#female gunslinger

[westerndreamin]

Okay y'all. Been working on this Red Dead Redemption fic since the summer. Finally feel like I have this first part ready to post. I've not come up with a title I like. Suggestions a welcome.

Word count: 12,790

CW: brief mentions of animal death, injuries inflicted by wolf mauling, minor character death, mentions of the Donner Party and Franklin Expedition, probably more that are escaping me right now.

Colter

The wind howled, snow coming down in sheets. Three days of this peculiar weather. It was May, if it snowed at all it shouldn’t be sticking like it was; then again we was far up in the Eastern Grizzlies and late snowstorms weren't unheard of; even in mid May. I was riding behind the lead wagon, my horse, like me, exhausted from the flight from Blackwater. At least behind the wagon we were sheltered from the worst of the wind. Someone stepped down from the wagon…the Reverend.

“How is he, Reverend?” I asked.

“Abigail says he's dyin',” came the Reverend's response before moving to tell the driver of the wagon.

I knew Davey was dying. Had known since helping Abigail tend to the wound. Just didn’t have the heart to voice anything other than reassurances that he'd be alright. Being gut shot was a death sentence, it was just a matter of one's will to live and how much internal bleeding was happening. Periodically, the dying man's moans of pain could be heard over the din of the blizzard.

“Miss Heyes.” It was the Reverend again.

I nodded in acknowledgment so he would go on.

“Dutch wants to see you for a moment.”

“Thanks, Reverend.” I allowed him to step back up onto the back of the wagon before urging my horse out around and to the front of the wagon to speak to our leader.

“…Just hope the law got as lost and turned around as we have,” I heard Mr. Matthews say as I came up even with the front of the wagon.

“Mr. Matthews, Mr. Van Der Linde,” I greeted.

“Ah, Miss Heyes,” Dutch returned. “I sent Arthur out ahead to scout for shelter. Should have met back up by now. Take a lantern and see if you can find him.”

“And lead him back?” I asked. All I got in response was a nod and was handed a lit lantern. Again, I nodded. “See you soon,” I said before riding off, alone into the storm.

Even with the light of the lantern, visibility wasn’t ideal. Calling out was nigh on useless because of the wind, which I was now feeling full force without the wagon blocking most of it. I pulled my horse up to let her rest for a moment before continuing on. If we kept going like this she wouldn’t last much longer; I probably wouldn’t last much longer without her. “It’s okay, girl,” I murmured, patting her neck. “Just hang in there a little bit longer. Hopefully, Mr. Morgan has found a place for all of us to rest up for a while.” Guilt-ridden, I gave her a gentle kick and on we went.

“Arthur!” I called, though it seemed to be drowned out by the wind. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have used his first name as we weren’t all that well acquainted. I’d only been riding with this group for four or five months…less time then even the newest full members. I was little more than a camp follower.

“Who goes there?” I could just hear the question over the wind. The voice was unmistakably that of Mr. Morgan.

“Me, Emma,” I called back, hoping he'd be able to hear.

“Miss Heyes?” I could see him in the light of the lantern now. “Wha'chu doin’ away from the caravan?”

“Was sent to look for your sorry ass.” It was a jest to try and keep the mood light. This weather had brought everyone’s spirits down. “Mr. Van Der Linde seemed to be under the impression you'd gone and ridden off the side of a cliff or something.”

I could just hear his light chuckle. I was glad this man I had come to know as fairly serious had found the humor in what I had said. “Found a place on up the trail for us to get out of this weather.” There was a slight pause and I saw his features grow more serious. “How's Davey?”

“It’s not good, Mr. Morgan. Be lucky if he survives the night,” Be lucky if Davey survives long enough to enjoy a little of being out of the cold… I answered somberly, leaving the thought unsaid. “Abigail and I done the best we could…” Seems like it won’t be enough.

“Did your best, s'all that matters.”

I nodded, but still felt guilty about not being able to do more.

“There. Miss Heyes. Arthur, any luck?” It was Mr. Van Der Linde. All the wagons had come to a stop in a line in front of us.

“Found a place up ahead where we can get some shelter; let Davey rest while he…y’know.” All seriousness had remained in Mr. Morgan's voice. A moment of silence…minus the wind passed. “Old mining town, long abandoned, ain’t too far. Let's go.”

I stayed up in front with Mr. Morgan as we got underway again. Seemed useless to resume my spot behind one of the wagons. I felt my horse stumble under me. Exhaustion was starting to catch up to her. “Just a little further, girl. You'll be able to rest soon, I promise,” I murmured, patting her shoulder.

“You good?” I was surprised by the concern in Mr. Morgan’s voice. It felt like he was concerned both for me and for my horse. It was unexpected, though greatly appreciated.

“Fine and dandy, Mr. Morgan.” I didn’t for one second believe what I said though. My horse was dying. I had raised her from a little filly. Her momma had been my Daddy's trusty sorrel mare. She stumbled again, this time losing her footing and going down. Luckily, I wasn’t pinned under her. The lantern broke and was quickly extinguished by the snow and wind.

“Miss Heyes, you okay?” Mr. Morgan asked.

I nodded as I got to my feet. “I am.” I knew my horse, my dear Rosa Clay, was not. I knelt back down by her head and gently stroked her forehead as she panted for breath. Grabbing her reins I tried to get her to stand up. To her credit, she tried…twice before giving a low wicker and looking at me with sad brown eyes. She was played out. I knew what I had to do, but dreaded it. “Can I see your revolver for a moment? Be kinder to put her out of her misery now than to let her slowly freeze….” My voice cracked.

The outlaw nodded and dismounted his own horse. “Say your goodbyes and gather your saddlebags and your rifle. I'll take care of this part.” He rested his right hand on the butt of the Colt on his hip to make his point. I was surprised by how sympathetic his tone was; like he was speaking from experience, and that experience had been fairly recent.

I was glad we were a bit ahead of the wagons. I was sure they would be able to hear the gunshot over the wind when it rang out and would come running expecting trouble. I stroked Rosa's forehead and kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry, girl. Wish I could have done better by you in this moment. You were a good girl…the best. Thank you...” With that I got up and gathered my saddlebags and gun off the saddle. I then took the knife from the scabbard at my hip and cut a bit of hair from Rosa's tail, so I’d have a bit of her with me. I then turned to Mr. Morgan and nodded.

“Turn around, you don’t want this to be your last memory of her.” Again, his voice was gentle and full of sympathy. It was a stark contrast to the gruff and imposing man I had come to be somewhat acquainted with.

I turned away. A heartbeat later, a single shot rang out. It was over and she was no longer suffering.

***

True to his word the little town of Colter, or what was left of it, hadn't been too much farther ahead. I had opted to walk the rest of the way, not wanting to over burden Mr. Morgan's own horse. Though he had insisted that he take my saddlebags at least. I had wanted to protest, but I just nodded, too tired to argue.

Most of the buildings still looked suitable for habitation. What had been a little general store, the saloon, the livery, the schoolhouse, which was the closest building as we came into town, and a couple odd houses would be the best to suit our uses. The blacksmith’s forge would do for Mr. Pearson to set up an outdoor kitchen with what little food we had been able to gather before…all that mess. Other buildings, such as the church, had lost most of their roofs or were completely caved in and little more than piles of rubble. The latter was the case for a privy and what might have at one time been an ice storage house.

We all gathered in what had been the schoolhouse. Davey was brought in and laid across two desks that Mr. Matthews had pushed together. He didn’t look to be conscious, which wasn’t surprising; he had been in and out of wakefulness since pulling the bullet out; he'd only lost the strength to keep his eyes open during wakefulness within the last day. If he was fully unconscious, it had just happened within the last hour or so. It was a blessing he had lived this long after losing so much blood…blood that had just three days ago stained my hands and shirt as Abigail and I removed the lead slug. Davey didn’t even seem to be breathing now as he lay on the table in front of us. I didn’t have the heart to speak up, nor did I have the courage to check for a pulse.

“Davey's dead.” Abigail's announcement brought a hush to the room.

“There's nothing more you could have done,” Reverend Swanson said, then glanced at me.

All eyes seemed to find me in that moment. I then met Mr. Morgan's gaze. His face was serious, but his blue-green eyes held a softer look. He gave me a small nod as if to say the same words he had said nearly an hour ago; Did your best, s'all that matters.

Someone placed two coins over Davey's eyes. All the while Ms. Grimshaw was ordering a fire to be lit and blankets to be brought in. I retreated into a corner, looking for a hint of solitude.

“Everyone, your attention please; just for a moment,” Mr. Van Der Linde said from in front of the door flanked by Mr. Matthews and Mr. Morgan. All eyes seemed to fall on him. “It’s been a rough few days. I loved Davey, Jenny; Sean and Mac might be okay, we don’t know. We've lost some folks. And if I could throw myself in the ground in their stead, I’d do it gladly…”

I stopped paying attention there for a moment. Now was not the time to make a speech. Now was the time to bury our lost friend, then hunker down and survive until the weather broke.

“…Ms. Grimshaw, Mr. Pearson turn this place into a camp. We may be here for a few days.” With that, Mr. Van Der Linde and Mr. Morgan stepped out into the night.

I spent the next couple of hours lighting fire places and setting up sleeping spaces in the buildings that were suitable for habitation. I also helped Pearson get his kitchen set up in the blacksmith’s forge. Eventually, Ms. Grimshaw came to me with a trunk and pointed over to the house by the general store. “Here, get yourself and Mr. Morgan set up in that house.”

I took the trunk and nodded then turned to go. And then it dawned on me what the camp matron had said. “Am I not bunking with the other women?” I asked turning back toward Grimshaw.

“Thought you'd want a room to yourself tonight. Only way to accomplish that is to have you in the same building as Mr. Morgan,” she replied. “It hasn’t escaped my notice that you are taking Davey's death pretty hard, coupled with the fact you walked in here on foot leads me to believe you also lost your horse at some point tonight.” They all would have seen the body of my horse. I was surprised no one else had asked about it.

I nodded. Her observations were indeed right, though I hadn't been all that close to Davey. His brother Mac, on the other hand, I had been exceptionally close to. Though the man was a little over fourteen years my senior, Mac had taken a special interest in me from the moment I had stumbled my way into the camp. To the point that a few days before the ill-fated ferry job I had given Mac the small pewter pentacle I had been wearing around my neck as a good luck charm of sorts. Something that I now deeply regretted as it seems to have jinxed the job for all who were directly involved. I didn’t know how I would be able to break the news to Mac that his older brother was dead and that it had been partly my fault. Then there was Sean Macguire. Yeah he was a loud mouthed drunken idiot most of the time, but I found it somewhat endearing. I truly hoped they both were still alive and would find their way back into the fold. “Yeah, I appreciate that. Thanks, Ms. Grimshaw.”

“You’re welcome, Dearie,” Ms. Grimshaw replied. Her face then took on a serious look. “Don’t get used to the special treatment.”

“Yes ma'am, I mean, no ma'am… I’ll just go and make a comfortable space for however long we're stuck here.” The last bit of her statement caught me off guard to the point of confusing what yes and no mean.

After getting the two bedrooms set up I set to work on setting up the main room to be a little sitting area…like we were going to get any company other than our other gang members coming in and out.

I assumed it was near midnight when I heard the muffled sound of horses walking up. Like everyone else, I came out of the relative warmth of the building I was in to see what was going on.

Mr. Morgan and Mr. Van Der Linde had returned with one of the men, Bell I thought, who had been sent ahead to look for game, which wasn’t going to be caught out in this weather, or other supplies we needed. There was also a woman with them. She was hardly dressed for this weather in just a night shift and a wool blanket draped over her shoulders.

Apparently, the woman had been made a widow by members of a rival gang, the O'Driscolls. I couldn’t help but shudder, from the cold and from the venom in which Mr. Van Der Linde spoke the name. Reminded me of how Daddy spoke of his run-ins with the Doughty Brothers in the years before I was born…the last nearly costing him his life.

I'd heard a little of why there was a feud between Van Der Linde and the O’Driscolls. Something about Mr. Van Der Linde killing one of the O'Driscoll brothers and the living brother taking revenge by killing the girl Mr. Van Der Linde was seeing at the time.

“I haven’t slept in three days.” I could hear the exhaustion in our leader's voice with that statement.

“Mr. Van Der Linde, you’re set up over there in that house; Miss O'Shea will show you the way,” Ms. Grimshaw said. “Mr. Morgan you’re set up over there. And I hope you don’t mind sharing the space with Miss Heyes.”

“Not at all. Thanks, Ms. Grimshaw,” Mr. Morgan replied. “After you, Miss Heyes.”

As I lead the way back to the house I heard Ms. Grimshaw tell Mr. Bell where he would be staying.

“Why does Arthur get a room, with a gal, while I have to share a bunk bed next to Bill Williamson and a bunch of…” the last word was cut off by the door slamming against the wind. Given how Micah seemed to talk to those in our party who had darker complexions, I figured it was probably, most likely, a slur.

“Don’t pay no mind to him,” Mr. Morgan said. “But don’t trust him as far as you can spit either. Trouble seems to follow in his wake.”

I nodded. “Hopefully John will be alright tonight. I don’t envy him having to sleep outside in this.”

“He'll be fine, prob’bly be back by morning.”

“For Abigail’s sake I hope you’re right.”

“You know, Miss Heyes, you've been running with us for around five months or so now; think it's ‘bout time I get to know you a little better.” He sure had a way of quickly changing the subject.

“Not much to get to know, Mr. Morgan,” I said sitting down at the table wishing there was a pot of coffee to be drank over this conversation.

“First things first; drop the mister and call me Arthur. I know I’m old, but I ain’t that old yet.”

“Fine, so long as you call me Emma.” I motioned to the chair across from me. “What would you like to know?”

Arthur sat down, then took a pack of cigarettes and matches out of his satchel. He took one cigarette out of the pack and put it between his lips before lighting it. He took a drag then offered me the pack. I took one out and to my surprise he was quick to light it. “Well, that answers one question about you.” He said as I took a drag, instantly feeling the effects of the tobacco.

“I enjoy whiskey every now and again too, if you was wondering anymore about my chosen vices in life.”

“Woman after my own heart,” he replied with a chuckle, taking another drag off his cigarette. “I’ve over heard you talking about your Daddy and Momma a few times with Mary-Beth and Karen. They leave you alone in this ol’ world?”

“No, they’re still living. Have a ranch out near Salt River,” I answered. “They raise horses.”

“Sounds like you had a good life. Why leave it and join a bunch of degenerate outlaws?”

“Much to my parents' dismay, I am the only one of their four children that has fully inherited my father's sense of wanderlust…well my older brother, Joshua, has it too, but he has followed his to gainful employment as an officer in the Navy. I, on the other hand, left home looking for adventure and found you all's camp by pure accident.” I took another pull from my cigarette.

“I believe that. We try to stick to being off the beaten path as much as possible…most of us ain’t much on civilization.” A slight grin graced his lips, the first I’d seen in three days. “Wanderlust is a mighty powerful thing. You keep in touch with your folks?”

I nodded. “I generally send them a telegraph every time I’m in a town. Last one I sent was before…all that mess in Blackwater. I was in camp…what all went down on that ferry, other than the obvious?”

“Not shoah ‘bout all that myself. Hosea and I were working on our own thing. Micah was the one pushing to do that job on that boat.” His tone held a slight edge when mentioning Mr. Bell.

“Bad business. Part of the reason Daddy and his cousin quit the outlaw life. Safes were nigh on impossible to crack by hand, lawmen were already starting to become more organized…” I trailed off, memories of Daddy's stories during his outlaw days flooding my mind.

“Your Daddy was an outlaw? That there explains a whole hell of a lot more. Couldn’t figure why you fell into our ways here in camp so easily; now it makes sense. Might have to test you out on a few jobs now,” Arthur said. He finished his cigarette and crushed it out on the table. “Now the question is, just who is your Daddy?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Aww, c’mon now. I’m not expecting Billy the Kid or John Wesley Hardin."

“Think on it a moment, Arthur. My last name is Heyes.”

Those blue-green eyes widened as I finished off my cigarette and crushed it out. “No…ain’t no way Hannibal Heyes is your daddy.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Yeah, we need to get you on a job with a safe. Bet you got your Daddy's safe cracking abilities. If you do, that will save us a bunch of dynamite.”

“I can assure you he is.” I ignored the quip about safe cracking. Wasn’t a safe around these days that could be opened by manipulating the tumblers.

Arthur looked dumbfounded for a few moments, smiled the first true smile I’d seen from anyone in three days, then said, “You got grit, I’ll give you that much.”

I had no idea what he meant by that, but it meant a lot coming from a seasoned outlaw. “Thank you,” I managed.

“’bout time we call it a night. Trip's been hard on us all, ‘specially for you ladies.”

I couldn’t have agreed more with that statement. I got up from the table and headed for the room I was sleeping in for the night. “Good night, Arthur.”

“Night, Emma.”

Try as I might I just couldn’t get to sleep. Even with both the fire place in the one bedroom and the old cook-stove lit, the house Arthur and I were sharing was still drafty. I suppose my horse was still on my mind as well. Hated having to leave my saddle behind. It had been special ordered for me by Daddy for my 16th birthday. I was dreading sending that bit of news home…if Momma and Daddy still wanted to have me send correspondence. No doubt they had heard about what happened in Blackwater in the papers. My name likely wouldn’t have appeared in print as I hadn’t been in the center of the action.

When dawn broke I was back to sitting at the table. Looking out the cracked, dusty window I saw the weather was still bad. My mind went to John Marston who was still out on this godforsaken mountain. Though I’d never been religious I prayed to whatever higher power was listening that he was alright.

I got up from the table and opened the door as quietly as possible to let Arthur have just a few more minutes of good sleep and went out into the blowing snow; and made my way over to the blacksmith’s forge to see if Pearson had anything made for breakfast, even if it was just a thin broth and weak coffee.

“Morning, Mr. Pearson,” I said as I walked up to where the fire was blazing in the old forge hearth.

“Miss Heyes, how you doing this fine morning?” the camp cook replied.

“Fine, be better if this weather would break so we could get out of here and back down into the flatlands,” I answered. “Got some coffee ready?”

“Coffee’s about the only thing we got round here for to sustain ourselves…and a few bottles of this.” I watched as Pearson pulled a bottle out of a crate.

“Is that…rum?” I asked, not expecting fermented cane sugar to be on the bill of fair.

“Yes ma'am. Authentic, standard issue Navy Rum. It’s the only thing that'll keep you sane.”

“I'll have to take your word on that, Pearson. Never much cared for rum…my brother Joshua on the other hand might’ve taken you up on that as he is a Navy man himself." I chuckled at the thought of my straight laced older brother bonding with Pearson over a few bottles of rum. “I'll just take two cups of coffee, neat. Don’t think getting drunk will do any of us any favors.”

“It'll keep you warm,” the cook replied, filling two tin mugs with the steaming hot brew. “Tell Mr. Morgan that I’ll need someone to go kill us some game before too long or we’ll be the next Franklin Expedition or Donner Party.”

“I'll mention something to him, but if it’s alright with you, I’ll leave out the part about becoming the next Donner Party,” I said as I took the two mugs. “Might need to consider sending a search party for John when this snowfall breaks. Starting to worry about him a little.”

Pearson nodded and I made my way back to the house. As I entered I saw Arthur at the table, smoking the last drags off a cigarette. I sat down across from him, close to the cook-stove to try and warm up my bones after being out in the cold, even though I had spent the time near a blazing fire.

“Oh good, you’re up,” Arthur greeted with a small grin gracing his lips. A few days of scruff covered his face, making him look the picture of ruggedness. “And you brought coffee.”

“Its about the only thing Pearson has for us to live on…soon as the weather breaks someone, or a few people need to go hunting; else we're liable to end up like the Franklin Expedition,” I said passing him one of the mugs.

“The what?” Arthur asked taking the mug.

“Pearson mentioned it while I was getting the coffee. Must be some old Navy legend or something,” I answered, a light yawn escaping my lips.

Arthur made a noncommittal sound, then looked up. “Did you get any sleep?”

“I dozed off for a little while before dawn.”

“That’s not sleep, Emma. Drink your coffee then go lay down there in the room with the fireplace,” he replied, standing and taking a pull from the coffee mug. “Won’t be any good to us if you die of exhaustion. And I’d prefer not to have to put you down out of your misery.” A slight smile graced his lips.

I assumed he was trying to keep the mood light. But it just made me think of the night before and losing Rosa. That single shot rang through my memory again.

“Hey…Emma, you okay?”

“Huh…?” It took me a moment to come back to the present. “Yeah, fine…just more tired than I thought.”

“Go on, finish your coffee then get in bed; I’ll see to it Ms. Grimshaw leaves you alone.”

“Thanks,” I said as I finished my coffee. “Whatever you get into today, just be careful; can’t lose a good gunman like you.”

“Get yourself to bed, woman.”

***

John returned to us the next day, with a little help from Arthur and Javier. The man had it rough for the past two days. A couple long gashes to what was a handsome face when it wasn’t bruised and bloodied, his left eye red and swollen; and likely not to have the same amount of vision as the right after healing, and a long deep gash to his right thigh. Only two possibilities could account for those injuries: a bear or a wolf. Had it been a bear, John probably would have been just a lifeless body on that ledge where he was found, and since they had to fight off wolves on the way back, I figured they were the culprits.

John was damned lucky infection hadn’t set into his wounds. One saving grace of this late blizzard I supposed. He was also lucky I had salve to dress his wounds with to stave off infection as well. I would be glad when we got out of the mountains, I was running short on the herbs I had picked and dried for teas the summer before, and the tonics and tinctures I had made with some as well. I was the closest thing this camp had to a trained doctor…next to Herr Strauss ….

“Emma, thank you,” Abigail said, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I replied. “Davey did the same thing after regaining consciousness right after we recovered that bullet from him, and now he's…gone. You and John can thank me proper when he's back on his feet.”

“I ain’t plannin' on dyin', Emma. ‘m too stubborn for that.” John’s voice sounded like it had more gravel to it. In all honesty, it suited him.

“John, you shut up and get some rest. I'll be back to change those bandages in a few hours, till then, Abigail, make sure he stays in bed.”

I turned and made my way back to the house Arthur and I were sharing. I’d barely made it out the schoolhouse when I saw Mr. Van Der Linde coming in my direction.

“Miss Heyes, just the woman I wanted to see,” he said, falling into step beside me.

“Mr. Van Der Linde,” I returned. “Keeping warm, I hope.”

“Yes, ma'am, trying to, at least.” His jovial tone turned serious. “How's John?”

I stopped walking and turned to face him. “He'll live. Can’t promise he'll have full vision in that left eye or he won’t have a few scars on his face when he's healed up, but I can promise he won’t be joining Jenny or Davey any time soon if I have anything to say about it.”

“And if he should take a turn for the worse and pass on?”

“Then you can dole out justice as you see fit…by putting me in the ground yourself should it come down to that,” I replied. “My soul is prepared, whenever the good Lord see fit to call me on.”

“I doubt I would have to resort to such…extremely drastic measures, Miss Heyes; but it is comforting and refreshing to know that you are willing to put your life on the line like that.” Mr. Van Der Linde gave a slight smile. “And please, you've been running with us long enough, call me Dutch.”

“Only if you call me Emma,” I countered.

“Emma, that short for something?”

“Emmeline is my given name, though no one has ever really called me that.”

“Well then, would you permit me to do so?”

“As you wish, Mr. Van…er…I mean, Dutch.” I waved my hand dismissively.

“Well Emmeline, go on and inside somewhere warm, don’t need you catching your death of cold.”

I nodded, then continued on my way once more, hoping not to be stopped again. I needed to be alone, or at least in comfortable silence; something I had grown used to while bunking with Arthur. I could feel my heart racing as I entered the house. My thoughts now drifted once more to Sean and Mac. I hoped they both had escaped Blackwater and the law. Guilt for both Jenny and Davey's deaths weighing heavy on my mind and heart. I glanced at Arthur; he was sitting at the table writing in his journal. The door shut harder than I had anticipated as the wind caught it and slammed it in its weathered frame.

“Emma, how's John?”

I hardly heard Arthur’s voice over my heart's pounding.

“Hey, Emma, you okay?”

I couldn’t find the words to respond. I felt like I was being pulled under water and my vision was going black at the edges. All sound was muffled. I blinked a couple of times trying to clear my head. Next thing I knew I was at the table and helped to sit down.

“Emma. Hey, you with me?” A calloused hand lightly pat my cheek as my vision cleared.

“Arthur? What…how did I get over here?” I asked.

“Looked like you was about to black out so I helped you over here to sit down. You feeling alright?” Arthur countered as he sat down across from me.

I sighed. “I'm alright, just tired and stressed. I know we all are tired and stressed by this whole situation…”

Arthur nodded. “Fair enough, but you also have taken on the responsibility of trying to keep us all alive before all this blew up. Now you have more limited supplies to do that.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, my mind drifting back to Mac, hoping he was somewhere else, much warmer than where we were.

“He'll be alright. Mac's a tough sonuvabitch, and if he don’t find us, we'll find him. Sean too for that matter,” Arthur said, breaking the silence. “Now, I'm gonna see if Pearson has any more of that thin stew we've been living on and bring us some to eat. You stay here and keep warm.”

I nodded as he left the house. Getting up I went to the cook-stove and placed another log in the fire, same with the fireplace in the master bedroom while I waited for Arthur to return, hopefully with a meager meal.

***

A couple of days later I found myself following Arthur over to the old saloon where the rest of the boys were sleeping.

“Guess folks just miss them… who fell,” I heard Bill say as we entered.

“Yeah, well, when I fall I don’t want there to be no fuss,” Micah retorted.

“When you fall, there'll be a party,” Lenny returned after taking a drag off his cigarette.

We all got a chuckle out of that.

I'll dance on your grave, Micah. I thought to myself. In all honesty, after running with Dutch's Boys for the last five months, the only person who would shed any tears for the slimy blond outlaw would be Dutch.

Of course Micah took offense to what Lenny had said and lunged at Bill, surprisingly; saying he didn’t want to be laughed at by the likes of the ex Calvary-man. Thankfully he was held back by Charles and Arthur before a fight could start. And of course that’s when Dutch decided to grace us with his presence.

“That’s enough, all of you,” he said in a commanding voice. “Punching each other when Colm O’Driscoll’s need punching, hard? C'mon.”

We all exited and each man made his way to his mount. Dutch and Arthur had a short conversation where the younger man received a rifle and a rope from our leader and was chastised for “doubting". After mounting, Dutch turned to me.

“Emmeline, you any good with that old Henry you pack?” he asked.

I nodded. “I can hold my own.”

“Come see me when we get back, then. Might need you on the train job,” Dutch replied. “Until then, you, Mr. Matthews, Mr. Pearson, and Mr. Smith keep an eye on the place, there are O'Driscolls about.”

I caught Arthur's eye as they left and gave him a slight nod. When they had gone I turned to the others. “Shall we take shifts, gentlemen?” I asked.

“You go give Abigail a break from sitting at John's side, I think the three of us can handle any O’Driscolls that come sniffing about,” Hosea replied.

I nodded, then headed over to schoolhouse and made my way to the back of the room. John seemed to be resting comfortably on the cot. I couldn’t tell if the man was actually asleep or just resting his eyes. Abigail sitting steadfastly by his side. I lightly cleared my throat as not to startle her, or wake John.

“Oh, Emma,” Abigail said turning to face me. “Didn’t see you there."

“It's alright. Why don’t you go get some rest, I’ll sit with him here for a while,” I said.

“I should check on Jack…he's been complaining of having a sore throat,” Abigail replied. “Do you have anything that might help?”

“I'll have to check what I have, Abigail….most of my apothecary supplies had to be left behind in Blackwater…if I have nothing I'll ask Herr Strauss if he has anything for the boy,” I said.

The young mother got up and handed me the blanket that had covered her lap. I sat down in the chair and settled in. I gently laid the back of my hand against John's cheek. He was warm, but not feverish. That was a good sign. I moved my fingers to the hollow of his neck just under his jaw; the pulse I found there was steady and strong; another good sign.

“’m I on Death's door, Doc?” John asked, thick and gravely from sleep.

“Just the opposite, John. Should be back on your feet in a week or two doing light work around the camp. Be back to outlawing a week or so after that,” I replied, chuckling a bit about being called Doc.

“Overheard Dutch and Hosea talking about hitting a train, think I’ll be back on my feet when it’s time to pull the job?” He asked.

“As much as I want to say yes, I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to be on horse back any time soon. Might reopen that wound on your leg,” I answered. “I’m supposed to talk with Dutch when he gets back…he was asking if I was any good with that Henry rifle I carry.”

“He'll need the extra gun, for sure.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “But I’ve never fired that old rifle at anything with two legs, only deer.”

John nodded. “First time is always the hardest Emma. But remember, it’s them or you. And always fire on empty lungs.”

“I’m not a kid just learning how to shoot. Hell, I had the best teacher to teach me,” I replied with a shake of my head.

“Couldn’t have been Dutch or Hosea, you only just met them just a few months ago, ‘nd I don’t know anyone whose better shots than them, ‘cept for Arthur.”

“You ever hear of a man named Kid Curry?” I asked.

“What'd you do, threaten to turn him in for the bounty if he didn’t teach you how to shoot?”

“No, you idiot. He's family, first cousin once removed or something like that. He's my Daddy's first cousin by blood.” I just rolled my eyes. “Ain’t no bounty on him now anyway. He was pardoned some 20 years back now.”

“That would mean that your daddy is…. Why Emma Heyes, you've been holding out on us. Daughter of Hannibal Heyes hisself. Dutch would be a fool not to start including you on jobs now.” John was smiling ear to ear, putting undue strain on the stitches in his right cheek.

There were some gasps from around the fireplace. The eyes of Tilly, Mary-Beth, Karen, Miss O'Shea, and Ms. Grimshaw all found their way over to me and the wounded man. I just rolled my eyes and shook my head. It was only a matter of time till the cat was well and truly out of the bag. I didn’t count on it being Marston who spilled my secret.

“John, you better stop smiling before you bust those stitches and make those scars worse. And would you speak up, I don’t think the whole camp heard you.” The last bit was dripping in sarcasm. I had done a great job up till now of keeping who I was under wraps. Not that I was ashamed of who I was, I just didn’t want any special treatment because my daddy had once been the most famous outlaw west of the Lannahatchee river.

The men came back in a jovial mood. The raid on the O’Driscoll’s camp just down the way had been successful. Dynamite, detonators, blasting caps, the works to blow a hole in the side of a mountain, or…in our case railroad tracks. The name Leviticus Cornwall had been mentioned. I had heard the name before, but said nothing as I didn’t feel it was my place. What little I knew about the man boiled down to Rich Bastard, a man deserving of being robbed. Back in the day my Daddy would have robbed him blind…several times.

I had left John's side about an hour before the men returned at Ms. Grimshaw’s insistence. When the men returned I had been cleaning my rifle in preparation for after whatever it was that Dutch wanted to talk to me about, after all I didn’t expect the man to just take me at my word on my skill with a shooting iron. I was just getting up from cleaning and reloading my gun when Arthur came in.

“Nothing scares me more than a woman with a recently cleaned and loaded gun,” he said. I knew it was a jest. I didn’t think there was much that could scare the hardened outlaw before me. “Where you going with that? It'll be dark soon, so you can’t be going hunting.”

“Gonna go see Dutch. He was asking if I was any good with this Henry before y'all left; I assume he wants to see me in action,” I replied. “Go on and get some rest.”

“Nope, we gonna go find Dutch, you gonna show him your skill, then I got a little surprise for you over in the stable…just don’t pay no mind to the O’Driscoll tied up in the corner,” he replied. “You’re also gonna need to show Dutch how well you can handle a pistol.”

I nodded. “Well c'mon then.”

It didn’t take long to find Dutch. He was setting up various cans and bottles on the split rail fence surrounding the small cemetery behind the church.

I sighed. “I figured you'd want to see my skill first hand, Dutch, but this is a might disrespectful to the resting dead, is it not?” I asked.

“The dead aren’t gonna care, that’s the nature of being dead; Emmeline,” Dutch responded. “Now, Arthur, hand her your revolver so she can show us what she's got.”

Arthur did as he was told and handed me his colt. I, of course, took it and familiarized myself with the weight and balance for a few moments before looking to Dutch.

“Guess this is a hell of a time to tell ya I ain’t never shot at a person before,” I said nervously.

“With any luck you won’t have to. And I know, shooting at cans ain’t the same as shooting at someone shooting back at you,” Arthur reassured.

I nodded. That was all the encouragement I needed. Quick as lightning I cocked the hammer back and fired the chamber empty. Six shots found their marks in the cans and bottles. I heard a low whistle from Dutch. Arthur wore a crooked little grin as I handed the empty revolver back to him.

“Well now, Emmeline, who taught you how to shoot like that?” Dutch asked, his tone conveyed just how impressed he was.

“I’ll tell ya, after I’ve unloaded this here rifle,” I answered.

Dutch was all smiles as he set up more cans. When he was done he stepped back and nodded. I shouldered the Henry, cocked the hammer, and fired her empty. And again both men looked impressed at my speed and accuracy. And now it was time to let the cat the whole way out of the bag. Knowing Arthur's skill with firearms, I was sure I could give him a run for his money.

“My cousin, Jed “Kid" Curry, taught me how to shoot. Though…I’m not the fastest draw, he down right refused to teach me how to quick draw,” I said.

“Well, I'll be damned, Emmeline. And you’re a Heyes…hmmm…that means ol' Hannibal himself is your daddy. Outlaw Princess of the first water, in my camp…” Dutch went on like that for a good minute.

“No offense, Dutch, but don’t build me up like that in your mind when the only crime I’ve committed in my life is aiding and abetting y'all in this camp,” I said.

“None taken, you two go on and get a good night's rest. I got a train robbery to plan out.”

Arthur nodded then motioned for me to walk out first. We then made our way over to the stable. Like he said there was a young man hogtied in a far stall. He couldn’t have been more than ten years older than me. Our eyes met for a few moments, his wild with fear.

“Emma, over here,” Arthur said waving me over to another stall.

I walked down to see what this surprise was. In the stall was a liver chestnut colored gelding with gentle eyes. He had a bold white blaze on his nose. “Arthur, he's beautiful,” I said, holding out my hand for him to sniff and nuzzle.

“He's yours if you want him. Took him from that O’Driscoll camp today; Javier brought him back while I brought that O’Driscoll boy back here,” Arthur replied. “And the morning after we got here I back tracked and got your saddle and bridle. Bill's getting it all cleaned and oiled up right now.”

“I ain’t no O’Driscoll, mister. My name is Duffy, Kieran Duffy,” the kid in the stall said.

“That's 11 more bones, kid. Only takes a single broke rib to kill a man,” Arthur retorted, silencing the boy.

It was the first time I had witnessed Arthur acting as gang enforcer, and even I was scared to say anything more for fear of drawing his ire on me. The dirty blond outlaw seemed to sense my apprehension to speak.

“How ‘bout you stay here and get to know this boy for awhile,” Arthur suggested.

I nodded. I knew he meant the horse, but I also took it to apply to Kieran as well. Figured I might as well, should he be killed by my compatriots he deserved to have at least one person say some kind words as he is laid low.

Arthur gave me a light pat on the shoulder before moving to the stable doors. He turned and gave a pointed look at Kieran. “I better not hear that you were bothering the lady, O’Driscoll.” And he stepped out into the quickly falling dusk.

I slowly entered the gelding’s stall. “Easy, boy,” I soothed as I gently ran my hand along his top line. He still carried his winter coat. Shaggy as it made him look, the hair itself was shiny and soft under my un-gloved hands. Though the stable had no fire to keep it warm, it was fairly comfortable inside due to the amount of horses. There was a slight draft, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the draft in the saloon or the schoolhouse. The gelding gave a soft wicker and started to nuzzle around my coat pockets. “You’re just as bad as Rosa was,” I said as I pulled a sugar cube from one of my pockets and held it out for him in the flat of my palm. I sighed, knowing I would have to come up with a name for him, but I would have rather called him by the name he was use to hearing.

“If you’re wondering, his name is Ranger,” Kieran said.

“Ranger…it suits him,” I murmured.

“He'll be a good horse for you, ma'am.”

While in the stable I saw to the needs if the other horses. One horse I gave particular attention to was a blue roan gelding with a coal-black head, mane and tail.

“Good boy, Thunder…” I murmured to him. I sighed, we were soon going to be out of food, both fresh and canned. If we couldn’t get someone out to hunt soon, we'd probably have to sacrifice one or two of the horses. And with Mac being missing, his mount was probably going to be the first butchered if it came to that. Having grown up on a horse ranch, I'd rather starve before considering eating and animal that gave such loyalty to their rider.

Thunder snorted softly, lowering his head and resting his forehead against my shoulder. I ran a hand down his neck, his hide soft and silky under my fingertips. “I miss him, Thunder…you are all I have left of him…”

Thunder nickered softly as if to agree. He lifted his head a little and bent his neck over my shoulder as if to give me a hug.

I moved to the side and ran a hand over his flank and rested my head on his shoulder. The strong, steady beat of Thunder's heart brought me a small measure of comfort.

***

I made my way to the cook shack in what was once the blacksmith’s forge. I wasn’t even halfway there when I heard Pearson remark about only having a few canned goods and a skinny rabbit to feed all of us…numbering about 12 minus Duffy who was only being given a half cup of coffee, if that.

“’sides we can eat you, you’re the fattest; if it comes to that,” Arthur said as I stepped up to the open fire to warm my hands.

I let out a light chuckle. “Think I’d rather eat a mule deer that self marinated on sagebrush a little too long.”

“Look I sent Lenny and Bill out hunting yesterday and they came back with nothing,” Pearson said.

“Well, Lenny's more into book learning than hunting and Bill's a fool, ain’t no wonder they came back with nothing. Unless there's game out there that wants to read…” Arthur retorted.

“If there's game out there, I'll find it,” Charles said this. The man didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was right to the point.

“You need to rest, Charles,” I said. “You can’t pull a bow or shoot a gun for that matter right now with your hand like it is.”

“If there's game, I’ll find it and Arthur can kill it.”

“Maybe I should come with you boys. If you get something, you might need help keeping the scavengers away. The smell of fresh blood will call them all in for miles,” I replied.

“She makes a good point, Charles.”

“Well, here. Y'all will need something to eat out there,” Pearson said, tossing a can in Arthur’s direction.

Arthur caught it and read the label. “Assorted Salted Offal…starving would be preferable…”

Charles shook his head and made a motion for us to follow him to the stable to collect our horses.

I entered Ranger's stall and gave him a quick brush before putting my saddle on him. He pranced a little, seemingly excited to get out for a little while. “Okay, calm down a little, boy. You act like this while we're out you'll scare the game away.” Ranger seemed to understand and calmed down as I put his bridle on.

I glanced over at Thunder and felt guilty for not taking him. He looked at me with sad, dark eyes. I got the feeling he was resigned to his fate, whatever that might be. As I led Ranger out of the stable, I gave the blue roan an affectionate pat. “You'll be alright, Thunder. I'll make sure nothing happens to you,” I murmured as I closed the stable door and mounted Ranger.

I met up with the boys on the edge of camp. I was kind of excited about hunting with Charles and Arthur as it had been a while since I had gone hunting with anyone. Since joining the camp I had been stuck doing more domestic chores like doing laundry or helping Pearson with meal preparation. I didn’t mind doing these chores, but I had more skills to offer than just what one would call housekeeping. Before fleeing from Blackwater I had been darning socks wishing I had been out foraging for wild herbs and roots.

Surprisingly, the hunt went well, even with Arthur's limited experience with a bow. With Charles' instruction he had downed two deer; and I was able to bag three rabbits. It would be enough food to see us through at least another week or two if the weather didn’t break here soon. The days were sunny and clear, melting a little bit of the snow, only for a new inch or so to fall over night.

The way back to camp was peaceful and uneventful, minus coming across a large bear. We rode a wide berth around him, but he seemed to just be curious about us and still a little groggy from waking up from his long winter's nap. Charles had remarked that late snowfalls like this were the worst for animals that sleep though the winter and I had to agree. That bear could have easily killed us and our horses if he had caught wind of the dead meat. In that respect we were lucky.

When we returned with our kills, Pearson seemed pleased when we brought the meat back.

“This will do nicely to keep us fed for the next few days,” he said as he and Arthur dragged the deer into the forge, and I brought the brace of rabbits in and set them on the table next to one of the deer. “We'll be eating good tonight for the first time in a while.”

Of course, both Arthur and I practically had to drag Charles back to the saloon so he could rest that hand of his; I had to redress the burn anyway. Arthur returned to the cook shack to help Pearson to dress the kills.

“I'm fine, Emma, really,” Charles muttered.

“I’m sure you are, but…humor me,” I replied, taking the small jar of salve out of my coat pocket along with some clean bandage cloth.

“Fine.”

I gently removed the bandage from his hand and inspected the burn. “This is healing up nicely. Should be good as new in just a few more days,” I said as I applied more salve and re-bandaged the burn.

“That salve you use, it’s made with pine, isn’t it?” Charles asked.

“And a few other ingredients,” I answered.

Charles nodded, then walked off toward the stables to tend the horses. I just shook my head. The man was stubborn. Eventually, that trait would serve him well.

***

A few days later, I found my way back in the schoolhouse looking after John with Reverend Swanson. Graciously, the reverend was sober, but was administering some morphine to the wolf-bit man.

“I thought you'd be reading him his last rites, Reverend,” Arthur said as he walked up to us. “Now I see you're introducing him to your other passion in life.”

“I'll mind you to pay me some respect, Mr. Morgan,” Swanson replied, getting up to leave.

“Mind away, Reverend,” Arthur said as the fallen man of the cloth walked off.

“You know Last Rites is a Catholic thing, right?” I asked. “Given his vestments, I’d say Swanson was of the Presbyterian persuasion at one time or another.”

“And here I thought you wasn’t the religious type,” Arthur answered.

“I'm not, though I did attend services often growing up.” I sighed. “I also keep ways that most church folk look down their noses at…”

“You mean, like…witchcraft?”

“I prefer spiritual, but most God fearing, Christian folk will and do call it witchcraft.” I sighed. “The herbal salves, tonics, and tinctures I make would certainly fall under the umbrella of ‘witchcraft’ to those people.”

“Will you two shut up, and let me rest?” John asked.

“Sorry, John…” I answered.

John nodded and looked slightly behind me. “Thanks, Arthur. I'll owe you one.”

“And you'll pay me,” Arthur replied. “But for now, just rest and get back on your feet.”

John chuckled. “I owe you, Javier, and Emma here in equal measure.”

“You staying alive is payment enough for me, John; no need for monetary repayment or some other grand gesture of gratitude,” I said. “I'm here for the long haul boys. To the bullet or the noose.”

“Well, Emmeline, it’s good to know where your loyalties lie,” said Dutch as he walked up to the three of us. “Anyway, I think it's time we hit that train.”

“Want me to come?” John asked.”

“Of course I do…but look at you,” Dutch replied.

I rolled my eyes. John didn’t need to be up on that leg yet.

“I've always been ugly Dutch,” John returned, trying to get up.

“Just lay still, son,” Dutch said, gently pushing him back down onto the cot.

At that moment Abigail and little Jack came in. I hardly paid attention to her exchange with the father of her child. In all of this, Jack was the one I felt most sorry for. The poor kid was under five and had known more death in the last few weeks with the loss of Jenny and Davey; Lord, I hoped beyond hope that Mac and Sean had gotten out of Blackwater and were laying low somewhere, hopefully it was someplace much warmer than here. I could see the worry written over his small features, though he was braver than I for not voicing it. Had to give the boy credit, he would grow up to be a pretty tough nut to crack.

“Emmeline,” Dutch's voice pulled me from my thoughts, “I do hope you will be joining us on this job.”

I was stunned speechless for a moment. “I…I think I am needed more here in camp…” I stammered.

“S'alright, I think we can pull this job off with just the six of us. There'll be other jobs Emma can help us on, Dutch. ‘sides, someone has to stay back and look after the invalids.” Arthur chuckled dryly.

“Alright,” Dutch relented. “C'mon Arthur.”

While the men were off robbing the Cornwall train, the rest of us set to work packing up the camp. The last few days had warmed to the point that the wagons were no longer snowed in and the nights no longer brought fresh snowfall. I took it upon myself to pack myself and Arthur's belongings up and get them onto a wagon, granted most of my belongings were able to be packed in my saddlebags. I had packed light when I left home…it felt like a lifetime ago now; though had in reality only been just over two years ago.

Spring 1897: Heyes Ranch, Salt River, Wyoming

I sighed. I knew it was late, nearly dark out. I had hoped I would be able to slip away to see the world before either of my parents noticed. "For a ride,” I answered vaguely.

I was in the stable saddling my horse, Rosa Clay. I couldn’t take it anymore, ranch life was the same thing every day…boring. I wanted more form life than just living comfortably, and domestic bliss after getting married. As I checked that the cinch was tight I heard the stable door open.

“Emma?” it was my father, the former outlaw, Hannibal Heyes.

“Down here,” I called, leading my horse out of her stall.

“Where are you off to at this hour?” Daddy asked.

I nodded. It wasn’t a lie, not really, I just wasn’t sure when I would be, or if I would be, returning home.

“A ride. With a bedroll and full saddlebags; and your mother's old henry rifle in the saddle scabbard?”

I sighed. “I know. I…I just want to see the world, like you and Cousin Jed, before I settle down and put down roots.”

A small smile formed on my father's lips as a soft chuckle escaped him. “My darling girl, my youngest daughter. I know what running away looks like, I was just a few years younger than you when I ran from that awful orphanage in Amberino.”

“MISS HEYES!” Ms. Grimshaw's shrill voice pulled me out of the memory. “I’ve seen shit with more common sense than you. Unpack that wagon, and repack it properly this time.”

“Seems reasonable, though you can’t blame your old man and your mother for the worrying we will do while you’re out traveling…so we have some conditions.”

I was stunned. They were letting me go. “What conditions?” I asked.

“We only ask that you find respectable work for yourself and write as often as you are able.”

I was regretting not going out with the men...probably would have died, but that was preferable at the moment. Being a child of the west, I had absolutely no idea how to “properly" pack a wagon for long distance travel. Packing a wagon with goods recently bought at the general store for the journey back to the ranch on the other hand, that I could do blindfolded and hogtied. Luckily for me, Herr Strauss was willing to lend a hand.

“Fraulein, might I offer some assistance?” Strauss asked.

“Yes, please. Thank you, Herr Strauss,” I replied.

Together we packed the wagon to Grimshaw's standards. We worked in silence for the most part, except for the occasional muttered Austrian and German curses coming from the man helping me. I did my best not to laugh or even betray the fact that I knew exactly what he was saying. Thanks to my father's insistence I had learned Spanish, as he felt I would need to know it; and then of my own volition had learned French and German as well as a just in case.

“Fraulein, I believe we are ready to hitch the horses now.” Strauss' voice startled me from my thoughts.

I nodded. “Looks like there is some room, go ask Ms. Grimshaw how we plan to transport the captured O'Driscoll gang member down the mountain. I cant imagine we would allow him to ride horseback.”

Strauss nodded and trotted off to ask the camp matron. While he was off doing that I busied myself with getting the draft horses harnessed and hitched to the wagon. While focusing on that task I found my mind wandering back to the men out on the robbery. Hopefully everything was going according to Dutch's plan…even though that plan had only seemed to be half planned in my opinion. It had seemed to me that the O’Driscolls had specifically taken on more men to pull this job off. I wasn’t exactly sure what was of such great value on this train, but since Leviticus Cornwall was the owner I could imagine there was either a large payroll being shipped to one of his businesses, or some valuable commodity he had a vested interest in being transported to its final destination. Naturally, this would mean the train would be heavily guarded by both riders along the track and armed guards on the train itself. No doubt a gun fight would have been nearly inevitable. Then there was both the private car for Cornwall and the car containing whatever cargo; both likely would need to be blasted open, guards dealt with…more than a six man job. Hell, more than a seven man job if I had gone along. Hosea was right, a fool's errand.

By the time the men had returned it was starting to get dark. This would be our last night in this frozen hellhole, and for that I was glad. It had warmed and thawed enough that we would have little to no trouble descending the mountains and fording the little streams and creeks. We had survived, and the law was nowhere in sight…for now.

After a light breakfast the next morning we packed the rest of our supplies into the wagons and made ready to leave. I was standing near the rear wagon with Ranger making sure the saddle was secure.

“Arthur you're with this one. Take Hosea. I know you two like to talk about the good ol’ days and what happened to ol' Dutch,” Dutch said, mounting the Count. “Emmeline, you mind riding drag?”

“Been swallowing trail dust since I was old enough to ride, Dutch,” I said, mounting up. “I got our back.”

Dutch gave a nod and gave the order to move out. The ride down the mountain was pretty enough. After a few hours the snow that was left gradually faded into the tender greens of fresh spring growth. As we went I hummed to myself and kept a few yards back from the wagon in front of me. Periodically, I looked over my shoulder to make sure we weren’t being followed. We probably weren’t, but I figured I should check anyway as it was my job.

Around noon, Arthur stopped the wagon and signaled me with a whistle and a wave. I jogged Ranger up to the front of the wagon and reined him in.

“What's up, Arthur?” I asked.

“Tie your horse to the back of the wagon and hop up here with me and Hosea,” Arthur replied.

“We thought you could use some conversation,” Hosea added.

“Will Dutch be alright with this?” I asked, not wanting to abandon my post. Unlike everyone else here, I was untested; I had yet to prove myself to the senior leadership.

“Emma I’m going to clue you into a little secret. I’m the real leader of this gang. Dutch is my right hand man,” Hosea answered.

I nodded, but didn’t believe the older man. If Arthur's smirk was anything to go by, then I knew Hosea was pulling my leg. “Hosea, my Daddy was also a con man. Do you really think you can con a con man's daughter?”

The older man let out a hearty “Ha!” and shook his head. “Do like Arthur says and climb aboard. If Dutch has a problem with it, I’ll smooth it over with him.”

I did as I was told and tied Ranger to the back of the wagon before climbing aboard, sitting in the back just behind the jockey box.

“Get up here with us. Might be a little tight, but it'll be a little more comfortable than you sitting atop whatever we got packed back there,” Arthur said.

“I ain’t some delicate flower, Arthur. I’m fine back here...unless you want to take a break and let me drive for a bit,” I replied.

Arthur just let out a chuckle as he got us going again. I settled in and again started humming. It wasn’t necessarily a particular song, just a light melody if found myself coming back to time and again. I knew I had heard it somewhere at one time or another; where though was the question. Might have been at a theatre show I attended before I left home; could have been in the saloon in Blackwater before all the recent…unpleasantness that happened there. Either way the tune was firmly stuck in my mind.

“How about you sing us a song there, Emma?” Hosea asked.

“Oh no. Of my many talents, singing is most definitely not one of them,” I replied. Truth was I could sing, quite well, in my own opinion; the problem was singing for groups and not as a part of one. I had done my share of singing in camp when Javier played his guitar, but I was easily able to blend into the group of rough shot harmony then. Solos were not my speed, nor was public speaking, but that's a story of another time…just not right now.

“Aw, now come on, Emma. You sound pretty good when we all sing around the fire,” Arthur pressed.

“It's easier for me to sing as part of a group rather than alone for some reason,” I admitted. “I’m sure there's a term for it, but it's escaping me right now.”

Arthur and Hosea nodded seemingly satisfied with my answer. We talked about this and that for a good while. Hosea even took the time to make a paste with some yarrow and ginseng root, claiming it was good for the health when Arthur inquired as to what he was doing; a fact I was quick to confirm. I even listed off some of the medicinal properties of each of the plants.

“I'll be glad that I’ll be able to forage for herbs here now,” I said. “Be more cost effective for me to make most of the tonics and tinctures we need rather than buy them in a general store or an apothecary.”

Hosea nodded in agreement. “Do you have medical training? I do know you have done a good job with Charles and John, and did your best with Davey.”

I hung my head a little. Davey's death, though not my fault, still weighed heavily on my mind. I don’t know how many times I had whispered apologies to the dead man over the last week or so. “No, at least not any form of formal training. Most of what I know comes from helping my mother and older sister when they would help out the midwife in Salt River. Mamma did get her education as a nurse from the Women's Medical Collage in Philadelphia, though. Ol' Doc Harris actually covered her tuition. I know she would have preferred me pursuing nursing rather than giving into my wanderlust like I have.”

“That would be a good job for you to go into in the future.” Arthur looked over his shoulder and smiled. “The way you've been taking care of John and little Jack tells me all I need to know."

I could only dip my head to hide my blush from the two men on the seat in front of me. Most of the men in camp viewed me with indifference like the other women, except Grimshaw. Until the flight from Blackwater and our time in Colter, Arthur had been much the same way until seeing my skill with a firearm. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I murmured.

There was a short lull in the conversation as we continued over a small stream. There was now a noticeable difference in the temperature now. I undid the buttons on my coat for the first time in a few weeks, or at least it felt that way. The cool breeze felt nice.

An hour or so later we came up on the bank of the last creek we would have to cross. The wagons in front of us were able to ford it with relative ease. Hosea gave a nod and gave Arthur the go ahead to cross the river and advised me to hold on. Not needing to be told twice, I took hold of the back of the jockey box as we started to cross. It was a fairly smooth crossing, the problems occurred coming up the other bank. The back left wheel came off, nearly sending me flying off the wagon.

“Son of a bitch,” Arthur muttered as he and Hosea got off the wagon to see how bad our situation was.

I hopped down and untied Ranger so he wouldn’t be in the way. The wagon in front of us stopped.

“Everything alright?” Bill called.

“Does everything look alright?” Arthur retorted.

“What happened?” Javier pressed.

“Broke the Goddamn wheel,” Arthur replied, somewhat annoyed.

“Need a hand fixing it?” Charles asked.

“I reckon we can handle it,” Hosea said. “You help me lift this up and Arthur can put the wheel back on.”

Of course, Arthur made a comment on Hosea's age and still being strong enough to lift a wagon. If I hadn’t known any better I would have sworn the two were actually blood kin. I ground tied Ranger and made my way over, figuring I should attempt to make myself useful in some way. The men of course said they had the wagon well in hand, so I started gathering up what supplies fell when the wheel came off. Hosea and Charles then gave me a hand as Arthur finished re-securing the wheel to the axle.

While Arthur got the wheel secured and the other two men and I repacked whet fell off the wagon, three men on horseback appeared on the bluff above us.

“What do you think?” Arthur asked, quietly.

“If they wanted trouble, we wouldn’t have seen them,” Charles replied.

“C'mon you three, let's not press our luck,” Hosea said.

I mounted Ranger as the other three got on the wagon, Hosea saying something about how bad the government had screwed over the Natives that once called this area home. I stayed close to the wagon as we continued on our way to a place Hosea had called Horseshoe Overlook, named for a bend in the Dakota River. Every now and again I’d look back over my shoulder to be sure the three men we encountered weren’t following. At one point I jogged up next to the front of the wagon.

“Think Dutch will need to hear about what happened?” I asked.

“Three men on horseback just watching us from a bluff isn’t something too concerning. Charles thinks it might have been a small hunting party from a nearby reservation,” Hosea answered.

I nodded. If the older man wasn’t too concerned then I had nothing to worry about, though I had a gut feeling we would encounter them again in the future. I made a mental note to consult the cards when I had a moment, maybe even do readings for the rest of the gang one night. I could already make a few guesses at some of the possible cards that would come up for some people and if I did a reading for the gang as a whole.

Though Grandma Margaret had died before I was a shimmer in Mamma's eye, Mamma had seen to it that I knew all the mystical things she and my grandmother had known. We were “gifted women" as Mamma had said. She wasn’t specific as to who had given us this “gift", though. Sometimes she said it was a gift from God, other times she said it was from “The Green" meaning Mother Nature and the Earth itself. My great grandmother had been from Eastern Tennessee, and as I understood it still had distance relatives there, Walker was their family name. Most of the women in that family practiced what I came to know as “Granny Magic", practitioners of the old ways from Ireland and Scotland before Christianity became the norm.

***

It was late afternoon by the time the four of us made it to the new campsite. Most of the tents had already been set up, a fire in the center was already merrily blazing away and being tended by Uncle. Grimshaw caught my eye and immediately made her way over as I dismounted Ranger.

“Miss Heyes, you are late. We needed you to help set things up here,”

“We had some issues with the wagon that held us up after crossing that last creek. Let me see to my horse, then I will be at your disposal,” I replied.

The camp matron seemed to accept the reasons for why we were late getting to camp and walked off to dole out orders to one of the other girls. I led Ranger over to where the other horses were and removed my saddle from his back after retrieving his brush from my saddlebags. As I brushed my horse I hummed a tune my father was fond of. I was most at ease around horses. After a few moments I heard footsteps approaching, looking up I saw it was Bill. I groaned internally and gave an anemic wave, but wasn’t really up to talking to him at the moment.

“Hey, Heyes,” he called.

I tried not to roll my eyes at that. I didn’t mind being called by my last name, but preferred to be called by my first. “Yes, Bill?”

“How'd y'all make out?” he asked.

“We all got back alive, didn’t we?” I countered.

“How serious was the break?” Bill pressed.

“The wheel just came loose and off the axle, nothing too serious. Won't need a blacksmith or anything,” I replied.

The ex-cavalryman nodded and walked off, seemingly satisfied by my answer. I quickly finished brushing Ranger and gave him a sugar cube before returning to the camp proper to find Ms. Grimshaw and get a list of chores and other tasks I was to complete. Of course, Dutch made a speech. This one about how it was time to prosper and make more money so we could head back out into the far reaches of the west. Of course, anything we made, or found, or more accurately stole the camp would get it's cut of it.

I stopped paying attention there. I knew I would probably be stuck doing house chores around camp most of the time, but that was fine by me. At least if I now had a bounty on my head it would only be for aiding and abetting wanted criminals rather than robbery and murder.

As evening fell, I found myself sitting around the fire with a few others. Glad to be out of the mountains, glad to be away from Blackwater, and most importantly glad to be alive.

[zae-heeyyy]

Boisterous

Summary: Arthur takes you to The Loft. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 2,095 Warnings: 18+ MDNI Tags: rough sex, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, biting

a/n: I somehow ended up spending literal hours trying to perfect this drawing. I traced a lot and freehanded a lot too, but overall, I'm happy with the final product. TYSM for taking the time to read, like, reply, and reblog; I appreciate every interaction!

Boisterous: behavior that is loud, energetic, and often unruly. It describes a person or situation that is full of noisy enthusiasm.

When Arthur found "The Loft" two nights ago, he was grateful to sleep in a bed surrounded by four sturdy walls. The accommodation would've been perfect, but you were missing from it all. Lewd images of your past escapades together infiltrated his mind as he tried to sleep, and he made his best efforts to push them aside. Your pretty face lit up his brain, and he wrapped his hand around his cock, trying his best to imitate the ecstasy only you could make him feel. No grip was as delectable as yours, though, and despite a quick release, he was more pent-up than ever. He needed you there with him and planned to sweep you up and bring you back as soon as the sun rose.

The cowboy's sonorous voice roused you from your dreams about him, the early morning sun casting a golden glow on his face as he leaned over you. His beard had grown since the few days you'd last seen him.

"Get dressed. M'taking you somewhere."

Without a second thought, you joined him on the back of his horse within the hour. Arthur spared the details of this urgent impromptu trip, keeping you in suspense for the duration of the ride.

In a few hours, you'd passed through Valentine, went by Fort Wallace, and climbed up into the mountains of the Grizzlies East. As you rode on, the clouds grew thick and gray, and the smell of petrichor filled your nostrils. Arthur caressed a hand you had wrapped around his waist, reassuring you.

"Almost there."

But you weren't close enough; the atmosphere released a torrential downpour in the last fifteen minutes of your journey, leaving you drenched. A little after noon, you reached a towering outpost that Arthur coined, The Loft. Arthur ushered you inside, futilely shielding you from the rain and promising the heat of a fireplace as he closed the door behind you.

While you stood, rubbing your arms for warmth, Arthur checked for signs of other people, climbing a ladder and peaking over the top for a second before sliding down.

You two were all alone, finally.

When he got a good look at you, he realized just how soaked you were, the layers of your clothes sticking to you and showing every curve of your body. Arthur swallowed, mouth salivating from the view of your hard nipples peeking through your blouse.

All the blood left his head and traveled south, damn near making him dizzy. Maybe he should've been embarrassed, but he was just a man, and you were the most alluring thing ever.

Two large steps were all it took to get to you. One hand found the back of your head, and the other rested on your hip as he drew your lips to his, practically swallowing you in a scalding kiss.

You could feel the groan rumbling in his chest, and you giggled against his lips. The noise crescendoed as his lips separated from yours to find your jaw and neck. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, inhaling your scent while the hand on the back of your head traveled to the small of your back.

"Mmm," he hummed, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head. "I missed y'so much."

And he had you all alone, truly alone, for the first time in your relationship. He'd been waiting to make love to you the way he really wanted. Your previous rendezvous were hushed, whispered, and sneaky, your moans muffled by Arthur's lips or hand. Even when he whisked you away to a hotel, he was keenly aware of everybody else around who could hear the two of you. Turning you into a whimpering mess filled him with fervent pride, but he wanted those parts of you, especially the sounds you made, all to himself.

The thought of finally hearing all those pretty little noises at full volume was enough to rile him up, and his hand groped your breast, kneading with a force he hadn't used on you before. You shivered against him; some of it was from your arousal, but the other part was the cold.

"The fire, Arthur," you said, shoving him off playfully. Grunting, he tore away from you, grateful for a log near the stove.

While his back was turned, you peeled the wet clothes off your body and dropped your blouse on the floor. Arthur spun back around right as you stepped out of your skirt, leaving you clad in your bloomers and nothing else. His breath hitched in his throat as if it were the first time your body had been bestowed upon him.

"Straight outta my dreams," he declared, his blue eyes shining with pure avidity. And just like that, Arthur strode across the room, dragging a chair with him and putting it against the door nob, just in case. You were back in his arms in an instant, his kisses emphasized with unadulterated sounds of pleasure. A rough hand slid into the waistband of your bloomers and grabbed a fistful of your ass, squeezing, letting go, and repeating.

You sigh breathlessly as he feels you up, leaning into his touch. Then without warning, he tastes you hungrily, tongue fucking your mouth.

His chest vibrates with titillation again, and you're hoisted up into his arms just a beat later, his hands cupping your rear. You squeal, wrapping your legs around his waist and holding on tight as he carries you across the room and dumps you on blue cotton blankets. Breathing heavily, you watch under eyes saturated with desire as he promptly removes his own damp clothes.

You were just as taken aback by his body as he was with yours. Brown curls adorned his chest and stomach and gathered in a carnal wreath around his manhood. Touching him was like running your hands over a textured map: his scars, old and new, like rivers and valleys, while his muscles, firm and hot, were mountains and volcanoes. You could spend eternity exploring that map. Arthur would never get used to you ogling him in such a way, but now your hungry eyes lured him to you.

He climbed on top of you, pinning you under his weight. Usually, he'd ask if you were okay, but you answered the question before he'd even asked by tangling your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles to bring him closer.

His hard-on brushed against your leg, making him shudder. You helped him remove the last garment of clothes between the two of you, lifting your hips to help him pull the bloomers down your legs and off your feet.

Arthur normally took his time meticulously exploring you, leaving kisses in his wake, but damn it, the thought of the sweet grip of your pussy had been on his mind for days, and he needed it now.

His forehead leaned against yours, and he clutched your jaw, holding your face still to gawk at it. If someone saw him this way, they'd think he'd just completed a full sprint, every exhale coming out in a loud pant. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, turning him animalistic. He couldn't wait any longer.

The gunslinger dipped his head to look between you, a guttural utterance escaping him as you spread your legs, exposing your needy cunt. He held his cock, nearly discolored from being so hard, and rubbed it up and down your center, coating himself in your juices.

"Need you, woman," he bellows. The bass in his voice sends goosebumps spreading down your arms, and you nod, mouth agape, eyes staring into his. His jaw also hinges as he watches himself disappear inside you. Once wholly sheathed, he moans long and loud, a stark contrast to his regular subduedness.

You'd never seen him like this, so desperate and uninhibited. Your body responds to the unexpected but welcomed change, your pussy clenching around him, making both of you jolt. Holding himself up on his forearms, he rocks his hips into you at a steady pace, leaning down to kiss your neck.

Shy and coy Arthur had left the building, replaced by wolfish Arthur, willing to howl and snarl for what he wanted. And in the moment, he wanted to brand you with his mouth. Bruising you was defacing a masterpiece, but it was a crime he was happy to commit. He was an outlaw, after all. He nipped at your neck with his teeth, leaving a mark before moving on to another spot to do the same.

You cried out, the first orgasm of the night building within you. He knew your body well and adjusted to give you what you needed, straightening his back, digging his thumbs into your ribs, and pistoning in and out, his hand going to rub your clit. Head tipped back, he moaned, no, roared, with every thrust.

You knew this was rare: Arthur Morgan losing complete control of himself. He was lost in you, lost in your wetness, lost in your tightness, and lost in those sounds. His head snapped down, and he stared right through you, eyes wild.

"Let me hear you," he demanded, slowing his strokes to get your attention. Head spinning, you gasped, too cock drunk to pay attention to what he was saying.

Grumbling, he pulled out of you to switch positions, now standing on the side of the bed. He guided you back to him, aligning your backside with his crotch. He hugged you to his chest, your back pressed into him. Your hands instantly went to his forearm, holding onto him as he practically held you in the air.

"I said let me hear you," he growled in your ear, accenting each word of his demand with an electrifying pulse of his hips. You arched your back into him, his name coming off your lips like thunder.

"That's it, darlin’."

Perverse sounds of wet skin slapping together and boisterous cries filled the cabin.

You were starting to see stars, your vision blurring as you focused on the pressure building in your insides, wanting so desperately for it to boil over. Your toes dug into the buckskin rug at your feet, trying to keep the rest of your body upright.

Arthur was a machine, pounding into you with the goal of bringing both of you to the edge. He didn't relent—didn't show any mercy for the mess you'd become under him. It was overstimulating in the best way possible.

You just needed a second, just one, to get your barrings. Attempting to scoot forward for that break was futile. Arthur moved with you, his length plunging deeper than ever.

"C'mere," he growled as his cock grazed against that sweet spot in the depths of your core, making you holler out and lose the little balance you had left. It didn't matter, though; he held you taught against him, pinning your body between him and the bed. Keeping one arm wrapped around you, the other touched you right where you craved.

"Now," he groaned into your ear, fingers circling your clit antagonizingly slow. A chuckle exited him as you melted to his touch. "Want you to come undone right here. Can you do that for me?"

Droplets of sweat fell from his head onto your back, and you moaned out, "Y-yes, Arthur."

You didn't take long then; a wave of warmth crashed over you as your velvet walls contracted around him, making the man curse into the now-hot cabin air. His hips kept their steady rhythm as you came, Arthur chasing his own climax now.

"Good girl, good girl, good girl," He moaned with every thrust as you clenched around him. He folded himself in half, once again putting his full weight on you, his heart pounding against your back like a drum. More erratic now, his rhythm lost its steady cadence as his balls tightened, his orgasm coursing through his veins.

He pulled out of you, one hand still gripping your side as the other one pumped furiously at his cock. Moaning, whimpering, and whining, Arthur threw his head back as hot spurts of his lust splattered across your back.

Hand falling from your hip, his breath slowed as clarity flowed back into his eyes. Using his discarded bandana, he wiped his sins away from your back before gently rolling you over. He scratched the back of his neck, a sly grin making home on his face as he watched you splayed out and spent. Arthur had gotten everything he'd ever wanted: a bed, four walls, and you.

[dmitriene]

THOUGHTS ABOUT GUNSLINGER SIMON MEETING YOU AS HE PASS BY.

cw: fluff, comfort, sugesstive, kind of established relationship, groping, teasing, playful banters, kissing, dirty talk, marking, lot of intimacy, boner, pet names, brief mentions of female and male anatomy, could be posessive behavior, hints on sex, simon is filthy. pairing: cowboy simon ghost riley x fem reader

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

thinking about gunslinger!simon — he meets you at the store, riding through town on a powerful black stallion to cross the road, and maybe buy a few things, if the sharp gaze of his dark bottomless eyes hadn't caught on your silhouette in a small grocery store, well, seems like he would definitely linger a little longer there, spent a night, even.

you've gone out to buy some small grocery shopping and maybe treat yourself to some pastries, but all your plans go down the drain when the wooden door of the store opens with a bell ringing above it and a cunning, smug bright red skull shaped mask walks in, carrying the identity of its owner, Ghost, whom you know as Simon.

— «ah, see who the horse has brought — eek!» you're in a hurry to notice sharply, but you don't have time to anticipate how quickly he'll cross the line from the door to you, letting you only feel the hurried touch of rough leather gloves over the curve of your waist, clad in the fabric of your dress, before he reaches out and squeezes your rounded ass, ripping out a high squeak out between your lips which he swallows hastily.

he turns you around to pin your back against the shelves of canned food and other goods, blocking the view of surprised eyes of another folks towards both of you, as he casually lifts his mask to his nose to slot his dry, tobacco scented lips to yours, licking inside your warm mouth with fervor of hungry mutt, intertwining his warm tongue with yours for just a fleeting moment before letting go of you.

simon pulls away from your lips just slightly, letting your breath blend together and his teeth pass against your lower lip in a playful bite, as you curl your dainty hand against his dark vest, shooting him a glare as your another hand grip a shopping basket stronger, your tongue slips between puffy lips to lick them, while your gaze focus on simon's sly squint of eyes and his wide grin that he hides behind his mask, and you spat stricktly — “and what this was about? that's how you say hello now?„

simon is amused by your play of the strict, spoiled girl, cause he sees how your eyes flutter shyly during a kiss before closing, and how you sigh into his mouth very quietly, only for him to hear, so he allows you to behave in this way, and in return he demands nothing more than a submission, even when he hoists you by the waist and carries to the exit, forcing you to hurriedly put the basket on the wooden shelf of the store and grab his biceps, pulling, demanding to designate his actions with at least a word, and he chuckles hoarsely — “jus' taking what's mine, can'' i, dovie?„

that makes you huff, «taking what's his» he says, in the meantime preventing you from shopping and doing whatever he pleases to you in public, you have long since lost all shame in his company, so that the words and looks of the townspeople do not mean much to you, but you allow yourself to let him know how displeased you are with his actions, frowning and pouting your lips, adding meekly — “and don't let me shop properly so i'll have what to eat, huh? very kind of you, Sir Ghost„

he visibly rolls his eyes, resembling boiled caramel in the sunset light, before glancing at your frowning brows and the way you pout your swollen from his kiss lips, before his leather covered gloved fingers wrap around your chin and turn your face a little more in his direction, so that simon can press the fabric of his mask into your ear.

— “we can pretty stay here, darling, if you won' me to bend you agains' shop's woll and fuck you for everyone to see?„

of course, the question is nothing more than rhetorical, because you won't agree to this, but it's worth it to see how your eyes widen and round like beads, and your skin definitely flushes, you can't utter a word, your lips parting silly like one of a fish, while simon takes advantage of this moment to put you on his horse before untie it from the rope, and climb in after you, sitting comfortably behind your back.

a position that allows him to grab your hips to pull you closer to him, making the softness of your ass brush against tenting hardness in his trousers, which pokes in the swell of your ass that is definitely not his revolver.

pleased, simon grabs the reins and tugs them, lightly tapping the sides of his black stallion with his feet, as his chin suddenly touches the curve of your shoulder, sending shivers down your spine.

— “i think i need to leave another one in more visible place, wha' do you think, dove?„ drawls his smoky voice, when he pulls the sleeve of your dress slightly with his chin, looking at the devil's mark, his bite, on your shoulders skin for anyone to see, if it weren't for the clothes behind which it can be hidden, not that he likes it, simon himself would have liked if you had worn it openly.

— “s — shush it„ you mutter, looking at him out of the corner of your vision with a little seriousness, adjusting the sleeve of your dress with slightly trembling fingers before continuing to stare ahead, while his broad muscular chest behind you quiver in a hoarse laugh, as he quietly, meant just for you, adds — “course, darling, i'll save this for later, yeah? sure you would be more talkative in bed, hun„

and he may be right, but it will be for his ears only.

— “when i would be balls deep in this little cunt of yours, birdy„

[seillamii]

sevika, mah wife

[the-californicationist]

Excerpt from Gunslinger - "Appaloosa"

OMG!! I commissioned this artwork from the incredible @captain-natey who RETURNED TO ME WITH THIS MASTERPIECE!!!! I just wanted to plug their work (their commissions are OPEN! visit their website here!!) and I wanted to post the chapter excerpt from "Gunslinger" (Price/Reader) that it belongs to. Hope you enjoy! Please go show Nate some love! Thanks for reading. TW: reference to past domestic abuse, Reader has call sign and speaks Spanish

Price sat beside you and pulled your chair closer to his, looping an arm around the back of it,

“Look, love, you don’t have to do anything you don’t -”

“Capitán! Quit whispering your sugary words into her ear. This is the woman who survived Miguel ‘El Matador’ Moreno for diez pinche años. She may look like a little lady, but she’s done nastier work than all four of you perritos combined. She is the reason why the infamous Jefe Luis Villagomez doesn’t travel north of the Rio Grande. Charon doesn’t ferry the living very often, amigos. She only takes the dead. Porfa,” Alejandro waved a hand in the air dismissively, unamused by Price’s coddling tones. 

Ale may have been embellishing a bit, but he wasn’t wrong. You didn’t need your hand to be held.

“I can’t leave the animals,” you said, checking to see how far these men had thought this plan through. 

“Laswell called Tony, and he’ll be here Wednesday,” Gaz told you. 

Tony had watched the ranch for you once before. He was a sharp-witted veteran that had run his own ranch for decades, so you felt good about leaving the farm to him. Tony could take care of himself. He did tend to spoil the goats, but there were worse things. 

“How long?” Your question hung in the air like a balloon losing its air, floating, surrounded by silence. 

Vargas and Price shared a look. Price repositioned himself in his chair, not thrilled about having to answer you,

“Not sure, love. Is that alright?” 

It was a test. What were you willing to sacrifice for this man and his makeshift band of brothers? Your peace? You’d fought so damn hard for that peace. You’d survived a devil of a man in order to sleep warm and safe and knowing you could take care of your damn business unaided. After giving up years of your life to unrest and fear, your reward had been the reconstruction of your independence. Price was asking you for your hard-fought freedom. You weren’t ready to give that up. You weren’t ready for sleeping on floors and reloading guns. You weren’t ready to face more devil-men. 

But what else could you do? Price had you, threatening your heart. If you woke up tomorrow to his empty bed, you didn’t know if you could take that pain. You imagined that Kahlo’s Wounded Deer felt much the same; shot through the chest with nowhere to run, stuck between the cliff’s edge and your lover - your hunter - both promising suffering in different ways. No escape. 

The captain studied you like a heeler dog studied its herd, watching for even the slightest movement to strike, to react. He witnessed the fear flash in your face, and in turn, you saw the despair shadow his. It was so slight, that change in his expression, but to you, it was like he was screaming. You, too, were screaming. 

“Okay, but just for this mission. Then, I need to get back to my life,” you decided, making your limitations known, quietly but firmly. 

The relief that washed through Price’s eyes was palpable. 

Vargas served dinner in his chaotic way, family style, sharing plates. Everyone was eating with their hands, cradling the homemade tortillas like little flowers, using them to scoop up meat and sauce that dripped down their palms like nectar, spicy and sweet. 

Ghost didn’t take his food into the other room this time, feeling secure enough to flip up the mouth of his painted mask to eat. It was like seeing him naked; he was always covered up, so any skin was somehow too much. Soap crowded Ghost from his corner of the table, trying to steal more asada, laughing and joking with Ale. Gaz and Price were huddled, murmuring about something, talking with full mouths in low tones. 

It was almost too serene. There were times in life where you understood that you were in a moment you could never return to. You may have similar ones in your future, but somehow, you knew when certain wrinkles in time were singular. As you watched your guests, you knew that this was definitely one of those moments. 

Price had his arm draped across your chair, keeping you near him. You crafted a bite for him in your hand, pinching the soft tortilla until it held the perfect amount of Ale’s asada. 

You nudged Price with your free hand,

“Toma, come esto, papi.” Here, have a bite, daddy.

He turned away from Gaz and found you there, his bite of food in your hands, and his face lit up like a flame. Bending his head down to meet your hand, he grabbed your wrist in his huge fist, trapping your arm. Then, slowly, he put his mouth around the morsel, lips touching the pads of your fingers, tongue licking the sauce from them. 

Vargas watched your interaction from the other side of the table, open-mouthed. Soap smacked him on the shoulder as if to cash in a bet.

“No, animales! Not at the table!”

The men shared a lighthearted groan and laughed good-naturedly, giving you and their captain a hard time about your little display of affection. 

You smirked, feeling accomplished. Price had wanted to tell them, so you thought a dropped hint or two would be alright. To your relief, he laughed with them, chewing his food before making a comment,

“Sabe buena.” Tastes good. His voice, still badly accented, was mirthful and suggestive, dragging out another round of playful jeering. 

Then, to your surprise, the captain pulled your chair back away from the table, leaning it on its rear legs, holding it at an angle, and kissed you deeply. You let out a little cry of shock, silenced by his mouth. But, you recovered, kissing him back, wrapping one hand around his jaw and the other running through his hair. 

It was all in good fun. Normal. Just a couple flirting with each other, but for Price, you could tell it meant more. It was one thing to bare your souls to each other in front of the farm animals, or to sneak off and rediscover original sins in the quiet of your room, but it was something else to show the world that you chose him. To show his men that you were committed to their captain. That you weren’t just a rest-stop on their long journey. You got the sense that by committing to him, you were also committing to them: his family. 

The rest of the meal passed in that same warmth, filled with laughter and jokes, stories and questions about each other. Intimacy. The whole time, Price couldn’t keep his hands off of you. Your thigh, your hand, the nape of your neck - he was grabbing you like a lifeline. He shared his food, making you try his chili relleno, giving you sips of his drink when yours ran dry, doting on you. 

“Okay, time for dessert, yes?” You asked the others, picking up dirty dishes as you retreated back to the kitchen. 

You heard exasperated groaning, their bellies full and struggling, but you didn’t hear a no. Vargas followed you into the kitchen, pretending to help,

“Dios mío, necesito un cigarrillo después de verlos a ustedes.” My God, I need a cigarette after watching you two. 

“Cállate, cerdito.” Shut up, piglet. You smiled to yourself, cutting up what was left of the cheesecake, giving Price’s plate the largest piece. 

“¿Estas enamorado, morena?” Are you in love, darling? His voice was a quiet whisper. It felt like a gunshot wound in your chest. 

“I don’t know,” you said, in English, not trusting yourself to tell such a lie in your native tongue. 

Your old friend covered his mouth with his hand, eyebrows heading skyward, giving you an obvious look. He replied in English, understanding the secret you’d been trying to conceal,

“You know better, Charon. We are not men who should be loved. I hope you know what you’re doing, mija. ”

You didn’t reply out loud, but on the inside, you heard yourself say, “Me, too.”

Even though they lived in the shadows, you weren’t sold on the idea that they should be priests for their causes. Men like Price typically followed two paths. The love of a woman, if she becomes his family, could break his heart, making him forget his purpose, distracting him from his quest for justice. Or, she would light a fire in him, turning him into a dragon. You were afraid to find out which path he would choose.

You wondered if he loved you. 

You delivered the cake and poured more tequila into all the little cups that were thirsty for it. 

John was rolling a cigar in his fingers absentmindedly, and you could tell he was aching to smoke it. 

“You wanna come outside with me, love?” Price invited you, rubbing your thighs in big, sweeping strokes, making your blood rush through them, somehow knowing what you wanted. 

Everyone else was chatting, or watching Gaz play that video game of his, backseat driving, telling him where to hide and who to shoot. Which gun to use. You slipped out onto the porch with Price, avoiding any more ribbing. 

You stood against the porch railing, facing the yard, staring out at the darkness of the night, the rain finally dying out to a drizzle, casting little blue galaxies in the flooded grass, reflecting the light from a huge moon. Price stood directly behind you, pressed against your body, wrapping one hand around the railing, closing you in. He held his cigar in the other hand, smoking it in circles, trying to make the ashes burn evenly. 

“You surprised me at dinner,” he commented, obviously looking for a response. 

You feigned ignorance,

“Oh, why?”

“Feeding me by hand like that. Can’t be doing that in public. Makes me go a bit hard, love.” His voice was right next to your ear, gravelly and delightfully threatening. 

You smiled sweetly, your words coated in pretend innocence, playing with him,

“What do you mean? I just wanted you to have a bite. One little bite can’t hurt, can it, John?” 

“It’s bloody mental, the way you make me feel,” he took a long drag from his cigar and let the smoke tumble out as he spoke, leaning over you, “I’d fuck you right here, pretty girl, given half a chance.”

He took a deep breath along the side of your neck, smelling your skin beneath your hair, and when he exhaled, a moan was wrapped quietly inside it.

You pressed your ass into his crotch, finding him nearly hard. Touching his hand gently, you took his cigar and stuck it in your mouth, the wet leaves tasting like him. You curled the smoke with your tongue, locking eyes with him over your shoulder, watching him suffer deliciously,

“I dunno about ‘mental’, John. But it seems like you have an oral fixation.

You punctuated your last two words, saying them with a soft, sultry undertone. His eyes narrowed as he smiled down at you in a sinister grin,

“Do I ever.”

He stole the stick back from you and smiled even wider, teeth gleaming, his incisors seeming like fangs in his wolfy smile. 

“Think they’re watching us?” You let your eyes turn over to the window, covered with a sheer curtain, fully aware that the view outside was more visible than your view into the house. Trick of the light. 

He shrugged,

“Not if they know what’s good for them.”

Price’s cock had fully hardened now, and he thrust it up into your body ever so slightly, rubbing himself through layers of clothes, rocking his hips once and then twice like a promise of things to come. It made you feel a deep, primal lust, understanding his need without his words, your bodies engaging in an ancient art that had remained untainted by eons of time. You returned his invitation, rolling your hips back onto him, your ass pressing soundly into his pinned shaft. 

“We should get some sleep. Early start tomorrow. It’s five hours to El Ojo,” Price groaned, whispering, rutting against you mindlessly, burying his face in your hair, staining your scent with his smoke. 

You turned around to face him; he didn’t stop his idle grinding, looking tranquilized by his heady tobacco. Hypnotizing you with his casual eroticism. 

“You don’t seem sleepy,” you commented, letting your hands roam over his chest and belly, tracing his nipples beneath his smooth shirt. He shuddered at your touch, sighing deeply. 

With his cigar perched carefully between his fingers, he grabbed your jawbone, and you could feel the wet end press into your cheek. You could sense the warmth of the ash on your skin. He began to kiss you, all of the smoke and musky scents of him blended together, and his strong, masculine cologne made your head spin. His kisses were controlling and long, moving your head where he wanted it to be, sucking your lips and tongue, keeping them from exploring on their own. He was the guide for your passion, showing you all the ways he would be able to please.

He broke away, but only far enough to keep your lips from touching, his breath hot as it warmed your mouth when he spoke,

“Early. Tomorrow. We have to get up early. We should sleep.”

“Okay,” you sighed, a little dramatically, easing past his grip, removing yourself from him, untangling his vines from your bones, “if you say so, John. Buenas noches.” 

You walked inside, swaying your hips a little more than you needed to, knowing he was looking, his blue eyes burning into your curves. Just before you went through the door, you glanced over at him. In the darkness of the porch, cast in shadow, the smoldering tip of his cigar glowed in his open mouth, the light from it gleaming off of his teeth and coloring his lips and beard a fiery orange. He was grinning, like a fox in a henhouse. When he saw you looking, he made a small show of readjusting himself, pawing at his swollen rod to release it from where it was trapped, and in the dimness, you could see its threatening outline. 

You shut the door behind you, hands shaking. The other men mostly ignored you, but you caught them glancing your way, trying to sneak looks. Soap was not as sneaky as the rest, staring blankly as if he had a secret he shouldn't have.

As you wished them good night, they returned the sentiment casually, but it was then that you noticed the window. Price was still at the railing - in full, clear view, smoking. Blood rushed to your cheeks, and you could feel the flush tingle against your skin with embarrassment. 

An hour or so later, you were already asleep when Price came upstairs. His heavy footsteps pulled you from your slumber. He was pacing in his room, packing perhaps. You went to the bathroom and pulled open the door. Upon hearing you, he opened his as well.

“Hey,” you whispered, squinting from sleep. 

“Hey,” he was breathing heavily, dressed in nothing but the jeans and boots he had worn that day. 

The captain watched as your eyes feasted upon his skin, gazing longingly at his thick waist where his pants were slung low on his hips, showing off just a bit of hair from below his belt line. One of his giant hands gripped the door frame, high on the plank, stretching his chest into a sweeping display of muscle. His armpit, arms, and torso were covered in the thick, dark hair you had let your hands roam across last night during your joining, and you knew how it would feel to touch. 

Price slid his hand down the frame, making a slow scraping noise, stepping fully into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a click, his icy eyes never leaving yours. 

He was enormous in the small space. His body was a powerhouse of visible strength. The meat of him hung heavy on his large bones, and he seemed, in the clean white tile of the bathroom, as if he was a specimen in some sort of display. Some museum exhibit, showing off, in sterile composition, the ideal form of Man. Built to fuck, to kill, to dominate the beasts of Eden from the lamb to the lion. Top of the food chain. 

Still a little shy from realizing you’d given his team quite the show earlier on the porch, you averted your gaze, turning toward the sink. Before you could run the water, he was behind you, quick, crowding your space exactly as he had on the porch.

He positioned himself behind you and, much more luridly this time, began to kiss and lick your neck, grinding himself into you as he did so, slipping a warm hand under your loose top, finding your soft flesh waiting for his touch. You could feel the roughness of his denim jeans through your cotton shorts, and the contrast between his soft, melting kiss and the hard, unforgiving feeling of him trying to fuck you through your clothes was too much to handle. Your body was trying to reconcile the two, splitting your thoughts, making you love-drunk on his ministrations. 

Price pulled off your shirt, raking it over your head, tossing it to the floor. He laced his hand through your hair and began to tug your head back, forcing you to look at yourself, bare to him, in the mirror. There was only the nightlight, more like a small Christmas bulb attached to a plug, so the room lacked any harsh contrast. Your bodies, your faces, the walls - everything began to swirl together, all colorized in the same, peachy glow. 

You felt his hands on your breasts, and you watched him touch you in the mirror. Seeing yourself being pulled and manipulated by such a large man was gratifying. His hands massaged into your softness, leaving warm trails on your skin, the tell-tale feeling of where he had touched and where he still had left to go. The captain saw himself in the mirror for the first time, then, looking up from leaving erotic kisses on your neck and shoulders. 

He sighed, locking eyes with you in the glass. That sigh trailed off into a groan, a ghost of the one he’d given you last night in the midst of his ecstasy. 

“Fucking hell, look at you,” he said in his lowest tone.

Suddenly, he was tugging at the button of his jeans and unzipping the fly, freeing himself and stroking his cock to attention using your plump ass. Through your flimsy shorts, you could feel the burning heat that radiated from him. Reaching behind you, his hardness fell into your palm and you watched the sensation crawl its way through his expression in the reflection. He gasped, resting his head against yours, whispering - yes, yes, yes - into your ear in a hiss through clenched teeth. 

John’s hand found your pantyline and pried it away from your skin with a confident finger, traveling down into your folds, searching for the swelling bundle nestled in the crest of your slit, rubbing it in long, loose ovals.

It wasn’t feverish; it was measured. His was the hand of a practiced man. As he worked, you joined him, rolling your wrist to rub his foreskin up and down in achingly long pulls, letting his wet head graze your skin as you teased him. The thick length was drooling with precome, and you could feel its stickiness on your palm. 

It didn’t take him long to find your particular rhythm, the one you used when staring at Pinterest photos on your phone of Keanu Reeves in his John Wick era; sweaty, bloody, and great with a gun. Price’s movements felt personal, like he’d read about what you wanted in your diary somewhere, as if he was in on the secret. It brought you to the summit very quickly, and he noticed the flush in your cheeks and breasts, only then increasing his intensity. 

You tried to continue to stroke him, but as you began to come in Price’s hand, you could only hold onto his cock, grasping it like the handle in a car driving too fast, careening downhill, rushing to its inevitable crash. 

“Yeah, love, come for me. Just like that, you gorgeous fucking thing,” he watched you tumble over the edge, crumpling in the mirror, reaching for him. 

“John! Please,” you cried.

You felt the tension burst inside of you like a mortar, hot and molten, pouring out of your core and into your body in waves of climactic pleasure. No one had ever made you come that hard, that quickly. It was hard for you to stand. Price steadied you, using his talented hand to hold you to him while you remembered your legs. 

Once you regained your senses, you removed your hand from him to pull down your shorts and panties, letting them pool at the floor beneath your feet. You returned to his cock, now swollen and throbbing, and fed it into you. Your come made his entry smooth and slippery, and he filled you up, your body celebrating his return.

He returned to his slow, grinding dance on the porch, thrusting himself into you rhythmically in aching, rolling motions. It was not the slamming pugilism of two people trying to find release. This was a concerted effort for him to fuck your walls into his memory, rubbing his dick along them to sense every ridge and sweet spot, and to find the ones that made you scream. 

When you let slip a desperate moan, he would pause, reflect, and return, hitting it again and again, watching you writhe and begging for him to help you.

“You feel so good in me,” you admitted, talking to him in the looking-glass. 

His eyes were full of mismanaged control, and his grip on reality was slipping, 

“Bloody beautiful. So warm and wet for me. Goddamnit, I’m not gonna last.”

But, he did. Your beast had stamina. He returned to your clit as he thrust in and out of you, dragging his fat cock through your body, ripping two more orgasms from your lips before he surrendered. 

You watched him come, crying out darkly in his reflection. He had pulled himself from you and was painting your generous ass cheeks with his load. The tacky fluid was searingly hot, and it ran down your skin in drips. 

You smiled, bending back to kiss him,

“Messy boy,” you chided playfully, a naughty tone in your voice. 

“Wanna clean you up,” Price sighed, satisfied and spent.

Do you want 30 more chapters of these two? Read "Gunslinger" here.

Reblogs and comments deeply appreciated!

[emmster]

Can’t get these visuals out of my head when I listen to “I can Fix him (No really I can)”

[reluctant-introvertedgunslinger]

A triggered Revy.

"You don't know me!" In response to Rock saying, and I'm paraphrasing here, He knows exactly what it feels like to be in the same darkness like her.

[tacitoru]

pairing: choso x reader

summary: “At your service, ma'am,” he says, with an earnest grin and the tilt of his gallon hat. “Always.”

or:

you don't know how you managed to have beef with the deputy of your tiny town so quickly after moving this far west to escape the "promise" of polite society, but he does well to remind you not to forget it.

rating: explicit

tw: cowboy!choso, dom/sub undertones, bondage, mentions of violence and alcohol, afab!reader

read on ao3

[velvet-ymarinebloo77]

[orc-with-sunflowers]

I cannot emphasize enough how much I need more of Black Belle's story. This is another character that I would love to see in a standalone game.

[tyrayde]

Meet Ruba!

One of the characters I've been thinking about a lot lately is named Ruba, she's my second proper OC with a fleshed out story and personality! She's been a Gun-slinging Bounty Hunter for the past ~20 years since she turned 16, during her rebellious phase, as she didn't want to pick up her Father's Druidic teachings. She taught herself, instead, how to make her own firearms in a homemade workshop when she had spare time. She still owns her first Revolver and Rifle she made, albeit they get modified often. She's snarky and sarcastic, and has made quite a living for herself. She was raised in poverty, and essentially fought her way out tooth and nail to buy a house in the rich district of her hometown for her parents, and now her partner.

I suppose we'll live it at this for now... This is basically her backstory from before the campaign begun! It's one hell of a campaign, and still ongoing (with a hiatus), so there's lots to tell!

Behind the Scenes :)

She was made when I was in high school, during a sick phase of liking Steampunk & Girls dressed in Suits :) I need to redesign her when I learn how to draw, I've got beautiful art from some of my friends as gifts, but they don't exactly encapsulate all of her... outstanding features as I'd always imagined them to be. Nothing too fancy at all, but just that her facemask is made of metal and gears, and could turn into a fox mask inspired by the Japanese Kitsune masks. She's also got one fantasy-magical prosthetic arm that she got from her Arch Nemesis, One Eyed Jack... who the party promptly killed on their first interaction, even though he was supposed to run away and be a recurring villain :)

I love her loads, I have always wished I could roleplay her better in game, but I'm not great at playing characters too dissimilar to myself in personality, and I'm hardly as sarcastic, rude and quick-witted as she. Also her pronouns are she/him :)

Her Refsheet: https://refsheet.net/Blitz/Ruba

You can also learn more or ask questions about her, or to her on my Discord!: https://discord.com/invite/A9WEDDbVre

(Art by BluesBnB!)

[the-californicationist]

Gunslinger (an excerpt from Chapter 05)

AO3 Link - MDNI

You and John Price had been playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse, but when you hide a pair of panties under his pillow one night, the hunter becomes the hunted.

... you left one lace thong under his pillow. It was white with a pink bow. The strings on the side were satin. Laying crumpled there, between the sham and the sheet, you looked forward to whatever happened. Good or bad. Any reaction from this man would be enough to satisfy your craving to see him undone. How far could a patient man be pushed?

The captain was downstairs, sitting at your table, talking over a tablet with Ghost. As you made your way through the small den, you eyed him shamelessly, daring him, and he saw you, a suspicious look on his face, though not obvious enough for anyone else to notice.

But you were both existing on the same plane, living your lives so closely to one another, vibrating at the same frequency, your atoms dancing at the same intensity, that even if he only imagined a word that he wanted to say to you, you’d know what it was. You’d hear it in the quiet parts of your mind. If he breathed too deeply or stared too long at this or that, you’d notice. Hyper aware of each and every movement that the other was making, stalking each other like wolves, hidden in the trees.

You headed upstairs and lay awake as long as you could, trying to stay up to witness his reaction. Maybe he’d be disappointed. Maybe he’d chastise you like you were a child who didn’t know better. Maybe he’d take your teasing too far. Maybe, and this was the worst one, he might just ignore you.

It wasn’t until you heard him crawl his way up the stairs that you heard his answer.

No one knew the sounds of this house better than you. You’d hid hundreds of people in its very walls. You knew every floorboard and furnishing by heart.

You heard him in the hallway outside your room, walking carefully to his door, and listened to him click open the handle. He was inside. You knew the moment he sat on the edge of the bed with the sound that the mattress made, sighing under his heavy weight.

You could hear his rustling, pushing the quilt back, and you heard him sinking down fully into the covers. Then, silence, but not the relaxed sort.

A sigh, ragged and long.

Another. Full of turmoil.

His feet swung around and touched the floor again, the wooden planks there betraying his movement. You thought he might burst into your room to politely deliver them back to you in that restrained, gentleman’s manner he had. But, he didn’t. He was just sitting there.

It felt like hours had passed before your ears, straining, caught his next sound.

It was another sigh, and then...  a groan.

The sticky popping of skin touching slick skin. Repeated. Iterative. Rhythmic.

The bed moved, barely an inch, rocking in place.

Wet little whispers revealed that his hot palm was pumping, steadily, down his shaft, using the source of fluid from its drooling head to ease the path. He rubbed it along his length. The wet noises became frantic.

More rustling of sheets.

He moaned louder this time. You felt the hair on your arms and neck stand up, shocked, awestruck. You were barely able to breathe.

His movements became desperate, the noises of a body that was working itself to a fever, growing more and more obvious as his reservations surrendered to pleasure.

The bed jostled. His feet pressed against the floor.

The grunting you heard was that of an enraged grizzly, panting roughly, blowing scalding air through his nostrils. You imagined his bearded cheeks hollowed from sucking in a breath, braying in a short, shouted cry. Face contorted with hot agony, his sticky release spilled from his rigid font.

Then, satisfied sighing.

Out of breath.

Spent.

Your blood was pounding in your ears, and your head swam with a loud rushing noise as your heart banged against your chest. It was too much to bear. Your dreams had become too real.

The bed creaked again. You held your breath.

Price was in the bathroom then, mere feet from you, moving around, running the water.

As you watched his feet cast shadows below the door frame, you saw him step toward you, hesitating. But, he didn’t touch the handle. He simply backed away and cut the light, keeping himself from you.

...

[emmster]

Gunslinger warmups

[loonytwohand-okajima79]

Yeah....it runs THAT deep. "You don't fucking know meee!!"

[reluctant-introvertedgunslinger]

[the-californicationist]

HOLY FUCK!!! HOLY FUCK!!! HELP!!! SOMEONE HELP ME!!! HOLY FUCK!!!

luna sanguinis // CHAPTER I: nox fatalis

CHAPTER MASTERLIST

John isn't the party type. But a Halloween invitation to a secluded manor and an encounter with the alluring Victoria prove to be a temptation he can’t resist.

[4k words]

cw: blood, violence

nox fatalis

“Oi, cowboy!” A way too enthusiastic voice boomed from his right, and John Price looked up to see Soap approaching. He blinked, almost rubbing his eyes to fully take in the costume his comrade was wearing.

“Soap, are you wearing a bloody skirt ?” another voice beat John to it. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before reaching into his jacket pocket to retrieve a cigar. Why did he agree to go to a Halloween party, of all places?

“It’s a kilt, you fuckin’ uncultured dog,” Soap shot back, his Scottish accent thick, turning to face Gaz. “What are you supposed to be? The saddest vampire in town?”

“Dracula,” Gaz flashed his fake plastic dentures with a smirk. “Isn’t that obvious?”

“Sorry, the runny eyeliner threw me off. It makes you look miserable, not threatening.” Johnny laughed, then turned to John, giving him a once-over. “Nice costume, cowboy.”

“Gunslinger,” Price corrected, his voice flat.

“What?” Gaz asked, looking confused.

“Not a cowboy,” John repeated.

“Practically the same thing,” a low, raspy voice joined them, and John rolled his eyes.

He turned to see Ghost approaching, clad all in black, his skull balaclava and skeleton gloves the only concession to the holiday. “The dress code was Halloween costume, Simon, in case you missed the cue.”

Ghost gestured to his face. “This has to do. I scared enough kids on the way.”

Price sighed audibly. “I need a fucking drink if I am supposed to survive this. Y’all owe me for dragging me here.”

“Oh come on, it will be fun. Snacks, drinks and maybe some lovely women - what’s not to love?” Gaz clapped a hand on Price’s shoulder, always the optimist.

“Is that a skirt, Johnny?” Ghost’s voice rasped through the chatter of nearby partygoers, catching their attention.

“Fuck all of you,” Soap replied, holding his finger up to point at each of them in turn. Then, turning to Ghost, he added, "At least I put some effort into this."

Ghost just huffed and grabbed an envelope that Gaz held out. “How’d you get invitations anyway?”

Gaz flashed his fake teeth in a dramatic grin. “I know some people who know some people. This is the most prestigious party in the country, you should be grateful.”

“I am so grateful,” Price muttered sarcastically, taking a long drag of his cigar before discarding the butt and grinding it out with his boot. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

They turned toward the imposing front gate of the mansion. It was an old, stately building, quintessentially English, with a rose garden stretching out to either side. Price had expected over-the-top Halloween decorations, but the decor was surprisingly tasteful. Candles flickered in ornate lanterns, eerily realistic skulls were perched on stone pillars, and real ravens perched on the wrought iron fence, their caws echoing through the driveway that circled a towering willow tree. 

He had to admit, there was a certain prestige, a sense of history, that hung about the place. Why he’d agreed to come, he still didn’t know. He would have much preferred mission reports, a good whiskey, and a cigar in the quiet of his office. He was lucky he’d even found this old outfit buried in the back of his closet - leather jacket, fake revolvers, cowboy hat, and boots that were more for show than practicality these days.

The mansion seemed to loom over them, its dark windows like watchful eyes. Soap was openly gawking, while Gaz wore a knowing smirk that suggested he’d been here before. They climbed the short flight of steps leading to the massive oak double doors, flanked by two imposing figures in black suits who were checking invitations.

“Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll get to chat with the hostess,” Gaz murmured, handing his envelope to one of the men who barely glanced at it before nodding curtly, granting him entrance. “She’s a bloody smoke show,” he added in a low voice, earning a dramatic eye roll from Price.

John handed his own invitation over, meeting the guard's gaze with his usual intensity. The man’s eyes flicked to the revolvers in Price's holsters. “They’re fake,” Price said, already reaching for them and offering them to the guard for inspection.

To his surprise, the man just grunted and nodded, gesturing for Price to enter. Holstering his weapons, Price stepped inside, following Gaz into the grand foyer. He paused, taking in the opulent surroundings. It was a strange mix of old-world elegance and modern sophistication. Centuries-old tapestries hung alongside abstract art, and antique furniture was arranged with an eye for minimalist design. It felt surprisingly welcoming, despite the sheer size of the place.

After everyone was admitted inside, they all headed straight for the bar, dying to have drinks for the night. Price needed something stronger than the lukewarm champagne being offered on silver trays by circulating waiters.

“Whiskey, neat.” He barked the order to the bartender, a pale, skinny man with nervous eyes, who hurried to pour him a generous measure.

“Never been to one of these fancy dos before, eh?” Gaz asked, leaning against the bar.

“Can’t say I make a habit of it.” Price replied, downing half his whiskey in one long swallow, letting the familiar burn settle in his chest.

“You’d be surprised,” Gaz said with a wink. “There’s more to these high-society types than meets the eye.”

Soap had been quiet, his eyes wide as he took in the entirety of the place. “Aye, and some right mental costumes.” He jerked his head towards a group of guests dressed as mythical creatures, their outfits more resembling something out of a fever dream than a Halloween party.

Ghost, as always the silent observer, was leaning against a pillar, his skull balaclava a stark contrast to the brightly coloured masks and outlandish outfits surrounding him. He watched the crowd with a predator's intensity, his gaze missing nothing.

While his comrades continued chatting about all the costumes, his eyes followed the impressive staircase that separated the main foyer from the second level, until they landed on her . 

She was standing at the top of the grand staircase, her figure framed by the golden glow of the crystal chandelier. Her gown, a deep red that seemed to absorb the light, clung to her curves, accentuating the slimness of her waist and the fullness of her hips. Her dark hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of ink, and her skin – so pale it seemed to glow in the dim light – was flawless, spared by the passing of time. She wasn’t wearing a costume, not really, she didn’t need to. She didn’t need the theatrics; she was the spectacle.

Price felt his breath catch in his throat. Time seemed to stop. The noise of the party, the chatter of the guests, the music, all faded away, leaving only the steady thump of his own heart.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, unable to tear his eyes away.

“Told you she was a smokeshow,” Gaz leaned in, a smug grin on his face.

Price ignored him, his gaze fixated on the woman on the stairs. It was more than just her beauty, though, that alone was enough to stop a man in his tracks. There was something else about her, something that drew him to her like a moth to a flame. A power, an intensity, that he’d never encountered before. It was more than just physical attraction; it was a pull, a magnetic force that went straight to his bones.

He cleared his throat. “Who is she?”

“Victoria Di Corvo. The hostess. She owns the place.”

The conversation, though spoken in hushed tones, drifted towards you above the noise of the party. You followed the direction of it, and turned your head to find the source. And that’s when his scent hit you, too – it was like it suddenly called out to you. Primal, spicy, wild, full of strength. Raw and untamed like the deepest, darkest corners of your soul.

You felt a jolt of excitement, a thrill that sent a shiver down your spine. It had been centuries since you'd felt such a powerful pull, such an undeniable connection.

He stood by the bar, tall and broad-shouldered, his black pants and gray leather jacket doing little to conceal the power of his frame. His cowboy hat shadowed his eyes, giving him an air of quiet danger that made your heart skip a beat.

“Never seen her before.” The man’s voice was rough with an undertone of curiosity.

“She’s not the most social one, it is said.” His friend said, with an easy charm, which seemed like a gift that gave him the ability to slip into conversations easily, blending into the crowd.

You raised a hand, a small, elegant gesture that summoned your closest companion and most loyal servant, Beth, to your side. She moved with a grace born of centuries of service, her eyes never leaving yours.

“Yes, my lady?” she asked, her voice a soft murmur.

“Spare his friends, tonight,” you instructed, your gaze never leaving Price.

“Do you think –” Beth began, her voice hushed.

“I don’t know,” you cut her off, your voice laced with a hint of weariness. “And I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

“I’m sorry, my lady. I didn’t mean to assume,” Beth murmured apologetically.

You sighed. “Just make sure his friends are safe. They may live, if he lives. They seem important to him.”

“Of course, your majesty,” Beth bowed her head.

Your gaze returned to Price. He was watching you, his eyes locked on yours. It was as if you could taste him with a single glance, the intensity of his presence overwhelming. His scent was more potent, more exquisite than any of the other humans in the room. Their scents, while intoxicating in their own way, were sweet and naive. His was something else entirely.

Hope, a dangerous, forbidden thing, flickered within you. Was it wrong to have hope? Probably.

But you couldn’t afford to be wrong anymore. The curse that bound you, the curse that made you queen of all creatures, living and dead, was a double-edged sword. It gave you power, immortality, but it came at a terrible price. Your life was tied to the Blood Moon, and each year, it demanded a sacrifice to maintain its power. A sacrifice of blood.

For centuries, you’d endured this burden, keeping the balance between the human and vampire worlds. A balance that prevented chaos, that kept the darkness at bay. But with each passing Blood Moon, the curse grew stronger, the hunger more intense.

The lavish party, the carefully crafted disguise for the brutal ritual to come – it was all a desperate attempt to cling to life, to maintain an equilibrium. One that only you could uphold. You were its core, the nexus point between light and darkness. 

Watching every guest dance, celebrate, feast, and drink, oblivious to their fate, filled you with a melancholy that had become as familiar as your own heartbeat. They didn’t know that, either way, their lives were in your hands. 

If you fell, the world would fall with you.

But if you could find your king, your mate, to rule at your side – your strength would be bound, the need for sacrifice eliminated. But every time you'd sensed a possibility, a flicker of hope in the blood of a human male, he'd failed the test. Each failure, each death, had chipped away at your hope, leaving you weary and vulnerable.

Your gaze remained locked on Price. He was still watching you, his eyes holding yours with a steady intensity that both intrigued and excited you. He smirked and raised his glass to you before taking a sip of his drink. The simple act, the way his throat moved as he swallowed, was strangely sensual. Your fangs ached, calling to the predator within you.

Leaning further over the railing, you smiled back at him, a slow, deliberate curve of your lips. You knew you held a certain power over human men. It was one of the many gifts that came with your lineage.

Without breaking eye contact, you turned and walked towards the gardens.

He followed. Of course, he did. You didn’t even have to try. You heard his footsteps, the faint, steady beat of his heart behind you, as you stepped out onto the terrace and leaned against the railing, overlooking the moonlit expanse of the garden.

“Enjoying the party, cowboy?” you asked, your voice low and smooth as velvet.

“Gunslinger, actually, ma’am,” he corrected, his voice a deep rumble.

“Oh?” you tilted your head, intrigued. “And what makes a gunslinger different from a cowboy?” You knew the answer, obviously, being alive during the wild times you spent at countless saloons, but you wanted to hear it from him, anyway.

“A gunslinger is more precise. More deadly. Very skilled with firearms,” he explained. “I like to keep people informed.” His accent intrigued you. And the way he corrected you, it wasn’t meant to be demeaning. Simply informative. It was refreshing.

“Is that just part of the costume, or are you actually skilled with guns?” 

“I’m a Captain in the military. SAS, to be precise. John Price,” he said, stepping closer.

He couldn’t know why he told you the truth. He simply felt compelled to. It was so easy to sway a human’s mind, to make them reveal their secrets. But with him, it felt different. You didn’t even have to try. As if he wanted to tell you, wanted to offer himself to you.

“You’ve never been here before,” you stated. It wasn’t a question, it was a fact. You could sense it in the way he moved, the way he looked at everything with a mix of curiosity and caution.

“I’m not the party type,” he admitted.

“Yet you seem to be enjoying yourself a lot.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “If you can call sipping a drink and watching ridiculous costumes enjoyment, sure.” You noticed the wrinkles that formed at his eyes when he smiled.

He joined you at the railing, his presence beside you so incredibly livid. You could hear the steady beat of his heart, a rhythm that seemed to echo in your own chest. The scent of him was so intoxicating – cedarwood and tobacco, but beneath that, a primal musk that spoke of strength and untamed desire. It was a scent that resonated deep within you, awakening something ancient and powerful.

Something you hadn’t felt in centuries.

“Are you not enjoying your own party?”

You turned to face him, and the world tilted on its axis.

His eyes, as blue as a winter sky, locked onto yours, and a shock of recognition, as sharp and undeniable as a lightning strike, went through you. This was him. Yours. Your mate.

It was written in the depths of his eyes, in the way his scent wrapped around you like a promise, in the very essence of his being. The one you’d waited centuries for, the one who would complete you, who would make you whole.

He was here.

Your breath caught in your throat. You couldn't tear your gaze away. It was as if you were seeing him for the first time, seeing through the layers of his human facade to the soul that mirrored your own. A soul that had been searching for you, just as you had been searching for it, across lifetimes and continents.

A wave of possessive joy surged through you, so fierce it made your heart ache.

You shook your head. Despite all the feelings and signs the universe seemed to give you, you couldn’t be too sure, he had to prove himself worthy first.

“It’s complicated,” you finally managed to say, your voice husky with emotion.

He frowned slightly, his gaze searching yours as if trying to unravel the mystery you presented. He was so close now, you could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the faint sweetness of his breath. His hand brushed yours as he shifted his weight, leaving a trail of elecrictiy on your skin.

His gaze flickered to your lips, and you saw a flash of desire in his eyes, a hunger that mirrored your own. He leaned in, and for a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you.

Then, just as quickly, he pulled back, his expression clouded with confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. “I don’t know why I feel so…” He trailed off, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His hands were fisted at his sides, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

He was fighting it, you realized. Fighting the pull, the connection that he couldn't understand. 

You stepped back from him, breaking the spell that had held you both captive. “So, you’re a skilled fighter?”

“You could probably say that,” he replied, his gaze sharpening. “Why do you ask?”

You’d have to risk it. 678 years and no chance, what could be one more year added to the pile? It would be a shame if your assumptions were wrong yet again, but what did it matter? Humans would die that night either way, it would just be a shame that he would be among them. You’d like to get to know him a little better, his eyes told you more than he could have in a matter of a few seconds. He probably had stories to tell that could keep you entertained for a while. His scent was exciting, a strong mix that you longed to breathe in, to savour. And the way he’d looked at you, the hunger in his eyes – you'd imagine he’d be more than inclined to kiss you. It would indeed be a shame to lose it all, simply because you dared to believe for yet another chance.

But did you have a choice? Not really. It was the cruel irony of the curse – your survival demanded sacrifice. Was it selfish? Incredibly so. But the cost of your demise would be far greater. You had to be selfish, not just for yourself, but for everyone.

You couldn’t tell him the truth. With a subtle gesture, you raised a hand, signalling to your guards who were hidden in the shadows of the garden. They emerged silently, moving with an unnatural grace that hinted at something other than human.

Price, ever alert, noticed their approach immediately. “Did I say something to offend you?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

You froze, stunned by his reaction. That was his first thought? Not that he was surrounded by creatures , but that he might have said something wrong? You met his gaze, and saw genuine concern in those blue eyes.

The pang of regret was almost unbearable. It had been so long since you’d encountered such genuine concern, such selfless care. 

It had been forever since you felt this honest care for you, this genuine concern for your feelings. It had always been just a quick encounter for their pleasure, for their needs. Nobody had asked about yours, absolutely genuinely so, in decades.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, before taking a step back from the railing, and turned away. It was barely audible in the music filled air, but Price heard it — a hint of regret in that tone sent a chill down his spine, as he tried to rationalize the sudden shift in your demeanour. It didn’t match the heat that had been building between you just moments ago.

If he really was the one, he’d have to survive.

If he really was a fighter, he would.

Or at least that was what you told yourself.

You stepped even further away, putting more distance between you and him. He watched, confused, as he was circled by shadowy figures. They moved with unnatural grace, and their eyes were glowing with a hunger that made him be fully alert in a split second.

“What the hell —?” he muttered, his glass slipping from his grasp and shattering against the stone patio. He didn’t have time to process the situation before they were upon him.

As the guards attacked, a surge of power, raw and untamed, pulsed through your veins. It was his power, his life force, echoing through the bond that was already forming between you. It was unlike anything you’d ever felt before.

You looked up at the moon as it began to shift, a slow bleed of crimson spreading across its silver face.

As soon as you had given the silent command with the raise of your hand, the true night had begun.

Inside the mansion, Beth glided through the throngs of guests, a phantom in a sea of revellers. She found Price’s friends – Soap, still boisterous in his kilt, Gaz, charming his way through a group of costumed women, and Ghost, a silent observer at the edge of the crowd – and, with a few carefully chosen words, lured them away. An exclusive after-party, she’d hinted, just for them and their cowboy friend. They followed willingly, oblivious to the darkness gathering outside.

But you had no interest in them as the other creatures began to feast.

Your gaze was fixated on the man in front of you. He had faced many impossible odds, and he noticed quickly that the men surrounding him weren’t ordinary men. 

Moving with the precision of a soldier, his body was a weapon honed by years of training. He didn’t need guns, he fought with his hands that spoke of deadly efficiency, every blow calculated to maximize damage. He was fighting for his life, as was the purpose of this test.

He wasn’t even panicking, just confused, as you saw in his eyes as he took in the situation. It was as if you could read his mind as it went through quick calculations and assessments to analyse threats and exploiting weaknesses.

One of your guards lunged, fangs glinting in the red shimmering moonlight, and John met the attack head-on. He didn’t even flinch from the creature's superhuman strength but used his own weight to his advantage, pivoting on his heel and sending the attacker crashing into the marble ground.

A smile of fascination played on your lips, the sound of the fight was music to your ears, especially the rush of blood in his human flesh. Surviving the attack of one vampire was already a promise more than anyone had withstood before him.

Two more came at him, and he met them equally with a ruthless grace that made your blood sing. He ducked under the blows, his fist connected with a crack against a jaw. He made quick work of the other one, too, using the guard's own momentum to send him over the railing.

With each passing moment, the connection between you intensified. You could feel his pain, his determination, the surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. And the scent of his blood – oh, it was intoxicating. Like the finest wine and the most potent drug. The spice of it shot through your system like a wildfire, it felt almost too strong, too overwhelming — yet so incredibly intimate and familiar, even though you had never met this man before in your life.

But also, his blood reminded you that he was still just human, after all. Now that it was running free, as he used his last strength to fight against more of your guards, it was mingling with the scent of cigars and the whiskey that he drank, and turned it into an irresistable concoction. The more he fought, the more you realized he was everything you craved, everything you needed — strong, defiant — as if he was singing a siren song to your soul.

With every drop of his blood that spilled onto the moonlit marble, the ground of your home, the connection between you sparked, and you were absolutely, undeniably sure. 

Price staggered, his vision blurring. He’d taken down at least four of them now, but he was wounded, fatigued and dying. His clothes were torn, his cowboy hat long gone, and blood soaked his shirt. And as he felt a sharp sting of pain in his side, he knew he was losing too much blood. That was it. Whatever it was. He came here not really expecting a good time, but dying here, in some English garden of a lavish mansion, surely hadn’t been among the plan. 

Just as he braced himself for the final blow, as he felt hot breath on his neck, a strong commanding voice, your voice, cut through the night.

“Enough!” You shouted, at the attacking guard's side in a flash, your movements a blur, as your hand closed around the guards' throat in a grip that could crush stone. You’d stopped him from biting him at the last second, with a surge of possessive fury that you had never felt before.

“He’s mine.” You hissed, your eyes blazing, and fear shot through the poor young vampire's face. “Nobody has his blood but me .”

The guard whimpered, and you released him with a shove. He scrambled back, taking an exaggerated bow as he did.

“Leave us. Make sure you feed to survive the night.” You commanded the remaining of them, and with sharp bows of their heads, they joined the rest of your court inside the mansion.

Price collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, his body screaming in pain. His chest was slowly rising and falling in shallow breaths, but his pulse still beat. You were suddenly there, kneeling in front of him, your fingers lightly tracing the line of his jaw, running through the blood soaked beard.

He looked at you, and you expected fear in his eyes, but there was nothing of that sort. There was a soft gaze as his eyes found yours, he was staring at you almost admiringly, and you knew.

He really must have felt it too. The connection. The pull.

The strength he displayed against superhuman creatures wasn’t bestowed upon just anyone.

He was it.

He was both your greatest hope and only salvation.

He was your king.