I swear I'm a masochist, because why else would I write another new story when I already have three going.

The answer is, I'm in a funk and this is what I felt like writing. And because Rose and Emmett need some love, too. The Cullens and BxE will be present in their own ways.

I blame A, who swears RxEm stories don't get as much attention and I'm kind of banking that.

- ONE -

Emmett.

The overloaded Greyhound bus spit up dust as it ground to a halt in front of the station in Lawton, Oklahoma. The disturbed particles swirled in the blazing rays of sunlight, coating the windows of the heaving people-mover along with everything else. The town itself looked old, with brick buildings and worn store-fronts, like it was frozen in time.

My hand came up and vigorously shook through my hair, trying to dispel the gritty coating, although I had to suspect it didn't matter much. Everything looked to be covered in the same fine dust, like a beige haze had settled over the entire area. I took a second to look around so I could wipe off my shades on my shirt, wondering how the fuck to get to my destination from here.

The job posting didn't offer much in the way of description; only "Ranch hand for hire. Will cover food and board. Must be willing to work 24 hour days and relocate." Not many places wanted to hire a guy fresh out of the slammer, so I couldn't bitch when I was hired on the spot after I'd emailed the address listed. No address, no phone number. I felt like I was being hazed in the same way as the town, like the sepia vignette was some kind of initiation ritual.

WestRose Ranch was in the far southern reaches of the state, damn near to the Texas border. I had to wager it would have probably appeared next to Butt Fuck Nowhere if I looked it up in the dictionary. As far as I could tell from the ride in from New York, the state was nothing but flat plains of crops and cattle, interrupted at odd intervals by unremarkable stretches of forest.

The 35,000 acre ranch was owned by a man named Theodore Hale and his wife Catherine. According to their website, they produced some of the finest beef this side of the Mississippi; they also bred and broke horses for both ranch work and competition. The masthead had a variety of awards and accolades including a AQHA Best Remuda Award and AQHA Ranching Heritage Breeder. I had no idea what those meant, but I suspected it meant they were a big deal.

The bus waited an age and half to pull out, even after all 3 people, including myself, had disembarked. When it finally wheezed to life and began to chug away I swept my eyes around the area of town I was in, looking for any kind of transportation. Nothing immediately stood out, so I hoisted my one duffel bag onto my shoulder and started walking.

After a few blocks I came across a couple storefronts on a side street; even in the broad daylight, it was impossible to miss the familiar glow of neon. A bell chimed as I walked in through the grimy glass door, then stopped dead as it swung shut on me. The distinct impression I'd barged into a secret meeting was fucking eerie. Every single head swiveled to look at me, eyes peering and assessing from beneath wide-brimmed cowboy hats and the bills of baseball caps.

I coughed, feeling way too self-aware, and picked my way between the angling bodies to fish for a drink. The man tending the bar looked old and haggard, with a grizzled, short beard and deep-set eyes that gave the impression they saw more than what was in front of them. He didn't speak, making me wonder if he was untrusting of a stranger.

"Can I get a beer?" He moved away to the cooler without asking for brand or light or heavy, sliding a short yellowjacket at me. He'd turned to move back down the bar, forcing me to call out across a man two seats down. "Hey! I need directions to uh, WestRose Ranch?"

He paused, turning to give me an appraising once-over. "Huh. So you're Ted's new hand. Well, son, it's about a days' walk from here. The boys'll come pick ya up, just hang tight." His voice was about as rough as his appearance, and sounded like he'd chain-smoked one too many Marlboros, but the undercurrent of youth couldn't be missed.

I had no idea who 'the boys' were, but at least it sounded like I had a ride. As long as it wasn't in the back of a cop car, that was just fine by me. The man next to me smirked, taking a sip from his own brown, glass bottle, and looked at the bartender. "What do you think Sam, over or under? I busted your ass for a hundred last time - wanna make it two?"

Sam, the bartender, shook his head, but looked pleased about something. "This one's got some fire, Paul, comin' in here like that. I'll go over, and do ya one better; let's make it five."

Paul snorted, spewing amber liquid from his nose. He choked for a moment in laughter, the sound blending into the humming chortling of what seemed like everyone else in the bar. I twisted, looking around, and sure as shit every other man in that bar was having a chuckle. It may have sounded like some kind of code to anyone else, but I wasn't that stupid. It didn't take a genius to know they were talking about me.

Finally Paul managed to dry himself off, slapping the bar counter with a whoop. "Sam, you are one dumb motherfucker. I'll take that bet!"

All I could do was shake my head and try to bury my eyes in my beer. These people didn't know me. They didn't know the drive I had, the overwhelming urge to succeed when slated for failure. A shadow flickered across the bar in the dim light, making me snap my head up to see Sam in front of me. He leaned forward, bringing his lips by my ear. His gravelly voice was oddly soft as he spoke.

"Just stay away from that banshee and you'll be just fine, son." He pulled away, clapping a hand on my shoulder before ambling away again.

I had no fucking clue what the banshee was, but if it meant proving these people wrong, I could, and would, do whatever the fuck I had to.