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Old Town Road (part 10)

Summary: It was supposed to be a simple arrangement. Give up her freedom, and save her family home. The ultimatum was one Tilda had grown to accept, given that she could stay as far from her would-be captor's presence as she wished. But when chance forces her into closer proximity with the man known as Halbrand, she will find that her patience is not the only thing being tested. Particularly when what he seems to desire most, now, is her heart. (Yellowstone-ish AU).

Warnings: alternate universe, original character(s), house fire, death of a parent, burn scars, toxic relationship, Stockholm syndrome, angst, allusion to smut, unrequited love, enemies to lovers, drug use, alcohol use, implied sexual assault, more warnings to be added as the story goes on.

Other: Please let me know if you would like to be added to a tag-list! dividers by @zaldritzosrose

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Stumbling into the motel room, utterly consumed by the heady mix of a woman's perfume and the feel of a pair of hands tugging insistently at his shirt, Bain barely possesses the wherewithal to remember to close the door behind him.

He does manage, somehow, the sudden shift in equilibrium required by the act causing him to stumble until his back bumps against the wall near the frame. His companion follows, not long after, her laughter sending a zing of electricity down his spine, even in the midst of the curious numbness settling over him with every passing moment. A numbness he had welcomed as soon as two of the pills he'd purchased in the alleyway earlier that very night had passed his lips.

The haze that blankets his mind—his senses—seems to inhibit and sharpen his focus at the very same time, the motel room at large appearing as an amalgamation of blurred shapes and outlines, while the woman before him exists in perfect clarity. A woman whose name he still does not know.

It doesn't matter. From the moment the conversation between them had started at the bar he'd stumbled into not long after his impromptu alleyway purchase, both of them had known precisely where things were headed, between them. Both had known they were each a distraction for the other. For whatever troubles haunted them, dogging their every step, and forcing them to seek oblivion in the arms of a stranger.

An arrangement that Bain realizes he is more than comfortable with, given the alternative. An evening spent alone, with nothing but his own thoughts for company. Thoughts that even the haze provided by the pills cannot fully waylay.

A shudder rolls through him at the prospect, and the woman seems to sense it almost immediately, pulling back to peer up at him, with thin brows furrowing in a look of abject concern. Fingers stilled against his abdomen, where they have burrowed beneath his shirt hem, she opens her mouth, likely to question if he wants her to stop.

An outcome which he knows he cannot allow.

Pushing himself away from the wall, Bain lifts a hand to brush a few stray locks of hair from her face in hopes of distracting her. He ducks his head down until he can brush his mouth against her own, a low groan escaping as the act pulls a whimper from her throat while her arms wind their way around his neck.

It is easy, then, to continue guiding her backwards, toward the unmade bed he'd vacated what feels like ages ago, now. Easy to allow her to push his shirt up, until he is forced to lift his arms to assist her in removing it, entirely.

When the fabric falls to the floor, and the woman's hands begin to fumble at his belt, Bain eagerly moves to assist her. His hands fall to the buttons at the front of her own shirt, his focus narrowing to each inch of skin exposed as he works them open. To the sound of his belt being pulled free of his jeans.

With the haze that still clouds his perception of everything that surrounds him—everything that is not the woman pulling him closer, her mouth trailing a line of fire along his collarbone, while her fingertips trace idle patterns against his bare skin—Bain secures an arm around her waist. He pulls her against him, her chest brushing his own, while her legs wind themselves securely around his hips. And although he is hardly blind to the ghosts of every thought he'd been running from, lingering at the outer edges of his mind—although he can feel them, slavering at his heels, ready to devour him the moment he gives them even a fraction of time to take root—Bain knows.

Running from them is a thing he will cling to until he has absolutely no other choice than to face them, head-on.

It takes a few moments, in the semi-darkness of the parking lot, for Tilda to realize the gravity of what it is that she has just done.

When reality does slowly start to sink in, she is—mortified. Horrified, her cheeks already flaming as her mind struggles to come to terms with how best to proceed. With the knowledge that she cannot possibly remain as she is, half-stooped over, at odds with the growing terror of straightening and looking her would-be rescuer in the eye. In light of such a daunting conundrum, she simply remains frozen. Motionless, as though she is actually foolish enough to hope that, if she stays exactly as she is, time will somehow turn back. That it will somehow right itself, until the events of the last few minutes have simply ceased to exist.

Head still pounding, and ears still ringing, Tilda waits for that moment. For an event that will never come. She waits for the opportunity to simply sink into the ground, but that moment does not come, either.

This simply could not be happening.

But it is happening.

It is happening, and the longer she remains frozen, the more foolish she must certainly seem to a man who had done nothing but help her to rid herself of a rather rapidly developing problem.

Completely incapable of suppressing the low groan that escapes, Tilda grasps desperately for a controlled calm that a part of her already knows she will not be likely to achieve. Heart hammering against her ribs, and mouth burning with the sting of bile, she forces herself to straighten, and look her would-be rescuer in the eye.

The weight of his gaze as he observes her, one brow quirking upward as though she is a source of mild intrigue to him—intrigue, and amusement—is almost more than she can bear.

"Are you following me?"

The words escape before Tilda can stop them, the reality of how out of place they must seem when compared to what he has just done for her only fanning the flames of embarrassment that redden the skin of her cheeks. Though a part of her would love to blame the way the man—Halbrand—had been looking at her for her outburst, or leave it at the door of the alcohol she had consumed before venturing outdoors, she knows that neither will be likely to serve as a feasible excuse.

Desperate for a distraction, Tilda scans her surroundings, only to find that the other man that had been with Halbrand when he arrived—the man who had been dispatched to take care of the man that had been assaulting her—is no longer nearby. In the time since Halbrand's arrival, no one else has entered or left the bar, leaving her with the unquestionable certainty that she is well and truly on her own. A fate that almost seems more dangerous, now, than it had when she had been at the mercy of her earlier companion.

For an unbearable series of moments that seem unending, Halbrand simply does not respond to her blurted inquiry, instead seeming content to simply continue watching her. To continue waiting for her to either grasp for an attempt at redemption, or to dig the hole she is already standing in even deeper.

A reality that has goosebumps prickling against her skin as soon as she takes note of the amused half-smile that does not come close to reaching Halbrand's eyes.

"Following you?" He repeats, finally breaking the silence between them while simultaneously taking a few steps closer. Steps that have Tilda straightening, every muscle suddenly taut, like a livewire primed and ready to snap, "I don't suppose you have a reason for your suspicions—"

"You were at the hospital. The precinct. And now—"

"And now I'm here."

"Now you're here," Tilda confirms, doing what she can to ignore the way the words seem to tremble as Halbrand moves still closer, forcing her to tilt her head back just a bit in order to continue looking him in the eye, "Why?"

"I wasn't aware a man needed your permission to go for a drink."

"That's not what I'm saying, and you know it."

"Do I?" Halbrand questions, the shadow of his taller frame almost completely covering Tilda's features, even with the light provided by the fluorescent bulb that hangs over the bar's side door, "I would think you should be thanking me for what I did, not berating me."

"I'm not—that's not what I—"

"It's not what you're saying?"

Whatever retort she might have been planning dies rather quickly in light of Halbrand's remark, and Tilda finds herself once again facing the sensation of her cheeks flaming to life with proof of her discomfort. A sensation that causes her to emit a frustrated huff before she can fully stop it. Instinct prompts her to attempt a step or two back, though she suspects that there is nothing she could do to gain enough space between them to settle her nerves.

With Halbrand watching her the entire time, she cannot seem to break free of the strange sense of unease that threatens to overwhelm her. She cannot seem to stop herself from staring, even when every ounce of good sense she possesses all but screams for her to look away.

It is as though some strange, almost magnetic force is determined to root her in place, when all that she wants is to find some manner of excuse to leave. A reality that only becomes more clear as her redoubled efforts to back away have her stumbling, her equilibrium once again in jeopardy until the sensation of a pair of hands grasping at her forearms to steady her steals her momentum altogether.

"I'm fine—"

"Clearly," Halbrand quips, his grasp on Tilda's forearms remaining steady—unshakeable—even in light of how she makes a poorly executed and admittedly half-hearted attempt to pull away, "Let me take you home."

"Haven't you heard? I don't—I don't have a home anymore."

The confession is not entirely something Tilda had been prepared for. It is hardly something she is ready to face, the force of it sending her reeling, whether she would have wished for such a thing, or not.

For a moment, Tilda simply remains speechless. Upright, even if it is only by the steady weight of Halbrand's hold on her arms that enables her to be so. Whatever freedom she'd been granted from the inebriation she so nearly succumbed to when first leaving the bar disappears in seconds, leaving her suddenly adrift. A victim to the disorientation that once again threatens to consume her from the inside out.

Breath catching in her throat as one of Halbrand's thumbs brushes against the bare skin of her wrist, Tilda shakes her head slightly in a desperate attempt to clear her suddenly blurring vision. To rid herself of the renewed pounding between her temples. A sensation that matches the uneven thundering of her heart against her ribs, beat for beat.

It would be a lie for her to pretend she is not at a loss for words. For even a hint of an idea at any action she should be taking, save for remaining precisely where she stands, while the world seems to blur around her. But before she can even attempt to make heads or tails of it all, Tilda realizes that the once-stationary ground beneath her feet has started to spin. Slowly, at first, and then faster and faster, the act of squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before opening them once more not doing anything at all to stop it.

Panic flares to life between her ribs in response, only intensifying the ache in her skull, and her newfound inability to get her eyes to focus for any longer than a few brief seconds at a time. And although she is at least partly aware of Halbrand asking her something, the words garbled, as though spoken underwater, Tilda is utterly powerless to even attempt to decipher them.

She is powerless to do anything, as the ground that had been spinning at her feet suddenly rushes up to meet her, and she knows no more.

Alone, save for the steady beep of the monitors tracking his vitals, Adar lies awake in a hospital bed, unable to fully succumb to sleep. Unable to push the thought of an entire life he'd spent decades building falling down around him far from his mind, no matter how hard he tries.

He had intended for the ranch to pass to Bain and Tilda. For it to be theirs, as much as it had been his own. Theirs, to pass down to their own children, their grandchildren, and their great-grandchildren, long after he was gone, though that dream, now, appears to be farther from his reach than it ever had been, before.

Debts that had once seemed manageable now loom ahead of him like some grim spectre he will never be capable of outrunning, the absence of both of his children—of his wife—only enhancing a pain the likes of which he is not entirely certain he can survive. A pain that threads its way through his veins, pricking against every nerve like barbed wire until it coils around his heart, and delivers a squeeze.

He had been a fool to believe his efforts at easing the burdens of friends—of people he had known for most of his life—at his own expense would be sustainable for long. A fool to believe it would not land him in hot water, particularly once he had learned of the arrival of a man who seemed intent upon purchasing all of the farmable land in the area. Land that had been held in the names of the same families for longer than Adar had ever drawn breath.

Crumbling under their own share of pressures, both from without and within, many have already been forced to give up that land, the money they had received in return always paling in comparison to the loss of the only homes they had ever known. Homes they had labored over for as long as any of them could remember. Yet even in light of that reality, and the knowledge somewhere in the back of his mind that nursing his pride might not be the best answer to a predicament he never once could have foreseen, Adar had refused the man's offer when he came knocking. He had thrown it back in his face, even when just one glimpse of the darkening in the man's gaze had sent a shiver of cold dread racing down his spine.

Although he might wish to do everything within his power to avoid acknowledging it, Adar knows without a doubt that the burden of all the events that had occurred, after that one, pivotal moment—the fire, Freida's death, and the heartache of his children chief among them—rests squarely on his shoulders, and his alone.

Saying anything other than that a part of him wishes that he had been the one to die in the fire that consumed his family home would be a lie.

The thought is a selfish one. Adar knows this, his mind recoiling from it, even as the painful throbbing in his chest gives him every reason to believe that he will never be capable of putting a stop to his desire for it, altogether. At least, not truly, the reality of being parted from his wife for the remainder of his days something that is entirely too painful for him to bear.

Though hardly foolish enough to believe anything other than that, one day, the two of them would be parted, still, he had hardly imagined that day would arrive so soon. In truth, he had rather hoped that the day might come when both of them were old and gray. Surrounded by their children, and grandchildren, so that Bain and Tilda would have a means of continuing to look forward, rather than dwelling upon the past.

Whether as some manner of divine retribution for his own actions, or just a cruel twist of fate, Adar is now forced to acknowledge that such a hope will never come to fruition. And that realization alone is enough to pain him far more than any sort of physical injury ever could.

It is a crippling pain. Relentless, and strong enough to force him to shift against the pillows at his back, one hand lifting on instinct to press against his sternum as though the gesture would ever stand a chance at doing any good. The sensation of something not all that far from barbed wire that redoubles its efforts to cut his heart into ribbons all but confirms that it will not.

For a moment, Adar finds himself freezing in place, fingers curling into the fabric of the hospital gown as the loss of nearly everything he holds dear threatens to rob the very breath from his lungs. Alarm flares as he begins to wonder if the pain that seems so determined to plague him intends to allow him to breathe, ever again.

Within seconds, the monitors that have been tracking his vitals begin to chime, the sound of the cacophony soon drowned by the shrill ringing in his ears. A sound that steadily grows louder with each passing second he spends incapable of drawing a singular breath. And by the time his vision starts to darken at the corners, it becomes abundantly clear that, however it had started out, the pain he knows now is more than just the end-result of a seemingly boundless grief.

The very last thing that lingers in Adar's mind, before everything goes black, is the relief he feels that, if this is to be his end, he will be able to meet it without either of his children being forced to bear witness.

If he can protect them from whatever fate awaits him, now, regardless of what it costs him in the process, then he will do so, time and time again.

It is cold inside the motel room when Bain finally wakes, a sliver of early morning light alerting him to the fact that the space beside him in bed is empty.

Squinting against the light, Bain spends a moment indulging in a stretch, muscles burning with an almost delicious sort of ache, even in spite of the dull throbbing between his temples. A pulsing sensation that he tells himself has absolutely nothing to do with disappointment over the reality of waking to find himself alone.

It shouldn't matter to him. It doesn't. Not when he knows full well that the previous evening was nothing more than a distraction for both him, and the woman whose name he never bothered to learn. Yet even knowing that, Bain would be lying if he tried to pretend that the reality of the cold sheets beside him does not sting.

Just as he would be lying if he were to pretend that further acknowledgment of that sting is not a line of thought that will only lead him down the very path he has been trying so diligently to avoid.

A groan escapes as he hauls himself upright, feet swinging over the edge of the rumpled bed until they rest on the threadbare carpeting beneath him, his shoulders slumping until he can rest his elbows upon both knees. While the fingers of one hand lift to drag through sleep-tousled hair, Bain reaches his other hand out to make a grab for the pills he left on the bedside table, the night before. Pills that will enable him to continue the act of foolishly running from a reality that he knows he will eventually have to face.

Pills that are apparently no longer there.

Cursing under his breath, Bain stands almost immediately, his gaze seeking the floor beside the bed. Beneath it. The table beside the door, and the tv stand, but each look hardly provides him with the relief he seems to need. The relief that he can feel shriveling and dying away inside of him with each moment that passes by. A strange sort of panic seizes hold of him as he moves to the other side of the bed, flinging back the covers, only to find nothing there, as well. And even if he already suspects that the effort will be futile, Bain rushes into the small bathroom just a few steps away, only to find his supsicions are confirmed.

Empty counters. Pills, nowhere in sight.

Turns out the previous evening's attempt at distracting himself from the sad state of his own life came at a price.

Another curse escapes as he moves back toward the bed, anger and self-recrimination burning through his veins like wildfire. Before he can think better of it, that anger takes hold, enabling him to grab for one of the mostly-empty beer bottles on the bedside table, and hurl it to shatter against the wall.

Though he knows it will not be likely to do any good, Bain is already reaching for another bottle. Preparing to throw it like its predecessor, even knowing that he will be the one cleaning both messes up, later. But before he can follow through on the act, the sound of his phone vibrating against the wood of the table diverts his attention, far more efficiently than anything else likely ever would.

Fingers releasing the bottle, in favor of reaching for the phone, instead, Bain's brow furrows as the realization that he does not recognize the number scrolling across the screen becomes clear. For a moment, he almost considers ignoring the call, if for no other reason than to give in to the frustration that still gnaws at him, as though determined to devour him from the inside, out.

To his surprise, it is a moment that quickly passes, overwhelmed by something beneath all of his aggravation that seems all but determined to have him acknowledging the call rather than ignoring it. And by the time he gathers the wherewithal to act upon that startling impulse, Bain finds that his voice comes across as nothing more than a low croak. A sound he suspects the caller may not even be able to properly hear.

"Hello?"

"This is Bain?"

"It is," Bain affirms, running a hand across his face in an effort to dispel some of the apprehension that curdles in his gut. An effort that is clearly wasted, given what the woman calling him says, next.

"This is Noreen from Mercy Health Memorial. Your—your father took a turn for the worse overnight, and we can't seem to reach your sister," The woman informs, reluctance heavy in her tone as though she can sense the way in which Bain's entire body goes taut in response to the news, every muscle suddenly stiff to the point of pain, "Would—would you be able to reach her? I think the two of you might want to come in, as soon as you can."

"You can't—you can't reach her?"

"No. We've been trying for an hour, at least. We were—we were hoping that maybe she would be with you."

"She's not," Bain supplies, scooping up his jeans from the floor beside the bed, and struggling to pull them on not long after, "Is he—my father, is he—"

"He's hanging on, for now. We had to intubate him, but you should—"

"I'll find my sister. I'll—I'll find her."

Hanging up the call before the woman can say anything more, Bain hurries to stow his cell in the back pocket of his jeans, a haphazard glance around the room showing that his shirt is still resting nearby. Though his hands are trembling, he is able to throw it on with minimal effort, while simultaneously moving to don his boots where they still rest, by the door.

In seconds, he swipes his keys from the table, his free hand wrenching open the door so that he can step across the threshold. And although he cannot be sure exactly where his sister might be, given that she'd never bothered to answer his text from the night before, Bain would be a liar if he were to pretend he did not know of a good place to start.

Lucy Tanner.

The girl's phone has been buzzing every fifteen minutes or so, since dawn.

Between calls from an unknown number, and intermittent texts from a name he can only surmise belongs to her brother, the sound has been Halbrand's near constant companion since he'd placed the device on the countertop of the kitchen island not long after waking. Not long after he'd risked a look at where Tilda still sleeps in the bed in the guest room, his decision to swipe the device from where it had initially rested on the bedside table something he still does not fully understand.

The idea of waking her before she is ready should not bother him. It should not matter, given that he hardly knows her, and certainly owes her no allegiance whatsoever. Yet even so, he'd brought the phone with him into the kitchen to keep it from disturbing her. He'd been eyeing it ever since, in between sips of coffee, and glances out the window at the morning sunrise slowly illuminating every corner of his land.

Even if he is hardly blind to the questionable nature of his decision, given that the insistent buzzing would indicate that the need these people have to reach Tilda is a result of something important, Halbrand cannot entirely bring himself to regret it. He cannot bring himself to reconsider, even if he can already predict the exact nature of her displeasure, should she learn of his attempted deception.

A singular twitch at one corner of his mouth is the only thing that gives proof to his amusement over the possibility, his thoughts almost immediately turning to the more practical reason behind her presence in his home, altogether. To the real reason behind his pseudo-theft of her phone, in an effort to prevent her from falling prey to any distraction.

He knows that Tilda will likely refuse the offer, he intends to present her, anyway. Knowing the sacrifice accepting it will require, it would be ludicrous to assume anything else, at least at first, but to be honest, the outcome of her initial refusal is precisely what he is intending. From the moment he'd seen her sitting outside the hospital, Halbrand had known that her cooperation would not be that easily won, the way in which she'd held her own, even in the face of her rather apparent doubts as to his character and reasons for being there intriguing, to say the least.

Saying anything other than that he feels most concerned with the precise moment that will lead to Tilda's eventual acquiescence—the moment that will leave her with little choice but to accept his offer—would be a lie.

It is no secret that he must tread carefully. That guaranteeing the role Tilda herself will play in his machinations will require a great deal of care.

The tenacious buzzing of her phone, and its ability to derail his efforts to achieve those goals is simply an obstacle he would be wise to remove before it becomes a problem.

Reaching for the device, Halbrand pockets it, intent upon stowing it elsewhere as soon as he finishes the mug of coffee still resting on the island, but then he hears it. The sound of hesitant footsteps approaching, that can mean only one thing.

His impromptu houseguest would appear to be awake.

"She lives."

"Where—where am I?" Tilda inquires, arms folding self-consciously across her chest as she lingers in the doorway that leads from the dining room to the kitchen, itself, "And where are my—my clothes?"

"Your clothes are in the wash, since I assumed you wouldn't want to sleep in something that smelled like a distillery," Halbrand replies, unable to fully restrain the huff of a laugh that escapes as he takes in the way in which Tilda seems to fidget uncomfortably on the spot, her hands shifting to tug the oversized shirt he'd provided her to sleep in down in order to better cover her thighs, "And you are in my home."

"Where, exactly, is that home? Are we—are we still—"

"Do you truly think I would transport you across state lines?"

"I really don't know what to—what to think," Tilda admits, cheeks flushing pink as she makes her way to one of the chairs beside the island, Halbrand's gaze tracking her every step of the way, "We didn't—after you brought me here, we didn't—"

"Didn't what?"

"You know what."

"Do I?" Halbrand muses, amusement momentarily outweighing any desire to remain indifferent, particularly in light of the exasperated huff Tilda allows in response to his attempt at feigning ignorance, "I was not aware I could read minds."

"You clearly felt it necessary to remove my clothes. So I thought—I thought—"

"That we slept together?"

Tilda's silence in the wake of his casual delivery of the words is exactly as Halbrand had imagined it would be, the way in which her eyes narrow at his answering smirk clearly at odds with how easily her flush seems to deepen, whether she would ever own up to such a reality, or not. Though he knows he possesses ample incentive to torment her further, he holds his silence, at least for the moment, instead choosing to wait for her to answer a question she so clearly wishes had never even been asked.

As the minutes continue to pass them by, Halbrand wonders if Tilda's apparent stubbornness might end up winning out against her tenuous desire for answers, the way a muscle ticks along the fine line of her jaw seeming to indicate that is the exact path which she intends to choose. And although he is well aware that he is likely tempting fate by doing so, he cannot seem to resist the urge to allow his gaze to trail from her face, to the shoulder that peeks out from the shirt that hangs crookedly over her frame, across her torso, and then down to her legs. An act that is clearly intended to unnerve her, even if he knows that doing so is hardly wise.

"Yes."

"Pardon? I didn't catch that—"

"Yes," Tilda hisses, shifting once again, this time in an effort to place the kitchen island between them, while one hand lifts to tug the collar of her borrowed shirt up over her shoulder, "Did we—"

"I generally prefer the women in my bed to be conscious when we're together. Much more fun that way."

"So that's a no."

"It is."

"Then why did you bring me here?"

"Perhaps I did wish to take advantage of you," Halbrand quips, the deadpan delivery of the statement clearly catching Tilda off guard, if the way her eyes seem to widen ever so slightly is any sort of indication at all, "Or perhaps I would have been wiser to simply leave you as you were. Assuming your indignation now is the result of a preference for the man I dispatched for you."

"Dispatched? You didn't—you didn't kill him, did you?"

"Would you mourn for him if I had?"

Once again, Tilda greets his inquiry with silence, though this time, there is an undercurrent of horror, rather than embarrassment, behind the widening of her eyes. Halbrand recognizes it, every bit as surely as he recognizes the way she manages a few steps away from the island, while her throat bobs in a nervous swallow.

Using Tilda's clear apprehension in his favor, Halbrand moves, albeit slowly, to her side of the island. He suppresses his amusement as she stumbles back almost immediately, a wince passing across her features as her back bumps into the edge of the stove.

By the time he closes the distance between them, the space he allows only a few meager centimeters, Halbrand is reasonably certain that Tilda may, in fact, have ceased breathing. And although he would be lying if he were to pretend that her reaction has a part of him wishing to continue this little charade—to see where, exactly, the banter between them might go—he resists, his expression carefully controlled, as ever, to avoid allowing even the slightest hint of his true intentions to the woman pinned between him, and the stove at her back.

"I am many things, Tilda, but a killer is not one of them."

"Then what is it that you want from me?" Tilda demands, the words tremulous. Muted, though Halbrand can tell she is fighting with everything she has to prevent it, "Why am I here?"

"Because I have something that I think you'll find you might need," Halbrand answers, managing a step away from the woman standing before him, and trying not to acknowledge how she appears to relax, albeit only by a little, in response.

"And I think you might fare better hearing it, if you were sitting down."

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