WHAT WAITS FOR US

June 26th, 1912

Though the bodies laid on the ground like bags of wheat, Charles paid them no mind. Met by the friendly neighing of his horse friends, he took the time to pet each one.

But the desire to write soon carried him to the attic, where under the moonlight that shone through the tiny cracks in the roof he wrote what laid heavy on his heart.

'Dear journal.

The night has been as eventful as it is. I killed. It's been years since I let my bullets take away the lives of degenerates. But for the first time, I felt no remorse for what I'd done. It was, after all, the only way to save both my life and Marion's. Everything's been about her lately. The farm, this journal, my life. All of them seem to revolve around Marion Corwell. Today, I willingly risked my life for a woman. I, who in the past 30 years have not looked at one improperly. This might be the end of me, but that soft touch soothes my worries. I really lost it, didn't I?'

When in the morning the sun replaced the moon, Charles realised he'd fallen asleep in the stables and the voice calling him from the outside was none other than Marion.

"Charles! Where are you?" she called out, unsurprised as the man climbed down from the attic, hay in his messy hair. "So a good couch isn't enough for you to sleep on?" she inquired with a stern look, but the man ignored her complaints. "Did I upset you? Because you haven't dared to look at me since last night!"

Although she demanded an explanation, Charles wasn't keen on giving one.

"It's nothing, calm down," he muttered tiredly, aware of the work that waited for him and the injury that irritated him.

"Is it because of them?" she insisted. "Are you disgusted by me?"

In an instant, as her words left those beautiful lips, Charles turned, one hand firm on Marion's shoulder while he lifted her chin with the other.

"Don't you ever say that again!"

The low rumble coming from him stunned the girl, who was already taken aback by the harsh reaction.

She stared at him, dumbfounded, a slight blush creeping to her cheeks from their closeness.

But immediately, Charles retreated, hands falling and gaze estranged, he remembered what affection could bring. As he walked away, Marion followed, keeping a fair distance for some time, until she didn't.

She wrapped her hands around him and Charles came to a halt, waiting obediently as she walked around to face him, the sky eyes mirroring a hint of hesitation.

"What is it that bothers you? What keeps you from doing what you want?" she asked in a whisper and reached for the man's face, seeing how he flinched when her skin brushed his. "Why does a good man live in such woe?"

Charles' gaze fell, the expression remaining unchanged. The questions were logical, he couldn't hold it against her. But Marion wanted answers that even he didn't know.

"These are the questions I don't have the answers to, Marion."

The silence that followed was torture, the gap between them growing every time Charles averted his gaze.

"Come," sighed Marion, "let's change your bandages."

Some days passed, maybe a week since the two had become ghosts, who occasionally met in the kitchen and to check the wound.

"This woman's driving me crazy!" Charles groaned, earning a fond smile from Philip.

They sat on the fence, beer in hand as they watched the growing lavender fields.

The scorching heat of the nearing July pressed down on the farm worse than fire, and the man grew accustomed to walking around with his sleeves rolled up or shirtless.
But since him being shirtless distracted a certain female, he was destined to die in the blistering sun.

Many things have changed because of her, yet only now did Charles start to realise it. How he didn't have his bed, he was burning in a shirt and always on edge, wondering when new outlaws would set foot on his land.

"Why do you keep her here, then?" Philip asked, giving Charles something to think about.

Despite all the bad things, good ones came with her as well. Delicious food, vigorous atmosphere and another pair of helping hands followed her.

"Sounds like love, dear boy." The older man commented again. Love. Charles didn't think of love, he couldn't. What even is that feeling?

"You know I promised to never fall in love again," he muttered in defence.

Philip glanced over as Charles said that, to see him fiddle with the bottle, wearing the usual cold expression.

The complexity of his emotions was apparent even when hidden behind the weary look.

A gentle pat on the shoulder brought the young farmer back to reality, where he was greeted by a faint smile of the outlaw.

"Think about it," Philip suggested before once again riding off into the unknown.

Left alone on a warm day, Charles continued sitting on the fence, thinking about Philip's words. One thing was certain.

He shouldn't be falling in love.