trailwrought

[trailwrought]

[trailwrought]

⊹⠀➸⠀*⠀˖ ❨ 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 @countessofsussex ❩

⠀⠀⠀𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘'𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄, he'd gone back inside the house to his family. To see if John, over a year old now, had finally lost his latest battle against sleep, to recover strength from his wife's smile. What he finds makes him chuckle, sends away the ache in his limbs and revitalises him. Alex is curled sideways on the bed, hair splayed wild across the pillow, their son nestled against her warm chest . . . babbling sweetly to himself. She must've hoped to hold him, to hum lullabies until he'd fallen asleep — only to surrender before he had. Clever boy. Spencer stands in the doorway a long while, just looking. Watching the way her fingers still curl protectively around John, the way her brow smoothed at last, free of the fatigue she'd been wearing for months. Their son, content in his defiance, toys aimlessly with the ribbons of her dress, his delicate voice soft and half in song, as though he's trying to mimic Alex's lullaby. The whole damn scene makes Spencer's heart clench with both awe and love; to think that this is his to keep. As quietly as his boots allow, he crosses the room, gently easing their son from her arms. Alex barely stirs, only sighs softly, betraying the depth of her exhaustion. While one arm cradles John, the other reaches to grab the knitted blanket Aunt Cara had left on the wooden chest. With tender care, Spencer lays it over Alex before leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

⠀⠀⠀❛ I've got him. Sleep, darlin’. ❜ He murmurs against her skin, lets his lips linger for a moment, before heading back outside. For a while, Spencer just carries John through the yard, pointing at things worth noting. He hadn’t planned for more than that. Maybe introduce him to one of the mares, let his tiny fingers brush a soft nose or tangled mane, get him used to the scent of hay and horse, to the sound of hooves and snorts. But impulse got the better of him. Half an hour later, they're saddled up and circling slow through the yard on an old gelding with a kind temperament. Spencer keeps his son snug against his chest, one arm wrapped protectively around the boy’s middle, the other holding the reins to guide the horse in steady, unhurried rhythm. John had squealed at the first step forward, but is now beside himself with delight. Giggles bubble from his chest with each stride, his hands clapping, then reaching for the horse's mane with unrestrained enthusiasm, ❛ Easy now, cowboy. Be gentle or you'll send us both flyin’. ❜ Spencer mutters quickly when those little fingers got a bit too brave with the tugging. The horse, carefully chosen for its patience and tolerance, just snorts, coaxing another squeal from John. There's a swell of something overwhelming within Spencer's chest, a tide that floods quick and fierce. He leans down to press a kiss to his son’s wispy curls, a besotted smile tugging at his lips. This—this is the meaning of life. This is happiness.

⠀⠀⠀❛ You proud of yourself, huh? Put your mama right to sleep. Not many can do that, she's more stubborn and untameable than a wildfire. You got that from her, y’know. Got a whole lot from her. Lucky kid, you are. ❜ He says as they ride out toward the fence line, just as the the sun starts to sink low and cast everything in rich gold. He stares out at the vast fields and mountains, inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of thawing earth and new grass, a lingering chill tucked beneath the early spring air. Then he tells John stories; about the ranch, the cattle, the elk, the barn cats that rule the hayloft and his mama's heart. He tells him about the way the land changes with the seasons, and how each part of it would one day belong to him, this bright-eyed boy who couldn’t stop pointing at birds and laughing at the leaves in the wind. When the breeze rises a little too cold, Spencer guides the horse in a slow return towards the house. And on the way, he even speaks of his brother — the first John.

⠀⠀⠀❛ You’re named after one of the best men I ever knew, son. My brother, John. One day I’ll tell you all about him. About how brave he was, how he looked after me when nobody else was here. Way before you and your mama came along. But for now . . . how ’bout you close those eyes for me, hmm? ❜

[trailwrought]

⠀⠀⠀𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐒. It doesn't matter how many times he feels the ripple of life under her taut skin, it always undid some old and hardened fragment of him, breathed light into every haunted part. Each kick, so small but confident, sparks wildfire within him, makes him tremble with excitement to finally meet their kid. War never taught him how to believe in miracles. But she had. Loving her had. Witnessing her strength, in the face of all adversity, had. And their baby was nothing if not additional proof of the purest miracle. As Alex tilts her head back against his chest, soft relief emanating from her, Spencer cannot resist leaning down to steal a lingering kiss from the place her pulse beats strongest. Her throat, warm and sweet, just beneath his lips. Her body reacts to him, subtle but unmistakable; the quiet hitch of breath, the way she presses closer. He smiles against her skin, a grin that borders on smug. But it fades when their son kicks again, more demanding this time, and he feels her tense. A flash of pain, quick and quiet, but enough to shatter him. It guts him, the damn helplessness. The inability to shield her from this, from the battle that's coming for her. He's a man made to kill, to protect, yet he can do absolutely nothing useful to help her. It ruins him. Spencer supports her stomach in one hand, the other wraps around her upper body and curls gently at her jaw, reverent, desperate.

⠀⠀⠀❛ I'm sorry, honey, ❜ he murmurs, voice low against her temple. His eyes squeezed shut, his jaw tight, ❛ I’m sorry I can’t do no more to settle all the pain. ❜ His heart wrenches and twists in his chest, the raw sentiment true and vulnerable. Then she speaks again, gives him something profoundly generous, and his heart stills entirely.

⠀⠀⠀I believe his name should be John, she'd said.

⠀⠀⠀It hits him square in the chest, forces breath from him in one long exhale. The name echoes louder than the fireworks, stirs something indescribable within him, something that rises quick and relentless. It awakens memories that lived deep in his marrow. John. Spencer's mind floods with images; his older brother caring for him, not only in the dark days after their parents had died, but all throughout boyhood. John had protected them both. Had fed him, calmed him when fear threatened to swallow him whole. He had taught Spencer how to track elk, how to shoe a horse, how to load a rifle with small, trembling fingers. And when there had been no one left but them at the ranch, John hadn't cowered. He'd stood tall and encouraged Spencer to do the same. Now, his legacy would live on, and it means more to Spencer than he ever could've expected. The weight of it almost startles him — how deeply it does settle in his chest.

⠀⠀⠀When he breaks from the surge of memories, when the haze fades and Alex comes back into view, his cheeks are wet and he's blinking furiously. He didn’t cry often. Not until he'd met her. She'd softened him, peeled the callouses from his soul. Healed parts of him that shunned feeling things, anything, so deeply. With a pitiful sniffle and a low grunt, Spencer gently turns her toward him, his palms rising to cradle her ravishing face with the softness of someone holding something holy.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Goddamn woman . . . ❜ he murmurs through a fragile smile, leaning in to press his forehead against hers, just to steady himself. Just to breathe her in, ❛ you wreck every bit of pride I've got. And hell, I love you for it. ❜ Tenderly, he kisses the space between her brows before pulling back just enough for their eyes to collide. ❛ I'd like that. Thank you. ❜ His voice is as soft as he can muster, thick with emotion. His gaze then drops to her belly with a faint flicker of playfulness, ❛ hey now, son . . . John, be kind to your mama, you hear? I know you're impatient and space is tight, but you gotta ease up. Ain't no need to be kickin’ like a colt. ❜

𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃, 𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐇, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓—but so, too, was love when it was as deep as theirs. Alexandra leaned into him as if she were water returning to its riverbed, drawn by the unrelenting current of affection; the slope of her back met with the solid plane of his chest, knowing there would never again be a softer place to land than this. Than him. And even now, eight months swollen, with the ache of tomorrow pressing constant against her spine and ribs, she surrendered to it willingly. Every inch of it. Her body. Her breath. Her future. And he held it all in his hands. The fireworks cracked overhead; shards of burning color stitched into dusk’s skin, a violent, jubilant pageant of light and noise. But she scarcely noticed. Not when Spencer was near. His hands cupped the underside of her belly, and he lifted—just enough to ease the weight she’d been carrying all day—and in that moment, Alexandra could have wept. Her fingers drifted down to join his own, tracing over his calluses, his knuckles, the scar near his thumb she’d kissed a dozen times. ❛ Tired is my new religion, darling, ❜ she murmured, voice velvet-wrapped and edged with mischief, though her body sagged into his in surrender. ❛ But I’m also too stubborn to let it win just yet. Besides... ❜ She tipped her head back, her neck arched to bare itself to the night air. The sky opened above them, a tapestry unspooling with each bright burst. She found herself awed by a nation’s chaos made beautiful. By the warm press of her husband’s chest at her back. ❛ How could I go in now, when the stars are being rewritten above me? ❜

And when the baby kicked again, this time firmer, a light gasp escaped her, delighted, rising from her chest like a bird startled from the hedgerow. She laughed, breathless, head turning to brush her temple against his jaw, as though tethering herself more firmly to the man who had given her this strange and splendid new life. ❛ He knows you’re near, ❜ she whispered. ❛ I think he always does. You settle us both. ❜ Still, as silence curled in the brief intermittent between sparks, a shadow passed behind her eyes. There were storms that even Spencer, for all his strength and silence and unshakeable devotion, could not shield her from. She carried that knowledge like a stone beneath her ribs. The possibility, the risk, the awful, mortal edge of motherhood. She refused to name her fears aloud . . . of rupture, of blood, of the possibility that she might give everything and not make it back. She was not afraid to meet it, but she was afraid of what it might take from him. ( From them. ) Spencer already knew. He carried the fear behind his eyes like a soldier bearing a secret wound. And what good would it do, to hand him hers as well?

Instead, she gave him something else. A talisman. A way forward. Her gaze found his, the color of dusk and battlefields and everything that had refused to kill him. ❛ . . . I believe his name should be John. ❜

[trailwrought]

⠀⠀⠀𝓗𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑; that same flesh-and-bone tearing strike he knows from war, from grief, from that fucking frozen morning where Alex died in his arms. Elizabeth's denial, refusal, her fear, her blinding sorrow. God, he understands. Knows how it feels to want something else, how it hollows out the soul to accept the wrong arms holding you through the most terrifying night of your life. Spencer should never have to see the parts of her that belonged to someone else, should never be the one guiding her through something meant for another man’s hands, he should be out in the barn with the horses or buried out in the snow before ever seeing her like this. It went against the natural order of things. But death had no interest in what was proper. Death didn’t wait on dignity. Hell, he wishes it could be different. But there's only one thing he wants more than the unattainable dream of Jack standing here now; Elizabeth surviving this, her baby surviving this. And so he sheds tenderness like the snow that had clung to his skin and lets something harder take its place — because there is no room for gentleness in survival.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Goddammit, Elizabeth, ❜ he says low, his voice rough. He'd once watched a labouring cow freeze mid-birth, instincts failing her. The calf had suffocated before it ever touched the earth, had slipped out blue, wet and still. Jacob had told him to bury it in the cold earth. The image burned in his mind now, searing with a vehemence that makes his stomach twist. He will not let that be Jack’s child. Not because of her stubbornness or pride, propriety or grief — none of it was good enough reason to hesitate. So Spencer doesn't flinch when Elizabeth digs her nails into his skin, he doesn't budge when she whimpers desperate refusal against him. Doesn't blink, only scoffs dismissively, when she frantically begs him to go get help. Not only is the blizzard impossible to venture through, but there simply isn't time. There are things to do. And he needs her with him, not fighting against him.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Listen to me, ❜ There's no gentleness in his voice anymore, only urgency. His hand slips from hers, not in pain, but to anchor her. Both his palms curl around her upper arms, firm and grounding, when her sobs start to take over, when the tremors begin to shake her body. Spencer's steely gaze pierces hers, meeting her resistance with his own unwavering resolve. ❛ Jack ain't here, and no amount of wishin's gonna change that. By the time I get a horse saddled, this baby’ll already be halfway here. It’s just you and me now. So you do what I say, Elizabeth, 'cause if you don't, you're gonna put yourself and that baby at risk. And I know damn well that ain’t what you want. ❜ Beside them, John coos softly, blissfully unaware of the chaos that’s steadily unravelling around him. Spencer spares the smallest glance, jaw clenching. He wouldn't be asleep for long. Not once this truly begins. And it is beginning. A goddamn mess. But they have no choice but to deal with it. When he looks back to her, he glimpses the faintest flicker of hesitation in her eyes, a persistent thread of protest still clinging, still hoping. Within a breath, his already frayed patience shatters.

⠀⠀⠀❛ We're wastin' time we don't have. ❜ He snaps, and before her lips part to argue — he moves. One arm slips beneath her knees, the other secures her back, and with an exhale through clenched teeth, he lifts her from the floor in one swift, commanding motion. His focus narrows to the task ahead, and somewhere in the distance he hears her frantic protest. But Spencer doesn't yield, doesn't answer. She could hate him for it later. The wooden floorboards creak under his boots as he carries her into the room she’d once shared with Jack. The room his nephew had been eager to build a crib and rocking chair for. The room where she would have to do the hardest thing a woman ever does. But not alone, no. Spencer would see her through it. There aren't any other options — and he’d tear up every damn rule in the book if that’s what it takes to keep her breathing.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄, she knew what little remained of the illusion had shattered all at once. The pain had gone quiet for now, but it lingered beneath her skin as though a storm just off the coast. Her eyes blurred, fixed somewhere past the windowpanes where the blizzard howled, white and furious and wild. Elizabeth had folded her denial into every dish towel, every candle wick trimmed, every jar lid tightened with shaking hands. She had tucked it beneath her shawl, between the lines of her voice, in her practiced smile. Her hand drifting to the small of her back, the gesture as instinctive as breath; her fingers pressed against the ache there like she could rub the truth away, but it was as inevitable as her refusal to believe this was her fate. Her mouth opened on a breath so ragged it barely qualified as sound. ❛ No, ❜ She didn’t even know which part she was denying—Spencer’s plea, or the deeper truth unfolding inside her: that this was happening, that her body had already crossed the threshold, that she was being carried forward whether she consented or not. ❛ I can’t, ❜ she whispered, louder this time, though it cracked at the edges, ❛ Spencer, I can’t . . . you can’t — ❜

She looked away, teeth gritted as she felt another wave bloom, low and dark and deep as the ocean’s floor. Her knees buckled, and for a terrible moment, she thought she might collapse. She reached blindly for his hand, grounding herself, her nails pressing half-moons into his skin. The contraction passed, and she bit the inside of her cheek, tasting metal and defiance. Her gaze turned, unbidden, toward the cradle. John had gone quiet, his small shape swaddled in wool; the very sight of him splitting her heart in two. His palm swallowed hers, and still it wasn’t enough to slow the fear galloping through her veins. The wave passed.

Barely.

Her lips trembled. ❛ What if something happens? ❜ she asked, and her voice was a thread unraveling in the dark. ❛ You can’t . . . it isn’t right. This wasn’t supposed to happen. ❜

It was supposed to happen with Jack; it was supposed to happen in a different room, with a midwife who knew her name and hands that had done this before. Not like this.

❛ Cara told me that the first one is always stubborn . . . we still have time — you can fetch help! ❜ The words tumbled out in a half-sob, half-bargain, her breath catching on every syllable. If he saddled up. If he left now. If he just tried. Maybe he could find someone. Maybe he could bring help back in time. She clung to the thought like a woman dangling from the last rung of a ladder. Deep down, she knew, it was hopeless. Her grip on Spencer’s hand tightened, suddenly frantic. Tears glistened at the corners of her lashes, her cheeks flushed from the pain she still refused to name outright. ❛ You can’t . . . you can’t deliver a baby. You’re not a midwife. You’re not— ❜ Her voice pitched higher. ❛ You shouldn’t even see me like that. ❜

She blushed. That last part slipped out unbidden, softer than the rest. Almost a whisper. Her throat cinched around the shame blooming there, hot and sudden. It wasn’t only about modesty; it was vulnerability.

❛ Only Jack . . . should hav — ❜

A sob fought its way up her throat but didn’t fully escape, only a strangled breath that shook through her entire chest. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of his sleeve, knuckles white. She was scared, and she was ashamed of being scared. And worse, she was starting to understand there was no other way but through.

[trailwrought]

⠀⠀⠀𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄'𝐃 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄. He's a man wrought by war and wilderness, he'd been focused during situations that would've made any normal man perish. But the panic that crashes over him now is entirely new. He hadn't known it in the trenches, not when he'd been attacked by leopards, not even when he’d buried Alex beneath cold earth. Those moments had stripped him bare, yeah, torn sinew from his bones, clawed soul from his body and left him gasping in the dark. But this is a different breed of cruelty. This is a type of helplessness that shatters everything in him. Standing there with a wailing infant in his arms and no goddamn clue how to quiet him — it's a raw agony he'd never known was possible. It forces him to stare right into the face of his shortcomings, to realise how massively he'd failed not only his own flesh and blood, but Alex too. Spencer's chest shudders with fractured breath, each inhale splintering more of his ribs. He hands John over without thinking, without looking, with shame. Tears etch his cheeks, his knuckles brushing them away with guilt-ridden urgency. What right does he have to cry when every inch of him is still tangled in death, while his child pleas for life?

⠀⠀⠀Spencer watches through wet lashes as Elizabeth soothes his son like it's second nature, watches as John’s cries soften the moment he's in her arms, like he'd been returned to safety. And isn't that the truth of it? Elizabeth holds him with certainty, without fear — just instinct. Just sheer care. And John curls into her as if he’d been waiting for the warmth of Elizabeth's heart. Spencer's throat constricts, the sight shattering another dam in him. His hands hang awkward and useless at his sides, a tremor still clinging to his fingers.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Right, ❜ He says hoarsely, swallowing hard, blinking rapidly to clear his vision, ❛ hungry . . . hungry. Where's the bottle? ❜ His gaze darts around the room, desperate to be useful. To share in even the smallest part in soothing his son. He spots an empty bottle resting on the changing table and he is quick to grab it. ❛ The formula? Elizabeth—I don’t even—I don’t even know how to make the damn formula. ❜ God, what kind of father doesn't know how to feed his own son? What kind of man runs off to the fields every day while his child grows without him in the next room? You’re doing more than you think, she’d said. But he can't believe that. Not when he’d spent the last month fleeing while the only piece of Alex he had left cried out for him, and he hadn’t answered. The truth is bitter as bile in his mouth. He’d started this damn journey back to Montana for the ranch, and his wife had died because he’d brought her into his war. So he'd poured himself into the land, trying to make something of it, refusing to let it die too.

⠀⠀⠀Spencer stands there, clutching the empty bottle while his eyes lock on Elizabeth, swaying gently with John cradled safe against her breast. There it is again, the tidal wave of grief, of gratitude, of gutting inadequacy.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Please—please tell me how to help. ❜

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐏 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍, before the rooster’s call split the quiet open, before her hands had any business being elbow-deep in feed. The old tin pail had clanged against her knee with every step back toward the house, half-full of eggs warm from the nest. She could smell the hay still in her sleeves, feel the faint ache in her lower back, the thrum of early pregnancy curled quiet in her belly. Her own child—Jack’s child—still small and swimming inside her, no bigger than a plum, but already carving out hollow space in her ribs and rewriting the rhythm of her nights. The wind tugged at her apron as she reached the porch, a sudden wail splitting through the house. A newborn's cry. It hadn’t been more than a handful of weeks since Alex's funeral, and even so, the poor thing's cry was soaked in grief as much as breath. It pierced through the wooden ribs of the house and into her chest, straight into the quiet pocket where her own baby’s heartbeat now lived. Elizabeth stepped inside, the cold clinging to her ankles. She walked with quiet purpose down the hallway, past worn wallpaper and framed ghosts, her breath shallow, throat thick with something she couldn’t name. The door to the nursery stood ajar, the light within spilling pale and golden across the hall.

Her heart twisted.

She stepped forward on instinct; her boots leaving faint scuffs in the grain. Spencer's voice had come out splintered, like it hurt him to say it, ( ❛ I don't know what to do. ❜ ) and something in Elizabeth cracked wide open. It hung between them, soaked in salt, in helplessness, in all the ways men like Spencer were taught to bite down and bear through. But she’d always known there were softer bones beneath all that scar tissue. ❛ You’re doing more than you think, ❜ she said softly. ❛ You’re here. That’s more than half of it. ❜ Then she leaned in, brushing her fingers beneath John’s trembling chin, the way she used to with colts when they were new and flighty. Her eyes met Spencer’s—raw and wet and worn down to the bone. ❛ He’s hungry, more’n likely, ❜ she offered, gentler than wind. ❛ May I? ❜ Elizabeth gathered John into her arms like a storm gathers rain, tucking him beneath her chin; her body becoming cradle and hearth, her warmth blooming through the space between them. The baby’s fury cracked in her arms, faltered, and began to unravel. The tremor in his chest eased as he pressed closer into her. One tiny hand flailed, then found the thrum of her heart, the fabric of her blouse, the familiarity of her. In moments like these, it was difficult for her not to feel as though she was his, too. She shifted the boy slightly, brushing her nose against the downy crown of his head, and then, still swaying, she said: ❛ Spencer, it's all right . . . ❜ The words dropped like pebbles in a well. ❛ You don’t have to do it all alone. ❜

[trailwrought]

⠀⠀⠀𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐀𝐃𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐃 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 too complicated for Spencer to face without aching. It's a hurt as layered and gritty as sediment, rising in his throat. Grief knew her as well as it knew him, and he hates it. Hates what it has done to them both, how it had hollowed them out and left only silence and pain. He wouldn't wish it on anyone. But especially not her. Not Elizabeth. With her soft voice and quiet fortitude. Her grace, selflessness, and the kindness in her heart that no man deserves. Not even him. There's another layer to his ache for her, a layer that shames him; the care that had crept into his bones, evolved from something that was just familial to a comfort far deeper and intimate than what he'd ever thought himself capable of again. He had loved a woman once, fiercely, in a way that had torn through him like a blaze through dry grass. Alex had breathed life and light into his soul, had made him laugh and feel like a man who hadn’t seen war. He should be having dinner with her, he should be putting John to bed with her, look over to her whenever their boy hit another milestone. He should be seeking her touch when night fell and the ghosts dared creep in, when he ached for closeness and warmth.

⠀⠀⠀But he wasn’t. He was here with Elizabeth. Who had pulled him from the brink more times than he could count. No, what existed between them might not be the type of love he'd had for Alex, but it was profoundly meaningful, healing, still. And Spencer's too selfish to let it go. The cruel tide of grief would recede just enough when she was near. Just enough for him to breathe, to feel human, to not crumble entirely. Without her, John might’ve grown up with a man too fractured to care for anything beyond his own pain. Elizabeth had never scorned him for being lost, for not knowing what to do. Never once had she looked at him with judgement. She'd just . . . showed him. Patiently, while battling her own ghosts, she'd shown him how to manage fury and sorrow. How to open space in his heart for his son, to be brave enough to be a father.

⠀⠀⠀Spencer's gaze flickers to her as she busies herself with the stew, his eyes softened with wistful warmth and understanding. He sets his spoon down, then the bread. He wipes his fingers against his jeans, his jaw flexing. For a moment he hesitates, almost changes his mind, but then his hand reaches across the table and settles above hers. 

⠀⠀⠀❛ There ain’t a thing you gotta thank me for. If there’s any thankin’ to do, it oughta come from me. ❜ He says, voice low, his thumb sweeping once across her knuckles. ❛ Jack would be beaming with pride over you, that's for sure. I had no goddamn clue how to do it. Losin’ my wife and gainin’ a baby in the same breath? Hell, I didn’t think I’d make it. There were nights I’d think maybe John would be better off without me. ❜ He draws a breath. Rough. Shaky. Steadying. ❛ Heard some man in town say once my boy was headed for an orphanage. Might’ve been right if you hadn’t stepped in. You owe me nothing. But I owe you a great debt. ❜

𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒. Some days, they came soft as breath—Jack’s voice in the back of her mind when she stirred sugar into tea, his hand phantom-warm on the curve of her back when she opened a window to the morning breeze. Other days, they came brutal. A half-finished sentence she almost said aloud to a man who no longer stood in her kitchen. A laugh she caught herself turning toward. Grief, a tide, and she’d long since realized it could drown and salt and sustain all at once. The flicker of the lantern cast Spencer’s face in golds and shadows, and she couldn’t look at him for too long without the guilt blooming . . . guilt that she knew the sound he made when he sighed into a hot bowl of stew, that she knew how his shoulders settled just before sleep, how his fingers curled in dreams. None of it had ever been meant to be hers. They were both still sewn to memories that bled. And, even so, there he was. There she was. There they’d been. Again and again, through winters and tantrums and broken fences and birthdays lit by too-few candles. She tried to keep her hands still as she sat, but they betrayed her. Clutched the napkin too tightly. Touched the edge of the tureen like it might steady her. Her voice was quiet, almost reverent. ❛ I’m fine, ❜ she lied, and it tasted like copper in her mouth. ❛ I just— ❜

Her eyes darted to the spot Jack Jr. always claimed now. He dragged the chair askew every time, insistent about it, truly. She loved him so fiercely it sometimes frightened her. Because in loving him, she felt how little she belonged to herself anymore. ❛ He’d be so proud of them. ❜ Her voice split at the end, a soft fracture down the spine of her composure. ❛ Of Jack Jr. Of John. Of… you. ❜

She should’ve swallowed it back and allowed the silence to reclaim the space. But the words had already stepped out into the light. Her gaze lowered quick—quicker than shame, quicker than desire—and settled on her hands again. ❛ I don't think I would’ve survived that first year if you hadn’t— ❜ She paused, voice straining. ❛ You kept showing up. When it would’ve been easier not to. ❜ Her throat burned with the truth she’d never dared to name, the ache that lodged itself somewhere between confession and cowardice. There had been so many nights she’d stirred from restless sleep to find the scent of him still clinging to the doorway, his coat slung near the hearth, damp with snow or dust or the long sweat of ranch work. She’d sit on the edge of her bed, fingers curled in the quilt, and listen to the house breathe around her, quiet save for the distant hush of his boots settling on the floorboards. Their hands always finding each other, even when they shouldn't. Brushing in the kitchen over teacups, in the barn while buckling saddles, by the boys' bedroom door in the silence after bedtime stories. Accidental, they both pretended, but neither of them had ever pulled away. What they’d built wasn’t love, not quite, but it was something, wasn’t it? Something fragile and fiercely defended. Something warmer than silence. She ladled more stew into his bowl to keep her hands from shaking. Passed him a piece of bread with fingers that lingered too long, as if hoping to map forgiveness through touch.

❛ . . . I still tremble to think what might have become of us that night—if you hadn’t been there. ❜

[trailwrought]

⠀⠀⠀𝓘𝐓'𝐒 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐄. The way her breath hitches and cuts her off mid-sentence, the way tension tightens her shoulders, the way her knuckles pale as she grabs fistfuls of her skirts. And her gaze, wide and dark, flickering with fear that's both unspoken but loud, eyes darting like a desperate deer trying not to bolt. It all gives her away before she speaks her excuse and leaves. By the time she turns and disappears up the stairs, it's hit him square in the chest, punching the air right outta him. Jesus fucking Christ. The baby’s coming. Jack’s baby. And there’s no one here but the two of them. A chill crashes over him, colder than anything the blizzard outside had laid on his skin. It settles like heavy stones in his stomach, incapacitating him for the briefest, breathless moment. But before the panic has chance to really swell, before memories can rise and drown him, Spencer sharpens. It’s like a switch is slammed down. His breath stills. His vision narrows. And everything that isn’t immediate gets pushed aside. Grief, fear — none of it matters now. There’s no time.

⠀⠀⠀His mind starts working like it’s hunting something; fast and methodical. Where are the clean linens? Can he fit a large pot over the fire to boil water? How long 'til sundown? He moves even before he finishes the thought, before he even registers the bowl slipping from his palms or the quilt falling to the floor. A wave of dizziness grips him from standing too fast, but he fights through it, his feet already carrying him toward the stairs. His body still aches from the cold in his marrow, but he doesn’t feel it now. Adrenaline slices through any exhaustion. They have no choice but to deal with this. He crosses the room with assertive strides, moving up the stairs two at a time, boots thudding loud as thunder. His heart hammers against his ribs, blood rushes deafeningly in his ears. And somewhere within his depths, buried beneath survival instinct, there's frustration. She’s hiding it. Stubborn, proud, and frightened. Pretending she can wait it out. Pretending the storm will pass, or that Cara will return, or that this will stop if she just wills it hard enough. Does she not realise how damn dangerous that is? A low growl rumbles in his throat.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Elizabeth. ❜ he calls out, and she either doesn't hear him or pretends not to. Spencer is more sold on the latter. ❛ Elizabeth! ❜ He says again, firmer this time, louder, more urgent and desperate; half-command, half-plea. He finds her in the nursery, a fussy John in her arms, and she's rocking him slowly, cradling him like he's the only thing distracting her from the truth. She doesn’t look up, and Spencer doesn't hesitate. He steps forward and takes the baby from her arms. Gently, but decisively. He lays John down in the crib, tucking the blanket around him with trembling fingers. The boy whimpers. Spencer closes his eyes for a second, the sound damn near gutting him clean. But there’s nothing he can do, no space for softness now. He straightens, turns to her, and meets her gaze.

⠀⠀⠀❛ You can’t hide it, ❜ he says, taking a slow step toward her, jaw locked tight, offering her his hand. ❛ and you sure as hell can’t stop it. That baby’s comin’ and we ain’t got no doctor. No midwife. Just you and me and whatever the hell I remember from birthin’ cattle. ❜ His gaze pierces hers, holds it, refusing to let go until she relents. ❛ You have no choice. Don't fight me on this. Go lay down. I’ll . . . I’ll figure out the rest. Just — lay down. Now. ❜

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑, a lonely sound in a house much too still, and as Spencer spoke through the chill in his bones, Elizabeth pressed a trembling hand to the swell of her belly and thought: not yet . . . please, not yet. She’d known false labor before; she told herself this was no different. That the baby, stirred by stress or storm, had simply moved wrong. Or maybe she hadn’t eaten enough. Or maybe she’d done too much, lifting wood this morning, tidying, fretting. She reached for explanations with the desperation of a drowning woman clawing at reeds. And so she busied herself with the pretense of purpose; folding dish towels already folded, checking the kettle that no longer steamed, adjusting the lantern flame. The worst of the pain had passed . . . or so it seemed. The contractions had lulled; the ache receding like a tide drawing back from shore. Outside, the snow fell in thick curtains, a thousand ghosts dancing with wild abandon across the plains. For a moment, she imagined the town miles away, the people in it swallowed by white. The warmth of hope bloomed faintly in her chest. Maybe she could wait out the storm. They both could. Maybe in the morning, if the wind died, Jacob would come. Cara, too. There would be hands to help. A fire that wouldn’t burn through the last of the wood. She turned toward the table, slicing the last of the stale bread with aching precision, and reached for some jam they’d preserved in the autumn—blackberry, tart and thick, the color of bruises. Behind her, Spencer sat near the hearth; the heavy quilt still draped around his shoulders. Snowmelt dripped from his boots and left dark blossoms on the wood. He was quiet now, recovering, half-ghost still from his brutal ride through the storm.

But Elizabeth could feel his gaze like a hand pressed against her spine. 

❛ I’ve got another pot of chili warming too, ❜ she said softly, voice nearly lost beneath the whistle of the kettle. ❛ Figured you’d be famished. ❜

She reached for a bowl and ladled with all the grace she could muster. Her joints ached. Her stomach knotted again, tight — a warning. But she smiled as she served it to him. And it was almost enough. For a brief flicker of time, she believed herself. The pains had stopped. 

Perhaps it had been nothing. 

She crouched by the hearth as she had before, busying her fingers with the blanket’s edge, tucking it tighter around his shoulders.

❛ John was fussin’ just before you came in. I think the wind spooked him. Poor thing. Goodness, he’s such a sweet boy, Spencer. Just this morning, I was feeding him, and he — ❜ 

Her breath hitched all at once. A slow, gathering pressure deep within her pelvis, curling into something monstrous, a serpent wrapping about her spine and squeezing. A bead of sweat slid down her sternum, unseen beneath her bodice; her spine arching faintly with the shock of it, and her hand clenched in the quilt — don’t let him see, don’t let him see — and she shifted subtly onto one knee, pretending to adjust the kindling, her jaw locked tight. Another ripple. Fiercer. Lower. There was no mistaking this one. Her whole abdomen clenched, and a wave of nausea crept up her throat. It passed, but only just. She forced herself to breathe through her nose, to blink slow. Then she shifted her weight subtly, trying to disguise the way her thighs clenched, the way her heels pressed to the floor in resistance. She felt her womb harden beneath her dress, a stone beneath velvet. 

❛ . . . Might check on the baby, ❜ she offered, her voice high and honeyed, like nothing was wrong. ❛ I’ll — go make sure he’s all right. ❜

One foot, then the other; her hand drifting to the small of her back beneath the excuse of adjusting her shawl. Please, she begged inwardly, not now. Not like this. Not with him. Not in this house, not in this storm. 

[trailwrought]

⠀⠀⠀𝓘𝐓'𝐒 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄. Had plenty to do there, and there's definitely no shortage of land that needed minding to after that. But none of that had mattered. Not after Spencer had looked up and caught the brief ( and not subtle ) slack-jawed stares of a few hired boys. Not after he'd followed their line of sight and found them stealing glances of what belongs to him. The sweltering sun hung close to zenith, and there, directly underneath its rays, Alex stands. A sculpture carved of untamed, unapologetic, and unbothered marble. Specks of dust and dry grass swirl about her. Her golden curls damp at her temples. And her stomach, proud and round with his baby, gleaming with sweat, is exposed beneath a shirt tied way too high. The fabric rides up as she rakes through the pasture, dangerously near the underswells of her chest. Sudden tension gathers in his spine. The sight of it, the sheer audacity of her, ignites a savage heat in his blood. Something primal unravels within Spencer, and his purpose shifts from simple rancher to man driven purely by visceral instinct. It's not modesty that flares in him, or a desire to tame her, but a need to protect. To guard what is sacred and his; not meant for the greedy, gawking eyes of boys who can't even begin to understand what it means to worship something as precious and holy as her. A low sound rumbles in Spencer's throat; a discontent hum, a quiet growl, a warning meant for everyone who isn't him.

⠀⠀⠀With his jaw flexed tight, Spencer leans his scythe against the fence and makes his way towards her, a visible furrow between his brows. She must’ve felt the shift in the air, because by the time he reaches her she’s already turned to face him. Her voice teases and her mouth curves with maddening mischief, as though she's oblivious to what she's doing. It damn near stokes something unhinged within him. He fills his lungs with steadying breath, lips twitching — a brief smile that does not reach his eyes. He steps in close, towers over her as if trying to shield her with the breadth of his body. One hand finds home on her stomach, fingers spread wide over the curve where his child grows, both possessive and gentle. His other hand lifts his hat from his head, angling it with calculated purpose against the side of her belly still exposed to the world, to block the worst of the stares still lingering across the yard

⠀⠀⠀❛ Pretty darlin' . . . ❜ he murmurs in a low rasp, half-reprimand, half-plea, his eyes drowning in hers like he's staring into fire; dangerous, radiant, and only his to drink from. Spencer's fingers drift from the warm skin of Alex's stomach to her face, to graze his thumb along the line of her jaw. He’d thought war had beaten the softness out of him. Thought the hunter in him had buried any man that knew how to want tender things. But she’d made a liar of him, this woman. She’d made him soft and feral and fiercely protective all the same. A romantic, she calls it.

⠀⠀⠀❛ . . . baby'll come out tan as a copper penny if you don't cover up. Go on now sweetheart, pull it down. ❜

⊹⠀𖥸⠀*⠀˖ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 @trailwrought

𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐀𝐓𝐒 and the pale-gold hush before sunrise, driven by that impulse the ranch had already inspired into her bones. The summer air billowing under the loose chambray shirt she’d hastily knotted beneath her breasts. She’d meant only to spare herself the heat, though it left her belly bared, the smooth swell of motherhood glinting with perspiration and soft dust motes. In another life, perhaps she might have hidden the proof of her expectancy beneath corseted cotton and averted gaze. ( Good girls kept their mysteries under lock and key; they certainly didn’t heft feed buckets with a curve of child proclaiming itself to the sun. ) But the baby was heavy today, and the way the breeze caught against her skin was almost a relief. A small mercy. Her hands dust-streaked, fingers curled around the rough wooden handle of a rake she’d been using to spread fresh hay. Sweat gathered at her temples; the strands of her hair sticking to the curve of her neck. Then she felt it. A prickle at the back of her neck. She turned her head, just a little, and caught sight of him watching from a distance. Across the paddock he paused mid-stride, hat brim shadowing eyes that nevertheless gleamed like burnished brass. Heat bloomed across her cheeks, mingling with the flush of honest exertion. For an instant shame and pride tangled like wild grapevines, and she inhaled, brushing a stray tawny curl from her temple, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. She was flushed from labor, from sun, from him.

❛ . . . I thought you were working on the fence line, ❜ she called, voice light, teasing, ❛ was it that you missed us too much, hmmm? Could scarcely bear being apart any longer? What a romantic you've become. ❜

[trailwrought]

⊹⠀➸⠀*⠀˖ ❨ 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 @dustpetaled ❩

⠀⠀⠀𝓓𝐀𝐖𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑; the worst of winter had passed, but the chill that still lingered was the type that found its way through the walls and into his bones. It was quiet, aside from the low tick of the clock, the whistle of wind through cracks in wood, and the occasional distant cluck from the chicken coop. He knew Elizabeth was out there already, holding both the old feed tin and a basket for eggs. Spencer was sat at the kitchen table, cup of coffee in one hand, the other flipping through some old newspaper. His palms were still scratched up from fencing wire, the raw skin catching on the chipped ceramic every time he lifted the mug. He hadn't eaten yet. Probably wouldn’t. His appetite had wandered off sometime between leaping from that train and the funeral, and it hadn’t felt like returning. He had just begun to plan the day, groom the horses, feed the cattle, continue repairing the damn fence, when the sound pierced right through the morning hush and in between his ribs.

⠀⠀⠀A cry. The sharp, shrill wail of a newborn. John. His son. Their son. He needed comfort, and his father was the only person around — poor kid. Spencer's heart lurches in his chest. He freezes for a moment, the cup paused halfway to his mouth, his eyes wide like the prey he used to hunt. Courage fills him slow, coerced by each scream that rattles the rafters. Eventually he stands, scraping chair legs on wood, and begins the walk down the hall. With each heavy step, the cries gain volume and ferocity; John is awake, and the whole world has done him wrong. It's a sentiment Spencer understands. He hesitates at the door. The room is bathed in soft light through white curtains. An old, stuffed rabbit lays discarded on the floor. The cradle rocks slightly from the force of the baby’s fury. His baby. It's his baby. His flushed face twisted in a grimace, fists tight, squirming like he's trying to fight some invisible villain. Spencer steps inside and reaches with unsure, tentative hands. He didn’t do this. Not often. Not alone. The tremble in his fingers as he picked John up made mockery of his renown as steady hunter. He doesn't cradle him quite right at first; is too stiff, too careful, like he's holding something made of brittle glass. John cries louder. Spencer flinches.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Hey now, shh . . . easy, I gotchu, son. ❜ His voice falls hoarse, unpracticed, as he sways the boy gently, awkwardly, ❛ you’re alright. Ain’t nothin’ wrong. ❜ But the wailing doesn't stop. Doesn't even pause. It rips through the quiet house, feral and gutting. And something in Spencer shatters. He doesn't know what to look for. He has no map for this. No instincts. He only has grief. Alex should be here. Holding him, knowing what to do, cooing lullabies with that soft English lilt that made everything feel good. Spencer has no fucking clue what he's doing. And worst of all, he fears that John knows; senses the hollowness of him and hates him for it. He rocks a touch harder. Unsure. Desperate. One hand supports the boy’s head, the other cradles his back. Spencer's jaw clenches tight, hot tears coming before he can stop them. Then, as if the universe had pitied him, the nursery door creaks open to reveal salvation. He didn't turn at first. Couldn't, really. Couldn't face her when he was unravelling. Elizabeth stands on the threshold, her apron dusted in feathers and straw, eyes wide with concern. When John's distressed cries grow jagged and breathless, Spencer turns — his voice barely above a rasp,

⠀⠀⠀❛ I don't know what to do. ❜

[trailwrought]

⠀⠀⠀𝓗𝐄'𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒. But even out there, deep among cattle and grassland, he'd heard it. The distant echo of child's laughter carried on the wind; bright and untamed. John and Jack Jr. had been at it since morning, their unrestrained imaginations taking them on adventures only they could see, journeys that sounded far more wild than what Spencer had ever experienced. He'd paused once, scythe in hand, leaning against the fence post with a bead of sweat dragging down his temple. He'd listened. Just listened, as their joy permeated across the fields. The ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth when the boys' squeals turn into groans of protest at Elizabeth's call. The sun was dipping low, staining the ranch in gold fire. It's a quiet hour. A lonely one. And it aches. To see them grow without the ones who should’ve been here to witness it. John has her eyes. He has her stubbornness too, her spirit. Spencer saw her in their son's laugh, in the slight curl in his dark hair, even in his shadow. For a long time it had only shattered him, made it impossible look at the boy, to be a father without crumbling under the weight of grief. But Spencer had learnt that the heart was a muscle, and eventually he had gained the strength to bear the anguish. For John. And to honour the last promise he'd made to Alex.

⠀⠀⠀Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he’d have managed it at all without Elizabeth. She’d fallen apart right beside him and, somehow, they’d gathered each other’s pieces. Not perfectly. Never perfectly. But enough. Enough to manage. Enough to live. The two had found each other for comfort, for the wordless understanding of what it was to lose half of your heart. It had become easier with her. Some days, they sat in silence. Some days, when the sorrow softened in favour of memory, they’d speak of Alex and Jack not with sorrow but with reverence, with quiet celebration that they had lived at all. And on rarer days, when the weight of absence became too unbearable, they found a closer comfort in each other; in touch, in intimacy not born of passion, but of shared grief and human need. They both knew they'd never love each other like they'd loved Alex and Jack, but he was fiercely protective of her all the same. Grateful, in a way he didn’t have words for. They had built something together, something unconventional and warm and familiar. Not the family he had anticipated, but a family nonetheless. One that was the only thing that mattered to him now.

⠀⠀⠀Spencer steps through the doorway just as the last bits of sunlight start to fade. He didn't bother with the basin. Just set his hat on the hook and crossed to her, sweat still clinging to his brow, the exhaustion of a day's work felt deep in his bones . . . and in his rumbling stomach. He met her gaze with a grateful nod, his lips lifting in a rare, faint smile — not full, but real. The scent of stew already easing the tiredness from his limbs as he lowers himself into the chair, the wood creaking under him. ❛ If it was up to him, he’d eat nothin’ but roast potatoes and steak, breakfast to sundown. ❜ He says, looking to her before raising his spoon. He always waited. Wouldn’t start eating before she did. ❛ Always was a ravenous kid. Passed it right down to Jack Jr too. ❜ Spencer continues, releasing a breath that resembles a chuckle. Then he takes a bite, slow and savouring, a contented sound leaving him before he could stop it. The stew was rich and hearty, the kind of meal that reminded a man he was home. He devours another bite. Soaks some bread and eats that too, before speaking again. Softer this time, humour receded and replaced by that quiet protectiveness he couldn’t shake when it came to her.

⠀⠀⠀❛ You alright, darlin'? ❜ He asks, eyes searching hers, ❛ aunt Cara and Jacob’ll be back from town hall in a day or so. You’ll have more help with the boys . . . and more company too. ❜

⊹⠀𖥸⠀*⠀˖ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 @trailwrought

𝐈𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 since Jack’s laugh last filled this house, but the silence after sunset felt more deafening now than it had in the days that followed his death. Night seeped over the Yellowstone in bruised shades of indigo, swallowing the last streaks of apricot sky. Somewhere beyond the windows, coyotes called, slipping through the cracks of weather-warped panes and settling beneath Elizabeth’s ribs in a tremor. In the kitchen, she ladled stew into a porcelain tureen whose roses had faded to ghost-petal pink, thinking how grief was exactly that: color drained to memory. Jack jr had finally fallen asleep after an afternoon spent tumbling through meadow grass with Spencer’s boy; their laughter bright and careless as dandelion fluff on a breeze. She was glad the boys had each other; glad they would grow up knowing another small heart that understood what it was not to truly know the parent they had lost. She stirred the stew once—twice—watching potatoes and carrots swirl like slow constellations. Raising a three-year-old alone was carving hollows into her she never knew existed: the dawn rituals of tiny socks and tangled curls, the twilight battles against night-terrors that were not her own. Some mornings she woke to find his damp cheek pressed to hers and felt both ferocious love and a cavernous ache, because every triumph—every new word, every skinned knee—was a milestone Jack would never see. Footsteps crossed the foyer’s marble, pulling her softly from the reverie. Spencer. Dust and dusk clung to him alike, the scent of sagebrush riding in on his coat. He paused in the doorway, hat in hand, and for a heartbeat she saw the war-worn soldier he had been, the widower he had become, the father he was now learning to be. She served him first; the silver ladle scraping the tureen’s rim with a faint, ecclesiastical chime. ❛ I remembered how Jack liked his stew, ❜ she said, voice catching on the name like a pearl snagged in lace. ❛ Heavy on the root vegetables. No peas. ❜ Her mouth slanted in a wistful imitation of humor. ❛ He said peas were an insult to the tongue. ❜

[trailwrought]

⠀⠀⠀𝓣𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐓; bellowing, kicking his stiff legs, whipping the reins like a man possessed by the primal need to survive. The frenzied horse protests in both exhaustion and fear, but Spencer refuses to relent. Snow clings to him in thick layers, blanketing the brim of his hat, freezing the ends of his beard. His face is red from the sting of the biting wind, and his numb fingers no longer feel like his own beneath the leather of his gloves. The cold had carved itself deep into his bones; a cruel, voracious thing that devours every bit of warmth in him. This is what she had felt, only hers was infinitely worse. A roar tears from him again. Frigid breath rips from his lungs in quick, ragged bursts as he finally, through dense flurries, glimpses the silhouette of the ranch house. His focus narrows to it, a speck nearly swallowed whole by the storm. All of him burns; his blood savage with adrenaline, a chorus of purpose thrashing against the walls of his skull. Get home. Get to Elizabeth. Get to the boy.

⠀⠀⠀It had been so goddamn stupid of him to go. He should've stayed, should've waited for Jacob and the farmhands. But no, Spencer had been restless again. He had tasted the storm in the air well before it came, and had decided to ride out to gather the cattle that still remained in the faraway fields. The blizzard had dropped fast. Its fall thickening within minutes into a curtain of white so bright he could hardly tell the sky from the earth. At a certain point, he hadn’t known if he was riding towards home or death. Memories clawed at his resolve like sinister demons; frostbitten lips and a hollow stare, Alex's limbs blue-black, her breath quickly fading as he tried to warm her with nothing but his breaking heart. He'd failed to protect her. He could not, would not, fail their son. He has her eyes, and Spencer hadn’t been strong enough to endure the guilt and grief that came with meeting them for too long. It's why John was now six months old and knew Spencer more as a ghost than a father. It shatters him.

⠀⠀⠀Animalistic instinct drives his every movement as the house grows on the horizon. He flies off the mare the moment they reach the barn, barely tying her before stumbling over the porch and bursting through the front door with the last of his strength. The wind howls behind him like death mourning a loss. His mind spins, and he leaves a trail of snow behind as he makes his way to the fireplace, sinking to his knees. Breathless and shivering violently. The warmth of the flames hits him like a sharp whip, scalding his frost-kissed skin with the promise that he will live — a luxury his wife had not been given. Irate and trembling, Spencer claws at the buttons of his frozen coat. He tears the garment from his back and throws his gloves off with a snarl, shoving his hands close to the fire. It's only when he feels the quilt settle around his shoulders and the steaming cup press into his hands, that his demons recede a few steps — and he lets himself ease. Just a little. Somewhere in the house, John coos, and Spencer's heart splinters in his chest. He hadn't held that child in days. He hadn't earned the right. But he's still here. God forgive him. He exhales in relief.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Tha—thank—thank you, ❜ he clatters in hoarse tones as he drinks the broth with the desperate hunger of a man who'd feared for his life. The golden liquid slips down his throat and warms his core, coaxing an indulgent groan. Two gulps later and the old mug is empty. ❛ It ain't lookin' good. Fuckin’ blizzard caught me before I could get the cattle. ❜ He glances to the window, where frost covers the glass entirely, ❛ Cara and Jacob not back yet? ❜ He asks, his gaze capturing Elizabeth; familiar, brave and gentle, so generous with her kindness. She's the very reason John knew warmth, despite her own heavy burdens. He manages the barest smile, and that's when he finally sees it. It's subtle; the faintest gleam of sweat, the slight tremble in her fingers, the tension in her shoulders and the quiet tremor in her thinned voice. Spencer’s brows twitch with suspicion. Something isn't right. A slow, bone-chilling realisation begins to grow behind his ribs. But he doesn't say anything. Not yet.

⠀⠀⠀❛ They’ll be a day or more. ❜ He rasps instead, ❛ . . . if this mess clears by dawn. No horse oughta be out in this madness. They won’t make it back until the sky lets 'em. ❜ He continues, watching her, searching for signs while hoping he's wrong, that what he thinks he sees is only his exhaustion spinning tales. But he knows that storms never ask permission to arrive, and neither do babies.

⊹⠀𖥸⠀*⠀˖ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 @trailwrought

𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇. It was a storm the old cowboys spoke of in half-joking curses, a once-in-a-century dirge that could freeze a strong man mid-stride and leave the valley entombed until spring. Jack would have bobbed his hat at the clouds and laughed at such folklore, swearing he’d seen worse, but he was under the earth now; his laughter stilled, his warmth nothing more than memory that ached like newly healed bone. Elizabeth always felt him though, at odd moments, slipping through the timbered silence on padded feet. She had been tidying the sitting room, anything to silence the tick of the clock and the howl outside, when the first pain struck. It was a mere low tightening, as though some great hand had gathered her womb into a fist. She caught the back of the armchair, gasped softly, straightened, forcing calm into her spine the way one might lace up stays. The pain receded, leaving a tremulous flutter in its wake, and she pressed her palm to the slope of her belly, murmuring to the child who rolled there.

Oh please, not yet, little one. Wait for dawn. Wait for help.

But dawn was a lifetime away, and help was trapped in town, stranded behind drifts so high even the telegraph lines bowed. Spencer had gone too, though he’d promised to return by nightfall. But the hour had turned dark, and darker still. The storm had thickened. And she was alone.

Then a sound, wretched in its helplessness, rose from upstairs. A baby’s cry, frantic.

Baby John.

She was moving before thought could catch up, the rag falling forgotten, her free hand pressed to her abdomen. Instinct louder than caution, louder than pain. Spencer’s son needed her. His only son. ( The last piece of Alexandra’s smile.) The nursery smelled of milk and woodsmoke and clean blankets, the cradle rocking slightly where John had thrashed. He was red-cheeked and wailing; his tiny fists curled tight against the world. She scooped him into her arms, shushing softly, though her spine arched as another ribbon of pain lanced through her. She gritted her teeth and swayed through it, whispering his name in lullaby rhythms. Her body trembled; her eyes did not.

❛ Shh, ❜ she murmured, voice barely a breath, her lips pressed to the warm curve of his forehead. ❛ It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ve got you. ❜

He began to settle, slowly, his sobs softening to hiccups, his little body melting against hers like a bird that had flown too long and needed somewhere to land. She laid him down gently, tucking the quilt around his small form, brushing dark curls from his damp forehead. She lingered over him longer than she should have; her hand trembling just above his chest as she watched the gentle rise and fall of sleep. It was a miracle, this boy. A fragile, relentless miracle. And yet the next life inside her pressed forward with the same wild insistence.

Then the front door swung open.

The groan of it unmistakable; the sound of the wind howling in behind him, of boots stomping snow from the threshold. He was home.

Spencer.

Relief struck her like a fever, chased an aching warmth down her spine, but it was short-lived. She was not ready. Not ready to tell him. Not ready to be seen in this unraveling state. If he looked too closely, if he saw the sheen of sweat above her brow or the way her fingers kept curling against phantom pain, he’d know. And she wasn’t ready to admit that this child may be coming now, in the teeth of the worst winter she’d ever known. ( Please . . . not yet. ) She descended the stairs slowly, one hand trailing the rail, the other fisted tight beneath her enormous belly. The house creaked around her, wind slamming against the shutters as if to test their resolve. And there he was, Spencer, snow-wrapped and ruddy-cheeked, shaking the cold from his shoulders like a wolf returned from the woods. His lashes were dusted white, his jaw set tight against the cold, his coat stiff with sleet. He looked like he had been frozen mid-stride. She drew a breath that felt too full for her lungs.

❛ Easy now, easy, ❜ she called, seizing a blanket from the chair by the hearth. ❛ Come, by the fire. I’ve a lot of broth that’s been simmering since dawn. ❜

And with that, she slipped into the kitchen before he could see the way her hand knotted in her skirt, pressing hard against the tightening in her belly. She ladled the broth into the tin mug, the one Spencer always used, the one with the dent from where it had been dropped one long-ago autumn morning when Jack had shouted his name from the barn . . . or so she had been told. She wrapped the quilted pot holder around the handle and stepped into the doorway, crossing the floor as steadily as she could, holding out the mug with a smile stitched from threadbare courage. Another contraction rose, this one a tidal pull that bent her nearly double. She masked the motion by stooping to gather the drift of melted snow at his feet, swiping the rag faster than the pain could unspool her.

❛ . . . Mercy, ❜ she muttered, voice thin but playful, ❛ I never doubted you’d out-ride an avalanche. ❜

[trailwrought]

⠀⠀⠀𝓗𝐄'𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏 𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐔𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 because Jacob had barked his name and Jack had patted his back and told him it's his patriotic duty. But every minute spent away from Alex had his skin itching and his eyes drifting; towards the fence line, towards her, his heart wrapped in something he no longer had words for. Because love didn’t cut it. Not anymore. Hadn't for a while. Spencer had been so goddamn eager to share this with her — her first Fourth of July. Had wanted her to laugh at the absurdity of it all, to roll her eyes at the excess and chaos, at the unapologetic loudness of it. He'd once been a man hardened by war, made into stone by the things he'd seen. But Alex had unspooled him entirely, reshaped him into something tender and light. He craved her nearness like breath, needed her voice, her scent, the feeling of her silken skin against his calloused hands. Especially now, when she braved the final stretch of her pregnancy, when the sight of her so swollen with his child stoked something primal in him. Hunger, pride, worry. So yeah, as soon as the final banner has been hung and the last box of fireworks checked, he makes a beeline for her.

⠀⠀⠀He spots her leaning against a fence, bathed in waning twilight, a gleam of sweat on her brow. And her stomach, their child, full and proud beneath her dress. Greedily, he drinks in the sight of her, his heart lurching in his chest, aching with disbelief that this impossible creature is his wife. And that she is here. Everything narrows to her, the rest of the ranch, every person and sound fades. Christ, he loves her so damn much. Even more so when she raises her voice to call out to him, a siren's beckon cloaked in a wry tease, snatching him by the collar and dragging him home to her.

⠀⠀⠀❛ This is real food right here, sweetheart. ❜ He calls back, gesturing to the piles of meat and potatoes gleaming with grease, ❛ not the stuff we had in Marseilles. What was that shit again? Rice rolled in flour? Godawful. ❜ He counters with a wide, roguish grin. Instinctively, his arm snakes around her waist to draw her into him, pressing her back against his chest. Above them, the fireworks begin to crescendo, sparks of blue and red dotting the sky. But he barely lifts his head to watch. What spectacle could rival her? Both of his palms sail to the underside of her belly, and with incredible care he lifts — easing the burden of their son's weight. This simple act, this small relief, is all that Spencer can give her in the face of what's coming . . . and the helplessness of it frustrates him. It's selfish maybe, but to soothe himself his nose buries in the damp crook of her neck, and he breathes her in. A soft kiss there, one behind her ear, and one to her temple, before his voice drops low,

⠀⠀⠀❛ You not tired? Been a long day. You shouldn’t be standin’. Not in this heat. ❜ He murmurs, thumbs moving in slow circles against the firm curve of her stomach. She would hear it in him — he knew she would. The quiet worry beneath the wonder. The knowledge that she stood at the edge of something he couldn’t protect her from, no matter how furiously he wanted to. ❛ Tell me what you need. ❜ Those were the words that have become prayer, spoken several times a day now. A plea for her to voice her every wish; however big or small, Spencer would leap without hesitation.

⊹⠀𖥸⠀*⠀˖ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 @trailwrought

𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐀 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐘, Alexandra had swiftly realized; it did grandeur, grit, and an uncanny fondness for explosives. There were no fireworks in England — at least, not the sort that burst across the sky with such unabashed bravado. The Fourth of July had once been nothing more than a novelty to her. Something foreign, loud, and garish. It was not lost on her, the irony, that she had grown up surrounded by titles and land, history etched into stone and blood, and even so, only now, here in the wild and sun-seared margins of this country, did she feel anything close to legacy. Her hand smoothing instinctively over her belly, thumb tracing lazy, possessive circles over the taut linen stretched there. Her ankles ached from the weight, and her spine had begun its nightly protest, but she didn’t yet retreat indoors. Eight months now. The baby stirred often, mostly at night, as if drawn by stars, by music, by the rhythm of footsteps and fiddles and fireworks. It kicked now, lightly, a flutter under her ribs that made her hand drift instinctively to the spot. She stroked the curve of her belly as if to soothe it, or perhaps herself. A wide-brimmed straw hat sat forgotten at her side on a fence post, and her hair was twisted up, though strands had fallen loose to stick to the delicate sheen of sweat on her neck.  Children ran barefoot over the grass, sparklers hissing in their hands like tiny dragons on string. Dogs barked at the noise, tails wagging, teeth flashing. From the porch came the dull thud of boots, the clink of glass bottles, and the sound of someone—she thought it might be Elizabeth singing a tune that wasn't quite in key. Somewhere, someone set off a firecracker too early, and the sharp burst ricocheted across the ranch like a gunshot softened by distance. They do love their noise, she thought with fond exasperation, eyes tracking the embers that drifted toward nothingness. These Americans set the heavens alight for the sheer pleasure of watching them fall. She turned toward the long tables groaning beneath the offerings of the ranch wives: iron skillets of cobbler still bubbling at the edges, platters of brisket glistening dark as lacquer, bowls mounded with something called “ambrosia” that looked suspiciously like fruit banished to a snowdrift of whipped cream. Overhead, bunting flapped; star-spangled rags whipping themselves into frenzy at every uprush of wind. A soft snort escaped her. Subtlety, thy name is not America. Even so, she felt her heart rise like a startled skylark when she spotted him through the throng— Spencer, hat pushed back, collar unbuttoned, skin gilded by the last leak of sunset. The look in his eyes made those fireworks seem like mere flint sparks. I have traded coronets for calluses, marble for mud. She pressed her hand to her belly again, felt the reassuring thump. And I have never been richer. She lifted her glass, a jam jar filled with iced tea so sweet it could melt a lesser woman’s teeth, and arched a brow in regal mockery. ❛ Darling, ❜ she called, loud enough for a few bystanders to grin, ❛ I remain convinced your nation’s independence was declared solely to justify this… culinary anarchy. ❜ She gestured grandly toward a hillock of precariously stacked hot-dogs and hamburgers. ❛ And I fear if I consume one more mayonnaise-laced potato, our child may be born as one. ❜

[trailwrought]

⠀⠀⠀𝓢𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐄𝐘; the faint flush on her cheeks, the subtle twitch of her lips, the way her brows soften. His heart aches with devotion. He'd never been a particularly religious man, war'll do that to you, but he thanks the heavens daily, hourly, for her. For this miracle of a life they'd been allowed to build, for the privilege of waking up beside her every morning. He is indebted to the damn universe for the knowing that she is his to keep. Forever. She doesn't see it yet, not fully — the way she fits here like the last piece of a puzzle, as though Montana had been holding its breath for her arrival; a home waiting for its heart. Spencer had known she wasn't made for the binds of high society the moment she'd abandoned reason and bolted after his car back in Africa. Her spirit was made for freedom, for the untamed wilderness. Alex belonged here, as surely as the rivers, trees and grass. Here, in his arms, on his land. As his equal, his partner, his compass. He feels it then, the same fierce pride that had staggered him when she first stepped onto the ranch, looking like the final brushstroke on a canvas. Her curiosity about the land, her willingness to know it, love it, earn it, it sparks boyish excitement in him. He wanted to show her everything. And he does so eagerly.

⠀⠀⠀The tractor coughs to life beneath them and Spencer feels her tense against him, the faintest flicker of panic seizing her posture. His arm, already draped around her shoulders, flexes tighter. Protective. And he leans in to press a reassuring kiss to the proud arc of her cheek, warm and flushed from the sun. His opposite hand finds her chin and with gentle pressure he coaxes her gaze to his, thumb brushing a tender and soothing path along the soft edge of her jaw. Her eyes meet his, and goddamn, they always take the wind out of him. Even though amusement tugs at his lips, he looks at her as a parched man looks at the first drop of rain — wonderstruck and in worship.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Honey, that's a pickle we'll deal with when we get there. ❜ He teases with a low chuckle. But then his expression softens, playfulness making space for encouragement, for unwavering belief. ❛ . . . I got you. You’ll be alright, darlin’. ❜ He adds before leaning back, adjusting his hat with a flick of his wrist while scanning the field ahead for landmarks. He looks for something far enough to be a challenge, to allow her to feel the rush of operating the vehicle on her very own, but close enough to not be overwhelming, to keep her safe. ❛ See that scarecrow out yonder? I want you to ease us on over, nice and slow. Low gear, easy on the pedal. Or we'll mow the bastard down and aunt Cara'll have me sleepin’ in the barn. ❜

𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 to navigate dukes and debutantes; Spencer Dutton’s ( their ) ranch, it seemed, would require an entirely different skill set. She’d survived London society, continental scandals, and three brutal seasons of couture corsetry — surely, one rusty tractor could not defeat her. Sweat traced a line down her back beneath the linen of her blouse, soaked into the waistband of her trousers, darkening the fabric at her spine. Her golden curls had begun to unravel beneath the broad leather brim of the cowboy hat he’d nestled onto her head, the strands clinging to her temples in delicate, damp ringlets. Her cheeks flushed fiercely — one that spoke of sun and exertion and the stubborn grit of a woman trying, failing, trying again. It was absurd, in a way that was almost painful, how badly she longed to belong here. There had been no reason for it to seize her the way it had: this sprawling, aching wilderness. But from the moment she’d seen it stretch out beyond the train window, brutal and golden and utterly unyielding, she had felt it sink into her chest like a splinter. She had not yet dislodged it. ( She hadn’t wanted to. ) So when she’d seen the tractor parked lopsided in the field, half-swallowed by the tall grass and time, something in her had leapt at the challenge. An opportunity to plant herself in this foreign soil and insisting she could grow. Now, perched beside him on the worn, groaning tractor seat, her knees brushing his as they rocked slightly with its weight, she felt her breath stick in her throat. She could feel his fingertips ghosting along her arm, light as dusk, and it made her exhale through her nose, only to keep from making a sound. Alex looked down at the levers, the dials, the faded labels worn from decades of sun and hands far rougher than hers. Her brows pinched. It shouldn’t be this hard, she thought. She’d navigated foreign languages, lied beautifully at customs, dined with men who would’ve destroyed nations over a single look from her. But none of those moments had made her feel as raw as sitting beside this man, this land, this life she had not been born to and yet found herself craving like breath. You gotta turn the key, or we ain't movin' an inch, no matter how hard you stomp on that pedal. 

She blinked.

Oh.

Her hand reached for the ignition, fingers brushing over the worn metal. It felt too small for the power it wielded. That, she thought, was true of many things. The key turned with a soft clink, and the tractor shuddered to life beneath her, a beast grumbling at being roused, coughing dust and years into the wind. The whole machine vibrated beneath them, and for a moment, she feared it would shake her heart loose from its ribs. ( If the land wished to test her, it would find the former Countess neither soft nor sorry. ) 

❛ . . . And what happens if I forget how to stop her? ❜

[trailwrought]

[trailwrought]

[trailwrought]

⊹⠀➸⠀*⠀˖ ❨ 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 @countessofsussex ❩

⠀⠀⠀𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐃, but not even its brutal blaze can smother the spirit of the woman beside him. No, not his Alex. Stubborn, determined, and ever defiant in the face of discomfort. Regal even when sweat clings to the golden curls at her temples and her breath falls shallow in the heat. Her mind had been made up the moment she spotted the small tractor through the prairie dust and dry grass. Her request to learn how to operate the machine had come with the sharp cadence of an aristocrat’s command ( as it often did — she was fire and moxie incarnate, and it undid him in the sweetest way ). There's precious little in this world that he’d deny her; feels like sacrilege to even entertain the thought. And seeing her move through his land — becoming part of it, eager, curious, unafraid, ignites something achingly reverent in him. So Spencer had only said alright then, sweetheart, secured a cowboy hat onto her head, and led her out into the field with a near boyish smile. The tractor groans beneath their weight as he helps her climb aboard, his palms steady at her waist, guiding her up with tender care. He hops up in swift pursuit, settling in beside her; knees brushing, her heady perfume mingling with the scent of hay, heat and home. He rolls up his sleeves before one arm moves instinctively to lay around her shoulders, the other gesturing toward the rust-bitten dashboard.

⠀⠀⠀❛ She's an old lady, so steering’s stiff and you'll have to coax her a little. Stick’ll shift you forward if you ask kindly enough. Gas pedal there. Brake beside it, press it gentle, she don’t like to be surprised. ❜ He explains, voice low and warm, fingertips tracing idle patterns against her arm. Then he leans back and gives her space to explore and discover on her own, all while prepared to act should something go sideways. And when she looks up at him from under the leather brim of her hat, inquisitive, lips pursed and brows furrowed in concentration ( frustration ), Spencer can't help himself — a chuckle rumbles in his chest.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Darlin’, ❜ he teases, an amused grin tugging at the edges of his mouth, while something deeply profound tugs at his heart, ❛ you gotta turn the key, or we ain't movin' an inch, no matter how hard you stomp on that pedal. ❜

[trailwrought]

1923 ‧ War and the Turquoise Tide