Hello, I don’t have a question, just wanted to say, that I really enjoyed your fanfics. I think you have a really great way of storytelling. It really made my day today, I couldn’t stop reading haha. :))
Keep it up and have a nice day/morning/evening!
Oh my 🥹 thats really nice of you ano 😍🔥 many thanks !!
To tell the truth I find it interesting to write about him, as his psychology is so complex, and I enjoy revealing his manipulative nature. I belong to the school of thought that sees him as a cult-like guru. His love for his family is conditional on the adoration they must have for him. A man shaped by grand ideals, but hiding his true predatory nature.
Enjoy !!
You can find the integral story on my AO3 (WIP)
Summary In Saint Denis, Dutch, accompanied by Arthur and John , deals with the businessman Angelo Bronte in order to recover Jack.
Bronte’s daughter, Lucrezia Bronte, observes Dutch and develops a fascination for him. She encounters him again at Mayor Henri Lemieux’s reception. Dutch decides to use her without remorse as a means of revenge against her father, while Arthur and John begin to question their spiritual father.
Rating : Mature
Chapter 1 under the cut
Chapter 1 : The Manor of Shadows
It was a suffocating late morning in Saint Denis. The air felt thick, heavy with humidity and coal dust, as if the city itself refused to breathe properly. Arthur had met up with Dutch and John in the small park facing Angelo Bronte’s manor.
They had come for Jack. The boy had been taken without ceremony by the Braithwaites a few days earlier. The matriarch, Catherine Braithwaite, before her death, had confessed to selling the boy to the Italian businessman Angelo Bronte, and that he was residing in Saint Denis.
The dark manor loomed over its surroundings with a cold confidence, almost natural, as if it had always belonged in this city. Inside, they were let in without haste, but without warmth either.
The ornate sitting room breathed wealth and discipline. Everything was too clean, too measured, too controlled to feel honest. The tea cups were lined up with such precision it felt like even the silence there was managed.
The introductions were brief. Polite. Pointless.
Bronte spoke first, his voice soft, never needing to rise to impose itself.
— Your boy’ll be returned. But nothing comes without a price.
A service. A cleanup.
Grave robbers down in the Saint Denis cemetery. A mess that needed correcting.
A simple exchange, he called it.
John didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, like every word cost him something.
Arthur, for his part, never took his eyes off Bronte. He knew men like this. The kind who never truly asked, only made sure the answer didn’t matter.
Dutch, however, agreed without apparent hesitation. A calm smile, almost cordial, like the whole thing was nothing more than a minor inconvenience on the road to something greater.
The deal was struck, and Arthur and John left the manor shortly after. They were no longer guests. Just men sent to fix a problem someone else had created.
Dutch stayed behind with Bronte. Two still wills in the same room, each measuring the other without a word, like men sizing up a weapon whose true danger they still didn’t know.
The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was dense, filled with calculation and things left unsaid.
And somewhere upstairs in the manor, in the faint gap of a slightly open door, someone was watching.
It was Lucrezia Bronte.
A tall, quiet presence, natural elegance even in stillness, a pale dress with sober lines, carefully kept brown hair, and that small beauty mark beneath her left eye that caught attention without her ever trying to.
She was twenty years old, beautiful in a calm, almost fragile way, though there was something steadier beneath it than her appearance suggested. A sheltered youth, raised far from the darkest edges of her father’s world.
Angelo Bronte had sent her to Europe—Italy, more precisely—for her studies. She had returned briefly for the holidays, but even here in Saint Denis, he made sure she stayed away from his business. From his power, but also from his debts.
She knew there were doors in this house that were not meant to be opened.
But today, she had heard voices. She knew a small boy was living in their home.
Jack.
Sometimes she would play with him in the manor gardens when the guards weren’t watching and her father believed her occupied elsewhere. She found him kind, simple, almost bright in a world that never was. But her father had never told her where he came from, why he was there, or what would become of him.
So she watched now, eyes fixed on the man in the dark hat who spoke little, yet whose mere presence seemed to shape the space around him.
She didn’t know his name, but she understood instinctively he was not just another contact of her father’s. Not a businessman. Something else entirely.
Something older than polite salons and elegant promises.
A leader.
A danger.
And for the first time, the young woman felt that her father’s house might not be as solid as she had always believed.
She kept watching, not immediately understanding what unsettled her.
It wasn’t a clear thought, nor a defined impression. More like a diffuse tension, something in the way this man occupied space without effort. Dutch van der Linde didn’t try to be liked, nor did he seem to excuse his presence. He spoke little, but every silence around him felt heavier—and that stood in sharp contrast to everything she knew.
In Europe, at social dinners, Lucrezia Bronte had been surrounded by carefully educated young men, polite to the point of disappearance. Soft voices, controlled smiles, compliments calibrated like memorized lines. They knew when to speak, when to fall silent, when to incline their heads so as never to disturb the established order.
They were predictable, harmless, almost interchangeable. Dutch was nothing like them. There was in him a total absence of need for approval. A raw assurance, unpolished, that did not ask permission to exist. Even seated across from her father, he didn’t feel subordinate. As if the rules of the room simply didn’t apply to him.
And that was precisely what unsettled her.
She found herself looking at him longer than she should have, without understanding why her attention kept drifting back to him. He was neither young nor elegant in the way she understood it. He resembled none of the men she had known in European salons, nor those her father sometimes presented with pride.
And yet, he carried something rarer.
A kind of freedom.
Not a clean or noble freedom, but something more dangerous. A freedom that seemed born from expecting nothing from the world—and the world, in return, seeming to hesitate before resisting him.
She didn’t yet have words for it, but she felt, without fully admitting it to herself, that this man did not follow the rules she had always been taught.
And that, against her will, both unsettled and drew her in.
———
Night had fallen over Saint Denis with that heavy, damp weight that clung to the facades and the windowpanes. The lanterns of the Bronte manor cast a golden glow across the immaculate gardens, as if the outside world no longer existed at all.
Arthur and John had returned, the mission completed. The graveyard, the men, the chaos of it all was behind them now. Dutch asked no unnecessary questions. He retrieved Jack with a calm assurance, almost natural, as if it had all been just another step in a sequence of decisions already written long before. Seeing his father arrive with Arthur, Jack ran straight into his arms, overjoyed to see him again.
He was not injured, nor was he frightened. He spoke with enthusiasm about his stay at Bronte’s, unaware of the worry his abduction had caused within the gang.
Without waiting any longer, the three men and Jack left the manor on horseback, riding out toward Shady Belle.
From the upper floor, behind a slightly open window, Lucrezia watched them leave. She remained still, one hand resting lightly against the window frame, as if that simple gesture could hold back something already slipping away from her.
She followed them with her eyes until the night swallowed them whole, but her gaze fixed instinctively on him.
Dutch.
Not on the others, not on the child—on him.
He rode without looking back, without hesitation, as if he owed no explanation to anyone, as if even leaving required no justification at all. There was something unsettling in that simplicity, almost unfair.
She felt something tighten within her, a bittersweet certainty settling in her chest.
She would likely not see him again.
And the thought left her strangely hollow, as if a scene she had not yet fully understood had already been brought to a close.
She exhaled slowly, without realizing it, and finally turned away from the window.
———
Dinner was served in the grand hall of the manor.
A long table, perfectly set, far too vast for only two people. At one end, Angelo Bronte, at the other, his daughter Lucrezia.
And between them, silence.
An ancient silence, almost ritualistic. The kind found in houses where everything is said without ever being spoken.
The dishes were served without a word. Cutlery barely clinked. Even the servants seemed to move as if holding their breath.
Lucrezia ate little. Her mind kept drifting back, despite herself, to that moment by her bedroom window, to that silhouette, to that strange feeling that refused to fade.
Finally, she broke the silence. Her voice was calm, though slightly distant.
— Who were these men, padre?
Bronte did not immediately lift his eyes from his plate. A second lingered too long before he answered, in a measured tone.
— Men just passing through.
A simple answer. Too simple.
Lucrezia said nothing at first. She studied her father the way she always did when something didn’t sit right—without pressing, but without fully accepting either.
— The one who spoke, she added after a moment. The oldest of the three. The one with the dark moustache.
This time, Bronte looked up. A brief glance, controlled.
— That is none of your concern daughter.
A silence settled between them. And within it, something had shifted place—barely perceptible, but already irreversible.
A/N Hi everyone, this is another fanfic about precanon young Micah and my OC Elisabeth Smith that you can find on my AO3 here
French version here
I recommend to you to read my principal fanfic because that one is just a oneshot I wanted to write
French version here
Enjoy ! - fic under the cut
Summary Denver, 1879. Micah Bell and Elisabeth Smith are nineteen, just starting to carve out their legend.
They’ve got their eyes on a well-off couple, figuring to rob them clean, quiet-like, rather than with brute force.
I wrote this short story as a direct nod to Episode 10 of Season 3 of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, a series I hold mighty dear.
Denver, 1879
The stagecoach depot in Denver was bustling that morning. Micah and Elisabeth stood slightly apart, watching the travelers. A city this large offered more opportunities, but they knew better than to draw attention—precision and discretion were everything.
Elisabeth wore a headpiece that matched a simple sky-blue dress patterned with small white flowers. A cushion beneath the fabric gave her the appearance of advanced pregnancy. Micah, for his part, wore a plain suit—neither too worn nor too flashy—topped off with a simple dark hat.
Their eyes settled on a well-dressed couple, clearly well-off, preparing to leave for a small, remote town out West to visit relatives.
Micah, hands tucked in his pockets, shot Elisabeth a crooked smile:
— You reckon they look rich enough for our… little excursion?
Elisabeth shrugged, a sly smile playing on her lips:
— Oh, they look a sight more comfortable than your average farmer. And take a look at that lady’s dress… that ain’t travel wear.
Micah nodded and made his way to the counter, purchasing two tickets for the same destination as the couple they’d marked.
Elisabeth adjusted the cushion beneath her dress and added with a hint of humor:
— If I go into labor on the road, you takin’ care of it all?
— I’ll handle whatever needs handlin’, Micah replied with a wink. But for now, you play fragile, alright? I’ll be the one carryin’ the real strength.
________________________________________
They climbed into the stagecoach, which lurched forward with a groan, carrying five passengers: the well-to-do couple, Micah and Elisabeth posing as a young pair expecting their first child, and a middle-aged farmer with an honest yet taciturn look. Two armed drivers guided the team, well aware of the dangers of the road—hostile lands, potential attacks, and the ever-present threat of raids from both Indians and outlaws. Little did they know, they were carrying the danger themselves.
Inside, the well-to-do couple smiled politely at Micah and Elisabeth. The improvised young couple returned the gesture with gentle warmth and feigned affection.
— First time we’ve come through this country, Micah said, smiling at Elisabeth as he subtly slipped an arm around her waist.
— Yes, Elisabeth added, I… I’m a little nervous, she admitted, playing the part of the worried young wife.
— William Young, the man said, extending his hand toward Micah. And this here’s my wife, Myrtle Young.
The woman gave a polite nod. William went on.
— We’re heading out to visit some kin who built themselves a ranch. Been settled out there a few years now.
Micah smiled inwardly, seeing in this naïve, city-bred couple the perfect prey. Still playing along, he introduced himself in turn.
— Joseph Davis. And this is my wife, Mary.
William and Myrtle exchanged an amused glance. Myrtle, one hand resting on her cross, smiled warmly.
— Mary and Joseph? she exclaimed with a light laugh. Well now… seems the Lord’s got a sense of humor, don’t it? Surrounded by signs like that!
Her husband nodded, chuckling softly.
— That’s right, he said. I reckon it’s a fine omen for your child.
Micah let out a low chuckle, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
— Oh, and just so we’re clear—Mary ain’t no virgin. I was there to confirm it, he added dryly.
Myrtle flushed, flustered and proper, while William shook his head—half shocked at the indecency, half amused despite himself.
The farmer, meanwhile, kept to himself. Silent, watchful, taking in every move. Something about the young couple felt off. Their ease, their almost too-perfect closeness—it stirred his suspicion. But Micah didn’t falter. He answered the man’s rare remarks with calm assurance, his eyes holding just enough warmth to mask the rest.
— So, you’re heading out West to visit family? Elisabeth asked after a brief silence, softening her voice as she played her part.
— Yes, Myrtle said. They settled in a small, out-of-the-way town a few years back. We’re going to spend some time with them.
— Sounds like quite the journey, Elisabeth replied, curious and smiling. We’re looking to try our luck ourselves, same as your kin once did.
— Thought we’d raise the young’un free out on the plains, not boxed in some suffocatin’ city, Micah added, idly brushing a hand over Elisabeth’s belly.
William looked at them with a softened expression, then added with a hint of humor.
— We’re city folk, and we like it that way. Takes real grit to do what you’re doing. I’d say I envy you, but my wife would have my head. She’s far too fond of her comforts, ain’t that right, my dear?
Myrtle blushed, lowering her gaze with a shy smile.
The farmer, seated beside them, rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, not bothering to hide his suspicion:
— Something ain’t right about those two.
No sooner had he spoken than the stagecoach pulled to a stop. The farmer stood, ready to get down, his quick movements betraying his impatience.
Elisabeth let out a faint sigh of relief, thinking at least he wouldn’t interfere with the rest of their plan.
— Good day to you, sir, she murmured softly, a polite smile fixed on her face.
The farmer barely spared her a glance and stepped down from the coach, taking his suspicion and doubt with him.
Once the stagecoach got moving again, the conversation resumed, more relaxed this time. William and Myrtle, none the wiser, began speaking more freely about their lives:
— You’re blessed, having a child on the way. We ain’t been granted that yet.
Elisabeth looked at them with a softened expression.
— Oh, I’m sure it’ll come. You’re city folk—you must have plenty to keep you busy.
Micah said nothing, watching the couple as though the conversation already bored him. His gaze lingered on Myrtle—meek, gentle, fingers often brushing the gold cross at her neck—and he rolled his eyes, a quiet contempt settling in his chest.
________________________________________
Time passed slowly, and Elisabeth, smiling, played her part as a young expectant mother to perfection, keeping up the conversation with the couple. Micah, beside her, let his gaze linger on them, satisfied to see their little act holding up, all the while planning in his head the moment their scheme would take a sharper turn once they reached the lonely stretch of road.
After a long silence, Myrtle spoke.
— Have you given any thought to the name of your child?
Elisabeth gave a small smile and lowered her eyes, resting a hand on her belly.
— Not really… we’re still thinkin’ on it, she murmured, feigning a touch of shyness.
William chimed in with a smile.
— Mary and Joseph, huh? Figured it’d be fittin’ to keep to the theme, he said, casting a quick glance at his wife.
— Oh, my, said Myrtle, amused, that won’t be difficult at all. Seems you were destined for it, she added, touching the cross at her neck.
Elisabeth nodded, playing the part of a modest yet engaged young woman.
— William? Perhaps you could help us? We don’t want to pick somethin’ plain, but rather a name that’s fine and strong for our child.
William scratched his beard, a little uneasy.
— Well now, I reckon I could, but I ain’t rightly sure it’s my place, he said, hesitant, staying polite while easing himself slightly out of the exchange.
— Oh, come now! Elisabeth insisted, a soft smile on her lips. Your opinion surely means a great deal.
His wife nodded, pressing the point.
— Yes, a name must be chosen carefully. It’s important.
William sighed and shook his head, somewhat amused.
— Well… if you insist, he said, still a bit unsure, what about Moses? Or maybe Abraham? Fine, strong, God-fearin’ names, he added, glancing between Elisabeth and Micah.
His wife nodded eagerly.
— Oh yes, Moses or Abraham would be just perfect! she added, clutchin’ her cross. And if it’s a girl—
Micah cut her off, a shade too blunt.
— It’ll be a boy.
Elisabeth smiled faintly, feigning embarrassment.
They went on talking a while longer, and Micah, for his part, watched every movement and every reaction with care, a faint, ironic smile playing on his lips as he savored the couple’s devout innocence while quietly readying the next step of their plan. The stagecoach rolled on, and the air grew thick with a subtle but unmistakable tension—the calm before the storm they were both waiting on with quiet impatience.
________________________________________
The stagecoach was nearing the spot Micah and Elisabeth had chosen for the ambush, the desert landscape drifting past the dusty windows. Myrtle, clutching her cross, spoke up with eager warmth:
— And what if you named your child Micah? Like that biblical prophet—it's original, not something you hear every day, right?
Micah, seated beside Elisabeth, managed to keep a straight face, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of amusement at the suggestion. He gave a faint nod. Elisabeth, meanwhile, stifled a small laugh into her sleeve to keep from giving them away.
By a stroke of luck, just as they were nearing the agreed spot, Elisabeth managed to fake a spell, using the excuse to choke back her laughter. Her hands went to her stomach, her face tightened, and she drew in a sharp breath.
Micah moved at once, slipping into the role of a terrified young father.
— Driver! he shouted, leaning forward, his voice shaking. My wife! She’s taken ill—please, you gotta stop!
The driver frowned and shook his head.
— No can do! This ain’t a stop, sir—it’s dangerous out here!
But the others, seeing the panic on Micah’s face and Elisabeth’s convincing distress, pressed him.
— Come now, driver, you have to listen—she’s with child! Clara insisted firmly.
At last, after a moment’s hesitation, the driver gave in and slowed the coach, bringing it to a halt right where they’d planned.
Elisabeth stepped down, still playing her part. She hurried off and bent over behind a rock as if to be sick. In one smooth motion, she slipped off her bonnet and pulled the cushion from beneath her dress, revealing the revolver she’d hidden there.
At the same moment, Myrtle climbed down after her, worried and eager to help. But Elisabeth turned on her, eyes hard, gun raised.
— Don’t move! she snapped. Stay right there and do as you’re told!
Meanwhile, Micah stood by the coach, revolver drawn, aiming straight at William. The two drivers, armed with their carbines, reacted at once—but Micah was quicker. He fired. The shots cracked through the dry air, and both men dropped where they stood, dead before they hit the ground.
Myrtle let out a shocked cry, but Elisabeth fixed her with a cold stare, bringing the gun closer, not shifting an inch. The threat alone forced silence.
The desert wind kicked up dust around them, and time itself seemed to hang still, every breath thick with tension.
Micah took the money off William, then ordered him over beside his wife so he could keep a better eye on them while Elisabeth started going through the luggage.
Myrtle, shattered, sank to her knees beside her husband, clutching her cross to her chest. Her lips moved in a silent prayer, trembling with fear.
Micah, revolver still trained on them, let out a low chuckle and shook his head.
— You really think that scrap of metal’s gonna save you? he muttered with scorn, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. Only thing that’ll keep you breathin’ is stayin’ still and keepin’ quiet.
Elisabeth, focused, rummaged through the trunks and valises, taking anything of value. She didn’t so much as glance up, leaving Micah to play his part as the master of the chaos, his cold presence deepening the couple’s terror.
The heavy silence—broken only by the rustle of fabric and the faint clink of gathered items—made the scene all the more intense. Myrtle kept praying, resigned but shaking, while Micah watched it all with a mix of contempt and excitement, savoring the dynamic they had created.
Elisabeth finished gathering everything before untying two horses from the stagecoach. Then she called out to Micah, her voice calm:
— I got everything we need. Horses are ready.
Micah, still keeping the couple covered, answered in a curt tone:
— Not just yet…
He stepped slowly toward William, and his wife went pale at the look on his face. William shot him a defiant glare, but before he could react, Micah struck him hard across the temple with the butt of his gun. The man collapsed, unconscious, a thin stream of blood running from the wound.
Myrtle let out a muffled cry, and Micah crouched down in front of her, gripping her chin with an almost sensual precision as he stared straight into her eyes.
— Now you listen real close woman, he murmured, cold and calculating. You go on and tell folks about Micah Bell and Elisabeth Smith… how we held you and your husband up.
He then tore the gold cross from her grasp, the one she’d been clutching to her chest. The woman recoiled, terrified, while Elisabeth remained still, her gaze cold as she watched it all unfold. Without a word, she swung up onto one of the horses and called out to Micah:
— Move it.
Micah straightened, flashing Myrtle a roguish grin with a quick wink, then mounted the second horse. The wind lashed at their faces as they rode off at a gallop, vanishing into the dust and chaos they left behind.
________________________________________
Since his early days out West—first with his father, then with Elisabeth—Micah had learned one thing: fear and rumor were weapons stronger than any revolver’s caliber. By giving his name, and Elisabeth’s, to Myrtle Young, he wasn’t just looking to leave an impression—he was shaping their legend.
Every victim they let walk away, every witness left to tell the tale, became a messenger. Folks talked about that unpredictable outlaw pair, striking whenever they pleased, bold enough to challenge even the most cautious. Micah and Elisabeth knew fear bred respect, and that a reputation could open doors—and shut mouths—far more effectively than any drawn gun.
In the weeks and months that followed, the names of Micah Bell and Elisabeth Smith drifted through saloons and passing towns. Excited, fearful whispers traded hands along dusty streets, and the two of them became a living legend: ruthless, passionate, and near unstoppable.
Micah came to understand that subtle intimidation, that balance of brutality and control, along with the mystery Elisabeth carried, all fed into that aura. And he relished every story, every exaggeration that reached his ears. Their deeds grew beyond the truth of them, turning mere survival into a myth that rode ahead of them—further and further into the West.
A/N Hi everyone, this is another fanfic about precanon young Micah and my OC Élisabeth Smith thay you can find on my AO3 here
French version here
I recommend to you to read my principal fanfic because that one is just a funny oneshot I wanted to write 😜
French version here
Enjoy ! - fic under the cut
Summary 1880, Micah Bell and Elisabeth Smith are both 20. Three weeks on the run, riding hard, with the scent of discord hanging between them—and not only.
The saloon room smelled of polished wood, stale tobacco, and dust tracked in on boot soles. The window stood half open to the still-lively street below, laughter and bursts of shouting drifting up to them.
Micah shut the door with the heel of his boot and set his hat on the crooked dresser. His eyes were still bright from the day, the adrenaline, the money won, the wild dash between the trees.
The room was modest but clean: a bed, a dresser, an oil lamp.
Elisabeth dropped back onto the bed with a laugh.
— We almost bought it today.
Micah moved in at once. The rush was still humming in his veins.
— The best part of the day's just getting started.
He planted his hands on the mattress on either side of her and kissed her without warning, urgent, heated, like waiting had never crossed his mind. Elisabeth answered for a second, then stiffened.
— Wait.
— What? he grumbled, already annoyed.
— No, stop.
— What d'you mean, no? he murmured against her skin.
She wrinkled her nose.
— Micah… seriously.
He frowned.
— What now?
— You stink.
He straightened, offended.
— I do not!
— Micah… it's been three weeks sleeping in the woods, three weeks riding hard, three weeks sweating under the sun. So yes, you stink!
He glanced down at his dusty shirt, gave it a discreet sniff… then pretended not to notice anything.
— That's the smell of a man.
— That's the smell of grime.
He tried again, pulling her close.
— I don't care, get over here.
— No.
She pressed her hands firmly against his chest to hold him back, but he insisted, chasing her neck, her lips, her laughter slipping out of reach.
— Micah, stop.
— We can wash tomorrow.
— No.
He stared at her, challenge flashing in his eyes.
— I ain't waitin'.
— Well, I ain't kissing you like this.
Silence stretched between them. He studied her, looking for a crack, but she held his gaze, stubborn as ever.
— You're cruel, you know that?
— And you're filthy.
He tightened his arms around her, trying one last move.
— I want you now.
She sighed, then smiled slyly, hands resting on his shoulders, her voice soft but teasing.
— And it doesn't bother you… that I'm filthy too?
He blinked once, then a crooked grin tugged at his mouth.
— You think that'd stop me?
She shook her head, amused, then propped herself up on her elbows, eyes sparkling.
— You want to touch me? Fine. You take a bath first.
— Right now?
— Right now.
He leaned in again, trying to reclaim the upper hand, but she slipped from his grasp and stood beside the bed.
— Fine then, I'll wash first.
He sat on the edge of the bed and crossed his arms.
— All right, but we're goin' together
— Absolutely not!
He tilted his head, playful grin back in place.
— Then I get to watch?
She walked to the door and opened it, already halfway out.
— In your dreams, Bell.
He feigned outrage.
— You ain't no fun.
— Oh, I absolutely am!
She threw him one last mischievous look over her shoulder.
— And you don't come near me till you've seen a washbasin and some soap.
Then she disappeared into the hallway, the door closing behind her. Micah stayed in the middle of the room, jaw tight… then let out a short laugh.
— She's gonna drive me crazy.
He grabbed his shirt, sniffed despite himself… and grimaced.
— Damn it. She ain't wrong.
*****
Elisabeth walked down the narrow saloon staircase, her boots echoing against the worn wood. Below, the main room was still lively: a few card players hunched over their hands, two men passed out on a table, and the barkeep behind his counter, busy wiping down a questionable glass.
She stepped up and placed her hands on the wood.
— The key to the washroom, please.
The barkeep looked up, recognized her, then nodded. He reached beneath the counter.
A thick, drunken laugh rose behind her.
— A washroom? All for yourself, pretty thing?
Elisabeth didn't turn right away. She caught the smell of liquor before she even heard the clumsy footsteps drawing near.
The barkeep finally set the key on the counter.
— There you go.
But the drunk was already too close. Tall, poorly shaved, eyes gleaming with foolish boldness.
— I could help you wash up, if you'd like… he snickered.
— I'm real helpful.
Elisabeth slowly turned toward him. There was nothing amused left in her gaze.
— Back up.
He gave her a heavy smile and stepped half a pace closer.
— Aw, don't be difficult, sweetheart.
He lifted a hand as if to brush her arm, but Elisabeth was quicker. In one clean motion, she pulled the knife from her belt and angled it downward, just enough for the cold blade to press lightly against the man's privates through his trousers.
Silence dropped around them. The drunk went pale.
Elisabeth looked up at him, perfectly calm.
— I suggest you think very carefully about your next move.
The man's hands shot into the air.
— Hey… hey now… easy, doll…
— You see, she said softly,
— I'm very helpful too. I can help you understand consequences.
He swallowed loudly.
— It was a joke, don't take it so hard, pretty.
She pressed the tip slightly harder against the fabric.
— I am not your pretty.
The barkeep looked away, choosing not to interfere. The man took a cautious step back, hands still raised.
— No trouble, ma'am… didn't mean none.
— Then don't go lookin' for it.
Elisabeth withdrew the blade without haste, wiped it on her sleeve, and slid it back into place. Without another word, she took the key from the counter and headed toward the hallway leading to the washroom. Behind her, conversation resumed timidly, and the drunk remained standing there, shaken… visibly far more sober than he'd been a minute before.
*****
Steam still trailed behind her when Elisabeth closed the washroom door some time later. Her damp hair lay down her back, her clean shirt clinging lightly to skin still warm. The hallway was darker now. Laughter from the saloon drifted faintly up from downstairs.
A figure pushed off the wall.
The drunk from before.
He no longer looked uncertain. His face was tight, humiliated, eyes bloodshot with wounded pride.
— You don't threaten a man like that… he growled.
Elisabeth stopped short.
— Move aside.
— You think I'm just lettin' that go?
He stepped forward, blocking her path completely. Elisabeth instinctively reached for her belt, too late.
He grabbed her wrist sharply.
— Let go of me!
His grip was solid, stronger than she'd anticipated. She twisted, trying to break free, but he tightened his hold.
— Not so proud without your knife, are you?
She lifted her chin, refusing to show the slightest fear.
— You're making a… monumental mistake.
His grip hurt now. He laughed.
— Oh yeah?
She tried to pivot, to free her arm, but it was useless. The man nearly slammed her against the hallway wall, wood creaking under the impact.
Then a door opened.
A heavy step.
The metallic click of a hammer drawn back.
Micah's voice, calm. Too calm.
— If I were you… I'd let go of her wrist.
The barrel of a revolver pressed between the man's shoulder blades. The drunk froze instantly.
— A-alright… no need to…
The metal pushed a little harder.
— Let her go. Now.
The fingers loosened at once, and Elisabeth stepped back.
Micah didn't move. His eyes were ice.
— Nobody lays a hand on my woman.
The man slowly raised his hands and turned toward him.
— I just wanted to…
— Wrong answer.
Micah leveled the revolver at the man's face, right between his eyes. Elisabeth stepped closer and placed a hand on his forearm.
— It's alright.
Without looking at her, Micah said,
— He touched you.
She pressed her hand more firmly against his arm. A heavy silence filled the hallway. The drunk was breathing fast, too fast.
— Get downstairs, Micah finally said in a low voice.
— And if I see you within ten yards of her again, I promise you won't ever piss standing up.
To drive the point home, Micah lowered the revolver slowly toward the man's groin. The drunk nodded frantically, panic written across his face.
— Yes… yes…no…no…yes…
Micah stepped back, but kept the revolver raised until the man stumbled off toward the stairs.
The hallway fell silent again, and Micah finally lowered his weapon. His gaze turned to Elisabeth, jaw tight.
— He hurted you?
She shook her head, rubbing her wrist lightly.
— No. I'm fine.
He stared at the faint red mark already forming on her skin.
— I should've come down with you.
— I said I'm fine.
A pause between them. Then she added, softer:
— Thank you, Micah.
He exhaled, anger still simmering under the surface.
— I'm still gonna wash up.
She raised a brow.
— Oh?
— 'Cause now…
That crooked, knowing smile returned to his lips.
— I've got a real strong urge to finish what I started.
Despite the lingering adrenaline, she let a smile slip.
— Then you'd better hurry.
He caught her wrist again, not rough this time, but with that sharp determination that defined him and pulled her gently back toward the washroom door.
— Micah…!
He opened the washroom door, still warm with steam, pulled her inside with him, and locked it behind them.
The room was narrow: a large metal tub, water still warm, a bar of soap resting on a shelf, two rough towels hanging on the wall.
He turned to her, eyes gleaming.
— Fine. You wanted me to wash.
He stripped off his shirt in one swift motion and let it fall to the floor.
— Then you're gonna do it.
She crossed her arms, half amused, half incredulous.
— Excuse me?
He stepped closer, placed the soap in her hand, and tilted his head slightly.
— You told me to take a bath. So make sure it's done right.
A smile curved Elisabeth's lips.
— You incapable of managing on your own?
— Apparently I require supervision.
He stepped into the water with a satisfied sigh, settling into the tub that was far too small for both his frame and his ego. Water sloshed over the edge onto the floor.
— And scrub properly, woman.
She rolled her eyes but moved closer.
— You giving me orders now?
— Always.
She dipped the soap into the water, worked up a lather between her hands, then pressed it to his shoulder.
— If I'm doing this, it's because I decided to.
— Sure it is.
She began scrubbing his shoulder with vigor.
— Hey …!
— You told me to scrub properly.
Despite himself, a faint smile tugged at his mouth.
— Not like you're tryin' to skin me alive.
— You want to be clean or not?
She moved behind him, sliding the foam across his shoulder blades, over dust-caked skin and the marks of the road. Gradually he relaxed beneath her hands, even as he kept up his commanding tone.
— Lower.
— You're demanding.
— Very.
She worked her way down his back, pressing a little harder on purpose.
— See? Without me, you'd still be covered in mud.
— Without me, you'd be bored stiff.
She stepped around the tub to face him and spread the lather across his chest. He watched her intently.
— Stop staring at me like that.
— I'm appreciatin' the service.
A faint flush rose to her cheeks and she shook her head, a smile slipping free.
— You're impossible.
— And you like it.
A softer silence settled between them, broken only by the gentle slosh of water.
Before he could start boasting again, Elisabeth picked up the soap and moved behind the tub. She poured a bit of warm water over Micah's head.
His blond strands darkened instantly, clinging to his forehead and nape, falling just past his shoulders.
She lathered the soap between her fingers and began scrubbing his scalp carefully.
— Hold still.
— You're scrubbing too hard.
— Stop being a baby. Your hair was greasy and revolting.
He muttered something unintelligible as she worked her fingers through the strands.
— I hate it.
— The water?
— My hair.
— Your hair?
— Yeah. It's too light. Too… boyish.
She slowed her movements slightly.
— Boyish?
— Men have dark hair. Makes 'em look more… serious.
She tilted her head, studying the blond locks covered in foam.
— Your hair doesn't make you look boyish.
— It does.
— It doesn't.
She resumed more gently, massaging his scalp with care.
— It's light, sure. But it suits you.
— Makes me look like some well-behaved kid.
She let out a small laugh.
— You have absolutely nothing of a well-behaved kid about you, Micah.
He fell silent for a second.
— It don't make me look… dangerous.
She leaned down slightly so her gaze met his
— You don't need your hair to look dangerous.
A crooked smile appeared.
— Oh?
— It's in your eyes, the way you walk, the smile you get when you're threatening someone.
He stared at her.
— You analyzin' me now?
— Always.
She rinsed out the soap, pouring several small scoops of warm water over his head. The blond strands fell clean around his face.
She ran her fingers through them, setting them back in place.
— I like them.
He raised a brow slightly, exhaling in faint exasperation.
She tucked a strand behind his ear.
— They catch the light. And when they fall in your face, it makes you look even more unpredictable.
He stayed still, a smile forming slowly.
— Unpredictable…
A quieter silence followed, broken only by the soft movement of water.
Elisabeth patted the top of his head lightly.
— There you go, Mr. Unpredictable. All clean, shiny as a new dollar, hair included.
Micah rose abruptly from the tub, water streaming down his bare body. Without the slightest shame, he grabbed a rough towel and began drying himself, dragging the fabric over his arms, chest, and damp hair.
Elisabeth rolled her eyes.
— You could at least warn me.
— Why? You just washed me head to toe. Besides, it ain't the first time you've seen me naked.
He rubbed his blond hair vigorously, tousling it further.
— Matter of fact, he added with a provocative grin,
— I don't think you were very thorough… down low.
She arched a brow.
— Excuse me?
He tilted his head, mock critical.
— Real lack of attention to detail. Service could use improvement.
She crossed her arms, perfectly unfazed.
— You are truly incorrigible.
— I'm demanding, told you that.
Elisabeth shook her head as she picked up the washroom key.
— You're mostly just a pig.
He gave a satisfied little laugh.
— Since when's that bothered you?
She shot him a playful smile and opened the door, letting the cooler hallway air drift in.
— Finish drying off and get dressed, or I'm leaving this door open.
— Opportunity to put on a show. Why don't you ask a few saloon girls to come up?
She threw him a look over her shoulder.
— Hurry up.
Then she stepped out, her boots echoing softly back toward their room.
Micah stayed alone for a moment, grin still on his lips, before taking up the towel again and drying himself with a bit more care.
The bedroom door opened softly. Micah stepped in, now clean, shirt freshly buttoned, well, halfway, pants pulled back on in a hurry and his hair still slightly damp, falling over his shoulders. He'd taken the time to slick it back, but a few blond strands were already slipping loose to frame his face.
Elisabeth had changed into a simple long shirt and sat on the bed, brushing out her long brown hair.
She looked up at him.
— Finally!
Micah leaned back against the door, arms crossed, watching her for a few silent seconds.
Then he sighed.
— On second thought…
Elisabeth frowned slightly.
— On second thought what, Micah?
He walked further into the room, adjusting his sleeve with exaggerated seriousness.
— I've changed my mind.
— Oh really?
He nodded gravely.
— Yes. As you can plainly see, I am clean now.
She blinked, suspicious.
— Yes… that was the point. So?
He sat down in the chair.
— I don't feel like getting dirty again just yet.
A pause settled between them. Elisabeth narrowed her eyes.
— You're mocking me.
— Not at all! Listen, three weeks of filth, three weeks without water, and tonight, finally, a respectable smell. I'd like to enjoy it.
She stared at him, incredulous.
— You were the one insisting less than an hour ago!
— Circumstances have evolved.
He ran a hand through his still-damp hair with feigned nonchalance.
— Look at me. Impeccable. I've no desire to start sweating again.
She set her brush aside and rose slowly from the bed.
— So now the gentleman's too delicate?
— Precisely sweetheart.
She stepped closer, dangerously calm.
— You don't want to get dirty anymore?
— No.
She stopped right in front of him, placing her hands on the back of the chair and leaning slightly toward him. He could catch her scent, the freshness of soap still clinging to her skin.
— Not even a little?
He held her gaze, amused.
— Oh no. Especially not.
She let the silence stretch… then made a show of stepping away.
— Very well.
His eyes followed her.
— Very well?
— Yes. In truth, you're right. Let's stay clean.
She slowly slipped off her still-damp shirt and laid it over the bedpost, revealing skin still warm from the bath.
Micah straightened despite himself.
— Elisabeth.
— What? I'm respecting your choice.
She ran a hand through her hair, letting it fall over her shoulders.
— We wouldn't want to soil the gentleman.
He stood abruptly.
— I never said…
— Yes, you did.
She took a step back, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.
— You said you wanted to remain impeccable.
He moved toward her, forgetting his whole performance.
— You're really gonna play it that way?
She gave him a wink. He stopped just in front of her, their breaths brushing together.
— You know very well I won't hold out.
— Then don't pretend.
A beat of silence between them, then he gave in, sliding a hand to her waist.
— Enough games, you and me.
She smiled softly, and he finally kissed her, completely forgetting all about his speech on staying clean.
A/N : Here a little fanfic about my OC Elisabeth Smith and young Micah Bell. Both have 25 and are outlaws. They’re together since their age of 16.
If you want know about my fandom and them, you can go to this link reading my WIP fanfic Wolves don’t die of Old Age on AO3
Summary : One autumn day in Arizona, Elisabeth and Micah Bell shared a little abandonned cabin. Micah went to a job without Elisabeth then didnt return as promised. What happened to him?
Enjoy
Arizona, Autumn 1885
The oil lamp cast a dim glow across the little cabin. The autumn wind rattled the shutters, making the wood creak.
They’d just gone to bed.
Micah lay on his back for a moment, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, thinking. He had something to say to Elisabeth. Beside him, she’d turned on her side, back to him, already lost in her own thoughts. He’d felt her tension for days, so he chose his own method.
He moved closer to her in the bed.
His hand slid slowly along her waist, down to her hips—not abruptly, patiently. She let out a small sigh but didn’t resist.
Micah brought his face close to her neck, the faint stubble on his jaw brushing her skin.
— You’ve been tense lately…
His voice was low, almost a whisper.
His hand traveled slowly up her side.
— Shame, ‘cause I like that body of yours.
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder.
— I like the way it moves, the way it belongs to me.
It wasn’t a declaration of love. It was the only way Micah knew how to show it.
Elisabeth closed her eyes for a moment, her shoulders relaxing little by little. She finally turned to him and kissed him. The kiss started cautious, then lingered.
Micah smiled against her lips, satisfied to feel her finally letting go. His hands moved through her hair, down her back. He kissed her jaw, then her neck. She whispered his name, and for a moment, everything felt simple again.
Then, between kisses, almost absentmindedly, Micah spoke.
— I’m leaving tomorrow.
She didn’t react immediately.
He continued, his mouth still near her neck.
— One job. Nothing big.
His hand slid along her hip.
— I’ll go alone.
Elisabeth’s body stiffened instantly. As if an invisible rope had been pulled tight. She pushed him away sharply.
Micah grunted lightly, surprised, still leaning close to her neck.
— What?
She sat up in the bed, pulling the blanket around her.
— You planning on telling me when?
Micah ran a hand through his hair, already annoyed.
— Just did.
— While you were trying to distract me.
Silence settled.
He understood she’d seen through his move.
His jaw tightened and Micah sighed, irritated.
— It’s just a job.
— And you’re going alone.
— Yeah.
— Why?
Micah hesitated for a moment. Not because he didn’t have an answer, but because he knew she wouldn’t like it.
— ‘Cause it’s simpler.
— Or ‘cause you don’t want me to see what you’re gonna do.
Silence fell again in the room. The maneuver had failed, and Micah knew it. He leaned against the wall behind him, watching her in the flickering lamp light.
His eyes had that calm hardness again.
— You said yourself you’ve got limits.
His voice was steady.
— So I do certain jobs, without you.
Elisabeth stayed still. What he’d just said was worse than a lie. He’d confirmed their paths were already starting to separate.
Even though they still shared the same bed.
———————————————
Dawn was gray when Micah woke.
The room was cold, the lamp had gone out overnight, and only the pale morning light filtered through the shutters.
Elisabeth lay on her side, back to him, still, too still.
Micah sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, forearms on his knees, staring at her without saying a word. He knew that way she breathed slower when pretending to sleep.
He ran a hand through his hair, then got up silently. The floorboards creaked slightly as he gathered his clothes. He dressed slowly: shirt, belt, holster. Every move echoed too loud in the small, quiet room.
Elisabeth didn’t move, but her fingers were clenched in the blanket.
Micah strapped on his gun, adjusted his leather coat, then paused by the door for a few seconds. He let out a quiet sigh, then went back to the bed.
He leaned over her, close enough that his voice was barely a whisper.
— You’re not asleep.
It wasn’t a question. His hand rested briefly on her arm under the blanket.
— Save your anger for when I get back tonight.
A pause, his voice even softer.
— It’ll come in handy.
He knew she heard him. He also knew she wouldn’t answer.
He straightened up and left the room.
The door closed softly. Baylock’s hooves faded away from the cabin. Then nothing.
Elisabeth stayed still for a few more seconds, then her body slumped suddenly. Tears ran silently over her pillow.
Not tears of sadness, but tears of anger.
———————————————
Night fell slowly over the small house.
The orange sunlight still slanted through the shutters as Elisabeth finished stirring the pot over the fire. She’d prepared a simple meal, as always when Micah went out on a job: something warm waiting for him to return.
She glanced at the door. Still nothing.
Night fell completely.
The fire crackled softly. The food cooled. Micah hadn’t returned.
At first, anger dominated. She sat for a moment, arms crossed, staring at the door as if she could will it open.
— Of course… she muttered to herself.
Anger surged. She stood abruptly, grabbed the plate she’d prepared, and without thinking, dumped it into the pot.
The stew splashed against the blackened bottom.
— Let him fend for himself.
She slammed the lid down harder than needed, blew out the lamp, and went to bed.
The bed felt too big without him. She lay on her side, back turned to the door, as if that could give her the illusion he’d return during the night.
But the silence remained complete.
———————————————
Morning came, pale light entering the room.
Elisabeth opened her eyes. The bed’s other side was still empty, cold. She stayed still for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
Micah had never done this. Never with her. When he left, he always said for how long, and he always came back. Always.
She pushed back the blanket and went to make coffee.
The first day, she tried to convince herself something had just delayed him: a detour, an issue with Baylock, a trail to cover. Micah knew when to disappear—but never without warning, never without her.
The second day passed. Anger had nearly faded. She went through the motions: cleaning weapons, checking saddlebags, chopping wood. But her gaze kept drifting to the road. To the dust that might signal a rider. But still, nothing.
The third day arrived. Worry took over completely. Elisabeth sat for long moments by the window, coffee cooling in her hands.
Micah always kept his word. And if he hadn’t come back, then it wasn’t a choice. Something had gone wrong. That thought twisted her stomach harder than anger ever had.
By early afternoon, Elisabeth was outside, near the line strung between two posts, hanging damp laundry. The wind made the sheets flap softly.
Her movements were mechanical; she tried not to watch the road. But a motion caught her eye in the distance.
A figure moving in the dust.
A horse.
Her heart leapt. She dropped the sheet and stepped forward. But the closer the horse came, the more wrong it felt. There was only one figure—no rider.
As the horse reached her, she could see its dark coat. Elisabeth’s stomach twisted.
— Baylock!!
She ran down to the path. The horse slowed as it saw her, stopping almost on its own in front of the gate. The saddle was empty. No sign of Micah.
Elisabeth immediately put her hands on the horse’s neck, instinctively scanning the area as if Micah might appear from behind.
— Where is he, huh?
Her voice trembled.
— Where’s Micah?
Baylock snorted loudly, shaking his head. She ran her hands quickly over the saddle and saddlebags.
Nothing.
No blood, no discarded weapon. Nothing to tell her what had happened.
She pressed her forehead to the horse’s for a moment.
— You weren’t supposed to come back alone…
Her hand ran through his tangled mane.
— What did he make you do, huh?
She spoke as if the animal could answer.
Baylock sniffed softly and nudged her head gently. Elisabeth finally stepped back.
Now looking closely, she noticed his state. The horse was coated in dust. His dark coat dulled with dried sweat and mud. He had clearly ridden hard.
Her worry turned urgent.
— Easy… big guy.
She grabbed the reins and led him toward the cabin. Her movements became quick, precise. She removed the saddle, set it on a beam, then ran her hand attentively along his back, checking for injuries.
— Easy now…
Baylock shifted slightly but stayed docile.
She grabbed a brush and began working the dirt from his coat.
— How far’d you ride to get back, huh…
Her voice softened now.
— Did he send you, or did you get away?
The horse shook his head. Elisabeth continued cleaning, checking his hooves, giving him water.
But her mind wasn’t on him. Something kept spinning in her head.
Micah would never have let Baylock return alone. Never.
And if the horse had come back… then somewhere, along the road he’d taken… Micah might not be in any condition to return.
Micah hadn’t told her anything. Just that he was going alone for a job, nothing big—but no town, no place, nothing.
Elisabeth sat up suddenly. Her gaze fell on the saddle on the beam.
The saddlebags.
She grabbed them immediately and dumped their contents on the small wooden table by the stable: cartridges, a knife, a piece of rope, a few coins.
Nothing obvious.
She searched more thoroughly, fingers growing more urgent.
— Come on… Micah…
As if he could hear her.
In the bottom of one of the bags, she finally found a small folded piece of paper. She opened it. A name was scrawled hastily.
Bottleneck Gulch.
Elisabeth frowned. She clenched the paper in her hand and left Baylock to enter the cabin. She searched a chest near the wall. After a few seconds, she pulled out a worn map they sometimes used to trace routes. She spread it on the table. Her finger traced the terrain and inked paths. Then she found it: Bottleneck Gulch.
A few hours’ ride away. Her heart raced. She folded the map, her decision already made.
Minutes later, she left the cabin. Her domestic dress was gone. In its place: a dark shirt, a wide suede jacket, trousers, and riding boots. Her long brown hair tucked under a hat.
She grabbed two revolvers, checked them, and slid them into their holsters.
She quickly prepared Attila, tightening the straps with swift, sure motions.
Then she returned to Baylock.
— You’re coming too.
The horse raised his head.
Minutes later, Elisabeth mounted Attila. She cast one last glance at the silent cabin, then pressed her heels. Attila galloped down the path, Baylock following right behind.
Both rode toward the town of Bottleneck Gulch.
———————————————
When Elisabeth reached the outskirts of Bottleneck Gulch, the sun was already starting to dip behind the hills.
The town was lively, like many small passing towns: horses tied up in front of the shops, dust kicked up by wagons, voices mingling outside the saloon.
She slowed Attila long before entering the main street. Her eyes swept quickly across the façades, the figures, any uniforms she could spot.
Then she adjusted her jacket. It was a little too big for her, but that was the point. She lifted the collar slightly and tilted her hat down so the shadow would hide more of her face. From a distance, in those clothes, she could easily pass for a young boy.
She tied Attila and Baylock off to the side near a watering trough, then stepped into the saloon like just another traveler.
The heat and the smell of alcohol hit her immediately. A few men were playing cards, others talking loudly around the bar.
Elisabeth ordered a drink, paid without fuss, and sat alone at a small table in a shadowed corner. She stayed quiet, watching, listening.
Hours passed slowly. Conversations came and went: cattle, debts, fights, the weather—nothing useful. Then, at a table behind her, a louder voice caught her attention.
A man already well drunk was talking to his two table neighbors.
— I’m telling ya, he was completely wild!
Elisabeth kept her eyes on her glass but strained her ears discreetly.
— The blond… yeah… three days ago… BAM! He shoots the deputy like it’s nothing!
Her heart tightened.
The blond.
She stayed perfectly still.
The man went on, growing more enthusiastic with every drink.
— A nasty one, I tell ya… young… but eyes of a lunatic…
One of the other men chuckled.
— And the other?
— Ah! The other got away! A redhead… barely older than him… just as violent.
Elisabeth furrowed her brow slightly. That one, she didn’t know.
— Both of ‘em were after the town doctor when the deputy showed up… the man continued, taking a long swig.
— And now?
— Now? he replied with a thick laugh. The pretty blond’s asleep in the sheriff’s cell.
Anger rose in Elisabeth’s chest.
Of course—Micah, behind bars.
But outwardly, she stayed calm. She kept listening.
— They ain’t gonna hang him?
— Not right away… shrugged the man. The sheriff wants to handle it proper. Probably when the judge passes through next week.
Elisabeth let out the breath she’d been holding. There was still time. She finished her drink slowly, without hurry.
Then she got up and approached the bar.
— A room for the night.
The bartender gave her a quick glance, seeing only a tired young traveler.
— Upstairs. Back door.
She paid, took the key, and without another word, Elisabeth climbed the stairs.
The room was simple: a bed, a chair, a small window overlooking the street. She closed the door behind her and stood still for a few seconds in the middle of the room.
Micah was alive.
In jail.
She now had one night to figure out how to get him out. Slowly, she removed her hat, and for the first time since her arrival… the anger fully returned.
———————————————
The next morning, the air was still crisp when Elisabeth descended the saloon stairs.
The main street of Bottleneck Gulch was nearly empty. A few shopkeepers were opening their shutters, a street sweeper pushing dust along the boardwalk.
She adjusted the too-large jacket as she stepped out. Her gaze immediately fell on the sheriff’s office across the street. Everything was calm. She crossed slowly, without rush, and stopped by the horses.
Baylock lifted his head the moment he saw her.
— Well, hey there…
She pulled a carrot from her pocket and held it out. The horse snatched it immediately. She gave another to Attila, idly stroking his neck.
But her eyes kept drifting back to the sheriff’s office. It was still early, very few people were out—it was the perfect moment.
She stepped off the main street, moving between two buildings to skirt around the sheriff’s office. Her boots crushed the gravel softly as she crept along.
Behind the building, a small narrow window looked out, low to the ground. A barred little opening, giving onto a cell below.
Elisabeth approached slowly. She leaned slightly to peer inside.
And there…
Micah was lying on the cell bed.
Sleeping deeply.
Mouth slightly open.
Snoring.
And apparently… drooling on the pillow.
Elisabeth froze for a second, her brows furrowed.
— Seriously…
She picked up a small stone from the ground and tossed it.
The stone went between the bars and hit Micah right in the face.
— Goddamn it!
He shot upright, furious, hair a mess.
— What the hell…
He wiped his cheek with an annoyed gesture.
— Who’s the idiot who…
He stopped.
Sensing something, a presence. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to the little barred window and Elisabeth emerged slightly from the shadows.
Micah’s mouth hung open for a second.
— Well, I’ll be damned.
She crossed her arms, glaring.
— Done sleeping like an idiot?
Micah ran a hand over his face, wiping the last traces of drool, then looked at her again.
— Elisabeth?
His voice low, incredulous.
— What are you doin’ here?
She leaned a little closer to the window.
— Three days.
Her voice cold.
— Three days and your horse comes back alone.
Micah glanced quickly behind him. In the office, the sheriff slept in his chair, feet on the table. Micah edged closer to the window.
They whispered.
— You came all this way for me?
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
Elisabeth fumed.
— You killed a deputy!
— He got in front of my gun.
— Micah!
He shrugged slightly.
— Technicality.
She glared at him, exasperated.
— You’re gonna be hanged in a week!
Micah leaned against the cell wall, arms crossed, oddly relaxed.
— A week’s plenty.
— You think this is a joke?!
He studied her for a few seconds. Then a slow, amused smile spread across his face.
— So… you were worried.
Elisabeth gritted her teeth.
— Don’t change the subject.
— No, no… he continued softly. I just wanna be sure.
He tilted his head slightly.
— You came all this way… for me.
She rolled her eyes, furious.
— Baylock came back alone!
— Mhmm.
— And you’re in prison!
— True enough.
She leaned closer to the window.
— You’re a fool.
Micah stifled a small laugh.
— Maybe.
Then he looked at her again.
— But you came anyway.
She stayed silent for a second.
Micah pressed on, unable to resist:
— I might just start believin’ you care ‘bout me.
Elisabeth shot him a glare.
— Keep talkin’ nonsense and I’ll let you get hanged.
He gave a small, almost satisfied smile.
Because despite the cell, despite the rope waitin’ for him in a week… she was here. And that, to him, was already a victory.
Micah stared at her for a moment, eyes tracing every line of her face.
— How… did you know where I was? he asked, voice low but curious.
Elisabeth crossed her arms, glaring, regaining some composure despite her anger.
— Had to snoop… she whispered. You didn’t tell me where you were goin’. If I hadn’t found somethin’ in your things, I wouldn’t be here.
Micah smirked, amused by her logic and determination.
— Well… you found me anyway.
The tone was simple, almost natural, but the provocation in it made Elisabeth grind her teeth. She turned sharply, ready to leave.
— You’re unbearable! she shot back as she walked away.
But her pride was quickly pulled back by his voice, soft this time, almost coaxing:
— Elisabeth…
She froze, then turned back, brows furrowed.
— What now? she demanded, defensive.
Micah lowered his voice slightly, making it almost hypnotic. He spoke just low enough for her to lean toward the window to hear.
— Give me at least one kiss.
Elisabeth, red with anger and frustration, grabbed his ear:
— I’ll give you plenty of it !
She shook her head violently, not letting go of his reddened ear, but he laughed lewdly between grimaces of pain. Then, in a groan far too audible, he said:
— Stop, darlin’, you know it turns me on when you get rough with me like that!
Suddenly disgusted, Elisabeth let go of his ear and spun on her heels, calling him a pig.
Micah held his red, slightly swollen ear. He watched her walk away. A low, rough chuckle escaped him.
— Always the same… he murmured to himself, amused.
The smile lingered on his face, half victory, half silent tenderness.
———————————————
Elisabeth climbed into the room she had rented at the saloon, letting her eyes roam across the space as if she were already mapping out every step of her plan. A smile tugged at her lips: she was already imagining Micah’s reaction when he discovered what she was about to do.
For the first step, she decided to take a bath. After paying the innkeeper, she stepped into the small tub in the washroom. The water was hot, and she finally let herself relax, washing her hair and dabbing on a soft, feminine scent, different from the dusty air of their travels. Every gesture was deliberate, measured—a blend of self-care and strategic preparation.
For the second step, she knocked and entered one of the rooms used by the saloon girls. She had noticed a girl go in earlier. Inside, the saloon girl was surprised.
— I don’t start until noon… she said, mistaking Elisabeth for a young man.
Elisabeth didn’t answer and walked forward with confidence. The scent of her perfume reached the young woman, who frowned, startled by this unexpected feminine presence. As she approached, she realized that the supposed young man was, in fact, a young woman.
Elisabeth smiled warmly, a smile filled with calm determination:
— I need a favor.
The saloon girl blinked, unsure, as silence settled over the room.
———————————————
The sheriff was now fully awake, his feet propped on the table, taunting Micah.
— The judge comes in a week, he said sharply, and by then we’ll have your red-haired accomplice. Wanted notices are already out.
Micah let out a slight chuckle.
— He’s long gone by now, he replied with his usual arrogance.
The sheriff’s face darkened, and he slammed to his feet. He approached the cell, pointing a finger at Micah.
— Give me some answers, you little brat!
Micah met his gaze, unflinching.
— I don’t know anything, old man.
The sheriff, furious, grabbed Micah by the collar through the bars, shaking him.
— I swear, if you lie to me…
Micah kept his smirk, defiant, and repeated calmly that he knew nothing. It was the truth—he had been making short, cautious alliances for some time now.
Losing patience, the sheriff drew his revolver and pressed it against Micah’s temple.
— Too bad for the judge, he muttered.
That’s when a visitor appeared, carrying a basket of treats and a bottle of whiskey, walking toward them with poise. The sheriff slowly turned to face her, and Micah blinked, surprised.
The young woman wore a saloon girl’s dress, low-cut and enticing. Her hair was swept up, her makeup light, and the sweet scent of her presence filled the room.
It was Elisabeth.
Both men—sheriff and prisoner—froze for a moment, shocked and drawn in, unable to look away.
Micah stayed still behind the bars, a corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. He played as if he didn’t know Elisabeth, but his eyes roamed her in secret, betraying his excitement at seeing her like this—bold and fully aware of her effect on men.
The sheriff finally let go of Micah and turned fully to Elisabeth, inviting her to sit.
— I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before, miss, he said, curiosity in his tone.
Elisabeth, playful, sat down, crossing and uncrossing her legs slowly, locking her gaze with his. The sheriff stepped closer, forgetting Micah entirely.
— I’m new in town. I start tonight, but before that, I wanted to meet the most important man in this town.
The sheriff stared, visibly troubled, struggling against his instincts. Elisabeth had understood exactly what kind of man he was: authoritative, used to getting what he wanted, drawn to power and women. She had overheard the night before at the saloon that he had been with every saloon girl, and she played subtly on that knowledge.
Micah, behind the bars, felt his anger and jealousy rise. He wanted to hit the sheriff just because he was lusting after his woman, but he stayed frozen, excited and frustrated, watching her every move.
Elisabeth stepped closer to the sheriff, brushing his arm lightly, holding the whiskey bottle.
— Would you like a drink? she asked softly.
— It’s a bit early for that… he replied, trying to restrain himself.
He sat down.
Elisabeth leaned a little closer, sitting on his lap, an arm around his neck, her eyes locked on his.
— I don’t like being disappointed, especially by a man as handsome as you, she murmured.
The sheriff tried with all his might to control himself, but it was too late—his body had already reacted, and Elisabeth felt it immediately. A surge of disgust ran through her, but she showed nothing.
Micah remained tense, watching this interaction, torn between jealousy and excitement, more frustrated than ever.
Elisabeth still had her arm around the sheriff’s neck, and with a quick glance, she looked at Micah. Then she returned her attention to the sheriff, serving him a drink, then another, continuing to seduce him with precise control of her body and gestures.
The alcohol lowered the old man’s guard, and he began to caress Elisabeth’s cheek, touching her thighs under her dress. She remained impassive, showing nothing. Micah, behind the bars, clenched his fists, burning with rage but unable to intervene.
The sheriff, now drunk, held Elisabeth firmly on his lap and tried to kiss her. She pushed him back gently, calmly:
— Don’t be so quick, she whispered.
The sheriff groaned in frustration and took another drink, leaning toward her neck. With masterful control, she stroked his cheek and said:
— Tonight, you’ll be my first… and you may do what you wish with my body.
The sheriff, hypnotized, saw only her, completely under her spell. Elisabeth invited him to drink one last glass, then watched him collapse drunk against her chest.
Micah, finally snapping, ordered Elisabeth to get rid of that bastard. Calm and focused, she let the sheriff fall to the floor, then took the cell key and adjusted her dress with cold precision.
She freed Micah, who immediately scolded her. Elisabeth, heated, shot back:
— You’d rather I came in shooting and had the whole town after us?
The silence that followed was thick with tension, anger, and silent respect: both knew no impulse would win here.
Elisabeth and Micah slipped out of the cell quietly, continuing their low-voiced argument. Micah, half-smirking, said:
— That damn sheriff probably got hard against you… I’d better go cut his dick off before he wakes.
Elisabeth rolled her eyes, exasperated:
— I’m the one who had to sacrifice myself, so ease up!
They reached the saloon room, silence falling around them. Elisabeth pulled her men’s clothes back on, to Micah’s disappointment. They quickly rode out of the small town of Bottleneck Gulch.
The sheriff would have a rude awakening—but a lot less harsh than if he had actually lost part of himself.
