Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Violet’s little stint in prison made her colder, more calculated, but the circumstances of her freedom made her a little dopey and overwhelmed with gratitude. Thank God for that pretty lady sheriff.

Seven years ago, Dad had taken her and the boys out for their first cattling run. Powder’s still too young, Vander had said, frowning at Violet’s insistence that they all go. Either way, Vander never joined them. Just sent Benzo to babysit and told them to be safe. Mylo, Claggor, Ekko—faces she didn’t think she’d see anymore.

Seven years ago, she’d stopped in town—brand new Denver, Colorado—and found a letter waiting for her at the post office. She figured it must’ve been important, and she was right. Violet got a little letter from Mr. Silco, her dad’s good friend, and had been hastily informed of Vander’s untimely death, with an offer to join him on his ranch instead. To do some real work, Mr. Silco’d said, and the thought made her stomach churn. She hadn’t expected to be arrested the second she walked out those double barrel doors, charged with the murder of Vander Sumpter.

Neither had Benzo, for that matter, because they shot him dead for daring to intervene. The boys went with Violet to jail, and she didn’t see them again after that first day.

That was over, now. She’d done some personal favors for the new sheriff, that Kiramman lady, and she was good to go. She got her personal effects back—old rifle, now rusted with time, a little handheld watch, and of course, the letter from Mr. Silco—and she was pleasantly surprised they’d held onto her belongings. Caitlyn the Cop had sent her off with a warning not to use that old rifle on other people. Violet pretended to laugh before she left.

Now, though, she was almost back. Some old, carved-in wooden sign read San Antonio and she knew she was home.

She tried to go home home, to the ranch she’d grown up on alongside her siblings, but where wooden walls and fences once stood was scorched rubble and coyotes. Nobody was there, either. She didn’t know anyone anymore. Couldn’t find her people…so, she thought back to the only contact she knew would still be here, and pulled a piece of paper from her satchel.

Clutching that letter in her hands, she marched onto Silco’s property expecting the best, and got her head bagged by two men much bigger than her, and dragged by her ass to the owner’s office. She grunted when her tailbone hit the wooden seat of an old chair, and laughed incredulously when her bag was removed. Mr. Silco sat in front of her. He’d aged some since their last face-to-face meeting. He had a new scar across his cheek like a burn, and Violet was about to ask what was up with that, when Silco sputtered an insincere sort of apology for how she was welcomed.

Before she could get a word in, he scolded the men who’d bagged her and waved them out of the office. They mumbled quiet apologies before getting the hell out of there.

“Ms. Sumpter, please accept my sincerest apologies for how you were welcomed home. New employees—you know how it is.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mister. Y’know I got my fair share of roughhousing from Powder and the boys.”

Silco stiffened at the mention of Violet’s siblings, but his pleasant expression did not falter. “Don’t I know it. Now, what can I do for you, Violet? I didn’t hear back from you all those years ago. Thought you up and left.”

“You won’t believe it, sir. They charged me with Dad—Vander’s murder. Let me out a couple nights ago on good faith.”

Silco tutted. “Unbelievable. You got my letter in Denver; Vander was all the way over here. Must’ve been rushing to find a suspect.”

Violet shrugged. “I’d rather not talk about that, if it’s alright with you. I wanted to ask about my folks: Mylo, Claggor, Ekko. Powder. Wanted to know if you’d heard anything about them. The boys got arrested with me, but they were let out after a night or two.” She cleared her throat to counteract that miserable choking feeling threatening to overtake her. “I went home and no one was there. It wasn’t there.”

“I’m sorry to say that I haven’t seen the boys around. They never came back here. And—forgive my ignorance, but who was Powder?”

She huffed at the news, but smiled despite herself in recognition. “Piper was her government name. We called her Powder ‘cause when she was real little, she didn’t know how to pronounce her God-given name. Kept saying ‘no, I’m Powder, I’m Powder.’ Should’ve clarified.”

Silco gave an amused smile, chuckling at the explanation. “She stayed here with me ‘til she was old enough. I offered my home to her, but she wanted to go off and explore the world. She was a lot like you, in that regard.”

Violet pursed her lips to stop the tears gathered in her eyes from dripping. She was too late. “Any idea where she went?”

“None at all. But she comes back every once in a while. Last I heard, she’d gone up to Cheyenne.”

“Cheyenne? Is she cattling now, too?”

“No.” She’s looking for you, Silco thought, but did not dare speak.

“Well, shit. I gotta get myself up North, then.”

“With what money?” The corner of his mouth curled up into a smirk, and Violet knew where this was going.

“You still hiring?”

“Sure am. Looking for a cowpoke to take some longhorns up to Cheyenne. Take you right where you’re going. Goodnight-Loving Trail. I know you’re familiar.”

The last time she’d taken that trail, she wound up in jail…but that wouldn’t stop her from reaching her sister.

“I thought it ended in Denver?”

“Goodnight made it longer. Get off the Pecos, North of Fort Sumner, n’ just keep going. Get to Cheyenne eventually.”

Violet shrugged. “Sounds easy enough.”

“Perfect. Look, I know this is your first trail since you’ve been locked up, so I’ll make it nice and easy for you. I’ll partner you up with Sev, my veteran cattler.”

“Just the two of us?”

“Just the two of you,” Mr. Silco nodded gravely. “But, look, if you’re gonna do this, you can’t be…ah, how do I put it? A woman.”

“Don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that, Mister.”

“Well, shit. They cropped your hair in the cooler and you’ve always dressed a little boyish. Just can’t go calling yourself Violet. And you should do something about your chest.”

Violet’s arms went to cover her chest protectively. “What about ‘em?”

“Males don’t have bosoms like that,” he laughed coolly. “You could wrap ‘em up. Or wear something way too big on you.”

“I don’t see why I have to do all this.”

“Look, Violet, I’m open-minded, okay? But the rest of these people—and you should know—believe you’ve got nothing better going for you than being a decent man’s wife and having babies and serving. And, I hate to say it, but people won’t wanna do business with me if they see I’m hiring girls to do a man’s job.”

Violet crossed her arms, frowning deeply. Her face scrunched up in contemplation, and eventually, she shook her head. “Vi.”

“What?”

“Just Vi. That’s what you can call me. And this Sev guy, too.”

“Vi, short for what? Not a natural sounding name around here.”

“Does it matter?”

Mr. Silco shrugged. “Alright, alright. Come by tomorrow. I’ll introduce you to your horse and your partner.”

“Thank you, Geoffrey.”

——

Hours earlier, Sevika stormed into Silco’s office, swearing gruffly at the men outside the door who tried to stop her.

“Silco, you cheap motherfucker, I can’t take this big of a group of cattle to Cheyenne by myself. What were you thinking?”

“That’s Mister Silco—and I was thinking that my most talented veteran cowboy could take any sizable group of longhorns.”

She scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know that you’ll lose more money in casualties than you would paying another person to do this job.”

“That may be so, but you haven’t failed me before, and I trust you won’t start now.”

“I can’t do this alone.”

Silco stood from his chair, pressing his palms on the wooden desk separating him and the much larger woman before him. Sevika only raised a brow.

“Don’t forget that you owe me, Ms. Lopez, for giving you a sanctuary despite everything. I could always send a letter eastward to your dear old husband—tell him about the woman-loving cowboy you’ve become—”

“—Enough!” Sevika’s hands slammed on the desk, lips curled into a snarl. “Just one more person. That’s all I ask.”

Silco’s expression of anger shifted into one of bored disinterest, and he raised his brows noncommittally. “I’ll think about it.”

Chapter Text

Silco led Vi through the gates to the stables, waving dismissively at the wranglers who shouted his name in greeting. Vi noted that they didn’t sound particularly happy to see him—it was like they were acknowledging him out of necessity. She glanced to the side, looked up and down at his slow, thoughtful strides, and imagined him as a king rather than rancher, with a heavy crown and purple cape flowing behind him.

She stifled a laugh at that. Mr. Silco wasn’t that kind of man.

She was led to a particularly large stable, and when she looked in, she realized why: it held two horses rather than one. The first and larger one was dark brown, with a black mane and tail—a classic looking quarter. It was strong and probably much too large for her.

“That’s mine?”

Silco laughed like she’d suggested something unspeakable. “No. That’s Sev’s pony. Name’s Amy.”

“You make a habit of giving horses people names?”

Silco shrugged.

Her eyes drifted to the horse beside it, who was sniffing Amy’s butt. It was a younger looking paint, chestnut and white speckled in its coat. It had a white stripe going down its snout to its pink nose, which flexed near Amy’s private parts.

“That’s yours. Her name’s Jenny.”

Vi’s face scrunched up when Jenny gave an explorative lick to Amy’s bits. “Alright.”

“They’re bonded.”

“I can tell,” she muttered. Vi tore her attention away when the gate behind her burst open. She turned real quick, her heart pounding, instincts screaming that she’s in danger. When the source of the noise revealed itself to her, her eyes widened.

A hulking figure had slammed open the gate, and was currently yelling at Silco about something, but Vi wasn’t listening. She was too busy admiring this person’s silhouette—how the shoulders of their denim coat were forced to stretch around the bulging muscle they carried. Her eyes trailed low to huge hands, then further to huger thighs, testing the durability of her jeans. Those boots were clean. Probably been polished that morning. Vi looked at her own filthy, stained boots and flushed in embarrassment. Silco’s voice cut through her haze.

“Vi, this is Sev. You’ll be on the trail with him. And Sev, this is Vi. This is his second time cattling. Be nice.”

Vi’s gaze snapped to Sev’s face, and she admired a hooked nose that accentuated the gentle shape of those eyes—oh, but that exaggerated the harsh angle of furrowed brows. Full lips pouted, almost irate, but Vi didn’t have it in her to be intimidated.

“Hi,” was all she could muster.

Sevika fared no better. This Vi was built with lean, corded muscle that flowed with the plush of wide-ish hips—hips that a belt hung loosely off of, clearly much too big for its wearer. Vi’s boots were filthy and worn, but they gave Sevika ideas about hard work and little pay—something she could respect. She dared to look at her new partner’s face, and was pleasantly surprised by wide, expressive eyes that were so, so wet. It gave her cruel ideas. Pink, scarred lips parted to mutter a nervous greeting, and Sevika melted inside.

“Nice to meet you.”

“You as well. I like your,” she trailed off, glancing between choppy hair and a slim, corded waist. “Horse. I like your horse.”

“Uh-huh.”

Silco cleared his throat, clapping their shoulders at the same time. He seemed to intend to do so with some roughness, but given his stature…it was little more than a gentle smack. “Now that you two’re acquainted, I gotta tell you: stop at any town on the way, tell the general shopkeeper that you’re friends of Mr. Silco. Remember: travel along the Pecos ‘til it’s a straight shot to Fort Sumner. After that, just keep goin’ North. You’ll hit Denver, and then Cheyenne some time after. Take you a couple weeks. When you’re in town, grab a couple drinks on me. I’ll cover it. I’m a generous man, remember?”

Sevika grunted noncommittally.

Vi nodded in understanding.

Silco continued. “Well, you got your shit. Get goin’. I had Deckard round ‘em up at the start of the trail. I’ll pay and reimburse and all that when you return.”

——

Vi expected Jenny to be a little more temperamental, being the new rider here, but she was pleasantly surprised by how easy-going the horse was. Sev, on the other hand, clearly had some kind of attitude problem.

“Silco said it’s your second time cattling? You’re what, twenty-five looking? What’ve you been doing with yourself?”

Sev’s voice was a low rumble, catching and expelling in her throat. Even so, it was deceptively smooth.

Vi had to work a little harder to make her voice passable. “I was a farmhand for seven years.”

“Where?”

She bristled, but shook her head to dispel the discomfort. “Out by Denver.”

“You got folks up there?”

“Only God knows where my people’re at.”

Sev grunted at that.

“I’m twenty-two,” Vi corrected after a beat of silence, and the other cowpoke groaned. At that, Amy (the horse) huffed some sort of whinny and shook her head. Vi watched intently when Sev ran those huge hands along its mane so gently, like the horse was the most precious thing in the world.

With the way Sevika was cooing, it probably was.

——
Seven nights earlier…

Arapahoe County prison wasn’t exactly an easy place to stay. The sitting sheriff, that Marcus guy, had done her no favors at all. She maintained her dingy cell, fraternized with the guards, and got to know various cellmates as they came and went.

She was glad Marcus hadn’t done her any favors. See, the thing about those—favors, I mean—is that in Arapahoe County prison, there’s no such thing as freebies. She’d owe. And Violet hated owing.

In a place like this, she’s got nothing to her name but her body—and what a shameful way to repay a so-called friend. It wasn’t uncommon. She’d gotten used to it. Eventually, it was the only thing she knew.

Seven years into her stay, that pretty Kiramman lady had taken over. Some rich girl whose name she didn’t recognize, and with the way Caitlyn carried herself, Violet was sure that she was supposed to know the Kiramman name.

Their first meeting was a fun introduction, metal bars separating them. Violet perked up when she realized the new sheriff was a woman, and a pretty one at that. She shamelessly ogled at full breasts unsuccessfully hidden behind a clean-looking shirt, at the tiny waist Violet imagined cupping in her hands, and at long, long legs that disappeared into heeled dress boots. A proper lady…if ladies were often in positions of power.

“Hello, beautiful,” Vi’d mused, just as gleefully welcoming as the male inmates Caitlyn’d interviewed just minutes before--but Violet was different. Her eyes were striking. The sheriff couldn’t look away. Her gaze drifted to soft, pink lips, and a scar that ran along the side of her top lift. She imagined pressing her thumb to that bottom lip, which pouted all pretty, and feeling the plush skin give.

“Inmate number five-sixteen,” the sheriff cleared her throat. She glanced at the paper in her hand. “Violet Sumpter, correct?”

“The one and only.”

“I’ve noticed something peculiar about your records, Ms. Sumpter. They’re practically nonexistent.”

Violet shrugged. “Doesn’t surprise me. Why, you want a confession?”

“No,” Caitlyn corrected quickly. “You were charged with murder. But the courts failed to gather evidence. It doesn’t make any sense. I was hoping you could enlighten me.”

Vi just stared at her. Why is it that only now I’m being asked these questions?

“Could you tell me what happened?”

And so she did, recounting that god-forsaken trail, the goodbye she’d shared with Vander, the post office and Silco’s letter; her arrest, Benzo’s murder, and her brothers disappearing after a night in county jail with her; the charges she didn’t dare fight Sheriff Marcus on for fear of worse happening to her brothers, all of which she still did not know were even alive; the swift court decision; Violet’s imprisonment.

Caitlyn’s mouth was agape by the end of it. “Seven years,” she whispered.

That was that. Caitlyn signed the release forms and offered up her home in Denver for a few nights, just for Violet to figure out what to do. Vi accepted. They found themselves in the too-big home of Caitlyn Kiramman. 

Now, the thing about owing someone--at least in the eyes of Violet Sumpter--when you have no money, no belongings, no name to cling to, is that you come up with alternative repayment rather quickly. That’s how she ended up on top of Caitlyn Kiramman, hands firmly gripping that waist, calloused fingers rubbing circles into soft, plush skin.

Those hips. Violet groaned when her hands ghosted those curves, bringing the waist of Caitlyn’s denim down to her knees.

“Violet,” the sheriff gasped. “We don’t have to…”

“Please,” was all Violet could say. And Caitlyn did not want to waste this opportunity.

Their lips met in a frenzied kiss, and Vi poured all her gratitude and appreciation and magnetic attraction into it, tongue darting out to part the sheriff’s lips, and Kiramman graciously opened her mouth to accept it. Caitlyn was overeager and desperate. Violet, on the other hand, was calculated and precise and doting.

The burning gratitude of her repayment felt to Caitlyn like reverence. Or genuine desire.

Textured fingers worked the sheriff’s clit gently, building that pressure in her core. Violet was so careful. The wet look in her eyes and lifted brows and parted lips looked like adoration to Caitlyn. She eagerly accepted it. She felt those fingerprints burn onto her cunt, and they seared when she came, throbbed when she rode her orgasm out, and simmered as she slept beside that Violet Sumpter.

That imprint scarred when she woke to an empty bed.

Chapter Text

Afternoon came quick as all hell, and both horses decided it was feeding time. Green-brown grass over hills ruffled, the wind brushing through each blade like a hand running through hair. The motion was hypnotic, and Vi couldn’t help but look down to watch the grass wave. She imagined watercolors.

Violet and Sevika sat idly on the backs of their steeds, and the older woman answered needless questions gruffly, pretending to be annoyed at the intrusion. Truthfully, it’d been a long time since someone took genuine interest in her. Even better, this someone looked like that.

“So, Sev…what kind of name is that?”

“It’s my kind of name.” Sevika adjusted the cigar on her lips with a chewing motion, inhaling deep. The smoke plumed and Vi could not look away.

“Ooo-kay. Are you from Texas?”

“San Antonio, born and raised.”

“Cool. Me too.” Vi palmed the bottle of whiskey she’d packed, gripping it protectively. She was about to pop the cork when Sev’s sharp voice startled her.

“Don’t you dare go wasting that. Heaven knows I’m gonna need it after listenin’ to you talk my ear off.”

Vi shrugged and let it fall back into her satchel. “You didn’t pack any?”

“I only pack the essentials.”

“Oh yeah?” Vi’s brows perked, daring Sev to refuse her next demand. “Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

Sevika glared at Vi, but she figured it wasn’t a joke. Silco said it was the other cowboy’s second time cattling ever. Poor thing doesn’t know what he’s doing. She imagined Vi on the trail all by herself, starving and angry and woefully unprepared. The thought made her scoff—she’d been there.

So, she unbuttoned the satchel hanging off of Amy’s saddle, and pulled various items out at a time.

A long hide tarp. “Tent.” Some cans and paper envelopes. “Food.” A pack of cigars. “Dessert.” A “fine art” magazine, folded open to a page with a detailed illustration of some lady’s nude form. Sevika flipped through it to close it, and Vi noticed with a grimace that some pages were stuck together. “Entertainment.”

“Eugh.”

Sev lifted a small branding iron from the satchel.

“What’s that for?”

“In case we get any calves over the next couple’a months. Gotta make sure they’re identifiable.”

“I hear ya.”

She grabbed a tin cup from the overfilled bag. “For cookin’.” A box of matches. “For fire.”

Vi nodded in recognition. “Looks like you got it all covered.”

“Not quite.” Sev lifted her shirt just a bit, seemingly with the intention of showing off her belt, her holster, all that…but Vi was captivated by the glimpse of waist she got. Tight muscle bulged beneath soft looking skin. Violet wanted to touch. Sev was talking, but she wasn’t listening.

“Vi?”

“Huh?”

Sevika gestured to the gloves hanging off her belt. “You got gloves?”

Vi blinked. “Gloves?”

“Yeah, Vi, the things that go on your hands?:

“Oh. Those.” She rummaged her hand through the satchel at her side. She sighed, relieved, when she felt leather beneath her fingertips. “Yeah, I didn’t forget.”

“Good.”

“Did’ja bring a tarp?”

Vi pursed her lips, avoiding the question like the plague. She hunched her shoulders when Sev groaned.

“Guess we’re sleeping together.”

Vi really shouldn’t have been relieved to hear that.

The rest of the trip to the herd was relatively quiet. Sev told Vi he should be better prepared, that if Sev hadn’t brought extra food just in case, he would starve. Vi had nothing better to do than meekly thank him, gazing ahead at the yellowish rolling hills before them. The sky was blue and cloudless, and the sun had beat away the remnants of morning gray. Those rays beat down on her skin, but she didn’t mind too much. She glanced at Sev, whose lips planted around the base of the cigar to keep it in place. She didn’t know which scene she was referring to when she thought at least I get views like this.

The dusky terrain evened out, and it took just one more little hill ‘til Vi and Sev could see hundreds of cattle, looking tiny in the distance like ants. The fields became mottled brown-black-white with those bovine bodies, and it took some squinting and a couple good paces, but they spotted a man on horseback there, too. Just one.

There was a couple minutes of meandering before the pair reached the boy and the herd.

“Deckard,” Sevika called. “This the group?”

Deckard? Not a common name, exactly, but Vi’s desperate mind insisted this couldn’t be the Deckard—the Deckard she’d grown up with. Except, when she got closer and got a good look at tussled blond hair sharp features, she realized that it definitely was.

Deckard was one of those boys that Vander brought ‘round sometimes. One of Mr. Silco’s boys. She remembered teaching him how to fight with his hands, and he taught her how to pickpocket. Boy, did Vander have her ass for that. Still didn't get caught.

“Group for Cheyenne, Wyoming! How’re you doin’, Sev?”

Vi wished she could hide behind her partner.

“Just fine. Back on the job. You holdin’ it down with that, uh, Rebecca girl?”

“Not exactly. She don’t like my job; said she wishes I was home more. It’s all the same to me. I still get to have her when I am. At home, I mean.”

Sevika shrugged, duly noting the way Deckard’s eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Vi.

“Who’s the sidekick?”

Vi breathed a sigh of relief.

“That’s Vi. Fresh cowpoke off the assembly line. Doin’ some babysitting for Silco, I guess.”

Deckard looked Vi up and down, critically appraising her appearance. He scoffed to himself at the sight of her messily sheared head, and the too-big jeans hanging off her hips.

“Vi,” he drawled. “That short for something? Sounds familiar.”

Vi grimaced. “Just Vi.”

He grunted, lips pulled into a smirk like he’d won something. “Nice t’meet you, sir.”

“You as well.”

Deckard exited by horse, and with that, the pair roused the herd North.

Vi imagined the Pecos, fueled by her memory of that trip seven years ago. Would its still waters dutifully carry the memory of her last visit? Would the rock towers she’d built with her brothers still stand? Or would time and wind and gravity sweep away the remnants of her childhood? Would she dare to start over?

Sevika seemed to notice her inward focus. “Vi? You good?”

She huffed, startling herself out of her stupor. “Yup. Just fine.”

“I gotta ask now that Deckard brought it up…is Vi short for somethin’?”

“Short for violence,” she claimed, and Sev rolled her eyes but played along.

“What kinda name is that?”

Vi scoffed, meeting Sev’s eyes with a playfully dismissive sort of expression. “It’s my kinda name.”

“Oh, ha-ha.”

Their route took them through a valley where the terrain got rockier, as though anticipating the river ahead. Violet imagined rushing water all around them, roaring into their ears and scrambling their thoughts ‘til all that was left was feeling. She got lost in the fantasy of wading through running water, but was pulled out by a deafening shriek just ahead.

She and Sevika took off on horseback to find the source. Coyotes? Too early, Sevika mused internally. Wolves? That was more likely. Violet’s head was devoid of much thought, only panic and dread. She didn’t wanna lose an animal her first day on the job.

When they reached the source of the cry, they were relieved (and a little horrified) to find that a calf had just lacerated itself on the edge of a large rock, and blood poured from its thigh to its hoof. It whined and squealed and tried to hide behind the thin legs of its mother. Sev winced, and Vi catastrophized. She imagined loading up her old rifle with shaking hands and pointing the barrel at the animal. She imagined the cries of its mother and the cries she vaguely recognized as coming from her. Her chest heaved in dreadful anticipation.

“Are we gonna have to put it down?”

Sevika shook her head. “Nope. Set up camp for us, Vi. We need a fire, now.”

Vi didn’t realize she was holding her breath ‘til she exhaled, and that dread started to dissipate. Still, the calf cried. So, Vi got off of Jenny and collected dry leaves and brush around the site and she piled ‘em up clumsily. She’d never had to start a fire by herself. She tried hard to emulate Benzo’s calm instinct in doing so. She surrounded her firewood with rocks, and couldn’t remember why Benzo had done that. Nonetheless, she grabbed a match from Sevika’s satchel and lit it. It was starting to burn down, and the faint prickle of heat tickled her fingertips. She dropped it into the pile of kindle and watched the campfire go up. It wasn’t that bad.

“Good. C’mere and hold down the calf. I gotta get somethin’.”

Violet shrugged obediently, stepping over to hold the calf in her arms. Its mother was agitated, huffing and snorting for her baby’s freedom, but Vi did not let go, even when the kid screamed and thrashed its head. The top of its head battered against her chest, and air forced itself out of her lungs. She still would not let go. Something in her was determined not to disappoint her new partner. She furrowed her brows when Sevika started heating up the branding iron. “What’re you doin?”

“Just keep still.”

Sev leaned one end of the iron on a rock and the other stuck into the flames. She rummaged through Vi’s satchel, much to the younger woman’s dismay, and yanked out a bottle of deep-colored liquid. She popped the cork and shoved it in her pocket, and Vi balked at the sight.

“Thought you said not to waste that.”

“I’m not wastin’ shit.” She marched over, grabbed the animal’s leg, and poured some of the liquid gold onto the calf’s wound.

“Hey, the fuck? That’s mine!”

“Helps ‘em heal,” was all Sevika muttered, and Violet shut up. The calf, on the other hand, shrieked. She barely registered the bottle being set on the dirt beside her.

Sev got back to the campfire and branding iron, lifting it by the cooler side and hovering over the injured calf.

“It’s already branded, Sev.”

“I know. It’s to close the wound.”

“Close it?” Vi’s voice lilted upwards in pitch as she spoke, and she gasped when Sevika pressed the red-hot metal into the calf’s leg. The calf’s shriek broke off, shrill, into a screaming sob. Vi’s ears rang, even when the terrible noise subsided. Its legs trashed underneath her hold, and she did truly struggle to keep it still.

“Vi. Don’t let ‘er move.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Its skin sizzled and popped, but when she opened her eyes again, she found that the bleeding had indeed stopped. The smell of beef made her stomach roar in anticipation, but she shooed away the feeling in favor of squeamish apprehension. The calf had passed out at some point during the impromptu branding, and Vi could feel it through the dead weight in her arms. She shakily reached for the bottle of whiskey beside her, bringing it to her mouth and not drinking yet.

Something shifted beside her, and she looked over to find Sev’s hand wrapped around a string of wooden beads with careful patterns etched on each. Vi tried not to stare too hard, but her look of curiosity must’ve broken the veil of Sevika’s focus anyway.

“Are you a religious man, Vi?”

She remembered the glass on her lip and licked the rim of the bottle hungrily, grunting all pleased when the amber liquid poured into her mouth. She pretended not to notice Sevika’s scowl. “No.”

“You mind if I talk to God?”

Vi watched Sevika’s other hand reach out to touch the unconscious calf, lips parting in silent prayer like her words were a secret for God and herself only. The idea made Violet inexplicably jealous, so she murmured, “Don’t you whisper.”

Sev gave Vi a look that said too late, prayer’s over, and the younger woman let her disappointment show on her face.

Sevika rose to her feet, tutting gently for Amy to step on over. She dug through the satchel for the hide tarp, tucking the rolled up material underneath her armpit. She laid that hide out nice and even on the floor.

“No tent tonight?”

“Nothin’ high to hang it off of. Doesn’t seem like it’ll rain.”

Vi shrugged. “You’re the expert.”

“Sure am. Hey, why don’t you dig through my satchel, find a little somethin’ to whip up for us?”

She nodded, gently setting the unconscious calf down on the floor before getting upright herself. She rummaged through the satchel on Amy’s side, eventually coming across a can filled with something that sounded wet when she shook it. “Beans in here?”

“That’s right. Got a tin in there to cook ‘em in.”

“Alright,” Vi called, grunting when her fingers caught on the tin can. The tin went over the fire, and the can of beans cracked open under the pressure of Vi’s knife, and those went in the tin. Vi stirred with a metal spoon she’d brought herself, openly shivering in the chill of approaching nighttime.

She set the spoon down and rubbed her hands together over the fire, grimacing at their frigid shaking. “Jesus Christ, it’s cold enough t’freeze the nuts off’a me.”

Sev, who’d been sitting across from her at the fire, cocked a brow thoughtfully. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been a little chilly before.”

Vi’s hands wrapped around her shivering shoulders, hugging herself for warmth. “Oh, I’ve been chilly, but I ain’t been freezing.”

Sevika scoffed like she was annoyed at the incessant complaining, but she did walk around the fire to her to drape her heavy cloak over Vi’s shoulders. Vi looked at her face for hesitation, or to catch the just kidding before it spilled from those dark, full lips, but there wasn’t any of that. She wrapped the cloak around herself, inhaling like she’s acclimating to the warmth, when really, she was taking in Sev’s warm scent, like cigars and dust and pine needles. It was comforting and somehow alluring, but she pushed aside those feelings and tried so hard not to watch Sevika set up cushions for their head over the flat-laid tarp on the floor.

They ate in silence, making tense eye contact filled with questions. Why didn’t you pray? Sevika’s eyes said.

Why did you help me? Said Vi’s.

There wasn’t any other way to sleep than side by side. Vi used that heavy cloak like a blanket, and Sev fought not to reach over and steal some of the younger cowboy’s warmth.

She didn’t have to. When they woke up, Sevika found Vi’s cheek smushed onto her shoulder, lips parted with drool, and an arm slung around her waist. It was sweet. It was repulsive. Sevika let the moment linger for a little while longer.

Chapter Text

The Pecos was as still as Violet remembered. Seven years ago, she complained that the trail followed a river half the time, that she’d rather see more diverse terrains and trees and wildlife, but now she understood. It was so easy to just follow. She recalled the tower of rocks she and Ekko had built all those years ago, at the point where they needed to get off the trail of the Pecos and start heading North. She hoped it was still standing.

Sevika’s rambling about her past adventures up the trail cut through her inner dialogue. “You ever get caught up in a stampede? Nasty business, I’ll tell you.”

“Uh-huh,” Vi mused, not disinterested but tired enough that she didn’t bother to regulate her expression.

“That was poor Marty O’Milligan I was travelling with at the time. ‘Nother one of Silco’s guys, back in the day. Used to be a farmhand like you, wanted a change. I heard rumors he was shackin’ up with other cowboys.”

That caught Violet’s interest. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. Some old boys called him an invert and he started cattling. Thought he’d be safer on the road.”

“Was he?”

“No, kid, I just told you. He got trampled by a bunch’a longhorns and snapped his neck. Horse didn’t make it, either.”

Violet huffed. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You shack up with cowboys? S’that why you worked with him?

Sev’s eyes flashed with something. “My bedroom inclinations are my business and mine alone, but if you must know, no, I do not. Mr. Silco assigned us together.”

“You just do whatever he tells you, huh?”

Sevika scowled, and her expression fixed itself into something softer like sorrow. “Not everything.”

——

Sevika Lopez was exactly eleven months old when the Battle of the Alamo ended. She may not have been old enough to form her own memories of the siege, but she did remember the grief in her father’s eyes when he recounted the loss at Medina, the conviction leveling his tone when he described the constitution proposed in the Plan of Iguala, and the victorious finality of the Treaty of Cordoba.

She remembered the passionate argument her older brothers made ten years after the Alamo, defending their decision to join the Mexican Army. They, too, had been raised with that cultural pride of victory, of national independence and death and new life, and they proclaimed that their father and his brothers had fought to free Mexico twenty-ish years prior—that they would not sit at home and wait for the Americans to take their home after their family’d fought so hard to keep it.

She remembered the wake her family had held for those brothers in February of 1848, not a full month yet after the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Her and her mother had gathered in the kitchen, pretending to focus on cooking and not the angry resignation lacing her father’s voice when he muttered about traitors and ruthless slavers. If Sevika tried hard enough, she might remember the feeling of smooth wooden beads against her clothed chest. The weight on her neck from the rosary and her grief and their loss hung her head, like an Anglo collar with the same sharpness as the tone of the White ranchers who’d settled in her hometown and whispered daggers into Sevika’s ear: “Remember the Alamo.”

She remembered, alright. That’s why she was so angry just four years later when her father insisted she marry some big-time Spanish-descended farmer and go live with him West of the Red River, and though she argued, it became clear she had no choice in the matter. She was angrier to return to the site of her family property and find it replaced by yet another big-time White rancher’s office.

So, when Vi asked the dreaded question of “How long have you worked for Mr. Silco?” Sevika did everything in her power not to roll her eyes or snap or curl her lip into a snarl. She was glad Vi did not notice.

The real story—the real Sevika—would have revealed her sex by revealing that part of her history. The real struggle for independence and freedom, and the metaphorical chains of American society, and the rosary beads choking her grief, and the man her father’d given her off to demanding more and more--all would have been incriminating to explain.

So she settled for, “He bought out my father’s property. I worked for Silco as soon as I was old enough.”

That seemed to satisfy Vi.

“How ‘bout I ask you a question?”

——

Violet Sumpter was Violet Alcove at the time of her mother’s death.

According to her mom, the Lipan Apache and the American Texans were sort-of-friends before the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, to protect settlers from the Comanche. Vi hadn’t even been born yet. Apparently, too, that friendship did not last when Texas joined the American Union. Even then, her mother’d been knocked up, probably in unsettling circumstances based on Vi’s memory of shuddering breaths and resentful glares, and her father, Connol Alcove, did not respect the sanctity of that historic alliance, either.

Connol—not Dad, not to Violet and certainly not to Powder—was a Protestant Englishman. Hated Mom’s spirituality and hated the Roman Catholicism so prevalent in post-Spanish Texas. Hated long hair that daughters refused to cut, hated prayers that did not resemble Jesus-worshipping, hated Mom and wanted so badly to remove that perceived cultural stain from his daughters. He tried. Mom struck him. He struck back, and did not stop until the crunch of knuckles on bone more closely resembled running one’s fingers through uncooked rice—like shattered cartilage and red bubbles swelling from hopelessly flexing nostrils. Violet saw. She took her sister and ran, kept running even though the baying of hounds behind her grew louder and frantic.

The wall of flesh she stumbled upon was that Vander Sumpter—that one who never forced her to pray before supper, who did not whinge when the sisters cut their hair in remembrance, who would never ask her to worship a God that had represented isolation and hurt and death. Even his rosary beads felt heavy in Violet’s hands. Vander would not ask her to carry them again.

So, when Sev turned her line of questioning back at her and asked “Why didn’t you pray for the calf with me?” Vi winced. She didn’t pretend not to.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Sev reassured, but Vi was already rearranging her expression into one of levity. It made Sevika narrow her eyes, like she was expecting some snarky remark. The younger cowboy’d seen her rosary. What if he was one of those types?

“Well, it all started when I was a little boy, Mr. Lopez. Much like Moses in the Nile, my mother dropped me in the Pecos and a ferocious she-wolf yanked me outta there.”

Sevika rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“Didn’t have no God or Holy Spirit or any o’ that. Just the moon in all her glory.”

“Right.”

Vi opened her mouth to continue her sarcastic explanation, but the heavy pop of a gunshot echoed through the valley around the Pecos, and the cattle roared their resistance, stomping and huffing and trampling away from the source of the sound.

Rustlers was Sevika’s first thought, but when she turned her body around to face the source, she found the small group of riders were not at all interested in rounding up the roused cattle. Their attention was solely on her and her partner.

Vi followed suit, shifting her attention from the stampeding chaos around her and towards the offending riders. Tussled blond hair and the reflection of daylight in piercing blue eyes were the first things she noticed. Deckard.

Before a confrontation could happen, Jenny and Amy roused from their handlers’ steady control and joined the cattle in stampeding, whinnying and bucking like crazy. Vi and Sev were lucky as all hell they didn’t stumble off and get trampled to death by hundreds of Texas longhorns.

The group of riders got closer, and another shot rang out. A bullet whizzed past Sev’s head, and when Vi noticed, she hurriedly unslung her old-as-fuck rifle from her shoulders and loaded it up. It took way too long. By the time she was done, the bandits were several paces closer. She lined up the shot at one of Deckard’s companions, pulled the trigger, and grunted in horrified self-satisfaction when the body dropped and the horse beneath it dragged the shot man along the dusty floor. That seemed to scare ‘em a little. One of the riders took aim at Sevika. Sevika dropped him with the revolver she’d apparently been tucking inside a holster attached to her belt—Vi really should have paid attention to her gear rather than her waist earlier.

Deckard and the two remaining riders still approached. They got close enough to shout. “Sumpter! Jinx is gonna love the news!”

Sev lined up her shot. One of those bandits dropped, and Deckard and his final companion scurried off like rats. The two cowboys were left to get their cattle under control. They were still panicked from the piercing bang-bang-bang of gunshots.

“Easy! C’mon now!” Sev’s voice rang across the valley, and Vi figured she should probably help, too.

“Y’all’re fine!” Her voice wasn’t as steady as her counterpart, and she caught the flash of an amused smirk from the older cowboy. It sent a flush from her cheeks to her chest, and she did not care to place its origin.

It didn't take too long to gather the herd into some semblance of peaceful meandering.

——

Night approached quicker than they’d anticipated, and by time they were far enough away to feel safe setting up camp, the sun had already set. The cattle slowed to a sleepy stop, and Jenny and Amy followed suit.

That left Sevika and Violet hopping off their steeds, stretching their legs and complaining about the soreness in their asses.

“We gonna make a fire tonight?”

Sev grunted. “Too risky. The smoke’ll let people know where we are. Deckard and his boys could come back…or we could get rustlers, or wolves, or—”

“—Yeah, I got it. What’re we gonna eat tonight?”

Sevika rummaged through her satchel, yanking out a tarp and a paper envelope. “Jerky.”

“Oh,” was all Vi could say. She sat her ass on the floor and subtly rocked back and forth, self-soothing like she used to when she was little. “So…Jinx.”

Sev glanced up at her, hands maneuvering the tarp out of its rolled-up confines and laying it on the floor. She raised a brow, but did not say anything.

“Deckard said the word ‘Jinx.’ That a name?”

“Yup.”

“You familiar?”

Sev sat on the tarp, opening the paper envelope tucked in her elbow and reaching over to hand Vi a piece of jerky. The younger cowboy wasted no time getting it into her mouth. “She’s Silco’s daughter. Adopted. Used to be a real sweet girl ‘til she went wrong.”

“Didn’t know Mr. Silco had a daughter.”

Sevika shrugged, chewing dryly on a piece of meat. It was too salty, but it was food. She grimaced at the harsh flavor. “I didn’t take him for a family man, neither.”

The rest of the night was quiet, save for the wet sounds of gulping down water. Sev went to take a piss, and Vi noted that she went really far out of sight. Can’t he just whip it out? She tried not to think of that too much.

Sev returned and they stared idly at each other, like they were emotionally settling into the mere idea of sleep. Vi watched the older cowpoke intently.

The faint sheer of sweat that glistened on her face during the shootout was gone, replaced with a stony expression and smudges of dirt. Her jaw twitched under Violet’s scrutiny. Vi thought it was annoyance.

It wasn’t. Sevika was doing some watching of her own, eyes flitting up and down Vi’s figure curiously. Her boots looked cleaner after being dipped in the Pecos, and her skin was tanned, not burnt. Well, not very burnt.

They sleep back-to-back that night, not wanting to risk frontal closeness. Violet figured Sev would feel her breasts beneath her loose shirt, and Sevika assumed the same of Vi.

——

Violet woke up first. Gathering the kinder was easy enough. She mourned the whiskey she poured on the dry brush, but thanked it for its help anyway when the match lit the impromptu campfire without a struggle. Gettin’ the hang of it.

The tin hung over the fire, and Vi dug through her satchel to find the can of ground coffee she’d packed for this trip. Some water and some of the grounds over the fire were enough to draw the flavor and enzymes from the beans. A couple minutes later, she removed the tin from the fire and splashed some of that cold river water over it, watching the coarse grounds fall to the bottom. It wasn’t exactly hygienic, but God if she didn’t have coffee soon, she’d strangle Sev in his sleep. Violet was not a morning person.

She carefully poured the concoction into two empty cans, being precise as to not let too many grounds fall in. It could’ve been worse rations than unfiltered coffee.

The injured calf from several nights ago’d gravitated towards Vi and Sev wherever they went. Poor thing. It sniffed Violet’s neck, and she wanted to shove it away, but could not bring herself to be annoyed at the animal she’d helped nurse back to health. The first sip of coffee lifted her spirits. She sang the songs Benzo taught her seven years ago, on her first trip up Goodnight-Loving. Well—it was more like she mumbled them, just loud enough to rouse Sevika’s peaceful slumber.

“Whoopie-ti-yi-yo…little dogies…”

The calf seemed to like it. She scratched its ears like she would a dog, and it seemed to love that. She still sang.

“Would you be quiet?” Sevika’s voice snapped through Vi’s early-morning haze and cut through the coffee-induced dopamine.

Violet turned around, hands at her hips and an irate expression on her face. “Can’t you see I’m havin’ a good time here?”

“Can’t you see that I was sleeping?”

Vi scoffed. “It was high time you got off your ass. Been getting breakfast ready…”

“What the hell is your problem, Sumpter?”

“My problem? I woke up bright n’ early to make you a cup’a coffee, and here you are complaining! What’s yours?”

Sev grunted. “No, no, I know what your problem is. You wouldn’t pray with me. Wouldn’t answer my questions.”

“You got an issue?”

“No, sir, you got a problem—with Catholic men, that’s what.”

Vi balked, mouth hanging open in disbelief. “You are one sensitive motherfucker.”

Sev was already pulling a cigar from her case, and a match to go with it. She shook her head incredulously. “You’re not denying it.”

“You ain’t answer my questions, neither.”

Sev groaned into the end of the cigar, letting the match burn her a little before she put it out just to feel that unsure tickle of pain. “What now?”

“Who the hell is Jinx? You got all dodgy and quiet when I asked before. Don’t know what the hell you’re hidin’.”

Sevika sharply inhaled, taking a deep drag at the same time. The motion of frustration pulled too much smoke into her lungs, so she sputtered a cough and snarled when Vi laughed. “You got a lot of fuckin’ nerve for a little boy.”

“I’m a grown man.”

“Yeah, right.”

Vi pursed her lips, watching Sev smoke that cigar like nothing was happening. That yeah, right made her think that somehow, Sev’d found her out, and she made the decision (without much further thought, really) to march over and get all up in that pretty face, leaning in like she was sizing up the older cowboy. Of course, Sevika’s much larger than her, so it didn’t do much in terms of intimidation other than pissing Sev the fuck off.

“You gonna let yourself get your ass kicked? Over some girl you don’t even know?”

“Y’know, you could be a little nicer. Just tryin’ to work here. Just tryin’ to get by and find my folks. Don’t know how I’m supposed t’not throw myself in the Pecos with the way you’re—”

Sev shoved Vi back by her shoulder. Violet’s brows furrowed, and her teeth bared like a cornered dog. She didn’t think it through when she planted her hands on Sevika’s chest and pushed her back. Beneath her palm was the unmistakable swell of fat, pressed behind some kind of tight fabric.

Sev’s jaw dropped like a secret had just been revealed. Vi thought she’d won something, so she spat on the floor in resolution. Even so, she saw the devastated look in Sevika’s eyes and figured she’d done something wrong, so she backed off.

That didn’t mean she had to stop bickering.

“Can’t fuckin’ believe it. You’re fat underneath all that linen, too.”

Sev’s brows furrowed. Vi seemed to believe that her tits were just…

“I hardly see you eat. Don’t know how the fuck that happened.”

Sevika groaned.

——

By afternoon, they were back on their horses. Sevika tried not to snap at Violet when she hummed that same song from earlier, and Vi tried not to stare at the way Sev’s lips balanced that cigar.

Sevika noticed the younger cowboy’s gaze. Wordlessly, she snatched the cigar from her lip and held it out to Vi. It was an invitation—no, a silent apology—and Violet scoffed like she couldn’t believe her eyes, or like she was expecting Sevika to pull her hand back as soon as she reached out.

“Nah,” Vi started carefully. “Not one of my vices.”

She grunted in acknowledgement, pushing the cigar back between her lips and taking a slow drag. When she exhaled, she spoke. “What are your vices?”

Vi hummed thoughtfully. Her mind drifted to the night she earned her freedom, where she caged the lady-sheriff beneath her own broad shoulders and fucked her debt away. She remembered enjoying it, the feeling of indulging and the feeling of a woman stretched out around her fingers. Sevika snapped impatiently, and Violet realized she’d been staring off.

A cough. “Booze. Women.”

Sevika barked a laugh that startled the younger cowboy. Vi stiffened but eased into a chuckle of her own. “You and the rest of Texas, kid.”

Chapter Text

A young Caitlyn Kiramman shimmied into proper rifle-handling posture, feeling the stock of the gun pushing up against the soft flesh between chest and shoulder.

A raspy voice hummed appreciatively behind her, and Cait glanced back at its source. “Perfect posture, Kiramman.”

The girl huffed. Of course she had perfect posture. “This isn’t my first time shooting.”

The wooden board thirty meters out disappeared behind her sights. Sheriff Grayson opened her mouth as if to speak, likely to remind Caitlyn to wait ‘til you can’t see the board, then shoot, but of course, the young Kiramman already knew that. She settled for a “Let’s see if you can hold ‘er steady.”

Caitlyn scoffed. Bang!

The center of that wooden board scorched black, and the girl turned to the sheriff, despite her self-assurance, and grinned proudly like she was waiting for the next compliment.

“I don’t see why your mother thought it necessary to have me supervise you. Seems like you know your stuff.”

Caitlyn nodded resolutely. “I know every hidden corner on this gun like the back of my hand. Before she allowed me to the range by myself, Mother insisted I show her how to take apart my Henry, put her back together…”

“You just know everything there is about shooting, huh?”

“I wouldn’t presume to know everything…but I am knowledgeable.”

“Is that right?”

The girl furrowed her brows, scrunching up her nose like she was trying to figure out the purpose of that question. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

“Very honest,” she mused, nodding her head like she was observing a case study rather than a stubborn, stony-faced girl. “Can I ask you a question?”

“I suppose I can’t stop you.”

The sheriff huffed a breathy laugh at that. Precocious. “Why’re you so interested in shooting?”

Caitlyn thought back to shady investors and vaguely threatening remarks, words too sophisticated for her to understand but tone of voice clearly aggressive, like starving wolves barking and snapping at prey too large to eat—knowing they can’t reap the benefits of its flesh, but preferring it to be gone nonetheless.

Caitlyn did not like to misunderstand the college-educated investors’ words, so she insisted upon learning to interpret them. As she got older, she phased them into her vocabulary, and it felt like dancing on the hip of the enemy.

There was one instance of daring investors and snapping jaws and sharp words and barked threats that made her father stiffen, like the threat she hadn’t understood was real, like it actually meant something. That was the day he made Caitlyn promise to defend herself, or learn to defend herself. The fear of losing her mother was enough for poor Mr. Kiramman, and Caitlyn could not bring herself to imagine her teary-eyed father, alone and asocial in their big house.

“My father told me I should know how to defend myself.”

“Other people can defend you.”

Caitlyn tilted her head. “That’s not the same.”

“Does it matter?”

The girl pursed her lips, thinking hard about it. In the process, set the gun down on the floor at her feet carefully, like it was a ticking time bomb. “Yes, it does. I cannot always rely that someone will be there to protect me.”

Sheriff Grayson nodded, brows raised like she was impressed, but the curious glint in her eye suggested something else. Pity? Condescension?

“That’s a very noble goal. Why do you think that your gun will help defend yourself?”

Caitlyn’s brows scrunched up in thought. She had not prepared answers for this line of questioning. Some awful feeling like shame prickled at her neck, and a gunshot from beside her at the range pulled her out of her brooding.

“It’s a weapon,” the Kiramman girl remarked as soon as her headspace allowed, and Sheriff Grayson grunted a low chuckle like she’d been expecting that answer. “Most people will see it and be afraid to do harm.”

“Harm to who, Kiramman?”

“Me. Anybody else. The people under my protection.”

The sheriff hummed thoughtfully, looking to the ground and nodding. “You want to protect others as well—with this weapon?”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“I think you’ve gotten something confused, Caitlyn,” she mused, and rose a finger when the girl opened her mouth to defend herself. “Your rifle will not deter crime, nor will it keep people who truly want to do harm from doing it. The weapon itself does not inspire fear or authority alone. Seems you’ve conflated the firearm with the badge.”

“Well—”

“—Begs the question, young Kiramman: what are you shooting for?”

——

Grayson’s mentorship was short-lived. When consumption took her life and her role in Caitlyn’s, the new Sheriff Marcus tried to fill that void. That was four years after Grayson had begun to tutor her situational awareness, her ethics, her creed….and it hadn’t been long enough.

Even so, his thoughtless biases and blatant disinterest in following the processes of the law deterred Caitlyn Kiramman, who’d taken his position of Deputy at her mother’s demand, from following his lead.

“Sprout, you’re right, but you’re biased in a way of your own,” Jayce had reminded her after dutifully lending his ears to her rambling complaints.

“I am not.”

“He works the men and women he jails to death, Caitlyn. Day and night they’re out there, building that road…”

“Is it not efficient? They’re going to be imprisoned either way.”

“It’s not right. It’s not all murderers and outlaws in there.”

“It is. I trust Marcus to use his power responsibly.”

Jayce had shaken his head at that, unwilling to argue further. Even if he weren’t disappointed, and frankly, a little emotional that his Sprout had adopted this train of thought, there was still the fact that her mother was the reason his business could afford to operate. Other figures turned him away, even though his ideas could have been revolutionary, because they would not risk the financial ramifications of hosting a Mexican boy and a Jewish Pole. Kiramman Holdings was the sole benefactor of Talis & Co. and it was dependent on Caitlyn’s continued advocacy for his character; he loved her like a sister, but even that could not outweigh the power of the Kiramman name.

That name, along with her sheriff’s reputation, damaged her own almost irreparably; though Kiramman Holdings was generous with Jayce’s inventive endeavors, it was more generous in its flagrant purchasing of Denver, Colorado’s assets, public facilities, and local government loyalty. At twenty-two, she’d fallen out of good graces with the public’s eye by little fault of her own, and it only exacerbated her self-isolationist perspective on the law.

When Caitlyn pushed open the double barrel doors of the local saloon, its patrons swiveled their heads around to glare at her—some almost even piped up—but ultimately they grumbled and pushed their faces back into their drinks or company after they noticed the six-pointed star badge on her chest. They would not talk. That made her nervous. Usually, the locals ignored her…but this was new.

She leaned on the bar and the tender stared blankly at her. “You here on business?”

“No. Just for a drink.”

“Didn’t know you were allowed to drink on the job. Guess that’s just another perk of being a Kiramman.”

Caitlyn grumbled. “I’m not on the job.”

“Then why’re you wearing that badge?”

She didn’t know what to say to that. The truth wouldn’t do.

Caitlyn desperately wanted to be treated like anybody else—but when your mother is the most influential individual in the city, more so than the sheriff or even the mayor, people tend to look at you differently. Especially when that mother owns half the city.

The closest she could get from these people is respectful fear alongside their resentment, hence the badge on her breast and the iron at her hip.

“Can you get me a drink or not?”

The bartender grunted. “What d’ya want?”

“Cider.”

“Fine.”

He made it without much care. He even spilled a little on the bar, watching with a gleam in his eye when Caitlyn wiped it with her sleeve. The moment she took a sip, the saloon grew in volume again, though some of its patrons whispered rather than talked out loud. The word ‘Kiramman’ caught her attention, and with the warm drink nestled in her slender hands, she whipped her head around.

“What’d you say?”

The two men now facing her just stared at her, mouths closed and eyes narrowed as if they hadn’t been talking about her. “Nothing.”

“You said my name. I heard you.”

One of the men, the scrawnier of them with a missing front tooth, rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just mind your business, Deputy?”

Caitlyn scoffed at the audacity, but turned around anyway. She tried not to publicly seethe, but the bartender shot her a knowing smirk anyway. She took another sip. Someone behind her laughed, and the man before her’s smirk deepened.

“What’s so funny?”

The bartender shrugged, smiling wider like he’d won something. “Nothin’ at all, ma’am. Just enjoying the company.” His eyes roved over her body, and she scowled.

She brought her mouth to the cup, and the saloon quieted in anticipation. Something was deeply wrong. She set the cider down, and a deeper hush fell upon the patrons. Caitlyn experimentally lifted the glass again, someone tee-hee’d, and she clutched it to her chest.

Something touched her shoulder. She whirled around, ready to defend herself, but she sighed in relief when she saw orange hair and deep blue eyes. “Maddie,” she breathed, like she’d been expecting much worse. “What’re you doing here?”

“Just…wanted to see you. Marcus said you’d be here.”

Caitlyn frowned. Is my drinking habit that well-known? She brought the glass to her lips, and Maddie shook her head, placing her hand over Caitlyn’s and pushing the cup to the counter. “What?”

“There’s spit in that, Cait.”

Caitlyn turned around to face the bartender, but he was somewhere else now, and she didn’t feel like causing a scene, so she winced instead. “Oh, shit. I drank some.”

Maddie’s nose scrunched up. “Can I bring you over to mine? I’ve got something we could drink instead.”

She considered it. She knew Maddie very well, well enough to know that they wouldn’t be drinking much in her home at all. “It’s the middle of the day.”

The ginger’s posture angled, leaning on one foot with a hand on her hip defiantly. “And here you are.”

Caitlyn scowled, and Maddie looked like she was going to backtrack, but she spoke before the girl could change her mind. “Fine. One drink.”

The moment they left the saloon, its volume grew exponentially, and the chatter was lively again. It made Caitlyn yearn…for something. She didn’t necessarily want the company of those who’d spit in her drink and whisper behind her back, but she wanted company that came without strings attached. Unlike Maddie, who wanted her body, or Jayce, who did seem to care, but wanted her financial support more than the care she could give. And Caitlyn cared deeply. That’s why she’d always get so offended when Jayce backtracked his arguments, easing out of the discussion rather than making her think, or when Maddie didn’t ask for more than short-lived intimacy, afraid of the consequences of hurting the Kiramman girl.

The walk to Maddie’s place was almost unbearable with the whispering and cut-short chatter and uneasy glances her way—all of which were done in higher frequency than usual. Something primal and afraid kept her hands damp with sweat, fingers twitching with the urge to bear arms like self-defense. The ginger noticed her hand ghosting the holster at her hip, and nervously interlocked her fingers with Caitlyn’s. The gesture was thoughtful, and Caitlyn let herself melt into the calculated affection.

It didn’t last long. The first jeer thrown her way had Maddie taking back her hand. Caitlyn’s gripped the front of her own shirt, eyes downturned and posture slouched in hesitant submission. She felt like a child being punished. She looked at Maddie for affirmation, but the girl would not meet her eyes.

Passerby stared at Caitlyn for a little too long. Men whispered the Kiramman name and something about being jinxed. Whatever that means.

Maddie fumbled with the fold of her long sleeves, fingertips scratching at the fabric anxiously.

“What is it?”

The ginger shrugged. “Just wondering if you’ve talked to your mother lately.”

Caitlyn exhaled sharply through her nose, like the mere mention of her mother from Maddie’s mouth disappointed her. “Why?”

“People have been talking. Apparently, she keeps trying to buy the saloon.”

“I didn’t know that,” she admitted.

“It’s one of the last places in town the bank doesn’t own.”

“I suppose it is.”

“I just hope nobody retaliates again…”

Caitlyn nodded in agreement.

A couple years back, some townspeople started gathering to complain about Kiramman’s hold on Denver. Her mother reassured her it was just talk, but when they’d hired a handful of bandits to threaten the family with guns, they found out real quick that their name meant life or death. Even more so when they brandished their six-guns after Cassandra refused to negotiate. Father had been shot, but ultimately, he made it. Both parents were lucky Caitlyn was such a good shot; she remembered the squelch and splurt of flesh and blood when her bullets pierced densely covered bodies, remembered the gurgling of spilling throats preceding final choked gasps. She, decidedly, was not so lucky. Sometimes she wished they’d all died there, or that her mother had agreed to the bandits’ demands—that way, she wouldn’t have to live with the weight of death around her neck like a noose.

Of course, the Kiramman name was the only thing keeping her from jail. It was also what made her a target after the protesters’ learned of her victory. The isolation strengthened her resolve. Regardless, Caitlyn still wished she’d been punished.

Looking at Maddie and her lustful disinterest, Caitlyn wondered if maybe she was being punished, after all.

——

She woke the next morning to Maddie’s absence in bed—Maddie’s own goddamn bed, mind you—and groaned painfully.

Even though she knew what this arrangement was, knew what it couldn’t be, Caitlyn could not help her need for closeness after intimacy. Rather, she needed intimacy after sex and not just during. It made her feel terrible, especially when she saw the hesitance in the ginger’s eyes and felt the subtle recoil of a soft abdomen when she laid her head against it. She hoped she wasn’t making her upset—at least, not more upset than Caitlyn was at the distance.

Caitlyn sat up, hugging her aching knees to her chest, and rested her forehead on the bone there. She was warm. Warm and unheld. She scoffed at the ridiculousness of the situation: she’s been inside of me—why can’t she do this?

The sheets beneath her felt itchy in the wake of her self-doubt, and she fought to rise to her feet despite the weariness in her bones. She shook when she pulled yesterday’s clothes back onto her body, and blinked away the tears in her eyes when she realized that Maddie hadn’t even left her a note.

The walk home was painful, and for a plethora of reasons. The nervous side-eyes from the people she passed on the street didn’t help. This day, the whispered phrases were louder, more specific. Rather than Kiramman and jinxed, passerby muttered Cassandra and jinx. ‘Jinx’, singular, like a name or an event. ‘Cassandra,’ as in Mom. Maybe Maddie was onto something. She changed directions to the sheriff’s office, forgoing a shower in favor of ensuring her family’s safety.

Marcus never appeared happy to see her.

“You look like shit, Deputy.”

“At least I can fix that,” Caitlyn quipped, and the sheriff huffed with an unusual smile.

“What do you want? You have today off.”

“People are…talking.”

“Yes, people tend to do that.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, crossing her arms in resolution. I’m not moving ‘til you hear me out, her eyes said.

Marcus closed his to bow his head and sigh deeply. “What are they talking about, Kiramman?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, then what’s the point of this?”

“They keep saying my name. My mother’s name. And…jinxed. Jinx? Something like that. I feel uneasy. I feel like something’s going to happen, and nobody’s talking to me.”

“I’m not your shrink.”

She groaned. “Can you just look into it for me? Make sure my mother is protected?”

He raised a brow at her. “We’ll see.”

“You know where your funding comes from—”

‘—I said I’ll see, Caitlyn. I’m busy.”

She glared at him for a moment, but nothing in his expression changed. After a beat, she sighed and turned on her heel to leave.

She had just climbed onto her porch when she heard Jayce’s voice behind her, along with heavy footsteps rapidly approaching.

“Caitlyn!”

She didn’t turn fast enough, apparently, because he shouted again needlessly: “Cait!”

Unfortunately, her patience was thin after the interaction with Marcus, and the lack of a shower on her body, and the potential of danger, and the neglect from Maddie, and…a lot of other things. So, she swiveled around.

“What?!”

Normally, Jayce would’ve seemed wounded at such a harsh reaction, but his expression—which Caitlyn was only just now seeing—of worry and desperation and fear. Her annoyance melted away. His pace slowed when he reached the bottom of the stairs at her porch. “Caitlyn! I think something’s happening. I think it’s your mom.”

Caitlyn’s jaw clenched. “What?”

“Let’s go.”

She didn’t think to grab her rifle. She just ran, took Jayce’s hand to propel him when he’d stagger and fall behind, thought nothing of the stares she got, didn’t recognize the relief in the townspeoples’ faces, nor the pity for her they extended through outstretched arms. When she reached her mother’s office, it was already too late. It wouldn’t have been if she brought her gun.

After the spray of red and crunch of cartilage, Caitlyn looked to find the source; a thin, outstretched arm, the revolver firmly held in dainty hands, a slender figure—a girl?—and obnoxiously long, black, twin braids, and a face with an expression she couldn’t name anything other than goddamned crazy.

The girl saw Caitlyn seeing her. Apparently, she found the resemblance uncanny and thought to leave no loose ends—but a man at her side clapped a hand on her shoulder.

“Jinx, you got her.”

Jinx. They ran off. Nobody was there to help. Not a single guard was in place like she’d requested, and she watched the girl and her posse leave and jerked forward as if to follow. Jayce’s grounding hand gripped her wrist, and she lashed and writhed to free herself and chase down the girl with the braids, but his grasp did not falter.

“Jayce, I have to—”

“You’ll die.”

“I don’t care.”

That hand pulled her closer, and arms wrapped around her to trap her in place. Caitlyn’s teeth bore into flesh, but the man behind her did not falter.

“Jayce, please.”

“Cait, they’ll kill you,” Jayce yelped.

“Don’t care.” She wanted to say more, but a wrecked sob in her throat choked the sound.

“I do.”

Before she fell limp in Jayce’s arms, the sight of Mom’s limbs strewn on the floor, lead shrapnel dug into the flesh of her cheeks, burned itself into her vision. It remained even after the world around her faded to black and all she could perceive was the hush of her brother’s voice.

——

At twenty-three, Caitlyn did not suspect—no, she knew that Marcus was somehow behind the assassination of her mother. There was a smugness in his eyes when he declared that because he was no longer on the Kiramman payroll, there was no need to keep Caitlyn on his.

There was something sadistic in hers when she put Marcus down—something cruel when she opted to use her hands rather than her Henry—God, she wanted to feel it. And she did. She relished in it, even, when she felt his pulse weaken beneath her palms, fingers wrapped around the jugular and pressing ‘til something snapped and a garbled choke left him along with his soul.

Jayce believed her when she told him Marcus was sick. He was, in a way, if you considered death an illness. It comes for us all, does it not?

The title of Sheriff and the badge that came with it would allow Caitlyn to do more, get away with more, but she did not want to abuse her power the way Marcus so flagrantly had. No, she wanted to be decent and fair, the way she believed a vessel of the law should be. She remembered her conversation with Jayce about the prisoners, about the industrial complex, and she figured she should start with reviewing the prisoners’ files.

That’s how she came across the near-blank file of a Violet Sumpter, inmate number five-sixteen—charged with murder, but there was no court date listed, no evidence attached to her name. She was one of those workers Marcus’d made to build the Denver Pacific Railroad five years prior. How long had she been here?

It was strange. It wasn’t right. She had to talk to her. She had to make it right.

A short conversation later, and Violet was walking with her to her home, inmate uniform hanging off her body loosely.

Caitlyn wasn’t stupid. She’d caught the not-so-subtle flirtation and lingering gazes and the way those powder-blue eyes roved up and down her body with barely concealed want, but after she was brought to the other side of those iron bars, that suave confidence melted into stammering gratitude. It was adorable.

She’d also caught the lack of recognition at the Kiramman name. Those looks, those innuendos—they weren’t for Sheriff Kiramman. They were for Caitlyn. Something fluttered in her stomach, and she refused to feel the slightest bit strange about bringing this recently freed inmate to her home, especially when the inmate looked at her like that. Like she was beautiful. Like she’d done the right thing, for once, and like she deserved to be rewarded.

Caitlyn was polite, though, afraid to push her position of authority onto Violet and do something she couldn’t take back. I’m the sheriff. I shouldn’t.

Even if every part of her needed it.

She laid fresh clothes beside Violet on her bed, offered to take the couch, and pretended not to stare at how she looked in Caitlyn’s clothes. She was shorter by a good couple inches, but those arms, that body…everything bulged beneath the garments.

Her long pants should have been baggy on Violet, but all the extra fabric that would’ve bunched at her ankles stretched around her ass. Caitlyn ogled, but felt the creep of shame tickle her neck. She tore her eyes away and tried not to think about the disappointment in the other woman’s eyes when she hadn’t pursued.

When soft, scarred lips pressed against hers, she gasped but would not pull away. She wanted this. Violet wanted this. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. She didn’t know she was being repaid.

Strong fingers worked her open. Caitlyn was wetter than she’d ever been. She’d never felt this good. Pleasure burned in her core, heating her belly. She imagined herself knocked up, and that was what pushed her over the edge. The first time, at least.

Violet had given her time to recover each time, had nuzzled her face into Caitlyn’s neck and kissed and licked, bitten sometimes but was nonetheless soft. Gentle. Like Maddie had never been.

Caitlyn wrapped her long arms around Violet’s ridiculously toned waist and wasn’t pushed away, didn’t feel that strong body recoil in hesitation (or disgust, like how she imagined the ginger she’d slept with not long before…), and when she pressed reverent kisses into choppy auburn hair, the woman had leaned into it, humming in satisfaction.

At her final orgasm of the night, Violet’s sweet mouth worshipped her clit. Every groan and needing whine vibrated through her cunt to the rest of her body, sending shivers up her spine, and the thought of the woman beneath her being pleasured by the act of giving was what made her cum.

That mouth kissed up her body to her chest. She didn’t lave over Caitlyn’s tits with her tongue, she wasn’t demanding more—no, she simply rested the side of her face on the sheriff’s bosom, arms wrapped around her middle, and fell asleep like that. So easy and comfortable.

Caitlyn could get used to this. In fact, she already had.

So, when she woke up alone, the pleasured soreness in her core screamed in fury, and Caitlyn could not help the grief that wracked her body. Something deep in her, the part that’d yearned and been satisfied, the flame that had purred when Violet stoked it, shattered and withered and turned to dust, yet it still ached for the woman she’d freed—the woman who’d freed her in turn, even if only for a moment.

Dreamless nights chipped away at her consciousness. She willed those away, and her subconscious decided to ruin her.

The first dream in a while haunted her.

Her mother’s gaunt face, empty eyes. The shrapnel in her cheeks, the metal casing of the lone bullet shredding her features. Her limbs strewn on the floor, tangled in each other limply. Jayce’s arms around her. Maddie’s hand over hers. Jinx. The gun. Jinx. Her grin, too happy; her eyes, dead and sullen.

That face morphed, and suddenly it was Violet’s arms around her, Violet’s hand in hers, Violet’s face over Jinx’s body...

They look alike, don’t they?