Bounty hunter camp.
As a gun for hire, Gus McQueen had done numerous jobs for various people. He wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty if the price was right.
When Jim Almstead asked him to ride down into Texas, he had jumped at the opportunity. A kidnapping was easy money, especially it being a woman this time. They never did put up much of a fight.
Gus stirs a pot of beans with a stick as it simmers over their small campfire. He keeps it low, to avoid heaps of smoke to give away their location. They were camping out not far from the borderlands of the ranch she was supposedly on, the last thing he needed was people showing up to investigate.
He stares listless into the contents of the boiling pot. He's fucking tired of eating beans. Every man on his crew is sick of beans as well.
Two weeks they've been here, twiddling their thumbs. It was starting to wear on his men.
"Think we could hurry this job along boss?" One of his men called James asks, looking at the beans with distaste. "I just want to snatch this peice of petticoat and git paid already," The man complains loudly. The rest of them men murmur in agreement.
Gus gives James a dirty look and he hushes up right fast.
"Sidewinder Jim was clear that we're not allowed to rush this job. We're just watching for now." He barks, eyeing the men. Challenging them.
"But we seent her yesterday, riding in with that odd-looking white-haired feller. It has to be her, she fits the description right fine."
"You think anything in a skirt looks the same," Gus growls. This causes several of the men in the camp to laugh.
Gus scratches his grizzly chin in thought as he stirs the beans. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if they got the girl and finished the job before Jim and his brother got down here. They'd get paid sooner, and get to go home sooner. His men, ten strong and all killers and thieves in their own right, were starting to get bored. It was never good when that sorta men had too much time on their hands.
They had been watching the ranch for a few weeks, it didn't seem like there were too many people coming and going from the place. He'd be smart about it though. He'd wait and bide his time. He just didn't know how much longer his men could were itching for action and she had to leave the ranch again eventually. Next time she was alone, would they be able to pass up the opportunity?
Maka had never appreciated the smelly, sweaty, dirty work involved in keeping others' clothes clean. Build up the fire in the range to boil countless kettles of water. Lift the heavy kettle from the stove and empty it into the washtub, again and again, and yet again. Plunge your arms up to the elbows in steaming suds and scrub and scrub and try not to whimper when you scrape all the skin off your knuckles on the washboard. Drop the soapy clothes into a rinse tub of more boiling water and stir and stir with a broomstick, then stir some more. And then with what's left of the strength in your two hands, wring and twisting the scalding water from each piece of sodden, sopping clothing. With your two hands . . .
Maka looks at her hands, amazed not to see flames shooting from her wrists, they burned so. Whatever skin she has not scrubbed off has been melted away by boiling water and the caustic soda in the soap, leaving her flesh raw and cracking.
Summer is in full swing, and the wind that she once despised for its constant howling has abandoned her completely. She hauls yet another laundry basket off the porch and out to the yard where the tubs are set by the pump.
Chief, her ever-faithful companion, sits by the tub in the shade while she does all the work. He cocks his head to the right, watching her, probably wondering why they aren't playing fetch instead.
"Work first, then we'll play." She promises. The dog's tail thumps happily.
Maka pushes a wet strand of hair from her face as a rider gallops into the yard and then pulls up fast and hard next to her.
"Why the long face?" Justin asks as he swings down from the saddle, all long legs, and lean form. He's more graceful than any man has a right to be.
Maka grunts in reply, her mood a sour one this afternoon.
"You sound more like Soul every day, with his constant grunting and guffawing. I reckon your vocabulary is going to suffer for it too." He teases her gently.
Maka, despite herself, smiles, the sight of her friend warming her spirits a bit.
"Sorry, Justin. It's all this bloody laundry. I'd rather be mucking horse stalls than washing everyone's clothes." She grumps.
Without a word, Justin takes the heavy laundry basket from her and walks it to the pump. He hauls it like it's light as a feather. He sets it down by the pump and then strides over to his waiting horse.
"I've got you a little something. Maybe it'll brighten your mood a bit." He says as he rifles through his saddle bag. He pivots with a grand flourish and presents her with a little posy of brightly colored flowers.
"Oh, they're beautiful!" She exclaims, all thoughts of laundry fleeing her mind as she accepts the wispy bunch. She sinks her nose into the sweet-smelling bouquet harboring fluffy spires of purple gayfeather, bright disks of black-eyed Susans, and soft clouds of white rain lilies.
"I was riding the south fence and I saw a little patch of them growing. Figured you'd like them, I know how partial you are to wildflowers." He says, his smile growing wider until it reaches his clear blue eyes.
"Oh Justin, they're beautiful, you shouldn't have." She breathes, elated at the kind gift.
"Yeah, Justin. You shouldn't have." Comes, a long drawling voice from behind them.
Both turn in surprise to see Soul leaning against the porch rail, his face hidden by the shadow of his hat.
"Don't you have work to do partner? Instead, you're lolligagin pickin' daisies and such?" Soul quips, giving Justin a very pointed look.
"I was just leaving, boss," Justin replies slowly, his voice even and calm. The calmness Justin portrays only ignites Soul's obvious irritation more.
"Ma'am, have a lovely day." Just bids, tipping his hat to her before mounting his horse and riding from the yard.
"You didn't have to be so rude." She fumes, turning her emerald orbs to him. He feels the impact like a blow to the head.
"It's my job to be rude, a ranch doesn't run itself you know." He replies, not trying to hide the impatience in his voice.
"He was helping me." She argues, glaring down her dainty nose at him.
"He has his own chores to do, like all of us do."
Maybe it's because she's hot and cranky, or something else entirely, but she ignores him, turning her back to him and focuses on her task at hand. She plunges her arms into the scalding water, all the way to her elbows, suds flying up to slap her in the face.
Soul hesitates on the porch, his pulse thundering for no reason.
Why the hell is she defensive? Soul wonders, bristling at the notion.
He feels slightly guilty for having run off her help, but not enough to call Justin back from the fields. Without a word, Soul marches down the stairs to stand next to her. Chief bounds in excitement around them both, his love for them so blatantly obvious. Soul scratches the mutt's ear, then he unbuttons his shirt at the wrist and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. Being next to her like this, the force of some strange emotion slams into his chest, leaving him winded. He can't fathom what it is, he's not even touching her, and yet his blood hums from her nearness.
"Don't you have your own chores to do?" She quips, throwing his own words back at him.
He chooses to ignore her, instead plunging his own hands into the water. It feels like hellfire. He lifts out a piece of clothing so soft and white it can only be a female's under things. His face burns worse than his hands as he drops in back into the tub.
Soul is silent, his eyes calculating as he glances at her from the corner of his eye. He's surprised she isn't teasing him like she usually does. She's frowning and it doesn't sit right with him.
"Are you really that ruffled because I sent Justin away?"
"Yes." She says shortly.
"How come?"
"Because I was enjoying his company." She huffs, skewering him with an unflinching look.
His jaw clenches, and to his shame, his cheeks grow warm. "Am I not good company?"
She groans, and it's accompanied by an eye roll.
"Not when you're being so disagreeable."
He can't keep the defensive note from his voice, "You know I've been pretty lax until now, but when your uncle returns, things are going to change. You know how he feels about relationships right?"
Maka drops a shirt back into the tub with a harsh splash. Even though it's the truth, he half expects her to fly off the handle, but when she turns those pine-colored eyes on his they are filled with nothing but sadness and it hits him like a freight train.
Chief whimpers, his eyes swiveling back and forth. Even the dog can feel the tension between them.
Without a word, she turns to leave, but Soul captures her by the wrist, their skin burning hotter than the suds in the tub.
"Release me at once," she demands, but her voice breaks and trembles on the words. His breathing is fast and uneven, as if he just sprinted across the prairie. He brings her close, and his voice drops to a dangerous octave. "Are you sad because you can't court? Is Justin that important to you?"
"My sadness is my own business." She whispers fiercely, her eyes misting over like mossy pools. "You don't understand at all, do you? You bloody blind fool."
She sighs sadly at his confused expression. The big dummy, why couldn't he see she was upset by all the heartache her uncle's stupid rule was causing? Blacks star and Tsubaki are forced to love each other in secret, and now her ill-fated feelings for Soul, her very best friend. It hurts most knowing they will never be more, even if they wanted to be. He's too blind to think of her romantically.
Something cracks inside her. Those jagged, jigsawed pieces of herself are shifting again, shifting and coming together in a way that couldn't, should never, have been possible. He doesn't fill the empty spaces in her heart, this man; he deepens them. He doesn't calm the furies of her soul; he stirs them. And yet, oh, how she needs him. She needs him in her life the way the eagle needs the wind to soar with, and the buffalo the tall grass to roam in. The way thunder needs lightning to make a storm. He was, and she needed him to be. She needs him, and he could never, ever be hers.
She lifts her head and with the tips of her fingers pushes his hat up so that she can see his eyes. But they never show anything, those crimson eyes, not really. Always hard and flat, and as cold as a winter sun when it comes to his emotions.
He seems shocked that she's so boldly reached out, even if she's only touching his hat. His eyes are so very far away.
Chief whines softly, bringing him out of whatever thoughts he has been lost in. His face turns scarlet and his frown only deepens. He takes a deep shuddering breath before replying.
"You're right, it is your own business. I just don't want to see you get hurt, or him. Remember that, next time the two of you are flirting."
With a growl he pivots and stalks away to the barn, abruptly ending their conversation. Chief chases after him, and she can't help but feel a little betrayed.
"Flirting?!" She scoffs. "You wouldn't know what flirting was if you were paying for it in a two-bit whore-house you bloody rude cowboy!" She shouts at his retreating back.
If he hears her, he doesn't acknowledge it in any way. She watches as he slams the door to the barn, nearly hitting Chief.
She can't fathom why he's always so moody, or hell-bent on saying such odd things. He's seeing things that are not there. S
he knows, as well as anyone, what the cost of openly loving anyone here would take. And she isn't about to lose her home, not for Justin, and not for him. No matter how much the thought breaks her heart.
Soul kicks a bucket, his booted foot sending it sailing across the barn to smash noisily into a horse stall. The horses toss their heads and stamp their feet, upset by the ruckus.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Black Star shouts, running out of the tack room.
"I don't fucking know what's wrong with me." Soul growls, wishing he had 20 more buckets to kick.
Tad's head pops out from the hay loft above, the little devil was probably napping up there and avoiding his chores.
"What's wrong boss?" Black Star asks, his brows furrowed in worry.
"That woman." Soul answers bluntly.
Black Star rolls his eyes, his short answer not at all cryptic.
"Of course it's Maka. It's always Maka. You two are always at it. I never know if y'all are still fighting or made up and friends again. What's got you so riled up this time?"
Soul rakes his fingers through his hair. "Hell, I don't know. I guess I lost my temper. I know Justin didn't mean any harm towards her, I just feel it's my job to look out for her, ya know? And he's not making it any easier on me, being fucking charming and bringing her flowers. She loves flowers, and I had to ruin it because I'm her guardian. Because Stein will toss them out on their asses."
Soul slams his fist into the wall, and the pain he feels threads its way into his anger. "I don't know why I'm so angry." He spits the words out through gritted teeth. There's so much frustration and disdain wrapped up in his words.
Black Star gives him a disheartened look. Tad is silent in the hay loft. Even the damn dog looks disgruntled with him. Maybe he's being stupid, saying all this out loud, but the pressure in his head is almost too much to bear.
"You're jealous." Black Star says simply.
Soul whips his head around so fast, he hears a crack. It takes him a moment to regain his senses, his jaw slack, his ears ringing.
"You like her." Tad accuses from above them. "I'm going to marry Maka one day though, so don't get any funny ideas." The lad passionately proclaims.
Soul splutters, at a complete loss for words.
"Hey Tadpole, why don't you go bring in my horse from the west paddock. She needs a good brushing," Black Star says, his voice kind but firm, leaving no room for arguments.
Tad drops from the hay loft and glares at Soul all the way out the door. Soul doesn't seem to notice though, his eyes glazed over. His expression blank as a fence post.
"Want to talk about it?" Black Star hedges gently, fearing he's broken the man in some way.
"There's absolutely nothing to talk about. Me jealous? That's horse shit," Soul barks, snapping out of his daze, "Why would I be jealous?"
Black Star cocks his head to the side, he looks at Soul so long and hard that it makes him start to sweat, like a whore in church.
Was he jealous? Of Justin? The memory of the smile she had given Justin was enough to make his insides churn.
"I can't." Soul chokes out, horrified.
"Can't what?" Black Star asks delicately like he's worried the answer will slip through Soul's fingertips.
"I can't look at her that way. She's my responsibility, she's my ward. She's my employer's niece for Christ's sake!"
Black Star covers his eyes with a hand and groans. "And? You feel you can't be attracted to her? So you're being aggressive. That's pretty dumb if you ask me, boss."
Soul growls in response, and Black Star glares at him, proving his point.
"She's not attractive." Soul demands.
"Of course not," Black Star mocks, "only a stupid person would say that. Any fool who has eyes enough to see would disagree with you, boss."
"It's my job to look out for her, not stare at her like a moon-eyed calf."
"Whatever you say, boss."
Black Star sighs, obviously vexed. "You know, she's kind of perfect for you. I've never met a more perfect match."
Soul levels him with a glowering look. "Of all people, you should remember Stein's rules and the consequences that they hold for breaking them."
Black Star holds his gaze for a moment before looking away without a word. He walks to the door, his normally proud shoulders sagging just a bit. He hesitates at the door, contemplating his next words.
"Some things are worth the risk, boss."
Without another word Black Star leaves, and Soul is left to stew in the silence of the barn. Even the horses have grown still. It's so quiet it hurts his head.
The muscles in Maka's back scream in protest as she bends to pick up the last wet shirt from the bottom of the tub. She stays hunched over a moment, sure that she will never be able to straighten up. Her body is one enormous ache. And on the stove inside the house, another copper of sheets was boiling. Sheets that still had to be rinsed and wrung out and hung up to dry. She creaks upright and blows a sigh up into the brim of Soul's old hat, which shades her face from the burning sun. She stumbles toward the rope that has been strung up between two big cottonwoods. Her boots, thick with mud from the wash water, are as heavy and clumsy as wooden clogs. The hem of her sodden skirt trails in the mud. Frayed threads and gaps show in the puce dimity where she has ripped off the stylish ruching and train.
She had been reared by a mother who insisted that no true lady should ever be caught looking less than her best. But all of her bonnets were utterly useless against the sun, and the train on her skirt scooped up dirt and debris more proficiently than any broom ever would.
The clothesline has been strung up high where the occasional cow couldn't catch their horns in it, and so she climbs up on a stack of empty hardtack boxes to reach it. Just as she flings a shirt over the rope, the wind catches it, slapping its tail against her face. She searches blindly for the split-wood pins she has thrust through the front placket of her bodice. She wrestles the shirt into place and anchors it down with the pins. The wind slams into her again. She sways, grabbing for the clothesline. The boxes slide out from under her, and she lands on her rear with a splattering of mud and a teeth-rattling jar.
She sits still for a moment, breathing heavily as the mud oozes around her. The wet clothes flap and sing overhead. She squelches to her feet. She wipes at the mud on her face with her sleeve, smearing it into her mouth. A dollop of mud falls off the brim of Soul's old hat, splatting onto her bodice. She looks down at herself and laughs. She is covered from head to foot with mud. Surely there wasn't this much mud in all of England.
It has splattered all over the clean laundry on the line and she feels a bubble of laughter well up in her throat. She muffles the sound with a hand as she stands. She's had about enough of laundry. Without so much as a second thought for the now-soiled clothes, she heads for the river.
For the last few months Tad has been teaching her how to fish, a practical skill she had never considered while living in England. Maka takes a hickory pole and a tack box down to the river, if she couldn't clean the laundry then at least she could catch supper.
She follows the path that winds its way through the cottonwoods to the river and the quiet place where the fish lived. Here the water circles gently around big rocks, forming small pools where the big fish live under the foam. Bluebottles rose off the still surface in small clouds. Cottony tufts drifted like snow from the trees.
It was a hot day, the air soggy and limp. In the shade by the water though, it was pure heaven on earth. A lone willow grows on a small island in the middle of the river. Its branches swept low as if bowing to the ground. Its leaves shiver, promising a breeze. She sits on a beaver-chewed log to take off her boots and stockings. She hikes up her skirt and, grabbing her pole and tackle, wades into the water. She gasps at its iciness and runs, laughing and splashing, to the little island, the mud washing away in the current.
The grass is cool and satiny beneath her bare feet, like the silk counterpane on her bed in the house she grew up in. She drops down beneath the willow's shade. She baits her hook as Tad had shown her and casts it out into the deep water beyond the rocks. The line curves, sure and graceful, flashing like a thread of silver.
She shuts her eyes against the glare of the sun on the water. In the distance, over the softly rushing river, she hears the pounding of Black Star's hammer in the forge, and it's echoing in the thick air. He was probably building something for Tsubaki.
She sits in stillness, growing drowsy from the heat and the lullaby of the purling water. She can feel each sinew and muscle of her body. Feel the young and vital strength of her limbs and the life's blood pumping through her heart, the air gently filling her lungs. She feels alive. She wants to sing with it, to laugh, and maybe try to fly, the way the mockingbirds soar and float across the big blue sky.
She contemplates her place in this wide world, this new place that has become her home.
Now, as she watches the fishing cork bobbing in the current, she thinks of a crimson-eyed cowboy who has opened her eyes to this land and all who share it. Her feeling for him are often so jumbled, a mixture of annoyance for his prideful, boneheaded stubbornness, and also a fondness for his blunt ways, his vast knowledge of things, and his easy companionship.
The pull and ebb of his emotions were often her fault. She knew she pushed him to it often enough. Sometimes she feels like he surely must hate her, and other times, though she dared not to hope too much, maybe there was something more there. Like the surface of the river it appeared calm to the eyes, but deep underneath, lost to the naked eye, something churned and whirled and pulled them both under its spell.
It was terrifying, how powerful it felt to her. It was heartbreaking, how she couldn't speak about it to him.
Did he feel it too?
And so, because she had been thinking of him so intently, she isn't surprised when she spots him standing on the far bank. Watching her with those strange and beautiful eyes.
The sun is hot overhead. It had rained during the night, and now the ground steamed like an Indian sweat lodge.
Nobody was in the yard to greet him except the little patchwork-colored pup. He hunkered down to ruffle the ears of the ecstatic dog until the calf who had broken out of his pen again, feeling jealous, butted its head into his lap.
He saw the laundry strewn in piles beneath the sagging line, and he smiled. He shouldn't feel amused about work being tossed aside, but could he really blame her? A lot of work had gone into scrubbing those shirts and all those soft white feminine things. A lot of work that was going to have to be done all over again.
He sees her muddied footprints heading towards the river, and he follows them, her dog trotting at his heels. He didn't have to be a seasoned tracker to follow her messy path.
The wild plum thickets are in bloom along the river, filling the air with their thick, sweet fragrance. The willows are swollen and sticky with brilliant red buds. Larks sing, frogs croak, and the river makes its own music, deep and rich, like a person's laugh.
He spots the sleeve of her blue sundress among the trees first.
There she sits, like some woodland sprite from a fairytale, shrouded behind the willows, her hair the color of sunshine, the water dancing around her.
He notices she's taken off her boots and stockings to wade through the water to the little island. Her pair of boys' riding boots, made of cowhide, dyed red at the top and trimmed with brass at the toes. These things intrigue him about her. The way she'd given up her boy's clothes for skirts, but still wore practical footwear. And that old hat of his that she wore instead of fancy bonnets like most women did.
Her dress is ripped and muddy, and his old hat sits low, shading her freckled face. She's not proper at all, her dress is hiked up, exposing her milky calves and bare feet half submerged in the river. Yet... she still has the air of a lady about her.
Her lady's clothes, the skirts that brushed across the floors in the house, making intimate sounds, soft as lovers' whispers. Like the wisps of gauzy white stockings that lay beside her boots, she was so fine, so dainty and soft and feminine, she makes his chest ache.
Yet she is tough as nails, works harder than most, is so damn intelligent, and her stubbornness rivals even his own.
A hard, throbbing ball of want hits him low in his belly. It's so raw and painful that he can't deny it. He feels a rush of shame so hot that it almost makes him gag. He had dismissed the notion vehemently to Black Star, but here by the river, with only the trees and sky to bear witness to his crashing pulse, he can't deny that she is breathtakingly beautiful.
He wants to flee, to leave her here, and never look at her again, but his heart hammers in his chest, and his feet are rooted to the bank.
He watches as she fishes. At least she has a pole in her hands and a line in the water, but there is about her a sense of restless waiting.
She turns her head, and their eyes meet across the water.
The pull of her gaze is so inviting.
She sits unmoving as if she has been waiting for him, knowing he would come to her. Like he always does, and probably always will.
He takes off his own boots and socks and, after a moment's thought, his gun belt. He wants to be with her for a while without tension shimmering in the air between them. He wants to make her smile and maybe laugh a little, to speak to her man to woman, friend to friend.
"You stay," he says to Chief, who looks up at him with what seems to be a big happy grin on his face, though Soul knows he's only panting in the heat. "Stay," he says again. The hound whines and collapses onto the bank, burying his nose in his paws.
Soul splashes through the water, wading across the channel that separates sits farther than an arm's length away from her, for he doesn't dare get close enough to touch.
He isn't afraid of her; he's scared of himself. Of that current that hums and crackles between them.
He wonders if she feels it too?
He sits beside her on the grassy bank without a word. He tries to speak, he can find the thoughts but not the words or the courage to shape them. He catches her gaze for a quick, heavy heartbeat before hers veers away.
"Hello, Evans." She says. As welcomes went, it wasn't much. But it was more than he thought he was going to get. For all his surface stillness there was a restlessness underneath, and he felt undecided about whether to flee or stay. He leans over and tugs on her fishing line, feeling it drag through the current.
"What're you using for bait?" he asks, trying to keep his voice light.
"Salt pork."
"You won't catch anything, then. They're feeding on the bluebottles." Even as he spoke, a black-spotted trout leaps out of the water to snatch a fly on the wing. Her gaze focuses intently on the ripples left by the jumping fish. He can read her thoughts as if they were written across her forehead in printer's ink. She was thinking about wisting her hook through the fat, hairy body of a big ol' fly. But he wasn't going to make the mistake of assuming she was too squeamish to see it through. She was game, he'd give her that. One by one she had been confronting her tenderfoot fears, since she first came here, shooting them down like whiskey bottles off a stump.
"I'm sorry, for the things I said earlier. I don't know why I said them." He omits, his gaze roving her soft freckled face.
"I know, we can't help it, we always have to butt heads over something, don't we?" She asks with a small laugh, the sound sending a shiver through his body.
"I reckon, it's because you and I are the same, in a lot of ways." He casts a glance at her. She's looking at him with a wide, still gaze that calls to something sweet and sharp in his heart.
"I reckon you're right, like you are about most things." She drawls back, trying to imitate his Texas twang.
He laughs, and to his delight, she joins him.
"We may disagree on many things, but we will always be friends, won't we?" She asks, her face hopeful, her eyes boring into his very soul.
"Maka . . ."
It's the first time he's used her given name. It tastes wild and sweet on his tongue. Again he seeks out her gaze, and this time he is able to hold it, unwavering, without fear. Her lips part as if she will speak. He loses himself in the deep shifting shadows of her eyes. For a while, he must have stopped breathing. He blinks and draws in air, feeling dizzy, as if he has spun around too quickly in one place.
"Of course, we will always be friends." He chokes out, his throat rough, an unknown emotion lodged there.
She smiles, and it blazes across her face. She links her arm into his as they sit under the willow together, and it is the worst kind of pleasure, being touched by her.
"Tell me, have you always been here?" She asks softly like they are sharing secrets.
"Here?"
He almost chokes on the air rushing back into his lungs.
"Here, at the ranch. Have you ever been to other places?"
He feels absurdly pleased that she cares enough to want to know more about him. He feels his cheeks growing warm.
"When I was 16 I left for a few years, I was young and stupid. Thought the grass was greener on the other side. I didn't realize what I was missing here. I learned real quick what the world is like out there and came home right quick. Stein never said so, but he was glad when I came back."
Her face brightens even more, as if someone has just lit up all the candles in the world.
"What did you do? Were you a gun for hire? A stagecoach driver?"
He breathes out an easy laugh, her eager face causing his heart to swell.
"Nothing so exciting, I was a cowhand for hire. Drove cattle all over Texas and Oklahoma. I mostly trailed beeves, which is to say, I straddled a horse all day in the broiling sun and choking dust, ate son-of-a-bitch stew and vinegar pie every night for supper, and slept alone on the cold ground."
"Hmm." She pushes her lower lip out in thought and it twists his guts into knots.
"I think you loved every bit of it," She jokes.
"Hell, no." He shakes his head, smiling. He plucks a stem of clover, twirling it between his fingers.
"Well, maybe I liked night riding. I do remember some nights," he says softly, "when you'd think that if you had a dollar for every star you saw you'd be a rich man, and the air would taste better than whiskey in your belly. Nights like that, the time would pass by sweetly, just ambling along with nothing but the jingle of your spurs for company. Sometimes it would get so quiet you'd swear you could hear your own heartbeat. And the lonesomeness of it would build up inside you until the tears would come if you didn't shut them off. Times like that a man feels himself reaching for something, and there's an emptiness low in his belly that is partly hunger for a meal that isn't sowbelly and beans, and partly an old ache for a home of his own, a place to belong to."
His voice is low as he whispers his thoughts to her, like he has ground glass in his throat.
She tilts her head back, her face in rapt attention.
There was always this longing for something more inside him, something Soul Evans couldn't put a name to. Until now.
He looks down at her. She is staring at him, her mouth partly open, her eyes deep and dark. Against his better judgment, he lets the wild yearning rise up within him and overflow, and he thinks he might see a need in those green eyes, but it could only be his imagination.
He brings his head close to hers, and she goes utterly still. His mouth is so close to her face that his breath stirs wisps of her hair. He smells her scent, a heady mixture of mud, wild rose, sunshine, and woman.
A pitiful wail disturbs the taut silence. Her gaze snaps away from his, and a faint blush colors her cheeks. She waves a delicate hand at the bank.
"Poor Chief," she says, and he throws back his head and howls again like a coyote at a full moon. Her lips trembled on the verge of a smile. "I think he's lonesome over there."
Haltingly, Soul releases his caught breath, his senses slowly coming back. He feels so lost, spun around, then left with nothing but gut-wrenching shame. He shouldn't be looking at her this way. Should never touch her. But here he is, yearning for her. He tears his eyes away from her with a muffled groan.
Chief howls again, this time long and urgent, punctuated with a low growl. The brush down river rustles, the disturbed leaves shimmering silver by the water's edges. Soul feels the fine hairs on his neck stand up. A warning, something deep and primal, hits his bloodstream.
Soul catches a glimpse of something large with terrible yellow eyes. Gray fur moves in the leafy shadows, and it grins at him with long fangs.
Soul goes perfectly still. It was rare to see a Timber wolf down on the plains this time of year. A lone timber wolf, hunting in broad daylight, away from the pack.
Beside him, Maka stirs a little, but she seems unaware of the wolf. Her gaze flickers to his face, stopping.
"Evans? What's wron-."
He covers her mouth with his hand, his eyes intent on the wolf that stumbles out of the brush. It's coming towards them at a rigid loping trot.
"Shh Maka. Don't make a sound."