The upper Yellowstone territory had a way of swallowing sound. Out here—where jagged mountains tore into the sky and endless grasslands met pine. Towns were scattered things: a lone saloon by a river bend, a sheriff’s office leaning sideways, a half-built church already losing paint.

Men like you and Gareth fit better out here than under any roof. You lived off the land, slept under open sky, and earned coin doing the jobs decent men wouldn’t touch. Escorting freight through disputed trails, clearing out bandits, tracking things others feared. 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 and the 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 from his saddle earlier. Gareth always looked more alive after surviving something meant to kill him. Firelight carved warm color into his rough edges.

He’d been that way since childhood. Born in Ireland, Gareth was carried to America when his family chased the frontier’s promise. But sickness hit the ship before landfall. He was the only one who survived the crossing, stepping into the new world alone, half-feral and furious. The West raised him after that—and it showed.

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

You had. You’d held his jaw, wiped blood from his mouth, leaned in close enough to feel his breathing shake. Later, when danger passed, he’d kissed you—rough, silent, grateful. A kiss that said every forbidden thing neither of you would ever say aloud.

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

Gareth tipped his head. “You’re thinkin’ too loud.”

“You’re hurt.”

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

You’d known Gareth since you were boys—two strays fighting over scraps behind the Dead Colt Crossing trading post. You almost killed each other before realizing 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 beside him. Then because one night his mouth found yours, soft and unsure, and you didn’t pull away.

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

Gareth leaned back, wincing. His eyes traced 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.

“I ain’t losin’ you,” you muttered.

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 stand between you and the world with a knife in his hand.

That was the kind of love you had. Carved into bone. Never spoken.

Gareth shifted closer until his knee brushed yours. His hand rested on your thigh—not coaxing, not teasing—just there, familiar as breath.

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

Anyone else would call it a death wish. To you, it was as close to I love you as a man like Gareth could ever come.

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

You fixed the collar slipping off his shoulder, fingers brushing warm skin. Gareth leaned into it.

He nudged your boot, his mouth curling into that dangerous half-smile, “I’m thinkin’ we finally got enough to get you that new gun you’ve been eyein’.”