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driedposies · 5 days ago

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If you climb into a saddle, be ready for a ride

Summary: You were never one for taking in strays, but when you discover a wounded man hiding in your barn... well, you've never rejected another helping hand.

Warnings: gun violence & the gore that comes with it, smut implications (18+), wild west period, robbery, sexual harassment, minor character death, small dose of angst (sorry, i had to)

Word Count: 12.1k

Song inspirations: "Short Change Hero" by The Heavy & "The Chain" by Fleetwood Mac

Notes: I went to my very first rodeo, and I've been ✨ inspired ✨

Part I, Within the Whale's Underbelly

The land of Kansas, as you first knew it, was a tapestry woven with the gold of prairie grass and the deep umber of earth, stitched together by the ceaseless wind that howled like a lonesome coyote at dusk.

The sky stretched wide and unbroken, a bowl of blue so vast it threatened to swallow the world whole, and beneath it, the sun baked the land until it cracked and yawned, thirsty for rain that seldom came. This was the world into which you were born, a world both cruel and wondrous, where every sunrise brought with it the promise of hardship and the hope of survival.

Your earliest memories are painted in the hues of hardship. Your father, a man of sinew and grit, taught you the language of horses and the art of silence. He was not a man of many words, but his hands spoke volumes; callused and steady, they could gentle a wild stallion or mend a broken fence with equal care.

Yet even the strongest oak may fall to the axe of fate, and so it was that your father’s life was snuffed out over a neighbour’s claim to a stallion as black as midnight, his blood soaking into the Kansas soil as if to nourish the land with his sacrifice.

After his death, your mother and you became shadows slipping through the tall grass, your hearts heavy with grief, and your eyes wary of every stranger. You left behind the only home you had ever known, your footsteps muffled by sorrow as you both made your way to Hays, a fledgling town born of ambition and desperation, its streets little more than muddy veins pulsing with the lifeblood of pioneers and outcasts.

Hays was a place where hope and despair clashed together in the dust. The town rose from the prairie like a mirage, its wooden buildings standing stubborn against the wind, their facades painted in the faded colours of dreams long since surrendered.

Saloons and brothels flourished like wildflowers after a spring rain, their doors swinging open to welcome miners, drifters, and men with the haunted eyes of those who had seen too much. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, whiskey, and gunpowder; a perfume as intoxicating as it was dangerous.

Your mother, ever resourceful, set her sights on the business of horse propagation. She was a woman of iron will and gentle touch, able to coax life from the most reluctant of mares. But the world was not kind to women alone, and so you were pressed into service as soon as you could reach the counter and pour a shot of whiskey without spilling a drop. The saloon became your second home, its smoky haze and raucous laughter a constant backdrop to your days and nights.

The men who frequented the saloon were as varied as the stars scattered across the Kansas sky. Some came seeking solace at the bottom of a glass, their faces etched with the lines of a thousand disappointments.

Others came to gamble away their meagre earnings, their eyes glinting with desperation and hope. There were men with hands stained black from the coal mines, men with silver-tipped canes and gold teeth, and men whose names were whispered only in the shadows, for fear of drawing their attention.

Marriage was a distant dream, a luxury for those with time and means to court. Suitors came and went—a coal miner with a heart as heavy as the stones he hauled, a saloon owner with a tongue as slick as an oil lamp, a wanted man whose smile was as sharp as the blade he kept hidden in his boot. But for nineteen years, your mother and you managed to keep food on the table and a roof over your heads, and in the Wild West, that was more than most could claim.

The arrival of the railroad changed everything. The iron serpent slithered its way through your young town, bringing with it a flood of new faces and fortunes. Goods arrived in wooden crates, stacked high and left unguarded, tempting even the most honest of men to consider a life of crime. The sound of the train’s whistle became a lullaby and a warning—a reminder that the world was changing, and not always for the better.

With prosperity came peril. Lawlessness flourished in the shadows, and the streets of Hays became a stage for violence and vice. It was not uncommon to hear the crack of gunfire echoing through the night, or to see bodies dragged from dry wells, their stories ended by greed or vengeance. You learned to keep your head down, to mind your own business, and to wave away trouble with a practised smile.

But fate, ever capricious, had other plans for you. In the year 1871, your world shifted once more. Your mother, worn thin by years of toil and heartache, passed away in her favourite chair, her hand still clutching the cup that had held her final comfort. The loss was a wound that would never fully heal, a hollow ache that echoed through the empty rooms of your home.

Left to fend for yourself, you traded three horses that year, unable to care for more than a handful of wild and unruly beasts. The money went to repairing the fence, a futile gesture, perhaps, but one that gave you purpose in the face of grief. The small spit of land, once alive with the sound of hooves and laughter, became a place of quiet solitude.

And then, as if guided by some unseen hand, Harriet entrusted her newborn daughter to your care. Harriet, who had once been your closest friend, revealed herself to be as insubstantial as a desert oasis. She sought escape with another man, leaving behind her child as if she were nothing more than an unwanted burden.

Em became your new salvation. She was a creature of light in a world grown dim, her golden curls and honey-brown eyes a daily reminder that beauty could still exist amidst the ruins. She clung to you with the fierce devotion of a child who has known too much loss, and you loved her as fiercely in return. She was more yours than Harriet’s, a gift you had never expected but could not imagine living without.

The years passed in a blur of hard work and quiet joys. Em grew strong and clever, her laughter ringing out across the fields like the song of a meadowlark. You taught her the ways of horses and the secrets of survival, preparing her for a world that would not be kind to a girl alone. You knew that one day, suitors would come knocking, drawn by her beauty and spirit, and you could already imagine shooing them off with a rifle to boot.

But happiness in the Wild was always fleeting, balanced on the edge of a knife. Trouble found you in the form of Luis Curry—a man whose name was spoken with equal parts fear and contempt. Luis was a creature of shadow and smoke, his eyes cold and calculating, his smile a mask for the rot beneath. He prided himself on his reputation as the best train robber in Kansas, a title earned through blood and betrayal.

Luis took an interest in you, circling like a vulture drawn to the scent of death. He saw in you a challenge, a woman who would not be easily broken or bought. His words were honeyed poison, his touch a threat disguised as a caress. You learned to watch for him in the corners of the saloon, his presence a dark cloud that threatened to blot out the sun.

Yet even as danger loomed, you refused to yield. The West had forged you in fire and sorrow, and you would not be cowed by the likes of Luis Curry. You kept your rifle close and your wits closer, determined to protect Em and the life you had built together.

The days stretched on, each one a battle against the forces that sought to drag you under. The wind whispered secrets through the cracks in the walls, and the stars watched over us with cold indifference. But in the quiet moments, when Em curled up beside you and the world seemed to pause, you found a measure of peace.

You forced yourself to remember your father’s lessons; the strength of silence, the power of patience. You remembered your mother’s resilience, her ability to carve out a life from the unforgiving land. And you remembered that even in the West, where life was cheap and death came swift, there was still room for love, for hope, and for the promise of a better tomorrow.

Part II, Eternity in an Hour

Dust motes danced in the shafts of dying light, swirling with each gust that barged through the batwing doors. The air inside was thick with the scent of sweat, old wood, and the lingering tang of spilled whiskey—a perfume as familiar to you as the lines on your own palm.

By late afternoon, the place began to fill with the regulars. Farmers with hands like gnarled roots, faces browned and cracked by sun and wind. Coal-streaked miners, boots caked with the black blood of the earth.

Ranch hands, drovers, and drifters, each man bearing the day’s labour in his slouch and the dust on his hat. They’d shuffle in, boots thumping hollow against the plank floor, voices rumbling like distant thunder as they called for beer and company.

You worked the bar, sleeves rolled, arms moving in a rhythm as old as the land itself—pour, wipe, pour again. The kegs were warm, the beer flat, but nobody much minded; thirst in these parts was a beast that cared little for quality. Every so often, you’d glance down the bar to where Em sat perched on her stool, legs swinging, nose buried in the battered copy of Peter Parley’s Tales About America and Australia. She’d read it so many times the spine was near broken, but she never fussed, just turned the pages with a quiet patience that made your heart ache and swell all at once.

You caught yourself smiling, soft and secret, as you watched her. She was the one good thing you’d managed to keep safe in all this wild, ragged world.

A voice cut through your reverie, rough as gravel and twice as unwelcome. “What a pretty smile you’ve got, lamb.”

You looked up, cloth pausing mid-swipe. There he was, Luis Curry, leaning over the bar with that crooked grin, the scar on his lip twisting like a snake in the grass. His cattleman hat was tipped back, shadowing eyes that missed nothing, with a breath that smelled of tobacco and trouble.

You dropped your gaze, set your jaw, and scrubbed at a stubborn ring on the counter. “Can I get you somethin’, Curry?” You asked, keeping your tone flat as a dry creek bed.

Luis leaned in, close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him, the edge of his voice curling around your ear. “Oh, I reckon I’d like a whole heap of things from you, darlin’. But two fingers’ll do for now.”

You didn’t rise to the bait. Just fetched a glass, poured him two fingers of whiskey—no more, no less—and slid it across the bar. He wrapped his hand around it, knuckles white and scarred, and watched you with that wolfish look, waiting for something you weren’t about to give.

After a long moment, he chuckled low and took his drink, sauntering off to a table in the corner. Your silence was answer enough, for now.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding, glancing back at Em. She was still lost in her book, oblivious to the interaction. You prayed she’d stay that way, at least a little while longer.

Old William, the saloon owner, sidled up behind you, moving quietly as smoke. “Want me to run that snake off for good?” he rumbled, voice deep as a well. “Got a rifle out back. Ain’t too old to put the fear of God in him.”

You smiled, small and grateful. William was a bear of a man, broad-shouldered and sun-browned, with a stare that could freeze a rattler mid-strike. Folks said he’d once stared down a whole gang of Jayhawkers without so much as blinking. Even now, pushing fifty-odd years, he was a force to be reckoned with.

“No need, Will,” you replied, shaking your head. “I ain’t a woman to be trifled with, and he knows it.”

William grunted, lips twitching in approval. “That’s the truth, missy. Still, you holler if he tries anything. I’ll have his hide nailed to the barn door, see if I don’t.”

You laughed, the sound brittle but real. “Appreciate it, but Luis Curry don’t take kindly to threats. Best let sleeping dogs lie, for now.”

William nodded, but his eyes lingered on Curry, hard and watchful.

The saloon buzzed with the easy chaos of evening. Glasses clinked, dice rattled, and the piano man in the corner coaxed a tune from the battered keys, his fingers nimble and sure. Laughter rose and fell, punctuated by the occasional curse or shout. Outside, the wind carried the lowing of cattle and the distant whistle of the evening train.

A pair of ranch hands bellied up to the bar, hats in hand, faces red from sun and drink. “Evenin’, miss,” one drawled, voice thick with prairie dust. “Reckon we could trouble you for a coupla beers?”

“Comin’ right up, boys,” you replied, filling their mugs and sliding them across. “Y’all keepin’ outta mischief?”

The taller one grinned, showing a gap where a tooth used to be. “Ain’t no mischief left in this town since you started pourin’, ma’am. You scare it all off with that mean look.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “If only that were true, I’d be outta work by now.”

Em giggled from her stool, peeking over the top of her book. “Mama’s got the sharpest eyes in Kansas,” she piped up, pride shining in her voice.

“That she does, little miss,” the ranch hand agreed, tipping his hat to her. “You listen to your mama, now. She’ll keep you outta trouble.”

Em nodded solemnly, returning to her book.

The evening wore on, the saloon filling with the music of voices and the clatter of boots. You moved through it all like a ghost, hands steady, eyes alert. Every so often, you’d catch Luis watching you from his corner, his gaze heavy as a storm cloud. You ignored him, pouring drinks and swapping jokes with the regulars, but you could feel his attention like a brand on your skin.

At one point, a miner with coal-black hands stumbled up to the bar, slurring his words. “Miss, you got anythin’ stronger than this piss-water beer?”

You poured him a shot of rotgut whiskey, sliding it over. “This’ll put hair on your chest, Hank. Or burn it clean off, dependin’ on your constitution.”

He laughed, a rough bark. “You’re a peach, darlin’. If I were ten years younger, and a sight less ugly, I’d ask you to marry me.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “If you was ten years younger, I’d still say no.”

The bar erupted in laughter, the sound rolling through the room like thunder. Even William cracked a smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

As the sky outside deepened to indigo, the mood in the saloon shifted. The laughter grew louder, the tempers shorter. A card game in the corner turned sour, voices rising.

“You callin’ me a cheat, you son of a—?”

“Easy, boys,” William warned, stepping from behind the bar with the slow, deliberate menace of a man who’d seen his share of trouble. “Ain’t no need for gunplay tonight. Take it outside, or leave it at the table.”

The men grumbled but settled, cowed by William’s presence.

Luis Curry, meanwhile, nursed his whiskey, eyes never leaving you. Finally, he rose and sauntered back to the bar, boots thudding slow and purposeful. He leaned in, voice low and lazy.

“Y’know, girl, you got a way about you. Tough as old leather, pretty as a prairie rose. I like that.”

You met his gaze, steady and unflinching. “You like a lotta things, Curry. Don’t mean you’re gonna get ‘em.”

He laughed, the sound sharp as broken glass. “Maybe not. But I ain’t one to give up easy.”

“Suit yourself. Just don’t mistake stubborn for smart.” You shrugged, pouring him another shot.

He downed the whiskey in one gulp, setting the glass down with a thunk. “You ever get tired of this place, you come find me. I could show you a world outside these dusty walls.”

You shook your head, lips curling in a half-smile. “The world’s plenty big right here, far as I’m concerned.”

He studied you for a moment, then tipped his hat. “Suit yourself, darlin’. But the wind’s always blowin’ somewhere new.”

With that, he turned and strode out, the doors flapping behind him. You watched him go, tension draining from your shoulders.

“You all right?” William sidled up again, voice low.

You nodded, glancing at Em. “Long as she’s safe, I’m just fine.”

He squeezed your shoulder, rough hand warm and reassuring. “You’re tougher than an old boot, girl. Don’t let nobody tell you different.”

You smiled, feeling the weight of the day finally settle in your bones. The saloon buzzed around you, alive with the wild, untamable spirit of the West. Outside, the stars began to prick the sky, cold and bright.

Em looked up from her book, eyes shining. “Mama, will you read to me tonight?”

You brushed a curl from her cheek. “Course I will, sugar. Soon after I give feed to the horses.”

She grinned, swinging her legs. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

The prairie night was a velvet shroud, stitched with the silver thread of a waxing moon. The last echoes of the saloon’s laughter faded behind you as you and Em made your way home, boots crunching over the hard-packed earth. The air was cool and sweet, carrying the scent of wild sage and the distant promise of rain, a rare blessing in these parts.

Your small property sat at the edge of town, a modest clapboard house with a lean-to porch and a barn crouched behind it like a faithful old dog.

Em skipped ahead, her book clutched to her chest, curls bouncing in the moonlight. You watched her with a weary tenderness, letting her joy be your lantern through the gathering dark.

“Hurry on inside, Em,” you called, voice low but firm. “It’s late, and the coyotes’ll be yowlin’ soon enough.”

“Yes, mama!” She chirped, darting up the steps and through the door, the lamplight inside painting her silhouette gold for a heartbeat before she vanished. You listened for the click of the latch, the familiar rattle as she checked it twice, just like you’d taught her.

Turning away, you let your gaze drift to the barn. The horses would be restless, their bellies rumbling for the evening feed. You crossed the yard, boots silent in the grass, the night alive with the chorus of crickets and the far-off hoot of an owl.

The barn loomed ahead, its weathered boards silvered by distant firelight. You slipped inside, the familiar scent of hay, horse, and leather wrapping around you like an old shawl. The horses nickered softly, ears pricking as you moved down the row, murmuring their names; a litany of comfort for both them and yourself.

You reached for the pitchfork, muscles moving on memory, and began to toss hay into the stalls. The rhythmic scrape and toss, the soft thud of hay hitting the ground, the gentle snorts and shuffling hooves, it was a ritual as old as your grief, as steady as the rising sun.

But tonight, something was off. A prickle ran up your spine, the hairs at the nape of your neck standing alert. You paused, pitchfork in hand, and listened. At first, there was nothing but the usual barn sounds, the shifting of hooves, the creak of old wood. Then, beneath it all, a ragged breath, sharp and wet, like a saw biting through green wood.

You set the pitchfork aside, moving slow and careful toward the haystack at the far end of the barn. Your hand found the handle of the old revolver you kept tucked in your apron pocket, a habit born of necessity, not fear. You stepped around the pile, heart thumping, and there he was.

A man, half-buried in the hay, his clothes smeared with dust and blood. He looked up as you approached, eyes wild and bright in the moonlight. His hand went to his throat, where a makeshift bandage, torn from a once-white shirt, was stained dark and glistening. The wound was ugly, puckered and raw, the kind of hurt that spelled trouble.

He tried to sit up, but the effort made him gasp, his face twisting in pain. “Don’t shoot,” he rasped, voice barely more than a whisper. “Ain’t lookin’ for trouble, ma’am.”

You kept the revolver steady, jaw clenched. “You picked the wrong barn to bleed in, mister. Who are you?”

He coughed, wincing. “Name’s Cassian. Got myself in a mess, is all. Just needed a place to lay low for a spell.”

You studied him, weighing his words. He was maybe not much older than yourself, but the lines around his eyes spoke of hard roads and harder choices. His boots were worn, his coat patched and threadbare. The gunshot wound at his neck was ugly, but not fresh—he’d been running, and running hard.

“Who shot you?” you asked, voice flat as the prairie.

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the door. “Didn’t catch his name. Fella on the road, wanted what little I had. Guess he weren’t a good shot.”

You snorted, not bothering to hide your skepticism. “Folks don’t usually get shot in the neck by strangers for nothin’. You runnin’ from the law, Cassian?”

He shook his head, wincing again. “Ain’t no outlaw, ma’am. Just unlucky.”

You considered your options. You could send him packing, let the coyotes and the cold finish what the bullet started. Or you could let him stay, patch him up, and risk bringing trouble to your door. A risk you couldn’t afford, not with Em sleeping just yards away.

Cassian must’ve seen the calculation in your eyes, because he spoke again, voice raw and pleading. “Please, ma’am. I ain’t got nowhere else to go. Just need a night, maybe two. I’ll be gone by sunrise, swear it.”

You hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on you like a saddle on a green-broke colt. The West was no place for mercy, but you remembered the cold bite of loneliness, the way the world could turn its back on you and never look back.

You lowered the revolver, just a fraction. “If you so much as breathe wrong, I’ll put a finishing bullet in you myself. Understand?”

He nodded, relief washing over his face. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

You knelt beside him, inspecting the wound. The bandage was filthy, the edges of the cut angry and red. You’d seen enough injuries, on horses, on men, to know infection when you saw it.

“This’ll hurt,” you warned, pulling a rag from your apron and dousing it with whiskey from your flask.

He gritted his teeth as you pressed the cloth to his neck, the whiskey hissing on raw flesh. “Hellfire, woman, you tryin’ to kill me?”

You snorted, but not unkindly. “If I was, you’d know it. Hold still.”

He obeyed, jaw clenched, as you cleaned the wound and wrapped it with a fresh strip torn from your petticoat. When you finished, he sagged back against the hay, breath coming easier.

“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse.

You stood, brushing straw from your skirt. “Don’t thank me yet. You bring trouble to my door, you’ll wish you’d bled out on the road.”

“Understood, ma’am.” He managed with a weak smile.

You turned to go, pausing at the door. “I’ll bring you some water. Don’t move.”

He nodded, eyes already drifting shut.

You stepped out into the night, the weight of your choice settling heavy on your shoulders. The prairie was silent, the stars cold and indifferent. You crossed the yard, glancing back at the barn, half-expecting to see a posse riding up, guns drawn. But there was nothing, just the wind and the endless sky.

Inside the house, Em was curled up on her cot, book clutched to her chest, eyes heavy with sleep.

“Mama?” she murmured, half-awake.

“I’m here, sugar,” you whispered, brushing a curl from her forehead. “Go on and lay back down. I’ll be right back.”

You fetched a tin cup and filled it with water from the pump, your mind racing. Who was Cassian, really? A drifter, a thief, a man running from something worse than the law? Or just another soul chewed up and spat out by the West?

You carried the water back to the barn, the revolver remaining tucked in your apron, just in case. Cassian was still where you’d left him, eyes closed, breath shallow but steady. You set the cup beside him, watching as he roused and drank, the water dribbling down his chin.

“Thank you,” he said again, voice stronger.

“Don’t thank me,” you repeated, softer this time. “Just rest. You can stay the night. But come morning, we’ll see what’s what.”

He nodded, settling back into the hay.

You lingered a moment, watching him. There was something about him, something familiar, maybe, or just the echo of your own hard luck reflected in his eyes. You turned away, closing the barn door behind you, and made your way back to the house.

Inside, the lamp flickered low, casting long shadows on the walls. Em was asleep, her breaths slow and even, unable to fight the sleep in favour of your reading. You sat beside her, smoothing the blanket over her small form, and let your thoughts wander.

The West was a wild, hungry thing, always looking to take more than it gave. You’d learned that lesson young, and you’d taught it to Em with every story, every warning, every night spent listening for trouble in the dark. But mercy was a rare and precious thing, and tonight, you’d chosen to offer it.

You sat in the quiet, listening to the night, the horses shifting in the barn, the wind sighing through the grass, the distant yip of a coyote. You wondered what tomorrow would bring, what new dangers or blessings might find their way to your door.

But for now, you had done what you could. You had chosen kindness, even when it cost you sleep and peace of mind.

The dawn crept over the Kansas prairie, slow and golden, brushing the world with a gentle hand. The sky was a pale wash of lavender and rose, the kind of morning that made even the hardest days seem possible. You woke to the familiar sounds of the house settling, the soft sigh of the wind through the cracks, and the distant nickering of horses eager for their feed.

Em was still asleep, tangled in her quilt, her hair a golden halo on the pillow. You paused a moment, watching her breathe, the peace on her face a balm to your tired soul. Then you slipped from the bed, pulling on your boots and shrugging into your work-worn dress. The day waited for no one, least of all a woman with mouths to feed and fences to mend.

You moved through the kitchen, lighting the stove and setting water to boil, the motions as familiar as breathing. The memory of last night lingered, a wounded stranger in your barn, the sharp tang of fear and the heavier weight of mercy. You wondered if he’d be gone, as promised, or if you’d find trouble waiting in the morning light.

You stepped out onto the porch, the boards creaking beneath your feet, and scanned the yard. The barn stood quiet, its weathered boards glowing in the sunrise. You could hear the horses, restless and hungry, and, fainter still, the sound of a man’s voice, low and soothing.

Curiosity prickled at your spine. You crossed the yard, boots crunching in the dew-wet grass, and pushed open the barn door.

Inside, the horses were already nosing at their feed troughs, the air thick with the sweet scent of hay and the warm musk of animals. And there, moving slowly but steadily, was Cassian. There was an evident pallor to his tanned skin, the bandage at his neck stark against his throat, but his hands were sure as he filled the troughs, murmuring to each horse in turn. At full height, he was the largest man you had ever seen.

You watched him a moment, arms folded, suspicion and gratitude warring in your chest.

He looked up, catching your gaze, and offered a crooked smile. “Mornin’, ma’am. Hope you don’t mind—I figured I’d get a jump on the chores. Least I can do, considerin’.”

You studied him, noting the stiffness in his movements, the way he favoured his left side. “You oughta be restin’, not workin’. That wound’s liable to open up again.”

He shrugged, scooping another forkful of hay. “Ain’t the first time I’ve been shot, and likely won’t be the last. I’m no good at sittin’ idle, ‘specially when there’s a debt to be paid.”

You snorted, unable to hide your amusement. “Debt, huh? You sound like a man with somethin’ to prove.”

He grinned, teeth flashing white in the dim light. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just don’t like owing folks, ‘specially not folks with kind hearts and quick hands.”

You shook your head, but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips. “Suit yourself. But if you keel over in my barn, I’ll have to haul you out to the well, and I ain’t got the back for it.”

Cassian laughed, a sound roughened by pain but genuine all the same. “Reckon I’ll try to spare you the trouble.”

You moved to the nearest stall, checking the water bucket and running your hand down the mare’s flank. The horses were calmer than usual, their eyes bright and curious as they watched Cassian work. Animals had a way of knowing a person’s true nature, and you trusted their judgment more than most men’s.

Cassian worked in silence for a while, his movements careful but competent. He handled the horses with a gentle touch, speaking to them in a voice low and steady. You found yourself relaxing, the tension in your shoulders easing as the barn filled with the quiet rhythm of morning chores.

When the last trough was filled and the stalls swept clean, Cassian leaned against the back stall, wiping sweat from his brow. “You got a fine herd here, ma’am. Strong stock. You raise ‘em yourself?”

You nodded, pride warming your chest. “My mama started the herd. I kept it goin’ after she passed. Ain’t much, but it’s honest work.”

He nodded, respect in his eyes. “Honest work’s hard to come by these days. Folks’ll do near anything for a dollar.”

You studied him, curiosity getting the better of you. “What about you, Cassian? What kind of work do you do?”

He hesitated, gaze dropping to the dirt floor. “Whatever needs doin’, I suppose. Been a hand on ranches, driven cattle, even tried my luck at the mines. Trouble seems to find me, no matter where I go.”

You considered that, weighing his words. The West was full of men running from something; past mistakes, lost loves, the law. You’d learned not to ask too many questions, not if you wanted to keep your own secrets safe.

A sudden commotion outside caught your attention, the sharp, panicked whinny of a horse, the crash of wood splintering. You exchanged a glance with Cassian, both of you moving toward the barn door in unspoken agreement.

The fence at the far end of the pasture had given way, a section sagging where the posts had rotted through. One of the younger colts had slipped through the gap, now prancing in the tall grass, tail high and eyes wild.

“Damn fool animal,” you muttered, grabbing a coil of rope from the wall. “That fence’s been threatenin’ to go for weeks.”

Cassian stepped up beside you, rolling his shoulders. “Let me help. Two sets of hands’ll get it done quicker.”

You hesitated, eyeing the bandage at his neck. “You sure you’re up for it?”

He flashed that crooked grin again. “I ain’t dead yet. Besides, I owe you.”

You relented, tossing him a pair of work gloves. “All right, but if you drop, I ain’t carryin’ you.”

He chuckled, slipping the gloves on. “Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.”

Together, you crossed the pasture, the grass whispering around your boots. The colt danced away as you approached, tossing his head and snorting.

“Easy, boy,” Cassian called, his voice calm and steady. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you.”

You circled wide, rope in hand, moving slowly and deliberately. The colt eyed you warily, muscles bunched to bolt. You crouched, holding out your hand, murmuring soft nonsense the way your father once had.

Cassian moved to the flank of the colt, hands out, his presence quiet and unthreatening. The colt flicked an ear, torn between flight and curiosity.

“Now,” Cassian said, nodding to you.

You tossed the loop, catching the colt’s neck in one smooth motion. He reared, fighting the rope, but you held firm, muscles straining.

“Easy now,” Cassian called, moving in to steady the colt. Together, you soothed the animal, your voices blending in a low, steady hum.

After a tense moment, the colt settled, sides heaving. You led him back through the gap in the fence, Cassian following close behind.

“Good work,” you said, breathless.

Cassian grinned, sweat shining on his brow. “Teamwork, ma’am. Always works better.”

You tied the colt in the shade, turning your attention to the broken fence. The posts were rotten, the rails splintered and sagging.

“Gonna need new posts,” you muttered, eyeing the damage.

Cassian nodded, rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll dig the holes, you cut the rails?”

You hesitated, but his determination was plain. “All right. But take it slow. That wound of yours ain’t healed.”

Cassian winked. “Yes, ma’am.”

You fetched the axe and saw, setting to work on the nearest fallen tree. The rhythm of chopping and sawing filled the air, the scent of fresh-cut wood mingling with the prairie breeze. Cassian dug the holes, muscles straining, sweat darkening his shirt. You worked in companionable silence, the only sounds the rasp of the saw, the thud of the post-hole digger, and the distant calls of meadowlarks.

When the new posts were set and the rails nailed in place, you stood back, surveying your handiwork. The fence was sturdy, and the gap was closed.

“Not bad,” you said, wiping your brow.

Cassian leaned on the fence, breathing hard but smiling. “Oughta hold, at least ‘til the next storm.”

You nodded, pride and relief mingling in your chest. “Thank you, Cassian. You didn’t have to—”

He cut you off, shaking his head. “I did. A debt’s a debt. Besides, I ain’t had honest work in a long time. Feels good.”

You studied him, seeing the truth in his eyes. The West had a way of grinding a man down, but it could also build him back up, if he let it.

The sun climbed higher, burning away the last of the morning chill. You led the colt back to the barn, Cassian trailing behind, his steps slow but steady.

Inside, Em was awake, watching from the porch with wide, curious eyes.

“Mama, who’s that?” she called, voice bright.

You smiled, waving her over. “Come say hello, Em. This is Cassian. He’s helpin’ out today.”

Em approached, shy but curious, her gaze flicking from you to Cassian and back. “Did you get hurt?” she asked, pointing to the bandage at his neck.

Cassian crouched to Em’s height, offering a gentle smile. “I did, little miss. But your mama patched me up right as rain.”

Em beamed, clearly pleased. “Mama’s good at fixin’ things. She fixed my doll, too.”

Cassian laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “I can see that.”

You ruffled Em’s hair. “Go on inside, sugar. I’ll be in soon.”

Em nodded, skipping back to the house, book clutched to her chest.

You turned to Cassian, gratitude softening your features. “You hungry? I got some beans on the stove, maybe a bit of bacon if you’re lucky.”

Cassian grinned, rubbing his stomach. “I’d be much obliged, ma’am. Been a while since I had a real meal.”

You led the way inside, the warmth of the kitchen wrapping around you like a blanket. You ladled beans into bowls, slicing bacon and setting out bread. Cassian ate with the hunger of a man who hadn’t seen a meal in days, pausing only to thank you between bites.

Em watched him with wide eyes, clearly fascinated. “Where you from, mister?”

Cassian swallowed, considering. “All over, I suppose. Texas, mostly. But I like it here. Feels…honest.”

Em nodded, satisfied. “Mama says Kansas is the best place in the world.”

You smiled, ruffling her hair. “That’s ‘cause it’s home, sugar.”

Cassian finished his meal, pushing the bowl away with a sigh of contentment. “Thank you, ma’am. That was the best breakfast I’ve had in years.”

You shrugged, trying to hide your pleasure. “Just beans and bacon. Nothin’ special.”

He shook his head, eyes serious. “It is to me.”

The day stretched ahead, full of chores and small comforts. Cassian insisted on helping, mending tack and hauling water, his movements growing easier as the hours passed. You found yourself grateful for the company, the easy camaraderie that grew between you.

As the sun dipped low, painting the world in gold and shadow, you sat on the porch with Em and Cassian, watching the prairie come alive with the songs of crickets and the distant call of a whippoorwill.

The night settled around you, soft and peaceful. Quiet enough to make you realise your new predicament.

"You said you ain't got nowhere else to go," you start, staring down at Em's soft expression. You're only reminded how strung thin you are. "You seem to know horses pretty well. And... well, I hardly got the time to always be lookin' after them, let alone tame them into something rideable."

Cassian was watching you now, waiting for you to lay down your offer.

"Til' that wound of yours has healed over, I'll let you stay in my barn and have a plate at my table in return for your work," you state, firm, nothing else you're willing to give than that.

"Well," Cassian starts, a grin pulling at his stubbled cheeks. "I ain't never one to turn down such an honest offer of work."

Part III, One Life with so much Consequence

Hays stretched endlessly under a sky bruised purple with twilight, the air thick with the scent of sage and impending rain. Cassian’s silhouette cut a sharp line against the horizon as he mended the corral fence, his movements steady but guarded.

You watched him from the porch, Em’s voice drifting through the open window as she practised writing her letters. The rhythm of your life had shifted these past weeks, a stranger’s presence now as familiar as the creak of the windmill.

Even after Cassian had long ditched the linen that wrapped around his neck, you’ve grown to have little intention of reminding him of his impending leave, marked by the healing of his wound. And by his returning silence, it seemed he shared your similar sentiments too.

Part IV, No Place to Call Home

The night pressed close, thick as molasses and twice as heavy, the hush broken only by the restless sigh of wind through the cottonwoods and the distant, lonesome wail of a coyote. The barn was a shadowed cathedral, beams arching overhead like the ribs of some ancient beast, and Cassian sat hunched in the straw, sweat slicking his brow, the rusted spur gripped in his fist as though it might anchor him to this world and not the one that haunted his sleep.

You stood in the doorway, lantern trembling in your hand, the golden light trembling across his haunted face. “Cassian?” you called, voice softer than a moth’s wing.

Cassian jerked, wild-eyed, the whites showing stark in the gloom, but then his gaze found yours and the storm in him ebbed, just a mite. “Just dreams, darlin’,” he rasped, voice gravelled and raw as a dry creek bed. “Ain’t nothin’ but ghosts gnawin’ at my bones.”

You stepped closer, the straw crunching under your boots. “Ain’t never nothin’ when it comes to dreams like that,” you said, kneeling beside him. “You wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head, jaw clenched tight as a trap. “Ain’t fit for decent company, what’s in my head.”

You reached out, laying a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, then let out a breath, the tension bleeding from him slow as sap from a wounded tree. “Ain’t no shame in carryin’ scars,” you murmured. “World’s full of folks actin’ like they ain’t never been cut.”

He managed a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “You got a way with words, I’ll give you that.”

You squeezed his shoulder, then stood, the lantern light flickering between you. “Come on. Air’s cool out, and the stars’re worth seein’.”

Cassian followed you out to the porch, the night wrapping around you both like an old quilt. He lit a cigarette, the ember flaring in the dark, and you sat beside him, listening to the hush between your heartbeats.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The prairie stretched endless and black, the sky a river of diamonds overhead.

Then, out of nowhere, Cassian’s voice broke the silence, rough and uncertain. “You ever regret choices you made?”

You turned, the moonlight painting his scar in silver, the lines of his face etched deep by sorrow and time. “Every day,” you answered, honest as the dawn. “But regret don’t feed horses, nor get tips pourin’ whiskey. All you can do is keep movin’, one foot in front of the other.”

Cassian huffed a laugh, bitter as burnt coffee. “No. It don’t. But sometimes it feels like the past’s got claws, draggin’ me back every time I think I’m free.”

You watched the smoke curl from his lips, drifting up to join the stars. “Ain’t a soul out here don’t know what it is to be hunted by their own mistakes, Cassian. But you’re here now. That’s somethin’.”

He looked at you, eyes shadowed but searching. “You ever think about runnin’? Leavin’ all this behind?”

You shook your head, the wind tugging at your hair. “Ain’t nowhere else for me. Kansas dirt’s in my blood. Besides, I got Em to think of. She’s my whole world.”

He nodded, silent for a spell, then said, “You’re braver than most. Braver’n me, that’s for damn sure.”

You snorted, a smile tugging at your lips. “Ain’t bravery, Cassian. Just stubbornness. World keeps knockin’ me down, I just get up meaner.”

He grinned, the first true smile you’d seen from him in days. “Mean suits you, darlin’. World could use more women like you.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “Careful, or I’ll start thinkin’ you’re sweet on me.”

He flicked his cigarette into the yard, the ember winking out. “Maybe I am,” he said, voice low as thunder. “Ain’t had much to believe in, not for a long while. But you… you make a man wish he was better.”

You felt your cheeks burn, but you held his gaze. “We’re all just tryin’ to be better, Cassian. Some days, that’s all we got.”

He reached for your hand, rough and calloused, and you let him, the warmth of his skin grounding you both. The night stretched on, the two of you side by side, sharing the silence and the scars, the wind carrying your secrets out into the wild, wild dark.

The truth came on a Tuesday, the sky a bleached bone-white, heat rippling off the prairie like a curse. You’d sent Cassian to town for nails, and he’d returned quiet as a shadow, his eyes avoiding yours like a sinner dodging the pulpit. The sack of supplies sat heavy on the kitchen table, and there, nestled between hammerheads and coils of wire, was the Dodge City Times—its ink smudged, its edges frayed, its headline screaming like a bullet through glass:

“WANTED: Cassian – Bounty Hunter Turned Traitor?”

The sketch beneath was crude, all harsh lines and shadow, but the eyes, those hard, haunted eyes, were his. The article spat venom, each word a barb: Cassian, once a respected bounty hunter, implicated in the robbery of the Santa Fe payroll. Suspected of collusion with the Red Canyon Gang. Armed and dangerous. Reward: $500 dead or alive.

Your hands trembled, the paper crinkling like dried leaves. Outside, Em’s laughter floated through the open window, sweet and bright as a meadowlark’s song. The sound sharpened your fear into something jagged, something that clawed up your throat.

You found him in the barn, brushing down the chestnut mare with slow, deliberate strokes. Dust hung in the shafts of sunlight, and the air smelled of hay and horse sweat and the faint tang of gun oil. Cassian hummed low under his breath, a tune you didn’t recognise—something mournful, something old.

“You lied,” you said, voice colder than a winter creek.

The brush stilled. Cassian turned, slow as a rattler coiling, and his smile died when he saw your face. “I didn’t—”

“Bounty hunter. Traitor. Criminal.” You flung the paper at him, the page fluttering like a wounded bird. “You brought your war to my door!”

Cassian caught the paper midair, his gaze skimming the words. For a heartbeat, his mask slipped—you saw the raw, flayed thing beneath, the man who’d been hunted longer than he’d been free. Then his jaw tightened, and he crumpled the paper in his fist. “It ain’t like that. The Red Canyon Gang set me up. I was trackin’ ’em, but they turned the law against me. That bullet in my neck?” He jerked his collar down, revealing the puckered scar. “Came from a sheriff’s gun, not some two-bit outlaw.”

Em’s laughter rang out again, closer now. She darted past the barn door, chasing a barn cat with a ribbon of sunlight in her hair. Your heart squeezed. “Get out,” you hissed, stepping closer, your voice a blade. “Before trouble follows you here. Before they come for her.”

Cassian flinched, hat crumpled in his hands, his knuckles white. “I’ll go. But know this,” he met your gaze, his eyes burning like coals in the dim. “I’d sooner die than let harm come to you or that girl.”

You followed Cassian to the porch, the sun hammering down like a blacksmith’s fist. He slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, his movements stiff, his back to you. The wind carried the creak of the windmill and the distant lowing of cattle.

“You think I wanted this?” he said suddenly, voice rough as a saw blade. “You think I woke up one day and said, ‘Hell, I’ll be a wanted man’? They took everything. My name. My reputation. My—.” He broke off, throat working.

You crossed your arms, the wood of the porch rail biting into your palms. “And that gives you the right to drag your mess into my life? Into hers?”

Cassian turned, his face a map of old pain. “Ain’t about rights. It’s about survival. You of all folks oughta understand that.”

The words hit like a slap. You thought of your father’s blood staining Kansas dirt, of your mother’s hands, cracked and bleeding as she gentled wild horses. Of nights spent listening for the click of a lock, the creak of a floorboard.

“Survival ain’t the same as trust,” you said, quieter now.

He stepped closer, the scent of leather and sage sharp in your nose. “You think I don’t know what I am? What they say about me? I’ve seen the way folks look at a man with a price on his head—like he’s rabid, like he’s already dead.” His hand hovered near yours, not touching. “But you… you looked at me like I was whole.”

Cassian mounted his horse, a rangy bay with eyes as wary as his own. The prairie stretched behind him, endless and indifferent.

“They’ll come,” you said, voice fraying. “The law. The gang. They always do.”

Cassian adjusted his hat, shadowing his face. “Let ’em come. I’ll lead ’em so far from here, they’ll never know this town existed.”

Em appeared at the corner of the house, her cheeks pink, hands full of dandelions. “Mister Cass! Look what I found!”

Cassian’s breath caught. For a moment, you saw the man he might’ve been, the one who could’ve knelt in the grass and named each flower with her.

Then he nudged the bay forward, tipping his hat. “Keep your rifle close, darlin’.”

You watched Cassian ride out, dust rising in his wake, until he was nothing but a speck on the horizon. Em tugged your skirt, her voice small. “Where’s he goin’, mama?”

You knelt, brushing a curl from her face. “Where the wind takes him, sugar.”

But the wind, you knew, was a fickle thing. And the West had a way of circling back.

Part V, Crowded in the Absence

The heat that day was a living thing, coiled in the saloon’s shadows like a rattler ready to strike. Sunlight sliced through the gaps in the storeroom’s warped planks, painting Luis Curry’s face in jagged stripes as he crowded you against the shelves. His breath reeked of rotgut and decay, a sour cloud that made your eyes water. Barrels of pickled eggs and sacks of flour pressed into your back, their familiar scents drowned by the stench of his intent.

This was always going to happen, you think. A man with such pride never takes silence for an answer.

“Been waitin’ for this,” Luis slurred, his words thick as tar. A drop of sweat slid down his temple, cutting through the grime on his skin. His fingers, calloused and dirt-caked, brushed your waist. “Ain’t no one to play hero now. Just you ’n’ me, darlin’.”

Your hand closed around the neck of a whiskey bottle behind you, glass slick with condensation. “Touch me,” you said, voice low as a blade being drawn, “and I’ll split your skull like a melon at a harvest fair.”

Luis barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the jars of preserves. “Feisty. I like—.” His grip tightened on your wrist, yanking you forward.

The door exploded inward in a burst of splinters and sunlight.

Cassian stood framed in the wreckage, revolver steady in his hand, his silhouette sharp enough to cut glass. The light haloed him, dust motes swirling like gold dust around his boots. “Let. Her. Go.” Each word was a bullet chambered, his drawl colder than a Colorado winter.

Cassian’s face was enough to shock the fear of God out of you, like he were a ghost come back to life.

Luis’s sneer twisted the scar on his lip into a serpent’s grin. “Or what, Cassian? You ain’t nothin’ but a washed-up bounty hunter with more bark than bite.” His thumb dug into your pulse point, a mockery of a caress. “Hell, I heard the Red Canyon Gang’s still laughin’ ’bout how you tucked tail and—”

A whiskey bottle connected with his temple in a shower of glass and amber liquid. Luis crumpled like a puppet with its strings slashed, his grip falling slack. You staggered back, shards crunching underfoot, the tang of spilled whiskey sharp in the air.

Cassian was on him before Luis hit the floor, a knee planted on his chest, revolver pressed to the soft hollow beneath his jaw. “You look at her again,” Cassian growled, the sound reverberating deep in his throat, “breathe her air, think her name, I’ll bury you so deep even the crows’ll starve tryin’ to find you.”

Luis wheezed, blood and whiskey matting his hair. “You’re… dead… Cassian,” he spat. “Law’s coming. Heard ’em in Dodge City… sniffin’ your trail.”

Cassian’s thumb cocked the hammer. “Let ’em come. I’ll save ’em a bullet with your name on it.”

The saloon’s piano music stuttered outside, patrons oblivious to the scuffle in the storeroom. You pressed a hand to your racing heart, the other still clutching the bottle’s jagged remains. “Cassian,” you breathed. Not a plea—a lifeline.

He glanced at you, his gaze softening for a heartbeat before hardening again. “Fetch the sheriff,” he said, voice rough. “This gutter snake’s got a date with a cell.”

You hesitated, your boots rooted to the floorboards. “He’s right, ain’t he? The law’s coming. For you.”

Cassian stood, dragging Luis up by his collar. The man sagged, half-conscious. “Ain’t the first time,” he muttered. He met your eyes, the storm in his own momentarily still. “Go on. I’ll handle this.”

You fled, the taste of copper on your tongue. The saloon’s main room blurred, faces of regulars, the glint of shot glasses, Old William’s brow furrowed as you flew past. The sunlight outside was blinding, the street a blur of dust and distant shouts.

By the time you returned with Sheriff Hayes, Cassian was gone. Only Luis remained, slumped in the corner, wrists bound with baling twine, a bloodied bandana stuffed in his mouth. The sheriff spat tobacco onto the floor. “That Cassian boy do this?”

You nodded, your voice trapped somewhere beneath your ribs.

Hayes chuckled, hoisting Luis up. “Reckon he saved me the trouble. Red Canyon’s put a bounty on this one’s head, too.” He tipped his hat. “You tell that boy… I ain’t forgettin’ what he did here. But the law’s the law.”

That night, you found Cassian on your porch like he belonged there, his profile etched against the indigo sky. The scent of sagebrush and gunpowder clung to him.

“You didn’t have to run,” you said, leaning against the rail.

Cassian didn’t turn. “Ain’t your trouble to bear.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the cry of a nighthawk.

“Why’d you come back?” you asked, the question hanging like smoke.

Cassian finally looked at you, his eyes reflecting the stars. “Told you I would. Ain’t a man who breaks his word.” A beat. “The Red Canyon Gang’s comin’. They’re plannin’ to hit the railroad shipment Friday.”

Your breath caught. “And you aim to stop ’em.”

“Aim to try.” Cassian stood. “But I need you to take Em and ride north. Just ’til it’s over.”

The fear surged; sharp, familiar. But beneath it, something warmer flickered. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

Cassian moved towards you, towering over you, his scent of leather and gunpowder dizzying. “Maybe. But I’d rather die clean than live like a ghost.”

Your hand found his, calluses grinding. “Then we fight this together.”

Somewhere, a coyote yipped. The wind carried the promise of rain and the faint rumble of thunder.

The days that followed were a fragile truce, uncertain and strained like a taught fiddle string. Cassian’s presence was a shadow at your heel, steady and sure, yet never quite within reach. He moved through your world with the quiet grace of a man who’d spent too long watching his own back, but in the golden hours between chores and dusk, you caught glimpses of something softer beneath the grit.

He taught you to shoot, and not just for show.

“Ain’t no sense in pointin’ iron if you ain’t ready to use it,” he said, voice low as thunder rolling on the horizon. He’d stand behind you in the pasture, the scent of gun oil and grass thick in the air, his hands guiding yours. His palm settled on your shoulder, steadying your aim, and the heat of his touch burned through your dress like wildfire.

“Keep your elbow up, darlin’,” he’d murmur, his breath grazing your ear, “and don’t blink. World don’t wait for blinkers.”

You squeezed the trigger, the Colt bucking in your grip. The tin can atop the fencepost spun off into the grass, and Cassian’s laughter—warm, surprised—rippled over you.

“Well, I’ll be. You got a mean streak when you want it.” His eyes crinkled, the harsh lines of his face softened by pride. “Remind me not to cross you come supper.”

You tried to hide your smile, but it bloomed anyway, wild and bright as a prairie rose.

At night, Em would chatter at the supper table, her voice a river of stories and questions, while Cassian whittled a scrap of pine into a horse. His hands, so sure with a pistol, were gentle with the knife, and you watched the shape emerge, a proud little steed with a flowing mane and a crooked mouth. He handed it to Em with a wink, and she clutched it to her chest like treasure.

“Thank you, Mister Cass!” she beamed, and he ducked his head, a flush creeping up beneath his tan.

“Just a bit o’ nothin’, little miss. But every cowgirl needs a trusty mount.”

You watched them, something aching in your chest, a longing for a life you’d never dared to dream.

The evenings grew heavy with the scent of rain and the promise of summer. One night, as you scrubbed the supper dishes, Cassian’s reflection swam up in the window, ghostly in the lamplight. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes unreadable.

“You’re a hard woman to figure,” he said, voice soft as a lullaby and twice as dangerous.

You didn’t turn, scrubbing at a stubborn bit of gravy. “And you’re a fool to try.”

He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. “Maybe I like fools’ errands. Gives a man somethin’ worth failin’ for.”

His breath warmed the back of your neck, and your hands stilled in the soapy water. The bowl slipped from your grasp, splashing in the sink with a sharp, final note. You flinched, heart thundering, and he reached for you, fingers brushing your arm.

You jerked away, the memory of his touch searing your skin. “This ain’t… I can’t—” The words tangled in your throat, thick with fear and longing.

He held up his hands, palms open, voice gentled. “I know. I ain’t askin’ for what you can’t give. But when this is over…” He let the promise hang between you, heavy and bright as a lantern in the dark.

You fled, the screen door banging behind you, the night air sharp in your lungs. The barn loomed ahead, sanctuary and prison all at once. You pressed your forehead to the rough wood, breath coming fast, the echo of his words chasing you through the shadows.

Inside, the horses shifted in their stalls, their soft nickers a comfort. You buried your face in the mane of your old mare, the familiar scent of hay and sweat grounding you.

“Fool woman,” you whispered, stroking the horse’s neck. “Ain’t no sense wantin’ what you can’t keep.”

The wind rattled the eaves, and somewhere out in the dark, a coyote called, a wild, lonely sound that made your heart ache. You thought of Cassian’s hands, steady and warm, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to this world.

You stayed there until the moon climbed high, silvering the prairie and painting your troubles in softer light. When you finally slipped back to the house, Em was asleep, clutching her wooden horse, and Cassian’s boots were by the door, a silent testimony to the man waiting for a tomorrow you weren’t sure you could promise.

But as you lay in the hush of your little house, the memory of his touch lingered, hope and warning, sweet as honey and sharp as whiskey. And you wondered, not for the first time, if maybe, just maybe, there was room in this wild, unforgiving land for a second chance.

You slipped through the door, boots silent on the worn floorboards, the hush of midnight pressed close about your shoulders. The lamplight in the kitchen cast long shadows, pooling gold across the battered table. There, as if conjured by longing itself, sat Cassian, hat in his hands, elbows braced wide, head bowed as though in prayer. The muscles in his forearms flexed beneath sun-browned skin, and the lamplight caught the gold in his curled hair, turning him half-myth, half-man.

He didn’t look up when you entered, but you felt the pull of him all the same, a gravity as sure as the moon’s. You hovered in the doorway, heart tripping, the silence between you thick with all the things unsaid.

Cassian finally glanced up when the wood beneath your foot waned. You met his gaze, throat too tight for words. You crossed the room, each step slow, deliberate. The air between you shimmered, charged with something wild and dangerous.

He watched you move with eyes that had your heart skidding like a stone over a lake, the colour of sunshine and whiskey, rimmed in weariness and want. “You look like you've seen a ghost, darlin’.”

You managed a crooked smile, nerves jangling. “Maybe I have. Or maybe I just seen a man too stubborn to quit waitin’.”

Cassian huffed a laugh, the sound soft, almost reverent. “Ain’t nothin’ else worth waitin’ for in this world.”

You stood at the edge of the table, hands twisting in your skirt. The hush stretched, taut as a wire. Cassian watched you, every muscle in his body drawn tight, like a wolf scenting blood.

Finally, you spoke, voice barely more than a whisper. “You meant what you said?”

Cassian nodded, slow and sure. “Ain’t never been one to say what I don’t mean. Not to you.”

Your hands trembled, so you pressed them flat to the table, anchoring yourself. “I’m scared, Cassian. Scared of what I want. Scared of losin’ it, too.”

He pushed his chair back, the scrape loud in the hush, and stood. “Ain’t no shame in bein’ scared. World’s a mean place. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without.”

He crossed the space between you in three strides, boots scuffing on the boards. He stopped just shy of touching you, his breath mingling with yours, his eyes searching your face like a map to salvation.

“Tell me to go,” he said, voice raw, “and I’ll walk out that door, never look back. But if you want me to stay—if you want me, even a little—just say the word.”

You looked up at him, the ache in your chest blooming into something fierce and bright. “Stay,” you whispered, full of conviction.

He reached for you then, hands gentle but sure, rough palms cupping your cheeks. His thumbs brushed away the tears you didn’t know you’d started to shed. “You sure, darlin’? Ain’t no goin’ back from this.”

You nodded, breathless. “I ain’t never been more sure of nothin’.”

Cassian’s mouth found yours, slow and searching at first, as though he feared you might vanish if he pressed too hard. But you met him, hungry and desperate, pouring all your longing and loneliness into the kiss. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him, and you melted into his heat, the world narrowing to the space between your bodies.

He tasted of whiskey and smoke, of promise and regret. His hands slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine, anchoring you to the earth. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer, needing more.

Cassian broke the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “You’re playin’ with fire, sweetheart.”

You smiled, wild and reckless. “Maybe I wanna burn.”

He laughed, a sound torn from deep in his chest, and kissed you again, harder this time, all teeth and tongue and need. You clung to him, the two of you swaying, lost in the storm you’d both tried so long to deny.

He lifted you, easy as breathing, and set you atop the table, dishes clattering aside. His hands found your waist, thumbs tracing circles through the thin cotton of your dress. You arched into him, gasping as his mouth trailed down your throat, teeth grazing your pulse.

“Goddamn, woman,” he growled, voice thick with want. “You got no idea what you do to me.”

You fist your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer. “Show me, then. I ain’t made of glass.”

Cassian grinned, wicked and soft all at once. “That so? Reckon I’ll take you at your word.” He kissed you again, slower now, savouring every inch of you. His hands roamed, reverent and rough, mapping the planes of your body as if memorising you for the hard days ahead. You shivered beneath his touch, every nerve alight.

Cassian murmured your name, a prayer and a promise, and you answered with a gasp, your own hands hungry and bold. You tugged his shirt free, fingers splaying across the hard muscle of his back, feeling the scars beneath your palms. He pressed you down, the table cool against your back, his body a shield against the world’s cruelties. He worshipped you with his mouth, his hands, every inch of him singing with need. You gave yourself to him, fierce and unafraid, the two of you tangled in the golden lamplight, the night wind singing at the window.

Part VI, By love, With love, In love, For love

The night had been restless, the air thick with the scent of sage and the uneasy hush that settles before calamity. The Kansas grass, silvered by moonlight, whispered secrets to the wind, and every creak of the old homestead seemed a warning. When dawn finally bled across the horizon, it brought no comfort, only the silhouettes of ten riders, their horses frothing and wild-eyed, their faces shrouded in dust and bandanas, as if the very land itself had conjured them from shadow and vengeance.

Cassian stood by the split-rail fence, boots planted in the churned mud, your Winchester cradled in his arms. His silhouette was etched against the pale fire of morning, broad-shouldered and unyielding, a lone sentinel before the tide. The riders fanned out, horses snorting, breath pluming in the chill. Their leader, a man with eyes like flint and a voice rough as gravel, reined up close, the iron of his revolver glinting in the half-light.

“Last chance, Cassian!” The gang leader barked, his words slicing the hush. “Hand over the woman’s deeds, and we’ll make it quick.”

Cassian spat into the dirt, the gesture defiant. “You’ll get nothin’ but lead, you snake-bellied bastard.”

A hush hung, thick as molasses, before the world exploded.

The leader’s pistol barked, sharp and merciless. Cassian staggered, a crimson bloom spreading across his shirt, but he did not fall. Instead, he dropped to one knee, teeth gritted, eyes blazing.

You screamed, the sound torn from your throat, and fired from the porch, the Winchester’s report echoing across the yard. The shot went wide, splintering the fence. The gang surged forward, a pack of wolves scenting blood.

You worked the lever, heart pounding, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Click. The sound was a death knell. One of the riders, a brute with a scar twisting his cheek, vaulted from his saddle, knife flashing. He loomed over you, shadow long and cold, the blade raised for the kill.

Then Cassian was there, moving with the desperate strength of cornered prey. He tackled the man, both of them crashing to the ground. Blood soaked Cassian’s shirt, but his fists were iron, his resolve unbroken.

You dropped the empty rifle, hands scrambling for anything, anything to fight with. Your fingers closed around the handle of a pitchfork, its tines rusted but sharp. As another outlaw lunged for the porch, you drove the pitchfork into his thigh. He howled, crumpling, and you wrenched the weapon free, the taste of fear and fury bitter on your tongue.

Inside the house, Em’s wail split the air, a sound of pure terror. Through the open door, you saw her, small and wild-eyed, as a bandit seized her by the arm and dragged her toward the yard.

“NO!” Cassian roared, his voice raw and ragged. He lurched to his feet, revolver in hand, and fired. The bandit fell, dropping Em, who scrambled free and ran to you, her arms flung around your waist, sobs wracking her tiny frame.

The remaining outlaws, seeing their leader dead and their numbers dwindling, broke. They turned tail, spurring their horses, leaving behind two of their own sprawled in the dust and the scent of gunpowder thick in the morning air.

Cassian staggered to the well, collapsing against the stones, his face ashen. You knelt beside him, pressing your frayed skirts to his wound, hands trembling.

“You idiot,” you choked, tears streaking your cheeks. “You stubborn, reckless—”

Cassian caught your face in his bloody hand, thumb smearing crimson across your cheek. “Worth it… to see you… fight like hell.”

You kissed him then, salt and iron mingling on your lips, the taste of survival and love and loss. Cassian smiled against your mouth, breath shallow.

“Knew you’d come around,” Cassian murmured, his voice a rasp, but his eyes bright.

The wind carried the scent of blood and gunpowder, the sun climbing higher, indifferent to the carnage below. You pressed your forehead to Cassian’s, your breath mingling with his.

“Damn you, Cassian,” you whispered, voice thick with tears. “Ain’t no sense in dyin’ for a fool’s cause.”

“Ain’t no sense in livin’ if you ain’t got somethin’ worth dyin’ for, darlin’.” Cassian grinned, teeth stained red.

Em clung to your skirts, her small hands shaking. “Mama, is it over? Are the bad men gone?”

You gathered her close, voice gentle. “They’re gone, sugar. Ain’t no one gonna hurt you now.”

Cassian coughed, blood flecking his lips. “Reckon I’ll need a new shirt,” he drawled, trying for levity.

You snorted, tears and laughter tangled. “Reckon you’ll need a new everything, you mule-headed fool.”

Cassian squeezed your hand, eyes soft. “Long as I got you, reckon I’ll make do.”

The sun rose higher, painting the world in gold and crimson. The bodies of the fallen lay still, the silence broken only by the soft sobs of a child and the laboured breaths of a man who had given everything for love.

As the day stretched on, you and Em tended Cassian’s wound, binding it as best you could with trembling hands and whispered prayers. The land, scarred and bloodied, seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see if you would endure.

Cassian drifted in and out of consciousness, his hand never leaving yours. Each time his eyes fluttered open, he smiled, stubborn and sweet.

“Don’t you go leavin’ me, you hear?” you whispered, fierce.

He chuckled, weak but unbroken. “Wouldn’t dream of it, darlin’. Got too much hell left to raise with you.”

The breeze sang through the grass, a mournful, hopeful tune. The homestead stood battered but unbowed, a testament to the grit and stubbornness of those who called it home.

When the sun finally dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fire and ash, you stood on the porch, Cassian’s arm around your shoulders, Em nestled between you. The world was changed, marked by violence and loss, but you remained.

Together, you watched the stars blink to life, each one a promise that the night would end, that dawn would come again, and that you would meet it together, unbroken and unafraid.

“Ain’t nothin’ in this world worth havin’ that don’t cost a piece of your soul,” Cassian whispered, voice soft as the dying wind. “But I reckon you’re worth every drop.”

And you believed him, with every beat of your stubborn heart.

#cassian acotar #cassian x reader #cassian x you #cowboy au #cowboys #old west #acotar #a court of thorns and roses

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driedposies · 6 days ago