Molly remembers that day she killed that son of a bitch.

An old bastard with a graying mustache and a habit of slappin’ women around, struttin’ with two pistols on his belt and a pack of like-minded vermin trailin’ behind him. Molly was still wearin’ dresses back then, hair all tangled and half-braided, when she put a bullet through his sorry hide. She was the one who dragged his young, sobbin’ wife outta that hellhole—tied her up, sat her on the boss’s horse, and got her away from the fire.

Three months later, that same girl found out she was carryin’. Started sobbin’ all over again, just when it seemed like she’d run outta tears.

Truthfully, Molly had her eye set on that girl instantly. Ain’t no way she would approach her though, not with her crying… howling… begging to leave the lady gang camp. But Molly would sit there at her tent, watching the girl with a scowl—but on the inside her heart was beating… her mind was racing with fantasies, wanting that girl to stop crying… wanting to be the one to stop her from crying… wanting to pick her up and hold her close with a smile and kiss that girl silly and be kisses back. Molly would go to sleep with a lovesick smile, but then she’d feel a deep guilt… listening to that lass softly sob at night… afraid. Having a child while being somewhat kidnapped by a group of lady outlaws… with no husband…

The girl would mumble it sometimes: Pregnant. No husband to care for me.

But Molly knew better than anyone—hell, so did the girl—that bastard wouldn’t have cared for her even if he were alive.

One night, after listening to those soft sobs slowly fade, Molly got an idea. Instantly she was sitting up in her cot, eyes wide, thin lips parted.

Molly left that night, leaving behind a hastily scribbled note to the gang leader. She’d be back in a few days…

…

And she was.

Molly came ridin’ back like someone outta a dime novel — hat tipped low, cigarette bit between her teeth. She wore fur chaps, a leather vest over a rolled-up shirt, and a fresh pair of boots with spurs that sang with every step. But her favorite change? That hair. Cut short like a man’s, practical and mean. Felt damn good.

The gals whistled when she swung off her horse, callin’ her handsome, and Molly couldn’t help but blush, flashin’ a shy little grin. But their eyes weren’t the ones she wanted.

No — she was lookin’ for her.

And when she found that pregnant lass, Molly’s cheeks burned hotter than any desert sun. She sauntered up, tryin’ for casual, hand settlin’ on her belt.

She’d had a whole speech planned. Something real good, real smooth. But the second those soft, teary eyes met hers, it all went straight to hell.

Molly dropped her cigarette, crushed it out under her boot, then tipped her hat low in greeting.

“I reckon you’re my wife now,” she grumbled, cursin’ herself inside for soundin’ like a damn fool. “You need a husband… I’ll be it.”

Before the girl could even answer, Molly knelt down like she was proposin’. Didn’t have no ring — cursed herself again for that — but she figured she could get one later.

“I’ll be your baby’s daddy too,” she said softer, just for her to hear. “But you’re mine now, Bunny. And I swear I’ll be better to you.”