old west sheriff!abbot x outlaw!whitaker
summary: on the run from cattle farmers and bleeding out, dennis whitaker is stumbled upon by a small-town sheriff
warnings: description of a gunshot wound, mentions of alcoholism and implied child abuse
if this is something you guys want more of let me know!! <3
Dennis thought that he would have at least reached the age of thirty before he died.
Now as he rode on his horse, twenty-six and steadily bleeding through his shirt from the bullet lodged in his side, he had wished that he would have at least found a normal job. Or steady lodgings, or a revolver that actually fucking worked. Every movement pulled at his wound, sharp and infinitely worse than actually getting shot in the first place.
He had been stealing cattle from a ranch across the border, something he had done hundreds of times before - more often than not without any issue. However, it seemed like this time they had anticipated his actions, and one of the ranchers had managed to shoot him as he tried to flee.
Everything in him was screaming, begging him to stop moving, to at least try and give himself medical attention, but he was more than likely being followed - by how many, he did not know.
The blood was still slowly pumping out of his torso, barely having enough time to dry, most of it congealing on his skin which left him sticky. He had seen others bleed to death before, and honestly, he was surprised that he was still conscious enough to stay upright on his horse.
The Arizona heat was dry and unforgiving, and he would bet everything to his name - a few coins and a small flask of whiskey that was used in strictly dire situations where he needed to clean a wound but had no access to water - that the top of his hat would be burning hot if he touched it.
He really didn’t want to die in the middle of nowhere like this, left to rot alone under the sun, practically begging to have his flesh ripped from his bones by some hungry creature. His stomach churned at the idea of potentially never being found, fated to have his skeleton crushed by the wheels of a wagon, all because he hadn’t factored in the possibility of a cattle-hand hovering around before sunrise.
His right hand uncurled from around the reins of his horse, One, in order to apply some pressure to the wound with a pained shout, all the while he steered with his other hand and recited a few Hail Mary’s under his breath.
His eyes squeezed shut and his pulse quickened, the very real possibility of him dying in the middle of the desert making him panic in a way he hadn’t since he had discovered the concept of mortality as a child. Every blink he took felt like they lasted a whole minute, his movements getting more and more sluggish as he lost more blood and his body slowly began to give up on him.
The grip of his left hand slackened.
His body tipped to the side, and he slid off of One, landing in a crumpled heap on the ground. It forced all the air out of his lungs, so now not only was he bleeding out, he was also gasping for air that would do nothing but drag out his suffering.
Through the ringing in his ears, he could just about hear the grunt of somebody dismounting a horse, followed by a slightly rushed crunching sound of footsteps that came to a stop in front of him. A curse, not in the voice that belonged to the man who shot him.
He felt his eyes close fully, the effort of blinking taking too much energy from a dying body. Nice, he thought, staring into the darkness of his eyelids, not alone.
When Dennis opens his eyes again, he is not quite sure whether he’s dead or not. It’s dark outside, and he is propped almost upright in a bed in the middle of a room lit only by the light of two small oil lamps: one on the table next to him, and one on the little storage chest in the far corner.
If this was the afterlife, he wasn’t quite sure what all that praying and church-going was for.
He went to get out from under the bedsheets, but the movement was heavily protested by a tugging pain in his side. Right.
Looking down at himself, he noted how his torso was now bare and washed clean of blood, a bandage wrapped tightly around his waist and abdomen. Peeking under the fabric, he spied brand new stitches where he had been bleeding out the last time his eyes were open. .
He took a deep breath to brace himself and stood from the bed, leaning heavily on the wall to catch himself when his vision whited out and his fingertips tingled. “Fuck,” He hissed, chest heaving from his efforts not to cry from the pain.
His feet were bare against the floorboards, and a little bit of his dignity was saved by the knowledge that whoever had patched him up left him in his canvas trousers; he knew they were his due to the blood stains still present on the waistband. He had to leave before somebody walked in and asked him how he managed to get injured in the first place.
Hobbling, he tried to cross the room to get to the pile of his belongings which had been placed in the corner next to the other oil lamp. He straightened up and stopped moving, his stomach dropped. Where’s One?
Just as he thought that, the door opened, and he craned his neck around to look at whoever had just walked in.
“The hell d’you think you’re doing, stood up like that?” It was a woman, mid fifties if Dennis had to guess. She was around the same height as him, blonde hair in an updo and looking at him with raised eyebrows.
She quickly crossed the room and grabbed him by the shoulders to steer him back towards the bed. She pushed on his shoulders until he sat down on top of the bedsheets again, reaching behind herself to pull the little wooden chair to the side of the bed so she could also sit.
Dennis cleared his throat. “My, uh-” He cringed at the roughness of his voice, as did she. “Where’s my horse?”
An amused huff escaped her nose, a smirk on her lips. “Jesus kid, you got shot and the first thing you’re thinking about is a horse?”
He shrugged, and her smirk softened into a knowing smile. “She’s outside in the stables, probably feasting on all the oats she could get to,” She says, voice kind like she was speaking to a frightened child. Her arm extended so that she could reach out and squeeze his hands. “You got a name, angel?”
“Dennis,” He answered on autopilot, immediately kicking himself mentally. Oh yeah, might as well tell her you’re on the run too, genius.
“I’m Dana, Sheriff Abbot found you - brought you here to get you patched up,” Her voice was still so gentle and it kind of made Dennis want to cry. “How ‘bout I fetch you something to eat,” It was said like a question, but he knew it was more of a statement.
He nodded once, short and polite. “Alright, hon. I’ll be right back,” She said as she stood up, “And don’t you dare think about getting up again.”
Managing to swing his legs up onto the bed with minimal pain, Dennis figured that he might as well get comfortably propped up against the headboard if he was going to eat anything. He couldn’t really remember how long it had been since he had something warm in his stomach; he and One had been surviving off of hardtack and dried fruit since he had left the family farm.
He couldn’t help but let his mind wander to the mentioned Sheriff Abbot; what was the man’s reason for bringing him here, to get him patched up and taken care of? Surely he had to know what type of guy Dennis was, what with appearing in the middle of nowhere, completely drenched in sweat and his own blood, sporting a nasty slug to the side which he wasn’t even sure how he survived.
So why bother bringing him here - why wasn’t he just left to die?
He had picked the skin around his nails raw by the time the door creaked open and Dana entered the room again, a serving tray with a bowl and a glass of what looked like water, but was probably gin in her hands.
She placed it in his lap and smoothed one of her hands through his hair, and Dennis felt the need to cry for the third time that day. “Thank you,” He mumbled, eyeing the glass a little wearily.
When he looked up at her, he noted how her eyebrows were slightly drawn together in confusion. “It’s gin,” She stated, “What, you don’t drink?”
“No, actually.” He replied, “Pa was constantly drinking, got real nasty by sunset,” The silence that met the confession was deafening in the room, and Dana’s expression had morphed into something more understanding. She took the glass from the tray and set it on the ground by her feet, out of his field of vision. Only then did he pick up his spoon.
In the bowl was a stew of some kind, probably beef knowing the area and the amounts of cattle just across the border. His stomach growled loudly when he realised that it actually had a scent, he couldn’t remember the last time something he ate hadn’t smelled like absolutely nothing. The noise made him flush with embarrassment, but Dana let out a soft little laugh.
When he swallowed the first mouthful, he had to squeeze his eyes shut to prevent any little tears from escaping. It was probably a fairly mundane meal to anybody else - he could tell some elements were omitted from the stew, probably to avoid any strain on his stomach, but after nearly a year of having to fend for himself, having a cooked meal in front of him was practically luxury.
As if sensing his emotion, Dana perched herself on the edge of the bed and began to rub soothing circles into his bare shoulder blade. It reminded him of his mother, who was always doting and lovely, far too lovely for his father if he was honest, though she would always deny the fact.
They sat in silence, only interrupted by the occasional clink of his spoon hitting the inside walls of the porcelain bowl on his lap as he ate. It was nice to be in the presence of another person instead of relying on One for company. She was a lovely horse, affectionate and sweet, but sometimes he felt like he was going a little crazy when he had one-sided conversations with her late at night.
He only managed half of the bowl before his stomach protested and he knew that if he ate anymore it would immediately be rejected by his body. Dana moved to take his tray away and set it on the ground, picking up the unwanted glass and placing it on the tray too.
“Sheriff Abbot should be coming by to check on you in a bit,” She said, keeping her tone hushed, “Lord knows he can’t help himself. He’ll knock, but I’ll leave the door cracked so you don’t have to get up.”
He nodded, and watched as she grabbed the tray back up from the floor. “Thank you, Dana,” He whispered, and it earned him another little drag of a hand through his hair. They both pretended to miss how he leaned into it like a puppy.
As soon as the woman left the room, Dennis let himself slump into a less rigid position, exhaustion beginning to bleed back into him as his eyes slid closed.
He flinched awake at the sound of four knocks at the door. His chest rose and fell rapidly, still half-convinced that he was dead or was about to be dragged out of the bed and finished off by an angry cattle rancher. Willing himself to calm down, he cleared his throat before he spoke.
“It’s open,” His voice was barely above a gravelly whisper, but it seemed enough for his visitor.
A man entered, Sheriff Abbot he presumed. The man took his hat off as he stepped inside, revealing a head of grey-brown curls and a pair of hazel eyes. What surprised him more than how attractive the man was, was the fact that he seemed so…unbothered by Dennis.
“Hey there, Dennis,” The man said, his voice warm and low in a way that would’ve made his stomach flutter if he wasn’t so wary of the fact that he was an outlaw speaking to a town sheriff. “How’s that shot treating you?”
Dennis felt himself flush at the question. Stupid fucking body, be normal for a second. “Uh, yeah-” The man was still standing, broad shoulders squared as he looked down his nose at Dennis on the bed. “Gunshot-y.” He finished, lamely.
It managed to get a little snort out of the man, so Dennis counted that as a win.
“D’you know where you are?” Sheriff Abbot asked, his head tilting to the side slightly while keeping his intense eye contact. It made Dennis feel like a mouse about to be eaten by a prey bird.
He shook his head, willing his voice not to crack under the man’s almost hypnotic gaze. “I know I’m in Arizona,” He paused, “And that you brought me here, and that you’re Sheriff Abbot.”
The man winced at the title, and Dennis watched with pure fascination as a blush appeared on the top of the man’s ears, still slightly visible even in the low light. “Just call me Jack, kid,” He mumbled, suddenly bashful.
Dennis nodded, and they sat in a thick silence for a few seconds before Jack spoke again.
“How’d you get shot, Dennis?” Uh oh.
Tell the truth and be thrown in a cell, or come up with something that would eventually come back to bite him in the ass when someone - or multiple someones - turns up looking for him.
“A disagreement,” He answered, probably way too late for the flow of the conversation, yet Jack did not seem to dwell on it - it wasn’t exactly a lie, the rancher did disagree with his decision to break in and attempt to steal a cow.
“Disagreement that got you shot?” Jack rebutted, his head now slightly tipped to the side. It wasn’t doubting per se, at least Dennis hoped it wasn’t, because he was never that good at lying.
“Mhm. Guy was…really angry, I guess,” Probably plausible enough to believe - the man was a sheriff, he would have made contact with those who weren’t exactly the most reasonable of people. Maybe.
He really tried to not make it obvious that he was trying to avoid the man’s eyes, his affinity for eye contact glaringly obvious considering how he hadn’t broken it, even when Dennis had looked away from him.
The last time someone had made eye contact with him this severely, it was his father telling him to leave the farm for good. It made him feel completely and utterly exposed - like a slaughtered cow with its blood spilling out onto a hardwood floor, completely unable to cover up and hide.
