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delopsia · 1 year

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Flowers In November (2/4) Rhett x Reader

Word Count: 9,780 ♡‧₊˚ AO3 Cross-Post ♡⊹˚₊ Flowers In November Masterlist₊˚⊹♡ Warnings: Fem!Reader. Briefly mentioned abusive relationships (not involving reader), improper disposal of a horse's corpse, l-bombs, oral sex, physical and verbal altercations, blood, unprotected sex, inappropriate use of a firearm, lying to a police officer, multiple mentions of food and cooking.

Part 1 ♡⊹˚₊ Part 3

The first week is the worst.

You spend a lot of it on Rhett's couch. Trying and failing to run from the overwhelming heaviness that's settled deep into your muscles, reaching deep into your bones, seemingly filling them with cement. There's something so draining about realizations. It just doesn't...make sense.

Rhett doesn't complain about your dead weight around the house, even though he has every right to be annoyed with a stranger lazing about his home. A part of you suspects that he enjoys the company. He seems to get a lot of enjoyment out of laying on the couch opposite you, just talking about whatever is on your mind.

Your likes, your dislikes, hobbies. You learn that he used to eat fried eggs with his hashbrowns religiously. That his momma became so attached to their pigs that they're not allowed to eat real bacon anymore. You're pretty sure you'd be the same way if you befriended a livestock animal.

Old memories, both the sweet and the bitter ones. Recounting old tales of adventures and comparing your worlds, eager to spot the differences between the two. Little by little, it sets in how wonderfully similar and different this world is. Rhett's town is nearly identical to yours. Same layout and the same buildings. Different shop and street names.

It's not home, but it's a familiar face.

"You can't be serious," Rhett squawks, his empty beer can hitting the table, "you grew up on what street?"

You have to hold up a finger, asking him to wait as you chew this bite of cookie. Rhett's momma, who you now know as Cecelia, sent them over yesterday, and they're so chewy that you need a moment. "Cold River road."

"What the hell?" Shaking his head, "it was Warm Creek road for me."

It's hard to believe that this is your reality now. A tweaked version of your past one, whether that be for better or for worse. The mom-and-pop shop you planned to work at doesn't exist here, but in its place is this beautiful cafe that sells baked goods and coffee. Rhett takes you in there one day after a successful grocery run.

"You know," you find yourself saying as you tuck yourselves into a corner booth with your drinks, "I never pinned you as a french vanilla kind of guy."

Rhett rolls his eyes so dramatically that you hope they become lodges in the back of his head, "what were you expecting, plain black?"

Humming, you feign thought, as if you're putting everything you've got into this conversation, "I was thinking mocha."

He finds a way to bug you in return by tearing off a piece of your pastry when you're not looking. He's not sorry, and you can't find it in yourself to be mad because he smiles so big that his eyes crinkle and disappear with it. Happy little crescents.

With a pantry and fridge full of proper food and ingredients, you do the only thing you can do on a ranch like this. You cook.

Cecelia offers you cookbooks galore, regional cuisines, and desserts. Anything you can think of, she has. There's even a book on mixing drinks in there. It's not your ideal lifestyle, cooking all day, but it's either this or you break your back working with Rhett, and you know you don't have the energy to work like him.

Your first attempt is a disaster. Rhett's stove heats up much slower than you're used to, and the pasta winds up undercooked. The homemade sauce is a bit off because part of the instructions has been distorted by water.

"I don't see what the fuss is about," covering his mouth as he speaks, "it's still good." And your heart soars with a foreign fuzziness from that alone.

Strange how the cowboy you met by mere circumstance has slowly become your number-one supporter. He's always got something nice to say about your cooking; you could be serving him plain soup from a can, and he'd still smile and thank you for taking the time to make it.

There's a night when you wake up sobbing because you saw your mother in your dream, and you miss her so, so much. It's only been two weeks without her, and you don't think you'll ever see her again. Rhett's a heavy sleeper, but he was already awake, fetching a glass of water. You don't hear him coming or realize he's there until you feel the mattress dip.

He doesn't know why you're crying, but he offers you a smile anyway, "you look like you could use a shoulder to cry on."

You're unsure if he meant that literally, but he welcomes you into his warm arms all the same. You find refuge in the comforting silence that he wears, like his favorite cologne. It wraps around you in the same fashion that his arms do, clouding your senses until your head has gone quiet too.

It's late, he has to be up early to work, but he turns on the sitcom you've been watching together. Words go unspoken because no matter how many of them you say, they can't fix this. His shoulder is warm, and somewhere between the buzz of sound on the television and the way he fiddles with your hand, you doze off.

That morning, you wake up tucked into bed, the sheets snuggly wrapped around you like a hug. Your only indication that last night wasn't a dream is the progress you made in that show.

"I hope you don't have any plans for today," good lord, how long has he been standing in the kitchen?

...and how long has he been shirtless.

You can only open and close your mouth like a fish out of water, tearing your eyes off his sculpted chest, only to have them draw back onto him like magnets. Has he always had that tattoo of a bull and rider on his chest?

If Rhett notices your staring, he doesn't call you out. "We're going to get you a friend."

"Friend?" You parrot, dumbfounded. God, those biceps...

Even as you get dressed, in a mixture of his clothes and some he's bought for you, it's hard to figure out what he means by 'friend.' Is he introducing you to someone, or is he buying a puppy? You can see Isabela tacked up through the bedroom window, waiting patiently just outside the house.

Fortunately, by now, it's easy to swing yourself up behind Rhett. Huddling close and burying your face into his back has become second nature, especially as the temperatures drop each day. Every ride, you thank your lucky stars that he's a walking furnace that's always happy to warm you up.

"Where are we going?" You don't think he's ever taken you to this side of his land. All the way down to where all four corners of the respective lands meet.

"South pasture," Rhett supplies, but he gives you nothing more to go on regarding the whole 'friend' situation.

The South belongs to Perry and his family. Although, it looks more like a lake than anything else. Water covers most of the property, forcing Isabela to stick to the fence line, where it's mostly dry. Even then, you can still hear the squelch of the soggy ground under her hooves. It's a wonder how this lake stays contained within the borders of Perry's land.

You can't help but wonder where his house is located because you see nothing but water, water, and more water.

That is, until a gray horse emerges from the murky depths, shaking the water from her coat, closely followed by a second and a third. But you hadn't seen any head's poking out of the water...

As if he's already caught on to your stupor, Rhett laughs. A loud, hearty noise. "Y'all don't got kelpies where you come from?"

Come again?

"Like the fantasy creature?" Vaguely, you recall hearing something about them once or twice, but you can't say you're familiar with their lore.

That statement alone is enough of an answer to Rhett's question. The horses—kelpies follow loosely behind you. Like they're trying to join Isabela but are too shy to go through with it. One of them makes eye contact with you, her haunting brown eyes peering straight through your skin and deep into your soul. At least, until she opens her mouth, and...

"...did that horse just hiss at me?"

"Yes, ma'am, she did."

You're not too pleased to see that Perry is out and about, although you're not too sure why you were expecting him not to be on his property. His house isn't much different from his parents, a considerable fraction smaller but equally extravagant and over the top. A towering marble fountain stands in front of his home, and even the water flowing through it looks expensive.

"I really thought you were lyin' when you said she was still with you," Perry's talking before he's within earshot, forcing you to rely on context to fill in the blanks, "what woman chooses to stay in a tiny shack like that?"

He takes one look at Rhett and falls dead silent. You're not sure if you want to know what kind of expression achieved that.

"If you don't mind, I need to speak to Rhett alone for a second." The last time someone told you they needed to speak to Rhett alone, you received information you wish you hadn't.

And you sure hope these kelpies don't talk.

Isabela is content to be tied off on a fence post nearby, minding her own while you absently scratch her shoulder. You're not sure what to do. You'd feel wrong for wandering around and exploring, but it's not the ideal experience to simply stand here. What does Perry need with Rhett, anyhow?

There's movement off to your left.

"Did you follow us?" You can't believe you're asking a horse this as if she can respond. Or so you hope.

That same horse idles at the edge of her fence, her darkened eyes fixated on you as if you're the most interesting thing she has ever seen. Up close, you can see the dapples that cover her body, most of them hidden by how she's whitened out over the years. There's a considerable amount of feathering on her lower legs; she almost looks like she's wearing oversized socks.

Again, she hisses at you.

There are plenty of horses in the field with her, but she's the only one that's truly taken notice of you.

Slow, she follows the fence until she's close enough to hang her head over the wooden panels. Her eyes look more like a goat's, pupils wide and rectangular rather than round. You're looking, waiting on those eyelashes to flutter with a blink, but as time ticks by, she only blinks once.

As you go to offer her your hand, she lifts her head, tracking everywhere the appendage goes.

"Do me a favor," whispering in the wind, "don't bite my hand off, please?" The first time your hand touches her neck, she flinches, whistling much like a dolphin, but then she returns and lets you do it again.

Her eyes close, leaning into your touch. Not so scary after all.

"Why did I have a feeling it would be that one?" The sudden appearance of Perry's voice spooks you just as much as it does your newfound companion here; both of you stop what you're doing to look for the source of the sound.

Perry and Rhett are walking over, the bush behind them shaking unnaturally as if someone's just rustled it.

"Were you two hiding in that bush?" Your accusation is answered when Rhett's eyes hit the ground, suddenly too heavy to lift them.

"For business purposes," Perry tells you blandly, "it's best to be alone; it rules out the possibility of a kelpie trying to pick someone else."

Pick?

"They're a fussy species," filling in the blank, Rhett stands next to you, holding out his hand for the kelpie to sniff, "they pick their riders, rather than the other way around."

Her halter contains a tiny ID chip that displays her information when Rhett scans it with his phone. She's seven and a half, was born and raised on Perry's land, and was initially trained to assist lifeguards, capable of reaching places that human divers cannot. Her name?

"Nyx," both you and Rhett murmur, perfectly in sync.

She settles into the barn three days later. You don't notice her at first because, at a glance, she blends in perfectly with the snow. Her presence is only given away by Rhett's surprised yelp as she turns on him, knocking him down in the driveway.

"Are you really trying to put a bow on that horse?" You can't help but tease, snow crunching below your feet. Planted flat on his back, red ribbon laying haphazardly on his belly, shoulders shaking as he giggles. Your feet come to a stop right next to the halo of brown hair, looking at him from upside down.

"Merry Christmas?" He offers, shy. Fuck, he's cute.

Until now, you've completely forgotten about Christmas and the New Year and hadn't really wanted to remember it either. Yet as this cowboy laughs at you like he's the happiest man in the world, and as Nyx comes to stand by your side, it hits you that maybe this, whatever it is, isn't so bad.

The weather makes it hard to go out for any rides; there are some days when it becomes so cold that it's dangerous for Nyx and Isabela to be outside for too long. Those days are always the worst because the wind blows so hard that you can't see beyond the porch. It always worries you because Rhett is out in it, and even the most experienced men can be overtaken by the cold.

Then there's the night when your worst fears start coming true. Two weeks after New Year's, a winter storm slams Wyoming with high winds and endless snowfall. Howling wind whips around the house, screaming by, carrying so much snow that all you can see is a solid white sheet. It's been like this all afternoon, and Rhett's an hour later than usual.

You've found yourself pacing back and forth between all the windows, searching for a sign of him out there, but all you can see is the thick clumps of snow as they descend from the skies above.

Oh, where is he? Where is he?

Rhett's always been home around six, his latest so far has been six forty-five, and that was only because Isabela got a stubborn rock lodged in her hoof.

The clock in the bedroom reads seven-thirty. The numbers bright red, glaring you down.

You've got half the mind to clamber into some of his heavy winter clothes and look for him yourself, but what will you do if you get lost too? If he comes back and finds the house empty?

Oh, but what if he's hurt himself? He could be half frozen to death out there, and—

the room falls dark.

"Great," swearing under your breath, "just fucking great."

It's below zero outside, and now you have no power. Absolutely wonderful.

There's wood and old newspaper already stocked in the fireplace, just in case Rhett's feeling festive enough to get a fire going. Memory tells you there's a lighter in the kitchen junk drawer, hidden in a mix of sticky notes, pens, and pencils. It's hard to see what you're doing, fumbling around blindly in the drawer until your fingers find the familiar shape of the lighter.

You've watched Rhett enough times to know how he usually gets these started, and you're pleased to find that you can get the fireplace going without burning the house down. Albeit, your fingers are now a twinge burnt.

Impossibly, the wind seems to be picking up more speed, beating against the house so hard that the front door is starting to shake, the knob rattling. Or, at first, you think it's the wind, but the longer it goes on, the more you start to wonder...

"Rhett?" You call out, turning toward the offending noise, "that you?"

No response, but that knob just keeps making noise.

A part of you is afraid to open it; the other half is worried about what may happen if you don't. The metal feels like ice in your hand, almost burning as you turn it and pull the door open.

That wasn't the wind.

"God, Rhett, where the hell have you been?" Hissing at the wind that rattles into the house, you step to the side, letting him stumble into the house.

His shoulders carry a mountain of snow on them; tiny icicles decorate his long lashes. You don't know where his gloves have gone, but his hands have gone white, struggling to get ahold of his jacket zipper. He's making sounds like he's trying to speak, but nothing is coming out.

"I've got you," taking hold of the zipper, you pull it down, helping him squirm out of his snow-soaked coat. It's dripping water all over the freshly cleaned floor, and the best place for it would be the washer, but you toss it onto the counter. That's not what needs to be focused on right now.

"Couldn't," swallowing thickly, "door."

How long was he out there?

Fortunately, he's still there enough to know that he should go and sit in front of the fire while you wrangle some blankets out of the closet. But even the four blankets don't help with his shivering, seemingly just as cold as before.

"How long..." speaking like his tongue has become hard to move, "has the power been out?"

"Ten minutes?" But it feels like it's been out for a decade; most of the heat has faded. It's starting to nip at you, icy fingers reaching out from the dark and running over your exposed skin.

Maybe that's how you find yourself sitting next to him, back propped against the couch, as you open your arms, beckoning him to come into them. Those deep blue eyes rake up and down your frame once, twice, and just that is enough to fill your belly with snowflakes.

Slow, Rhett scoots over, cautious as he settles against you. Head resting on your chest, arms wrapped around your waist, burying himself into you. He feels like a block of ice, and you're pretty sure he counts as one at this point.

The weight against you is bizarrely familiar, comfortable. Not too heavy, but enough to remind you that he's there, his head tucked under your chin. Those arms wrap around you like the perfect hug, impossibly strong, even now.

"Truck got stuck in the snow," he doesn't need to explain himself to you, and yet he chooses to anyhow, "couldn't get it out, so I had to walk back."

Squeezing him tighter, "what happened to your gloves?"

"They wound up gettin' wet, took 'em off thinkin' I'd be better off," weak, he laughs against your chest, hot breath dancing across your skin, "can't believe I couldn't open the damn door."

"I thought you were the wind at first," in hindsight, you should have realized it was him.

It's easy for time to get away from you, lost in the wonderous feeling of having him snuggled up into you. Such a big cowboy that fits into your arms like he was made to be in them, and you were made to hold him. He's like a teddy bear, hair soft as you rest your cheek against his head.

"You fallin' asleep?" He asks lowly.

Prying your eyes back open, "maybe."

"Good," yawning, he nuzzles his cheek against your collarbone, "because I think I am too."

Sometime later, the power kicks back on. Lighting the house in blinding shades of white as the heating and air unit roars to life outside. You don't know why, but as you untangle from each other, you find yourself wishing it hadn't come back on at all.

You can't shake it from your head, the sweetness of Rhett's weight against you, how his hair felt beneath your cheek. Like glue, the sensations have become stuck to you, refusing to let you forget about them. It keeps you up half the night; you're awake when Rhett heads out to work and can hear Nyx fussing in the barn when he enters. Household alarm system, that one.

As you start to doze, someone knocks on the front door. The person's voice is too muffled for you to understand what she said, but it's hard to miss the phrase, 'police department.'

What in the world?

Groggy, you drag yourself out of bed, stumbling over your own two feet. Did she have to pick now, of all times? Seven-thirty is too early for police officers to be doing surprise visits.

"Hi," she grins, all too cheerful, "is Rhett Abbott here, by chance?"

Yawning, you lean against the door frame, "you just missed him," you swear you've seen this woman before, "he left about an hour ago."

She doesn't seem surprised, just nodding and writing something down on her phone. Officer Judy Hawk.

Strange. You think her name was Joy in your world.

There's no time to focus on that, though, because soon she lists off a date. You know it's passed, but you don't remember what day of the week it landed. "Perry Abbott's license plate was found in a pasture down the road, on the same night a multi-million dollar racehorse went missing," your mind jumps back to what Rhett was burying, "do you know if Rhett was home that night?"

Heart climbing high into your throat, you glance toward the barn. Shit, shit, shit, do you lie? What if she already knows the truth? What if—

"Yeah," forcing a smile, "he was here all night, like always."

Judy looks skeptical, but she offers no counter-argument and doesn't press for why you're here or how you're connected to Rhett. Just smiles.

"That's about all I needed," there's that artificial friendliness again, draped over her face like a mask, "I'll find another time to come talk to Rhett. Thank you, Mrs. Abbott."

...huh?

Does she think...? That you...and Rhett...?

Ugh. No, you don't want to think about that.

It's the one thing you conveniently leave out of your retelling of the visit when Rhett inevitably stumbles in that evening. You try to be as casual as you can about it, nonchalantly letting it slip that they found Perry's plate while you take the green beans off the burner.

It's hard to tell what emotion flickers across his face. It's there and gone before you can blink, and then it's back to the usual Rhett. Too tired to be bothered by things like these.

You really hope you didn't fuck up by lying to that officer.

A freakish heatwave washes over the state during early February.

At first, you don't know what to think when you wake up and find that most of the snow has melted overnight. The weatherman tells you it's in the mid-60s, and the sun kisses you when you step out. Walking outside is like walking into a daydream, the air just perfect enough that it's not too hot or too cold.

From the fence line, Nyx hisses, adamant that she receives your attention right here and now. Spoiled.

"Hold on, hold on," rolling your eyes over her antics, "you big snake."

She doesn't understand you, but she whistles like she does. Who would have ever thought kelpies couldn't make normal horse sounds? Perry says they make plenty of different noises, but you've only seen Nyx whistle and hiss.

Again, she flicks her head back and hisses, goat-like eyes fixated upon something behind you.

"How long have you been standing there?" Honestly, you shouldn't be surprised that it's Rhett who is the cause of Nyx's offense.

His gaze flickers down, then back up, "ever since you walked out the house in nothin' but my old rodeo shirt."

...oh no.

"I uh..." now that he's said it, you're becoming hyper-aware of how bare your legs feel, "I didn't exactly plan to go outside."

Your inability to explain is rewarded with a hearty chuckle, "I can see that." As he begins to come closer, you start to flounder. "Why don't you go get dressed?" Effortlessly relieving you of any further explanation, "we got somethin' we need to do."

That's all the encouragement you need. Leaving the conversation to rot, you take off for the house, eager to retain what little of your dignity you have. God, did you really just walk out of the house in nothing but his shirt? Why does he always slip by your radar until it's too late?

Most of your clothes are still bouncing about the dryer; it's hard to accumulate them when you don't have money. Most of them come from Cecelia's monthly closet cleanouts. You have clothes, but it feels like you've got nothing to wear.

Scratchy blouses, too-warm sweaters, too-thin tees, nothing comfortable enough for what Rhett's likely to put you up to. It seems you're doomed to putting on your only pair of jeans and wearing his rodeo shirt for the rest of the day. At least it's soft.

Nyx is missing from the pasture when you step back outside. Although to find her, all you need to do is follow the sound of her whistling.

"What are we doing?" What could possibly require Rhett to tack up Nyx?

"Goin' for a ride," his voice barely audible over Nyx and her dolphin sounds, "weather's too nice to waste the day away." As if she agrees, Nyx whistles again. It's hard to tell if she's excited or pissed beyond belief.

You get your answer when you climb into her saddle, and she tries walking out of the barn before you're ready. This isn't the first time you've ridden her, but it's the first time she's been so eager to get the show on the road.

"The longer you take, the angrier the horse gets," you find yourself saying, staring at the feed room that Rhett's disappeared into.

He pokes his head out, "you and your dolphin need to learn patience."

Not one familiar with the concept, your dolphin turns and heads for the barn exit, and for once, you allow her to do what she pleases. Isabela has hardly moved from where Rhett left her by the house, but as soon as Nyx passes by, she begins to follow on your flank.

The group of you make it about four circles around the house before Rhett finally stumbles out of the barn. "How the hell did you get her to move?" Genuine shock ripples through his tone as he approaches your little walking party.

"Walked past her," at least you will never have to worry about Nyx doing the same thing, all things considered. On some days, it's a miracle that she even lets a stranger so much as perceive her.

Now that she's moving, Isabela doesn't stop for Rhett to get on and completely bypasses him when he tries stepping in front of her. Watching him chase her down and scramble up is quite an amusing sight to behold.

"So where are we going?" Asking as you follow his lead, heading toward the gate that sits along the fence line.

His head tilts west toward his parent's house, "you'll see when we get there."

As he'd indicated, you head west at a leisurely pace, taking all the time in the world. There's no reason to rush. You've gone this direction so many times, huddled up to Rhett's back as his felt cowboy hat bumps against the top of your head, that it feels foreign not to be there.

"What?" Rhett grins; he's caught you staring.

"I've gotten so used to cuddling up on the back of your horse that riding alone feels strange," the confession comes easily, slipping from your throat like a breath of air.

"Oh really?" His eyes squint in that telltale way; you're never going to hear the end of this. "You missin' cuddlin' with me?"

There are two ways you can address this. Deny it to no end, or confirm it.

"Maybe I do."

In the blink of an eye, his grin falters, eyelashes fluttering as he turns his attention to Isabela's pristine mane, "yeah?"

You don't understand why your heart flutters at that.

The dark, dead circle still resides in the ground, a landmark you always pass over here. It's worsened since the first time you laid eyes on it, the grass jet black, land sunken in. You've quit walking into it and hoping it will take you back.

Beyond the driveway that leads up to his parent's home lies a tiny, barely there trail. Washed out and overgrown, only made visible by the sand once poured to mark its path.

"Perry and I used to ride out here every Sunday while our folks went to church," removing his hat, Rhett tips his head back, letting the slight breeze rustle through his hair. It's gotten so much longer since the first time you met.

"What made you stop?" He's never been bothered by your probing for more information, but you're still hesitant to ask.

Rhett's quiet. Body swaying with Isabela's motions. The muscles in his jaw flex and relax as he sucks on his tongue, "he met Rebecca," he says after a minute, "and all of a sudden, he was too busy to be my brother anymore."

Stiffness returns to his frame, wiring his broad shoulders tight, "I hated every second of their relationship."

Ducking under a low-hanging branch, narrowly avoiding it, "what made you hate it so much?"

"Jealous," he spits it out so quickly that you hear it before you realize you've finished speaking. One of his big hands rises to scratch his neck, "or lonely, I guess. God, I don't know why I'm even bringing this up."

"You're allowed to talk about it if you want to," humming, you reach out, squeezing his knee, "I'm listening."

Up ahead is a slight clearing, where the land abruptly flattens itself out, and the trees have visibly been cut down. There's an old wooden bench facing the valley, rotting, overtaken by the elements. You see precisely why they put it here; the view is breathtaking.

You can see everything. The houses, the evident, shaky divide between the four properties. It looks so empty from up here.

"I can't tell you how many nights I spent up here, drinking on that bench," forcing a laugh, "God, I was the loneliest son 'f a bitch in the state."Was.

Nyx whistles, forcing you to wait until she's done giving you her two cents. "What changed?"

You don't think you've ever seen his eyes soften like that. Like someone's lit a match and melted away every drop of the icy stiffness that lives in them. With it taking away the fake smile he's been donning all afternoon.

And then you hear it, the faintest shadow of a voice you've ever heard, "you."

Oh.

In your mouth, your tongue fills with lead, but as it turns out, you don't have to speak because Rhett already is. "I've met a lot of people in my life, but you're the first person that's ever made me feel..." shaking his head, he looks away, focusing back on Isabela's mane, "like I'm not some good for nothing cowboy that's only meant to work and do favors."

You don't know what to say. For Rhett, though, your smile is enough of a reply because it makes him smile too. That's all you could really ask for.

There's only so much time you can spend looking out at the valley before it becomes boring, and soon, you're heading further up the trail, side by side. Quiet, but not uncomfortably so. That's the beauty of Rhett; whether he knows it or not, he's taught you that not all silence is bad. That it can be just as comforting as words.

"I have a question," you hate to break the silence, but it's starting to ebb at the back of your mind.

He puts his hat back on his head. "Shoot."

Alright. Here goes nothing. "What happened to Rebecca?" A part of you is expecting a cold, uncomfortable reaction, but you never receive it.

"She went missin' a year ago, 'bout nine months before you arrived," his voice airy, "just up and left him and their daughter."

You catch his mouth opening and closing a couple of times like there's something more that he wants to say. He never voices it.

At the very end of the trail lies an even more extensive clearing than before. The remnants of a gazebo lie dead in the middle, unfinished and rotting, much like the old bench. An old pile of lumber sits next to it; weeds have long since overtaken it, rendering it unusable.

How much time did they spend up here?

"I know this place ain't much," you don't know when he got so close to you, "but I hope it didn't bore you to death."

"'m not bored," tilting your head to meet his gaze as you speak, "this was nice."

"Yeah?" There's that grin you were missing. "Would you want to do this again?"

Nodding only makes his smile grow wider, taking up his entire face.

And somewhere in your head, you catch yourself wishing to see that smile for the rest of your life.

That next ride takes forever to come. The thing about Wyoming weather is that it rules the land with an iron, unpredictable fist. Just as quickly as the snow melted, it comes back. Once again, covering the ranch in a pristine, glittering white blanket. So returns to the routine of it being too cold to do much, of watching movies until you're sick of looking at the screen. Those nights when you turn on a film to have some background noise while you talk.

Breakfast is a rare occasion in this household.

You've got the ingredients, but it's hard to motivate yourself to cook when it's just you. Rhett's always gone or halfway out the door when you get up. It's hard to justify a big meal without him and his oversized appetite.

But today, you really, really miss the joys of breakfast and the foods associated with it. Hashbrowns, biscuits, and gravy. Oh, and the wonderfully crafted bacon that is exclusive to this world of Rhett's, completely vegan but tasting identical to the real deal. You still don't believe that it's real.

It takes all of ten minutes of craving it for you to come up with a plan. So what's stopping you from bringing the man breakfast?

As you busy about the kitchen, dancing from skillet to skillet, you struggle to fry up some kind of explanation. Something that amounts to more than just 'I brought you breakfast because I'm hungry and felt like feeding you too.' What will you put it all in? What if he doesn't want it?

Shit, you just burned the hashbrowns.

Whoever told you that it's easier to think on a full stomach was a liar because your meal doesn't help. Drawing blank after blank, failing to devise a single excuse for this. The best thing to come to mind is the memory that plastic containers exist. Perfect for carrying breakfast to a blue-eyed cowboy.

And did you fry an egg because you remember him offhandedly mentioning that he likes them with his hashbrowns? Yes. Yes, you did.

Rhett should be around the back of the barn right now. He usually spends most of his morning dealing with non-cattle-related matters, like cleaning the stalls and restocking various things he used up the day prior.

"Hey, Cowboy," your voice echoes through the barn as you call out for him, "you in here?"

On the other side of the building, you receive the gruffest 'yeah' you've ever heard. It hardly even sounds like Rhett; if it weren't for his head poking around the corner, you might have mistaken him for someone else entirely.

"Somethin' wrong?" Before you can even get a word out, he's dropping everything he was just doing.

Meekly, you lift the plastic container for him to see, the contents warm and steaming up the inside of the material, "I brought you something."

That's got his attention.

Like a puppy, he cocks his head to the side, struggling to deduce what you've brought him. His hands shake as he takes the container from you, large fingers working their way between the lid and prying it upward.

Those blue eyes start to shimmer, wide, round, "you brought me breakfast?" Barely audible, not even a whisper. It makes your knees feel weak.

"I did," you feel like you should say more. Give him a reason, make up a fake holiday, something, anything to justify this. He doesn't need one. Accepting your random act of kindness without pressing you for meaningless reasons.

Oh, that smile...

"Thank you," and there's not a damn thing in this world that can take the sweetness from his tone, "I don't...nobody's ever...done anything like this for me before."

It's difficult to wrap your head around. Nobody? Not his momma, his brother, a girlfriend?

Together, you sit on buckets in the tack room, basking in the perfect, comfortable silence occasionally broken by Nyx whistling in her stall. You don't know how you feel, knowing you're the first to do something as simple as this. Pride swells in your chest every time he takes a bite, smile growing a little bigger.

But at the same time, you've found yourself feeling bitter. This is Rhett. The sweet cowboy who took you, a total stranger, into his home and never once asked a thing from you in return. The guy who works overtime takes care of Perry's share of chores. Leaves before sunrise and is lucky to return before sunset.

And not one person has...done this.

A routine blossoms. Once or twice a week, you make breakfast, hunt Rhett down, and eat it with him. Sometimes that means sitting out in the elements when you could be cozied up inside; sometimes, it includes eating and walking.

There's one occasion where he's fixing a fence, hands too busy with something that he can't stop until he's finished. You still haven't forgotten how he giggled when you held the fork out for him, determined to get him to eat before it got cold.

"Can I have a piece of bacon?" He asks, grunting as he tightens the barbed wire, "or something other than..."

Unfortunately for him, you've already shoveled more hashbrowns onto his fork; he accepts it regardless. Not like he has much choice.

"Quit giving me nothing but hashbrowns, woman!" Laughing around his mouthful of food, it's a miracle he doesn't choke.

"Fussy."

"Very much so—" he falls silent. You've done it again.

Your warning sign should have been how quickly he snatched that bite. It only occurs to you that he's finished that portion of the fence when he rushes toward you like a bull. By the time you turn and run, it's too late.

Strong arms wrap around your waist, dragging you into an equally muscular chest, squeezing you tight, "you ain't gettin' away that easy, missy!"

It's hard to tell who fell first, but you wind up on the grass in some way or another. Laying on your backs, sharing a piece of bacon as you stare up at the morning sky, still painted in enchanted orange, red, and purple hues.

"D'ya want the last piece?" The edge of it appears in your peripheral, tempting.

Reaching up, you tear a piece off right down the middle, "we'll split it."

It would have been simpler for each of you to have your own piece because you've split the last two parts. But in that case, it wouldn't have been as special.

Rolling over onto his stomach, Rhett looks down at you, cheek propped in his hand, "I'll try to be home earlier tonight."

"Can't wait to see that movie, huh?" On its own accord, your hand rises, desperate to push those curled locks out of his face. By the time you realize it, Rhett's already caught on; too late to back out now.

"Nope," eyes fluttering shut as you run your fingers through his hair, tucking the offending strands behind his ear. It's so inexplicably soft like it's been washed and cared for by Gods. You can't stop yourself from playing with it. "You're fixin' to put me to sleep if you keep that up."

Right now, the concept of falling asleep doesn't sound so bad.

Alas, duty calls. Perry's riding up, and the last thing either of you wants to hear is him bitching about Rhett being lazy. So, with your empty container and a soft 'thank you' from Rhett, you head back to the house.

By early, Rhett usually means around five thirty, barely much earlier than his usual time. That time comes and goes, and you find no sign of him. Nyx starts to whistle in that telltale way she always does when Rhett passes, but there's no sign of him.

It feels like the snowstorm incident all over again. Six comes and passes. Six thirty. Six forty-five. Seven.

No, no, something is wrong. You don't know what is telling you that, but you know it. You know it the same way you know up from down, from how bitter sourness churns in your belly, your hands becoming cold and tingly. This isn't like Rhett.

All you have is a flashlight and a pocket knife that he keeps in the junk drawer, but you leave the house feeling like you've got an army at your disposal. Rhett's not in the barn, but Isabela is munching on hay that's been put out for them in the pasture. That's usually the last thing he does before he comes in for the night. Feed the horses.

Nyx paces along the fence, hissing for your attention. Not right now. She can have her pets later.

"Rhett?" Calling out for him brings you nothing. Again, Nyx hisses.

There's no sign of him around the house; his truck hasn't budged. The fence isn't locked, though. The chain dangles loosely around the meet of the bars, the lock open and hanging on to the end. That's so...strange.

What's even stranger is how your horse keeps bobbing her head up and down, hissing, whistling, as if she's gone mad. Not once does she quit moving back and forth along the fence.

"Nyx?"

Then you hear it. The distant roar of a truck. Shakes the ground with its fury as it rushes closer and closer. Someone is driving through the pasture.

Nyx and Isabela scatter, darting far to the opposite corner of the enclosure, and that's when you catch it. The glint of light bounces off the top of the truck as it races toward the gate. Directly where you're standing. Its headlights are off, but you already know the vehicle doesn't belong to anyone in the Abbott family.

Your feet are moving before you can register it, diving behind Rhett's truck.

The gate bursts open with an ear-shattering crack, hinges squealing. Rhett's truck jolts, struck by the unknown vehicle as it turns too sharply. Dirt and rock fly through the air, kicked up by ridiculously massive tires. Just as quickly as it had arrived, it tears down the driveway, leaving a plume of smoke in its wake.

This is too much of a coincidence for it not to be connected.

You don't know who that was. You don't care that they hit Rhett's truck. You don't care about the stupid fucking fence. You don't remember coming out from behind your hiding place when you started running.

Heart hammering, you race through the field, using the tire tracks as your guide. Nyx flies along after you, whistling as she sidles up by your left, so close that you can feel the heat radiating off her.

Whistling again, she parts off to your right, heading straight for the back of the property. The tracks are your best marker, but it hits you as she looks back at you. Maybe she knows.

So you follow.

Your lungs burn. Feet hammering the ground. Desperate to keep Nyx in your sight. The flashlight clicks in your hand. Flickers to life. Burns out in the blink of an eye. Swearing, you drop it. Like a ghost, Nyx tears through the night. Her bright coat is the only thing you can see. She's whistling. Clacking her teeth.

She stops. Dead in her tracks. You do too.

Just ahead is a silhouette. Kneeling. Impossible to see at first.

"Rhett?"

"Are you okay?" That's his voice. That's his voice, but it doesn't sound like him. Deep. Strained.

"Of course, I'm fine," kneeling by his frame, "I'm not the one who's..."

All you can see is crimson. Dripping down his scalp. From the tip of his left ear. His hair is a wreck. Body trembling so hard that you can hear his teeth chatter.

"Don't—" but his protests can't stop you. His jaw shakes in your hand as you curl your fingers around it, lifting his head to meet your gaze.

"Rhett," you don't...what? "What did they do to you?"

His split, bloody bottom lip quivers, "I'm okay." Voice-breaking in the middle, unable to handle those two little words.

There isn't an inch of him that isn't bruised. Blood pours from his hands and nose, a massive cut rippling down the corner of his left eye; it's barely open. You don't know if that's dirt or newly formed bruises peeking out from his shredded flannel.

"You don't look okay," your words only make him shake a little harder. His eyes glisten.

There is only one thing you can think of doing. You open your arms. He falls into them. Broad shoulders quivering as he buries his face into your neck, wetting it with little drops of fire.

"Please don't let go of me." You don't. You can't.

Rhett Abbott is by no means a small man. He's massive. In personality, in his broad shoulders, in his big blue eyes, and in his scarred, calloused hands. A wolf in every sense of the term, fierce, borderline feral on most days.

But that's not him right now.

You don't know what they've done to him, but it's shrunken him into nothing but a mouse. Flinching when you rub your fingers at the nape of his neck, his breath hitching with an unbridled fear you've never known him to bear. You hardly recognize the pained whimpers that slip from him.

Your back aches. Knees are bruising from being dug into the rocky ground, but you can't bring yourself to budge even an inch. It's a wonder that his arms still bear the strength to hold onto you, looping tight around your waist, anchoring you down.

"I've got you," murmuring into the side of his head, "I've got you." On your left, Nyx lowers her head, sniffing, nuzzling the back of Rhett's neck. It scares him, jumping away from her with a pained, surprised gasp.

That's enough to remind him of where you are, out in the dark, the temperature gradually dropping. He doesn't speak, but you know what he's trying to do when his legs begin fumbling beneath him, wobbly like a newborn foal. Heavily minding his right leg as you help him up.

"Shit," he hisses, eyes bolting shut, "y'might...have to get the truck."

The truck might not be starting anytime soon.

Your eyes land on Nyx. She looks at you, the timing almost comedic. You're both sharing the same idea.

"There ain't no way she's fixin' to let me up there," but Rhett's protest goes unheard.

A part of you wonders if it's her lineage. Her original purpose. To rescue individuals from the unpredictable, violent ocean. Because she's wholly put away her avid dislike for Rhett. Perfectly calm as you help him up onto her back, not a single pinned ear, not a sound.

You're unsure if the look in Rhett's eyes comes from the situation or Nyx's behavior.

He's quick to wrap himself around you once you've settled before him. His breath is hot on your shoulder as he buries his nose into it, hugging tightly, but not enough to hurt. As Nyx takes you back to the house, you begin to notice the dark spots on your shirt; blood.

"Was them Tillerson guys," he chokes out, lifting his head to avoid being muffled by your shirt. Tillerson. That sounds...familiar. "They think I'm the one that killed the goddamn horse."

You completely forgot about that. The damn horse that Perry hit and Rhett had to hide bits and pieces around the place. You're not sure where he hid the rest of its legs; the last time you saw them, it was right after—

no. No, absolutely not.

"So they jumped you on your own property?" There's a pitchiness to your voice as you try to clear an image from your head.

He starts to reply, but he cuts himself off. "Did they drive through my fuckin' gate?"

Yeah, and they hit your truck too.

"That they did," confirming, conveniently leaving out the vehicle. He's got enough to worry about right now.

Isabela has returned to munching on the hay Rhett put out for her, three heads buried deep into it, not a concern in the world. The very definition of unbothered.

"Glad to see the household menace cares and not my beloved companion," chuckling weakly at the sight of her, Rhett leans back down to rest his head against you.

The gate is mangled beyond belief, warped from the truck's grill that blasted through it, but it's still functional. You find the lock and chain in the driveway; Rhett's able to get it locked, as it should be. Tonight is one of those nights where it's warm enough for Isabela and Nyx to stay outside, free roaming their stomping grounds until morning.

But then Rhett steps into the porch light, and your face drops.

He looks horrible. Left eye bruised and swollen, blood dried all along his face, and caked in his hair. God, there are so many bruises around his neck; every one of his knuckles has split wide open, some still dripping with liquid red.

"I'm okay," that's a lie, and you both know it.

His muscles don't carry enough strength to take his shirt off; you have to step into the bathroom and help him because he can't get it off himself. The shower runs, and it runs, for what feels like an eternity. Until it stops.

"You alive in there?" Knocking on the bathroom door after some time has passed.

"...yeah," eventually comes your answer, "I don't...I'm having trouble...uh."

The door opens, and it immediately hits you. Rhett can't lift his arms to wash his hair; it's wet, dripping pale red onto the bathroom floor, but it's visibly matted together.

"Do you want some help?" Still taking it all in, failing to avoid the scattering of red along his ribcage, where he's been kicked repeatedly.

"I do, but..." looking between you and the shower, his eyes fluttering, "...don't know that would work without...you know."

Never in your wildest dreams have you considered making Rhett sit in the bathtub in nothing but his boxer shorts, but here you are. His head is tilted back as far as he can comfortably manage, eyes closed as you rinse his hair with the handheld shower head. The blood is stubborn. Whenever you think you've got it all, you find another patch.

"'M sorry you have to do this," so faint that you almost miss it entirely.

"You've got nothing to be sorry about," you don't mean to come off as snappy as you do, the tension in your shoulders seemingly leaking out of your tone, "none of this is your fault."

As you reach to turn the water off, those eyes flicker open; deep blue, so dark that you almost mistake them for brown. Not saying anything; simply watching. You could use his three-in-one shampoo, tucked in the corner in a navy bottle, but you reach for yours instead.

"Fixin' to make me smell like strawberry and vanilla, I see," weakly, he chuckles at his own words, "plannin' to eat me after this?"

The image of him between your legs flickers through your mind like a pesky ex, nearly making you drop the shampoo on his head. You haven't thought about that since the day it happened; why is it bubbling up now?

"Maybe I am," you tease, "what're you gonna do about it?"

Whatever retort he's boiling up is lost when you run your fingers through his hair. Unable to hide the slight unfocusing of his eyes as they flutter shut. A sucker for having his hair played with.

The soap sinking into his unhealed wounds has got to sting, but you're unsure if he so much as notices. Despite the situation, a tiny, kitten-like smile works across his lips. It's a wonder he doesn't begin purring, so absolutely content as you lather his hair. Even as you turn the water back on, it doesn't fade.

You can never take some things from a man, no matter how hard you try. That smile is one of those things.

That goddamn smile. The one that never fails to make your gut feel like it's been filled with butterflies, their delicate wings tickling away at you. It's difficult to imagine what life would be like without...

shit.

"Y'alright?" Those eyes have long since reopened, fixated solely on you.

Nodding, "yeah," having to force your voice to cooperate, "just thinking, is all."

You only need to step out long enough for him to dry off and wriggle into some clothes. Maybe takes him a minute at max, but it feels like an eternity on the other side of that door. Now that it's clicked, you can't get it to unclick. Everything makes sense; it all makes perfect sense, and you don't know what to make of it.

The door squeaks back open, "g'nna need your help one more time, little lady."

Right. You still need to brush his hair out.

It's not complicated; most of the tangles came out while you were washing it, but the brush moves so slowly that it might not be moving at all. It's hard to move with all these thoughts clouding your senses. This man that took a liking to you for no good reason. A mere stranger a year ago is now the only thing that brings a smile to your face on most days.

This cowboy who lassoed you upon your first meeting, and while he let go of you physically, he's never let go of your heart. Not even once.

Fuck.

You might have feelings for this man.

But now isn't the time to sift through those feelings because fresh blood stains the comb's bristles. Coming from the back of his head, a deep split of the muscle running so deep that it hurts you to look at.

Wordless, Rhett reaches into the cabinet, producing a small tube of superglue. On a typical day, you think you'd protest and insist that he see a doctor instead, but you don't have it in you. Looking in the reflection of the mirror is enough. Bruised, swollen eyes barely open, jaw slack with what can only be described as exhaustion.

He's had enough for one day.

The whine that leaves him when the glue touches him is brutal to stomach. Even worse, you can do nothing about it; you've no choice but to listen to his pained whimpers as you pinch the wound shut. It has to be done, whether you like it or not.

"Do you still want to watch that movie?" Rubbing his shoulders when you're done, "I can put that pizza in the oven."

It takes him a little bit to process what you've said, but ultimately, he nods, "yeah."

What you hate the most is that while Rhett's physical wounds immediately begin to heal, the others don't. Need more time. Require a bit more attention.

In the kitchen, he jumps when he feels you behind him, swearing under his breath, eyes big as saucers. A far cry from the Rhett, who could never be surprised by your appearance, always seeming to know you're there. Every little sound has him glancing between you and the door; refuses to sit in the seat that places his back to it.

While lying in bed, you can hear him fumbling on the couch. At some point, he gets up to put a chair under the doorknob as if he's afraid someone will burst through at any moment. It takes you all of two minutes to make your next decision.

"'m sorry I'm keepin' you up," he murmurs, half-lidded gaze following you and your bundle of blankets, "what're you doin'?"

"Figured you could use a buddy for the night," tossing your pillow onto the couch, you settle in. It's a wonder how the man sleeps on these all the time; they're not the most comfortable.

The corner of his lip quirks up, following your movements, until you're facing him, your eyes poking out of the blankets. "Thank you."

It's not contained to just that night, though.

He spooks at little things. When you bring him breakfast. When one of the horses makes a noise in their pasture. Perry flies up the driveway once; Rhett locks the door and stands in the laundry room until he realizes who it is. All that, just to find out that their parents are throwing a birthday party for Perry's daughter.

Always looking around, scanning the treeline and driveway like they'll be there waiting for him. He gives you a cell phone a week after the incident.

"Just in case," he tells you, so, so desperate to have peace of mind. To know that you're safe and have a way to reach him. It's the same color as the phone that lies dead in the bedside drawer.

It's hard to tell if he's getting through it all by himself or if you've merely figured out how to avoid his triggers. Making sure he's seen you before stepping behind him, always keeping a hand on him when you're back there, so he knows where you are. Calling out for him on your breakfast runs.

There's something enchanting about how he grins at you on those mornings, opening his arms up and welcoming you with a hug. Selfishly, you accept them every time, eager to feel those muscles around you, to squish your cheek into his broad chest.

"I like to have never found ya," and you know you've got it bad when you're starting to talk like the bastard. He's over on Perry's property, fixing a broken fence.

"'m sorry," he mumbles, quiet, "Perry called this mornin', said he needed me to do some repairs."

Where is his hand going...

"You're thinkin' 'bout somethin'," scruffy fingers take hold of your chin, tingles shooting down your spine as he brings your gaze to meet his. "Spit it out."

Here goes nothing. "Why do you help so much?"

His head cocks to the side, "whatcha mean?"

"I mean, you're always helping with Perry's chores," gesturing toward the barely standing fence, "when you already have a ranch to run on your own."

That seems to be what he was expecting you to ask because his face lacks any hint of surprise. "After Rebecca disappeared, I promised to help him with anything he needs," his hand travels back, fingertips rubbing the meet of your jaw. "Got somethin' on your skin."

Whatever is on you must be stubborn because he licks the pad of his thumb, rubbing wide circles until it's gone. Your knees might buckle. Up close, it's easy to see how they've healed; bright pink patches of skin decorate his knuckles, scarring that sticks out like a sore thumb. There are still a few scabs on his left hand; they would have healed by now if they didn't keep opening back up while he works.

"So you've become his personal maintenance man because of a promise?" Last you checked, Perry didn't go offering his help when his own actions caused Rhett to be hurt.

"I'm a man of my word," sucking in a deep breath, Rhett yawns, "no matter how much I may regret it."

Part 1 ♡⊹˚₊ Part 3

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