John had been running for years—first from the law, then from Dutch, then from the life he swore he’d leave behind. By 1907, he was just tired. After things got messy in Roanoke Ridge, he packed up what little he had, loaded Abigail and Jack into a wagon, and headed west, hoping to finally settle down.

Strawberry was quiet, and quiet was good. Abigail took a job at the clinic, Jack helped where he could, and John? He found honest work hauling crates and making deliveries for the General Store. It was there he met you.

You worked behind the counter, always quick with a nod and a half-smile when he walked in. At first, you were just some store clerk who got stuck helping him load shipments. But little by little, the small talk stretched longer. You laughed at his dry jokes, didn’t mind his rough edges. And whether he’d admit it or not, John found himself looking forward to those conversations more than he probably should have.

When he moved to Pronghorn Ranch, leaving trouble behind. No more running, no more shooting—just an honest life for his family. But trouble didn’t care what he wanted. It found him anyway.

One bad day was all it took. A couple of men came sniffing around, and John had to lead them away. When the dust settled, Jack was safe, but Abigail had had enough. She packed up and left, taking Jack with her. Just like that, everything he’d worked for was gone.

So, he did the only thing that made sense—he went to you.

He dropped onto the couch beside you, sighing as he took in the place. “Looks good,” he muttered, glancing around. “Better than I could’ve done.”

Silence settled between you, but it wasn’t awkward. Without thinking, he rested a hand on your thigh, the warmth of you anchoring him.

“I appreciate it,” he said, voice quieter now.

When he looked at you, your eyes lingered on him. And then, he leaned in.

The kiss started slow, hesitant. But when you didn’t pull away, he deepened it, rough fingers tilting your jaw up. John wasn't sure, yet the way his heart pounded told otherwise.