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STRAY | ft. W. BONNEY

summary One unsuspecting morning, you find a stray outlaw half-dead and injured in your barn. Taking him in was easy – letting him stay a little longer is the hard part.

wc 23.3k words (i apologise for nothing)

warnings explicit (MDNI!) hurt/comfort, canon-era (mid late 19th century american southwest), injury detail (dislocated shoulder, bruising, scarring), domestic/sexual tension, slow burn, she's the daughter of town doctor and the dad character is chill asf fluff, mild angst, gun use/mention, period typical gender roles, mature language

pairing billy the kid x fem!reader

You can’t say you started the day expecting to find a man asleep in your barn.

You stood in the doorway, the early September morning chill biting at your cheeks. The horses shifted beside him, chewing their hay with quiet confusion. From here, you could only see his back—slouched against a beam, cowboy hat pulled low over his face as he snored softly.

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath.

Your father had ridden into town at dawn, leaving you to tend the place alone. He was almost certainly half way there, gone till early November, there was no way of reachin' him without making a ruckus and waking...

Whoever the hell this is? Some drifter? A vagabond, maybe?

Just to be safe, you set down the pail of feed and grabbed an old plank leaning against the stall. Your heart thudded as you crept closer. He didn’t stir, not even when you stood right in front of him.

His coat was dusted in dirt and straw, tarp half-draped over his legs against the cold. He wasn’t here when you locked up last night, and it’d frozen hard since then.

You poked his boot with the plank.

Nothing. Seriously?

You jabbed a little harder this time, and he startled awake with a sharp inhale, his hat toppling into the hay. You jumped back, plank raised, pulse hammering. He scrambled to his feet, blinking blearily at you, hair a mess and face streaked with dirt and bruises.

For a moment, he just stared, confusion flickering across his tired features. Then his gaze landed on the plank, your makeshift weapon of choice. Neither of you said anything.

You took him in. Cute, you noted absently, despite the grime and shadows under his eyes. Tallish, dark hair all mussed from sleep. He couldn’t be much older than you.

Slowly, he lifted his hands in surrender, like he couldn’t quite tell if he’d woken into danger or safety. The barn was quiet around you, only the soft crunch of hay under shifting hooves filling the silence.

“What are you doing in my barn?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

He cleared his throat, rubbing his fingers together like he was trying to warm them. “Just… lookin’ for a bit of rest, ma’am. I’ll be on my way. I don’t mean any trouble.”

You nodded slowly, still holding the plank high. Your father always said better safe than sorry. But when he bent down to grab his hat, you noticed it—a stiffness in his right shoulder, the way his whole torso moved as one, and then the darker patch blooming across his coat. He winced when he reached out, his breath catching.

“Hold on there,” you blurted out before you could think better of it, eyes narrowing. “What happened there?”

He froze, hat halfway to his head. “Ain’t nothin’ that concerns you.”

“It’s bleeding through your coat,” you pointed out. Your voice came out gentler than you meant it to. You weren’t good at keeping your nose out of things, no matter what your father said.

He pulled his hat on, dusting off the brim with shaking fingers. “Fell off a horse. Just a scratch. Won’t slow me down, none.”

You tried to believe that. “Move your arm up and down then.” You instructed.

He hesitated. You weren’t gonna let him leave until he listened. He glanced at the open barn doors, then back at you and your menacing plank.

With a resigned sigh, he raised his left arm easily enough. You nodded to the injured one.

He clenched his jaw, lifted it a few inches, and groaned, face twisting in pain.

“That’s not just a scratch. Think it’s dislocated from that fall,” you said bluntly. “Happens more often than you’d think. But if it’s bleeding too, there’s worse damage under there.”

He blinked, caught off guard by your plain tone.

“My father’s the doctor in town,” you continued briskly. “I know what that looks like. If it gets infected, you’ll be crawling back here begging for help anyway. I’ve got salve and clean gauze inside... Better we do it now before it turns green and rots your damn arm off.”

He paused, blinking like he didn’t quite understand the words. His eyes flickered away, dark and tired. “I… I don’t aim to bring trouble to your door, ma’am.”

You sighed, lowering the plank fully and propping it back against the stall. “Well, now, you’ve already done that, haven’t you? May as well get somethin’ out of it. You got a name?”

He huffed a short, surprised laugh, rough but genuine. He looked so tired. Real tired, you noted. You wondered if last night was the first sleep he’d had in days. “Billy. You can call me Billy.” He told.

You nodded, and introduced yourself too. He repeated it, name flowing off his tongue nicely. A beat goes by.

His gaze drifted back to the plank. “Were… were you fixin’ to hit me with that?”

You raised a brow. “Depends if you tried anything.”

His lips twitched into a faint smile, the first glimpse of softness on his wary face.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders to ease the tension. “You mind waitin’ a minute? These boys haven’t eaten yet.”

You nodded towards the horses, who watched the whole exchange with flicking ears and patient eyes.

He nodded, politely waiting as he leaned against the wooden beam.

After you fed the horses, Billy followed you into the field and up to your house. A modest place. He noted the guitar on the porch.

“You play?” You ask as you open the door, seeing the way he eyed it

He hesitates, shaking his head with a shrug. “A little… Do you?”

You nod, entering the house. “A little.” You mimic.

He smiles a bit at you copying his own vagueness.

Inside, you guided him to the small kitchen table. The room was dim with dawn light, quiet except for the ticking of the mantle clock and the whisper of wind outside. He stood awkwardly by the door for a moment, hat held in his good hand like a boy at church.

“Sit down, Billy,” you said softly, gesturing to the chair.

He obeyed with a quiet groan, lowering himself down stiffly. Up close, you could see how pale he was beneath the dirt and bruises, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion.

You moved to the washbasin, pouring clean well water into a chipped ceramic bowl. Your hands trembled slightly as you grabbed a rag and your father’s tin of salve from the shelf. You’d watched your father set plenty of joints and patch up farmhands over the years, but this felt different. More fragile, somehow. More real.

“Take off your coat,” you murmured, setting the supplies on the table.

He shifted, fumbling with the buttons one-handed. You watched his trembling fingers for a moment, then stepped forward and brushed them aside, unfastening them yourself. He flinched slightly at your touch, then stilled, his breath catching as you carefully peeled the coat down his injured arm.

His shirt sleeve was soaked dark with blood, the fabric sticking to torn skin near the shoulder seam. The whole joint looked wrong—swollen and twisted out of place. You sucked in a sharp breath.

“Don’t fuss,” he muttered, voice low and rasping. “Ain’t nothin’ worth frettin’ over.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, brows knitting. “Ain’t fussin’. Just thinkin’ about how you’re gonna scream when I fix it.”

His lips twitched faintly, like he wanted to smile. “That right?”

“Mm.” You poured a little whiskey onto a clean rag and handed it to him. “Here. For cleanin’ and for drinkin’.”

He huffed out a small laugh despite his pain, taking the bottle with his good hand. “You always threaten folks before patchin’ ‘em up?”

“Only the ones who trespass in my barn,” you shot back lightly, busying yourself with dampening the rag. You paused, looking at him with curiosity. “Where are you comin’ from anyway? Can’t be from around here.”

He swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, wincing as it burned down his throat. “South. Driftin’ up toward Montana, I reckon. Depends who’s lookin’ for me.”

Your brows rose at that, though you tried to hide it. “Outlaw, then?”

He chuckled, though it came out more like a pained exhale. “Not today.”

You nodded slowly, satisfied enough with that. “Well… if anyone asks, you’re just a ranch hand passin’ through for work.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, something soft and almost amused in them. “That what I am?”

“You can be whatever you damn well please, long as you don’t cause trouble,” you teased. Then your voice dropped, gentle but firm. “I’m gonna have to set it now.”

He gripped the bottle tighter, knuckles white around the glass as he brought it to his lips again, taking a longer swallow this time. Anything to delay what you’d been describing as immensely painful.

“You done this before?” he rasped, voice rough with nerves.

“Seen it done enough,” you said, your tone steady despite the thrum of your own pulse. “My pa’s the doctor here. I’ve helped him since I was little.”

He nodded faintly at that, eyes flickering around the room as if memorising it, grounding himself in something real. Then his gaze slid back to you, lingering a beat longer.

“You close with him?” he asked softly.

The question caught you off guard. Your brows furrowed. “‘Suppose so,” you answered, trying to keep your focus on preparing the sling beside you. “Why?”

His lips twitched faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just… you talk about him like he’s a good man.”

“He is, he's a very good man.” You paused, then added more firmly, “You got any siblings?”

He let out a quiet huff, a single humourless chuckle as his thumb rubbed anxiously along the bottle’s worn label. “No, ma’am. Just me.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “You’re stallin’.”

His jaw tensed, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Maybe I am.”

“Delaying it won’t help.”

He blew out a shaky breath, chest rising and falling faster now. Finally, he gave a small nod, eyes dark with apprehension.

You moved behind him, placing one hand firmly on his shoulder blade, your fingers splayed over sweat-damp linen, while your other hand wrapped around his wrist, anchoring him in place. His whole body went rigid under your touch, muscles coiled tight with fear.

“This’ll hurt bad,” you whispered close to his ear, your breath ghosting warm against his temple. You felt his sharp inhale, his pulse thudding under your thumb where it pressed into the curve of his shoulder. “But after, it’ll start mendin’. Ready?”

His head dipped slightly in reluctant assent. “Yeah,” he whispered back, his voice breaking just a little on the word.

He said nothing, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitch.

“Alright. On three. One… two—”

You pulled down and forward, bracing your knee against the leg of the chair for leverage. For a brief, agonising moment, his shoulder resisted—his muscles clenching hard against the movement, the joint refusing to give. His whole body went rigid, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat as he tried not to scream.

Then, with a sickening pop, it slid back into place.

His cry was raw and guttural, ripped from deep in his chest. His head dropped forward, chin hitting his sternum as his breath came in ragged, shallow pants. Sweat dripped from his brow onto the scarred wood of the table, his free hand fisted so tight his knuckles went white.

For a second, he didn’t move at all. Just sat there trembling, chest heaving, jaw slack with pain. Tears clung to his lashes, and his lips moved soundlessly, like he was trying to form words but his brain hadn’t caught up yet. When he remains quiet, you’re worried you might’ve done it wrong.

“Easy,” you whispered, your own hands shaking as you eased your grip on him. “It’s done. It’s back in.”

He made a quiet, broken sound in the back of his throat—half sob, half relieved laugh—as his forehead pressed against the table’s edge. You reached out, brushing damp strands of hair away from his temple, feeling the heat radiate off his flushed skin.

“Goddamn,” he rasped finally, voice hoarse and trembling. “Thought… thought I was gonna pass out there for a minute.”

“You almost did,” you murmured, pouring a little more whiskey into a cup, taking a sip yourself before pressing it into his good hand. “Here. Drink.”

He obeyed with shaking fingers, gulping down the burning liquor as he kept his eyes squeezed shut, breath whistling softly through his teeth.

“There,” you breathed out shakily. Your own arms trembled from the force. “All done.”

You eased his arm into his lap and stepped around to face him. His eyes were squeezed shut, jaw slack now as he panted through the pain.

“You alright there?” you asked softly, reaching out to brush damp hair away from his forehead. His skin was hot under your fingers,

“Yeah… yeah, I’m alright,” he rasped, blinking up at you. His eyes were glassy but clearer now, a faint smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, you pulled your fingers away from his skin, afraid you were overstepping. “You’re a tough little thing, ain’t you?” He continued.

You smiled faintly, dipping the rag in the warm water to clean the blood from his scraped shoulder. “Only way to survive out here.”

Billy watched you quietly as you worked, his gaze trailing over your face. He takes a swig of whiskey. “Your pa teach you all this?”

You nodded, focusing on dabbing the scrape clean. “Since I could walk. Said a woman oughta know how to fix what men break.”

He let out a low hum at that, something like admiration flickering across his tired features. It was quiet for a bit now as you prepared the salve.

“Now hold still. Salve’s gonna sting.”

He hissed softly as the salve touched raw skin, but he didn’t pull away. You worked quickly, spreading it in a thin layer before wrapping clean gauze snug around his shoulder and upper arm. He watched you the whole time, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but fixed on your face like it was the only steady thing in the room.

When you tied off the bandage, you let your hands linger on his good shoulder for a moment. “You’re gonna need to keep it still for a while. Sling it during the day. Sleep’ll help too. When was the last time you had a good day’s rest?”

He shifted, trying to sit up straighter, but winced as pain flared down his side. “It’s been a while. But I’ll be gone by noon,” he rasped. “Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

You snorted softly at that, shaking your head. “Billy, you can barely stand. You’re sleepin’ here. You can take my bed for a few hours, my Pa's room's a mess right now.”

His eyes widened slightly, surprised by your offer. “I… I can’t do that, ma’am.”

“It’s not a request,” you said firmly, though your voice gentled at the end. “‘Sides, it’s not anything special, don’t get too excited.”

He huffed a tired laugh, something warmer flickering behind his eyes. “Thank you,” he said quietly, sincerity softening every rough edge of him. “I’ll… I’ll just rest a bit. I assure you I’ll be quick.”

When you reached for his coat draped over the back of the chair, intending to rinse out the blood soaking through the sleeve, his reaction was instant.

He snapped his good hand out and snatched it away, clutching it tight to his chest.

You blinked, taken aback. “Oh—sorry,” you stammered, hands hovering awkwardly in the air. “I was just… gonna wash it for you. It’s covered in blood is all.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting away for a moment before flicking back to yours. “I'm sorry,” he muttered, voice rough. “I… it’s personal.”

He held the coat close to him, almost protective, fingers curling tight around the frayed collar. The lamp glow caught the flicker of something hard and metallic beneath the folds for half a second before he shifted it out of view.

You didn’t notice, too focused on his sudden tension, but if you’d looked closer, you might’ve wondered why a man would guard an old, ragged coat like it was the last precious thing he owned.

He cleared his throat and ducked his head, his grip tightening as he tucked it against his side. “Don’t mean to be rude,” he added softly, the edge in his voice bleeding away into quiet guilt. “Just… need to keep it close.”

You nodded quickly, stepping back with an apologetic smile. “No harm done. I wasn’t trying to snoop. Just figured you wouldn’t want blood stains settlin’ in the lining.”

His lips twitched faintly, though his eyes stayed guarded. “Appreciate that,” he murmured.

He held onto the coat, folded over his good arm as he followed you to your room.

He hesitated at the door, eyes flicking over your small room like he was memorising it. The thin curtains glowed pale with morning sun, casting a warm haze over the quilt and wooden floorboards.

His gaze lingered on the small glass jar of wildflowers by your bedside, the faded cross nailed above your headboard, another worn guitar propped against the corner.

'Suppose you played more than a little, he thought.

You felt a brief flush creep up your neck. You didn’t usually let men into your room – especially not ones as pretty as him, all roughed up with those tired eyes and soft lips. It felt… intimate, somehow, letting him see this private space.

He shifted on his feet, looking down at you, his good hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “You sure ‘bout this?” he asked, voice hushed. “Ain’t right, me takin’ your bed like this.”

You rolled your eyes lightly, though your chest ached with the sight of him swaying there, half-dead on his feet. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Billy. Bed’s warmer than the barn floor.”

He huffed a quiet laugh at that, his lips twitching up. “You got a way of makin’ orders sound gentle, you know that?”

You fidget with your hands and swallow, a beat of quiet. “I’ll um… I’ll leave you be.”

Before he could respond, you’ve scampered off.

He hummed, quiet. He took a few steps around your room, inspecting it a bit now without your presence, paisley wallpaper, slowly tearing off, ornate candle holders. Your dresser had a photo of you and your father. He looked at the photo of you for a little too long.

He stood there a while longer, eyes tracing the life folded into this room. It smelled like you – clean soap, hay dust, and something soft he couldn’t name. He didn’t belong here.

But he liked how it felt, just for a moment.

He went over to the bed, finding himself drawn to it like a magnet. It must’ve been weeks since he last slept on a mattress. He groaned as he fell into it, the immediate wave of months of little to no sleep hitting him as he fell asleep.

Outside, the morning sun rose higher over the fields. You busied yourself with chores – tending the horses, hauling water, splitting kindling – though your mind wandered back to the quiet room each time the breeze shifted through the open window.

Billy slept all through the day, as the sunset.

He slept through the day and well into the next morning, dead to the world.

When he finally stirred, blinking blearily against the dawn light, he tried to stand and leave without a word – mumbling apologies under his breath, reaching shakily for his boots. But his knees buckled before he even made it to the door, and you caught him under the good arm before he hit the floor.

“Easy,” you whispered, steadying him against your side.

He was too weak to protest much.

You didn’t know how bad his injuries really were, or how long it had been since anyone showed him even a scrap of kindness. You didn’t know the last time he’d slept in a real bed, under warm blankets, listening to the soft quiet of a safe home instead of the restless dark of the open plains.

But what you did know – what kept echoing through your mind in your father’s voice – was simple: help those in need.

And maybe this man was a stranger, maybe he was an outlaw – you could read the signs well enough to guess – but right now, none of that mattered.

All you saw was someone hurt.

Which is why you let him stay, and you gained a new ranch-hand whilst at it, so it was a win-win. You'd be surprised by how much you can still get done with a sore shoulder and a need to show your gratitude.

Your house wasn’t big – just two small bedrooms, a study that also acted as a check up room, and a narrow front room with a battered old couch pressed against the window. Once you cleaned up your father's room, you moved him to his bed. It still smelled faintly of tobacco and cedar oil, the quilt sun-bleached and softened from years of use.

You took your own bed, though most nights you lay awake longer than you’d admit, listening for his breathing across the thin hall, making sure it stayed slow and even through the dark.

Each dawn brought its own rhythm.

He’d sit at your small kitchen table, hunched over a chipped mug, cradling it in his rough hands like it was the only warmth left in the world. He always drank his coffee black, despite the bitter grimace that twisted his bruised face with the first sip.

You tried not to hover as you cleaned and re-wrapped his shoulder, but your fingers worked carefully, gently, even when he hissed through his teeth and told you he could handle it himself.

“Let me fuss,” you’d say simply, and his gaze would flick away, jaw tightening with something unsaid.

He tried to help around the farm, despite the sling binding his arm tight to his chest. You’d catch him outside, awkwardly lugging feed sacks one-handed, sweat beading along his hairline as he grit his teeth against the pain.

Once, you found him splitting kindling, the axe awkward in his grip, the wood shattering unevenly beneath his trembling blows. When you told him to rest, he just shook his head.

Whilst you handled the ranch fine alone, you liked having help for the little chores – someone taller to reach the cabinets, someone less hesitant to scrub out the trough or stack hay. Someone who could stand beside you in silence without making it feel heavy.

“Can’t be sittin’ around takin’ up your air and not do my part,” he muttered, breathless.

When you first sat down for dinner together, you’d made a classic stew – thick with potatoes, carrots, and tender chunks of beef.

He ate it like he hadn’t tasted food in weeks, which, you suspected, might’ve been true.

The two of you sat out on the porch, the old boards creaking beneath your chairs as the sky burned gold and mauve with the setting sun. The breeze smelled of dust, sage, and simmering thyme from your pot.

Billy struggled a little, spoon clumsy in his left hand. You tried not to smile as you watched him, but he caught you looking anyway. He paused, brow furrowing, then gave a quiet huff of a laugh, shaking his head.

“It ain’t polite to laugh at an injured man, you know,” he said softly, voice still scratchy with fatigue but threaded with teasing warmth.

“I’m not laughing,” you lied, lips curving despite yourself. “Just… observin’.”

“Oh, so that’s what you call it.” He dipped his head, hair falling over his eyes as he scooped up another mouthful with painstaking care. He chewed slowly, gaze fixed on the sunset, before turning it to you, eyes curious. You didn't comment on it, keeping your eyes locked on the fields.

Silence settled again, but it was a comfortable quiet, filled only by the rustle of wind through prairie grass and the distant lowing of cattle in the darkening paddock.

After a few minutes, he cleared his throat. “This… this is real good,” he murmured, nodding at the bowl. “Best meal I’ve had in… hell, I don’t even know how long.”

You felt warmth bloom in your chest at that, deeper than pride, something soft and tender. “Thank you,” you said simply. “Figured you’d need something good in your stomach to heal.”

He smiled faintly, looking down into his bowl like it was the only thing holding him together. Then he spoke again, voice low and tentative. “Why are you letting me stay?”

Despite expecting the question eventually, you're still caught off guard.

"I'm-I'm incredibly grateful. I'll do my part 'round here 'n all, I'm... trust me when I say this place is heaven compared to how I've spent a lotta life, but... why not just shoo me away?" He continued.

It was a fair question. You didn't take your eyes off the fields, pausing. “You were hurt, simple as that,” you said honestly. “Didn’t seem right to leave you out there like a dying dog or a stray cat or somethin'.”

He let out a quiet huff of amusement, shaking his head. “Most folks woulda done just that.”

“True... 'suppose I’m not most folks,” you shrugged, picking at a piece of bread.

Billy fell silent for a moment, eyes lingering on you in a way that made your skin prickle with awareness. “No,” he said finally, almost to himself. “You sure ain’t.”

The two of you sat there a while longer, eating as the sky faded to violet and the first stars blinked awake overhead. At one point, you leaned over to help him scoop the last few bites from his bowl. His fingers brushed yours, warm and calloused, and he froze at the contact, gaze flicking up to yours with startled softness.

“Thank you,” he murmured again, but this time it felt heavier, like he meant more than just dinner.

You nodded, unable to speak around the sudden tightness in your chest. For a moment, neither of you moved, the hush between you gentle and heavy all at once. Finally, you cleared your throat, forcing a small smile to your lips.

“I’ll, um… I’m gonna clean up,” you murmured, reaching for his empty bowl and stacking it with yours.

Billy shifted, wincing slightly as he pushed himself upright. “Where do you want me?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said quickly. “You need to rest. It’s just dishes.”

He shook his head, lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. “I’ve handled my fair share of dishes. Even with a bad arm. You wash, I dry.”

You hesitated, glancing at his sling, but before you could protest he’d already taken the bowls from your hands with his good arm, giving you a quiet, stubborn nod as he turned back towards the house.

You watched him for a moment, the fading light catching on the tousle of his hair, illuminating the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. Something warm and dangerous curled low in your belly.

With a sigh, you followed him inside.

You told yourself – told each other – that this was temporary. Both of you knew this.

That as soon as he could ride, he’d be gone.

But the truth was, you were lonely. An hour’s ride from town left plenty of empty space to fill, and your few friends there couldn’t keep you company through the long dawns and quiet dusk hours.

You suspected he was lonely too, though he never said it outright. But each day, he spoke a little more.

He didn’t tell you much that mattered – never his last name, never where exactly he came from. But you pieced together fragments as he let them slip: a mother buried by the river, a brother gone, long rides across Kansas plains under blood-red sunsets.

His words were never casual. Each felt weighed, considered, like he was tasting them before deciding if they deserved to be spoken aloud.

He always kept his coat nearby, draped over the back of a chair or folded within reach, like he couldn’t stand to let it out of his sight for long.

At night, you’d hear him in the barn, murmuring low to the horses. His voice was soft and gravelled, tinged with something like sorrow. Like confession. Like the animals were safer than people – they’d never turn his secrets into weapons.

You learned little things too.

One early morning, you tiptoed into the sitting room with a tray of biscuits balanced on your hip, only to find him already awake. Billy sat hunched in the armchair by the cold hearth, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like it might speak to him if he waited long enough.

“What are you doing up?” you asked softly.

He looked up at you with bleary eyes, and for a fleeting second, he almost smiled. “Could ask you the same thing.”

You paused in the doorway. “Fair point,” you conceded with a shrug. “I was just gonna leave these for you… figured you’d want ‘em warm when you woke up. How long you been sitting there?”

Billy inhaled sharply through his nose and shrugged one shoulder, his sling shifting a little. “A while.”

You lingered, waiting for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. His gaze returned to the floor, unfocused.

“Bad dreams, is all,” he muttered finally. “Nothin’ you can fix.”

You tilted your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the heaviness in his voice. “You’d be surprised what I can fix, Billy. One time Pa tried to make breakfast, lit his hair clean on fire. I had to come in with three blankets.”

That startled a soft chuckle out of him, his eyes flicking up to yours, a flicker of warmth breaking through the tired shadows. “Three blankets?” he echoed.

“Yeah,” you grinned. “Not for the fire, mind you. Just to console his pride after I put it out with the dishwater.”

Billy huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, and for a moment the dark circles under his eyes looked softer somehow.

You shifted the tray a little closer to him. “I get ‘em too, you know. Bad dreams. If you ever wanna talk about it… I got a good right ear for listening.” Your voice dropped, gentle. “Biscuit?”

He hesitated, then nodded, reaching out to take one with careful fingers. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice low and rough with something you couldn’t name.

Sometimes, later in the nights, you’d hear him down the hall – the sharp gasp of breath as he startled awake, the faint rustle of sheets as he pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, sweat glistening on his brow like he’d been running miles in his sleep.

He always checked the locks twice before he lay down, eyes scanning the windows like danger might slip through the cracks while he rested.

Little things changed with him there.

Your firewood stack grew taller. The porch rail got mended where it had splintered in the last storm. The leaky trough out back stopped dripping after he’d spent an hour out there in the heat, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration.

You’d wake some mornings to find he’d already started chores before dawn, moving quiet as fog through the yard.

He always left a pot of coffee on the stove for you, strong enough to peel paint, with your favourite chipped mug set out beside it. He didn’t belong there – not really. But each day, you found yourself wanting him to stay a little longer, if only to see what else he’d fix before he left.

By the end of the month, as September came to a close, something quiet and dangerous settled between you. The hush of your shared dawn coffee, the way his eyes lingered on your hands as you worked, the faint twitch of his lips when you teased him for fumbling with the sugar jar.

It felt almost natural, this rhythm. Almost like a life you could have if the world was different.

Each sunrise carved that truth deeper into your chest:

His time here was borrowed.

And you were the fool who kept lending it to him, knowing he’d never be yours to keep.

You were preparing for dinner, rinsing vegetables at the kitchen basin when you heard it – the distant clop of hooves on packed dirt in the early evening.

Your heart lurched so hard it almost choked you. Your father wasn’t due back yet. He was supposed to finish up in the next few weeks, giving you time to send off Billy with a nice bow, his shoulder slowly mending.

“Damn it,” you whispered, glancing down the hall.

Billy’s boots were still by the door, dust from the barn caking their worn soles. The table still held his mess of whittling shavings, curls of pale wood scattered like straw. The mug he’d used that morning, ringed with black coffee residue, sat abandoned beside the cold stove.

You moved quickly, snatching up his boots and stuffing them behind the woodbox near the stove. You wiped up the wood shavings with your palm, sweeping them into the pocket of your apron.

You flung the window open to let the whiskey tang out, both from tending his scratches and drinking, the afternoon breeze biting at your cheeks and tugging wisps of hair loose from your braid. Your pulse thudded in your throat as you scrubbed a smudge of dirt from the table, eyes darting to the doorway.

Billy was out back, working on some chore he’d set himself to. Fixing the henhouse latch, you thought, or maybe splitting the last stack of logs before dusk. He’d been restless all morning, moving like a man with a hundred debts to pay.

You quickly walked out onto the porch, pressing yourself against the newly mended rail Billy had fixed two days ago, trying to still your trembling hands.

Your father was just dismounting, his old brown horse snorting softly as dust rose around their feet. He looked up and smiled wide when he saw you.

“There she is!” he greeted, arms opening for you.

You forced your lips into a smile and stepped forward into his hug, the smell of leather, sage, and tobacco rolling off him like comfort.

“What are you doin’ here, Pa?” you asked, voice light as you took his saddlebag from his shoulder, dragging it with you as you both walked back towards the house.

“Ah, well,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, “I gave my room up to another family. Lost their roof in that storm last week. I've left Smith to handle it. Good practice for the boy. 'Sides, missed my own bed."

He brushed the trail dust from his sleeves as he stepped into the kitchen, boots scuffing on the threshold. You hurried ahead to set his bag down in his room, trying to slow your racing pulse.

Your father was a good man, honest and gentle. One of those rare men who avoided violence at all costs. He’d stitched up more bullet wounds in his life than he’d ever fired shots.

He was a healer, through and through.

Which was exactly why you hadn’t told him about your little unexpected house guest.

You rattle off in your head that you should’ve made the trip into town, you should’ve done something, let him know, but you don’t have enough time to wallow, as he speaks.

“How’d the chores go?” he asked, his gravelled voice warm with fatigue as he peered around the room, eyes soft and tired beneath his lined brow.

“Fine,” you blurted too quickly, then forced your tone casual as you walked back in, wiping your palms on your apron. “Fed the horses, mucked the stalls. Just about to fix dinner. How’s town been?”

He hung up his hat on its peg, his gaze sweeping the room with habitual care. “Busy,” he grunted, unlacing his gloves. “Travellin’ band in. Fiddles, drums, the whole lot.”

He paused then, nostrils flaring faintly as he sniffed the air. His eyes narrowed, flicking to the rag drying by the basin, the faint iron tang of blood hidden beneath the sharper scent of whiskey that still lingered despite the breeze.

“Smells like you’ve been into my whiskey,” he said, voice easy but eyes sharp as they fixed on yours.

“Had a cough earlier,” you lied easily, forcing a small shrug. “Settled it.”

He eyed you for a moment longer but said nothing, moving to wash his hands at the basin. You watched him in the small cracked mirror, your reflection pale and tight behind his broad shoulders. Please don’t come in yet, Billy, you prayed silently.

You just needed a minute to explain the whole thing, he’d understand. Surely.

“A cough, you say?” He repeats. “You catch anythin’? You haven’t been near those Mrs Johns kids in town, now have you? Those kids always got somethin’.”

“No, Pa, it’s nothin’ to worry about,” You insist. “You sit down, I was just fixing some soup now for dinner.”

Your father nodded, appreciative as he dried his hands. You cleared your throat and began chopping vegetables, blade thudding against the board in a jittery rhythm. Where to begin.

Hey, so, I found some vagabond boy sleeping in the barn, I thought he was cute, and like a stray dog he’s just been stickin’ around. Yeah.

Maybe skip the cute part.

He sat down with a tired grunt to pull off his boots while you hacked away at the potatoes, trying to piece together a version that didn’t make you sound insane.

But before you could open your mouth or sneak out back to warn Billy, you heard the telltale creak of the back door swinging open.

Your father frowned, half-risen from his chair. “Who’s that?”

“Shit,” you breathed, dropping the knife with a loud clatter. Panic burst in your chest. “Uh, Pa, I should tell you somethin’ real quick,” you blurted, words tripping over themselves like startled cattle. “The mornin’ you left, I went out to the barn, and I swear I locked the doors and all, and you were already halfway gone, so I couldn't get you, and Spots was actin' up, but-but anyway, somehow, I found—”

Your stomach dropped clean to your toes as Billy ambled into view, rubbing the back of his neck with a rag. His hair stuck up in damp little tufts, cheeks flushed from work, dirt smudged across his forearm as he wiped sweat away.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, sling cradling his shoulder still, collar open just enough to reveal the slope of his throat. He looked half-exhausted, half-beautiful, damn him.

He froze when he saw your father, eyes darting to you with that same sheepish guilt of a kid caught sneaking sweets before dinner.

Your father furrowed his brows, back straightened. His gaze travelled from Billy’s bare feet to his tousled hair, to the sling binding his arm against his chest. Confusion settled over his face like a gathering storm cloud.

This strange boy… in my house… acting like he lives here. He must be thinking.

“...Him. I found him,” you finished weakly, gesturing at Billy with a helpless little flick of your wrist.

Silence spread through the kitchen, thick enough to choke on. Billy shifted under it, looking both apologetic and like he’d happily launch himself out the nearest window if it meant escaping this moment.

Finally, he straightened as much as he could, squaring his shoulders despite the wince it drew from him. His voice was low and hoarse with exhaustion, but still polite as ever. “Name’s Billy, sir. Real sorry for intrudin’. I’ll… I’ll be on my way shortly. You got my word on that, I was just passin’ through.”

“Like hell you will,” your father muttered, shooting you a strict glance. He strode forward, eyes narrowing as he took in the bruising beneath Billy’s collar, the pallor in his face.

For a terrible moment you thought he might throw him out anyway.

But then your father sighed, rubbing his knuckles against his chin. Ever the healer.

“That shoulder’s dislocated,” he said, voice calm and assessing. His brow furrowed. “Who set it?”

“I did,” you piped up, almost too quickly. Your father’s brows rose, flicking to you with faint surprise before he nodded, just once.

“Good work,” your father grunted gruffly, eyes still on Billy’s sling. Then, as if Billy wasn’t standing right there, he asked, “How’d you pick this stray up?”

“He was hurt. Just lookin’ for a place to sleep.” You wiped your hands on your apron, pulse still fluttering. “You left before I found him. He’s… he’s no trouble, Pa. He’s been helpin’ me all around the ranch for the past month.”

Billy kept his head lowered, shoulders slightly hunched, every inch the respectful guest – a guest your father hadn’t exactly been made aware of.

“A month," He muttered to himself, shaking his head. A pause. "You trust ‘im?” your father asked, his voice flat as he gave Billy a slow, assessing once-over. It wasn’t exactly admiring.

You glanced at Billy. He was watching you with that same quiet acceptance, like he’d already resigned himself to whatever fate your father decided.

“I think so,” you said softly. It wasn’t the strongest answer, but it was honest, and it seemed good enough for your father.

He sighed through his nose. “You shoulda told me. A month, really?” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, weariness pulling at his features. “We’re talkin’ ‘bout this later... You’re lucky I’m hungry.”

Then he turned to Billy, who straightened under his gaze. “Wash up before you join us for dinner, will you?”

Billy hesitated, glancing to you for permission, eyes flickering with that silent question – Is this okay? Am I okay here?

You gave a tiny nod. “Thank you, sir,” Billy said quietly, before slipping out of the kitchen towards the washroom, boots scuffing softly on the worn floorboards.

Your father exhaled, shaking his head as he sat back down. “I leave for a month and you’re already collectin’ strays for servant work, huh?”

You sighed, slicing into a potato with more force than necessary. “It’s not like that.”

“Mm.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his tired eyes. “‘Least he’s polite.”

Dinner that night was… awkward, to say the least.

You sat across from Billy, your father positioned firmly between you like some human border wall. The little wooden table felt even smaller with the three of you crammed around it, steam rising from your bowls of soup in gentle curls. The only sound was the scrape of spoons against ceramic and the quiet tick of the mantle clock.

Billy looked like he’d rather be anywhere else – back out in the barn with the mice, even – shoulders tight, head bowed, his sling cradling his arm protectively. Every now and then his eyes flicked up to you, then darted away just as quickly.

Your father finally broke the silence, spoon pausing mid-air. “You got anyone chasin’ you, boy? Law or otherwise?”

Billy swallowed hard, throat working visibly, his voice rasping as he answered. “It’s… complicated, sir. But I swear I ain’t lookin’ for trouble. Just had a bad fall off my horse is all.”

Your father’s gaze pinned him in place for a long, uncomfortable beat. Then, with a small grunt, he nodded. “Then you’ll stay here ‘til you can ride proper. Ain’t sendin’ a half-dead man back out into the dust. Understood? ‘N since you’ve been here doin’ chores, stalls need muckin’, you’ll help my daughter.”

Billy blinked, clearly stunned by the unexpected mercy. His eyes lifted to your father with something like relief, his mouth parting in quiet gratitude. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Silence settled again, thicker this time, stretching long and heavy. You fiddled with your spoon, tapping it against the edge of your bowl, searching for something – anything – to say.

Normally, dinners with Billy were outside by the porch rail, quiet at first until one of you teased the other into a laugh, conversation snowballing into warm, easy chatter. But now, under your father’s scrutiny, neither of you seemed capable of words.

Billy cleared his throat softly, eyes flicking to you with an almost shy uncertainty. “I, uh… I fixed that gate you mentioned, out back. Hinge was just rusted through. If it breaks again, though… you’ll probably need to replace it.”

Your father raised a brow at you, then at him, then back to you again, like he was witnessing something unspoken and deeply suspicious. You felt your cheeks heat under both their gazes.

“Oh?” you managed, a little too quickly. You cleared your throat and tried to sound casual. “Well… thank you. I appreciate it.”

Billy gave a tiny shrug with his good shoulder, eyes dropping to his bowl, a faint pink dusting his cheekbones. “Wasn’t nothin’.”

“Were you also the one who fixed the porch rail?” Your father asked, folding his arms.

Guess you hadn’t hidden that secret as well as you thought.

Billy nodded, a small, reluctant yes.

“I never was much of a handyman. Hands made for people, 'suppose,” your father admitted, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What else you fix then?”

“He fixed the stove,” you said quickly, trying to keep the mood light. “And your bed frame isn’t crooked anymore. And the buckets stop breaking.”

Your father’s eyes narrowed on that second one, realising. “...Has he been sleeping in my bed?”

“...A little,” you admitted, cheeks warming again.

The room fell quiet for a beat.

“This is beautiful,” Billy remarked, nodding toward the steaming bowl of soup before him.

You smiled, pride blooming despite the awkward tension. “Thank you.”

“Thyme, isn't it?” your father guessed, sniffing the aroma.

You nodded. This small talk was painful.

Another pause, then your father finished his meal and cleared his throat. He gave you both a lingering glance before standing.

“I’ll be in my study. You two… finish up. You alright to take the couch, kid? Got a bad back.”

“‘Course, sir,” Billy nodded.

Your father left, the door clicking softly behind him, leaving the kitchen cloaked in silence again.

You risked a glance at Billy. His eyes met yours—soft, warm, and a little mischievous. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was fighting off a smile.

You rolled your eyes but felt your lips tug upward despite yourself. “Don’t you dare say it,” you warned in a low voice.

“Say what?” he teased, feigning innocence, lashes dipping to hide the quiet affection in his gaze as he lifted another spoonful.

You hid your face in your hands, both of you dissolving into soft giggles—an easy moment carved out from all the tension. Both of you just caught off guard by the past hour or so of interaction.

Later, after supper and chores were done, you found Billy sitting on the porch steps. The sun had just begun its slow surrender behind the hills, painting the sky in bruised rose and gold.

Billy’s hat rested beside him on the worn boards. He leaned against the porch fence, staring out across the grazing pasture like he could watch the whole world end and still not flinch.

You lingered in the doorway for a moment, taking him in – the quiet line of his profile, lashes catching the last shards of dying light, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. His hair was still damp from washing up after dinner, curling faintly at his nape. He looked clean, patched up, and tired in a way that felt honest.

“Mind some company?” you asked softly.

His head turned, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the exhaustion lining his face. “Not at all.”

You walked over and sank down onto the step beside him. Your knees brushed, and neither of you moved to correct it. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The dusk air settled warm and heavy around your shoulders, filled with the drone of cicadas and the gentle sigh of wind through the pasture grass.

“Your father’s a good man. Real good,” he murmured eventually, voice low and rough with lingering pain and something else – something soft and fragile. “One of the first kind men I’ve met in… a long time.”

“He is,” you agreed, your gaze fixed on the last sliver of sun dipping below the ridge. “Wary, though. Won’t trust you ‘til he knows you’re no danger.”

“Smart of him.” Billy paused, gaze dropping to the bandage peeking from beneath his shirt. He flexed his hand against his thigh, knuckles pale. “Smart of you, too. Lettin' a stranger sleep in your home… brave. Or foolish.”

You felt his eyes on you, heavy and warm, and forced a small shrug. “Didn’t think you’d stab me in my sleep.”

His lips twitched faintly. “What if I had?”

You tilted your head towards him, letting your smile turn slow and sly. “Well, then I’d haunt you forever. I’m a very petty woman, Billy.”

That drew a real smile from him, wide and boyish, though his eyes stayed dark and unreadable. For a moment they flicked to your mouth, lingering there before darting back to the horizon.

“Noted,” he murmured, voice cracking just a little on the word. He cleared his throat, shifting slightly towards you. “Still… I don’t know how many times I can say thank you. For patchin’ me up. For… treatin’ me like… like I’m worth somethin’. I don’t remember the last time someone treated me like I wasn’t about to bite ‘em.”

Your chest tightened painfully at that. You studied his profile – the hollow beneath his cheekbone, the faint scar slicing through his brow, the vulnerability etched into the quiet lines of his mouth.

He looked like a man who didn’t know what to do with kindness once he got it. Like he half-expected it to burn him if he held it too long.

“Get some sleep tonight,” you said softly, reaching out before you could stop yourself to brush a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. Your fingers lingered against his temple, feeling the warmth of his skin, the faint pulse thrumming beneath it. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, lashes trembling, like he was memorising the feeling.

When he opened them again, they were locked on yours, dark and wide, something raw and wanting swimming in their depths. The hush between you thickened, the world shrinking down to the space where your knees pressed together and your hand hovered against his face.

He smelled faintly of soap and woodsmoke and something warm and male that made your pulse thrum embarrassingly loud in your ears.

Part of you wanted to lean in. Just to see. Just to feel his lips against yours for one quick second before you came to your senses. But instead, you forced a shaky laugh and dropped your hand.

“Tomorrow we muck stalls, remember?” you said lightly, voice too thin.

That pulled a low, genuine laugh from him, husky and intimate in the darkening air. “Can’t wait.”

You smirked, leaning back on your palms, letting the dusk breeze lift your hair off your neck. “Try not to faint in the trough. Would be a damn shame to waste all my good bandages.”

He turned towards you fully then, lips curling into something crooked and dangerous, eyes glinting with a heat that sent gooseflesh prickling down your arms. “And here I was thinkin’ I’d fake a faint just to feel your hands on me again.”

The words tumbled out of him before he could stop them. You saw the flicker of regret in his eyes, the faint flush climbing his neck. But you couldn’t answer anyway. Your breath had caught in your throat, chest tightening with a fluttering heat that felt too big for your ribs.

His smile softened at your stunned silence. Slowly, he reached out, brushing a knuckle along your cheekbone. The touch was fleeting, so light it almost didn’t register, but it sent your pulse stumbling all the same.

“You’re real easy to look at when you’re flustered,” he murmured, voice husky with fatigue and something far more dangerous.

You rolled your eyes, though it took every ounce of strength you had, biting down on the smile threatening your lips. “Go to bed, Billy.”

He lingered a moment longer, gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth with something unbearably soft, before nodding. “Sleep well, darlin’,” he whispered, picking up his hat and pushing himself to his feet with a quiet groan.

You watched him walk inside, the door creaking shut behind him, leaving you alone with the cricket song, the fading warmth of his touch against your cheek, and the thunder of your traitorous heart echoing loud in your chest.

The morning light spilled pale gold across the kitchen floor as you stepped in, catching dust motes in lazy spirals. Billy sat at the dining table, shirt collar loose around his throat, while your father worked with quiet precision, fingers probing along his shoulder joint.

Billy winced but said nothing, eyes fixed on a knot in the floorboards. Sweat pearled along his hairline despite the cool dawn air.

“Been set it clean,” your father murmured, nodding faintly. “Could’ve been worse if she hadn’t found you.”

Billy swallowed, his voice rough with exhaustion, giving you a glance as you observe from the couch. “She did good.”

You smile a bit at that, trying to hide how he made you flustered so easily now.

Your father hummed softly in agreement, but his brows pinched as his hands drifted lower. He pressed along Billy’s ribs, slow and deliberate. Billy sucked in a sharp breath.

“Breathe through it,” your father ordered gently. His fingers pressed again, testing the give of bone against muscle. “Fractured rib here. Not a bad break, but… been like this a while, hasn’t it? Weeks?”

Billy hesitated, then gave the tiniest nod, eyes cast down. “Few months ago, maybe.”

Your father’s frown deepened as he moved on, fingers skimming over bruises blooming dark along Billy’s side, faint cuts healing rough along his forearm. He paused at a deeper purple bruise hidden under Billy’s bicep, thumb brushing across it with featherlight care.

“That’s not from your fall,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Billy said nothing. Didn’t even flinch. Just sat there, silent and obedient, like a man long used to pain he couldn’t afford to name.

You felt something twist sharply in your chest.

Your father pressed his lips into a thin line and shifted away. “You’re a mess of half-healed wounds, son,” he said, a touch gruff to cover the pity in his voice. “You keep runnin’ yourself into the ground like this, there won’t be enough left for anyone to fix.”

Billy ducked his head, gaze fixed firmly on the floor. “Yes, sir.”

Trying to lighten the quiet tension, you stepped forward with a smile. “Was the couch alright last night?”

Billy looked up, eyes clearing just a fraction as he met yours. A small, sheepish smile curved his mouth. “Felt like heaven, ma’am. Softer than most bedrolls I’ve known.”

Your father let out a dry chuckle. “Better manners than half the ranchers in town,” he muttered, reaching for a fresh bandage. “Maybe I oughta hire him to teach ‘em somethin’.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered. “Don’t encourage him, Pa. He’s smug enough already.”

Billy ducked his head again, cheeks dusting pink. “Ain’t smug. Just grateful.”

Your father moved to wash his hands at the basin.

As he did, he caught your eye and tilted his head subtly towards the hall. “Help me fetch somethin’ will you?” he said, voice calm but edged with something unspoken.

You followed him out, wiping your hands on your apron. He didn’t say anything until you reached the storage room, out of earshot in the hallway. Then he turned, his lined face shadowed in the dim morning light.

“That boy’s been through hell,” he said quietly. “Those injuries – they’re not ranch work wounds. They’re… well. Fights. Violence. Running from someone, or something, been there for a long time, maybe years.” He sighed, rubbing his knuckles across his brow. “I ain’t gonna pry if he doesn’t want to talk. But… just be careful, alright? He’s polite, and I can see he’s kind. But desperate men do desperate things.”

Your chest tightened painfully. You nodded, swallowing around the lump in your throat..

He studied you for a moment longer, then gave a quiet sigh, squeezing your shoulder before he turned away.

You grabbed your boots and plopped down by the front door, flashing Billy a teasing grin. “Well, I’ll see you out by the stalls. I’m expecting only the finest muckin’ crew this morning. No slackers allowed.”

Billy let out a weak chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You tied your laces with a dramatic little flourish and stood, heading out into the cool dawn.

Behind you, your father hummed under his breath, shaking his head with faint amusement as he watched you go. He turned back to Billy, who was gingerly rebuttoning his shirt.

“You two seem to’ve gotten to know each other well,” your father remarked, his tone light but edged with something probing.

Billy paused, his hands falling still against the buttons. He nodded slowly, the words coming out quiet and sincere. “She’s… she’s a real special girl. Easy to talk to. You should be proud of her.”

Your father was silent for a moment, just watching him with those steady healer’s eyes. Then he sighed, his voice lowering into something calm but edged with steel.

“Billy… I’m not a man who likes pain. Spent my whole life endin’ it, not causin’ it.” He paused, letting the quiet stretch, heavy and unblinking. “But if you ever do anything to hurt her, ‘cause her any trouble…” He tilted his head faintly, gaze darkening. “Just remember – I can break things just as easily as I can fix them. Over and over again.”

A beat of silence. Then Billy swallowed hard, nodding earnestly. “There’s not… I’m… ”

“Just say you understand, boy.”

He nods. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

Your father clapped him lightly on the uninjured shoulder, almost friendly – almost. “Good! Now hurry up and finish dressin’ before she realises half that muckin’ crew’s gonna be her alone.”

You made your way to the stalls, the morning breeze cool against your flushed cheeks. Inside, the scent of hay and horse hair wrapped around you, grounding you in its familiar comfort.

Billy had already started setting up – feed buckets lined by the door, pitchfork propped against the wall.

You spotted his coat draped over a low rail by the tack boxes, half-hidden beneath a folded feed sack. With a small huff, you reached out to move it out of the walkway.

Something heavy shifted in the pocket.

The coat sagged awkwardly in your grip, and before you could adjust your hold, a gleam of dark metal slipped out and clattered onto the straw-strewn ground.

Your breath caught sharp in your chest.

A revolver lay there, cold and black against the golden hay.

Your fingers hovered above it, frozen mid-reach, your heart thudding so loud you could barely hear the quiet creak of boots behind you.

“Don’t touch that.”

His voice was soft. Careful. Almost pleading.

You turned slowly. Billy stood in the stall doorway, shadows framing his tall, battered shape. His eyes were fixed on the gun, then flicked up to yours with an expression you couldn’t read – fear, regret, resignation, all tangled together.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Only the distant nickering of the horses broke the hush, as dust motes drifted lazily between you.

Finally, you lowered your hand, your chest tight with something that felt like dread and sorrow all at once. It’s quiet.

You watch as Billy almost seems embarrassed by it, avoiding eye contact with you, rather staring at the gun, gaze seemingly filled with fear and anger. You can’t deduce why.

“What’s it for?” you asked softly, though you already knew. The silence between you made the question feel heavier than lead.

Billy didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed locked on the revolver like it was something shameful. Morning light cut through the barn slats, striping his face, catching the faint tremble in his jaw.

Finally, he swallowed. “For stayin’ alive,” he said hoarsely. “Ain’t for robbin’ or hurting good folk. Just… stayin’ alive.”

You let out a quiet breath, the weight of the gun cold and foreign in your palm. You turned it over once before holding it out to him.

“You hid this from me,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm, steady. “Hiding it in your very personal coat is certainly a choice.”

He didn’t take it right away. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and unreadable, lined with exhaustion and something like regret. “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I was trouble,” he said quietly. “Didn’t want your father thinkin’ that neither.”

Your chest tightened, your heart thudding slow and heavy. “Well… are you?” you asked, your voice catching despite yourself. “Because… this tells me you might be. This has just been in the house, around me, around… my father. And you didn’t even say anything. Who are you really, Billy?”

He exhaled hard through his nose, his good hand raking through his hair. “Ain’t nobody worth knowin’,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Just… pissed off the wrong people, is all.”

You watched him carefully. He looked so tired, shoulders slumping under the weight of whatever truth he wasn’t saying. His hand hovered near the gun, but he didn’t reach for it. Just waited.

Finally, you shook your head, your voice coming out softer than you meant it to. “You know my father keeps a rifle in the sheet cupboard. He’s used it before – coyotes, drunk bankers. I’ve seen it in action. Ain’t like I’m scared of a gun. Just… don’t like bein’ lied to.”

He flinched, just a little. “I ain’t lyin’,” he said, meeting your gaze finally, eyes dark and earnest. “Just… ain’t tellin’ the whole truth. There’s a difference.”

“Not much of one,” you murmured. You paused, looking at the gun.

“‘M sorry, I shouldn’t have hidden it. ‘Specially not from you,” He said.

You nod, appreciative, your finger traces the metal. He watches as you feel it, index running over the ridges. You return your gaze to him.

You pressed the revolver back into his hand, feeling the rough calluses of his fingers brush yours. He held your gaze for a long moment, something desperate and grateful flickering there.

“Thank you,” he said roughly, his voice catching on the words.

You swallowed, a light shrug.You reached for the pitchfork leaning nearby. “You’re good company. No sense bein' painful about it.”

A faint, humourless laugh escaped him as he tucked the gun into the back of his pants, his thumb brushing along the worn grip. “You ever shot one before?”

You nod. “Just to get coyotes away. Shooting blind, really,” You hand him a pitchfork. Come on, now,” you said lightly, jabbing the tines into the hay. “We still got two stalls to muck out before breakfast.”

The morning passed in quiet work. He didn’t say much as you mucked stalls side by side, the smell of hay and horses grounding you both in an easy, tired rhythm. When he winced while moving a heavy pail, you scolded him gently, telling him to use his good arm. When you dropped the grain scoop, he snorted a laugh under his breath, soft and boyish.

It felt almost normal. Almost easy.

Later that afternoon, while your father was chopping kindling out by the woodpile, you found Billy leaning against the corral fence, fidgeting with his pistol, running a rag down the barrel with careful, practised movements. His gaze drifted out over the grazing cattle, distant and dark, brow furrowed like he was seeing something long gone.

You approached slowly, brushing your skirts free of dust. “You alright?”

His eyes flicked to yours, hooded and unreadable, lingering there for a beat. Then his mouth curved into the faintest smile. “Fine, darlin’. Just… thinkin’.”

“Dangerous pastime,” you teased lightly, resting your arms on the rail beside him.

He chuckled low at that, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Yeah… so they say.”

For a while, you stood there in quiet companionship, the warm hush of late afternoon settling around you both. Your eyes drifted to his hands – long, calloused fingers moving deftly over the metal, knuckles nicked and scarred. You wondered what those hands would feel like on your waist. In your hair. Against your bare—

You cleared your throat sharply, heat prickling at your cheeks. “Uh… I was thinkin’… maybe later, after chores, you could show me how to hold that pistol proper? Never was taught right.”

He blinked, startled from his thoughts. For a moment, something like surprise crossed his face. Then his gaze softened, warm and molten under dark lashes. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘course I can.”

“Good,” you said, trying to sound casual despite the fluttering in your chest. “Wouldn’t want to be savin’ you from coyotes only to blow my own foot off.”

That drew a quiet laugh from him, though his eyes stayed locked on yours, gaze heavy and searching, like he was cataloguing every flicker of your expression. He didn’t say anything more – just gently handed you the pistol by the handle.

You took it gingerly, feeling the cold, oiled weight settle in your palm. You hummed under your breath, tilting the barrel up curiously. He reached out without thinking, broad palm wrapping around your wrist, gently lowering it away from him.

“First lesson – don’t aim if you don’t intend to shoot,” he murmured, his voice low and close. “And hold it with your palm and wrist strong. It ain’t gonna bite you, promise.”

Your breath caught at the warmth of his hand around yours, callouses rasping lightly against your skin. You nodded, throat suddenly dry. “Yes, sir,” you said, the teasing lilt making his mouth twitch faintly at the corner.

He smirked a little, noticing how your gaze flickered briefly to his lips before darting away. Pushing off the fence, he nodded towards the shed. “You got any bottles lyin’ ‘round?”

THUMP.

The bullet slammed into the log, missing the bottle entirely. You let out a sharp sigh, lowering the gun.

“You need to fix your stance,” Billy remarked from your side, leaning back against the fence with his arms folded, watching you with faint amusement.

“No, no, it’s in her wrist. She’s always had a weak wrist. It’s why she complains so much about the chicken feed,” your father called out from the porch where he sat whittling at a block of pine, a faint smirk on his face.

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. “Thanks for the support, Pa.”

Billy chuckled under his breath, stepping forward to help you reload. His fingers brushed yours as he handed you the fresh cartridge, the touch sparking hot and electric across your skin.

You’d spent the better part of the evening trying to hit any bottle on the fence post, your father and Billy each offering their unasked opinions like roosters crowing over a hen. You sighed, wiping sweat from your brow.

“I told you,” your father said, shaking his head, “we ain’t shooters. ‘Sides, no one out here bothers us. All this is just wastin’ bullets.”

“Pa,” you shot back, “this is important. Could be useful someday.”

“I just don’t like ‘em,” he muttered. “You know how many young men I’ve seen come through town with bullets in ‘em? Never seen a gun do nothin’ but hurt.”

Billy glanced at him, then at you, his brow creasing faintly. “He makes a good point. Maybe this ain’t the best idea.”

“Okay, both of you relax. I’m not gonna shoot anybody anytime soon – unless one of you keeps distractin’ me,” you snapped, rolling your eyes as you turned back to the bottles.

Billy smiled at that, wide and genuine, his teeth flashing white against sun-browned skin. Your father snorted softly, shaking his head in fond exasperation.

You turned to Billy, glaring half-heartedly. “And you can stop kissin’ his ass and help me hit a damn bottle... Pretty please.”

His smile widened into something almost wicked, teeth flashing in the last orange light of dusk. “Since you asked so polite.”

“Doesn’t happen often,” your father remarked dryly from the porch, whittling knife paused in his palm.

“Alright, you—”

Billy cut you off softly, reaching out to tilt your chin back towards the targets with two fingers, his touch light but possessive. “You wanna hit ‘em or not?”

You sighed, grip tightening on the pistol. “It was his fault,” you muttered under your breath, shooting your father a glare.

Your father chuckled at your reaction and stood, brushing wood shavings from his lap. “Dinner’s ready soon. You two wrap up when you can. Make sure she doesn’t shoot her damn foot off,” he said as he re-entered the house, door squeaking closed behind him.

You shook your head, exhaling slowly to focus on the bottles now.

“You gonna focus now?” Billy asked, stepping in close behind you.

“Without his commentary? Maybe,” you hummed, clearing your throat as you straightened your stance.

He moved closer still, until his chest brushed your back, solid and warm through his thin work shirt. His arms came around you, enveloping you in the scent of gun oil, dust, and faint woodsmoke. His good hand settled firm over yours, fingers curling snug around your grip.

“Here,” he murmured, his voice low and rough against your ear. “Spread your feet… brace your hips.” His other hand slid down, fingers pressing lightly into your waist, thumb brushing the soft cotton of your blouse. Your breath caught, heat prickling under your skin. “Good girl. Now… squeeze slow. Don’t jerk it like you been doin’.”

Your pulse thundered in your throat. You could feel his breath ghost across your cheek, the faint rasp of his stubble brushing your temple. You tried to focus on the bottle ahead, but all you could think about was him – the warmth of his palm, the casual possessiveness in his hold, how his chest rose and fell against your back.

You squeezed the trigger.

CRACK.

Glass shattered into a spray of glittering shards across the fence rail.

A small, triumphant noise escaped you. You turned your head towards him, beaming. “Did you see that?!”

Billy was already looking at you, eyes dark and burning with something fierce and proud and hungry all at once. His lips parted, breath coming shallow, chest brushing yours with each inhale.

“Think you’re my good luck charm, Billy,” you teased, voice soft and breathless.

“You think so?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Yeah. Those hands are magic, I reckon,” you hummed, flicking your gaze down to where his fingers still rested firm on your waist.

He shook his head slowly, eyes fixed on yours. “Nah… reckon that’s all you.”

You ducked your head at that, feeling your cheeks flush hot, trying to play it off casually. You turned back around, raising the gun to aim again, squinting one eye shut in concentration.

“Still flustered, huh?” he murmured, his lips ghosting near your ear.

You shook your head, swallowing thickly. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mmm,” he rumbled, his voice dripping with amusement. “I think you know exactly what I’m talkin’ about, darlin’.”

“Nope. Clueless,” you insisted, your voice cracking halfway through the word.

A beat.

“Shoot,” he ordered softly.

You pressed the trigger.

CRACK.

The shot rang out clean, your breathing heavy, chest heaving with the quiet triumph – or maybe just the feel of him pressed so close, every nerve ending attuned to where his body touched yours.

“Again.”

You adjusted your aim to the next bottle, feeling his hands leave your hips briefly as he shifted behind you. You pressed the trigger.

THUMP.

The bullet thunked into the fence post just below the bottle. You let out a frustrated curse, lowering the gun.

“I told you,” you muttered under your breath.

He chuckled low, the sound vibrating against your spine. “I think you just like my hands on you.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back the embarrassed smile that threatened to rise. Tongue caught between your teeth, you reloaded the gun the way he’d taught you earlier. “Smug. You’re smug, is what you are, Billy.”

“You’re not denyin’ it,” he pointed out, his mouth curling into that slow, devastating smirk.

Your gaze flicked to his lips before you could stop it, lingering there a moment too long. His smirk widened slightly, dark eyes hooded with something unreadable and hot.

“Focus, sweetheart,” he drawled, stepping in close again, his breath warm against your neck. “We ain’t done yet.”

And as you raised the gun once more, trying desperately to keep your hands steady, all you could think about was his voice low in your ear, his chest flush to your back, and the unbearable anticipation coiling tight and molten deep in your belly.

As the weeks passed, with your father busying himself with clients who came and went from his little study – riding the hour out from town for check-ups and treatments – you and Billy found yourselves with more time alone together.

Time to fall into an easy rhythm: chores, teasing banter, quiet conversations by the porch steps at dusk. Time for stolen glances that burned a little longer each passing day.

That afternoon, you slipped into your father’s study without knocking, boots scuffing softly against the warped floorboards.

He glanced up sharply from where he crouched before a young boy perched on the exam cot, knee scraped raw and bleeding sluggishly down his shin. The boy’s mother hovered nearby, wringing her bonnet in anxious hands.

“What do you want?” your father barked, voice tight with focus as he dipped a clean rag into a basin of stinging alcohol.

“Runnin’ low on food,” you replied, eyes scanning the cluttered shelves lined with dusty jars and folded linens. “Seems like you’re low on gauze too.”

Your father let out a sigh, pressing the rag firmly against the boy’s knee. The child yelped, flinching hard as tears welled up in his big brown eyes.

“Breathe through it, son,” your father murmured gently, then glanced back at you, exhaustion etched deep into the lines around his mouth. “I can go into town later. God knows Henderson needs me at the clinic tonight after that shootin’ near the rail line.”

“Billy and I can go now,” you suggested, shrugging. “Pick up the supplies, spend the night, and meet you there in the morning.”

“Who’s Billy?” the boy’s mother piped up sharply, eyes darting between you and your father.

He shot her a clipped glance before returning to his patient. “Just… new ranch hand, is all.”

“‘Sides,” you added quickly, ignoring her curious stare, “it’ll be good for him to get off the ranch a bit. Maybe that travellin’ band is still playin’ at the saloon.”

“Oh, they’re there,” the mother scoffed, shaking her head. “I hear ‘em all the way from our porch some nights, ain’t that right, James?”

The boy sniffled miserably but nodded, gaze fixed on his bandaged knee. “It’s loud.”

Your father finished tying off the wrapping, checking it with gentle pressure before patting the boy’s shoulder. “All done, champ. Go on now.”

As they bustled out, murmuring grateful thanks, your father dipped his hands into the washbasin, scrubbing the blood from his knuckles in quiet, rhythmic circles.

Finally, he sighed, flicking water from his fingers. “Fine. You two spend the night at Rose’s Inn. That’s where I stay when I’m in town. Separate rooms.”

You rolled your eyes, but a faint smile tugged at your mouth. “‘Course, Pa. Wouldn’t think of it.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, drying his hands on his apron.

You frowned, sensing the edge beneath his silence. “What?”

“I ain’t say nothin’,” he muttered, busying himself with reorganising vials on the shelf.

“Say it.”

“Not in front of clients,” he grumbled, nodding towards the door theay’d left through.

“They’re gone.”

He paused, shoulders sagging as he turned to face you fully. His eyes were tired, wise, and threaded through with a sadness you didn’t quite understand.

“I just…” he started, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You two… seem to be gettin’ close.”

Your chest tightened, but you forced a scoff. “So?”

He held your gaze, quiet and unwavering. “So… I don’t want you thinkin’ this arrangement is permanent, is all. I’m sure the kid’s got a life out there, waitin’ for him. Can’t be tied here forever. He's runnin' from something, not exactly a life for you there.”

You swallowed, the truth of it stinging in your chest like a wasp. “I ain’t thinkin’ nothin’,” you lied softly.

“Mhm,” he murmured again, but his eyes said he didn’t believe you. “You two can head out. And I’m serious, kid, I don’t… want you to get hurt.”

You nod. “Thanks, Pa.”

You give him a quick side hug before running off.

Billy was cautious about going into town.

You noticed it in the way his eyes flicked restlessly to each passing rider along the road, the way his shoulders tensed under his shirt whenever a wagon approached. Though he hadn’t been around your area before, he seemed tense at the idea of seeing a familiar face.

“They won’t bother you,” you assured softly as you rode alongside him, the morning sun rising warm against your back. “Everybody here keeps to themselves.”

He gave a distracted hum in response, but his grip on the reins never eased.

He’d stopped wearing his sling a few days prior, claiming it itched worse than the healing wound itself. You’d scolded him for it, but it was already off before you’d finished the sentence, his stubbornness near insufferable at times.

You took a horse each for the journey. His mount was a sleek, dark ginger mare with a light brown coat that gleamed golden in the sun.

“See, she’s nice, isn’t she?” you teased as he patted her neck with his good hand.

“Sweet girl,” he murmured, eyes soft as he stroked her mane. “She got a name?”

“Penelope. And this old guy here is Spots,” you said, nodding to your speckled gelding, white patches scattered over a dusty brown coat. “Named him when I was five. Real creative from a young age.”

Billy chuckled, low and genuine. “Clever girl.”

By the time you rode into town, the sun was high overhead, bright and hazy against the clay-dusted streets. Your saddlebags jingled lightly with coins, your list tucked neatly into your apron pocket.

Billy dismounted first, landing with an easy grace despite his injuries. He tied Penelope to the post and turned towards you just as you swung one leg over your saddle. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, hands rising to your waist.

“Awfully sweet of you,” you said with a small grin as he steadied you, your skirts brushing against his hips as your boots met the packed earth.

“Just bein’ a gentleman, ‘s all,” he replied softly, his hands lingering a moment longer than necessary before he stepped back. His fingers trailed lightly against your skirt as he turned to tie your horse beside his.

“In my experience,” you said airily, brushing dust from your apron, “gentlemen only act sweet for a purpose. What’re you lookin’ for, Billy?”

He glanced at you over his shoulder, dark eyes unreadable, the faintest smirk curling his mouth. “Nothing at all, darlin’,” he drawled before taking both reins and securing them to the post.

Inside, the general store smelled of burlap, molasses, and lye soap. The cool interior was shaded from the sun by faded cotton curtains fluttering against the windows.

You moved through the shelves with focused efficiency, ticking off your list – flour, coffee, lamp oil, lye soap, rock salt. Billy trailed behind you, silent at first, before he started picking up items just to tease.

“Think you’d look real pretty in this,” he said, holding up a gaudy tin of rose pomade, eyebrow arched.

“Put that down before I rub it all in your hair while you’re sleepin’,” you shot back, snatching it from his hands and placing it firmly back on the shelf.

He chuckled, the sound low and rough in his chest. When you glanced at him, his gaze was already on your mouth, dark and molten with an intensity that made your knees feel weak beneath your skirts.

At the dry goods counter, he reached for the sack in your arms with a deft flick of his wrist.

“Let me carry it,” he said firmly, his breath brushing warm against your cheek as he leaned close.

“I’ve hauled worse,” you muttered, though you didn’t fight him. “But… thanks.”

He ignored your grumble, hefting the sack effortlessly onto the counter.

The clerk – Carmine, an older man with a bushy grey beard and sharp brown eyes – turned with a grin. “Well, haven’t seen you in town for a while now,” he remarked warmly. “You’re lookin’ great, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Carmie,” you replied, smiling as you placed a bundle of gauze onto the counter alongside your dry goods. “This is my, um…” You paused for a split second, and Billy’s gaze snapped to you curiously. “Friend... Pal- He’s a new ranch hand.”

You kick yourself internally for your words failing you.

“Your friend, pal, ranch hand got a name?” Carmine asked with a raised brow.

“It’s Billy, sir,” he answered smoothly, nodding politely.

“Sir? I like him already,” Carmine chuckled. “Carmine. You from around here, kid?”

Billy shook his head. “No, sir. Originally… New York.”

Carmine whistled softly. “All the way east, huh? What brings you out this far?”

Billy’s gaze flicked to you briefly before returning to the old man. “Been travelin’ ‘round a long time. Lookin’ for work. New places.”

“Hmm.” Carmine studied him a moment longer before shrugging. “Well, welcome to our dusty little corner of nowhere. That’ll be five dollars twenty.”

Billy reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, silently counting them onto the counter. You caught the faint tremor in his hand as he slid the money across, his jaw tight. You wondered if he’d ever shopped like this before – in daylight, alongside someone who teased him and smiled at him like you did now.

You thanked Carmine and gathered your parcels into a burlap bag. As you stepped outside, the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, painting the sky in warm bronze hues. Billy took the bag from your arms without a word, tying it securely to his saddle.

You mounted Spots with practiced ease, glancing over at Billy as he swung up onto Penelope, the movement easy and fluid. He looked good up there – strong, upright, the fading light gilding the rough edge of his jaw and the dark curls falling against his forehead.

“You ever been to a travelling band show before?” you asked lightly as you adjusted your reins.

He shook his head, squinting against the sun. “Ain’t never been to anythin’ like that.”

“Good.” You smirked, nudging Spots forward. “Then you’ll owe me for broadening your horizons.”

His laugh rumbled warm and low behind you as the two of you rode down the main street, past wagons and storefronts shuttering for dusk. Ahead, music drifted faint and sweet through the air – lilting fiddle, banjo chords, the hum of conversation rising beneath it.

Billy drew his horse alongside yours, eyes fixed on your profile with that same dark, searching intensity that made your chest flutter.

“What?” you asked, cheeks flushing under his gaze.

“Nothin’,” he murmured, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

The saloon smelled of old ale, oak polish, and dust. Lantern light flickered across warped floorboards, catching on brass coat buttons and the swirling skirts of women gathered near the bar. The travelling band occupied a raised dais near the hearth, the fiddle’s bow already scraping out bright, eager notes as the banjo kept sharp rhythm.

Billy guided you to a table near the back, where shadows gathered thick around the lantern’s warm glow. His hand hovered low behind you – not quite touching the small of your back, but close enough that the heat of it burned straight through your dress. Goosebumps rose along your arms despite the crowded warmth of the saloon.

You ordered two lemonades – yours plain, his with a quiet request for whiskey. The server, a freckled girl with a knowing smile, set them down with a clink of glass and a teasing wink in your direction. Heat prickled up your throat to your cheeks under her gaze.

Billy watched you as you sipped, swirling his own drink absent-mindedly. The band struck up a lively tune, fiddle and banjo weaving into something bright and achingly sweet. Around you, couples laughed and danced, boots thudding on the worn planks, skirts flaring in quick, joyous arcs.

Sitting across from each other at a rickety table, you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

“They’re real good, don’t you think?” you said, grinning as the fiddler’s bow danced across the strings with fierce precision.

Billy nodded, his eyes distant, dark lashes casting shadows down his cheekbones. “Would you ever perform yourself?” he asked after a moment, voice low beneath the music.

You frowned slightly. “Why d’you ask that?”

He shrugged, the amber liquid swirling softly in his glass. “Couple guitars in your room. Sheet music by your nightstand. Heard you playin’ the other night.” He paused, the corner of his mouth flicking up faintly. “You’re good.”

Your chest tightened at the memory – him on the living room couch, you perched on your bed, picking out a quiet tune in the dark. You hadn’t realised he’d been listening. The thought made your stomach flutter.

“That’s sweet,” you said lightly, eyes dropping to your lemonade, “but… too afraid, I think. All these strangers judgin’ me? Couldn’t take that.”

“I wouldn’t judge you,” he said quietly.

“You’re not exactly a stranger, Billy,” you reminded him, though your voice caught slightly on his name.

He hummed low in his throat, gaze pinned to yours as his knee shifted under the table, brushing against yours. It was light and unassuming at first, but it didn’t move away. The warmth of it bled through the layers of your skirts, setting your pulse hammering painfully in your chest.

He leaned forward slightly, arms resting on the table, drink forgotten in his hands. The lantern’s flickering glow lit the sharp angles of his jaw, the faint pink scar along his cheekbone, the dark, hungry look in his eyes.

“…What am I then?” he asked softly, his voice low and rough, scraping deliciously down your spine. “Friend, pal, ranch hand?” He echoed your earlier words with a faint, humourless smile.

You shrugged faintly, though your heart was hammering so hard you wondered if he could hear it rattling in your chest. “What do you wanna be?”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The fiddle’s note curved up into something sweet and mournful, fading into the hush of clinking glasses and murmured laughter. His knee pressed firmer against yours under the table, the solid heat of him seeping through your skirts until your entire body felt strung tight, buzzing with something you didn’t have words for.

His gaze didn’t waver.

“What are you gonna do after all this?” you found yourself blurting out, the question slipping free before you could catch it. “After your arm heals up, I mean. You can ride just fine now.”

Billy blinked, his brow furrowing slightly, as though you’d startled him. He gave a small shrug, rolling his glass between his fingers. “Don’t know. Keep movin’, I reckon. Been thinkin’ about headin’ down south. Mexico, maybe. Or west. California.”

You nodded absently. “Heard good things about California.”

“Yeah.” He paused, his gaze flicking down to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “You ever gonna leave this place?”

You exhaled, a tight, quiet laugh escaping you. “Thought about it. But Pa needs me. And… I dunno. Feels like leavin’ would mean givin’ up on somethin’. Or someone.”

His jaw ticked faintly at that. He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “You’d like Santa Fe,” he murmured after a beat. “Weather’s warm. Sky’s big and open. Artists everywhere – folks paintin’ in the streets, singin’ on corners. Whole place smells like mesquite and coffee and dust. Reckon you’d write a damn good song there.”

The words sank into you, soft and heavy. You looked at him, really looked at him, the lamplight flickering over the shadows under his eyes, the stubborn lock of hair falling across his brow.

The fiddle struck up again then, fast and sharp, and a group of dancers nearly knocked into your table, jolting you both from the quiet tension coiled between you.

You watched them spin past, skirts flying, boots stomping in time to the quick, wild music. When you glanced back at Billy, he was watching you, not the dancers.

“You wanna dance?” he asked, his voice low and rough with something that wasn’t quite laughter.

You raised your brows, glancing pointedly at his arm. “What about your shoulder?”

He gave a quiet huff of amusement, the corner of his mouth tilting up into a small, crooked smile. “If I snap it clean off, I think it’d be worth it.”

Then he stood, pushing his chair back with a scrape of wood across the floor, and held his hand out to you. His gaze never left yours – dark, unblinking, burning with something that made your chest ache and your pulse stutter painfully beneath your skin.

“C’mon,” he said softly.

Your pulse thudded so hard you felt lightheaded as you slipped your hand into his. He squeezed it lightly, his thumb brushing along your knuckles before he tugged you out from the shadows and into the flickering lamplight, into the quick, sweet rise of the fiddle and the thrum of dancing boots.

The crowd pressed close around you, skirts sweeping against worn floorboards, men’s laughter rumbling deep under the music. Billy guided you into the rhythm with surprising ease, his bad arm tucked carefully close, his good hand warm and strong against your waist. His thumb stroked absent circles through the thin cotton of your dress, each pass making your skin prickle hot beneath.

“Don’t look so worried,” he murmured, leaning close, his breath brushing your cheek as he spun you lightly beneath his arm. “Ain’t gonna let you fall.”

“I’m not worried,” you lied, though your voice came out breathless as his grip tightened, pulling you flush against him.

The fiddle rose sharp and high, and you moved together in quick steps, skirts flaring and boots scuffing, your heart pounding in time with the beat.

He smelled of leather, sweat, and soap, the faint smoky tang of whiskey lingering on his breath. Each time you turned under his arm, his eyes stayed pinned to yours – dark, molten, burning with something unspoken that set your chest aching and your stomach coiling tight.

The song shifted into something slower, sweeter, the fiddle lilting low while the banjo kept a lazy rhythm. Around you, dancers drifted closer together, hands sliding along waists, chests pressed to chests. Billy didn’t let you go.

Instead, his hand slid higher up your back, the heel of his palm resting between your shoulder blades as he pulled you against him, slow-stepping in time with the hush of the music.

You could barely breathe. His thigh pressed firm between yours, his nose brushing the crown of your head as he dipped down, his voice rumbling low against your hairline.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he murmured, his breath hot against your temple, “I’m gonna forget where I am.”

You swallowed hard, tilting your head back to look at him. “How am I lookin’ at you?”

His lips twitched into the barest ghost of a smile. “Like you want somethin’.”

Your chest tightened painfully. “Maybe I do,” you whispered.

The music faded out then, replaced by rowdy applause and drunken cheers. Someone jostled into your shoulder, and the moment snapped like a taut rope. Billy pulled back slightly, his gaze flicking to the growing crowd around you, the heat in his eyes flickering with something conflicted. He took a slow breath, jaw ticking faintly.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice rough as gravel. “Let’s get some air.”

He didn’t wait for your answer, just slipped his fingers through yours, his grip hot and firm as he guided you through the press of bodies, out past the swinging saloon doors into the cooler hush of evening.

The sun had long set, leaving only the silver wash of moonlight and the dim flicker of lamplight pooling on the dusty street. Laughter drifted from the bar behind you, mingling with the distant whinny of horses down by the hitching posts.

Billy didn’t stop walking until he’d led you down a narrow side alley between the saloon and the bakery, half-hidden in shadow. The scent of warm yeast and woodsmoke curled through the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of stale pastries. The quiet there was sudden, heavy, broken only by the ragged hitch of your breaths.

“Billy…” you started, voice trembling, though you weren’t sure if it was from the chill or from him. From the way his thumb traced slow, burning circles against the back of your hand.

He turned to you then, his silhouette dark against the lamplight spilling from the street. For a long moment, he just looked at you, his eyes shadowed and unreadable, his good hand flexing at his side like he was fighting himself.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, jaw clenching. “Shit…”

You let out a quiet, nervous giggle, unable to stop it bubbling up despite your pounding heart. “Yeah,” you whispered shakily, “that about sums it up.”

His gaze snapped up to yours at the sound, and something in him seemed to break. He stepped forward, close enough that his chest brushed yours with every shallow breath. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, calloused thumb brushing along your cheekbone before drifting down to trace the seam of your lips. You shivered at the rough drag of it, your knees going weak beneath your skirts.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he rasped, voice low and ragged with restraint. “Don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me, darlin’.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse thundering so loud it roared in your ears. “Then show me,” you whispered, your voice breaking around the words, eyes fluttering shut.

And he did.

His mouth crashed onto yours, hot and desperate and tasting faintly of whiskey and lemonade. You gasped into him, clutching at the front of his shirt as he pressed you back against the warm brick wall, hips slotting between yours. His kiss was wild, all-consuming, like he couldn’t get close enough – his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a groan that sent heat pooling low in your belly.

Your fingers fumbled blindly at his chest before sliding up to fist in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging lightly until he growled into your mouth, biting down on your bottom lip just enough to make you whimper. The sound was swallowed greedily, his hand sliding from your jaw down your neck, over the swell of your breast, before settling firm and possessive on your thigh.

You broke the kiss with a sharp gasp when his hand slipped under the hem of your skirts, rough fingers dragging up the soft flesh of your leg until they grazed dangerously high. He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath ragged and trembling.

“Fuck…” he groaned, his voice so deep it vibrated through your bones. “I wanna… Christ, I wanna take you right here.”

A startled giggle escaped you at his words, half shocked, half giddy with how utterly undone he sounded. Your own hand drifted to his chest, feeling the thunder of his heart beneath your palm.

“Billy…” you whispered, unable to think, to breathe.

Then a loud burst of laughter rang out from the saloon doors as two men stumbled into the street, clapping each other hard on the back. One called out a greeting into the alleyway, half-drunk eyes squinting through the dim.

“Hey, there y’are!” he slurred, grinning wide. “Best get back inside ‘fore yer drinks get warm!”

Billy stiffened against you, his hand leaving your thigh to grip your waist instead, grounding himself. You could feel his chest rising and falling hard, the sharp edges of his restraint visible in every tremor of his body.

Slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark and glazed with want, lips red and kiss-swollen. You swallowed thickly, pressing your thighs together under your skirts as heat burned through every nerve.

“C’mon,” he said hoarsely, his thumb brushing once more along your bottom lip, as if he couldn’t quite let go of the feeling of kissing you. “Let’s… let’s get back inside. ‘Fore I do somethin’ we can’t take back tonight.”

Your stomach swooped at his words. You nodded faintly, your knees wobbling as he took your hand again, guiding you out of the alley and back into the noise and lamplight of the saloon – though you could still feel his touch burning hot along your skin, every step humming with the desperate fear that this was temporary.

That night, you swear you could hear him breathe through the walls. Your bed pressed up against the thin wood panelling, knowing his was mirroring yours on the other side. Every creak of the inn settling, every murmur of voices downstairs, was broken only by your own restless shifting under the blankets.

When you arrived at Rose’s Inn earlier, Rose herself had greeted you with her gentle, lined smile, letting you know your father had already taken his supper and retired. She handed you two brass keys with quiet efficiency, her knowing eyes flicking between you and Billy before she bustled away to tend to other guests.

You and Billy walked down the narrow hall together, feet soft against the worn carpet runner. The lanterns along the walls cast warm, flickering halos of light, dancing across his cheekbones, catching in his dark hair. Your hands brushed once, twice, and though neither of you spoke about it, neither of you moved away.

Finally, you stopped outside your doors – right beside each other, only a thin strip of wood between them.

“If you need anything,” you said softly, your voice catching in your throat, “just let me know. Your arm… if it aches or… or anything.”

Billy paused as he turned his key, looking back at you. The corners of his mouth lifted faintly, eyes soft in a way that made your chest ache.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

And now you lay staring at the ceiling, your room lit only by the dim moonlight slipping through the thin curtains. You could hear the muffled thump of boots and chairs being dragged around in the tavern below, the distant whinny of horses out back. But all you could think about was him.

The heat of his hands on your waist. The calloused brush of his thumb along your jaw. The way he’d kissed you in the alley – desperate, hungry, like he needed you more than breath itself.

You turned onto your side, burying your face into the pillow with a soft groan. What was wrong with you? You’d known him… what, seven or somethin' weeks now? Seven? But it didn’t matter.

He’d slid under your skin from the moment you found him in your barn, asleep and peaceful. His quiet kindness. The way he called you darlin’ with that rough lilt, made you feel seen. His smarts. His humour. His touch.

But this was temporary. You knew that. Just like he did. He’d leave eventually – south to Mexico, or west to California, or wherever else men like him went when the seasons turned. And you’d stay.

Stay with your father. Stay with the cattle and chickens and dry creek beds.

Your chest ached with it. With knowing.

So fuck it.

You threw the blankets back, shivering at the sudden rush of cool air against your thin nightdress. You hesitated only for a moment before you swung your legs to the creaking floorboards and crossed the room in a few quick steps, reaching for the door handle.

But as you twisted the knob and eased it open, you froze.

Billy was already there.

Standing in the dim, lantern-lit hallway, barefoot and rumpled in loose trousers and his thin undershirt, hair mussed like he’d been raking his fingers through it all night. His eyes widened slightly when he saw you, standing there in your cotton slip, hair falling down your shoulders in messy waves.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. You just stared at each other, breathing quiet and ragged in the hush of the inn’s sleeping halls.

His gaze dropped down your body slowly, drinking you in, before flicking back up to your eyes with something dark and molten burning in them.

“I was… I was just about to knock,” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the thundering of your heart. “Couldn’t… I couldn’t sleep.”

. You slipped from the narrow bed, feet cold against the worn wood floor as you padded to the door. Just as you reached out to open it, there was a soft knock from the other side.

You swallowed hard, fingers curling around the doorframe. “Neither could I.”

For a moment, you just looked at each other. Then he stepped forward, cupped your face in his calloused palm, and kissed you. Slow, deep, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a quiet groan that vibrated down your spine. You tugged him inside by his shirtfront, pushing the door shut behind him.

When he pulled back, you reached up to trace the faint pink scar along his cheekbone. He flinched at first, then leaned into your touch with a shaky sigh.

“Where’d this one come from?” you whispered.

He chuckled humourlessly. “Guy in Dodge tried to rob me at knifepoint. Didn’t end well for him.”

You let your thumb drift down to the faint line along his neck, half-hidden beneath his collar. “And this?”

“Sheriff’s deputy, Kansas,” he muttered. His gaze flicked up to yours, guarded. “Didn’t like me talkin’ to his wife.”

You laughed softly despite the ache blooming in your chest. Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the mostly healed bruising around his right shoulder. “This one I know,” you said quietly, thinking back to the day you found him in the barn.

He caught your wrist gently in his good hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “Saved my life that day,” he whispered.

You shook your head. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. If I didn’t rest in that barn, meet you, get all fixed up… I’d be dead in a ditch, probably,” he insisted, leaning down to kiss you again. His mouth was softer this time, lingering, tasting. His hands slid down your sides to gather your nightdress, pushing it up over your hips. “Lay down for me, darlin’.”

Your pulse hammered as you backed towards the bed, sinking onto the edge. He knelt between your knees, his good hand gripping your thigh firmly as his eyes roved over you with a dark, molten heat that left you trembling.

“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he rasped, leaning in to kiss the inside of your knee, lips warm and soft against your skin. Then higher, teeth scraping lightly along your inner thigh, leaving prickles of heat in their wake.

“Billy…” you gasped, your breath hitching as his mouth hovered just above where you ached for him most. He paused there, breathing you in, his nose nudging lightly against your inner thigh as his eyes flicked up to yours through dark lashes.

His lips curled into a faint, wicked smirk. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “All wet for me already.”

Heat flooded your cheeks as your hips twitched forward, seeking his touch. His smirk widened, and he bent his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to your centre, slow and deliberate, making you gasp out a broken little cry. His tongue licked a long, languid stripe through your folds, tasting you, before circling your clit with aching precision.

Your hand flew to his hair, fingers burying themselves in the soft strands as your head fell back, mouth falling open on a shaky moan. He hummed low at the taste of you, the vibration sending sparks shooting straight up your spine.

“Fuck – Billy – please –” you whimpered, hips bucking up against his mouth desperately. He growled softly at your reaction, his good hand sliding up to press flat against your belly, holding you down firmly against the mattress as his tongue worked you with slow, devastating focus.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped against you, his breath hot and wet. “Taste so fuckin’ sweet… been thinkin’ about this for so long.”

He sucked gently at first, teasing flicks of his tongue that had your thighs trembling around his head. Then, when he felt your muscles begin to tighten, he sealed his lips around your clit and sucked hard, swirling his tongue rapidly as a strangled scream tore from your throat.

You writhed under him, the sheets bunching in your fists as your thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t stop. He slid two fingers inside you, curling them expertly as his tongue kept its relentless pace, and the pressure built and built until it snapped, your entire body arching off the bed as you came apart with a sobbing cry.

“Fuck – Billy – oh god –” you gasped, voice breaking on every syllable as he fucked you through it with his fingers, his mouth unrelenting. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure, your body trembling violently as your orgasm washed over you in crashing, endless waves.

Only when your thighs began to twitch from oversensitivity did he finally slow down, his licks growing gentle and soothing, almost reverent. He kissed you there softly, once, twice, before pulling back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

His lips and chin glistened in the dim lamplight, his eyes glazed with desire as he looked up at you. He was breathing hard, chest rising and falling in quick little pants, his pupils blown wide and dark.

“Fuck…” he rasped, almost to himself, as he dragged his hand down his face, dazed with it. “You’re… you’re somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

He pressed a final kiss to your inner thigh, then rested his forehead there, breathing you in, his good hand tracing idle shapes along your trembling leg as he tried to steady his own ragged breathing – almost as if he had been undone by it, too.

Your thighs were still trembling as he pulled back, his lips pink and slick with you, his chest heaving raggedly. You reached down for him, fingers threading through his hair as he kissed the inside of your knee one last time before looking up at you with that dark, hungry gaze.

“C’mere,” you whispered, voice hoarse and trembling with want.

You tugged him up gently, guiding him onto the bed. He followed without question, letting you push him back against the pillows until he sat propped against the headboard, his legs spread, shirt hanging half open from where he’d unbuttoned it earlier. You straddled his thighs, and for a moment you just… looked at him.

The flickering lamplight cast shadows along the ridges of his ribs, catching on the mottled bruises still fading along his side. Your eyes traced the faint, pale scar slashing down from his ribs towards his hip – an old bullet wound by the look of it, the skin puckered and uneven – before your gaze drifted up to the deeper bruising wrapping around his ribs to his back where you knew his injury still ached.

His breath hitched under your scrutiny. “Don’t go lookin’ at me like that,” he rasped, his good hand flexing against your hip. “Ain’t… nothin’ pretty to see there.”

“It’s all pretty to me,” you murmured softly, fingers ghosting over the purpling bruise with a feather-light touch. He flinched at the contact, then relaxed into it with a shaky exhale, his eyes fluttering closed.

You shifted down between his legs, settling on your knees on the mattress as your hands worked open the rest of his shirt, revealing lean muscle and scarred skin dusted with fine dark hair. His past was a slowly unravelled mystery to you.

You knew he had a troubled life. Whether it was stories of being on the wrong side of the law, us versus them situations, being beaten, doing the beating. He had a whole past, a whole life before you and would go on to have a future, likely without you.

“So pretty,” You mutter again, looking up at him, thoughts drifting away as you kiss down his stomach.

He watched you through heavy-lidded eyes as you undid his belt, fingers deft but trembling slightly with anticipation.

When you finally freed him from his trousers, he let out a low, broken groan as your hand wrapped around him. His head fell back against the headboard with a soft thud, throat working as he swallowed hard.

“Fuck… sweetheart…” he hissed, his voice strained and cracking at the edges as your thumb swept along his tip, gathering the bead of slick there and working it down his length. His thighs tensed under your touch, the muscles in his stomach jumping as you stroked him slowly, firmly, just how you knew he’d like.

You leaned in, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along his hipbone, your hair falling like a curtain around your face as you lowered yourself further. His good hand slid into your hair, not pushing, just curling there tight as your lips brushed his tip.

You looked up at him through your lashes, and the sight nearly undid him – your swollen lips, your eyes dark and hazy with lust, your warm breath ghosting over him as your tongue flicked out to taste him. He let out a strangled noise, his hips jerking up involuntarily as you took him into your mouth, inch by slow inch.

“Christ –” he gasped, his hand tightening in your hair as you hollowed your cheeks, drawing back with a slow suction before sinking down again. You set a steady rhythm, your fist twisting around the base in tandem with your mouth, swallowing around him as you felt his thighs start to tremble.

“Goddamn it, darlin’ –” he groaned, his voice ragged with restraint. “You’re… fuck… you’re gonna kill me.”

You pulled back just enough to swirl your tongue around his head, tasting salt and skin, before taking him deeper again, feeling him hit the back of your throat as he let out a deep, shuddering moan that made your cunt clench desperately around nothing.

His breathing turned ragged, chest heaving under you, sweat beading along his brow. His fingers slipped from your hair to cup your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly along your jawline as he looked down at you with blown pupils and a desperation so raw it made your heart ache.

“Shit- Alright,” he gasped suddenly, tugging you back gently but firmly, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound. You looked up at him, breathless and confused, but his gaze was fierce and dark as he cupped your face in his calloused palm.

“I need… please… I need to be in you,” he said hoarsely, his voice cracking with restraint. “Please.”

His thumb brushed your lip as he kissed you again, slower this time, tasting you with aching tenderness. You shifted forward on his lap, feeling the thick, heavy length of him rut against your soaked folds, the blunt head catching on your entrance with every tiny movement. A desperate little whimper slipped out, muffled by his mouth.

“Take this off,” he rasped, tugging gently at the front of your thin chemise, his good hand sliding under the hem to graze your ribs. You pulled back just enough to strip it over your head, baring yourself to him entirely.

The lantern light flickered across your flushed skin, catching on the soft curves of your breasts, the slope of your collarbones, the faint scars from work and life that told your story. His gaze roved down, dark with reverence and fierce hunger, lingering at every new revealed inch like it was scripture.

“Prettiest damn thing I ever saw.” he whispered, his voice breaking faintly as he exhaled.

His thumb brushed softly over your nipple, making it pebble tight under his touch. The calloused pad sent sparks straight down to your core, clenching around nothing. He cupped your breast, rough palm contrasting your softness, and squeezed just enough to make your breath catch. His eyes flicked up, watching your every reaction with dark, heated awe.

You reached between your bodies, gripping him and lining him up with your entrance. He was hot and thick in your hand, a bead of precum already smearing against your fingers as you guided him to your aching cunt. You hovered there, just barely letting him nudge into you, your walls fluttering at the tease. His good hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your chest tighten painfully.

“Look at me,” he murmured, voice low and earnest, threaded with something raw and vulnerable. “Wanna see you when I’m inside you.”

Your breath stuttered as you sank down slowly, inch by inch, the stretch almost too much, burning and full in a way that had tears pricking at your lashes. Your nails dug into his shoulders for balance, feeling the ridges of old scars beneath your fingertips. His wounded arm braced shakily around your waist, keeping you steady, as his head fell back with a strangled groan.

“Christ… you’re so fuckin’ tight… so warm… takin’ me so good, sweetheart…”

You paused when he was fully buried inside you, adjusting to the overwhelming fullness. His good hand slid up to cup your breast again, thumb flicking softly over your nipple, and he groaned at the way your walls clenched around him in response, his hips jerking up involuntarily to bury himself impossibly deeper.

He gave you a gentle squeeze, kissing around your chest, eyes locked to yours, pupils blown wide with lust and something softer, deeper, like devotion.

You rolled your hips in slow, languid circles, dragging your slick walls along every inch of him. His breath stuttered out in broken moans with each grind down. His hand drifted from your breast to your waist, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin as he guided your rhythm.

“That’s it… just like that…” he murmured, voice thick with awe and desire. “Goddamn, look at you… never seen nothin’ so beautiful in my life.”

Your thighs began to tremble as you moved faster, the wet sounds of you filling the quiet room, mixing with his ragged moans and your own desperate whimpers. You leaned down to kiss him, the new angle letting him brush deeper inside you, hitting that tender, aching spot again and again. The kiss turned messy, teeth clashing, breaths shared and stolen.

He let out a broken moan against your mouth as you clenched tight around him with each grind. “Shit… you’re squeezin’ me so good… can’t hold on if you keep doin’ that, darlin’.”

“Oh, god…” you gasped against his lips, your movements faltering as your legs burned with effort. Your thighs were shaking, your body starting to give out under the strain of pleasure and exhaustion.

His hand slid down to press slow, firm circles into your clit. “You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart… not yet though, alright?”

You mumbled, desperate. “O-Okay.”

You nod, his hands came around your hips, now lifting you himself, pressed against him as you moved on top, hips stuttering as you muttered swears, staving off the wave of pleasure, steady now. You clenched down around him, and he murmured swears.

“God- Shit, alright. Alright,” He mumbled, grip on your waist tightening as he tried to hold still, feeling you pulse around him. He guided you gently. “Atta girl… that’s it…”

Before you could respond, his good arm wrapped firm around your waist, shifting you gently until your back met the mattress. His wounded arm braced beside your head, careful not to jostle it, as he settled between your trembling thighs, still buried deep inside you.

You have a moment, suddenly just still with each other, as if on pause for a brief second.

You couldn’t help but admire him at the sight above you – hair messy and damp with sweat, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-bitten and pink, freckles scattered like tiny constellations across his flushed cheeks and nose.

Your fears of this temporal moment ring in your head, but all you can think of is how you’ll savour this, memorising every exact feature of his.

Your hand cradled his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He leaned into your touch for a moment, eyes fluttering shut, lashes brushing your thumb like butterfly wings.

“You alright?” you whispered with a small smile, checking in, chest tight with affection.

He grinned at that, breathless and beautiful, teeth flashing in the lantern glow. “I’m perfect, sweetheart. How about you?”

You nodded quickly, still trying to catch your breath, almost giddy, despite coming undone twice now.

His grin turned soft and fond, a quiet chuckle rumbling from his chest as he pressed a tender kiss to your lips, slowly beginning to move. “Yeah? You feel good?”

You nod again, distracted by the slow, rolling thrusts that had your back arching off the bed, your nails dragging down his back to rest at the darkening bruises along his ribs.

“Words, darlin’,” he mumbled against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes open and watching you desperately. “Give me your words.”

“Feels… so good,” you gasped out, tears pricking at your eyes again from the overwhelming pleasure and the way he was looking at you, like you were something sacred. “You’re… so good to me, Billy.”

His pace stayed steady and deep, hips grinding into yours with each thrust, hitting that sweet, tender spot inside you over and over. He watched your face intently, drinking in every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, every trembling sigh.

“You feel so fuckin’ good… so perfect… sweetest girl I ever met…” he murmured against your throat, words slipping fast, without thought, kissing and sucking lightly at the sensitive skin there, leaving faint bruises that would linger come morning.

“Billy… oh, God…” you whimpered, the pleasure building again with each slow, aching grind. Your legs wrapped around his waist without thinking, locking him in close, needing every inch of him.

His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit in firm, precise circles that made your eyes roll back into your skull. “That’s it… come for me, sweetheart… wanna feel you…”

It only took a few more thrusts before you shattered around him, crying out his name as your entire body convulsed with bliss, tears slipping down your temples into your hair as you clung to him like a lifeline.

He watched you like you were a god, utterly entranced, eyes wide and reverent as your walls clenched around him again and again.

You cradle his jaw again, palm soft and fingers wandering as he moans against you now, leaning into your touch, hips jerking in ragged thrusts as he buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside you with a broken, trembling moan.

His body shuddered, arms trembling as he held himself above you, forehead pressing into your shoulder as his breath came in harsh, uneven pants. “Thank you,” He found himself saying.

You couldn’t help but breathlessly chuckle at that, air hot beneath you. “Yeah, no problem.”

He chuckled too, the moment quiet. You felt his heart hammering wildly against yours, the tremble in his arms as he clung to you like he’d never let go.

He winced softly, his bad shoulder flaring with pain as he moved to lay beside you. You noticed immediately, even half-delirious with aftershocks, sitting up slightly to touch his face.

“What is it, did you pull—?” you began, panic edging your voice.

He smiled a bit through the pain, shaking his head, trying to soothe you back down. “It’s alright… just… little overworked. Probably shouldn’t’ve taken off the sling.”

You let out a shaky breath, laying back beside him as he collapsed down next to you, curling up against his side. Your hand traced over his chest, the rough hair there, the old scar that curved along his ribs, disappearing towards his back where gunfire or knife had once found him.

A reminder of what he was – an outlaw, a wanderer, a man whose days were never guaranteed. And yet he held you like he had all the time in the world.

“I told you,” you murmured sleepily. “And making you carry my haul around… and drinking… and riding the horse… shit… thank god my Pa’s the doctor and not me.”

His hand caressed your hip gently, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin. His voice was quiet, nearly broken. “You didn’t make me do anything.”

The mention of your father lingered between you like a warning neither of you wanted to acknowledge. But for now, in the hush of the lamplight, the scent of sweat and sex and whiskey hanging warm between you, you let yourself close your eyes against his chest, feeling his heart slow beneath your palm.

He pressed a final kiss to the crown of your head, his voice no louder than a prayer.

“Sleep, sweetheart… m’not goin’ anywhere tonight.”

You focused on the last word. Tonight. Because eventually he would be gone. But for now, with him.

And still, you let yourself believe it anyway.

The next day passed both achingly slow and far too fast. You’d gotten what you came for – flour, gauze, coffee – and something you hadn’t planned for at all.

Your father returned from the clinic just before dawn, exhaustion etched deep into the creases around his eyes. He trudged up the steps as you and Billy saddled the horses out front, ready to leave before the sun rose too high.

He paused, looking at the two of you, then at the packed saddlebags. “You get everythin’ you needed?”

“Yes, sir,” you nodded. “And then some.”

His eyes flicked between you and Billy for a moment, as though he could see the words hanging unsaid in the air. But he just sighed. “Good. Roads are quiet at this hour. Ride careful.”

The ride back was quiet at first, dawn light spilling like honey across the dirt trail. You tried not to look at Billy, but every time his horse stepped ahead of yours, you caught yourself smiling. Every time he shifted in his saddle with a faint wince, your chest squeezed tight.

When he cracked a dry joke about Penelope flicking her ears at him – “She don’t like me. Knows I’m trouble, just like you do.” – you laughed so hard your grip on the reins faltered, tears prickling the corners of your eyes.

By the time the ranch house came into view, your cheeks ached from smiling.

Your father insisted on checking Billy’s arm as soon as you arrived. He pulled him into the small office, unwrapping the gauze with deft, clinical fingers while you leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over your chest.

“Still some bruising there,” he murmured, pressing lightly along the tendon. Billy sucked in a sharp breath, his jaw flexing tight. “Otherwise, you’ve healed well. Just wear the sling to sleep, and you should be just fine. Anythin’ else hurtin’ I should know about?”

Billy hesitated, eyes flicking up to meet your father’s. For a moment, it almost looked like he wanted to say something more – something deeper than aches or wounds – but he just shook his head.

“No, sir. Thank you.”

Your father studied him a second longer, then nodded. “Alright. You’re strong, I’ll give you that. Just… keep your head down for a while, son. This land’s quiet. I’d like to keep it that way.”

Billy swallowed, a flicker of guilt and something softer passing through his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

He stood up, rolling his shoulder slightly as he buttoned his shirt again. As he walked past you, his hand brushed against yours for the briefest second, sending a jolt of warmth straight to your chest.

You smiled and stepped back to let him through. He followed you down the hall, boots thudding softly against the worn wood floors.

You felt his gaze on you the entire way, and when you reached your bedroom door, you turned around, walking backwards until your spine bumped lightly against the wall.

Billy was already there, his grin spreading across his face as he crowded into your space. Before you could say a word, he dipped his head and pressed his lips to yours, gentle and languid, tasting faintly of dust and coffee. You sighed into him, your hands sliding up to his half-buttoned shirt, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palms.

His good arm came up to brace against the wall beside your head, caging you in without pressure. He pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his thumb brushing softly along your cheekbone before trailing down to lift your chin.

His gaze caught on the faint purple bloom peeking out from under your collar, and he chuckled low in his chest.

“Damn leeches,” you muttered with a small smile, your voice shaky with nerves and delight. “Oughta teach ‘em a lesson.”

Billy let out a quiet huff of laughter, his forehead resting lightly against yours as his breath ghosted warm over your lips. “I think you like ‘em.”

“Where’d you get that idea from?” you teased, your voice trembling as his hand slid down to your waist, fingers curling around your hip possessively.

“Just a hunch,” he drawled, dipping his head to press slow, deliberate kisses along your neck, his scruffy jaw scraping softly against your sensitive skin. Your knees threatened to give out beneath you at the feeling – the tender sweetness mixed with the simmering heat only he could draw from you.

“Billy…” you whispered, half in warning, half in plea.

He pulled back, his eyes dark and searching as they flicked across your face. “Yeah, darlin’?”

But before you could answer, a sharp knock rang out from down the hall. Your father’s voice called through the quiet house.

“Billy. I need you out front a minute.”

You shared a glance with him, seeing the disappointment flicker across his features before he hid it with a sigh. He pressed one last, searing kiss to your lips, hand cupping your jaw with aching tenderness.

“Later,” he whispered, his smile small but warm. “I promise.”

A few days passed in a haze of dust, sun, and stolen sweetness. Shared dinners, quiet chores, Billy sneaking into your room from his makeshift bed on the couch. Sometimes you’d wake with his arm draped heavy across your waist, his face tucked into your hair, both of you blinking blearily at dawn before he slipped out to start the day.

At night, you found yourselves whispering in each other’s arms. Talking about silly dreams: seeing the ocean, eating oysters just to spit them out dramatically, watching a real opera in New Orleans. Talking about real dreams too: telling your father about you two, though you both knew he probably already knew, and it was easier to leave it unspoken. Talking about your pasts. His stories came in pieces, jagged and half-lit, like broken glass in moonlight. The things he’d seen. The things he’d done. You never asked for details. He never offered more than you could bear to hear.

The morning started like any other.

You were sweeping the front porch, hair braided back to keep out of your eyes, the broom scraping against worn wood. Your father was in his study, probably scribbling notes or grumbling at his ledger.

Billy was out in the barn tending to Penelope and Spots, humming tunelessly under his breath as he brushed their coats. The air smelled faintly of hay, horses, and sun-warmed wood.

Then you heard hoofbeats.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. Riders came by all the time, looking for medicine or feed. But as they approached, three men in long dusters and flat-brimmed hats, rifles slung across their saddles, a cold knot twisted tight in your gut.

Your father stepped out behind you, wiping his hands on a rag, brow furrowing as they dismounted. The tallest rider was older, clean-shaven, with sharp pale eyes hidden beneath the shadow of his hat. A Texas Ranger’s badge gleamed on his belt when his coat flared.

“Mornin’,” your father greeted evenly.

“Mornin’, doc.” The Ranger’s voice was smooth as creekstone. He flicked his coat back, revealing the badge fully. “We’re lookin’ for someone.”

Your father didn’t blink. “Aren’t we all.”

A humourless twitch of lips. The Ranger pulled a folded poster from his pocket, flicking it open with two fingers before handing it over. You stepped closer to your father’s shoulder, breath catching when you saw it.

WANTED. WILLIAM BONNEY. DEAD OR ALIVE.

Your blood roared in your ears. The sketch wasn’t perfect, but close enough. The boyish hair. The stubborn chin. The fierce, wary set to his eyes.

“Word is he’s been seen ‘round these parts,” the Ranger drawled, scanning the porch, the barn, the quiet windows behind you. “Barmaid in town swears she saw a man fittin’ this description last night. He was with a young lady.”

Your father didn’t even flinch. “Lots of young men pass through. Ranch hands, cattle drivers, drifters. My daughter here was at the general store and saloon yesterday. Must’ve been mistaken.”

The Ranger’s gaze cut to you. Sharp, probing. “You see anyone like this, miss?”

You forced your face to remain calm, tilting your head just so with polite curiosity. “No, sir. Haven’t seen anyone like that.”

He hummed low, studying you a second longer before flicking his fingers at his men. “Search the barn.”

Your heart seized. “Why? Ain’t nothin’ in there but horses and hay –”

Your father laid a firm hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently. “Let ‘em do their job, darlin’.”

They walked past, rifles loose in their grips, boots thudding over the dirt.

Inside the barn, Billy crouched behind stacked hay bales, revolver clutched tight in his good hand. His heart pounded so loud he was certain the horses could hear it. His finger twitched on the trigger as the Rangers moved around, their boots scuffing the packed dirt. Penelope shifted nervously in her stall, huffing and stamping once, but they barely spared her a glance.

After a tense minute that felt like eternity, they stepped back out into the glare of morning sun.

“Nothin’,” one muttered.

The Ranger remounted, tugging his reins. “If you see him, doc, you let us know. He’s a wanted killer. Dangerous.”

Your father nodded coolly. “I’ll do that.”

They rode off, dust rising in their wake. You exhaled shakily, knees threatening to buckle. Your father turned to you, jaw tight.

“Get him inside.”

You ran to the barn, your skirt catching on stray straw. Billy was still kneeling behind the hay, revolver shaking slightly in his grip. Relief flooded you so hard it made you dizzy.

You dropped down beside him, hugging him tight around the neck. He let out a shuddering breath, arms wrapping around you, revolver clattering to the dirt.

“You okay?” he rasped into your hair.

A watery laugh slipped out, tears pooling hot at the corners of your eyes. “Yeah. Perfect. How ‘bout you?”

“Same here.” His voice was hoarse, and he hugged you tighter, pressing his forehead to your temple.

You pulled back to look at him properly. “They were lookin’ for you. We told ‘em nothin’. Someone… in town snitched. I’m sorry. I’m – shit, Billy, I’m so sorry –”

He gently cupped your cheek with his rough palm, shaking his head. “Nothin’ to be sorry for, sweetheart. I knew my luck would run out eventually.”

Your tears spilled over, streaking down your cheeks as his thumb swiped them away. His eyes flickered across your face like he was memorising every detail.

“They’re gonna come back,” you whispered, voice breaking. “They knew we were lyin’. Someone’s gonna recognise you, and… I don’t want… I don’t wanna say goodbye, Billy.”

“I know.” His voice cracked, barely audible. “Don’t think ‘bout it. I hate goodbyes. We ain’t gonna do that, alright?” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, smiling despite the tears welling in his eyes. “I ain’t gonna let ‘em drag me off here in front of you.”

A quiet cough sounded behind you. Your father stood in the barn doorway, shadow long in the morning light. His gaze was heavy with resignation and sorrow.

“You can’t stay here no more, son.”

Billy nodded once, jaw clenching. “Didn’t think I could.”

“I’ll go with him,” you blurted, voice shattering. “Pa, please –”

“No.” Your father’s tone was final, sharp as a branding iron. “You will not. This is his life, sweetheart. Not yours.”

Billy reached out, brushing your cheek with trembling fingers, a sad little smile ghosting his lips. “He’s right.”

“No,” you choked out, fresh tears spilling. “Don’t you dare agree with him. Don’t you dare –”

“Hey, hey…” he soothed softly, thumb tracing your cheekbone. “Look at me.”

His eyes were shining now too, grief and acceptance mingling in their depths. “You’re the best damn thing that ever happened to me. You know that?”

You shook your head, sobs breaking free. “Stop. Please, stop.”

But he just smiled, eyes crinkling with that same boyish charm that had undone you from the start. “Can’t help it. I gotta tell you the truth at least once today.”

You spent your last night eating dinner together on the porch. It was simple. Quiet. You didn't talk much - just savouring whatever you could now.

You woke before dawn the next morning to the smell of coffee drifting down the hall. Your father moved quietly about the kitchen, clinking mugs, setting the percolator on the stove, as if it were any other day.

Billy was already out front when you stepped onto the porch, silhouetted against the paling sky. He was saddling Penelope, movements quick and efficient despite the stiffness in his healing arm.

Your father stepped out behind you, mug in hand, steam curling into the crisp morning air. For a moment, he just watched Billy tighten the final strap, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Gonna wake the whole ranch with all that clatter,” you teased softly, voice rough from sleep – and from crying half the night.

Billy glanced over his shoulder, lips curling faintly. “Maybe I wanted to say goodbye to everyone.”

“Mm. Thought you hated goodbyes.”

“I do.” His voice was quiet, raw.

Your father cleared his throat softly, stepping off the porch towards him. Billy straightened a little, turning to face him fully.

“Doc,” he greeted, nodding respectfully.

“Billy,” your father replied, his voice tired but warm. He held out his hand.

Billy looked at it for a heartbeat before reaching out and shaking it firmly with his good hand. Your father’s grip lingered, his thumb pressing into Billy’s knuckles like he was trying to speak through the gesture.

“You take care of yourself out there, son,” he said gruffly. “And keep that arm wrapped at night. Don’t be pullin’ the stitches, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Billy said quietly. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes flicking away for a moment before returning to your father’s lined face. “Thank you. For everything. For… trustin’ me with her.”

Your father huffed softly at that, a sad little smile curling his lips. “Wasn’t about trustin’ you, Billy. Was about trustin’ her. She don’t give her heart easy. But when she does… well. That’s hers to give. Just make sure you remember it ain’t yours to keep.”

Billy blinked hard, nodding. “I know. I… I won’t forget.”

Your father reached out and patted his shoulder lightly, careful of his wound. “You’re a good boy. Foolish as all hell. But good. Despite what trouble you’ve gotten yourself into.”

A faint, choked laugh escaped Billy, tears shining in his eyes. “Don’t tell no one that. Ruin my reputation.”

“Don’t worry,” your father snorted, stepping back towards the porch. “Ain’t nobody gonna believe me anyway.”

He passed you on the steps, squeezing your arm gently before going inside, leaving you standing alone with Billy beneath the paling sky.

The horizon behind him glowed faint orange, catching on the planes of his face – the bruising still fading along his ribs, the pale silver scars near his collarbone, the weary, unbreakable resolve in his gaze.

You stepped forward, heart breaking open in your chest. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, wiping away a tear that fell despite yourself. His palm cupped your face, rough and warm.

“You were nice,” you whispered, lips trembling with your smile. “Real nice.”

“My reputation takin’ a hell of a hit,” He joked.

You giggled a bit at that. “We were nice.”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, breathing you in deep. “Yeah. We were real nice.”

You kissed his palm where it cradled your cheek, tasting salt and dust and the faint tang of saddle soap.

“I’ll come back,” he said, voice cracking at the edges.

You nodded, but neither of you believed it. The world was too big, too wild, to promise such things. “Okay,” you whispered back.

He gave a choked little laugh, blinking hard. “Don’t go replacin’ me too quick, alright?”

You huffed through a tearful smile. “Don’t worry. Nobody else ‘round here’s half as annoyin’ or as useful as you.”

That drew a real laugh from him – soft and broken and beautiful. “That’s my girl,” he murmured.

You kissed him slow and deep, pouring every unspoken word into it, every goodbye you couldn’t bear to say. His good hand curled around your waist, clutching you close one last time.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, noses brushing softly. “Gotta go, darlin’.”

“I know.”

He wiped your tears again with his thumb, sniffling with a self-deprecating grin. “If I stay any longer, you’ll have me bawlin’ like a baby in front of Penelope here. She already thinks I’m pathetic enough.”

A wet giggle slipped out despite the ache in your chest. “She’s a very judgemental horse.”

“Mm. Fits right in, don’t she?”

He pressed one final kiss to your lips – fleeting, desperate, trembling – then turned, swung up into the saddle with a quiet grunt.

“If you ever need anythin’, we’ll be right here.” You insist. “If you… ever wanna go to New Orleans or… wanna show me ‘round Sante Fe. Or you need food. Shelter. We’ll be here.”

He nods, smiling somberly at that. He tipped his hat at you.

“Be good, sweetheart.”

You swallowed down your sob, lifting a trembling hand. “You too, Billy.”

He rode off into the waking dawn, the sun cresting low over the hills as his silhouette grew smaller and smaller. You stood on the porch barefoot, shivering in the morning chill, listening to the fading echo of hoofbeats.

You stayed there long after he vanished beyond the ridge. The sky above you brightened from pink to gold to blinding blue. The world felt impossibly quiet.

note: this was literally supposed to be 4k words. i went a little overboard. i might end up just splitting this into two parts, like this is the full thing, just in one, but if its easier to read in two seperate parts 10k each, let me know, and i'll do that - easy. i just really. really. wanted to get this out and work on other stuff tbh!! anyway, i doubt anyone will care much for this, but i just had a fun time writing this! also im not american i have never been on a ranch i dont know SHIIIIT okay yeehaw or whatever

#tom blyth x reader

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