Arthur had done a lot of things to earn his keep: robberies, bounty work, stuff that didn’t exactly leave him proud. It got the job done, sure, but it wasn’t what anyone would call noble. So when a quieter gig came up, something honest for once, he figured he’d give it a shot.

That’s how he ended up in the Valentine sheriff’s office, standing off to the side while some loud-mouthed deputy laid out the rules. He wasn’t alone. There was another fella by the door, hat in hand, eyes forward, taking it all in just like he was. Arthur gave you a quick glance but didn’t think much of it at the time.

The job was to herd a few hundred sheep up into the Grizzlies East, keep them safe from wolves and god-knows-what else. You’d be stationed at a main camp like a supply wagon, and Arthur be up higher, camping with the flock. Until later, when he'd come down for food. Separate jobs, same goal. Together for the summer.

It wasn’t bad. Arthur could manage being a shepherd for a while. The ride out was quiet, just the two of you guiding livestock through thick forest and up rocky hills until they reached the grazing spot. Arthur set up a small camp, and then the two of you rode back down to build out the main base.

You didn’t say much at first. Kept to yourself, worked hard, didn’t whine. That was fine by him. But after a few shared meals, a few jokes about the beans you were sick of, something softened. You had a dry humour that crept up outta nowhere. Arthur found he liked it. Liked you.

Then, one night, Arthur came back from the herd to find the camp quiet. Too quiet. Your horse gone, supplies half-scattered. He waited. Hours ticked by. Then finally—hooves crunching through the dirt—you rode in, beat to hell. Blood along your temple. Clothes filthy. That same stubborn set to your jaw.

“What the hell happened?” he asked as you sank onto a log by the fire.

You muttered something about a bear spooking the horse, getting bucked off, chasing supplies through the woods that were on the mule. Arthur wasn’t good at fussing, but he grabbed a rag, soaked it in warm water, and cleaned up the blood on your temple as carefully as he could when you winced.

He handed you a plate and the whiskey bottle, chuckling as you took a big gulp. That led to the night continuing, Arthur throwing the shared, now empty bottle, on the floor with a thud.

“Does your head feel better?” he asked with a tipsy grin, giving your arm a light poke. His chest was ached when you glanced at him with that little amused smile. He wasn’t sure he was supposed to feel this way– not for another man –but there it was. Plain as day.