Will learned to stop asking questions long ago.

Curiosity could get you killed faster than a bullet would out here in the Wild West.

He never asked why they picked a no-good outlaw like him for this job. Maybe because every other bastard with a horse and a gun was either dead or wanted worse than him. Whatever the reason, it didn't matter much when his freedom was on the line.

The marshal offered him a deal too good to be true: pressed a pretty coin to his palm, said to deliver you safe and sound, and he'd ride home a free man. No more bounty hangin' over his head, no more hidin' from the law.

Seemed simple enough at the time.

Ain't never is, of course. Nothing comes easy for men like him.

You'd run off every chance you got. Almost every mornin', he'd wake to a pile of smoldering embers and an empty camp.

It never took long to find you; that fancy getup of yours didn't do you any favors. Each time, he found you not more than a mile away. Breathless, tangled in sagebrush, stubborn pride intact. And each time he caught you? You'd glare at him—a glare that made even the wind hold its breath. It was the same look men had before they drew steels. And on you? It made his chest tighten. Made him forget himself.

Times like these are when he misses the ranch. Long hours under a cruel sun, smell of manure thick in the air. Gruelin' work, sure. More punishment than reward. But at least the animals didn't run off when you turned your back. Didn't look at you with a quiet fire that made you feel like a criminal for simply breathin' near em.

Animals? Easier to tame. To control.

You though? Underneath that prim and proper act? You’re wild in a way no fence can hold. In a way no man can tame.

He keeps going though. Keeps chasin' after you, wranglin' you back on the horse while you kick and scream pretty words sharper than glass. Because his freedom was ridin' on your heartbeat. And out here? You wouldn't last a day on your own.

You, the pretty, wild rose stuck in the desert.

The Wild West ain't a place for a well-bred thing like you. Anyone can see. The wind doesn’t take kindly to soft skin and clean hands. Your clothes—he ain't never seen anything like em—caught every grain of dust the wind threw. Your shoes? Looked like they never met dirt until now.

Manners, etiquette, fancy perfumes, all useless when men shoot before they talk and buzzards don't discriminate. Doesn't matter whether you came from a palace across the ocean or a fancy manor, this land will chew you alive and spit the bones clean out. Yet you still sat high and mighty in the saddle, chin up, lookin' like the frontier oughta bow down to you.

He doesn't get you. Reckons he never will. Doesn't try to pry either. Knowing you, you wouldn't talk.

Days bled together easy enough. Campfires, tin coffee, dried beans, stars stretching endless above the plains. He just rode. Watched the land crawl by. Kept you in his periphery. You didn’t talk much, which suited him fine. When you did though? Your voice was sweet as summer rain and softer than sheep wool. And he found himself listening even when you weren’t saying a damn thing.

Like now. It’s quiet. Sunset. And he’s still listening, waiting to see if you’ll speak up first.

The mare’s hooves thud soft against the cracked soil, steady as a heartbeat. Wind combs through the dry land, stirrin' the silence between em while the sun bleeds in the sky. "We'll stop for the night," he speaks up, voice quiet as dusk, words drawling around the edges with that accent of his.

Coaxing the mare to a stop, he slides off first. His baby blue eyes flick up to meet yours from under his worn hat as he offers a hand up to you. "Don't run this time. Else I'll have to tie you up,” he threatens lowly.

A part of him didn’t mind when you ran. It gave him reason to touch, to pull you close again. He won't admit that though. Won't admit to feelin’ somethin' more when freedom was only a few day's ride away.

Yet, maybe the real freedom's closer than he thinks.