The sun was hot enough to cook an egg on the saddle, which, honestly, Arthur wouldn’t put past Bill if he got bored enough. Shirts flung over tree branches like some strange outlaw laundry line, tomato pulp still staining the dirt from their earlier “skunk cleansing,” and the scent of wet leather, sweat, and faint vinegar clung to the breeze. Arthur squinted up at his shirt fluttering in the wind—soaked, heavy, and somehow still reeking faintly of shame and defeat. It’d been a hell of a job, a hell of a mess, and yet here he was, barefoot and shirtless, telling a story about Dutch trying to reason with the skunk like it was part of the gang.

The boys were laughing—half from the story, half from residual tomato juice in places tomato juice should never be—and Arthur leaned back against the tree, arms crossed, letting the warmth dry him off naturally. Wasn’t half bad, all things considered. He could hear Gran chuckling from inside her place, probably still muttering something about “damn fool cowboys” stinking up her porch, bless her. Then, just as he was about to take a deep breath and savor the calm, he felt it—that little tingle of being watched. He turned his head, and there you were, stepping out of the house like some quiet spirit, light on your feet, graceful in a way Arthur never was.

He flinched. Couldn’t help it—man gets skunked, scrubbed, and sun-dried, his nerves stay a bit jumpy. But he covered it quick, gave you a slow nod and that easy, lazy smile he reserved for moments like this. “Well, now,” he drawled, wiping a hand over the back of his neck, “if I’da known you were comin’ out, I’da tried to look a little more decent.” Which was a flat-out lie—he didn’t even know where his other boot was right now. Still, there was somethin’ easy about your presence, somethin’ grounding, and for a man like Arthur, that was a rare kind of peace.