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dustedmagazine · 1 month ago

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Blues for Middle America, Vol I: Racing in the Street

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Bruce Springsteen’s Western Stars was only recently released, in 2019, but already the album recedes into the mythic American middle distance in which much of his music has resided since the late 1980s. Perhaps it’s the pre-COVID date stamp, perhaps it’s the emotive string arrangements that bedeck many of the tracks’ treatment of country-western sentiment—but the music has the sort of sweep and grandeur that demands long horizon lines and open pasture land, golden grassed and gently rolling. It’s nearly suitable to soundtrack another of Taylor Sheridan’s love letters to American whiteness. The best track on the record is its first, “Hitch Hikin’,” which distinguishes itself by exchanging horseback for horsepower and through its insistence on intimate spaces. The unnamed hitcher-lyric speaker moves through a succession of small interiors: a family man’s sedan, a commercial trucker’s cab, a 1972 muscle car. He's borne along through expanses of American space, and Springsteen’s voice, still a glory, communicates a variety of buoyant wonder at it. But what we see most clearly are the insides of the vehicles, each of them particular and each symbolic of a mode of American life. It’s a terrific song, almost enough to make you believe in the country that it documents and that made the song possible in the first place.

Springsteen has always had a penchant for writing about cars, for situating the pleasures of driving and riding in the narratives he crafts and, in his most effective moments, for elaborating on the car as an image of American life, in all its complexity, tragic beauty and cruelty. The Hitcher is yet another example of that complexity. He enjoys a variety of freedom by not being tied to a car (and to car payments and insurance bills, to ponying up for gas, replacing wiper blades and tires, arranging for a parking spot or a driveway and the domestic space alongside of it and the rest of the dependent lives that require that space and their endless demands…), but the solitude of his way of living has its own costs. He sings, “I’m hitch-hikin’ all day long.” It’s lovely. It’s lonely. It goes on “all day long.” It must be exhausting, by turns blistering hot and blue lipped, the road stretching into impossibly long distances with their own intractable demands. They need crossing.

Listeners familiar with Springsteen’s most popular music will have little difficulty recalling other songs full of cars, songs that thrill to the prospect of open roads and long distances. Many of those songs cluster on his records of the 1970s, when Springsteen’s youthful verve and the E Street Band’s excesses welcomed his instinct for the big gesture. Among many others, “Thunder Road,” “Racing in the Street,” “Ramrod,” they all partake of the songwriter’s notable skill for infusing a middle-brow operatic register with the working-class grit of engine specs and greasy denim. A moral skepticism gutters under all the rev and rave-up, an ambivalence perhaps best captured in a lyric from “Thunder Road,” a song that revs and revs its way toward ecstasy: “All the redemption I can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood.” The lyric speaker himself becomes a vehicle, perhaps of escape, perhaps of deliverance, perhaps of further entanglement in dirt and darkness.

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“Racing in the Street” is especially evocative — no wonder a figure as weighted down with darkness as Townes Van Zandt was able to perform so striking a version of the tune. Certainly, it’s one of the most bummed-out-sounding songs on Darkness on the Edge of Town (1978). The lyric to “Racing in the Street” seems to strike a different tone, tempting us in with Hemi-driven heroics and the romance of summer heat. But soon the drag-racing is displaced, and we are deep into a tale of disillusionment and of love gone very, very sour. The mournful vocal and down-tempo pacing suddenly make sense, the gears click into place. But Springsteen can’t help himself. The song inexorably shifts into a different sort of ecstasy, a religiosity. He sings, “For all the shut-down strangers and hot-rod angels rumbling through this promised land / Tonight my baby and me, we’re gonna ride to the sea and wash these sins off our hands.” The car is the instrument of spiritual redemption, carrying the couple to the shoreline where the allusion to the Beach Boys (“Shut Down”) can be elaborated into a much more profound rendition of American innocence reborn.

Oddly, two of Springsteen’s most interesting songs about cars and their ambiguous manifestations of the American good life occur on a record seldom associated with hot-rodding or the joys of spiritual release. But Nebraska (1982)is full of cars: from the car in which the title song’s barely-disguised versions of Charles Starkweather and Caril Ann Fugate take their deadly ride, to the disappearing “tail lights” of Joe Roberts’ brother in “Highway Patrolman,” to the auto factory from which the lyric speaker of “Johnny 99” has been exiled, into crime and prison and the electric chair. Those are all grim poetic images, fitting for a record so singularly stark and unhappy in Springsteen’s oeuvre. But neither of the songs I have in mind here — “Used Cars” and “Open All Night” — seems so grim, on their surfaces.

To be sure, there are any number of difficult ironies packed into the phrase “brand new used car,” but Springsteen’s song “Used Cars” locates some goodness in the phenomenon: the little sister “in the front seat with an ice cream cone”; the father’s opportunity to model a measured, disciplined rectitude striving for middle-class respectability; and even some small-scale local celebrity, when “neighbors come from near and far” to inspect the purchase. The youthful lyric speaker, however, is full of anger, wishing his father “would just hit the gas and let out a cry / Tell ’em all they can kiss our asses goodbye.” Several live recordings of the song never fail to conjure cries of affirmation and hilarity from the crowd at that point. But the laugher misses the point. There’s a lacerating resentment in the line, one working class consciousness projecting his animus onto others of his own class.

The misplaced rage resonates with some of the dynamics in our current social conditions, in which the most abject of the MAGA crowd projects its own resentments onto marginal peoples: immigrants, trans kids, unhoused folks. And like the speaker of “Used Cars,” the only thinkable solution to social and economic distress is a bet on extraordinary deliverance. He sings, “Now mister, the day the lottery I win / I ain’t ever gonna ride in no used car again.” For many of the working-class people that have invested their hopes in Trump, he is a variety of savior, a flawed vessel charged with the extraordinary force of divine retribution. Raise the tariffs, drill baby drill and kiss my ass. The logic of making America great again seems to flow from Trump’s capricious will, including the lionization of the fossil fuel industry (for sure, issuing in the gas pumping into all those cars Springsteen writes about, and the vinyl onto which his records are pressed) and the resuscitation of global economic policies that were sort of cutting edge when William McKinley was in the Oval Office.

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“Open All Night” doesn’t reach quite that far back. Sixty or so years will do, to the America enshrined in George Lucas’s American Graffiti (1973), another car-obsessed text. Rockabilly on the radio, an engine “humming like a turbo jet,” the pleasures of drive-in fried food (the MAGA crowd would likely endorse it all as an emblem of greatness). But Springsteen’s lyric speaker isn’t cruising a small California city’s strip, rather he’s working the network of North Jersey highways to get home after another night shift: “Gotta find a gas station, gotta find a payphone / This turnpike sure is spooky at night when you’re all alone / Gotta hit the gas, baby, I’m runnin’ late / This New Jersey in the morning like a lunar landscape.” Resources are slim, everything is desperate or weirdly out of time. The “spooky” road is empty, bare and cold as the moon.

The song’s logistics are the inverse of those in “Hitch Hikin’”; the speaker of “Open All Night” is principally a driver, his car is his most prized private property, propelling him homeward. To the beloved, who we assume is the girl named Wanda whose presence dominates a middle verse in the song that’s all nostalgic sweetness. She was “employed behind the counter at the Route 60 Bob’s Big Boy / Fried chicken on the front seat, she’s sittin’ in my lap / We’re poppin’ our fingers on a Texaco roadmap.” The poetry is peak Springsteen, the furniture and textures of American banality raised to a level of delicious authenticity. But from our current perspective, the nostalgia is even more out of time than the speaker. The song was released in 1982, in Reagan’s America, for which the early Sixties were mostly in living memory but still vulnerable to oversimplification, a period of steady economic expansion and opportunity to be put into contrast with the 1980s’ unsteady collapse in and out of recession.

Those economic dynamics sharpen the situation of the speaker of “Open All Night,” whose workaday precarity puts him at the mercy the instabilities. He frequents the late-night gas stations and rest stops because he’s open all night, too, unable to dictate the terms of his labor. He sings, “Your eyes get itchy in the wee-wee hours / Sun’s just a red ball risin’ over them refinery towers / Radio’s jammed up with gospel stations / Lost souls callin’ long-distance salvation / Hey, Mr Deejay, won’t you hear my last prayer / Hey ho, rock’n’roll, deliver me from nowhere.” The power of redemption shifts anxiously, from religion’s “long-distance” ritual onto the immediacies of a rock song, perhaps this song. It’s a lot to ask. But the channel is not clear, the gospel stations keep interceding. The narrator is left nowhere, a lost in-between, under the looming fires of the “refinery towers.”

The image lays bare the inadequacies of nostalgia for a lost plenitude. In the speaker’s memory of a young Wanda, the Texaco map was a source of aesthetic pleasure, transformed into an improvised musical instrument, “popped” by their greasy fingertips. In the speaker’s present, his lonesome dislocation, the apparatus of the petroleum products industry (“them refinery towers”) asserts its dominance, utterly indifferent to the needs of a single person, an individual laborer. The moment signals down the line, to another more famous Springsteen song.

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Near the close of “Born in the USA,” he sings, “Down in the shadow of the penitentiary / Out by the gas fires of the refinery / I’m ten years burnin’ down the road / Nowhere to run, ain’t got nowhere to go.” It’s a chilling quatrain. The prepositional phrases just sit there. In spite of the lyric speaker’s furious action, “burnin’ down the road” in another of Springsteen’s suicide machines, he’s made no progress. And it doesn’t matter—he's got “nowhere to go.” Heedless the song continues, into its several repetitions of its soaring refrain. But the triumphalist tones of the keyboard’s riff are witheringly ironized by that final verse. Being “born in the USA” isn’t a simple point of pride. It’s a burden, both historical and immediate.

Reactionary elements of the American polis have failed to tune into that irony, and have also ignored the song’s treatment of 20th century history. Vietnam (and can the polis parse the meaning of Khe Sanh? can it locate it on a map?); the right’s long, slow (and now terribly fast and savage) war with the Great Society’s welfare state; Reagan’s brazen union-busting actions. Reagan himself shamelessly extolled “Born in the USA,” appropriating the song as a variety of the cheer “USA! USA!” that now accompanies the MAGA rallies’ ecstasies. Springsteen attempted redress, but the song’s refrain, and the impulse to raise a fist in time to its putative valorization of nativist fervor, is what has survived.

I should be clear: I see the ambiguities and ambivalences of Springsteen’s songs as their greatest strength. But they lay the songs open to massive misunderstandings. Because it’s hard to live with ambiguity, and it’s even harder to live in ambivalence. It’s a good deal easier to pump a fist and let the mythic middle distance sing to you, like a siren, regardless of the coming collisions.

Jonathan Shaw

#bruce springsteen #jonathan shaw #dusted magazine #western stars #darkness on the edge of town #nebraska #born in the usa

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vunblr · 6 days ago

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A Star Without a Sky (#1)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

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

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

Word Count: About 6.7k.

Note: Old West Bucky, just because.

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

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

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

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

Not like a man who meant harm.

Like a man trying hard to stay on his feet.

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

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

She didn’t think. She just moved.

----

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

Then his eyes rolled back.

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

She panicked. He was going to die out here.

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

He groaned, low and miserable. Still alive.

Good.

She slapped him. Hard.

"Wake up!"

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

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

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

She froze. Shifted. Felt it again.

A pistol. Holstered under his coat.

So, not unarmed after all.

----

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

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

“Damn it.”

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

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

"Through and through."

It was something.

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

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

But first…

She went back to him. Looked at him.

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

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

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

A silver star. Dull, scratched, but unmistakable.

A sheriff badge.

She stared at it for a long beat.

A sheriff was bleeding out in her bed

----

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

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

Dozens of times.

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

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

Cole.

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

But Cole had been dead for two years.

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

These were the cards.

And this was the hand she played.

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

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

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

He needed something in him. Something warm.

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

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

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

She climbed onto the bed.

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

He groaned. Not awake. But there.

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

This time, he drank.

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

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

No answer, but he kept drinking.

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

----

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

He was awake.

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

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

"Where am I?" he rasped.

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze dropped again to the glass bottle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t. And now he owed her.

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

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

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

“I imagine I made quite an entrance.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

A pause.

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

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

“I have to change the bandage now.”

“I can-”

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

“It wouldn’t be the first time I-”

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

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

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

He blinked at her. “What?”

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

“Don’t say it.”

She gave him a flat look. “Well?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He groaned like a dying man all over again.

----

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

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

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

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

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

He gave a small nod, not wanting to interrupt.

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

He stiffened and frowned.

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

“And you just let ’em?”

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

He watched her for a long beat.

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

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

Oh. That.

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

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

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

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

“I’m no doctor, and neither are you.”

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

She arched a brow at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

“No, ma’am. Just… sleep.”

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

He swallowed and wiped his hands on a kerchief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stood still.

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

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

“Thank you, deputy.”

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

----

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

Then, she walked quietly down the hall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll manage, ma’am.”

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

----

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

"You can manage or-"

"Yes, ma'am."

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

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

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

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

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

And there it was again.

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

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

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

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

Paused.

Swallowed.

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

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

Goddamn.

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

He wouldn’t put her through that.

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

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

His mind wandered, tracing the fight.

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

And then the rest got murky.

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

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

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

She wasn’t afraid of him. Not yet.

That was the worst part.

Next Chapter

Permanent taglist: @civilbucky @pandaxnienke

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

The images were found on pinterest.

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