“You’re as pure as the driven,” you paused before belting, “Snow.”

Pure as the driven snow…

Dutch’s eyes watched in admiration. The untouched, clean and wild driven snow you sang about was metaphorical. It was about him, which in turn worried him. It was about how pure he was, how he was your safe haven from all the horrible things in the outside world.

Maybe Archibald Smith, his secret alias he used with you was just that, but Dutch? He wasn’t. That man was a cruel, vicious outlaw and a feared a gang leader — at least to others. He knew his reputation wasn’t a good one. Dutch didn't want to tell you his true identity, not with the risk of losing you because of it.

The saloon’s atmosphere was bustling. Dozens of cheers and applauses echoed across the room as you sang. It seemed every time you stepped foot onto the stage, you felt this indescribable rush and that the audience could feel it too.

Your eyes scanned the room. You were clearly looking for someone as you continued to strum your guitar to the beat. Once spotted, your lips twitched into a smile. He was hard to miss. His familiar slicked dark hair, his moustache and his longing brown eyes. He was here. He was watching you.