I. SUN CITY: A WILD WEST TALE
Synopsis: A new enforcer gets to town. Mysterious as he might be, he ends up becoming a pain in your ass.
Pairing: Thatch x Mayor’s daughter!Reader
Content Warnings: Violence, murder, mentions of sexual assault (not related to Thatch), shootings, enemies to lovers, a bit of OOC for Thatch, angst, PTSD (not sure if I portrayed it well), Ace has a crush on a random lady.
Author’s Note: This took me so long it’s not even funny anymore.
I might write a short second part since I wanted to add a sex scene, but I got tired of writing and decided to be a cock tease at the end of this. I apologize in advance.
Anyway, @ye-old-hermit-woman and @ikiintsugee this is my version of Enforcer!Thatch, I hope you enjoy it :)
Sun City was one of the most lawless, blood-soaked pits in the entire Wild West.
Pistol duels at high noon, bandit raids, stagecoach robberies, kidnappings— all of it had been going on for years, until a new enforcer rode into town. Ever since, those criminals who used to run free found themselves sleeping behind bars every single night.
You’d like to say you were grateful, and you were, mostly.
No more waking up to find half your flour sacks gone, or a dead body sprawled in the middle of the street. But every silver lining in Sun City comes with a price attached, and yours just happened to be a smug, sweet-talking nuisance named Thatch.
Today had started peaceful enough.
You rose before the roosters, kneaded dough by lamplight, swept the floors, put the kettle on, and watched the sun bleed orange across the horizon.
However, peace never lasts here.
Eight o’clock sharp—just as you flipped the “Open” sign and stepped back behind the counter—some desperate fool in a dusty bandana kicked the door in, revolver already cocked and pointed right between your eyes.
Morning robbery, very avant-garde.
He might’ve even gotten away with it, if eight o’clock wasn’t also the exact minute Thatch came swaggering in for his daily dose of flirting and pastries.
The sheriff didn’t even break stride— didn’t glance at the gun, didn’t blink at the masked idiot barking orders. He just strolled right past the barrel like it was a fly he couldn’t be bothered to swat, hands in his coat pockets, grin wide and lazy.
“Morning, sunshine,” he drawled. “The usual, yeah? Two of those apple turnovers and that little strawberry one you hide in the back.”
You stood frozen, staring at him like he’d lost his damn mind.
The bandit wasn’t nearly as composed. His eyes flicked over the twin sabers at the hip, the star pinned dead center on Thatch’s chest— and pure panic set in.
A second gun out in a flash, now pointed at the sheriff’s smug face.
Thatch tilted his head and chuckled.
“Whoops. My bad, I almost forgot you were there.”
His hand snapped out, faster than a striking rattler, and caught the bandit’s wrist, twisting it. The bandit’s bones creaked, his gun clattered to the floorboards. And T he second revolver followed before the poor bastard even finished screaming.
Thatch didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even look angry.
He just held the guy in that iron grip, smiling like they were old drinking buddies.
“So,” he continued, “where were we? Right— you’re looking extra pretty this morning, darling. New dress?”
You lifted your chin, refusing to give him the satisfaction, and turned to plate his order while he chatted away.
“Real nice color on you. It brings out the fire in your eyes when you’re mad at me.” A theatrical pause. “Which is always, I know.”
Thatch glanced down at him—almost kindly—and slung an arm around the man’s shoulders, friendly as you please, except his fingers were digging into a pressure point that made the guy go cross-eyed.
“Hey, partner, tell the lady she looks nice. Go on.”
A strangled “Y… you look real nice, ma’am” squeaked out.
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt and slid the plate across the counter.
“Take your issues outside.”
“In a minute, darling,” he said, fishing coins from his pocket with his free hand. “Gotta pay you first— as a good man would do, right?”
The robber was probably having the worst morning of his life. “Right.”
You sighed, pushed the coins back toward him. “It’s on the house. Just leave.”
Thatch’s grin softened. “Is that your way of saying thank you?”
“I will take it back if you don’t leave now.”
He laughed—bright and delighted—tipped his hat to you, and steered the broken bandit toward the door like they were headed to Sunday service.
“See you tomorrow, sunshine,” he called over his shoulder.
The door swung shut behind them.
You stood there, heart pounding harder than it had when the gun was actually pointed at you.
That annoying, infuriating, impossible man.
Your misery began two years ago.
After your father won the election, he reached out to some of his friends back in the city, and they recommended a man who turned out to be Thatch.
He rode in at the tail-end of a brutal summer, dust swirling behind that massive chestnut stallion.
By the time he reached your house, you were a bit curious, waiting at the top of the stairs, hiding and trying to see who this mysterious man was.
Even at your old age, you couldn’t even be at your core a dignified woman.
He came in wearing a hat that shadowed his face.
You were intrigued to meet the new enforcer, and when he took off his hat, you were left utterly speechless.
You would be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive. At least at that time, when his mouth was shut and you could just admire him from afar.
There were no attractive men in Sun City, just sunburned drunks, toothless bandits and married shopkeepers who smelled like whiskey and regret. You weren’t used to this feeling— the instant schoolgirl crush that left you blushing and a bit stupid. But here was this tall, broad-shouldered bastard with rolled-up sleeves, thick forearms dusted with dark hair, a white shirt clinging to places it had no business clinging to, and a double rig riding low on his hips like he was born wearing it...
Your stomach did something disgusting.
He looked… like a competent sheriff.
Yeah, a competent sheriff. That was it.
Knowing your father, he would have chosen the best of the best.
When they moved into the dining hall, you finally stood up and went back to your room, so you could pretend that those feverish minutes you spent ogling at the new sheriff had never happened.
Your mother finally called you to come have dinner, and you went downstairs, preparing yourself to be the dignified major’s daughter, not some schoolgirl with a crush.
And you managed to pull the performance quite well during the entire night.
His name was Thatch. He was 35 years old, and he was unmarried (your mother repeated that part twice). He used to work for a detective as the muscle of the team, but as he got older he realized that he needed some peace and maybe try to settle (it never happened). That other town he was in before coming to Sun City bored him out of his mind, so that’s why he took this offer.
Who leaves a peaceful life to experience the pits of hell?
Now you were definitely intrigued.
He was a bit older than you, but he was unmarried, polite (or so you thought), and, frankly, really attractive.
He seemed like a fine suitor.
“My daughter here owns the town’s bakery,” your father informed him.
“Is that so?” Thatch asked, looking at you.
“Well, I guess I know where to get my breakfast from now on.” He smiled.
Was he really interested? Or was he being friendly?
“My girl, she’s the best at what she does, she made these breadsticks.” Your father continued rambling proudly.
“She also made dessert,” your mother added.
Your father puffed up. “Best damn pastries in the territory, ask anyone.”
You wanted to sink through the floorboards.
That phrase people always said ‘the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’. Apparently your parents were more than eager to pair the two of you up.
Good thing you were interested in this man.
However, Thatch was very difficult to decipher.
You weren’t sure if he felt the same attraction you felt for him, nor were you sure if he was impressed by your culinary abilities. Maybe he was uncomfortable because of your parents’ relentless matchmaking. Either way, you were not going to take a step further until you were sure.
As the night went by, he stayed for a couple of drinks with your father, and when he was about to leave, you found yourself alone in the hallway with him for a brief moment.
The conversation was short, nothing otherworldly, until he decided to break all the magical allure around him.
“Darling, we could have so much fun if you weren’t so uptight,” he said.
Your hand moved before your mind could form a ladylike response, and in a matter of seconds you had slapped him across the face without an ounce of shame. Your hand hurt a bit, yeah, but your pride was badly bruised, and you couldn’t let that stand. Thatch only had a second to recover, but by the time he started to apologize, you had already disappeared, huffing about what an idiot he was.
Ever since that night, your relationship with the new sheriff has been bumpy, to say the least.
You would have thought he would apologize. Instead, he doubled down.
Every single interaction the two of you had was full of teasing from his side and venom from yours. The worst part was, he loved seeing how mad you got every single damn time. You were like his little amusement toy— whenever he was bored, he came into the bakery, ordered the usual, and spent some time teasing and flirting with you.
Who did he think you were?
After a while of pointless madness and snarky comebacks, you started to just get used to it. You ignored him, let him have his fun, and that way he would eventually leave you alone… right?
He couldn’t just let it go. He couldn’t just find another woman to annoy.
You felt embarrassed that you had even thought of yourself as a possible suitor for him.
He was terrible. He didn’t deserve a wife. He didn’t deserve any woman, for that matter.
He deserved to be alone for the rest of his life.
Now you were enjoying yourself at the town dance that was celebrated once a month. You were sitting at a table with your friends, chatting and giggling, when there was a sudden shift. All of your friends grew shy, and you had to turn around to realize why… he was there, him and his two idiots.
Ace and Sabo were nice men and quite handsome. Around your age, a bit stupid and immature— Ace especially. You’d heard tales of how he once used his lasso on a cactus, the town doctor had been flabbergasted when Sabo came into the clinic carrying Ace with an entire cactus still attached to his body.
Marco didn’t get paid enough to handle that kind of nonsense, yet he always did.
Sabo, on the other hand, seemed more reasonable and intelligent— until he partnered up with Ace, at which point they appeared to neutralize each other’s brain cells.
That usually lasted until Thatch came around and straightened them up.
“Ladies.” Thatch did that stupid, chivalrous thing with his hat that men of honor did to show respect. “Are you enjoying this fine afternoon?”
“We are, Sheriff,” Mary, one of your friends, said.
“Hi, Mary!” Ace waved with excitement from behind Thatch, only to receive an immediate elbow in the ribs, courtesy of Sabo.
Oh. Mary had a crush too.
Your other friends didn’t seem to have noticed— mainly because they were busy ogling Sabo. In this town, eligible men came in three flavors: ugly, married or missing half their teeth. Sabo didn’t fit any of those categories, and the ladies knew it. If they had to marry tomorrow, they would marry Sabo in the blink of an eye. Some of them might have had their eye on the town doctor, but Marco was too old for them, and since he still hadn’t married, your friends had a theory that there must be something seriously wrong with him.
Marco was a sweet man, you didn’t understand the gossip.
Sometimes people just don’t marry.
And with every passing day you were starting to feel more and more like Marco. Ever since you’d met Thatch, your ideas of marriage had gone clean out the window.
Honestly, you’d been happier than ever since you stopped pressuring yourself to find love or a husband.
After the Thatch incident, you had refused to meet any other men. Your parents had been a little gloomy and confused at first, since you didn't give them a concrete answer as to why you had a change of heart, but they soon wrapped their heads around it.
You were lucky that your parents were financially secure and fully supported the life you wanted to lead.
That way, you would never have to depend on some rancid man to survive.
“And you, sunbeam?” Thatch turned to look at you.
You hated that annoying habit of his— giving you a new sun-related nickname every single time. All because one day he’d decided that, since you were the mayor’s daughter and the town was called Sun City, you must be some kind of descendant of the sun.
You wondered that often, since every day he somehow managed to out-stupid himself.
In his mind, the whole sunbeam, sunlight, sunshine thing made perfect sense. In yours, not so much. Still, he milked the concept for all it was worth, coming up with a new variation every day just to watch your scowl grow deeper.
He wasn’t even creative about it.
He was downright repetitive.
There were only so many sun-related nicknames a man could invent, after all.
“I was,” you answered with an innocent smile.
“You were?” Thatch arched an eyebrow.
“Indeed, Sheriff. Until you came along to spoil it.”
Your friends tried—and failed—to hide their laughter when they saw the look on Thatch’s face.
For the first time, you had actually gotten a reaction out of him.
He didn’t have a chance to reply because your father stepped onto the stage to announce the band, and a moment later music flooded the place.
Something really weird and awkward happened next— not to you, but to Mary.
Sabo gave Ace a subtle shove forward. Ace fidgeted in front of Mary for a few seconds before blurting out, “Mary, would you like to dance with me?” This was the polite translation of what he’d actually said, since the words came out at the speed of light and mostly mashed together.
Mary nodded, just as eager and awkward as he was.
Off they went, leaving an open seat beside you.
Of course you saw Thatch’s intention before he’d even fully formed it.
So, right before he could make his move, you stood up, walked past him, and asked Sabo if he wanted to dance.
Sabo accepted, and you vanished into the crowd— spoiling whatever mind game Thatch had been planning.
Sabo seemed relieved that you were his current partner. Although he was still tense as hell, trying to play it off as best he could, but he couldn’t hide it from you.
“Calm down. I’m not going to trip you,” you said.
“Don’t you feel their eyes everywhere?” he muttered, shoulders stiff.
“What are you talking about?” You glanced around, trying to spot whatever had him so spooked.
To you it just looked like the usual dance: skirts flaring, boots stomping, couples spinning past in a blur of color and laughter.
After another song or two, your feet started screaming and, during a brief pause while the band caught its breath, it finally clicked. Half the matrons in town were shooting you death glares, all because you were hogging the only decent bachelor under thirty-five.
You hadn’t noticed before, but damn— it was bad.
No wonder the poor man felt like a thousand daggers were buried in his back.
You deliberately pulled Sabo into one more dance just to spite the old matchmakers. You could practically hear their thoughts as he swayed you across the floor:
How dare she monopolize Sabo?
In the end, though, you needed to sit down.
He didn’t look thrilled when you finally abandoned him— especially once the mothers descended like a pack of vultures, each clutching a daughter and a list of reasons he should dance with her next.
You could have gone back to rescue him… but you valued your life.
You slipped outside and sat on the wooden steps of the building.
Then you saw something that left you pale as a ghost.
From one side of town: a lone man, cape billowing in the wind. From the other side: a group of men, one in the middle—fat as a pig—laughing in a distinct, echoing cackle that carried down the entire street.
You weren’t sure you’d have time to find Thatch, Ace or Sabo before the shooting started.
Either way you shot to your feet and ran back inside, pushing past dancers.
To your dismay, the first person you ran into was Thatch himself.
“Hey—” He didn’t get to finish, you were already dragging him by the arm through the crowd.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“A duel,” you said as you reached the door.
His face hardened instantly. “Stay inside.”
“What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?” Thatch asked.
“Don’t get involved, Sheriff. This isn’t your fight,” the lone man said.
“Ah, Izou. I thought pretty boys like you stayed clear of filthy pigs,” Thatch replied.
“I do,” Izou said, “but they disrespected me, and I can’t let that slide.”
“ZEHAHAHA! So sure of yourself, Izou.”
“C’mon, gentlemen, not in my town…” Thatch tried, voice still light. “I’m sure you can settle your differences somewhere else.”
“The brat chose to die tonight, and so he shall,” Blackbeard growled.
There wasn’t much Thatch could do. He couldn’t arrest the entire Blackbeard gang— not with the whole town packed inside the saloon. Any wild shooting would be a bloodbath. A single duel, one clean shot, might be the least deadly outcome.
“All right.” Thatch raised his hands in surrender and took a few steps back.
One of Blackbeard’s men stepped forward to count. “On five, you draw. One… two… three…”
Blackbeard went early—yanked his pistol like the cheat he was—but Izou had clearly expected it. He drew faster, smoother, and fired just before Blackbeard could level his gun.
The first bullet took Blackbeard square in the heart. He staggered back, roaring, trying to bring his pistol up. Izou didn’t give him the chance—three more shots cracked in rapid succession: left lung, right lung, and finally the head.
Only then did the rest of the Blackbeard crew react.
Gunfire exploded across the street. Thatch and Izou dove for cover. You yelped and threw yourself behind some wooden barrels, heart hammering so hard you tasted iron in your mouth.
You should have stayed inside.
By sheer bad luck, Izou and Thatch slid into cover in the exact same spot as you.
“Didn’t I tell you to stay inside?” Thatch hissed, reloading with steady fingers.
“And since when do I listen to you?” you shot back, voice only cracking a little.
Obviously, you were stupid. But you weren't going to admit that.
You would rather get shot than give Thatch the pleasure of knowing he was right.
“Fucking hell,” he sighed, almost fond.
Izou didn’t waste breath. “Can we outshoot them?”
“My deputies are still inside. It’s just us,” Thatch said.
“Shit.” Izou peeked over the crate. “I’ll take the left side. You take the right.”
They moved like lightning, leaving you alone again.
You tried to crawl back toward the saloon doors, but a bullet splintered the board inches from your hand. You froze, curling tight behind the barrels, as you waited for them to end this.
Thatch and Izou were terrifyingly good.
One by one, Blackbeard’s men dropped. When it became clear that two guns were worth more than their dozen, the survivors panicked. The cowards turned tail and fled, abandoning their wounded and dead without a backward glance.
Just smoke, the stink of gunpowder and the groans of the dying.
You stayed huddled there, arms wrapped around your knees, face buried, shaking harder than you’d ever.
Bootsteps approached and you looked up.
Thatch crouched beside you, scanning for wounds. “Are you hurt?”
You weren’t hurt. You were terrified.
You should be used to it by now— this was just an ordinary Monday in Sun City. But for some reason tonight, you couldn’t keep your cool.
Before you could think better of it, you threw yourself at him, burying your face in his chest like a frightened child.
You should have listened.
For once, he didn’t tease. He simply wrapped his arms around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, holding you steady while the tremors slowly ebbed.
“It’s over,” he murmured against your hair. “You’re safe…”
“Sheriff!” Ace’s voice rang from inside the saloon.
You jerked back, coming back to reality once you heard Ace's voice, and now you were horrified that he’d seen you like this. Swiping at your eyes, you scrambled to your feet, brushing dust from your skirt with whatever dignity you had left.
While Ace and Sabo burst through the doors, you slipped past them and disappeared inside— chin high, spine straight, as if nothing had happened.
After an incident like this, the logical thing would’ve been a stretch of peace in town. With Blackbeard dead, his men scattered and almost half of them down or bleeding out, anyone with sense would’ve figured Sun City might finally be able to take a breath.
The only calm Sun City ever got was the kind that came right before a storm tore the roof clean off.
You really wanted to be naive, you wanted to believe life would show you a drop of mercy.
Instead, you somehow wound up in a compromising position— tied up, a reeking burlap sack over your head, slung over the back of a horse like stolen luggage. You were dizzy, sloshing around with every step the horses took, and the rocking wasn’t helping. To top it off, you were furious—terrified and furious—mostly because you never saw it coming.
Who in their right mind would’ve thought these idiots would strike again so soon?
Maybe that was their mastermind move— because, apparently, the kidnapping was the only thing they’d planned. Not the rest. Not the escape. Not what to do with you afterward. So really, it was their one and only mastermind move.
Honestly, now that your head was clearing, they were painfully stupid.
These were the so-called criminal masterminds terrorizing the desert?
By sunset they yanked the sack off and swapped it for a rough cloth gag, tied tight across your mouth. They slowed the horses, muttering and arguing, and decided to make camp like they weren’t carrying a hostage.
They were wild beasts, dragging you off the horse like a sack of grain, pulling and pushing until you fell to the dirt hard enough to knock the wind out of you. They laughed at your pathetic stumble, all five of them cackling like vultures. You refused to give them the satisfaction of knowing you were on the verge of tears. And you forced yourself upright, hands tied behind your back, trying to find any position that didn’t make your spine scream.
They watched every miserable shift you made and laughed even louder, hitting their knees like drunk barbarians.
You were panting, sweating, covered in dust and grime.
You were overstimulated and annoyed beyond belief— the heat, the restraints, the long skirt tangling your legs, everything conspiring to make you miserable.
By now you weren’t scared anymore. Just pissed. Staring at them like a cat with its back hair standing straight up.
These five men… they were the worst kind of outlaw.
They snickered at your struggle, but you could still see the fear behind their eyes, the slump in their shoulders. Their entire gang had been torn to shreds by Thatch and Izou, so of course these scraps of men were desperate enough to try something this reckless.
Kidnapping the mayor’s daughter?
That was a rookie mistake.
And they weren’t just stupid, they were sloppy too. They’d left a ransom note. With a sum so low it insulted you on a spiritual level. Ten thousand beli? They were arguing about it right now, scolding the idiot who’d written it.
Hell, even you were offended.
You were worth more than that.
Just for that, you couldn’t wait for Thatch to show up and kick their teeth in.
And speaking of Thatch, he was taking his sweet time.
You weren’t even that far from town. Someone must’ve noticed the bakery empty, noticed you’d vanished right in broad daylight.
How long could it possibly take for someone to tell the damn sheriff?
You grew restless as the night crawled by, unable to sleep. At first you kept your eyes closed, pretending, listening. Every snore, every shift, every crackle of the dying fire. When enough of them drifted off, you opened your eyes, scanning the camp in case you caught sight of someone approaching.
Your head felt heavier by the minute. Sleep tried to drag your eyelids down, but you forced them open.
There was no way in hell you were sleeping around these creeps.
They might be pathetic, but they were still men, and you knew better than to trust a man who thought he had power over you.
By morning, you were furious with Thatch.
You weren’t even sure why— you just needed someone to aim it at, and directing it at your captors could only make things worse. But Thatch? You could be as pissed as you wanted at him.
Could he really be that much of an annoying asshole?
You couldn’t pull yourself out of that tunnel vision.
Suddenly, your fury curdled into despair, sliding down a dark little path in your mind.
You just felt devastated that Thatch hadn’t shown up yet.
You couldn’t shake the thought as they dragged you onward— not on the back of the horse this time, but sitting in front of one of the bandits, the one who couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He didn’t cross a line, but his filthy fingers on your thigh or waist were enough to make your skin crawl. His whispers, his breath, the way he invaded your space— it was enough.
It could’ve been worse, you told yourself, but that didn’t make it any less disgusting.
It broke something inside you anyway.
Every step took you farther from home.
You couldn’t start crying, you refused to let them see they’d won.
But when they stopped to make camp again, you finally crumbled. You sat on a rock, head hanging, hands tied behind your back, shoulders shaking. You tried to stay quiet, tried to swallow the sobs behind the gag, but one of them heard anyway.
“Oi, the little princess is cryi—”
You looked up, confused by the sudden silence, and saw the man with a perfect bullet hole punched straight through his neck. Your stomach twisted. You’d never seen someone’s eyes look like that before— unfocused, glassy, fighting to stay alive while the rest of him was already gone. Blood gurgled from his mouth as he clutched at the wound, uselessly trying to stop the flow. He staggered, then dropped like a stone.
Panic hit you and it hit the whole group too.
All of them snapped into sloppy defensive stances, spinning around, cursing, searching the darkness. The one closest to you grabbed you and yanked you upright, pulling you in front of him like a shield.
Your legs were useless, shaking so hard you could barely stand. The man behind you was basically holding you up by force, his grip desperate, sweating through your clothes.
He was just as terrified as you, which only made your own panic spike.
Chances were this wasn’t someone coming to rescue you.
Maybe the Blackbeard gang had pissed off half the damn desert, and you were about to become collateral.
The image of that first man getting shot replayed over and over.
You pictured yourself next— blood filling your throat, the choking, the fading, the way your mind would drift off whether you wanted it to or not. The thought drained all the warmth from your skin, leaving you cold and hollow.
“Show yourself or I’ll cut her throat!”
His knife pressed harder against your neck— you squirmed.
You didn’t hear the gunshot. You didn’t see the bullet.
But suddenly there was a warm spray across your face—thick, hot, disgusting—running down your cheek and over your lips. You tasted blood instantly, that metallic sting already saturating the air.
Before you could understand anything, the man behind you collapsed, dead weight slamming into you and pinning you to the ground. You hit the dirt face-first, scraping your cheek, your muscles screaming as you tried to pry yourself out from under him.
Once, twice, then it went still.
You finally spotted movement—a pair of familiar boots stepping out from behind the horses—and relief hit you so hard you nearly sobbed.
You didn’t see what happened next. You heard it.
And you wished to hell you hadn’t.
Screaming, bones cracking, bodies hitting the ground. Bullets fired into the air, curses ripping through the desert night, the frantic final thrashing of men who realized too late who they’d crossed. It all blended together in a grotesque crescendo that felt like it would never end.
Somewhere in the middle of it, the gag in your mouth turned suffocating.
You gasped and gasped until your vision blurred and your thoughts fuzzed over into pure survival instinct.
You didn’t even notice when everything went quiet.
When someone—Thatch, presumably—untied you, you lurched forward immediately, hands scrambling behind your head, tearing the cloth loose. You sucked in lungfuls of air, chest heaving, but it wasn’t enough.
Your body wouldn’t calm down.
So when a hand touched your shoulder, you spun and slapped Thatch across the face.
Wild, irrational, terrified.
Thatch took the slap without a word— almost like he expected it. Like he thought he deserved it.
You didn’t care. You were shaking, half-feral, barely yourself. The shock was twisting into a different kind of heat— an anger you couldn’t name, something deep, overwhelming and messy as hell.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU COME SOONER!?”
Thatch stepped back, startled. He probably thought he’d walk in like some kind of storybook sheriff, swoop you up and ride you off into the sunset.
But you were no princess, and nothing about this was pretty.
Both of you were covered in blood. Bodies were strewn around the camp. You didn’t dare look too closely— terrified that if you did, you’d never stop seeing it.
“I…” He looked lost, eyes dark with guilt, trying to reach for something that might comfort you even though you looked untouchable.
“I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT… I… I HATE YOU… WHY DID YOU LET THEM DO THIS!?”
The words kept spilling out— sharp, venomous, senseless. None of it was really meant for him, not truly. You didn’t know what you were saying anymore. Your mind was trying to throw up anything. Anything, to purge itself of the horror.
“YOU WOULD HAVE LET ME DIE HERE!”
You pushed yourself up, stumbling, tripping over your skirt, barely catching yourself before falling again. You walked—or tried to—in what you hoped was the right direction, refusing to look back at him.
Why were you being so stubborn, so unreasonable?
You should’ve been relieved. Grateful. But the words wouldn’t come. Every other emotion was drowning them out.
Thatch followed but kept his distance, letting you burn yourself out. You only lasted a few steps before your foot caught on a rock and you fell forward, eating dirt.
That made him rush to you immediately, dropping to his knees beside you, not caring about the rocks digging into his legs.
You started to sob, feeling so stupid and small. Your fingers clawed at the dirt, trying to ground yourself.
“I was so scared.” you finally managed.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it sooner.”
There wasn’t much else to say.
The recovery process was slow, painfully slow.
You’d like to say that after getting back to your family, you just got better, that you bounced back like nothing had happened. But now you lived with a constant sense of underlying anxiety. It wasn’t pretty and it drove you half insane— to the point where you had to hire someone under the excuse of helping around the bakery.
The truth was simpler, you didn’t want to be alone.
Life in Sun City seemed to settle back to its usual rhythm.
Everyone seemed to move on, everyone except Thatch.
Lately he held back around you. His silly remarks, his painfully bad flirting, his filthy little comments, the whole annoying strike of him.
He wasn’t supposed to treat you differently now, but he was.
You even found yourself missing it.
Today he hadn’t come at his usual hour, nor at any point during the day. You were horrified to admit it, but you waited—the entire damn day—for him to come through the door, and when he didn’t, you got mad.
Once again, irrationally mad.
You shoved a couple of Thatch’s favorite pastries in a bag, then marched down the dusty street to the station.
Ace was heading out when he spotted you, lifting a lazy hand in greeting with his usual grin. “Hey, it’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too, Ace,” you said. “Is Thatch inside?”
“Yeah, he’s being a bit of a pain in the ass today,” he said, like he was sharing classified intel. “Don’t know if today’s the best day to go talk to him.”
Did you look like you cared how grumpy he was?
After saying goodbye to Ace, you walked inside.
You had to scan the place before spotting the only closed door down the hall. You didn’t bother knocking—of course you didn’t—and pushed it open.
Thatch sat slumped over a stack of papers, a glass of scotch hanging from his hand. He didn’t even get a word out before you hurled the bag of pastries at him.
“Here you go! Special delivery, since it seems you don’t wanna see my face anymore.”
Really sounding like a calm, down-to-earth, reasonable, demure woman.
The bag hit his chest. Thatch stared at you with pure, raw disbelief, mouth opening and closing like a fish thrown on a dock.
“What… Wha… What the hell!?” he finally sputtered.
“Is this because you think I’m not worth it anymore?”
“What!?” He practically choked on the word.
Thatch could handle any ambush—bandits, criminals, drunks with knives—but this one was from a league he’d never trained for.
“What? You think because I got kidnapped I lost my honor?”
That made him freeze. “Did they?”
“Did they what?” you shot back, realizing only now the weight of what you’d implied.
“Did they do something to you?” he asked, dead serious.
The heat of your anger fizzled out, leaving you with the pathetic, awkward truth— you’d just hit the sheriff with a bag of pastries.
And now that the anger was gone, you felt incredibly stupid.
All this inner turmoil kept eating you alive and it was so exhausting.
Maybe these were the reactions Thatch had expected the first time he started teasing you—all the anger, the snapping, the annoyance—but he didn’t look pleased now. Probably because this wasn’t playful anymore. He could see you were hurt and drowning, and you didn’t have a clue how to handle it.
“No, they didn’t,” you finally said.
Thatch let out a breath, almost a shudder. “Good. I’m glad they didn’t.”
His relief didn’t seem to come from a “Good, I’m glad they didn’t because if they had you would be spoiled milk” but from a “Good, I’m glad they didn’t because I would have walked to the darkest pits of hell only to kill them twice”.
The implication made you feel stupid all over again.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come by this morning,” he said quietly. “I got stuck with paperwork.”
“It’s okay,” you said, barely above a whisper.
“It’s clearly not okay, you made a personal delivery right to my face.” He tried to lighten the air.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “How’re you feeling?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel.”
“I heard you hired Vista’s girl. She seems nice.”
The conversation reached a dead end on your side. You were out of words, out of energy, and honestly ready to go home and sulk about being an idiot.
He stood and approached you.
“I feel like I’ve been doing this wrong the whole time,” he said.
“What do you mean?” you asked, looking him straight in the eyes.
“I mean I want to stop fooling around. You don’t deserve that.”
“And all I had to do was get kidnapped,” you said dryly. “Great way to start, don’t you think?”
“I know. And you’re allowed to be mad at me for the rest of your life,” he said. “Just… give me a chance. Let me make it up to you.”
“How exactly?” you asked, arms crossing.
“I want to take you on a proper date,” he said, not an ounce of mockery, not a joke in sight. “Friday night, my place. I’ll cook for you.”
“You don’t know how to cook,” you said, absolutely serious.
You really were surprised.
It would be a lie to say that you walked up to that house thinking kindly of him. The conversation you’d had with Thatch happened on a Tuesday, and until Friday, you spent the rest of the week feeling an odd sense of suspicion.
He was being nicer than usual— genuine with his compliments, mindful with his words, buttering you up for the main event. You were waiting for the catch, the moment he would finally admit this was another one of his games.
If it was, it was the cruelest one to date.
You didn’t like that you were easing into it. You didn’t like the vulnerability of catching yourself smiling when you were alone or even dreaming about him.
It all felt like a fever dream.
Now it was Friday night, and you were expecting the worst, bracing yourself for disappointment.
It probably wasn’t fair to think ill of him when he seemed to be really trying, but you couldn’t help yourself. A soft voice in the back of your mind kept insisting you be distrustful, just in case.
You were genuinely surprised when he opened the door and actually looked… nice.
Nicer than usual, at least.
Normally he looked damn near homeless— which, embarrassingly, was your guilty pleasure. But right now, his hair was combed, his shirt wasn’t wrinkled, and he was wearing those fancy pants instead of his usual beat-up jeans.
He looked as presentable as the first time you saw him— though now he’d found the perfect balance between looking decent and not trying too hard.
It instantly made you narrow your eyes.
You were still a little mad at him, still doing this out of spite and distrust.
He was on trial to prove he deserved your love.
You weren’t about to get hurt by falling into his trap. And even if there wasn’t one, you didn’t know that.
So when you realized he’d actually put effort into things—taking your coat, telling you that you looked good with this strange, honest awe—you were shocked.
He was continuing his act, the same act he’d been performing all week.
He could be this nice, and he’d chosen not to?
He wasn’t scoring points… and because of that, your resentment only grew sharper.
It really bugged you the fact that he could be a man you could see yourself loving. But he had only made the wrong choices during the past two years.
He always said the wrong things, slowly making you drift away. And now he was using all his charm to make up for the painful humiliation and the insufferable teasing.
Charm was leaking from him everywhere, and that thing he said about cooking— you thought it was a lie. Until you saw the warm meal on the table. It looked, once again… surprisingly nice.
And it smelled even more surprisingly delicious.
When you sat down, Thatch noticed the look on your face.
“Why are you staring at my meal like that?” he teased. “I’m not gonna poison you.”
You hummed, dragging the vegetables across the plate, analyzing them like evidence. “Right.”
“Trust me, you’re gonna like it.”
“You can spit it out. I won’t mind.” His tone stayed light, but you caught the edge of cocky pride underneath.
He knew it was good and he knew you’d like it.
You wanted to prove him wrong so badly.
“Right,” you repeated, picking something up with your fork, inspecting it before taking a bite.
Thatch was way too entertained by your distrust and even more so when your expression flickered—just for a second—betraying how good the food truly was.
You were a terrible liar, and he knew it— especially since you kept eating without a single suspicious comment.
He was still on trial, though.
No amount of delicious food was going to change that.
A crazy thought hit you halfway through dessert —which he also made, the bastard—and you cut him off mid-story.
He blinked, confused, but rolled with it.
“Yeah, I do. I thought this whole thing made it pretty clear.”
“Not to me. This could be another one of your games,” you pointed out. “Is it?”
“I don’t feel like lying right now.”
“That could be another lie. As far as I’m concerned, you might like me enough to play around, but… Do you like me enough to marry me?”
“I’ll go ask your father for permission right now if that proves how serious I am,” he said—dead serious—but you weren’t about to give him that victory.
Not until you were certain you wouldn’t regret it.
“I don’t understand,” you muttered.
“What’s there to understand?” he asked, genuinely confused.
To him, the world was black or white— all the grey in between slid right past him.
“Since when have you felt like this?”
Thatch didn’t even hesitate. He spoke like he was handing you his own damn heart. “Since the first time I saw you.”
The walls went back up. You crossed your arms and leaned back.
“Don’t you remember what you said the first time we met?”
“Of course you don’t,” you snapped. “That’s how much it meant to you. But I remember it every day. ‘We could have so much fun if you weren’t so uptight’ You said that to me. How dare you? You could’ve had me since that day, but you chose to be an asshole. Why?”
“That’s what I thought. No matter how much you try, no matter how many chances I give… you’re still the same.”
You stood and headed for the door.
“Wait!” He scrambled after you, his chair scraping and nearly tipping from how fast he moved. “Where are you going?”
“Home. I’ll see you around, Sheriff…” you said coldly.
“No, please— stay.” The desperation in his voice was so unlike him that it made you pause at the threshold.
He stepped close behind you, his hand settling over yours on the doorknob, freezing you in place. “Stay with me, please.” His voice cracked, as if he knew that if you walked out now, every chance he had with you would vanish.
This was his moment to prove himself, to show that his words weren’t just dust in the wind.
“I’m sorry. I really am.” His hand gently pushed the door closed again as your grip loosened. “I know I haven’t been good to you. I know I don’t deserve a shot at this. You have every right to leave and I won’t stop you… But before you do, I need you to know this: every morning when I see you, my day brightens. Your name alone makes things sweeter. And… I don’t think I could live without knowing you’re out there, somewhere close.”
His hand tightened around yours.
“When I heard you’d been taken by those bastards… I— I couldn’t stand it. I would tear the whole damn West apart if that’s what it took to keep you safe.” His voice shook. “But if you want to leave, I’ll understand. Just say the words and I…”
“I want you to beg for forgiveness.”
Another stretch of silence, then his hand slipped from yours, leaving a cold ache behind. You heard the shift of his boots, the creak of wooden boards, as he went down on one knee and then the other.
Only when you were sure he’d obeyed did you turn.
“I apologize,” he said. “And I’ll ask for your forgiveness a thousand times, if that’s what it takes to earn it on the thousand-and-first.”
You wanted to keep torturing him, but your resolve cracked. Your hand reached out, brushing his hair.
“You really have a way with words, you know that?”
He blinked. “Does that mean—?”
“Yeah, I forgive you,” you said. “But don’t screw this up, please.”
Thatch’s eyes softened, relief washing over him as if he’d finally remembered how to breathe. Without thinking twice, he wrapped his arms around your legs, the sudden intensity almost knocking you off balance. You grabbed his shoulder to steady yourself as he buried his face in the fabric of your dress. He clung to you like a man starved of warmth. Your fingers dragged through his hair, and he stayed there, breathing evenly.
When he looked up, you were met with a sight you weren’t expecting.
“Thatch… are you crying?” The disbelief froze you in place.
Never in the two years you’d known him had you seen him show vulnerability. And now he was staring at you with big brown eyes gone watery. The worst part? He didn’t even try to deny it. He just bowed his head again, squeezing you a little tighter.
It took a moment to process the fact that the man was crying because of you. It wasn’t from sadness, nor from being hurt. It was just because he cared.
The thought struck you, making you push Thatch back slightly so you could see his face again. He wasn’t shying away— his gaze stayed locked with yours.
You knelt in front of him to even the score, tension threading through the motion, until you finally leaned in and kissed him. Not on the lips, first on each cheek, where the remnants of salty tears clung.
Only then, after brushing a strand of hair behind his ear, did you kiss him on the lips.
For all his snarky jokes and stubborn temperament, he melted in your hands, giving himself fully to you.
At first it was all soft, sweet touches— but he was holding back. You could tell. He was needy, breath hitching, pulling you flush against him with the yearning of a lost lover. His lips moved with expertise, and since you had never been kissed before, you were pleasantly surprised, growing just as eager under his touch.
“Thatch,” you whispered against his lips. “Don’t hold back.”
“I wouldn’t want to disrespect you in any way…” he began, but you cut him off.
“Didn’t you say you’d ask for my hand in marriage?” you asked. “Are you taking back that proposal now?”
“Never,” he said, giving you a lingering kiss. “Never in a thousand years.”
“Then don’t hold back,” you said.
You weren’t prepared for what happened when he finally unleashed all his pent-up desire. Once he did, you found yourself making sounds you didn’t even know you could make, and that feeling between your legs returned—ten times stronger, impossible to ignore—as Thatch devoured you with exquisite hunger.
His lips left yours, trailing down to your neck, and you were completely lost in the haze.
“How far do you want me to go?” he asked, a little out of breath.
“How far can you go?” you murmured.
“Oh, you’d be surprised.”
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