End of the Line

by RiderComin

Grief-stricken Róisín seeks her brother, picturing wild landscapes from stories. Cheyenne's reality: mud, stench, a brothel far from his letters' "reputable saloon." In a lawless town, against all caution Buck and Róisín find love in each other. * Some adult spice

End of the Line

By: H Forbes

---

· Adult SPICY Romance
Multiple explicit and very detailed intimate scenes, also explicit descriptive language.

· Themes & Tropes
Love Triangle, Memorible Meeting, Moraly Grey, Age Gap, Forbidden Love, Native Culture Lore

· Content Warnings
Language, Violence/Blood/Gore, Substance Abuse, Murder, Child Abuse/Neglect

---

· 10/2024 - Edited for typos, New formatting

---

The construction of the Union Pacific Railroad brought hopes of prosperity to the region when it reached Cheyenne on November 13, 1867. The population at the time numbered over 4,000, and grew rapid growth earned the city the nickname "Magic City of the Plains"

---

Chapter 1

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

The rhythmic clatter of iron wheels against rail filled Róisín's ears as the train sliced through the unfamiliar Wyoming landscape. She pressed her forehead to the soot-streaked window, green eyes wide, drinking in every passing detail. Rolling hills blurred into sun-baked valleys dotted with scraggly brush. The foreign scenery rushed by in a flash of dusty hues.

A dull ache throbbed in her gut, sharp pangs of homesickness mingling with the constant rocking of the railcar. The pungent smell of coal smoke stung her nostrils, her mind wandered back to those final nights in the cramped Boston flat. Mama's wheezing breaths, the bitter tang of medicine, the cold hand of death an unwelcome intruder.

Róisín swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat. She smoothed a crease in her faded blue dress. No time for a new mourning gown with the urgency to reach Lochlan. Not after paying the parish fees for Mama's burial from the scant savings. Her slender hand toyed with the cameo brooch at her neckline, a final cherished memento, as her vision blurred with unshed tears.

"You best tidy yourself, miss." The bass rumble beside her shattered Róisín's melancholy reverie. She stiffened, slender shoulders drawing inward at her seatmate's thick Southern drawl. "We'll be stoppin' in Cheyenne before the sun sets behind them buttes."

Róisín blinked, glancing over at the portly man. He worked his way through a plate of eggs and a greasy strip of bacon, speckles of grease glistening on his ruddy cheeks. Róisín's stomach churned and she swallowed hard against rising nausea.

When she didn't reply, the man wiped his mouth with a pristine white handkerchief and thrust out his palm. "Name's Henry. Henry St. Paul, ma'am, at your service."

His meaty hand engulfed Róisín's slight fingers as she managed a polite smile. "Róisín Brannigan."

"My apologies, Miss Brannigan." A chuckle shook his ample belly beneath a sweat-stained shirt. "You must've been sleepin' when I joined ye. Else I'd have introduced myself proper." His beefy finger jabbed toward her empty lap. "You missed the breakfast service. Want me to flag the cart for you on its return?"

Róisín swallowed again, willing her rebelling stomach to settle. "Thank you, Sir, but I'm not feelin' quite myself at the moment."

"Well, don't you fret if you change your mind." Henry puffed out his chest, pride ringing in his slow cadence. "The Union Pacific prides itself on top service."

His bluster triggered a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. "Do you work for the rail, then?"

A conspiratorial wink accompanied Henry's cryptic "Somethin' like that. Just say I help keep the whole operation runnin' smoothly."

Before Róisín could probe further, a piercing shriek shattered the rhythmic chug of the locomotive. Her heart thumpt against her ribs as a violent lurch whipped her forward. Her hand shot out, fingernails scrabbling at the wooden armrest to maintain balance. Shouts and the thunder of boots erupted from the rear car.

"What in God's name?" She gasped, throat tight with panic as several men sprinted toward the engine car.

"Now there's the root of the problem," Henry murmured, his genial demeanor evaporating. His blunt finger pointed beyond the sash window.

Squinting against the blazing sun, Róisín strained to discern a cluster of mounted figures silhouetted against the horizon on a nearby bluff. Dread crawled up her spine as she realized with dawning horror – they were men on horseback, six or seven by her count, garbed in strange regalia.

"Bandits?" Her voice cracked, barely audible over the frantic pounding of blood in her ears.

Henry snorted disdain. "Worse'n bandits. Damn savages, them, just waitin' to strike once we slow for the station."

A gun materialized in a younger man's grip as he rose to his feet beside them. Róisín emitted a strangled gasp, hands flying to her throat as the barrel leveled with the window. She squeezed her eyes shut, shrinking against the seat. Dear Lord, was this to be her fate? Cut down by wild Indians before even reaching Cheyenne?

Guttural cries pierced the air, haunting and feral, propelling Róisín's lids back open. Through the smudged glass, a painted face snapped into view, vivid streaks of colored clay contorting with loud shrieks. The warrior's eyes bored into hers for an endless heartbeat, flashing with rage and untamed fury. As his lips parted, revealing his teeth, a blast sounded from within the car.

Crimson sprayed across the glass, as the warrior clutched his chest. He crumpled backward off the galloping pony, legs trailing limply before thudding to the dry earth in a puff of dust. The remaining warriors scattered and fled, as the train picked up speed.

"You shot him!" Róisín's voice trembled as strong hands grasped her arms.

"Of course I shot him." The young man with the rifle spoke with an edge of impatience. "You know what would happen if that got his filthy hands on you?"

Róisín shrank from his harsh tone, her face blanching. "I've..." Her words faltered, the haunting image overwhelming any semblance of rational thought.

Henry's booming intercession silenced the brash shooter. "There'll be no talk of ethics on the frontier, William." He turned a far kinder expression on Róisín. "Where'd you travel from, young miss? From the way you took to heart that little...unpleasantness, I suspect you ain't seen much of this land."

"Boston," she whispered, hugging her elbows beneath the frayed sweater. "I'm from Boston."

His bushy brows lifted in surprise. "Well, I'll be damned. Quite a trek you've made then." A rumbling chuckle vibrated in his barrel chest. "Though I reckon they don't have Injuns like that back East, even in the city slums. Not like the breed that roams these territories."

As Henry continued on about the 'civilized' savage, Róisín sat back against the padded bench. Squeezing her eyes shut she tried to force the image of the man's twisted face from her memory.

Within the hour the brakes hissed and the locomotive shuddered. Activity beyond the soot-caked windows signaled their arrival – Cheyenne at last. A welcome reprieve, so she thought, from the nightmarish visions replaying in her mind.

The train slowed to a jerking halt, steel wheels shrieking against the rails. Through the warped glass, Róisín glimpsed a ramshackle collection of tents and rickety wooden shanties clustered around the crude depot platform. A tang of smoke and sour odors wafted through the cracked window.

"End of the line!" bellowed the conductor's gravelly baritone.

Róisín rose on trembling legs, clutching her meager belongings – a faded travel bag and a threadbare shawl to ward off the evening chill. She hesitated on the swaying step, peering out at the squalid encampment with trepidation. This... this was to be her new home? The dismal scene fell devastatingly short of Lochlan's letters depicting a burgeoning boomtown.

"Not quite what you pictured, eh, Miss Brannigan?" Henry chuckled, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes as he took in her disappointed expression.

His thick palm engulfed her fingers as he clasped her hand. "Second thoughts about joinin' your brother? No one would fault you for turning back to Boston's civilized streets after that..." He trailed off with an understated grimace.

Róisín's gaze drifted down the tracks they had just traveled, where the fallen warrior's form had dwindled to a speck amidst the vast landscape. A tremor racked her body, though she couldn't discern if the chill stemmed from lingering terror or her own doubts of leaving Boston.

"I'm here now, sir," she replied, permitting a flicker of determination to harden her delicate features. "No sense in turning around now."

"Well said, my dear." Booming approval swelled Henry's rotund cheeks into an approving smile. Henry leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper as he gently squeezed Róisín's shoulder. "Listen carefully," he instructed, pointing towards the bustling encampment on their left. "Stay on this side and don't wander past that large tent in the center. That's where the...Negroes and Indians reside."

"Make sure you keep to town, the railroad camp will be moving on after the winter, once they make it to Laramie." Henry chuckled, catching her off guard with a wink. "You'll find most folk out here aren't as refined as you are."

Róisín couldn't help but smile at his unique way of describing things. Refined? She had never considered herself as such, and the thought nearly brought a laugh to her lips. As she looked around at the makeshift tents and unkempt men who seemed to have forgotten when they last bathed, she had to admit there was some truth to his words.

Suddenly, Henry's booming voice called out, drawing her attention to a man approaching the platform. "Ah, Mr. Carson!" Henry greeted him with enthusiasm, beckoning him over for a word.

The tall well-built man in sweat-stained chambray removed his battered hat as he approached, his long blond curls tousled in the breeze. "What can I do for you, Mr. St. Paul?"

A sudden flush of heat blossomed across Róisín's temples as the men beside her dissolved into an indistinct blur. Black spots flickered in her vision as exhaustion, grief, and trauma swelled in her chest. Her eyelids fluttered, the sickly scents of the ramshackle town assaulting her senses until she swayed precariously. Strong hands steadied her from either side, anchoring Róisín's to the present. She blinked, refocusing on Henry's round, concerned frown and Carson's worried grimace.

"Easy there, Miss," soothed Carson.

"See this young woman to safe keeping." Henry clapped Róisín's shoulder, nearly driving her slight frame to her knees. "Brannigan is awaiting her arrival. I trust you can ensure she finds him without any...unpleasantries befalling her after the excitement along the tracks."

"Excitement?" Carson questioned Róisín as Henry waddled off.

Róisín's eyes widened with fear as she looked up at Carson. "Indians," she exclaimed, her voice trembling. "They stopped the train and one of them rode right next to the window, screaming and covered in paint."

"Was anyone hurt?" Carson's forehead creased with concern.

"One of the men on the train shot the Indian, but no one inside was injured."

"Sonuvabitch!" Carson muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "Sorry for the language Ma'am."

"It's okay," Róisín replied, blushing slightly. "I'm sure I'll hear worse around here."

"Oh, you will," Carson chuckled, picking up her trunk with ease. He then offered her his arm. "Let me help you with this." "Brannigan huh?" Carson shook his head in disbelief. "I wasn't aware that ole mick was married."

"No," Róisín laughed softly. "I'm his sister."

"Beg your pardon ma'am." He smiled and

Róisín tilted her head curiously. "What do you do here, Mr. Carson?"

"Just Carson," he replied with a smile, scratching at the stubble on his jawline. "I oversee the work crew. Most these men are fugitives or have some other kind of trouble following them. Just remember to stay inside at night and steer clear of that part of the camp over there." He pointed towards a specific area where a large tent stood in the center.

As she trudged through the muddy trail, Róisín suddenly felt something pull at her boot. She struggled and tugged until it finally released with a loud squelch. "Mr. St. Paul, warned me," she thought ruefully, nodding in acknowledgment as she wiped off the mud from her boot onto the grassy ground. "Is it always so…" she stammered at a loss for polite words.

"There's a great many things we lack here, Miss Brannigan," Carson remarked with a sidelong glance. His mouth twitched at one corner, not unkindly. "But filth, stench, and hard work ain't among 'em. You'll become accustomed to them soon enough, I reckon."

Róisín stumbled a smear of grime streaked her hem as she righted herself with a quiet huff. "I expect so, Mr. Carson. Though my brother failed to paint an..." Her brows arched as she struggled for a diplomatic phrasing, "... accurate picture in his letters."

Carson snorted a chuckle as they rounded a corner. His grimy knuckles rapped against the weathered oak door before them. "Can't say I'm surprised ole Lock would gloss over a few details about this godforsaken camp."

Before Róisín could voice an indignant retort, the scuffed door swung open with a protracted groan of rusted hinges. Lochlan, her sole remaining family, filled the doorway – taller and leaner than she remembered yet still unmistakably her elder brother. His ruddy complexion was sun-beaten, creased around the edges of his sky-blue eyes in a squint of confusion. Róisín's heart stuttered at the sight of his familiar features after so many years apart.

"Róise?" The lines around his mouth deepened into a stunned grin as he clamped a hand on the doorframe. "What in God's name are you doin' out in this ungodly place, lass?"

Róisín tried and failed to withhold a reciprocal half-smile, her chin quivering with a complicated swell of emotions. "It's...been too long, big brother."

"Too damned long if ye thought to just show up unannounced, without so much as a telegraph ahead!" Lochlan threw an arm around her shoulder, tugging Róisín through the doorway in a fierce embrace that stole her breath. The scent of stale whiskey and cigar smoke clung to his shirtfront, oddly reassuring in its familiarity. "And alone, no less! Knowin' the Injun dangers lurkin' along the route..."

He pulled back, gripping her shoulders to hold Róisín at arm's length for scrutiny. Concern furrowed his brow as he raked his gaze over her pale complexion and the dark rings etched beneath her eyes. "What's happened, Róise? Why've you traveled across half the country to this forsaken corner of the world?"

With a ragged breath, the floodgates crumbled and the bitter truth came pouring forth in a torrent.

"Mama... she's..." A sob hitched in her chest, shattering the words. Róisín ducked her chin, swiping weakly at the tears spilling down her cheeks. She worried her lower lip between her teeth, struggling to compose herself. At length, she managed a whisper, "She's gone, Lochlan. I did all I could, but..."

Comprehension – and guilt – dawned across Lochlan's weathered features. He cradled the back of Róisín's head, tucking her against his shoulder. "Oh, Róise, lass... I'm so sorry. So damned sorry..."

He murmured tenderly, rubbing her back soothingly. The dimly-lit tavern and boisterous patrons beyond the doorway faded to insignificance as Róisín buried her face into shit, muffling her sobs against the solid expanse of her brother's chest.

At long last, she lifted her head, swiping the heel of her hand beneath her reddened eyes. "I didn't know what to do after Mama passed."

"What about your schooling, lass?" Lochlan's brow furrowed.

Róisín could only offer a helpless shrug in response. "Mama fell ill." She explained. "I had to put aside my studies to provide her care."

Lochlan's weathered face darkened, the deep creases etched around his mouth tightening into a scowl as he responded with more than a hint of defensive edge sharpening his tone. "I was sendin' money back every month."

"Aye," Róisín assured him with a somber nod, her muddied eyes flickering up to meet his hooded gaze. "And we were grateful for the funds. But with Mama's tonic fees and the taxes on the flat, try as I might, I just couldn't make ends meet any longer."

A flicker of regret contorted Lochlan's rough-hewn features as he truly registered the hardship his younger sister must have endured these past few years without him. Clearing his throat gruffly, he muttered "I'm truly sorry, Róisín. I should've been there for you both."

"Mama understood you building a life for yourself," Róisín said gently, placing a comforting hand on his forearm.

Lochlan nodded soberly, his broad calloused palm absently stroking Róisín's disheveled chestnut tresses. "Well, you did the right thing comin' out here, mo stóirín," he murmured, a rueful sigh wheezing from his chest. Using the old Gaelic endearment, he pulled her into a gruff embrace. "Christ, this is no place for a gentle soul like yourself." Lochlan muttered under his breath before forcing a reassuring smile.

Squeezing her shoulder, he continued in a more buoyant tone, "But never you mind all that for now, I've got a room upstairs where you can settle yerself, get a bit of respite from the road at least. You could lend me a hand around the saloon - a pretty young lass like yerself would surely charm the patrons while cleanin' tables or pourin' drinks? How does that prospect strike you?"

Her weary smile widened into a grateful beam as she replied, "Thank you." She leaned into Lochlan's protective embrace, letting the comforting solidity of his presence envelop her.

Slinging a bearish arm around her slender shoulders, Lochlan began guiding her towards the rickety staircase to the left of the bar. "Get settled into your room for now. But I'll warn you, tonight's like to be a wild one," he said with a rumbling chuckle. "The boys'll want to get all their drinkin' and carousin' done afore mornin' mass and the confessional."

Róisín's finely arched brows shot up in surprise. "There's a church here?" She asked incredulously, emerald eyes wide.

"Not of our faith, but a church nonetheless." Lochlan boomed with a full-bellied laugh at her evident shock. "Even us sinners gotta have a place to seek absolution from time to time! Wouldn't you agree?" He winked roguishly.

Róisín couldn't help but return his playful grin, the lightness of their teasing sibling banter easing her troubled heart somewhat. "Let me take a wild guess," she replied with an playful lilt, her lips quirking in a sly smirk. "Even with a house o'worship nearby, you still plan to indulge in your Sabbath mornin' lie-ins?"

"Ah, you wound me with yer cheek, lass!" Lochlan exclaimed with an exaggerated grimace before squeezing her shoulder affectionately. Reaching for the door handle to the least dilapidated of the rooms upstairs, he leaned in close with a conspiratorial wink. "Get some rest now, little sister."

"Good night then, Lochlan," Róisín replied warmly, and brushing his bristled cheek with a kiss.

---

Chapter 2

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

The night brought a futile battle against sleep. Every few hours, Róisín would be jolted awake by another eruption of noise - a drunken shout, a raucous song, or the unmistakable sounds of… intimacy… emanating from the next room. Back in Boston, the city hummed with a constant thrum, a familiar white noise that lulled her to sleep. How anyone managed to get a decent night's sleep in this place was beyond her.

Finally, just before dawn stretched across the horizon, the noise subsided, leaving behind a peaceful silence. Róisín drifted off for a few precious hours. Her slumber was short-lived, shattered by the sounds of a high-pitched argument erupting in the hallway. Startled from her uneasy dreams, Róisín squinted against the bright sunlight filtering through the streaked glass pane, blinking with bleary confusion as she tiptoed to the door.

In the hazy light of the saloon's sputtering kerosene lamps, she could just discern a small cluster of scantily-clad women, their faces garishly painted and hair disheveled, embroiled in a heated verbal confrontation over what appeared to be some sort of monetary dispute. Harsh words laced with biting profanity were flung back and forth, the air practically crackling with unbridled hostility.

Utterly disoriented and bewildered by the quarrel unfolding just outside her door, Róisín could scarcely begin to comprehend the bizarre spectacle before her. What in Heaven's name was happening?

Suddenly, a vivid splash of bright crimson hair amidst the tangle of squabbling forms caught Róisín's eye - a woman with a face that might have been considered striking were it not marred by heavily smudged makeup and a scowl etched deep into her features. This redhead made her way from the group and turned to scrutinize the newcomer lingering in the open doorway.

"You must be new," the woman stated bluntly, her tone holding a hint of derisive amusement as she pushed past Róisín with surprising force, waltzing uninvited into the small room as if she owned the place herself. "Name's Harriet, though most just call me Haddie," she said by way of brusque introduction, plopping herself down on the rumpled bed with a distinct lack of decorum as her eyes raked over Róisín in a frank appraisal.

A high-pitched giggle, edged with more than a hint of vulgarity, echoed through the cramped room as Haddie bounced on the sagging mattress, her exaggerated movements and over-familiarity giving her all the air of an ill-behaved child mid-tantrum. Slinking back off the bed, she began sauntering in a slow, exaggerated circle around Róisín, her motions taking on an almost predatory quality that set the other woman's nerves on edge.

"Oh, Evelyn's gonna despise you, I can tell already!" Haddie abruptly declared with a braying cackle of mocking laughter, her fingers like long talons flashing as she reached out and snagged a stray lock of Róisín's chestnut hair, twisting the hapless curl idly between her fingers. Róisín recoiled from the unwelcome invasion of her personal space, panic prickling along her skin as she shrank back against the door in alarm.

"E-Evelyn?" She stammered, at an utter loss as to who this person could be or why the redheaded woman seemed to believe she would become the object of such disdain for a total stranger.

"Ah, pay that no never mind, sweetie," Haddie simpered as she continued torturing the captive curl. "She hates all the new girls. Comes from bein' at the top of the peckin' order for so long."

Her ruby-painted lips curved in a suggestive smile that caused Róisín's pounding heart to clench, her overly familiar tone taking on a distinctly insinuating lilt as she purred, "But I can already tell you'll be given' us all a run for the money, sugar - why, you're just about the prettiest lil' thing."

"Th-thank you," Róisín mumbled, barely audible, as she clutched the rusted iron doorknob in a white-knuckled grip, torn between a bone-deep unease and a shameful yearning to flee back out into the hall and away from this unsettling woman's company.

"Say now, you aimin' to start..." Haddie paused, arching one eyebrow as she drew in a harsh inhale, "...workin' tonight? Just can't hardly wait to see them boys get an eyeful of you when you're all dolled up and struttin' that sweet little backside of yours.

Róisín scoffed in a outraged burst, straightening her spine. "It's the Lord's day," she responded curtly, her Irish lilt growing more pronounced. "Surely my brother wouldn't dare open for business on a Sunday!"

Haddie's heavily lined eyes widened momentarily in surprise at Róisín's words before crinkling in seeming amusement. "Lock's your brother, is he?" She echoed with an indelicate snort. "Well, now I'll be damned!"

Róisín's own bewildered stare could not help but be drawn towards the darkened hallway beyond her still-open door as a couple of Haddie's cohorts sashayed by in a swirl of gaudy perfume and tawdry lace, their state of undress leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. A shudder of uneasiness rippled through her as she could not tear her shocked gaze away from their shamelessly unclothed forms.

"I...I don't understand," she said in a trembling exhale, finally finding her voice once more as her eyes rose to meet Haddie's. "Do...do all these women work at the saloon, then?"

The other woman threw back her head and let out a boisterous peal of laughter. "Work at the saloon?" She giggled, slapping her knee as tear tracks of black liner darkened her rouged cheeks. "Oh, honey, we don't 'work' at no saloon, no, no!"

Her amusement tapered off into another one of those conspiratorial smirks that set Róisín's nerves utterly on edge as Haddie leaned in close enough for her to catch an overpowering whiff of stale perfume and whiskey on her heated breath. "We strictly work the upstairs rooms, if'n you catch my meanin', darlin'," she said with a sly wink.

The horrifying truth slammed into Róisín, the air rushed from her lungs in a strangled gasp of disbelief. Her brother Lochlan, the only family she had left in this world, the man whom she'd trusted implicitly - he was running a brothel?

"No...no, that c-cannot be," she choked out, shaking her head. The very notion that her beloved older brother was profiting from such wickedness made her stomach churn in revulsion. "My brother runs a...a den of iniquity?" The words tumbled from Róisín's lips in a horrified gasp of dawning comprehension, spinning dizzily in her ears even as she silently willed them away, pleaded for them not to be true. "No, no, there has to be some mistake - you must be mistaken!"

But even as the frantic denials poured from her lips in a breathless torrent, Róisín could see the truth reflected in Haddie's bright blue eyes. Unable to bear the crushing weight of that dawning realization for a moment longer, she felt something deep within her snap. With a desperate inhalation, she reached out and grasped Haddie by her upper arm with a firm grip, the silken fabric of the woman's tattered robe bunching between her whitened knuckles.

"Out! Get out!" She cried in a trembling voice, hauling the startled redhead towards the door. Róisín flung the door wide, all but flinging Haddie out into the dim hallway.

Left alone in her tiny sanctuary, the enormity Haddie's words crashed over Róisín. How could her own flesh and blood engage in such vile, immoral activities? How could he exploit women - young, defenseless girls no older than herself, she abruptly realized with a sickening lurch - in pursuit of... of what? Earthly desires and wealth?

With trembling hands, she flung open her trunk. She would gather her meager belongings and depart this hell hole immediately, she decided with a set jaw. Perhaps she could procure some menial labor back in Boston, eking out a living however meager as a seamstress or laundress.

Clad once more in her plain blue dress, Róisín gathered up her heavy trunk with a defiant grunt. With her head held high, she stormed out of the cramped quarters and down the creaking stairs, hauling the cumbersome luggage behind her with a resounding clatter.

Bursting out onto the saloon's weathered boardwalk, Róisín flung the trunk to the ground with a muffled thud, the harsh impact raising a puff of dust. With a renewed sense of determination, Róisín silently vowed she would rather secure honest work, no matter how menial, anything to avoid being party to Lochlan's depraved schemes here in this godforsaken corner of the world.

---

Chapter 3

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

The insistent tick of Buck's battered silver pocket watch echoed in the stillness of the pre-dawn hours. Lifting the timepiece towards the soft glow of the lantern, he checked the hour again with a squint – 5:57 am precisely. Sundays were a luxury for a man toiling in the harsh world of the railroad. Buck savored these stolen moments of solitude, from the first blush of rose-gold sunlight caressing the horizon to the fiery descent of the evening sun.

Sundays unfolded with a predictable rhythm. The devout souls, both white settlers and the Black freedmen sought solace within their respective houses of worship. The white men donned their Sunday best and trudged the dusty path into to the clapboard chapel. The Black congregation, voices raised in spirituals carried on the morning breeze, held their service in a clearing by the riverbank. The smattering of Indians, from various plains tribes, remained aloof from the Christian rites, each honoring their traditions in solitary reverence. Even in this isolated outpost on the fringes of the frontier, the different groups seldom mingled unity a distant dream.

For Buck, Sundays meant an escape from the demands of work. He would saddle his sturdy mare and ride into the cool verdant embrace of the nearby pine forest, often extending these solitary excursions into overnight stays. During his initial wanderings through the unexplored wilds, Buck had stumbled upon a secluded cave deep in the woods near a small stream, a sanctuary where he sought refuge. The silence and solitude were calming to his troubled spirit, a space to breathe the air freely, to quiet his whirling thoughts, and to wrestle with the demons that gnawed incessantly at the edges of his soul.

He constantly had to remind himself that this grueling railroad job, herding mule teams, and long days of laying endless tracks, were merely a temporary means to an end. Buck yearned to save enough of his wages to put down permanent roots somewhere, to build a true home and life for himself, and maybe even find a good woman to start a family with someday.

But that elusive "someday" seemed to be receding further and further across the vast horizon with each passing year. The relentless march of days and seasons mocked his dreams of domestic tranquility. At twenty-nine, he couldn't help but feel the creeping tendrils of loneliness wrap around his heart. The long-held dream of a family once so vivid and full of hope was starting to lose its luster, yet a stubborn flicker refused to be fully extinguished.

Buck savoring one of the last sips of lukewarm coffee from his tin cup. He was just about to swing his long, lean frame up into the saddle, the enticing promise of a solitary woodland ride beckoning, when an unusual sight across the dusty main street caught his keen eye.

There, perched atop a battered, trunk in the front of the saloon, sat a petite young woman with chestnut hair pinned up modestly beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Her simple blue calico dress spoke more of virtuous propriety than the brash provocations of the saloon girls he occasionally glimpsed through the swinging doors.

Curiosity piqued, Buck watched as the young woman wrestled with the overlarge trunk, her slender frame no match for its considerable heft as she attempted to drag it across the deeply rutted road surface. The muddy ground from the recent rain showers offered little traction. Despite her determined efforts, the unwieldy trunk seemed possessed by a will of its own, progressively sinking deeper into the mud.

He couldn't stifle an amused chuckle at her tenacity as the trunk refused to budge, each futile tug only succeeding in miring it further into the muck. Yet beneath the humor, Buck felt a grudging admiration for the young woman's refusal to surrender despite the distinct disadvantage. Finally, he could bear to witness her fruitless struggle no longer. Downing the last swig of coffee, he ambled across the street, a silent offer of assistance.

Just as he reached the opposite edge of the camp's haphazard semicircle of log cabins and canvas lean-tos, the inevitable occurred. Having tugged the trunk into a patch of boot-sucking mud, the woman was caught fully off guard. With a startled cry, she went sprawling face-first into the thick mud, no chance to catch herself.

"Ma'am!" Buck cried out in alarm, quickening into a loping run. In two long strides, he scooped up her mud-spattered form with one arm and secured the wayward luggage with the other before quickly navigating them both to the safety of a nearby shadowed alleyway, away from any potential runaway stagecoach hazards.

As gently as possible, considering she was thoroughly slicked from head to toe with the vile-smelling muck, Buck settled her atop the trunk and knelt in front of the disoriented woman. He noticed with an inward smile that she still maintained a death grip on the lone remaining trunk handle, unwilling to relinquish her prize even after such a nasty tumble. A rumbling chuckle bubbled up from his broad chest but he stifled it, taking the carved wooden handle from her mud-caked grasp and gently placing it beside her on the dirt-packed ground.

The woman flinched at his touch, her tear-streaked face crumpling further in perceived humiliation as glistening trails of muddy water streamed from her reddened eyes. Each attempt to swipe away the stinging tears only succeeded in smearing the grime in crescent-shaped arcs across her cheeks and chin.

"Here now, hold still Miss," Buck murmured in a low, soothing tone, reaching out to still her flailing hands before she made even more of a mess. Careful to avoid introducing any new filth to her face, he took the cuff of his own faded shirt sleeve and tenderly wiped the mud and tears from beneath her eyes. "Don't rub at it, you'll only grind the grit in deeper," he cautioned, his calloused thumbs brushing lightly over her cheekbones to clear the muck clinging stubbornly to her delicate lashes.

Her eyelids fluttered open at last, the mossy green irises blinking rapidly to clear the foreign debris as she peered up at him with a disconcerted gaze. "Thank you, sir," she managed in a shy whisper.

Taking her small, grubby hands between his broad palms, Buck did his best to wipe away as much of the caked-on filth as possible using the thighs of his sturdy canvas pants as an impromptu towel. "Not exactly spotless clean, I'll admit," he said with a curl of his lips as he worked, "but hopefully an improvement at least."

His smile faltered as he felt her hands began to tremble within his grasp, a hazy sense of unease falling over them both.

"Good Lord, you're an Indian!" She gasped, a tremor of fear causing her to flinch ever so slightly.

Buck felt his easygoing manner evaporate, that all too familiar pang of weary resignation seeping into his bones as he retreated behind the stoic mask he typically wore. He acknowledged her observation with a curt nod, his jaw tightening. His only response was a low guttural grunt, "Mmm."

"Yer not like the one who attacked the train yesterday though, are you?" She pleaded, her dirt-smudged gaze searching his impassive features.

He had caught wind of the unsettling rumors whispering through the camp about a daring Lakota raid along the tracks – a brazen warning more than anything, but the warriors had effectively terrorized the passengers by barricading the rails.

"No, ma'am, I ain't," Buck stated simply, realization dawning that she must have been aboard the train caught in the crossfire.

She studied him for a lingering moment, her evident apprehension gradually giving way to hopeful relief. This tall, broad-shouldered Indian didn't seem at all like the brutish savages that attacked the train. A faint, derisive smile ghosted across her muddied lips as she vaguely recalled Henry St. Paul's warning – that all redskins were godless heathens to be feared and avoided at all costs lest they scalp you as soon as look at you. Yet this imposing man knelt before her now, his bronzed face creased in an expression, not of malice but of genuine concern.

"Were you on that train, Miss?" Buck asked, his curiosity piqued as to what circumstances could possibly have brought a well-bred white woman like herself to be traveling alone out here on the fringes of the Wyoming Territory.

"Aye," She admitted with a fearful sigh, subconsciously hugging her muddied skirts tighter around her legs.

"Whatchu doin' dragin' this trunk through the mud?" He asked.

"Well, I...I..." She began haltingly, but her words were cut off as a bellow of outrage erupted from the swinging saloon doors behind her.

"Róisín!" Lochlan stormed out into the street, grabbing the girl roughly by her arm and hauling her up to her feet with surprising force, causing her to cry out in shock and pain.

"Ouch!" She cried, wincing as his thick fingers dug brutishly into the soft flesh of her forearm.

"Ey," Buck interjected in a low rumble, rising fluidly to his full, intimidating height as he took an instinctive step forward. His words were measured yet imbued with an undercurrent of quiet menace.

"This don't concern ye, half-breed, keep that nose of yers outta my business." He growled with a dismissive curl of his lips, snatching up the young woman's trunk with ease and dragging her towards the saloon against her vehement protests.

"I ain't never settin' another foot back inside that house of sin, Lochlan Brannigan!" Róisín yelled defiantly as the larger man shoved her roughly through the swinging doors.

"This place may well be a 'house of sin' as ye put it ungratefully," Lochlan roared in rebuttal, slamming his fist down on the pockmarked bar counter in a resounding thud that set the bottles of cheap rotgut rattling, "but it's been me providin' you a roof over yer head and food on yer table!"

"You disgust me!" Róisín spat, tears of fury and humiliation stinging her eyes. She whirled on her heel and stormed up the creaky stairs, the tattered skirts of her well-worn dress swirling around her ankles. With a defiant shove, she slammed the flimsy door to her tiny room.

Chest heaving, Róisín crossed to the grimy window and stared down at the dusty main street below. Despite the sordid establishment she now found herself trapped in, she couldn't help but give a small, grateful smile to the kindly stranger as he rode his horse out of town. uncivilized outpost. She smiled at the irony, she certainly wouldn't have thought the one decent soul that existed in this town would be an Indian.

As his form dwindled to a speck, reality settled over her. She had nowhere else to go, no other family, no funds to her name. As much as Lochlan's deplorable business endeavors disgusted her very core, he was providing a roof over her head, meager though it was.

A brief knock at the door was her only warning before it creaked open, revealing Lochlan himself balancing her cumbersome trunk against his hip. With a grunt, he deposited the scuffed luggage beside the sagging bed. His jaw worked as if to speak, but seeming to think better of it, he simply gave a curt nod and pulled the door closed once more without a word.

---

Chapter 4

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

Róisín tilted the tarnished hand mirror a bare fraction, angling it to better catch the weave of her long chestnut braid as it snaked down the curved plane of her back. With a weary sigh misting the looking glass, she reached up to fumble for a stray hairpin, dull fingers working the curved metal free of the strands...only to hesitate, then yank it loose entirely. Her dark plait unraveled, individual curls springing free around her face and shoulders.

Noticing a flicker of movement in the mirror's smudged reflection caught her eye - the door creaking open a bare sliver she met Haddie's gaze a warm smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Though just a few months her elder, and despite their initial acquaintance being a rocky one, the bawdy redhead had managed to become an unlikely yet welcome friend.

"Well, come in then," Róisín laughed, as Haddie practically flung herself through the door in a tangle of gauzy skirts and frantic limbs. The rickety door slammed shut behind her with a resounding thud that reverberated off the low ceilings of the cramped room.

"Róisín, yer hair is simply gorgeous spilled loose like that," Haddie blurted in a breathless tumble.

With ease, she set to work separating and smoothing the rich, sable tresses, nimble fingers expertly coaxing the tumbling waves into soft, undulating ripples that caressed the fine-boned curves of Róisín's face and throat. "'Tis a shame to keep it confined in them braids all the time when the good Lord clearly intended it for admirin'!"

"Ye flatter me too as always, Haddie," Róisín demurred, ducking her head bashfully. A hesitant pause before she asked with an anticipant lilt, "Have you given any more thought to...our discussion?"

Haddie's lips curved in a beaming smile that crinkled the dusting of feckles spanning the bridge of her nose, her lined eyes crinkling at the corners in genuine warmth. "Oh Róise," she crooned in a conspiratorial burr, "A whore doesn't need to know how to read."

"I don't imagine you'll always want to be a wh—" Róisín stopped herself as the word stuck in her throat. "You would have more opportunities if you knew how to read."

"Well," Haddie twisted Róisín's hair up loosely and pinned it securely before adding a ribbon for decoration. Smiling happily at her work, she sat on the bed. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to learn."

A surge of breathless exhilaration and pride lanced through Róisín's breast at her friend's words. Twisting around on the battered little stool to better face Haddie directly, she cried, "Of course! There's a whole world just waitin' to be discovered between the covers of books, Mrs. Haddie - history, philosophy, tales of far-off lands and peoples more wondrous than you can fathom!"

Her smile faltered slightly, her green eyes searching Haddie's sky-blue ones beseechingly as her voice softened to an impassioned murmur. "You mustn't think that just because of...of your circumstances here, that you must remain...confined to such a harsh life forever."

For a fleeting instant, Haddie's own grin seemed to waver, her ruby lips compressing into a tight line as her expression underwent a myriad of subtle changes.

"Well," Haddie said at last in a subdued tone, her rowdy earlier exuberance dimming to a solemn watchfulness. "The God's honest truth is, I never reckoned on endin' up in a place like this no-how, neither. Surely never imagined traipsin' off west from Kentucky would lead me to...well, this sort of 'employment', if you take my meanin'."

Róisín's breath caught, her brows drawing together in dismayed confusion. "How did you find yourself here then?" She blurted out, unable to contain her curiosity a moment longer.

But Haddie's expression had shuddered closed, her expression hardened into cool detachment as she continued twisting a loose thread on her hem. "Pa was killed durin' the war - Confederate skirmishers caught his brigade off-guard. Cousins of Pa's took me in for a few years after, though there wasn't much in the way of prospects or opportunity once the war was done. Just another mouth to feed and the crop yields sufferin' from lack of hands to work the fields."

Then, with a glacial stillness she met Róisín's stricken gaze in the blurred mirror and stated with brutal finality, "I was twelve when them cousins shipped me off west, said I had to make my own way in the world from then on..." Another pause, as she took a deep breath. "Men...men pay a high price for innocence. Some relish the...novelty...of it all the more if the girl ain't never even been..."

"Oh, Haddie..." Róisín breathed heavily. In one convulsive movement, she twisted around on the battered little stool, hands shooting out to clasp her friend's in an achingly tender grip. "You were just a child..."

But the words withered to dust on her tongue, strangled by the truth reflected in Haddie's features - that loss of maidenly virtue at such an unforgivably tender age, a sacrifice bartered for mere survival in this ruthless, untamed land. A sacrifice no child, no matter how dire her circumstances, should ever have been forced to pay.

Swallowing against the lump of revulsion and pity rending her throat, Róisín squeezed Haddie's hands in a sudden grasp, quietly willing what little comfort and strength she could muster to flow between their joined fingers.

"For all the... the evil in the world, your brother's a good man. He's more than fair, it's safe, or relatively safe here."

A melancholy sigh escaped Róisín's lips as she drew in a resolute breath. Reluctantly, she released her friend and rose to her feet, smoothing the coarse fabric of her faded gingham apron.

Descending the creaking stairs Róisín emerged into the dimly lit saloon, her feet padding softly across the well-trodden planks. The pungent aroma of stale whiskey and tobacco smoke mingled with the musty scent of sawdust that coated the floor. Absentmindedly, she swiped a rag across the scarred oak countertop, her gaze drawn to the pendulum clock that ticked away the seconds.

It would be at least an hour before the first customers began to trickle in from their day's labors, seeking solace in the bottom of a glass. Róisín grimaced, recalling the unkempt, sweat-stained figures that would soon populate the saloon, their unwashed bodies exuding a rank odor that seemed to permeate every crevice. She could only pray that some would have the decency to douse themselves at the water trough before entering, though she harbored doubts if the water would actually help the situation or just renew the stench.

In the three weeks since her arrival Róisín had yet to experience a moment of true cleanliness, a fact that weighed heavily upon her with each passing day. The saloon's batwing doors swung open with a creak, admitting a burst of golden sunlight that momentarily banished the gloom. Róisín squinted against the harsh rays as a familiar figure stepped across the threshold, the spurs adorning his polished boots jingling with each purposeful stride.

"Good day, Miss Brannigan," Carson greeted with a respectful nod, settling his solid frame upon a battered stool at the far end of the bar.

"Hello, Carson," Róisín replied, offering a polite smile as she retrieved a glass from beneath the counter. "The usual, I presume?"

"Thank you ma'am."

She filled the tumbler to the brim with the amber liquid, sliding it towards him. "You're in here rather early this evening."

Carson's eyes crinkled at the corners as his grin widened. "I wanted to ask you…." He cleared his throat, his gaze holding hers with an unmistakable intensity. "If you would join me for lunch this Sunday...after services, of course."

"Oh, that's...that's very kind of you, Carson." A delicate blush tinged Róisín's cheeks as she averted her eyes, suddenly aware of the weight of the whiskey bottle clutched in her trembling hands. "I shall have to seek my brother's approval."

The man inclined his head in understanding. "Of course, Miss Brannigan."

The saloon's rear door banged open, admitting Lochlan with a crate cradled in his long arms. "Róise, what is it you need to ask me?" He inquired, depositing the crate upon the weathered countertop with a thud.

Her mouth opened, but no words emerged as her gaze flickered between Carson and her sibling. "I...we can discuss it later," she mumbled, her flush deepening.

Lochlan's brow furrowed, but before he could pursue the matter further, Carson interjected. "I've just invited your sister to join me for lunch after services this Sunday...provided you've no objections, of course."

A knowing smile spread across Lochlan's rugged features as he turned his scrutinizing gaze upon his younger sister. "Objections? By no means, Carson." He clapped a calloused hand upon the foreman's shoulder. "You have my blessing, to be certain."

Róisín's stomach twisted into a leaden knot as Carson drained the last of his whiskey and rose from his stool. "Then I shall eagerly await your company this Sunday, Miss Brannigan," he declared with a courteous bow before taking his leave.

The moment the doors swung shut, Larkin rounded on his sister, his expression stern. "What was that hesitation about, eh?" He demanded, snatching the whiskey bottle from her slackened grip and depositing it alongside the others. "Lucy, love, would you mind tending the bar for a spell?"

Without awaiting a response, he seized Róisín's arm in a vice-like grip, propelling her towards the cramped office at the rear of the saloon. He thrust her into the solitary chair, his jaw clenched as he leaned against the door, regarding her with a mixture of bewilderment and reproach.

"Mr. Carson is respected in these parts, Róisín," Larkin began, his tone measured yet laced with an undercurrent of admonition. "A man of considerable means and influence. You'd do well by his side."

Róisín's eyes widened in a mixture of innocence and trepidation. "But...I don't feel that way about him, Lochlan. He is kind, to be certain, but—"

"Feelings?" Her brother's bark of cheerless laughter cut her protestation short. "This has naught to do with feelings, you daft girl."

Squatting before her, he grasped her hands in his calloused palms, his expression softening as he met her guileless gaze. "I know it seems unfair, but things are different here than they were in Boston. You must learn to adapt, Róise...for both our sakes."

She nodded mutely, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as the weight of his implication settled upon her shoulders like a shroud.

"This is about your survival girl. You need to marry well," Larkin continued, giving her hands a reassuring squeeze. "Any one of these women here would trade places with you without a moment's hesitation."

A solitary teardrop traced a glistening path down Róisín's cheek. "I...I cannot simply pretend—"

"You don't have to love the man right now," he urged, his thumb brushing away the errant tear. "Spend time with him, let him court you properly. Perhaps your heart will awaken to him."

Róisín regarded her brother in silence for a prolonged moment before offering a scarcely perceptible nod of agreement.

"That's my brave lass," Larkin murmured, rising to his feet and pressing a tender kiss to her brow. "Have faith, Róisín. The Almighty would not have delivered us to this harsh land without reason."

---

Chapter 5

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

Róisín spent two weeks having polite conversations and forcing smiles with Carson on Sundays, as she had promised her brother. Carson wasn't a bad man, she supposed. Agreeable, even handsome in a rugged way. But the fluttering feeling in her heart was simply absent. Perhaps her brother was right. Maybe love wasn't a passionate storm, but a slow-burning ember that grew over time.

Carson was certainly a man of the land. He commanded respect from the men he led. His tall stature of six foot five towered over Róisín's tiny five foot three frame. Though Doug Carson was thirty-five years old, a few years older than her brother and seventeen years her senior, she had to admit he was a handsome man. His face showed signs of age and years of working in the sun. There were lines near his clear blue eyes when he smiled and a few grey strands in his long, wavy blond hair near his temples.

Yet, as she sat in the stuffy church pew, every part of her yearned to escape. It wasn't that she disliked Carson's attention, she was truly trying. But the constant presence, the lack of solitude, was suffocating. Every waking moment was spent in the bustling saloon, even her room offered little respite with Haddie or one of the other girls bursting in. She craved a quiet moment, a moment to simply be alone with herself and her thoughts.

The moment the congregation bowed their heads in prayer, Róisín saw her chance. With a silent apology, she slipped out the back door. The warm sunlight struck her face like a welcoming embrace. Without looking back, she sprinted through the dusty town and into the open meadow beyond, pushing forward until her lungs burned. Only when she stopped, gasping for breath, did she realize how far she'd run. The distant town had become a blur.

A fleeting thought of the local tribes crossed her mind. A thought she quickly dismissed. Surely Indians wouldn't venture this close to the settlement. With a sigh of relief, she reveled in the sun's warmth soaking into her skin. Rolling up her dress sleeves to her elbows, she ventured deeper into the tall grass, the gentle brush of new growth tickling her palms. A sense of peace settled over her. Here, in the quiet embrace of nature, she could finally breathe.

"Hey, you shouldn't be out this far." A deep voice boomed from behind.

Róisín whirled around, startled. The tall man sat astride a powerful chestnut horse, his shadow stretching long across the meadow in the afternoon sun.

"Ehm, I didn't realize I had wandered so far," Róisín said, turning around startled.

"We got hostiles in this area." He said, dismounting with surprising grace. "Or don't you remember?"

Shame tinged her cheeks. Lochlan had warned her about venturing too far outside town, especially alone.

"Well yes," she mumbled, clutching the hem of her dress. She felt as though she was being scolded. She held out her hand and waited for an introduction. "I'm Róise."

"We've met," he said, looking at her closely.

"Your name?" She asked holding out her hand persistently.

"Buck Cross." He finally grasped her hand as briefly as he could, in his calloused grip.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Cross," she smiled and shook his hand firmly. "I didn't get the chance to thank you for helping me the other day."

"Don't worry about it," he said, looking across the meadow. "I'll take you back to town."

Róisín hesitated. The urge to escape the stifling expectations of her life warred with the very real danger of venturing deeper into the woods.

Buck crossed his arms. "Didn't you hear me, lady? You can't be out here all by yourself. It ain't safe." He walked after her and grabbed her arm, stopping her from walking further into the trees.

"Well..." She turned around playfully and smiled. "I wouldn't mind your company if you wanted to take a walk."

Buck's jaw clenched. "Don't get cute with me, miss. I ain't interested in getting caught out here with one of Branigan's whores—"

"I'm not a…" Róisín looked up at him, her green eyes wide with shock. She felt the heat rising to her cheeks and then looked down, genuinely embarrassed.

"Hmm." Buck grumbled, now intrigued, He reached out and tilted her chin up to look at her better. "Workin' girl that blushes?"

The sunlight hit her rich brown hair, lighting up the few tendrils that had escaped their pins and danced around her face and neck playfully. He could lose himself in her mossy green eyes, she had the wide-eyed innocence of a child, yet her full pink lips held the smile of a temptress.

"Lochlan is my brother." Róisín met his gaze, her chin held high. "I'm stayin' there until I get my bearings."

A flicker of understanding softened his features. "Even more reason to get you back."

Before Róisín could protest further, Buck reached out and lifter her onto the back of his horse. The sudden movement startled a yelp out of her as she adjusted herself on the saddle.

"I just wanted to explore," she mumbled, a pout forming on her lips.

"Ain't safe," he said firmly, but kindly as he walked along the trail guiding the horse.

Both were silent as they made the short trip back to town. A fleeting thought of jumping off the horse and running back into the meadow flew in and out of Róisín's head. She knew it was pointless, and that he was right. It was dangerous. The happiness that she had felt only moments ago, the freedom, was gone. As they neared the outskirts of town, Buck slowed the horse to a stop near a cluster of large trees, their shade hiding an abandoned train car from view.

"You can walk the rest of the way." He announced, his hand resting on the saddle behind her.

"Thanks," she mumbled, the word barely a whisper.

Buck reached out, his touch was surprisingly gentle as he helped her down. But then, he saw them – the glistening tears welling up in her eyes. The sight caught him off guard, a punch to the gut that stole his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw. He'd come here to return her, not get tangled in her troubles. But resolve was a flimsy shield against the unexpected pull he felt. As he set her down, his hand lingered a moment too long on her waist.

"Hey," he said gruffly, his voice softer than he intended. He tilted her chin up, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "You gonna be alright."

Róisín offered a small smile, unconvincing even to herself. She leaned back against the horse and met his gaze. She had expected to find anger or at least irritation in his eyes, but she found kindness and a hint of understanding. Her dress felt like it suddenly constricted, her breath catching in her throat.

When his hand slipped away from her waist, a jolt ran through her, a silent plea for him to stay, for the contact to linger. Embarrassed by the unfamiliar yearning, a blush creeping up her neck, she did the only thing she could think of. She pushed past him, a mumbled goodbye escaping her lips. Her legs propelled her forward, a desperate flight back to the saloon.

---

Chapter 6

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

The chill morning air was no match for the slanted shaft of sunlight that streamed through the windowpane, bathing the faded quilt in its golden warmth. Upon the well-worn blanket, two girls huddled in whispers and giggles, their heads bent together in quiet conspiracy. With a patient hand, Róisín traced her finger across the faded text, guiding her companion through the carefully inscribed words.

"Miss Bingley told me said Jane," Haddie read aloud, her brow furrowing in concentration as her lips formed each syllable with painstaking precision. "That he never sp-acks, no. Shoot."

"Speeeaks," Róisín gently corrected, sounding out the troublesome word.

Haddie nodded, her eyes fixed upon the page. "Speaks much, unless amon-gee?"

"Among," Róisín replied, pointing to the offending letter. "Here the 'g' is silent, it makes the 'n' have a different sound. Like the words 'sing' or 'ring' – with 'among' the 'g' at the end, you don't say 'guh' or 'gee'."

"Among..." A small crease appeared between Haddie's brows as she scrutinized the text once more, her finger hovering over the next unfamiliar word.

"He never speaks much unless among his intimate acquaintance," Róisín continued, her voice adopting the gentle cadence of the prose. "With them, he is remarkably agreeable."

Haddie's frown deepened. "This Mr. Darcy sounds like a no-good son of a bitch," she declared, her tone laced with unveiled disdain.

A ghost of a smile played upon Róisín's lips. "A bit at first," she conceded. "But there's more to him than that."

"Then we fall in love with him?" Haddie's eyes widened with impish delight, a teasing glint sparkling within their azure depths.

Róisín chuckled. "Something like that, I suppose."

A contemplative silence settled between them, the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging palpable in the air. Finally, Haddie broke the reverie, her voice hushed yet laced with solemn curiosity.

"Ya think that's how it's supposed to be?" She inhaled a steadying breath, her gaze drifting towards the cracked plaster of the ceiling as she posed the pivotal query. "Fallin' in love, I mean."

The laughter drained from Róisín's features, replaced by a pensive melancholy that etched premature lines at the corners of her eyes. A weary sigh slipped past her lips as she traced an indiscernible pattern upon the quilt's faded print.

"I don't know," she admitted, her voice tinged with a fragile vulnerability. "Back in Boston, I used to think it I'd meet a man, charming and..."

"Handsome?" Haddie interjected with a sly grin, nudging her friend's arm with a playful elbow.

A fleeting chuckle escaped Róisín's lips. "Of course," she noded, unable to suppress the wistful smile that played upon her features. "Maybe even a little wealthy."

Haddie's grin morphed into a wicked smirk as her eyes danced with impish delight. "I'd take a little less handsome if it meant he had more in his pockets," she declared with an exaggerated wink.

"Haddie!" Róisín exclaimed, her hand flying to cover her mouth as she fought to stifle the burst of scandalized giggles that threatened to erupt.

Her friend was utterly unrepentant, throwing back her head with a peal of laughter that reverberated through the small room. "I meant money!" Haddie insisted with a broad grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "You filthy minded thing, what did you think I meant?"

Róisín's cheeks flushed a furious shade of crimson as she swatted at Haddie with the book, her embarrassment only fueling her friend's amusement. "You know exactly what you meant," she huffed, unable to maintain her facade of indignation.

With a giggle, Haddie deftly evaded the halfhearted blows, rolling onto her back with a contented sigh. For a lingering moment, a companionable silence settled over them, broken only by the occasional twitter of laughter.

At length, Haddie propped herself up on her elbows, turning to Róisín. "In all seriousness though," she began, her tone sobering somewhat, "a man's wealth is one of the only things that matters around here."

"Survival." Róisín echoed her brother's words.

"It's not just about survival, Róise," she stated with a frank candor. "It's about security. Protection. Having enough money means never having to..." She trailed off, unwilling or unable to give voice to the unspoken implications.

"I know," she finally rasped, her voice little more than a hoarse whisper.

"I used to dream of havin' a family," Haddie confessed in a whisper scarcely louder than a breath, her words laden with a despondence that eclipsed her tender years.

"You don't longer?" Róisín prodded gently.

Haddie's gaze met hers, the childlike innocence that had once danced within their blue depths extinguished, replaced by a sobering practicality that lent her an air of world-weariness far beyond her years.

"I'm a whore, Róise," she stated, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I'm not waiting for Prince Charming to come save me anymore."

The stark words hung between them. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes as she reached out, grasping Haddie's hands in her own with a fierce tenderness.

"You're young, and beautiful, Haddie. You can still have that family you dream of."

Haddie's eyes widened, glistening with unshed tears of disbelief. "Why are you so nice to me?" She breathed, her voice quavering ever so slightly.

Róisín squeezed her hands with softly. "Because we're friends, right?" She stated, her tone resolute, unwavering.

Slowly, the shadows of despair retreated from Haddie's features, replaced by the first tentative blossoms of hope. Her lips curved into a timid yet grateful smile. "I'm so glad you came here, Róise," she whispered, her words brimming with sincerity and affection.

"Me too," Róisín echoed fervently, leaning in to envelop her friend in a tender embrace.

For a lingering moment, they embraced, drawing strength and solace from one another's nearness. At length, Haddie pulled away, a mischievous light rekindled in her eyes as she smiled at Róisín.

"I'll wager Mr. Carson is glad you came here too," she teased.

A hot blush flushed Róisín's cheeks, her lips parting in a slight pout of embarrassment. "He's a very attentive man," she mumbled, striving for indifference yet falling well short of the mark.

A loud snort burst from Haddie's lips as she fought to stifle her giggles, her shoulders quaking with laughter. "From what I hear from the other girls, he's a VERY nice man, Róise," she managed between gasping peals of amusement.

Róisín's jaw dropped, her eyes widening in a mixture of shock and reproach. "Haddie!" She exclaimed, her tone laced with scandalized disapproval.

"What?" Haddie chortled, clutching at her stomach as gales of laughter wracked her body. "Surely you don't think the men who come here are saints do you?"

A mortified groan slipped from Róisín's lips as she buried her flaming face in her hands. Undeterred, Haddie reached out her nimble fingers seeking out the sensitive flesh of Róisín's sides with a flurry of teasing tickles. The unexpected onslaught elicited a squeal of surprise from her friend, followed by a futile barrage of swatting hands in a desperate bid for reprieve.

"Come on, Róise," Haddie persisted through her laughter, evading each half-hearted blow with ease. "You're not a delicate flower. You're a grown woman!"

Róisín managed to extricate herself from Haddie's relentless assault. "It's just... private things," she stammered, her eyes downcast as she struggled to reign in her mortification.

Haddie rolled her eyes, utterly unperturbed. "It's just bodies, Róise. Bodies," she stated with an air of practiced nonchalance. "There ain't nothing private or emotional about it."

Róisín pondered this unexpected honesty, a flicker of curiosity battling against the deeply ingrained constraints of her ingrained modesty. At length, she met Haddie's gaze, her own eyes shining with a mixture of trepidation and furtive inquisitiveness.

"But isn't it... difficult?" She began, faltering slightly as the words fought their way past the lump that had formed in her throat. "Making love to different men?"

A snort burst from Haddie's lips as she shook her head. "Making love?" She scoffed, her tone laced with cynicism. "I ain't makin' love with any of 'em."

Her words hung in the charged air, stark and uncompromising, as Róisín's eyes widened in stunned disbelief. Haddie leaned forward, her features devoid of shame or artifice as she imparted this brutal truth.

"It's physical," she continued in a clinical cadence far beyond her years. "Sometimes it's enjoyable, sometimes it's just a chore, depending on the man. But there's no connection, no emotions."

Róisín's mind raced as she digested this jarring revelation. The very thought of such intimacy with Mr. Carson – or any man, for that matter – had filled her with unease. But to hear Haddie so candidly describe such carnal acts as emotionless transactions was profoundly unsettling in a manner she could scarcely articulate.

"I could never do it," she finally whispered, her voice quavering with conviction even as her mind reeled.

Haddie's expression softened as she reached out, giving Róisín's hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

"You'd be surprised what you are capable of," she replied, a knowing smile playing upon her lips as she regarded her friend with an unmistakable fondness. "We all do what we gotta do."

---

Chapter 7

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

The train rattled and swayed down the uneven tracks, carrying Róisín and Carson towards the railhead. Unlike her usual workday decorum, Róisín had left her hair loose today, the wind whipping through it as she leaned out the window. With each gust, she closed her eyes, picturing herself soaring freely.

"Careful, you don't fall right out that window," Carson chuckled, his amusement evident.

Róisín grinned, retracting her head and taking a seat beside him. "It feels like flying!" She exclaimed, the joy in her voice unmistakable.

"Enjoying the ride?"

"Very much!" She sat back on the plush seat. This train ride was fairing much better than her last.

A satisfied smile played on Carson's lips. "Glad to hear it."

Curiosity flickered in Róisín's eyes. "How fast can the train go?"

He chuckled again. "Once this track is complete, this old girl will be hitting speeds of about thirty-five miles per hour."

"Amazing!" She breathed, captivated by the thought.

The rhythmic clacking of the wheels against the tracks lulled them into a comfortable silence until Carson announced, "Here we are." He offered his hand, and Róisín took it as they disembarked.

"I thought you might be interested in seeing the bridge construction," Carson said, leading her toward the front of the train.

Excitement bubbled within Róisín. "I would love that!" She replied, skipping ahead of him on the dusty path.

Carson pointed towards a large excavation. "This is the railhead," he explained. "The men here are carving a path for the railroad tracks. Then, another crew comes in to lay the ties and rails."

Róisín's gaze swept over the workers, the men laying the tracks and the men carving out the pathway, observing a stark difference in their complexions. "Forgive my ignorance but, why aren't there more white men working here?" She inquired, a hint of curiosity in her voice.

"Hmmph." Carson grunted. "There are a few scattered about, but most of the laborers are… well, inferiors. They're suited for tough, manual work. The thinkin' jobs are for men like myself." He paused, then added, "Don't underestimate them, though. They're hard workers."

"Inferiors." Róisín frowned. "Some people say that about the Irish."

"I apologize, I meant no disrespect," Carson reassured her, lowering his voice slightly. "I fought for these men's freedom. But they ain't educated, and most them men, they ain't interested in polite niceties." A dry smile touched Carson's lips when he saw her considering what he had said. "I'm just a cog in the machine, Róisín. For example, I wouldn't have hired any of these half-breeds. I wouldn't turn my back on any one of 'em, can't tell if they are more white or savage."

Róisín furrowed her brow as she watched the workers expertly bind the rails together. The bridge was far from complete, but its skeletal form hinted at the impressive structure it would become. A loud horn blared behind them, tearing her attention away from the construction and back to the men laboring in the cut. Her gaze drifted curiously to a young man carrying a bucket. As he approached each worker, they paused momentarily to quench their thirst.

The heat beat down and Róisín's eyes scanned the sweat-slicked torsos. Suddenly, a familiar face caught her attention. She watched, transfixed, as Buck gulped down water and then doused himself. The water cascaded down his long hair, tracing a path down his bare, muscular chest.

A jolt of awareness shot through her as her gaze made her way down his body. She was staring, blatantly, as if she wanted to devour him whole. Mortification flooded her cheeks. She tried to look away, desperately willing her eyes to break the connection. When their eyes finally met, a blush bloomed across her face.

"Are you alright, Róisín?" Carson's voice, laced with concern, shattered the unexpected moment.

"I feel a little… feverish," she stammered, her breath catching in her throat. Finally, she managed to tear her gaze away from the man.

"The train ride might have been a bit more exhilarating than you expected." Carson chuckled good-naturedly, taking her arm and guiding her back towards the train. "There's lunch waiting for us inside."

"Thank you, Carson," she mumbled, a weak smile playing on her lips. As she boarded the train, she stole one last glance at Buck, a shy, smile gracing her lips before the train pulled away.

---

Chapter 8

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

Elias snorted. " You can put that one right out you're mind." He shook his head, his voice laced with amusement. "Besides the fact, that girl too white, Boss man's got his eye on her."

Buck grunted and mumbled something incoherently, wiping sweat from his brow with a swipe of his forearm

"Half the men 'round here would string you up if they saw the way you been lookin' at her, boy." Elias scoffed.

Buck's lips twitched into a derisive grin. "Well, they can't stop a man from thinkin'."

Elias threw his head back and boomed with laughter. A sharp bark cut through their conversation.

"Get back to work! We ain't payin' you to gossip like a bunch of old hens!" The line leader bellowed.

---

Chapter 9

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

Lochlan eyed the small parcel suspiciously, his fingers tracing the worn paper. Addressed to his sister, it had arrived from New York, a place Róisín had no recent connections to. Curiosity gnawed at him, a battle raging with the protectiveness he felt for his younger sibling. He set the package on his desk, the decision of opening it hanging in the balance.

Just then, Róisín's light steps echoed down the stairs, her usual cheer dampened by a slight frown. She approached the bar, her gaze landing on the package. Relief washed over her face, a genuine smile replacing the earlier frown.

"Róise," Lochlan called from the office doorway, his voice gruff. "Come here, love. A package arrived for you."

Róisín's smile widened as she hurried over. "Finally!" She exclaimed, tearing into the brown paper with a hint of impatience. "Lochlan, I didn't want ta tell you about it until…" Her voice trailed off as she revealed the contents – spools of thread, a glint of scissors, and a packet of needles.

Lochlan leaned against the doorframe, furrowing his brow. "Sewing supplies?"

Róisín held up a spool of thread, her eyes gleaming with a newfound purpose. "There used to be a tailor here, someone who mended the workmen's clothes. Carson told me he fell ill and went back east. Now, the men have ta patch their own clothes or wear them ragged."

Lochlan's skepticism seeped into his voice. "What exactly are you getting at, Róisín?"

A determined set formed on Róisín's jaw. "I don't want to work at the saloon," she declared. "I plan on offerin' sewing services."

Lochlan scoffed. "You'd rather do that than pour a few drinks and clean tables?"

Róisín's smile vanished, replaced by a deep sigh. "Don't you understand, Lochlan? The men… they leer at me constantly. It's not just the comments or advances, it's the way they look at me. And it doesn't stop there. I've been grabbed, cornered…" Shame tinged her voice, a stark contrast to her usual vibrancy.

Lochlan's face hardened. "Why didn't you tell me about this? I wouldn't have tolerated it for a second."

A flicker of sadness crossed Róisín's features. "You run a brothel, Lochlan. It's a place where men come to drink and… have their way. How can I expect respect here, even if you are my brother?"

Lochlan felt a pang of guilt twist in his gut. He hadn't fully considered the harsh reality Róisín faced under his roof. Shame washed over him, a bitter aftertaste for the "protection" he'd offered.

"I'm sorry, Róisín," he finally said, his voice thick with regret. "I understand now."

Róisín offered him a sad smile, the relief in her eyes evident. "Thank you," she whispered, pulling him into a tight hug.

---

Chapter 10

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

Weeks had flown by since Róisín began her mending service, and she was swamped. Lochlan, initially reluctant, had allowed her to set up a table in the saloon for an hour each day to take in her work orders. After the first week, she realized that only the white workers were allowed at the saloon. There were many more customers to be had if her Lochlan would allow it. Róisín had tirelessly argued with her brother, finally convincing him (though with gritted teeth) to allow the other's to drop off their clothing orders at the back door once a week.

Finishing a quick note, Róisín folded it with a sigh and slipped it into her pocket. She still hadn't convinced her brain to continue with her heart's foolish gamble. Grabbing the heavy basket overflowing with clothes, she balanced it precariously on her hip and made her way down the stairs, heading for the back door.

"Listen well, Róisín," Lochlan's gruff voice rumbled from the bar as she exited. "I don't want those men lingering here, even at the back. Make it quick, now."

Róisín flashed him a smile, the basket threatening to topple over. "I will," she called back, fumbling with the doorknob.

Just as the door creaked open, a strong hand reached out, relieving her of the heavy burden. "Here, let me get that for you, ma'am," Elias said kindly, placing the basket on a nearby table.

"Thank you," Róisín replied, her voice warm. Gazing up at the towering figure, she confirmed, "Elias Johnson, right?"

A smile broke across Elias's face. "Yes ma'am," he replied with a nod.

Róisín consulted her list, her finger tracing names until it landed on his. Matching it with a bundle of clothes, she said, "Here's yours. I noticed a few loose buttons, so I took the liberty of reinforcing them. No extra charge for that."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, taking the clothes. "What I owe you?"

"Twenty-five cents will do," she replied.

Elias handed her the coins and then surprised her by offering a shirt and coat. "They need some patchin' too."

"Of course," Róisín agreed, examining the garments. Her fingers brushed against a significant tear in the jacket. "I can have the shirt done by next week, but the jacket will take a bit longer, maybe two weeks."

"Thank you, ma'am," Elias said nodded.

The morning unfolded in a flurry of activity. Most of the men retrieved their mended clothes, a few leaving additional garments that needed repair. Róisín patiently waited by the table, her mind drifting. Her gaze followed a small sparrow flitting along the ground, its tiny body a blur of feathers and energy as it searched for breakfast among the leaves. A jolt of surprise ripped through her as a deep, smooth voice broke into her daydream. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she looked up quickly as Buck's shadow fell across the table.

Róisín felt her heart flutter in her chest. "Hi," she managed.

"Mornin'," Buck responded gruffly.

She retrieved his mended shirt, her fingers itching to hand him the note clutched in her pocket.

"Seems I ain't the last one," Buck remarked, peering into the basket at the few remaining garments.

"My brother was very clear on the one hour," Róisín explained quickly. "Those men will have to wait until next week if they don't hurry."

"Hmm." Buck leaned over, his hand brushing hers as he scanned the names in her book. "Ross and Finley?"

Róisín swallowed, the nervous flutter in her stomach intensifying. "Mmm-hmm," she confirmed.

"They're in the can," Buck chuckled, pointing towards a lone freight car near the yard office.

"The can?" Róisín's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Jail's still bein' built," Buck explained with a smile. "It's just the can."

Róisín's eyes darted from the freight car back to Buck. "What did they do?" She inquired.

"Ain't my business," he grumbled a little harsher than he meant to.

"Well," Róisín mumbled, turning back to the basket. She pulled out his shirt. "That'll be ten cents, please."

Buck reached into his pocket and retrieved the coins.

"Thank you," Róisín replied, forcing a smile. She bit her lip, the note burning a hole in her pocket. Taking a deep breath, she steeled her nerves and grabbed his arm before he could turn to leave. "Just in case you don't need anything else mended…" she stammered, shoving the folded note into his hand.

Before Buck could react, the saloon door swung open with a bang, revealing Lochlan's scowling face.

"Róisín!" He barked. "Pack it up!"

"Perfect timing, then." Róisín said, forcing a smile as she turned away from Buck. "That was my last customer."

Lochlan shot Buck a venomous glare. "Get moving," he growled.

Tucking the mended shirt under his arm, Buck nodded curtly and crossed the road towards his tent. He wasn't just worried about Lochlan; it was the men he had at his beck and call, the power that came with having the law on his side.

Reaching the privacy of his tent, Buck carefully placed the shirt in a chest. He unfolded the small note, a mixture of curiosity and trepidation swirling in his gut. As he reread the message scrawled on the paper, his disbelief grew:

"Meet me by the tree line near the broken engine - Sunday 12:30"

The simple sentence sent a jolt through him. What exactly was she thinking? And was he crazy enough to consider it?

---

Chapter 11

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

Róisín fidgeted in the pew, her eyes flitting between the stained-glass windows and the clock on the wall, her fingers barely able to hold still in her lap. The moment the pastor began a prayer, she slipped out of the side door. The broken engine sat rusting on the outskirts of town. It was an unlikely meeting place, especially on a Sunday, and precisely why Róisín had chosen it.

She hurried along the tree line, casting nervous glances around her. Ten minutes stretched into fifteen, then twenty. Disappointment gnawed at her. Had she misinterpreted his kindness? The look in his eyes? Perhaps she'd been too bold. With a defeated sigh, she turned to leave, regret threatening to drown her courage.

"Róisín?"

The familiar voice sent a jolt through her. Spinning around, she found Buck approaching on horseback, a serious expression etched on his face.

"Are you sure about this?" He asked, his voice low.

Her skipped a beat, causing a flutter of butterflies in her stomach, but she met his gaze with a resolute nod. He smiled and offered a hand. Hesitantly, she took it, allowing him to lift her onto the horse behind him.

"Hold on tight," he instructed.

Róisín wrapped her arms around his waist and as he spurred the animal into a gallop, the world blurred into a rush of wind and trees. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, a thrill replacing the initial fear. They emerged from the trees onto vast, open plains. Buck slowed the horse to a leisurely walk, eventually stopping by a stream shaded by a cluster of oaks.

"I had no idea riding a horse could be so exciting!" Róisín exclaimed, her voice breathless. She waited patiently as he dismounted, then reached up to help her down.

"Ain't never ridden a horse before?" He inquired a hint of surprise in his voice.

Róisín shook her head. "Never had use for them in the city." A shy smile played on her lips as she glanced down at his hands, still lingering at her waist. "I didn't think you'd come," she admitted softly as she looked up and met his gaze.

Buck momentarily looked away, his eyes following the slow current of the creek, as he sorted through the thoughts in his head. He didn't think he would met her either, but here he was. He took a deep breath and turned toward her.

"How old are you?" Buck grumbled.

"Eighteen,"

Buck whistled a low, surprised sound. "Damn," he muttered, shaking his head. "I knew you were young, but…" His voice trailed off as his gaze turned serious. "What are you after?"

"What do you mean?" Her smile faltered slightly.

"This," he countered, his eyes searching hers.

Róisín bit her lip, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her features. "I don't have many friends here," she admitted softly. "You've been nice to me. I just thought, well I guess I thought that…"

"What about yer friend Carson?"

"Mr. Carson?" She looked up and noticed the look of skepticism in his eyes. "He and my brother are far more interested in our friendship than I am."

Buck nodded, a flicker of understanding in his eyes. "I see."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the gentle gurgling of the stream. Finally, Róisín, eager to break the tension, spoke up.

"Would you like to ride a little further?" She asked, her voice hopeful.

"I can show you how to handle the reigns." He patted his horse on the shoulder. "If you'd like."

"Really?" Her eyes lit up as she stood on her tiptoes excitedly. "I would love that!"

"Alright."

Buck guided Róisín's hands, teaching her to handle the reins with a gentle firmness. Though her fear had dissipated, replaced by an exhilarated glow, he could still sense her body's unease – the subtle tensing of her shoulders, the rigidity in her posture.

"You're doing well," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against her back. "Let the horse sense your confidence."

Róisín exhaled slowly, willing her muscles to relax as the powerful beast beneath them forged ahead, following the narrow creek winding through the wilderness. Though the rhythmic sway of the saddle had initially unnerved her, she found herself succumbing to the natural cadence, her grip loosening on the reins.

"I come out here most weekends," Buck remarked, "to find solitude."

Róisín hummed in acknowledgment, too entranced by their surroundings to offer more than a fleeting response. The sunlight filtering through the canopy of leaves, while the burbling waters beside them provided a soothing melody.

"Where are you from?" Buck cleared his throat.

"My family moved to Boston, from Ireland when I was quite young," Róisín explained as Buck dismounted, his boots sinking into the soft soil. "Lochlan was thirteen."

Buck nodded, extending his arm to assist her descent. "That's a large age gap."

"Our parents had other children, but they died in their youth." A hint of melancholy tinged her voice as she met his gaze.

"I'm sorry," Buck murmured, squeezing her hand in a warm, reassuring grip.

For a moment, a heavy silence hung between them, laden with unspoken grief. Then, tilting her head inquisitively, Róisín prompted, "What about your family?"

"Have a half-brother," Buck replied, releasing her hand as he began to wander along the creek's edge. "Ain't seen him in a few months."

A heavy sigh escaped Buck as he ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Memories, like phantoms, flickered at the edges of his mind. Back before the war, his brother had issued a harsh ultimatum: his Kiowa family or a life with the Pony Express. Buck had walked away that night, the image of his brother's face etched in his memory, a bitter farewell. He'd thought it was forever.

But the war had changed everything. Then signing up with the Union Pacific offered a purpose, a way to chase the ghosts that haunted him. Yet, it was the railroad itself, the very symbol of progress that had brought him back to his brother. A flicker of a smile touched Buck's lips as he recalled spotting the familiar markings. The reunion had been quiet, and hesitant, but the relief in his brother's eyes, a mirror of his own. They had both changed, weathered by the storms life had thrown their way.

"Your Indian half or white half?" Róisín walked beside him.

"He's a Kiowa war chief." Buck's gaze grew distant, his mind drifting to memories long buried. "My mother raised me in the village until she died. I left a couple of years after."

"Why did you leave?" Róisín asked curiously.

Buck exhaled deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of the past. "I don't know if it was because the man who forced himself upon my mother was also my father, or if it was being white – but I never felt accepted." Buck's reply was a low rumble. "Ended up at a mission school," he confessed, his fingers seeking hers and finding them with a gentle touch. "Learned to read, write, speak English."

Róisín tilted her head, her gaze flickering to their intertwined hands. "And how'd you wind up out here?" She inquired.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "That, darlin'," he drawled, his voice husky, "is a story for another day." He slanted a glance towards the horizon, where the sun dipped below the treeline. "Getting late," he murmured, squeezing her hand gently. "We should be headin' back."

"So," she pressed, a playful glint sparkling in her eyes, "there will be another day, then?"

Buck chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that warmed her from the inside out. "Mmm-hmm," he hummed.

As they retraced their path, Róisín's thoughts lingered on the memory of their ride, savoring the warmth of Buck's reassuring presence, the firm guidance of his hands upon hers. Though he maintained a leisurely pace, the journey back to town passed achingly quickly, leaving her yearning for more time in his company.

As they approached the abandoned engine on the outskirts of town, Buck scanned their surroundings with weary vigilance. Relief washed over him upon confirming they were alone and unobserved. He dismounted smoothly, offering Róisín a steadying hand as she slid down from the saddle.

Their bodies brushed together in that fleeting moment of contact, sending an electrifying jolt coursing through Róisín. She fought against the urge to shudder, keenly aware of Buck's intense scrutiny. His gaze smoldered with an unspoken hunger as he leaned closer, close enough for his warm breath to caress her cheek.

Emboldened by the desire simmering in the depths of his eyes, Róisín took the initiative. Rising on her tiptoes, she pressed her lips to his in a gentle, chaste kiss. Though brief, the intimate gesture unleashed a torrent of longing Buck had struggled to repress. As Róisín pulled away, her eyelashes fluttered open demurely, a shy smile playing upon her lips.

But for Buck, that single, taste of her was the spark that stoked the fires of his want into an uncontrollable blaze. He watched, transfixed, as the hazy reverie of passion slowly dissipated from Róisín's eyes, replaced by an innocence that betrayed her naivete.

"Róise," he rasped, his voice rendered husky by the conflicting emotions raging within. "You got trouble written all over you, darlin'."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means a good, sweet girl like yourself shouldn't be getting mixed up with the likes of me," Buck replied, a hint of resigned frustration tingeing his tone.

"The likes of you?" A giggle rushed out of her. "You make yerself sound like some sort of criminal reprobate."

Meeting her gaze steadily, Buck's expression grew somber. "Even in a regular town, our... you and me, we wouldn't be accepted," he countered, his words carrying an undercurrent of grim finality. "You got any idea what would happen? If anyone saw us together?"

The teasing light in Róisín's eyes flickered and dimmed, replaced by fear as the weight of Buck's words settled upon her. "No," she whispered.

Buck sighed, raking a hand through his disheveled hair. " I'd lose my job," he said, his tone hardening with cynical resignation as he downplayed the potential ramifications. "As for you... you'd forfeit any chance of finding a decent husband."

"I understand," the jarring truth behind his words visibly shook Róisín, her delicate shoulders slumping in defeated disappointment as she turned away, poised to retreat into solitude and lick her wounds.

"Damn it all to hell," Buck muttered beneath his breath, the vehement curse barely audible.

Ignoring the overriding voice of caution, he reached out, his fingers encircling her wrist in a gentle yet insistent grasp. Before Róisín could voice her protest, he spun her around to face him, his other hand settling at the curve of her waist as he pulled her lithe form flush against his body.

Though startled by his sudden actions Róisín's response was unguarded. Drawn by yearning that burned within her she wound her arms around his neck as their lips crashed together in a passionate, desperate kiss. Finally, Buck tore his lips from hers, his ragged breaths intermingling with Róisín's in the scant space between their bodies. A rosy blush stained her cheeks as she gazed up at him through her thick fringe of lashes.

"Does this mean you'll meet me here next Sunday?" She murmured.

"Mhmm," Buck confirmed, stealing one final, searing kiss before forcing himself to take an abrupt step backward. "Now go on," he urged, his hoarse voice tinged with urgency as he gestured towards town. "Before we get caught."

He leaned against the cold, bulk of the abandoned engine, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like the massive metal form itself. He drew in a ragged breath, watching Róisín's retreating figure grow smaller with each step.

Alone with her, the carefully constructed persona he presented to the world – the stoic, unapproachable man – had crumbled. He'd laughed with her, a sound he hadn't heard from his own chest in years. He'd felt a connection, a spark of something real that transcended the loneliness that had become a constant companion.

But the harsh reality slammed back, dispelling the warmth of their stolen moment. Róisín. Young, innocent, with eyes that held a trust that both terrified and enticed him. He could almost hear Lochlan's venomous scowl, the ever-present threat simmering beneath the surface. Getting caught with her wouldn't just mean losing his job – a harsh reality in itself, considering the options were scarce in this desolate town. It could mean accusations, even… a hanging. Elias's chilling words echoed in his mind:

"Half the men here would string you up if they saw the way you was lookin' at her."

He knew she was trouble. The word burned on his tongue, a bitter truth he couldn't deny. Yet, how could he resist her? The memory of her touch, the heat of her kiss, sent a jolt through him. Her sweetness in a place like this was both a temptation and a warning. He was a wolf, a creature of the wild, and she, a fragile moth drawn to a dangerous flame.

Buck closed his eyes, the image of her smile flashing behind his eyelids. He knew, deep down, that this stolen connection could only lead to heartache, for both of them. But the thought of letting her go, of snuffing out the flicker of joy she brought into his life, was a prospect almost as unbearable.

---

Chapter 12

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

The next couple of Sundays a familiar dance played out. Just before the final hymn echoed through the church doors, Róisín would slip out, she'd navigate the back alleys, her eyes scanning for any sign of a watchful gaze. The abandoned engine, beneath the cloak of rustling leaves and the watchful gaze of crows, Buck would be waiting, a reassuring smile on his face.

Their days were filled with stolen moments. They explored the tangled depths of the forest by the cave and spent hours sitting at the edge of the creek sharing stories of their lives before Cheyenne.

Buck regaled her with tales of his youth – the thrill of joining the Pony Express, his fellow riders, and best friends, as they braved the untamed wilderness. He spoke of his service with the Union Army, his voice taking on a somber tone when he recounted scouting missions. The war, a dark cloud that loomed over their generation, remained ground he navigated with trepidation.

Róisín was just a child when the war began, and could still recall its grip on her young life. The memories were etched in her mind – the fear, the uncertainty, the crushing weight of loss. The war had snatched away her entire family.

Her father and Lochlan had marched off to fight for the North, a flicker of hope burning in their eyes. Lochlan returned, a ghost of his former self, for a brief period after the war. But her father, his laughter forever silenced, never came home. Lochlan had ventured west, leaving Róisín with their mother. However, fate wasn't done with their family yet. Her mother passed earlier that year, and though the doctor attributed her passing to a faulty heart, Róisín knew she died of a broken heart.

One Sunday afternoon, as they sat nestled under a sprawling oak tree, a heavy silence settled between them. Buck, sensing the shift in her mood, reached out and gently stroked her cheek. "What is it, Róise?" He asked, his voice laced with concern.

Startled from her musing, she shook her head, a futile attempt to banish the phantoms of the past. "Just… bad memories of the war," she mumbled.

"Best to leave some memories behind us," Buck nodded in understanding.

"How did you end up working for the railroad?" She inquired, her voice regaining its usual spark.

Buck chuckled, "Well, a few months after… the war," he cleared his throat. "I found myself out of a job. I'd been wrangling cattle for some ranchers in Kansas, but nothing steady. Then, news reached my ears about the railroad needing men. Figured, hell, I can do that."

Róisín's lips curved into a smile. "And here you are," she whispered, leaning closer until their bodies brushed.

"Here I am," Buck echoed, his voice husky with desire.

He traced the outline of her lips with his thumb, the touch sending a roaring of river of fire through his veins. Unable to resist any longer, he leaned in and captured her lips in a tender kiss. Her soft sigh fanned the flames of his longing, and he deepened the kiss.

Buck cleared his throat, the sound rough and abrupt. The heat of the kiss still lingered on his lips, a stark contrast to the sudden chill that had settled over him. He forced himself to sit back, needing a moment to gather his composure.

"Tell me more about Boston," he said, his voice hoarse. It was a feeble attempt to steer the conversation away from the dangerous territory they'd ventured into.

Róisín's brow furrowed slightly in confusion, but she readily complied. "Like what?" She asked.

"Well, I ain't never been," Buck stated, raising an eyebrow in a half-hearted attempt at playfulness. "Let's say we are in Boston next week, and you can only take me to one place. Where would you choose?"

Róisín's tapped her finger against her lower lip. "Hmmm," she mused, drawing out the sound. "There's a beautiful park I used to visit whenever I had free time. I'd take a book and curl up under a big tree, or watch the ducks on the river. It's a peaceful place."

A warmth bloomed in Buck's chest at the image he conjured – Róisín bathed in sunlight, a book forgotten in her lap as she lost herself in the tranquility of the park. He reached for her hand, gently stroking his thumb across her soft skin.

"We could take a walk along the waterfront," he suggested, his voice low and suggestive.

Róisín hummed in agreement, leaning closer to him, her eyes sparkling with a desire that mirrored his own. "Mmm," she whispered, the sound sending shivers down his spine.

As the comfortable silence stretched between them, Buck ventured a question, his voice laced with a hint of curiosity. "Think you'll be goin' back there?"

"No," she shook her head and shrugged. "I want to head west, see the ocean." She declared, nodding enthusiastically. "Have you ever been?"

Buck chuckled, a deep rumble that resonated in his chest. "Once," he admitted. "Sacramento, on a run for the Pony Express."

"Did you see the ocean?" Her voice brimmed with excitement, a stark contrast to his own muted memories. "Was it beautiful?"

He smiled, touched by her innocent enthusiasm. "I didn't see much," he confessed. "The job didn't leave much room for sightseeing."

Róisín's smile faltered slightly, a flicker of disappointment crossing her face. "Oh," she murmured, leaning into him and closing her eyes. "Well, what about you, Buck? Where do you see yourself settling down someday?"

The question hung heavy in the air, a challenge he wasn't prepared to answer. "Settle down?" He echoed, his voice tinged with amusement. "Who says I'm lookin' to settle down?"

Her dark green eyes flew open, meeting his gaze with a captivating intensity. He could almost see the gears turning in her mind as she processed his playful evasion. A slow smile spread across her lips, as playful as his own.

"You're a tease," she accused, her voice laced with mock frustration. She snuggled closer, seeking his warmth.

Buck chuckled, unable to resist her playful jab. "Maybe a little," he admitted, his fingers finding their way into her hair, stroking it gently. "But…" he continued, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "it's not so much about the location for me."

He nuzzled his face into her neck, planting soft kisses along the sensitive skin exposed by her collar. "What I want," he murmured, his voice thick with desire, "is a family. A wife, kids, you know…"

"Have you been married before?" Her question hung in the air.

"No," he replied.

A flicker of a smile danced in Róisín's eyes as she leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his ear. "Do you think you might be able to fall in love with me?"

The question sent a jolt through him, a delicious mixture of fear and exhilaration. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the soft contours of her cheeks. "Darlin'," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion, "there ain't no 'might' about it."

---

Chapter 13

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

The sky overhead was an ominous grey, the massing storm clouds on the horizon portending the harsh winter's imminent arrival. In the confines of Róisín's bedroom, Haddie was a whirlwind of restless worry and impatience as she paced the cramped quarters.

She had covered for her friend's absences the last several Sundays, feigning excuses and deflecting Lochlan's suspicious inquiries. But the belligerent older brother had pressed her twice more today on Róisín's whereabouts. It was well past the seventh hour, and this was much later than usual.

The telltale creak of floorboards in the outer hallway finally announced Róisín's belated arrival. Haddie, perched rigidly on the edge of the narrow bed, immediately snapped her head towards the door. Her arms were crossed firmly over her chest in an overwrought show of feigned disapproval as her friend stepped into the room.

"Where have you been?!" Haddie hissed her tone a carefully measured blend of concern and hushed curiosity in deference to the nearby proximity of Lochlan's quarters. "Your brother's been looking high and low for you!"

Róisín's eyes grew wide with terror, her pupils dilating until her verdant irises were nearly swallowed by pools of black. "What did you tell him?" She whispered frantically.

A chuckle escaped Haddie's lips as she waved a dismissive hand. "Told him you went to pray at the church." She replied with a grin. "Now out with it - where have you been all this time?"

Róisín averted her gaze, her slippered feet shuffling awkwardly as she mumbled, "Out with...a friend."

Haddie's narrowed eyes raked over her instantly zeroing in on the disheveled state of Róisín's blouse - the buttons haphazardly realigned unevenly. "You always leave your blouse buttoned up so...crookedly?" She asked.

Róisín blushed as her fingers quickly rectified the oversight. "Oh, I...I, uhh..." she stammered

Sensing her friend's vulnerability, Haddie's grin softened as she rested a reassuring hand on Róisín's trembling shoulder. "If you don't want to tell me, I understand," she said gently. "We all have our secrets."

A heavy silence stretched between them, laden with unspoken tension, until finally, Róisín relented with a resigned sigh. "Alright, alright...there's this...man," she confessed in a hushed whisper, her eyes flitting towards the closed door.

"Well, that much is obvious!" Haddie exclaimed with a salacious chuckle, giving her a playful nudge. She scooted over, patting the empty space beside her on the bed in a silent invitation to share her clandestine tale. "Don't tell me it's Mr. Carson?!"

"Shhh!" Róisín whispered, pressing her fingertips urgently to Haddie's lips to silence her wild speculation. "If it were Mr. Carson, I wouldn't need to be sneaking about now would I?"

Leaning in intimately close, Haddie urged in a conspiratorial murmur, "So tell me everything about this secret admirer, you wanton hussy! Who is he?"

"Oh Haddie! He's the most amazing man I've ever known!" Grabbing her friend's hands impulsively. "And handsome! Tall and gorgeous dark hair..." Róisín trailed off wistfully. "But his eyes… his eyes are the most incredible warm brown that just...make my knees go weak whenever he looks at me." She punctuated the thought with an exaggerated swoon as she and Haddie lay back on the bed a flurry of giggles and secrets.

---

Chapter 14

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

The warm summer breeze wafted through the open window. Róisín sat on her bed her fingers mending a pair of worn trousers. She hummed a soft, idle tune as the afternoon light filtered in, affording her an optimal view of the small town and beyond, the railroad camp.

Her reverie was interrupted by the distant wail of a train's whistle, prompting her to glance toward the clock on the wall. A flutter of nervousness stirred in her. She knew Carson would be aboard. Carefully setting aside her mending, she rose and crossed to the window, peering out over the dusty main street in hopes of catching his approaching figure.

For almost a week, Róisín had managed to avoid Carson entirely. However, to placate her brother's, she had feigned a lingering cold - but she knew this delaying tactic could only postpone the inevitable for so long. Carson deserved to know that she harbored no romantic inclinations towards him.

Róisín had never before entertained a serious suitor and she found herself wading into uncharted territory, awash with unsettling emotions. An unshakable sense of self-doubt clouded her thoughts as she grappled with how to properly rebuff Carson's affections without wounding his pride. Yet an even more unsettling prospect was disappointing her beloved brother.

The heavy footfalls in the outer hallway heralded Carson's arrival, the measured tread growing louder with each passing second until it reached her bedroom door. Róisín's took a long steady breath as she smoothed the wrinkles from her frock. With a steady hand, she reached for the doorknob and pulled the door open.

"Good afternoon, Róisín," Carson greeted, removing his flat-brimmed hat as he sauntered forward.

"Hello, Carson," she replied with a demure smile, leaning against the doorframe in an unconscious gesture of self-reassurance.

"Your brother said you weren't feelin' well," he continued as his eyes lingered admiringly over her figure.

Róisín felt her cheeks warm beneath his scrutinizing gaze. "Much improved, thank you."

"Will you walk with me?" Carson's features visibly brightened as he extended his arm in an unmistakable invitation. "The fresh air would do you good."

Momentarily stunned into silence by his forwardness, Róisín could only offer a reflexive murmur of agreement as she retrieved her shawl from the nearby cedar chest. As they descended the stairs and sauntered along the boardwalk, Carson launched into an energetic speech about the arrival of boxcars to assist the railroad's western expansion. Though Róisín nodded at the appropriate intervals, her mind was preoccupied with finding her courage.

She was so distracted by her thoughts that she very nearly collided with Carson when he halted abruptly in the middle of the quiet street. Jolted back to the present moment, Róisín blinked up at him. Carson furrowed his brow in concern as he reached out to take her hands in his. She could feel the rough calluses of his fingers against her palms.

"Is everything alright?" He asked, his gaze searching hers for any sign of distress.

Róisín let out a shaky breath and looked away, unable to meet his intense stare. "I'm just a bit distracted," she murmured.

The silence between them grew heavy until Carson cleared his throat and spoke again. "I may not have much at the moment, but I can offer you a comfortable life," he said earnestly, releasing one of her hands to gently tilt her chin upwards until their eyes met. "After we've completed the railroads to Utah, I want you to be my wife - if you'll have me."

As much as she had rehearsed her response in her head, Róisín found herself struggling to find the words. Before she could speak, Carson's expression shifted and she knew that her answer was not what he had hoped for. He grunted with frustration and clenched his jaw tightly, a muscle twitching in his cheek.

"Is there someone else?" He asked, furrowing his brow.

Róisín shook her head, feeling tears welling up in her eyes. "Douglas," she replied quietly. "I just don't have those feelings for you."

Carson took a step forward and grabbed her face with both hands, pressing his lips forcefully against hers. Róisín stumbled backward as he pushed himself closer to her, trapping her against the door. She could taste the bitterness of disappointment on his lips as he kissed her aggressively, his tongue invading her mouth without permission. Her body trembled as one of his hands slid down her arm and came to rest on her breast, his fingers digging into the delicate flesh.

"Stop!" Róisín gasped, pushing against his unyielding frame.

With a growl of frustration, Carson released her and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Róisín leaned against the door, tears streaming down her cheeks as she latched the lock tightly. Her body shook with sobs as she slid down to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to find comfort.

---

Chapter 15

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

Lochlan had been expecting the day when Carson would ask to marry his sister. So when he told him that Róisín had turned down his marriage proposal, a burning anger boiled up inside Lochlan's gut. His headstrong, naive sister had just thrown away a golden opportunity - a secure future and comfortable life.

"You wanted to talk to me?" Róisín asked as she tapped on the door lightly.

Lochlan slammed his fist on the desk, making Róisín jump. "Sit down, Róisín," he growled, pointing at the chair in front of him. "And shut the door."

Róisín flinched at her brother's harsh tone as she obeyed, her apprehension growing with each moment. As she closed the door with a soft click, her ragged breathing was the only sound in the quietness. She went into the room hesitantly and perched on the edge of the chair, nervously playing with the fringe on her shawl.

"Are you daft, girl?" Lochlan roared, his voice edged with danger.

He shot up from his chair and began pacing the floor, clearly very agitated. Róisín shrank back, the chair creaking underneath her.

"You don't turn down a man like Carson!" He bellowed loudly. "A man who can provide for you, give you a good life!"

Róisín's chin trembled, but she held his gaze. "Lochlan," she said, barely audible, "I don't love him."

Lochlan stopped pacing abruptly, letting out a harsh, humorless laugh that sent shivers down her spine. "Love?" He scoffed. He crouched in front of her, sneering, and gripped her shoulders roughly. "That's a luxury you can't afford, Róise. Not you, not me, not anyone in this God-forsaken town."

Tears welled up in Róisín's eyes, blurring her vision. "You want me to marry a man I don't love?" She whispered emotionally. "A man I have no feelings for?"

Lochlan's grip tightened as his voice dropped to a low growl. "Love is for fairytales, Róisín. This is real life, and life is about survival. You'll do whatever you have to do to survive, and right now, that means marrying Carson."

Róisín shook her head defiantly. "No, Lochlan," she stated, her voice stronger than expected. "I won't. I won't marry a man I don't love, no matter how much you pressure me."

Lochlan's face contorted with rage, his eyes wild and dangerous. He released her shoulders with a violent shove, sending Róisín stumbling backward. In a blur of motion, his hand flew through the air and connected with her cheek in a brutal smack. The force of the blow sent her crashing to the ground, her entire body throbbing with pain.

She could taste the metallic tang of blood on her lips, and she struggled to catch her breath as tears streamed down her face. Her brother, the one who was supposed to protect her, had just struck her without any hesitation or remorse. Betrayal consumed her as lay on the dirty cold floor watching her brother's boots walk past her into the hallway.

---

Chapter 16

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

A loud squelch accompanied Buck with each weary step. Winter was upon them and the cold rainy days had turned the usual dusty into a clinging, unforgiving mud that clung to his boots. He trudged back towards the outskirts of town, squinting against the sting of wind-whipped sleet that lashed his face. A grueling day's labor hauling rough-hewn timbers for the railroad had thoroughly exhausted his reserves. All he craved was the simple comfort of a steaming bowl of stew and a bedroll – anything softer than the taut, unforgiving canvas that currently awaited him.

But as Buck rounded the final building obstructing his path homeward, a fleeting splash of vivid blue against the dusty, monochrome horizon gave him a momentary pause. It was Róisín, her periwinkle dress fluttering behind her as she sprinted towards the edge of the treeline marking the boundaries of the wilderness beyond.

A harsh curse escaped Buck's lips in a guttural rasp as realization dawned. He had cautioned the headstrong girl a hundred times, if not more, about the dangers lurking in those vast, unexplored woodlands - venomous diamondbacks, to say nothing of the Territory's most unforgiving predators, both four-legged and two.

A fusion of anger and terror roiled in the pit of his stomach as he broke into a loping gait, his booted strides devouring the distance between. Yet when Buck finally drew alongside the distraught young woman, one glance at her tear-stained cheeks instantly extinguished the smoldering flames of his irritation.

Tracks of shed tears streaked Róisín's flushed cheeks. Most alarming was the angry welt discoloring her left cheekbone - the unmistakable imprint of a callous, backhanded strike.

"Róise..." Buck rasped, his voicing cracking with an anguished rasp of concern as he reached out to tenderly tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear. "What happened?"

She instinctively flinched away from his touch, her eyes sparking with a defiance that stabbed at his heart. "Nothing," Róisín mumbled as she attempted to push past his towering frame. "It's...it's nothing, Buck. Please, just leave me be."

"Look at me," he grumbled and gently tilted her face up, his fingers wrapped in the hair at her nape. " I can see plain as day 'nothing' didn't put that mark on your face."

For a prolonged moment, shame flickered across Róisín's face. Then, with a choked sob she flung herself against his chest. Without hesitation, Buck engulfed her slight figure in an embrace both protective and soothing, stoically weathering the flood of tears soaking through the threadbare cotton of his shirt.

"Darlin'," he murmured into the fragrant tangle of her hair, his thumb tracing soothing arcs along her trembling shoulder blades. "Who did this?"

"H-he...he didn't mean it," she choked out, the words muffled against Buck's chest. "He gets angry sometimes...loses his temper. But I know in my heart he didn't mean to strike me."

"Lochlan did this?" Buck growled, a muscle twitching along the clenched line of his jaw. He had witnessed Lochlan's unpredictable temperament erupt without warning on more than one occasion.

Róisín nodded jerkily, her confession seeming to drain what little reserves of strength she had. "Carson...he - he asked me to marry him," she whispered. "And Lochlan didn't...I've never seen him so angry before. I-I tried to explain that I don't love Carson, not in the way a wife should love her husband. But Lochlan...h-he..."

She trailed off, her words disintegrating into a series of quiet, hiccuping sobs that lanced straight through Buck's heart. Wordlessly, he bent until their foreheads brushed, his lips grazing the crown of her head in a lingering kiss. "I reckon your brother's right about one thing," he murmured at last, chest tightening with every wounded breath she drew. "Carson could provide a good life for you. One without concerns over where your next meal might come from or how you'll stay sheltered when winter's chill sets in."

Róisín recoiled visibly from his pragmatic words, almost violently so, her heart thundering up into her throat. "Is that...is that what you want, then?" She pleaded, her voice awash with fear and desperation.

The tenderness permeating Buck's expression at that moment was all the reassurance Róisín required. His scowl softened, eyes crinkling at their corners in a way that never failed to stir the yearnings within the deepest corners of her heart.

With an aching tenderness, Buck's fingers delved into the tangled curls framing her face, cradling her head as he tilted it back, searching her eyes. The world around them seemed to shudder to a halt. Buck's lips found hers. It was a kiss of possession, of barely restrained urgency and silent promises. When at last they pulled apart, their shared breaths intermingling.

"I swear to you, Róise..." he murmured, hands shaking at her waist until his knuckles showed bone-white against the tanned tone of his skin. "If that miserable bastard ever lays his hands on you again—"

Jaw clenched until the tendons along his neck strained, Buck's next breath was a harsh rasp. Yet he seemed to contain his fury, his expression fracturing into one of anguished torment. The menacing undercurrent surging through his words caused the fine hairs along the nape of Róisín's neck to prickle.

"Buck, please..." Róisín's whispered her fingers trailing down his face and resting on his neck. "He's my brother. For all his faults, he's still the only blood kin I have left."

"Hmmm." He exhaled loudly. "You ask a helluva lot from me, darlin'," he murmured defeatedly, lifting her hand to his lips to brush a tormented kiss against her knuckles.

He cupped her face between his rough palms, gently brushing away the remnants of her tears with the pads of his thumbs. There was a nakedness to his gaze that Róisín had never witnessed before, a vulnerability that left her pulse fluttering with mindless devotion.

"Make no mistake, Róise - if he ever crosses that line again." He swallowed hard and looked deep into her eyes. "I'm settlin' the score."

---

Chapter 17

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

Lochlan paced his office like a caged wolf, the worn wood creaking under his restless steps. He'd stormed into Róisín's room hours ago, apology on his tongue when he saw her absence. Sending men out to search the muddy town only amped up his growing unease. Relief washed over him when he finally spotted her entering the saloon.

He stalked to her room, expecting resistance, but found her entering with a quiet resignation. "Róisín," he said, a gruff apology forming on his lips. He cleared his throat. "About earlier…"

"I understand," she cut him off, her voice flat.

The dismissal stung, but Lochlan pressed on. "Where have you been?"

"Out," she answered, her body language tense as she folded her shawl, a clear signal he wasn't welcome.

"You know this isn't a safe place, Róisín." Frustration tinged his voice. "Stay in the saloon. If you need supplies? I'll have them brought ta you, or one of the men can escort you."

A defiant glint entered her eyes. "I'm not some bird you can keep in a cage!"

"Róise, be reasonable."

"Reasonable?" She scoffed, her voice rising. "I'm an adult. I don't need you hovering over me. You're not my father!"

His eyes narrowed as he took in the sight of her, wind-tousled hair, and the rosy flush on her cheeks. A cold dread settled in Lochlan's stomach. Could this be it? "Róise, tell me I'm wrong. You ain't been spreading your legs—"

"Don't be vulgar!" She snapped.

"Your hair, your clothes…" He gestured dismissively. "I can't believe I ain't see it before." His possessiveness curdled into something ugly. "Is that why you turned down Carson? Because of some… back-alley lover?"

The accusation stung. "Leave," she spat, shoving him towards the door.

He didn't budge. Instead, his hand shot out, an iron grip tightening around her neck as he held her against the door. "I won't have my own sister whoring around," he snarled. "Especially not with some lowlife. Understand?"

Róisín stared at him, a flicker of fear in her eyes, quickly replaced by steely defiance. "Yes," she whispered, the word laced with quiet strength.

Lochlan finally released her, the echo of her gasp filling the room. She leaned heavily against the door, sucking in deep breaths, the air stinging in her raw throat.

---

Chapter 18

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

A knot of dread twisted in Buck's gut as he laid out his clothes for the day on his narrow cot. A whole week of waiting, hanging onto the promise of Róisín's warm smile and her presence beside him, had all evaporated into a cold, unsettling truth. He hadn't needed to see the tremor in her hands or the haunted look in those mossy green depths to know something was seriously wrong. The two large men flanking her every movement this past week, like ominous shadows, spoke volumes on its own.

He could feel the crisp parchment folded in the pocket of his mended shirt as he hastily made his way across the dusty street toward his cramped canvas tent. As soon as the weathered flap fell closed behind him, enclosing him in its modest solitude, Buck withdrew the note with a growing sense of disquiet. His breath hitched in his throat as his gaze instantly recognized the familiar slanted script - Róisín's handwriting.

Take heart that we will be together soon

Buck reread the hastily scrawled line, his brow furrowing as he processed the weighted implications behind such a simple reassurance. "We will be together soon." A flicker of hope ignited like a banked ember in his chest.

Carefully refolding the precious note, Buck tucked it securely back into his shirt pocket. A grim determination settled over his features as he reached for his dusty hat. It was high time he put a plan into motion - a plan to get Róisín far away from this shit-hole. The only lingering question was just how far Buck was willing to go?

---

Chapter 19

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

The saloon was warm and welcoming, from the heavy rains and icy chill, the crackling fire casting shadows that danced across the floor. Carter swirled his drink in contemplation, the amber liquid reflecting the flickering light in his steely blue eyes. Across from him sat Lochlan, a deep furrow evident on his brow.

"Are you sure about this, Lock?" Carter's voice held a hint of suspicion.

Lochlan scoffed, the sound harsh in the dimly lit room. "I know how to read women."

A cynical smile tugged at Carter's lips. "I guess you do." He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, the burn leaving a grimace on his weathered face.

The tension in the air was palpable as the truth hung heavy between them. Carter's gaze flicked to Lochlan's clenched fist on the table, threatening enough to make the glasses tremble. An unmistakable glint of danger flashed in his eyes.

"You know who it is?"

"She hasn't made so much as a glance in anyone's direction in weeks." Lochlan slammed his fist on the table, the force rattling the glasses.

"None of my men would dare. Not after what happened to the last one who crossed me." The air crackled with unspoken threats. Carter raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on his lips. "So, we're dealing with a man who ain't afraid," Carter drawled with a hint of amusement.

"Or perhaps just a fool with a death wish."

"Either way, we'll find him, Lock. And when we do..." His voice trailed off, a low threat hanging in the air like smoke from his cigar. A cold smile spread across Carter's face. "There will be a reckoning."

---

Chapter 20

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

The general store's sparse shelving did little to appease Róisín's mounting irritation as she drummed her fingers against a dusty can of beans. A week's delay in the supply wagon's arrival, courtesy of the rapidly encroaching winter and the unsettled Indian tribes tearing up railroad tracks had ensured scant provisions. Lost in her troubled daydream, the creaking of the door hinge escaped her notice until it slammed shut with a resounding bang.

Róisín started, her heart thudding as her gaze snapped towards the entrance. Relief washed over her at the sight of Buck striding purposefully down the aisle, the brim of his hat shielding his eyes. A ghost of a smile played on her lips. These furtive moments over the past weeks - snatched glances and murmured words exchanged amidst the stacks of wares - had become their lifeline.

Feigning interest in the coarse fabric sacks of oats, the abrasive texture scratched at her fingertips as Buck's familiar presence approached. A gentle brush against her hand made her flinch before his warmth enveloped her, their eyes locking in a silent conversation. Swiftly, she squeezed his calloused palm, the unspoken words hanging heavy between them.

"Come on," Buck rasped gruffly under his breath, tugging her towards the rear exit.

"Buck..." Róisín hissed in panic, her eyes darting about.

Pressing a finger to her lips stilled her protests as he ushered her through the door into the brilliant sun, momentarily blinding her. Then he was upon her, cupping her face as his lips crashed against hers in a searing kiss, fingers tangling in her tresses. Róisín clung to him, her breath catching in her throat as she melted into his embrace.

"My brother has eyes watching me," she whispered brokenly when they finally parted, desperation lacing her tone.

Buck's jaw tightened as he glanced towards the window. "I know," he muttered, "But I had to see you."

Whispering gently, she confessed to him how much she had missed him. Her lips caressed his neck with soft, tender kisses, leaving trails of heat and longing in their wake.

Emboldened by the longing reflected in her gaze, Buck squared his shoulders. "Meet me Saturday after dusk falls."

Doubt furrowed Róisín's brow as she chewed her lip. "It's too dangerous."

"Slip out the back of the saloon," he countered, his voice low and determined. "I'll be waiting. We'll return before first light before anyone is the wiser."

Róisín's lower lip trembled. "I don't know, Buck," she stammered.

Drawing a steadying breath, he brushed an errant lock from her flushed cheek, their faces mere inches apart as his breath danced across her skin. "Trust me, love."

Staring into the fierce devotion burning in his eyes, Róisín surrendered her fears. Biting her lip, she gave a mere ghost of a nod, before turning and retreating back into the store.

---

Chapter 21

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

The saloon's air reeked of unwashed bodies and stale whiskey on the blustery Saturday night. The usually jovial melodies of the upright piano were muted beneath the oppressive chill that had seeped into the town's very bones. Lochlan searched frantically for his missing sister, his frustration etched into his features.

"Jasper!" He barked hoarsely over the din, flagging down the burly bartender.

"Boss?" Jasper replied, already bracing himself.

"Have you seen my sister this evening?" Lochlan demanded, his voice echoing through the saloon.

Shaking his head with a concerned frown, Jasper's wordless response stoked the steadily smoldering unease in the pit of Lochlan's stomach. Scouring the saloon once more, he threw his towel on the bar and removed his apron.

"Mind the bar," he growled at Jasper, gesturing at the overflowing crowd.

Lochlan enlisted Carson's help to find his sister, relying on his intimate knowledge of the unforgiving landscape. They rode through the frozen streets of their ramshackle town and searched every unoccupied tent in the nearby railroad encampment, but found no trace of her.

But then, as they rode on, Jasper spotted a glint of metal in the moonlight - a lone horse standing nervously tethered to a barren oak tree. Hearts racing, they reined in their mounts and scoured the wooded creek bank until they heard faint feminine laughter coming from a small cavern hidden behind a tangle of thorny branches.

Pushing through the thicket they came upon an idyllic scene - Róisín nestled in the arms of a man beside a flickering fire. But Lochlan's relief quickly turned to blinding rage at seeing her with strange man.

"Get your hands off my sister, you bastard!" He roared, his revolver leveled at the stranger's chest.

The peacefulness and laughter in Róisín's eyes dimmed as she turned to see her brother framed in the cavern entrance - his face twisted into a mask of towering fury. Before she could react, Lochlan lunged forward and punched Buck, square in the cheek with a sickening crack that echoed through the cavern. The peaceful scene shattered as Róisín's horrified eyes met her brother's blazing with hatred.

As Buck stood up, his muscles tensed and a snarl twisted his features. He reached for the gun at his waist as his fingers coiled around the handle Carson stepped in front of him with his own weapon drawn. Buck's eyes flickered to Róisín, who was crying and pleading for them to stop. Carson quickly swung his gun, striking Buck in the temple. The impact sent a jolt of pain through Buck's skull, and he stumbled to the ground, stunned.

His gun trained on Buck, Carson barked, "Odds ain't in your favor, breed."

Róisín, tears streaming down her face, threw herself between Buck and Carson. "Please, don't hurt him!" She pleaded, her voice trembling.

Lochlan, a dangerous glint in his eyes, ignored her pleas. He grabbed Róisín and pulled her close, using her as a shield. "Put your gun down, Cross," he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "You wouldn't want my sister caught in the crossfire, now would you?"

With a loud clatter, Buck's trembling hand released the gun and it hit the floor. A sharp tug on his hair yanked him upright, causing a burst of stars to explode behind his closed eyelids. With a guttural groan, he tasted blood in his mouth. Suddenly, he was thrown back down, his body landing with a thud. Each gasping breath sent a jolt of agony through his bruised and battered form. His left eye was already swollen shut, blood trickled from his nose, and a stabbing ache radiated from his ribs with every intake of air.

"You know what the trouble is with you half-breeds?" Carson spat, pacing like a caged animal. "The full-bloods, they know their place. But you… you got some book learning, a taste of living with us, you think you are entitled to our way of life."

Buck tried to push himself up, but a wave of dizziness washed over him, forcing him back down. Róisín's screams pierced through Carson's tirade and echoed faintly in his ears. He clenched his jaw, willing himself to stay conscious. He had to protect her.

"Entitled to our women." Carson continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "A dirty savage like you? You'll learn your place tonight."

---

Chapter 22

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

The next couple of hours was a blur. Róisín felt like she was in a nightmare and she couldn't wake up. Carson's face, contorted with a horrifying mix of fury and twisted righteousness, loomed over Buck. In his hand, a glint of cruel amusement danced in the flickering firelight – a wicked blade reflecting the flames.

"We caught you red-handed," he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "Defiling Lochlan's sister. Self-defense is a beautiful thing, ain't it?"

A scream tore from Róisín's throat. This wasn't justice, it was a barbaric execution. Ignoring the searing pain that flared in her ribs from Carson's brutal shove, she threw herself between the two men.

"No, please, Carson!" She shrieked, her voice cracking with terror.

But her appeals were lost on him. With a cold, calculating glint in his eyes, Carson shoved her aside. The jagged rocks of the cave wall scraped against her back, the pain a mere flicker compared to the terror that gripped her heart. A cruel smile twisted Carson's lips as he held the knife to her throat.

"You shut your mouth," he hissed, his voice tight. "If you say anything to contradict me, I'll gut you," he threatened, his words laced with a chilling promise. "Just like I'm gonna gut him."

Feeling the cold metal of the knife pressed against her throat, she could only manage a shaky nod in response to Carson's threats. Fear rendered her speechless, her body frozen in place as she braced herself for what might come next. The sharp sting of the blade against her skin sent a shiver down her spine, the metallic scent of blood filling her nostrils.

"I'm gonna savor every moment," he sneered, pressing the knife against her chest with a slow, deliberate motion that traced a chilling path along her collarbone. "He'll be on his knees, begging me to end his miserable life!"

"Carson, please." She breathed shallowly, her eyes never leaving the knife in his hand. "I'll marry you, just please —"

"We are way past negotiations."

His grip tightened around Róisín's neck, cutting off her air supply. She felt her body go rigid, panic pulsating through her veins as she struggled to breathe. A strangled whimper escaped her lips, the sound barely audible. Her mind raced with fear, thoughts of helplessness consuming her every sense.

Suddenly, a guttural roar erupted from behind them. Lochlan. In a flash of movement, he lunged at Carson. His fist connected with Carson's jaw, the sound of bone meeting bone echoing in the confined space.

"Never put your hands on my sister!"

Lochlan hit Carson again, knocking the man off his feet, and sprawling in the dirt. Róisín stumbled back, gasping for breath. In the ensuing struggle, chaos erupted. Buck, who had regained consciousness during the commotion, lunged for Lochlan's fallen gun. The air split with a deafening bang. Smoke filled the cavern as Róisín watched in horror, the scene unfolding in slow motion. Carson crumpled to the ground, a scream in his throat as he clutched at his leg.

Róisín gasped for air as she scrambled to Lochlan's side, pressing her unsteady hands to the gushing wound. Desperation flooded her thoughts as she tried to stem the flow of blood. Lochlan's eyes fluttered open briefly, meeting hers with a flicker of recognition. He attempted to speak but only managed a choked gurgle. His grip on life seemed to weaken, his body going limp in her arms. A wail tore from Róisín's throat and reverberated through the cavern walls.

Before grief could consume her entirely, a strong hand clamped onto her arm and pulled her roughly to her feet. Buck's face was a mask of grim determination.

"You'll hang for this!" Carson snarled, his words laced with venom. "Both of you!"

"You killed my brother!" She cried, defiance flickering in her gaze.

Carson's cruel laughter echoed in the cave. "You think anyone will believe a half-breed and an Irish whore over me?"

Silence fell once more, broken only by the ragged breaths of both wounded men. Another deafening crack shattered the stillness. Róisín flinched as she saw Carson double over, a fresh wound blooming on his arm.

"Just a flesh wound," Buck muttered through strained breaths. "It will buy us time to get out of here."

---

Chapter 23

Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867

Adrenaline coursed through Buck's veins, dulling the throbbing ache in his jaw and ribs. He barked a hurried instruction. "Róise, get to the saloon. Pack a bag, only what you need. Meet me at the train car in fifteen minutes."

He didn't wait for her response. There was no time. Every second they lingered increased the risk of being caught. He untied a horse from the restless herd, the animal nickering impatiently. Back at his tent, he grabbed his meager belongings – a bedroll, some jerky, and a canteen – shoving them haphazardly into a saddlebag.

Minutes ticked by like hours. Worry gnawed at him, each passing second felt like an eternity. Finally, a dark shape emerged on the horizon, growing larger with each passing heartbeat. It was Róisín, her slight silhouette outlined against the moonlight.

"You good to ride?"

"I am." Róisín's voice was raspy from exsertion.

He saw the fear in her eyes, though she was trying to mask it with bravery. The toll the ordeal had taken on her was etched on her pale face, mirrored in the way she moved, stiff and hesitant. But they were both in no shape for arguments. He winced as he helped her onto the other horse, his movements jerky and slow.

He adjusted the stirrups, making sure she was secure before swinging onto his horse. Casting a final glance back at the dark encampment, knowing that the minutes were numbered, Buck nudged his horse forward. He knew it wouldn't be long. Carson, wounded but alive, would raise the alarm.

The town Marshal, fed by lies of what happened to Lochlan, wouldn't hesitate to hunt them down. His heart raced as he nudged his horse forward. He wanted a life with Róisín, but not this way. Forced into a partnership to survive, but it wasn't the time to worry about that. He had to make sure they were safe.

---

Chapter 24

Colorado border, 1867

The dying campfire cast a comforting orange glow across the rocky outcropping where Róisín huddled, chin resting atop her updrawn knees. Buck emerged from the shadowed treeline cradling a battered canteen, his face etched with worry. His features softened as he neared, taking in her solitary vigil.

"You ok?"

Róisín accepted the proffered vessel with a wordless nod. "No," she confessed at last, her voice little more than a hoarse rasp. "I can't shake the sight of... of Lochlan."

Buck settled beside her with a wince, their shoulders brushing as he lapsed into pensive silence punctuated only by the faint crackle of the banked coals and the mournful chirp of crickets.

"I'm so sorry, Buck," she finally choked out, the words tumbling forth in a breathless torrent as scalding tears welled in her eyes.

He turned, dark brows furrowing with concern. "For what?"

"All of this." She gestured vaguely. "If I had just said yes...if I hadn't been so…If I… Carson never would've..." Her voice cracked as a ragged sob tore from her.

Understanding dawned in Buck as he reached out, his fingers finding and gently squeezing her trembling hand in a steadying grip. "You didn't have no choice in the matter," he murmured, the depth of conviction in his tone resonating to her very marrow.

Tears streaked her cheeks as she met his steady gaze, the truth hovering on her lips before spilling forth in a breathless sigh. "I love you."

Buck's rough hands trembled as he cupped her face, his lips brushed hers in a searing yet achingly tender kiss. Tears streamed down her cheeks as they gazed at each other, the truth weighing heavily on her mind.

At length, they parted Róisín staring up at him. "So what do we do now?"

"Well," Buck groaned as a spasm of agony lanced through his battered ribs, his gravelly tone strained. Róisín issued no reproach, her delicate fingers instead gently resting upon the bruising already marring his forearm. "Way I see it, we got two choices."

He cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders through sheer force of will. "We head west, maybe to that ocean you talk about. Get as far from this forsaken territory as we can. Won't make it before winter though," Buck continued with a weary shake of his head. "Maybe we could make it to Utah first. Hole up somewhere til the snows clear come spring."

Róisín noted the tightening of his jawline, the muscle jumping beneath his stubbled cheek as he no doubt weighed their precarious situation yet again. Battered and concussed, he lacked the strength and endurance to attempt such a grueling trek. Utah remained weeks of hard riding away.

"Can't say the Mormons will welcome us with open arms, neither," Buck groaned, shifting his weight to alleviate the strain on his battered ribcage. "They don't like Indians, but we could find shelter somewhere on the outskirts, wait out the worst of it."

"You need a doctor," Róisín protested faintly, her sleeve already stained crimson from daubing at the trickle of blood matting his tousled hair. "That head wound ain't gonna heal itself."

"Ain't got time," he countered with a pained wince, drawing a shuddering breath through gritted teeth.

"So what's our other option?" She pressed.

"My brother's village lies just a couple days' ride," Buck said.

Róisín's sharp gasp was her only response.

"We'd be safer there than anywhere," Buck murmured as he watched her reaction.

Róisín wet her lips as she considered the options. "Can I...can I sleep on it?" She asked at last.

A muscle twitched in Buck's cheek, but he inclined his head in a shallow nod. "Sure thing, darlin'." Shifting with another muffled groan of agony, he managed to guide her slight frame into the shelter of his embrace, her warmth a comfort against the cold night air. He retrieved the rifle from its resting place upon the stony ground and pressed the worn but serviceable revolver into her trembling hands. "You know how to use this?"

"Point the end at the bad guys?" Róisín replied with a small smile, quickly tucking the weapon into her coat.

Buck's lips curved ever so slightly at the corners. "Good 'nough," he wheezed with a final nod, the perpetual lines around his eyes crinkling with the ghost of a smile as he settled back against the granite slab. "Get some rest, Róise...gonna be a long day's ride come mornin'."

Róisín remained utterly motionless as Buck's breathing slowly steadied and deepened beside her, his battered body finally surrendering to the merciful slumber. Faint shivers wracked his body even in unconsciousness, shallow wheezes, and pain-laced twitches. Everywhere she looked, the bruises and oozing lacerations marred his skin, grim reminders of the violence they had narrowly escaped. He could not withstand the several weeks ride to Utah - he required rest, shelter, and the ability to recover his waning strength.

Her choice was clear.

With a final steadying sigh, Róisín settled more comfortably against Buck's solid warmth, surrendering herself to brave whatever unspeakable unknown awaited among his Kiowa brethren. For his sake, she would meet this challenge head on - he had risked everything for her, and she would do no less for him.

---

Chapter 25

Colorado, 1867

A sliver of pale light sliced through the gap in the makeshift lean-to, pulling Buck from a sleep that felt more like a prolonged doze. He stretched, the groan escaping his lips a testament to the dull ache that throbbed in his side. The meager remnants of their fire cast an ashen glow across the campsite, highlighting the thin layer of frost that had settled on everything overnight.

Buck shifted his gaze to Róisín. Curled beneath a threadbare blanket, her face was turned away from him, the rise and fall of her chest the only sign of life. He eased himself up, wincing at the protest from his injuries, and reached for his saddlebag. Inside, the familiar weight of the jerky pouch offered scant comfort. It wouldn't be enough for both of them, not for long.

"Róise," Buck rasped, his voice hoarse from disuse.

She stirred, a frown creasing her brow even before she opened her eyes. "Mornin', Buck." Her voice was rough with sleep, but a flicker of warmth ignited in her eyes when she met his gaze.

Buck held up the pouch. "This all we got left, love."

Róisín sat up, the blanket slipping down her shoulders. The morning air was sharp, stealing any lingering warmth from their bodies. She pursed her lips, worry etching lines on her forehead.

"Buck...I've been thinkin' on what you said last night," she began carefully. "About heading to your brother's village instead of trying to make it to Utah." Her tongue darted out to wet her lips before continuing.

Buck regarded her for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. Finally, he grunted and hauled himself to his feet, hobbling over to where their horses waited patiently. He deftly checked the cinches, ensuring everything was secure.

Once satisfied, Buck turned back to where she lingered beside the sputtering flames, hands twisting anxiously in her skirts. Crossing the distance in two strides, he grasped her upper arms gently yet firmly.

"You sure about this?" He asked. "My brother's people...they ain't like you an' me. You understand that, don't you?"

Róisín felt her throat constrict beneath the weight of his words. A tremor of fear pierced through her, reminding her of the warrior who attacked the train. Yet she could not - would not - falter now.

Drawing a steady breath, she gave a terse nod. "I understand," she murmured, refusing to let her voice tremble despite the pit of dread gnawing at her.

His dry lips curved in a lopsided semblance of a smile, and some of the tension eased the lines around his eyes. Leaning in, he brushed the faintest whisper of a kiss across her forehead. "Everythin's gonna be just fine, darlin'," he murmured against her hairline.

Róisín mounted her horse with Buck's assistance, accepting the faded woolen shawl he passed her. As he swung up into his own saddle with a grunt, she instinctively guided her mare to fall in beside him, seeking his reassuring presence. A sense of apprehension still gnawed at her, but she refused to let it devour her completely - not while Buck remained by her side.

The day stretched before them, a vast expanse of rolling plains painted in shades of brown and ochre. The wind whipped at Róisín's face biting through the thin fabric of her shawl. She pulled it tighter, the coarse wool offering little protection from the morning chill. Buck rode ahead, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the endless horizon. She could see the strain etched on his face, the way he held himself stiffly in the saddle, favoring his injuries.

Reaching a rise, Buck reined in his horse. He waited, his gaze scanning the distance, before signaling Róisín forward. As she drew closer, she saw a plume of smoke curling towards the sky.

They reached the small town just past midday. The dusty main street was deserted, save for a few stray dogs nosing at piles of refuse. Buck directed Róisín to the general store, a ramshackle building with peeling paint and a hitching post crowded with horses. He dismounted with a groan, his face etched with pain.

"Get some food," he rasped, his voice tight as he handed her a few bills.

Róisín watched him walk towards the, his steps slow and measured, a grimace playing on his lips with every step. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and entered the store.

The air inside was thick with the smell of dust and stale tobacco. An old man with a grizzled beard sat behind the counter, his eyes following her every move. Róisín requested a few essentials - some dried beans, a thick cut of bacon, potatoes, coffee - enough to last them a few more days. The old man grunted in response, his movements slow and deliberate as he gathered the requested supplies.

By the time Róisín emerged from the store, Buck had returned. He leaned against the hitching post, his head resting against the rough wood, a grimace fixed on his face. Róisín's heart clenched. He looked paler than before, the exertion of the ride taking its toll.

They mounted up and headed south. As the day's journey drew to a close, Buck and Róisín found a suitable campsite nestled along the treeline. Róisín insisted that Buck rest his weary body while she took charge of setting up their camp for the night.

Following Buck's instructions, Róisín gathered an armful of dry branches and twigs, skillfully arranging them in a small pit before striking a match to ignite the kindling. Flames soon danced and crackled, casting a warm glow over their makeshift camp.

Róisín rummaged through the saddlebags, retrieving a well-worn pan. She set it over the growing fire, allowing it to heat up while she prepared the ingredients for their modest meal. From their newly stocked supplies, she assembled a simple fare of bacon, dried beans, and a couple of potatoes.

As the aroma of cooking food filled the air, Róisín turned her attention to Buck. He sat propped against a tree trunk, his face etched with fatigue and pain from his injuries. Without a word, she portioned out the meal onto a tin plate and settled beside him.

"Here, let me," she murmured, using his hunting knife to cut the meat into bite-sized pieces.

Buck grunted, attempting to take the plate from her. "I've got it, Róise."

But Róisín shushed him gently, her eyes filled with tenderness. "Let me take care of you," she whispered, holding his gaze until he relented with a weary nod.

Carefully, she fed him each morsel, the simple act held profound intimacy, a wordless expression of love. As the night deepened and the fire dwindled to glowing embers, the temperature dropped. Róisín gathered their meager blankets and curled up beside Buck, pressing her body against his for warmth and comfort. His arm encircled her, drawing her close, and she nestled her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as sleep slowly claimed her.

---

Chapter 26

Colorado, 1867

Buck crested the rocky incline, the wind whipping at his hat as he scanned the rugged path ahead. His thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched shriek that tore through the air. Buck's heart lurched. He flung himself off his horse, the animal snorting in surprise, and spun around, fear gripping him.

"Róise!" He roared, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness.

Another scream, laced with terror, answered him. Time twisted and stretched as Buck's eyes frantically searched the rocky terrain. Then he saw her – a flash of brown hair against the gray stone, a crumpled form wedged into a narrow crevice halfway down the steep cliff face. Róisín clung to a gnarled tree root, her face twisted with terror, her eyes wide and frantic. The horse stood riderless a few yards away, grazing oblivious to its owner's plight.

"Róise!" Buck bellowed again, his voice laced with urgency. "Hold on!"

He scrambled towards the cliff edge, ignoring the loose gravel that clattered under his boots. Reaching the precipice, he peered down at her. Her knuckles were white as she grasped the root, her body trembling precariously.

"Buck!" she shrieked, tears streaming down her dirt-streaked face. "I-I can't hold on much longer!"

Buck felt a cold dread creep into his stomach. The fall may not kill her, not from that height, but the jagged rocks below promised a world of pain. He knelt at the edge, reaching out a hand. "Give me your hand, Róisín. Trust me!"

Róisín's eyes met his. With a shaky breath, she released the tree root and reached for his hand. He pulled her towards him, the rough leather of his glove scraping against her palm. Inch by agonizing inch, he hauled her up. Her body came free of the crevice, a strangled cry escaping her lips as she dangled precariously in mid-air.

Buck held on with a white-knuckled grip, his muscles straining. Time stood still, the wind whipping at their faces, carrying with it the scent of fear and desperation. Finally, with gritted teeth against the pain that flared in his ribs Buck used all the strength he had and pulled her onto the ledge, collapsing beside her.

He held her close, his arms wrapped around her trembling body. He could feel her heartbeat flutter against his chest. Slowly, her breathing began to even out, the sobs racking her body subsiding into soft whimpers.

"We're gonna die out here aren't we?" Róisín clung to him.

"It's gonna be fine," he said with conviction. "You need to stay strong." He forced a smile and kissed her forehead. "You keep thinking of that ocean."

A flicker of a smile played on her lips. "The ocean," she whispered.

A wistful smile played on Buck's lips. "This summer," he murmured, his voice low and laced with exhaustion, "we'll be on the coast. Barefoot on the sand, feelin' the ocean spray kiss your face." His gaze drifted towards the horizon, painting a picture with his words, a picture far removed from their current reality.

Buck drew her in tighter, the gesture mirroring the newfound resolve solidifying within him. They sat in a weary silence for several minutes. Exhaustion hung heavy in the air, a shared weight that pressed down on them both. Battered and bruised, they found solace in each other's presence.

"We need to get moving," Buck said finally, his voice gentle yet firm.

He led her carefully back up the ravine. The fall hadn't seemed to injure her beyond a few scrapes and bruises, but the terror lingered in her posture, a tight knot of tension in her shoulders.

"It's just a few more miles," he announced, directing his horse towards a less steep incline. "Just passed the treeline ahead."

Róisín nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. They rode in tense silence, the echo of her fall a constant reminder of their vulnerability. As the sun dipped below the horizon Buck spotted a flicker of light in the distance.

---

Chapter 27

Colorado, 1867

The dusty trail led them to the outskirts of the Kiowa village, the conical shapes of teepees rising up against the vast prairie horizon. A lookout emerged from behind a teepee, a long rifle in his arms and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His long black hair was braided and adorned with fur wrappings. Róisín trembled slightly at the sight of the fearsome man but remained silent at Buck's side.

"Hā́chò!" Buck reined in his horse and called out in the Kiowa language. "T'àu:páu Kopé ah kauhn."

The lookout let out a sharp yip and raised his arm, signaling them to proceed. Róisín leaned closer to Buck as they rode between the teepee formations. Very few ventured out onto the muddy trail that wound through the heart of the camp, but as Buck and Róisín's horses traipsed through the clinging sludge, she noticed the canvas flaps adorning the teepee entrances would occasionally lift with curious movement.

A pack of semi-wild dogs roamed the area, snapping at each other or begging for scraps. The pungent aroma of tanned leather and woodsmoke hung thick in the air. Despite the peaceful atmosphere of the village, Róisín couldn't shake the feeling that all eyes were on the outsider passing through their home.

In the center of the village circle, a group of imposing warriors were engaged in some sort of animated discussion, gesturing frequently with their hands. One locked eyes with Róisín as she passed, and she shrank instinctively against Buck.

He guided his horse towards the edge of the camp, where a slightly larger and more ornately decorated teepee stood apart from the rest. As they approached, a tall and powerfully built man emerged, his weather-beaten face creasing into a wide smile.

"P'ah-be!" Red Bear exclaimed, his eyes taking in Buck's battered state and the exhausted woman beside him.

"Hā́chò p'ah-be." Buck slid off his horse wincing as the pain ripped through his body. Before he could offer assistance to Róisín she had already dismounted and made her way to his side, her fingers clinging tightly to his shirt.

"Háundéóñ:dé èm bóñ!" Red Bear grabbed Buck's arm in greeting.

"Hàu:! ám:ál." Buck nodded.

Róisín stood frozen, a silent observer caught between two worlds. The rapid-fire Kiowa words flew back and forth between Buck and his brother, unfamiliar. A sudden burst of laughter erupted, followed by a bear hug that seemed to solidify their bond. Relief washed over Róisín as Buck turned to her, a weary look in his eyes. He drew her close, his arm settling possessively on her shoulder, and gently ushered her through the entrance of the teepee, the promise of welcome and safety.

Róisín's mouth gaped open as she looked up into the large teepee. Inside the teepee, a small fire crackled in the center pit. Along the wall around the inside were painted images that what looked like a record of their history. A few blankets hung, separating sections of the teepee. Pelts of furs and blankets lined the edges as makeshift beds.

"Róise." Buck's voice broke her from her trance. "This is my brother Red Bear, and his wife Sweetgrass Woman."

"You have looked better." Red Bear chuckled.

Buck stifled a laugh causing stabbing pain in his ribs, radiating through his back. Red Bear helped ease Buck onto a pile of furs with a grunt of pain. Sweetgrass Woman retrieved thick blankets, draping them over Buck as Róisín helped prop him upright with murmured words of comfort.

They sat in a circle when out of the shadows of the opposite side of the teepee, beyond a hanging blanket, four young children came padding across the ground to sit by the fire. With a grin, Buck conversed with his brother in Kiowa. The brothers back and forth for several minutes before Red Bear laughed. Róisín smiled awkwardly as Buck turned to her.

"I told my brother I see what keeps him so busy," Buck whispered to Róisín as he motioned to the children.

"My brother should remember," a glimmer of humor flickered in Red Bear's eyes. "I also have stories to tell."

A weary grin stretched across Buck's face as he gratefully accepted the steaming bowl Red Bear offered.

Red Bear boomed with laughter, a sound that resonated through the teepee. "Eat, little brother," he commanded. "Get your strength back."

Sweetgrass Woman passed around a pot of stew that filled the teepee with a warm, inviting aroma. Buck and Róisín devoured the hearty meal, Buck even requesting a second helping. As the last embers of the fire died down, casting long shadows across the teepee interior, and the children's soft snores filled the air, Red Bear's gaze settled on Buck. The playful glint had vanished, replaced by a deep seriousness.

"Tell me," he said, his voice low and commanding. "Why have you come?"

Buck explained in a low, gravelly voice about Carson's attack, Róisín's murdered brother, and their intent to go out west. "We need a place to rest this winter."

Red Bear grunted in acknowledgment. He then turned to his wife and spoke in hushed tones. Sweetgrass Woman listened intently, her dark eyes flickering between Buck and Róisín. With a swift nod of understanding, she rose to her feet and addressed Róisín directly.

Buck turned to Róisín. "She's askin' for your help."

"Oh...of course," Róisín replied as she quickly rose to her feet.

The two women worked together to fashion a blanket curtain across one section of the teepee. When it was done, Sweetgrass Woman smiled at Róisín.

Red Bear helped Buck to his feet with a groan. "Háundéóñ:dé èm âui:tsàn. P'ah-be."

Buck managed a smile, weak but brimming with gratitude. "Goodnight," he rasped, his voice heavy with exhaustion. With a gentle hand guiding Róisín's back, he ushered her towards a section of the teepee partitioned by a thick, woven curtain. "This here's our space," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as Róisín cast a surprised glance around the curtained area. "We close it up for privacy at night, but keep it open during the day."

Seeing the look of surprise on her face, Buck gave her a slight grin and explained. "It's our culture, the home is shared between parents, children, siblings, and some of their families."

Róisín's eyes widened at the thought, but she said nothing more. She helped Buck arrange the furs and blankets into a crude bed. As she lay beside him, her back against his side, the sounds of the village slowly died down outside, replaced by the whistle of wind against teepee walls. In the darkness, she could make out the murmured endearments between Red Bear and Sweetgrass Woman.

"Do you know what they're saying?" She whispered.

"Words of love, an exchange between husband and wife." Buck chuckled softly. "The same in any language."

Smiling to herself, Róisín felt Buck's warmth against her back as she drifted to sleep, comforted by the thought of two hearts so entwined.

---

Chapter 28

Colorado, 1867

The cold start of winter cut through the thick buffalo hides covering the cone-shaped lodge. A small fire burned in the middle pit, giving off a warm, flickering light inside. Róisín carefully tended to the flames, adding another piece of wood before going to adjust the buffalo robe covering Buck's still body. A week had passed since they first rode into the small village. Róisín spent her days by his side in the lodge, taking care of his needs and changing his bandages packed with poultices while he regained his strength.

Suddenly the heavy hide flap was pulled aside, allowing Red Bear and Sweetgrass Woman to enter, followed by their four young children bundled in thick fur wraps. They spoke rapidly in Kiowa as they crossed to the hearth, the words starting to sound familiar to Róisín's ears despite her inability to understand them. Sweetgrass Woman gestured for Róisín to join them as she began laying out a simple meal of dried buffalo strips and warm ash bread. Throughout the meal, Sweetgrass Woman made earnest attempts at conversing with Róisín in her limited English, her warm brown eyes crinkling with excitement whenever Róisín grasped her meaning.

As the night grew colder, Red Bear and his wife tucked themselves into their own sleeping area, leaving Buck and Róisín alone by the fire. The children curled up together on a bed of furs, their soft breathing mingling with the comforting crackle of flames.

Róisín returned to Buck's side, gently brushing away strands of hair from his forehead. She couldn't resist planting a tender kiss on his lips before apologizing in a hushed voice for potentially causing him pain. But Buck just chuckled and pulled her close, his raspy voice full of affection and exhaustion. With careful movements, she settled down beside him on the furs, feeling safe and protected in the circle of his uninjured arm. She listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing and the faint crackle of the fire.

"Buck?" Róisín whispered.

"Hmmm."

"Your family is very kind." She sighed quietly. "Why did you leave?"

"Things change." He pulled her tighter to his side. "People change."

"Hmmmm." Róisín nodded in understanding. "How long have they been married? Your brother and Sweetgrass Woman?"

"I ain't sure." Buck shifted carefully, his ribs aching in protest. "His first wife was killed, before the war. I didn't see my brother again until last year. They already had three children by then."

Though the explanation raised fresh questions, Róisín sensed the somber tone underlying Buck's brief disclosure and opted not to pry further. Instead, she turned towards him and rested her hand on his chest as she closed her eyes, her mind soothed by the steady sound of his heartbeat, silently giving thanks for the shelter and safety.

---

Chapter 29

Colorado, 1867

The crisp Colorado air carried the scent of pine and woodsmoke as Sweetgrass Woman knelt next to Róisín. Sweetgrass Woman produced a garment from and handed it to Róisín. The woman held it up, her dark eyes searching Róisín's face. Róisín, unsure of the gesture, managed a hesitant nod. Sweetgrass Woman, with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes, helped Róisín out of her tattered blue dress and into the unfamiliar warmth of the doe skin dress.

Next came a pair of leggings, soft against Róisín's skin. Sweetgrass Woman demonstrated tying them around her waist with the long leather ties. Róisín fumbled with the task, her fingers clumsy with exhaustion and nerves. Sweetgrass Woman chuckled, a low sound that rumbled from her chest, and patiently showed Róisín again.

"Thank you," Róisín finally managed. She reached down to touch the fringe that adorned the bottom of the dress, a simple decoration of blue beads that shimmered in the sunlight.

"P'ee." Sweetgrass Woman's smile widened.

Róisín suspected the woman didn't understand her words, but the sentiment seemed to reach her nonetheless. Communication here was a dance of gestures and expressions, a slow waltz that she was only just beginning to learn.

The other women in the village seemed less welcoming. Their gazes, when they fell on Róisín, were either indifferent or laced with a veiled hostility. Yet, Sweetgrass Woman remained a constant source of patient guidance. She showed Róisín how to gather firewood, and water as well as the painstaking task of scraping hides and pounding meat. Each lesson was a silent conversation, a bond forming between the two women.

As dusk settled and the family returned to the teepee gathered around the fire as they ate. Buck noticed the way Róisín pushed the food around in her bowl, yet ate very little. He knew she didn't like the taste of pemican, but they would have fresh meat before winter set in. She would eat if she was hungry.

After they ate the children sat on their blankets and listened intently to their father's story. Red Bear's voice, deep and resonant, filled the air as he began to weave the tale. Buck leaned close to tell Róisín in English.

"Many years ago, before our people made their way south, they camped along the rivers and streams in the far north, where there were a great many bears. One day, seven little girls went playing among the rocks far north of the village. One girl wandered away from the group. When she was turning back to join her companions when she heard a terrible crashing noise, and there, standing at the height of fifteen men and tall as the tallest tree, stood a bear." Buck whispered into Róisín's ear.

Red Bear rose to his feet and roared at ths children. Róisín with the children all giggled as Red Bear rambled around the fire growling like a bear. Buck sat back and held Róisín's hand. He'd missed this. He knew he made the right choice staying with the Pony Express, but he had missed his brother. He missed being part of a family. He watched with a smile as his brother playfully launched his youngest in the air, much as their grandfather had with them.

"This bear had a great, ever-growing hunger, and the girl stood upon his territory. He dropped to all fours and ran toward her. The girl cried out and fled. He chased her back to her companions, crashing through trees and raking the ground with his great claws. The girl ran, fleet as a deer. The other girls heard her cries and the great noises the bear was making, and they tried to run toward the village. The bear thwarted their efforts by herding them away from it, and they scattered, as the herd of bison scatters before the cougar."

Buck looked down at Róisín, her eyes intent on Red Bear's story.

"They managed to evade the bear, being smaller and quicker, but they had nowhere to go. Eventually, exhausted, they clambered atop a wide rock that stood about five hands high. As they pulled the last girl upon the rock, the bear was right behind them. In desperation, they cried out to the rock, and the Great Spirit, seeing their plight, caused the rock to grow. It grew and grew, pushing the girls upwards. The bear leapt towards it as the rock continued to grow. The bear's claws caught on the side of the rock, then broke and fell to the ground. He continued to jump and scratch in vain upon the face of the rock, leaving deep gashes. And still, the rock grew and grew."

"It pushed the girls up, up, into the sky. Upon reaching the sky, the girls transformed into stars, where they are now, seven little stars in a group. As the sun rose the next morning, the people of the tribe gathered around the base of the towering, newly grown rock mountain and found pieces of the bear's claws, turned to stone, scattered on the ground."

Róisín smiled nestled between Sweetgrass Woman and Buck, felt a flicker of warmth amidst the sorrow and stress since they left Cheyenne, since her brother had been killed and she and Buck were being hunted.

While Sweetgrass Woman put the children to sleep Róisín carefully tended to the wounds on Buck. His ribs and face were slowly losing the deep purple bruising and turning yellow and red on his skin. But the gash on his skull was still angry and sore.

When it was time to retire, Sweetgrass Woman rose, a gentle hand on Róisín's shoulder. "P'ee," she said, her voice soft.

Róisín smiled and squeezed the woman's hand softly. "Good night."

Róisín helped Buck to the makeshift bed and she drew the blanket closed. She felt the heat creep up to her cheeks when she heard the unmistakable sounds of intimacy coming from within the teepee. Stifling a giggle she hurried over to Buck.

Buck looked at her curiously, he was just about to ask why the sudden outburst of laughter but then a soft telltale sound from beyond the hanging blanket made it to his ears. A grin spread across his face and he patted the fur next to him.

"Come on." He cleared his throat softly. "Get some sleep."

Róisín crawled beside him and kissed his cheek softly before laying at his side, resting her hand on his chest. A soft sigh escaped her lips, deep in thought she idly played with the cord that held the pouch around his neck.

"You awake?" She whispered. Hearing Buck's low grumble in confirmation she continued.

"What does p'ee mean?"

"Where did you hear that?" He pet her head softly.

"Sweetgrass Woman has been calling me that all day." Róisín confirmed.

Buck smiled, a warmth in his eyes. "Sister," he replied. "She calls you sister."

The weight of the word settled on Róisín. In a land where she was a stranger, an outsider, Sweetgrass Woman had offered her not just kindness, but a bond of kinship. A tear escaped, tracing a warm path down her cheek.

---

Chapter 30

Colorado, 1867

The chill of an early autumn morning pierced through Róisín's thin dress as she carried another bucketful of water from the nearby creek. Though not yet frozen over completely, a thin layer of ice crackled underfoot with each step. Her arms ached from the repeated journeys, muscles straining against the weight, but the chore was a welcome distraction.

Back at the teepee, Sweetgrass Woman sat cross-legged, deftly weaving intricate beadwork onto a new dress for one of the children. Róisín watched in admiration as the elder's calloused fingers moved with practiced precision. With each tiny bead delicately sewn into place, stories and traditions were preserved like precious heirlooms passed down through generations.

"P'ee," Sweetgrass Woman motioned for Róisín to join her.

Róisín obediently took her place beside the woman, who patiently guided her hands in the meticulous art of beading. Though her own attempts were clumsy in comparison, she found comfort in the quiet rhythm of their work, the soft tinkling of the beads a soothing melody.

As the sun began its descent, fires were stoked and cooking commenced. Róisín's growling stomach reminded her just how famished she had become after a day's hard labor. She winced, sore muscles protesting, as she lowered herself by the crackling flames.

Red Bear's deep timbre carried over the encampment as he wove ancient tales for the children gathered around him. Buck leaned in close to translate in hushed tones, his calloused fingertips gently brushing Róisín's arm with each pause. She shivered at his featherlight touch, though the blaze before them should have been warmth enough.

Later, tucked away from prying eyes, Róisín carefully tended to the fading bruises along Buck's ribs - reminders of their violent journey and his bravery in protecting her. She traced the discolored marks with delicate touches, drinking in the rugged planes of his chest.

"You're playing with fire," he murmured, eyes darkening with unmistakable want as her fingers drifted lower.

Róisín met his heated gaze. "Perhaps."

She pressed her lips to the throbbing pulse in his neck, and Buck growled low in his throat. In one fluid motion, he rolled them, caging her beneath him as he ravaged her mouth with searing kisses. Róisín arched shamelessly into his solid weight, a soft moan escaping when his hand found her breast. Just as quickly, Buck retreated, draping a blanket over her flushed form.

"Get some sleep," he rasped, though he made no move to leave her side, his arm a protective anchor around her waist.

Róisín nuzzled into the comforting warmth of his embrace. "You will marry me, won't you?" She searched his stoic features in the low firelight, her breath fanning across the bare skin of his chest.

Buck's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Though his heart yearned to bind himself to this woman who had awoken him to life after so much death, pragmatism gave him pause. Their relationship had been forged in the fires of shared trauma and forced companionship. How could he truly know if her feelings ran deeper than a need for security in this unraveled world?

"Buck?" Her voice pulled him from his thoughts. Róisín propped herself up on one elbow to study him, brow furrowed.

He sighed heavily. "It ain't that easy."

"You said you loved me…" Hurt flashed in her eyes, wounded tears instantly welling.

"Shh." Buck cupped the back of her neck and claimed her lips in a scorching kiss. "I do love you," he assured when they finally broke apart, voice low and utterly sincere. "But you've been through a hell of a lot lately, and losin' your brother-"

"But-!"

His thumb pressed gently to her lips, silencing her protest. "Just listen." Her panted breaths caressed his palm as she glared up at him rebelliously. "I told you before, we ain't gonna be accepted in most places."

Róisín finally deflated with a jerky nod, worrying her full lower lip between her teeth.

"Róise..." Buck gathered her close once more, leaning in to nuzzle her temple when she stiffened against him.

"It's a shame I have more faith in you than you do in me."

As much as he yearned to lay claim to this fearless, loyal woman, he wanted her to understand the harsh realities that would face them as a couple in the unforgiving West. Their union needed to be anchored by more than just necessity and survival.

---

Chapter 31

Colorado, 1867

The last gasps of autumn faded into a hazy world blanketed in white. The brilliant red and yellow leaves that had set the landscape ablaze just weeks ago now disappeared, smothered beneath the season's first heavy frosts. Buck ducked through the lodge's narrow entrance, excitement buzzing beneath his usually stoic exterior.

"Red Bear and the warriors are headin' out for what'll probably be the last big hunt," he announced, gaze roving over the cozy interior. His eyes finally landed on Róisín huddled close to Sweetgrass Woman beside the crackling fire pit, her back ramrod straight, features drawn into an unreadable mask.

The weight of their conversation earlier that week - so fraught with unspoken words and half-buried fears - still hung thick in the air between them.

"I'll be back before you know it," Buck said gruffly as he approached, his voice unconsciously softening. The air seemed to crackle with a tension that went beyond their recent disagreement, raising the fine hairs along the back of his neck.

Róisín remained silent, her piercing stare fixed unseeingly on the dancing flames.

With a quiet grunt, Buck folded his powerful frame down before her on one knee, rough fingers tentatively reaching out to tuck an errant strand of wavy hair behind her ear. His touch lingered perhaps a moment too long, the pad of his thumb trailing along her jaw.

"I know you're still upset, over the other night," he murmured.

Róisín finally turned to face him fully, green eyes shining with a sheen of unshed tears. Buck cradled her face in his palms.

"With half the tribe already moved ahead to the winter camp, this hunt'll be no easy ride," he continued, voice low and solemn. "We need enough meat to get us through to spring thaw."

"Be safe," she managed in a hushed tone, reaching up to fuss with the fur lining of his thick buckskin coat. Her fingers brushed the hollow of his throat, and she felt the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat stutter momentarily beneath her tentative touch.

Unable to resist, Róisín craned up on her tiptoes and pressed her dry lips to the sandpapery stubble along Buck's jaw in a feather-light caress. "I love you," she breathed against his flushed skin, the words crystallizing in a frosty puff between them.

Buck wound a powerful arm around her waist and crushed her body flush against his solid frame. His kiss was searing yet achingly tender. A sharp shrill cry pierced the crisp air as Red Bear mounted his magnificent stallion, signaling the warriors to begin their solemn procession from the village. Róisín emerged from the stifling confines of the lodge, shielding her eyes against the blinding white glare. She came to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Sweetgrass Woman, eyes trailing the braves as they began to disappear beyond the frozen rise.

Unbidden, Róisín's hand reached out, questing for the reassuring anchor of her dearest friend's work-roughened palm. "P'ee," she whispered, the single Kiowa word a silent plea for comfort, for connection in the face of the unknown to come. Sweetgrass Woman squeezed her hand firmly in return, the simple gesture conveying the unspoken understanding between their two kindred spirits.

---

Chapter 32

Colorado, 1867

The sun was just starting to dip below the horizon, casting long streaks of crimson and amber across the endless sweep of snowy plains. Buck squinted against the fiery glare, dull ache thrumming through every bone and sinew after days spent relentlessly tracking their formidable prey.

A short distance away, Red Bear methodically cleaned his hunting blade, the steel briefly glinting like a sharp fang each time he drew the whetstone along its edge. The enormous buffalo bull lay motionless nearby, a monument to their hard work.

"Ah ohn tah daw," Red Bear rumbled in their native Kiowa without looking up from his task. "This beast should feed the village well into the cold moons."

"There is much to be greatful for." Buck grunted his assent, jamming the glowing embers of his pipe with a calloused thumb. The rich, earthy scent of the tobacco mingled with the thick, coppery tang of fresh blood and musk wafting from the downed buffalo.

Sinking down onto a weather-beaten log, Buck stretched his wearied legs toward the modest fire, relishing the blessed warmth seeping through his damp moccasins and breeches. Night was swiftly descending, and they would need to rouse the rest of the hunting party soon if they hoped to butcher and haul their hard-won prize back to camp before true darkness fell.

A comfortable silence lapsed between the two braves, the occasional pop and hiss of the burning logs the only accompaniment to the hypnotic dance of firelight and shadow. Red Bear was the first to break the trance-like reverie.

"You've been quieter than usual these past nights, P'ah-be," he observed shrewdly, finally meeting Buck's guarded gaze over the glowing embers. There was no masking the glint of warm laughter flickering in his eyes. "Don't tell me the white woman has rendered my brother so drunk with her love!"

Buck shifted under the Weight of Red Bear's appraising stare, stoking the fire with a long stick to avoid the other's knowing gaze. "Ain't nothin' like that," he mumbled with a furrowed brow.

His brother barked out a gravelly laugh. "Soon you will be long in years. Make her your mate and the mother of your sons." Red Bear set aside his knife and whetstone, leaning in with an air of conspiratorial wisdom. "She has proved herself a woman of courage and loyalty. She will bear you healthy sons."

For long moments, Buck remained silent and pensive, drifting smoke from the embered pipe shrouding his face in ethereal wisps. When he finally spoke again, his deep timbre was hushed yet resonant with conviction. "I ain't sure the life I have to offer will be enough for her."

Red Bear considered Buck's misgiving carefully before responding. "She has earned your respect, should you not allow her the dignity of making that choice for herself?" He reached out to clasp his younger brother's shoulder firmly, dark eyes glittering with paternal affection. "Do not let past fears and doubts blind you to your future."

As the last smoldering tendrils of dusk faded to inky blue-black, the hunting party roused themselves to begin the arduous task of quartering and packing their kill onto sturdy game travoises. Back at the village, the rhythmic drumbeats signaling their impending return echoed across the frosty basin.

Róisín rushed to the perimeter as soon as the first braves' silhouettes emerged against the star-saturated horizon. When Buck finally appeared, burden straining across his broad shoulders, she couldn't contain the wild fluttering of her heart any longer.

"Buck!" She cried out, breaking into a sprinting run despite the deep drifts hindering every step.

Before he could react, Róisín launched herself into his startled embrace, slender arms winding tightly around his neck. Buck staggered slightly under her exuberant onslaught, rugged features instantly alighting with tenderness and relief the moment she buried her face against his chest.

"Missed you too, darlin'," he rumbled, the endearment sounding somehow richer and more weighted compared to his usual gruff banter.

Róisín pulled back just enough to trace the faded purple weal of a recent bruise marring Buck's cheekbone. Her forehead creased with worry, though her eyes glittered with undisguised adoration and pride. "I'm just glad you've come back unscathed."

She opened her mouth to say more but the thunderous roar of cheers from the gathered villagers drowned out her words as their hard-won prize was finally revealed. All around, faces shone with immense gratitude and celebration.

This hunt, brutal as it had been, was more than just a need for sustenance. Red Bear's words continued to echo through Buck's consciousness. He gazed down at Róisín nestled in the sphere of his embrace, and a sudden rush of peace flooded his heart. He excused himself and leaving Róisín at the large firepit with Sweetgrass Woman Buck set through the crowd to speak with his brother.

---

Chapter 33

Colorado, 1867

As night fell, the rhythmic thrum of drums and joyous singing carried across the village. A massive bonfire blazed at the heart of the camp, casting flickering amber glows that danced across the hides of the surrounding teepees. The pungent aroma of roasting buffalo meat and wood smoke saturated the crisp air. Róisín's hands were tender and sore from helping the other women prepare the night's feast. Though their language remained largely indecipherable, she found herself trading smiles and laughter with most of the tribal women like long-lost sisters.

Buck observed her from across the fire pit with a smile on his lips. How quickly she had blossomed amid the precarious life here. His chest swelled with an unfamiliar tenderness just watching the easy manner in which she moved among his people now, finally feeling at home. Leaving the boisterous festivities momentarily behind, Buck sought out Róisín at the center of the celebration. He reached for her hand, giving it a gentle tug.

"Come with me," he murmured, flashing her a lopsided smile.

Róisín's brow arched quizzically, but she allowed him to lead her away from the flickering glow and rhythmic chanting toward Red Bear's spacious teepee tucked against the far tree line.

Within the dimly lit interior Red Bear and Sweetgrass Woman waited beside a vibrant pile of delicately woven blankets. She looked to Buck with a crease furrowing her brow, silently seeking his reassurance. He gave her hand a comforting squeeze and a subtle nod, warmth and certainty shining through his darkened gaze. As Red Bear's powerful voice resonated through the teepee in his native tongue, Róisín felt the reverent atmosphere envelop despite her inability to comprehend the words themselves.

Sweetgrass Woman was focused as she gathered the plush blue-grey blankets into her arms. Red Bear reverently extended his hands to receive the sacred bundle, cradling it tenderly before beginning the final sequence of ceremonial motions. First laying the thick woven textiles across the shoulders of them both, he motioned for Buck and Róisín to stand together while he chanted. Róisín's pulse fluttered rapidly as realization gradually dawned on her - a matrimonial ceremony.

With his final deep invocation to the spirits and deities, Red Bear and Sweetgrass Woman each grasped an end of a large pale blanket. In one slow, fluid motion, they encircled the young couple until the soft woven fibers cocooned them together in a seamless embrace.

Róisín gazed up at Buck with parted lips, heart thundering in her ears. He met her wonderstruck expression with a tender smile, giving her hands anchored in his a reassuring squeeze. As the Red Bear and Sweetgrass Woman left the teepee to allow them a semblance of privacy, he raised her knuckles to brush against his lips.

"Are...are we truly...?" Róisín breathed, hardly daring to voice the thought aloud.

Buck's smile widened then, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that never failed to set her heart aflutter. "We're as one now, wife." He affirmed in a low rumble. He slanted his mouth over hers in an intense yet infinitely tender kiss. Róisín clung to him fiercely, every inch of her body tingling with excitement.

Moments later, the soft sound of footfalls on frozen earth announced a visitor before Sweetgrass Woman's familiar face peeked through the teepee's entrance. She spoke a few words, her gaze passing warmly from Buck to Róisín.

Buck responded with a nod and a rumbling reply, squeezing Róisín's hand reassuringly. "Fresh buffalo tonight," he translated with a faint smile. "No more of that damned pemmican for a few days at least."

Róisín's face lit up with a grateful smile at the prospect of a proper hot meal. Catching Buck's eye, she leaned in to press a kiss against his cheek. After Sweetgrass Woman had taken her leave, the newlyweds emerged hand-in-hand from the teepee. The bonfire still blazed at full strength, they approached the gathering, the pungent aroma of sizzling buffalo meat and woodsmoke enveloped them.

Róisín's stomach grumbled loudly, reminding her just how hungry she had become after the long day's labor and emotions. Buck nodded cordially to the other tribesmen as he guided her toward an unoccupied space along the edge of the roaring fire pit. He helped Róisín settle onto a well-worn ground covering before taking his own place at her side, their hands remaining intertwined.

All around them, the rise and fall of mingled voices, the dancer's songs, merged harmoniously with the crackle and hiss of the dancing flames. Buck watched the flickering fire reflected in the warm depths of Róisín's eyes, the silhouetted movements of the dancers throwing mesmerizing patterns of light and shadow across her entranced features. In that moment, an overwhelming sense of acceptance washed over him.

---

Chapter 34

Colorado, 1867

In the dim light of the teepee, their bodies swayed together in rhythm with their kisses. Buck's heart raced as his hands trailed up and down Róisín's back, savoring the softness of her skin. He pushed her dress higher, exposing more of her legs. She leaned into him, her fingertips dragging lightly across his chest, making him shudder. His lips trailed kisses down her neck, tasting her salty skin.

Róisín pulled back slightly to catch her breath, her eyes full of desire and anticipation. "I want you," she whispered hoarsely, her fingers entwined in his hair. He responded by pressing his hips against hers, feeling the heat between them ignite anew. As he continued to explore her body with his hands, he could feel her breath quicken and her nipples harden against his chest.

Buck took one of her soft breasts in his hand, gently squeezing it before taking it into his mouth. He suckled on her nipple as he slipped a finger inside her warmth, feeling how ready she was for him. She moaned louder this time around, losing herself to the sensations that coursed through her body. Her hips arched off the ground in response to his touch as he added another finger, stretching and filling her up. He rested his hand on her lips a moment and whispered, "Shhh."

The teepee walls seemed to pulse with their passion as they moved together in silence. With every deep thrust of his tongue against her sensitive buds and every circle of his fingers inside her wetness, Róisín felt herself losing control. Her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him closer as she ground her hips against his hand. Buck's moans echoed through the teepee as he matched her movements, his free hand exploring her soft skin and finding its way back to her breast once more.

The intesity between them increased as Buck started to move faster, his tongue dancing around her nipple while his fingers pumped in and out of her. She cried out, throwing her head back in ecstasy, feeling the building pressure within her. Sweat beaded on their skin as the fire crackled beyond the blanket, casting shadows across the walls of the teepee. The sound of their heavy breathing echoed in the small space, punctuated by soft whimpers and moans as they reached new heights of pleasure together.

Buck settled between her legs, and guided himself to her entrance, pressing against it gently before slipping inside, stretching and filling her. With one final thrust of his hips, he buried himself inside her, groaning deeply. She met him motion for motion, rocking her hips against him as he began to move slowly but steadily within her.

Their lips never parted as they rode out this wave of passion together - Róisín's fingers digging lightly into Buck's shoulders while he held onto her hips tightly. Her eyes were closed now, lost in the sensation of being filled so deeply by Buck's strong, firm body. She couldn't believe how amazing this felt, how much she wanted it.

His rhythm was perfect, matching hers as if they'd been doing this forever. The friction between their sweaty skin sent shockwaves of pleasure through her body with every movement, making her toes curl and her muscles tense in anticipation of the next wave of pleasure. The heat from the fire outside seeped around the blanket, making their bodies glisten with sweat as they moved together.

Buck's tongue played tag with hers as he moved inside her, his pace increasing almost unconsciously. He bit down softly on her lower lip, drawing a mix of pain and excitement from her. She whispered his name feeling an orgasm build within her. His hips pistoned faster, filling her completely with each thrust as he hit that sweet spot over and over again. The sound of their heavy breathing and stifled moans. Their kisses became more urgent and desperate as they both neared the edge.

With one final thrust, Buck groaned deeply, his muscles flexing against hers. Róisín trembled, gasping for breath as she came too - waves of pleasure washing over her like never before. He followed soon after, his entire body shuddering with release. They panted heavily together for what seemed like minutes before pulling apart to catch their breath. Their chests heaved up and down in unison, their hearts thundering in their ears. Sweat dripped from their bodies onto the furs beneath them.

---

Chapter 35

Colorado, 1867

The first pale rays of dawn filtered through the teepee's smoke vent, casting a soft golden glow over the slumbering forms within. Róisín stirred beneath the plush buffalo robe, blinking sleepily as consciousness gradually returned. A contented sigh escaped her lips as her eyes finally focused on the devoted features of her Buck watching over her.

"Mornin', my beautiful wife," Buck greeted, voice still husky with sleep as he brushed an errant curl from her brow.

Róisín felt her cheeks warm at his unabashed appraisal, undimmed affection shining in his eyes. With a bashful smile, she reached up to trace the sharp line of his lips against his growing beard.

"How do you say husband in Kiowa?" She asked.

"Click your tongue at the start like this, "kee." He instructed.

"I love you "kee." She murmured, trailing her fingertips down the corded column of his neck. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Weren't a change of heart," Buck's palm cradled her cheek as he leaned in to brush a lingering kiss across her lips. "Just figured out what was important."

Any further words were cut off by Red Bear's booming voice echoing through the teepee, his voice now a familiar tone to Róisín's ears.

"We best get a move on if we aim to reach the winter camp 'fore the next snowfall hits," he translated with a wink. "There's a lot to get done 'fore we can head out - gatherin' the horses and dogs, breakin' down the travois, makin' sure the littlest ones are all bundled." Buck quickly dressed and helped Róisín tie her dress then squeezed her bottom lovingly as he kissed her softly. "You stay with Sweetgrass Woman, ya hear?"

"I will." She smiled dutifully.

Extricating themselves from their cozy nest of furs was no easy feat, but soon enough the village had descended into an orderly frenzy of activity. Teepees were disassembled with practiced efficiency, bundled supplies lashed securely to the sturdy travois sleds along with the bawling pups that would soon pull them.

Children scurried about underfoot in a chaotic flurry of squeals and laughter. Róisín watched in awe at the dizzying synchronicity of it all - an entire community transforming before her eyes with each member playing their indispensable part.

Per Sweetgrass Woman's unspoken instructions, Róisín found herself helping to usher the littlest ones into thick rabbit fur bundlings and onto the relative safety of the travois bundles as the dismantling progressed. By the time the entire village had been packed away and the dogs hitched up, freshly fallen powder blanketed the crisp plains once again in soft. Róisín fell into step alongside Sweetgrass Woman, struggling against the deep drifts threatening to swallow her leather-clad feet entirely with each sluggish pace.

Though her calves already burned from exertion and her breath plumed in ragged white bursts, she refused to falter. Having been raised with an iron will, her Irish pride simply would not allow it. But it was more than that – she was a wife now - and she would not shame him.

A sudden flash of movement through the hazy grey periphery caught her eye. It was Buck, guiding his own travois sled alongside Red Bear's as they forged the path ahead for the rest of the caravan. Despite the somber furrow of concentration weighing his brow, his dark gaze shone with unmistakable pride as it landed on his wife's determined figure.

Though the terrain grew increasingly punishing with each bend of the winding trail, Róisín found herself heartened by Sweetgrass Woman's steady, silent encouragement and her husband's periodic backward glances that sparked like banked embers in her soul.

---

Chapter 36

Colorado, 1868

The winter months passed in a serene haze of tranquility within the sturdy confines of their teepee. As the bitter winds howled and snowdrifts piled ever higher outside, Róisín basked in the simple joys of her new family life - lingering mornings spent cuddled beneath thick robes, evenings regaling the wide-eyed children with fanciful stories and games by the fire's golden glow.

Buck, once so stoic and aloof, transformed into an openly affectionate mate before her eyes. His strong hands were never without a tender caress, his deep voice rumbling endearments that made Róisín's heart race. As the snow gradually began to dissipate with the first faint whispers of spring, Buck knew their time with the tribe was drawing to a bittersweet close. They would need to continue pushing west.

One brisk but sun-kissed afternoon, Róisín found herself at the banks of the river with Sweetgrass Woman and the other women, laughing as she helped the rambunctious children splash and frolic in the shallows. Her doeskin dress and leggings were soaked through and her soft brown tresses escaped their binding in a tousled flurry of curles, but her cheeks were flushed with unfettered delight.

A familiar pair of strong arms encircled her waist from behind, and Buck's rugged jawline nuzzled against the sensitive flesh under her earlobe.

"Come walk with me, tah'," he rumbled in a tone laced with undisguised longing.

Róisín felt a delicious shiver trickle down her spine at the heated insistence in his voice. With an apologetic smile to Sweetgrass Woman, she allowed Buck to lead her away from the riverbank party toward the secluded tree line.

Once surrounded by the fragrant pine trees, shielding them from the raucous village, Buck halted their progress and turned to fully envelop Róisín in his powerful embrace. His kiss was scorching and desperate, hands roaming with blatant possessiveness as he pinned her gainst the nearest trunk's coarse bark.

"If you wished to stay with your family, I would accept it," she panted soflty when they finally parted for air, her green eyes boring into his.

"I'll be damned if I know what I did to be granted an angel's grace after all the evil I've walked through."

Rather than respond with words, Róisín captured his mouth in another searing liplock, nimble fingers already working to loosen the ties of his buckskin breeches. She craved the searing brand of his passion, the reminder that she was truly his. Buck groaned deeply against her lips, palms cupping her jaw. When she arched needfully against his solid form, his thigh shamelessly parted her skirts and pinned her bare legs apart with ease.

"I'm gonna build us a proper house, Róise," he growled, quickly sheathing himself in her welcoming heat with a roll of his powerful hips. "Right on the ocean, just like I promised. As many babies as you want."

His gaze sharpened with unmistakable masculine pride at the thought of providing her with children of their own. Róisín felt her heart stutter wildly at the possessiveness in his tone. Closing her eyes she cried out incoherently as he set a bruising pace, clinging to his shoulders. She met each driving surge with the desperation of her own, overcome by the possessive reverence blazing in his eyes.

He thrusted hard and deep, claiming her body as his own territory marked in the most primitive way possible. She met him stroke for stroke, crying out in pleasure. Finally, they reached the peak together, bodies shuddering violently. Róisín dug her fingertips into Buck's shoulders as she climaxed.

As Buck's hips finally stilled, his breathing ragged and sweat beading on his forehead, Róisín slowly pulled away from him, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of their passion. She gazed up at him with a mix of satisfaction and love, her eyes shining in the dim light of the tree covering.

"We'll set off in a few days," Buck rasped against her forehead. "Head west to Fort Collins for supplies, then straight through the Utah territory and over the Nevada mountains after that."

His fingertips tenderly stroked the flush of her soft cheek, warm brown eyes eyes shining with a fierce determination that sent Róisín's heart fluttering anew. She tightened her arms around his solid frame, pressing her cheek against the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat.

---

Chapter 37

Colorado, 1868

The pale March sun stretched shadows across the teepee as Buck and Róisín dressed for their journey west. Róisín pulled her old calico dress over her head, fingers working the buttons slowly. The familiar fabric felt strange now, yet somehow comforting. Buck stepped up behind her, his strong hands gently taking over the buttons. He trailed soft kisses along the bared skin of her neck and shoulders with a tenderness that still made Róisín's breath catch.

"Mmm," Buck grumbled, running his fingers over the fabric at her midriff with a concerned frown. "You've gotten far too thin, darlin'."

It wasn't an admonition, just tender worry as he traced the new hollows and angles their difficult winter had etched into her frame. Róisín started to protest, but Buck silenced her with a searing kiss, angling his mouth over hers with smoldering conviction.

"Soon as we reach Fort Collins," he vowed roughly against her lips, "I'm takin' you out for the biggest, juiciest steak they got."

Róisín's face lit up with shameless delight at the prospect. A playful gleam entered her eyes as she looped her arms around his neck.

"With pie for dessert?" She wheedled impishly.

Buck's low chuckle rumbled against her. "With vanilla ice cream," he agreed easily, claiming her lips again.

Too soon, they had to leave their cozy little world in the teepee. After gathering their few belongings, Róisín took one last wistful look around before following Buck outside. Róisín's heart clenched sharply when she saw Red Bear and Sweetgrass Woman standing near the horses. She thought she had prepared herself to leave, but now faced with the realization she would never see this woman again, Róisín felt the hot tears welling up in her eyes. She wrapped her arms tightly around Sweetgrass Woman's weathered frame, blinking back tears.

"P'ee," she whispered, voice thick. Then bolder: "Áuso̱dau Má."

Using her Kiowa name made the woman startle, her own eyes turning bright as she hugged Róisín fiercely, murmuring a stream of her native words. After a long moment, Sweetgrass Woman released her with a tender pat on her tear-stained cheek.

Buck and Red Bear embraced fiercely. "Háy gú:aim oiye bòhn t'daw," Red Bear stated solemnly.

Though the simple phrase translated to "Until I see you again", the profound weight behind Red Bear's words and the meaningful look that passed between the two men made it clear - this was their final farewell. As their eyes locked, an entire lifetime's worth of hardship, love, and brotherhood resonated in that charged silence. Buck gave a solemn nod, the deep respect shining in his gaze affirming that he understood the permanence of this parting.

Buck nudged his horse forward, heading out onto the open plains. Róisín, already mounted, turned for one last look. The familiar teepees and Red Bear's kind face shrunk with each steady hoofbeat. Though it tore at his heart to leave his brother behind again, Buck knew the next path awaiting them would be one he and Róisín would have to forge alone - together against whatever trials the vast Western wilderness had in store.

---

Kiowa Names & Translations

Aunháde Gúl – Red Bear

Hā́chò – How are you

P'ah-be – Brother

P'ee - Sister

Áuso̱dau Má - Sweetgrass Woman

T'àu:páu Kopé - Running Buck

Tah' – Wife

"Kee - Husband

Ah kauhn – my name is

Ah ohn tah daw – I am thankful

Bay soy aum – Hurry up

Hàu – Yes

Háundéóñ:dé èm bóñ: - Good to see you

Hàu:! ám:ál – Yes! You also.

Háundéóñ:dé èm âui:tsàn – We are glad you have come

Háy gú:aim oiye bòhn t'daw – Until I see you again

---

THANK YOU for reading!

Please let me know how you liked this! Leave a comment & favorite my author page to get notifications when a new story is posted!

---

Afterword

Buck Cross and other characters from the TV show The Young Riders belong to the copyright holders of The Young Riders. (1989-1992)

No infringements of copyright by any rights-holder to The Young Riders is intended or implied.

The author receives NO monetary benefit from the electronic or physical distribution of this work.

ALL original characters created by the author, as well as plot and book art, are copyrighted by the author.

Please do not distribute these works without permission from the author.

---

About the Author

Holly, a 2nd generation California Native, relocated to the Midwest after the 2018 Camp Fire devastated her hometown. She brought along with her unwavering love of her home state, her loyal companion Cass, better known as Cass the Stinky Chicken.

In the 90's she became a devoted fan of 'The Young Riders' series. Inspired by the characters and the time period, she crafts tales set in the Wild West, often featuring the beloved character, Buck Cross.

In addition to her historical interests, Holly is a recognized fashion designer and custom doll artist under the brand D.A. Fashion.

---

MORE TITLES AVAILABLE

Wallpapers, maps, trail guides and more all available at
ridercomin dot com