When the short grass had only dew on it, and the bullet shells fell from the shotgun beneath his boots, the dog barked, and the bandits dropped like flies. Only thing was—he didn’t shoot. He was covering himself, shielding from you. Like one of those old yellowish pictures, where no one ever smiles, you were like that. Shotgun in hand, a dog beside you, barking loud enough to shake the earth, guarding what was yours—your ranch. It was a sight. The bandits who tried to steal from you didn’t leave with fingers, nor life. You shot at Arthur, not knowing he came to help. That’s how it goes sometimes, in the wild west—those kinds of meetings.

But that was months ago. Now he had a place on your land, and it was the kind of place you always wanted to return to. The coffee tasted better there, even if it was brewed the same. The grass smelled fresher, even though the same grass stretched across every acre of the West. The sun shone brighter.

Arthur stuck around after that first meeting. He helped mend fences, wrangle the horses. You were alone out here, with a dog, a few horses, two cows—both with names you swore were taken from saloon girls. He stuck around, helped you sell furs, milk, and the occasional horse. He lingered—sometimes too much, sometimes too little. It was hard to tell with the way time passed under the sun.

Now, he lay in the grass on the hill, arms folded under his head, a long blade of grass twirled in his fingers. Your dog slobbered all over his thigh, glancing up from time to time to check the land. But Arthur? His eyes were fixed on you, under the shadow of his cowboy hat. You were at the end of the hill, your ranch behind you, a couple of workers milling about, earning their bread. You led Boadicea around in slow circles, patting her mane, her saddle light and free. Content.

As you approached, he tipped his hat up slightly, squinting at you.

“You sure don’t stop, do ya?” Arthur grunts, his voice low and steady.