#A Star Without a Sky | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vunblr · 3 days ago

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A Star Without a Sky (#2)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Word Count: About 6.7k.

Previous Chapter

When she came back to retrieve the plate, he was already halfway to sleep, with heavy eyelids, slow and shallow breathing. The enamel dish rested on his lap, spotless. Not a drop left.

“Oh, you managed to eat it all. Any repercussions?” she asked, her voice a hush in the low-lit room as she picked up the tray.

His lashes lifted just enough to reveal the pale blue underneath. “No, ma’am. Just-” But the rest of the sentence faded off, swallowed by the weight of his exhaustion.

“Alright,” she murmured, setting the tray on the nightstand. “Let’s get you laid down proper.”

“S’not necessary,” he rasped, barely audible. “Can sleep sittin’. Be best if-”

“Nonsense.” Her hands were already at his shoulder, and one at his waist. She didn’t wait for permission. “Your back’ll be stiff as oak in the morning if you stay like that.”

He let out a rough sound -half breath, half groan- as she coaxed him down, his muscles tense with resistance. “Stubborn woman,” he slurred, somewhere between reproach and resignation.

She didn’t answer. Just kept working, tucking a pillow beneath his head, checking the bandage with gentle pressure along his side. The dressing held. No fresh bleed. That was enough.

“All good,” she muttered, mostly to herself, pulling the sheet and blankets up to his chest. Her hand lingered a moment, resting over the quilt. Then she looked at him.

“You feel cold?”

His head moved, barely a shake.

“You sure? No need to play at being made of iron.”

That got a twitch of his mouth. Almost a smile. “Never been buried under this many layers in my life,” he murmured. “Can’t complain. You’re spoilin’ me rotten.”

She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “Alright then. Good night, Sheriff.” The lamp’s glow dimmed with a twist of her fingers, leaving him to rest.

As she walked back to the kitchen, tray in hand, her lips pressed into a line.

Spoilin’, he’d said. Her bed had two wool blankets, a patchwork quilt stitched by her aunt long before the war, and clean sheets that smelled faintly of soap. There was nothing special about it. Nothing soft enough to call luxury.

Unless, of course, you’d spent too many nights without a bed at all.

----

A scream tore through the night.

She jolted upright, with her heart hammering, and her breath caught high in her throat. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was -what time, what room- but then her mind caught up to her body. The sound had come from the master bedroom. Him.

She was up and moving before she had time to think, striking a match with trembling fingers, shielding the lamp glass as the flame caught. The hallway stretched long and narrow in the flickering light. The door was ajar.

Inside, the sheriff twisted beneath the patchwork quilt, slick with sweat. His breath came ragged through clenched teeth, and small, broken sounds escaped his lips, fragments of something no language could hold.

A nightmare. A vicious one.

She hovered at the threshold. Someone told her once, Don’t touch the person right away. Don’t call loudly. You never know how a man might wake from such a state. She hesitated only a breath before stepping forward, setting the lamp on the nightstand, and sitting carefully at his side on the mattress.

Her hand gently found his shoulder. “Sheriff Barn- James.”

No answer, just a low groan, and his brow twisted like he was being carved from the inside.

She moved her hand down his arm, in slow circles. “It’s just a dream,” she whispered. “You’re alright. Wake up now.”

His eyes snapped open.

Wild and glassy, pupils dilated as they darted around the room like he was searching for a threat. She didn’t move, but let her hand drop to her lap. “You’re alright,” she said quietly. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

His chest rose and fell fast, then slowed as something clicked behind his eyes. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead, hard.

“Fuck-” The word rasped out before he caught himself. “sorry.”

She gave a soft laugh. “I’m not the type to faint over a curse, Sheriff.” He nodded once, fixing his eyes on the ceiling like he didn’t want to meet hers. “You want a glass of water?” she asked, gently.

He nodded again. Still not looking.

She remained seated a moment long before rising, bed sheets sighing beneath her as she stood. As she walked away, he clenched his fists beneath the quilt, trying to calm his breath.

It had been years since that particular memory came back to haunt him.

That place. That goddamn place.

When she slipped out of the room, he closed his eyes again. Not to sleep, but to chase the dream back. It clung to him. Its weight, its filth. It was years ago, but the air still tasted the same in his throat when he woke up. Damp wood, rusted iron. Straw soaked in blood. He’d forgotten the name of the man who held the whip, but not the sound it made. Not the smell of the cellar.

He breathed deeply. Tried to remember where he was.

A bed. A room. A quilt that smelled of lavender and woodsmoke. And her.

She returned quietly, soft steps on the wood floor, with the glow of the lamp sliding along the walls like water. In one hand, she held a glass. In the other, a small plate with something dark and glinting on it.

He shifted a little, lifting himself with a grunt, pressing his back against the headboard. His eyes flicked down to the offering. A dried plum, sugared and shining like a dark jewel on porcelain.

She sat again, with her knees just brushing the edge of his blanket. She handed him the water first. He drank slowly, grateful clean taste in his mouth. Then he looked at the plate.

“A plum?”

Her eyes flicked down. “Sugared. My ma used to give me one when I had a nightmare. Said it helped chase the bad things off.” Her voice was soft, and something about the way she looked down, not quite embarrassed but not fully confident, caught him off guard.

“I appreciate the thought.” He set the empty glass on the nightstand and took the plum with two fingers. He turned it once, grazing the sugar crust with his thumb, then slipped it into his mouth.

Sweetness bloomed slowly across his tongue. Rich. Dark. A softness he hadn’t tasted in years, maybe ever. He’d eaten food on the road that didn’t even deserve the word. This… this was something different. This was kindness, disguised.

He blinked down at the plate and cleared his throat. “I’ve never had one before.”

She gave the faintest smile. “There’s more in the tin by the hearth.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt, but didn’t look away from her this time. Just leaned back against the pillows, with the taste still on his tongue, foreign and warm. Something about the offering felt larger than it was. Too small to matter, too tender not to.

She let her hand brush lightly against his as she took the plate, casual but not accidentally.

“Good night, Sheriff. Try to get some more sleep,” she said gently as she stood.

He gave a slow nod, but his gaze followed her. Not obviously, not hungrily. She reached for the lamp, its warm light catching on the sheen of her hair, loose now for the night. The neckline of her nightdress had slipped a touch lower when she leaned forward earlier, showing a hint of collarbone. He hadn’t meant to look, but the image was scorched into his mind now, as unwanted and persistent as any fever dream.

She didn’t notice. Or if she did, she gave him the grace of pretending not to.

She turned down the wick until the lamp dimmed and lifted it by the hook. At the door, she hesitated. Then slipped into the hallway, softly shutting the door beside her.

He stared at the ceiling, letting out a long breath. Dragged a hand down his face, trying hard not to think about the glimpse of skin he'd caught or the way her loose hair framed her face just as he thought it would, or how she hadn’t hesitated to touch him when he was shaking and desperate. The plum’s sweetness remained in his mouth.

----

By the fourth morning since he’d woken, she rose before the sun had fully cleared the horizon. The house still held the hush of sleep, save for the soft groan of timber and the distant, half-hearted cluck of a hen not ready to greet the cold. She slipped on her day dress, wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders, and moved toward the stove, planning to start the fire to make breakfast.

As she passed the doorway to the master bedroom, she paused -a habit, by now- and glanced inside.

The bed was empty.

The covers were thrown back haphazardly, his pillow bearing the faintest dip from where his head had rested. She furrowed her brow and turned to glance around the kitchen, also empty. No sound of boots, no cough, no shifting of furniture.

Her stomach dropped with worry. She clenched her hand on her shawl and flung the door open in one smooth motion, and cold air bit at her skin.

He was outside.

Near the coop, sleeves rolled to the elbow, coat forgotten somewhere, chopping wood like the devil himself was in pursuit. His movements were efficient, but he was slower than he should be. Too careful. Every swing came with a slight hitch in his breath.

Her boots crunched across the frost-kissed ground.

“Are you insane?” she snapped, storming toward him with her shawl fluttering behind her like a snapped flag.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t look up immediately. Just drove the axe down one more time, splitting a stubborn knot with a grunt. Only then did he lift his head, sweat dampening the locks at his temples.

“Morning to you, too, ma’am,” he said, unbothered.

She folded her arms tightly over her chest. “You're barely a week since you got shot. You could tear something inside. Reopen the wound. Pass out and split your skull-”

He huffed, more breath than laugh, and leaned on the axe handle. “Figured I’d earn my keep since I can stand.”

“You’re recovering,” she said, stepping closer. Her hand reached out to brush a stray woodchip off his shirt. She didn’t think about it before doing it. “Not laboring. That’s what healing is. Let me see.”

He didn’t argue, just let her lift the edge of his shirt, gently checking the bandage under it. It was stained a little, but dry. No heat under the gauze. Still, too much strain would tear everything back open.

They stood close, breath curling in the cold air between them. His skin was warm beneath her touch, solid.

“You’re shivering,” he murmured.

She pulled back like he’d struck her. “You’re the one half-dressed in the snow,” she snapped, more embarrassed than angry. “Do you think I need kindling that badly?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at her like she’d said something peculiar.

“I think,” he said eventually, “your tenant should’ve shown up to do it already.”

She huffed. “If you don’t get back inside this house right now, sheriff, I swear you’re getting nothing for breakfast. And I mean it.”

He muttered something under his breath as he passed by her, brushing snow off his trousers with stiff fingers. She caught the faintest smirk on his lips before it vanished.

She followed him inside and pointed at the chair at the head of the table with a sharp tilt of her chin. “You sit. Don’t move unless it’s to eat.”

He did as told, sitting with a faint grunt, hands flat on the table like he wasn’t entirely sure how to rest.

“Had ranch foremen less bossy than you,” he murmured.

She didn’t turn. “And I bet they didn’t save your life while elbow-deep in blood.”

He tilted his head, a wry half-smile creeping at the edge of his mouth. “Fair point.”

The scent of frying bacon and warm bread came to his nose, and he sighed. He watched her move about the kitchen, the occasional creak of the floorboards under her feet, the soft rustle of her skirts, domestic sounds, nice sounds. Sounds he didn’t know he craved.

He cleared his throat, glanced at the hearth, then back at her. “Don’t suppose that plum trick works for grown men in the morning, too?”

She glanced over her shoulder, arching a brow sharp enough to cut butter. “Did you just call me a nightmare, Sheriff Barnes?”

“I would never, ma’am,” he said, slow and smooth, a crooked smile tugging at one corner of his mouth like mischief trying to surface.

“Good,” she replied, turning back to the stove. “Because if I were, you’d still be screaming.”

----

It was strange, seeing the head of the table occupied again.

She’d grown used to quiet breakfasts. To the silence of her own company. A single plate, a single mug, the occasional thump of a woodpecker on the siding. But now, there he sat.

Sheriff Barnes. With his shoulders drawn in like he didn’t quite trust the chair not to break beneath him. Elbows tucked close, and deliberate movements. A man not used to being watched while he ate.

He worked slowly through his plate, pausing after each bite like he was trying to remember how a man was supposed to eat among company. After the second forkful, he glanced at her grip on her utensil, then subtly adjusted his own.

When she reached out to offer more, he hesitated. Cast his eyes down with a flicker of indecision as he glanced at what remained on his plate.

“I won’t be offended if you want seconds,” she said lightly, watching him over the rim of her mug. “You paid for this food, Sheriff.”

He didn’t meet her eyes, but one corner of his mouth twitched, wry, self-deprecating. “Don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not.” She was already reaching for the pan. “That body needs all the nourishment it can get.”

As soon as the words left her lips, she stilled. So did he.

His head tilted ever so slightly, though his gaze stayed fixed on the table. The tips of his ears and his cheeks pinked under the stubble at his jaw. She busied herself with the spatula.

“For recovery,” she added, a touch too quickly.

He gave a faint nod and held out his plate in silent surrender. Still didn’t look at her. Just watched the checkered cloth like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.

She refilled the plate and set it in front of him with care. He murmured something that might’ve been “thanks,” but it barely made it past his throat.

After that, they ate in a comfortable silence. Just the clink of cutlery, the low sizzle from the stove. The wind brushing the windows in slow, sleepy passes.

It was Bucky who broke it first.

“Given I can stand and walk, and that woodpile didn’t kill me… reckon I’d be fine to ride. If I take it slow.”

She looked up. He wasn’t looking at her, just nudging a bit of egg across the plate like it might offer him an easier way to speak.

“I’m headin’ back to town tomorrow,” he added quietly.

She blinked. Toast halfway to her mouth.

“Oh,” she said softly. “I see.”

His fork paused mid-motion. “Been gone too long. Folks’ll start thinkin’ I ran off. Or got myself buried somewhere.”

She nodded once, pressing her lips into a small, tight line. “Makes sense. I’ll take you, then.”

“I was thinking of borrowing the mare. Ride her in. Come back later with the stallion.”

“That’s a lot of riding, Sheriff.” Her voice didn’t rise, but there was something in it now. Something firm. “Even if you’re feeling spry, that body’s still healing. Let me take you in the cart.”

He finally looked at her.

His brow twitched. “They’ll see us. Together. And like you said, people talk.”

She gave a dry little smile, brushing a crumb off the table. “We say I found you on the road. Headed into town for supplies. Gave you a ride. That’s all.”

He studied her face for a long moment. “You thought that up quick.”

She shrugged, folding her hands in her lap to still the fidgeting. “I’ve lived here long enough to know how to preempt a rumor. It’s a fine story. Neat. Believable.”

His jaw clenched, and something unreadable shifted in his eyes. “You don’t mind?”

She tilted her head. “Mind what?”

“That folks might think… something improper.”

The silence that followed was a breath too long.

“I know what I did. And you know what happened. I can live with the rest. I’m a widow, not a schoolgirl,” she said, in an even tone. “If I gave half a damn what people thought, I wouldn’t live out here alone with a shotgun and a few fruit trees.”

He huffed a breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Still, his eyes didn’t lift. He stared down at the edge of his plate, curling his fingers around the mug.

“Even so,” he said, softer, “I’d rather not have your name tangled up with mine.”

She watched him, then set her cup down with a gentle clink. “Well, it’s too late for that, Sheriff. You’ve been sleeping in my bed.”

He choked on his coffee.

Coughed hard, raising his fist to cover his mouth like he could maybe disappear behind it. The flush that climbed to his ears was impossible to miss.

“Right,” he rasped. “I- uh. That’s- true.”

She sipped from her mug, calm as anything. “Now that you’re better,” she said, almost absently, “can you tell me what happened to you?”

Across the table, he stiffened just a little, pausing his fork mid-air before he set it down neatly beside the plate. He looked at her, but not quite, more through her than at her.

“Was following a lead,” he said after a beat. “Cattle robbers. Had reason to believe they’d been riding east, crossing property lines without much concern.” He paused. “I think a few stayed behind to make sure I didn’t keep following. Or maybe…” His voice quieted. “Someone else used the distraction to take their chance. Either way…”

His jaw flexed.

She nodded once. “Is that something that happens… often?”

A faint crease appeared between his brows. “No,” he said. “I’m usually the one doin’ the tracking, not the one getting left in the snow.”

He tried for a chuckle -soft, empty- but it dissolved before it reached his throat. “Maybe I’m just getting old.”

“Is that so?” she asked, lightly. “How old are you, Sheriff?”

He hesitated. More than a moment.

“I don’t know.”

She blinked. “You don’t…?”

“Grew up in an orphanage.” He didn’t look at her. Just traced the edge of the mug with one thumb. “Nobody there cared enough to mark the day. As far as I know, I was six when I arrived. Maybe seven.”

Her expression softened, but she didn’t reach for pity.

“For what they told me,” he added, “I figure I’m thirty-something.”

“Well, that ain’t old.”

He snorted faintly. “Ain’t young either.”

“I’m thirty this year.” Her brow rose. “You callin’ me a hag?”

That startled something out of him, an actual look. His head lifted, his eyes widened. “No, ma’am. No. I- certainly not.”

She tilted her head, teasing. “Mm. My ego’s bruised now.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Tell you what,” she cut in, grinning. “You do the dishes, and you’re pardoned.”

He stared at her for a beat, then leaned back in his chair, twitching his lips. “Ma’am,” he murmured, “you are cunning.”

She stood up and walked toward the counter, dish in hand. Then turned slightly. “You know what, Sheriff?” she said, gently. “Call me by my name.”

His brow furrowed.

“You’re leaving soon,” she said. “But still. Feels strange, hearing ‘ma’am’ this, ‘ma’am’ that. After all that’s happened.”

She turned back toward the counter, but not before she caught the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

He cleared his throat quietly. “Alright.”

She slid a plate into the basin, and the water sloshed faintly.

“Alright, what?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder with a raised brow.

He sat very still for a beat, then ducked his head, the faintest curl of a smirk on his lips. His voice came low, a little rough.

“…Alright, Y/n.”

----

He never asked.

Not once.

But he watched. Not directly -never- but he noticed things. The way she muttered to herself when the drawer stuck, pulling at it frustrated with tight fingers. How she shook her head when the shutter didn’t catch again, clicking her tongue softly before she walked off with a basket on her hip. He’d hear the sigh when the pump handle needed coaxing, see the look on her face when she leaned over the gate, checking if the wood had held.

And then, quietly, he moved.

She’d step into the kitchen and find the drawer gliding smoothly, like it had never stuck a day in its life. The shutter would stay closed with a firm, satisfying click. The fence post would be upright again, reinforced with fresh nails and rope that hadn’t been there yesterday.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t remain nearby to be thanked. Just nodded once, maybe, when she noticed.

Sometimes, she’d catch him rubbing his ribs after hammering something into place. And she’d frown. He’d meet her look with blank eyes and a face so still it bordered on stubborn. Like he hadn’t done a thing worth scolding.

That afternoon, she caught him stepping back inside, sleeves damp from washing, his hair shoved behind his ears in loose, dark waves. He paused when he saw her.

“You know, Sheriff,” she said, resting one hand on the table, “I appreciate the diligence. Creeping around like a fix-it sprite, patching up every squeaky hinge and crooked thing in this house…”

He stood still, blinking once.

“…but there’s no need to strain yourself, really.”

He scratched the back of his neck, brushing the edge of his collar with his thumb. “Don’t like sittin’ still. Don’t like feelin’ useless.”

His tone was flat, but the flick of his fingers through his hair betrayed something else, unease, maybe. A fight not with her, but something else.

“Mm,” she said, not arguing. “You’re heading back to town tomorrow, trying to play whole again. Maybe take it easy today.”

He glanced toward the window and didn’t answer.

She stepped toward the counter. “Tell you what. If you’re so desperate to be useful, I’ve got three pots of stew and jam to preserve. You can sit down, rest those ribs, and help me jar them.”

He blinked again. “I’ve never done that before.”

“Perfect. I love a good experiment.” Her smile was soft, not teasing. Warm. “Everything’s ready. Just spoon it in, cork the jar, and don’t spill. Think you can handle that, Sheriff?”

He hesitated, just a beat. Then nodded.

“Yes, ma-” He caught himself. Cleared his throat. “Alright.”

----

He’d seen preserves before, lined up behind store windows, or clattering in the back of wagons, sold by traders with half their teeth gone and dirt under their nails. But he never thought about the making. Who poured them. Who watched them cool. Who decided what was sweet enough to keep.

Now, spoon in hand, he stared down at a jar of pears like it might break if he held it wrong. The syrup caught the light, rich gold, and his fingers moved with slow care as he settled the slices inside.

Across the table, she worked by muscle and memory. Smoothly. One ladle or a little more, one glance, cork, cloth, and set it aside. Her hands never paused.

He watched a while longer than he meant to, then cleared his throat.

“You do this often?”

She didn’t glance up. Just nodded. “Every year. I’ve got trees just past the house on the bit of land I kept. Apples, plums. Some late pears. What I don’t eat, I store.”

Another jar sealed, another one ready.

“What’s left over, I sell in town. To Mr. Bell of the store, and to Mrs. Marshall who bakes it into her pies. The meat jars stay here, though. Can’t sell what I have to buy first.”

He nodded faintly, looking to his own jar. He moved more slowly. Less confident. But the scent of syrup and sugar in the air calmed something in him. His hands, usually meant for holsters and reins, adapted without argument. One spoonful at a time.

It was quiet work. Repetitive. Soothing in a way that surprised him.

He wasn’t used to that. Peace that didn’t come with a price.

He set another jar down and wiped a thumb across the rim to keep it clean. The syrup clung warm to his skin.

“It’s…” He paused. Eyes narrowed a little in thought. “It’s nice to do.”

She looked up, finally, and smiled. “Yeah, it is.”

He rolled his sleeves higher to keep them from the syrup, baring the lean muscle of his forearms. Her eyes, without meaning to, caught on the constellation of small, circular scars that patterned the inside of his left arm. Oddly neat, like a trail of punctures stitched in wavering lines. She’d seen them before, faint and pale when she washed his unconscious body days ago, but there was something different now. The skin flexed and came alive over muscle and sinew.

She didn’t glance away when his gaze flicked up and caught her looking.

“That’s an unusual pattern,” she murmured. “Is it all right if I ask what happened there?”

He hesitated. Just the briefest pause. Then, he breathed through his nose. “Spurs,” he said plainly.

She blinked. Furrowed her brow. “Doesn’t look like someone stepped on you.”

He cleared his throat, returning his gaze to the jar like he was making sure every pear landed just right. “Some adoptin’ homes got physical when they wanted to make a lesson to stick. The mister -one of 'em- he didn’t like that I left a horse unswept before sundown. Took one of his spurs and went back and forth ‘til it sank in.”

Her hands stilled, hovering the ladle above the jar. She said nothing at first. Just breathed in through her nose. “How old were you?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Nine? Maybe ten.” Another scoop. Another pear. “Didn’t forget again, though.”

She didn’t look at him with pity. Just moved to gently cork the jar he’d finished, brushing his fingers in the pass.

His hand stilled around the lip of the jar, curling his fingers slightly as though he could still feel rough hands dragging him by the collar through dust and hay. The silence between them thickened until he broke it with the drag of breath through his nose.

"You talk... plurally. About the homes," she noted, her voice was careful, not cautious. Gentle, but not pitying.

He didn’t look at her, just passed the filled jar forward. Her fingers brushed his again.

“The orphanage had too many mouths to feed,” he said finally. “Didn’t care much for the kind of men who came lookin’ for boys to haul hay, run traps, clean stables. Said they were offerin’ an opportunity.”

She was staring at him, he could feel it. He rolled his sleeves further up his arms, leaning his elbows to the table now.

“Harvest season, branding, slaughter, when the work ended, most of us were tossed back like unwanted scraps. Some stayed longer if they worked harder. Or if they didn’t complain.”

Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. He went on, with his gaze fixed on the jar.

“You figure out real quick not everyone showin’ up on adoption day is lookin’ for a son or daughter.” His tone was calm, measured, but underneath it, she sensed it. Rage. Old, cold, and buried too deep to thaw.

She swallowed. “Did you... did you ever get a home?” she asked, voice lower than before. “Eventually?”

He was silent for a long beat, raising his shoulders with a slow inhale. “When I was old enough to fend for myself, and the chance came, I ran.”

The rain had started then, soft taps against the windows like hesitant fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she said, barely more than a whisper. “No child deserves to live through that.”

His mouth twitched, neither smile nor scowl. Just a crack in the wall.

A sudden thought popped into her head. “The laundry. Damn it,” she muttered, stepping back from the table. “I left it out.”

Without hesitation, he stood up. She turned toward the door and heard his boots behind her. Outside, the drizzle had thickened, silvering the world. She grabbed the lines, quickly, while he moved beside her, pulling down the damp shirts and twisted sheets.

By the time they stumbled back in, with damp clothes and misted hair, the kitchen smelled like warm pears and rain-drenched wool. She dropped the basket by the stove and turned to him.

He was cradling the last armful of sheets like something fragile, as water beaded on his forearms.

“Well,” she said, trying not to smile, “that was very good teamwork, Sheriff.”

He stood there a second too long, like he didn’t know what to do with himself now. Then he slowly handed her the sheets.

“I didn’t drop a single pin,” he muttered.

She laughed, and the sound made him look up at her. Then his eyes crinkled a little at the corners.

“You’re a natural,” she teased, stepping past him to drape the damp linens over the backs of the chairs and other furniture. “Who knew beneath the brooding lawman, there was a capable housewife just waiting to come out.”

“I’ll have you know I’m still brooding,” he said, straight-faced.

She turned to glance at him over her shoulder, with her hands on her hips, and quirked lips. “That so?”

He nodded once, slowly. “Very broody.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, rinsing water off her fingers, “think all that brooding might ease up a little if I let you eat some of the pears still on the pot?”

He glanced at her from under lowered lashes, then let a crooked smile break across his face. Wry, a little sheepish.

“Can’t promise,” he murmured, “but you can try.”

----

They did try.

After dinner, when the dishes were stacked and the fire had banked low, when the kitchen was settled into its night hush -creaking timbers, cooling stovetop- she leaned back in her chair and stretched.

“I was thinking,” she said, “if I’m dropping you in town tomorrow, we ought to go at an hour I’d usually run errands. Makes it easier to believe I found you on the road.”

He stilled. The spoon in his tea mug made a faint clink against the ceramic rim.

Right. That.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. The thought caught somewhere behind his tongue.

“I mean,” she continued, casually tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “I usually bring preserves around midmorning. If that works for your great return.”

He nodded, curling his fingers tighter around the mug, then easing as he set it down with more care than necessary.

“You sure you wanna be the one to take me?” he asked. “Told you I could ride. Come back later with the stallion.”

She gave him a knowing look. “You’d still show up in town riding my mare.”

He blinked. Shit. How did he miss that?

“True,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes dropped to the grain of the table.

“Don’t be so serious, Sheriff,” she cheered, nudging his boot lightly under the table. “What could anyone possibly say? I was headed to town, and I found you on foot. Simple. Respectable.”

She leaned forward, almost conspiratorial. “And don’t worry. I won’t ruin your reputation as the town’s most coveted bachelor.”

He looked at her like she’d thrown cold water down his collar. Frowned, shifted in his seat. “That’s not-” His hand dragged through his hair again. “I’m thinkin’ of your reputation.”

She tilted her head, teasing tone falling to something firmer. “Because I gave the sheriff a ride?”

“What’s the harm in that?”

He exhaled. Long. Measured. “You’ll find out sooner or later.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it. But he didn’t need to.

She went still, then leaned on the table with one arm.

He finally looked up, just a flicker.

“Do you know why they hired me?”

“I’d guess not for your jam-stuffing skills,” she offered, voice trying to be humorous, but it faded when he didn’t smile.

“I was a bounty hunter,” he said. “Then a vigilante. Rode with some fellas who figured the law was either too slow or too bought.” He paused. “They weren’t wrong.”

Her eyes didn’t narrow. Her lips didn’t twist.

He went on. “Got caught. I wasn’t proud of what they found. They could’ve hung me. Instead, they gave me a choice. Wear a badge, work out here, keep the dust quiet.”

His thumb ran along the side of his mug again.

“Didn’t seem like anyone else was eager to take the job.”

She pondered it for a moment. “And?”

He blinked, not expecting that. “And?” he echoed.

“Should I be scared of you?” she asked simply.

He stared at her like he couldn’t believe she’d said it that way. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”

“Do you regret what you did?” she questioned.

He hesitated. “Some of it. Not all.”

She folded her arms. “You weren’t a bank robber or a rustler. You didn’t hurt women or children. You hunted bad men before someone handed you a badge to make it legal.”

His mouth parted, but nothing came out. His fingers tapped once on the table, then stilled.

“I appreciate you tellin’ me,” she added gently. “But if that was supposed to scare me off, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

His mouth lifted at one corner, just barely. “Can’t say I’m disappointed.”

“You’re not a monster, Sheriff. Just a man who’s seen too much and did what he thought was right. World’s full of worse.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just watched her, unreadable. Then, low and rough, the words spilled out. “Still… some of the townsfolk don’t feel thrilled with my presence.”

She didn’t look away. “For having a sheriff who knows what he’s doing?” she asked, matter-of-factly. “Screw them.”

He blinked. Just once. But it was enough to show he felt that.

“I won’t shy away from being called your friend,” she said. “If that’s something you’re alright with.”

Blue eyes lifted in surprise, searching her gaze. “You’d call me that?”

She tipped her head with the smallest of nods. “You’ve earned it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. He exhaled through his nose, dropping his gaze briefly to his hands, then back to her.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “That’s more than alright. And... call me Bucky, when it’s the two of us."

"Isn’t your name James?" One brow arched, teasing, just a little sharper than before.

"James Buchanan, ma’-" He caught himself mid-honorific with a huff and a faint shake of his head.

"So, James 'Bucky' Barnes, huh?" she echoed, folding her arms, pretending to weigh it like a choice in the market. “Well, it sounds kind of dangerous.”

That drew the corner of his mouth up, slow and crooked, with a flicker of warmth. “Only to the wrong people.”

“Well, Bucky,” she said pushing up from the chair, exhaling softly, and stretching her arms high over her head. The fabric of her dress pulled snug across her chest, the cotton hugging the curve of her breasts, and he looked. Didn't glance. Looked longer than he should have.

She didn’t notice.

“It’s late,” she murmured, rolling her shoulders loose. “And I’m dyin’ to unpin my hair and get out of these boots.”

He nodded, but didn’t speak, not right away. His eyes trailed the sway of her hips after she turned, the curve of her waist. He imagined her standing in front of the mirror, with her hands at her nape, tugging the pins free one by one, letting her hair fall on her shoulders. Pictured brushing it aside, pressing his mouth against the spot behind her ear, where her pulse would flutter if she let him close. She’d smell like rain and woodsmoke and soft things no one had ever given him.

His jaw clenched. “Good night,” he managed.

She glanced back briefly, then disappeared into the hall.

He stayed rooted in place, flexing his hands against his knees, with the image of her undoing herself still vivid in his mind. He swallowed hard, wishing it were him, wishing he had the right to lean close, to loosen every fastening, to make her sigh his name.

Instead, he sat leaning forward in the dim room, elbows to knees, dragging both hands through his hair, trying not to want.

----

Their breaths curled pale from their mouths in the morning air as they moved around the cart, boots crunching over the brittle ground, fingers red with the cold.

She was fussing, naturally.

“You really shouldn’t be lifting-”

“I’m fine.” Bucky grunted as he set the last box into the back of the cart, arms flexing under his shirt. The crate hit the wood with a dull thud, and he straightened his back slowly, flexing his jaw as a small breath hissed between his teeth.

“Don’t got glass bones,” he muttered, brushing his hands on his thighs.

She gave him a look, crossing her arms under her shawl. “Just because you're made of stubborn doesn’t mean you're healed.”

Still, she didn’t stop him again, just huffed and disappeared into the house. When she returned, it was with a folded wool blanket in her arms, soft leather lining showing at the corners.

“For the legs. Cold’s worse when you're sittin’ still.”

He nodded once, took it from her, barely brushing her fingers in the pass, and put it in the cart. Then he turned and stepped back inside. When he returned, he was a different man.

The sheriff.

Waistcoat snug over a crisp white shirt, and long black coat sweeping his legs like a shadow. He’d strapped on the gun belt, with the holster riding familiarly against his hip, and the brim of his hat cast a shade in his eyes. He looked taller. Dangerous. Distant. She stared for a second too long before she realized she was doing it.

“Well,” she managed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I guess I’ll have no trouble selling the story that I found you coming back from a job.”

He didn’t answer, just adjusted the collar of his coat, then looked at her beneath the brim.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he rasped.

She climbed onto the driver’s seat, and he stepped up beside her. She put the blanket over their thighs, and for a heartbeat, there was nothing but the sound of the wind through the bare trees.

Their thighs bumped. She cleared her throat. He didn’t move.

It wasn’t the first time they sat shoulder to shoulder, but somehow it felt different.

The mare clucked forward, hooves biting into the frost-hardened road. As the cart rolled over a rut, the wheel dipped deep, and she tipped sideways with a soft gasp, straight into him.

He caught her without thinking.

One arm came up, firm around her waist, the other bracing against the back of the seat.

She supported herself with her palm on his chest, breath caught halfway in her throat, close enough to feel the heat of his body even through the leather of his coat.

“Sorry,” she said, voice a little thinner than usual.

“S’alright,” he murmured, brushing his thumb once against the curve of her hip before letting go.

She pulled back just enough to sit upright again, but their legs kept still pressed together under the blanket, hip to knee, shoulder to shoulder.

Neither of them moved

It was a small bench. A cold morning. A practical thing.

But his weight beside her, the heat of his body, the scent of pine and saddle soap clinging to him like a second skin, it all felt far from practical.

Every bump on the road rocked them a little closer. Every turn made her more aware of how little space existed between them.

And he didn’t move away. Didn't shift to reclaim distance. Just sat still and quiet, with his gloved hands curled against his knees.

As they rolled toward the outskirts of town, the buildings rose slowly out of the frost, fences and rooftops touched gold by the weak morning light.

She shifted a little, more from nerves than chill, and looked over at him.

“Well… this is it.”

He nodded, adjusting the rifle strap across his chest. “I reckon I told you before,” he said, eyes still fixed ahead, “but I owe you. I don’t forget that kind of thing.”

“Don’t mention it,” she replied. “Any neighbor would’ve done the same.”

“No,” he said, this time turning to look at her. The hat didn’t hide his eyes now. “They wouldn’t. Not like you did.”

Her fingers clenched on the reins.

“If you ever find yourself in trouble,” he continued, his tone rough by something that had nothing to do with the cold, “if anyone gives you trouble, you come find me. Even if you think it’s nothin’.”

She laughed once. “I can’t have the sheriff ridin’ in every time someone forgets their manners-”

“I’m not sayin’ it as the sheriff.” His gaze didn’t waver. “I’m sayin’ it as a man.”

Her voice caught in her throat.

“Okay,” she managed to murmur.

The main street opened before them, busy with the daily rhythm, boots on wood, doors swinging open, the clang of a distant hammer. Heads turned. Some folks nodded politely. Others watched longer than courtesy allowed.

She slowed the mare in front of the sheriff’s office. The wheels creaked to a stop.

He shifted beside her, brushing off the blanket slowly before rising. She felt the space he left behind was too wide.

His boots hit the packed dirt, and he reached into the cart to grab the small sack she’d readied, two jars of pear preserve inside, and some apple pie.

He didn’t look at her at first. Just adjusted the strap of his rifle and touched the brim of his hat.

“Goodbye, ma’am,” he said formally.

She swallowed. Her knuckles whitened on the reins. “Goodbye, Sheriff Barnes.”

He paused. Just for a beat. Like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t know how. His gaze remained on her, not her face, but her silhouette against the morning light.

Then he turned.

His coat flared in the wind as he stepped onto the boardwalk, long and black like a curtain drawing closed. She watched him go, hands still curled on the reins, still feeling the heat under the blanket where his thigh had been pressed against hers.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @pandaxnienke @whitewolfluvr @webbedwonders @ddrewcameron @globetrotter28 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @maryevm @nojudgmentjustsupport @jaderabbitt @hi172826 @littlesuniee @lonelyghosts-stuff @vxllys @mrsalexstan @winter107soldier

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #Sheriff!Bucky #Sheriff! Bucky Barnes #Western! Bucky Barnes #A Star Without a Sky

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vunblr · 24 days ago

Text

A Star Without a Sky (#1)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Word Count: About 6.7k.

Note: Old West Bucky, just because.

She forced herself out of the warm bed, groggy and resentful of the cold that crept from every crack in the old wood walls. The sun had been up for hours. Errands -postponed too many times- piled at her with obligation, so she folded back the quilt with a sigh and let her bare feet hit the frigid floor.

The curtains were stiff from the cold when she opened them, but the frost-laced glass flared gold for a moment. Maybe the sun would heat the place a little, while she got the stove going. She rubbed her arms through the sleeves of her nightdress, crossed to the kitchen corner, and bent to arrange kindling into the firebox. The cold bit into her hands as she fumbled with the matches with a curse.

Then she caught a movement in the corner of her eye.

She promptly turned toward the window, and through the murky pane, she saw a figure moving slowly across the edge of the wild hay meadow. Long black coat dragging in the snow, matching black hat pulled low. He didn’t look like much, -no rifle, no saddle- but the way he walked made her breath stutter, just a little.

Not like a man who meant harm.

Like a man trying hard to stay on his feet.

One of his knees buckled, sudden and ugly, sending him listing sideways. The white behind him bloomed red.

She pressed a hand to the glass. He tripped on something under the drift -maybe a stone, maybe nothing at all- and crumpled, hard, face-first into the snow. He didn’t move. The black of his coat sprawled out like an ink stain across the white.

She didn’t think. She just moved.

----

She reached him just as the wind picked up, scattering loose snow across the meadow in dry, hissing gusts. Kneeling beside him, she pressed a hand to his shoulder, the fabric of his coat was soaked through and cold to the touch. He flinched like a spooked horse, jolting upright onto his knees and lifting his head, looking at her with an impossibly blue gaze.

Then his eyes rolled back.

His body folded on itself, collapsing again into a heap of dark leather, blood, and limp limbs.

She panicked. He was going to die out here.

She hooked her hands under his arms and tried to lift him, grunting with the effort, but he was heavy and slack and offered nothing to work with. The cold was stealing him by the minute. Her breath fogged fast as she scanned for something -anything- and then, she scooped a fistful of snow, and smeared it across his face.

He groaned, low and miserable. Still alive.

Good.

She slapped him. Hard.

"Wake up!"

His head jerked. A curse slurred past cracked lips. He pushed himself onto one elbow, swaying, and that was enough. She ducked under his arm and dragged it across her shoulders, locking her other arm around his waist. He stank of blood and iron, sweat and gunpowder, and her knees almost gave under his weight, but she held fast.

“We are going to the house now,” she hissed against the sharp wind, with her cheek brushing against his stubble. “I need you to move, because I can’t do this alone.”

He grunted, barely conscious, but his legs obeyed enough to shuffle, stagger. Step by step, they moved toward the porch. His hair fell across her face, chestnut strands tickling her lashes as she leaned into him. She was too focused on the door, on the fire she hadn’t lit, on the bed she’d just left, when something hard knocked against her hip.

She froze. Shifted. Felt it again.

A pistol. Holstered under his coat.

So, not unarmed after all.

----

She wrestled the quilt aside just in time before they toppled onto the bed, both hitting the mattress in a graceless heap, with his full weight sagging over her until she twisted, shoved, and managed to roll him off her with a grunt. The room was freezing, the stove still unlit, but she felt sweat prickling along her spine.

"Don’t die," she muttered, more to herself than him, as she bent and started on his coat. The leather stuck to his body, frozen and soaked through with blood. She peeled it back, inch by inch. Waistcoat next, then the shirt. His chest was heaving shallow, and his skin was pale beneath the streaks of dirt and gore. She fumbled fast, tearing open fabric until she found the wound, just under the ribs, on his left side.

“Damn it.”

A neat hole. Clean, if blood could ever be called clean.

She pressed her hand under his back and felt the sticky mess there, another hole, just above his waist. She exhaled, shaky.

"Through and through."

It was something.

Blood still pooled thick beneath him, though. He'd been walking like this. Bleeding like this. God only knew how far he'd come or how long he'd been dragging himself through the cold like a ghost looking for somewhere to fall.

She reached for the basin on the table, filled it with what water hadn't frozen overnight, and tossed in a kettle from the shelf. It’d be warm in a minute if she got the fire going.

But first…

She went back to him. Looked at him.

His shoulder-length dark hair clung damp to his temple. His face was unshaven, with a jaw that looked carved from stone. He looked hard. Worn. Tired. The kind of face that had seen years too fast.

Her gaze drifted lower, to his torso, lean muscle beneath the blood, scars and bruises, and something caught the light.

A glint of metal, nestled against his side, half-tucked under the folds of his waistcoat. She reached for it.

A silver star. Dull, scratched, but unmistakable.

A sheriff badge.

She stared at it for a long beat.

A sheriff was bleeding out in her bed

----

She cleaned the blood away with water and vinegar, soaked into a rag until it turned rust-brown, wiping carefully like she could scrub death off him with enough effort. The bullet hole wept dark blood with each shallow breath he managed to pull in. He hadn’t stirred since she got him into the bed. Not even when she pressed down to see how deep the wound ran.

She lit a candle and threaded the needle by its shaky light. The thread was thick and waxed -meant for mending saddle leather, not flesh- but it would hold. She'd done this before.

Dozens of times.

The needle pierced skin, and her hands didn’t tremble. Not once.

She'd stitched up gashes, tears, and ugly farm accidents when Cole had come limping in from the fields with blood on his shirt and his mouth twisted in pain. She could still hear his voice, grumbling softly while she worked, trying to distract her.

Cole.

If he were alive, he’d be the one dealing with this. Would’ve hauled the stranger in himself, dragged him out of the snow with strong arms, and laid him out with confidence, not panic.

But Cole had been dead for two years.

Two winters of silence, of watching the fields change and learning how to do what needed doing whether or not it broke her.

These were the cards.

And this was the hand she played.

She tied off the last stitch and cut the thread with a scissor. Then she sat back, wiped her palms on her nightdress, and stared down at the sleeping lawman bleeding on her sheets.

She uncorked the turpentine with numb fingers and poured it straight onto the wound. He flinched -just a twitch, not enough to wake- but his body jerked like it knew how to scream even if he couldn't.

His face had gone gray, and his lips, the color of ash. Too much blood gone. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth and thought, hard.

He needed something in him. Something warm.

She stumbled into the pantry, shivering in her nightdress, and pulled down the bottle she’d never used. Bought it in hope, and tucked it away when that hope became vain. She filled a pot with milk from the day before, added water to thin it, and honey to sweeten it. The teat was stiff from disuse, but it softened as she worked it between her fingers.

Back in the bedroom, she pressed it to his mouth.

He didn’t drink. His lips parted slack, and the milk dribbled out, warm and wasted down his chin. She cursed low under her breath, brushed her hair from her eyes, and did what had to be done.

She climbed onto the bed.

With effort, she shifted his weight, stuffing pillows behind him until he was propped just enough, and then settled beside him on her knees, feeling his head heavy against her chest. She cradled the back of his skull with her forearm, grabbed the bottle, and rubbed his throat gently with her empty hand.

He groaned. Not awake. But there.

She tilted the bottle again, angled it just so, with her fingers still coaxing along his throat.

This time, he drank.

Suckled hard, desperate, and instinctual. Like his body wanted to live even if his mind wasn’t aware of it. She didn’t speak at first, just watched, mesmerized by the motion, the hollow pull of his cheeks, the faint rise of color in them.

When he paused, she rested her hand on his cheek. Cool, rough with stubble. "You’re doing good," she murmured, low and close to his ear. "Come on, just a little more."

No answer, but he kept drinking.

And she stayed like that, curled around a half-dead lawman, feeding him from a bottle meant for a child she never had.

----

After three days, she had a routine. She pushed the door open with her hip, balancing the basin, a clean rag, and the bottle in her arms. Her boots thudded softly on the floorboards, and she didn’t even glance toward the bed at first, she was halfway to setting the basin down when she felt his eyes on her.

He was awake.

Propped up slightly on the pillows, with the blanket bunched at his waist, and his face still pale but alert. His blue eyes were sharp, almost piercing.

They stared at each other for a long second. Neither moved.

"Where am I?" he rasped.

"At my house," she answered, calm but cautious, tightening her grip on the bottle. "You’re safe here."

His shoulders didn’t relax. “And you are…?”

“Y/n. You collapsed inside my property and I brought you here.”

He blinked slowly, as if chewing the words, and then glanced at the bottle in her hand. His expression changed to one more open. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, stiff and formal. “I’m sorry for inconveniencing your family, being another chore-”

“Oh, it’s just me,” she cut in, with a lighter tone than she really felt. “You’re only disrupting my less-than-exciting week.”

His gaze dropped again to the glass bottle.

She followed his eyes. Paused. And then felt the heat crawl up her neck.

“Oh. That’s why you thought…” She fumbled with the bottle and nearly dropped it. “Actually, I made this for you.”

His brows pinched together, slow and confused. “Why…?”

“I- um- I've been feeding you with this. Since you couldn’t swallow, and I figured… you needed the strength.”

His expression shifted, his eyes widened, and a faint red crept over the tops of his cheekbones. “That so?”

“You were so weak,” she hurried, mortified. “You couldn’t even hold your head up. And you needed nourishment, and I didn’t know what else to-”

“All right.” He lifted a hand, sluggishly but firm. “I understand the whole picture. No need to…”

He made a vague gesture, then dragged his palm down over his face and groaned low in his throat. The thought of this fine woman kneeling beside him, cradling his head, easing a damn baby bottle between his lips, nearly made him wish he'd bled out in the snow.

But he didn’t. And now he owed her.

“Thank you, ma’am.” His voice was softer now. Less wary. “I’m Sheriff Barnes. James Barnes. I’ve been in town for three months now. Never saw you before.”

She crossed her arms, leaning on the bedpost. “Oh, I don’t go too often to town and surely didn’t cross paths. Maybe that’s why.”

He nodded slowly, with his eyes still on her. He went quiet for a beat. Then-

“I imagine I made quite an entrance.”

She shrugged like she hadn’t spent the last few days feeding him in her arms. “Well, not every morning one finds a dying man at home.” She fiddled with the rubber teat, until it came loose with a soft pop. “Here. I already made it… it'll do you good-”

He took it with a slow nod, brought it to his mouth, and drank. Just a sip, just enough to coat his throat, but the moment the warm sweetness touched his tongue, that creeping, cursed heat returned. His ears burned. He could still imagine her hand at his jaw, coaxing, soothing. Her soft voice whispering encouragement like he was some wounded thing, some child.

“So you live out here all alone?” he asked quickly, trying to think on anything else.

“I lived here with my husband.” Her tone didn’t waver. “He died two years ago.”

He straightened up a little. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

A pause.

“I’m not that alone. I rent most of the land to my two neighbors. They’re decent folks. Help out from time to time, or their wives come around to chat when they want to gossip.”

“That’s good to hear.” He finished another sip and placed the bottle on the nightstand with a soft groan, and his muscles shifted in his bare torso, slow and deliberate. She noticed -of course she did- and quickly turned away, busying herself with the basin and gauze.

“I have to change the bandage now.”

“I can-”

“You can’t.” Her voice came out final. “You can’t be moving around yet or the stitches will tear.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I-”

“It is the first time I’ve had a man bleeding out on my bed,” she noted, crossing her arms and arching one brow. “So be a good sheriff and let me do this.”

He exhaled slowly and long, leaning back into the pillows with a look that said he knew better than to fight her. “Suit yourself.”

She dipped the rag into the vinegar water, but before she could begin, she paused. “Oh! before I start. Do you have to pee?”

He blinked at her. “What?”

“To pee, Sheriff Barnes. You know. That yellow-”

“Don’t say it.”

She gave him a flat look. “Well?”

He pressed his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I might need to use the bathroom, yes.”

“Alright.” She reached behind the nightstand and pulled out a dented tin jar with a handle, the kind that had seen use. She reached for the quilt.

His hand shot out, pinning the fabric down. “What are you doing?”

“You said you wanted to relieve yourself. I was going to-”

“Thank you, ma’am, but I won’t… do it there.” His voice cracked slightly, with mortification blooming again hot on his face. Goddammit.

“You don’t have many options,” she said gently, matter-of-factly. “I wasn’t going to look, just put it down there. No offense, but how do you think I’ve been managing you until now? The jar is an improvement. I’ve had to put towels between your thighs and your-”

“Okay.” He stared at her, then at the quilt covering his hips, then closed his eyes with a grimace. “Okay. Just… gimme the thing. I’ll manage.”

She handed him the jar and turned her back with the dignity of a queen.

“Ask for help if you need it,” she said, with infuriating cheer.

He groaned like a dying man all over again.

----

He watched her as she worked -silent and focused- like the shape of his naked body didn’t bother her at all. Like the scars weren’t there. Her hands were warm against his chilled skin, and he hated how good that felt. Hated that he noticed.

A lock of hair slipped from her bun and swung against her cheek. She didn’t fix it. The sunlight caught on her skin, and the neckline of her work dress, on the soft outline of her breasts shifting beneath the fabric as she leaned forward. She didn’t wear a shawl. And damn him, it had been so long since a woman touched him without fear or hurry. Since he’d seen something so gentle up close.

“So…” He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you come into town more often?”

She didn’t look at him right away. Just kept cleaning the wound, slowly, squeezing the cloth over the basin.

“Well… I go. For groceries. Things I need from the general store.” She dipped the rag again and wrung it out. “But it feels strange, wandering alone. And there’s always someone bringing up Cole- my husband.”

He gave a small nod, not wanting to interrupt.

“And then, sometimes it’s the whispers,” she added, quieter. “Men think I don’t hear ’em. The young widow who lives alone out there, renting to men, with no husband or family around. Must be doing more than sewing curtains.”

He stiffened and frowned.

She smiled, small and humorless. “People get real creative when they don’t have anything better to do.”

“And you just let ’em?”

“What should I do, sheriff? March in and shout I’m not fucking the tenants?” She shook her head as she wrung the cloth out. “Anyway, since I’m already damaged goods…” She shrugged. “They’re not so judgmental. Even save me a spot in church on Sundays.”

He watched her for a long beat.

“You’re not damaged,” he said, with a rough voice.

She chuckled. Couldn’t believe a man like him didn’t catch the meaning. “I’m not a virgin, sheriff. It’s a commodity I don’t have anymore. That’s why some of them talk, but in the end, it’s not like I could trick a man into something that’s not real. Pretend they’re the first and all that, since, well, it’d be odd for a widow to never have laid with her husband.”

Oh. That.

He felt the heat crawl up his neck like a stupid boy.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “in my opinion, ma’am, they ought to mind their own damn business. And if anyone says a word about the woman who saved my life… well, they won’t like how that ends.”

"Thank you,” she said softly, standing up and brushing her hands on her skirt. “Speaking of town, now that you're awake and probably can pass a couple of hours alone, I should go fetch the doctor," she suggested, looking at his tired face.

The smile vanished, and his body tensed under the quilt. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said. “You did a good job.”

“I’m no doctor, and neither are you.”

“I’ve been shot a couple times,” he muttered. “Seen more bullet wounds than a man should. In my experience, this looks promising.”

She arched a brow at him.

“I promise you, when I can mount I’ll borrow a horse and be off your back.” He murmured

“You may have a point. But it’s not about you being a bother, sheriff.” Her tone softened. “Isn’t it better if someone knows where you are? Just in case?”

“Actually… no.” His voice dropped a note. “Don’t mean to scare you, but if word spreads I’m here -injured and on the outs of town- some folks might see it as an opportunity to… take care of me permanently. If you catch my meaning.”

She did. And her stomach turned a little at the thought.

She nodded once. “Right. No doctor then.” Then she thought. “How about your wife?” she asked, keeping her voice casual. No ring on his finger didn’t mean he hadn’t left someone behind.

He gave a tired chuckle. “Ain’t a Mrs. Barnes out there to miss me. Maybe Deputy Wilson’ll shed a few tears.”

She looked down quickly, fiddling with the hem of her apron. Stupid, how relieved she felt.

“Maybe give word to your deputy, then?” she said, not quite looking at him as she rearranged the basin and cloth. “So he knows you’re alive and… maybe fetch you some clothing?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Yeah. That’s a good idea. I’ll write him a letter if it’s no trouble for you. Also…” He scratched at the scruff along his jaw, scanning the worn floorboards with tired eyes. “Could ask him to bring a rifle.”

She stopped tending him and tilted her head. “A rifle.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you, a man or an army?” She folded her arms, with a teasing tone in her voice. “You’ve already got two pistols and a pair of knives in my cupboard.”

He huffed out a breath, almost a laugh, or close to it. A flash of something that nearly passed for a smile curled one corner of his mouth. “The job comes with its risks.”

Looking at his wound, her eyes narrowed. “Can see that,” she murmured.

----

The fresh gauze and clean bandage were already in her hands, as she traced the rim of the wound with a featherlight touch of the cloth, with more tenderness than he expected, almost reverently. The muscles of his abdomen twitched under her fingers, and he cursed himself inwardly for the reaction.

“Sorry,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze. “I needed to dry the moisture.”

He wasn’t looking at her either, fixing his gaze somewhere behind her shoulder, clenching his jaw. That wasn’t precisely what hurt. “It’s... alright.”

She reached behind him. “Can you lift yourself just a little so I can wrap this around you? It'll be so much easier that way.”

“Yes, ma'am.” The words came through grit teeth.

He pushed himself up with trembling arms, catching his breath in his throat from the flare of pain that tore down his side. But he held it. He had to. She’d been dragging his half-dead weight around like a sack of flour for days. If he could do this one simple thing, he'd damn well do it.

She wrapped the bandage with quick hands, brushing his sking with warm fingers. He focused on the sound of the wind rattling against the windowpane, the creak of the mattress, and the feel of her arm briefly pressed to his ribs.

But it was hard not to think about how fucking good her hands felt against his skin. The way her fingers ghosted over his ribs, and how the scent of her hair -lavender water and woodsmoke- drifted close, and he caught himself wanting to bury his fingers in that bun, and tug it loose just to set it free.

Pathetic. Half-dead in a stranger’s bed and his touch-starved, half-feral body had the gall to ache for more.

She could feel his stare, like a weight. It made her fumble. When he’d been unconscious, it was easier. He wasn’t a man then, just a body in need of tending. She could wash him, move him, press cloth against his skin, and ignore what it meant. But now… now he was watching her, and his body wasn’t slack anymore. His breath caught at her touch. And he was handsome, damn it. That didn’t help a bit.

She forced her hands to finish, too quick, too clinical. “There you go,” she muttered helping him lean back into the pillows. “I’ll fetch you pen and paper so you can write the deputy.”

“Maybe... it'd be better a pencil,” he rasped. “Ma’am, I already bled on your sheets, don’t wanna stain ’em with ink.”

She blinked, then smiled despite herself. “That is very considerate of you. Thank you.”

He just nodded, slow and heavy-lidded. His face was unreadable, but the tips of his ears had turned red.

----

She entered the bedroom with a glass of water and a plate of crackers. Her hair was combed into a neater bun now, tucked under a wide-brimmed hat tied beneath her chin with a pale ribbon. A thick shawl was draped over her shoulders, knotted above her chest, the heavy wool taming now the shape of her body he’d gotten used to seeing in thinner cotton.

Bucky blinked. She looked… respectable. Buttoned up like a preacher’s wife. He kind of missed the sight of her work dress, with the sleeves rolled up, and her hair slipping wild around her ears. Somehow this -this distance of her appearance- made the bed feel colder.

“Did you write the letter?” she asked, setting the plate and glass on the nightstand with a careful clink.

“Yes, ma’am.” He handed her the folded paper. “Deputy Wilson should be at the office. If not, I wrote his address there for you.”

She tucked the note into her satchel and glanced at him. “Alright. Do you need anything else?”

“No, ma’am. Just… sleep.”

“Seems fair. You just woke up.” She reached for her gloves. “I’ll try not to linger much, hm? So you’re not here alone too long.”

He nodded. Alone’s the usual state of things anyway.

“Careful on the road, ma’am,” he said instead. “Put a blanket up over your legs.”

That got a soft breath of laughter from her. “Well now, ain’t that thoughtful.”

He didn’t answer, just watched her as she pulled the shawl tighter and walked out.

----

The afternoon light spilled gold across the dirt path as her cart clattered into town, with the wheels creaking softly over the uneven road. A few townsfolk tipped their hats or nodded her way. Mr. Granger from the tannery, old Miss Routh hobbling along the storefronts, and she nodded back, polite, reserved. The wind tugged gently at her hat ribbon.

She pulled the cart at a short distance from the sheriff’s office and tied the reins to the hitching post, patting the mare’s neck once before stepping down. Her boots crunched against the packed earth and dirty snow as she made her way toward the squat brick building, with its door half open. The scent of tobacco and dust met her first.

Inside, who she think it was Deputy Sam Wilson looked up from where he sat at the desk, chewing through a sandwich. He froze, mouth half-full, eyes wide with surprise.

“Oh- uh- morning, ma’am. Beg your pardon, I-”

She raised a hand before he could scramble upright. “No need to fuss, deputy. You go on.”

He swallowed and wiped his hands on a kerchief.

She hovered by the desk a moment, smoothing a fold in her shawl before reaching into her satchel. “Sheriff Barnes asked me to give you this.” She offered the folded letter, a little hesitantly.

Sam quirked a brow and took it from her fingers. As he unfolded the page, his expression shifted: surprise morphing into concern, then loosening into something softer as he read the last lines.

“Well, that explains the absence,” he muttered with a huff, setting the paper down. “Man always did have a knack for showing up bloodied and half-frozen like it was a hobby.”

She gave a little chuckle, folding her arms lightly. “He’s been... decent company. Quiet. Polite. If he’s trouble, he’s not shown it.”

Sam leaned back in the chair, and laughed at that. “Ma’am, I don’t know who you’ve got laid up in your spare bed, but that sure doesn’t sound like the James Barnes I work with. Grumpier than a bear with a sore tooth most days.”

She smiled, a little more relaxed now. “Well, then I suppose the snow knocked some manners into him.”

He stood with a grunt and disappeared into the back room. She heard the clatter of a cabinet, the rustle of canvas, and then he returned with a wrapped bundle, long, narrow, and unmistakable even beneath the cloth. He laid it on the desk and tied the covering snug with firm hands.

“His rifle,” he said, nodding toward it. “Lost it, he said?”

“Snow buried it. Or carried it off. Either way, it’s gone.”

“Well, he’ll be glad to have this one. Tell him to sit tight. I’ll keep things running over here until he’s back on his feet.” Sam tapped the letter with two fingers, then watched as she reached for the rifle.

He lifted a hand. “Wait a moment, please.”

She paused, puzzled, as he turned and disappeared into another room, this one closer than the back storage, maybe the Sheriff’s quarters. There was a muffled sound of rummaging, drawers opening, and something heavy shifting. Then he returned with a small leather satchel in his hand. He set it down on the desk with a soft clink: the unmistakable chime of coin against coin.

Her brows drew together. “There are no shops on the road for him to-”

“No, ma’am,” Sam said gently, already anticipating her. “This’s not for him. He asked me to give this to you. For the inconvenience.”

She shook her head, taking a step back. “I can’t accept that.”

“He figured you’d say that,” he cut in, folding his arms over his chest. “And insisted. Said to tell you he’s not the sort to eat a woman out of house and home without paying properly.”

She stood still.

Sam gestured to the satchel. “I’ve seen that man come back from a week on the trail, and let me tell you, when he starts eating again, it’s like a plague of locusts. He’ll feel guilty as soon as he can stand upright for long. Just take it, ma’am.”

She hesitated for a moment longer, then sighed and stepped forward, picking up the pouch. It was heavier than she expected. She tied it to the inside of her satchel with care.

“Thank you, deputy.”

He gave her a nod and an earnest smile. “You let me know if he gets outta line. I’ll come drag him back myself.”

----

She eased the door open with her shoulder, careful not to let the parcel slip from beneath her arm. The cabin was quiet, steeped in the scent of faint wood smoke. The fire had burned low, and the ash grayed the edges of the hearth. She shut the door with a soft press, set the wrapped rifle, satchel, and products down on the table, and poured water into the kettle, placing it over the coals.

Then, she walked quietly down the hall.

He was awake, barely. His eyes tracked her slowly as she entered the room. though his face stayed slack with exhaustion. The tension in his shoulders and weird posture gave away that he’d tried to push himself up and lost the will halfway. His breathing was shallow through his nose.

“I’m back. You alright?” Her voice was soft, instinctively hushed, already drawing closer to his bedside.

He blinked once, then nodded. “Didn’t set the place on fire, so… yeah.”

She gave a soft, breathy snort and pressed the back of her fingers to his forehead. His skin was cool to the touch. No fever.

“I brought your rifle. And some fresh things from the grocer,” she said, shedding her shawl and draping it over the chair. “Deputy Wilson gave me coin. From you. I told him I didn’t need it, but he said you’d pitch a fit if I came back empty-handed.”

His gaze drifted to the little satchel she’d carried in. “Didn’t want you footing the cost. Feeding me. Patching me up. It’s already too much.”

“Well,” she said, undoing the hat lace, “I used some of it to buy food. He said you eat like a bear after hibernation.” She glanced at him and gave a crooked smile. “I’ll make soup in a bit.”

A flicker of a smirk crossed his face, faint as a shadow, then gone. His voice came rough, almost sheepish. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She glanced up, straightening. “You don’t have to thank me every time I do something decent, sheriff. That’ll get exhausting for both of us.”

He looked at her then, for a long moment, with heavy-lidded eyes and something unreadable flickering there behind the pain. “Force of habit, I guess.” Then, quieter: “I didn’t want to make trouble.”

She stepped to the bedside and folded the blanket down from his ribs, careful not to pull at the dressing. Her fingers brushed the edge of the gauze, checking for dampness. “You’re not trouble,” she said plainly. “You’re injured. If I didn’t want to deal with the mess, I wouldn’t’ve dragged your bleeding body through the door, would I?”

That made him exhale something between a laugh and a wince.

“I’ll get the soup started,” she said, smoothing the blanket back over him with her palm, pausing halfway up his chest. Her hand lingered a moment, just a beat, then withdrew. She hesitated near the foot of the bed, then nodded toward the old tin jar next to the nightstand. “Do you have to… you know. Use the jar?”

His gaze darted away, and he clenched his jaw, sensing his cheekbones ruddy with embarrassment. “…Yeah.”

“Alright. Can you manage it on your own like before, or do you need-?”

“I’ll manage, ma’am.”

----

From where he lay, too battered to do more than breathe and not split his wound open, he could hear the creak of floorboards as she crossed from the little guestroom -where she seemed to sleep now- to the kitchen, the brief creak of a cabinet opening, the clink of tin on enamel. Water being poured. Her voice, low, warm, humming something, a tune to pass the time.

He let his eyes fall shut. Not from sleep. From the weight of the situation. From the foreign comfort of knowing someone else was taking care of the fire, the lighting, the food.

Then the smell hit his nose, onion, garlic, maybe a touch of rosemary, something hearty and meaty.

Christ, when was the last time he’d had a meal that wasn’t lukewarm beans or the dry-ass bread some rancher shoved into his hands after a day of work? Before the hotel deal, it had been mostly tinned shit: whatever could sit on a shelf for two winters without sprouting something alive. Since coming to town and becoming sheriff, the hotel owner had insisted on bringing him food daily. He didn’t trust the old man’s idea of nourishment, meat stringy as tendon, coffee like mud, potatoes with the consistency of river clay. But he had worst.

Still… none of it held a candle to the smell in this house.

His stomach gave a weak groan of approval, then turned on him for remembering the chalky paste they used to serve at the orphanage. Gruel. Oatmeal so thin it wept down your throat and stuck to your throat like lard. He remembered trying to swallow around it, trying to keep his tongue from touching the roof of his mouth just so the bland texture wouldn’t coat everything. He made a face. That shit had been the closest thing to punishment without a whip they had. Even now, decades later, his mouth remembered the dull horror of its taste.

Now, for the first time in a long time, he felt the ghost of something he hadn't dared name, longing, maybe. Or homesickness. The cruel kind. The one you feel when you realize you’ve never really had one.

----

She came in slowly, with the enamel bowl balanced carefully on a wooden tray, and the warm, savory promise of meat, veggies, and a thick slice of bread, with a golden and imperfect crust perched beside it. She crossed the room, and sat beside the bed with her knees nearly touching the mattress.

"You can manage or-"

"Yes, ma'am."

She gave a short nod, setting the tray aside on the nightstand and sliding an arm behind his shoulders and chest to help him sit. Her palms were warm, and his skin twitched where her fingers brushed it, his ribs, and the slope of his shoulder. It shouldn’t matter, not after she'd cleaned and seen all his body, and bandaged him. But for some reason, this felt different.

Maybe because he was watching her now. Maybe it was because he wore that ragged charm like a second skin, paired with unpolished courtesy.

“Here we go,” she murmured, settling the tray over his thighs.

“Try to go slow. It’s been days since your stomach held anything more than milk. Don’t want it coming back up.”

She turned to leave, but then paused, catching on the shape of his mouth, the rough way he held the spoon, wary of every gesture, like his body didn’t quite trust itself.

And there it was again.

The memory, vivid and close. The warmth of his weight slumped against her chest. Her hand curled at the base of his skull, her fingers tangled in sweat-damp hair. The way his throat worked helplessly when she coaxed him to swallow. His lips around the rubber teat of the bottle, desperate and fevered. How close she’d held him. How instinct had guided her words, with soft, gentle encouragements, like a mother to a baby, except it hadn’t felt maternal. Not then. Not now.

She felt the heat bloom in her cheeks and turned away quickly, clearing her throat.

“I’m going to eat my share,” she announced, too casually. “I’ll come back later to pick up the plate. Won’t offer you seconds today, let’s see how your stomach reacts to this.”

He didn’t answer right away, bringing the trembling spoon to his mouth.

Paused.

Swallowed.

His eyes drifted half-closed for a second like he was relishing the taste. He looked at her then, with a ghost of a smile on his face. “Thank you.”

He waited until her footsteps faded down the hall before letting the spoon hover again over the soup. The steam curled into his face, coaxing something low and needy in his gut. The scent -fresh vegetables, meat boiled down to silk- threatened to undo him more than a bullet ever could. It was good. Not just edible, not just hot. Good.

Goddamn.

His hand trembled weakly, but he managed another mouthful. His whole body urged him to shovel it in, to tip the bowl and gulp it down like an animal, but he didn't. Couldn’t. He knew how this worked. The second he gave in to the desperation, was the second his stomach would revolt, and then she’d be back, cleaning his vomit off the sheets.

He wouldn’t put her through that.

So, he paced himself. Spoon by spoon. Each swallow was a battle against the part of him that still lived as he’d die with an empty belly. The part that remembered starvation not as a story but as a sensation tattooed behind the ribs.

He let his eyes drift shut after the third or fourth spoon. The flavor dragged bad memories of meals eaten on cold steps, hoarded crusts, and bitter coffee watered down to stretch for two days. This was also not that hotel swill they shoveled into him because it came with the badge, not the canned shit he kept in his desk at night.

His mind wandered, tracing the fight.

There’d been five. No insignias, no uniforms. Thought they’d found easy prey. Maybe they had. Still, he didn’t go down soft. The pistols had emptied first, then the blade, then his goddamn fists. They had shot his horse. He remembered that clearly. Heard the scream, the crash of its knees giving up.

And then the rest got murky.

But he must’ve finished it. Must’ve finished them, because if they were alive, they’d have sniffed their way here by now. It’d been four days, and no one came knocking. No creak on the porch. No shadow against the curtains. Just the soft noises of the ma’am in the other room, humming.

Still. He didn’t regret dragging his broken ass to the kitchen cupboard when she was away. Nearly passed out, but he'd found what he needed. The Colt was back in hand, tucked under the pillow. Cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

He took another spoonful. Let it sit in his mouth. Thought about the way she’d held him, how careful her hands had been, how warm her eyes were.

She wasn’t afraid of him. Not yet.

That was the worst part.

Next Chapter

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