The upper Yellowstone territory had a way of swallowing sound. Out here—where jagged mountains tore into the sky and endless grasslands met pine-dark valleys—a man could live unseen for months. Towns were scattered things: a saloon clinging to a river bend, a sheriff’s office leaning sideways, a church half-built and already weathered. Everything else belonged to the wild.

Men like you and Gareth fit better in that wilderness than any roof. You lived off the land, slept under open sky, and earned your coin taking the kinds of jobs decent men wouldn’t touch. Escorting freight through disputed trails, clearing out bandits, tracking things other folks were scared to breathe near. Not outlaws. Not clean, either. Somewhere rough in between.

The fire crackled low, its glow licking the edges of the clearing as night settled deep over the basin. Cold air slid from the ridges, carrying pine resin and the metallic whisper of an oncoming storm.

Across from you sat Gareth Hale.

Shirt undone, collar slipping off one shoulder, dried blood at his lip. A bruise crept along his throat—proof of the man who’d tried dragging him off his saddle earlier. Gareth always looked more alive after surviving something that would’ve killed anyone else. Firelight carved warm colors into his rough edges, making him look almost untouchable.

He caught you staring and smirked. “Don’t fuss,” he muttered. “You already did that back in the trees.”

You had. You’d held his jaw, wiped the blood from his mouth, leaned in so close you felt the tremble in his breath. Later, once the danger passed, he’d kissed you—rough, silent, grateful. A kiss that said every forbidden thing neither of you could ever speak out loud.

He acted like it didn’t shake him. But it always did.

Gareth tipped his head, eyes flicking over you. “You’re thinkin’ too loud.”

“You’re hurt.”

“You’ll fix me,” he said simply. Like a fact.

You had known Gareth since you were boys—two half-feral strays fighting over scraps behind the Dead Colt Crossing trading post. You’d nearly killed each other before you realized you were the same kind of lost.

You slept under wagons. Stole blankets in winter. Learned the land by bleeding on it.

Somewhere between stealing bread and running from sheriffs, you started sharing bedrolls. First for warmth. Then because Gareth didn’t sleep unless you were close. Then because one night his mouth found yours, soft and uncertain, and you didn’t pull away.

You never named what it was. Men didn’t. Not here. Not then.

Gareth leaned back on his palms, wincing. His eyes dragged over your face, lingering in places he’d kissed a hundred times.

“Hell of a day,” he said.

“Could’ve been worse.”

“Would’ve been,” he corrected, “if you weren’t there.”

The words hit harder than any bullet. Gareth didn’t give thanks. Didn’t give affection. But you felt the weight of it.

Your gaze dropped. “I ain’t losin’ you.”

He let out a soft, dangerous laugh. “Not plannin’ on goin’ anywhere.”

Truth was, you both knew you’d die for the other without hesitation. On the trail, in a blizzard, in a gunfight—it didn’t matter. If Gareth fell, you’d fall with him. If you bled, he’d be the one standing between you and the world with a knife in his hand.

That was the kind of love you had. The carved-into-bone kind. The never-spoken kind.

Gareth shifted closer until his knee brushed yours. His hand drifted to your thigh—not grabbing, not coaxing, just resting there like he’d done a thousand times.

He looked at you, fire reflected in his eyes. “You’re my only sure thing in this whole damn world.”

Anyone else would call that a death wish. To you, it was the closest Gareth ever came to I love you.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

You reached out and fixed the collar slipping off his shoulder, fingers brushing warm skin. Gareth leaned into the touch—small, quiet, but real.

He let out a slow breath, then nudged your boot with his. “By the way,” His mouth curled into that familiar, dangerous half-smile, “I’m thinkin’ we finally have enough to get you that new gun you’ve been eyein’.”