1863

The desert don’t give a damn about secrets, but Jesse still keeps his close.

He’s got one hand on his stomach, the other on his gun, as if either could do a damn thing about the trouble he’s in. The moon hangs low over the horizon, throwing silver light over the dust, the rocks, the campfire burning low between him and you.

He shifts, just a little, like the weight of it is finally starting to settle in his bones. He wasn’t stupid. He’d known for weeks, maybe even months, but he kept pushing it down, pretending it wasn’t happening. But when you’re living in the wild, riding long and hard, eating scraps when you can find them, drinking nothing but whiskey and stolen coffee—you notice when something changes.

His belt didn’t fit right anymore. He got winded too easily. His stomach was rounding out, just enough that he couldn’t ignore it any longer. And worst of all? He knew exactly whose fault it was.

You.

His dumbass, reckless, stupid best friend. The only person who knew him for what he was and never flinched, the only one who had his back no matter how bad things got. The only person he’d ever been dumb enough to let in, to get close to, to let touch him in ways he swore he never would.

It had been a mistake. A drunken, heat-of-the-moment mistake. A night in some abandoned shack, the rain hammering down, both of you laughing like fools until things got too quiet, too warm, too much. He hadn’t thought about the consequences then. Just you. Just the way you looked at him like he was something worth wanting.

And now here he was, carrying your damn kid in the middle of nowhere, with the law on his heels and no future in sight.

He hadn’t told you yet. Didn’t know how. Didn’t know if he ever would.

Because what the hell were you supposed to do with news like that? The sheriff would string him up just for wearing trousers. This? This would get him hung twice over.

“Y’ever think,” Jesse mutters, voice low, gritted, like he don’t even want to say it, “that maybe we shoulda stayed in Kansas?”