No Betas, yadda yadda. A quick recap:
A long time ago, in a frontier town far,
far away…
Edward pines for Isabella, having noticed her attending church with her elderly father. Isabella pines for Edward and his mysterious drifter-come-mountainman ways.
Isabella's father, the good ex-Sheriff Swan, recognizes Edward as the young Anthony Masen, who turned vigilante after his family were murdered by an outlaw gang.
Having exacted his revenge, the young Masen was thought to have perished in the wild, when in fact, he has been living the (very) simple life up in the mountains, coming to town only for necessities.
Unbeknownst to all, others have also noticed the mysterious drifter. Questions are asked by Pastor Newton, some of them even good.
Isabella is moved by the tragic story of young Anthony and when her father passes, she confronts Anthony, now calling himself Edward, putting an end to all that silent pining and setting in motion events which, dear reader, are about to come to pass…
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Then she smiled, and for the life of him, Edward could not recall why he'd fought for so long against the tide when it was clear he'd been hers all along.
.
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Isabella drew her shawl around her shoulders. The bracing chill of evening and the salt on the air felt familiar, but the restless thrum inside her was something new entirely.
She'd endured the stifling confines of the coach for several hours and was well and truly ready to stretch her legs and lungs alike, to take steps in the direction she had chosen. Every moment sitting on her tiny allocation of bench felt like time wasted when she could be doing, and planning, and running forward.
Across the carriage, two women- a mother and daughter, most likely- had been perfectly cordial toward her, but she found she could not easily be engaged in conversation.
They'd given up on her after a short while, and now sat quietly engaged with some needlework, their delicate lady hands flying deftly above and below the hoop, leaving her to her churning thoughts. Isabella had hidden her own calloused fingers among her skirts and had watched their fine broideries take shape for as long as she could stomach it, but her restless mind was elsewhere, and her hopeful heart lay further still. She was a woman divided.
Soon, a silence fell in the carriage. Isabella watched the daughter's head wilt to the side, further and further, until it came at last to rest on the shoulders of the mother. Hair had slipped the daughter's bun and swayed with the movement of the carriage, brushing across a brow yet clear of the adornments age would bring. Isabella smiled, suddenly very, very fond.
She looked up to find herself studied in turn, the blue eyes of the mother kind and thoughtful. She quickly looked away from that gaze, swallowing around the hot stone in her throat.
From then on, she took to watching only the panorama of lush, thick forest from the coach's window, lulled by the pleasant clatter and creak of the carriage itself as it made good time, bound for Port Angeles.
With her machinations set well and truly in progress over the past few days, she had thought of nothing but Edward all morning, and he was on her mind still now at dusk, the shape of him, the thrill of him, calling to her even over this great distance.
She would see him tomorrow, if all went well.
Would he be there? Would he come for her? She couldn't help but feel a flutter of worry. She had taken steps which could not be undone. If Edward changed his mind or if he'd never meant it, she would be set adrift as surely as wood on the tide, at once free of all her obligations and cursed to seek whatever fortune a lone woman could in a world that was for men.
Coming now upon Port Angeles, Isabella set her mouth, determined. She wouldn't let doubt trip her up now. Not now, when it was all within reach. She had done with meekly taking come what may. Let people judge her unseemly if they would, condemn her for wanting a thing and taking it, but she would not back down.
A mighty shiver drew up her spine. Sometimes, she frightened herself with the strength of her conviction.
As they neared, she thought Port Angeles reeked of the ocean, the salt a thick and bitter tang on her tongue. She welcomed it, yet another taste of a life to come, another step toward something new.
When the coach driver helped her retrieve her modest bags, she felt no remorse at the necessary lie she would soon tell, as it would pave the way to the future lying so invitingly within her reach.
"A terrible shame to see you leaving Forks for good, Miss Swan," he said, and she smiled bittersweetly, nodding along as he expressed respect for her late father.
She gratefully accepted his fervent hopes that she'd yet find happiness in the home of her grand-aunt in Pennsylvania. For a very brief but horrible moment, Isabella wondered if the whole of the state of Washington knew of her past and pitied her. Looking into the driver's guileless face, she swallowed down the hint of shame, remembering there was nothing she could do to change all that had happened to bring her here. She could only now take charge of her own life.
And so take charge she did.
"Thank you," she said, hopeful, though not for a life on the other side of the country, with a non-existent aunt. "I shall try only to be happy."
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That evening, as she curled up restlessly in an unfamiliar hotel bed, Isabella thought of Edward, connected to her once more only by virtue of the moon in the sky and the sweep of stars. For the first time, she allowed herself to think of the man himself- having now met him, spoken to him, having so much as promised herself to him.
She thought of his hands, sure and easy on his horse and yet whisper-light and trembling on the dusty heel of her old boot.
She thought of his voice, the dark curl of it making her stomach clench with want. She looked heavy lidded at the moon as her hand found its way to her throat, brushed lightly over her breast and inched beneath her night clothes.
"Edward," she whispered at the moon, sending whatever magic she possessed directly to him, to ease his sleep tonight that on the morrow he would come for her like he'd promised.
She herself found sleep near impossible, even after her blood had calmed, her fire dampened.
Her mind would not rest, turned what could be over and over like soil for planting, making her terrified and thrilled, wary and trusting all at once.
And in the thickest dark before the dawn, she finally stole from the bed and pulled her hair up into a bun, dressed in Charles Swan's clothes altered to fit by her own hand, and went on her way with her hat pulled down low.
Wending her way through the town she'd only visited twice in her life, Isabella's heart pounded in her chest like a wild hammer. Here and there she saw people, men, coming and going about their business even in these early hours, and she buried deeper into her father's coat, slinging her pack over her shoulder like she's seen other men do often enough.
Exactly as he'd promised she would, Isabella found Ben, the young son of the farrier, sitting in the grass on the outskirts of town beneath the ancient bigleaf maple tree, her own horse saddled and ready to ride, nipping at the green shoots.
Ben stood when he saw her approaching, wary in his stance. It wasn't until she was but a few yards away that recognition cleared his eyes and he smiled at her, big and open as the sky, and so surprised that she laughed with glee.
"Did anyone suspect?" she asked, for her plan hinged on all things falling into place as they should, none the wiser back in Forks.
"Just as you said, miss, your horse was sold and since you took the wagon to Port Angeles, I took your horse to its new owner, is all. And if I should sleep one night in the open, well, that's all right for a young man, isn't it?
"Just so," Isabella said, smiling back, unable to stop. She could have kissed him, and did, bussing his blushing, boyish cheek in absolute and utter delight and terror at what she had done, and was about to do.
"You mustn't tell," she said again, for possibly the hundredth time, until he looked at her in misery.
"Miss Isabella, I never would, you know that, now, don't you?"
And his eyes, so earnest, told her that he would keep her secret, even if he only knew the tip of it and not the full iceberg.
"Dear Ben," she said, both their eyes a little glossy. "I know. I know and I thank you."
He smiled at her, uncertain. "You will be all right, Miss Isabella? Are you sure you-"
"Oh, yes," Isabella beamed at him, suddenly as sure as the dawn now rising. "I will be just fine."
And so it was that Isabella Swan mounted her horse like a man, the way she had always done as a young and carefree thing, tipped her hat in thanks to Ben, and rode for the mountains with her heart singing louder than the dawn chorus.
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A/N: Thank you for (sticking around) reading.