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The saloon doors swung open for what must have been the hundredth time that day, their hinges whining before the wood slapped shut again behind the latest patron.
Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and the sour smell of spilled whiskey. Dust clinging to everything- the rows of bottles behind the bar, the antlers nailed crookedly to the wall, even the withered old piano slumped in the corner with a handful of missing keys.
From somewhere in the back came the dull rhythm of cards hitting a table. Glasses clinking. Chairs scraping across the floorboards. A burst of laughter cut through the room- thin, sharp, and short lived- before sinking back into the usual murmur.
The whole place felt worn down to its bones, a ghost of whatever it used to be.
Just another ordinary day for you.
Behind the bar, your hands worked on autopilot, running a frayed cloth over freshly washed glasses. Dry. Set aside. Repeat.
Your eyes wandered, searching for something-anything- different. They traced the same yellowing photographs on the walls, drifted across the same tired decor, and finally settled on the same familiar faces.
Regulars.
Men hunched over cards and whiskey, putting their coins on the table while trying to drown whatever followed them through those doors.
Another night of gambling. Another night of drinking. Another night exactly like the last.
The routine had been the same for as long as you could remember.
Monotonous. Repeating. As familiar as breathing.
You grew up inside these walls, back when you were barely tall enough to see over the counter.
Your father would work at the bar while you struggled to find your balance on a stool behind him, tiny hands wrapped around a glass as you poured water back and forth between cups, imitating every move he made.
Back then the place had felt alive. New. Welcoming.
Now the floorboards were warped and dark with years of spilled liquor, vomit, and the occasional splash of blood. The walls had dulled and the laughter had changed.
Funny how things rot when no one has the time to care for them.
Ever since your father passed, the weight of the place had landed squarely on your shoulders.
There was no one left to help carry it. No one to lean on when the nights stretched too long.
You were barely keeping the saloon afloat.
Someone had offered to buy it once. A decent sum, too. But you had refused.
The money would've helped you, and maybe the place would've been repaired, polished up instead of slowly crumbling into itself. But it was the last thing you had left of your family.
Still, sometimes you caught yourself wondering what life might've looked like if you'd said yes.
Hell you still could, you had buyers that are willing to take the place off of your hand.
The thought was cut short by the sudden swing of the saloon doors.
They banged open hard enough to make the nearest card players glance up.
The man who stepped through filled the doorway like a storm rolling in.
He was huge- broad shoulders stretching at the seams of a black coat that hung heavy off his frame. Your eyes quickly swept over him, picking apart the details in the way years behind the bar had taught you to.
You noticed he had plenty of weapons for starters.
A revolver sat low on his hip, impossible to miss.
Knives and daggers were tucked along his belt and coat like they belonged there. The black bandana pulled over the lower half of his face had the faded shape of a skull, slightly yellowed from time and dust.
Trouble, if you'd ever seen it.
Your gaze stayed fixed on him as he walked across the room. His steps were slow, deliberate, the kind of steps that carried weight.
His eyes moved just as carefully- sweeping across the saloon, measuring exits, counting bodies, reading the room.
When he finally reached the bar, those same sharp brown eyes met yours.
He tipped the brim of his black hat before lowering himself onto one of the stools.
"Evening" you said cautiously, "What can I get ya tonight?"
"Bourbon."
The answer was flat. Simple. No wasted words.
You silently grabbed the bottle and poured him a glass.
Across the counter, his gloved hand reached up and tugged the bandana down from his face. He lifted the drink to his lips and took a slow sip while his gaze drifted across the room once more.
Watching, noticing and memorizing every inch along with every soul inside.
You couldn't help but look at his face- or at least the parts of it he didn't bother hiding. The brim of his hat casted a shadow over his eyes, but the rest was hard to miss.
Burnt skin stretched across one side of his face, rough and uneven, the scarred tissue trailing down along his jaw and disappearing beneath the collar of his coat. Newer injuries layered over older ones. A thin scar sliced through one of his eyebrows, breaking the hair clean in two. Another ran along the bridge of his nose, though most of it vanished beneath the black bandana covering his mouth.
None of them looked recent.
His expression, what little you could read of it, stayed cold. Still. Calculated.
You'd seen your fair share of rough men drift through these doors- both outlaws and cowboys from every corner of the country. The West was crawling with them after all.
But something about this one refused to leave your mind.
Maybe it was the quiet.
Maybe it was the way the air around him seemed to tighten, like a rope threatening to snap.
Still, the night carried on like any other.
Drunk men stumbling in and out. Poker games grew louder as the whiskey bottles emptied.
The pianist took his place at the battered piano, tapping out a lively tune while the gamblers hollered and slapped cards against the table.
Through all of it, the stranger stayed quiet.
He nursed his bourbon slowly, never rushing it, eyes drifting across the room now and then like he was taking inventory of the place. When the night finally wound down, he paid his tab without a word and slipped out the same doors he'd come through.
You knew men like that had a past.
Something chasing or something they were trying to outrun. The law. A bounty. Old ghosts that refused to stay buried.
Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with you- or at least that's what you told yourself.
The next evening, the doors swung open again.
And there he was.
Same time.
Same quiet stride across the floor.
Same stool at the bar.
He tipped his hat in your direction when he sat down.
"Bourbon" he said, just like before.
The pattern repeated the day after that.
You noticed that he spoke very little, kept to himself, and left once his drink was finished.
Once, when a drunk cowboy staggered up to the counter and started giving you trouble- loud and sloppy, knocking his elbow into the glasses- you were already bracing yourself for broken bottles and a mess to clean.
Before it could turn into anything worse, the stranger slid a few coins across the bar toward you.
Before it could turn into anything worse, the stranger slid a few coins across the bar toward you.
"Put it on my tab if he breaks somethin'" he muttered.
His voice was low, rough around the edges.
The cowboy quieted down soon after, but you never even saw the stranger look his way.
He was... strange.
Not in the loud, dangerous way most outlaws were.
No.
He was something else entirely.
An anomaly.
Because the next day he came back again.
Same time.
Same seat.
Same drink.
You couldn't help it- your curiosity had always had a way of creeping in where it didn't belong.
Back in your younger days, you'd been warned countless of times. Your father used to say it, the regulars used to say it, even the old drifters passing through town would mutter the same thing between drinks.
Back in your younger days, you'd been warned countless of times. Your father used to say it, the regulars used to say it, even the old drifters passing through town would mutter the same thing between drinks.
Don't stick your nose where it don't belong.
Don't get mixed up with the wrong crowd.
And whatever you do, don't go meddling in a man's business unless you're ready to catch a bullet for it.
The West had a simple way of dealing with people who asked too many questions.
You knew that.
You'd grown up watching it happen.
Still... every evening when the saloon doors creaked open and that same broad-shouldered stranger stepped inside, the curiosity stirred again.
Because men like him didn't settle into routines.
Not in places like this.
Outlaws drifted. Gunslingers kept moving. Men with scars like his usually had trouble following close behind them, he couldn't risk staying for too long.
Yet there he was.
Every night.
And every time he sat there, silent and watchful, you found your eyes drifting back to him before you could stop yourself.
"Not much of a talker are ya?"
He glanced up from his drink, eyes flicking toward you before dropping again.
"Not much to say"
Ah. So he can talk.
And by the sound of it, you could tell he wasn't from around here. The accent gave him away easy enough- across the pond somewhere.
You leaned your elbows on the counter, tossing the rag you'd been wiping glasses with aside.
"So what brings you to my saloon then?"
"Just passin' through."
You huffed a quiet laugh. "Well ain't you charming."
At that, he let out a small breath through his nose.
After a moment he glanced up again. "Saloon yers?"
You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing.
"Belonged to my pa," you say, "Now it's mine."
With that you turned away to pour whiskey for another customer, the glass clinking softly on the bar. When you looked back, the stranger had lowered his head again, studying the amber in his glass like it held all the answers in the world.
You manage to talk more with him after that.
Finding out that he was staying at one of the boarding houses down the road, and that he was, in fact, a Brit- though you never quite caught where exactly from. Most nights he kept to himself, hat tipped low, nursing a drink while the saloon roared around him.
But every now and then, if business was slow and the piano man had run out of songs, he'd talk.
Just a little.
Something about him had a way of pulling at your curiosity. The quiet sort of man who seemed to take up more space in a room than the loud ones.
The kind who sat with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door like he expected it to open on something unpleasant.
It made you wonder who he was and what he was waiting for.
"What's your name?" you ask one evening, leaning against the counter across from him.
He doesn't answer right away. Just swirls the bourbon in his glass, liquid catching the lantern light.
"Ghost."
You snort softly. "Asked for your name, not your wish."
That does it.
The corner of his mouth twitches- just barely, easy to miss if you weren't watching him as closely as you had been since the day he set foot in your saloon.
But you were.
Always had been.
You give him your name in return, and just like that the moment closes. He goes quiet again, tipping his hat low like he'd already said more than he intended to.
Then you start noticing things.
The way his hand drifts toward the revolver at his hip whenever the door swings open too hard.
How his eyes linger on unfamiliar faces a little longer than necessary.
The thin white scar disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt, like a knife had once come too close to his throat.
A man like that was running.
Then one night the doors burst open hard enough to rattle the windows.
A group of men march in.
Patches on their coats, dusty boots, guns hanging a little too proudly from their belts. Young by the looks of them- trying their best to wear danger like it was a badge of honor.
If you had to guess, they were fresh outlaws.
Still carrying that eager sort of arrogance about them. Like a newborn foal trying to stand tall, convinced it could run before it had even found its footing.
The saloon quiets a little as they spread out, loud voices and sharper laughs filling the space.
And from the corner of your eye, you see Ghost go still.
Not afraid.
But watchful.
As long as they didn't start trouble, you'd let them be.
Sure, it pissed you off how their hungry, greedy eyes dragged up and down the body of one of your barmaids. Irritated you how they spat on the floor like the place was a stable and snapped one of your chairs clean in half when they leaned back too hard.
Sure, it pissed you off how their hungry, greedy eyes dragged up and down the body of one of your barmaids. Irritated you how they spat on the floor like the place was a stable and snapped one of your chairs clean in half when they leaned back too hard.
You could throw them out.
But not yet.
Not enough reason.
Not until they started hollering across the room at your other patrons, tossing crude remarks and loud laughter that grated against the usual hum of your saloon.
Making comments about your regulars that was most likely bound to start a fight sooner or later.
Ghost just nursed his drink slowly, letting the bitter burn of whiskey sit on his tongue while the outlaws ran their mouths. His gaze drifted over them once or twice, quiet and calculating, before returning to his glass.
He had no intention of stepping in.
No reason to.
Last thing he needed was to make a scene and leave blood on your floors.
"Another round of whiskey, sugar!"
Your grip tightened around the bottle.
The nerve of some men.
You poured their drinks a little harder than necessary, the glass clinking against the counter before you set it on a tray. With a steady breath, you carried it over yourself- figuring it might be easier to shut them down face to face.
Or throw them out- whichever came first.
Their table fell quiet as you approached.
Then one of them let out a long, low whistle.
You ignored it, setting the glasses down in front of them one by one.
"Quite a pretty face you got there," one of them drawled, leaning back in his chair.
Your jaw tightened.
"Soiled dove like you oughta smile more."
Just like that, the saloon went silent.
A poker hand froze mid-play.
Someone stopped halfway through lifting their drink.
Even the pianist's fingers stilled above the keys.
Before you could step back- or tell him exactly where he could shove that comment- his hand came down hard against your backside.
The crack of it echoed in the room.
A chair scraped across the floor.
Across the room, Ghost stood.
No hurry in the movement.
He took a sip of his drink first, like he had all the time in the world. Then he set the glass down carefully on the counter.
Only after that did he pull his bandana up over his mouth.
The outlaw barely had time to turn his head before Ghost's fist collided with his nose with a sickening crunch.
The sound was wet and sharp.
You watched as the man dropped instantly, blood pouring between his fingers as he howled and crumpled to the floor.
And just like that all hell broke loose.
A second man lunged at Ghost who had caught him easily.
One hand grabbed onto the man's collar before he could swing, dragging him forward and slamming his head down onto the table. Glass bottles shattered under the impact, whiskey spilling across the wood as the man's forehead split open.
He slumped down with a groan, blood and liquor mixing together while the sharp sting of it burned into the fresh wound.
Then someone flipped a table.
It crashed sideways with a violent crack, legs splintering as glasses and poker chips scattered across the floor.
The whole room erupted.
Shouts. Chairs scraping. Fists flying.
Out of the corner of your eye you caught the flash of steel.
A knife.
The man holding it didn't hesitate. With a grunt he drove forward, blade aimed straight for Ghost's ribs.
Thankfully he pivoted just in time.
The knife tore through cloth instead of flesh, slicing his sleeve open from shoulder to elbow.
Fabric split clean as the blade grazed his arm.
Before the man could pull back, Ghost caught his wrist.
His fingers clamped down hard- too hard- ones grinding as the man cursed and struggled. The pressure forced the knife loose from his hand, watching it clatter across the floor.
You moved before you could think better of it.
Ducking behind the bar, you yanked open a drawer and grabbed your pa's old revolver. Rusted and worn from years of use, but it still had enough bite left in it.
You didn't hesitate as you fired a shot straight into the ceiling- the crack of the gunshot thundered through the saloon.
For a moment there was nothing but ringing ears and drifting dust as you held the revolver steady, smoke curling lazily from the barrel.
"Next one ain't a warning."
Your voice cut through the quiet like iron- steady and cold.
Across the room, the third man hesitated before grabbing his bleeding friends by the collars and dragging them toward the door. Boots scraped across the wooden floor, leaving streaks of red as the doors shut.
Ghost stood a few feet away, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. His knuckles were split open, streaked with blood. Some of it splattered on the bandana pulled over his mouth.
Most of it wasn't his.
"You didn't have to break his nose" you lower the revolver slowly and set it back in its place.
Ghost tipped his head back and finished the rest of his bourbon in one gulp. The glass hitting the countertop with a dull clink.
For the first time since you met him, his hands shook- just barely.
"Yeah" he muttered, "I did."
The room was still settling- dust drifting through the light, chairs overturned, people whispering as they tried to process what just happened.
That was when you saw it- a dark line running down the length of his arm. At first you thought it was whiskey from the shattered bottles, but then it kept moving.
Blood slid slowly toward his wrist, dripping from the torn sleeve where the knife had likely caught him.
You didn't hesitate.
"Back" you said firmly, "Now."
He could only blink at you, still catching his breath from the fight, shoulders rising and falling as the adrenaline slowly bled out of him.
"Don't argue."
You grabbed his arm before he could protest and steered him toward the back room. Over your shoulder you called to your barmaids, your voice carrying easily over their uneasy murmuring.
"Lock the doors and don't let anyone in."
They didn't question you. One of them was already moving to slide the bolt across the front door while the other began calming the shaken customers and fixing the chairs.
The door to the back room shut behind you with a dull thud.
It was dim back there, lit only by a crooked lantern nailed to the wall. The air smelled like old wood, dust, and the stench of spilled alcohol that had soaked into the floorboards. You guided him to a chair and pushed him down- not harshly by any means, but firmly enough that he knew better than to resist.
"Sit still."
The command came naturally as you reached for the small supply chest your father used to keep for nights when things went sideways. You set it on the small stool next to him, grabbing a bucket of clean water and a cloth.
"I'm fine."
You completely ignored him and rolled the sleeve up, exposing the cut beneath. The knife luckily hadn't gone deep, but it had sliced clean across the length of his arm, the skin split and still slowly bleeding.
He tensed when you started cleaning it, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth as the damp cloth pressed against the wound. Still, he didn't pull away. His muscles were tight under your hands, but he let you work.
Your touch was steady as you wiped away the blood. Up close you started noticing things you hadn't before, like the faint scars across his knuckles- or the way his eyes flicked toward the door every so often even though it was firmly closed.
"You get into fights like this often?" you asked quietly, focusing on wrapping the cloth around his arm.
"Often enough."
You snorted under your breath. "Well next time try not to bleed on my floors."
That earned a small breath of a laugh from him-barely there, but real.
You pulled the bandage snug and pressed it into place. "Hold this."
He listened without any argument, his large hand covering yours as he applied pressure to the cloth.
For a moment neither of you moved.
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Too quiet.
Up close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes beneath the shadow of his hat, and you realized just how close you were standing. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to catch the faint scent of smoke and leather that clung to his clothes.
"You shouldn't have done that" you murmured after a moment.
His brow furrowed slightly. "Done what?"
"Start a fight over me."
For a second he didn't answer. His gaze drifting down to where your hands were still resting against his arm before slowly lifting back to your face.
"They touched you" he stated simply.
The words may have been quiet, but they carried a kind of certainty that made your breath catch before you could stop it.
Neither of you spoke for a moment after that.
Then you noticed his hand shaking again, just slightly under yours. Without thinking you steadied his wrist with your other hand.
"You always this nervous after a fight?" you asked lightly.
His eyes flicked to yours, "Not the fight I'm worried about."
Something in your chest tightened, "Then what?"
He hesitated, the quiet confidence he carried seemed to falter for a moment.
"You don't want trouble followin' you," he muttered quietly. "You don't even know what trouble is followin' me."
You studied him for a moment before giving a small shrug.
"Seems like it already walked through my door tonight."
That finally pulled a real smile from him- small, crooked, and gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
Your hand was still resting on his arm, his hand was still covering yours- neither of you daring to move.
The tension settled heavy in the air between you, thick enough that you became suddenly aware of every small detail- the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers, the way his gaze had dropped briefly to your lips, the steady sound of his breathing in the quiet room.
"Careful," you murmured softly.
His brow furrowed. "Why?"
You tilted your head just slightly, "You're staring."
He exhaled slowly, like he'd been holding that breath for longer than he meant to. Then his hand shifted just enough to brush lightly against your wrist.
"Been tryin' not to."
You felt your heart beating rapidly against your chest.
That was all the warning either of you got before you leaned down and felt his lips press against your own.
The kiss was everything but hesitant.
Weeks of quiet tension and curiosity finally snapping all at once, and he reacted instinctively, one hand coming up to the back of your neck as he pulled you closer. For a moment he kissed you back like a man who had been starving for it.
Then suddenly he stilled.
The realization seemingly hitting him as he pulled back abruptly, breathing hard, his hand dropping like the contact had burned him.
"That," he muttered roughly, "was a mistake."
Before you could say anything, he was already moving. His hands slightly trembling as he stepped back, pulling the bandana over his nose as his eyes flickered toward the back door.
You reached for him instinctively, but he brushed past you without a word- the sound of his boots against the floor were sharp in the quiet room before he rushed out.
Your felt your chest tightening as your hands fell to your sides. The warmth of his lips lingered, and the sudden emptiness around you made your stomach twist.
His absence left nothing but silence and all you could do was stand there, trying to make sense of how quickly he had gone.
No.
What right does he think he has to just show up at your saloon, let himself get close to you, get in a fight to defend you, kiss you- only to leave?
Maybe he could get away with doing that to any other woman but not you.
You who had now gotten up and left that dim room to do damage control- grabbing your long coat as you walked through those dark streets, ending up knocking on a certain door.
Ghost on the other hand didn't sleep much that night after he'd hurried out.
What little rest he got came in short, restless stretches, broken by the same thought circling his mind over and over again. The look on your face in the back room. The way you had kissed him like you meant it.
By the time the first ray of light began creeping over the edge of town, he had already made up his mind.
He packed quickly.
There wasn't much to gather- just a worn bedroll, a few cartridges, and the small handful of belongings he had learned to keep when he never really planned on staying anywhere too long. It was a mistake to be in this town for the amount of time he did, staying only for a few days. The boarding house was quiet at that hour, the halls dark and empty as he stepped outside.
His horse huffed when he approached the hitching post.
"Easy" he murmured under his breath, running a gloved hand along the animal's neck as he tightened the saddle. The simple routine steadied him.
Things a man could do without thinking.
Things that didn't require him to wonder what might've happened if he stayed.
He swung onto the saddle just as the sun began to edge over the horizon, lighting up the dark street in a golden hue.
Giving the reins a small tug as he turned the horse toward the road out of town.
Though the sound reached him a moment later.
Hoofbeats.
Fast.
He frowned and glanced over his shoulder just as a rider came tearing down the street behind him, dust kicking up beneath the pounding hooves.
You.
Before he had time to react, you rode straight past him and pulled your horse hard across the road, blocking his path in one sharp motion.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Eyes meeting as you breathed deeply.
Then you leaned forward, reaching out without hesitation to pluck the hat straight off his head and settling it on your own.
It dipped low over your eyes, slightly too big on you.
"Sold the saloon this morning."
Ghost stared at you like he hadn't quite heard right.
"You... what?"
You nudged your horse a little closer, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
"Sold it."
He blinked, still trying to make sense of it. "Why-"
"Because," you said, tipping the brim of his hat back with your thumb, "I was waiting for a reason to leave."