat too close, too heavy. I told myself it was his problem, not mine. Told myself I didn’t care how weighed down he looked.

And hated myself for lyin’.

Outside, the wind shifted colder, slidin’ through the cracks like knives. My coat weren’t enough anymore. I dug through my pack for the heavier one, fingers stiff and clumsy.

From the fire came his voice, low and gravel rough:
“Grab mine too, would ya?”

Didn’t even look at me when he said it.

I rolled my eyes where he couldn’t see, but I went to his pack anyway. Pushed past cartridges and a folded map. My fingers brushed leather that felt like a journal, lingered there a beat longer than I should’ve. Curiosity’s a dangerous itch. I scratched it and pulled back quick, dragging the coat free before I could go deeper.

It was heavier than mine, thick with the smell of smoke and sweat and leather oil, faint horse musk woven in like it’d lived there all its life. Oddly grounding. Dangerous, too.

I shoved it across the fire at him without a word, like the weight of it might burn me. He caught it without lookin’ up.

The whiskey drained down to dregs. I shook the last swallow into my mouth and set the bottle aside, working at my bedroll. The fire painted hard gold lines across his face when I glanced at him. He looked carved from the same wood as this place, splintered but steady.

“So,” I asked flat, “we both sleep, or one of us keeps watch?”

“Shifts,” he answered, tone practical, clipped.

I nodded, crouched down onto the roll, but my eyes wouldn’t leave him. He stared into the flames, lost somewhere they couldn’t reach. The quiet started gnawin’ at me until my tongue betrayed me:

“You okay?”

The second it left my mouth, I wanted to bite it back. Fool thing to ask. Fool thing to mean.

I don’t ask. I don’t care. Except—apparently, I did.

He didn’t answer at first. Just sat there, jaw set, as if weighin’ whether to throw me out into the cold for pryin’. Then, slow and rough, his voice came:

“Lost two people I cared for.”

That was it. Nothing more. Just a vague, hollow outline. He didn’t name them. Didn’t give faces. But the way he said it—that was no small grief.

“Showed up to their place one day. Found two crosses planted in the dirt.”

The words dropped heavy as stones in water, ripples spreadin’ wider the longer I sat with ‘em.

The fire popped. Sparks cracked sharp against the dark. I said nothin’, didn’t move. Just listened.

And I understood.

The way he’d frozen when I told the story of the boys. The way his words stumbled heavy now. He’d said “two people,” but his eyes… his eyes gave away more.

Not a brother. Not a friend. Not even a parent.
This ache was sharper. Deeper. A wound with no scar.

A child.
His child.

The thought knocked the air from my chest. I swallowed hard, forced my face still, though my eyes betrayed me—just a flicker of softness, quick as a match strike. Too dangerous to let him see.

He fell quiet again, fire burnin’ him into silhouette. The shadows made him look older, heavier.

I lay back on my roll, eyes on the sagging beams overhead. My mind wouldn’t still. Couldn’t.

To lose a child. To bury them before their life began.

The thought dug deeper than I wanted, scraping at my own scar. The choice I’d made. The child I’d never let myself have.

The ghosts pressed close in that room. His. Mine. Others too. None of ‘em willing to leave.

I shut my eyes against the firelight. Didn’t help.

The silence stretched long, the cold creep’n closer, the night thick with all the things we’d never say.

Chapter Text

The quiet had a way of gnawin’ at you when you were the one left keepin’ watch.

Hours since she’d drifted off, and not once had her sleep settled clean. She tossed, muttered, twisted under her blanket like she was fightin’ ghosts only she could see. Every so often she’d jolt awake, sit up half a breath, then fall back again—never easy, never full.

Didn’t surprise me none. A woman like her probably never had a night’s peace in her life. Lived too rough, too long. Always lookin’ over her shoulder. Made me wonder if she even knew what quiet sleep felt like, or if it’d spook her same as a gun cockin’ in the dark.

The fire’d been put out an hour back, like we’d agreed. Didn’t want no glow drawin’ eyes this far out. Cabin felt colder without it, boards groanin’ when the wind pressed in, draft cuttin’ sharp through every crack.

She stirred again, sat up slow, hair mussed, eyes all squintin’ against the dark. Blinked hard, like she weren’t sure what part was dream and what part was real.

I had to hide a smile. Couldn’t help it. She looked… hell, she looked human. Not Copper. Not the sharp edge and sharper tongue. Just a woman half-asleep, hair a mess, nose wrinkled at the cold.

But that softness—weren’t mine to see. I buried it quick, reminded myself who she was. Reminded myself of the way she’d asked me, soft as a whisper, you okay? back by the fire. Words I ain’t shook since.

She groaned, dragged a hand over her face. “Damn place. Cold as a witch’s tit. Middle of June an’ I’m freezin’ half to death.”

Her hand fumbled for her hat. Found it. Shoved it down on her head like armour. Then she lit herself a smoke, drawin’ deep, slow.

I tried not to watch. Failed. My eyes caught the shape of her mouth ‘round the filter, the way the ember flared red, lit up the curve of her cheek.

My throat closed up. I looked away, fast.

Hell’s wrong with you, Morgan? I told myself. This ain’t the place. Ain’t the time. Ain’t the woman. She’d gut you clean for thinkin’ it.

Shifted in my seat, stretched my back like it might push the thought out. Muttered under my breath, “Reckon a saloon’s got relief enough. Ain’t no shortage out there.”

Didn’t believe a word of it.

“Hey.”

I blinked. She was snappin’ her fingers at me, brows drawn sharp.

“You go deaf, or just simple?” she asked, tone dry as sand.

“What?”

She rolled her eyes, smoke curlin’ past her lip. “Said you best get some sleep. We ride hard tomorrow. Won’t stop till Valentine.”

I studied her a beat, let the words sit. She weren’t wrong. My bones ached for rest. But I didn’t move yet.

Instead, I pulled my coat open some, lettin’ the air out. Cabin was stuffy and cold both at once.

She noticed. Of course she did. Tilted her head that way she does when she’s thinkin’ on somethin’. I’ve learned that tilt—means she’s weighin’ you, same as a horse she ain’t sure about yet.

I smirked faint, couldn’t help it. Lifted an arm. “C’mere, ‘fore you freeze to death.”

Her eyes cut sharp, glare strong enough to skin me. “Rather freeze than cuddle up to you.”

“Suit yourself.” I left the arm there anyway, lazy-like.

Wind shoved hard at the walls then, icy draft sweepin’ across the floor. She shivered despite herself. Tried to hide it, but I saw.

She huffed, muttered a curse low under her breath. Then—like a dog forced into a corner—she slid closer, shoulder bumpin’ against my side.

I draped the arm across her without thinkin’, pulled the coat wider to cover us both. Simple move. Instinct. Felt like nothin’. Felt like too much.

Immediate regret hit me, not ‘cause it was wrong—but ‘cause it was easy. Too damn natural. Like we’d done it a hundred times before.

I stayed still, stiff, tellin’ myself it was just practical. Just two folks keepin’ warm. Nothin’ more.

Lie tasted bitter as dirt.

She was stiff too, at first. Every muscle on guard. But after a while, just a while, I felt her ease—barely. Enough to lean into the warmth, enough to breathe out slow.

She kept her cigarette low, ember glow flickerin’ as she stared at the dark cabin like it might give her answers.

I tilted my hat down, slouched some, pretendin’ sleep. Truth was, I weren’t far from it.

Last thought that crossed me ‘fore the dark took hold: This ain’t wise… but maybe it ain’t all bad neither.

Chapter Text

Steel wheels sang somewhere in the distance, low and steady. Took me a second to place it—a train, rollin’ through the valley at first light. That sound carried further’n you’d think out here.

I shifted against the wall, bones crackin’ quiet. Then I stilled.

Weight. Pressed warm along my side.

I lowered my eyes and near forgot how to breathe.

There she was—back set against my ribs, head pillowed on my arm like it weren’t nothin’. My damn bicep dead asleep, pins and needles bitin’, but I didn’t dare move.

Cassidy Lane, mean as a rattler when she’s awake, curled soft against me like she didn’t know how to fight no more.

Truth be told, it rattled me worse’n any gunshot could’ve.

She didn’t look like she ever slept easy. Always twitchin’, rollin’, brows knotted like she was fightin’ shadows. A woman wired tight, sharp enough to wake swingin’ at the smallest sound.

But now—hell, now she was still. Quiet.

The rise and fall of her chest pressed faint against my side. Hair’d slipped from its braid in the night, strands curled rough along her cheek. Looked younger like that, messy but peaceful.

I twitched my shoulder without thinkin’, just a breath of a move, and she made this small sound—soft, near pitiful—like a dog dreamin’. A whine, quick and unguarded.

Knocked me back in my seat, that did. Meant she was under, proper. Deep. Like she hadn’t let herself be in years.

I laid my head back against the boards, let my eyes close some. Told myself it weren’t nothin’. Just a moment. Just warmth and weariness.

But damn if it didn’t feel like more.

Sun crept in slow, slipping through the cracks in the shutters till the cabin glowed pale gold. Lit her face up gentle.

Without that scowl she wore like armour, she looked… younger. Softer. Like she mighta been any other woman, not the one with a reputation big enough to make half the territory spit her name like a curse.

Her mouth was parted just slightly, breaths even. Every so often her brow twitched like she might stir—but she never did. For once, the world hadn’t come knockin’ on her with claws out.

I gave her shoulder the lightest squeeze, voice low and rough. “Mornin’. Time to stir.”

She grumbled somethin’ in her throat, stretched catlike—and then froze solid.

Next second she shot upright like she’d touched a hot stove, face gone red as a cardsharp caught cheatin’. Cleared her throat once, twice, like she’d swallowed dust.

I bit back a laugh, but it clawed through anyway, shoulders shaking.

She flailed for words, mutterin’ about the cold, about standin’ watch, about—hell, I don’t even know what excuses she piled up. None of ‘em stuck.

I sobered after a bit, leaned forward on my knees.

“When’s the last time you slept proper?” I asked, quiet. “Not that light kind. Not survival. Just… real sleep.”

Her jaw ticked, eyes slid away. Didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

I didn’t push. Just nodded once. “Figured.”

Started rollin’ my gear up, lettin’ the question hang there like smoke in the rafters.

She shook herself off soon enough, like a dog shakin’ rain. Hat pulled down low, back straight, every inch Copper again. She shoved the door open and let the morning air cut cold across her face.

I followed slower, boots hittin’ the porch. The world smelled sharp with dew and pine, sun spillin’ thin across the grass. Train was long gone, its ghost still hummin’ in the air.

She went to Scarlet, brush in hand, strokes sharp and methodical like she was scrubbin’ the memory of that cabin off herself. Every pull down the mare’s mane was another reason not to look my way.

I gave her space, turned to Branoc. Ran a hand down his neck, brushed him quiet, the familiar rhythm grounding me more than I cared to admit.

Silence sat heavy between us. Not bitter. Not yet. Just weighted with things neither of us were fool enough to speak.

She tried saddlin’ Scarlet herself. Stiff, sure, but not near as shaky as yesterday. She was gettin’ steadier, inch by inch.

Straps hung loose though, buckles crooked. I stepped in, tightened them without a word. She let me, no protest—but never met my eye once.

Mounted up with her jaw set, posture stiff as a board.

I swung onto Branoc, let him fall in a horse’s length behind her.

Wind carried the last of the train’s echo away, leavin’ just hoofbeats and silence between us.

Didn’t regret lettin’ her rest against me. Not for a damn second.

But I’d wager she did.

Made me wonder how long she thinks she can keep herself stitched together with whiskey and sheer hard-headedness.

One day, she’ll find that ain’t enough.

For now, I’ll let her ride ahead, jaw locked, starin’ holes through the horizon.

She’ll speak when she’s ready. If she’s ever ready.

And I’ll be here, waitin’.

Chapter Text

Hell, if he thinks I was enjoyin’ that little arrangement back there, he’s dead wrong. Man’s built like a brick wall and smelled like saddle leather besides. Nothin’ cozy about wakin’ up pinned against somebody who snores through his nose like a busted bellows.

Course, try tellin’ that to the part of me that didn’t want to move right away. The part that almost—almost—settled in when the sun started slippin’ through the cracks, warmin’ my cheek. Felt like safety. And that right there’s the sort of foolishness I oughta beat out of myself with a stick. Safety don’t exist, not really. Least of all in the arms of a Van der Linde gun hand.

So I shoved it down deep where the rest of the soft-headed nonsense goes, fixed my hat low, and rode out like nothin’ happened.

By the time we pulled off the main road, the air’d sharpened. Sun was climbin’ but the chill still hung thin in the trees, breathin’ down my collar. Scarlet’s ears flicked back, her stride eager, but I slowed her into a quieter trail, boots creakin’ in the stirrups as I drew in steady. This was the spot. Time to quit pretendin’ and start talkin’.

I glanced sidelong at him, sittin’ tall on Branoc like he was carved from oak. “Figure you deserve a fair warnin’ ‘fore we stroll up like idiots. Target’s an old woman’s cabin.”

He cut me a look, slow and steady. Didn’t say a word.

“She’s got four sons—dumb as fence posts, meaner than feral hogs. Robbery, rustlin’, you name it. All of ‘em hide their loot at Mama’s place, reckonin’ nobody’d be fool enough to suspect a sweet little old lady in her rocker. Truth is, she’s meaner than the lot. Knows what they do, helps ‘em stash it.”

Another grunt. Just a grunt.

I huffed out through my nose. “Lord above, I’m ridin’ with a philosopher. Whole damn vocabulary and you pick the one syllable you like best.”

That earned me half a twitch at the corner of his mouth—so faint I might’ve imagined it.

Cabin came into sight soon after, tucked back in a stand of pines. Smoke curled lazy out the chimney, four horses tied out front. Big, broad-shouldered stock animals—strong enough to haul loot, dumb enough to belong to their riders. And there, beside ‘em, a scraggly little donkey, lookin’ like it hadn’t had a bath in its life.

I snorted. “Only breed of idiot steals half the county blind and still keeps a donkey. Might as well hang a sign up sayin’ ‘come rob us.’”

Pulled Scarlet back into shadow, let my eyes narrow against the sun. My skin prickled with the charge of it—the waiting, the watchin’. Some folk got sick off tension like this. Me? I breathed it in. Couldn’t pretend I didn’t thrive on it. Still, I knew how quick it could spill into blood.

Arthur shifted in his saddle, squintin’ toward the porch. I could see him studyin’ it like a man measurin’ a problem he already knew the answer to.

I cut my eyes toward him. “Hope you ain’t squeamish. ‘Cause this is ‘bout to get real bloody.”

His jaw flexed, but still—nothin’.

Didn’t matter. My hand was already on the Colt, thumb checking the cylinder. Click, spin, settle. There’s a steadiness in that sound—cleaner than whiskey, truer than trust. That click never lied. People did.

I slid the revolver back, did the same with the other. Ritual like prayer, if I’d ever been the prayin’ kind. Each motion filed me sharper, steadier.

He was watchin’ me, I could feel it. Pretended not to notice, though my skin heated under the weight of his stare. Man had a way of lookin’ like he saw past all the armour, which was exactly why I never let him hold my gaze too long.

I swung down off Scarlet, tied her loose but close. She flicked her ears, uneasy. Couldn’t blame her.

“So what’s it gonna be, Cowboy?” My voice came low, near playful if not for the edge sharp enough to cut. “You wanna get dirty, or stay clean?”

He grunted again, but I thought I saw his hand brush closer to his holster. That was answer enough.

Both my revolvers came up, cold iron cocked smooth under my thumbs.

Didn’t matter what he said. I was goin’ in. Always was.

Stride steady, I stepped out of shadow, boots crunchin’ soft on the grass. Each pace drew me nearer till the porch loomed tall, door shut, world holdin’ its breath.

Funny thing—my pulse slowed the closer I got. Calm always came in those last steps before the storm. Not peace, not exactly—just a kind of clarity.

I lifted my hand. Knocked once. Twice. Deliberate, steady.

World always did split itself into two kinds of folk—the ones who pray the knock don’t come, and the ones knockin’.

Chapter Text

Heads up: This chapter deals with Blood, Killings, and Hard Choices. Heavy stuff ahead.

Spray off the falls came down like misted rain, hissin’ cold on my shoulders. Branoc stood steady beneath me, ears flickin’ but sure-footed as ever. I sat the saddle and watched her—braid whipping in the wind, braid that never once came undone no matter how rough the trail got. She was leadin’ the string through one by one, Scarlet forcin’ her way through the current like she’d sooner bite the river than let it drag her down.

Cassidy’s shoulders stayed square, posture sharp, eyes never once leavin’ the horse she was ponyin’ across. She fussed over every step—whistle here, touch of the rein there. Gentle. Careful.

Struck me as strange. This was a woman who slit a man’s throat clean as breathin’, who drew a Colt faster’n I could blink… and here she was, damn near cooin’ to a mule like it was somethin’ precious.

The water frothed white at their knees. My hat brim grew heavy with spray. And like it or not, my mind pulled back to the porch—blood still so fresh in memory I swore I could smell it.

The knock hadn’t even died out when the door opened. Young one stood there, no more’n twenty, eyes hard. Behind him, another with a shotgun already raisin’.

Her Colt cleared leather before I’d even set sights. Crack—jaw split wide, teeth and blood down the frame. Same breath, she drove her knife cross the throat of the boy in the doorway. Porch boards lit up red, blood hissin’ hot against the cold.

She stepped in calm as church, both irons ready, voice barkin’ sharp enough to slice the air. I came behind with my piece up, though my chest felt tight as a snare drum.

Had one of the sons by the collar, shovin’ him down to a chest in the corner. “Open it,” she ordered, steady. Knife at his neck, tip dimpled deep in skin.

Another in the back twitched for his revolver. I didn’t think. Fired. Bullet took his hand damn near clean, blood sprayin’ as he screamed and dropped to his knees.

She never flinched. Just pressed her knife harder till her hostage whimpered.

Chest gave way, iron latch breakin’. Silver. Coin. Bills stacked neat. Loot enough for a gang twice our size.

She worked quick, riflin’ through with hands sure and practiced. Not a glance wasted, not a coin missed.

Then she straightened, eyes sliding toward the two men. Her gaze flicked up to me, holding mine for a beat. I caught a small flicker there—thought, calculation, something almost like hesitation behind her dark eyes. And then she moved.

Her Colt rose. Crack. Crack. Two unarmed men folded, skulls punched neat, eyes wide even as they hit the floor.

I kept my piece up, but it might as well’ve been slack. I’d thought she’d rob ’em, scare ’em, maybe leave ’em. Not judge, not sentence. Not like that.

The old woman wailed, hands at her mouth.

Cassidy turned to her. Crouched close, voice soft, near gentle. “You got family, old girl?”

The woman’s head shook, tears streamin’.

And Cassidy studied her. Quiet. Thinkin’.

Then fired.

Silence after near choked me.

It wasn’t the blood—I’d seen rivers of it. Wasn’t the killin’, either—I’d done more’n I could count. It was that pause. That choosin’. She’d weighed life in her hand and found it light enough to toss.

After, she told me to take what I pleased, casual as if we’d just stepped out of market. Then she walked out, blood still wet on her boots, and popped the latch on the chicken coop.

Hens scattered, wings beatin’, feathers driftin’ down like snow. A cruel kindness, or a kind cruelty—I couldn’t name it.

Then to the stock. Ropes, halters, knots—her hands deft, patient. Careful even. She tied off two pair neat, clicked her tongue low. Donkey got his halter too, ears flickin’ like he trusted her.

That’s what stuck. She could put down three folk like it weren’t nothin’, then turn ’round and save a damn donkey.

Made no sense. Still don’t.

Spray glittered in the sun when she led the third one across the river. Braid snapped in the wind, water foamin’ white around Scarlet’s knees.

Didn’t so much as glance my way. Didn’t carry weight in her shoulders, nor shadow in her eyes.

I followed on Branoc, current draggin’ at our legs. River roared loud, but all I heard was the silence after her shot.

She tied the horses clean, quick, donkey trailin’ like a pup. To look at her, you’d never know the floorboards of that cabin were still wet.

Maybe she don’t lose sleep. Maybe she can’t. Maybe that’s how she keeps movin’.

But me? I’m not sure how long a man can ride alongside someone who decides like that. Someone who looks in a pair of eyes, pauses, and still pulls the trigger.

Her shoulders stayed square. Braid swingin’. Like blood weren’t nothin’ more than dirt to wash off.

And I wondered if someday it’d come back for her.

Or worse—if ridin’ with her meant it’d come back for me.

Chapter Text

The road into Valentine stretched out, low sun gilding the dust in streaks of orange and gold. Scarlet’s ears flicked back to me, alert as ever, muscles coiled under the sleek black hide. Arthur trailed behind, calm, steady. Two other horses followed ponyed to Scarlet, and the donkey clopped behind with an almost comical persistence. Blood had dried on my hands, cracked along the knuckles, mixed with the fine grit clinging from the river spray. My boots squelched with every step—wet dirt, old blood, the kind of mess that’d stain a body longer than memory.

I let my mind drift back over the morning’s work. I hadn’t wanted to kill the last three. The first two deaths? Tactical. Mandatory. The first drew on me; the second was collateral. Couldn’t leave him breathing.

But the last two—Arthur’s shot man and the other—those weren’t about tactics. They were about the look. The eyes that promised revenge, that would remember every scar, every face, every slight. I learned early: leave that look unpunished, and it’ll come back to carve lives out of the world you tried to survive.

The old lady… that was different. She’d just watched all her children die. I asked about family. Heard the answer. Made my choice. Mercy sometimes wears a dark coat.

The hens I let loose. One small act for a world that often had none. Better than pens. Better than nothing. I didn’t dwell on the weight of it. Weighing gets heavy. Better to carry it light, practical.

Dusk came before I even noticed. Town appeared over the horizon, buildings leaning into the glow, windows catching last light. People turned their heads, whispers floating on the evening wind. Four extra horses and a donkey weren’t subtle, not in Valentine. I noticed the way storekeepers straightened, how children ducked behind barrels, how the men shifted in their boots. Didn’t care. Let them talk. My reputation would ride with me, no need to hurry it along.

The stables waited. I led them in, careful with knots, brushing reins, checking halters. They were quiet under my touch, obedient without command. Horses know when you’ve spent your life earning it. The donkey seemed to sense it too, stopping for a moment to look back like he approved. Amos paid for the extra mounts, giving Arthur and me permission to leave Scarlet and Branoc in his care. I dragged my feet the rest of the way toward the hotel, every muscle remembering the morning, remembering the cold sting of it all.

Inside, I paid for my room, keeping an eye on Arthur.

“What’re you doin’?” I asked, voice sharp, suspicion tucked in the words.

He glanced at the clerk, who hesitated. “Booked out,” he said, “but there’s the saloon.”

I scoffed. Saloon probably dirtier than the hotel. The words were sarcasm, but underneath, tension curled tight.

Arthur laughed, rough and easy. “I’ll share with Copper.”

I turned, incredulous glare sharp enough to split leather.

The clerk’s eyebrows jumped. I dropped an extra dollar on the counter. “I want a warm bath,” I said. “Not company.”

Arthur chuckled, following me as we headed upstairs. Every step a reminder—the blood, the roar of the morning still clinging to me like a second skin.

Once inside the room, I set my gear aside, shoulders sagging just enough to feel the weight. Arthur moved to sit, giving me a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. I caught it but didn’t respond. My body was too raw, too heavy with tension to offer anything more than presence.

Before I could even settle fully, a soft knock sounded on the door.

“Miss Lane?” a young hotel girl asked, peeking in. “Your bath’s ready, ma’am.”

I nodded once, dismissive. “Thank you.”

The hotel girl’s knock had faded. I slipped down the stairs, every step heavy, muscles tight, hands still sticky with dried blood and river grit.

The water was warm before I even touched it, pressing against my skin like a quiet promise. I sank in, letting it envelop me, letting every ache, every knot, every lingering pulse of the day soften under its weight.

Fingers trailed over sore shoulders, down my arms, over the muscles that remembered every mile on horseback, every struggle through the river. I rolled slightly, letting my body press into the warmth, coaxing tension loose. Breath caught, then deepened. Heat pooled low in my belly, spreading through me, pressing against muscles and bones that had gone too long without relief.

I leaned back, letting steam curl around me, hiding me from the world. Hands drifted, tracing lines I rarely acknowledged, exploring muscles tight from riding, soft skin beneath them. Every exhale let a little more go—fear, adrenaline, worry. Every heartbeat pressed warmth and pleasure deeper into me.

It wasn’t about him—not exactly—but knowing Arthur was nearby, patient, quiet, waiting, let me let go in the smallest, private way. I let my body remember itself, remember sensation, remember that it could still feel without danger, without purpose, without armour.

A low shiver ran through me, slow and steady, and I leaned into it, letting the heat and warmth roll through my limbs, through my chest, through the muscles I’d held tight all day. Every nerve thrummed, every ache loosened, every thought stilled.

The world outside the bathroom—the river, the blood, the chase—fell away. Only this moment existed. Only the warmth, the release, the small, delicious pulse of living fully in my own skin.

I closed my eyes, letting it linger, letting the pleasure and relief mingle, letting the tension slip away until it was nothing more than warmth and quiet. When I finally sank lower, letting the water press around me, I let out a soft sigh—the kind you don’t give the world.

For once, I was just Cassidy. Not Copper. Not a survivor. Just alive.

Chapter Text

The hotel chair weren’t much more than a rickety frame with a pad thin as old parchment, but it held me steady enough. The lamp on the table threw a yellow pool across my journal, pencil scratching soft over paper. I sketched the colt from Emerald Ranch—the wild one with fire in his hide. I caught the slope of his neck, the sharp cut of his jaw, the hard set of his eye. Shading dark around his muzzle, I tried to trap that restless energy, the kind that looked like it wanted to leap off the page and kick a man in the chest.

Sketchin’ always gave me quiet. Hosea used to say it was my way of prayin’ without words. Maybe he weren’t wrong. Usually I lost myself in it, steady hand, clear mind. But tonight the page felt heavier than it ought to, like even the lead didn’t wanna carry what I’d seen. My fingers stayed steady, but my head wandered back—river spray cold on my skin, revolvers barkin’, the echo of shots. And them three at the end.

I pressed the pencil harder than I meant to, near tore the paper.

Door hinges creaked, pullin’ me back.

Cassidy stepped inside, hair damp from the bath, steam still clingin’ to her skin. She moved slower than usual, like the water had pulled something out of her she couldn’t get back. Boots hit the floor with a careless kick. She peeled out of her coat, dropped it with the rest of her dirty clothes, and flopped down onto the single bed with a sigh that sounded older than she was.

I shut my journal soft, slid it aside. Watched her a moment. Shoulders slumped, face turned toward the ceiling. Tired—sure. But there was more hangin’ on her frame, somethin’ heavier.

Silence stretched. I cleared my throat.

“Why?” My voice came low, steady.

Her brow knit, eyes half-open. “Why what?”

I didn’t blink. “Them three. At the end.”

Her face shifted, hardening quick, eyes flattening into stone. Breath pushed sharp through her nose.

“Survival. Survival. Mercy.”

The words dropped like stones in my chest. I sat with ’em, trying to parse the weight. She said it like scripture—like she’d carried those laws for years. Weren’t no sermon, though. Just law she wrote herself.

She rolled, dragged a whiskey bottle from her saddlebag, yanked the cork out with her teeth. Took a long pull, like it was water.

I watched, quiet. She caught me staring when the bottle lowered. “What’re you lookin’ at?”

I shook my head. “Do you always gotta speak in tongue?”

Her mouth tugged into a faint smirk, sharp at the edges. “If you get it, you get it.”

She tipped the bottle again, leaned against the wall, eyes drooping heavy-lidded. When she spoke next, her voice was calm, sharp, almost clinical.

“First two—necessary. No choice.” Her thumb tapped the glass. “Third and fourth—saw it in their eyes. Vengeance. Promises of blood. Best cut that off at the root.” She paused, gaze drifting somewhere far. “The old woman—mercy. No family left. Four sons gone. Better quick than slow.”

Cold words. Calculated. But under it, I caught somethin’ else. The way she framed it—it weren’t just for her.

I stayed still, stewin’ in it. Cold as her voice was, there was somethin’ tucked beneath. Maybe she weren’t just protectin’ herself. Maybe she’d been protectin’ me too.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t regret. She carried them choices like tools, not ghosts. And the more I tried to pull her apart, the more I felt myself pulled closer.

Maybe it weren’t just survival. Maybe it was her way of keepin’ us both movin’ forward, no matter the cost.

She smirked faintly, already slipping toward sleep, whiskey bottle loose at her side.

I leaned back in the chair, let out a slow breath. Lamplight played across her face, softening the sharp lines she wore like armour. A strand of damp auburn hair clung to her cheek. Her hand twitched once, then stilled.

I could’ve turned in myself. Lord knew I was bone-tired. But my eyes stayed fixed on her.

She shifted, a small sound leaving her throat—half sigh, half groan. Her arm slid off the bed, fingers brushing the floor. She looked younger in that moment, softer, stripped of the fire that usually burned off her. Almost like she weren’t Copper at all. Just Cassidy.

The name drifted through my head, one I rarely let myself use.

I picked my journal back up, turned past the colt. Pencil moved again, softer this time. I didn’t sketch the horses. I sketched her. Not the gun on her hip, not the smirk sharp as a knife. Just the quiet of her, head tilted, lashes fanned against flushed skin, mouth softened by whiskey and weariness.

Didn’t take long before I stopped, sittin’ there with her face half-formed on paper. I weren’t sure what I was drawin’—Cassidy, Copper, or somethin’ in between.

The lamplight hissed faint against the oil. Outside, boots scraped along the boardwalk, voices rose and faded. Valentine was settling for the night, same as we should’ve.

But I stayed. Watching. Listening.

Her breathing deepened, slow, steady. That hard edge she carried bled out with every exhale. She turned onto her side, clutching the pillow like it anchored her. For the first time since I’d met her, she looked unguarded.

I rubbed a hand over my face, leaned forward on my knees.

Weren’t sure if she was my salvation or damnation. But sittin’ there, I knew one thing: I weren’t ready to walk away.

Couldn’t.

The chair creaked as I shifted, settling in for a long night. My revolver lay close by, journal open at my side. I kept one eye on the window, one on her. The lamp burned low, shadows climbin’ the wall.

And still, I watched.

Her braid loosened in the night, strands falling across her face. I caught myself leaning forward, thumb twitching like I meant to brush it back. I didn’t. Sat back, fists clenched against the thought.

She murmured once in her sleep, words slurred and broken. I didn’t catch what she said. Didn’t matter. The sound of it was enough.

The clock downstairs ticked faint through the floorboards. Time stretched. My eyelids went heavy, but I fought it. There was something in watching her—knowing she’d made it through the day, through the blood and the river and the ghosts she carried. Something in knowing I was here when she finally let herself rest.

I thought of Hosea’s voice in my head, telling me I was fool enough to get tangled in this woman’s storm. He’d be right.

But still I sat.

And when the whiskey bottle rolled from her hand and settled against the floor, I picked it up quiet, set it aside. She didn’t stir.

Her breathing stayed steady.

I leaned back, eyes tracing her outline in the low light, sketchin’ her once more—this time not on paper, but in memory.

I’d carry it with me, same as every line I ever put in that journal.

And somewhere in the dark between the tick of the clock and the hiss of the lamp, I knew—whatever tomorrow brought, I’d already chosen my place.

Right here.

Watching over her.

Chapter Text

Heads up: This chapter deals with Graphic Violence, Blood, and the Death of a Parent. Heavy stuff ahead.

I woke sticky. Skin tacky with sweat, sheets twisted around my legs like I’d fought someone in my sleep and they’d left me trussed. Whiskey still clung to my mouth, sour and dry at once. My head was fogged, bones lead-heavy. Felt like the night hadn’t ended so much as it’d laid itself across me and refused to move.

The bed weren’t worth the coin — lumpy mattress, thin blanket, frame that squeaked if I shifted too much. But it had held me long enough to crawl out of the dark for a few hours. Morning light crawled in through the slats, pale and thin, dust dancing in it like tired little ghosts.

Took me a moment to notice I weren’t alone.

Arthur sat slouched in the hotel chair, chin tucked to his chest. His eyes half-lidded, mouth slack, but he weren’t asleep proper. No — he was hovering in that in-between, still keeping watch like his body refused to quit even when his head begged it. His journal sat closed on the table, revolver close by.

The sight prickled under my skin. I felt bare — stripped down to nothing but my underthings, the lamp from last night still dead on the table. Heat rushed to my face before I pulled my coat from the floor, draped it across my shoulders. That was better. Not enough, but better.

I slipped to the window, careful not to wake the floorboards, and cracked it wider. The air slid in, cool against the heat sticking to my neck. I struck a match, cupped it to my cigarette, breathed deep. Smoke curled up gentle at first, then caught sharp in my lungs. I held it until my chest burned, exhaled slow.

Steadier. Or maybe I only told myself I was steadier.

Valentine was stretching awake outside. The sun crawled low over the rooftops, dragging gold over dirt. Men hauled barrels from wagons, women swept their porches, kids darted after a stray mutt yapping down the street. The clatter of hooves echoed faint from the main road. Life starting up again, same as it always did, uncaring who lived or bled the night before.

I should’ve seen myself in the glass. Instead, I saw her.

Dark eyes. Not mine — softer, warmer, alive in ways I hadn’t been in years. My mother’s eyes.

The breath punched out of me, and the memory came. Violent.

The knife flashed — silver catching lanternlight.

It weren’t clean. Not meant to be. He wanted it cruel. He drew it slow, pressing until skin split, twisting, dragging. Her breath hitched, broke into little screams that clawed at my ears. The bastard’s grin wide, enjoying each shudder that ran through her body.

Blood sprayed hot — across my face, into my mouth. It tasted like iron, bitter, wrong. I choked on it, gagged, clawed at my own skin like I could wipe her pain away if I scrubbed hard enough.

Her hands shook, nails digging into her dress as she struggled, eyes wide but finding me even through the haze. And then one trembling hand lifted, slow, deliberate, like it weighed a hundred pounds. She pressed her palm to my cheek. Fingers sticky with her own blood.

She looked at me. Not the knife. Not him. Me.

And then I watched the light drain out.

Not quick. Not merciful. She fought for every breath, choking on it, drowning on land. I begged in silence — take her, make it fast, end it. But it dragged on, every second crueler than the last.

And then nothing.

Mercy denied.

I staggered back from the window, cigarette trembling between my fingers. My throat felt closed up, lungs locked. That vow crawled through me again, same as it always did — no one deserved to die like that. Not if I had a say. Better quick than slow. Better the barrel of a gun than a knife drawn out long. I’d sworn it. I’d carried it ever since.

A tear slipped down my cheek before I caught it, swiped it fast like it’d never been there. But I felt the weight of eyes before I even looked.

Arthur. Awake now. Watching me with that steady quiet that made me feel like he could see clean through me if I let him.

I flicked ash out the window, voice flat, mask snapping into place.

“This is where we part.”

No rise, no fall. Just stone.

I pulled on my dirty clothes, buckled my gun belt. Each motion sharp, mechanical. Boots hit the floor, scuffed leather against wood. He didn’t say a word, just watched, letting the silence stretch until it near split me open.

Finally, his voice came.

“You okay?”

I met his eyes and forced a smile. Thin. Crooked. Hollow.

“Always.”

The lie slipped easy. My hands moved to the revolvers, loading them by feel, cylinder clicking, bullets sliding home. Steel didn’t ask questions.

I heard his chair creak as he stood. He crossed the room slow, careful, like approaching a spooked mare. His hand reached out for mine.

I froze. Instinct flared. My head snapped toward him. But his palm just brushed against mine, not gripping, not forcing. Just there.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice low, steady. “Not to be okay.”

His other hand lifted, cupped my jaw. His thumb grazed just near the place where the tear had been, rough skin against the softest part of me.

My chest thundered. Too close. Too raw. I turned sharp, shoved him in the chest. Not hard. Just enough. A warning. Don’t pry. Don’t look too deep.

Inside, I cursed myself raw. Damn fool for letting him see. Damn fool for letting him matter. Softness was weakness. Weakness got people killed.

But when I looked back at him, my eyes betrayed me.

I weren’t staring at him like Copper. Not hard, sharp, cold. Weren’t even Cassidy — bitter, closed-off, survivor. It was something else. Something softer, warmer. Something that terrified me more than the knife, more than the blood, more than the ghosts.

I dragged hard on the cigarette, burned it down near to the filter. Stubbed it out sharp. Slung my gear over my shoulder.

Didn’t look back when I muttered, “We’ve both got roads to ride.”

But I lingered a breath too long. My eyes softened before I could stop them, betraying me again.

Then I turned.

Arthur didn’t answer. Just let the silence follow me heavy as chain.

And somehow, it was heavier than the ghosts.

Chapter Text

The door shut behind her, and the room felt emptier than it had any right to.
Silence pressed in close, thick and heavy, the kind that don’t leave quick. I stayed planted in the chair, elbows on my knees, staring at the spot where she’d stood a moment ago. Her cigarette smoke still clung to the air, curling lazy in the slant of morning light.

My journal sat open on the table. Pages full of her. I hadn’t meant for it to turn out that way — it just had.

First sketch, sharp as broken glass: Copper. That was how most folk knew her. Eyes hard, mouth set tight, revolver cocked and ready. The kind of woman you didn’t meet twice unless you were lucky or dead.
Next page, Cassidy. Or leastways, how I saw her when her guard slipped. Shoulders low, hair untidy, her whole frame carrying a tired weight no amount of whiskey could ease. Softer lines. Human lines.
Then another, drawn late one night — same woman, only smaller somehow. Not in size, but in the way her edges folded inward, like she was trying to disappear into herself.

And this morning… hell, that weren’t none of those. She weren’t Copper, weren’t Cassidy. She was both, and she was something else. A woman cut from scars, carrying more ghosts than most men could shoulder in a lifetime.

I rubbed at my eyes, scratching at my beard. Truth was, I didn’t know which one of those drawings told the truth. Maybe all of them did. Maybe none of them did.

I pushed up from the chair and crossed to the window. From up here, the whole town stretched out — Valentine shaking itself awake. Wagons rattled down the main road, the blacksmith hammering already, a dog barking after some kid darting through the dust. Life carrying on, same as it always did, not caring who hurt or bled the night before.

And there she was. Easy to pick out even in the bustle. Cloak pulled close, boots cutting sharp across the street. Heading for the stables with a stride like she owned the place. I watched her snap orders at some boy too slow with a brush, watched the quick flick of her hands as she tightened Scarlet’s cinch strap. Efficient. Cold. Commanding.

Copper again. Back in full.

The tenderness I’d glimpsed upstairs — that tear, the way a ghost had slipped into her face for just a breath — gone, vanished like it had never been there.

Made me wonder if it had. Or if I just wanted it to be.

I gathered up my satchel, slid my journal inside, and made my way down the narrow stairs. The floorboards complained under my boots. The clerk at the desk looked up, his mouth opening to say something polite, but I only tipped my hat and kept walking.

Outside, the morning was brighter, harsher. I squinted against the sun as I made for the stables.

She was already mounted by the time I got there. Scarlet stood restless but proud, ears pricked, the donkey’s rope pulled tight in her other hand. She sat tall in the saddle, reins light in her grip, every motion practised like she’d been born there.

Didn’t spare me a glance. Didn’t say a word. Just clicked her tongue and pushed on, riding down the main drag without a hitch.

I stood there a moment, hat low, watching her vanish into the churn of dust and sunlight. Then I paid Amos with a grunt, swung up onto Branoc, and pointed his nose out of town.

Camp was quiet when I got back. Too quiet, the kind that makes you hear every little thing — the flap of canvas in the breeze, Pearson clattering about with his pots, a horse stamping near the hitch. Life rolled on, but it felt dulled somehow, like the edges had been sanded down.

“You’re back.”
The voice came easy, like he’d been expecting me. Hosea was sat on a log near the fire, coffee clasped in his hand, steam curling up and catching the morning sun. His eyes found mine quick — sharp, knowing.

“So?” he said, tilting his head, that sly smile tugging. “How was Emerald?”

I gave him a look. Didn’t answer. Never could hide much from Hosea, but I weren’t about to start confessing just ‘cause he asked neat.

He let the silence hang, then lifted his brows, pressing without pressing.

I sighed heavy, set my satchel down with a thump, and lowered myself onto a crate across from him. Felt like I carried twice my own weight.

“What’s your thoughts,” I said finally, voice low, “on killin’ folk who don’t need killin’?”

The words hit the air sharp. Hosea didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just studied me over the curl of his coffee steam. His eyes steady, old and clear as ever.

“You know my thoughts, son,” he said after a beat. “I’ve no stomach for it unless it’s needful.”

I rubbed my face, weary. “She killed three men, Hosea. After the job.”

That got his brow to twitch. But he stayed quiet, so I kept on.

“One of ‘em I stopped. Shot his hand when he tried to draw. Dropped his gun. He surrendered. She put him down anyway.” My jaw clenched. “Then another, soon after. No hesitation.”

I looked at him then, but Hosea only sipped his coffee, letting me keep going.

“When I asked her why, she said: ‘Third and fourth — saw it in their eyes. Vengeance. Promises of blood. Best cut that off at the root.’”

The words still sat wrong in my gut. I shifted, staring at the dirt. “And then there was an old woman. Harmless. Just keepin’ her sons’ loot safe. She shot her, too. Called it mercy. Said, ‘No family left. Four sons gone. Better quick than slow.’”

The silence after that was thick. Camp noises drifted around the edges — kids laughing somewhere by the wagons, Pearson swearing at his stew — but they all felt far off.

Hosea tapped his coffee cup, slow. Then he nodded, like he’d been turning something heavy over in his mind.

“If you’re gonna rob a man and strip him bare,” he said, voice even, “you best be ready to face him when he’s got nothin’ left. A man with nothin’ is dangerous, Arthur. Vengeance may be foolish, but it drives folk more than gold ever could.”

He let that sit, then went on, quieter. “As for the woman… mercy’s a strange thing. Folk like to dress it up neat, but there’s nothin’ neat about it. Sometimes a bullet’s kinder than leavin’ someone to starve. Kinder than lettin’ ‘em sit and watch everythin’ they love fade away. Mercy killin’…” He lifted his cup, sipped deep, steam rising as he breathed out slow. “It’s somethin’ only folk who’ve had mercy denied to ‘em can truly understand.”

I scratched at my beard, unsettled. His words made sense, but they didn’t ease the weight in me.

My mind drifted back to that hotel room. To the tear she tried to hide, the way her eyes softened just enough to let me see. The way she’d looked at me, not as Copper, not as Cassidy, but something in between — something I didn’t have a name for.

For the first time, I started to understand her rules. Survival. Vengeance. Mercy. They weren’t cold calculations. They were laws carved out of pain, out of the things that had been done to her.

Didn’t mean I agreed with her. Didn’t mean I’d ever do the same. But I understood. And that… that pulled at something deep I didn’t want named.

Hosea studied me long, quiet. Then he leaned forward, coffee cup in hand, and gave me a look sharp enough to cut.

“Careful, Arthur,” he said. “Some storms you don’t ride out. They swallow you whole.”

I sat back, chewing on the words. Didn’t answer. Just let the quiet stretch.

The sun was higher now, spilling gold over the camp. Pearson cursed at a pot. Sean hollered something obscene. Horses shifted, tails swishing at the flies. Ordinary life went on, rolling steady as ever.

But her face stayed with me. That fleeting softness, that tear. The weight of all she carried.

And I reckoned it would for a long while.

Chapter Text

Three days gone since Valentine. Felt like three weeks, though my mind still felt bruised, sore in places nobody could see, so maybe that’s how I knew the count was right. Healing never kept time straight — every ache made the hours stretch long, and every silence made ‘em longer.

I was back in the colt pen, third morning running. Dust clung thick to my boots, shirt stuck to my back already though the sun hadn’t reached its worst yet. Rope burned against my palms as I swung the colt in circles. He wasn’t near broke, not yet, but he weren’t the same wild thing from the start either. His stride had settled into something almost rhythmic, though his head still jerked up at every crow call or snap of fence wire.

Sweat slicked his dark hide, cutting trails through the dust caked on him. Around his poll and throat the hide was already angry red, rope burns rising like they had a mind to stay. Scars in the making, if anything.

I knew the look.

I clicked my tongue, reeled him in slow, let him circle tighter ‘til the rope drew him into the middle. He danced, tried to veer, but I stayed steady, hand to his neck when he finally stopped fighting. He flinched so hard he nearly ripped me off my feet, but I didn’t let go. Just loosened the old rope around his throat, bit by bit, talking low all the while.

“Easy, boy. Ain’t here to skin you alive.”

My voice didn’t sound convincing, even to me. Still, his head dropped half an inch, the tiniest give. Good enough. I slipped the rope free and tossed it aside, pulled the halter over instead. Knotted it snug, tested the line. He mouthed at the lead, pawed once, then stilled.

Victory. Small, quiet. Mine.

And then that damn voice stirred up in my skull again, like I’d left the door cracked: It’s okay not to be okay.

I clenched my jaw. Fool thing to say. Fool thing to remember. I’d never let myself not be okay — world didn’t make room for that. Weakness got you killed, or worse. But looking at this colt, wounded throat, jumpy eyes, fighting every hand that came near… well. Maybe I weren’t staring at him so much as a mirror.

I tied him to the post, snug and proper. Didn’t even finish the knot before he lost his fool mind. Went up on his hind legs, striking, throwing his weight back so hard the rope groaned and his neck bowed near to breaking.

I didn’t move. Just leaned against the fence, arms folded, watching. Calm as still water.

He crashed, scrambled, dug ruts in the dirt. Sweat sprayed from him, blood smeared his lip where he’d bit himself. All the while I stayed put, smoke of dust curling round my boots. I’d been there too — thrashing ‘til my skin split, tearing myself bloody rather than give in. Difference was, nobody’d held the rope.

Bootsteps scuffed behind me. Wegner shuffled up, forearms resting on the top rail.

“Seen that burly feller again?” he asked.

My eyes stayed fixed on the colt. “Last saw him in Valentine. Few days back.”

Wegner hung there a beat, maybe waiting for more. When none came, he nodded slow and took himself off. Suited me fine. Talking weren’t never much use.

By then the colt had started to lose steam. Lather streaked his chest, foam flecked his mouth, eyes still rolling but less white showing. He sagged against the post, sides heaving.

“Done yet?” I asked. He flicked an ear at me. Close enough.

I fixed the halter, fetched a saddle blanket. First toss spooked him clean out of his skin — he lashed backward, hind hoof clipping my chaps so hard it stung through the leather. Nearly caught my hipbone. I gritted my teeth, muttered a curse, and came again, slower this time. Blanket first, nothing else.

Flapped it against him, pulled it back, repeated. He blew snot, skittered sideways, eyes big as moons. Each time he settled a fraction faster. That was all training was, really — fight, fear, settle, repeat, until settle came first.

Then came the saddle. Blanket down, leather up. Cinch fast before he could think. He thought anyway. The back cinch snapped under his belly and he went off like a lit fuse — kicking, bucking, striking the rails.

I swung up onto the fence, lit a cigarette, and let him dance himself stupid. Smoke curled slow while he tore about, saddle rattling hard under him. Breastcollar slipped low, back cinch slapped, but no matter how he pitched, it stayed tied to him.

Arthur’s voice again. It’s okay not to be okay.

I hated how it stuck. Hated worse that he’d seen me crack at all. My rules were clear: survive, don’t bend, don’t break. But here was this colt, tearing himself raw against something he couldn’t shed. Here was me, smoking and watching like I didn’t know the same tune by heart.

He kept on until his legs shook beneath him. The fence rang with every strike, dirt flying, foam flying, rage flying. And then it burned out. Always does. He slowed, stumbled, stood trembling, sides pumping, saddle still tied to his back no matter how he’d fought.

Didn’t matter how he bucked. Didn’t matter how he panicked. Weren’t coming off.

Neither do ghosts.

I took a long drag, blew smoke through my teeth. 

“Fightin’ don’t change what’s tied to you,” I muttered. Low. Half to him, half to myself.

The colt twitched an ear, still trembling. I sat there on the rail, smoke curling round me, sweat and dust and memory clinging same as scars. Him and me both — scarred, branded, still standing.

Chapter Text

Didn’t take five minutes in the saddle before I was cursing myself six ways to Sunday.

Colt was dripping sweat though we’d barely cleared the timberline, hide slick and shivering like I’d run him cross-country. Birds stirred out the brush and he near tore my arms out the sockets trying to wheel away from ‘em. Every crow, every rustle, every damn breeze had him jerking at the bit like the world was ending. My triceps burned, shoulders lit up like hot iron, and my palms were raw from keeping him straight.

Scarlet never rode like this. Smooth as poured whiskey, steady as a river current, never once stumbled. This fool here? Felt like I was perched on a lopsided wheelbarrow with legs.

South edge of New Hanover stretched ahead, wide and empty, horizon swimming in mid-summer haze. The Lemoyne border wasn’t far off, swamp stink already clinging to the wind. Flatneck Station was my heading — poker winnings from near two weeks past, long overdue on collection. Felt near poetic: suffer a horse all morning just to suffer men all afternoon.

Colt’s stride clattered uneven, jarring through my spine. I leaned back, tried to ease him into something passable. He fought, near tripped on his own feet, and my teeth clacked together so hard I swore one cracked.

“Sweet mother of Christ,” I hissed. “Scarlet would’ve packed me there by now, shoes shined and mane brushed.”

He flicked an ear, tossed his head like he understood just enough to be offended.

Trail bent north, pulling us close by the bluff where Horseshoe Overlook sat perched. Wagon ruts scarred the dirt, grass worn thin from camps that came and went. I slowed him some, let him catch breath while my eyes lingered on the ridgeline.

And there it was again — Branoc. Not truly, but damn close. Just a flash in my mind’s eye, tall frame, black mane streaming, standing proud against the bluff light. Ghost image seared into me, quick as a gunshot, and just as unwelcome.

I blinked hard, jaw tight.

“Not him,” I muttered, digging my heel to snap the colt into trot again. “Ain’t him. Just some nag looks like him.”

Still, the ghost clung like a burr. Always did.

We rattled down the road, saddle horn pounding my pelvis with every clumsy stride. Posting the trot near killed me — thighs screaming, knees sore, chest bruised from the jarring. My body felt like one long bruise being beat fresh again. I swore under my breath each time he near went down, praying he’d snap a leg just to spare me.

By the time Flatneck showed its sorry face, I was stiff as a coffin board. Station squatted low against the bluff, porch boards sun-bleached and sagging, air full of smoke and holler. Dismounting near ripped my skin off bone. Legs buckled under me, stiff and useless.

“Goddamn glue pot,” I spat, dragging him to the hitch rail.

He fought the tie soon as I looped it. Threw his head, backed so hard the rail rattled. I growled, yanked the lead sharp. He froze, ears pinned, chest quivering.

“That’s right. Tantrum all you want after I get paid.”

Inside smelled of whiskey gone sour and old tobacco spit. Light slanted dim through dusty windows. Clerk looked up from his desk and near shouted my name like he’d been waiting all week.

“Copper!”

I squinted. “Why’re you hollerin’?”

Didn’t need the answer — came quick in the hammer of boots on the deck outside.

Eyes cut sharp to the poker room. Door gaped open just enough to catch the bob of a hat ducking past the back window. Bastard was bolting.

“Son of a—”

I spun, near knocked over a drunk snoring in his chair. Pushed past, shoulder-checked the doorway, and burst onto the porch. Just in time to see dust kicking up down the trail, horse tearing ass out of there. My winnings riding off with him.

I hit the rail at a run, snatched reins, near vaulted into the saddle. Sloppy mount — rope still tied to the hitch, near jerked me clean backwards. I cursed loud, yanked it free, looped it rough around the colt’s neck just to clear my hands. Lasso slid into my palm, easy as breath, coil snug and ready.

“Move, you miserable sack,” I hissed, spurring hard.

Colt leapt sideways first, damn near scraped my knee against the post, then bolted forward. His stride was rough, head tossing, jaw locked against the bit. I smacked him with the rein, laid it across his flank. He surged crooked, pounding dust like every leg had a mind of its own.

Ahead, thief’s horse spurred faster, tail flagged, dust boiling behind him. My chest clenched at the sight — him flying smooth and free while I rattled behind on a half-broke wreck.

I dropped low in the saddle, body molded tight, rope coiled snug in my fist. Every jolt rattled up through my spine, but I kept eyes cut sharp on his back.

Colt stumbled, caught himself, lurched forward harder. My teeth near went through my tongue.

“Come on,” I growled, slamming a heel. “Ain’t dying on me yet.”

Trail narrowed, cutting past cottonwoods, rocks close enough to scrape. I leaned him left, shoved him straight when he tried to veer. He fought like hell, but fear of my spur seemed worse than fear of trees.

Another rider blurred up ahead, reining sharp as we thundered past. Dust sprayed his boots.

The thief’s voice carried back, sharp and panicked:
“Stop that crazy lady behind me!”

I bared my teeth, rope burning hot in my palm.

Crazy lady. Yeah, maybe. But I wasn’t the one running scared.

The colt’s breath thundered under me, lather streaking his neck, reins slick in my grip. I lifted the loop high, fingers tightening, eyes locked steady on my mark.

World shrank down to that back riding away from me. Nothing else mattered — not the ache, not the bruises, not the ghost horses in my head. Just the chase.

Dust swallowed us whole, heat rolling off the ground in waves. Hooves thundered like war drums. My body went low, hand steady, loop wide in the air.

And the bastard’s shout still hung there, echoing sharp as a gunshot:

“Stop that crazy lady behind me!”

Chapter Text

Branoc was the only creature in camp I trusted to keep his mouth shut. Saddling him in the heat of midday felt like the only steady thing left in my day. Leather creaked, his breath came slow and heavy, sweat already darkening his hide under the sun. Camp never did settle right, even in the heat of the day. Micah was sprawled in the shade snoring like he was fighting off a bear, Pearson cussing under his breath as he clattered pans about the fire, and Dutch—Dutch was pacing again. Boots grinding dust, back and forth, voice low but sharp. I didn’t need to hear the words to know the shape of ’em. Schemes. Promises. That same damn refrain about one more score.

I tightened Branoc’s cinch until he blew hard through his nose. Maybe I needed air more than Dutch’s goddamn words.

Valentine had left me sour, truth told. I’d been short with the gang ever since. Couldn’t hold my tongue when Bill started jawing, near bit Sean’s head clean off for something that wasn’t worth the breath. Hosea kept watching me with them eyes that saw too much, like he was just waiting for me to admit what he already knew. Never asked, never pushed. That was worse. Like he was just waiting for me to see it for myself.

I gave Branoc’s neck a rough pat and swung up. Told myself Strawberry was the reason—go west, scope the town, see what kind of law was drifting through. But really, it was just about putting distance between me and Dutch’s voice.

The trail bent through heat shimmer, grass gone brittle under the sun. Branoc’s stride was easy beneath me, steady as the tide, ears twitching at the cry of a hawk overhead. I breathed in deep, dry pine and dust thick on the wind, letting it scrape some of the bitterness out my chest.

Couple miles out, I spotted a rider ahead. Smaller frame, horse moving like its legs were nailed on sideways. Couldn’t help but huff a laugh. Branoc tossed his head like he was laughing too. The rider veered off toward Flatneck Station, but just as I passed, the nag pitched a tantrum—head high, legs flailing, dust flying.

That’s when I looked proper. Recognition landed hard.

Cassidy.

Perched on that gangly colt like he was a barrel rolling downhill.

I dragged my eyes away, pressed Branoc into a canter. She’d made her choice. We both had roads to ride.

By the time we reached the Dakota crossing, my jaw hurt from clenching it. Water slid smooth over rocks, deer bent to drink at the far bank. For a breath, it was quiet enough to ease something tight inside me.

Then came the shouting.

Hoofbeats behind, fast and panicked. My hand was on my revolver before I thought. A man burst past, near clipped Branoc’s shoulder. He yelled over his back:
“Stop that crazy lady behind me!”

I muttered, “…sounds about right.”

Sure enough, Cassidy thundered after him a heartbeat later. Rope in her fist, eyes sharp as broken glass, that damn colt lunging wild under her. She caught sight of me, blinked, then kept on like I wasn’t even there. Straight into the river after him.

The colt hit the bank, froze when the deer scattered, then went sideways with a crash. Water exploded up around them. Cassidy vanished in the churn. Next thing I knew, she was half under, spur caught, colt dragging her downriver in the mud.

“Goddammit.”

I was off Branoc before my boots even hit the ground proper. Splashed through the bank muck, grabbed the lead rope as the colt flailed. He near tore my shoulder clean out, muscles straining against mine. My boots slid, mud sucking at them, but I held. Yanked with everything in me until the horse’s head snapped sideways. He spun circles, fighting me, froth flying off his lips.

“Easy, you bastard—easy!” I snarled through my teeth.

Cassidy was half-dragged, water slapping her face, hands clawing at the mud. Her boot ripped free sudden, spur snapping, left her barefoot and stumbling. She collapsed there, gasping, ankle clutched in both hands.

I wrestled the colt up to a tree, tied him off hard, and turned back. My chest heaved, arms shaking from the strain.

She was still in the mud, hair plastered to her face, eyes narrowed to slits. “Dakota’s bit me twice now,” she hissed, voice shredded with pain.

I crouched, hauled her upright by the arm. She tried to take weight, near folded again. Her hand clamped down on my forearm like a vise, nails digging.

“You alright?”

She gave a sharp nod, but her face said otherwise. Pale, lips tight, but that damn stubborn fire still burned there. She tried to hobble on her own, chin high, jaw set like she’d rather crawl than lean on me.

“Quit it.”

Before she could argue, I swept her up—one arm under her knees, the other braced around her waist. She squirmed like a trapped cat.

“Put me down, you mule-headed bastard!”

“Enough.” My voice came low, sharp, eyes locking hers.

She froze. Still glaring, but the fight drained out of her like someone cut a rope.

I started back toward the horses, boots dragging heavy in the mud, her weight warm against my chest. She muttered curses every other breath.

“Most goddamn stubborn woman alive,” I growled under mine.

“Big words from a man haulin’ me like a sack of grain.”

“Difference is, sack of grain don’t try to bite.”

Her mouth twitched, like she wanted to smile but wouldn’t dare let me see it. She looked away instead, jaw set, hand still fisted in my shirt like she didn’t trust me not to drop her.

Branoc waited calm on the bank, ears flicking as we neared. The colt, tied off, still tossed his head now and then, but the fight had mostly bled out.

I stopped, shifted her weight enough she had to look back at me. Mud streaked her cheek, hair hanging wild. But even half-soaked, limping, she had that fire—like nothing short of a bullet would put her down.

I didn’t say what tangled up in my chest then. Didn’t have a name for it, and sure as hell wasn’t about to give it one.

So I just held her tighter, turned us toward Branoc, and muttered, “Let’s get you on a horse that don’t look like he’s tryin’ to kill you.”

She bristled, sharp as ever. “Don’t you start thinkin’ you saved me, Cowboy.”

I huffed, near laughed despite myself. “Couldn’t if I tried, Copper.”

And with that, I hoisted her higher, Branoc steadying himself as I shifted her weight. My annoyance sat heavy, sure—but tangled up in it was something else, heavier still. Something I wasn’t about to name.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

I’d wrapped plenty of wounds in my time—cuts, bullet holes, busted ribs. But never with someone hissing over every damn knot like a cat caught in barbed wire.

“Not so tight,” Cassidy snapped, teeth bared.

“If it ain’t tight, it ain’t doin’ nothin’,” I muttered, tugging the strip of cloth firm around her ankle. The joint was swollen near double, purple blooming ugly under the skin.

She sucked in a sharp breath, glared murder at me. “You enjoyin’ yourself?”

That near dragged a laugh out of me. “Enjoyin’ watchin’ you fuss, maybe.”

She shoved at my hat brim till it slid down over my eyes. “Fuss? You’re stranglin’ my damn foot, Cowboy.”

I shoved the brim back up, shaking my head. “You’re impossibly stubborn, you know that?”

“And yet you’re still here.”

Didn’t have much of a comeback for that. My hands kept working, slower now, fingers brushing her skin where the bandage overlapped. Warm, damp from the river mud still clinging. I tied it off neat, sat back on my heels, and blew out a breath.

“There. Don’t walk on it.”

She smirked. “Not much choice, unless you plan on carryin’ me again.”

I ignored that, turned for her boot.

It was a fight and a half. She tried sliding her foot in, winced, hissed, then near kicked me square in the jaw.

“Hell with this,” I muttered, yanking it out of her hand. I stuffed it into my satchel with a scowl. “You ride barefoot.”

Cassidy made a face, chin tilted. “Fancy. That’ll look real intimidating.”

“You want me to drag you in a cart instead?”

She snorted, shifting in Branoc’s saddle until she found a spot that didn’t grind her ankle. The stallion flicked his ears back, patient as ever, letting her fuss. Then, like it was her god-given right, she leaned down and started fiddling with my stirrup straps as though she owned the horse and all the tack on him.

“Quit that,” I snapped.

“Your stirrups are too long,” she said, matter-of-fact, tugging them up.

“They’re my stirrups.”

“And I’m the one ridin’ him. You want me fallin’ off?” She gave me a look sharp enough to cut hide.

I blew air out my nose, giving her the space. She adjusted them sloppy, crooked, but close enough for her short legs. She sat back, shifting, hair damp against her cheek. Damn if she didn’t look… cute.

I swore under my breath. Cassidy Lane wasn’t cute. She was impossible.

I mounted the colt behind her. The saddle was near child-sized, stirrups short, leather biting wrong. “Feels like ridin’ a saw blade,” I grunted, shifting.

She laughed, low and wicked, and nudged Branoc toward the river. “Better than walkin’.”

The colt jolted forward under me, almost climbing up Branoc’s rear. I hauled on the reins, muttered curses.

“Where the hell we headed?” I asked, trying to settle the bastard under me.

“Got a debt to collect,” she said, voice light, almost sing-song. “Man owes me coin. Figure he’s about to lose more than that.”

I tightened my grip on the reins. “That supposed to be funny?”

Her only answer was a grin, hair whipping.

The colt panicked at every shadow—bird wings, shifting leaves, his own damn tail. Cassidy grimaced, shifting to keep her balance, one foot dangling free of the stirrup. Sweat streaked Branoc’s neck from the effort of holding steady while the colt bumped and shoved. I gritted my teeth, fighting him back. Felt like wrestling a storm every step.

By the time we clattered into Strawberry, my arms burned.

Cassidy drew Branoc up at the General Store, lips pressed tight. She swung down careful, face pale, shoulders squared like she wasn’t hurt at all.

I slid off the colt and watched her limp up the steps, jaw set like she’d gut the world before letting it see her falter. Even the colt blew hard, sides heaving, sweat dark on his hide.

“Hold the door,” she muttered without looking. “I’ll handle this.”

I did as told, jaw working.

Inside smelled of flour dust, pipe smoke, and faint mildew. The clerk behind the counter looked up, polite smile fading quick when his eyes fell on Cassidy limping toward him.

She leaned her good elbow against the wood, casual. “Afternoon.”

He nodded, wary.

Cassidy scratched her nose. “Heard you had some moonshine sittin’ around.”

The man froze.

Cassidy’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. She slid her knife from her belt with one hand, steel flashing under lantern light.

The clerk’s hands shot up. He nodded fast, chin jerking toward the back.

“Cellar,” she said, tone quiet but sharp. “Now.”

Then she looked over her shoulder at me, smirk tugging her lips. “Cowboy, be a dear and fetch it.”

I muttered under my breath but went.

The cellar was cool and damp, lanterns hanging from rusty hooks. Crates stacked high, barrels sweating in the dark. I found the moonshine easy enough—crates marked with rough X’s. Bottles clinked as I loaded my satchel. Took a sack of grain and a box of ammo while I was at it. Old habits.

When I climbed back up, shoulders aching, Cassidy was leaned against the counter munching from an open box of crackers like she’d been on a picnic.

“Really?” I said.

She grinned, crumbs on her lip. “Payment.”

I shook my head. She tipped her blade toward the clerk, voice sweet as syrup. “Now you keep quiet, or next time it ain’t just your shine I take.”

The man swallowed hard, eyes wide as plates.

Cassidy snapped the box shut, tucked it under her arm, and hobbled for the door.

I caught her elbow, steadying her down the steps. She winced but didn’t pull away. I helped her onto Branoc. She hissed when her foot bumped the stirrup but covered it quick, jaw tight.

I mounted the colt, dragging him after.

We rode out slow, fading light stretching long shadows over the street. A couple townsfolk stared, then looked away fast when Cassidy’s eyes cut across them.

Outside town, the road dipped toward the pines. Air smelled of sap and river water, cooler with evening. My gut knotted tighter with every mile.

Cassidy leaned low over Branoc’s neck, stubborn and silent, crackers balanced in her lap like it was just another chore.

The colt fought me with every step—jerked his head, tried sidestepping, spooked at rabbits in the brush. My patience frayed thin.

“You always drag me into these messes,” I muttered, half to myself.

Cassidy glanced back, smirk sharp. “No one’s draggin’ you, Cowboy. You follow on your own.”

Couldn’t argue that. Didn’t mean I liked the truth of it.

By the time the sun slipped low, sky burning orange at the ridges, I started counting distance, water, camp sites in my head. Needed somewhere off-trail, hidden enough to keep the shine outta sight.

Cassidy yawned, stretched her back, near dropped the cracker box. Still that same fire in her eyes, even through the pale skin and the limp.

She was reckless as ever—and damn me, I kept following.

Chapter Text

Branoc’s stride near threw me off balance more than once. Scarlet carried short and sharp, a quick beat you could dance a gunfight to. Branoc was all length and muscle, legs eating the road like he had somewhere better to be. I shifted in the saddle, muttering under my breath about how a horse this tall ought to come with a ladder.

Arthur’s saddle didn’t help—broad, heavy, leather worn soft in places that didn’t match my bones. My knees angled wrong, my hips ached, but at least it wasn’t cutting me raw like the colt’s tack had. Still, for all my cussing, the stallion was steady. He didn’t fuss, didn’t twitch, didn’t try to throw me. Branoc’s ears flicked at every noise but his body stayed solid beneath me, a calm I wasn’t used to. Certainly not like Wegner’s colt, who’d near ripped both our arms out chasing shadows.

I hated depending on another man’s horse. I hated worse that it wasn’t half as awful as I expected. Something in Branoc’s steadiness was… steadying me.

My ankle burned something fierce, though the bandage dulled it to a throbbing heat instead of white-hot fire. Every jolt sent a bite up my shin. I muttered low, mostly to Branoc, “Cowboy’s got a gentler touch than he lets on.”

The words slipped before I caught them. Soft, dangerous things. I snapped my jaw shut quick, scowled at the road. No use thinkin’ on it.

The sun dipped, shadows stretching long, night settling round our shoulders. I hummed a tune without realising, some scrap from my mother’s kitchen—thin and off-key, but it kept my teeth from grinding. Branoc slowed each time the colt lagged, the poor fool stumbling behind, ears drooping, sweat running his dark coat. Arthur said nothing until the little station lights flickered up ahead.

“Need to check somethin’ at Flatneck,” he muttered.

I narrowed my eyes but didn’t ask. He slid down, tied the colt short, and disappeared into the station house, leaving me perched alone on Branoc, scanning the horizon.

I didn’t like sittin’ still. Didn’t like being left while the air grew heavy, every crack of brush sounding like footsteps. My hand stayed near my revolver, though the angle twisted my ankle something cruel. Irritation tangled with unease—trusting Arthur was foolish, I knew that. Foolish, and yet I kept letting him reel me in like a fish too stubborn to cut the line.

When he came out, he weren’t alone. Arthur had a man slung half over his shoulder, drunk or near dead, drooped like a sack of flour. Arthur placed the man behind me on Branoc’s rump without so much as a warning, like I was meant to share saddle space with every sorry soul he picked up off the roadside.

I hissed, sharp as a rattler. “What the hell, Cowboy? Who is this?”

Arthur’s face didn’t so much as twitch. “A priest.”

I stared. He stared back. That was all he gave me.

I twisted round with a scowl. “Wonderful. Babysittin’ drunk priests now. Just what I signed up for.”

“Just follow,” Arthur said flat. “And keep your mouth shut.”

My jaw near cracked at the nerve of it. Bossin’ me like I was one of his gang dogs. I should’ve turned Branoc straight around. But curiosity pricked sharp—what sort of outlaw fetched priests from station houses? Against my better judgment, I nudged Branoc on behind him.

The trail bent, low fires winking through the dark. My gut knotted tight. I knew this area. Didn’t take a genius to smell camp ahead. I leaned hard toward Arthur, voice low and mean. “I ain’t ridin’ in there.”

He ignored me, heel to the colt, pressing forward.

Sure enough, a figure came into sight by the outer fire—tall, quiet, broad-shouldered. I recognised him, barely. The saloon, weeks back. Arthur’d drunk with him, I’d noticed the way the man kept to the edges. My teeth ground together.

Arthur hitched the colt, unsaddled him quick, murmured to the man—Charles, that was it. They exchanged a look, then Charles’ gaze slid to me. Assessing, weighing. My back stiffened, heat sparking under my skin. I didn’t like being measured.

Arthur turned back, patience gone. “Off.”

I stayed planted, chin high.

He didn’t argue. Just reached up, gripped my waist, and hauled me down like I weighed nothing. My breath burst sharp, curse on my tongue, but his hand clamped over my mouth before the sound left.

“Camp etiquette,” he muttered into my ear, low and sharp. “Means shutting the hell up.”

I glared daggers but bit my tongue. For now.

He kept me close, steering me through the maze of tents. Fires crackled low, men and women murmured or snored, the whole place breathing quiet. My eyes darted, cataloguing: a man tied to a post across camp, head drooping; a woman ladling stew into a tin bowl; the low hum of people sleeping with one ear open. Every instinct in me screamed to bolt.

Arthur guided me to a wagon under canvas, his mark on it plain. Bed made on crates, lantern glow soft against pinned pictures on the wall. A group photo of younger men, grinning wild-eyed like they hadn’t yet been kicked by life. Another of an older man with a moustache—looked like a mug shot, rough and mean. A dog, too. On his bedside crate sat a framed photograph of a woman, edges worn from handling. And on the table nearby, another—an older-looking photo of a different woman, faded near to ghost. Unexpected. Personal. Too personal.

He sat me down hard, tugged my leg into his lap. I opened my mouth to snap, but one look from him shut me clean. His brows were set, eyes steady.

He unwound the bandage, redid it careful, hands practised, movements firm but never rough. Too careful. My chest squeezed tight. I stared longer than I meant to, throat dry.

When he finished, he jerked his chin at the bed. “Lie down.”

“I’ll take the floor,” I shot back.

He let out a breath like I was testing every saint in heaven. “Then I’ll take the bed, and you’ll be right beside me anyway. You ain’t runnin’ on that ankle.”

Cornered. Damn him.

I stripped my other boot, coat, and chaps, thrust them at him like weapons. Next came my gun belt—I slid it off slow, shifting one of my revolvers into the waistband of my trousers before handing the rig over. Arthur’s eyes caught the movement, lingered a heartbeat too long, but he didn’t say a word. Just set everything aside neat with his own, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

The bed weren’t near big enough for the both of us. I felt it the second I lay back—canvas beneath us sagging, boards creaking, Arthur half hanging off the side to make room. The lantern glow caught on his shoulders, his shadow brushing mine across the canvas wall. Every sound pressed close—the snores, the crackle of fire, his breathing steady by my ear.

I lay stiff, every nerve prickling. My eyes drifted over the photos pinned and framed around the wagon—faces from a life lived beyond gun smoke and blood. I didn’t like the way that knowledge sat in me.

Mistake, my gut whispered. This was a mistake. I knew it like I knew the stars overhead. And yet… with him looking at me steady, unflinching, I couldn’t bring myself to shove him out of his own damn bed.

So I lay still, staring at the canvas above, silence strung tight as a wire between us. His warmth pressed faint against my side, unwanted and yet not unbearable. My mind gnawed itself raw.

I was making a mistake.

And I wasn’t moving.

Chapter Text

The first light of morning crept through the canvas, brushing the edges of the tent in pale gold. I woke slowly, body heavy with sleep and aches, but something about the warmth pressed against my side held me in place. Cassidy shifted, small and tense even in this quiet, her shoulder brushing mine. My hand moved before I realised it, curling over her back in a gesture half-protective, half-instinct, before stilling.

It had been years since I’d held anyone like this, softly, without thinking. Not since Mary. Not quite like this, anyway—the weight of her presence, the smell of her hair, the rhythm of her breathing. With Mary, it had been gentle, quiet, careful; even in grief and sorrow, there’d been trust. With Cassidy… there was the same instinct to protect, yes, but underlined by a fine, nervous edge. She was wary, even here, even safe. I felt it in every tiny twitch, every subtle shift, and it pulled me close all the same.

One eye cracked open, catching the outlines of Hosea and Dutch outside the tent. Mugs of coffee in hand, they stood near the tent, quiet, but watching. I didn’t think. The blanket went over her without a word, shielding her face and shoulders from prying eyes. She let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. I tipped her hat down a little further, careful to hide her features.

Even lying still, I felt the weight of her alertness. Every small sound—crackling fire, distant laughter, the scrape of a boot on dirt—made her stir. I couldn’t blame her. Life had been rough for her, harsher than it had any right to be. Even here, in the supposed safety of camp, she was ready. Her vigilance was a habit, a reflex, one I recognised too well.

She shifted, small and deliberate, pulling me closer. My hand tightened unconsciously, resting near her revolver, not touching but keeping a careful watch. Protective, possessive, careful. I could feel her growl before I even caught the sound. She was annoyed. Sharp. Still sharp, even half-asleep.

“Move your hands,” she muttered, voice low and tight.

I rolled my eyes, suppressing a chuckle. “Make me,” I whispered, leaning back against the canvas, letting her stretch against me, half-comfort, half-prisoner. She scowled, but didn’t argue.

I let my mind wander while she settled, comparisons forming before I even thought about them. Mary had been delicate, fragile, sweet in ways I had loved and feared at the same time. Cassidy… Cassidy was different. Strong, sure, dangerous if pushed. But right now, in the quiet morning, the way she lay there—chest rising, hand near her revolver, eyes half-closed with that tension still threading through her—I could feel the same protective pull I had with Mary, only sharper. Riskier. Realer.

“Ankle’s good?” I asked softly, kneeling beside her, keeping my voice low. I didn’t need her to look at me, just to know I was here.

“I can manage,” she muttered, rolling her eyes, but her foot twitched when I gently lifted it, adjusting the bandage. She didn’t protest further, but I felt the tension in her jaw, the stiff flex of muscle in her shoulder. Every small motion reminded me that she was aware. Always aware.

“You want coffee?” I asked quietly. “Or leftover stew from last night?”

Her eyes flicked towards the campfire, wary, assessing. I let mine meet hers, soft and steady, before she finally nodded. I caught Hosea’s glance across camp, a subtle nod from him to let me handle it. I rose, careful not to jostle her, and left for the fire.

When I returned, coffee in one hand, a small bowl of stew in the other, she was sitting up now, shoulders tense, eyes sharp. The tent smelled of wood smoke and the faint musk of horses, a good, safe smell. She took the food silently, posture taut. I stayed near, letting her eat, letting her take her time.

Hosea leaned against a post nearby, voice casual. “She told me you dragged her into camp. Said she wasn’t exactly thrilled about it.”

“Dramatic as ever,” I muttered under my breath, letting the corner of my mouth twitch. Cassidy caught the sound and glared, but didn’t comment. Banter was safer, easier than acknowledgment.

Dutch lingered at the edge of camp, observing quietly, and I found myself subtly moving between them, shielding her without making it obvious. Every small gesture mattered—the tilt of a blanket, a shifted chair, the way I lingered near her. Even the smallest movements sent a message: here, she was not alone.

She finally looked up, giving me a brief nod while chewing the last of the stew. Not a thank you. Not trust. Just acknowledgment. I accepted it.

I watched her shift, the sunlight falling across her hair. My mind wandered back to Mary again, comparing the two: one held close and fragile, the other dangerous and sharp, both held in the same careful reverence. Cassidy didn’t need me in the way Mary had; she didn’t ask for comfort. But she let me stay. Let me watch. Let me guard, even in silence. And that… well, that was enough.

I suppressed a smile as Cassidy glared at me over the edge of her cup, brow raised, lips tight. “You’re staring,” she said, voice low.

“Just… observing,” I muttered, letting my eyes flick to her ankle, then to her hands resting lightly on her knees. Safe, for now. Tense, always.

The tent felt small, warm, alive in a way I hadn’t expected. Not quiet or lonely—not empty—but full, with the weight of proximity, with the rhythm of shared space, with unspoken acknowledgment. I’d held Mary like this before, yes. But this—Cassidy—was different. More dangerous. More alive. And somehow, that made it all the more real.

She finished her food and leaned back against the crate. I stood beside her a moment longer, letting her guard slowly ease, just a little. Her eyes softened faintly, almost imperceptibly. That was enough. For now, that was more than enough.

The day had begun, camp stirring around us, but inside the tent, the world was quiet. Small, intimate. And for a moment—just a fleeting, sharp, dangerous moment—I let myself think that maybe, here, with Cassidy, there could be something like peace.

Chapter Text

Camp stirred slow as syrup, all yawns and boots dragging through dirt, smoke curling lazy off the fire. The air smelled of coffee gone half-burnt and last night’s stew. I sat with my empty bowl balanced across my knees, watching folk crawl out of tents like beetles blinking into the light. Couldn’t imagine calling this place home—not when it already felt too crowded, too noisy, too close.

Arthur wandered back my way, so I shoved the bowl and cup at him without ceremony. He took them with that blank face of his, like he was used to being everyone’s mule. My eyes drifted past him, out toward the trees where the colt pawed at the dirt, ears twitching at every sound. I caught myself leaning forward, aching for escape before I’d even stood.

“Uncle Arthur!”

The shout carried across camp. I stiffened, hand twitching near my side. A boy no older than four maybe five, tore straight for him, near tackling his knees. Arthur paused, surprise softening his jaw before his hand ruffled the kid’s hair.

“Jack,” he said, low and fond.

The boy grinned wide. I didn’t mean to, but my eyes softened on the sight, some tight part of me loosening in the chest. Foolish. I shook it off quick, scratching at the back of my neck, head turned away.

“Scarlet gets all soppy around geldings when there’s weaners in the pen,” I grumbled, tugging at my chaps. “Batting her eyes, nudgin’ up like she’s in love. Damn hormones—makes a fool outta her. Guess I can’t judge, seein’ as mine are doin’ the same. Don’t make it one bit more appealin’.”

“Where you runnin’ off to?”

Hosea’s voice slid in behind me like smoke. I looked up to find him holding my coat, one brow raised.

“Emerald,” I said curtly, pushing off the crate. “Need to rest this ankle.”

He studied me a beat, eyes sharp as a hawk. “What happened?”

I snatched the coat from him, tugging it over my shoulders. “Chased a debtor west into the Dakota. Colt spooked, I came off, boot caught in the stirrup. Got dragged.”

His grimace was immediate. He shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Lucky. I’ve seen men lose a foot that way.”

“Didn’t,” I muttered, brushing him off. “Got things to do back at Emerald.”

Arthur reappeared then, tilting his head at me like I’d grown a second one. “You’d better be restin’.”

I rolled my eyes sharp enough it near gave me a headache. “You ain’t my father. Piss off and leave me alone.”

“Cass—”

“Don’t need you,” I cut in, groaning, dragging the strap of my bag higher up my shoulder.

He ignored me, grabbing his gear. “Strauss sent me out to collect a debt. Emerald way. You can point out the man.”

I froze, breath catching in my throat. The word debt hit like grit in my teeth. My eyes narrowed, voice dropping low. “You ain’t leanin’ on poor folk who can’t pay.”

The look he threw Hosea was quick, quiet, but it said more than words. Hosea answered it the same, a silent exchange that burned hotter than fire. I read it clear enough—something unspoken they weren’t about to share. My jaw set hard.

I spun on my good heel, snatched up my hat, and limped fast toward the colt.

“Slow down,” Arthur called behind me.

I ignored him, heaving the saddle up onto the colt’s back. The leather slapped, the colt jumped, jerking against the tree. My hands tightened, breath shoving through my nose. I wasn’t growling at him. Wasn’t growling at Arthur either. Just… at everything.

Arthur was there quick, big hands steady on the lead, murmuring low to the horse until the colt stilled. I worked the girth, jaw locked.

“I don’t mind ridin’ with you,” I muttered finally, words slipping out before I could catch them, “but I ain’t condonin’ those damn collections.”

The second they left my mouth, regret flared hot. Didn’t mean to give him that. Didn’t mean to admit I don’t mind.

Silence stretched, thick and heavy. I kept my eyes down, fingers fumbling with the last strap. Arthur didn’t push it. Didn’t throw it back in my face. He just reached into his saddlebags, pulled out something worn and dusty—my missing boot.

He held it out without a word.

I took it, slow, slipping the bridle over the colt’s head with my other hand. The boot sat heavy in my palm, heavier than it had any right to.

The weight of what I’d said lingered sharper than I liked. But the boot in my hand… it felt like something unspoken. An uneasy truce.

Chapter Text

Cassidy kept her distance.

Always did.

She rode out ahead of me, not by accident, not just because Scarlet was quick on her feet. A hundred feet, near exact, like she’d measured it out in her head. Close enough we didn’t lose track of each other. Far enough no one could mistake it for company.

Felt like three steps forward, two back with her. Just when I thought we’d hit some even ground, she’d yank it out from under me again. Would’ve been easier if she was one thing or the other—friend or stranger. Instead she stayed somewhere between, a ghost on the horizon.

Branoc shifted under me, steady as always. I kept my eyes on her braid bouncing against her back, the swing of her shoulders as she rode like she was born in the saddle. She didn’t miss much. Hosea and me had shared a look back in camp when she’d cut into me about Strauss’s debts. Didn’t take words to say it—we both knew she was sharp.

Picked up on the little things. Silence. A look. The shift in a man’s stance. Took me years, and plenty scars, to learn how to read people like that. She carried it natural, like she’d been raised on suspicion.

I got lost thinkin’ on it. Lost long enough that I didn’t notice her slow. Branoc checked up hard, snorting, and I lurched forward in the saddle like a damn fool. Near slid right over the horn.

Cassidy twisted in her seat, eyes cutting back sharp as a knife.
“What?”

I grunted, fixing my hat. “Nothin’.”

Her gaze held longer than it needed to, like she didn’t buy it. Then she turned back around, heels pressing Scarlet forward.

Didn’t take long before she started in.
“This Strauss got you ridin’?” Her tone said enough—didn’t matter what my answer was.

I kept it vague. “Couple stops. Guthrie Farms. Emerald.”

She stiffened in the saddle. Curt nod, then she shifted east, like she was the one dragging me along.

“What’s the name?” she called over her shoulder.

“Chick Matthews.”

That got a mutter out of her. “Stablehand. Broke as hell. Why the hell would Strauss give him money?”

I rubbed at my brow, sighing. “Ain’t like I like it either. Blackwater bled us dry. Twenty mouths to feed. Horses to keep. Money’s short.”

She didn’t argue. Not out loud. But I saw her shoulders go stiff, head duckin’ like she didn’t want me to see her face. Her words slipped low, bitter as old whiskey.

“Complicit in a sin.”

Almost made me laugh, the hypocrisy of it. Cassidy Lane, sittin’ all high on the moral rail. Like she ain’t got her own trail of bodies and burned bridges behind her. But then I looked at the way she sank down in the saddle, quiet and folded in on herself, and I let it be. Maybe it cut deeper than she wanted me to know.

Guthrie Farms came up ahead, fences crooked, dust lifting in little swirls. Place smelled of sweat and hay. Ranch hands moved slow, hats low, casting us sideways glances.

“Lookin’ for Chick Matthews,” I said to the first one I spotted.

He nodded toward the edge of the yard, where ‘Chick’ was leanin’ on a post like he belonged. But the second I looked away, he bolted—scrambling for his horse like the ground had caught fire.

I sighed, shaking my head. Dug in my heels. Branoc stretched out smooth, rope ready in my hand. Didn’t take but a few strides before I had the lasso over Chick’s shoulders, yanking him down so hard he near ate dirt.

“Alright, alright!” he yelped, hands up, scrambling. “Don’t hurt me! I’ll tell you—got a map! Buried it! Just take it and leave me be!”

He shoved a scrap of paper at me, eyes wild, before taking off again the second I loosened the rope.

I pocketed the map, deadpan. Done with it. Cassidy hadn’t moved a muscle the whole time—just sat her horse off to the side, dark eyes steady, watchin’ everything.

We regrouped on the road out. I folded the map neat, tucked it away, then signalled her on. She gave a small nod, nothing more.

The road stretched long toward Emerald. Sun beat down, cicadas whining in the brush. Silence sat heavy between us, thicker than any words we could’ve spoken.

Finally she broke it.
“Who’s at Emerald?” Her voice was low, almost like she didn’t want to ask.

I dug Strauss’s note out, squinting at the scratch of ink. “Lilly Millet.”

Her whole body went rigid. Jaw tight, shoulders drawn sharp as blades.

She didn’t say a thing after that. Didn’t need to. Her silence was louder than words.

I kept my eyes on her back, a hundred feet ahead, braid swinging steady. Something was brewing in her. Couldn’t see it yet, but I’d lived through enough storms to know the signs.

So I rode quiet. Wary. Waiting.

Chapter Text

The ride to Emerald stretched longer than it should have. Sun beating down, cicadas whining in the brush, and me grinding my teeth to powder over one name.

Lilly Millet.

I turned it over and over until my jaw ached. What the hell had she done? Couldn’t stop picturing a dozen sins — gambling, drink, maybe took a loan for a sick kid. All of it felt too small, too petty for the weight pressing on my chest. Strauss didn’t deal in sympathy. He dealt in ledgers and leverage.

Half a thought kept tugging at me, ugly and tempting: ask Arthur the number, pay it myself, and be done with the whole damn mess. But that’d mean admitting I cared enough to shoulder another person’s burden. And caring — that was a habit I’d sworn off.

Didn’t stop the itch.

The colt picked up on me anyway. He was young, half-wild, always testing for weakness. My mood gave him an excuse to toss his head, sidestep under the saddle like he had a burr in his hide. I pressed my knees, tried to steady him, but my own pulse was rattled, breath sharp. Didn’t take a horse whisperer to see I was strung tight.

Arthur’s words circled back, low and even like they’d been the day before:
“Ain’t like I like it either. Blackwater bled us dry. Twenty mouths to feed. Horses to keep. Money’s short.”

I’d replayed it too many times, and every time I landed in the same split.

My head understood it. Debts were business. Poor folks were easy money. Desperation made people predictable. Numbers on a page — tidy math.

But my heart — well, my heart never did have good sense. It hated squeezing blood from the hungry. Hated seeing calloused hands dig deeper for coins they didn’t have. Hated me for being part of it, no matter how far I told myself I stood from debt collectors.

Running with the wrong people brands you permanently. Copper. That was mine. Didn’t matter if I’d earned it young or old, didn’t matter if I tried to wash it off — it clung like smoke in your hair.

Sometimes I wondered what it’d take to outrun it. Shear my braid, bleach it pale, ride to Saint Denis and play at being some upper-class widow. Lace gloves, fainting at the sight of dust. The thought alone made me want to spit in the dirt.

I’d toyed with quitting before. Even tried. Put the guns down. Told myself I’d rather go hungry than keep spilling blood or twisting arms for coin. Didn’t last.

Wegner dragged me back — horses needed breaking, someone had to do it.
Seamus whispered easy money in my ear.
And just like that, I was pulled under again. Survival had a way of tethering you to the very life you swore you hated.

Emerald Ranch rose up out of the haze, calm on the surface. Fences straight, barn red, cattle lowing soft in the distance. A picture fit for a painting, if you didn’t look too close. My stomach knotted tighter the nearer we got.

I slowed the colt, eyes darting to Arthur. He rode steady, broad shoulders straight, Branoc’s ears flicking forward. He was already measuring the place, quiet and wary. I tipped my chin toward the barn, and sure enough — there she was.

Lilly Millet.
Arguing with a man built like a twig, her hands flying sharp as knives. Cooper, I figured. The kind of man who mistook bluster for strength.

Arthur gave me a small nod and rode on. I swung down stiff, ankle screaming the second my boot hit dirt. Unsaddled the colt slow, giving him a pat on the neck even though my hands itched to clench. Scarlet poked her nose over the fence, snorted warm against my palm. I leaned into it for half a heartbeat, breathing steadier, but my eyes never left Arthur.

He approached Lilly calm, voice pitched low, businesslike. She turned sharp, chin high, and shoved the problem straight at Cooper.

“Give him the money,” she snapped.

Cooper puffed his chest, jaw clenching. “Like hell I will.”

Arthur didn’t flinch. Just stood there, solid as stone. That calm was gasoline to a man like Cooper. He swung wild, fist cutting air.

Arthur sidestepped easy, but I was already moving. My ankle near buckled with the sprint, pain lancing hot, but I caught Arthur’s jacket and yanked him back hard enough to make him grunt.

I stepped into the space, square between them.

Cooper cocked his arm again. I ducked, shoved him back with both hands, and my voice cracked sharp as a whip:

“Don’t be a damned fool, Cooper. Pay the man.”

His face twisted. “I don’t have it!” he barked, spit flying, rage covering the crack in his voice.

Something in me snapped. Rage boiled through — not just at him, but at Strauss, at the whole damn rotten game. Rage at myself for standing here in the middle of it, ankle throbbing, heart hammering.

I shoved him down hard, dirt clouding around his shoulders. He cursed, scrambling, but I stood over him like a shadow ready to bite.

Then I turned sharp on Lilly. My voice came low, scalding. “How much?”

Her eyes darted, lips trembling. The number spilled quiet, guilty. Enough to burn a hole clean through any pocket.

My jaw locked. I jerked my chin toward the fence. “Fetch my satchel.”

She didn’t argue. Just darted off, skirts swishing. Cooper muttered from the dirt, but I dropped low, voice cutting near his ear.

“You owe me now. And trust me, that’s worse than owing him.”

The colour drained from his face, bravado with it. He swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere but mine.

Lilly came back clutching the leather strap. I ripped it open, counted fast, then thrust the wad into Arthur’s chest.

Our eyes locked. His were steady, quiet, searching. Mine were fire. Daring him to say one damn word.

“There,” I spat. “Debt collected.”

I didn’t wait for whatever he might’ve answered. Just turned on my heel and stormed off, limp heavy, ankle screaming with each step.

Arthur didn’t follow. Didn’t need to. His silence clung close behind me anyway, heavier than any words could’ve been.

Chapter Text

The wad of money hit my chest with a dull thud. Heavier than it ought to be, not near heavy enough for what it cost her. I caught it out of reflex, fingers closing around worn bills still warm from her hand.

Cassidy didn’t wait to see if I’d take it. Didn’t even give me the chance to refuse. She just shoved it at me like it was poison, spun on her heel, and stormed off across the yard with a limp she tried to disguise as a stride.

Lilly Millet stood frozen a few paces away, one hand fisted in her skirts, chin trembling though she fought to keep it high. Cooper sat in the dirt where Cassidy had put him, eyes round, muttering curses he didn’t believe in anymore.

But all I could look at was Cassidy. Her braid swung sharp between her shoulders, back stiff as a board, every step full of fury.

I stuffed the wad into my coat pocket, jaw tight. She was burnin’ herself up faster than any fire Strauss could light. Didn’t matter if it was mercy, pride, or guilt—she was the kind to throw herself straight on the pyre and dare the flames to try harder.

I spat in the dust, then followed.

“Cassidy.” My voice came low, steady, meant to reach but not draw eyes.

She didn’t so much as flick an ear.

“Cassidy!” Sharper this time, pitched across the yard like a lasso thrown.

She faltered half a step at that, shoulders twitching, but she didn’t stop.

I trailed her to the colt’s yard, boots crunching gravel. She unlatched the gate, swung it wide, and let the wild bastard loose. He bolted like powder from a match, bucking and tossing his head, white of his eyes flashing.

Scarlet nickered from the next yard, ears pricked. Cassidy reached out, brushed her nose with a palm—brief, fleeting—then turned to leave as if I weren’t even there.

“What the hell was that?” I demanded, voice chasing her retreat.

She didn’t even blink. “Debt collected. Get out of here.”

Cold as creek water in winter. Like she hadn’t just gutted her own savings for a woman.

She pivoted to leave, braid snapping. I caught her wrist, spun her back.

Her eyes flared—hard, bright, a storm trapped behind glass. “Let go.”

“Not ‘til you tell me what the hell that was.”

“Already told you.”

“Like hell you did.”

She jerked, trying to tear loose, but I held fast. The two of us circled tight in the dust, step for step, like some ugly dance. The colt pranced along the fence, ears flicking, feeding on her temper.

“You think I need you buyin’ debts out from under me?” I snapped.

“You think I give a damn what you need?” she fired back, voice like a whip crack. “I couldn’t stomach watchin’ Strauss bleed her dry. Couldn’t stomach watchin’ you do it for him.”

That landed square. I flinched though I tried not to.

She saw it. Pressed harder.

“You walk around actin’ like you hate it, like it eats at you—but you still do it, don’t you? Same as the rest. Numbers in a book, and who cares who starves on the other end?”

Stablehands had started to drift closer, leaning on fence rails, pretending they weren’t listening. I lowered my voice, tried to anchor hers.

“Cass—”

“No!” She ripped her hand free at last, started pacing circles, boots biting into the dirt. “Don’t you dare try to calm me down like I’m some nervous mare. You don’t get it, Arthur. You never will. This ain’t business. It’s poison. Every coin you take off folks like her—like me—rots you from the inside.”

Her voice broke, sharp and brittle at the end.

And for the first time, I stopped pushing.

I just watched her pace, jaw tight, eyes burning bright enough to shame the sun.

“This life don’t leave you clean,” she hissed. “You tell yourself it’s survival, that you’re only doin’ what you gotta. But every debt, every job—another piece gone. Until there’s nothin’ left but smoke and bones.”

Her boots scuffed to a halt, shoulders heaving. Her hands trembled, and she curled them to fists to hide it.

And I saw it then—under all that fury, she was fraying at the seams.

She spun on me sudden, came in close, fist slamming hard into my chest.

I staggered a half step, breath knocked rough.

She hit me again, harder, knuckles curled.

A third time, sharper.

I caught her hand before the fourth, held it flat against my chest, her palm burning against the hammer of my heart.

“It’s alright, darlin’,” I heard myself say. Quiet, steady. Raw.

The word slipped free before I could catch it.

Everything stilled.

Cassidy froze like she’d been struck. Breath hitched sharp, lips parting. Her eyes—still blazing—widened in something that wasn’t fury anymore.

My thumb brushed across the back of her hand, unthinking.

Her pulse raced under my palm. Mine pounded back against her knuckles, strong and insistent.

We both cracked then, just a little, like masks splitting under the weight.

My gaze dropped, traitorous, to her mouth.

She licked her lips, quick, unconscious.

Neither of us breathed proper after that.

The world narrowed. No stablehands, no Strauss, no debts. Just her fist pressed against my chest, my hand holding it there.

Her eyes searched mine, dark and hot, but softer now—uncertain, dangerous.

My chest thundered beneath her palm.

Her breath caught, shallow.

And I stood there, frozen in place, balanced on the knife’s edge between fury and confession—between pushing her away and closing the space between us.

One wrong move, and everything would break.

One right one, maybe too.

Chapter Text

I can’t remember what I’d been yelling about. The words are gone, swallowed by the pounding of my own heart beneath my palm. It’s loud, insistent, a thunderstorm trapped in my chest—and it’s keeping time with his.

Darlin’. The word echoes in my skull, dangerous and sweet and the last thing I want to hear. The syllables cling like smoke, curling around my thoughts, leaving a burn that doesn’t go away. I hate the way it tastes coming off his lips, like warmth and warning all at once.

I swallow, breath trembling, and whisper, “Don’t.”

I don’t know if I mean don’t call me that, don’t let go, or don’t stop. The ambiguity makes my stomach tighten, coils of panic and something else I don’t have words for. Something sharp, raw, too bright to look at for long.

My eyes drop, helpless, to his mouth. Soft, warm, impossible. I feel myself tilting, leaning closer without realizing it. My free hand betrays me. Fingers find the narrow of his waist, gripping tighter than I meant. The world around us blurs, dulls to nothing. There’s only him. Only the rhythm of his pulse beneath my hand, his chest rising and falling, solid and real and terrifying.

I tell myself to shove him. Slap him. Step back and reclaim the space I swore never to give a man again. But my body doesn’t listen. My limbs feel heavy with a kind of gravity I’ve never known before.

Henry’s ghost skitters across the edges of my mind, sharp as broken glass. Betrayal. Abandonment. The promises I made, the walls I swore I’d never let anyone breach again. Don’t be a fool, Cassidy. Don’t walk into the same trap twice.

But Arthur—he dips his head, tilting my chin with the pad of his thumb. My breath stutters, a sharp intake that catches in my throat. Panic claws up my chest like fire, but it doesn’t push me away. I can’t. His gaze pins me, steady and relentless, and suddenly the world isn’t mine to command anymore.

“Cassidy… what’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” His voice is low, husky, grounding, and I hate that it works. Hates me for listening. Hates me for feeling.

I swallow hard, tongue thick, chest tight. Words scrape out, jagged and raw: “You scare me more than bullets.”

My hand drifts upward, brushing over the scarred plane of his chin, tracing rough stubble. Testing if he’s real. Testing if I’m real. My pulse thunders in my ears, rattling my skull with a sound that drowns out everything else.

His free hand settles at my hip, firm, anchoring me, grounding me, and I can’t stop the shiver that runs down my spine. I breathe him in deep: smoke, leather, horse, something steadier beneath it all. My gaze keeps flicking to his mouth, over and over, drawn like a moth to a flame I shouldn’t touch.

Something in me unravels. My hand cups his face. I rise on my toes. Lips brush his—soft, tentative, careful, testing the boundaries of what I’ve allowed myself to feel.

He responds once. Slow. Careful. Like he’s afraid to break me. Like he’s as aware as I am of the fragile glass we’re teetering on.

And then I jerk back. Breath ragged. Heart hammering. My lips still tingle where his met mine. Forbidden, dangerous, and I hate it, and I crave it, and I hate that too.

Guilt collides with fear and longing, and the vow I swore after Henry feels like ash slipping through my fingers. I want to hate him. I want to curse him out. I want to shove him so far away the ground shakes. But my hands, my heart, my body—they all betray me.

I stare at him. Lips tingling, chest thundering, every nerve alight. Every instinct screaming retreat while every other screams closer.

He stares back. Silent. Dangerous. Honest. And I realize we’ve crossed some line neither of us can uncross.

Time stretches. The breeze in the yard shifts, dust swirling at our boots, Scarlet pawing the ground nearby. The colt prances along the fence, oblivious to the quiet storm between us. I feel everything in exaggerated clarity: the press of his chest, the warmth of his hand on my waist, the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders, the tremor of his pulse through my fingers.

I can’t move. I can’t speak. My thoughts are scattered, wild, impossible to corral. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the only truth I can cling to is the one right here, right now: the dangerous, undeniable gravity of him.

Suspended. In the quiet aftermath.

And neither of us can take back what’s already begun.

Chapter Text

For a long moment, I couldn’t breathe. One brush of her lips and the world had split open beneath me. Just the faintest touch, but it lit something hungry deep in my chest—like tasting sin for the first time and wanting another bite. My hand flexed against her waist, fighting the urge to drag her back and take more.

Damn fool… she don’t even know what she’s playin’ with.

Cassidy pulled back quick, eyes wide, breath ragged. But her grip didn’t leave me. Fingers still clutching like she couldn’t quite let go, even if every line of her face screamed run. I knew that feeling too well—like a skittish mare, caught between bolting and staying put, trembling with the want to trust and the terror of it.

I leaned in, close enough my beard brushed her temple, voice pitched low so no one but her could hear.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’, Cass.”

She shivered, and I felt it down to my boots. I should’ve pressed, but instead I gave her what little mercy I had left—space.

My hand lingered at her waist a heartbeat too long, thumb brushing the edge of her shirt, before I forced it down. Stepped back like I had sense. My chest felt carved hollow as the cool air rushed in where she’d been.

“I best get movin’,” I muttered, voice rougher than I meant, “’fore it gets too late.”
Duty always had a way of draggin’ me back—Strauss and his damned ledger, the gang’s endless troubles, and that cursed wad of her money burnin’ a hole in my pocket.

I scratched my jaw, shoulders heavy, and turned toward Branoc. The big brute flicked his ears at me, patient as always.

Cassidy followed slow, hesitating like each step weighed something. She reached for Branoc’s neck, palm brushing his forelock, and for the briefest second her gaze darted up to mine. Quiet. Awkward.
“Ride safe.”

My heart kicked hard at the simple words. I shifted in the saddle, leaned down, and nudged her hat brim up with two fingers.
“You too. Don’t go pickin’ more fights without me.”

I pressed her hat back down snug, softer than I intended. She blinked, lips parting, but whatever she might’ve said got swallowed up when I straightened again.

Over her shoulder, Seamus stood waiting, watching with that steady patience. I gave him a nod—more thanks than words could carry. He returned it, silent as ever.

Cassidy’s posture stiffened the moment she turned toward him, slipping back behind those iron walls of hers. By the time I tugged Branoc’s reins, she was already the outlaw again—sharp edges, unreadable eyes.

So I forced a smile, tipped my hat, and rode out.

Hours later, under a star-punched sky, I rode into camp. Three debts collected, ledger squared away—for now. I tossed the pouch of coin into Strauss’ box, the weight of it hollow compared to the fire still simmerin’ in my chest.

I grabbed a bowl of stew and sat down beside John and Charles, the fire crackling low.

Charles glanced over, casual as you please. “How’d that ride to Emerald go with that girl?” A half-smirk played at his mouth. 

I shrugged mid-bite. “She didn’t shoot me.”

John and Charles traded a look I didn’t like. John barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Then why you got that little twinkle in your eye, Arthur?”

“Shut up,” I muttered, stabbing my stew with the spoon.

Charles tried not to grin. John elbowed me hard. “So, did she ride more than just that colt?”

I kicked him square in the shin. He yelped, near spilled his bowl.
“Shut the hell up,” I growled.

Charles was snickering into his stew now, John rubbing his shin with a mock wounded look. The fire popped and hissed, filling the space when the laughter faded.

For a while, it was companionable. Easy.

But John’s crass little jab lingered where it shouldn’t. I cursed myself quiet, but my chest was tight, and my lips… they still remembered hers.
Soft. Careful. Dangerous.

I stared into the fire, stew forgotten, the taste of her kiss burning hotter than any whiskey ever could.

And damn if John’s words didn’t twist it worse. Ride more than just that colt. Fool thing to say, but it planted itself in my mind, unshakable. I wasn’t blind—I’d felt the heat in her, same as me. The way her hand clung when the rest of her wanted to run. The way she looked at me like she hated herself for it, but couldn’t stop.

I shifted on the log, scowled at the dirt. Shouldn’t be thinkin’ on her like that. She wasn’t mine to want, and I sure as hell wasn’t the man to give her peace. But once a door like that cracks open, it’s hard not to see what’s on the other side.

Her lips, her breath, the way she’d fit against me—like temptation made flesh. And John’s filthy grin only sharpened the edge, made me wonder things I had no right wonderin’.

I shoved another bite of stew in my mouth, tasteless as ash, and prayed the fire would burn the thoughts clean out of me.

Chapter Text

Seamus didn’t waste a damn second after Arthur rode out.

“You wanna tell me—”

“No.” I cut him off sharp, before he could get the question into shape.

I grabbed the nearest coil of rope from the rail and slung it over my shoulder, like the weight of it might anchor me. My boots hit the packed dirt in quick, angry strides, but Seamus’s slower, steadier ones kept behind me like a shadow.

He had that voice—gentle but pointed. The kind that could pry a barn door off its hinges if you let it keep pressing.
“Cass, I only mean—”

“Ain’t nothin’ happened worth your curiosity, Seamus.” I didn’t look at him, just snatched a bridle off its peg. “Unless you’re real nosy about how long a man takes to mount a horse.”

That earned me one of his raised brows, but not the blessed silence I wanted.

So I threw myself into the chores. The kind of work you didn’t need thought for—just grit. Tack checked twice over, saddle straps yanked so tight Scarlet pinned her ears at me. I hauled buckets from one pen to the next until my arms ached, moved like I had something to prove. Which, apparently, I did.

And through all of it, Seamus trailed. Quiet, steady, questions tucked in like pebbles underfoot.
“He treat you right?”
“You alright?”

I near slammed the brush into Scarlet’s shoulder, bristles biting. “I ain’t some blushing maiden to gossip about,” I snapped. “Go polish your whip.”

The bite was there, sharp as a whipcrack, but damn my throat—it wobbled. I heard it. He sure as hell did too.

Seamus’s steps slowed. When I finally turned, bridle still clutched tight in my fist, he was standing with his palms raised. Surrender without a fight. His voice softened in that way that cut worse than anger.
“Alright. I’ll leave it. Just…” His jaw tightened. “I worry for you, that’s all.”

Then he walked off, boots crunching across the dirt. Gave me the space I’d been snarling for—and left me hating myself for wanting it.

Scarlet blew out a long breath, as if she’d been waiting for the storm to pass. I leaned against her shoulder, exhaling sharp. Damn fool girl. Couldn’t even keep my temper from quivering like a loose fencepost.

When I straightened again, Lilly was standing a few paces off. Small, hands clasped, like she’d been working up courage just to come near.

“I—” She swallowed. “I just wanted to thank you. For what you did… for Cooper. I’ll make sure he pays you back.”

I shook my head hard. Flat and final. “I’ll take the loss. Only condition—no more loans to him. Not one cent. Don’t care if he’s your kin or your king.”

Her mouth trembled, eyes glossing over with tears she tried to blink away. I hated the way my chest pinched at the sight. Too damn soft, even when I didn’t want to be.

“Not again, Lilly.” My tone edged with a weariness older than me. “I mean it.”

She nodded fast, then stepped forward and flung herself into my arms. Tight, sudden, like I was the only post left in a flood. I stiffened straight as a board. But she didn’t let go, so I didn’t shove her off. My hand even came up, patted her back once, twice—awkward as hell, but steady.

It grounded me more than I cared admit. Something human in a day that’d gone sideways.

When she finally pulled back, cheeks wet, I muttered, “Go on.” She sniffled, nodded again, and scurried off toward the lamps flickering by the ranch house.

I turned back to what I knew: rhythm and grit. Fork biting into hay, lanterns lit one by one until the barns glowed soft and golden against the night. Horses shifted in their stalls, a quiet chorus of huffs and hooves. The kind of peace you could almost believe in, if you let yourself.

By the time I climbed to the loft, the world below had hushed. My body was worn through, but my head? Loud as ever.

I dropped onto the bedroll, struck a match, and lit a cigarette. Smoke curled slow, wrapping around me like armour I didn’t have to polish.

The smell clung sharp—but underneath it lingered him. Arthur. His scent on my clothes, his presence stubborn as a brand you couldn’t scrub out.

My lips still tingled. The memory pressed in no matter how I tried to grind it down.

“It was a mistake,” I muttered into the rafters.

But the words rang hollow. If it was a mistake, why hadn’t it felt wrong? Why had it felt easy, natural? Worse—why had it felt good?

I dragged deep on the smoke, chest tight. Truth clawed its way in, ugly and sharp: I could’ve kept going. Might’ve wanted to.

That thought burned hotter than the cigarette, and I hated myself for it.

“Damn cowboy,” I growled, stubbing the smoke out against the wood so hard it near splintered.

I lay back then, eyes on the rafters. Restless, hollow. Smoke still lingered in the loft, but so did he.

And I knew sleep wasn’t coming easy.

Chapter Text

By the time I rode into camp, the sky had settled into that bruised shade between purple and blue, dusk laying itself thick across the treeline. The air carried woodsmoke, stew, and sweat—camp smells. Comforting in their way, though they could wear on a man too.

I swung down off Branoc and dropped a sack by Pearson’s cookfire. He barely glanced up, too busy beating pots around like they’d wronged him.

“Supplies,” I muttered.

He grunted something that might’ve been thanks, though with Pearson, who could tell. He was already barking at one of the boys for chopping wood too fine.

I left him to it, drifting toward the donation box. Dug into my pocket and let a handful of coins and trinkets slip quiet into the till. A silver brooch, two rings, some odds I’d picked up from careless pockets. Little things that’d make the camp ledger look healthier than it was.

Branoc snorted when I came back around to him. I tugged his saddle off and set it by the hitch, running a brush down his coat. My hands moved steady with the habit of it, but inside I had that itch again. Restless. Chest tight like it was holding something it didn’t rightly want to name.