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It all happened so fast that you still can’t quite wrap your head around it. What started as a slow morning has turned into an absolute horror, your own personal hell. You can still feel the warmth of New Austin’s sun beating down on you through the slits of your tent, heating up the air trapped behind the canvas.
The air had smelled of spices and fresh ingredients from Mr. Cripps’ stew that he likes to prepare early in the morning. You didn’t even fill up your bowl halfway when old Mr. Jones had stumbled into your camp, resembling more a fanatic scarecrow than an elderly man. Sure, he always carries an air of peculiarity around him but it felt odd when you watched him practically hurl himself out of the saddle, even for his standard.
That poor, scrawny horse came to a skidding halt, kicking up a cloud of dust that made everyone present break into a mean coughing fit. With some of it sprinkled on top of your bowl and into the stew, you had lost all your appetite and quite frankly, your patience for the old man. His eyes were as big as saucers, threatening to pop out at any moment and his arms were spread wide as if to announce a bad omen.
“I hope you have a good reason as to why you’re interrupting our breakfast in such manner.”, you drawled and the venom in your voice flew straight over his head.
“They’re going to hang him!”, he shrieked. You could name a few handfuls of folk that fit his description.
“Hang who?”
“The Mashal! Young Tom Davies!”
Your blood ran cold and that bowl of yours slipped right out of your grasp. Mr. Cripps understood in a heartbeat what needed to be done and therefore rushed to the weapon box, rummaging around inside it. He came back cradling guns: your volcanic, a bolt action and a pump action shotgun. All of them packing a proper punch befitting of your rage.
Now you’re just outside of Tumbleweed with Mr. Jones following behind and unable to keep up with the pace of your mare that pushes on with the wrath of an entire cavalry and the speed of lightning. You pass a man who’s slouched on the side of the road, holding a bloody arm and pointing with his good one at something in the distance.
His words are a blur as they hit your ears but you can somewhat figure what he was trying to tell you. Hooves drum against the dirt road like thunder, undoubtedly announcing your approach like an unyielding storm. A tempest resembling the one in your guts. You haven’t known the Marshal for too long, having Mr. Horley introduce him to you just a month ago or two, yet you’ve grown fond of the lawman.
With his straight-to-the-point way and his gruff demeanor. It’s impossible to ignore the looks he gives you with his one eye, gleaming with something more than a thirst for a bloody kind of justice and the lingering touches whenever he shakes your hand or squeezes your shoulder for good luck before a job that he himself can’t be seen getting involved in.
Each and every payment received from the Marshal is a dollar you’re reluctant to part with, for it came from him. It’s ridiculous when put into words but it feels right in your heart. Your mare slides over the dust and sand as you order it for an abrupt halt and you swiftly dismount at the entrance of Tumbleweed.
The old church is to your right, lying empty with the graves surrounding it and before you unfolds a small army of men armed to the teeth. Far in the back, beyond the shops and the town square, you spot the gallows with a cluster of people pooling around it like ants on their hill. There are more standing on top of the structure and you squint against the scorching sun for a better look.
Voices are carried over to you where you stand, a stranger declaring both the Marshal and the Sheriff guilty of charge and there he is. Your Marshal with squared shoulders and his head held high as if he’s the one tying the noose instead of wearing it. Seeing the rope around his neck sends your heart into a frenzy and lets it drop all the way down into your boots.
It feels like the roles are reversed. Transported in your mind, you’re the one standing there with the rough material of the rope scratching at your skin and sitting firmly on your throat, cutting and squeezing. Against all your wishes and hopes, someone pulls the lever and the trap door beneath his feet falls open He drops at a frightening pace and your stomach flips as waves of nausea crash down on you.
For a split second, you could swear that you can hear his neck snap and feel yours break along with it. An invisible hand reaches into your mouth, down your throat and tears a gag out of your body. Bile and saliva gather inside your mouth that you’re forced to spit before your feet. The Marshal continues falling until the rope around his neck stops two feet above the ground.
But it doesn’t break it. Instead, he hangs there choking and kicking against empty air and you shriek at the sight, drawing the attention of the men closest to you. They all gape at you in sheer bewilderment, like one would at a sudden apparition. Then a switch is flipped inside each and every one of them and they spring into action in sync.
A bullet whizzes past your ear, only a mere inch or two away from your face and you snap out of it. By now, old Mr. Jones has finally joined and yanks you behind one of the boxes that are scattered around town. Splinters fly up into the air as bullets burry themselves into your cover, threatening to mow you down where you cower.
“You have to be careful, Miss!”, Mr. Jones shouts over all the noise as you ready your bolt action.
Its metal gleams in the sunlight and you clutch it close to your chest, letting your rage seep into the weapon as if to infuse it with it. After checking the ammunition and waiting for a pause in the hail of lead that has been raining down on you, you peek out from behind the boxes. A few heads are poking out behind walls and crates and you fire a couple of shots at them.
You hear something crack, followed by a wet splatter and that’s when you know that you hit true. That continues on with the gang members and you exchanging shot after shot and although it’s a gradual process, Mr. Jones and you somehow manage to push forward deeper into Tumbleweed, against all odds.
The men that were standing at the gallows have abandoned it for now, leaving the Sheriff still tied to the post and the Marshal still dangling in the air. You could try shooting at the rope but you’d run into the risk of hitting either him or the Sheriff. More gang members come riding in, seemingly appearing out of thin air and surrounding you in the town square.
Pain explodes inside your thigh and you let out a choked back cry. Gazing down on it, you find your pants darken rapidly and it spreads in a way that almost reminds you of how the flowers bloom in spring. A bullet must have grazed you as you examine the ripped fabric. It’s torn into a line like a cut from a blade and you press a flat hand over it.
It hurts like a son of a bitch. Nerve endings scrubbed raw, you grit your teeth until the pressure of a headache builds up behind your temples and you try to ignore the warm slickness of your own blood seeping out from between your fingers. At least the bullet didn’t lodge itself into it. Cursing, you discard the rifle and grab your pistol.
Pushing yourself up onto your good leg, you lean your weight against the wagon you’re using as cover and shoot blindly. You don’t manage to bring down every single man but when not even a handful remains, they flee. Taking their legs into their hands, you watch them scramble for the few horses that haven’t got spooked by the gunshots and ride off into the distance.
“Your leg!”, Mr. Jones points out and you wave him off with your free hand.
“That ain’t important right now.”, you wring out. “Help me get the Marshal down.”
Mr. Jones rushes to find a small box and carries it over for Marshal Davies to stand on while you stagger up the stairs with your hunting knife unsheathed. First, you cut his rope and then the Sheriff’s. You figured that the former of the two clearly needed it more. Sheriff Freeman reaches out to steady you with both hands, helping you down the stairs. The Marshal is with you in an instant, replacing Sheriff Freeman’s spot and filling it with his own body.
“You shouldn’t have come.”, he remarks with nothing in his tone that could indicate any ounce of relief or gratitude over your rescue.
“Is that how you usually thank people who help you?”, you snarl, running thin on patience with every drop of blood that escapes your body.
Mr. Jones has found a wagon in the meantime that’s waiting ready at the edge of town. Marshal Davies slings one arm around your torso and the other around your legs before carefully hoisting you up. Although he’s handling you with a caution that is untypical for him, the pain is nearly blinding as it sends jolts through your veins.
It feels like your entire leg is engulfed in flames and the fire travels through the rest of your body, scorching you from both the in- and outside. You’ve never been shot before, always having thought yourself lucky given the kind of work you do. Hell, you weren’t even properly shot right now but good Lord does it hurt like a bitch.
“No, that’s what I usually tell folk that I don’t want harmed who put themselves in harm’s way anyway.”, he answers as he lays you down on the back of the wagon and follows by climbing onto it as well.
“You don’t want to sit in the front?”, Sheriff Freeman asks over his shoulder.
“No, I’m all right where I am now.”, the Marshal answers.
Mr. Jones hops onto the shotgun seat and the wagon begins to move. The roads here in the far west of New Austin aren’t the most comfortable with their rough terrain and sharp turns. You feel like a sack of potatoes being tossed left and right and you hold your leg still with both hands to keep it from shaking so much.
The Marshal peels off his jacket and you watch him rip the right sleeve clean off.
“Lift your leg for me.”, he murmurs and you obey without a question.
He ties the dark fabric over your thigh to stop the wound from bleeding and pulls the knot to tight that you can’t help but yelp up.
“Did I hurt you?”, he asks though surely, he’s aware of the fact that there was no avoiding it.
“Just a little bit.”, you croak.
“Sorry.”
Craning your neck, you’re relieved to find your horse following closely behind the wagon and you slump back to lean against the edge.
“Should we head to Armadillo, Marshal?”, Mr. Jones asks over the deafening rattling of the wheels.
“No, I reckon those bastards might be waitin’ for us there. The Sheriff doesn’t have a proper grip over that town.”, Sheriff Freeman answers. “No, best to ride around it and stop at Blackwater. If that’s all right with you, Miss?”
The question is directed at you and you bite down on your tongue. If only you’d have the guts to be honest, then you’d tell him that you don’t care where you stop as long as it doesn’t result in a second attempted execution. You could never let the Marshal know of the terror that you felt not too long ago, nor could you voice the truth that’s hidden inside your heart.
Gazing up into his wind beaten face that is still reddened from being choked for so long, you’re itching to press your lips onto his.
“I can make it to Blackwater.”, you say and Marshal Davies shakes his head.
“Horse shit.”, he barks. “Sam, take us to Armadillo.”
“But Montez’s men-“
“We’ll gun ‘em down if they try anything funny. We need medicine.”
You shake your head and his gaze snaps to yours, narrowing his eyes as if he can sense the rising protest on your tongue.
“I’m fine, really.”, you argue and he runs a gloved hand through his white hair.
It’s a disarray the way it sits on his head. The normally combed back strands are hanging loose and partly masking the sheared sides. It’s a fine haircut, one you like seeing on him a lot but it’s also painfully obvious that he does it himself. You like to imagine him in front of a shaving mirror and trying his utmost to cut the hair.
It looks mostly fine and professional the closer it gets to his face, but on the back of his head, where one can’t see right even with the help of a mirror, it looks just a tad uneven. Normally it’s hidden well beneath that large hat of his, though to someone like you, who has spent quite some time staring at him, it’s unable to go unnoticed.
“If we ain’t going to Armadillo, I’ll shoot all of us up.”, he barks with such zeal that you don’t doubt for a second that he’s telling the God honest truth. You fail to see how that would fix your leg.
The ride from Tumbleweed to Armadillo is a bit of a blur that has you slip in and out of consciousness no matter how desperately and vigorously you cling to it. You don’t want to close your eyes that have grown heavy from exhaustion and you don’t want to lower your head that feels like a spinning ball of clay.
Cholera has left the small town a wreck, a shadow of its former self, though you don’t believe that it had been the pinnacle of society before the sickness either. There are scarcely any people out and the ones that are, turn their gaunt faces away from your approaching wagon. You heard that the doctor long fled this corner of New Austin that lies seemingly forgotten by the Lord and any other higher power.
To nobody’s surprise, the local saloon has only free rooms and offers them at outrageously low prices. You snake your arm over the Marshal’s shoulders and lean into his side. Despite the grim circumstances, you still find it within yourself to relish the close proximity and his warmth mingling with yours.
It doesn’t take long to get you into the room and once inside you practically collapse onto the bed, letting darkness wash over you.
---
By the time you come back to your senses, the moon has replaced the sun and a few candles illuminate the room with their lone, flickering flames. They’re perched on top of the dresser and you sit up, wincing at the sharp pain the action causes in your leg. You’re completely alone and as you look to the side, you find fabric piling on top of a stool that has one of its legs broken.
Reaching out and leaning over, you grasp the clothes and pull them close. It’s a simple wash skirt that one of the men must have either bought or borrowed. Figuring that it’s better to wear this than those broken pants that are torn beyond saving, you carefully get changed. It’s a chore to loosen the Marshal’s knot and peel off your trousers.
By the time you’ve pulled them down your knees, you’re drenched in sweat and have bitten your cheeks raw. You’re relieved to find that nobody has taken off your trousers while you slept, but the wound has clearly been cleaned and tended to. The skirt is much easier to handle but you take a generous break before slipping into it and right as you close the final button, the door opens with a squeak.
You startle and scramble to grab the nearest object which is an empty vase with a chipped handle and a washed-out motif painted onto the porelain. Marshal Davies stands in the frame, gaping at the improvised weapon in your hand and you relax at the sight of him.
“I thought you’re someone else.”, you breathe out as you set the vase back down.
“Anything makes a decent weapon in your hands, don’t it?”, he comments as he closes the door behind himself. “I went to check on you. You’ve been out cold for hours.”
“What time is it?”
“Shortly after midnight.”
When did you arrive in Armadillo? It must have still been around noon or so, judging by the position of the sun when you rode into the town but you can’t trust your memory much.
“How’s your leg?”, he asks, nodding downward and you follow his gaze.
“It looks good. Hurts though.”, you answer and he clears his throat.
“Mind if I take a look?”
There’s not an ounce of embarrassment in his voice as if he didn’t juts asked you if he could peek under your skirt. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you lift your leg and rest your foot on a short stool. Your hands tremble as you grasp the hem of your skirt and slowly lift it up. By now, Marshal Davies must have realized the gravity of his request because once your ankle is revealed, you catch his throat bobbing.
Whether he feels uncomfortable at the intimate exposure or not, he doesn’t let it show and instead kneels down to bring himself on eye-level with your thigh. Burning up from the inside, you continue until your knee is bare and then finally, your thigh. The wound is on the upper half, right beneath your bloomers and you push them a few inches higher as well.
The material burns on your skin and a shiver runs down your spine that you can’t quite decipher the feeling of. It’s both cold and delicious. Something about him on one knee so close to your warm core invokes a sense of scandal inside you. You imagine one of those novels that can be bought for a penny or two at local store describing a moment such as this.
It’s a guilty pleasure of yours to read those, despite their reputation and outrageous wordings. They’re what feeds your wild imagination. When the Marshal’s fingers brush over your naked skin, they do so with the utmost respect. His hands don’t wander one bit while he inspects the injury and you catch yourself wishing that he’d travel higher even if just a little bit.
You want him to play with the band of your bloomers, slipping underneath and inching closer to the spot that is practically melting away from his proximity. His eye is narrowed as he brings his face closer to your thigh, so unbearably close that you can feel his breath caress it.
“It don’t look too deep.”, he mutters under his breath. “We’ll keep it clean, bandage it and it should heal up nicely.”
“Hm.”, you hum. “I told you that I’m fine. We could have easily driven to Blackwater.”
“I didn’t want to risk it.”, he argues with a voice that leaves no room for protest. Much to your delight, he isn’t removing himself from the spot on his knee.
“Why not? You sent me out on dangerous jobs before. It’s not like hunting down Montez could have ended up any better than this.”, you protest anyways, earning a half-hearted scowl.
“Montez was a menace to every decent citizen in this country.”, he says in his typical low grumble. “Today, it was just my life on the line. That’s different.”
“And Sheriff Freeman agrees?”
“He sees things the same as I do.”
Crossing both arms in front of your chest, you sigh. “And what would you have wanted us to do? Watch you hang?”
“For starters.”, he counters, finally looking up at you. “You may not have gotten shot at if you did.”
“You’re impossible.”, you snap, scoffing.
He grunts as he gets back onto his feet and reaches behind himself. A generous stack of cash appears before you and you gawk at the bills, not having considered any payment for his rescue at all.
“You ought to be paid though.”, he says to fill your stunned silence.
“What?”
“Ain’t that why you did it?”
Anger gathers in your mouth like saliva and your fingers itch with the urge to rip that cash into shreds. Swatting the “reward” away, you stare at him in utter disbelief and betrayal. Eyes dropping down onto his neck, you shudder at the dark line stretching over his skin. Black and blue bruises are left behind as evidence of what occurred today and the memory alone is enough to turn your stomach upside down.
Still, he sincerely believes you only did it for the money. Fretting over his life, nearly wailing on the way there like a widow at a funeral and then actually crying out when you saw him fall through that trap door and he still thinks that…truly impossible.
“I didn’t do all that for the money. I did it for you.”, you spit. “You dumb fool.”
“Excuse me?”, he sputters.
Cupping your hands over his, you curl his fingers around the cash and push it close to his chest. “Mr. Jones showed up at my camp and I was…beyond terrified. We came as fast as we could. I didn’t have any type of reward on my mind at all.”
Even after all this, you can’t bring yourself to admit what really drove you out of camp this morning. You can’t admit your feelings but instead, paint it as a group effort. We were worried. As if you didn’t watch your life flash before your inner eye when you were faced with the possibility of losing him for good.
“Well, I don’t know what to say.”, he whispers. “Thank you.”
As much as it pains you, you let go of his hands and he glances over his shoulder at the door. Something tells you that he’s slipping through your fingers, that once he steps through that threshold, all your chances will be lost forever.
“Horley sent a telegraph. Said he’s awaitin’ for you in Blackwater or something.”, he mutters and disappointment weighs heavy in your stomach.
This is it then? This is where you part ways. Where he goes back to his work and you go back to whatever it is you did before you met him. He will find other guns to hire and you will find another employer.
“You’re leaving now?”, you ask, terrified of his answer.
“In the mornin’. It don’t feel right to leave you here alone for the night with Montez’s men out there.”, he answers and a glimmer of hope flickers behind your chest.
“I see.”
“Listen, Miss. You’re a fine woman. Any man with two- or rather one functional eye can see that.”, he starts and when his gaze locks into place with yours, you’re shaken to the core.
Something grave swirls in his pale iris and you seek out the bed post for balance. Throat closing up, you hear your blood pumping in your ears in sync with your heartbeat. You thought about this very moment a million times while tossing and turning in your bedroll during yet another sleepless night. To be honest, you always pictured yourself handling it with a little bit more grace than you are right now.
“But I know that you’re too fine for someone like me.”
“Someone like you?”, you blurt out, unable to comprehend his words.
Like him? Attractive, broad and bad in all the good ways? You can scarcely come up with anyone better from the top of your head.
“I won’t beat around the bush, Miss. I’m a good bit older and a good bit unpleasant or so I was told.”
Although he’s speaking in a light tone, you can tell by one look into his face that there’s a certain sorrow as if he has thought those things over many times before and come to the conclusion that you are too good for him.
“Nonsense, Marshal.”, you push back fiercely. “Would it change anything if I told you that I think you’re a fine man as well?”
“Don’t do this to me, Miss. You ain’t cruel like that.”
“I’m serious.”
“And that’s the frightenin’ part.”, he shoots out. “You can’t give an old dog like me hope ‘cause what’ll that bring? You ‘n me? I almost got hung today and you almost got gunned down.”
“Tom.”
It’s the first time ever that you used his first name and it works on him like a spell. His mouth snaps shut and his jaw works with frustration. His upper body is leaned back as if to create a safe enough gap between the two of you that will prevent him from being drawn into your orbit. Meanwhile his feet are planted firmly onto the floor, not making any attempt of moving away.
You take advantage of this and step closer, crossing the line that apparently both of you have drawn without telling the other. It’s liberating to shed all pretense and commit to your feelings for him even under the pressure that you have to do it now otherwise the opportunity will never arise again. This is your one and only shot.
He looks even more handsome up close when you can count every wrinkle and scar and beard hair on his mustache. There used to be a time when you disliked that style, when it made your nose wrinkle up in displeasure and you believed every man sporting that thing looked like a deformed walrus. Now you wish to feel it on your skin and between your legs.
Your palm finds his chest and you stifle a gasp at how solid it feels. He leans into your touch, closing the gap further to a point where you detect the remnants of his aftershave and the smell of his favorite cigarette brand. One time you asked him why he doesn’t smoke cigars (he has always struck you as the type in the way he carries himself) and he said that he dislikes the pretentiousness surrounding it.
It’s a statement those men are tryin’ to make and I don’t much feel the need havin’ to compensate in size, he had said to you then.
“Miss…”, he murmurs and you answer with a breathless ‘Marshal’.
There’s no more pretending. The very moment your lips are on his, you can practically feel his defenses crumble down like a house of cards. His strong arms snake around you, pulling you close and you melt into his body that welcomes yours so perfectly. Your curves and dips fit into his as if you’re two puzzle pieces belonging to the same picture.
Kissing him is exactly as you’ve dreamed this entire time: fierce, rough and a battle. His lips devour yours the same way yours devour his, cut from the same wood. The tip of his tongue darts out of his mouth, flicking over your lips and you part them. It’s a gap big enough for it to fit through but still so narrow that allows you to taste him.
The kiss is wet and warm and you run a hand over his hair, enjoying the feeling of his sheared sides on your fingers. Desire throbs between your legs and you curse yourself out for not keeping your skirt hiked up. What you would give to shove him into that spot, to feel his hard crotch on your clothed cunt and hump him like a bitch in heat.
The Marshal undoubtedly shares that sentiment the way he wedges his leg forward for you to feel the rough material of his pants through the skirt and bloomers. You part your legs to grant him access, then his thigh accidentally brushes over your injury and you let out a high-pitched yelp. He breaks free from the kiss, looking absolutely mortified.
“What is it? Where did I hurt you?”, he asks almost frantically. It’s a state you’ve never witnessed him in before.
“It’s just my leg.”, you answer through gritted teeth and sink down onto the edge of the bed.
The wound throbs and burns and you quickly pull up your skirt to inspect it. Marshal Davies is there in and instant, kneeling down in front of you for the second time today and bringing his face close to the inside of your thigh.
“It don’t look like it’s bleeding.”, he points out and you sigh in relief. “But I reckon we should continue this on another day.”
“Good call.”, you say and cup his cheek with one hand.
He takes you by your wrist and plants a kiss in your palm. His lips are still wet from yours and his saliva.
“Marshal?”, you continue. “What does this mean for us?”
There’s a pause following your question but it isn’t daunting at all. You doubt that he is the type to kiss you in one breath and disregard you in the next. No, Marshal Tom Davies is the kind of man who follows through.
“I guess it means I’ll escort you to Blackwater.”, he answers without an ounce of remorse.