Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I know you’re not about to tramp across my clean floor in those boots, Samuel Thomas. You know better than that,” Sarah called from the kitchen as she heard the back door slam shut, followed by her brother’s heavy footfalls. “Take those nasty things off and leave them in the mud room, like a gentleman!”

“Why, when I’m just going back outside?” he argued back as he wandered in and lingered in the doorway. His smiling face was gleaming with sweat; he mopped at his brow with the back of his gloved hand. “Smells good in here.”

“I picked the rhubarb yesterday, and the strawberries were running wild in the patch.”

Sam made a sound of approval and grinned. “That means pie.”

“That means you won’t live to sink so much as a tooth into it if you dirty up my floor, Sam. C’mon, now.”

“Don’t let Mama hear you threatening me with harm,” Sam tsked. “I just stopped in for a glass of lemonade and a little something to take with me before I take the cows out into the paddock.”

She nodded to his lunch pail, with its clean, gleaming metal catching the sunlight where it sat on the table. “Already packed a little something for you so you don’t waste my time here, just gabbing away and letting in the flies.” She smirked at him and swatted at his hand with her towel as he snatched up a couple of strawberries from the bowl that she’d just de-stemmed and sliced. The morning coolness that they’d woke up to was fast becoming a memory the longer they both worked on the chores. The Wilson family ranch was bustling and thriving. Sarah had a green thumb and a knack for gardening; their mother, Darlene, loved to brag that “everything that child lays her hands on tastes good” whenever Sarah brought a pie or two to the town socials or county fairs. That claim wasn’t baseless. Delectable aromas rose from the oven, making Sam’s mouth water. He peeked under the edge of the blue and white checkered cloth tucked around his lunch, and he grinned at the sandwich, fruit and other savories she’d thrown in.

“When are we going to town tomorrow?” Sarah asked,

“What do we need in town?”

“I heard from Monica when I saw her after services yesterday that they are planning to swear in the new sheriff. He’s supposed to be arriving on the afternoon train today.”

Sam huffed. “Hope he’s more effective than the last sheriff.”

“Samuel…! Don’t speak ill of the dear and departed.”

“He’s departed,but you won’t hear me speaking dearly of him. I’m not the only one that holds that opinion. He did his share of harm to this town.”

Sarah sighed and went back to her pies, covering the fruit layered inside the pie shell with a generous coat of sugar. “You know what Daddy says about pinning high hopes to ordinary men, Sam. At the end of the day, Sheriff Walker was just an ordinary man. It’s just a shame he didn’t have his head on straight.”

“He was greedy,” Sam corrected her. “Instead of helping the town, he just helped himself and lined his pockets. That man was a grifter from the start.”

Sarah made an uncomfortable noise and shrugged as she went back to her pies. Sam bumped his shoulder playfully into hers. “Did you already do the washing? Maybe you should wear that good, green dress of yours and make yourself presentable when we go into town tomorrow. The sheriff might be a bachelor.”

“Oh, hush yourself, now.” She rolled up the towel and prepared to flick him soundly with it, but he shuffled back out of the way, taking the lunch pail with him. “It’s none of my business, even if he is.”

Sam winked at her as he left the kitchen. “You say that now!” he called back.

“And I mean it!” Sarah yelled, knowing that raising her voice in the house was just going to earn her a scolding from Mama if she heard, but she hated letting her brother have the last word. She watched him through the window, trotting off to the barn to saddle his horse. She heard him snickering under his breath, too. That boy just wasn’t right…

Sarah tsked to herself and snuck one of the berries from the bowl, humming a little as she bit into it.

*

“I’m running out of gin,” Natasha complained as she counted the bottles lined up on the lower shelves behind the bar. “When are we due to get another shipment?”

“Wagon’s coming in two days from now,” Clint reminded her. “Just water it down a little more between now and then.”

“I should cut out your tongue for even suggesting such a thing. Not in my bar, Barton.” So she said. And Clint, who occasionally helped out behind the bar himself, wasn’t admitting to anything, if anyone asked.

Clint snickered. “Half these cattle tramps won’t even notice, at the end of the day.”

“I’ll notice. Folks deserve what they pay for.”

Clint sighed raggedly and shook his sandy head before he went back to drying the clean glass tumblers and beer steins. The air inside the saloon smelled musty and stale, despite their efforts to open the windows to let in the cross-breeze. A layer of dust was settling atop the piano, dulling its usual dark gleam. Natasha went to the main sitting room and bent down to roll up the rug so she could take it outside to beat it.

“Blasted, muddy boots,” she muttered under her breath. “No one has any manners, anymore.”

“DId you think any rancher worth his salt’s been to finishing school around here?”

Natasha shot him an irritated look. “My bar, my rules. When they come in, and when they drink my whiskey, Barton, they’d better leave my place like they found it. That’s just common decency.” She began to drag the rug outside, before Clint set down his glasses and came around the side of the bar to take the task from her hands. “I only serve gentlemen, and if they aren’t when they come in here, they sure will be once they leave.”

“Are you trying to make gentlemen out of them, or prospects?”

“Why not both?” she asked him, and the corner of her mouth quirked for a moment. “The women in this town are interested in proposals from decent men. Seeing what they’re made of when they’re in my parlor, drinking my gin, gives me the chance to weed the bad ones out, doesn’t it?”

“This is the End of the Line,” Clint reminded her. “Your expectations might be too high, Nat.”

“You’re not willing to vouch for the members of your own sex?”

“Hell, no.”

“Clint.”

“Uh. No. Ma’am.”

“That’s what I thought you said.” Her piercing green eyes gave him that look that Clint had learned to fear a little, but that still sent a delicious little chill up his spine. Natasha Romanova was his best friend, his occasional lover, and often the angel on his shoulder. Even he didn’t quite understand how she became a fixture in their remote, humble little town. She didn’t always like to talk about it, So, they talked about other things, and shared dreams of brighter days.

Natasha watched Clint beat the rug deftly, knocking out the clods of dust and cobwebs, and she resumed his earlier task of drying the clean glasses, lining them up in neat stacks on the shelves under the bar. “Heard the sheriff’s coming on the afternoon train,” Clint called back to her.

“Far as I know,” she agreed. “Hope he proves more useful than his predecessor.”

“Walker? Guy was a pretty-faced, fancy jackass. Ain’t gonna miss him.”

“Goodness, Clinton, tell me how you really feel.”

“Glad to, sweetheart. He was crooked as a sinking ship. And I’ve known rattlesnakes with better morals.”

Natasha tsked, shaking her head, but her pretty mouth twisted into a smirk.

They went back to the business of cleaning up the saloon. “Don’t know why you’re going through all this trouble to make this place presentable. It still won’t be reputable,” Clint told her.

“It’s just nice to make a good impression. The more legitimate the sheriff thinks we are as a business, the less likely he is to try to shut us down. My tenure in this town as a businesswoman in this town far outlasted Walker’s as sheriff, didn’t it? This town isn’t for the faint of heart. You know it, and I know it. It needs a man with a strong constitution and some grit to keep folks in line.”

“Keep folks in line at the End of the Line,” Clint teased. “There may not be any such man alive, but let’s see if it was worth it to pay this man’s train fare to send him here.”

Clint was just rolling the rug back up and hoisting it onto his shoulder to carry it back inside when Johnny Storm, the local doctor’s brother-in-law, came running up breathlessly, blue eyes shining. He waved a newspaper at them and nearly shouted, “Have you heard the news?!”

“Well, hello to you, too, Mr. Storm,” Nat said.

“Er. Hello, Miss Romanoff. Uh. Good afternoon, ma’am.” But, then he turned to Clint and handed him the slightly crumpled daily edition. “He caught ‘em! He caught those bandits that ran off with Pym’s cattle last week!”

“Who caught ‘em?” Clint asked as he scanned the paper. “‘Local Hero Returns Stolen Herd to Pym Ranch,’” he read aloud. “Leaves behind calling card…”

“That white star,” Johnny explained, tapping a long, dexterous finger against the page. “It’s gotta be the Captain again. Captain Lone Star!”

“Hogwash,” Clint replied. “He ain’t a captain. It’s just a rumor. We don’t even know that he’s ever served and fought in any war.”

“Doesn’t mean he ain’t a hero,” Johnny argued. “Far as anyone knows, he’s strong, fast, and he just keeps managing to show up at just the right time.” Natasha sidled up to him and handed him a glass of cold lemonade, and he thanked her by tipping his hat, before taking a couple of thirsty gulps. “He gets the job done, much better than Walker ever did.”

“He’s not a sheriff, though, is he?”

“Maybe he should be, ever think of that?”

“Let’s see what the sheriff himself thinks when he gets here, shall we?” Nat suggested wryly.

All three of them perused the rest of the article, murmuring over the details of the cattle’s return, the quote from Pym that “They just showed up in my paddock again in the middle of the night. And that blasted star was painted on my barn door,” and making sounds of awe at the photograph of the door in question. The paint had dripped a little, making it a little messier than intended, but that was a white star, large and bold as you please, scrawled across Hank Pym’s barn door.

Say whatever else you wanted about the fabled “Captain,” but the man had style.

*

Sam showed up late in the afternoon, looking bedraggled but pleased as he entered Steve’s mercantile. Everything about the store was the same as the day Joseph Rogers had built it, from the sturdy, darkly stained shelving to the posters advertising soaps that promised “lily-white, soft hands” for the ladies, or “manly cologne that would win a lady’s attentions.” Sam stomped his booted feet on Steve’s front mat before he entered the store, and the bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside. “Steve!” Sam called out as he carried in the first crate of jars. “I brought more of Sarah’s jam. Tell me where you want me to put it!”

Sam glanced around the store and didn't see him at first. “Steve!” he called again.

“He’s in the back, Wilson,” Scott told him as he struggled to stack the sacks of sugar and flour in neat rows. His young, handsome face gleamed with sweat from the heat of midday, and his blue gingham shirt clung to him in patches. “Just put the jam where you usually put it?”

“There’s usually a few jars left on the shelf,” Sam pointed out.

“You mean there were,” Scott told him, pleased. “Folks discovered how good it was this week, and it’s gone. Tell your sister she outdid herself.”

“If I tell her that, it’ll swell her head,” Sam joked, but looked pleased and proud. “The strawberry crop ran wild this summer.”

“No one gets a swollen head when the praise is well-deserved,” Scott argued. “Tell her she did a good job, Wilson!”

“She’s my sister, so you know I can do no such thing,” Sam pronounced. “And I’d better not catch you sweet-talking her, either, Lang!” He shot Lang a brief glare as he began to load the jars of preserves on the shelves.

Scott’s eyes twinkled. “Hard to keep my mouth shut. Sarah’s a woman grown, Sam. She can make up her mind if she’s in the mood for a little sweet talk or not.”

“The hell she can!” Sam puffed up like a rooster, fists clenched, and Scott smothered a strangled laugh, knowing he’d gone a hair too far.

“Mrs. Wilson would tan your hide if she heard you cussing like that,” Steve interjected as he entered the storefront, carrying bolts of calico fabric. But he was grinning, and Sam grinned back, shaking his head.

“She knows you’re a bad influence on me by now.”

“What have you been telling her about me?”

“The good stuff, Rogers, but she knows better than to believe me. She’s known you too long.”

Steve barked a laugh as he set down the bolts and straightened up the display. Sam’s summation of his acquaintance with Mrs. Wilson was accurate enough. Sam and Steve had grown up together, to Mrs. Wilson’s eternal regret. The first day that little Steven Rogers stepped into her schoolhouse, ushered in by his mother, that sweet Sarah Rogers, Darlene Wilson’s heart melted at the sight of him, all big eyes, cherubic, rosy cheeks and knobby, skinned knees.

*

“Aren’t you just a handsome little angel? Bless your heart,” she pronounced, earning herself Sarah’s amused smile.

“Just give him time,” she promised.

“Pardon?”

“Sit him up front,” Sarah suggested helpfully. “I’ll be back to collect him by last bell. Bye, now!”

Sit him up front, she said.

Sarah rushed off in a flurry of pale blue calico and high-buttoned boots, looking an awful lot like a woman who hadn’t enjoyed a free moment to herself in far, far too long.

Little Steven wiped his nose on the back of his hand and grinned up at Darlene, showing off gappy teeth. There was a twinkle in those pearly blue eyes that gave her pause.

And, goodness gracious.

Little Steven Rogers was a holy terror.

Normally, Darlene reserved the front row for children that had a hard time paying attention or who didn’t always see very well, like that poor little Scotty Summers, who wore those strange, special spectacles with rosy glass frames to help with those headaches of his. But Steven, easily one of her smallest students - his growth was a bit stunted, and Darlene wouldn’t have put him at any older than five, but he was seven - needed to be up front because if not, she had a harder time keeping on eye on that boy. He was just a mess. He stuck a spiny pinecone on Gilmore’s chair just before he took his seat, making him yelp, and somehow he managed to work little Synthia Schmidt’s long ponytail into the inkwell.

Before she could manage to warn Sam away from him - because what other benefit of having her own son in her classroom could she count on than keeping him on his best behavior? - Sam managed to find Steven himself. He simply walked up to him while Darlene made him clap the erasers, and Darlene steeled herself as she saw the energy pass through those two during that exchange. Sam’s dark eyes lit up instantly with mischief.

Oh, no.

Maybe Sam would be a good influence on him…

Both boys cured her of that assumption from day one. They were fast friends, best friends, and thick as thieves. Steve taught Sam how to cheat at marbles and to peek through the holes in the coat room to spy on the girls while they gossiped. As they grew, both boys developed a bad habit of sneaking into the Stark family’s garden and stole Mr. Stark’s finest watermelons every summer. Darlene was certain that it was Steve’s idea to dye the wool of half the Schmidt’s sheep herd a garish shade of purple; Lord only knew what he used, but thankfully he did it in spring, just ahead of when they were due to be shorn, anyway.

Darlene tolerated him. Well, she more than tolerated him, when she noticed that his clothing was often ill-fitting and careworn. Sarah Rogers kept him clean and well-fed, bless her, but that little mite was often sickly, and the Rogers family often spent more than they could afford on doctors for him, medicines and tonics. They turned what profit they could from Joseph’s mercantile, but they had to watch every nickel. And, well, when dear Joe turned up dead just on the edge of town, Sarah turned to the Wilsons. Steven became the man of the house, Sam became his business partner, and they continued to run the store while Sarah went to work for the town doctor as his nurse, a perfectly respectable role for a widow. And old Dr. Erskine was grateful for any help he could get around his tiny, dusty clinic.

*

Steve had outgrown his knobby knees and childhood maladies, but his clothing was still careworn. It suited him fine, though, when he was constantly helping Sam around the ranch, making repairs to his building and hauling sacks of sugar and grain. Steve loved hard work and getting his hands dirty.

And he was a sight now, sweating, with his shirt clinging to him in damp patches and the sleeves rolled up over his elbows, revealing brawny forearms dusted with sandy hair. The locals stopped by the store for more than the jam, the same way they stopped by Nat’s saloon for more than the watered-down gin.

Sam perused the tins of cookies and the candy barrels, with the question of whether they were out of horehound candy on the tip of his tongue when Billy, one of the young newsboys who usually hawked the paper on the corner, came rushing inside.

“Did you see? The Captain’s done it again! He saved old man Pym’s herd!” he cried.

“That’s Mr. Pym to you, now, son,” Sam corrected him.

Billy made a face and shoved the paper at Sam. “Read it,” he said imperiously. “Any idea who he is?”

“Who? Henry Pym? Only one of the wealthiest men in town and one of our staunchest benefactors,” Sam said, shrugging as he read the headline.

“No. You know who I mean, the Captain!”

Sam’s lips quirked. Steve caught the gleam in his dark eyes and quickly busied himself with arranging the fabrics again.

“Maybe he doesn’t want us to know. Man rides around masked up like a bandit, leaving behind stars to show where he’s been… might be for the best if it stays a mystery,” Sam reasoned.

“My ma says he’s just a bandit himself, but I think he’s a hero,” Billy pressed, gesturing impatiently to Sam to return the paper, until Sam dug into his pocket for a shiny nickel and gave it up to him.

“Be careful who you call a hero,” Steve mused. “Bet he’s just a common man, and that he means well.”

“Or maybe he’s just a low-down, sneaky sonofagun who cheats at cards but acts like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,” Sam kidded as he opened the paper and scanned the stories. He knew Steve was flushing red as a beet behind the counter without even looking up. Sam felt a pleased tingle at having got Steve’s goat yet again without all that much effort.

Steve did cheat at cards, that sneaky dog. And nobody ever expected him to, because just look at him. Still the same angelic, boyish, innocent face, but Sam knew better. All you had to do was look into those eyes of his and see that glint of mischief, and you knew all you needed to about Steven Grant Rogers.

“We’ll see what the new sheriff thinks about him when he gets here,” Scott mentioned. “If he knows how to do his job, maybe he’ll unmask him.”

“Or maybe he’ll help him. If he knows how to do his job,” Steve shot back dryly.

“The sheriff? Help the Captain?” Scott made a disbelieving noise. “Never happen.”

Steve shrugged. “You never know.”

“As long as this sheriff knows what he’s doing and he’s up for the job,” Sam mused. “The last one didn’t impress me much.”

“That’s an opinion you share with more than half the town,” Scott told him easily. “God rest his soul.”

“You’re assuming that he had one,” Sam corrected him.

*

Bucky woke the next day at a little after noon with a dry mouth and a savage crick in his neck. He growled under his breath and rubbed at his temple, annoyed that the railing along the edge of the train’s window left a little divot in his flesh.

“Mister? Hey, mister,” a high-pitched, youthful voice nagged from a few feet away, before he felt a light, insistent nudge against his knee. “Mister, hey! Wake up! We’re almost here!”

“David, that’s not polite. We don’t wake people up like that.”

“I don’t want him to miss his stop, Mama.”

Bucky’s eyes cracked open blearily, and he smiled down at the voice’s source. “Making sure I didn’t miss my stop is actually very polite, indeed, young man,” Bucky offered, and he smiled down at the young boy with piercing blue eyes, a cherub’s cheeks, and a shock of black curls tucked under a wool cap. Bucky scrubbed at his face, feeling the hint of rough stubble along his jaw. He might not have time to shave and make himself presentable before the swearing-in at the town hall, but there was no help for it. He caught his image in the window as he slowly woke. Thankfully, he wasn’t too disheveled, dressed in his father’s hand-me-down, brown wool jacket and a shirt that his younger sister, Becca, had dutifully pressed for him.

“I just hated to wake you, sir, when you looked ever so tired,” the boy’s mother offered. “We’re in town to meet his father, and you can imagine that he’s excited.”

Bucky glanced down out of habit at her slender hand. She wore no gloves, and her left hand was missing a ring. He looked away quickly, but she caught him and smiled nervously.

“It’s complicated,” she told him.

“Lots of things are complicated,” he allowed.

“His father is a professor,” she continued. “He’s brilliant. He travels so much, and he hasn’t had much of a chance to spend time with his son. I hope to rectify that.”

“Best of luck with that, ma’am.”

“Oh, please, sir. My name’s Gabrielle Haller. I don’t stand on ceremony.”

“I’m just using the manners my mother raised me with, but I’m pleased to meet you, Gabrielle.” Bucky’s grip was protectively gentle when he shook her hand.

“Where was that nice young woman you were traveling with? You were traveling together, weren’t you? You boarded the train at the same time, so I just assumed…” Gabrielle let her voice trail off expectantly, hoping Bucky would fill in the gaps.

“She might be amused to hear you calling her a ‘nice young woman,’ but for propriety’s sake, she stayed in the other sleeper car. She’s planning to join up with me once she’s dressed and settled.”

As if Bucky had summoned her, Bucky saw Sharon appear at the back of the car, and he failed to suppress his smile. Sharon had abandoned her stately day dress and high-button boots for her ranching togs. Her wheat blonde hair was pulled back into a neat braid, and she wore stiff, tough dungarees belted at the waist with a large, silver buckle, a deep gray flannel shirt, and a wool jacket that did much to obscure her feminine wiles. Black leather riding boots shod her feet. When she made her way to them down the aisle, she smirked down at Bucky.

“I was wondering when you’d wake up,” she accused.

Gabrielle’s eyes were filled with questions. “My… look at you. You look ready to take the herd out to pasture!”

“It’s been a while since she’s enjoyed anything that leisurely, Gabrielle. Sharon is my deputy.”

“Which means that I need to dress the part,” Sharon explained.

“Without a corset, free as a bird,” Gabrielle pointed out, and the women exchanged smiles. “How I envy you.”

“You’re a deputy?” David asked, and his eyes gleamed with excitement.

“I certainly am.”

David turned to Bucky. “Are you the sheriff?”

“Yes, indeed, young man.”

“Are you gonna round up the bandits and make them be good, mister?”

“I’m definitely going to try. That’s my job,” Bucky told him proudly. And for the moment, he felt confident, but he’d heard the reports about The End of the Line, the town whose name the locals gradually forgot as its fortunes had turned. The town wasn’t completely lawless, but… it was disorganized. Prospectors, shysters, and crooks had the run of the town for a long time, and it wasn’t the thriving place it had once been.

Sharon sat down beside Bucky and handed him some of their provisions for the trip. He gratefully unwrapped the handkerchief and found a thick piece of beef jerky and chewed on it, wishing it was a plate of bacon, biscuits and eggs. At least twelve hours passed since their last hot meal.

“I’ve heard of a man they call the Captain. Captain Lone Star, or something,” Gabrielle mentioned. “I’ve heard he thinks he’s fighting on the side of the law. I read about him in the papers.”

“What makes you doubt it? You sound a bit doubtful,” Sharon pressed.

“Oh, I don’t mean to cast aspersions. I’m sure he’s a good man, or at least that he has good intentions. I just have to wonder about how he wears that mask. That’s strange, isn’t it? And a bit mysterious?”

“Maybe he has something to hide,” Sharon said.

“Maybe he’s ugly as sin,” Bucky joked. David giggled, making his mother hush him.

“Let’s not make assumptions. That would be rude,” Gabrielle said, more to her son than to Bucky, who in her mind should know better.

“No. But you have a point, Miz Haller,” he said. “A man in a mask makes you question his intentions and wonder what he has to hide.”

“And we plan to find the answers,” Sharon said. “He won’t stay masked for long.”

Gabrielle Haller looked impressed, and she gave them a brief nod and a smile before she started pointing out bits of the scenery through the window to her son.

They arrived at the station and breathed in the odors of coal dust and smoke. A few of the windows had been opened in their passenger car to allow the breeze to sweep inside, but now that they were back on solid ground stretching their legs, Bucky had the chance to really feel how hot and stale the air felt.

“Let’s see about our trunks,” Sharon told him as she hailed the conductor. “Who was it that you said was coming with the carriage?”

“Wagon,” Bucky corrected her. “And that’s Clint. That was who Mr. Fury said to look out for.”

“How will we know it’s him?”

“He said he’s tall, blond, and has an unusual fondness for the color purple,” Bucky told her.

“Are you joking?” Sharon wanted to know.

“No. And you know Fury doesn’t have a humorous bone in his body. He would never pull my leg about something like that.”

Sharon tsked, because that was true, at least. The conductor eyed her up and down as she asked for help in retrieving their trunks from the car, but she gave him a bland smile that didn’t reach her brown eyes, and he made haste to do as she asked. Sharon Carter grew up in a household full of brothers, ranchers and roustabouts, learned how to shoot a rifle as soon as she could walk, and she didn’t tolerate fools. Sharon donned her cream-colored Stetson hat to better shade her eyes in the bright sun.

The conductor brought them their trunks, and they ate the rest of the food they packed while they waited for this Clint Barton fella to arrive.

“I’m going to have to stay at a women’s home, aren’t I?” Sharon asked with distaste in her voice.

“It’s either that, or live in the apartment above the sheriff’s office with me and cause a scandal.”

“This town’s no stranger to scandal.”

“I have no problem with you staying with me, Miss Carter, but I won’t have you do so at the expense of sullying your reputation.”

“I’m sure I’ll find more interesting ways to sully it before long.” She smirked at him as she popped the last fragment of a gingersnap into her mouth. She looked past Bucky and said, “I think that tall fellow with the dazed look in his eye may be our driver.”

Bucky craned his neck around and then got up from the bench. Fury hadn’t been joking at all; Barton was a tall drink of water, indeed, with broad shoulders and impressive forearms. As Bucky rose and closed the distance between them, he noticed that tiny mustard plasters on his face, arms and hands that he had used to dress what looked like tiny cuts. Perhaps he was accident-prone…

“Mr. Barton, I presume?” Bucky called out. That earned him a relieved smile and a crinkling of the man’s pale blue eyes. Bucky felt a fleeting bit of warmth in his chest and was further impressed when Clint’s handshake turned out to be firm and hearty. He knew this was a rough-and-tumble town, but here, at least, was one of its good men.

“You presume right. Hello, Sheriff! You’re sure a sight for sore eyes. Hey, I heard that you were coming with your own deputy? I don’t blame you much for not waiting til the mayor appoints you one, since there ain’t many men around here up to the task.”

“My deputy is definitely up to the task. And here she comes.”

“Wait… she?”

Bucky nodded and gestured proudly to Sharon, who was already lifting the heavy trunk by herself, until Clint, a little dumbfounded, rushed forward to relieve her of the task.

“Hello, ma’am. Er, I mean, miss. Uh, I mean… Deputy? I’m Clint. Clint Barton. Please, let me take that, all right?”

“I don’t stand much on ceremony, Mr. Barton. I’m Deputy Sharon Carter. When I’m not on official business, Sharon will suffice.”

“When do you consider yourself on official business?”

“Whenever I need to see to it,” she told him easily.

Clint bit back a chuckle and nodded as he lifted the trunk up onto the wagon and went to retrieve the other.

“

The town came into view slowly, unremarkable from the road. Bucky noticed that most of the buildings were single-story, and that intrigued him.

“It’s all so flat,” he mentioned.

“Yep. This town doesn’t get much rainfall. More often than not, something ends up lit on fire. And do you wanna try to make your way out of a burning building from the second floor? Ain’t no way but down. No sirree, Bob. Say whatever else you want about the End of the Line, but folks ain’t as stupid as you might think.” Clint handed Bucky his water canteen, and Bucky took a couple of grateful gulps before handing it to Sharon. Both of them rode in the back of the wagon where they could stretch their legs. The haystacks in the back made comfortable chairs as they watched the scenery roll by, including more tumbleweeds than Bucky could count.

Sharon made friends with Clint’s dog, a one-eyed retriever/setter mix named Lucky, of all things. The dog spent most of the ride half-sprawled across her lap, much to her delight. She fed him the last bit of the beef jerky. He stared up at her adoringly and thumped his tail against the wagon’s aging planks.

“That’s it, boy. It’s all gone. My deepest apologies.” She chuckled at his low whine. “I know you’ve been fed today, and I don’t believe that innocent act, you rascal.”

“Yes, he has, and no, you shouldn’t,” Clint agreed. “But he’s the best friend a man could ask for. But don’t tell Nat I said that, or she’ll have my hide. She lays claim to the title of being my best friend, if you could call it that.”

“Nat?” Sharon inquired.

“Natasha Alianovna Romanova, but she shortened up to ‘Romanoff’ when her folks came over here on the boat to Staten Island. Welcome to the home of the brave and land of the free, where nobody keeps their birth name once their feet hit the pier.”

Bucky made a thoughtful noise. “Sounds like she has a story to tell.”

“Everybody in this town has a story to tell.”

Almost on cue, Lucky scrambled off of Sharon and hopped over the edge to join Clint on the seat. “Fickle sonofagun,” Clint muttered as he ruffled Lucky’s ears. “I’m gonna stop off at Nat’s and we can have a little something to wet our whistles. You might as well know where Nat’s is first, anyway. Ain’t a single place in town that you’ll find yourself in as much, except maybe the Rogers’ mercantile.”

“We need to see about a boardinghouse.”

“Nat might be able to see about a place for Deputy Carter,” Clint said automatically. “But you won’t find a boardinghouse here, unless you’re looking for something that you can’t really discuss in polite company. If you catch my meaning.”

Bucky raised his brows.

“They’re working girls, Sheriff. Don’t get your bloomers in a bunch.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Bucky allowed. Bucky generally didn’t make any fuss about such things. The oldest profession didn’t necessarily have to be a “polite” one if it put food on the table and didn’t involve robbing anyone blind. On those occasions where a customer found themselves robbed, though, well. That was a different story altogether.

*

They stopped at the saloon, and somehow, it wasn’t quite what Bucky had pictured. Someone had made an attempt at decorating it, making it feel less like a saloon, and more like… well, a parlor, Bucky guessed, or a salon. The place held a classier air about it than the rest of the businesses and storefronts that they passed. Bucky was hot, tired, starving, and ready to walk on his own two feet for a while instead of feeling wheels shifting under him. Clint gave him and Sharon a hand down from the back of the wagon, and Sharon smiled prettily at him for the gesture, making him grin back.

“A deputy,” he murmured. “Nat’s gonna get such a kick out of you.”

“I live to entertain,” Sharon deadpanned, but there was no malice in her voice. “You said she’s the proprietor of this establishment?”

“If you mean she owns this little corner of paradise lock, stock, and barrel, then yes.” Clint turned away from his guests and tramped inside through the swinging doors. “NAT! Come on in here for a moment and meet the new sheriff and his deputy!” he shouted, cupping his hand around his mouth. Clint himself stepped behind the counter and gestured for Bucky and Sharon to find a seat. “Take a load off your feet.”

“I’m ready to stand for a while,” Bucky argued.

“Sounds like you might be ready for a drink, then, too,” Clint guessed, and then he called to the back again. “NAT! I want to set a drink in front of our guests.”

“Make sure they understand that they’re going to pay for it,” a honey-smooth, slightly husky voice drawled, and Natasha appeared, looking, as Clint had said earlier, like “a sight for sore eyes.” She was tiny but curvaceous, with fair skin and titian hair and eyes like milky, green opals. She wore a unique dress, in widow’s black, except for the garish red piping and ribbons along the basque, sleeve cuffs and neckline. Her seamstress hadn’t skimped on the black lace, either. Her curls gleamed, pulled up and back from her face in an effort to beat the cruel heat. The coiffure exposed the exquisite line of her neck and shoulders. “Good afternoon, Sheriff, and… Deputy?” she said. “Did I hear that right?”

She looked intrigued. When Sharon returned her slow smile, intrigue became delight.

“You certainly did,” Bucky told her. “Miss Romanoff, I presume.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sheriff.” She dropped a curtsy, and after a thought, offered Sharon one, too. Clint choked back a laugh and began to fix their drinks.

“Start off with a little sarsaparilla,” he suggested. “It’ll get the dust out of your mouths better than anything else. I’m not putting gin in front of you two until we can feed you.”

“A female deputy,” Natasha said, testing it. “Hold on. That means you’re going to need a place to stay.”

“I could stay at the sheriff’s station-”

“The hell you could. This might be the End of the Line, but folks around here gossip. Gossip interferes with you doing your work, my good deputy, and I won’t tolerate that nonsense. No, you’ll come and room with me. You don’t need to be seen coming and going from any place that calls itself a boardinghouse around here.”

“Told you,” Clint muttered under his breath when Natasha found them two clean glasses, scolding Clint for lollygagging.

*

The next day, Bucky attended the swearing-in at the courthouse. It was a short, casual affair. Sharon showed up again in her dungarees, but following Bucky’s example, she removed her hat. There was a modest crowd inside the courthouse, but many of the townsfolk gathered outside and children of all ages peered in through the windows.

Billy was among them, older than most of the squirts, and he kept nudging his friend Teddy. “Look at him. He looks like a greenhorn, doesn’t he?”

“Seems kinda young for a sheriff. I wonder how sharp he is with a pistol?”

“Who’s that lady with him?”

“That’s his deputy. I heard my maw say that this morning before we came into town.”

“Shut your trap!” Billy insisted.

Teddy gave him a shove. “It’s true! My maw never lies about that kind of thing. She’s his deputy!”

“Bet you a nickel that’s just a tale.”

Bucky recited the creed, hand raised, the mayor and the judge pronounced him the town of The End of the Line’s principal lawman, and the crowd gave a polite round of applause. As he walked out, Sharon followed closely on his heels, and the crowd parted to let them both out. The mayor preceded them and he stepped out into the clearing, clapping his hand over Bucky’s shoulder firmly.

“It’s my pleasure to introduce to you, our town’s newest sheriff, James Buchanan Barnes, and, er… his Deputy. Deputy Sharon Carter.”

Loud murmuring fell over the crowd, followed by a smattering of polite applause.

“Dang it!” Billy cried.

Teddy held out his palm. “Pay up.”

Billy gruffly dug a nickel from his pocket, his week’s wages from hawking the newspaper, and he pressed it into Teddy’s hand.

Sam watched the new lawman - and law woman - make their introductions among the townsfolk, and already he noticed the difference between this James Barnes and his predecessor. John Walker always looked charming and slick, like a man trying to sell you a wagon with a broken wheel, but there was something in Sheriff Barnes’ demeanor that was open and honest, and more reminiscent of a schoolboy standing up in a schoolhouse to recite his reading assignment. “Land sakes,” Sam muttered. His sister better not lay eyes on him, or she’d do something rash. The local women were already making cow eyes at him and pushing close for introductions, and Sam chuckled when he noticed their reactions to his new “deputy,” realizing that they all no doubt had the wrong idea about her. Sam saw the pistol holstered in her belt, slightly obscured by her faded jacket, and he wondered how good she was at using it.

“Just look at everyone making a fuss,” Monica mentioned casually, and Sam turned and nodded, grinning at her.

“Hello, Miss Rambeau.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wilson.” Sam tipped his hat to her, and they watched the sheriff make his way in their direction when Sam made eye contact. Monica looked fresh as a spring day in her green plaid blouse with ruffles at the throat and the long, dark skirt that rustled when she walked. Her dark skin was glowing slightly from the heat of the day, and when she stood in direct sunlight, it brought out glints of gold in her soft, thick hair. “Those two are going to have their hands full.”

“In this town?” Sam pressed. “I reckon so. As long as the good sheriff doesn’t have his hand in the till like the last one, then he might make a difference.”

“So, you’ve heard all the rumors, too.”

“Rumors?” Sam huffed. “There was more than a grain of truth, Monica. I’d call it common knowledge by now.”

“I never was fond of Sheriff Walker,” Monica admitted. “Just a little too slick for my tastes.”

“You weren’t impressed by his charms, huh?” Sam smirked, and she chuckled as she shook her head.

“No, sir.”

“Well, I certainly hope not, or I wouldn’t stand much of a chance, now would I?” Sam turned at the sound of James Rhodes, Monica’s fiance, as he sidled up to her and wrapped an arm around Monica’s shoulders, giving her a brief squeeze.

“You’ve never once doubted your chances with me. Don’t listen to him, Sam.”

“Oh, yes I have,” he argued, but she smiled at him in a way that made Sam’s gut flip to watch before Rhodey kissed her cheek. “I still feel like I’m dreaming. Don’t you dare wake me up, sweetheart.”

The two of them were trying to send Sam into sugar shock, he decided. “All right. I have places to be.”

Monica made a slight scolding sound. “You and Steve need to come to the house soon for supper. You promised.”

“We will, if I can drag him away from the store.”

Monica gave James a knowing look, which he automatically shut down. “No, you don’t. I see that look in your eye.”

“My friend Carol Danvers has a standing invitation to supper,” Monica explained.

Sam smiled, shaking his head. “That won’t bring Steve to the table any sooner. That man ducks every attempt at matchmaking. Don’t waste your sweet time.”

“Is he really not interested?”

“He’s really that busy,” Sam told her, shrugging. “And hardheaded.”

“No wonder the two of you get on so well,” Rhodey teased.

Monica tsked. “Look who’s talking…”

“Excuse me?!”

“You heard me.”

Sam laughed and tipped his hat again. “Bye, now.”

“Tell him about supper, anyway, Sam,” Monica called after him as he left. Sam waved over his shoulder without turning back.

Chapter Text

The sheriff’s office was cramped and dusty inside. The living quarters upstairs wasn’t any cozier, but Bucky and Sharon decided to give it a little elbow grease to make it more, well, livable. Sharon wore another pair of old trousers and had her shirt sleeves rolled up, and her hair pulled back in its characteristic braid. Her face was streaked with dust, sweat and grime from her labors, and the office smelled of furniture wax and lye soap. Sharon had opened the windows to let in some fresh air and chase out the stale odors, nonplussed by the cracked glass panes (more than one of them boasted bullet holes). Sharon and Bucky chased the spiders and other insects out of their nests in all of the nooks and crannies, dusted and scrubbed every inch of floor and wall, and threw out old odds and ends, disposing of damaged furniture and broken knick-knacks. They managed to salvage a threadbare rug, but Bucky decided to throw two of the others onto the trash heap.

“We’ll need new ones. This place isn’t well insulated against the elements,” Sharon complained.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Bucky said, but he agreed with her. The town’s sign maker came by with Bucky’s new shingle and hung it out front.

“Your mother would faint dead away if she saw this place,” Sharon mused. “Have you written to her yet?”

“I was planning to send her a telegram today. And the only thing I’m about to tell her is that the sunshine is bright and the locals are ‘colorful.’”

Sharon snorted. “That’s understating things a bit, isn’t it?”

“You know my mother, Deputy Carter.”

“Indeed, I do.” Sharon poked him in the chest. “And I’m the only reason why you made it across state lines to come out here in the middle of nowhere. She wasn’t going to trust you to come out here by yourself, being that you’re her only son, still unmarried, and the greenest greenhorn that ever-”

“I’m not a greenhorn,” Bucky argued. “And aren’t you my deputy? Don’t you have to respect me?”

“No. All I have to do is watch your ass and lend you my guns.”

Bucky opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Fair enough, then.”

Sharon’s brown eyes were fully judging him. “You need provisions. Let’s go to that mercantile that Clint showed us before.”

“It didn’t look like much.”

“It’s the best we can do unless we can get our hands on a catalog,” Sharon reminded him. “And good luck waiting on the post this far out into the sticks.”

Bucky growled under his breath. His new assignment was fast losing its appeal. But he wanted to prove himself in this new town, known once for its brief “gold rush” period and surprisingly fertile grazing lands. Bucky had a meeting soon with the banks, the local cattle barons, and future appointments to meet with the local business owners. He might as well start with the mercantile. Clint seemed fond of it.

“Rogers is a fair man. He doesn’t overcharge folks the way that he could, since he’s got the monopoly on this town’s need for supplies. His daddy, Big Joe, was honest like that, too, when he was still walking this earth.”

Clint had explained this over a modest supper of stew and corn bread at Natasha’s that she served him in the back room while the night’s crowd convened in the main parlor of her saloon. Clint filled Bucky and Sharon’s ears while Nat worked out front.

“What happened to his pa?” Sharon asked.

“Damn shame what happened to him,” Clint explained. “They found him dead. He’d been thrown from the train, but someone did him in before that. Folks think it was foul play. Robbers.” Clint swirled his gin in its tumbler thoughtfully before he tossed it back. “Left behind the town’s only decent store, a pretty widow, and a son. Ain’t no wonder that Rogers has a chip on his shoulder, when you come from beginnings like that.”

“You say that like you know.”

“I do, Deputy Carter.” Clint had cured himself of calling her “ma’am” within forty-eight hours of their introduction, solidifying their friendship. “I came from humble beginnings, myself. I’ve got a brother, but he makes me wish every now and again that I had been an only child, and he sure as hell didn’t amount to much. We grew up in the orphanage after we lost Ma and Pa.”

Sharon didn’t pry. “You’ve grown up nicely, Mr. Barton.”

“Awww.” He blushed deep scarlet and waved her off before loading another hunk of corn bread onto her plate.

Clint wasn’t available to help them make their introductions, and Bucky’s stomach made its objections to their day’s work known, growling loudly enough to make Sharon laugh. Sharon threw aside her cleaning rag and found her hat, tossing Bucky his, too.

“Maybe they’ll have curtains. Those are pitiful. I’m throwing them into the fireplace with everything else.”

“All they have to do is keep out the worst of the sun,” Bucky reminded her. “We aren’t entertaining the kind of guests that will care about curtains.”

“We don’t have to be tacky.”

Bucky shook his head, then shrugged. They locked up the sheriff’s station on their way outside and gratefully breathed in the fresh air. The mercantile was a mile down the road, close enough to justify a walk. They passed by a few dilapidated buildings, some of which just provided space for old bulletins and wanted posters. They turned briefly at the sound of rushing hooves and wheels, and one of the finest coaches Bucky had ever seen rode past them, painted the most garish shade of red, with a large, gold insignia on the side.

“Stark Industries,” Sharon read. “Goodness, there goes a man that wants everyone’s attention.”

“That’s one of the barons we’re due to meet with,” Bucky mentioned. “That man’s invented some of the most efficient rifle designs in the country. And his pa made his money with imports.”

“Money doesn’t buy good taste or common sense.”

“No, Sharon, it does not.”

Sharon continued to ignore the stares from the locals, male and female alike, who took issue with her attire and demeanor. A few gawkers at the barber shop whistled out the window, and one of them dropped the blade that he was stropping as she passed. Bucky gave them a glare of warning and tapped the star-shaped badge pinned to his vest. Bucky’s muscles ached a bit from their hard work, and he hadn’t recovered quite yet from the long train ride, but they had made progress. Bucky and Sharon had inherited the two horses that the mayor’s ranch handlers held for them ever since they’d lost the last sheriff. Bucky renamed his Pancake, after his favorite breakfast, and it suited the graceful mare with its ruddy, golden coat.

The mercantile was a modest building, but it seemed better maintained than most of its neighbors, with a recently patched roof and intact front windows. There was a slightly loose board on the steps out front, but it was nothing a quick repair couldn’t fix. “Rogers and Wilson Mercantile and Dry Goods” was engraved on the sign out front and painted overhead. Bucky and Sharon’s boot falls were heavy enough on the floor boards as they entered the shop to alert whoever was inside that he had customers. The shop didn’t have the same ramshackle quality as the rest of the town, Bucky mused; everything was in its place and neat as a pin. There were rows and rows of shelves filled with tins and jars of pickled vegetables and preserves. Two wide tables boasted a decent selection of fabric wound around bolts, and Sharon made a sound of approval as she stroked a blue calico with a soft sheen.

“This is nice,” she murmured.

“We don’t need the fanciest thing they have for jailhouse curtains,” Bucky reminded her.

“Oh, hush. I’m not planning on fancy, just anything better than what’s already hanging in the those busted-up windows.”

“Don’t choose now to embrace your feminine side, Deputy. We came in for supplies,” Bucky added. “I hope curtains aren’t on the menu.”

“Then you might want to try the jam.”

Bucky turned at the sound of that voice, one of the only ones he’d heard so far with eastern-sounding vowels, rich and deep, with a note of sarcasm that seemed automatic. The voice’s owner was slightly taller than Bucky and he folded brawny arms across a chest that was broad as a barrel. Piercing, pale blue eyes flitted over Bucky and Sharon before they returned to Bucky’s badge.

“Sheriff? You’re the new sheriff?” He sounded disbelieving.

“I am. You work here?”

“Last I checked.” And with that, he walked right past them to the till and began to wipe down the counter and polish the nearest candy jar.

Sharon’s lips twitched. “All right, then. We’ll try the jam, I suppose. And we’ll take a bolt of this, too. It should make up nicely as curtains.”

“Most of the ladies that come into this shop have their eye on that calico to make a dress.”

Bucky smothered a laugh, wincing a little. He felt Sharon’s spine stiffen without even looking at her.

“Then ask them if they’d be interested in making curtains for a jailhouse,” Sharon quipped. “My needle work isn’t the finest, and I need time to clean my guns.”

That earned a self-deprecating smile from the man behind the counter, and he nodded, chuckling. Bucky wondered if this fella liked being put in his place. Bucky didn’t try to hide his smirk as he perused the shelves.

Moments later, just as Bucky selected a jar of pickles, he heard the sound of someone clearing their throat beside him. His new acquaintance was holding out a crate to him. “You might want this, unless you’re planning on carrying everything back in your hands.”

“That might help,” Bucky admitted as he accepted it from him.

“You aren’t from around here, are you, Sheriff?”

Before Bucky could reply, off the man went again, back to his chores around the store.

“Everyone’s been so welcoming,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

Bucky and Sharon found everything on their meager list quickly, and Bucky was pleased to note that the shop’s prices were reasonable, and that he wouldn’t lose his shirt or have to dicker with his new friend over the cost of a jar of jam. Sharon hugged the bolt of calico to her chest while Bucky fished out a half dollar from his pocket. He slid it across the counter, but before the shopkeeper could add it to the till and count out Bucky’s change, a tall, dark and striking rancher entered the store and interrupted the transaction.

“Sheriff Barnes? I was wondering when we’d get to meet you! And this is your deputy?”

That made Sharon offer him her prettiest smile, and she tipped her hat to Sam with a flourish. He grinned back, showing off a gap in his teeth and impressive dimples.

“Deputy?” The shopkeeper asked suddenly.

Sharon lifted open the flap of her jacket, revealing the smaller badge pinned to her shirt. “I won’t be needing that dress all that badly, you can imagine.”

“Steve… did you just stick your foot in that mouth of yours to the new deputy?” his friend accused, and that name suddenly rang a bell to Bucky.

“Steve. Wait. Steve Rogers?”

“That’s him,” his handsome friend confirmed. “Forgive him for being about as smooth as curdled milk.” He ignored Steve’s deadpan stare and held out his hand to Bucky, who shook it firmly. “I’m Sam Wilson, Steve’s partner.” He acknowledged Sharon, who offered him a handshake, too, and Sam met her with the same firm grip. “That’s nice cloth. Might make up nicely as some curtains.”

Sharon beamed. “Oh, I like you.”

Bucky didn’t blame her for a second. Sam was affable and open, both welcome qualities when you were new in town and looking for someone to give you direction.

“Will there be anything else, Sheriff? Deputy?” Steve asked, and Bucky noticed his long-suffering expression. The dynamic between Steve and Sam reminded him a little of that between himself and Sharon, except that Steve Rogers looked like a man with little patience for being told what to do, or how to do it. “It’s not easy to finish stocking my shelves with my foot stuck in my mouth…”

Bucky bit his lip. “I think we have all we need, Steve.”

Steve grunted, shrugged, and told them “See you around, then.” He disappeared into the back of the store, and Sharon huffed a laugh.

“He’s normally more social than that,” Sam told them.

“I’ll take your word for it, Sam.” Bucky nodded to the crate of supplies. “You both run this store?”

“We do. Steve and I have been here since his pa left this earth. It’s Steve’s family business. And his ma works with old Doc Erskine as his nurse. She used to be a school marm like my ma, back before she married Joe Rogers, but she had her hands full raising Steve.” Sam laughed at the memories, and it made his dark eyes crinkle. “My own ma said Sarah Rogers had the patience of a saint.”

“Oh, that’s not the impression I’d gathered at all,” Sharon joked.

Sam laughed outright. Then, he mentioned, “Oh, before you go, I almost forgot, you’re both new in town. We’re having a little town social next week on Saturday. It might help you get to know the rest of the townsfolk, and the local cattle barons will be there, too. Most of them are a bunch of stuffed shirts, but…” Sam shrugged, throwing up his hands. “It just helps to be in the know, you know?”

“We’re due to meet with them soon, anyway,” Bucky told Sam. He glanced around the store, distracted. He wondered if Steve was going to come back out, but Sam seemed to read his mind.

“He’s prickly. And he won’t admit this, but he’s bashful sometimes, too. Give him time, Sheriff Barnes. He’s my oldest, dearest friend, but Steve is just Steve.”

Bucky nodded. “Steve is just Steve,” he repeated softly. “Duly noted.” He balanced the crate on his hip and shook Sam’s hand again with his free one. “Thank you for showing us around, Sam.”

“Don’t be a stranger, Sheriff. Deputy.”

Sharon and Sam exchanged pleased smiles. Sharon found Sam’s nature flirtatious, but he wasn’t really committing to it. That was fine with her.

*

Steve surfaced much later as he unpacked new bolts of cloth and set them out for display. Sam began to help him, neatly printing the prices on the tags and handing them to his partner.

“We’re getting another shipment today,” Steve mentioned.

“Good,” Sam replied. “We’re running low on sorghum and molasses.”

“That reminds me. I need to bring some molasses home to Ma. She’s making gingersnaps.”

“She must know I’m on my way to visit,” Sam joked. “I can taste them already.”

“I don’t know, Wilson. I seem to recall someone said I’ve got all the charm of curdled milk. Slandering my character won’t earn you any gingersnaps.”

“It’s not slander when it’s true.”

Steve glared at him, but there was no heat in it. Sam held up his hands and raised his brows in challenge. “Why are we friends, again?”

“Someone has to save you from yourself.”

“Someone’s throwing stones from the window of their own glass house.”

“What?” *Pssshhht*...”

“Have you already been by the saloon?”

“Not yet.”

Steve was glad this elicited a blush and Sam’s slow, lopsided smirk. “But, you’re going to go to the saloon.”

“Yes, I am, you smug sonofagun. We’re not talking about me.”

“Oh, yes, we are.”

“No. No, we’re still talking about you.” Sam put down his pencil and strode to the front of the store, and he picked up the discarded newspaper, tapping the headline. “They’re writing about the Captain, again. And they’re calling him ‘not any better than an outlaw.’ The Captain needs to be careful,” Sam said.

“I think he knows that,” Steve offered.

Sam sighed. “Does he?”

Steve shrugged.

“Steve.”

“Sam.”

“Steve.”

“I think he’s a little better than an outlaw.”

“And he’s one stubborn cuss.”

Steve ducked his eyes, but a pleased little smile pulled at his lips. “So is his partner.”

Sam opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. He opened it again, but missed his chance to roast his oldest friend when they heard a commotion outside.

“LET GO OF ME!”

Steve’s smile evaporated in an instant. Sam saw the look in his eye as he abandoned his cloth and stalked outside, shoulders and jaw set, and Sam sighed. It was the middle of the afternoon, and certainly not to early for his best friend to act the fool with someone else that was acting an even bigger fool, and how was this Sam Wilson’s life? Sam automatically followed him out the door, and he watched Tabitha, one of the local working girls, struggling to yank her wrist from Victor Creed’s rough, meaty grasp.

“You owe me what I paid for. I paid good money for your services, tabby cat,” he growled, looking pleased with her struggle. “I feel like you shorted me the last couple of times, and you can’t tell me my money isn’t just as good as anyone else’s -”

“I know how you made your money, Victor,” Tabitha cried. “And I didn’t short you! You got what you paid for, so you leave me alone! You don’t get to put your hands on me-”

Victor slapped her hard enough to turn her head. She glared up at him, dazed and shocked, and her hand drifted up to her lip to swipe at blood.

Sam recognized that was the moment that Victor Creed had gone too damned far, and he sighed, shrugging.

Steve was on him before anyone watching could blink. He caught Victor’s wrist just as he lifted his hand to strike Tabitha again, and Victor turned at that moment, muttering “What the hell do you want, I’m busy he-”

Steve’s fist connected with his teeth, and Victor released Tabitha as he staggered backward, roaring as the impact vibrated through his flesh. Tabitha shrieked and danced backward from the skirmish, realizing she wanted no part of it.

“Are you all right?” Sam offered. She nodded to him quickly, but kept backing up, and Sam caught her before she could stumble back off the curb as Steve proceeded to teach Victor Creed some neglected manners.

“Why don’t you mind your damned business, Rogers?! This don’t concern you!”

“The hell it doesn’t,” Steve muttered, and as Victor lurched back up to his feet and rushed Steve, Steve feinted and ducked his swing and savagely punched Victor in the kidney. Before Victor could recover, Sam bent down and grabbed a handful of loose dirt from the ground and hucked it right into Victor’s eyes. Victor roared again and sputtered.

“Sneaky sonofabitch-”

Steve took advantage of Sam’s distraction and clocked Victor again. “Nobody gets to call Wilson sneaky but me,” Steve assured him coldly. “You haven’t known him long enough.” He drove Victor back, ignoring the sting in his knuckles as he caught Victor by the collar of his rough work shirt and cheerfully punched him again.

“Get on home, now,” Sam told Tabitha. “You don’t need to watch this.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” she argued.

“Tabby. C’mon, now…” Sam chided.

She sniffed, folding her arms under her breasts. “I wouldn’t miss this.” Because there was nothing the denizens of The End of the Line appreciated more than someone getting a licking who deserved it, and Victor Creed deserved it more than most.

Victor’s fist found Steve’s nose. Pain exploded in his face, momentarily blinding him, but he was nonplussed. “Stinking cuss,” Steve muttered. “You need a bath, you sonofabitch!”

“Language, Steve!” Sam cried.

“Sorry!” Steve called back, and he savagely kicked Victor in the sternum. They scuffled, and Steve gained leverage, finally knocking Victor back into the nearby horse trough. He crashed down into it with a splash, cursing as Steve repaid Victor for his freshly bleeding nose. Victor collapsed back into the trough as Steve punched him again, finally knocking him out. A couple of bystanders hurried out from the ironsmith’s, and Sam recognized one of them as Kyle Gibney, one of Victor’s friends, who swore at the sight of Victor lying in the trough.

“What the hell’s wrong with you, Rogers?!” he cried.

“He started it,” Steve told him. “I don’t need him starting trouble outside of my shop.”

Kyle and his friend glared up at Steve as they hauled Victor out of the trough and dragged him down the road. He was dazed and staggering soon, and Sam and Steve saw to Tabitha. Sam handed her a handkerchief that had been his sister’s last gift to him on his birthday, and she took it gratefully, dabbing at her lip.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Then, “Thank you, Mr. Rogers.”

“Miss Tabitha. Do you need me to walk you home?”

“I can manage.” She considered him for a moment, as though she was about to make him an offer of how to repay him, but he shook his head quietly, smiling, and she simply nodded before she handed Sam back his handkerchief.

After she took her leave, Sam tried to offer Steve the handkerchief, but Steve waved him off. He headed down the block to the nearby water pump. He cranked the handle a few times and used the cool, flowing water to sluice down his face and the back of his neck, needing to cool down and calm himself.

“You good?” Sam asked dryly.

“Yeah, Sam. I’m good.”

“Can we finish pricing the cloth? Are we just gonna stand out here all day, gabbing?”

“Now, I’m really not letting you have any of Ma’s gingersnaps,” Steve promised.

“That’s harsh, Steve.”

“Too bad, Wilson.”

*

Bucky emerged from the barber shop with his jaw freshly shaved and still tingling a little from the hot towel and cologne. He dressed smartly in one of his best shirts, made from a dove gray calico that his sister Becca gave him, telling him to think of her whenever he wore it. Sharon met him as he exited the shop, and he watched her fold the newspaper she held shut before she tucked it under her arm.

“Let me see that, please.”

“Not much to see. Except that there was a scuffle yesterday that we missed, right outside of Rogers’ shop.”

Bucky frowned as he read about “two local gentlemen” who had been spotted “engaging in fisticuffs” outside of the mercantile. “Guess we can’t be everywhere at once,” he grumbled. “Who’s this Victor Creed? He’s the one that locals named here.”

“He’s a local,” Sharon said, shrugging. “That’s all we have to go on, I think. Oh, no. This just says that he’s had scuffles before, and had a few arrests for disturbing the peace, but he never spent much time in the clink.” Sharon smiled dryly. “I wonder if that had anything to do with the old sheriff and how he ran things around here.”

“Could be. If you call that ‘running things.’”

“This says that Creed works for Alexander Pierce. Isn’t he one of the barons?”

“He’s an investor,” Bucky corrected her. “He has majority interest in the railroad that runs through this town.”

“Hmmmmm.”

They untied their horses and mounted, riding toward the edge of town. The day was sultry already, and Bucky and Sharon appreciated the breeze rushing over them as they galloped toward the Stark family ranch. Sharon rode astride, perpetually clad in her beloved trousers for just that purpose, side-saddle riding be damned. Maybe they raced a little, glad for the excuse to be free out in the brush before either of them had to sit in polite company.

The gates surrounding the property were wrought iron and ornate. Bucky dismounted and walked his horse toward the gate and opened the latch, nodding for Sharon to ride ahead of him down the path.

“It’s showy,” she told him.

“That’s what old money pays for, Deputy Carter.”

“Still doesn’t buy taste.”

“Sharon. Be nice.”

“No.”

Bucky tsked, and she just wrinkled her nose at him as they rode forward. Roughly a half a mile from the front of the main house, they watched a servant come out to greet them, dressed in formal livery and a white apron. The man was tall and lanky, with kind eyes and a fussy manner about him. He waved to them and called out, “Good afternoon, Sheriff Barnes! Hello!”

Bucky waved to him, and he enjoyed the look of surprise as their host took in Sharon. As Stark’s employee approached them, meeting them halfway, Bucky noticed the way his face lit up when he saw Pancake up close.

“Hello, you gorgeous girl,” he crooned, and Pancake gently whickered, huffing a little and snuffling at his hand as he reached toward her. She lipped at his palm and accepted his caresses. “I have a nice, cool stable and some oats waiting for you, dear. Good day, Sheriff. And, her, Deputy?”

“Deputy,” she confirmed. “I’ll be joining the meeting with Sheriff Barnes.”

“That’s… unexpected.” The butler cleared his throat. “I’m Edwin Jarvis, Mr. Stark’s main houseman. Ladies don’t usually attend meetings with Mr. Stark and his business associates.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m no lady,” Sharon shot back. “As you said, I’m his deputy, here on business, and my business is maintaining the law and watching his back for him. If Mr. Stark is an intelligent man at all, he better have no problem with my presence at his ‘business meeting.’” Then, just because Sharon wanted to make sure she had the last word on the subject, she added “I don’t plan to remain in the stable with the horses, Mr. Jarvis.”

Jarvis chuckled under his breath; suddenly, he was looking forward to this. “I was merely going to suggest the front parlor. Follow me. I will accommodate your horses and get them settled.”

Jarvis led them through the house, which seemed even larger from the inside, almost cavernous. Expensive oil paintings and brass-framed daguerreotypes hung along the walls. A family portrait of Howard, Maria and a young Anthony Stark hung over the fireplace. They circumvented the front parlor and headed into the library. Tony Stark was already holding court, nursing a tumbler of gin. He stood up as Jarvis led Bucky and Sharon inside.

“Hello, Sheriff. Jarvis, I didn’t invite any female guests.”

“This is Deputy Carter,” Jarvis said blandly.

“She goes everywhere I go,” Bucky told Tony.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Stark.”

Several different emotions flickered over Tony’s face as he processed this. Finally he said, “Show Deputy Carter to a chair, Jarvis.”

The other men in the room gave Sharon stony glances at first, but Bucky stared them down before he sat down and removed his hat, resting it on his lap. Sharon echoed his gesture and smiled sweetly up at Jarvis as he poured her a glass of lemonade.

“So. I hear you hail from New York?” Tony asked Bucky.

“Born and raised. Brooklyn.”

“They’re growing fast,” Tony remarked.

“Thanks to the railroads.” The older blond gentleman in a fine gray suit looked like he planned to take full credit for this. “The future of this country is going to come running down the tracks as soon as we put lay them down, Tony. I’m glad you share your father’s vision.”

“My own vision’s bigger than that, Uncle Alexander,” Tony corrected him. “Sheriff, this is Alexander Pierce.” Bucky rose from his seat, and Pierce rose to meet him halfway. His handshake was almost bruisingly firm. Up close, his rheumy blue eyes were shrewd, with deep laugh lines etched around their corners. He’d been handsome, once.

“I missed your swearing-in, I’m afraid, Sheriff. I was out of town on business,” Pierce offered.

Tony made the full round of introductions. Wilson Fisk. Helmut Zemo. Silvio Manfredi. Johann Schmidt. Erik Lensherr. Herbert Wyndham. Bucky vaguely remembered an article he’d read about the man. He was a professor of genetics, boasting some of the most desirable, hardy cattle stock in the country. Some of the locals accused him of “playing God.” Bucky felt strangely small as the discussion moved to the barons’ expectations.

“This town was booming, once. It could be again,” Fisk told them all, before he tossed back the tumbler of amber-colored brandy that was dwarfed by his massive fist.

“We already drove out all of the claim-jumping riff-raff,” Schmidt claimed.

That got Bucky’s hackles up. “RIff-raff?”

Schmidt gave him a smile that made his lean face seem almost skeletal and that did nothing to reassure him. “Undesirables,” he said. “Some of them impeded progress and interfered with our business dealings. And they had to be dealt with.”

Mr. Lensherr paused in lighting his pipe. His rheumy, pale blue eyes were flinty and shrewd when they landed on Schmidt. “And how were they dealt with?”

“Through necessary means. This town used to be more crowded. And it was… lawless, despite the efforts of the previous sheriff.”

“Or perhaps because of them,” Tony mused as he reached into a nearby fruit bowl and retrieved an orange for himself. He began to peel it efficiently, prying the rind loose in long sweeps of his thumb. “My father told me stories. He lacked confidence in Sheriff Walker’s abilities to carry out his appointed duty. That man rolled around in ‘riff-raff’ like a pig in shit.”

Sharon silently bit her lip; Bucky lightly kicked her foot in warning.

“We found gold and silver veins in those mines and in that river. And so much of it left this town in the hands of robbers and brigands,” Schmidt continued.

“All of it?” Bucky asked.

“Much of it. Anyone who owned deeds to the land found it worthless before long,” Schmidt said, shrugging and waving in a careless gesture.

“We can bring back the businesses with the railroads,” Pierce told him.

“Cattlemen can still make their way and earn a decent living here,” Fisk said. “As long as they respect the way we do things around here.”

“I could stand to know a little more about the way you do things around here,” Bucky admitted, giving him an earnest smile.

Brandy and gin continued to flow as Bucky learned about the barons’ various interests and properties. Within an hour, he longed to go out back and hold his head in the water trough if it would only keep him awake because they were absolutely killing him with boredom.

Schmidt and Fisk were forces to be reckoned with. Bucky knew right away he wouldn’t trust either man to guard a piggy bank. But Alexander Pierce… despite his charming smile, there was something about him that made shivers run down Bucky’s spine.

But, the afternoon was fruitful nonetheless.

Sharon made a small sound beside him right before Tony lifted the bottle of brandy to refill his company’s glasses, and Bucky took that as their cue to make their escape.

“Thank you for extending your hospitality, Mr. Stark, but I’m afraid my deputy and I must take our leave.” Bucky and Sharon stood, and despite the assembled company’s reticence to accept Sharon within their ranks, they rose, too, because she was still a lady.

Mr. Lensherr nodded to them. “Stay lively and stay sharp, Sheriff Barnes. Deputy Carter.” He raised his glass to them both with a curt nod before he turned away. Bucky felt a frisson of energy from the man, as though there was something he wanted to tell Bucky, but that it would wait for another time.

Jarvis met them back at the stables, and Pancake and Agent whickered softly at them, refreshed from a drink out of the nearby metal pail. Jarvis looked fond as he stroked Pancake’s nose. “This one was sweet for me. Both of them, magnificent creatures.”

“You’ll swell their heads,” Sharon warned. Jarvis laughed and handed her Agent’s reins.

“Do come again. Godspeed, sir. Madam.”

*

“Steve…” Sam’s voice was terse as he interrupted him while they counted out the till together, and Steve frowned back at him as Sam gripped his arm.

“What’s the matter, Sammy?”

Sam’s dark eyes flitted toward the window, making Steve’s follow his gaze. That was Rumlow, having a conversation with a couple of youngsters that Steve recognized from the schoolhouse. Danielle Moonstar, whose father owned a humble but productive cattle ranch just outside of town, and Roberto DaCosta. Steve had just spoken to his father, Emmanuel, the day before when he dropped off his deposit.

Dani looked unimpressed with Rumlow’s attempt at charm. Steve sighed heavily.

Sam watched his face’s journey and shrugged. “Make it quick. We promised Nat we would meet her for supper, and you haven’t bathed yet.”

“You ain’t my ma.”

“I’m telling your ma that you haven’t cleaned behind your ears,” Sam threatened. “Go on, now, git. Hurry up.”

Steve closed up the till and marched outside. Sam lingered slightly behind, exiting the store for a minute just to lean against the post out front in a comfortable slump. Rumlow was slick and standing too close to Danielle for politeness’ sake, and Bobby was roostering up in response. Brock Rumlow had at least six inches on him in height. Steve caught the edge of Rumlow’s taunts as he approached.

“...your pa might as well get ready to sign over that deed. I know whatever my boss is asking for it is a lot more generous than it’s worth.”

“Like hell it is!” Dani hissed. “My pa’s ranch isn’t for sale, especially not to a scalawag like your boss! And you can run right back to him with your tail between your legs to tell him that, Brock!”

“Someone didn’t learn any manners, little girl. That’s Mr. Rumlow to you!”

“You don’t know how to show respect, Rumlow, if you don’t know how to talk to a lady! You’re the one who needs to learn some manners!” Bobby shouted back, and his finger was almost between Brock’s teeth. That just made him leer and chuckle.

The back of his fist cracked Bobby’s jaw hard enough to send him reeling back.

“BOBBY!” Dani cried as she rushed to his side, automatically reaching into her skirt pocket for her bandanna. “He’s not worth it,” she told him, but that didn’t stop Bobby from glaring up at Brock over her shoulder as he began to lurch to his feet, trying to brush off her attempts to dab at his bleeding lip.

“Rumlow,” Steve greeted as he briefly tapped Rumlow on the shoulder.

Brock turned and smiled, but his annoyance at being interrupted shone from his hard, hooded eyes. “Rogers!” he barked. “I’m a little busy right n-”

He caught Steve’s fist and swore as blood spurted from his nose. Pain exploded within Steve’s knuckles, making them smart and throb from the impact, but he looked nonplussed as Brock stumbled, nearly falling off the curb. Brock looked dazed for a moment, but a mixture of anger and shock twisted his face.

“You sonofa…! Mind your business, Rogers, this don’t concern you!”

“The hell it doesn’t.”

“We were havin’ a friendly conversation. I was just passing along to Miss Moonstar here that my boss, Mr. Pierce, is interested in buying her pa’s ranch. He’s got big plans for it.”

“Doesn’t make much sense to make plans for something that ain’t his, does it?” Steve said, shrugging. “And you should only be dealing with Miss Moonstar’s pa, directly, like a real man, right?”

“You telling me I ain’t a real man, Rogers?” Brock swiped at his nose as it dripped onto his calico shirt.

“I see a coward picking on a young lady and my friend’s son when they have places to go,” Steve growled, and Brock saw the anger in his eyes that belied his calm tone, pleased to see the way his jaw was set.

“Places to go,” Brock repeated. “Yeah, they’ve got places to go, all right.” Brock huffed and then, in a gesture that put Steve’s hackles up, he tipped his hat to Dani and Bobby. “We’ll be seeing you around, then.” He ambled off, and he sneered across the street at Sam, who hadn’t missed a thing. Sam raised his chin a notch, and the corner of his mouth curled just a fraction as he straightened up from the post and folded his arms. Rumlow looked away first as he met his horse and untethered it, mounted up, and rode off.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Dani told Steve. “But, thank you.”

“You’re all right, Bobby?”

“I’m fine,” he offered.

“My pa’s spread isn’t for sale. Our family’s always owned it, and that isn’t going to change,” Dani explained. This time, when she shoved the bandanna at Bobby, he accepted it, using it to daub at his mouth. She curled her hand around his elbow and squeezed, and he nodded up at her with reassurance. “Rumlow’s been sniffing around our property for a long time, and he knows he’s trespassing.”

“Might be a good time to mention it to the new sheriff.”

“Why? The old sheriff didn’t do anything about it,” Bobby scoffed.

“I think the new one might think a little differently than Sheriff Walker did,” Steve said. “And have you met his deputy?”

“No.” Dani’s brows drew together. “Why?”

“I have the feeling you’d like her.”

Dani hummed thoughtfully.

Steve took his leave, and Sam asked him “Are you ready to wash up and go to supper yet?”

“You might need to go without me, Sammy.”

Sam scowled. “Why?”

“Because the Moonstars have a problem with trespassers.”

Chapter Text

Clint grumbled to himself as he entered the back room of the saloon. He looked sheepish as he shoved the bouquet of daisies and wildflowers at Natasha, who furrowed her brow as she took them from him.

“What’s this? Are you trying to be sweet with me, Clinton?”

“Nah. Just Sammy. Uh.” Clint rubbed his nape, looking like a boy who’d been caught sneaking candy out of the jar. “He isn’t going to make it for supper. And neither is Steve.”

“What?”

“He sends his regards.”

“Well!” Nat tsked, shaking her head as she gently stroked the tips of the daisy petals and gave them a tentative sniff. “I’m beginning to feel like he’s sending me some mixed messages.”

“Wilson? Nah!” Clint exclaimed. “I get the impression that missing out wasn’t his idea.”

Natasha sighed. “Steve?”

“Steve.”

“Oh, Steve…” she mused. “Well, I suppose I will just have to make his apologies for him to Sharon.”

“Tell me this isn’t another attempt at matchmaking?”

“Of course not. I just think that they could take a bit of time to better make each other’s acquaintance.”

“You like the deputy that much, I reckon, that you feel like she would benefit from your matchmaking, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree trying to turn her head with Steve Rogers.”

“Why? Both of them are cut from the same cloth, Clint. Steve needs a wife, or at least a partner that can help him run things at the ranch and the store. He’s been all by himself for far too long, and I think that Deputy Carter might be just the one he needs.”

“She doesn’t seem like the ranch-running type, and I can’t see her behind a counter. Or in an apron. I don’t know,” Clint considered. “I mean, I see where you’re going with this, Natalia, but…” Clint let his argument drift off.

“He needs someone,” she emphasized.

“He’s muleheaded and stubborn, though. Just ask his ma.”

“She doesn’t mind my looking out for her son’s romantic interests.” Natasha went outside with her little green, glass vase and took it to the water pump. She cranked the pump handle briskly and filled the vase and brought it back into the front room to arrange the fresh, modest blooms so they would be pleasing to the eye. “These are nice,” she murmured.

“They’re awfully plain,” Clint remarked.

Nat gave him a hurt look, and Clint chuckled, ducking his face.

“I’m not saying it wasn’t nice,” he admitted. “It’s just… this is what you like?”

Natasha blushed, then nodded.

“Really?”

“I like it when it comes from Sam Wilson.”

“Ah.”

And, there it was.

Clint pulled up a stool and leaned his elbow on the bar as he regarded her. “Are we that finished, then?”

“We don’t have to be, Clinton. You know how things have been between us. Good, but…I also know you sometimes wish for different things that I can’t guarantee.”

“You don’t like a jealous man.”

“No.”

“Good. Because I’m not the jealous type, but I am a gentleman, despite your assumptions or first impression.”

“I know that.” She abandoned the flowers and pushed herself close to him, and he just stared down at her fair, dainty hand curled around his tanned wrist. She caught his chin and made him stare down into her eyes, and he found imploring and regret. It hurt.

“I know you’re a gentleman, and a good man. I don’t want you to be jealous. I just… you’re so sweet. Sweeter than sugar. And you’ve been so good to me.”

“But…”

Nat’s eyes flitted away, and this time, he caught her chin.

“It’s all right. He turned your head. He isn’t exactly hard on the eyes. I mean, it’s Sam Wilson.” Clint laughed. “You know what they say about preacher’s children, right?” That made Natasha smirk. “He’s a good man, but he isn’t any angel.”

“Well, good. I don’t think he would have me if he was.”

“Yes, he would. Because he’s a smart man, Nat.”

“I wonder what made him miss out on my roast lamb, then,” she said. “I must admit, I’m a bit put out about that.”

*

Dusk was usually Steve’s favorite time of day when he could enjoy it from his front porch.

Hunkering down in the brush with Sam as they watched the Moonstar ranch and listened to the early sounds of crickets and starlings wasn’t as appealing.

“It was sure nice of your ma to let me have some flowers from her garden, but this better be worth missing Natasha’s roast lamb.”

Steve’s voice sounded muffled behind his bandanna. “Just lay low. Keep sharp.”

Sam sighed.

The newspapers never mentioned that the Captain had a partner, and Sam was just fine with that. He didn’t always accompany Steve if he had other commitments that he couldn’t get out of, and this was one of those times when Sam wished he could tell his best friend no.

He wondered which dress Natasha was wearing, and if she would wear that gardenia perfume that Sam liked again. Sam was also disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to beat Clint at cards again. Sam knew that there was something going on between Natasha and Clint that spoke of more than friendship, but that didn’t stop her from catching Sam’s attention.

She was meddling. Sharp-tongued. Sly. But, during those moments where she looked at Sam in just that way, he felt her pull, and he could deny her absolutely nothing.

Except his place at her table, apparently.

Damn it, Rogers.

“There,” Steve whispered. “You hear that?”

Low, muffled hoofbeats. Several sets of them. Sam used the tip of his Colt to nudge aside the branches of the bush. Their light was fading fast as the stars began to wink up in the sky, and the Moonstars had already lit their lanterns inside, creating a faint glow through their curtains. It was an awkward time for visitors, and they were a very private family.

Steve watched William Lonestar step outside briefly with his pipe. He packed it with tobacco and his dog followed him, giving a low bark of warning. Steve saw him talking to the dog but couldn’t hear his words from that far away. But he paused and set the pipe down on his rocking chair, scowling, his jaw set, and Steve knew he sensed Rumlow and his band’s arrival. Steve heard his voice more than his words, and he knew he’d called out to his wife Peg, watching her appear around the edge of the doorway. Moments later, she came back with his rifle, and he gestured for her to get back inside.

“Why would Rumlow waste his time coming out here?” Sam grumbled.

“Nothing Rumlow’s ever gotten himself into makes sense for a thinking man,” Steve replied. “Maybe we need to teach him some manners again.”

Steve nodded in agreement. This was why his friendship with Samuel Wilson endured as it had.

Rumlow’s men headed for the barn first. Sam spied the cans of kerosene immediately. “They’re going to try to smoke them out,” he rasped.

“Not today.”

Before they could dismount from their horses, Sam aimed his Colt for the kerosene can that was sticking up from the saddlebag. His gunshot cracked through the air, destroying the evening stillness around them, and the can burst, leaking its contents into the dirt. The rider cried out in angry surprise.

“Who’s out there?” Rumlow demanded. Even with his bandanna pulled over his face, Steve and Sam recognized his gruff rasp and hooded dark eyes.

Sam took out his other rider’s visible can of oil before he could make it into the barn, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t find more, especially if the Lonestars had their own supply inside. But Steve wanted to make sure they didn’t lose their barn or any of their stock while Rumlow tried to “send them a message.” Rumlow drew his own Colt from its holster and brandished it. “Come out where I can see you, and we’ll have a little chat! My business is with the Lonestars, and if you don’t stay out of my business, things are fixing to get ugly, if you catch my meaning!”

“You don’t have any business here with me and mine!” William called back from his porch before he stormed out into the yard, rifle cocked. “No one invited you here!”

“I don’t need an invitation. This land belongs to my boss, Mr. Pierce.”

“The hell it does!”

“All he’s waiting for is for you to sign the deed, pack up, and git. You’re just getting in the way, and he asked you nicely to take yourselves elsewhere.”

Rumlow’s gang circled the property and fired warning shots into the air, making the horses in the barn neigh and William’s hounds bark and howl.

Rumlow’s horse danced and shied a little as he kept up his taunt. “Just mind your business, whoever you are out there, or you’re gonna regret it!”

“There’s nothing out there that would interest your boss! This land has always belonged to my family. There’s no oil out here, and no gold. You have no business here, and I’m not signing any deed.”

“We’ll see.” Before Rumlow could aim his pistol, though, he heard the thunder of hoofbeats coming down over the rise. Two riders that he didn’t recognize rode hell-for-leather down through the brush-dotted trail. The taller of the two wore a dark blue cowl and white Stetson, and a garish shirt studded with gleaming white buttons. His boots had a ruddy, red finish, made from expensive, hand-tooled leather. His partner wore a black domino and a bandanna that obscured the lower half of his face, and Rumlow swore.

“Fan out!” he cried, and some of his riders continued for the barn, while a couple of them lagged in the yard, preparing to barge their way into the house. Steve prayed that Peg and Dani had the good sense to lock up, but he saw a window crack itself open on the side. Maybe they had another rifle at the ready…

His horse thought for him, and Steve didn’t even have to dig in his spurs as he swept down into the yard and gripped his coiled lasso. He whipped it in a arc overhead and wound up, letting it fly. Rumlow shied back from its flight, but Steve caught one of his riders easily. The rope’s loop slipped over his shoulders and instantly went taut, and he swore as Steve jerked back on it and yanked him from his mount. Steve rode past the water troughs and dragged him just to add insult to injury.

Sam huffed. They weren’t going for subtlety, which was fine with him. Sam followed the two riders who dismounted and headed for the house, rushing up the front walkway. Sam watched the first man try to kick down the door, and he heard the crack of the wood beginning to give way. Just as he picked up William’s rocking chair to smash it against the door, though, Sam caught it on his back swing and wrenched it from his hands. He spun on Sam, incredulous that he’d snuck on him that fast. Sam chucked the chair aside, tossing it over the side of the porch rails so he wouldn’t risk tripping over it, and Rumlow’s man sneered at him.

“Think you’re a tough man, hiding behind that mask-”

“Man, just shut up,” Sam shot back, and he decked him, plowing his fist into his nose. Pain exploded in Sam’s knuckles - he knew he had that coming - but he punched him again before the man could recover. The gloves helped, but not much. He staggered back, then lunged at Sam, this time drawing a mean-looking knife. Sam feinted away as he drove himself into his space. Sam blocked his lunges, dripped him, and let him stumble with the momentum. Then, he caught his wrist and smashed it back over his head into the very door he had tried to bash in. He smashed his hand back again until the knife dropped from his stunned fingers. Sam caught it deftly, flipped it around, and plunged it into his palm, pinning him there. The man’s roar of pain didn’t faze him.

“SONOFA-”

“G’night,” Sam offered, right before his next punch took him out. He sagged back against the door and slumped down to the porch. Sam caught Dani peeking back at him through the curtains, and he gave her a brief nod. Her smile was hesitant, but then her dark eyes widened with fear.

“LOOK OUT!” Her cry sounded muffled behind the glass, and Sam turned just as another of Rumlow’s men descended on him, gun drawn. They scuffled, and Sam knew he couldn’t let him make his way inside to two vulnerable women. This one was tall and rangy, and Sam recognized Kyle Gibney’s flinty blue eyes over the edge of his gray bandanna. Sam relied on his booted feet, kicking out and catching his kneecap just as he ducked his attempt at shooting Sam’s temple. Gibney roared and stumbled back, falling back down the short porch steps.

Gibney tried to fire on Sam again, but this time, Sam kicked the pistol from his hand, which didn’t stop him from turning and scrambling after it. Sam chuckled.

“No, you don’t,” he huffed as he caught him by the back of his collar and dragged him backwards. The two of them struggled and fought, and Sam managed to get the advantage, finally shoving him face-first into the horse trough. He held him there for a minute while Gibney struggled, roiling the night-cold water up in a rush of splashing and bubbles.

“Cool off,” Sam barked. Gibney struggled and fought against him, and Sam’s muscles burned with the effort to hold him down.

There had been six men.

Sam pulled Gibney up long enough to smash his face into the edge of the trough, and he finally sprawled on the ground, silent. “Enough,” Sam told him as he stood tall and jerked his gaze around the homestead.

There were still two men in the barn. They were up in the hayloft, starting to douse it with the remainder of their kerosene, and Steve wasn’t having it. The horses were rearing up in their stalls, eyes wide, nostrils flaring as the intruders disturbed their peace and space. Steve rushed inside and clambered up into the hayloft. He caught Rumlow’s man shaking out the last drops of kerosene and pulling the book of matches from his knapsack. Steve called out to him, “No, you don’t!” and grabbed him, and the man bellowed as Steve pitched him out of the loft through the open window. He lay on the ground, stunned and dazed and staring up at the sky. Steve glanced down at his sprawl with satisfaction for just a moment, until he remembered the other man inside.

He was stirring up trouble, releasing horses from their stalls and getting ready to light the hay again. Steve rushed for the door and slid it shut quickly and barred it, not wanting the horses or his varmint to get back out, or Rumlow to get in. Rumlow’s man looked terrified, drawing his gun on Steve.

“Don’t pull a gun on a man unless you know how to use one, son,” Steve warned. His own hand was poised over his pistol, just itching to use it, but…

This one was young, too young to follow Rumlow’s bad example and ruin the Lonestar’s lives like this. His hand was shaking, and he tightened his grip on the pistol.

“Take it easy,” Steve called out gruffly. “We can settle this like gentlemen…”

He heard the cock of the gun, and Steve leapt to the side. The bullet whizzed past him and blew a ragged hole in the barn door as Steve rolled across the dust. In a breathless moment, Steve found his shield. He was a dandy shot. But, he wagered that this kid was bound to run out of rounds.

The shield was heavy, comfortingly solid and familiar. The kid’s shots bounced off of its metal hull as Steve plowed toward him. The young man’s face was incredulous as Steve bore down on him, and he flung the shield at him as he heard the last futile clicks of the gun, signaling that the last round had been fired. The shield clipped him in the forehead, and he went down for a nap.

“Brat,” Steve muttered. “What’s the sense in being out this late?” Steve stood over him a moment, about to take his gun, but then he noticed something odd. Familiar.

There was a red patch sewn onto the pocket of his calico shirt. It was cut from expensive red silk and stitched carefully in the shape of a … well, Steve wasn't;t sure what that was. Eight-armed, leering beast.

Steve kept his shield strapped to his arm as he dug in the kid’s pockets and found the matches. He tossed them into a nearby water pail, ruining them and diverting another attempt at burning down the barn. They were up in the hills, too far from the Lonestar’s neighbors if they needed help with a blaze gone wild. There were still two men left…

“Hey, there, fancy pants!” Rumlow called out. “If you don’t want me to blow this one’s head off, you’ll come out here where I can see you! Come out of that barn.”

Steve’s blood ran cold.

He unbarred the door and slid it open. Rumlow had his arm clamped around William Lonestar’s throat. Rumlow’s last henchman smugly gripped his rifle while Rumlow pressed his pistol against his captive’s temple. The house’s window was still cracked open, and Steve swore he saw the tip of an arrow protruding through the gap and something stirring behind the curtains.

“You let him go!” Peg screamed. “You let my husband go and get on out of here!”

“If you agree to pack your things, I’ll let him go. I’ll let you have the clothes on your backs. I’m a decent man,” Rumlow told her, refusing to turn away from Steve or loosen his grip on William. He chuckled, enjoying William’s ragged breathing and how tense he felt in his arms. Rumlow was built like a bull and had a clear advantage on him in size and power; William had a rancher’s strength and the paunchiness of a man who enjoyed his wife and daughter’s cooking. Laugh lines sprayed from the corners of his eyes and bits of gray shot through his long, black braided hair. “What do you think, stranger? You came here in that fancy get-up and stuck your nose where it doesn’t belong. Don’t reckon a man in a mask like yours has any business here.”

“Neither do you, Brock.”

Steve did his best to disguise his voice and accent, and maybe it worked. Rumlow gave pause.

“Think you know me, do ya?”

“Let him go, and I’ll let you ride out of here alive.”

Even as the words left Steve’s mouth, old regrets gave him pause. This wasn’t what he was about. He wasn’t a man who wanted to dirty his hand in blood that didn’t need to be shed. The End of the Line was a lawless land with a few good souls left, like the Lonestars. They deserved to rest easy at night.

Brock saw the star patch embroidered onto Steve’s garish shirt. “They call you the Captain, don’t they? Ain’t much of a Captain to me.”

“He can still take you down,” Sam informed him as he cocked his pistol. “Your six against two just became two against one.” A vein worked in Sam’s jaw, and hs posture was proud. His pistol gleamed in the scant light and his heart pounded as they faced Rumlow down.

But before either man could make a move, they watched Rumlow roar in pain and his knees buckle. William took that opportunity to wrest himself loose, and Sam and Steve watched in disbelief as Rumlow staggered forward with an arrow now embedded in his hip.

“WILLIAM!” Peg cried.

“PA!”

That answered Steve’s question of whether the Lonestars had another rifle. Sam took that moment to draw his pistol. His shot rang out and clipped Rumlow’s hand, and his gun dropped from nerveless fingers.

“DAMN IT!”

“Go on. Reach for it again, you cockroach. I might leave you enough fingers to pick your nose with,” Sam promised.

“Go on, now, GIT!” Peg yelled through the window, and Steve wondered how many arrows she had left.

William hovered over Rumlow, training Rumlow’s pistol on him while he clutched his bleeding hand against his middle. The stain bloomed and grew across the dark fabric of his shirt, but Brock sneered up at him.

“This ain’t over! You ain’t beat me and mine yet! You or Captain Fancy Pants over there!”

Shots cut the tension in the yard, and Sam and William instinctively ducked. Steve ran at them both, yanking them behind his shield until he could get them behind the family’s wagon. He heard the ping and clang of bullets and Sam hissed at the clumps of dirt thrown up from their impact. Steve spied the ruffian he’d thrown from the loft back up on his horse, and he gave Brock a hand up, hoisting him onto the saddle with difficulty.

“GO! GO! NOW!” Rumlow cried, and they rode off. His rider twisted around in his saddle as his horse reared up, and he fired off several rounds in his wake before he found his way back onto the main road.

The front door flew open, and Danielle ran out of the house crying out, “PA!” She ran for him and threw herself into his embrace. He attempted to soothe her, but she was overwrought.

“Get back into the house, they might come back,” he warned.

“We’re not planning on going anywhere quite yet,” Sam told him quietly.

“No. Go on, now,” William suggested. “I appreciate you stopping by, Captain, and, uh…”

“Falcon,” Sam offered.

William grunted at the moniker. “You two fellas are either brave or stupid, taking on Rumlow and his men. I don’t know why you came out here, but I’m grateful. But,” and he gestured at the men who were still sprawled on the ground, on his porch, and in the horse trough, “they need to go. I don’t care how that happens.”

William’s father-in-law, Black Eagle, ambled out dressed in a pair of soft, worn buckskins and a woven poncho. “We can take the wagon,” he grumbled. “I still haven’t had the chance to meet the new sheriff.”

“Wait’ll you meet his deputy,” Steve told him. His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Was that you doing that fine shooting from the window, sir?”

“Of course not,” he muttered. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be, Captain. When you only have one granddaughter, you damn well teach her how to shoot.” He called out to Peg, “Sweetheart, go ahead into the barn and get the rope.”

*

Sharon startled at the sound of the brisk knock on the door. “You expecting company?” she asked Bucky.

“No?” Bucky’s reply had a curious lilt as he rose from his seat and set down the plate of biscuits and chicken that Sam’s sister, Sarah, had brought over to him, assuring Sharon that they had “leftover victuals” to share from supper. The night air was finally cool enough to allow a nice cross-breeze through the windows (cracked though they were). Bucky peered through the panes in the door and frowned as he opened it. Black Eagle nodded to Bucky, and then tipped his hat to Sharon.

“Evening, Sheriff. Ma’am.”

“Deputy,” Bucky gently corrected. “Evening, sir.”

“My name’s Black Eagle, and these men were trespassing on my son’s homestead,” he informed them as he nodded to the men in the back of the wagon.

“They’re trussed up like a bunch of hogs,” Sharon muttered, sounding impressed.

“They’re greedy,” Black Eagle told her. “And so is their boss, Mr. Rumlow. That varmint set foot on our spread and tried to make trouble. I’d like you to arrest these men for attempted arson and battery.”

“You didn’t take these men on yourself?” Sharon demanded.

“We had help from the Captain and his partner. They had other places to be,” he said. Sam and Steve wisely parted ways with Black Eagle once they reached city limits. Rumlow’s men were just stirring awake as Bucky reached into the wagon bed and removed one of their hoods fashioned out of burlap bags. He noticed something odd about the cloth.

Someone used whitewash paint to smear a hasty, five-point star on the cloth. Kyle Gibney glared down at Bucky. Bucky made a thoughtful noise. This town was growing more interesting by the day.

“We didn’t do nothing, Sheriff. You can’t pin anything on us.”

“It doesn’t look like you were up to nothing,” Bucky argued. “Sharon, show these fine gentlemen their sleeping arrangements for the night.”

*

“Let me get a look at you.”

“Ma-”

“Come on, now. Let me check behind your ears.”

“Ma.”

“Don’t think I’m letting you walk out that door without washing behind your ears, Steven Grant. It’s Saturday night, and I expect you to make more than half an effort with your bath.”

“Half an effort is plenty,” he argued, but Sarah Rogers’ lips thinned and she planted her hand on her hip.

“Thinking like that won’t find you a wife.”

“Now you sound like Natasha,” he said.

Sarah caught his hand, stilling it before he could raise the razor to his foam-slicked jaw. Steve sighed and bent down, suffering her inspection as she peeked in and behind his ears and at the back of his neck. “Decent,” she muttered. “That’ll do.” She bustled around his room, straightening it up, and Steve was grateful that he’d hidden his “Captain” togs in his trunk out in the barn. He made sure to bathe and dress quickly, before his ma could see the rash from the gravel and the faint bruising from his scuffle and dive behind the wagon.

“I laid out your good shirt. The blue one. It brings out your eyes nicely.”

“That was sweet of you, Ma.”

“I’ll be ready in a few minutes. I just have to get my pies together, and we can go.”

His ma looked nice in her pale green dress with its snug basque, bustled skirt and puffed sleeves. It was trimmed in gleaming ivory buttons and piped in cream ribbon. Sarah Rogers had retired her widow’s black gowns some years back, but no one measured up to her sweet, kind Joe. She still showed up at the town’s socials with her pies and boisterous humor, and she always kept an eye on the town’s eligible ladies (and the occasional gentleman), hoping that one of them would catch her son’s eye. He was proving stubborn and scarce, though, and it left Sarah with a bee under her bonnet whenever he made his excuses, and his escape.

Sarah daubed a little rose water behind her ears and on her wrists while Steve finished his shave. He rinsed and scrubbed his face and dried off with a worn towel. He sighed at his reflection. Things were different, now. He wasn’t the same skinny runt of a boy that he’d been. He saw a man a lot like his father staring back at him, and Steve wondered if he could ever measure up. He’d been trying to do precisely that ever since the night Pa never made it off the train home.

They rode into town in the wagon, with Sarah carrying one of the pies on her lap covered in one of her tea towels. The rest of them were in the back of the wagon tucked into a crate. “Mrs. Wilson stopped into the store today and said she’s baking her peach pie.”

“It’ll be almost as good as mine,” Sarah bragged. “Especially since she used my recipe.”

Steve grinned. Sarah and Darlene were lifelong friends, but they were rivals in the kitchen. Sarah tucked her shawl more tightly around shoulders against the breeze.

“Darlene said that Sam missed an appointment with Miss Romanoff for supper. He doesn’t just duck out of an invitation like that.”

“Sam made his apologies, or so I recall,” Steve said.

“He wouldn’t need to make his apologies if he would keep his appointments. It’s not a good habit to disappoint a lady, Steve. Remember that.”

Steve bit his tongue and quietly guided the reins further into town toward the hall.

Steve hitched his horses and wagon and escorted his mother into the hall, where they each paid their dime at the door to get in. Steve helped his mother bring in the pies and leave them on the table for judging. They took numbered cards from the girl handing them out and left one by each tin.

“Darlene isn’t going to beat me this time,” Sarah vowed.

“Ma,” Steve muttered.

“She won’t!” Sarah insisted.

“There she is,” Steve mentioned, and just like that, Sarah was all smiles, rushing forward to embrace her friend and kiss her cheeks.

“You’re looking fresh as a daisy,” Darlene told her. “You’re even better at making a dress than you are at baking a pie.”

“Darlene Wilson! Are you trying to tell me I can’t bake a pie?”

“I said no such thing, but now that you mention it…” Darlene let her voice trail off tellingly.

Sarah cut her eyes at her, but Darlene just laughed. She looped her arm through Sarah’s and pulled her away.

“Come on, how. Let’s go look at the quilts. My Sarah entered a nice wedding ring quilt this year. I gave her the scraps left from that old yellow dress of mine.”

“That was a nice dress on you.”

“It was, until I managed to spill some tomato bisque on it a few weeks ago.”

“What a shame,” Sarah tsked. They gabbed on about quilts and drifted off, while Steve found Sam. His best friend looked stylish and well-trimmed, but Steve noticed a tiny scratch on his cheek, just above the edge of his beard.

“That’s my fault, isn’t it?” Steve murmured, nodding to it. Sam rubbed at it thoughtfully and shrugged.

“If I hadn’t made it behind that shield, it would have ended up a lot worse,” Sam told him.

“You wouldn’t have been up at that homestead if I hadn’t asked you.”

“But you asked me, because you knew you could. And you can rely on me.” Sam bumped his shoulder against Steve’s. “I’m going to find Miss Romanoff and go grovel.”

Steve winced. “I’m sorry.”

“If I come back with my tail between my legs, you’re buying the whiskey.”

“”Her saloon is the only place where you can get any,” Steve reminded him.

Sam stiffened, then nodded. He made an aggrieved sound.

“There she is,” Steve said. “Look sharp, WIlson.”

And he did.

Samuel Thomas Wilson could cut a dash when he wanted to, and every female pair of eyes followed him when he crossed the room to where Natasha was holding court, surrounded by a pack of suitors and a very protective Clint. Natasha glanced past Scott Lang and Scott Summers and her eyes landed on Sam.

“Good evening, Miss Romanoff.”

“Hello, Mr. Wilson.”

“May I have a moment of your time? I was wondering if I could interest you in a glass of lemonade?”

“Lemonade,” she repeated. Her smile was tidy and calm, but he saw the questions in her green eyes, heard the hint of grit in her tone, and Sam fought the urge to wince.

She was still mad at him.

But she exited from her ring of admirers, dashing all of their hopes as Sam offered her his arm.

“What does she even see in him?” Lang muttered.

“C’mon, man. You have eyes,” Clint tsked.

Lang scowled, then shrugged in agreement.

Sam went to the lemonade barrels and dipped cups of it for himself and Natasha, offering her the first tin cupful. She took a tart, pulpy sip and licked her lips.

“Can we go outside for a few minutes?” Sam asked. “It’s a bit loud in here.”

“If you like.”

“It’s all right with you?”

She leaned in toward him and murmured, “All the better for me to hear your apologies.”

That chastened him, but he nodded. They went outside, and his sister, Sarah, wandered after them, a hovering pair of eyes, because of course she would make the excuse that Sam needed a chaperone, later.

She leaned against a nearby post and watched him expectantly, sipping from her cup. “Well?”

“Did you get my flowers?”

“I did. I liked them well enough, but I would have liked them more if you had delivered them yourself. Are you going to explain yourself, Sam?”

“The best excuse that I can give you is that I have no excuse. Nothing that will make you forgive me for missing your fine supper, Natasha. I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I was looking forward to seeing you.”

That made her face soften a bit. “Were you?”

“Of course I was.” His voice was a low husk of want. He took her slim, cool hand and gently squeezed it, and then raised it to his lips, dusting a light and feathery kiss over her knuckles that made her shiver. He felt his sister’s eyes on them and longed to wave her off.

“I always look forward to seeing you.”

“I didn’t feel like one of your priorities last week, Sam.”

“I don’t want you to question my priorities. I was remiss. And it won’t happen again.” Sam mentally cursed Steve, but he remembered the relief he found on Peg Lonestar’s face when Rumlow rode off, and when she escaped becoming a widow.

There was a chance it would happen again. Sam steeled himself. He didn’t want to give Steve up as an excuse, because his work was too important and helped too many people.

“You weren’t off finding entertainment elsewhere?”

“No. I wouldnt,” Sam agreed. “I had business that drew me away.”

“Not funny business.”

“Not at all.”

“With Steve?”

Sam considered this. “Yes.”

Natasha searched his face. “You don’t want to tell me what this is about, do you?”

“Not… yet.”

“Well. You have a mysterious side, Sam.”

She reached up and brushed her fingertips over the tiny scratch on his cheek. Her hand lingered for a moment; she caressed his jaw and then drew back before he could lean into her touch.

“I’d like to refill my lemonade. And then I think you owe me a dance, Sam.”

She pushed away from the post and straightened up, letting Sam watch her walk away from him in her sultry glide, and his eyes were transfixed by her curvy silhouette in the carefully cut, wine red dress sprigged with tiny roses. Her beauty made his mouth go dry.

He needed to have a word with Steve about their partnership and his expectations, Sam decided.

Steve helped himself to the lemonade and watched the dancing begin. The stamping of booted feet and the whine of fiddles filled the tiny hall, and the judge walked around the food tables, tasting the pies and making notes on the cards.

He heard the townsfolk muttering about “the Captain, they say he struck again” in passing, and Steve suppressed a smile. Of course tongues would wag. It was impossible not to make a statement. The End of the Line had a protector where the law failed. Steve hoped his father was proud, wherever he was watching over him from.

He wasn’t expecting Sharon’s familiar tones, or Bucky’s this time, though, as he caught the thread of their conversation from the quilting displays.

“My ma tried to teach me how to quilt because she was hoping I would get married one day. I would never have the patience to make something like this.”

“Oh, it’s easy. I could teach you, if you wanted to learn.” That was Sam Wilson’s sister, Sarah, and she was talking to Sharon, but beaming openly at Bucky. “I know you have other things to occupy your time, working at the jailhouse, and all…”

“She would love to learn how to quilt,” Bucky said, enjoying the chance to tease Sharon a little. “It never hurts to learn a skill like that.”

Sharon looked like she wanted to stab him with a sewing needle, and Bucky thought about backing off. “Then maybe you should give it a try,” she said demurely.

Sharon cleaned up nicely in a light blue dimity dress, and she’d curled her hair on rags the night before. It hung down her back in long, soft golden curls that she tied back from her face with a blue ribbon.

“I’m not handy with a needle,” Bucky admitted.

Sarah stared up at him through her lashes. Her dark eyes were generously lashed, dark and pretty just like Sam’s, and they had the same flirtatious smile, Bucky noticed, because of course he noticed. “You seem like you’d be good with your hands, Sheriff Barnes.”

Bucky felt himself blush. Sharon raised her brows at how forward she sounded, and she cleared her throat.

“Didn’t you say something about some jam that you made, Sarah?”

“Oh, that’s right over here.” Sarah led Sharon off, and Bucky remained by the window, letting the air blowing in from where someone had cracked it open cool him off.

He felt awkward at the social. He’d made more introductions amongst the townsfolk, and he felt their scrutiny. Bucky and Sharon had processed their new prisoners and sent them off to the big jailhouse in the next county once they were sentenced. Brock Rumlow was lying low, and Bucky had wanted posters out for his arrest. Bucky needed to pay Mr. Pierce a visit and investigate the incident further, now that he knew Rumlow was on Pierce’s payroll.

Bucky saw Danielle Moonstar huddled with a group of friends, and Bucky was relieved that she was safe. Sharon took down Dani’s testimony of what happened that night, including how she managed to tag Rumlow with her arrow.

“I shot him right in the tailfeathers, and he let go of my pa and ran off like a coward,” Danielle had told them with satisfaction. “Ma was mad at me for not staying down and out of sight like I was supposed to.”

“What you did was dangerous,” Sharon agreed. “But, you shot well, sweetheart.”

Dani beamed proudly, the way she was doing now as she gave her friends a rousing account of the skirmish on her homestead.

Bucky wondered if prisoners were just going to show up at random on his doorstep now that he was the sheriff. He sipped the lemonade and wished for a moment that it was something a little stronger.

“Good evening, Sheriff Barnes.”

The familiar baritone sounded relaxed and not as gruff as Bucky had remembered. He turned and found Steve Rogers, freshly shaved and trimmed and looking handsome enough to make Bucky tingle all over. Damn it. That man had a nerve, didn’t he?

His pale, pearly blue eyes watched Bucky with curiosity and amusement. “Who talked you into coming to the town social?”

“My deputy. She managed to pry me away.”

“Pried you away from what?”

“All of the prisoners that keep landing on my doorstep.” Bucky watched the people out on the floor dancing a reel, and Steve’s eyes followed his. He wasn’t one for dancing and he felt just fine on the sidelines, talking to the sheriff. “It was the damnedest thing. They showed up hog-tied and trussed up in the back of the wagon, and they had this strange mark on the hoods they wore over their faces.”

“A mark? What was it of?”

“A white star. Can’t say that I’ve seen that before,” Bucky admitted.

Steve bit the edge of his lip as he, too, watched the dancers out on the floor. “Fancy that.”

Chapter Text

Fifteen years ago:

Joseph Rogers woke up from a light doze for about the tenth time during the ride down the tracks. He’d watched the sunset light up the sky with colors, and then the slow and gradual shush of twilight before the rocking of the train car made his eyes drift shut. He glanced around the crowded car of sleeping passengers, wondering what stirred him from rest. But then, the sound happened again, a strange thud from outside the train.

Joe glanced out the window and saw movement in the dark. There was a faint, rhythmic sound that underscored the metallic grind of wheels against the tracks and the huff of the engine. Hoofbeats. Surely, he was imagining it. He settled further into his seat and was about to cover his eyes with his hat to block out the faint illumination shining into the train car from outside. Then, the peace of the moment was shattered forever.

The train door separating it from the next car banged open, and the deep, smug voice assailed Joe’s ears.

“Nobody move. Nobody gets hurt. Nobody try anything funny.”

The passengers stirred and jerked awake, disoriented by the lateness of the hour. The conductor had wandered through earlier, shushing passengers and urging them to respect their neighbors by staying quiet or at least peacefully occupied. Lanterns and sconces had been extinguished, and those wealthy enough to afford private sleeper cars were far enough away from their interlopers’ announcement not to panic, yet.

The men weren’t ticket holders. They wore dark clothing and black bandannas obscuring their faces. Their leader was tall and rangy and had a voice like a hyena; he sounded like he’d been gargling kerosene and snake venom, and his countenance was mean and hard. Joe didn’t miss the gleam of his pistol in the dark, or of his companions’.

“Listen to me, folks. Get your hands up in the air after you empty your pockets. You. I know this train has a safe.” He barked at the conductor, who gaped at him, hovering just beyond the edge of the doorway. “Go and open it up. Now.” Men slowly edged closer to their wives, who clutched their children tight. “NOW!” the thug repeated tersely, when no one moved quickly enough for his liking to comply. “I want jewelry, money, pocket knives, watches, liquor, you name it. Put it out in the aisle where I can see it.”

“What kind of men rob a train and harass good, upstanding people?” One of the passengers demanded from the left, leaning his head around the edge of his seat.

“Good, upstanding people?” Their robber scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re all sitting down. Now, stay down,” he warned.

The robbers quickly swarmed the train car. “Fan out,” their leader muttered. “Shake them down. Don’t miss anything, and don’t be shy.” The passengers tensed up, taking defensive postures, shrinking down into their seats. A young woman screamed in fright, and one of the robbers backhanded her in umbrage. “That’s enough of that, missy!” She wept as she turned out the contents of her reticule and handed over a small, silver flask. Gradually, the passengers obeyed, and soon the aisle was littered with money, jewelry and other small treasures. Lockets, pocketwatches. A fine fountain pen with a silver nib.

When they reached Joseph, the robber sneered down at him. “Stop taking your sweet time. You’re overstuffed and well-fed, partner. I know you’ve got the goods, so hand ‘em over.” This man was bigger than the rest, and Joe saw his long, thick blond hair that was pulled back from his face into a crude braid, with ratty tendrils escaping from beneath the brim of his black Stetson. He wore a dark bandanna around the lower half of his face, and he was massive and ham-fisted.

“Easy now, man,” Joe urged. “There’s no need to make a fuss.” He turned out his pockets, but his robber reached automatically for the pocketwatch Joe had hanging from his vest pocket by a gleaming fob. It was silver and slightly tarnished, and it crossed the ocean with his father from the emerald isle, an heirloom he’d meant to pass down to Steven, when he became a man and could truly appreciate it. He thought of the last time he’d found little Stevie pondering the watch, quietly letting it spin from its fob and fingering the case by the firelight before Joe gently reached for it. Steve tucked it into his palm, looking wishful. His son loved shiny things; what little rascal at that age didn’t? Joe eyed his son. He was still tiny, and skinny for his age, grubby despite Sarah’s best efforts to keep him clean. He wore a mended shirt and clean dungarees, and his soft blond hair fell slightly into his pale blue eyes. They reminded Joe of the string of pearls he’d given Sarah on their anniversary, just a couple of years after their shop began to turn a profit. It was a costly gift, and she scolded him for being profligate, even as her eyes lit up when he fastened it around her neck, fumbling a little with the tiny clasp.

Yes, Stevie liked shiny things. “Will I have one like that one day, Pa?”

“What? This? A pocketwatch?”

“Uh-huh.” Steve nodded expectantly, and Joe sat down and snaked out an arm, snaring Steve in his grasp as he began to tickle his sides. Steve tried to twist away and giggled infectiously.

“You want your pa’s watch already, whippersnapper?”

“I like it, it’s nice, Pa!” he insisted, and that only earned him more tickles.

“Will you work hard and be a good man?”

“Yes, yes!!!”

“You promise?”

“Yes! I’m gonna be a big, strong man, just like you!”

“I don’t know. Seems like you’ve got a little more growing to do, varmint!” Joe teased. But he hugged him and kissed his flushed cheek and then released him with a gentle swat. He handed him the watch. “Here. Go and put that into your ma’s jewelry box so that nothing happens to it.”

“Okay, Pa.”

“Good boy.”

Steven Grant Rogers was his only child. And lucky, too, since Sarah had a hard time bringing him into the world. Joseph Rogers had almost lost them both, but their neighbor, Agatha, was a talented midwife who knew all the tricks. Sarah was wan and drained by the end of it all, but Agatha walked smugly from their old bedroom with the tiniest, crankiest, baldest infant boy swaddled in her arms.

“He’s a mean, tiny little mite. Here you go. Let’s let her rest for a bit.”

Joe didn’t even process that she’d gently deposited the baby into his arms. He just found himself awkwardly swaying on his feet, rocking the baby in an uneasy rhythm. Tiny, wrinkly fingers found their way into his son’s mouth, and he was already sucking on them, clearly expecting milk at some point. His face was screwed up and red as an apple, and barely visible, sandy brows were frowning up at Joe, but his heart melted at the sound of his tiny, squalling cries and snuffling.

“Little stinker,” he murmured in a tone of love and awe. “Hello, Stevie. Say hello to your pa.”

*

And now, this big galoot had designs on Steve’s watch. His grandfather’s watch that told Joe every morning that he was opening the shop on time.

Starch leapt into Joe’s spine. “No.”

“What was that?”

His robber sounded flummoxed.

“What’s taking so long?” That was his boss, the dark-eyed one with the raspy voice. “Get what he’s got and move it along! We ain’t got all day! You gonna wait til the cows come home for one mark?”

“You said you wanted us to take everything, and he doesn’t wanna give up that nice watch,” the blond growled.

“When’s that ever stopped you before?”

“It ain’t. I’m just making up my mind.”

“About what?”

“About whether or not I’m gonna let ‘im finish the ride home.”

A sickening chill rushed over Joe’s flesh, and his heart sank.

“Hey.” That as Joe’s neighbor behind him, voice sounding anxious and higher-pitched. “There’s no need to be rash about this. Everyone’s cooperating and going along. Nobody needs to get hurt.”

Brock Rumlow stared at him and shrugged, a cavalier gesture, and followed it with a little huff. “You’re right, sir. Can’t argue that.”

Because Brock wasn’t a man to argue.

He reached out and hoisted the man out of his seat and jerked him along to the back of the car, while Joe tried to crane his neck around to follow his path, but the burly blond clicked his pistol and planted the barrel directly into Joe’s sternum.

“No. Don’t look back. You look at me.”

He heard the door to the car jerk open, and then slam, followed by a scuffle and low cries. Then, the sounds of the engine were undercut by a shrill, masculine scream, and Joe watched through the window in horror moments later as a body went tumbling and rolling down the slight rise in the terrain in the dark.

Brock strode back over to Joe’s seat. Joe was shuddering and gasping, hands shaking as he fumbled with the fob of his watch, unpinning it from his vest. His hand was still shaking when he went to hand it over. Victor reached for it impatiently, but Joe dropped it.

In that moment, he heard his own death knell.

“What’s wrong with you?” Brock growled.

“Dang it, Rumlow, quit barkin’ at me!”

“Sonofa…”

Victor sucked in a hiss. He knew Rumlow as going to take that slip out of his hide when he had him alone. He bent down to get the watch, but he hissed at the sound of someone cocking a shotgun.

“Rumlow.”

The name escaped Joe’s lips. Low. Terse. Unintentional.

Brock’s eyes narrowed into flinty chips.

“That’s enough outta you.”

“Drop your guns!” the conductor cried. “Or none of you are gonna make it off this train!”

“There’s more of us than there is of you!” Brock crowed, and the conductor ducked back as soon as he saw Brock raise his gun, just missing him as the bullet blew out the train car door’s glass pane. It exploded from the frame in tinkling shards, and the car filled with screams and sobs.

Victor turned tail and scrambled toward the front of the car, forgetting about Joe’s pocket watch. He kicked it aside in his scramble, and the conductor recovered himself long enough to fire at him. The shot missed as they went through a dark tunnel.

Chunks of moonlight flashed through the car, vanishing and leaving them in total darkness for breathless moments. Victor sped toward the door and burst into the next train car, aiming for the engine. They were in over their heads. Rumlow’s men rushed to gather up the valuables on the aisle, done with harassing the passengers for now. The goal was to get off the train, but Rumlow had to deal with a couple of last details.

He raised his pistol and fired, and the first bullet took the conductor down in a chilling gurgle.

He aimed again for the left side of the car, and his second bullet found his mark. More screams greeted him, but it didn’t faze him. He considered the rest of the car, wondered if it was worth it to use up anymore of his bullets.

But then, a young man burst through the front train car door, aiming his gun for Brock, and he fired. Rumlow hissed as the bullet grazed him, burning the flesh over the edge of his ear. He dropped down and dove behind the seat, heart pounding.

That was a warning shot from a man who wasn’t about to take any shit, he realized. Brock rose briefly over the edge and fired back, but he missed him when he dove back, himself, beyond the edge of the alcove. He couldn’t afford to do this all night…

The trains brakes made the rig squeal to a long, skidding stop, and Rumlow and his men made their way off through the caboose, greeted by their riders that Mr. Pierce hired to ensure that things went smoothly.

A young boy broke loose from his mother’s embrace and ran out from the sleeper car, drawn to the commotion in the other car. He burst through the door, intrigued by the spray of broken glass in the aisle. Something small and shiny drew his gaze on the floor. He bent down and scooped up the pocket watch and dangled it by its fob chain.

He turned toward the man slumped over in the seat nearby. “Hey, mister, is this yours…”

His voice trailed off when he saw Joe’s empty blue eyes staring up at him, and he shrank back, screaming.

*

Fate wasn’t always kind. But sometimes, it did you small favors.

One of the passengers who made Joseph Rogers’ acquaintance retrieved the watch. He rode the rest of the way beyond his own hometown and disembarked from the train in The End of the Line’s small station just past dawn. He told the local authorities what happened as the rest of the passengers scrambled off the train. Few of them had enough money to hire coaches to convey them home; some families shared rides on wagons into town, while many waited in abject despair, stranded and practically helpless. Everyone looked dead-eyed and hopeless, drained by the events of the night.

Nicholas Fury descended the train steps and holstered his pistol. His stare was grim as he reached into his pocket and fingered the small, hard burden it held.

Rogers. Joe Rogers. He repeated the name almost silently.

He owned the mercantile, according to the locals. It wouldn’t be hard to find.

He managed to barter a ride on a wagon into town. The hay bale at his back felt scratchy through his clothing as he leaned back against it and watched the winds blow through the dry grasses while they rode.

*

Now:

Steve opened his watch’s case and peered down at the time. He had a few minutes left before the bank was due to close, and they would miss their chance to deposit the day’s earnings.

“Come on, Sam,” he muttered under his breath. He decided that he would just have to lock up on his own and go himself, even though the two of them had gotten into the habit of going together. Steve tucked the money pouch into his hat and simply donned it, deciding it was better than walking down the street with a bulging pocket.

Just as he locked up the shop, Sam came running breathlessly and caught him by the arm. “Steve,” he gasped. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I was held up… that new mare of ours decided to drop her foal at the worst possible time.”

Steve laughed and clapped Sam on the shoulder. “New foal?”

“Sweet little mare,” Sam told him. “Prettiest, skinniest little thing you’ve ever seen. Looks like she wants to have a dappled coat. I can tell she’s gonna be nothing but trouble. Had to wash up and change my shirt.”

Steve huffed. “It’s just a trip to the bank, Sam.”

“I’m more of a gentleman than that,” Sam claimed. “More than you, anyway.”

Steve chuckled and shrugged. “Let’s go before they close.”

They rounded the corner, and Steve collided with Bucky just as he exited the telegram station. Bucky reached out for him instinctively, and his slate blue eyes were contrite. Steve jolted to attention, annoyed for a brief moment at the interruption of his quick strides. They were running late, but…

Sheriff Barnes.

He was dressed for work, badge gleaming in the afternoon light, and a shadow of stubble graced his sharp, square jaw. His thick, walnut brown hair hung loosely around his face, and Steve noticed patches of sweat darkening the fabric of his brown shirt. His grip on Steve’s arm was a brisk squeeze that gentled when he realized who Steve was, and his smile brought out dimples and little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Steve felt his stomach swoop for a moment and cleared his throat. Steve felt a strange current pass between them.

Bucky felt his mouth go dry. Steve was a little tousled from a long day of work. Bucky liked him in that hat, with his shirt sleeves rolled up. Steve looked like he hadn’t shaved properly since the town social, and his beard was coming back in. Bucky scolded himself against the urge to caress his jaw and enjoy its scratchy softness against his palm. Sweat gleamed on his skin where his shirt was unbuttoned below his throat, giving Bucky an enticing glimpse of his chest.

“Excuse me, Sheriff. Didn’t see you coming. Uh… hello.”

“Hello, uh… Steve. Mr. Rogers… no, Steve.”

“He’ll answer to it, when he isn’t feeling hardheaded,” Sam joked. “Hello, Sheriff.”

“Where are you two off to in such a big hurry?” Bucky asked as he withdrew his hand, and Steve felt a little bereft at the loss of contact. Bucky swiped his hand through his hair, scraping it back from his face and wasn’t ready to step aside to let them pass. Not… yet.

“The bank. It’s about to close,” Steve told him, failing to keep the impatience from his tone.

“What do you know good, Sheriff Barnes?” Sam asked.

“Not much. Received a telegram. Scott Lang stopped by the office and told me he heard the clerk saying it had come in when he was checking on his own post.”

“I hate to be rude, Sheriff, but we’re running late,” Steve cut in. “Sorry we can’t stay and chat… I can’t, anyway…”

“Sure, you can,” Sam argued. He held out his hand. “Here. Let me take care of it?”

“Huh?”

“The deposit, Steve. I can take care of it, if you and the good sheriff want to get caught up.” Sam quirked his brow, the gesture so slight that Steve wondered if he was imagining it.

“The good sheriff probably has a prior appointment, Wilson.”

“Uh. Not… anything urgent,” Bucky offered.

Sam grinned at Steve with satisfaction. “Have you tried Natasha’s root beer?”

Bucky shook his head. “Not yet.”

“You’re missing a treat. And it’s Steve’s favorite,” Sam informed him. “He’s not one for whiskey.”

Bucky smirked. “You’re not, huh?”

“Sam-”

“Hand over the bag, Steve.” Sam didn’t wait for further preamble. He dragged Steve just inside the doorway of the telegram office and reached for Steve’s hat, evading his attempt to swat at Sam.

“Wilson! Quit it!” he hissed.

“You’ll thank me, later. You’ve been in the store all day. You’ve earned a cool drink, right?”

Sam yanked Steve’s hat up from his hair, now slightly mashed, and the money sack dropped into Sam’s palm. He clapped Steve’s hat back into place and evaded Steve again when he tried to snatch the sack back from Sam.

“See you tomorrow, Rogers!” Sam called back to him as he hustled off down the walkway toward the bank.

“So.” Bucky’s voice was bright and amused. “Root beer.”

“Uh. It’s. It’s good.”

Steve rubbed his nape as he stepped out of the telegraph office doorway, looking flustered, and, in Bucky’s opinion, adorable.

“Did you have anywhere else you had to be? Besides the bank?”

“Um. Not. Yet?”

Bucky jerked his head and considered Steve for a moment. “Well, c’mon, then, friend. Let me buy you a drink.”

Minutes later, Steve sat across from Bucky in the crowded saloon, feeling a little foolish. He wondered why he didn’t offer Bucky any possible excuse that only came to him now that they were ensconced at a small table that Natasha showed them to all the way in the back, where Steve couldn’t make a fast escape, and Natasha had the nerve to give him an innocent smile worthy of any schoolgirl as she set down their glasses.

“I figured you for more of a cognac or gin man, Sheriff Barnes,” she teased. “But, Steve here has a sweet tooth. You won’t find him here in his cups.”

“No tolerance?” Bucky asked politely.

“No taste for it,” Steve tossed back. “I don’t particularly care for gin.”

“Even when I’ve offered him my best,” Natasha added. “Enjoy, gentlemen.” She wandered off and shot Steve a brief smirk over her shoulder, and Steve narrowed his eyes in reply, until he caught Bucky staring at him. He promptly felt his cheeks heat up.

“Salute,” Bucky offered as he held up his glass in a toast. Steve lifted his own in return and gave his the obligatory clink.

“Cheers, Sheriff.”

“You, er, don’t…” Bucky’s voice hesitated. “You don’t have to keep calling me ‘Sheriff.’ Bucky is fine.”

Steve nearly choked on the sip he took of his drink. He sputtered and swiped at his lips with the back of his knuckles. Bucky gave him an amused look. “What?”

“That’s some nickname. How did you arrive at ‘Bucky?’ That sounds…”

“What?”

“Well, it sounds like a name for a snot-nosed brat,” Steve teased. “Not… for a sheriff.”

Bucky frowned, huffing a little as he settled back in his seat and stretch out his long legs under the table, and that made his foot bump up against Steve’s for a moment, which of course made Steve blush again. “Tell that to my sister, Becca. She was the one who couldn’t pronounce ‘James Buchanan.’ I was named after my grandpa, just so you know. You wouldn’t slander the name of a dearly departed man, would you, Steve?”

“No. Maybe not his name, but I have some thoughts about ‘Bucky.’ It does make you sound like a little rascal instead of a grown man, let alone a sheriff.”

This time, Bucky choked on his drink, and Steve’s eyes twinkled back at him. “You wound me, Steve.”

Sam snuck into the saloon through the back door and crept close to Natasha, who was humming to herself as she cleaned glass tumblers. Sam approached quietly, and his fingers grazed her waist as he slipped his arms around her. Natasha smiled without turning to face him, recognizing his hands and his scent immediately. Sam nuzzled her throat, and she made an appreciative sound low in her throat.

“Where have you been?” she accused.

“I had to relieve Steve of an errand. I was at the bank. And I delivered a foal.”

“That mare of yours was sure cranky last night,” Natasha agreed, because this was something she knew. In recent days, she had eaten at Darlene Wilson’s supper table and grown familiar with Sam’s hay loft in the Wilson barn after the sun had set. Clint pretended not to notice her late return to the saloon the following morning, or the faint love bite marring the side of her throat.

“Maybe because we were disturbing her peace,” Sam pointed out, nonplussed. She felt soft and pliant in his arms, and she shivered when he nibbled on her ear and let his lips graze the edge of her cheek.

“Not that much…”

Sam hummed a denial, making her chuckle a little, and she set down the glass before she turned in his arms to give him a proper greeting. She craned her neck up to meet him and kissed him, a soft brush of his lips that eventually made her open for him. She sucked on his plush lower lip until his tongue swept into her mouth to caress and tease. Natasha let him play for a minute, coiling her arms around his neck and combing her fingers through his soft, wiry hair. Sam groaned at how good she tasted, both tart and sweet from the bit of lemon hard candy she’d enjoyed moments earlier.

“Nat, I was meaning to tell you, we’re out of… grenadine. Shit.”

That was Clint’s baritone, washing over the two of them like a bucket of icy water. Natasha and Sam sprang apart. Natasha had the decency to look flushed. Sam cleared his throat, and he quietly folded his arms across his middle.

“All right,” Clint sighed. He waved them off and headed back into the saloon from where he came.

“Blast,” Natasha muttered. Sam just stared at her. “Don’t look at me like that. He knows. I mentioned what’s going on between us to him. It’s… just different, when he can see it.”

“He doesn’t still have any designs on you?”

“No. He wouldn’t.”

“You forget though, Natasha,” Sam murmured. “You’re you. He most certainly would.”

“He doesn’t, Samuel. Come, now. Help me take the rest of these out front.”

Clint saw Steve and the new sheriff sitting out front and decided to invite himself to their table. He pulled up a chair in lieu of a greeting and just grinned at them as he sat down.

“Root beer?” Clint accused. “That had to be Rogers’ idea.”

“It wasn’t a bad idea,” Bucky told him. “S’good root beer.”

“Go ahead, Barton. Take a load off,” Steve muttered.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

“You thought right.”

Clint shook his head and snickered. “I’m already as useful back there,” he said, waving toward the back room and kitchenette, “as a second tail on a pig. Let me cool my heels here for a minute, and I’ll move on.”

Before Steve could make any further retort, Scott Lang burst in through the swinging doors, clutching a newspaper. “Hey,” he cried, “did you all hear about what happened last week at the Lonestar’s ranch?”

“I did,” Clint called out.

“Well, someone was up to funny business out at the DaCosta ranch, too. Someone marked up their barn with a warning to get out of town. Same thing happened at the Guthries’, too.”

“Dag nab it,” Clint grumbled. “What’s wrong with folks these days? Perfectly nice barn. Fresh paint ain’t cheap.”

“That’s not the point, Barton. Where’s your sense, man? Someone’s making threats!”

Bucky nodded and immediately downed the rest of his drink. Steve watched, rapt, as he worked the liquid down his throat, unable to quit staring at the cords of muscle in his neck. Bucky set down the glass and wiped his mouth, now rosy, glistening and damp, against the the back of his hand. “That hit the spot, but I have to go and meet my deputy.”

Chapter Text

Bucky growled in exasperation and plowed his hand through his hair. His back ached from being crouched over the table in the town’s library, and then again in his own office at the old, beat-up desk.

“Find anything else?” Sharon asked as she brought him a cup of coffee that smelled like chicory.

Bucky accepted it gratefully and took a brief sip. “We have any sugar or milk?”

“Sugar. It’s been a while since we bought any milk. I might be able to ask Nat for some.”

“Don’t bother, then. Thank you.”

Sharon smiled at him and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “What else did you find?”

“I found myself a headache. And more questions.” His smile was gentle, and wry. It wasn’t Sharon’s favorite smile of his by far.

Sharon and Bucky returned from the Guthries’ and DaCostas’ properties with evidence, detailed reports from both families, and still not much of a lead. Bucky briefly regretted leaving the saloon, and he was a little satisfied to see his dismay reflected in Steve’s eyes and in that polite smile and nod as Bucky got up from the table and made his excuses. He was just beginning to enjoy his rich, deep voice and his constant twinkle of humor.

Natasha appeared a few minutes later and then looked annoyed to find Steve and Clint playing cards. Sam asked to be dealt in and took up Bucky’s abandoned seat.

“Where’s the sheriff?”

“He had business elsewhere.”

“That’s a shame,” she said. She glanced at Steve and told him coyly, “You two seemed to get on well.”

“Is that what you call it?” Steve considered his cards. He only had two pair. He was sure Barton was sitting on a more promising hand; the man had the worst poker face in the world.

“He’s a pleasant man and seems to have a sterling character.”

“You can tell all of that just from the way he drinks a glass of root beer?” Steve asked.

Natasha bit the corner of her lip. Sam reached up and patted her arm. They exchanged looks, and Nat sighed before she walked off.

“Sheriff Barnes is pleasant enough,” Clint murmured as he considered his cards again, grinned, and fanned them out face-up. “Read ‘em and weep, boys.”

Steve and Sam smothered curses and slapped down their own losing hands. While Sam and Clint argued about who would deal next, Steve glanced around to make sure that Bucky was really gone. He got up and went to the doorway, peering over the short, swinging doors. No sign of the sheriff or his horse. Steve returned to the table.

“Sam?”

“Hm?”

“I might need you to help me run some errands.”

“We just went to the bank!”

“Not those errands.”

Sam read his meaning, and his smile dropped. He sighed and rolled his eyes, sagging back into his seat.

“What? You two are leaving already? I have to beat you again!” Clint cried.

“Here, Lang. Sit down and play with this crook,” Sam told Scott, motioning for him to take his seat.

Clint grinned as he gave the cards a shuffle that made them flap loudly. Scott cringed a little. He had the feeling this was going to be painful. Steve and Sam disappeared around the corner; passerby ignored them for the most part, but Sam could be heard telling Steve, “You are one stubborn cuss, you know that?”

*

Bucky and Sharon pored over the information they found in the library.

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to find in that old, dusty thing,” Sharon said. She stared dubiously at Bucky, who was poring over an old ledger that he borrowed.

“Receipts. Transactions.”

“From who?”

“Just money changing hands. The right hands,” Bucky offered. “These are financial records from when the DaCostas moved here. And the Guthries. Property purchase records of when they signed the deeds to their spreads.” Bucky sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Everything looks good. No crooked deals that I can tell. Both families own their properties outright.”

“All right. So, who would want them off of it?”

“Someone who thinks they’re sitting on something valuable? Same with the Lonestar ranch. They live on good, productive land for cattle,” Bucky pointed out. “But, what if someone thinks they’re sitting on a claim of some kind?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. This was a failed gold rush town, once,” Bucky reminded her. “Now, it’s just another stop on the railroad.”

Sharon hummed thoughtfully. “I guess. I just… I had a bad feeling, back at the Stark compound.”

Bucky snorted. “I never would have guessed…”

Sharon swatted him with the ledger, making him snicker. Then, she leaned back and folded her arms, resting her hip against the edge of Bucky’s desk.

“I wouldn’t buy snake oil from Alexander Pierce. That man’s crooked and smiled at me with too many teeth.”

“He’s rich. Man like that smiles about a lot.”

“Makes my skin crawl.” She shuddered for emphasis.

“So. Pierce.”

Sharon sipped her coffee. “I just know he’s wrapped up in all of this.”

“Doesn’t seem like the type to do something as juvenile as vandalizing a barn.”

“No. But, he seems like the sort that can pay people to deliver a message. He thinks he’s charming, but money talks.”

*

“It’s times like this, Rogers, that I miss my bed,” Sam muttered. “Sensible folks are tucked into theirs right about now.”

“Your bed?”

Steve gave Sam a pointed look, and his blue eyes crinkled a little at the way Sam’s rolled back at him, along with his low huff of annoyance.

“You’re going to make me give Miss Romanoff the wrong idea.”

“She has the wrong idea about you anyway, if she thinks you’re a gentleman, Wilson.”

“I am a gentleman. I just have terrible taste in friends.”

They sat astride their mounts in the dark, mere meters from the back side of the Guthrie barn.

“What are we looking for?”

“Funny business,” Steve told Sam. “Cover me.”

Sam patted his Colt and nodded, and Steve climbed down from his saddle. Sam held his horse’s reins and watched him drift through the darkness toward the barn. His face was covered and he wore his mask, even though it was late enough that no one would instantly recognize him. Steve saw the illumination inside the house; the Guthries still had their fire lit, and it sounded like Josh was playing his guitar after supper. The Guthries were a raucous bunch, and Steve was grateful that the noise from inside would provide him with better cover than anything else while he searched the property for clues.

At least this time, no one tried to start a fire, but…

Steve found a lantern hanging from a hook and withdrew a book of matches from his pocket. He lit the wick, and the scent of kerosene wafted up to his nose. The lantern’s soft, golden glow picked out the large, jagged red shape and crude message scrawled over the barn doors.

Get the hell off of this land.

And there was a strange picture alongside the words that tickled Steve’s memory. An eight-armed creature. Large head, cruel, leering eyes.

“What is that damned thing?” Steve murmured.

“Pa?”

That was a young, girlish voice. “I left Shelby outside.” Steve stiffened briefly and quickly extinguished the lantern.

“Let Sam get her for you.”

“He doesn’t know where she is!”

“Then, take him with you and show him. Don’t run out there in the dark all by yourself, Paige!”

Steve huddled behind the barn, hoping he had escaped their notice. He heard two sets of footsteps growing closer and felt his heartbeat speed up a little, sweating slightly under his bandana.

“Why did somebody have to put that on our barn?” Paige sounded confused and more than a little put out about it.

“I dunno, punkin’,” Sam offered. “Someone didn’t have better things t’do with their time, I s’pose.”

“It’s ugly. The whole barn looks pretty rotten, now.”

“You can help me paint it, shoog.”

“I left her over here.”

“Let me get us some light.”

By the time Sam found the lantern and lit it, Steve made it back to Sam. He was a little breathless, and he felt sheepish when Sam tsked at him and waited for him to climb back onto his horse.

“Was it worth it? Was this worth it?”

“Sort of. I’ve seen that before.”

“The message?”

“No. The thing they painted next to it. It’s got to be the same men who tried to burn down William and Peg’s spread.” Steve didn’t bother to add It has to be Rumlow.

“There’s nothing worth chasing them out of here for,” Sam mused. “There hasn’t been gold in these hills in a long time.”

“No river for panning. Not close enough to the old mines.”

They cantered off, back to the main road. Sam Guthrie heard their hoofbeats and raised his lantern, but they were moving too fast for him to get a decent look at their uninvited guests.

“Pa! PA!” he yelled as he dragged Paige inside once she had the chance to curl her found doll under her arm.

The Guthrie sons and their father kept watch for the next hour, but thankfully, no one ever came back.

*

Brock Rumlow hissed and cursed as the country doctor probed and re-dressed his wound. “Damn it! That stings!”

“I’m almost done. You don’t want this wound to go foul, Mr. Rumlow.”

Brock growled and settled himself into the pillows. The late morning sunlight crept in through a crack in the curtains. Mr. Pierce’s guest suite was plush enough, and it faced the back of the house, so at least they were guaranteed privacy. Brock had to lay low since the night at the ranch. Riding his horse was agony for him, but it was a necessary evil; he reached Pierce’s compound the other night, still bleeding and missing most of his entourage. Pierce was calm when his servants let him inside and stabled his horse.

But, once he waved his personal physician over to attend to him, he spoke to him in clipped tones. “This is a bit unseemly, Rumlow.”

“I know that, sir.”

“And it’s late.”

“I’m sorry about that, sir.”

“Want some milk?”

“Nah. Might ‘preciate something stronger, though.”

Pierce nodded, laughing silently. “Not here. Don’t drip on that carpet. It’s Persian.”

“Were you shot?” Dr. Zola stared owlishly at Brock through his thick spectacles. “Did the bullet go right through?”

“Wasn’t a bullet,” Brock grumbled. “It was an arrow.”

Pierce paused in opening a bottle of gin. “You went to the Lonestar ranch?”

“Sure did.”

“Then, it didn’t go well.”

“It was going fine until the Captain and that bastard partner of his showed up uninvited.”

Pierce sighed.

Brock’s blood ran cold. He dreaded that sound.

“I’m paying you good money to do a specific job, Brock.”

“I know that.”

“Then why are you making it sound like you weren’t successful? Why is the Moonstar ranch still occupied?”

“I’m just going to have to try again.”

“You and your men?”

“Well…”

Brock let out a gusty breath and considered his next words very hard. Pierce waited. He poured two glasses of gin but didn’t hand one over to Brock yet.

“What’s left of my men,” Rumlow offered. His voice was calm, but Pierce saw something in his eyes that made him smirk.

Fear.

“You do need this, then,” Pierce said as he handed him the drink. He waited for Brock to down it, because of course that heathen didn’t know how to treat fine liquor.

Then, Pierce rounded the bed and leaned over the other side, no longer facing Brock, and he jabbed his finger, deep and hard, down into the slick, weeping wound. Brock’s body stiffened, and he let out a guttural roar.

“Stings, doesn’t it?”

“Yes - yes, goddamn it!”

“Sloppy work, Brock. You come back to me with your tail between your legs, after taking an arrow in the ass, reeking of failure and God knows whatever filth you’ve been rolling around in, and the Moonstars are still up on that hill, on that land. That’s my land, understand?”

Pierce yanked his hand free and found one of his fine linen handkerchiefs, heedless of the pristine white fabric as he used it to clean his hand.

“The Captain…”

“What?”

“The Captain showed up,” Brock rasped. “Him and that partner of his. They played dirty and took down most of my gang. The two of us made our way back to town. We gave ‘em a warning and told them to pack their things, and…” Brock’s voice died.

“They’re still there.”

Pierce’s voice was brittle as he sipped his gin. He sighed.

“What do you plan to do to remedy this, Brock?”

“Victor and I can round up a few men. Men who can get the job done.”

“Who else knows you were up on that hill?”

“I was careful!” Brock snapped, but he broke out into a rash of cold sweat.

The Captain knew him. He made him. All of his best laid plans were lying at his feet in cinders.

That left Brock with the question, then, as he pondered his problem, while he let the doctor stitch and dress his wound.

Who was that masked man? And his damned partner?

*

Victor Creed wasn’t the sort of man who blended all that well into a crowd. No, sir. Not when he stood almost seven feet tall, he was built like a grizzly, and his narrow blue eyes were as mean as a snake’s. The only barber in town couldn’t tell you when the last time was that Vic walked into his shop and paid for a decent trim and a shave, but the locals could describe the last few times he’d left the saloon, or the apartments adjoining them for a bit of “gentleman’s entertainment.” Victor was a terrible gambler and an even worse loser, and when he threatened to carve his name in Clint Barton’s chest for beating him fair and square at five-card stud, Natasha taught him some manners. She offered him another shot of her best moonshine, but when she came close enough to him to pour him a glass, he caught a glimpse down the neckline of her bodice, providing her just the distraction she needed.

Her sharp, wicked stiletto pressed into his throat before he could blink.

“No one cheats at cards in my bar,” she hissed. “That’s not how we do things around here.”

“That sneaky bastard -”

“Doesn’t cheat at cards. Maybe Mr. Barton doesn’t always show the good sense that God gave a turkey on a trough, but he’s an honest man. And I don’t care for your temper.”

Clint edged his seat back from the table and laced his fingers together over his middle. “I’ve got more sense than that,” he murmured.

“Quiet, Clint.”

Clint shrugged, sighing, but a smirk played at the corner of his mouth, entirely at Victor’s expense.

“Say you’re sorry. Or I’ll draw you a pretty necklace, Victor. Would you like that?”

Her eyes were hard, even while she was smiling at him with her prettiest dimples.

Victor never made the mistake of playing cards with Clint Barton again, and he didn’t accuse Natasha of watering down his gin, even though he knew she had, that no-good harlot.

Victor Creed had a reputation, for better or worse. In a town like The End of the Line, though, it couldn’t hurt. Creed and Rumlow had their fun. Run out some of the riff-raff. Paved the way for Pierce, Fisk, Schmidt, and some of those other stuffed shirts to make what “progress” they wanted and fill their pockets. Sometimes, a little coin spilled into Victor’s pockets, something he had no problem with. He hadn’t gotten this far by having a problem up until now.

He hadn’t heard from Gibney in a while, but then Victor read the post and saw him listed as one of the men that “the Captain” rounded up at the Moonstar ranch, and Victor felt a wave of relief that he hadn’t helped Rumlow with that job, after all. Well. Maybe it would have gone more smoothly if he had. Brock had a bad habit of giving Vic too little credit, and it chafed.

Sometimes, Victor did his best thinking in the bathtub.

Birdie scrubbed his back and poured steaming water into his hair from a small pitcher, trying to work the tangles out of the thick, dark blond mass. “Who do you think you are with all of this hair? Samson?” she teased.

“What’s it to you?”

“Just seems like it would be more practical to have it cut when it’s hot out, like it is,” she reasoned.

“You ain’t my barber. Keep scrubbing my back and do what I paid you for.”

Birdie tsked. He’d already overstayed his money’s worth, but she sweetened the water with a little more of her fragrant soap. Vic had a sinner’s mouth, but at least he wouldn’t stink, now.

“I went to the library yesterday,” she said, just to change the subject.

He snickered. “So, you read, now?”

“Oh, hush.”

Victor’s arm snaked itself around her waist, and he yanked her closer, forcing her to balance precariously against the edge of the tub. “Why’s this important?”

“I saw the sheriff and his deputy there. They were talking to the man at the desk. Sounded like they were looking for something.”

Victor frowned. “Like what?”

“I couldn’t tell, but it sounded like receipts, or something. Oh, wait… I remember, now. Property records. They mentioned the Lonestars up on the hill? And the Costas. Wait, the DaCostas.”

“Why in the hell would they need to know about that?”

“I don’t know, Victor. Do I look like a sheriff to you?” she joked.

She gave up a shrill yelp as he shoved her away from him and rose up from the tub in a rush of splashing water, much of which trailed across the floor planks as he stomped out of the lavatory.

This didn’t bode well.

“Get me my damned clothes, and hurry up about it.”

*

The following night:

The night finally cooled off enough that Bucky no longer felt the heat from the ground rising up through his boots and cooking his soles, but the humidity was almost as bad. The air still felt heavy and stale without a sufficient breeze to freshen it, and Bucky decided that he, too, needed a bath. Sharon boiled a kettle of water for him and added it to the big, metal washtub that would serve his purposes for the moment, warming the rest of the water to slightly warmer than tepid. Sharon, not coy at all, simply told him “Don’t forget to get the back of your neck and behind your ears, Sheriff.”

She ducked and laughed when Bucky threw the wash rag at her retreating back as he unbuttoned his shirt, and she gently clicked the lavatory door shut. The jailhouse apartment was spartan and still only in slightly better repair than it was when they first arrived, but Steve Rogers, of all people, had stopped by that morning, looking concerned, and perhaps a little appalled.

*

His eyes swept over the cluttered space. It was at least clean, smelling like lemon oil polish. Steve could tell that Sharon had also blacked the tiny stove in the corner. Amusement lurked in his eyes at the sight of the curtains, made from the fabric she’d found in his store.

“Good morning, Sheriff.”

Bucky looked up from the ledger he was studying and immediately rose to his feet. “Morning, Steve. Who’s minding the store?”

“Just Ma and Sam. They shooed me out and sent me on a mission of mercy.”

Bucky’s brows drew together, but then he gave Steve a slow, intrigued smile. “Do tell.”

“Those windows of yours. Uh. They look like… someone was a little bold.” He nodded to the one window whose panes were cracked and decorated with glistening bullet holes that were letting in the flies. “I thought I’d help with, uh. Fixing ‘em.”

“That’s not something you need to worry about, Stevie.”

Steve felt his flush creep all the way up to the tops of his ears, and Bucky realized he’d said the endearment out loud before he could stop himself. “But… I am worried about it. I mean, the good citizens of this town are, uh. Worried. Just seems a little, well. Unseemly. I mean. It might not inspire much confidence in the people in this town, seeing all those. Y’know. Bullet holes.”

“Ah.” Bucky folded his arms over his chest and rocked on his heels. Sharon bit her lip as she watched Steve muddle through his offer. “You don’t think folks are confident in my ability to enforce the law?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well. Not like you said it.” Bucky paused. “More like you implied it.”

Steve was flabbergasted. He glanced over at Sharon, who raised her sandy brows at him and planted her hand on her hip.

“It still sounds like you’re doubting our ability to inspire confidence and lead the charge against wrongdoing, Mr. Rogers.”

Bucky was brimming - bursting - with the need to laugh.

Then, Steve took a different tack. “Maybe the two of you could follow the Captain’s example,” Steve suggested. “Seems like he gets things done.”

That made Sharon gawp.

“The Captain? You mean that outlaw?” she accused, letting her voice rise a little.

“He’s not the one breaking the law.” Steve warmed up to the subject, not realizing why. He felt a strange flutter in his gut, which wasn’t unusual when he was around Bucky, anyway, but.

He need just need a minute to blow his own horn. He felt himself standing a little taller, a little prouder, and watched Bucky’s arms unfold themselves, letting his hands rest gently on his narrow hips.

Dang, he was a striking man. Steve liked him in that soft, gray calico shirt and his brown buckskin vest. He still favored wearing his hair slightly longer than fashion dictated, and the morning sunlight picked out glints of auburn in the dark brown waves.

“A man with nothing to hide shouldn’t need to wear a mask. Or move around in the dead of night,” Bucky reasoned. “I’ve read about him. I don’t know if I agree with his methods.”

“What about his results, then?”

Steve’s mouth was dry, and his heartbeat quickened. He wanted to hear Bucky’s opinion.

“He gets them,” Bucky finally pronounced. “I’m just not sure about him, yet.” And he nodded his head toward the holding cell with its dark, iron bars. “And I’m not sure he doesn’t belong right over there to wait for judgment.”

Steve shoved aside the brief cramp of panic in his chest and told him, “Well. Leave him in there to wait long enough, and he’ll get to know all of the flies. Going back to why I came here, would you like my help to fix those broken windows or not?”

Sharon huffed, and this time, she folded her arms across her chest, but Bucky gave him a lopsided smile.

“Well, now. I don’t think we’d mind that at all, Stevie.”

*

Steve measured the windows and informed Bucky and Sharon that he would order the glass, and that it would come in the following week. Bucky thought it couldn’t happen too soon, and he was swatting futilely at the flies with his hands and the damp wash rag. Sharon left him in peace, and he soaked in the tub, slowly washing away the dust and grime. As much as Sharon teased him, she respected him, and she didn’t flirt with him or try to invite herself to his bath, even though she occasionally said things that made him blush like a beet. Bucky ran the rag over his shoulders and arms, and then swiped it over the bar of lye soap that smelled faintly of lilacs. He laved his chest, and the air made goosebumps rise on his damp flesh and his nipples pucker. Bucky leaned forward and sluiced water through his hair, squeezing it from the rag, and the dark, soft runnels drizzled and dripped back into the tub. Bucky then leaned back and rubbed his palms over his face, sighing. It felt good to be clean, for the moment.

His reverie was shattered at the sound of gunfire and shattering glass.

“DAMN IT!”

*

Sam heard the crack of a gunshot over the noise in the saloon, and he held up a hand to stall Billy’s best effort on the piano. “Wait,” he barked. “What was that?”

“Where’s it coming from?” Scott demanded.

Natasha’s patrons paused in their card games - well, some of them did, but several others continued enjoying their drinks, since gunfire wasn’t out of the ordinary - and Sam and Clint rushed through the swinging doors into the street.

“You don’t run toward the sound of the shooting,” Teddy said.

“Unless you’re the sheriff,” Sam corrected him. “But that sounds like it’s coming from over there!”

He pointed to the jailhouse, and Sam’s blood ran cold.

Steve hadn’t joined them for cards yet.

*

Steve dropped the mason jar of spiced peaches and swore when it shattered, sending chunks of fruit and thick syrup splashing over his store floor.

Gunshot. It startled him out of his quiet stocking and counting after hours, even after he’d promised Ma that he wouldn’t stay so late. Steve ducked down and listened and, sure enough, a second shot rang out, ruining the night stillness. Steve crawled along the floor and scrambled toward the shop’s picture window, wisely staying back from the edge of the frame. He saw nothing but the street lit by rows of lanterns along the corners and other storefronts, and Steve edged back toward the till. He rummaged around along the shelves and found his Colt and loaded it, then tucked it into his holster.

Sam wouldn’t be happy with him for showing up late. But this time, Steve wouldn’t have the time to drag him away from Natasha’s side. That thought relieved him. As stalwart and loyal as Sam was, Steve sometimes wished he wasn’t as determined to try to save Steve from, well. Himself. Sam didn’t need to join him in courting danger. As he’d pointed out once before, The same people who end up shooting at you, usually also end up shooting at me.

Steve considered the risks of leaving the shop. The Captain needed to intervene, even at the risk of Sheriff Barnes catching him at close range, because they were in the middle of town. It was dark, but he still might not have enough cover.

He couldn’t tell where the shots were coming from. He needed to get closer.

No. The Captain needed to get closer.

Steve found one of his old bandanas and tied it around his face, and he retrieved his hat from the peg. He grabbed a new tin of shoe polish and opened it the lid, dug his fingers into it, and smeared the dark stain under and around his eyes. With any luck, Steve left his mask in his saddlebag.

He crept out into the darkness and watched. And waited.

The next gunshot’s spark lit up the dark, and Steve smelled gunpowder carried upwind to him on the breeze. He scrambled quietly along the walkway, mindful of his heavy bootfalls. He saw a man, the only one out on the street, heading toward the jailhouse.

“Bucky,” Steve whispered. Dread seized him. The gunman was big and burly, and even in the dark, Steve could tell it was Creed.

It made sense. No had seen Rumlow since the night Steve and Sam took down his gang and stopped them from burning down the property. That didn’t mean he didn’t have a few members of his gang left slithering in the grass.

Creed tested the front door of the jailhouse, and he carefully reached inside one of the broken window panes to unlock it. He let himself in, heedless of the dark.

“Sheriff Barnes?” he called out. “Evenin’, Sheriff.” I heard you came into town today.”

Despite his loud tone, Victor stalked Bucky, his steps nearly silent as he moved through the jailhouse. He snuffed out the lantern in the office, and he swiftly moved toward the stairs.

*

Upstairs, Bucky crouched down in the washtub, afraid for the moment to move.

Until he heard Sharon’s soft whisper. “C’mon out. Stay down,” she bade him.

“He’ll hear me,” Bucky hissed back.

“I’ll cover you,” she promised, and she pulled back the edge of her vest, showing him her Smith and Wesson.

Bucky was at a loss, frankly, for how to do that himself. Before he could find himself a towel, Sharon had extinguished his lamp, trimming the wick and blowing out the flame.

He was either stuck in this tub, or…

Bucky steeled himself. “Don’t look,” he warned her.

“I’m busy at the moment,” she huffed. They listened for the sound of their intruder, and Sharon peeked out the window through the curtains.

“Hold on. Who’s that?”

“Who?”

“Whoever just came in from the back door.”

It was someone tall, wearing a white Stetson. Whoever it was preferred subtlety, unlike their earlier guest.

“C’mon out, Sheriff Barnes. I’ve got a present for ya,” he jeered, and he sounded closer, close enough to make Bucky and Sharon’s skin crawl.

Bucky decided enough was enough. “Get behind me!” he rasped as he stood up and stepped out of the tub, dripping everywhere. Her brown eyes widened in the dark as she saw his silhouette picked out in the low glow from the street through the window.

“NO!” she hissed back. “You get behind ME!”

“Are you out of your mind?!”

“No, but you’ve lost yours-”

They were both stunned into silence when they heard another random shot, and Sharon bit back a scream as it blasted through the door and hit the opposite wall, tearing through the cracked paint. Sharon and Bucky grappled for a moment, trying to wrest each other away from the door and shield the other from the impending threat.

“Things were going along fine until you showed up in town. The old sheriff knew how to mind his damned business. Walker wasn’t as nosey as you all.”

“Your ma will never forgive me if I let anything happen to you,” Sharon insisted, and she was gripping his damp, chilled arms. “Get down. Get back in that tub and let me cover you!”

“Why do you think I’m about to do that?!”

“Because I’m your deputy and I said so, that’s why!”

Victor heard the scuffling behind the door. He grinned and chambered the next round, before he savagely kicked in the door, enjoying the way it made the hinge tear loose from the frame.

Sharon scrambled for her gun and roughly shoved Bucky behind her, making him promptly fall backward into the washtub. Sharon tugged her pistol from the holster, but it snagged and flew from her hand. She watched in horror as it skidded across the floor, and Victor Creed triumphantly stopped its slide across the wooden planks with his booted foot. She felt sick as fear and disbelief washed over her.

“He’s got the right idea, woman. Strip,” Victor commanded her.

“Go to hell,” she snapped.

Victor’s mouth thinned. He raised his gun and aimed it at her face. “I asked you nicely to strip.”

“You heard me.” Her tone was flat, and her brown eyes challenged him in the near-darkness.

“You’re Creed, right?” Bucky attempted. He tried to climb up from the tub, but Victor trained his gun on him instead. Sharon looked like she wanted to take advantage of the split in his attention, until Victor kicked her gun up against his ankle and watched him deftly catch it when it flew up into the air.

“Looky here. I’ve got two guns, now. Lucky for me. Now. I said, go ahead and strip. I might let you entertain me before I put a bullet between your pretty eyes-

Sharon saw another pair of booted legs appear from behind him, and before she could react, she heard the crack of another gunshot. Victor roared in pain and dropped his gun from nerveless fingers. Blood dripped from his hand where the new stranger’s bullet went clean through.

He spun around, cocking the other gun, but that one, too, was shot just as deftly from his grip.

Victor’s cries were guttural and disbelieving. “You sonofaBITCH! Damn it!”

“Language,” the man in the mask tsked, and with that, he kicked Victor in the chest, and he went reeling, stumbling back as the momentum tipped him right through the plate glass window. Deafening, shattering, tinkling glass exploded from the frame, and the three of them left inside heard the crunch of Victor’s huge body hitting the gravel.

Bucky stood from the tub, finally, and Sharon managed to find his shirt, tossing it to him. Bucky was trembling a little, and the air in the room, cooler thanks to the newly broken window, wasn’t helping. He was still dripping, and far too bare for polite company.

If he could even call this man polite company.

“You’re not planning to shoot at us, I hope?” Sharon asked dryly.

And Steve knew he was a sight. His eyes harder to discern through the layer of shoe polish, and he was glad his bandana obscured his beard, but he was still too close.

And damn it, the sight of Bucky was about to undo him and make him say something stupid. Steve shook his head in reply to her question.

“Who are you?”

He shook his head again, held up his hands, and backed his way down the corridor, then thundered downstairs before they could react.

“What in tarnation…?” Sharon turned and gaped at Bucky. “Was that who I thought it was?”

“I think we just met the Captain,” Bucky mused.

“He broke our damned window!”

“But we’re not lying here with bullets in our heads,” Bucky pointed out.

“Damn it. Now we’re going to have to put up with Steve Rogers hanging around here twice as long to help us fix another window.”

“Well. Isn’t that just a darned shame.”

“You’re feet are still bare, James. Don’t step on that glass.” Then she looked at him again. “Why are you grinning like that?”

*

By the time Bucky scrambled back into his clothes and Sharon retrieved her gun, Victor had miraculously disappeared. Bucky and Sharon wondered how he managed to recover that quickly, and just as baffling was their savior’s disappearance.

*

Steve arrived back at the homestead, feeling the last of his adrenaline drain from him on the ride home. He unhitched his horses from the wagon and stabled them and then let himself inside the house. Sarah, to his dismay, was waiting up for him and looking peeved.

“Now, what did I tell you about working so late, Steven Grant?”

“Sorry, Ma.”

“Don’t you ‘Sorry, Ma’ me,” she told him. She sighed and set down her knitting in the basket. She was already dressed for bed, with her long, graying blonde hair pulled back into a loose braid. Her nightgown smelled slightly of the lavender sprigs that she tucked into sachets that lined the trunks and chests of drawers in their home when she hugged him.

She stood back and gently caught his jaw in her hand. “What on earth is that? What’s in your face?”

“Uh. It’s… I don’t know. I was blacking the stove at the store. Must’ve gotten some of it on me.”

“That doesn’t look like what I use on the stove,” Sarah argued.

“Let me go wash it off, Ma.”

“Fine, then. And then I want you to go straight to bed, Steve. I won’t have you dropping dead from overwork. You do enough as it is.”

“How was it at the clinic?” he asked.

“Same as any other day. Old Abraham is moving a little more slowly, so I’m glad I can help out.” She watched him head for the small wash basin and pour some water into it with the pitcher. Steve scrubbed at his face, finding the offending remnants of the shoe polish and mentally scolding himself. “How were things at the store?”

“Fine. I stopped by the jailhouse.”

“Oh?”

“I wanted to see if they needed any help fixing those broken windows.”

“Land sakes. Just the sight of all those cracked panes has been driving me mad, Steve. I’m glad you offered to help. I knew I raised you right.” She gave him a fond pat. “Maybe now, you can get to know that sheriff a little better.”

Steve was so surprised that he accidentally washed soap into his eye. He gasped at the sting and hurriedly rinsed it out, grinding at his face with the small, muslin towel. “There’s not much to know. I’m just… helping out.”

“He seems sweet.”

“Sure. He’s sweet, all right.”

Steve headed off to his room. Sarah extinguished the lanterns and retired to her own bed, leaving Steve alone with his thoughts.

Not to mention the very frustrating, thrilling memory of Bucky’s naked silhouette in the dark, limned in streetlight, skin glistening when he stood up from that tub, with that slick hair hanging down around his jaw.

Sleep took forever to claim him.

Chapter Text

“Wilson,” Steve called to the back of the store from the doorway, “mind the till. I’ll be gone for a while.”

“About how long?”

“However long it takes for Clint and I to replace some windows at the jailhouse.”

Sam paused in stacking the bolts of calico, lawn, and dimity on the table and grinned. “Don’t rush back, then.”

Steve huffed. “It shouldn’t take too long, Sam.”

“Naw, Rogers. Take your time and do the job right. That jailhouse has been needing some work for a while. Place needs that work even more badly now that someone broke out the second story window…”

Steve’s lips thinned, and he rolled his eyes, sighing. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you, Wilson?”

“No, I’m not, you stubborn sonofagun.” Sam folded his arms and the tilt of his chin became just as stubborn as Steve’s. “That wasn’t subtle.”

“He didn’t leave me much choice.”

“You just ran upstairs, shot the guns out of Victor Creed’s hands, and kicked him out - no, through the window, and all you can say is ‘He didn’t leave you much choice?’” Sam crossed the store and let his hands settle on his hips as he faced Steve. “That was too close. You could have been found out. The Captain doesn’t come that close, Rogers.”

“I didn’t mean to, Sam.”

“You walked right into the sheriff’s wash room, where he could get a good, hard look at you-”

“It was dark. I had my mask on,” Steve argued. “He didn’t get that good of a look.”

“Please tell me you didn’t say anything to him,” Sam pleaded.

“I didn’t!” Steve insisted. “He’s all in one piece. So’s Sharon. I saw Creed stomping his way into that jailhouse with a loaded gun, Sam. I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.”

“No. S’pose you couldn’t. Problem is, I had to make your excuses for you, which is what happens when you don’t show up when we agree to meet Clint and Natasha for a drink.”

“Was Natasha trying to introduce me to another ‘eligible young lady,’ or was the invitation really just to have a drink?”

Sam chuckled, shrugging.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Maybe if you’d find an eligible lady on your own…” Sam ended the statement with a lilt and let it hang between them. “Or eligible person.”

“Bucky is expecting me. Can’t keep letting the flies get in through all those broken windows.”

“Sure, he is.” Sam gave Steve’s shoulder a brotherly shove. “There are better ways to get to know the sheriff besides kicking men through his windows, Steve.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Steve promised, trying to put Sam off with no success.

“Steve. I mean it.” Sam’s voice was firm as he followed Steve outside to his wagon, where he had the new panes of glass and his tools. “Just be more careful. The other night, well. That was too damned close. Stop being so hardheaded.”

“He needed help the other night, and he needs help now. He doesn’t just need help from the Captain,” Steve mused as he glanced back at Sam. “And I’m just being neighborly.”

“Right.”

*

Bucky strolled out from the telegram office and began to cross the street, but he paused when he heard a high-pitched, childish voice shouting, “SHERIFF BARNES! SHERIFF!”

Bucky turned and smiled at the familiar sight of David Haller, the young boy who filled his ear during his train ride. More surprising, though, were the two men who accompanied him. He recognized Erik Lensherr easily, looking just as saturnine and imposing as Bucky remembered, and also very dapper in his dark worsted suit. He was pushing a man who was about his age in an expensive-looking wheelchair. He was bald, fair-complected, and had firm, arched brows over kindly blue-gray eyes. What surprised Bucky was how soft Erik’s demeanor was now, in this other man’s company, and he gave David an indulgent smile, too, that Bucky never expected to see after meeting him at the Stark compound.

“Hello, David,” Bucky called back. “Hello, Mr. Lensherr. Sir,” he offered his friend, who smiled warmly up at him and offered his hand to shake. His grip was warm and firm, and Bucky felt energy and vitality in him, despite encroaching age.

“Sheriff Barnes, allow me to introduce my dearest friend, Professor Charles Xavier.”

“He’s my pa!” David boasted, and suddenly, Bucky saw the resemblance. David looked quite a bit like his mother, Gabrielle, but he shared his father’s smile and they had the same twinkle in their eyes.

“Mrs. Haller -”

“Miss Haller, regrettably. We never wed. And that isn’t common knowledge,” the professor informed Bucky. “But, we share a son. And it had been far too long since I saw him. Gabrielle made the long journey to bring him to me so he could stay with me for a while.”

“You’re very lucky, Professor.”

“David has found plenty of things to poke around in on my property since he joined us,” Erik added. “He’s as curious as Charles, here, and he has a propensity for mischief, the little scamp.” His voice sounded almost fond, and again, Bucky almost pinched himself to see if he was dreaming it. When they first met, Bucky saw nothing particularly affectionate or soft about the cattle baron. Apparently, he thought wrong.

“Can we get some candy, Pa?”

“Ask Uncle Erik,” Xavier urged. “He’s the one taking us around.”

“He knows I won’t say no,” Erik muttered. “Make sure you leave room for dinner, David.”

David ran ahead of them slightly and stared inside the window of another small shop that boasted some simple toys, and Charles craned his neck around to glance up at Erik. “You could have told him you’ve forgotten the way to the store that sells the candy.”

“Hard to do when there’s only one store that sells any, and you forget, Charles, that son of yours can practically read my mind. He’s just as bad as you are.”

Bucky walked with them for a minute, and when they reached the mercantile, Bucky saw Sam through the window, polishing some glass jars with a rag. He felt his stomach dip in disappointment that Steve wasn’t there. David scampered inside, but Erik chided him and made him come back to hold open the door for his father to roll through. Sam greeted them all with his customary smile, but he paused when he saw Bucky, setting down the jar and folding his arms.

“Good afternoon, Sheriff.”

“Afternoon, Wilson. Is Steve gone already?”

“Thought he was with you, by now. He went to your office with the new windowpanes.”

Bucky spied the clock on the wall and realized he had lost track of time. “I wasn’t expecting him this early.” He gave Sam a sheepish smile. “I’d better get back there. I’m not foolish enough to leave him alone with my deputy.”

Sam laughed outright, bringing out his dimples. “Steve’s my most bosom friend, Sheriff Barnes, but he has a gift for putting his foot in his mouth around the ladies.” He paused, and then added “Or pretty much anyone else that he has his eye on.”

Bucky’s smile faltered. “Steve has his eye on my deputy?”

Sam held up his hands. “I didn’t say that. Uh-uh. I just mean… charm isn’t always Steve’s strong suit. Sometimes, you just have to read between the lines with Steve. He’s not good with fancy talk, but he’s smart, he works hard, and, well.” Sam went back to polishing the jars, and his voice was amused and fond when he said, “You just won’t find a better man than Steve, or one that has a bigger heart, Sheriff.”

“I gathered that,” Bucky agreed quietly.

“Just thought I’d mention it.”

“I meant to ask, how much is the glass?”

“The glass?”

“The windowpanes.”

“They won’t cost you a penny. Steve isn’t charging you for the new windows, didn’t he mention that?”

“What?! Sam, that’s… glass isn’t cheap. I know you two work hard to make this store keep up a profit, but that doesn’t mean you can just give me -”

“Who said anything about giving anybody anything? We’re supporting the town, and you’re providing a service, Sheriff. You’re upholding the law, and we’re keeping a decent roof over your head. We’ve got sorrier, shiftier folks than you who at least have that much.’ Sam laughed again. “No town needs a jailhouse as much as this one, I can guarantee you that. You’ve read the paper. You’ve heard the stories, and you’ve seen what’s happening with your own eyes.”

“It’s just… it’s costly, Sam.”

“It’s just a little investment, and one that Steve thinks is worthwhile. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have offered. Go on, now. I have to see to my customers. You have a good afternoon, Sheriff.”

David stood up on a small step stool to get a better look at the candies in large jars arrayed across the counter and on the shelves overhead. Sam showed him the maple sugar candy and horehound drops, grinning down at him as David pointed to the licorice. Bucky made his way out, feeling dismissed, but excitement made his skin prick. Steve was already in his office. He hastened for the jailhouse, not wanting, as he told Sam, to leave Sharon and Steve in each other’s company too long without a mediator…

Bucky thought about what Sam said about supporting the town by fixing up the jailhouse and sheriff’s office. The End of the Line wasn’t the most welcoming town, but it was growing on Bucky. It seemed like it was a special place, before it was stripped of its wealth and glory. Bucky wondered about the so-called “riff-raff” that the cattle barons spoke of. Bucky didn’t particularly trust Alexander Pierce, either, or that Schmidt fella. There were still good families left in this town, like the DaCostas, or the Guthries, and even the professor and his less than conventional family. Bucky was still curious about how Erik, Xavier, and Gabrielle arrived at their arrangement.

Bucky saw Steve’s wagon out front, and he quickened his steps, hurrying into his office, where he found Steve and Sharon bickering already.

“We already have plaster.”

“You don’t have to use all of it up for this. I brought some with me.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Steve. We can use what we have.”

“No, we can use what I brought. Don’t worry about it, Miss Carter.”

“Deputy Carter.”

Steve’s sigh was loud and heavy, and Bucky intervened.

“Actually, to some people in Deputy Carter’s inner circle, it’s Buttercup.”

Sharon’s brown eyes grew round, and she made a squawk of annoyance. “No, it’s not! Don’t you go telling him that!”

Steve looked delighted all of a sudden. “Buttercup?”

“Her favorite aunt calls her that.”

“And she’s the only person who’s allowed,” Sharon snapped. She pointed her finger at Steve, jabbing it into his chest while he bit his lip, eyes twinkling back at her. “You just forget that you ever heard that, Steve Rogers!”

“Heard what?”

“You know what.” Her jaw tilted stubbornly, and Sharon stood to her full height.

“Buttercup?” Bucky teased, and this time he looked afraid for his safety as Sharon turned on him and picked up one of their ledgers, preparing to bludgeon him with it, and he stumbled back, almost falling over one of the desks in his hurry to get some space between them.

“Do you all want me to replace these windows or not?” Steve offered, but he was still smirking, savoring the ammunition of Sharon’s new nickname and the rise it would get out of her if he ever needed it.

“We can probably manage just fine ourselves, but why don’t you get started on that instead of just standing around, gabbing all day, shooting the breeze,” Sharon suggested.

“Why don’t we all get started on it, then,” Bucky said, trying to mollify her. He handed her the broom and dustpan. “This shouldn’t have to take long.”

They went upstairs and cleared the rest of the broken glass and splintered wood, and Steve chafed at the sight of the blood stains on the floor in the corridor by the wash room. The tub sat empty, and it gave Steve a flash of memory.

Bucky.

Tall, sculpted and perfect. Just like the illustrations of statues in the books that Ma showed him in the library when he was a child. In one of his science texts at the schoolhouse, Steve remembered reading about anatomy and muscle groups. Trapezius. Deltoids. Intercostals. Biceps. Quadriceps. The shadows played in the hollows of Bucky’s body, while the scant light in the room slicked over the smooth mounds and hills of muscle. Dark hair slicked down his muscular, tapered limbs and a damp nest of it curled below his groin, dripping water back into the tub. His nipples were ruched from the air cooling his damp flesh. The vision of Bucky standing there like that, looking like that, made Steve’s mouth go dry.

“Steve?”

Bucky’s voice snapped Steve from his thoughts. “Huh?”

“You were just staring for a minute,” Bucky pointed out. “You all right?”

“Uh. Fine. Let’s… let’s get this done.”

Bucky caught his eyes as they flicked over the bloodstains. “We can clean those off when we get to it,” he said. “I was lucky.”

“Lucky? There was an angel smiling on Bucky,” Sharon countered. “Whoever that was who busted in here and saved his hide showed up in the nick of time.”

“Who do you think it was?” Steve asked, feeling his face heat up, and his heart was skipping a little in anticipation.

Sharon smirked. “I think that was the Captain. Lone Star, or whatever it is that he goes by. The one the locals keep on calling a hero.” She gave the word dubious weight. “It’s just strange that he showed up at the same time as another man trying to kill us. I think that’s mighty suspicious. For all we know, they might be in cahoots.”

Steve was aghast, but he tried to cover it. “That doesn’t sound all too likely, Deputy.”

“Do you have a better explanation?”

“I just think that the Captain might have earned an unfair reputation. He’s not all that bad.”

“Normal men of the law don’t wear masks,” Bucky pointed out. “Seems like he has something to hide.”

“Or maybe somebody to protect,” Steve countered. “And the Captain isn’t the type to be in cahoots with just anybody.”

Bucky huffed. “Maybe.”

“I can sweep up the rest of this,” Steve said, and he took the broom from Bucky’s grip. Their fingertips brushed slightly, and Steve felt a tingle of pleasure with the contact. He felt his cheeks heat up again, and he was surprised when Bucky reached for the broom again, effectively stopping Steve from moving away.

“It’s all right, I can manage.”

“I’ll finish it.”

“I’ve got it.” Bucky reached for the broom again, and this time, his hand landed over Steve’s, inadvertently curling his fingers around the backs of Steve’s knuckles. His grip was warm and firm, jolting Steve with a wave of self-consciousness tinged with arousal. Bucky glanced down at their hands for a moment, then up at Steve’s face.

“This is going to take all day with you two,” Sharon muttered as she stalked over and snatched the broom from them both. “I’ll do it.”

Looking sheepish, Bucky and Steve busied themselves with other tasks, like clearing the broken panes from their frames, mixing plaster, and cutting wood to make the new trim.

By the time the sun shifted west in the sky, the jailhouse had shining new windows, and the inside of the building smelled like fresh plaster and varnish. Throughout the afternoon, Bucky and Steve found themselves sharing space and tools, always managing to end up by each other’s elbow, bumping into each other as they passed in the corridor or going through doorways. Sharon, feeling more charitable than usual toward Steve, poured him a tin cup of lemonade when she offered one to Bucky. They rested briefly, all of them sweating the disheveled. Long, messy strands of Sharon’s honey blonde hair escaped her braid and hung around her flushed face. She sat on the floor in a patch of sunlight, dressed in her usual dungarees and one of her ubiquitous chambray shirts, and Steve admitted to himself that she was beautiful, still feminine but without appearing delicate. She was damned attractive. Intelligent. A great shot. Amusing when she wanted to be. Ma mentioned occasionally that it might be nice to invite “that nice Deputy Carter” over for tea some afternoon, but Steve assured her that the Deputy was probably too busy for such things. Steve’s ma snorted at this and told him that he could stand to be more neighborly.

“You could take some of my apple cake over to the sheriff, then. He might appreciate it. I can’t imagine that he cooks much for himself in that tiny office.”

“Can’t imagine that he does,” Steve had agreed, but why was his ma giving him that funny look? Bucky could get apple cake anywhere.

As though Bucky was reading Steve’s thoughts, he said “We’ve been meaning to stop by for supplies.”

“Stop by?”

“The store. By your store,” Sharon clarified. “Our cupboards are bare.” Then she huffed a laugh. “About as bare as Bucky’s behind when that intruder rushed in here while he was taking his bath!”

That made Bucky choke on a sip of his lemonade, and Steve reached out to slap his back in an effort to help. Bucky flushed as he tried to glare at Sharon, who just sat there and smirked.

“Fellow…*cough-cough-eearrghh* can’t take a damned bath in peace around here.”

Steve rubbed his back in brief sympathy before he realized he was even doing it, and he retracted his hand when Bucky looked at him.

“You all right?”

“I will be, if my deputy quits giving me such a hard time.”

“You missed all the excitement around here, Steve. Bucky here was a sight.”

“Quit it, Buttercup!”

Sharon looked ready to take umbrage, but Bucky held up his hands in surrender, and he was grinning again. Steve was strangely quiet.

After all, he hadn’t missed much.

They rehung the curtains and cleaned up. Steve dumped the rest of the plaster out back and rinsed out the bucket he had mixed it in. He considered the space when he came back inside.

“Have you considered wallpaper? For upstairs? I mean, for the apartment? It might make it a little more, uh. Homey? I mean, more comfortable?” Steve suggested to Bucky.

“It doesn’t have to be fancy,” Bucky told him.

“I know that. I just think it might be nice. To make it more livable.”

“It’s not like we do a lot of entertaining here, Steve,” Sharon chided, but she kept glancing between Bucky and Steve, making silent judgments. “Bucky doesn’t have a lot of overnight guests quite yet.”

“Hey!” Bucky gaped at her, looking indignant, and his lips thinned in embarrassment. She didn’t have to put it that way, certainly.

“I suppose the ones that end up in the cell don’t count,” Steve offered, nonplussed. But he felt the blush creeping back into his cheeks again, this time in secondhand embarrassment for Bucky. Sharon could sometimes be a little too blunt.

In the back of his mind, though, a plaintive voice pointed out He doesn’t have a lot of overnight guests yet. Easy, now, Steve.

A knock on the door caught their attention, and Sharon stood to answer it. She greeted Sarah Wilson at the door, who smiled warmly as she entered the room. She was wearing a pink dress sprigged with white daisies and her hair in soft braids pinned up becomingly, and she carried a covered pan and lunch pail.

“Evening, Sheriff. Deputy Carter. Steve.”

“What brings you here, pretty lady?” Sharon inquired, and she made no bones about peeking under the edge of the tea towel that Sarah used to cover the pan.

“I thought you might be hungry. I was already stopping into town to bring Sam his dinner, and I made plenty of cornbread and other things.” She turned to Bucky. “I heard you had a close call last night, Sheriff Barnes.”

“I’m still all in one piece.”

“I can see that,” she told him, giving him an appraising look. “I’m glad you didn’t hurt anything important.”

Sharon raised her brow and bit her lip.

“I think I’m going to just… uh. Go,” Steve said, suddenly feeling awkward again.

“You have to rush off?” Bucky asked. “We have food. You could stay, if you like.”

“I need to go back to the store. I’m going to help Sam with the stock. Uh. Just… let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

“We were going to stop by for supplies,” Bucky said. “We were planning to do that, anyway.”

And he was following Steve toward the door, hanging on it a little as he opened it while Steve lingered in the doorway.

“You. You know you can stop by whenever you like. Right?”

“Right. That’s mighty neighborly of you, Stevie. Thank you again. For everything. For helping us out like this. It means a lot.”

Sarah and Sharon were watching their exchange as Sarah began to cut portions of cornbread and removed a slab of butter from the pail. Sarah made a thoughtful noise. She and Sharon exchanged a look.

“I’m close by.”

“I know that.”

“Uh. Goodbye, Bucky.”

“See you around, Stevie.”

*

Later, Sarah stopped by the store to drop off Sam’s dinner. She breezed inside and looked around before asking Sam, “Samuel. Where’s Steve?”

“In the back,” he said. “Why?”

She glanced back in that general direction and then sidled up close to him, dropping her voice. “What’s going on with Steve and the new sheriff? Is there something brewing between them?”

“Girl, hush,” Sam muttered. “If there is, that’s between them.”

“I know that, but I’m asking just so I’ll be clear on whether or not I’m wasting my time.”

Sam raised his brows. “Wasting your time on what?”

“You know what. You’ve seen the sheriff,” Sarah told him slyly. “I just want to know what my chances are.”

“I’m telling Ma and Pa that you’re flirting with the sheriff,” Sam warned.

“Don’t you tattle on me, Samuel Thomas,” she shot back on a whispered hiss. “Or I won’t make you dinner again! There’s nothing wrong with me testing the waters.”

Sam sighed. “No. There isn’t. I know that. You’re my sister, though.”

Sarah grinned up at him and bumped her shoulder into his, prizing a smile out of him.

“So. There really is something happening between them, then.”

“Now you’re just gossiping.”

*

Bucky and Sharon cleaned up the crumbs from their impromptu dinner and went back to reviewing the ledgers. Sharon suddenly had a thought.

“Can we go out and take a look at some of the other claims? The ones that are empty now?”

“Which ones?”

“I don’t know.” Sharon pored through their books and her finger paused over a line she had read before. “How about the old Ramsey place? I heard in town that it’s stood empty for a while. It’s close to the old mines.”

“What do you think we’ll find there?”

“I don’t know. Just… some signs. Something. Anything. We need a lead.”

“It’s going to be dark out soon.”

“When, we should go now.”

They mounted up and rode out onto the main rode, and they turned east a couple of miles later and cut through the woods. They forded a shallow creek, and neither of them minded the faint splashes that their horses kicked up, cooling them after their labors that day. Once they reached the clearing, they saw the old mines in an outcropping of rock, as well as the old Ramsey family abandoned homestead.

“It wasn’t much,” Sharon said.

“Robbers probably picked it clean when they gave up their claim,” Bucky pointed out, but there was precious little of value left behind. The fence boards were broken in places, and so were several of the windows in the main house. The barn was in charred ruins. Someone burned it down to the ground, automatically making Bucky think of the Lonestars.

“Who does things like this?” Sharon tsked as they rode around the edge of the property.

“Someone who was desperate to get at what they had,” Bucky reasoned.

“It’s a damned shame. This isn’t the work of decent men.”

“I haven’t heard anything about the Ramseys.”

“Then, maybe we need to ask around.”

They tied up their mounts by a nearby birch tree and walked about the property. Wind whistled through the broken window panes and made the old rocking chair on the porch sway back and forth. Bucky heard the rusty tinkle of windchimes over the veranda. The family had to have left in a hurry. He saw old firewood, still a half a cord of it, stacked up by the side of the house. A broken lantern. Old rag rugs on the floor when they let themselves inside the front parlor. There was still a kettle on the stove and a black skillet crawling with maggots. Shards of ceramic littered the floor, once fine, willow-patterned china that someone destroyed. All of the silver was missing. There was no cash box, no jewelry boxes anywhere. No picture frames or knick-knacks on the old whatnot shelves.

“What are we really looking for, Bucky?” Sharon asked.

“Is this too much?” he replied. She looked slightly sick.

“It’s hard seeing this.” She gestured around. “A family lived here. And they were driven out, and over what? Gold?”

“Maybe more than that.”

“I can’t stay in here.”

“Can we go look at the barn?”

“There’s hardly anything to look at.”

“Humor me, Sharon.”

They left the staleness of the house and headed for the barn, and Sharon’s steps were just as hesitant, as though she felt afraid of what they would find, and Bucky felt unease creeping up his spine. He spied something on the ground.

When they were close enough for him to pick it up, he examined the small rag doll. Its yarn hair was black and a bit scraggly, and the doll’s dress was made from light blue gingham. Black button eyes stared back up at him as he held it in gentle hands. “Damn it,” he muttered. Sharon made a choked little sound and had to back away for a minute. She turned from him, hand on her hip, tugging at her braid.

“Why were they like this?” she asked, not really expecting an answer from him.

“C’mon, let’s look around inside.”

“Everything’s gone.”

“Let’s look anyway.”

Bucky urged her to follow him, and they went into the remains of the barn. The roof and loft were gone, but some of the old stable walls were still partly intact, but charred beyond usefulness. There was another metal lantern, broken, lying twisted and mangled from the flames. A ruined pitchfork. A burnt-up thresher blade. What was left of the Ramsey family’s plow. An empty shotgun lay just inside the back door, as though someone had put up a fight.

“What’s this?”

Sharon strode to the edge of the doorway and pointed to the back fence. “On the post.”

“I can’t tell from here.”

They both closed in on it, and Bucky felt a strange sense of deja vu.

What was that symbol?

“It’s ugly,” Sharon said.

“It’s different,” he suggested. “It’s a brand.”

“That’s not the brand the Ramsey’s have on their front sign.”

“Sure isn’t.”

A strange seal was burned into the wood, scarring it, further insult added to the desecration of this home. It looked like a head surrounded by eight curling arms. The face had tiny, glaring eyes.

“For the life of me, I have no idea what that is,” Sharon said. “But I don’t want to meet whoever left a calling card like that.”

“But, it’s familiar, isn’t it?”

“How?”

“The shape. I don’t know. I just feel like I’ve seen it before. Not a brand, but…”

Then, it dawned on him.

“Remember the men from the Lonestar break-in? One of them, he - he had a patch on his shirt. It was red. It was almost shaped like that.”

“A patch?”

“It was almost like a badge. But it was red. On the pocket.”

“Can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

“We need to find out how many more claims there are around here and have a look around. This doesn’t look like the Ramseys just peacefully signed away their deed.”

*

Dr. Zola wrapped the final bandages around Victor’s hand. “You’re lucky you didn’t lose it,” he scolded. “And that it didn’t become infected.”

“Good. Need that hand for picking my nose,” Victor sneered, and he scratched the side of his nostril for emphasis. Zola sighed and backed away.

“Keep that clean. Don’t get it wet yet.”

Pierce waited for Zola to leave the room before he said “Creed. Come with me.”

He lead Victor down the corridor to the main parlor, where Johann Schmidt and Brock Rumlow waited for them. Rumlow looked grim, like he wished to be anywhere else.

“You were supposed to lay low,” he accused. Victor huffed, shrugging.

“I was, for a while. I saw a chance, and I took it.”

“You took it?! You mean, you were a jackass, and you messed everything up!” Rumlow exploded. “You missed your shot, and now the sheriff knows you. You got too close, and you didn’t bring him down!”

Victor growled, and his fists clenched like he wanted to take that insult out of Rumlow’s hide, but Pierce placed a calm hand on the center of his chest.

“Look at the two of you,” he mused softly. “Is this what we’re paying them for, Johann?”

“No,” he agreed sadly as he polished his wire-rimmed spectacles before putting them on. “And I’ve always said that men of sound financial standing need to periodically evaluate our expenditures. And our investments.” His gaze was calculating, assessing both wranglers. “We cannot afford foolish mistakes, can we, gentlemen?”

“Everything was going fine until the Captain showed up.”

“And why did he show up at the Moonstar ranch?” Schmidt asked. “How would he have known to go there that night?”

“Hell if I know,” Rumlow grumbled. “Could’ve been dumb luck. Ain’t like we told anyone about our plans.”

“Yet somehow, they knew,” Schmidt pointed out. He sighed. “You don’t come as far as Mr. Pierce and I have without being subtle. When you play the game, you never show all of your cards.”

“We’re doing the job you’re paying us for!” Victor railed. His hands burned and throbbed from his wounds, and he still ached everywhere from his fall. His skin was peppered with scratches and bruises, and he grew tired of listening to Pierce and Schmidt dressing him down. “All we need to do it get a few more men. We’ll empty out the rest of those claims, like you said. We’ll do everything you said, Mr. Schmidt!”

“How do you propose to find more men, when you have to lay low?” Pierce asked. His tone was calm, but Rumlow didn’t like the look in his eye.

“We’ll find them,” Victor assured him. “We’ve got friends. Strong men that can do the job and that won’t ask questions, if the money’s right.”

“Care for a drink, Victor?” Pierce offered.

Rumlow tried to stay Victor with a hand on his arm, but Victor brushed him off. “I could use a little taste of whatever you’ve got.”

Pierce nodded, smiling, and Rumlow shivered. He dark eyes flitted away while Pierce poured the gin. Rumlow waved away the offer of a glass.

Victor took the glass and tossed it back, grimacing a little at its sting, but he groaned with contentment as its smooth burn blossomed in his chest.

“How soon can you bring us those men?”

Victor stood and thunked the glass down a little too firmly on a delicate-looking cherrywood side table. “Tomorrow, if you want.”

“Why don’t you contact them today?” Pierce suggested.

“All right.” Victor was nonplussed.

Pierce called out to his stable hand. “Please bring Mr. Creed his horse.”

He escorted Victor outside and watched him mount. Rumlow tried to follow, but Pierce motioned to him to stay put.

“Go back into my study, Brock.”

“But-”

“I won’t ask twice.”

Brock’s gait was a stiff limp due to his injury. He sat back down, leaning uncomfortably away from his bad hip. Johann stepped out onto the veranda and lit his cigar, puffing on it as the end of it smoldered orange. They watched Victor ride away, and Pierce called out to him, “Godspeed.”

Then, he took the Colt out of the wooden box that his stable man handed to him, aimed, and took Victor down from behind with one clean shot. His horse pranced and neighed as Victor’s body slumped and fell to the ground, divesting the beast of his weight.

“Was that truly necessary?” Johann asked.

“You saw his wounds. How did you expect him to fire a gun?” Pierce tucked the Colt back into the box. “He was too loud. And like you said, Johann, he lacked subtlety.”

“He might have known some men who would be willing to continue our work.”

“We can always find men.” Pierce nodded to Schmidt, beckoning to him to share his cigars. He handed him one and watched Pierce light it, inhale, and savor it for a moment. “Cut off one head, and two grow back in its place.”

Inside the study, Rumlow was glad that he didn’t accept the gin. He never would have kept it down.

Chapter Text

Sarah Rogers stood at the butter churn, plunging the dash up and down in an even rhythm, humming to herself out of long habit. Her petite hands were callused from years of hard work, their joints slightly gnarled and thick; no one would ever call them “dainty.” Steve came in from the yard and saw her pause in her chore to rub a kink in her shoulder. He promptly crossed the room and took the plunger from her grip.

“Let me do that, Ma.”

“I can finish it. You need to-”

“Already did it.”

“Shoeing the horses?”

“Yup.”

“Slopping the hogs?”

“Yup. Did that, too.”

“Patching the barn roof? There was a leak-”

“Ma. I did it already. Here. Sit down and rest.”

Sarah “hmmphed” in exasperation, then threw up her hands. “Fine, then.” But, she disobeyed his injunction and moved instead to the cupboards, taking down her ceramic crocks of flour and sugar.

“Ma,” Steve nagged.

“What? What are you fussing at me for? The bread still needs to be made. And if I leave that to you, well, then, I might as well butter my boot and serve that with supper.”

“My bread wasn’t that bad the last time.”

“Oh, yes, it was,” she countered easily, but her smirk was fond. “You’re a sure shot and decent as a ranch hand, Steven Grant, but you’re no cook.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying.”

“No. But I don’t need to break a tooth of mine on any bread of yours, no sirree.”

Steve bit his lip and his blue eyes crinkled. He churned the butter until he felt resistance from the plunger. He opened up the churn and removed the fresh, thick, creamy lumps of butter from the dash.

“Be generous with the salt,” she reminded him.

“All right, Ma.”

“How did things go at the sheriff’s office? How do the new windows look?”

“A darn sight better than the last ones,” Steve said.

“Good, good. Glad to hear it.” Sarah kept sneaking glances at her son. “Bet the sheriff and his deputy appreciated it.”

“Seemed like it.”

Sarah watched him as she went through the rote motions of making bread, proofing the yeast, measuring out flour, sugar and salt. “They seem nice, the sheriff and his deputy. I keep telling you that you should have them over for supper one of these nights.”

“I’m sure they’re busy.”

“No one’s too busy for a home-cooked meal. Somehow, that Deputy Carter doesn’t seem like the type to spend much time in the kitchen. And that Sheriff Barnes, well. Look how far he’s come from home.”

“Mmm-hm.”

“Unmarried. No family out in these parts. Must be awfully lonely.”

“Hmmmm. Must be, Ma.”

Sarah huffed, rolling her eyes at her son. “I told you to take my apple cake to them the next time you’re in town, Steve. It wouldn’t hurt you to be more neighborly.”

“The sheriff isn’t lacking for apple cake. You’ve seen how the ladies in town look at him, Ma.”

“Maybe. But I’ve also seen how you look at him.”

Steve’s face heated up, and the flush spread all the way up to his hairline. “Ma.”

“What? I have seen you looking, Steven Grant Rogers. And what’s more, that Sheriff Barnes, well. He looks right back. He has eyes, and why wouldn’t he have them on you?”

“Maybe he isn’t in the market for-”

“Or, maybe he is.”

“Ma!”

“Steve. I baked another cake,” she told him, and now that Steve really noticed it, there was a suspicious fragrance of apples and cinnamon in the air. “And you’re going to stop by the sheriff’s office and drop it off to him and tell him to have a nice day. And be your charming self.”

“I don’t want to waste his time when he’s such a busy man. And honestly, so am I, Ma.”

“I know that. But, there’s always time to be a friend.” The corner of Sarah’s mouth curled smugly. “Or a little more than that…”

Steve’s cheeks were hot again. “I’m gonna pack up the wagon. I need to get to the store.”

With that, he rushed out the door, leaving Sarah frustrated yet amused in his wake.

Steve hitched the horses to the wagon and packed up his supplies of jarred fruits and pickles. Sam’s sister Sarah, Monica, and Natasha came over the day before and set to work on preserving the harvest and setting some aside for storage as well as for sale. Steve began to load the crates of jars into the wagon, but Sarah followed him outside, wiping her hands on her apron as she faced him.

“I’m not getting any younger, Steven. You’re a good man. And I want to see you happy.”

“I know that, Ma. And I am happy.”

“You need to settle down.” She paused. “I know that, well. Maybe you aren’t in the market for a wife, so much as a… well, a partner. You haven’t been in a hurry to bring anyone home, no matter how much that sweet friend of yours, Natasha, has tried to introduce you to the ladies in town, to see if any of them would suit.”

Steve’s stomach flipped. This wasn’t a conversation they’d had before, and suddenly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for it. Sarah’s expression was searching, but he found no judgment in her eyes.

“It’s not Natasha’s job to find me a wife. Sure hasn’t stopped her from trying.” His tone was a little disparaging. “What if I’m not made for settling down?”

“What do you think you should be doing instead?”

“Running the store. Helping the town.” Steve paused. “And looking out for folks that can’t always look out for themselves.”

“Then, you and that sheriff might be a better match than you think. You have that in common.”

“Well, he was brought here to do that job.”

“Until he came here, all this town had was you, though.”

Steve froze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do,” she murmured. “I found a shirt and bandanna in the washing. It was out in the barn, so I washed it with everything else.”

Steve paled, suddenly feeling panic wash over him. Sarah tutted at him.

“I wondered about these strange, late nights that you sometimes keep. And how the Captain keeps showing up in the newspaper.”

“Maybe he just keeps showing up, is all.” Steve swallowed around a lump in his throat, suddenly unable to meet her eyes. Sarah reached out and squeezed his shoulder while he lifted another crate into the wagon.

“I won’t say anything, Steve. You have my word.”

“There’s nothing to say. I have nothing to hide.”

“All right.”

“I think we can be done with this idea of me being neighborly with the sheriff.”

Before Steve could reply, Sarah turned and stalked back into the house. She returned a minute later with a covered dish. “Take this with you.”

Steve met her gaze and sighed. “I don’t want to waste his time.”

“You most certainly won’t.” Sarah’s expression was mulish this time. Steve sighed, knowing he had lost this round.

Which was how Steve found himself carefully guarding the apple cake from falling off the wagon seat beside him as he rode into town.

*

“I just rode by the jailhouse. Place is looking a little more reputable today,” Clint remarked to Nat as he helped her wipe down some freshly washed gin tumblers.

“They replaced the broken windows, finally.”

“Sheriff and Deputy Carter?”

“And Steve,” Nat supplied.

Clint’s chuckle was rusty. “Oh, he did?”

Nat smirked back at him and shrugged as she sorted through her bottles of whiskey and gin. “He was just helping out.”

“Oh, Steve Rogers is helpful, all right, but that’s a grand gesture,” Clint pointed out. “And that took quite a bit of time out of his day, and took him out of the mercantile, too.”

“Sam grumbled about having to run things by himself, all right,” Natasha said before she could catch herself, but Clint just shrugged.

“Sam can manage the store just fine on his own, and he can charm anyone into buying more things than they even came in for.” Clint set down the towel and gave Natasha his back. “I’m going to see if we have any sarsaparilla left.” Because maybe he just needed a moment. Natasha chafed at the way that he closed himself off, realizing she was responsible for it. They were still comfortable, but the air between them had shifted, leaving friendship where passion had once lived. There was still an invisible thread that made them occupy the same space after all this time. Neither of them questioned it.

Natasha kept humming to herself as she sorted the bottles and cleaned up around the bar. She went to the old piano and dusted its surface with her furniture polish and a shabby rag. A smooth alto interrupted her from her chore, coming from just beyond the doorway.

“Hello? Excuse me, miss?”

Natasha turned around and smiled automatically at the young woman in the doorway. “Hello, there, dear. Can I help you?”

“I hope you can.” She gently pushed her way through the low swinging doors, and Nat’s breath caught. Her guest was strikingly tall and curvaceous, with honey blonde hair that she wore in a braid that reached halfway down her back. Her skin was tanned from frequent time outside, likely on horseback. She removed her brown Stetson as she came inside. Like Sharon, she eschewed dresses in favor of dungarees and a men’s gingham shirt. Natasha was immediately intrigued. “Are you Miss Romanoff?”

“The one and only.”

“Do you own the apartments over the saloon?”

“Indeed, I do. Why? Are you interested in renting one?”

The woman’s gray eyes lit up with interest, and her smile was infectious.

“Why, yes, I am. I’m afraid I’m new in town, so I don’t really know anybody yet.” She wandered further into the saloon’s front room, gazing around it, running her fingers over the surface of a table. “This town has so many interesting, uh. Characters.”

“Would you expect any less for a place that’s called The End of the Line?”

“Well. I suppose not.”

“Would you like a cool drink?”

“Why, Miss Romanoff, I would like that just fine.”

“Pull up a chair, then, and tell me your name.”

“Roberta. Roberta Morse, but my friends, when I make any, usually call me Bobbi.” She sat like a man, legs sprawling slightly as she leaned her arm against the table. Natasha poured her a glass of sarsaparilla and handed it over.

“What brings you here to town, Bobbi?”

“I received a telegram from an old friend of mine. I guess you could consider him an associate. His name is Nicholas Fury.”

“Nat, are we due for another order of that moonshine from Frank Castle? That stuff sure will put hair on your-” Clint paused in the back room’s doorway as he noticed that they had company.

“Clint,” Nat called out, “come and meet my newest tenant, Miss Morse.”

“Tenant? As in… upstairs? You’re, uh. Planning to rent a room upstairs?” It was taking Clint a minute to get caught up. His blue eyes roamed up the length of the woman seated at Nat’s table closest to the bar, from the toes of her well-worn boots, along the length of those tapered legs that her dungarees did nothing to hide, to the narrow waist and other womanly assets of hers, until they landed on her face, with that appealing, soft, full mouth, a charming set of dimples, and diamond-bright gray eyes.

“Natasha’s doing me quite the favor, letting me rent it from her.”

“Can’t call it a favor if the money’s right,” Natasha corrected her. “I am, after all, a businesswoman, Bobbi.”

“Bobbi,” Clint murmured, testing the name.

“That’s my name.”

“It’s different,” he blurted. “And, well. It’s. Nice.” Clint folded his arms and leaned against the bar. “And you’re not from around these parts? I’ve never seen you around up until now.”

“That doesn’t mean she hasn’t been here all that long, Clint.”

“I’d remember her if we’d met before,” he told Nat, but he was staring at Bobbi, and Nat heard something flirtatious in his tone. Something familiar. And there was that little chafe that reminded her again of their agreement to remain friends, as things shifted between them once more.

At least she seems nice. That was her final thought as Natasha excused herself to check the back store room for moonshine, leaving Clint to make her acquaintance.

*

Bucky and Sharon set out early that afternoon to survey the old, abandoned claims. Sharon chewed on a piece of jerky as they rode around the perimeter of another home that looked like someone left it in a hurry, but this time, it was a burned-out shell of a cabin. What used to be the bedroom was filled with the remains of twisted, melted metal items, like an old fireplace prod and a ruined lantern.

“Look at that,” Sharon said, pointing to the barn. Whoever burned down the house - this time, it was the old MacTaggart place - left the barn intact, which surprised Bucky, but they took the horses. They’d even left behind all the hay, which made Bucky wonder what happened to the family themselves. He made a note to look for them in the town’s records and obituaries from the newspaper. They rode over to the barn and Bucky dismounted so that he could take a better look inside. The barn had been pristine, once. Anything of value had been taken, but what drew his attention was the dark scarring on the doorway. There was another brand, the same strange, eight-limbed insignia.

“We found another one,” he called out to Sharon.

“Figures,” she agreed. “Want to head to the next one?”

“Seems like we should.” He climbed back into Pancake’s saddle, and they rode back toward the main road.

“I just keep getting a worse feeling about this, the deeper we dig,” Sharon admitted. She handed him the small knapsack, and he helped himself to a bit of jerky. They needed to go back to the mercantile for supplies.

“There’s got to be something we’re missing. If we don’t find it, then more people lose their homes. There isn’t much of this town left to claim, if you’re looking for gold,” Bucky said. “Why else would anyone want to run people off of their land?”

Something was missing. The End of the Line was such a bleak landscape, now, even to the few brave souls who still ranched and farmed the territory because their were just too damned stubborn to leave. Bucky considered the meeting at Stark’s compound. Schmidt and Pierce. Fisk. All of them seemed comfortable with the town’s depleted census, even though most cattle barons would be more concerned, Bucky felt, that there were fewer members of the community to do business with. Legitimate business, at any rate. The word “riff-raff” tickled Bucky’s memory again, and it made him growl under his breath.

“Wish this place wasn’t so darned unfriendly,” Sharon mused aloud, echoing his thoughts.

“Let’s go, Deputy Carter.”

They kicked their spurs into their horses’ sides and galloped down the road to their next site. Neither of them felt the pairs of eyes on their backs, or realized that they wore targets on them.

“Good looking deputy. Damn shame, ain’t it?”

“Shame about what?”

“That we have to bring her down.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll have a little fun with her first. And the sheriff, too.”

*

Sam polished the store’s front window and turned when Scott greeted him from the walkway. “Afternoon, Sam.”

“Hello, there. What can I do for you?”

“My chores. I’m about ready to collapse.”

Sam laughed. “My hands are full enough. Go ahead and have some lemonade. It’s in the barrel out back. That might wet your whistle.”

“That sounds mighty nice.” Scott went back outside and rounded the side of the store, finding the barrel and dipper. Sam grinned and kept working, wondering when Steve would arrive with their fresh stock. He was tempted to set a couple of those jars of spiced peaches aside, even though his sister warned him that all of them were meant for sale. The smell of the cinnamon, cloves and boiled fruit had made his mouth water when he stopped by Steve’s house to bring them more sugar, and Natasha snuck Sam a taste when Sarah wasn’t looking, and yep, he definitely planned to sneak a jar or two back home.

Sam counted the money in the till and paused to help Scott, who decided to buy a few penny nails.

“Hope wants me to build her another whatnot shelf,” he explained. “She wants somewhere to put her blue willow knickknacks, and we’re running out of room. She loves to collect things, but doesn’t have much thought of where we’re supposed to put them. She’s like a magpie.”

“That’s what happens when you marry someone who comes from wealth,” Sam reminded him. “She’s accustomed to nice things.”

Scott chuckled and shook his head. “I’m glad she loved me enough to lower her expectations, then, or I’d be one lonely man.”

Sam laughed, nodding as he bundled the nails in a tiny paper bag. As he finished Scott’s purchase, Steve banged his way inside, carrying two crates stacked in his arms.

“Careful with those, Steve.”

“Sorry. Got more out in the wagon.”

“Let me help.”

Scott made a hopeful sound. “Are those peaches? Your sister’s peaches?”

Sam huffed. “They might be.”

Steve smirked at him, reading Sam’s thoughts. “You know we have to sell them.”

“Add a jar to my order,” Scott said. “And a jar of the pickles, too.”

Just as Steve handed over the two jars, the bell above the door dinged again, and Bucky and Sharon wandered inside. Steve’s breath caught. Those both looked dusty and sweaty, like they’d just gotten back from a long ride.

“Afternoon, Sheriff. Deputy.”

“Afternoon, Stevie. I hate to trouble you, but you wouldn’t happen to have something cool to drink?”

“We do,” Sam interjected. “Lemonade in the barrel out back.”

“Here, let me,” Steve countered, and he quickly set down the crate and rushed to show them back out the door. Bucky and Sharon followed eagerly, and Sam threw up his hands.

“What about the rest of the jars? Steve? Steve!”

Steve ignored him for a minute as he found two more tin cups. He filled them both using the dipper, making sure to capture some of the thin lemon slices for each one and handed them over. When his fingertips brushed Bucky’s briefly, he pretended he didn’t notice, even though the contact made him tingle. Bucky smiled at him appreciatively.

“Much obliged, Stevie.”

“Mmm. That hits the spot,” Sharon agreed as she sipped hers and picked out a tiny seed. “You must have heard us coming.”

“Where have you two been today?” Steve nodded at Bucky, taking in the dust on his boots and the patches of sweat making his shirt cling to him a little. His cheeks were ruddy and gleaming from the heat, making his eyes seem even bluer than usual. Bucky removed his hat and fanned himself with it for a moment, and his dark hair was damp with sweat, too. On an impulse, Steve took off his own bandanna that he had draped around his neck and held it under the water pump spout, and he splashed it with water, soaking it thoroughly, wrung it out slightly, and handed it to Bucky. “That might help you to cool off, Sheriff.”

Bucky looked grateful, and Sharon, amused. He took the compress and used it to swipe at his face and neck, and the action poked at Steve’s memory, bringing back the image of Bucky in the darkened washroom, interrupted from his bath. Steve’s mouth went dry again, and it was all he could do not to dunk his own head under the water pump spout. Or even into the lemonade barrel.

“It certainly is a hot day,” Sharon remarked, sounding almost put out that no one offered her a compress, too. “That being said, Steve, is there anywhere that folks around here go to cool off? Like a creek, or a river or something?”

“Oh. Uh. There’s not much around here for swimming holes. Actually. Well. Maybe the pond out beyond the Xavier property. It’s shallow at this time of year, but the water should be nice. I don’t think the professor would mind you paying it a visit.”

“That sounds mighty nice, Steve. I’ll keep that in mind. Out by the professor’s property, you said?”

“Take the north road about three miles out and turn left when the road splits, out by Old Graymalkin Pass. His house is big, and he has a nice spread that he’s kept up pretty well over the years because he hires good help, and his students do a lot to take care of it when they can’t pay tuition.”

Sharon and Bucky perused the store as Sam and Steve shelved the new stock, and Steve sent them off with a crate of fresh supplies, including some of the spiced peaches, with grudging approval from Sam. Then, Steve remembered something just as they were getting ready to leave.

“Er, Sheriff. My ma, she bakes. She likes to make apple cake once in a while.”

“Your ma made some of those pies at the town social a while back, didn’t she?”

“She sure did. And, well. She asked me to give you this.” Steve went and gathered up the covered dish holding the apple cake and looked a little sheepish. “She thought you might like it. She figured that maybe you don’t have much of a chance to cook much for yourself.”

“Your ma sure is thoughtful to do this, Stevie. I guess thoughtfulness runs in the family, what with you helping us replace the windows, and all.”

“It wasn’t much,” Steve argued as he handed over the cake to Sharon while Bucky held the crate. Sharon peeked approvingly under the towel and smirked at the sight of the cake. She was also enjoying Steve Rogers making a complete muck of being subtle with Bucky. Maybe their afternoon of investigating hadn’t been that successful, but the rest of the day was proving entertaining, at least. Steve stepped back and rubbed his nape. Bucky enjoyed how rough-hewn he looked. His sandy beard was growing back in, and he was healthy looking and tanned from working outside. He had his sleeves rolled up over his elbows, exposing his brawny forearms dusted with golden hair. Bucky also liked his large, thick-knuckled hands that looked callused from hard work. His blue and white gingham-checked shirt brought out his eyes. “I’m sure you’re a busy man, Sheriff. Enjoy the cake. And the peaches.” Steve looked like he was contemplating offering Bucky and Sharon - or Bucky, at least - another reason to stop by the store. “Don’t be a stranger. And I know that, well. Maybe you don’t have much of a means of cooking much at your place.”

“We get by,” Sharon said.

“I’m sure you try, and all, Deputy Carter. Seems to me you said you aren’t much with a needle other than making some curtains before. I didn’t figure you for being much of a cook.”

Sharon shot him a halfhearted glare, but Bucky laughed.

“You figured right. She’s really not.”

“Natasha’s place isn’t the only place you can get a bite to eat, you know,” Steve mentioned casually.

“Steve, help me with the cloth,” Sam told him. Steve looked bewildered for a moment.

“We have to go, anyway,” Sharon said, and Bucky looked a little annoyed.

“We do?”

“We really do. Steve, thank your ma for the cake, it’s lovely.”

“Bye, now,” Bucky offered as Sharon pulled him along out the door. Bucky threw an apologetic smile over his shoulder at Steve as they left.

Steve rounded on Sam. “Do you really need my help with the cloth?” Sam rolled his eyes and chuckled. He waggled his finger at Steve.

“No. What I really need is for you to listen to me, Samuel Wilson, your oldest friend, when I tell you that you’re a mess, Steven Rogers. You had an opportunity, as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. You could have invited that man for a swim at the pond. Just the two of you.”

Steve was chastened. He sighed in exasperation. “Easy for you to say, Sam.”

“No, it’s easy for you to do. Steve. Come on, now. If I showed up on Natasha’s doorstep with an apple cake and a smile, I wouldn’t be where I am with her now.”

“A gentleman never tells, Sam.”

“No, he does not,” Sam agreed, and he smirked this time. “There’s a time to be a gentleman, though, and maybe you need to look for an opportunity not to be with the sheriff. Somehow, I don’t think he’d mind.”

“You’re poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, Sam.”

“Fine, then, but I’m the lucky man who Natasha does more than eat cake with, partner.” And Sam looked so smug when he pronounced this. Steve wanted to shove him.

“Don’t tell your ma that.”

Sam chuckled under his breath and waved him off.

*

The next few days were busy at the jailhouse. Bucky brought in a couple of men who were fighting and disturbing the peace outside the saloon, disputing a card game. Bucky and Sharon also investigated some vandalism at the Sinclairs, where they found another of the strange insignias on the barn, painted in stark, hideous red.

Eight arms, with leering eyes.

“Our bandit has struck again,” Sharon sighed.

“It wasn’t out here when we went tae bed las’ night,” Rahne, the oldest daughter of the house, explained to Sharon. “When we woke up, an’ I helped ma da tae gather up the eggs, well, there it was. Who would ruin a perfectly good barn door wi’ that mess?” Rahne was petite and fragile looking. Her auburn hair was cut boyishly short and she wore a prim white blouse and voluminous gray calico skirt and a dark apron that was dusted with flour. She was sweating from the heat and her fair cheeks were flushed. Dani Moonstar was visiting with her in the wake of the incident, and her braids bobbed over her shoulders as she nodded in agreement.

“It’s like what happened at our place, Deputy Carter. It was awful. Except those men tried to run us out of our house.”

“You and your pa did some fancy shooting, missy,” Sharon said, beaming. Dani waved her off bashfully.

“We aren’t anywhere near the old mines,” Rahne added. “There’s no gold on our land!”

“Any other funny business that you’ve noticed?” Bucky asked her.

“Not til now.”

*

Bucky and Sharon returned to their office. Bucky doffed his hat and ran his fingers through his sweaty hair and growled. “Now what?”

“We keep finding the brands. And we’ve got another painted barn door. We need to figure out what that eight-armed thing is, and what it even means,” Sharon reasoned. Then, she had a thought. “You know who we need to contact? Mr. Fury.”

“Fury?” Bucky demanded. “What do you think he can do, when we’re following all these leads that feel like they’re leading us nowhere?”

“They might not be leading us nowhere, just not anywhere that we’ve thought of yet.” Sharon leaned her hip against the edge of Bucky’s desk and folded her arms. “I think we should contact him. Send him a telegram.”

“What do you think we should tell him?”

“That we might have a lead. But that we need another pair of eyes. Nick has been in these parts. He remembers it before it became whatever this place is now. What it was like during better times.”

“You’re giving this town more credit than it deserves, assuming it was ever better than it is now, Sharon.”

“Still. Let’s see if Mr. Fury will pay us a social call and take a look at those old claims.”

“Fine by me.” Bucky noticed the covered dish still sitting on the table, and he pulled his knife out of his pocket, unfolded the blade, and lifted the towel from the apple cake. The sweet aroma wafted up to his nostrils, making his mouth water. “This thing’s been calling my name all day. Come and have some of this, Buttercup.”

“Don’t make me hurt you, and all right, already, I am. You don’t have to twist my arm.” Sharon took a handkerchief out of her pocket and waited for Bucky to cut her a piece, which he gently deposited into the handkerchief for her. Sharon sat smugly in her seat with her boots propped up on a stool and savored the cake. She moaned with pleasure, nodding and smiling. “Oh, this is nice. That Mrs. Rogers must know her son is sweet on you to bake you this cake.”

“Excuse me?!” Bucky’s brow furrowed, and he laughed as he cut his own hunk of cake and headed to his own desk with it. He plucked a chunk of tender, glazed apple from the cake and popped it into his mouth.

“You heard me. Steve Rogers is sweet on you. He’s a mess at letting you know, but my money is on him liking you.”

“He’s just being neighborly, is all.”

“This isn’t just ‘neighborly.’ He gets all tongue-tied around you.”

“I wouldn’t say that. He has plenty to say, and not necessarily in my favor. At least not when we first met.”

“I think he’s warming up to you, James Barnes.” They took time to enjoy the cake, an impromptu dinner that took the edge off of their hunger from riding and exploring all day. Then Sharon got up and dusted the crumbs from her lap. “Let’s go to the telegraph office.”

“I guess we might as well. We don’t have anything to lose.”

*

Five days after they sent the telegram, Nick Fury arrived at the jailhouse. Sharon looked up from one of the ledgers she was reading and beamed, and then she rose from her seat.

“Hello, sir.”

“Deputy Carter.” He approached her and shook her hand firmly. “You look well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Enjoying the local color?”

“It’s… colorful,” she offered, laughing.

“She’s mincing words, sir. This town’s a mess.”

“That’s why I brought you here to clean it up, Sheriff Barnes.” Nick shook Bucky’s hand, too, and sat down in Bucky’s chair and folded his hands over his middle. Nick was tall, rangy and lean. He wore a black patch over his left eye, and a web of old scars fanned out from beneath the patch’s edges, marring the smoothness of his dark brown skin. His black Stetson protected his bald scalp, and he wore a black vest over his crisp white shirt. He wore a silver badge like Bucky’s, marking him as a lawman. He stared up at them expectantly. “So. What’s this I hear about some symbols and local vandalism?”

“And brands,” Sharon added. “We've been visiting some of the old claims where the town’s records said that settlers found gold and silver. There have been these strange brands at a lot of the old claims where the folks who owned the deeds to the properties were run off.”

“Run off? How do you know they were run off?”

“Because we found all the signs of foul play. Some of them were burned down or just destroyed, like whoever ran them off held a grudge.”

Nicky hummed doubtfully. “It’s been a long time, but I remember back when I first came to this town. The train that brought me here was robbed that night. I did what I could to help drive off the bandits that boarded the train, but I couldn’t save one of the passengers that they shot out of pure spite.” Nick sighed. “No one deserved to die like that, and Joe Rogers, from all accounts, was a good man.”

“Rogers?” Sharon asked.

“Mm-hm.”

“Steve Rogers’ pa?” Bucky realized.

“Yes, indeed, Sheriff Barnes. Steve is Joe’s son. He inherited the store from him. I had the unfortunate duty of delivering the news to Mrs. Rogers that her husband wasn’t going to make it home.” His tone grew grim. “I gave Steve his pa’s pocketwatch.”

“Poor Sarah,” Sharon murmured. “That poor soul. And poor Steve.”

“He was too young to lose his father,” Nick agreed. “But that wasn’t uncommon after a while. That gang of robbers didn’t stop at just robbing the train that one night. There were other robberies and more disruptions around town. These weren’t subtle men. And they actually did leave behind signs of where they’d been.”

“What did they look like, these signs?” Sharon asked.

“Distinctive. Unique. The symbol that began to show up around town was known as a hydra.”

“A what?” Sharon asked.

“A hydra. I asked that professor, Charles Xavier about it. He’s well educated, and he tried to teach me a little about Greek mythology. I don’t usually concern myself with things like that, but he said that the hydra was an eight-headed serpent. Whenever you cut off one head, two more would grow back in its place. The symbol looked like a creature with many heads.”

“It looked like arms to me, but it could be snakes,” Sharon allowed.

“That sounds so outlandish,” Bucky argued.

“But it sounds like what we’ve seen around town, right?” Sharon countered.

*

The afternoon was hot, and Sharon and Bucky had opened the west-facing window to let in some fresh air. They didn’t notice the man standing a mere foot from the frame, leaning against the side of the jailhouse as he smoked a hand-rolled cigarette. He listened to them for a while, and his expression was calm, indicating no alarm or turmoil.

But as soon as the name “hydra” reached his ears, Helmut Zemo knew he had heard enough.

And that the sheriff and his deputy now knew too much.

Chapter Text

“I give it another month.”

“My money is on another week.”

“How much money are we talking?”

“Fifty cents.”

“You’re hurting my feelings, Barton.”

“Okay, Wilson. A dollar. Just to sweeten the pot.”

Natasha interrupted them and stopped to top off their glasses from her large jug of moonshine. Sam stopped her from leaving the table right away, pulling her in for a brief kiss of thanks. “What are you two betting on now?”

“When Rogers is gonna do something about the candle he’s holding for Sheriff Barnes,” Clint told her as he took another sip of moonshine and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He tried to ignore the soft way Sam was staring at Nat and his gentle grip on her slender wrist and was almost successful. “Steve’s wearing his heart on his dang sleeve. We all can see it.”

“It’s sweet,” Natasha said.

“It’s exhausting,” Sam corrected her. His expression was long suffering as he rolled his eyes, holding his head at a mulish tilt. “Can’t help wishing the two of them would get on with it, already.”

“Get on with what?” Natasha prodded. But her eyes twinkled with mischief.

“You know what. Shoot,” Sam amended, “that they would just get on with anything. Any fool can see that Steve’s taken a shine to Barnes.”

“Any fool except Steve, I guess,” Clint said. He was a little distracted and changed the subject. “D’ya suppose that Miss Morse is unattached?”

“Miss Morse?” Sam asked.

“Miss Morse? You mean, Bobbi?” Natasha’s auburn brows arched with sudden interest. “She hasn’t said anything about being promised to anyone.” Natasha screwed the lid back onto the moonshine jar.

“Nobody at all?” Clint’s voice sounded hopeful, and Natasha chose that moment to pounce.

“It is unusual that she’s out here all alone, in a place like The End of the Line,” Natasha said. “It isn’t many women that find this place suitable for civilized living.”

“‘Civilized living,’” Clint mimicked, scoffing a little. “This town ain’t ever been ‘civilized.’”

“It was once,” Sam argued.

“And again, I ask you, Clint, what do you think brings a nice young lady like Miss Bobbi out here?”

“Well, Nat, what brought you? What brought any of us, if I’m bein’ honest? I mean, this isn’t a town where you just… come to live. You end up here.” Clint contemplated his glass, swirling the clear liquid a little. “I was left behind. I know I ain’t the only one.”

The mood at the table went from playful to melancholy that quickly, and Sam decided to lighten the moment again.

“How about a dollar twenty-five?” he offered, holding up his glass and waiting for Clint to acknowledge his bet.

Clint snorted, shaking his head. “That isn’t a grown man’s gamble, Wilson.”

“Two dollars, then.”

“Now, you’re talking.”

They clinked glasses.

“What are we betting again?” Natasha asked.

“That Steve lets the sheriff know that he has his eye on him and is sweet on him in a week. Or less,” Clint said.

“And Steve Rogers is my oldest friend, true blue for as long as we’ve known each other, but my money is on him dancing around his feelings he has for the sheriff and not letting him know for at least another month, because as much as I admire Steve, he’s hardheaded. Barton is giving him far too much credit.”

Natasha wrinkled her nose and shook her head, sighing as she went to put away the moonshine.

*

The heat was oppressive. Bucky’s clothing was sticking to him in patches from his sweat, and he had some strong opinions about it.

“Blast,” he muttered.

“What’s wrong?” Sharon asked as she looked up from one of the ledgers.

“I can’t stand this dang heat for another second. Sharon, didn’t Professor Xavier and Mr. Lensherr tell us it was all right for us to come to their property? Wait… no, now that I think about it, it was Steve that told us that.”

“That’s right, he did,” Sharon agreed. She smiled and set down the ledger. “Are you really thinking about it?”

“Yes, Sharon, I’m really, really thinking about it. It’s like a furnace in here, and I’m about to lose my mind if I have to spend one more minute with my tongue lolling out of my head like a dog’s in this heat.”

“We need to report to Mr. Fury about what we found. He sent us that telegram that he wants us to work with his agent. She’s a marshall,” Sharon reminded Bucky.

“And I plan on that. From what I’ve heard, she has experience, and she is already familiar with this town. Natasha stopped by and told me that she is planning to put her up in one of her apartments.”

“Maybe the two of you can have tea together,” Bucky teased.

“Hush your mouth,” Sharon warned crossly. “I would have more time for ladylike pursuits like ‘tea’ if my sheriff wasn’t riding off to go for a swim, wouldn’t I?”

“Are you really that put out about it?”

“No. Of course not. We’ve been riding everywhere out in the middle of all this dust, chasing all these leads that seem to go nowhere.”

“No. We’re getting somewhere. Otherwise, Creed wouldn’t have barged in on us and pointed his gun at my head,” Bucky reminded her. “I feel like we’re getting closer to finding out who has been driving people out of their homes around here.”

“I’m not altogether sure about this whole ‘hydra’ nonsense that Fury told us about.”

“But aren’t you even a little intrigued?” Bucky asked her. “It’s outlandish. Who would even think of using such a thing as their symbol and sign of where they’ve been? Or as a brand?”

“Someone demented,” Sharon said.

“So you don’t mind much, then, if I go for a swim?”

“If it wouldn’t breed a scandal, I would go with you,” Sharon told him. “But, I’ll ask Natasha and this Bobbi if they want to go with me some other time.” She gave him another playful jibe. “When us women aren’t doing all of the hard work around here.”

*

Steve dashed an old, tattered bandanna under the water pump, soaking it completely, and he mopped his face and neck with it to cool himself down. Waves of heat rose from the gravel outside, and the sunshine was dizzyingly bright and unrelenting.

“Good afternoon, Steven,” greeted a familiar male voice, and Steve turned and smiled at Abraham Erskin. Like Steve, he had his shirt sleeves rolled up and his skin looked flushed from the heat. He wore a bowler cap over his shaggy white hair and his wire-framed reading glasses.

“Hello, sir. Did my mother send you here today to pick up some supplies for her?”

“Not at all. I wanted to stop by myself to invite you to supper with my wife and me tonight, if you would like. There are some old books of mine that I thought you might like to see, Steven, and some other things that I remembered that I had the other day.”

“Well. That’s a tempting offer.” Steve had a lot of chores to finish but wasn’t looking forward to them in the heat. He considered threshing the field on their property early the next morning, but there was a length of fencing that needed to be replaced sooner than later.

And the Captain needed to go out on patrol. Steve smothered a sigh. No rest for the weary.

“One I hope you will accept?”

“If I manage to close up the shop on time, then maybe I will come,” Steve offered, but his tone was noncommittal.

“All right. You’re always so honest, Steven, and that’s one of your strengths. You’re a good man, but your mother keeps telling me that you’re still an unmarried man. And that she is none too pleased about it.”

Steve laughed, looking sheepish. He tugged at the hair at his nape. “Was there anything else you needed from the store today, Dr. Erskine? Other than being my ma’s messenger?”

His old family friend smirked. “No. I just like seeing with my own eyes how well you’ve thrived.” He reached out and gripped Steve’s shoulder, squeezing it. “My serum worked well.”

“Yes, it did, sir.”

He patted him. “Good, good. Well, I hope we’ll see you for supper, Steven. Oh, and I will buy some of the liniment from you.”

Steve completed his transaction and as Abraham left, Sam passed him in the doorway.

“Good afternoon, Doc.”

“Hello, Samuel! Keep an eye on our friend Steven, and don’t let him do anything rash!”

Sam barked a laugh and waved him off. “That’s a job that will take me all day, Doc, maybe until the cows come home!”

Steve huffed at this and caught Sam’s eye, making Sam tell him, “Just being honest.”

“Jackass…”

“I’ll tell your ma, and she will wash your mouth out with her best soap. You’re no gentleman.”

“Well, fancy that. Neither are you.”

“No, but I am a good friend, maybe even the best one you’ve got. I went by your place today and fixed that fence. Rhodes gave me some boards and helped me out. Didn’t take long.”

Steve’s brows lifted, and he gave Sam an almost shy, pleased smile. “You didn’t have to do that, Wilson.”

“No, but I did overhear your ma talking to mine, suggesting that it’d be nice to get it replaced before any of your stock get out. And my ma has a habit of thinking out loud whenever I come into the kitchen, looking for something to eat and like I have too much time on my hands. So, Rhodey and I replaced that fence.”

“That will give me more time to do the threshing-”

“Leave that for tomorrow,” Sam argued. “You already said…” but then Sam’s voice trailed off, and he glanced around the store, and then outside the doorway before continuing. “I thought the Captain wanted to go out on patrol tonight.”

Steve followed the path of Sam’s eyes for a moment before he leaned in and muttered conspiratorially. “The Captain’s up to his hindquarters in chores and invitations that he keeps having to say no to, Wilson. But, yes. I think I need to go on patrol.”

“Then, we need to go on patrol,” Sam said simply. “Leave the threshing for tomorrow.”

“That’s gonna put me behind.”

“I’ll be at your place first thing tomorrow morning if you open up the shop,” Sam offered easily. “You’ve already got too much on your plate, Steve. Stop piling on more.”

Steve sighed and scrubbed his palm over his beard. “Fine.” He offered Sam a long-suffering smile. “You’re too good to me, Wilson, but you’re also beginning to sound like Abraham.”

Sam’s face lit up. “How is Doc, anyway?”

“Still puttering around in his clinic, and Ma’s still chasing him down to take his medicine and making sure he eats. Abraham thinks Ma and his Maisie are in cahoots.”

“Those two will sure keep him in line.” Sam went to the back counter and fished two pieces of hard candy out of its big jar and tossed one to Steve, who caught it deftly. “What are we looking out for?” he asked, getting back to the matter at hand.

“I’ve got a funny feeling about some of the things we’ve seen, Sam. Like, the big, ugly red mark on the Lonestar family’s barn door. It looked like the patch sewn onto those thugs’ shirts when we ran them out of there that night.”

“You mean when Danielle ran them out of there,” Sam chuckled as he unwrapped the candy and popped it into his mouth.

“Doesn’t change the fact that they were prodded out of their house in the middle of the night. They aren’t the only family being harassed, and it chaps my hide,” Steve said. “The Guthries. The Sinclairs. Plenty of decent folks who are just trying to make an honest living here, and they’re being run off. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“They aren’t gonna like the good Captain poking his nose into their business,” Sam mused.

“Well, I guess that’s their problem.” Steve tucked the candy into his mouth and sucked on it as he continued dusting and stocking shelves.

Sam sighed this time. “Steve. How long are we gonna keep doing this? There’s a perfectly good sheriff and deputy in town, now. I know you want to fight the good fight to help folks that need it, but…” Sam paused and waved his hand futilely. He knew it was no use, but he had to try. “You’re going to make the wrong folks mad, and you could get found out. They could come after you. And your ma’s right-”

“Quit it, Wilson.”

“No. You hear me out. She’s right, Rogers. You need to settle down and quit risking your neck so much. I mean, it’s fun every once in a while, our late night rides around town. Taking in the local colors. Looking at the stars. Hunkering down in the brush and getting shot at…” Sam let his voice trail off, and Steve huffed, giving Sam a smug, bland look.

“You can get out any time you want.”

“Not as long as you’re still in.”

“I never said you had to risk your own neck, Sam.”

“Steve-”

“You don’t have to keep looking after me, Sammy!”

“No. I do.” Sam held up his hand, pointing at Steve, and he paused a moment to compose himself, shaking his finger at him. “I’ve been your friend our whole lives. Anyone who hurts you or so much as looks at you sideways has to deal with me and ol’ Nell.” That was Sam’s nickname for his Colt pistol that had a falcon custom engraved into its wood handle. “And maybe I want both of us to grow into old men, fat, used up and content on our front porches, letting our wives or our partners fuss over us and seeing our kids running around in the garden.”

“Dang, Wilson. You really do sound like Ma, now. She’s been nagging you to boss me around when she ain’t here, hasn’t she?”

Sam plucked the candy from his mouth so that he wasn’t garbled when he said “You better quit casting aspersions about Mrs. Rogers. That woman fed me at her table. She doesn’t ‘nag.’ She dispenses good, common sense.” Sam popped the candy back into his mouth, licking his fingers and wiping them on a bandanna that he pulled out of his pocket.

“Getting old and fat is a luxury in these parts. And it’s rare,” Steve told him simply. “I’m a man who doesn’t have time to entertain those thoughts or those plans.”

“You’re always a man out of time, Steve.” Sam knocked his shoulder into his companionably as he walked past Steve to the store room. “Save the threshing for tomorrow. We’ll go on patrol, if it makes you feel any better.”

“It’ll make the citizens feel better.”

“Sure, it will,” Sam called out from the room before he let the door tip shut.

“Barnes is still too green,” Steve insisted, but he knew Sam was done listening to him for the moment. Steve went back to stocking the shelves. He contemplated a jar of olives that had a faulty lid; someone hadn’t sealed it right when they cooked it. It would be spoiled in another day or two. Steve decided to take that one home for his ma to use them in one of her loaves of bread.

Sam came out a couple of minutes later, arms filled with a large sack of flour. “If he was that green, he wouldn’t have been sent out here to replace Walker,” he told Steve. “You’re just making excuses.”

“He needs my help, Sam!”

“Your help? Or your protection?” Sam challenged, smirking. “You’re not fooling anybody, Steve.”

Steve gave him an aggrieved sigh. “Sam. Stop. Please.”

“Steve’s got his eye on Bucky,” Sam sang, giving his voice the same teasing lilt that he used to when they were just boys. “And Bucky’s got his eye on you…”

“I’m just looking out for him. It’s not the same thing. I’m making sure he doesn’t do anything rash-”

“HA!” Sam challenged. “I did not hear those words come out of your mouth with my own ears, Steven Rogers!”

“It’s just… c’mon, Sam. I don’t… I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

“That’s fine, then. Say what you mean.”

*

Say what you mean.

Sam’s words echoed in his head while Steve rode around the periphery of the Xavier estate. Clint mentioned randomly to Sam over a glass of Nat’s sarsaparilla that there was another sighting of the strange red insignia on the neighboring property. That left Steve fuming.

“This is just vandalism, now,” Sam growled. “I know this town ain’t what it used to be, but there’s no reason for this. Why drive away good people with this nonsense?”

“It’s a statement,” Steve said. “Or even a challenge. They know I’m watching them now, Sam. I can feel it.”

“I wish that would make you less hotheaded, then,” Sam offered.

The evening was still sultry, and the air felt oppressively heavy. Sam wore the eye-darkening makeup and his mask, but he left his bandanna down for most of their ride out of town, needing the air on his cheeks. Steve didn’t blame him, but he urged him to cover up as they found the property that Clint was taking about.

“Damn,” Sam swore.

They hadn’t just defaced the barn. The property was a shambles, and it looked recently deserted. The windows of the house were all broken, and the fence looked like it had been burned down. Sam and Steve rode closer and saw the ash and blackened ground where it was scarred by fire.

“Same men, it had to be,” Steve said.

“How did they regroup that fast? We threw the ones we left standing in lockup.”

“We can’t let them do this to the Xaviers,” Steve told Sam. “They’ve got the students to look after. They don’t need to fear for themselves.”

And Steve’s voice held a gritty edge. Sam knew he was thinking about how he grew up without his pa, and how vulnerable he and his ma felt back then. The End of the Line should have remained a town where a family could make an honest living on their own spread, without worrying about being robbed, burned out of their land, or shot.

They eyed the ugly red insignia, with its many leering heads, with paint drips ruining the planks, making it appear that the barn was bleeding.

“I hate this,” Sam sighed.

“Hey,” Steve piped up, “what’s that?”

“What?”

“That? Over there.”

They guided their mounts closer to the small creek that fed from the river that ran around the edge of the estates; the pond lay over the boundary line on the Xavier estate. But they noticed a dark, gleaming patch that ran by the creek, and as they neared it, they saw that it was a gout bubbling out of the ground.

“Steve. Is that… oil?”

“Maybe. Looks like it could be,” Steve confirmed. He guided his horse to a halt and dismounted, handing Sam his reins. The damp slick looked like someone had been digging in that spot somewhat recently. Steve took off his glove and dipped his fingers into the dark ooze. It felt slippery and warm from the day’s heat beating into the earth. “It is.”

“So. This is a claim,” Sam said easily.

“Someone tried to jump it.”

“If the owners have the deed to this land intact, then it’s against the law. And that’s for Sheriff Barnes and his deputy to investigate.”

“Oil,” Steve mused. “So. This town’s potential hasn’t dried up, after all.”

“Not if you know what to look for.”

“And someone’s been looking.”

*

Bucky rode out toward the Xavier estate, following the instructions he was given, and when he saw the pond’s gleaming surface through a slight parting in the treeline, he grinned and nudged Pancake into a trot. The sun was setting and the first wisps of amber were streaking the clouds. Bucky regretted that the mosquitoes would probably join him on his swim, but that wouldn’t stop him from getting into that cool, refreshing water to get some relief from the heat. He led Pancake to the clearing and dismounted, and he let Pancake drink his fill at the edge of the water while he began to undress. He unbuttoned his shirt and stripped off his bandanna, enjoying the air fanning against his heated, sweat-damp flesh. The unrelenting day was turning into a sultry night that promised him a lovely view while he swam. Bucky wondered how deep the water was and noticed algae and tiny minnows in the shallows as he folded his discarded clothing and laid it in a tidy pile. His silver badge winked up at him from his shirt, blindingly bright in the fading sunlight. It was nice to shed the responsibility of wearing it, at least for an hour.

Sharon said she was meeting with Bobbi Morse, Fury’s agent, and Fury had told him some promising things about her experience and skill, claiming that she was as sharp as a tack and had an eagle eye. Sharon didn’t make any bones about telling Bucky that “the right man for the job is always a woman,” and wisely, Bucky decided not to even argue with her, because when had that ever gotten him anywhere? Bucky almost regretted not making good on Sharon’s offer to accompany him for a swim, but, yes, the thought of it would scandalize some folk and cause tongues to wag. Bucky also figured Sharon had enough of an eyeful the night of the break-in at the jailhouse, when they were crowded together in the room, after Creed interrupted his much needed bath.

He still remembered the Captain’s eyes on him, drinking in the sight of him, and that memory made Bucky shiver. The situation didn’t lend itself to reading that look for what it was at the time, but as Bucky looked back on it, that looked - and felt - like interest. And that just stirred up all kinds of thoughts in Bucky’s head. He wondered what the Captain was like without that mask, and who he was when he was walking around in broad daylight. Why did he need to keep his identity a secret? Were there any people in his life that knew about what he did when the sun went down? That left the even more important question: Did the Captain have someone special to him? Could he even afford to, given the way he seemed to live? Bucky wondered how he decided to be The End of the Line’s self-appointed protector. Then again, some folks in town just thought of him as a bandit himself, or a vigilante.

What troubled Bucky the most was the possibility that he might have to one day bring the Captain in on an arrest, if it turned out that he was in any way connected to the strange rash of disturbances. Bucky doubted that he was involved with this “Hydra” gang, but he still wondered how he’d managed to show up at the Moonstar’s property that night to stop those bandits and drive them off, just in the nick of time. He had to have been following the same leads that Bucky and Sharon had. Everything was still too muddy for his liking. Bucky’s boots were propped up beside the tree, and he regretted not bringing a jack to help him put them back on, but he would manage it. The promise of the swim was worth it. He left his drawers on top of his clothing pile, hoping no one walked in on him this time, or if they did, that they waited until he was at least waist-deep…

He thought about Steve and their conversation the day he came over to replace the windows. He was awfully concerned about Bucky’s opinion about the Captain. “Sure was odd,” he murmured to himself. The marshy bottom of the pond squelched between his toes, and the water was cooler than the air, thankfully, but still not frigid enough to deter him from wading in a little deeper, and he made a pleased noise at the feeling of the water enveloping him, caressing his bare flesh.

*

Zemo was a patient man, for the most part.

Too many underestimated him, and by the time anyone realized that his soft-spoken nature masked devious intentions, they often turned up dead, undiscovered until their bodies drew flies. The barn door wasn’t his handiwork this time around, nor the fire, because he preferred subtlety. Brock and his men were heavy-handed in their approach, something that annoyed him. But Zemo had been the one to discover the oil and reported his findings to Fisk and Pierce. The assessors that met with Pierce at his compound gave him favorable feedback, and his plans for the town now had a timeline. The End of the Line was a failed “gold rush” site, but it promised to be so much more as the hub of the new railway that Pierce and the rest of the barons planned. Even Stark, so smug about his designs for faster, sleeker train engines, didn’t realize that he was merely a pawn.

The newest sheriff really needed to learn to watch his back.

It suited Zemo well that he chose to leave his deputy behind and come out here alone. Who wouldn’t want to escape to one of the town’s only decent places to bathe and cool off on a day like this, he wondered to himself as he watched Bucky from the copse of trees, just over a low rise. He watched Bucky wade into the water, scooping handfuls of it and sluicing it over his arms and shoulders, shivering a little before he dove under. A few moments later, he surfaced, his dark hair slick and plastered to his scalp and neck. Sheriff Barnes was a striking man, Zemo noted with faint regret. Young, sturdy, fit. Certainly handsome and charming, if the gossip among the ladies in town was any indication. And unlike the previous sheriff, John Walker, he seemed rather decent.

It was truly a shame that Zemo would have to put a bullet in the back of his head.

But Bucky dove back under again, this time re-emerging to flip over onto his back. Zemo’s breath caught. Barnes was a well-made man, indeed.

Such a damned shame.

He’d have an easier time making a clean shot once he stood again.

Bucky lolled in the water and watched the sky slowly change colors. The clouds overhead were scattered, like a handful of soap suds that someone blew on, and he heard a low breeze rustling the trees. It was turning into a pretty night, and he’d managed to evade the mosquitoes so far, but he knew he shouldn’t push his luck.

Steve turned to Sam, and his mount was impatient, wanting to duck its head and munch on the surrounding weeds. “You might as well head on, Wilson.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“In a minute. I want to get a look at the creek and see if anyone’s been digging anywhere else.”

“I can stick around.”

“You don’t have to. Go. Nat’s got to be missing you by now.”

Sam smirked, but Steve only noticed how the expression made Sam’s dark eyes crinkle over the edges of his mask and bandanna. “She’s missing you, too. You just don’t want to walk back into that saloon in case she’s found you some hopeful lady to catch your eye. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“I’m on patrol. That doesn’t mean you have to be.”

“The hell I don’t.”

Steve chuckled, and Sam felt his usual impatience when Steve waved him off.

“You don’t. Honestly, Sam. Go. Just go. I can handle finishing patrol on my own.”

“You don’t have to, though.”

“I might stick around a little while and visit that pond, after all,” Steve confessed.

“Ahhhhhh…”

And Steve felt his cheeks heat up at Sam’s amused tone and the way Sam wagged his finger at him knowingly.

“Who knows,” Sam went on, “Maybe the sheriff took someone’s advice and decided to take a little dip? It’s a decent night for it, isn’t it?”

“Or maybe he just stuck around in town. Sheriff Barnes is a busy man.”

“So are you, Captain. Maybe you need to just cool your heels…”

“Good Lord, Wilson, will you just go, already.”

Sam shrugged, and he turned his mount back toward the trail. “Don’t stay out here too late. Hey, if I don’t see you at the saloon by the time I’m ready to leave for the night-”

“No, Wilson. I’m not a child. You’re going to march your tail into that saloon and keep yourself in Nat’s good graces and give her the attention she deserves tonight. I’ll see you in the morning at the store, or at the house when it’s threshing time.”

Sam waved over his shoulder to Steve without turning back. “Sure, Steve.”

“Night.”

“Night.”

Steve decided to keep searching for signs of whoever it was who drove out the property owners along the creek, as well as signs of anyone who had been digging for oil. He loosened his bandanna, letting it fall down around his neck. Shit, it was still so muggy. Sam’s suggestion was beginning to tempt him. Maybe he did need to head to the pond, whether Bucky ended up there or not. It was a peaceful night, standing at odds with the carnage that they found the remains of, and Steve hoped that the calm lasted for at least a little while. He swiped at his nape futilely, mopping away sweat and wondering if he could remove his mask yet.

He rode a couple of miles up the path, toward the pond at Xavier’s estate. The grass was worn away from the local residents’ frequent rides and treks, and Steve’s horse whickered softly, hoping for another brief drink when they reached their destination, and Steve was fine it it, provided he wasn’t in the mood to lollygag. The view was lovely and tranquil, and Steve noticed slight ripples in the water, and that made him pause. He drifted back into the brush, behind a large oak, while his horse wandered to the pond’s edge for the promised drink. And then Steve heard another horse almost a meter to his left, flicking its ruddy tail.

“Pancake,” he muttered. That was Bucky’s mare, and Steve’s stomach did a little flip of surprise.

And here he was, dressed for patrol, shoe polish under his eyes, looking very much like the Captain, and-

A sharp splash erupted through the pond’s surface, and suddenly Bucky was all Steve could see. He emerged for a deep, thirsty breath of air, his skin gleaming in the fading sun. His hair flicked back from his face, throwing a spray of droplets as he scraped it back from his eyes. Those wet-lashed, beautiful eyes, like icy crystals. His lips were rosy, and he was smiling, clearly enjoying his swim. Bucky once again flipped onto his back, and Steve felt a kick of arousal, blatant and unwelcome, given the circumstances, when he saw Bucky in his full glory.

No man had any right to look like that.

That night at the jailhouse, in the wash room, Steve saw Bucky standing there in the dark, dripping, and that image was now burned into his mind every time he laid down to sleep, but that paled in comparison to this. Bucky, well.

Bucky.

Damn it.

His body was a melody of contours and work-hardened muscle. Broad, proud shoulders tapered down to narrow hips and a taut waist. Bucky’s legs were long and those muscles were equally impressive from riding a horse as often as he did, and they were slicked with a fine layer of dark hair. Steve saw the hollows and shadows of his body in daylight, now, without the blurring filter of darkness. His manhood was flaccid from the cold water, but still impressive, nestled in the coarse curls of dark hair at his groin. By contrast, his nipples were hardened nubs crowning his pectorals.

Steve was already uncomfortably hot when he arrived, but this was unbearable. And here he was, standing by like some kind of peeping Tom. Bucky transfixed him that easily, and it fed Sam’s claim that Bucky had caught Steve’s eye. Yet, suddenly, he was hit with an unease stemming from where they were, and when.

The sun was setting. They were out in the open. Bucky was completely vulnerable. And Steve was struck with the itch that somehow, they were being watched.

Steve’s hand drifted to his pistol, and he tore his eyes away from Bucky to scan the periphery.

Steve’s horse had other ideas. It whickered a greeting to Pancake, who decided it was time for a social call. The mare began to wander over to Steve’s location, and that caught Bucky’s attention. He flipped over and began to breaststroke his way back toward the shore.

“Hey, there, girl. Have you found a friend?” Bucky called out as he reached the shallows and waded out, shivering a little as the air cooled against his damp skin. He felt immeasurably refreshed, but he decided the best course of action was to hustle back into his clothes, in case Xavier or any of his students decided to stop by for a dip, themselves.

But he paused for a moment to greet the horse, a beautiful stallion with a dark coat. “Hello, sweet boy. Aren’t you a pretty fellow? Look at you,” Bucky crooned as he beckoned to it, making clicking sounds with his teeth and letting the stallion sniff his palm. He reached up and stroked its muzzle and patted its neck, and the beast leaned into his caresses, giving its large a head a hearty shake. Bucky grinned up at it and gave the horse a little more attention. “I know your owner can’t want you out here joining me for a swim,” Bucky teased. “You sure are a big, pretty boy, all well fed. Someone took good care of you, huh, fella?”

Pancake, nonplussed, meandered over and gave Bucky a little sputter, flicking her tail with curiosity. “You know him, girl? Huh, Pancake? Is this a friend of yours?”

She whinnied her accord and drew closer, and Bucky stepped aside to let them have their social call while he reached for his clothing. The breeze kicked up just as he was reaching for his drawers, blowing them off the top of his pile of clothes, and Bucky cursed as he was forced to stumble after them. The wind carried them into the brush.

Steve’s attention was torn between watching the treeline for movement and listening to Bucky flirt with Steve’s horse. Damn it. There was someone out there, and fear made Steve’s flesh ripple with goosebumps. He drew his pistol out of its holster and listened. Still a breeze making the trees rustle, and he heard some critters scurrying around in the brush, the chatter of squirrels harassing the birds. But suddenly, he heard the crack of a branch slightly to his right, maybe a half a meter away, and his eyes tracked the sound to its source. He saw the tip of metal protruding through the tall grass and the faint click that made his heart pound in his ears. Steve raised his own pistol and aimed it without thinking.

BANG!

Adrenaline sparked cold terror in his chest as he saw the rifle disappear for a moment, and then the edge of a gray hat rising over the edge of the grass, obscuring a man’s face as hurried to reload. Steve wouldn’t have the chance for another shot while Bucky was still out in the open, completely vulnerable and within the shooter’s sight.

“BUCKY! GET DOWN!”

Bucky was already scrambling at the first sound of the gun firing, and the grass and gravelly soil along the pond’s banks abraded his skin as he dove down. That voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t appreciate it at the moment, not when he was just about to piss himself in terror. But his brain processed different things at once, complicating his efforts to get to his clothes. Another shot ringing out, this time finding an inadvertent target in the oak tree beside him, scarring and splitting its pristine bark. The sounds of footfalls coming toward him, and suddenly, the bulk of a body landing over his, covering him.

Covering him.

The shock forced the breath from his lungs.

“Please stay down, Bucky.”

“I’m planning on it,” he hissed back.

His heart was pounding, and the man currently shielding him, well. His heart was pounding too, something Bucky could feel vibrating against his back. The man’s bulk was solid and hot against him, and the textures of his clothing, his rough dungarees and chambray shirt, were a strange counterpoint to the grass beneath them. The man’s arms caged Bucky neatly where they huddled on the ground, and his hand cupped Bucky’s head protectively, and Bucky felt the annoying graze of stickers from a nearby bush that they careened into as they landed. The night’s indignities were stacking up, and Bucky sorely wished their attacker could have at least waited until he worked his way back into his trousers…

His savior’s breath was misting over his ear, and his voice was muffled by his bandanna. “You all right?”

“How do you know me?” Bucky shot back.

“Are you all right?” he repeated gruffly.

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

The stranger’s hand gently gripped Bucky’s wrist in apology. “I’m so sorry,” he husked.

“This isn’t ideal.”

“I know.”

“But… thank you.”

“Just… stay here, Sheriff,” Steve muttered.

“Fine with me.”

It wasn’t, though. The were still being shot at.

Steve rolled off of him, and he retrieved his gun, which had flown from his hand when he dove down to shield Bucky from harm. Bucky craned his neck around to stare up at their surroundings, and at the stranger. The Captain. It had to be. Bucky’s eyes flitted over the pistol and his savior. He was tall and brawny and far too covered up for a man riding out in the brush on a summer evening like this one. He was masked. Tall. Brawny. Something tacky and dark, like shoe polish, obscured his eyes, but Bucky could tell even in this light that they were a distinctive, milky blue, like opals. The man didn’t pause long enough to Bucky to properly study him in the fading light, with the sun setting behind him. The edges of his hair, what Bucky could see of it sticking out from under his Stetson, was a dark… blond, perhaps.

The situation was eerily familiar, with Bucky just as much at a disadvantage as he’d been before.

The stranger - the Captain - was kind enough to kick Bucky’s drawers in his general direction before he ran off after the shooter who ambushed them.

Steve ran through the trees. The fading sunlight was working against him now, and the long shadows made it harder to trust his eyes. He caught sight of the shooter, ducking behind a small lean-to. Steve fired at it, wanting to see if he could take him down, or at least flush him out. His breath sawed in and out of his chest as he ran, panting angrily as his boots pounded the earth, kicking up dust. He had to take this bastard out, or he’d try again. And again. The End of the Line couldn't afford to lose another sheriff. His legs burned as he ran, and Steve chambered another round and fired again. He saw the bullet pierce the weathered planks, and he heard nothing. He approached the lean-to, hurrying around to the other side without any thought but to see if-

“Shit,” he hissed.

The man was gone. No body. No one waiting for him with a gun.

Steve’s eyes scanned the trees. He turned in a slow three-sixty, listening to the birds flocking from the trees, unsettled by the gunfire. The man was gone without a trace. Steve couldn’t even feel eyes on him anymore. That almost unsettled him more than anything else. He decided not to wait long enough to become a target again. Steve resolutely ran back toward the pond, back out into the clearing. The clouds overhead were turning furious shades of red and violet against the sapphire sky, and he knew he needed to ride back into town.

Bucky was thankfully gone; Steve saw no sign of him or Pancake anywhere, and Steve was grateful that he had the common sense not to go after him. Steve followed his example and mounted his horse, and he took off at full gallop until he reached the city limits.

Zemo emerged from the hidden bulkhead inside the lean-to, grateful that the idiot Captain hadn’t thought to peer inside. Hydra’s network of rough riders and operatives had riddled the outer limits of the town with bunkers and lean-tos such as these, offering easy escapes when they were needed. It was dirty work, and not for the slow-witted, nor the faint of heart.

The Captain had cut a striking figure. Few men in town stood that tall or had such a physique. Zemo tucked that observation away for future use.

Chapter Text

Sharon tsked over Bucky’s shallow scratches marring his forearm and shoulder. “What on earth were you rolling in?”

“Ended up in a sticker bush,” he complained. The scratches were still an angry red, tender to the touch, and he gingerly slid his arm back into his sleeve once Sharon finished dressing them in ointment and wrapping them in clean bandages.

“You were damned lucky,” she swore sourly. “This is why I can’t let you go riding off alone. You end up getting your fool head nearly shot off!”

“Easy, Deputy,” Bucky urged. “I’m all in one piece. Guess I wasn’t alone out by that pond. You’ll never guess who found me.”

Sharon’s brows drew together. “Who?”

“The Captain.”

“Good Lord… Bucky, again?!”

“Yeah,” he said sheepishly, and his cheeks heated up at the memory. “We’ve really got to stop meeting like that. He saw the shooter before I did, just as I was ducking for cover.”

“And you were still in the altogether, weren’t you? Stark naked and out in the open?” Her tone was incredulous. “I don’t think I’ve ever suggested to any man that he should bathe less, Bucky, but I might have to make an exception for you, since you can’t seem to do it at the right time, can you?”

Bucky sighed raggedly and sagged into a chair, propping his booted feet up onto his desk. “Someone had to have followed me out there.”

“Well, of course, Bucky.”

“Which means we made someone awful mad for poking around where we’re obviously not wanted.”

“That’s not going to stop us, right?”

“Of course not, Sharon. Everything that’s happening around this godforsaken town, with the property damage, and driving good folks out of their homes? That can’t just go on. Not while we’re still standing.”

“We’re just going to have to be more careful. And I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“That’s not necessary. Besides, if they’re shooting at me, they’ll shoot at you, too, Miss Carter.”

“Deputy Carter,” she snapped. “But, get back to what happened at the pond. You said the Captain ran him off?”

“I think he’s the ‘shoot first and think later’ type,” Bucky admitted. He was still discomfited by the memory of the Captain haring off after him, into the shadowy copse, when they were so far away from civilization. “But, Sharon.” Bucky threw up his hand and let it slap back down into his lap. “He called out my name. The Captain knows me.”

“Well, of course he does, from that night here, when Creed got the jump on us.”

“I know that, but… he was awfully familiar with me. He didn’t call me ‘Sheriff Barnes.’ Or even just ‘Sheriff.’” He paused a moment, bracing for her reaction. “He called me ‘Bucky.’”

“Oh.” Sharon frowned. “That’s… interesting. And unexpected.”

“And not only that, but instead of just getting me behind him, he, uh.”

Sharon’s lips quirked. Bucky’s account of what happened at the pond was just getting wilder by the second. “What? He what?”

“He, uh. Covered me. Shielded me, I guess. He was laid out over me, like, uh, a blanket.”

“My, my, my…”

Sharon’s concerned look shifted to a satisfied smirk. She glanced away for a moment, but Bucky saw her shoulders shake.

“I beg your pardon? Deputy Carter? Are you laughing at my expense?!”

Sharon straightened up, but he still saw the gleam in her brown eyes. “No. No, you’re right. You’ve been through, uh, an ordeal, Sheriff.” She cleared her throat. “That was quite the close call.”

Bucky scrubbed his palm over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the rankling, tingling embarrassment running through him, prickling his flesh.

He’d survived the ambush at the pond, only to have his deputy attempt to murder him again with her tongue.

*

“Do you want to run this by me again?”

“I really don’t, Wilson…”

“Well, that’s too damned bad, Rogers! Will you please explain this to me again, how you ended up letting Sheriff James Barnes get a look at you both up close and in broad daylight-”

“It was evening. The sun was going down,” Steve interjected in an attempt to spare himself some of Sam’s ire.

“No, the sun wasn’t that low yet, to the best of my memory. I saw my way home just fine,” Sam mentioned. Sam’s nostrils flared in annoyance, and he pulled Steve close, gripping his upper arm. “Look, Steve,” and Sam’s eyes flitted toward the windows of the house, “this can’t continue. You - and me - are going to get found out, and the same men who shot at the sheriff are going to come for us.”

The two of them were out in the field, threshing it and drowning in their own sweat, but at least it was getting done, much to Steve’s relief. He mopped at his brow with his bandanna, and Steve scratched his chin through his thick beard, contemplating whether or not to shave it. It was a nuisance to cover it with his bandanna when they rode out on patrol, but it was one more thing to protect his identity. Sam leaned back against the fence and rested for a moment, drinking water from a metal canteen that he’d brought along.

“That was too close, Steve,” Sam continued.

“I know that.”

Steve removed his work gloves, and Sam noticed his hand. “What are those scratches?”

“Oh,” Steve mused as he glanced down at the back of his right hand. Uneven, shallow scratches marred his tanned skin. “Must have been a sticker bush,” he offered. “Wasn’t watching where I was going, I guess, when I was making sure Bucky ducked for cover.”

“Making sure Bucky ducked for cover?” Sam’s brow arched, and he folded his arms across his middle.

“He was out in the open, and I couldn’t just… well, you know,” Steve said, and he felt his cheeks heating up with an unwelcome flush. “I was covering him. I didn’t want him getting shot, Sam!”

“My goodness.”

“I just did what any other man would do if he came across someone in trouble,” Steve insisted.

Sam chuckled dryly and shook his head, then threw up his hands. “You’re putting a lot of faith in what ‘any other man’ would do in this instance, Steve. And Bucky isn’t just ‘any other man’ to you. C’mon, now. That was a pretty strong reaction, Steve. That’s going to get his attention pretty quick, if you weren’t exactly meaning to.” Steve sighed, but Sam wagged his finger at him. “He’s going to figure out who the Captain really is, if you aren’t more careful.”

“I don’t know if that’s going to work out, Sam. I think, well… I don’t think Bucky agrees that the Captain is on the same side he is.”

Sam shrugged. “Sometimes, justice doesn’t always wear a pretty silver badge. Sometimes, it’s just carried out by a man in a mask who means well. Let’s hope he believes that too, Steve.”

“I’m just glad he’s safe. He needs someone to watch his back.”

“Look who’s talking. Why do you think I stick around to watch yours?”

They finished the threshing right as Steve’s ma called them inside to eat. Sarah tutted over Steve’s scratches much like Sam had, but if she had any idea of the source, she wisely said nothing.

*

Zemo waited by the window in Pierce’s study, staring out at the grounds as Pierce poured them each a drink. Pierce joined him at the window and handed him the tumbler of whiskey.

“Salut,” Zemo offered as they clinked glasses, and he took a fortifying sip. “Very smooth,” he commented.

“It’s nice once in a while to enjoy the finer things.”

“Indeed. So, Mr. Pierce. The good sheriff, well… I think he’s beginning to get the message that he’s getting involved where he isn’t welcome. We’ve made slight progress.”

Pierce’s smile was hesitant. “Slight progress?”

“From the information I’ve gathered so far, he knows about our calling card, and what it means.”

Pierce shrugged. “That in and of itself isn’t anything to worry about. It sends the right message to the right people, and it drives away the ones we want it to, certainly.”

“Simply driving him and his deputy away may not be enough.” Zemo smiled over the edge of his glass. “He’s not like Walker.”

“Men like Walker don’t always start off the way that he ended up. They start out like Sheriff Barnes. Brave, noble, and virtuous. They want to help the community and fight for justice, but over time, well. Men like Barnes grow tired of being shot at, Helmut. And they grow just as tired of doing that sort of work, only to have too little money in their pockets.”

Just as the men were enjoying the peace and stillness of the afternoon, ruminating over their whiskey, Brock’s loud voice dashed it all to bits. “There’s no need to act all hoity-toity with me, ya fancy sonofagun, I ain’t trackin’ any mud in here! Quit rufflin’ yer feathers at me. I’m just here to see Pierce.”

“Brock,” Pierce greeted, and he raised his arm in greeting, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze. Jarvis hovered in the doorway, scowling a little at Brock’s back, but Pierce waved him away. His butler huffed as he left the study, but Pierce noticed that Brock’s boots were, indeed, slightly muddy, and he stifled a sigh.

“Afternoon, sir,” he greeted back. He eyed the glass of whiskey in Pierce’s hand, and Pierce went to the sideboard to pour him one, too. “Sure is nice to have something to wet my whistle, on a day like today.”

“I imagine you’ve been hard at work?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Tell me about it.”

Brock grinned as he took the drink from Pierce, treating himself to an ungentlemanly deep gulp of the expensive whiskey first. “It was like taking candy from a baby. We raided the Morlock Manor. It’s within spitting distance of the Xavier estate. I don’t think you’ll run into any trouble from that bunch of vagabonds anymore. The way to that claim is clear, now.”

“Vagabonds?” Pierce huffed. “They’re hardly vagabonds, Brock, let me assure you.”

“Trust me, sir, they ran from that manor like the roaches they were. Didn’t take much.”

Pierce sighed in annoyance. “They enjoyed a comfortable association with Xavier, and by extension, his dear colleague, Erik Lensherr.”

“So? Who cares? What’s that gotten them in the long run? We cleared ‘em out. What’s Lensherr gonna do about it? He’s old and dried up, and they were in the way, whether they ‘associated’ with him or not!”

“Old and dried up,” Pierce repeated dully. He tsked. “I’m disappointed in you, Rumlow.”

Brock failed to suppress his sneer over the rim of the glass. “Why? You know I’m right.”

“You have qualities I admire, Rumlow, but at times, you have a gift for underestimating people. Erik Lensherr has survived horrors that would boggle your imagination. He’s gotten on in years, but don’t think for a second that he’s gone soft. I told you to be more subtle about it.”

“Then, maybe you need to take a good, long look at who’s more loyal to you, before you start warning me about bein’ ‘subtle,’” Brock suggested. His dark eyes gleamed in a way that made Pierce chafe, even though he maintained his brittle smile.

“Look how well I pay for your loyalty,” Pierce countered dryly. “You know how I feel about unnecessary risks, and about recklessness, Brock.”

“I was doin’ my job!”

Pierce exhaled in frustration, but he schooled his expression into calm lines.

“They’re outta there. That’s what counts,” Brock added. “That claim’s yours, sir, free and clear.”

“Watch out for stragglers,” Pierce suggested. “I don’t expect my men to run into any problems when we tap that claim.”

“I’ll take care of it. I always do.”

Pierce considered this and nodded. “You’re consistent; I’ll give you that.”

He’s messy. Sloppy. But, he gets results. Helmut watched them both silently, nursing his whiskey slowly, like a gentleman. His eyes were shrewd, and a hint of a smile toyed with the corners of his mouth.

Brock caught his stare. “What’re you lookin’ at? Huh?”

“I’m just impressed with your efforts,” Helmut offered, and if Pierce heard the lie in his smooth tone, he gave no sign.

Within days, the Morlock estate was boarded up, once Brock and his men swept through it, looking for signs of stragglers and looting it of any remaining valuables. The sign across the front gate read

Pierce knew that the sign wouldn’t deter anyone determined enough to trespass, but his sentries scouting the brush and patrolling the perimeter, fully armed, would be much more effective.

Pierce held another meeting with his stakeholders on his own compound, purposely omitting invitations for Erik Lensherr and Anthony Stark.

Fisk wasn’t shy about noting his absence. “I was expecting a livelier discussion, but I have to admit, it’s much more peaceful without that upstart, old friend. He’s rather crass, don’t you think?”

“Crass, but brilliant. You’ve seen his new designs for those steam engines of his. They’ll revolutionize the way we do business, Wilson. We can put up with him for a little while longer, but in the meantime, enjoy the peace. And my whiskey.”

“Those designs of his had better be worth the steel and iron from my foundries, Pierce,” Silvio told him. “I’m sure you understand, this isn’t my only investment.”

“You’ll get the biggest return for your investment, I promise you,” Pierce said. “This is important, ground-breaking work. We’re going to be the architects of a new age, gentlemen.”

“I heard about the Morlock estate,” Wyndham mentioned as he lit his pipe, puffing on it to let the fragrant tobacco fill the den. He politely wandered toward the open window and leaned on the edge of the sill, resting the hand holding the pipe against his thigh. “Rather interesting folk. I had hoped there would be more opportunities to study them.”

“Study them?” Fisk’s brows drew together. “What on earth for?”

“Research. Curiosity. Some of the children were blighted at birth. Numerous deformities among them. That sort of thing reviles most of society, but I find it fascinating.”

A chill ran down Pierce’s spine. He’d heard rumors about Wyndham’s “hobbies.” Animal husbandry was his passion, but from what he understood about Wyndham, he was expelled from his medical school for “unethical experiments” when he moved on from laboratory animals and livestock to human test subjects. Of course the Morlock children would fascinate him…

“They may still be lingering within town,” Silvio suggested.

“Not likely. They’ve nowhere to go,” Fisk said, shrugging as he topped off his glass from Pierce’s bottle.

“They may still turn up,” Pierce said, surprising Fisk when he agreed with Silvio, who was old enough to no longer have much of an imagination, and who didn’t always accept new ideas. “I’m afraid we have a bigger, more urgent problem, friends. The good Captain is still at large, and he’s become quite the nuisance.”

“We still haven’t taken him down?” Fisk sighed as he helped himself to the candy tin on Pierce’s desk, popping a toffee into his mouth. “Aren’t you paying your gang decently enough, Pierce? They’re falling asleep on the job.”

“I still have some loose ends to tie up, Wilson; trust me. We’re going to take care of the Captain. He’s one man-”

“He has a partner,” Zemo reminded them all. His voice was quiet as usual, but it held an edge. Wyndham and Manfredi flinched a little, not realizing until then that he had even entered the room. “And he’s very stubborn. And there’s still the matter of Sheriff Barnes, and his deputy. They know too much. They are gaining unacceptable ground. They are asking too many questions.”

“Obviously, so is the Captain. He’s living among us,” Pierce said. “He’s either very brave, or an absolute jackass.”

“I have my suspicions about his identity, but, I don’t wish to be hasty.”

“Then, tell us what you know.”

“Not yet. I need to test my theory. It never pays to be rash, Mr. Pierce. And I don’t wish to show the good Captain our hand. There’s too much riding on this to misstep now.” His smile was boyish when he allowed them to see it, which made his next words even more chilling. “The beauty of the empty mines is their remoteness. No one will question it if they suddenly collapse. Lots of shifting rock and unreliable passageways. It would certainly be a shame if anyone became trapped inside. And certainly, no one would recognize the bodies, over time, to allow them a decent funeral. That would prove such a shame.”

*

Steve wasn’t expecting the sound of Bucky’s familiar humming outside the shop door, and he set down the jar of pickles on the shelf, staring at him as he let himself inside. He grinned as his eyes landed on Steve. “Mornin,’ Stevie.”

Steve flushed a little at the nickname. “Mornin’, Bucky. What can I get for you?”

“You’re standing right next to what I want,” Bucky told him. “Those pickles would hit the spot, and I need to get some of that good coffee of yours.”

“I don’t know if pickles and coffee were all you had your heart set on today, Sheriff, but I’ve got some fine peaches, here, too, if you’re interested. Sam’s sister made ‘em. I can’t keep them on the shelves every summer when she jars them. She uses just the right amount of spice.”

“I like spice,” Bucky admitted. “And sweets, too.”

“Then, these are just the thing,” Steve promised. He took down a jar of the pickles and a slightly smaller one of the peaches. Bucky approached him, and Steve caught a whiff of his scent, sweat mingled with lye soap. Bucky was standing so close, close enough for Steve to count his dark lashes and to notice the fine stubble on his jaw, and those well-shaped, rosy pink lips. Bucky’s breath smelled like cloves, and Steve shivered when Bucky’s fingers grazed his as he took the jars from him.

“I trust your judgment, Stevie.” Bucky’s eyes twinkled at him, searching his face. “I’ve been meaning to make it back in here. We’ve, uh, been running low on staples.”

“You won’t find a better deal in town.”

“This is the only deal in town, Rogers.”

Steve bit his lip in amusement, huffing at that. “Jerk,” he muttered.

“Well, it’s true, punk,” Bucky countered, but then, while he watched Steve load the shelf, he noticed the angry, red scratches on the back of his hand. “Hey. What’d you get into?”

“Huh?”

“Your hand.”

“Oh. Uh. Nothing. Nothing much. Sticker bush, I guess.”

Bucky’s brows drew together, and he felt the scratches on his own hand tingle, as though his flesh was sympathizing with Rogers’ injury. What a crazy coincidence, Bucky mused. “Can I get that coffee, Stevie?”

“Sure. I’ll fetch it in a minute, it’s behind the till.”

Steve brushed past him, and Bucky felt his stomach swoop with the brief contact as his bare forearm bumped his. Steve looked like he’d been up and working all morning already; wisps of his dark blond hair fell over his brow, and he was sweating from the heat as the sun outside grew higher in the sky. Bucky watched him move around behind the counter, reaching for the metal scoop that he used to measure out the coffee beans into a small sack. “Half a pound, right?”

“Right.” Bucky set the two jars on the counter and waited for Steve to tie off the top of the sack while he fished in his pockets for some money.

“You never order anything fancy,” Steve remarked.

“This is a nice shop, Stevie, but I don’t see you selling much of anything fancy, either, so.”

Steve huffed, smirking back at him. “That’ll be twenty cents.”

“Sure.” Bucky fished out two gleaming dimes from his coin purse, and he handed them across the counter, dropping them into Steve’s open palm.

Steve glanced down at his hand and frowned, and Bucky grunted in surprise at the feel of Steve’s warm grip capturing his wrist. He set the coins on the counter, and his brows drew together as he examined Bucky’s hand, gently tracing the scratches marring his skin with a careful fingertip.

“Hope you kept these clean,” Steve mused quietly. “They could get pretty nasty.”

“Sharon gave me a little talk about that very thing when she dressed them for me. She thinks it’s her job as my deputy to protect me, even though I’m perfectly capable of doing that myself.” Bucky felt awkward having to explain himself, but he cared about Steve Rogers and his opinion. There was no way on God’s green earth that he wanted Steve to think he couldn’t take care of himself.

“Are you?” Steve’s expression softened. “I think she’s just looking out for you, Sheriff.”

“I can get by just fine.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need someone watching your back once in a while,” Steve reasoned. He was staring intently down at Bucky’s hand, and his thumb stroked the tiny wounds. His grip slid down to Bucky’s hand, curling around Bucky’s long, dexterous fingers. Heat curled inside Bucky’s stomach, drifting into his groin. His hands were callused, like Steve’s, marking him as a man who rode a lot and who wasn’t afraid of a little hard work.

“Were you just gonna stand here all day, holding my hand?” Bucky murmured. “Figure you must have other things to do, right about now, Rogers.”

Steve’s eyes snapped up to Bucky’s face, and his cheeks flushed hotly. He dropped Bucky’s hand like it burned him and stepped back from the counter, reflexively folding his arms across his chest. “Sorry to keep you so long, Sheriff Barnes. You’re a busy man.”

“I don’t mind sparing a minute to stop by. I’m a busy man, and all, but a man’s got to eat, right?” Bucky grinned at him, showing those dimples that were becoming Steve’s weakness. “I can still remember how good that apple cake of your ma’s tasted. It sure was kind of her to make it, and of you for bringing it by.”

Because of course Steve was already blushing like a fool. Damn it. “Ma loves sharing her baking as much as she does her opinions.”

Bucky laughed outright, nodding. Steve liked the little crinkles around his eyes, and he surrendered Bucky’s groceries reluctantly.

“Uh. I’ll walk you out.” Steve rushed from behind the counter and held open the door.

“Your ma raised a gentleman.”

“I won’t shame her by letting folks think otherwise.” Steve followed Bucky to where his mare, Pancake, waited for him. She tossed her tawny mane and whickered at them when Bucky moved to tuck the jars and sack into his saddle bag.

“Who’s a pretty girl?” Steve crooned to her as he reached up and stroked her muzzle. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Pancake,” Bucky told him, earning himself a snicker.

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m not! She looks like a pancake! Look at her coat. And she’s a sweetheart. I named her after something I love, which is what you’re supposed to do with a mare like her.”

“You love pancakes?”

“Yessir.”

“That’s still an absolutely ridiculous name for a horse.”

“Are you ridiculing my choice, Rogers?”

“Not at all. Honestly… it’s perfect.”

“She’s headstrong once in a while, but she’s fast! And smart, Stevie, Pancake’s so smart. And don’t believe Sharon if she tries to sell you on Agent being a better horse. He’s one tough, fickle bastard and he only minds Sharon. No one else can ride that horse.”

“I can’t see any horse giving Deputy Carter a hard time. She’s tough as nails, too.”

Steve’s tone wasn’t disparaging, just honest. And if Bucky had any fears that Rogers found his deputy attractive, they now evaporated into thin air. If anything, that was respect that he saw in Steve’s expression, which Bucky was fine with.

Bucky listened to Steve flirting with Pancake for a minute, and his own gaze was drawn to Steve’s wagon, which was hitched near the shop in the shade.

“That’s your wagon, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Steve replied more to Pancake than Bucky as he gave the horse hearty caresses and scritches, and she was whickering back at him, lipping at his shirt pockets and sniffing for treats. Steve obliged her, reaching in and plucking out a piece of hard candy that he’d stashed there, and she lipped it up from his palm.

Bucky asked him, “May I?”

“Huh? May you what?”

“Just introduce myself to your boys.”

“Oh. That’s okay, I suppose.”

And Bucky’s boots thudded down the planks of the walkway as he approached Steve’s wagon. “Hey. Look at you. Nice to meet you. I’m Bucky.” And Steve heard that tone in Bucky’s voice. Fond. Indulgent. Familiar.

And then his skin prickled with a fresh, unwelcome wave of panic.

“He’s gorgeous, Stevie! They both are, but this fellow’s bigger than Pancake! He’s well fed, and look at his nice, shiny coat! You’ve been taking good care of him.”

“I try. If I work hard for him, he’ll work hard for me,” Steve reasoned as he left Pancake’s side and joined Bucky by the wagon, hanging back slightly. “Hey, Sheriff,” Steve said, attempting to get his attention, and it seemed more proper to use his title while they were out in the open, where just anyone could walk by and hear them, “it’s been nice catching up with you, and all, but I don’t want to take up too much of your time. And, uh, I need to get back to the shop.”

But Bucky was still caressing the horse’s muzzle, giving Nomad’s neck hearty pats. “He’s got a freckle. Looks like a little beauty mark.” That was the little white streak that Nomad had on his forehead, standing out starkly against his dark sable coat. “He’s easy to pick out of a herd, isn’t he, Stevie?”

Steve’s heart began to pound, and he broke out into a rash of sweat. “BUCKY! I mean, Sheriff. Just… it’s getting late. And I think I might take these boys to the stable for a drink before I go back to the store.”

“Steve!”

That was Sam, calling to him from the storefront and waving to them. He nodded to Bucky before he walked inside, and Steve relaxed a little.

“Now, you’ll have more time to, then,” Bucky said as he backed off. “I’ll be seeing you, Rogers.” He gave Steve an assessing look. “I don’t want to get in your way.”

“Not at all. Sheriff. Have a good day.”

The formality rankled a little. Bucky huffed and turned on his heel, heading to his mount, and Steve thought he might pass out from relief.

That had been too damned close.

The memory of Bucky standing by the pond, dripping wet and gleaming, bare as the day he was born returned to Steve in that moment. Chuckling with that low, sweet tone, flirting with Nomad before he’d even met his rider… damn it. Steve led his horses to the stable, making good on his promise, and he felt Sam’s approach as he caught up to him.

“What did Barnes stop by for?”

“Supplies,” Steve said vaguely. His heartbeat still felt uneven and he could still feel the tension he carried in his shoulders.

“It’s nice when you’re the only real store in town where he can … are you all right? Steve? What’s the matter? You look like someone walked over your grave.” Sam’s heavy brows drew together, and his grip on Steve’s shoulder was warm and firm, grounding him.

“Just feel like a dang fool. He saw Nomad and wanted to meet him. Sam, I almost got found out.”

“What?”

“Nomad. What if Buck remembers him from the pond?”

“Oh. Shit.” Sam sobered quickly and then glanced after Bucky for a moment, then looked away before he could feel Sam’s gaze. “Steve! Things could get messy if you keep on dilly-dallying and making cow eyes at the Sheriff, anyway, but you’ve got to be more careful. Don’t leave loose ends, y’hear? He’s getting way too close to finding out who you are. Who’s to say he won’t want to label you a vigilante, and by you, I also mean me?”

“The Captain’s not a criminal, and neither are you.”

“To some. There are folks in town that consider what we do to be this far shy of the side of the law,” Sam told him, holding up his finger and thumb with little space in-between.

“What am I supposed to do, hide my horse?”

“Quit letting him be so social with him, for starters, how about that?”

Steve growled in annoyance.

“What?”

“That’s fine and all, Sam, but Nomad is a dang fine horse. You can’t blame Bucky for admiring him.”

Sam felt himself bristling with a hot flush of frustration. “I know you’re my oldest and dearest friend, Rogers, but at times like these, you can be an absolute jackass.”

*

When Steve arrived home that evening, he found Ma in the kitchen, busily packing up a basket of provisions. She had several other items laid out on top of chairs and their modest breakfast table. Steve noticed blankets, a canteen, some pickled vegetables, a burlap sack of potatoes, and some of her cured ham.

“Are you headed to a housewarming?” Steve asked. “What’s all of this for?”

“Just being neighborly,” she told him matter-0f-factly. “I’m headed to the Xavier estate. He’s taken in the Morlock family, what few of them who have decided to stay in town. They have nowhere else to go, and I’m also taking them a few of your old hand-me-downs.” She gave him a wry look. “If you’re planning on staying a bachelor for the foreseeable future, Steven Grant, then I might as well put your old clothes to good use.””

Steve blushed furiously and waved her off, and she gently shoved him as she added a depleted sack of sugar to the supplies. “Are we just giving them everything?”

“Don’t we own a store?” she fired back brightly.

“I’ll help you load it in the wagon.”

“It will go faster with you here, sweetpea.”

They loaded the wagon, and Steve helped himself to a plate of leftover stew and a thick slice of Sarah’s good brown bread, using it to mop up the savory gravy.

“Have some milk,” Ma told him. “I’m using the rest of that to make cheese tomorrow. And slow down, there’s no need to choke that down so fast.”

“I want to get you home before dark,” Steve reasoned between bites.

“I still have to wash up,” Ma offered. “Then, we can go.”

Soon they were riding down the dusty road, and Steve felt a frisson of unease as they rode past the lake. He hoped that his and Bucky’s attacker wasn’t still lurking in the brush, but he didn’t have the same prickly sensation of being watched. Ma made a distressed sound when she saw the ruins of the Morlock estate.

“Goodness, what a shame. It used to be a decent home.”

“Someone was trying to claim the land,” Steve told her. “That’s what they’re saying in the papers.”

“Whatever for? There hasn’t been gold in these parts in so long! And the mines aren’t stable enough anymore for anyone to go in there and dig. There’s nothing of value to even claim. Why harass the good folk that are just trying to make a living?”

“I don’t know,” Steve lied. He and Sam were getting so much closer to some real answers.

“I hope that new sheriff is up to the job. I had such high hopes for that Sheriff Walker when he first came to town.” Sarah gave Steve a weary sigh as Steve guided the horses through the still stiflingly warm night.

“Sheriff Barnes is smart and decent, but I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” Steve wasn’t impressed by Sheriff Walker, even before he began to let the local cattle barons grease his palm. He consorted with gamblers and bandits, and his favors could be purchased for top dollar.

“It was still a shame about how he passed,” Sarah went on, tutting. “So young. I hope you’re glad that I kept you and Sam away from those mines when you were little, Steven Grant. I told you they were dangerous.”

Guilt chewed at Steve; he and Sam had certainly done their share of poking around those mines as adults, looking for signs of tampering and new claims. “I know you told me, Ma.”

“Hmmph.”

Erik Lensherr greeted them at the gate before they even pulled onto the long drive, and he let them inside with a smile that was much warmer than any he normally gave Steve. “Mrs. Rogers. How lovely to see you.”

“I hope you don’t mind us calling so late. I wanted to bring you some supplies for your guests to better welcome them into your home.”

“You’re unfailingly kind, my dear.” Erik offered her his hand and helped her down from the wagon seat, while Steve hitched the horses and began to unload the food and supplies. He saw a few children he didn’t recognize peeking out through the curtains, and a couple of them hurried out to greet them and helped Steve carry everything inside the foyer. The house was grand, almost as vast as the Stark compound, but it was furnished with less modern furniture; much of it looked like heirlooms. Daguerrotypes hung on the walls in expensive silver frames, and knick-knacks sat on whatnot shelves here and there throughout the large front parlor. Professor Xavier wheeled himself into the foyer, and Steve reached out to shake his hand in greeting.

“We appreciate your help, more than you know,” he explained.

“Just being neighborly,” Steve told him, borrowing his ma’s words.

“Do you work at the store in town?” asked the eldest of the Morlock children. He was tall, gaunt, and had large, clear gray eyes. His head was bald from alopecia, but he was still a striking youth. He reached out to shake Steve’s hand. “I’m Cal, sir. Short for Caliban.”

“Steve Rogers. Pleased to meet you, Cal.”

“So, you’re the Rogerses,” a low, feminine voice husked from the stairwell. Steve turned to face the source, and found himself struck by the tall, willowy woman garbed in a severe black muslin dress. Her ebony, gleaming hair was coiled into a snug, neatly braided coronet, and she wore a patch over her left eye that failed to hide the remnants of an old scar that trailed jaggedly down one lean cheek. Her nose looked like it had been broken, once, but Steve could tell that she had been lovely during her younger years. “Come to visit us during our hour of need?”

“Callisto,” Erik chided, “please. Let’s show them our hospitality.”

“You’ve never been the type of folks to consort with me and mind before,” Callisto accused as she swept down the stairs.

“Then, now’s as good a time as any,” Sarah said, drawing herself up to her full height. She reached out her hand, and Callisto stared down at it with a challenging, mulish expression.

“You’re well off,” she said. “That’s rare in this hellhole of a town.”

Sarah was still holding out her hand expectantly. “Good manners aren’t as rare as you might think.”

Callisto chuckled mirthlessly and finally shook her hand. “Make yourself at home, if you can, if you can find one inch of space in this dusty place that isn’t overrun with Charles’ books. I’ll bring in the lemonade.”

“I’ll help you.”

Sarah and Callisto moved about the kitchen, putting the food Sarah brought into the pantry and the cupboards. Callisto faced her, pausing in stirring sugar into the lemonade, and told her, “Look. I might have been a bit brisk with you, earlier. I just… it’s hard for a gal like me to trust anyone after all that we’ve been through. I’ve been the only one protecting those young’uns for a long time. I took them in, and life has been rough.”

“People don’t always come to the End of the Line on purpose. You don’t ‘move’ here. You ‘end up’ here,” Sarah agreed. “I lost my Joe in a train robbery right after my Steve was born.”

“Goodness sake,” Callisto mused. “Bless your heart.”

“Being widowed in a town like this doesn’t allow a woman to stay soft, or green,” Sarah went on.

“No, ma’am. I can’t imagine that it does.”

“Were you widowed, too?”

“No. Just got to a point where I lost so many of my family that I never stopped mourning. Wasn’t much point in unpacking anything that wasn’t black.”

The two of them served lemonade and cookies in the parlor, and Erik opened the windows to let in the cooling breeze.

“We rode past your home,” Steve told Callisto.

“Ain’t really home anymore,” she corrected him.

“My apologies, miss.”

“Callisto. Shoot, call me Cal. Caliban and I both go by that, honestly.”

“That might be confusing,” Steve suggested. “Callisto’s a pretty name, though.”

“Flatterer.” Steve could only call that expression of hers a smirk, but it still beat the scowl she’d greeted them with.

“What happened the night that you had to leave your house?”

“Bedlam,” she told him. Two of the younger children that were playing with a dollie on the ottoman suddenly hopped off and crowded against Caliban, who cuddled them close out of long habit. He was a frequent source of comfort, and didn’t complain about the close contact in the oppressive evening stuffiness. “They stole everything of value and burned down everything else. I have a feeling about one of them. There was only one man in town that big, dumb and crass.”

“Who?” Steve asked, even though he had a hunch.

“Victor Creed, that’s who. He was never the subtle type, and he was memorable when you saw him out in plain sight. He had on a mask, but I saw that long, shaggy blond hair of his sticking out from under it, and he was huge.” She smiled with grim satisfaction when she said, “I heard someone finally did him in, and I’m glad that mean old cuss is gone.”

Steve wouldn’t judge her for speaking harshly of the dead. “I don’t know how many friends he had around town, anyway.”

“He ran with the wrong kind. Especially that Rumlow. Brock Rumlow. Those two were thick as thieves. You’d always see those two heading out of the saloon, or those fancy apartments above it-”

“You can spare us those details,” Sarah interjected as she took a butter cookie from the plate.

“I have no respect from men who would steal a home from helpless children,” Callisto stated. “I’m sure Rumlow was involved. I don’t know whose lining their pockets, or what they hoped to gain.”

“You know it was Brock?” Steve asked. “You’re sure?”

“He was masked,” Callisto said. “But, he wasn’t quiet. He’s a rather unpleasant fellow. I’d know that foul, braying voice of his, even with my eyes shut. Don’t go spreading that about, though, Mr. Rogers. We’ve been laying low, until we can find another place of our own. The professor has offered us shelter, but you can imagine that it would draw too much attention to us if we set tongues wagging around town.”

Steve felt frustration and a sense of futility punch him in the chest.

Here was Callisto, with her family of “young’uns,” as she described them, subsisting on crumbs and handouts, after being chased off of a thriving estate, while the men who drove her out were still roaming around free. There was no justice for Callisto or what she and the children had suffered, and Steve couldn’t - wouldn’t - abide that.

“Tongues won’t wag,” Steve promised. “But, maybe we’ll let you know if we find anything out.”

“Who’s ‘we?’”

“Just me and my partner, Sam. He helps me run the store.”

Callisto finally gave Steve a true smile, one that softened the harshness of her features and even looked a little coy. “Oh. Sam Wilson, you mean. Such a fine, charming gentleman. Tell him the invitation is always open for him to stop by, like you have. If he’s feeling neighborly.”

*

Steve and Sarah left after several long minutes of goodbyes by the front gate. Callisto and Sarah were hesitant acquaintances by the end of their visit, and Steve ventured to ask Callisto one more question before he climbed up into the wagon seat.

“Been meaning to ask you, if I’m not prying too much, since I know this upset is still so fresh-”

“It’s rare nowadays that I’m not upset, Mr. Rogers. Out with it, already. It’s getting late.”

“Begging your pardon, then. But, I wanted to know if there was anything unusual around your property before you were driven out.”

“Unusual?” Callisto huffed, then shrugged. “You know, it was odd. We dug up the back acre. Threshed it, tilled it. We were planning on an orchard. But when we dug it up, we found the darnedest thing.”

“What?”

“It looked like oil. Black and shiny. Just bubbled up out of the ground where we must’ve dug too deep.” Then, she sighed. “Just as well that we didn’t plant that orchard, I guess.”

*

Steve and Sam wet their whistles over tall glasses of root beer at the saloon the following night. The place was packed, but it was late enough that cool breezes wafted inside to freshen it slightly, despite the close crush of bodies crowding at the bar and around the tables. Douglas, one of the young men who’d come back to town from time at his fancy college, was playing a rollicking tune at Natasha’s piano. Clint held court at one of the gambling tables, shuffling the cards for another round of five-card stud. Natasha handled the orders at the bar, deftly serving rounds of beer, gin and whiskey, saving the moonshine for her special customers. That Jim Howlett was on his third round and wasn’t even staggering yet, but he was flirting with her something fierce; rumor had it, the man had a fondness for redheads.

“I’m lighter on my feet that I look, darlin’. Wanna dance?”

“I’m busy working, but Clint’s not,” she teased. “And I dare say he’s lighter on his feet than I am.”

Clint heard that remark and gave her a wounded look, but then, just to get Jim’s goat, he winked at him and raised his glass in his direction.

“I ain’t that drunk yet, darlin’.”

“Care to deal me in?” Clint turned and let his eyes travel up slowly over Bobbi Morse’s tall, willowy body, letting them rest on her face. Damn, she’s pretty. Just like Sharon, she preferred dungarees and men’s work shirts, and her hair was hanging in its simple, honey blonde plait down her back. Her brown corduroy vest hung down long enough to cover her holster. Her eyes were blue as tourmalines and fringed with long, dark lashes, and her cheeks dimpled when she smiled.

“Poker is more of a gentleman’s game,” Clint told her, but he was already scooting back in his chair to better admire her, and that motion opened space at the table. The chair beside his just so happened to be empty.

“That doesn’t stop you, though, does it, Handsome?”

Clint chuckled as he rose to his feet, and he pulled the chair beside him out the rest of the way, a clear invitation. “Fair enough, Agent Morse.”

That pleased her. Clint waved to Nat at the bar, and she was smirking at him slightly as she brought them each a drink, a taste of moonshine for Clint, and a sarsaparilla for Bobbi.

“Do you have room for one more?” Tony Stark breezed inside, reeking of expensive cologne and looking freshly barbered. “That is, if we’re playing for a grown man’s stakes?”

“Put your money where your mouth is, Mr. Stark,” Bobbi told him, and that made him grin outright.

“I like you.”

“You may not after a couple of hands.”

“I’m looking forward to it, miss.”

“Agent,” Clint corrected him. He cut the deck, shuffled the cards again, and dealt the hand with practiced grace.

A scuffle broke out at the next table, sending a chair skidding across the floor, and Natasha whirled around at the bar and called out a warning.

“The first man who breaks any of my good glasses isn’t welcome back! Don’t make a scene in here, boys, or I’ll send you out of here with your tails between your legs!” Douglas paused briefly in his playing from across the saloon, but he shrugged and continued as the men settled down and hunkered back over their drinks and game.

Steve settled back onto his bar stool and took another fortifying gulp of his drink, sighing. “I don’t know why they bother to act up in here. They know Nat will whup their tails for them if they so much as scuff her floors.”

“It takes a special woman to run this place and to keep everyone in line,” Sam said easily.

“Does she keep you in line, too?”

Sam snickered over the rim of his glass and elbowed Steve, right before he nodded. “Mm-hm. Yessir. That she does.”

Steve believed him wholeheartedly. Steve remembered the early days of Clint and Natasha’s dalliance, too. Barton always looked equal parts infatuated and terrified when they were still carrying a torch for each other, but what they had calmed into an easy, almost affectionate friendship. As often as Natasha took digs at Barton, she was still just as protective of him, and woe to any who slandered his character or so much as glanced at him sideways…

Sam, though, watched Natasha with devotion that was plain as day, without reservation. When she returned to the bar, she paused to trail a fleeting caress over his shoulder, and he turned his head to receive her kiss. She made a pleased noise low in her throat, and he gave her that smile that she loved that made his dark eyes look so warm.

The smile fell quickly, though, when he watched her eyes swing toward the doorway, and she briskly called out, “Good evening, Sheriff.”

“Evening, Miss Romanoff.”

“Take a load off here at the bar, and I’ll get you something cool to wash the dust out of your mouth.”

“I’d be mighty obliged.”

Nat’s eyes twinkled as she came out from the bar and snaked a bar stool away from the patron who’d been about to claim it, quickly shoving it next to Steve and giving it a little pat for emphasis. Bucky’s brows rose, but he grinned when he watched Steve turn in his seat to greet him. He almost choked a little on his sip of root beer, and Sam smothered a laugh.

“What can I get you, Sheriff?”

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Bucky said. The root beer looked more refreshing than a glass of gin sounded, somehow, and Bucky wanted to keep his wits about him. He took up the stool, and his elbow bumped Steve’s companionably. The brief contact raised the hairs on Steve’s forearm and coaxed a smile out of him.

“Evening, Sheriff.”

“This is quite the surprise, finding you here.”

“A good one, I hope?”

“Yessir.” He noticed that Steve didn’t edge away. “Lucky me. And I was hoping I’d run into you.”

“Do you and your deputy need more supplies?”

“We’re fine for right now.” But before Steve could feel disappointment that he’d lost his opener, Bucky added, “I think we’ve had a breakthrough in finding out about this Hydra gang.”

Steve tensed. “Is that what they’re calling themselves?”

“According to my marshal, Nicholas Fury, yes. Seems like they’re trying to make a name for themselves and staking their claim on properties they have no business trespassing on. You’ve been in this town a long time, Steve. Folks around here trust you, and you’re a good man.”

“You only think so because you haven’t known him long enough,” Sam teased as he swirled his remaining root beer in its glass. Bucky’s smile was lopsided.

“I’m usually a good judge of character, Wilson.”

“You heard him, Sam.”

“Mm-hm. Little Stevie Rogers, face of an angel. That’s what Mama always said about you back in the schoolhouse… but, all the grown folks knew better.”

“The same grown folks said the same thing about a certain Samuel Thomas Wilson,” Steve reminded him.

Sam snorted, shaking his head. “So, that’s how it is?”

“You don’t look like you ever so much as hurt a fly.”

Sam sighed raggedly, sounding aggrieved.

“You’re a jerk,” Steve muttered to him.

Sam gave him a measured look, mouthing the words Be careful.

“You’d tell me if you heard anything that would help me to bring them in? I have a feeling that these Hydra thugs have their teeth sunk deep into this town. I don’t know who’s paying them, but it’s just odd that they’ve been showing up so often, lately. When I was a boy, my pa used to tell me there were riches to be found in those mines, but that the gold rush already dried up. All that’s left are fallow fields and folks that are either too stubborn or too poor to leave.” Bucky took the drink that Natasha set down and sipped it. He licked a bead of the clear, sweet liquid from his lip. Steve’s eyes flitted down to his mouth. They looked pink and far too inviting. Distracting.

But Steve tore his gaze away and gave Bucky his full attention. His eyes were so clear and silvery blue, and damn it, that didn’t help at all.

“Ma always told me that the End of the Line is a far different town now, than it was then, back when she and Pa first came here, Buck. It wasn’t fancy, but… folks were making an honest living. There were more thriving farms and a few other really nice stores, and the schoolhouse wasn’t all rundown like it is now. The trains came through a lot more often than they do now. Then, the gold rush happened, and some folks got rich off of it and drained the mines dry. Then they left, and they took all the businesses with them. No one was putting any work into the land anymore. Now, you’re seeing people being burned out of their homes, and that Hydra seal showing up on barns and windows, when they aren’t breaking them in. It’s a waste, Bucky, and a damned shame!”

“Steve,” Sam murmured. “Your ma would tan your hide if she heard you speaking like that.”

“I won’t tell,” Bucky promised. Bucky’s lanky leg relaxed and sagged into Steve’s, casually drawn to his broad, sturdy body. Both men took up each other’s space, heedless of the noise surrounding them. “I won’t get you into trouble. Promise.”

Steve huffed, and he gently bumped his knee into Bucky’s, acknowledging him and giving in to the familiarity. “I can get into trouble all by myself.”

Bucky “hmm’ed” and took another gulp of his drink. “Doesn’t sound nearly as much fun, though.”

Bucky’s stomach felt tight as he let the words slip out. Steve felt his cheeks flush. They exchanged coy smiles. “You’re a law man, Sheriff Barnes.”

“At the end of the day, Stevie, I’m still just a man. And every now and again, I like getting into trouble.”

“Doesn’t sound like what I’d expect from a man of your station.”

“Well. You see me here. Having a drink with an acquaintance. Even a ‘man of my station’ can’t work every minute of the day.” Bucky gave the word “acquaintance” a curious lilt, as though he wanted Steve to elaborate further on what they were to each other. “I have to keep my eyes open, though. I still have to set a good example, but…”

“But?”

“A drink and some nice conversation is something I make time for, every now and again. Cards. Music.” Bucky was starting into his glass, contemplating it before he took a sip. “An evening swim…”

Steve froze.

Sam heard that last bit and decided to make his escape, and Steve felt a jolt of panic when he heard the scrape of Sam’s stool, not liking his absence at his other elbow. Steve hissed under his breath, “Wait! Don’t…” but then clapped his mouth shut. He caught Sam’s brief shrug as he made his way behind the bar and automatically took the glass she was drying with a rag from her hands.

“Let me help you with that!”

“You don’t have to do th-”

“You’re working too hard, and you looked lonely,” Sam suggested. Natasha cocked her brow at him, but she glanced briefly at Steve and Bucky and then hummed thoughtfully.

“I can probably put you to work.” Her voice was a pleased, suggestive purr. Sam’s eyes crinkled, but she nodded to the long row of wet glasses that still needed to be finished and pouted in disappointment. “Hey. You offered.”

“I know, but… I thought…”

“And it looks like you lost your seat, Mr. Wilson. What a shame.”

Steve released a heavy sigh and turned to greet Bucky’s stare. An excuse worked its way out of his mouth, but it sounded stilted to his own ears. “I run the store. And I help Ma with the farm. I don’t always get out for a swim.”

“That’s a shame,” Bucky mused.

“I have to be up with the roosters.”

“Aww. I bet you do.”

*

Outside, crouched in the dark, a Colt pistol clicked as its owner chambered a fresh round. The bullets shone pristinely in the faint light thrown by the street lanterns.

“Yer sure Pierce is fine with us causing this much of a ruckus?”

“Sometimes, one has to send a message. The point is to throw them off of our scent, something I’m sure you appreciate, my friend.”

“That’s fine.”

Brock Rumlow’s tone was flippant and resigned. He knew which side Helmut Zemo’s bread was buttered on and how loyal he was to Pierce. Brock also knew better than to turn his back on him.

*

“That lake by the Xavier property sure is nice, right about now.”

“Seems like it.”

“For a swim. Or an evening ride.”

Bucky’s eyes were twinkling, and Steve tried to look away, but he felt Bucky’s hand capture his wrist in a warm grip, and the sudden contact made his pulse leap. Steve’s eyes flitted down to Bucky’s hand, to those long, slightly calloused fingers. Once again, he saw the half-healed scratches on the back of his hand, evidence of their last encounter. His own set of wounds winked up at him, too, leaving Steve with no plausible explanation or diversion.

Bucky’s thumb gently stroked the joint of his wrist in a tentative, unmistakable caress. Steve felt himself flaring with a rush of want. They were huddled so close amidst the crowded saloon, their conversation only possible for them to hear because of their proximity. The chatter around them and Douglas’ song seemed to melt away.

“Is that an invitation, Sheriff?”

“If you want it to be. But, I just thought it might appeal to you, if it’s one of your usual haunts, Steve.”

Steve’s lips thinned for a moment. His expression turned pleading. “Bucky…”

“I think your ma is the only person I’ve ever met with eyes the same color as yours, Steve.”

Steve’s heart pounded, making him a little dizzy. Bucky’s expression was so intense. He still held Steve’s wrist, and Steve knew he could feel his pulse.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea making my acquaintance any further, Sheriff?”

“I’m a good judge of character.”

“I know that. I just don’t know if I’ll live up to your expectations.”

At the table behind them, Clint laid down his hand and spread the cards. “Read ‘em and weep,” he gloated as he showed off a straight flush. Before the rest of his company could react to his claim, the saloon’s front window exploded in a shatter of glass.

Chapter Text

The relaxed, sultry night was obliterated within seconds. Rounds of staccato gunshots threw the saloon into an uproar. Chairs flew back from tables during the patrons’ scuffle to find cover. Violence was nothing new in the End of the Line. At the first crack of gunfire, you never remained idle in your seat, and if you were a decent man, you grabbed a friend and dragged him - or her - to shelter with you, too.

Clint Barton was just minding his business that night. Nothing out of the ordinary. Shared the scraps of his supper with his one-eyed hound, Lucky. Took his bath at the basin and splashed on a bit of cologne. Questioned his own reasoning for sending Barney a telegram that afternoon, deciding that he was growing soft, but that family was still family. Rode into town and picked up a small bag of candies for Natasha at Rogers’ mercantile and was perfectly friendly with Sam at the till, despite everything, lately.

And there he was, winning at cards, so far, even though that Miss - no, Agent Morse - seemed pretty sharp, and he had the feeling that maybe she was just going easy on him. Nat’s moonshine was just beginning to hit him, making things feel all smooth and blurry in all the right ways.

And, damn it all, now someone was shooting up the saloon…

Clint was certain that he’d made it under the card table on his own efforts. Possibly.

But he was pinned under a supple, strong body and vaguely remembered Bobbi’s sharp, insistent cry of “CLINT! GIDDOWN!” before she tackled him to the floor. His world was knocked askew and he was still reeling, with the breath knocked out of him.

“Ow,” he muttered.

“Stay down!” she hissed at him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She was covering him like a blanket, flinching and hissing a little every time she heard another gunshot whizzing overhead. She kept protectively covering his head in the crook of her arm, and she’d had to scramble on top of him to get there. Clint could barely breathe, partly due to shock, and to the weight of her bosom pressed so closely to his face.

Shit.

If Clint was going out, there were worse ways to go than this.

Sam and Natasha huddled behind the bar, where Sam clutched her against his chest. She fought him, but his large hand pressed against her scalp as he fought to cover her and shield her from danger. “Let me go, Sam!” she cried. “I need my rifle!”

“You need to stay down, woman! I can’t lose you!”

“They’re shooting up my saloon! I can’t just let them-”

“Don’t! Don’t you dare!” Sam moved them quickly out of the path of a falling beer stein, which toppled from the bar to the wood floor planks and shattered. Natasha shrieked in outrage as more bullets found her costly bottles of gin, bourbon and whiskey on the shelves overhead. They exploded, one by one, showering Nat and Sam with fragments of glass and liquor, and they both scrambled to the other end of the bar in an attempt to dodge the hail.

Outside in the street, Brock continued his attack, holding back his laughter with more than his usual level of restraint. Zemo and Pierce warned him that he needed to be subtle, so, sure. He could play subtle, this time. He kept his mask on, but he still wore his Hydra seal stitched to his shirt pocket; it was dark enough that no one would notice it unless they got really close to him, which was something Brock would never allow. He chambered another round and shot out the left window. He felt Zemo walking up quietly behind him and he didn’t turn to face him when he spoke.

“Quit bein’ bashful,” Brock muttered to him.

“I’m not,” he told him simply. “I’m just choosy.”

“Like hell, you are. Do what we came here for.”

“I’m going to cover the rear,” Zemo said.

“The Sheriff ain’t just gonna run out through the back like a coward,” Brock argued. “He ain’t some yellow-bellied scaredy cat. Running away ain’t what they’re payin’ him for.”

Brock wasn’t wrong.

Inside, Bucky and Steve ducked at the first hint of gunfire, hearts pounding in their chests. Fueled by adrenaline, Bucky scrambled away from the bar, grabbing patrons and dragging them beneath tables, shoving abandoned chairs in front of them for cover. Steve shielded two more customers under an adjacent table and motioned for a third to join them.

“This isn’t how I planned to spend my evening,” Tony insisted from behind the piano, which he was thankfully just skinny enough to fit behind. His fingernails dug into the cool, polished wood as he plastered himself back against it, feeling his heart pound and his flesh breaking out into prickles of sweat.

“Me, neither, sir!” Douglas agreed from beneath the piano bench, where he clutched his jar of tip money. Tony saw the fear in Doug’s young face, and the way he flinched and stiffened with the sound of each gunshot. His expression was fraught with helplessness and the beginnings of anguish, and in that moment, Tony was thrown back into a memory so dark and visceral that he grew dizzy with it.

Another night filled with gunshots, when he’d heeded his father’s shout to take cover. Maria Stark clutched him in her arms, shushing him and stroking his hair, until Jarvis arrived, darting into the kitchen from the garden, where he had been checking the grounds and stables one last time. Their family butler had been younger and much more spry in those days, before he grew a bit more stooped, with age creating deeper grooves around his mouth.

“JARVIS! Please! Please, take Tony with you! Hide him! Don’t let them find him!”

“Mrs. Stark! Let me take you from here, we must-”

“NO! Get him out of here! I have to stay with Howard! If I go with you, that will slow you down!”

“Madam, no! I implore you, please! Come with me!”

“Get my son to safety, Mr. Jarvis. I expect you to protect him with your life. Here.” Maria pushed Tony into Jarvis’ waiting arms as she hurried to the safe in the kitchen. She opened it with shaking fingers and managed to find a wooden box.

“Take this. It’s all I can give you right now. There is more than enough for two train tickets. Take him to New York, to our eastern estate. Wait for us there, until Howard can send you a telegram.”

Jarvis paled, and he heard Tony’s sobbing cries.

“I don’t want to leave you, Ma!”

“Go with Mr. Jarvis,” Maria insisted, and her eyes were spilling over with tears, which she dashed from her cheeks with her knuckles. She leaned in and gave Tony’s cheek a brief kiss, a last promise. “He will keep you safe. I will come to you, sweetheart. Go. NOW!”

“No! No, no! Don’t!”

The last thing he remembered was being ripped away from his mother’s side and dragged out into the darkness. He heard Jarvis’ ragged panting and heavy footfalls against the hard ground as he ran with him, escaping into the stables. The gunmen continued to fire into the Stark house’s front parlor. Tony never saw his father bleeding out on the front lawn. He sobbed the entire way onto the train, and Jarvis received the telegram in New York, five days later, reporting that Anthony Stark was now one of the country’s wealthiest orphans.

Tony was now sweating through his amber vest and scarlet cravat, regretting that he’d overdressed for the night, but at least his small pistol was tucked into his pocket. Douglas glanced up at him as Tony kept sneaking looks from around the edge of the piano, loading a round into the chamber.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Mr. Stark?!”

“That doesn’t matter, kid. Now, stay down!”

“Don’t do anything crazy, sir!”

“Sorry,” Tony offered quickly, since they both knew the request was well-meant but futile as all-get-out. Tony darted for the nearby shelter of a table that someone had already flung on its side edge. Tony cried out a curse as a stray shot found its way through the battered wood and pelted the back wall of the saloon, but that didn’t deter him. He rolled the table along the floor with him, using it as a makeshift shield.

BUCKY.

Steve’s voice was terrified. Determined. Panicked.

That was all Bucky remembered before he piled into Bucky and knocked him down to the floor at the first sound of gunfire. Those brawny, rancher’s arms snared him as Steve flung himself into Bucky, sending both of their barstools skidding across the floor planks. Bucky’s cursing yelp tore from his mouth, and he bit his tongue with the impact. Dazed, he relived his encounter with the Captain at the lake. Another near miss, on a recent sultry night.

“Shit!” Bucky hissed. Steve rolled them until Bucky’s back met with the bar, and he felt every rock-hard muscle in Steve’s body tensing, arching around him and his hot breath misting over his hairline. All he could feel was this fresh spike of terror, mingled with the barrage of noise and chaos around him, but Steve’s face was there, hovering over Bucky’s, grounding him, with his eyes boring into Bucky’s.

“Please stay down, Bucky.”

“Damn it…”

“You all right?”

“Not if you’re gonna make a habit of doin’ this, Stevie!” Bucky’s hands clutched at Steve, tangled in his shirt, and Steve’s face was a rictus of worry as his eyes flitted over Bucky’s face.

“Are you all right?” Steve repeated.

“Yes,” Bucky croaked. “But let me up. Let me do my job!”

Sam moved quickly, beating Natasha’s grab for her rifle and earning himself an angry, indignant squawk. He ducked down behind the bar again, dodging another shot and cursing as a stray fragment of glass glanced off his cheek, nicking him. Then, he scrambled out from behind the bar, staying low, and edged his way toward the wall, just behind the edge of the window. He saw the gunman in the street and a shadow rushing past the window in the side alley, telling him that he needed to move quickly before they were ambushed. Steve and Bucky were locked on each other’s faces, adrenaline making them aware of the bedlam exploding around them, and Bucky squirmed against Steve, making Steve finally realize that Bucky was fighting him to get free, but the thought of Bucky rolling out from under him to leap into the fray made Steve’s blood run cold.

“It ain’t your job to run out there like a dang fool and get shot!”

Bucky’s face went on a journey, and he sighed gustily before telling him, “I’m sorry, Stevie.”

He threw his head back and promptly bashed his forehead into the bridge of Steve’s nose. “GAAHHHH!”

“Sorry,” Bucky blurted as he wrested himself free of Steve’s protective grip and scrambled to his feet, already reaching for his Colt. His own head was smarting from the impact, and he was still reeling a little but didn’t have time for the pain, or the guilt. He barreled toward the shattered remains of the front picture window of the saloon, and he fired at the gunman. His first two shots missed him, firing wild, and Bucky watched his silhouette looming in the darkness, moving quickly to load another round. His tall physique was vaguely familiar to Bucky, and he was masked, but at least he knew it wasn’t the fabled Captain, who certainly seemed like much less of an outlaw to him by now. He saw Sam at the corner of his eye, moving up alongside him and firing Natasha’s rifle, driving the gunman back.

“Cover the rear!” Bucky cried.

“I’m on it!” Bobbi replied, and Clint suddenly felt bereft of her presence and the firm, almost smothering weight of her body against his as she clambered her way off of him and ran full-tilt toward the back of the saloon.

Sharon heard gunfire all the way from the sheriff’s office, and she was already loading her Colt as she leapt up from her chair and jerked open the door. “The one night that I stay behind to go through papers, this shit happens,” she mused aloud. “Damn it, Barnes!” Sharon bolted down the street and turned down through a back alley, deciding it was better to avoid staying out in the open. She tore down the corridor between businesses and ramshackle homes, shoving her way through clotheslines of garments and linens and splashing through dank, questionable puddles with her sturdy boots. “How do you all live like this?” she hissed to herself as the humid stench wafted into her nostrils. Her legs burned and adrenaline pumped through her system as the sounds of gunshots grew closer, louder.

She heard a familiar laugh, guttural and braying. Some of the saloon’s patrons bolted hell for leather down the deserted street, and a couple of them ran past Sharon, making her jerk back in alarm. Sharon ducked down in the alley behind a rain barrel, hoping he hadn’t caught sight of her in the darkness. She almost cursed her choice of pale clothes, which were certainly a better choice during the day’s heat, but bad for her cover now, at night, where light from stray lanterns would throw her easily into his sights. He didn’t seem interested in passerby, at least. She hunkered down and kept her finger on the trigger of her Smith and Wesson, just waiting for a decent shot. He was already reloading one of his, and he was damned efficient, too; Sharon wondered how much ammo he’d brought with him to the party.

“Evenin’, Sheriff!” Rumlow shouted once he saw Bucky rise up from the rubble, and he managed to dodge his aim, but barely. The sheriff wasn’t a sorry shot, but he was still rattled; Brock knew he wouldn’t be able to mess around, and it was tempting to take him out, but like Pierce said, they simply needed to make a statement. “You feelin’ lucky?!”

“How about you?” Bucky called back as he fired another shot, missing Brock on purpose. That voice. Grating. Overconfident. Dripping with scorn or any regard for his neighbors. The townsfolk were counting on their sheriff, and Schmidt’s previous claim that the “riff-raff” had been driven out of town rang patently false.

“Quit riling him up,” Steve muttered to him.

“He’s already riled, Stevie,” Bucky argued as he cocked his gun and fired off another round, hitting the post just inches shy of where Rumlow was now hunkering down.

“You’re a smug sonofabitch, Sheriff, ya know that?” Brock cried out.

“Some folks like that about me,” Bucky offered.

“I’m having some thoughts about it right about now,” Bobbi murmured.

“Are you gonna let me up any time soon, Agent?” Clint asked from beneath her.

She glanced down into his face. His brows were drawn together, but his expression softened, and he gave her a lopsided smirk. “I mean, this isn’t the worst thing, but. I could be a little more help if I wasn’t here on my back.”

“You aren’t gonna do anything dumb if I let you up, are you, Barton?”

“Well, I didn’t say that.”

“You’re not changing my mind right now.”

“C’mon, Agent. The sheriff’s the one mouthing off right now. All I’ve got is my gun in my pocket. How much harm can I do?”

“Don’t trust him, Agent!” Tony called over to Bobbi from behind his table.

“Hey!” Clint glared, jerking his face slightly toward the sound of Tony’s voice. He shot him a hurt look, which Tony answered with accusing dark eyes and a savage shrug. Look who’s talking, Clint thought sourly, but before he could take umbrage, he watched Tony creep out from behind the table, abandoning his shelter as he headed toward the rear of the bar. Tony wasn’t yellow-bellied; he was following Sam’s lead, and that made Clint realize that they might need a hand.

Bucky ignored their exchange and drifted toward the broken-out front window. He used the barrel of his pistol to knock out some of the remaining, broken sheets of glass in the frame and his back hugged the wall as he tensed, waiting for the thug in the street to make his move. Steve watched him as he rolled up from the floor and moved to flank Bucky.

“Stay down, Rogers. Don’t get involved.”

“I’m just gonna hide and watch you get yourself killed?!” And Bucky only realized just then how close Steve was, that he’d once again, stubbornly closed the gap between them. He felt Steve’s cautious grip around his free wrist. And Steve felt Bucky’s pulse jump beneath his fingertips, and the tension running through his body, drawing it up tight as a bow.

“Get yourself back, behind me, Stevie!” There was that nickname again, and Steve would have been in a better mood to appreciate it if that uppity bastard out in in the street hadn’t ruined it.

The stance. That laugh. The cowl around his face. And there, he was grandstanding and raising a ruckus, with enough light from the street picking out the distinct red patch sewn onto the front pocket of his shirt.

“Hydra,” Steve muttered. “You said that was what they were calling themselves, right?”

And once Steve said it, Bucky took a good, hard look at their assailant. Same ugly red insignia, and the same nerve, but somehow, Bucky knew this wasn’t the same man who shot at him by the lake. No, that man had been sneaky and quiet.

“Yeah.” Then, Bucky dared a brief glance back at Steve, whose brows furrowed, but his grip on Bucky remained just as fervent. “Wait, how-”

Another bullet cracked past them, shattering another of Natasha’s precious bottles of gin.

“Damn Rumlow’s getting sloppy,” Bucky huffed.

And that made Steve’s vision swim for a moment.

“You know that’s him?”

“Who else would it be, Stevie?”

Natasha heard that name and scrambled to her feet behind the bar. “What did you say? You said that’s Brock Rumlow outside, shooting up my saloon?!” She dashed the tears from her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve, annoyed when that act stung the scratches on her face.

*

Sam hunkered back from the edge of the saloon’s back doorway, and he heard the low scrape of footsteps, making him prickle up with tension and dread. Of course their shooter didn’t show up alone, Sam knew; that would be a foolish plan, wouldn’t it? Jackals usually traveled in packs. “You could have just come in through the front door. Sneaking around out back like this is hardly neighborly, man,” he called out into the darkness.

Sam heard a low huff of laughter. “This isn’t the kind of establishment I usually visit. The usual customers are… perhaps a bit uncouth.”

“Uncouth?” Sam frowned as he maintained his position in the doorway, barely leaning his face against its edge as he turned toward the sound of the voice. It was faintly accented, a light baritone. Smug. Cultured. “That’s awfully bold of you, man.”

“Apologies. You seem like an upstanding gentleman, Mr. Wilson. This is nothing personal.”

“This sure seems personal.”

“I’m not here for you. But, I also cannot let you stand in my way.”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s just too damn bad, sir.”

Sam saw Tony looming in the dark, just shy of Natasha’s storeroom. He was rumpled and disheveled, but his dark eyes were determined and flinty. Sam raised his finger to his lips, while Tony made a small gesture that drew Sam’s eyes to his gleaming pistol. Tony looked upset that someone had the nerve to interrupt his evening cocktail so rudely, when the night was just getting started. Tony gave Sam an impatient look, but Sam’s eyes urged him to keep silent. In return, Tony rolled his, and rather than continue this battle of wills, he decided to take matters into his own hands. Tony brushed past Sam, ignoring his hiss of annoyance to come back, and he stood brazenly in the alley, in the full glow of the lantern hanging from a nearby post.

“My friend here’s not one of the ‘uncouth’ folks you’ve stood out here slandering tonight. I, on the other hand, am about as uncouth as they come. Come on out here, sir. Let’s talk. Since you’re so discerning and have such strong opinions about a man’s character.”

Sharon remained where she was at the sound of their voices, and she saw a man of medium height and build slide out of the shadows, armed with two six-shooters and wearing an elaborate cowl over his face. It was a garish shade of dark purple with a faint, striped pattern woven into the cloth, covering his face but with jagged holes cut out for his eyes to see through. Over this cowl, he wore a plain brown Stetson. The man’s voice was quiet and calm, but he sounded very pleased with himself. He turned his back on Sharon, not noticing her behind the barrel yet. That Tony Stark certainly had a mouth on him, didn’t he?

“There aren’t many places here in town to get a decent drink. Seems a shame to tear up this one, just on a whim, sir.”

“The drinks are watered down, and the company is questionable, Mr. Stark.”

Tony sized him up. Tony was rangy and compact, but quick. The whiskey still burned in his veins, giving him a taste of false courage. The man in the cowl dressed in plain, dark clothing, but the mask intrigued him. He held one gun trained on Tony, while the other rested in his holster. The design of the guns made Tony scowl, but his eyes flitted back to the man’s face.

Sam felt his palms sweating around the stock of the Natasha’s rifle, and his heart was pounding in his ears as Tony continued to bait their attacker. “Awwww. That’s not very nice. I’m a good judge of character, and the company’s just fine. No need to be a snob, sir. You seem to know me. Tell me how I might know you?”

The man’s laughter was soft and self-deprecating. “No. I don’t think I will.”

Tony shrugged, nodding. “Hmm.”

The man echoed his shrug and cocked his head.

Sharon trained her gun on him from around the edge of the barrel, holding her breath. It would shame her and compromise her position if she shot and missed. The edge of her boot scritched in the gravel as she fought to remain still, and she jerked her foot back in alarm, squelching a curse.

That faint noise caught Zemo’s attention, but he said nothing, and Tony’s eyes drifted toward the sound, too, and Zemo caught the direction of his glance, pinpointing the one who had him within their sights. Thank you, Mr. Stark.

Faster than Tony could blink, Zemo withdrew his second gun and spun ninety degrees, aiming for the barrel in the darkness while simultaneously training his gun on Tony in his bright gold vest and red cravat. He pulled the trigger and shot at the rain barrel first, just as the barrel of the Smith and Wesson withdrew, and his hunter changed priorities, taking cover instead of aim. Sharon grunted as she threw herself back against the fence as the bullet blew through the barrel, missing her by millimeters, and she edged back on her haunches. Tony knew in that instant that whoever was behind that barrel just bought him a few seconds to recoup, and to duck. He dove back in through the doorway and collided with Sam, who shouted in surprise and almost dropped the rifle. “Damn it, Stark!”

“Sorry!”

They heard the sound of another gunshot, and this time, it zinged past the doorway from the opposite direction, and they heard panting and footfalls. Two sets of boots rushing past. Sharon caught them out of the corner of her eye as she bolted past them and grated out, “Are you two gonna help me, or not?”

“Get up,” Sam urged.

“I’m sorry, Wilson.”

“I know that.”

Natasha sees them running and calls after Sam, “SAMUEL! You come back here with my good rifle, right NOW!”

He spins on her, noticing how ragged she looks, and his heart aches for her in that moment. “I told you to take cover, damn it!”

“Then you should have stayed with me and made sure of it! Are you all in one piece?” She clutched at his shoulders, running her hands over him briefly, before she cupped his cheek. That face was so dear to her, even if she was so mad at him that she could spit.

“Yeah. I am.”

“Good. Now, give me that gun!”

“NO!”

Tony ran by in pursuit, and Natasha shouted at him, “TONY! Give me your gun!”

“I can’t, damn it!”

Natasha tore her eyes away from him and pinned them on Sam. She was breathing hard, teary-eyed and shuddering with rage and indignation. “Give me the rifle, then. It’s mine. You can’t keep it from me and keep me from protecting what’s mine, Sam.”

“I’m protecting what’s mine.”

That made her release him, and she was still angry but mollified. “Fine.”

“All right.”

She marched back into the back door of the saloon and headed for the storeroom, and Sam was relieved that she was out of sight, for the moment.

*

“Take that mask off that pretty face, Brock.”

Bucky wanted to rile him up. Make him overstep himself.

Brock brayed a laugh. “Listen to you! Here I got myself all dressed up for you, Sheriff Barnes! You don’t like this?” he demanded, gesturing to his mask.

“Makes you look like a coward and a dang fool!” Bucky called back.

“I see you there, too, Rogers! Come out here, you pissant!”

Steve leaned around Bucky and fired at him, missing him. There wasn’t enough light, and he was too focused on Bucky, who was fighting every effort he made to pull him out of harm’s way. Like now, as he broke loose from Steve again and ran for the saloon’s swinging doors.

“BUCKY!”

Bucky hated the fear mingled with outrage in Steve’s voice, but there was nothing he could do about it. He felt the slight scrape of his fingers clutching for purchase on his shoulder before Bucky tore himself away, and he regretted the loss of that contact. If Brock managed a lucky shot, Bucky might never feel Steve’s touch again, something he might ponder over a hard drink, when - if - he had the chance to sit and think about it. Lingering inside the saloon would only leave the rest of the patrons still inside as potential targets for Brock’s stray bullets. Brock’s dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction when Bucky reached the street. The hem of his shirt was tugged free from his dungarees, and his dark waves of hair were mussed and hanging lankly around his face. Barnes looked youthful and still too damned green to be sheriff, but there was something hard and determined gleaming in his eyes. Brock laughed, shaking his head as he stepped out from behind the trough that he’d ducked behind earlier.

“You may think you’re serving the law in this town, Barnes, but you’re just getting in the way of progress.”

“Running good people off their farms and out of their homes? You call that ‘progress’?”

“Hydra is the way forward. Hydra will reshape history and bring life back into this miserable mudpile of a town, Sheriff. The men I work for don’t have time for riff-raff and little boys posing as lawmen!”

“When was the last time you saw a little boy pointing a gun at your head, Rumlow?”

“When’s the last time you loaded it, Sheriff?! I feel like I counted at least five shots out of your barrel!”

Bucky felt more than a little sick. Cold waves of fear washed over his flesh and made his heart pound.

Back inside, Steve heard an indignant male voice insist, “We were never riff-raff. My family never deserved to be run off. He said Hydra was the gang that took over our spread?”

Douglas Ramsey was edging out from under the piano bench. He was a young, strapping man with pleasant features and the clear blue eyes of a saint. “We lost everything. My pa’s been a broken man ever since that gang came and took everything. Pa just feels like he failed us, even though we’re getting by. We’ve been staying in the boardinghouse down the road, and Miss Romanoff has been paying me a little coin to do odd jobs for her, bless her. She even lets me play the piano here, once in a while.” He gently rattled the half-full money jar. “Every little bit helps, and that sonofagun is out there, shooting up the last good thing about this town.” Doug’s voice grew shaky. “Please, sir, don’t let him kill the sheriff! He means well, and we need him real bad!”

“Don’t worry about that man outside, sweetheart. And the sheriff is going to be just fine,” Natasha assured him as she stalked past the entryway into the saloon from the back. Steve and Doug spun around in surprise as she watched the edge of her trailing skirts brush past the doorway, and Steve caught the click of another gun before he heard her boots thumping upstairs towards the roof.

“Shit,” Steve hissed. “SAM! Where the hell are you?!”

But he was torn between wanting to stop his friend from doing something truly foolish, or staying close enough to Bucky to guard his back.

Steve growled under his breath. He hoped Sam would forgive him.

He ran outside and followed Bucky to the edge of the street, but instead of flanking his side, he approached from Rumlow’s left, training his gun on him and wishing he was on his horse, to get some leverage. Bucky caught Steve’s gaze and drifted toward the right, forcing Rumlow to split his focus. That made him huff in annoyance.

“You boys think you’re clever.”

“If you give up now, you’ll get a fair trial at the courthouse,” Bucky told him flatly.

*

In the alleyway, Bobbi found Sharon looking shaken and mad as hell.

“What happened?”

“He got away! He was masked, and he came around the back to pick off folks as they were running out!”

“To pick them off, or to rob the saloon?” Bobbi pressed.

That brought Sharon up short. “He didn’t take anything.”

“Sure wouldn’t have been hard for him,” Bobbi mentioned.

“Sam and Stark went after him, he went that way!”

But when they ran in the direction that Sam and Tony had, they found both men returning toward the saloon, down through the back alleys.

“We lost him,” Tony told them, and he looked absolutely sick about it. “It’s dark out, and the streets are barely lit.”

“We’ll flush him out eventually,” Sam promised.

“There was something about his gun,” Tony mused.

“You’re lucky you’re still standing,” Sharon told him.

“I know that!” Tony snapped. “But I saw him shoot at you, and that gun of his had a certain kick. He knew how to handle it. But, I know that gun.”

“You know his gun?” Bobbi looked confused.

“It was special. There aren’t many like it. My father made his money in engines, Agent Morse, but he also had a sweet touch with guns and ammunition.”

“Please, Mr. Stark,” Bobbi told him, “we still have an outlaw to find and bring down, if need be.”

“I won’t sleep until we do.”

Brock’s arms burned as he trained his guns on his two targets. He tasted his own sweat beneath the oppressive mask, and the humidity was getting to him. Flies were buzzing in the night air, and he felt a mosquito draining the blood from a tiny prick at the back of his neck.

“You can’t kill us both,” Steve taunted.

“Bet I can.”

Brock debated on which one to pick off first. While he made up his mind, he ran his mouth.

“Yer awfully sweet on each other, arentcha? I’ve seen how you look at the upstanding sheriff, Rogers. Ya moon over him like a puppy!”

Steve’s attention was split between Brock’s gun aimed at his head, and Bucky, who was too close, in the worst possible place if Steve shot and missed. He was staring Brock down, unwilling to back down. Damn it, Bucky. He wasn’t a coward, but he was out in the open, too far out of Steve’s reach to guard him, and Steve wanted to…

Damn it, damn it…

The three men counted silent, breathless seconds as they faced each other down, and the sudden thundering of hoofbeats shook them from their trance.

“It’s him!” Tony shouted as he rushed out of the alley and into the street, with Sam, Sharon and Bobbi hot on his heels.

Their alleyway bandit was astride a dark horse and galloping full-tilt, bearing down on Steve. Bucky watched in horror as the rider brought down a heavy wooden club against Steve’s temple, knocking him back into the horse trough. Steve grunted as he went down, landing with a heavy splash.

“STEVE!”

“Get up,” Zemo barked at Brock, and he reached for him. Brock managed to get a leg up into the stirrup, and Zemo helped him haul himself into the saddle behind him. Bucky couldn’t manage a clean shot as they bore down on him, too, and, done with bravado, he dove for cover, just missing being trampled by Zemo’s horse. Zemo galloped off, and Brock clung to him, finding purchase in the folds of his vest. As they rode off, Brock fired behind him, noticing that Sam, Stark and that lady deputy were trying to get them within their sights.

Up on her rooftop, Natasha raised her spare rifle and chose her moment. Brock was turned toward his pursuers, craned around in the saddle, and his mask was down around his throat. She aimed for his leering smile and pulled.

Brock bellowed as fire tore across his flesh, making it burst apart. The shock nearly made him fall from his mount, but instead, he dropped his gun and clutched at his head, continuing to roar in agony. Zemo, nonplussed, continued to ride off the road and into the brush. There was no sense in traveling any of the common roads. They needed to regroup and then return to the Pierce estate. Rumlow needed the good Dr. Zola’s attentions, and Mr. Pierce would want to debrief them and hear what they learned.

They had learned much, indeed.

Clint rushed up to the roof and found Natasha standing at its edge, shoulders sagging and still clutching her spare rifle. As Clint approached, he called out to her gently. “Nat? You all right, sweetheart?”

Her shoulders began to shake, and Clint closed the gap between them and collected the gun from her hands, and then quietly pulled her into an embrace that was almost brotherly.

“He destroyed my place,” she sobbed.

Clint made small shushing sounds against her hair. “We’ll fix it, Nat. I promise. We’ll make it good as new. I swear.”

Sam found them that way when he ran upstairs and joined them on the roof. He set down the other rifle and gave Clint a stony look. Clint didn’t take offense when Natasha freed herself from his arms and rushed into Sam’s. “I’m gonna go and make myself useful,” Clint offered easily, even though he was shaken by everything that had transpired. He’d had a rough upbringing around rough people, growing up with the circus, and following Barney along into all of the trouble he always found. Clint survived a life in and out of orphanages and working on the farms of the families that occasionally took them in. He’d learned not to expect much from most people, and kindness, when it was shown to him at all, was more precious than gold.

Natasha would never admit to being soft. Her trust and her heart weren’t easily earned. Clint, and now, Sam, were the only ones up until now that had ever seen Natasha Romanoff weep. Sam was staring down the street and into the night with murder in his eyes, and he was holding Natasha very tight. Before Clint turned to leave, Sam told him, “Hey, Barton. Take this, too.” He handed him the other rifle, and Clint headed downstairs to give them space and to assess the damage.

Bobbi gave a small cry when she saw him. “BARTON! Are you all right?!” She rushed toward him, crunching broken glass and splintered wood beneath her boots, and she looked so relieved at the sight of him. Her hands reached for him, checking him over for injury as she noticed small tears in his clothing and a tiny scrape on his cheek where it was beginning to bruise.

“All in one piece. Hey, the next time that I beat you at cards, there’s no need to-”

She silenced him with a firm, determined kiss as her hands curled in his shirt. It was all Clint could do not to drop the rifles in surprise, and he hummed appreciatively into her mouth. She claimed his for several long, tantalizing seconds, and she withdrew reluctantly, making him chase her lips for more. He stared into her face in awe, eyes still dazed with passion as she gently pulled back.

“Sorry,” she offered, even though she didn’t look it. “I’m, uh. Not normally that bold.”

Clint smirked. “Awwww. You won’t hear me complaining, Agent.”

“You could call me Bobbi once in a while, if you want.”

Outside, Sharon and Bucky helped Steve up from the trough and hauled him over to the walkway, dragging him to lay atop its wooden planks. “Stevie,” Bucky pleaded, “come on, please, wake up!” He planted his hand against Steve’s chest and rubbed it roughly, giving him a hearty shake. Steve groaned, slowly coming to, and Sharon hovered close, then dropped to her haunches. She lightly slapped Steve’s cheek a few times.

“Rogers? Come on, now. You’re scaring the wits out of James. Wake up. Open those pretty eyes and show him that you’re all right. That’s it.”

Steve’s eyes jerked from Sharon, back to Bucky, where they lingered, searching his face. Bucky’s body was tense, and those were his hands that Steve felt roaming over him, checking him for injury, smoothing back his hair from his brow. There was panic in his eyes, and Steve felt like a heel for putting it there.

“Ow,” Steve muttered.

“You were hit in the head pretty hard, Rogers,” Sharon told him with a note of sympathy in her voice. “I sure hate to send you home to your kind ma in this shape, so we should get you back to our office and call in Dr. Erskine.”

“I’ll shake it off,” Steve croaked, even though the ground still felt like it was spinning beneath him, but he was so relieved to see the beginnings of a smile tugging at Bucky’s lips. “Where’s Rumlow?”

“He got away from us. We’ll have ‘Wanted’ bulletins posted all over town first thing in the morning,” Bucky assured him.

“You’re all right,” Steve pressed, and his hand drifted up to close itself over Bucky’s, where it was still resting over Steve’s heart.

“I’m all right,” Bucky confirmed, even though he was still mad enough to spit that Steve had endangered himself, following him out into the street. Damn it, Stevie. So many emotions were rolling through Bucky’s chest. “And you’re a jackass.”

“Look who’s talking,” Sharon muttered. “Come on, now. Let’s get back to the station.”

*

Sharon followed Bucky and Steve back to the sheriff’s office, where she bustled around, finding clean towels, a bottle of witch hazel, filling a basin with water from the pump outside, and a roll of bandages. Bobbi and Clint arrived a few minutes later, and Sharon made up her mind.

“We probably won’t find them right now.”

“Natasha is a handy shot,” Bobbi agreed. “They will have to find him a doctor, if they aren’t going to show up at Abraham’s clinic.”

“Which means they might have to go out of town,” Sharon said. “I think we need to talk with Stark. He mentioned something about the gun that the man in the alley had?”

“He said they were special,” Bobbi said. “Said something about how there weren’t many of them? And his father was a gunsmith?”

“I know the Starks are a family of inventors. And that sure made them some money. And Stark is on friendly terms with Alexander Pierce and the rest of the cattle barons in town.”

“Maybe not friendly enough. That didn’t stop that varmint in the alley from shooting at him. Tony might have just been in the wrong saloon at the wrong time, but still…”

“Seemed like Rumlow was there to shoot Barnes, though, right?” Clint pointed out. “Stark was just there by chance. Shoot, Stark’s always at the saloon to wet his whistle.”

“Even though he has better quality brandy at home,” Sharon said. She regarded Bucky, who was hovering over Steve and fussing over him, after lighting an oil lamp in the corner and another lantern that hung over the doorway. “Are you two going to be all right? Do you need me to stay?”

“You should get some rest,” Bucky told her.

“You know I won’t,” she countered sourly. “I’m going to take these two with me,” she said, motioning to Clint and Bobbi. “We’re going to talk to Stark and go and see about Natasha. She’s in a bad way.”

“She has Sam,” Clint said. “He’ll take care of her. We can do more for her in the morning, when the dust settles, but it doesn’t hurt just to say goodnight.”

The three of them rode off to the Stark estate, leaving Bucky to lock up behind them. Steve watched him with weary, bloodshot eyes. He was looking more bruised by the minute, and there was a wicked cut at his temple. Bucky soaked a rag in the cool, clear water and wrung it out, and he leaned over Steve where he sat at Bucky’s desk and laid the compress against the cut. “That looks nasty, Stevie. We need to keep it clean.”

“You’re pretty scraped up, too,” Steve argued. “Nat’s place was full of broken glass. Last thing you need is a cut that turns septic.”

“We’re worrying about you, right now.”

“Speak for yourself, Sheriff.”

“Okay, Captain.” Bucky’s tone was bland, but he gave Steve a pointed look.

Steve felt his world tilt on its axis. “Bucky…” His mouth went dry as dirt.

“I know that’s he’s you. And I know that the Captain’s a good man, even if he’s a little hardheaded and acting outside the law,” Bucky said softly as he dabbed at Steve’s brow, cleaning away the smears of blood and grime from his skin. Steve winced from the discomfort, despite Bucky’s attempts to keep his ministrations gentle, but he also looked uncomfortable with the truth that had been brought to light.

Very dim lantern light, which flickered over them as they talked and as Bucky cared for Steve’s wounds.

“You weren’t supposed to know.”

“It wasn’t that hard for me to guess. I heard from the town gossips how you threw Victor Creed into the horse trough without even blinking. Tabitha was singing your praises and using colorful words to describe it. I wasn’t quite sure it was you that night in my wash room, Steve, even after you kicked him through the window. But, that night at the lake… well. Your voice in my ear, that was my first clue. And not many men carry themselves like you do. Or have eyes like yours. Couldn’t hide those behind a mask.”

“Well, not if I wanted to see.” A smirk tugged at the corner of Steve’s mouth, and those eyes of his crinkled with humor. Bucky paused to dip and wring out the rag again, rinsing out the blood stains, and he swabbed at Steve’s cheeks. He tipped Steve’s jaw to get a better look at it, and his fingers brushed over Steve’s coarse, soft, sandy beard. Bucky kept fussing over him, pulling debris from his hair and glass from his skin. “Bucky? Can you promise me something?”

“Promise you what, Stevie?”

“Promise me that you won’t go after Rumlow alone.”

“Only if you promise me the same thing. It was stupid, what you did, following me out into the street, y’know.”

“You were taking most of the stupid with you. Lord, Bucky, you shouldn’t have kept egging Brock on like that!”

“It gave Nat’s customers the chance to get out of the saloon!” Bucky argued. “That was the point, Stevie!” He tugged at Steve’s sleeve. “Here. Take this off. It’s stuffy in here, anyway, and you took a bad fall backward into that trough. I need to take a look at you.”

“There’s no need to keep mothering me, Bucky.”

“Yes, there is, because I sure ain’t planning on sending you home to your ma like this. Not tonight. You’ll give her a true fright.” And Steve didn’t stop Bucky from unfastening his shirt’s top two buttons and the ones on the cuffs, and Steve winced, huffing in pain as he raised his arms to let Bucky pull the entire thing off over his head. Bucky chucked the shirt onto the desk and realized, suddenly, that he might have been a bit hasty.

Steve Rogers was a marvel to behold, and it was impossible not to stare. Not with all that tanned, taut bare skin now visible to Bucky’s hungry gaze. He watched Bucky, suddenly feeling self-conscious, but it was a relief to take off the stifling shirt. Bucky cleared his throat and moved himself behind Steve, and his fingers crept over Steve’s skin, tracing over a shallow scrape on his broad, smooth back. Steve’s face turned slightly back toward Bucky, but he didn’t quite meet his eyes. “You landed pretty hard. This won’t need to be stitched up. You’re gonna hurt tomorrow.”

“I kind of hurt now, Buck.” But Bucky’s touch felt good, or at least it did until he cleaned the scrape with witch hazel, making the wound smart and sting. Steve hissed in pain and tensed.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Can we switch places? Because I know you mean well, Bucky, but that didn’t exactly-”

Bucky blew a cool, soothing current of air over the scrape, sending a tingle of arousal through Steve, making him ache for things he couldn’t describe. His nipples pebbled in response, and he felt a kick of lust in his groin.

“-tickle.”

“I’m just about done.” Bucky ran his fingers over Steve’s scalp, checking for wounds, but thankfully, didn’t find any broken flesh. He stroked his fingers through Steve’s hair, savoring its rich, thick softness, and Steve closed his eyes in pleasure, letting a low sigh escape him. Bucky’s brow furrowed. Alarm bells rung in his head as he realized that they were so close, and he was touching Steve, still, one hand resting on the crest of his bare shoulder, absently kneading the crest of solid, warm muscle.

“Maybe. Don’t… rush.”

Bucky huffed and felt heat rush into his loins. Perhaps this wasn’t how he’d planned for his night to go, but somehow, he didn’t mind it one bit. “I don’t see any other cuts. You didn’t split your head open, Stevie, but you came dang close.” Bucky’s voice was a little scratchy and still tinged with worry.

“Ain’t the first time I’ve been knocked around, Buck.”

“That doesn’t reassure me much right now, Stevie.” Bucky’s fingers lingered in Steve’s hair, combing through it, and he paused to probe a tense spot behind Steve’s ear, then worked on his tense neck muscles. The pad of Bucky’s thumb counted Steve’s neck bones, a perfect row of pearls, and he began to massage away the night’s tensions and ills. Steve made a helpless noise and tipped his head back until he bumped back against Bucky’s chest. A gusty, shaky breath shuddered out of Steve’s chest. “I’d go more than a little crazy if anything happened to you. Don’t you understand that?”

That made Steve’s eyes snap open, and he caught Bucky’s hand that rested on his shoulder and squeezed it. Then Steve turned his face and pulled Bucky’s to his lips, dipping them to kiss his knuckles, breathing in the scent of his skin. It was a risk, Steve knew, laying out his hand like this, and wearing his heart on his sleeve. Bucky could come to his senses and refuse him, before Steve even reasoned with him that maybe Bucky should refuse him, because there was no way that any of this made sense, not if Bucky had one sensible bone in his body. Steve had no semblance of reason when Bucky looked at him like that, or touched him like he was doing, and Steve-

Bucky’s fingers captured Steve’s chin again and tipped it up, and Bucky’s face was all Steve could see, filled with naked emotion and want, his eyes pleading for permission before he leaned in and kissed Steve with brewing passion. They shared breath and heat, and Steve groaned as Bucky nipped at him, urging him to open for him. Steve could deny him nothing. Bucky tasted him, taking his time, courting Steve with each velvety stroke of his tongue. Steve needed to touch Bucky, wanting more tangible proof that this was real, that he could have this. His hand captured Bucky’s nape, and Bucky moved himself to stand before Steve and bent down, cupping Steve’s face between his hot palms and taking a more thorough taste. He stepped between Steve’s slack thighs, and this time, it was Steve that clutched at Bucky’s hair, tugging on those lush waves. Steve’s fingers caressed Bucky’s jaw, scritching lightly at his rasp of dark stubble, and he tugged at Bucky’s shirt, feeling greedy for a touch, or even a glimpse of his bare skin.

But the events of the night pushed their way to the forefront of his mind. All he could see was Rumlow pointing his gun at Bucky’s head, and Steve broke their kiss abruptly. Bucky was staring at him in hurt confusion, still breathing hard and licking the last taste of Steve from his lips.

“Why? Why stop?”

“We can’t. It’s… Bucky. I’m no good for you. I want to be with you so bad, but I can’t. I can’t offer you anything except another chance to get yourself shot, if you throw your lot in with me.”

“You know I can take care of myself, Stevie.”

“That doesn’t mean I can live with myself, if you put yourself at risk to be with me, Bucky! I couldn’t live with myself if anything ever happened to you, and it was within my control to stop it!” And Steve’s hands were gripping Bucky’s upper arms, snug and insistent, and he was worked up, brow beetled and ready to give Bucky what-for if he argued with him.

“Did you not just throw yourself over me to keep me from taking a bullet tonight? How many times does that make, now? Two? Three? I’m losing count, Steve. Any the way I see it, we can keep dancing around this, whatever this is between us. Because there’s something between us, Steven Grant Rogers. And it’s gonna keep burning hot and out of control, whether you want to admit it or not, or keep on lecturing me on why we shouldn’t let this happen.”

“Bucky-”

“Stevie. Damn it, Steve. Just…please. Just let this happen. I’m begging you.”

“I want to, Bucky, but… I don’t know if I can.”

Bucky’s face was stricken, and Steve felt a sickening swooping in his chest in response. It was even worse when Bucky pulled himself free from Steve’s grasp and gave him his back.

“Let me clean all this up. If you’re really set on heading home, that’s fine, Steve, but at least go to Doc Erskine’s place first, and-”

“I’m fine, Bucky.”

“I’m not a doctor. I didn’t do much for you.”

“You did enough. Look. I’m fine.”

Bucky made a noncommittal noise and gathered up the soiled towels, contemplating whether to throw them out.

“You’ve got a few cuts. They need to be cleaned.”

“I can manage it, Stevie.”

And oh, how that hurt.

“All right.” The shirt disappeared from the table, and Bucky heard a fumbling of cloth and the click of the lock’s tumbler before Steve told him, “Goodnight, Bucky.”

“Stevie…”

The door swung shut after him, followed by the sounds of his heavy bootfalls, and Bucky felt the futile anguish wash over him, making him hurl the basin across the room, soaking the floor.

Chapter Text

The shards of glass scraped across the wooden floor planks, making a tinkling sound as Natasha swept them up into the dustpan. She wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist and surveyed the damage. “I hate this,” she muttered. “I poured my life savings into this saloon. And that varmint Brock just came in here and shot it all to bits.”

“Wilson and Rogers are coming here soon with the windowpanes, Nat. We’ll make this place good as new and get it all spit-and-polished.” Clint’s tone was optimistic, but he wouldn’t admit that he hated seeing the stiff, tense set to her shoulders and the haunted look in her eyes. Natasha had been on edge ever since Sam talked her down from the rooftop. Clint, true blue friend that he was, simply took the rifles and cleaned them, loaded them, and returned them to where they belonged. Gestures, sometimes, were more comforting than words. Sam stayed with Natasha that night, and both of them got precious little sleep. Visions of crashing whiskey bottles and the sounds of screams and gunshots assailed them as soon as they closed their eyes.

Clint showed up early that morning, surprisingly bright-eyed and ready to work. He brought her a gift of some bread and jam, and after a simple breakfast (Natasha nagged him for making the coffee too strong, but Clint argued that it was perfect), they went to work and began to clean up the saloon’s battered main room. Natasha growled when she noticed the bullethole in the side of her piano. “Some people have no respect for music.”

“As long as it still plays, it’ll be fine, Nat. That hole almost gives it a little character.” Clint gently patted her lower back as he squeezed past her to scoop up the remains of one of her moonshine jars. “Maybe that hole you blew in Brock Rumlow’s face will give him a little character, too.”

He’d meant to lighten the mood, but Natasha tensed up again, looking stricken. “What if he comes back?” she choked. “He’s still out there, on the loose! This place is all I have, Clint! I can’t afford to lose it!”

“Hey. Natasha. Look, this saloon of yours is about the only bright spot in this miserable dustball of a town, and I know the locals will get behind you to do whatever they can to protect it. Rumlow and his blasted ‘Hydra Gang’ aren’t coming back here without us giving them a fight.”

“I hope they never come back,” Caliban piped up. Erik Lensherr and Charles Xavier heard the news of the attack and sent some of the older Morlock children to lend a hand in the clean-up. And as much as Natasha was struggling, she saw so much of the child she used to be when she met Caliban and Erik’s other wards. Caliban was the oldest, and he had such a haunted look in his eyes. The smile he gave her was bashful as he offered his help, and he moved about the room, righting stools and chairs and wiping off tables.

Bobbi stopped by briefly, and she recoiled at the sight of the damage. “Morning,” she greeted Natasha.

“Hello, Bobbi.”

“It looks even worse in the light of day, sweetheart.”

“I know. I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”

“You aren’t the only one. We’re going to find these men and bring them to justice, or bring them down,” Bobbi promised. “We learned some things when we spoke to Tony Stark last night.”

“What things?” Natasha frowned and paused in wiping down the bar, leaning on her elbows to rest for a moment.

“The man that was working with Rumlow knows Stark. He might have been after him, too, when they came here last night, not just Sheriff Barnes.”

“Did Tony recognize him?”

“No, but he knew what he was carrying. Apparently, those guns were special. They were a limited run, with a special seal on the handle.”

“How could Tony even tell? It was dark last night in that alley!” Natasha pointed out.

“Howard Stark also made custom bullets to use with those pistols. From everything I’ve heard from my director, Mr. Fury, Howard’s line of guns were far superior to anything ever built up until now.”

*

Several hours earlier:

“Can I offer either of you ladies a drink?”

“No, thank you, Mr. Stark,” Bobbi replied. “But thank you for the kind offer.”

“Well, that’s fine, but I’m having one. My last drink was rudely interrupted. It’s a sin to waste good gin.” Tony poured himself a tumbler of the clear, sharp liquid and took a fortifying sip, but his nerves were still rattled. He nursed it while he motioned for both of them to sit. Jarvis came into the room and lit the sconces and the oil lamp on Tony’s desk, throwing a soft, warm glow over the Stark family portrait hanging on the wall. It had been painted shortly before Tony lost his parents. He vaguely remembered his mother scolding him not to squirm, and it took several afternoons of sitting still until it was completed, and for Tony, as active and impulsive as he was, it had been torture.

But, he would give anything in the world for his mother to scold him again. He’d lost his parents far too soon.

Tony went to the safe in his study and opened it, and he brought back several items. He unrolled a sheaf of papers that were tied together with string and laid them out, smoothing them, and he set down a small box. He handed it to Sharon, who opened it and found some gleaming bullets. She held one up to the light.

“This is different.”

“That’s efficient design, Deputy Carter. Agent, feel free to try that out,” Tony said, nodding to Bobbi to pick up the gun. Bobbi opened the chamber and gave it a turn before snapping it shut. She hefted the gun in her grip and made an admiring sound.

“It has a nice weight.”

“It doesn’t have the same kickback as some of the pea shooters you’ve handled before. That gun will treat you well, and it gets the job done. My father designed those bullets for that gun. I remember him shooting them and trying them out when I was a boy. They had a specific sound when they fired. That little mechanism made a certain sound that kept the gun from kicking back when you fired it.” Tony picked up one of the bullets from the box. “That number etched into the casing was unique. That was the date he met my mother and knew that he was going to make her his wife. My father was a proud man. Some would even say he was too proud, and that I’m no better. My father drank too much, he was a conceited cuss, and he was hell to do business with, by all accounts, but my father was driven. He was proud of everything he invented. He put aside the guns and changed direction, and he started talking about engines. It was all he could think about. Smoother, faster, more efficient train engines, Deputy Carter. And that became my life’s work.” Tony took the gun back and returned it to the safe. Then, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his folded handkerchief that was embroidered with his initials. He unfolded it and showed both women the spent shells, holding one up to the light.

“I recognized the sound of that round firing, and I had to go back and be sure, but I found these back in the alley, right by where you missed getting shot, Deputy.”

She looked embarrassed, and Sharon sighed in exasperation. “That wasn’t one of my finer moments, sir.”

“No one’s throwing stones, Deputy. But, look at this.” He handed it to her, and Sharon examined it.

“That’s my father’s mark. And the man who promised my father that those guns would be removed from production so that he could focus his work and time on train engines is someone that I never thought would betray me like this.”

“Who, Tony?” Bobbi asked.

“His colleague, and my mentor. He’s been like an uncle to me all these years.” Tony took another sip of his drink, swirling the gin in the glass. “Obadiah Stane.”

*

Sarah yawned as she entered her kitchen and began her routine of making breakfast. She lit the fire on the stove and heated up the skillet while before she went outside to collect some eggs. She gathered them in her basket, teasing the brooding hens for a moment.

“Stop your fussing. Here we are, you little beasts. If you give me my breakfast, I’ll feed you yours.”

The grass in the yard was slick with morning dew, and the last of the pink tinge left the clouds. Sarah hummed to herself as she started a pot of coffee and sliced a loaf of bread. The scent of the brew filled the kitchen as she went to check on Steve.

“You returned home so late last night,” she remarked as she headed for his room. Sarah knocked on the door and didn’t wait for a reply. “I’ll have some eggs ready for you in a moment - oh, goodness! STEVE!”

“Ma!” Steve turned from the mirror quickly, where he’d been probing a bruise across his upper back. He was bare-chested and still dressed in just his breeches, but Sarah approached him in growing horror.

“What happened to you, Steve?!”

“There was an incident, Ma, at Natasha’s saloon. You might as well hear about it from me than from anyone else, because tongues will be wagging soon enough. There was a brawl. Some men came and shot up the saloon. I don’t understand why, but, I just want you to know I’m all right.”

“Who, Steve?”

“Brock Rumlow. You may have seen him around town.”

“Oh, I’ve seen him, and I’ve certainly heard him.” Sarah gave Steve a thunderous look. “That man is a monster and a ruffian. But, what happened to you? Steve, you’re a mess.” Sarah reached for him, laying a cool, soft hand on Steve’s cheek.

“I said I’m all right, Ma.”

“This doesn’t look all right. You’re all cut up and covered in bruises, and you’re telling me you’re all right?” And Sarah looked ready to go after whoever left her son in this condition and set all of the hounds of hell nipping at their heels. Her lips thinned and her blue eyes were snapping with anger.

Steve’s eyes were bruised from the moment when Bucky broke free of him in the bar, after bashing him in the nose to get his point across, and Steve planned to bring that up the next time they spoke. But, things happened in the heat of the moment, and nothing about last night could be called normal. Not even for the End of the Line. Steve was still kicking himself as he reviewed his night in the clear, too-bright light of day.

Sarah left him only for as long as it took to finish frying some eggs. She came back and found him dressed in his trousers and washing his face, but she stopped him from putting on his shirt.

“I have some liniment to put on your back. It will soothe those bruises, Steve. You’re all black and blue.”

“I took a rough tumble.”

“What happened?”

Steve steeled himself against the inevitable outburst. “Uh.”

“Steven Grant. What happened?”

“Sheriff Barnes -”

“Bucky,” Sarah corrected him. Steve frowned, wondering why his ma was making that distinction, but he continued.

“Bucky looked like he needed my help. I ran after him into the street. Brock Rumlow had Bucky in his sights, Ma. And I didn’t want anything to happen to him, so I went out there.”

“You what?!”

“I covered him. I couldn’t let him go out there alone.”

Sarah exhaled heavily and pinched the bridge of her nose, but Steve just barreled forward.

“Brock wasn’t dumb enough to think he could take both of us on!”

“Yes, he was! But you were being dumb enough for him, running out there like that, Steve! You can’t risk yourself like that!”

“I was in the heat of the moment, Ma! All I could think about was covering for him!”

“No, I suppose you would think you have to. Because here we are, again. Steve. Please.” Sarah sighed and pointed to the bed. “Sit.”

“Ma-”

“Sit down.” Ma’s cheeks were pink and she was fuming, and Steve immediately planted his backside down on the bed, staring meekly at his hands where he clenched them in his lap.

“Yes, ma’am.” Frustration prickled over Steve, and the looming suspicion that he’d disappointed her and scared her out of her wits wrapped around him like an itchy shirt.

“I’m going to get the liniment. And you’re going to listen to me, and listen well.”

Sarah breezed out of his room, leaving Steve to silently replay the events of the night in his mind. It wouldn’t do to lie to Ma, and he never could. She could wheedle the truth out of him ever since he was small, with just the right tone of voice and that look that she gave him that warned him that she was always watching, and always wise to him.

She came back shortly, even though the moments that she was gone from the room stretched cavernously to Steve as he sulked in his room, hating that he had to account for his nightly activities and explain himself. Nervousness roiled in his gut, supplanting hunger, even though he’d woke up famished.

Sarah noticed how he stared down at his hands, and his slumped posture as she came back in carrying the bottle of liniment. “This might help some of those bruises and cuts. Now, hold still, Steven.”

“Bucky already saw about me last night, at his office, before I came home, Ma.”

“Well, that won’t stop me from seeing about you again.”

She saw him flinch slightly at the first contact of her hand with his broken flesh as she gently salved it with the cool, slick liniment, rubbing it onto the bruise on his upper back and purpled more deeply as it crept up the back of his neck. Sarah tutted over the injury and sighed. “That looks like it hurt.”

“I can manage.” But her hands were gentle and familiar on his flesh, recalling those times during his childhood, when she’d nursed his cuts, tsking over a split lip or scraped knee. Soothing his fevered brow with cool rags. Rocking him in her favorite chair when he’d caught croup. Of course he allowed her fussing over him now.

“You shouldn’t have to. This is getting to be too much. Steve, I know you want to help the folks in this town, but you can’t do that alone, and at the end of the day, you can’t keep saving folks from themselves and their own decisions.”

“So, I should have just let Bucky walk out into the street, without watching his back?”

“Do you feel better about making yourself a target, too? How do you think Bucky feels when one of his townsfolk that he took an oath to protect just runs out into danger, anyway?”

The common sense in her words chafed him and made his throat itch. “Ma…”

“Your father was a good man. A strong man. He had a good head for business, but he wasn’t good at backing down from a fight. I knew we would have a hard time adjusting to life out here when we came to this town. This is where we ended up after I lost your pa, Steven. Folks hardly move out here on purpose, they end up here. Your pa and I put every cent of our savings into that store and into this farm. My whole life is in this house, and my whole life has been making sure I kept you safe from harm, so that you could grow into a strong, good man like my Joe.”

“Ma…” Steve’s voice held a note of helplessness, but she plowed on, despite his imploring look.

“What, Steven? Don’t you ‘Ma’ me. You shouldn’t have had to grow up without your pa, but I won’t abide you making me live out the rest of my life after I’ve buried you. It’s not natural, and it’s not the way of things. I’m tired of losing the men in my life that I love so much.” Sarah’s voice rattled, heavy with emotion as put the proper weight on those last few words.

“Ma, please.”

“I won’t lose you to violence, Steve. Do you hear me? Do you understand me?”

“Ma-”

“Promise me that you’ll stop taking such risks!”

“I… I can’t. Ma, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

His voice was a soft, shamed rasp.

“What did you say?”

“I can’t, Ma. I can’t… I can’t stand by and do nothing. It’s not just for Bucky.”

“You care for him.” It wasn’t an accusation. They’d had this conversation before.

“Yes. But, this is bigger than how I feel for him, Ma.” His voice gained strength, even though his eyes burned, stinging and suddenly moist. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t walk down the street, or just go about your business in town without getting hurt! You’re right, Ma. You’re right about everything that you and Pa put into the store, and into moving here to the End of the Line! It shouldn’t have been the end! It could be the beginning if anyone just paid enough attention to fix what’s wrong with it!”

Sarah drew back from him, and she realized she wasn’t the only one crying as she pulled up the chair that Steve usually kept by his desk. She sat before him, waiting for him to finish speaking his mind, even if she barely stand to hear it.

“You tell me you wanted me to grown into a good man like Pa. And I wanted that, too. I wanted that so badly, Ma. But I’m grown, and I can’t be a good man if I stand by and do nothing. Bucky’s just one man against the folks that have always been here, lurking around the corner, stealing and running off the good people that are just trying to keep food in their mouths, jumping claims on land that isn’t even theirs. And he’s actually a good man, Ma. He’s… he’s not like Sheriff Walker was at all. Someone has to help him, so that men like Pa don’t fail to come home. Ma. You’ve had to be so strong. You never should have had to raise me by yourself.”

Sarah swiped at her face with her handkerchief, which she’d pulled from her apron pocket. Her cheeks were ruddy and damp, her blue eyes pink-rimmed and threatening to spill over again. “I’d do it all again, Steve. But, if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s the thought of spending all these years, trying to keep you safe, just for you to run into the path of a bullet.”

“Well, Ma. That’s just life in this town.”

A hiccuping laugh escaped her, and Sarah swatted at him. Steve automatically stood when Sarah rose from his chair, and he leaned into her touch when she reached up to stroke his cheek, swiping away at his tears. “You’re a terrible scamp. You might think you’re grown, but I know you, Steve. You should really listen to your mother.”

“Everyone who knows me says that I get my stubborn streak from you, Ma.”

“Lies. All lies. Come on, then. Let’s sit down for breakfast while I’m still in a mood to cook it.” Chastened, Steve followed her to the kitchen, where he put himself to work, too, scrubbing and peeling potatoes for her to fry, reaching up for the cast iron skillet hung high on a hook, and slicing off slabs of bacon. Sarah eventually shooed him into his seat, claiming that he was getting underfoot, and soon they were both giving the meal the silence that good, wholesome food deserved. Steve washed the dishes without being asked as Sarah retired to her room to wash and dress for the day in a simple dress and a sturdy bonnet that protected her fair cheeks from the sun. Sarah worked in the garden while Steve headed to the store, but before he left, he reminded her, “Ma.”

“Yes, son?”

“Remember what I said. Stay away from Rumlow if you see him.”

“Trust me when I tell you that he has more to fear from me, my skillet, and your father’s old Colt if I see him again. He dared to threaten my son, and there will be a reckoning.” Sarah’s eyes and voice were hard. Steve huffed, bent to kiss her cheek, and then rode off in the wagon.

*

Zemo hadn’t grown up in The End of the Line. Those dark, shrewd eyes of his made folks who met him wonder if he was peddling snake oil and calling it a miracle. He was too quiet, and his words were too flowery. No one else in town was that bookish and fancy, except maybe Erik and Charles, or even Alexander Pierce and the other cattle barons. Zemo liked fine things. Finely milled soap from Paris, the kind that smelled like lavender. Silk cravats, even though they weren’t as fashionable anymore, but he favored old elegance, believing it still made a statement. The brass pocketwatch that hung from a fob pinned to his vest pocket. Unlike Anthony Stark, the only man in town who could call Zemo a peer without risking ridicule, Zemo wasn’t flashy, or full of outlandish ideas.

He lingered in the background, a frequent guest in drawing rooms and parlors, but he seldomly visited the saloon. He watched, and he listened, never missing the tiniest details. That soft, rasping voice with its foreign burr fascinated the locals. He didn’t swill his scotch. He laughed at the appropriate moment at every joke, even when the humor didn’t reach his eyes. No one ever invited him to the poker table. Clint had murmured to Sam once, as he was cutting the deck, “A shiver runs down my back every time he comes in here. Something ain’t natural about him, Wilson, I’m telling you.”

“And that doesn’t seem to bother him a bit,” Sam agreed. Their voices were low beneath the loud chatter of the crowd in the saloon, easily lost in the clinking of glasses and the tinkling notes of the piano, but Sam caught Zemo’s eye as he turned around at the bar, looking as though he’d heard them loud and clear, and he gave Sam a brittle smile, raising his glass in a salute. Sam nodded back before he looked away.

Pierce wasn’t paying Helmut Zemo to be popular. No, he only needed him to be subtle, and quick.

*

“So. I heard about the saloon.”

“Yes, Mr. Pierce.”

“That was quite the show of violence,” Pierce remarked. “That was very unlike you, Helmut.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t my most delicate work, but I believe it gave us the result we wanted, sir.”

“Oh?” Pierce gave him a dubious look as he lit his cigar and gave it a few puffs, savoring the sharp plumes of smoke. “Brock isn’t as handsome as he used to be. Was that part of the plan?”

“Was he really that handsome before?” Zemo pointed out.

“There’s no need to be unkind.”

Zemo chuckled dryly, waving him off. “My apologies, Mr. Pierce. I promise you that I took the appropriate precautions. Mr. Rumlow has his uses. I feel that we learned some useful information about the Captain, after all.”

“And what would that be?”

“That the good Sheriff Barnes is his greatest weakness.”

Pierce blew out a draft of smoke and leveled Zemo with his steely gaze. “You’re sure you know who he is?”

“There aren’t many men who are foolish enough to throw themselves into a gunfight that isn’t truly their fight. To his credit, the sheriff is a very brave man. And he has found himself a protector in our friend, Captain Lonestar. If he hadn’t thrown the sheriff for cover, I wouldn’t have missed. I had him clearly within my sights at the lake.” He paused for a moment. “I didn’t have to miss.”

“That’s fascinating, Helmut.” Pierce nodded to the bowl of sweets on his desk. “Care for some licorice?”

“Gladly, sir.” He reached into the dish and popped one of the dark, sticky chews into his mouth, enjoying its sharp flavor. “The Captain has a distinctive way of moving. He’s fast. Strong. I watched him throw the sheriff beneath him for cover as he dove into the grass. And I watched him again, in the saloon, doing the same thing, with the same grace and lack of regard for his own safety. And this time, he wasn’t hiding his face behind a mask.”

Pierce’s pulse leapt with anticipation.

“The Captain has been a thorn in my side for a long time, Helmut. We have to act quickly. My colleagues want to move forward with the progress that this town deserves.”

“Does the town really deserve it?” Helmut countered. His voice was still soft, but it held an edge, and his brow arched.

“You could argue that with me all you want, but we are still men of action, Helmut. We have plans for the railroad, and to bring real enterprise into this town, instead of letting it stagnate and rot, like a wasteland. Gold mines and claims run dry, but the railroad will bring us more money than we could ever spend in a lifetime. And then, there’s the matter of the oil. You’ll hear farmers and ranch hands out here, weeping about fallow land and how they can’t maintain decent crops, but they’re ignoring the real treasure that’s bubbling underground. They’re all simpletons.”

His words stood at odds with the face that Alexander Pierce showed to the community. Pierce, bosom friend and university classmate to the mayor. A close associate to Howard Stark, always quick to champion and invest in his inventions, and Howard’s son Tony’s staunchest mentor. Charming philanthropist and shrewd businessman. Yet, he had the previous sheriff, John Walker, on his payroll, before he “disappeared.” Alexander Pierce could make anyone disappear.

“The Captain keeps managing to get in my way. He’s like a fly in the ointment, Helmut. You said you know who he is.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Then, why is he still alive?”

“Because it wouldn’t look good to eliminate one of the only sources of this town’s livelihood. Especially when he’s so well known, and his father died under such unfavorable circumstances. All things in due time. We can draw him out again. Isolate him. And then, we will take care of him.”

“Draw him out?”

“The sheriff isn’t his only weakness.”

They ruminated over scotch and cigars. Zemo’s discovery slowly gave way to a plan. And Pierce realized that he would need to contact a few of his associates and share his new information. Alexander Pierce hadn’t come this far without having several of the right friends in the wrong places.

*

“You realize you lost me a dollar, don’t you, Rogers?”

“Come again?”

“I lost a dollar. To Barton, no less.” Sam and Steve were out in the pasture, mounted and letting Sam’s herd graze while both Sarahs helped Darlene make batches of jam and pickles. Sam’s horse’s tail swished at flies, and Sam swatted at a mosquito that was getting too familiar with his chambray sleeve. Sam glanced at Steve with a chiding look. “And I owe it to you, dragging your feet with Barnes.”

Steve scowled. “Do you mean to tell me you two were betting on me and Bucky… doing what?”

“Anything,” Sam pronounced. “On the two of you doing anything at all besides mooning over each other and twiddling your thumbs.”

“Why are you my best friend again, Wilson?”

“Because I’m the only one foolish enough who wanted the job,” Sam shot back dryly. But he tossed Steve his water canteen, which Steve took gratefully. He drained half of it and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, capped it, and tossed it back to Sam, who hung it by its strap from his saddlehorn. “Are you two really going to keep on dancing around this?”

“No.”

“No?” Sam sounded incredulous. “What’s this ‘no?’ Does that mean ‘No, I’m going to get up off of my ass and tell him how I feel, Sam,’ or ‘No, I’ve given up on him because I’m too chickenshit?’ Or even, ‘No, I’m waiting on Barnes to make the first move’ like Barnes isn’t just as dumb as you? I wish you’d quit playing coy. You’re not this bashful when you want something, so why act like you can’t talk to Barnes?”

Steve’s sigh was ragged and long suffering. He threw up a gloved hand and let it slap back down on his thigh, making Nomad prance a little and whicker at him. “You’ve been spending too much time with Nat. Two of you are starting to sound a lot alike.”

“Don’t flatter me,” Sam warned. “That won’t make me drop this.” But his voice was fond. “She didn’t wager anything on the two of you, anyhow.”

“Well, she was smart. At least someone has some common sense.”

“Well, good. Because you two sure don’t.” Sam whistled to Redwing, his enormous Irish setter/golden labrador mix, who barked and came running eagerly from where he’d been lounging in the shade of the barn. Sam grinned and called out, “Good boy! Round ‘em up, Red! Bring ‘em in!” The cows began lowing in protest as Redwing began to harass them back toward the pens, with Sam rounding the other side of the paddock. Steve sighed again and went back to work, but not without a reasonable amount of frustration. Billy and Teddy brought up the herd from the south end of the pasture, helping Sam and Steve out for the day. The caught the jist of Sam’s words from where they sat in their saddles, and they smirked occasionally, knowingly.

“Poor Rogers,” Teddy remarked, chuckling.

“Still needs to get his head out of his ass,” Billy pointed out.

Three days had dragged by without Bucky coming into the store, and Steve hesitated about stopping by the sheriff’s office. He avoided catching Sharon’s eye when he saw her in the post office sending a telegram; Lord knew she was just as bad as Sam. Steve threw himself into his work during the day, between his ranch, Sam’s, and the store. The Captain and the Falcon patrolled at night, searching for more clues of Brock Rumlow’s whereabouts, but he was laying low like the yellow-bellied cuss that he was. So far, they’d found no new hydra insignias anywhere else, which, for the moment, was a load off of Steve’s mind. It felt like the calm before the storm, though, and that left Steve uneasy. It had been a bright, sunny morning the day that Sarah received word that Steve’s pa was gone. The End of the Line wasn’t a place where you could just assume the best of people, or situations.

Steve stopped at the saloon, and much like he’d done for Bucky and Sharon, he brought a gift of new windowpanes. He was surprised to see a gaunt, but still striking young woman dressed in a dark gray day dress sprigged with tiny daisies and wearing a black patch over her eye. The patch failed to fully cover the long, jagged scar that started at her hairline and walked a cruel path down to the edge of her sharp cheekbone. She stood at the bar, helping Natasha wash and dry her remaining glasses and tankards.

“The new shipment should be here in a few days,” Natasha told her, but she looked up as she followed the path of her friend’s gaze and saw Steve wandering inside. Nat grinned at him. “I hope you’ve come to make yourself useful.”

“Some folks actually think I am. I brought you a present, out in the wagon.”

“That sounds absolutely naughty,” Nat’s friend mused, and her tone was sly.

“Not from this one, it isn’t,” Natasha corrected her. “Where are my manners? Steve, this is Callisto Gabler. She’s a guest at the Xavier estate.” Callisto set down the glass she was drying and gave Steve a brief curtsy. She made a thoughtful hum and looked Steve up and down in a way that made gooseflesh rise up on his arms.

“I heard you run the store. The only store in this town.”

“I sure do.”

“You have the face of an angel.” Then, she turned to Natasha. “How has he even managed to live here this long?”

“He’s not some babe in the woods,” Natasha assured her cheekily. “Trust me. My beau, Sam, has called Steven here his best friend since they were small.”

“I haven’t cured Sam of that yet,” Steve said.

“Is he already at the store?”

“He said he would be. Sarah was packing up his victuals before I left. Nat, I have to get back to the store soon to open it up, but let me bring in that glass.”

“Clint!” Natasha called back, turning as she cupped her hand around her mouth. “Come and help Steve bring in the new windows!”

In the back store room, Clint was already occupied.

Bobbi pulled back from him reluctantly, taking the taste of his lips with her. Clint looked very pleased with himself. The store room door was still ajar, and in the low light, he saw Bobbi’s pretty blue-gray eyes looking very pleased, indeed, and a little dazed.

“You’re being called,” she husked.

“She can wait a minute,” Clint insisted, and Bobbi soft laughter was muffled as he kissed her again, letting his palm roam up the length of her back. Then she sighed as the kiss deepened, and Clint took his sweet time tasting her, feeling the scrape of her short, blunt fingernails combing through the back of his hair. She smelled sweet, like fine French soap and rose water, and he tasted the remnant of a piece of horehound candy she’d snuck, still lingering on her tongue.

“CLINT.”

Natasha’s voice rose in volume, becoming strident and brooking no nonsense. Clint broke the kiss and groaned, resigned. Bobbi snickered and reached up to gently swipe at the now-gleaming corner of his mouth with her fingers. “It’s all right. I will see you later this evening. I need to meet Sharon, anyway.”

“Why can’t you just stay here?”

“Because I have important business, and so do you.” Bobbi backed out of the store room, deciding to make herself scarce, before things became awkward. But because the fates weren’t always particularly kind to Clinton Francis Barton, Bobbi ended up backing right into Natasha, who had come looking for him in full lather, fuming and muttering.

“Oh!”

“Oh.”

“Uh.” Clint rubbed his nape and belatedly smoothed down the back of his hair where it now stuck up in spikes.

Bobbi shot him a brief smile and rushed off, giving him a wave over her shoulder.

“Bye, now,” Natasha called after her, and her hand rose to her hip before she even turned back to Clint. Her eyes pinned him, expecting answers. “I called for you to come help Steve,” she told him.

“I’m comin’,” he offered.

“I sure hope so. I’d ask Bobbi, but she just rushed off.” Nat stalked back into the saloon and waved Clint in Steve’s general direction. “At least you’re more direct than Steve. He’s never going to get anywhere with Barnes at the rate he’s going.”

That made Clint grin and Steve roll his eyes. “I just need help bringing in the glass,” Steve muttered.

“Fine by me.” Clint was eager for something to do, anything to get downwind of Natasha’s sharp tongue and all-seeing eyes.

Callisto went back to work on the glasses and restocking the bottles behind the bar, and Callisto huffed in amusement.

“Well, you answered my question before I could even ask.”

“Which question?”

“If Steve was unattached.”

“Don’t even bother.”

“Well, shucks.”

Clint and Steve carried in the glass, and Natasha’s hired hands began to install the new windows. Steve stuck around for a while to help, until Natasha shooed him out. “Go. Go ahead and open up shop. I might not have two nickels to rub together right now, but that doesn’t mean you need to stay in the poorhouse with me.”

Steve gave her a one-armed hug. “You holler if you need help.”

“I won’t say no to help, but you wouldn’t have so much time to help me put in new windows if you’d just go to the sheriff’s office and talk to Barnes and be straight with him for a change.”

Steve released her as though she was venomous, backing off and raising up his hands. Nat snickered at him without a drop of regret.

“Don’t listen to her, Rogers,” Clint piped up. “You dragging your feet with Barnes actually won me a dollar from Wilson.”

Steve gaped. “What?! You mean to tell me you two were betting on me? On me and Barnes…?”

“Easy money, Rogers. Thanks for bein’ too bashful and chickenshit to tell him how you feel.”

“There’s nothing to tell!”

“Riiiiight.”

Steve was beginning to wonder if his friends were going to spend the rest of the day poking their noses into his business. What was the point, then, in sticking around? He sighed raggedly, threw up his hand in a gesture that was more dismissive than a goodbye, and stomped out of the saloon.

Callisto bit her lip and let out an inelegant snort.

“Don’t pity him,” Natasha told her. “He had that coming.”

*

Bucky’s sixth sense that Steve was in the vicinity made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle; he managed to turn when he caught the sight of Steve’s blue gingham shirt out of the corner of his eye while he was adjusting Pancake’s saddlebags and reaching for his canteen. He caught the long line of his broad back walking out of Natasha’s saloon in long, almost angry strides; Bucky was glad that walk wasn’t his fault, for the moment. Still. He felt a twinge of longing, even while he fought back the urge to follow him. No. Steve Rogers made himself plain that night in his office. He wasn’t interested in pursuing what had grown between them, and Bucky, admittedly, was enough of a hardheaded jackass that he was just going to let him stew and hope he felt at least a little bit of regret over what he was missing.

Sure.

Bucky ducked back behind Pancake when he saw Steve waving to his mother, Sarah, when she stepped out into the doorway of Dr. Erskine’s clinic. Bucky pretended to ignore them, letting his eyes slide away from Sarah’s brilliant smile as Steve crossed the street and met her by the doorway.

“Bucky, what’s taking you so long? I thought we were going to head back to Stark’s place to-”

“Shhhhhh!” Bucky reached out and grabbed her wrist, prompting yanking her behind Pancake with him so that she stumbled off the curb.

“What the-”

“Quiet! Not so loud,” Bucky hissed. “Just give it a minute.”

“Uh. All right.” She quietly jerked her wrist loose from his grip and gave him a little shove of umbrage, tsking under her breath.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“You’re acting like something snuck into your britches and bit you,” she muttered back. “And we all know that what’s in your britches is spoken for.”

“Hush up!”

Sharon sighed and rolled her eyes, and Bucky’s hand remained on her forearm, more loosely this time as he kept peering out from the edge of his horse’s side.

Steve was oblivious of their scrutiny as he greeted his ma. “Are you and Doc busy today?”

“Hardly. The most business we’ve had today is a man with a rotten tooth that needed to be pulled and Mrs. Henderson. Poor thing is having the hardest time with achy joints. I gave the young man some of my clove oil.”

“Good morning, Steven!” Abraham called out to him from inside. “You’re looking well.”

“So are you, Doc!”

“I’m doing all right, for an old man,” he offered as he joined them in by the doorway and clapped Steve’s shoulder fondly. Dr. Erskine was looking grayer and more stooped than Steve recalled, but his eyes still held their usual twinkle. “Your mother is still as sharp as ever. She keeps everything organized and tip-top.”

“That’s just a nice way of telling me that she’s bossy, which I already know,” Steve teased, earning himself a light shove from Sarah.

“Brat,” she accused. “Do you hear him, Abraham? See how he talks about his loving mother?”

“Hmmmmm.”

“He’s all full of sass.”

“I’m behaving myself, Ma. I promise. I just finished up over at Nat’s place.”

“That’s nice.”

“The place will be a little less drafty with the new windows, at least.”

“That saloon of hers might not be the safest place to linger in, Steve. At least not for a while,” Sarah suggested.

“Ma. It’s fine.”

“Don’t worry your mother, Steven.” Abraham went back to his shelves and went back to sorting his tinctures. “Besides, the saloon is no place for a nice young man like you. You should be thinking about finding someone nice to settle down with soon.”

“Fat chance of that,” Sarah nagged. “That ‘someone’ has been standing right under his nose, and Steve keeps brushing him off.”

Steve colored up like a beet. “Ma.”

“I thought I just saw the sheriff in the street a while ago, but maybe I just imagined it,” Sarah added.

“Sheriff Barnes?” Abraham perked up, and his smile ticked up a notch. “I’ve heard he’s quite the eligible bachelor. No one’s mentioned him visiting any front parlors, yet. Don’t drag your feet if he’s caught your eye, Steven.”

“He could be visiting our front parlor, if Steve here was a bit more direct,” Sarah suggested. “I even sent Steve over to his office with an apple cake. One would think that would have gotten the message across, but I suppose not.”

Steve was bristling and mortified. “He enjoyed the cake. The cake was fine-”

“I know it was! I made it, of course it was fine! What you need to do now is talk to him!”

“He’s a good man, Steven, and so are you. Go over to that office of his and be honest with your intentions.”

“I haven’t decided if I have intentions yet!”

Sarah scoffed, tutting at him as she reached up to pat his cheek. “You’re not fooling a soul, sweetheart. If you invite him for supper, I know I can rustle up an extra plate of stew and dumplings. Don’t be stubborn. You’re not shy. Ask James to supper.”

Steve’s gut churned with frustration. He couldn’t rehash the argument he’d had with Ma, not with Abraham standing there, and she knew it. Abraham looked pleased with the direction of the discussion.

“That’s an excellent idea!”

“It’s probably… not the best time. Bucky… he’s probably investigating the shooting and the brawl at the saloon-”

“A sheriff still has to eat,” Sarah pointed out.

“Ma-”

“No. Steven Grant. You listen to me. You go right over to that office and ask Sheriff Barnes to supper.”

“I’ll let you leave a bit early if you like,” Abraham suggested. “So you can fix them something special, and so that Steven can help you set a nice table.”

“I really need to help Sam at the store.”

“Sam can manage just fine on his own!”

Steve ducked his head and rubbed his nape, but Sarah was insistent.

“Stop by the sheriff’s office on the way to the store. It’s on the way.”

“It certainly is,” Abraham agreed.

“Well. I guess it is,” Steve finally conceded.

Sarah grinned up at him and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I’ll have supper ready when you two arrive.”

“See you at home, Ma. Bye, Doc.”

Steve rushed off before Abraham could even fully form a goodbye, cheeks flaming and completely flustered.

“Why are you avoiding Steve?” Sharon demanded impatiently.

“I’m giving him a little room,” Bucky argued.

“No. This is hiding. This is what men do when they hide. You’ve never been yellow-bellied before, Bucky, and you’re certainly not shy. What’s got the two of you in a dither?”

“We’re not in a dither. We aren’t… dithering. Sharon, just leave it alone, all right?”

“No! Enough of this hogwash, Barnes!” Sharon rose to her feet and savagely yanked Bucky to his before he could protest, and as Steve came stalking down the walkway, Sharon gave Bucky a savage shove in his direction.

“Oh, goodness, Sheriff, that was a nasty stumble off that curb. It’s a good thing Steve came along to help you back onto your feet,” Sharon called out loudly. “Well, Sheriff, I’d better be moving along and let you two go on with your day.” She gave them both a brisk wave, tipping her hat before she strode off. Onlookers watched the scene, itching with curiosity and taking notes for the day’s gossip.

“Uh. Okay,” Bucky murmured. He realized Steve had caught him, and his grip on his upper arms was warm and cautious.

“Are you? Are you okay, Bucky?”

“Sure, Stevie. I’m all right. You don’t have to-”

Steve released him quickly, albeit reluctantly, and he stepped back, folding his arms across his chest. Bucky regretted the loss of contact, but it wouldn’t help to have folks staring, lest tongues started to wag. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

“I was wondering if I would run into you today. You’ve been, uh. Busy, lately.”

“Rumlow’s still at large. So’s his whole gang. I have to keep my eyes open. Sharon and I were planning to speak to Stark again, since he saw his other gunman in the alley, and he recognized the pistol he had. Apparently, it was a limited edition. His father Howard made it.”

“You and Sharon?”

Sharon had disappeared around the corner, and Bucky realized she’d marooned him with Steve on purpose.

“Well. That was what we had planned.”

“Were you going to be there for long?”

Steve looked really interested in the answer. He scuffed his boot in the dirt. “I mean. Since I’m just heading back to the store to finish up with Sam, I thought. Well. I was thinking that maybe you might like… to come by the house. Ma makes a fine stew.”

It took a moment for Steve’s words to sink in. Bucky huffed, and a coy smile spread over his face. “Are you… asking me over to supper, Stevie?”

“Well. If you… eat that sort of thing.”

“Of course I eat ‘that sort of thing,’ Rogers. You’re asking me over for supper?”

“Yes. I am.”

“I seem to remember you warning me about ‘throwing my lot in with you’ a little while back. Doesn’t supper count as me throwing my lot in with you?”

“I might have been hasty, Bucky. Actually… well. I might have even been a complete jackass.” Steve glanced around, and he noticed a few passerby ducking out of his view, pretending they weren’t interested in his encounter with the sheriff. “I’d like to see you.”

Steve’s blush crept all the way down his neck. Seeing that gave Bucky a pleased little tingle. “I might not be able to come over too late. Or stay too long.”

Excitement leapt into Steve’s chest, and his face lit up. “How about riding over at around five o’clock, then? Sam and I can have the store closed by then. Ma is already heading home.” They waved to Sarah, who was already climbing up into the seat of her buggy, and she waved to them both before she rode off. Bucky waved back, chuckling. “I have to admit, Rogers, I’ve been craving a piece of your ma’s apple cake since the last time.”

“She’ll puff up like a pigeon if you tell her that. She’s proud of that recipe, Bucky.”

“All right. Five o’clock.”

“Five o’clock.” Steve took a small pencil out of his belt pouch and found a scrap of paper in his pocket, and he wrote the directions to their home and handed it to Bucky, who tucked it into his shirt pocket. “Hope you’re hungry.”

Bucky’s eyes roamed over Steve, burning with want. Steve’s mouth went dry. Bucky nodded and took his leave. “See you tonight, Rogers.”

Steve watched him walk away, enjoying the view for several long seconds before he realized he was just standing there, staring like a lunatic in the middle of the street. “Dang it,” he muttered before he headed back to the store.

*

Bucky saw Sharon riding Agent as he approached the office. “Deputy! Where are you off to?” he called out.

“Stark’s,” she told him as she tugged her reins, coming to a brief halt. Agent skittered and reared up a little in protest once he was denied the chance to run. “I’m going to see him about those guns again. He has some sketches of the designs that his father kept in the safe. That might helps us to track them down. There aren’t too many folks that could get their hands on those guns, Bucky. I’m sure that only a select few people in Stark’s circle would have the privilege.”

“Well, wait for me, I can go with you.”

“No. You have plans, right?”

“Oh.”

How did she know?

Sharon grinned down at him and tipped her hat to him again. “I’ll meet up with you here tomorrow morning, bright and early. Maybe not too early,” she promised slyly. Her long blonde braid bounced against her back as Agent trotted off, breaking into a canter before she’d even left Bucky’s view.

“You’re really terrible now,” Bucky muttered in her wake.

*

Helmut tipped his head back from where it had rested over his face, blocking out the brightest of the late afternoon sun. He uncrossed his booted feet and lowered them from the post where he pretended to doze. He saw Sarah Rogers ride off in her buggy, and he briefly took note of Barnes and Rogers’ awkward, but fortuitous encounter. They were distracted, and they didn’t notice him furtively making his way to his own horse. Sarah rode at a sedate pace, enjoying the light breeze as it kicked up, making the ride home more comfortable. He followed her at a discreet distance. The Rogers’ spread was a bit remote, and Zemo managed to keep easy cover as he followed her through a copse of trees off of the main road. They finally emerged in the clearing, and he appreciated how well kept the fields and orchards on their property looked. The house and barn sat on a tidy two acres and shared a fence with the Wilson family; Helmut recognized Darlene Wilson, the former school marm, out in her garden harvesting some tomatoes and beans. Helmut stayed back, guiding his horse back into the brush. He would need to bide his time for a while. It was hot outside.

Surely, Mrs. Wilson would need to go inside soon for a cool drink. Then, he could finish what he’d planned to do. There was no need to be hasty, or careless.

Helmut Zemo was very good at waiting.

Chapter Text

Sharon munched on a bit of beef jerky as she rode toward the Stark compound. As the sprawling estate came into view, she once again marveled at the elaborate gardens and the intricately crafted wrought iron gate. Anthony Stark was The End of the Line’s diamond in the rough, she decided, and it was no wonder a lot of folks in town resented him for sitting so pretty while so many were living hand to mouth. To his credit, he could be generous, but Sharon felt that he could do more. And he seemed a little too comfortable in the other cattle baron’s pockets and good graces, too.

The front gate was ajar. That seemed strange to Sharon, and she dug her heels into Agent’s sides. As she approached the main yard, she noticed signs of a struggle. The windows facing out from Tony’s front parlor were broken, and so was one of the sidelight windows in his front door. “Blast,” Sharon hissed. She drew Agent to an uneasy halt, and he whickered at her in warning. She hitched his bridle to a nearby post and strode up to the front porch. “TONY! MR. JARVIS! Are you there?” she called out, feeling her heart pound. It was too quiet. Sharon couldn’t even hear Tony’s servants moving around inside. Her boots clumped up the steps, and the door creaked slightly as she nudged it open with the stock of her Colt.

She crept through the house, past the parlor and down the corridor. She gave up on calling out, because she wasn’t sure she wanted to draw anyone’s attention, after all. But when she turned the corner and reached the kitchen, she nearly collided with Tony’s fiancee, Pepper Potts. Pepper let out a tiny shriek of shock and relief, and she clutched at Sharon.

“Oh, my Lord… you’re with the law?” she demanded, gesturing to Sharon’s badge.

“I’m Deputy Carter.”

“I’m Tony’s fiancee, Pepper. You have no idea how glad I am to see you. Come with me. We need to get Jarvis some help, he’s in a bad state, Deputy Carter.” Something about Miss Potts surprised Sharon. She seemed pragmatic, somehow, and sensible, qualities she never would have associated with Tony Stark. She gripped Sharon’s arm firmly and led her into the kitchen with no further preamble.

Sharon hissed in alarm when she saw the kind butler seated at the table, bleeding through a thick wrapping of bandages around his brow. His pallor was gray, but he offered Sharon his usual polite smile. “Hello, Deputy. Thank you for coming. Is the sheriff outside?”

“No! Oh, Mr. Jarvis, I’m so sorry, I came alone. This was meant to be more of a social call, and I had some more questions that I wanted to ask Tony.”

“You’ve found us a bit indisposed,” Jarvis countered dryly.

“Oh, Edwin, please stop that,” Pepper snapped. “We aren’t standing on decorum right now. You did what you could. Deputy Carter can handle this, now.”

“Handle what? Where is Tony?”

“They’ve taken him! Jarvis made me hide when he saw strange men in the yard. They arrived with rifles. Jarvis refused to let them inside the house. I didn’t hear everything that they said-”

“I can recount the important parts, Miss Potts,” Jarvis assured her, holding up a quelling hand. Pepper fumed and folded her arms imperiously. “I recognized some of them as employees of Johann Schmidt and Alexander Pierce. They… they subdued me. I’m so ashamed. And then, they dragged him outside, and I saw them strike him before they bundled him into a carriage. I remember one face, however. Someone who I never expected to see taking part in something so heinous.”

“Who? Who did you see, Mr. Jarvis?” Sharon implored.

“He… he was sitting in the carriage, and I saw him through the window, pulling aside the curtain. It’s been so long since he last visited Mr. Stark. Obadiah… was a frequent guest of the manor.”

“Obadiah?”

“Obadiah Stane, yes,” Pepper interrupted. “I saw him through the window, too, just before they rode out of here. I’m still mad enough to spit. Obadiah was always a gentleman. Howard trusted him. He just about raised Tony when Howard and Maria were taken from him.”

“Deputy Carter,” Jarvis said, holding up his hand for her attention, “I feel that it’s of the utmost importance that I tell you, Mr. Stane was also Mr. Stark’s executor of Howard and Maria Stark’s estate when they passed.”

“Control of the estate passed into Tony’s hands once he was twenty-one,” Pepper explained. “So, it’s been several years since he’s come into his own, and Tony built on his father’s fortune just fine. Obadiah’s always resented him for it. I know I shouldn’t speak of such things, but…” Pepper’s eyes gleamed and threatened to spill over. “I’m just so angry right now!”

“No. Miss Potts, you speak of such things all you like. That’s why I’m here. I need answers, and you may have just given me some. I was going to ask Tony more about the guns he said he saw the man in the alley using. He said they were special, part of a limited run that Howard designed?”

Jarvis looked stunned. “What did he tell you about them?”

“That they had a special seal on them, and that it was his father’s mark.”

Jarvis nodded. “He didn’t want them on the market. He already had plans for improvements to the original design. They were going to be easier to load, with a more efficient chamber. But he kept those guns in the family safe, out of nostalgia. The elder Mr. Stark, well. No one ever described him as sentimental, but those guns meant something to him, and they continued to mean something to Anthony.”

“It’s so strange to me, somehow, that the man in the alley was using one of them. And that he had it pointed at Tony.”

“It’s sick, that’s what it is,” Pepper hissed. “Please, promise me that you’ll find those men and bring them to justice. I don’t care if Obadiah raised my fiance, Deputy Carter. I want to see him get what’s coming to him for his part in invading Tony’s home. I won’t rest until you return Tony to me, do you understand?”

“Oh, Miss Potts, I assure you, no one’s going to rest around here.”

*

Bucky’s face cheeks and jaw still smarted from the razor’s chafe and the bright, ringing splash of cologne, but he sure as hell hoped that Rogers appreciated it. It wasn’t every day that found him dolled up, heading down the road at an anxious canter toward the spread owned by the man who’d drawn his eye. His heart was still skipping unevenly with anticipation, and his gut hadn’t stopped twisting since he left the station house. Bucky’s hands sweated around the reins, and he’d be lying a little if he marked it up to the humid evening. The dry plains’ grasses sent up clouds of gnats and fireflies, parting for Pancake’s lanky strides. Copper and magenta clouds chased the retreating sun behind the tallest of the trees, and Bucky spent the remainder of the ride coaching himself.

“Mind your manners. Take off your damn hat. Greet his ma. Thank her for the invitation. ‘It was certainly kind of you to extend your hospitality, ma’am.’ Kind of you… generous. ‘It was mighty generous of you to invite me - of you and Steve to invite me to supper. Dang it…” Bucky felt himself flushing already. Why was this so hard? It wasn’t like he never spent time with Rogers in town. He knew him, and he knew things about him that a fella usually only learned once he had their confidence and trust. Well.

Well.

Learning that the fella he liked was a known vigilante whose shots almost never missed was a little out of the ordinary. But, Steve Rogers trusted him with his secret. And, Bucky realized somewhat belatedly, with Sam Wilson’s secret. The Captain had a second man with him out in the field; Sam and Steve were business partners, and Bucky knew that Sam was no doubt the only man that Steve Rogers trusted to watch his six in a town like The End of the Line. Bucky thought of Sam; well-dressed, charming, intelligent, with laughing brown eyes and sharp at cards. He also wasn’t shy with a gun, or about throwing himself into the path of a bullet. Bucky saw him shielding Natasha from the spray of bullets and glass. It wasn’t hard to see where his loyalties lay.

Idiots. Both of them. Cut from the same cloth.

Both of them were brave. Both of them were good men, pillars of the community, such that it was. With that in mind, how could Bucky not keep his eye on them, for their safety instead of for their arrest? Even if Steve operated above the law, Bucky couldn’t hold him back. No, Steven Grant Rogers was the closest that a town like The End of the Line came to a truly decent, honest man (when he wasn’t wearing the damned mask).

They could discuss that over stew, maybe.

Sure.

“You certainly have a lovely home, ma’am,” Bucky continued to rehearse as he followed Steve’s directions that were scrawled on the small slip of paper.

*

Steve contemplated his beard as he splashed his face in the basin; he’d had it trimmed on his last trip to the barber’s, but that was a while ago. His sandy hair was long enough to properly run his fingers through it, now. Honestly, Bucky didn’t seem to mind him looking “rough around the edges,” but it would be nice to make a decent impression. The thought made prickly heat rush into his cheeks. It was supper. They were just having supper.

In the meantime, Ma had been up to her old tricks. Sarah Rogers was nowhere to be found when Steve rode into their yard through the gate, but the fires had been lit, and the scent of stew greeted him when he came inside. Sarah even laid the table with her best tablecloth, part of her wedding trousseau when she married Steve’s pa. The soft, rose pink damask was edged with Irish crocheted lace, and that tablecloth only snuck its way out of her keepsake trunk on special occasions. The leftover half of an apple pie remained covered by a tea towel on the sideboard, and the kitchen was spotless. Steve wondered if he had time for a quick bath on his way through the house, and he bit back a laugh when he saw that Sarah had heated up the kettle for him, too. He managed a short wash, making use of his Ma’s good soap, not the stuff she’d made with lye, but the fancy, lavender-scented bar that they’d begun carrying in the store. Steve eyed himself in Sarah’s vanity mirror. The beard was fine. His hair just needed to see a comb, and a bit of cologne wouldn’t hurt. He would make do. He’d make do just fine, even though his stomach was filled with butterflies because Bucky Barnes was coming to his home for a supper that in all likelihood could turn intimate…

Now, he was breaking a sweat all over again. Steve’s fingers shook a little, making him fumble the buttons on his dove gray shirt that darkened the blue in his eyes. He tucked the tails into his waistband and anchored the dark trousers with his good leather belt, eschewing the suspenders that Nat bought for him as a gift some time back, in an attempt to dress him up a little. Steve ran his hands over the shirt and eyed himself in the mirror and sighed.

Damn it.

The beard had to go. Steve knew he was probably running out of time, and fussing over himself like this wasn’t doing anything to calm his nerves. It was just…

Bucky.

It was Bucky. Coming to his house, expecting… what? Supper. A supper that Steve was now going to have to serve him all by his lonesome. And conversation. And…

Steve’s hands shook a little as he found the razor and stropped it, sharpening the blade.

Everything needed to be perfect. He was going to have to make an effort.

Bucky paused at the gate, noticing that Steve had left it open for him, and he felt his heartbeat skip, nerves taking flight in his belly. “Settle down, Barnes, you aren’t this green,” he muttered as he rode in, taking in the Rogers family spread. It was well kept and expansive, and he saw the smoke drifting out through the chimney. The porch had been whitewashed, and Bucky saw pale calico curtains hanging in the front windows. As he drew closer, he smelled the aromas of beef and other savory seasonings. That made his mouth water. Bucky eyed the large red barn, and he decided that Steve might not mind him stabling his horse instead of just hitching Pancake to the fence.

“Hello?” Bucky called out as he reined Pancake in, drawing her to a halt. She whickered softly as though to chide him for being suddenly bashful. “Hope I’m at the right place,” he added nervously. Bucky carefully dismounted and waited. “I hope I’m not late,” Bucky went on. “Just let me know that I’m at the right place, and that I’m not gonna overstay my-”

The front door swung open - more accurately, it was jerked open quickly, and Steve stepped out onto the porch, with his face slightly ruddy and gleaming.

“- welcome,” Bucky finished.

There was Steve, all spit and polished, hair slicked down and neatly trimmed, and his face… well. If Bucky had been taken by his looks before, he was absolutely gobsmacked now by the sight of Steve with a clean, fresh shave. There was nothing hiding that firm jawline and high cheekbones, or the plush beauty of that chiseled, rosy mouth. Or those lovely, pale blue eyes that seemed to catch all of the fading colors of the sunset as he stared at Bucky. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed roughly, and Bucky’s eyes flitted down to track that motion before returning to Steve’s face. More importantly, Bucky saw the anticipation and excitement laid bare on Steve’s face, like he was just bursting with the need to lay eyes on Bucky, too, and bring him inside.

Bucky was staring.

He rubbed his nape as a reflex, and he felt his mouth go dry before he said, “I suppose I made it to the right place, then.”

“Well, I supposed you did. Hello, Bucky.”

“Evening, Stevie.”

I can’t think straight with you looking like that. Those words flashed in Steve’s mind as he watched Bucky’s mouth move as he spoke.

“Is your ma inside?”

“Huh?”

“Mrs. Rogers. Is she in?”

“Uh. No. She, uh. Left me a note. Said she went to run an errand. She never mentioned it earlier, when I spoke to her before, and after we invited you to supper, and all. Uh.” Steve crossed his arms over his brawny chest and he stepped down from the porch to close the gap between them, gently taking Pancake’s reins. His upper arm slightly grazed Bucky’s chest with that gesture. “Hey, girl. Come with me. Make yourself at home. I’ve got a nice stall and a cool drink, just for you.”

“She’s a good houseguest,” Bucky told him. “I promise that I am, too.”

Steve chuckled, and he gently patted Bucky’s upper arm. “I don’t doubt either of you for a moment, Buck.” Steve’s look was smug and pleased, and it warmed Bucky down to his toes. He couldn’t suppress the frisson of excitement of finally being alone with Steve Rogers, even though part of him was a little disappointed that Sarah wouldn’t be joining them after all. She was sweet, and Bucky felt like he’d practiced his supper table small talk all for nothing.

Bucky removed Pancake’s saddle and bridle once Steve got her situated inside the stall, and he let her drink her fill from a tin pail. “Has she been fed?” Steve asked.

“She grazed quite a bit on the way here,” Bucky replied. “That’s why it took us a while to get here.”

“I guess that makes it that much sweeter, then.”

“Makes what sweeter?”

“Well, you. Getting here.” Steve chewed the edge of his lower lip as he closed the door to the stall and latched it, and he reached shyly for Bucky’s hand, leading him to the house. His grip was warm and insistent, and oh, if that didn’t make the rest of the butterflies take flight in Bucky’s stomach…

He stomped his boots on the front mat to knock off the worst of the dust before he stepped inside, and immediately, Bucky took in the interior that showed Sarah Rogers’ essence in every touch, from the curtains to the spotless walls, tables and floors, in the quaint knickknacks and cozies and the braided rugs. Bucky inhaled the scents of stew and bread.

“I could smell how good your ma’s supper is from the front gate,” Bucky told Steve.

“Hope you’re hungry.”

“Famished.”

Steve went to the table, and before Bucky could ask which seat he wanted him to take, Steve pulled out a chair for him and patted the top edge with a shy smile. “Make yourself at home, Buck.”

“Thank you kindly, sir,” Bucky teased, and that made Steve chuckle, bringing out those little crinkles at the corners of his eyes and a charming set of dimples that weren’t as noticeable when he maintained that blasted beard. Steve went about the task of serving up their plates, bringing the basket of bread to the table, and ladling Sarah’s fine china with generous portions of her beef stew. Steve set the plate before him, and Bucky spread the linen napkin over his lap. Steve sat down and said a quick grace.

“Dear Lord, we thank you for this meal that we are about to receive, as a gift of your bounty. And thank you for time with good friends. Amen.”

“Amen.” Bucky raised his brow at that last bit, but Steve shrugged at him.

“It’s the same grace I would’ve said if Ma was here,” he explained. “I practiced it.”

“Ah.” Bucky’s shoulders shook with quiet amusement. “I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t practice what I was planning to say to your ma if she were at the table with us tonight.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. Ma likes you just fine, Bucky.”

“That’s important to me.” Bucky took up his fork and speared a chunk of potato, tucking it into his mouth. His tastebuds thrilled to the flavors of rich, fatty beef and the savory green herbs she’d used. His expression was rapturous. “Stevie, this is so good!”

“Ma can cook!”

“She surely can!”

“She’ll be tickled pink to hear that you like her cooking!”

“I’ll tell her myself when she gets back,” Bucky promised. “I just… this is nice, Stevie. It’s nice, being here. Like I said, I want her to like me.”

“That’s not a problem. She does.”

“Well, good.” Bucky reached for the basket and picked a slice of bread. “I want the most important person in your life to approve of me.”

“Well… shucks.” Steve gave him that bashful smile again. “I’m pleased to hear that, Bucky. And just so you know… I like you, too.”

“Well, shucks,” Bucky parroted back, making Steve laugh. That broke the tension, and they gave the food their attention. They sat together at the square table, hands occasionally bumping if they reached for the condiments or milk pitcher at the same time. Their knees brushed under the table every once in a while, and Steve wasn’t a man who kept his hands to himself, occasionally swatting at Bucky or giving him a goodnatured shove whenever he made him laugh. Oh, how Bucky loved that laugh of his and any excuse he made to touch Bucky. They were easy in their skin around each other, and Bucky realized he still needed to talk to Steve about something very important.

“Hey, Stevie?”

“Yes, Bucky?” Steve took a gulp of milk and swiped at his mouth with his napkin.

“Can we talk about back when you said you weren’t sure you could do this? With me?”

Steve drew himself up short and straightened up at that. He dropped his napkin and broke Sarah’s cardinal rule, propping his elbows on the table. “We left things in a bit of a rough spot. I seem to remember we were both being shot at right before we had that talk, Bucky.”

“Well. We aren’t being shot at now.”

Steve huffed, sighing as he stared down into his empty plate. Bucky raised his brows at him and gave Steve an imploring look.

“Stevie. I know the circumstances that led to you inviting me here were a little abrupt-”

“Abrupt. Well. That’s one way of putting it, but I truly did want you to come here, whether my ma or Sharon were meddling or not. I think I would have gotten around to asking you here.” Or they would have encountered each other again, Steve didn’t tell him, even though the two of them seemed to have a knack for finding each other, literally being thrown together at crucial moments.

“Are you still having second thoughts about what we talked about, though? That’s what I need to know, Steve.” Bucky leaned back in his seat and laced his hands together over his abdomen. He stretched out his lanky legs under the table, and they bumped up against Steve’s again.

“Not second thoughts. Just the same concerns. I just want you to realize what you’re getting into, throwing your lot in with me.”

“I know how to take care of myself. I was brought here to take care of this town, Steve. Please don’t forget about that.”

“I haven’t forgotten that!” Steve insisted.

“Well, I hope not. I just hope you aren’t worried about me not being man enough to do the job-”

“Bucky. No.”

Steve’s tone was hard, and that caught Bucky’s attention.

“I never said that. And I would never say that. You’re plenty man enough to do whatever you set your mind to, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t lose my damned mind if anything happened to you, do you understand me?”

Bucky saw the vehemence in his expression. But Bucky straightened up in his seat and leaned forward and wagged his finger at Steve for good measure. “Well, that goes double for you, Steve Rogers, do you understand me? No one appointed you this damned town’s savior, and I won’t let it eat you alive and spit you back out. Not you, not Wilson or anyone else who tries to join your cause at the risk of their own lives. I feel like you need me to watch your back because you’re too damned careless to watch it yourself. You won’t stop me from standing behind you and keeping you safe-”

“You can’t stand behind me if I’m standing behind you.”

Bucky smirked, and Steve saw the glint of challenge in his eyes. “I’d love to see you try, Rogers.”

“Oh. Would you, now?” Steve’s lips curled in a smirk that made a little shiver run through Bucky’s insides.

Bucky opened his mouth for further rebuttal. Steve rose up from his seat, leaned over, and kissed him before the first words left him. The truth of the kiss overwhelmed Bucky and pushed out every drop of his common sense. He’d craved it from the moment he left the sheriff’s office and mounted his horse. The feel of Steve’s mouth had haunted him since that night, the hungry, needy little sound he’d made in the back of his throat the one thing he wanted to chase ever since he’d had his hands on Steve, clinging to him, pulling him as close as he could have him. A hint of saltiness lingered in Steve’s mouth from supper as he kissed Bucky slow and deep. Bucky’s hand rose up to fist in Steve’s shirt in response, and Steve felt goosebumps run over his flesh at the sound of Bucky’s low groan.

They broke the kiss for a moment, staring at each other and listening to each other’s ragged breathing. “Damn it, Bucky,” Steve rasped.

“What’s wrong? Are you still convinced that you’re doing the right thing, trying to push me away?”

Steve shook his head.

“Good.”

Steve’s eyes were dilated and dark with desire. He hauled Bucky up from the chair and kissed him again, cupping his face in his large, hot palms. Bucky breathed him in and let his hands roam over Steve’s body, barely able to believe he had permission.

“What if your ma comes home?” Bucky asked him between kisses, automatically hating the question, the necessary evil of having to consider that possibility.

Steve’s smile was soft and coy. “She left me a note. We’ll be fine, Bucky.”

We’ll be fine, Bucky. The last of Bucky’s tension uncoiled itself and released its hold on his chest. He didn’t hesitate when Steve took his hand and led him back to his bedroom. Bucky still felt so much nervous anticipation, heart pounding because this was really happening, and part of him felt like a naughty schoolboy, as though Sarah would walk in through the front door and catch them at some mischief any moment. And it was hard not to feel that way, walking through the lovely little house that she’d furnished and kept up with such care. But they arrived at Steve’s room, and this one room felt like him. Smelled like him. Bucky saw the large bed with its brass frame and heavy quilt made from churn dash and log cabin blocks, the various fabrics gleaned from Steve’s outgrown clothing and some of his father’s old shirts, a means to keep him close. Steve’s bookshelves held novels, almanacs, history books and other small knickknacks. There was a sketch journal on the desk flanked by a charcoal pencil, an inkwell and fountain pen. There was a small stove in the corner of the room and a lantern on the little table beside the bed, and another braided rug on the floor helped insulate the room, giving Steve’s feet a soft place to land when he first woke.

Steve urged Bucky down onto the bed, and he sat patiently while Steve reached for his feet, tugging off his boots for him, and he tenderly rubbed Bucky’s stockinged foot, a luxurious sensation after being shod all day in the heavy, stiff leather. Steve knelt in front of him, and his hands slid up into Bucky’s lap as he leaned in to kiss him again.

“Fresh shave,” Bucky murmured.

“Wanted to look civilized.”

“S’nice.” Bucky’s lips teased his. “Had no idea you were this pretty, Rogers.”

Steve snorted, and Bucky kissed his smile. Their hands roamed, tugging shirt hems from waistbands, prying open buckles, undoing buttons and cuffs. Their clothes drifted to the floor, and once both of them were down to their breeches, Bucky backed up toward the head of the bed, grinning as Steve followed him once he reached the pillows. Steve loomed over him, crowding out his vision of everything else as he claimed his mouth. Steve was taller than Bucky, but not by much. His brawny arms caged him in as he settled his weight against Bucky, and the feeling of skin on skin was decadent. Bucky felt Steve’s hardness grinding against him as their legs tangled together, and his own legs gradually shifted, drifting to wrap around Steve’s hips. All Bucky knew was Steve, the feel of his heated skin dusted with sandy hair, his warm male scent mingled with the residue of fancy soap and hair pomade, the way his dark, long lashes almost fanned the crowns of his cheekbones when his eyes drifted shut as Bucky kissed him back, the solid, sculpted shoulders and back that demanded to be explored by Bucky’s hands.

The reality of Bucky arching up against him, occupying his large, usually lonely bed was unfathomable, but Steve counted himself a very, very lucky man. Steve silently catalogued which type of kiss would elicit that sound that Bucky made, where he needed to touch him to make his breath quicken like that, and how hot and bothered he needed to be to rake his blunt nails down Steve’s back like he was doing… Jesus and all his chubby little angels, help him, or being this excited for Bucky was going to kill him. Steve ground himself down against Bucky to give them both some friction, and that was a really impressive predicament between Bucky’s thighs that needed some close attention. It tented his thin breeches and felt so enticing each time Steve rocked himself against it with rhythmic slides of his narrow hips. Bucky’s hands slid down to cup Steve’s ass, squeezing it to encourage him to continue.

“You just let me know when you want me to get behind you, Bucky,” Steve murmured, earning himself Bucky’s huff of laughter.

“Real funny man.”

Steve chuckled as he nuzzled the side of Bucky’s throat, and Bucky arched into him, fingers finding their way into Steve’s thick hair, thoroughly ruining his careful grooming as he clutched at it. The sensation of Steve’s mouth traveling along his neck, swirling over his pulse, felt absolutely sinful. Bucky had lived in The End of the Line long enough to have grown lonely, and for the last time that he’d been intimate with anyone to become a fond memory, and making what Steve was offering him seem almost like too much to wish for up until now. It had been too long since he’d been subject to this kind of attention, this longing.

Steven Grant Rogers knew how to treat a houseguest.

When Steve’s mouth traveled down to lap at his collarbones, the smooth divide of his sternum, gradually drifting to toy with one of his flat nipples, Bucky’s hand clutched the back of his head to hold him there for a minute. Obscene sounds escaped him as questions filled his mind. What had Steve’s previous partners been like? Who had he even managed to find out here, in the middle of practically nowhere? And where the hell had he learned how to kiss like that?

Bucky’s body was a feast. Steve savored the saltiness and heat of his skin and the rippling planes of muscle, chasing the faint, dark trail of hair sprinkled down the seam of his stomach that led below the edge of white cotton. Bucky’s thighs gradually slipped down to loosely clasp Steve’s upper back, then fell apart to give him more intimate access. Steve finished unwrapping him like a present, dragging the breeches down from his hips and sliding them down his long, sculpted legs and freeing his long, slightly callused feet. His expression was so filled with lust as he stared his fill of Bucky and settled himself back between his thighs. He breathed over the proud, twitching column of Bucky’s cock, rosy, smooth and plump, begging to press up into Steve’s mouth…

Bucky’s hips thrust him up into that waiting, slick heat. Steve moaned around his flesh, and the sound tingled all the way up his spine. The sight of Steve’s mouth stretched around him undid Bucky as much as the sensation of lush wetness coddling him and taking him to paradise. Steve’s fingers stroked Bucky’s long thigh in a lazy caress while he suckled him, taking his time and absolutely dawdling over it. Steve’s head raised and lowered, bobbing over Bucky’s cock, making it swell and drip with arousal. Slick saltiness drifted across Steve’s tongue as a reward for his attention. Bucky was getting all worked up for him, and weren’t those sounds that he was making nice. Those were his legs drifting over Steve’s shoulders, his heels skimming over his back. Bucky’s head was thrown back in the pillows, and he was biting the edge of his lower lip, rosy from Steve’s kisses. And wasn’t that just a pretty sight…

“I know you aren’t gonna spend all night down there, not letting me touch you,” Bucky accused.

That earned him a chuckle and a low hum that almost made Bucky go off like a firecracker in Steve’s mouth. But he mastered the impulse, fighting it down. Steve withdrew from him for a moment, leaving him spit-slick and quivering, bereft of his mouth’s warmth. “Sure you don’t want me to spend a little more time down here? It’s awfully nice. Seems like you’re not having too hard of a time-”

“You’re a terrible wretch,” Bucky told him. Steve loved the sound of his voice in that moment, long suffering but pleased. Wrecked.

That smirk of Steve’s… well. Bucky didn’t hate it. He just wanted to see how intact it would remain if Bucky had more of his way with him. He kissed a tender spot on Bucky’s inner thigh before withdrawing completely, and Bucky felt his legs being lifted away as Steve slipped back, leaving him on the bed as he rushed from the room.

“What…?!”

“I need something,” Steve called back to him, and Bucky heard his bare feet thudding away, and the sound of rummaging in the next room, and the low slide of a drawer being opened and closed. Steve looked satisfied as he returned with a small glass jar. He set that on the vanity and asked Bucky, “Would you like me behind you, or with you on your back like you are?”

“Oh. Well.” Bucky raised his arms and tucked his hands behind his head as he contemplated this.

“Never mind that I asked. I like you like this. I like seeing you like this.” That huskiness in Steve’s voice was appreciation, plain and simple.

“Looking at me isn’t all you get to do, sweetheart.” Bucky’s smile was flirtatious. “Might be nice if you dropped those britches and keep me company over here.”

Steve untied the laces of his breeches one-handed, letting them drop and stepping neatly out of them. His cock was bobbing, gleaming at the tip. Bucky licked his lips and made a pleased sound as Steve joined him back on the bed, crawling up along his body to kiss him again.

Bucky heard the sound of the jar opening a few minutes later and smelled the scent of Sarah’s cold cream. Steve was considering it, dipping his fingers into it and scooping up a generous amount, using his thumb to spread it down their length. “You sure she won’t mind us using that for this?”

“I ain’t planning to ask,” Steve admitted. “I may just end up bringing home another jar from the store and leaving it on her vanity and hope she just doesn’t notice.”

“Sounds naughty.”

Steve gave him a wounded look, and Bucky snickered. His laughter gave way to a sound of surprise, and then need as Steve reached down and probed him, breaching him with cool, slick fingers. “Naughty?” Steve asked. “Am I?”

Bucky nodded, and that earned him an “Awwwww.” And a deeper press of his two fingers that had Bucky squirming and pressing down against the sensation, looking for more. Steve found his sweet spot and stroked it. Bucky’s hands fisted in the pillow behind his head, making Steve tell him, “Easy, baby. Easy. I’ll be nice. I’m gonna treat you really nice.”

And if Bucky had a hard time managing a semblance of reason when Steve had his mouth on him, it was next to impossible as he worked him over with his talented fingers. They pushed, twisted, and caressed him, dilating him and getting to know him. Bucky’s cock was still hard, pulsing and straining for more attention but Steve wanted to get Bucky ready for him. He could go back for another taste, but he wanted to go over the edge with him and watch his face, that gorgeous, expressive face. He’d dreamt of this, the chance to hear him say his name like that, tucked deep inside him.

“I’m about to have a mighty hard time lasting much longer with you doing that,” Bucky admitted raggedly.

“Still awfully tight, baby. I don’t want to hurt you.” Steve stroked him again, grazing his sweet spot again, evoking pleasure and impatience.

“Only thing that hurts right now is the waiting, handsome.”

Oh, that bit of praise made a blush dust those elegant cheeks and brought back that shy smile for just a moment as Steve ducked his head, and then returned Bucky’s gaze. His fingers slipped free, which Bucky almost protested, but Steve bent down and kissed Bucky’s bent knee before he moved up Bucky’s body, kissing and lapping a reverent path back up to his mouth. He sank down and settled against him, and Bucky felt Steve wrapping his legs up and around his ribs again, followed up the insistent press of his solid flesh at his entrance, testing his resistance and Bucky’s earlier claim.

“You tell me when you want me. Okay, baby?”

Bucky nodded and hummed in the affirmative, and his hips rocked up against Steve, urging him, and if the message wasn’t clear enough, his hand eased down and reached for Steve’s cock, rubbing it against his entrance, inviting Steve to rock into his grip. Steve groaned at the sensation of Bucky’s caress and the rhythm he was already setting, and suddenly, he felt Bucky shift beneath him, squeezing his legs around Steve’s ribs and bringing him closer, rocking his hips up and tilting his ass just that slight degree to drive Steve home, helping him make that first thrust. Bucky hissed at the sensation of being breached, and Steve’s expression was stunned at first, but then, Bucky told him, “M’all right, Stevie. I’m fine. Jesus, you feel so nice…”

“Bucky…”

“Give me a moment. Have to get used to you, Stevie.”

Steve’s brows furrowed, creating a tiny divot between them. Bucky huffed and cradled Steve’s cheek in his palm.

“Let me know when you want me to move. So…tight. You’re so tight, sweetheart.” Steve’s hips withdrew and then pressed forward the slightest increment, and he watched Bucky’s face, listened to his breathing change, short, coarse gasps as he adjusted to Steve’s slick girth. Bucky tilted his hips again, rocking up against him for a little more, and Steve obliged him, kissing him again and then rolling his hips, and that earned him a groan that licked over Steve’s nerve endings. Bucky was enjoying himself, and his hands were roaming over Steve, tangling in the back of his soft hair, exploring his heated skin. With each thrust Steve made, Bucky met him halfway. Bucky fit him like a glove, making every one of Steve’s dirtiest, most sinful dreams roar to life with his shuddering breaths and groans of pleasure. Bucky watched him, entranced by the long, lean lines of his body and the ripple of his muscles, by that determined expression. He was focused on pleasing Bucky and bringing him to completion, but Bucky just wanted to count every detail of Steve Rogers that fascinated him, every sandy strand of hair, every freckle, every soft laugh line, wanted to drown in those heated blue eyes and take his time consuming kisses from that firm, pliant mouth. Steve caught Bucky’s cock in his grip and jerked him in time with his thrusts, not wanting to neglect his predicament, and pearly drops began to well up in the tip.

“Stevie-”

“Bucky… Bucky -”

Steve reared up onto his haunches and gripped Bucky’s legs, flipping them neatly up onto his shoulders, and he gave into the urges, speeding up his thrusts. Harder, somehow deeper, making Bucky’s ears ring with how the change in position enhanced the contact with his prostate. His climax was looming, building, and all logic and sense was leaving him every time that cock of Steve’s dove back inside. Bucky’s hands dug into Steve’s thighs and he clung to him as Steve rode him hard. Bucky grew aware of him, Steve’s grunting breaths, the sweat running down his ruddy skin, the flex of his abdomen, that hard, smooth cock pulsing inside him, disappearing over and over again. He heard the knock of the headboard against the bedroom wall and the squeak of the bed frame and wondered if the two of them wouldn’t bring the whole house down with the racket they were making, but it felt so right. The night was theirs. Steve was Bucky’s, finally, now that he would finally stop denying it.

And Steve would never go to sleep again at night without knowing how it felt to make love to James Barnes. He’s see that face in his mind and hear that voice, all choked up and desperate and plaintive, all for him, calling out his name as his climax arrived, erupting all over them both. Steve followed him moments later, filling Bucky with sticky heat, pulsing inside him with so much intensity that his body arched, and his face suffused with helpless bliss.

Steve kissed Bucky’s knee again before gently lifting his legs off his shoulders and lowering them down to the bed. They were trembling, and Bucky hissed a little at the sensation of Steve’s withdrawal. Steve eased down to join Bucky, and their limbs tangled around each other as Steve collapsed against him, replete and glowing. Bucky’s arms coiled around him, and his hands stroked lazily over his hair, his back. All they could do for a few minutes was listen to each other breathe. The enormity of what they’d done hit them both as the sweat cooled on their flushed skin. Bucky’s pulse beat against Steve’s temple and his ear was pressed to his heartbeat. Steve never wanted to let him go.

“Are you all right?” Steve asked hoarsely.

Bucky’s rusty chuckle interrupted the panting rhythm of his breathing. “What do you think? Am I all right…? Stevie, for heaven’s sake.”

“Just making sure.” Steve smiled against Bucky’s chest, and the press of Bucky’s kiss against his hairline made him tingle with pleasure.

They drifted and fell into a shallow doze, lulled by the sounds of the evening breeze rattling the branches outside. The curtains in Steve’s windows billowed and flapped softly, periodically revealing the calm plains and the stars as they began to stud the sky.

*

Sarah considered herself a God fearing woman, and normally a gentle sort, but it wasn’t every day that found her suffering indignities like these. The ropes around her wrists chafed, and those nasty men had forced her outside to relieve herself one last time in the brush before they dragged her back inside the cave. It was dark, damp, and smelled vaguely sulphurous, calling to mind the deaths of several men over the years that lost their lives to cave-ins or poorly timed dynamite blasts.

“Are you ready to behave yourself? I know you’re more ladylike than you’ve shown me, Mrs. Rogers.”

“You’re hardly a gentleman, sir,” she countered. The cut on her lip still stung where he’d struck her; when he’d offered her the water canteen for a compulsory drink, she’d spat it back at him. He didn’t even flinch. Only a true scoundrel - a scalawag, even - raised his hand to a woman, let alone delivered a backhanded slap. Sarah’s soft calico dress was dirty and had tears in the skirt and sleeve from when they’d accosted her and dragged her from her wagon.

“He’s more of a gentleman than me,” Brock interjected, smiling cruelly and making the scars on his cheek appear almost demonic, like a skull’s rictus. Sarah shuddered at the sight of him.

“Well, that’s hardly saying much, is it, Brock? I wouldn’t be proud of that, if I were you.”

Brock grunted, and his chuckle was smug and ugly as he was.

“I’m sorry you won’t be able to join your son and the good sheriff for supper, Mrs. Rogers. I have the unenviable task of making sure that he comes to find you. I’m sure you’re eager to reunite with him. Steven is a good man, by all accounts. A man of scruples. Generous. Just. It’s a shame that my employer wants him dead. It’s a shame that wet work like this… sometimes comes with collateral damage. The innocent sometimes fall in the crossfire.”

Brock shrugged silently at this as he rolled a cigarette and licked the flap of the paper.

“Helmut.” He turned at the sound of the voice, deep, rusty, with midwestern vowels, and Obadiah Stane hovered just inside the mouth of the cave. He tapped the ashes from the end of his lit cigar and took a generous puff. “Don’t taunt her like that. It’s not kind to mock your hostage. She might prefer some more pleasant company while she’s waiting, don’t you think?”

Zemo gave him a conciliatory nod, and Obadiah gestured to his men outside. Moments later, Tony Stark was marched inside the cave, hands tied, clothing torn, and displaying a large gash in his temple that was crusted with old blood. His mouth was gagged, and Sarah saw the immediate recognition and regret in his dark eyes as they fell upon her. He made an aggrieved sigh and struggled as they dragged him over to her and shoved him roughly, making him stumble, nearly missing falling upon her.

“Make yourself at home, Tony.”

Chapter Text

Bucky woke with a faint crick in his neck and feeling sticky all over from the night’s humidity and his sleeping situation. The room around him was immediately a pleasant surprise, only recently familiar. This is Steve’s room, his memory supplied as his eyes drifted around in the darkness. They’d been sleeping for a little while; he could hear the crickets and cicadas outside and a few other critters skittering around in the grass, as well as Pancake’s low whickering out in the barn. Bucky wondered how she and Nomad were getting on…

Then, he realized he needed to use the outhouse.

They’d shifted in the night so that they were facing each other, and Bucky breathed in the scent of Steve, nuzzling the column of his throat. His left arm had unfortunately fallen asleep beneath his ribcage, but despite that, Bucky was content. His hand idly stroked Steve’s smooth hip, and he heard Steve’s whistley breathing, saw that his lower lip was caught between his teeth as he slept. Scant light crept inside through the windows; moonlight picked out the edges of the vanity and a few floorboards, as well as the edges of a whatnot shelf in the corner, and the metal of Steve’s pocketwatch where it sat on the side table. Bucky absorbed the moment, their closeness, how easy this felt, and how right, and stirrings of emotion tightened his throat.

James Barnes realized, like someone had struck him with lightning, that he’d fallen head over heels in love with this reckless jackass. 

And it was an injustice that he was going to have to work himself free of Steve’s embrace to go outside. 

Steve seemed to agree, if the way his arms spasmed and tightened around Bucky as he tried to pull away were any indication. Bucky bit back a sigh of frustration as Steve’s mouth sought out his skin, even in sleep, moving over his hairline, and his leg locked itself around Bucky’s, as if to trap him further, and Bucky finally decided to test the waters to see if Steve was actually awake.

“Stevie. Hey,” Bucky husked.

“Hm?” Steve’s voice was hoarse and soft.

“I need the outhouse. Much as I’ve gotten real cozy in this bed of yours, you’re gonna have to let me go so I can take care of business.”

“Damn,” Steve muttered, and a yawn escaped him, making his warm breath fan out over Bucky’s cheeks. Bucky felt him shift against him and his face leaned down to search for him, finally finding his mouth. “Sorry. Guess I trapped you, didn’t I?”

“Well. We’re just a little tangled up.”

“Like weeds,” Steve joked, and Bucky kissed his smile. He felt Steve’s limbs loosening their grip on him, and Bucky already regretted it. “Go out through the kitchen. Take the lantern by the door. I didn’t even think about what would happen if we got this far, Bucky.”

“I wasn’t sure I’d be this lucky, Stevie, if we’re being honest. I just figured we’d be sitting at the table, making small talk with your ma about the store.”

“Ma doesn’t make small talk. She asks hard questions and she expects honest answers. Make no mistake, Bucky; Ma would’ve asked you about your intentions with me, and she would have had you sweating over it even while she was cutting you a piece of cake.”

That made Bucky flush from head to toe. “About my intentions?”

Steve snorted. He released Bucky and rolled over onto his back to stretch, and Bucky saw the contours of his body picked out in moonlight through the window and realized how late it was. Bucky sat up and stretched his arms above his head until he heard a little crick in his lower back snap back into place, and he groaned in response. His body felt well used and loose. “I didn’t exactly steal your virtue,” Bucky remarked. 

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted by that, Sheriff.”

Bucky’s lips curled in a smirk that Steve could only hear in his tone, with his room being this dark. “Take it however you want, Stevie.”

“You do see how I could think you’re slandering my character, though, don’t you? I’m not some scoundrel, just running around-”

“I never called you a scoundrel. It just puzzles me how someone so… humble and bashful around anyone who shows him so much as a lick of interest knows how to do the things you do. You live out here, in the middle of nowhere…” Bucky’s voice trailed off, and now, it was Steve’s turn to blush. 

“I can’t kiss and tell.”

“Well, good. That means you won’t be running off at the mouth about you and me.”

Steve snorted. “You know I’d never do that. I’m a gentleman, Bucky.”

“Hmmmm…”

That earned Bucky Steve’s pinch of umbrage at his ticklish waist, making him yelp. 

“That’s enough. Go on, now, Stevie. Let me up.”

“Hurry back,” Steve told him on a yawn.

“You going to be lonely if I’m gone that long?”

“Well. Maybe so. I just want you to get back inside before the coyotes get a whiff of you, since it is after dark. Blasted things aren’t exactly picky-”

“Coyotes?!”

“Just hurry back, Buck. I’ll keep that other side of the bed ready for you.”

Pleasure curled in Bucky’s stomach at that.

“Fine,” he told Steve as he rose from the bed and fumbled around in the dark for his clothes. He found the pile and his britches strewn atop his shirt, thankful that they were made of lightly colored cotton and were easier to see in the dark. Bucky picked them up and hopped into them, and he felt around in the dark with his feet, trying not to stumble over anything on his way toward the door.

Steve admired the scant view he had of Bucky’s backside from this vantage point as he left the room. Steve lay there on the bed, grinning to himself and listening to the crickets and the sound of Bucky’s soft, retreating footsteps in the corridor. Steve wondered if his ma was sleeping yet; they’d been dozing long enough that she had to have noticed the extra horse taking up space in the barn, or that the table was still set for two. Steve belatedly realized he would need to wash the dishes if Ma hadn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to leave a mess behind for her in the morning. Steve would have enough explaining to do when Bucky inevitably made his way to the breakfast table, and -

That drew him up short. How on earth would he explain that? More importantly, would Bucky even stay the whole night knowing that Sarah was home? Embarrassment and anxious butterflies filled his stomach at this new problem. Steve realized he was grown, and, well. 

A man had needs.

But, that flew in the face of being a gentleman, and a decent son that didn’t just bring company home to make trouble between the sheets. Steve was determined to keep his word, that he wouldn’t kiss and tell because he respected Bucky, and there was already enough for folks in town to gossip about. They would absolutely keep Sheriff James Barnes’ name out of their mouths.

Bucky found the lantern and headed out into the yard, spying the outhouse just out beyond Sarah’s large garden. Bucky trotted out to it, wincing at the pebbles and crab grass beneath his feet, and he opened up the door with its slightly squeaky hinge and let himself inside, quickly pulling down his britches. He let himself release, tingling with relief as the hot stream left him, and for a moment, Bucky realized that he’d just run out here as casually as he pleased, practically naked, without giving a thought to who might see him. Steve’s ma could be back, he realized belatedly, and that made him blush furiously. “Damn it,” he muttered. 

Well.

Wasn’t this a fine how-do-you-do.

Still. They were two grown men. Steve had to have brought other folks home to meet Sarah, right? If Stevie had other partners - which was highly likely - then, every once in a while, they might have made it as far as his bedroom. Unless Steve made use of the suites above Natasha's saloon, he mused.

No.

That wouldn't suit Rogers, would it? And in a town as small as The End of the Line, folks would talk. Natasha was discreet, granted, but still. Bucky noticed the teasing and irreverent nature of Steve's friendship with Nat. That made Bucky wonder if she knew any of the details of Steve's romantic past, even though Bucky knew he would absolutely never ask her about them.

Bucky pulled up his britches and headed back to the house, glancing around the property by lantern's light. It was a calm night with perfect visibility, letting him see the pretty spray of bright stars above. He paused for a moment and stole a look toward the Rogers' gate. Sarah's wagon didn't appear to be parked out front, and that puzzled him.

"It's awfully late," he mused as he walked back toward the back door of the house and quickly let himself in. Bucky hastily wiped his bare feet on the braided rug, but before he could return to Steve's bedroom, he spied him in the dark, wearing only his britches, hair mussed as he gathered up the dishes to wash them.

"Hey, Stevie? Where is your ma? I didn't see your wagon out front."

"Check out by the barn, if you're feeling brave," Steve teased, but Buckie was worried, and then he lowered his voice a little.

"Is she here in the house?"

"It's late, Bucky, she would have to be by…"

Steve paused, and Bucky watched him frown and set down the dish rag and the plate he was holding. Then, he gently called out, "Ma? You up?"

Bucky stopped talking, deciding to let Steve do the explaining if she was, indeed, already tucked into her room or up anywhere else in the house or the barn. He handed Steve the lantern, and Steve muttered a low, terse, "Thanks, Buck" as he left the kitchen and wandered back toward their bedrooms. "Ma?" he called out again. "You up? I didn't hear you come in."

Bucky felt his stomach twist in alarm as Steve's voice called out again, "Ma?" This time it was plaintive and uncertain. "Mrs. Rogers?" he added uncertainly, as if him appearing in her house during the wee hours, absolutely not presentable and lacking polite reasons for a social call would summon her into the kitchen. "Mrs. Rogers?"

"Buck," Steve hissed, as though he still planned on being discreet, except that Bucky saw and heard his growing confusion, because the house was too quiet, with only the sounds of the light breeze blowing outside and rattling the trees, and a few random crickets chirping in the brush greeting them. Bucky wandered back out of the kitchen and decided to light the kerosene lamp in Sarah's sitting room, shaking out the match before it could burn his fingers. The room was still undisturbed. Bucky didn't see her boots or shoes near the front mat, and that thought made a chill run down his spine. Sarah was a widow, maybe not quite out of her prime, and she had no business being out this late, unless-

"Hey, Steve? Did your ma have a suitor of some sort?"

"No. Are you kidding me, Bucky? In this town?"

Steve came out to join him, rubbing his nape and brows furrowed. "I've seen some fellas give Ma the eye, but she's never acted interested, which is just as well. I mean, look at where we live," Steve pointed out bitterly. "She's thought about moving back east once in a while, since Pa has been gone a long while. But it's hard to pick up roots and set them down somewhere else, when you've been somewhere this long."

"So, she should be home, tucked in safe and sound," Bucky pronounced.

"Doggone it, Bucky, yes," Steve snapped.

"Take it easy, Stevie. I just want to make sure we understand each other, all right?" Bucky closed the gap between them and reached down to squeeze Steve's wrist, feeling the tension in his body. "Where did she say she was going?"

"She was gone by the time I made it home today. She… she left me a note."

"Well, then, go get it."

Bucky released him and followed him back into the kitchen. Steve picked up the folded note that he'd left beside Sarah's flour jar, and they brought it back over to the lamp to read.

"Steve, I'm going over to Mr. Xavier's place to bring a few things for his children. Supper is on the stove. Make sure to have some of the jam." Steve scowled. "She didn't put it on the table."

"What?"

"The jam," Steve mused.

"Well, her bread was just fine without it," Bucky reasoned.

But Steve went to the cupboard. He took down the jam from the shelf, considering it, and when he did, his eyes landed on a scrap of paper that had been tucked under the jar. "Huh," he murmured as he took it down and held it to the light. "What's this?"

"You tell me, Stevie."

"Bring that light here," Steve ordered. Bucky did, and they leaned in toward each other, looking over the scrap. The note had been written in Sarah's normally tidy print. This paper, though, well. The words were brief, scrawled and scratchy, like the writer had been in a big hurry.

He took me. Be careful.

Cold fear closed over both men like a wet blanket.

"He took me?!" Steve turned the note over in shaking fingers, searching it for more. "Who the hell is he?! What does this mean, Bucky?!"

"I don't know, Stevie! Damn it… that's why we haven't heard from her tonight, yet."

"This makes no sense!"

"It doesn't?"

"No, damn it! Bucky! Who would want to take Ma from here?"

"Steve-"

"Who, Bucky!?"

"Stevie." Bucky's voice turned gentle, placating. "Think about it for a minute. Just how well do you think you and Wilson have been keeping your secret?"

*

The saloon was rollicking and loud, and the locals returned in droves despite the owner's recent troubles. Douglas was playing the piano, tickling the keys with a cheerful song that underscored the clink of glasses against tables and the chatter and laughter of men playing poker. Painted ladies in dresses cut for evening lingered around some of the tables, looking for big spenders, and Natasha and Sharon easily turned a blind eye to it. Business was business, after all. Natasha and Sam worked behind the bar, wiping down glasses and pouring drinks.

"You could take a little break if you wanted, Samuel. I wouldn't mind a bit," Natasha told him.

"Well, maybe I would mind," he countered. "I'm not ready to let you out of my sight, yet, Miss Romanoff."

Nat's lips twisted in a crooked, pleased little smile. "There's no need to guard me so closely, Mr. Wilson. I can take perfectly good care of myself."

"I know that."

That didn't stop Nat from winding up her towel and using it to rat-tail flick him in the rump with it, making a loud snap and earning herself Sam's yelp of indigation. Natasha's look was mischievous, her laughter wicked as Sam's hands flexed, poised to capture and promising a tickling that would be pure torture once he got his hands on her. "Samuel… Sam… oh, no, you don't!" And she darted out from behind the bar, back toward the stock room, with Sam hot on her heels. They darted through the swinging doors, cackling, whooping loudly as Sam chased her down. She shoved chairs and other objects between them to trip him up, but his long arm launched out and caught her wrist. "You think you're fast, don't you?" he teased breathlessly.

"You wouldn't! You're a gentleman, Samuel!"

"So they tell me," he grunted back as his fingers scrabbled to find the sensitive place at her waist. Natasha yelped, shoving at his hand, but that left so many other places to attack. Sam was merciless, teasing, relentless, as he poked and tickled her, taking advantage of his long reach and strength as he pulled her close. Natasha swatted at his hands, but she was laughing and breathless, her cheeks rosy and eyes shining.

"Monster!" she cried.

"You swatted my tailfeathers first!" he accused, grinning at her and letting his hands drift to her waist. "Ask me for a truce?"

"Why?"

"Because I'll give you a kiss?"

She softened, and lowered the hand she was about to smack him with. "Truce," she declared.

"All right."

He dipped his face and kissed her, a light caress that made her want more. Nat's hands slid up his chest, and she twined her arms around his neck, humming in contentment as she kissed him back. They lingered a few moments, heedless of the crowd out front, until they suddenly heard the crash of glass.

"Damn it. That sounded like one of my good tumblers," Natasha muttered irritably.

"I'll clean it up. I promise. Let me help you out."

"No. I'll take care of it. You watch the till, Sam."

Sam followed her back out to the front serving room, and Natasha saw Clint looking apologetic as he picked up the larger shards of broken glass from the floor. "Sorry," he offered. "That was all my fault, I was trying to show Parker here a trick, and I was balancing it on my head…"

"Next trick that you mess up is coming out of your pockets, Clint Barton," Nat promised. "I'm getting tired of broken glass around here, do you hear me?" Sam gave Clint a smug look over the top of Natasha's head, but Clint shot him a sour expression and stuck out his tongue in umbrage. But both men finished the work of cleaning it up, and Natasha took orders for drinks, pouring tankards of beer and glasses of neat whiskey. The night wasn't going badly.

Which was why Sam was so disappointed when he saw Steve walk in through that set of swinging doors, with Sheriff Barnes in tow, both of them with anxious looks on their faces.

"Rogers," Sam greeted. "It's late. I didn't expect you here."

"I need a favor, Wilson. Come outside with me."

"It's late for a favor," Sam reminded him.

"Help a friend out?" Steve's eyes implored him, and Sam could never resist them, no matter how hard he tried.

Natasha watched them warily and overheard Sam's words. "When are you planning to send Sam home to me, Steve?" she asked.

"Maybe don't wait up too late for him," Steve suggested.

And, well, that just made Sam scowl at him outright and throw up his hands. Bucky looked apologetic, too as Steve gestured for him to follow him outside. He led them a few yards away from the saloon so they could talk privately.

"Sam, just so you know… Bucky knows who I am."

Sam exhaled a gusty sigh. "How did this come about?"

"Just dumb luck," Bucky told him. "It doesn't matter how I know, but it does matter that I won't stop him from doing whatever he feels like he needs to do. I won't stop the Captain, or his partner."

"Oh, you won't. Well, this should clear everything up." Sam's heavy dark brows drew together, and he closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then, he leveled Bucky with a stare. "That doesn't mean you can stand in our way when we have work to do, Sheriff Barnes."

"That all depends on what work you two are planning to do, since I am the Sheriff, like you said, Wilson," Bucky challenged. "…or is it the Falcon?"

"Sssshhhhh! Damn it, don't!" Sam hissed.

"Look, Sam," Steve said, needing to get his point across to Sam, "someone took Ma."

"What?"

"Someone took her. She never joined us for supper. I think they snatched her out of the house, and she left us a note. It said she was headed to Xavier's place, but we stopped by there, and they said she never made it over there, either. And Ma managed to leave me a second note that someone came and took her on one of the kitchen shelves. I don't know how she managed that."

"Your ma is pretty sharp, Stevie."

Sam's brows flew up toward his hairline. "Stevie?!" Steve felt himself blush hotly, and he rubbed his nape, eyes darting away. Sam folded his arms and noticed that Bucky's expression was sheepish, too.

"Uh. That. That just slipped out."

"We found her wagon down the road from Xavier's," Steve said, needing to change the subject. "Maybe someone wanted to make it look like she was headed over there, just to throw us off."

"Who do you think it was that took her, Steve?" Sam asked softly.

"I don't know." Steve paced back and forth, tugging on the back of his hair. "Bucky knows who the Captain is. I've kept my mouth shut, Sam, I swear."

"But someone has been watching your comings and goings, Steve," Bucky said. "In my case, it was just dumb luck. You saved my life three times, and after a while, I recognized your horse. Nomad's a pretty nice horse, gotta be honest. But a man like me is paying pretty close attention to the man who always seems to cover my back."

"Mmmmm." Sam hummed, giving Bucky a jaundiced look. "When's the last time that happened, Sheriff?"

"The last time that- oh. Uh. I guess… it might've been the night that Rumlow and his gang shot up the saloon. A lot of things were happening in all of the fracas, and… well." Rumlow had been interested in a fight. And it dawned on Steve that maybe, just maybe he knew that the Captain would show up that night, if he waited long enough, making enough noise and trouble with that big mouth of his to draw him out. Then, Steve thought back to the gunshots in the alley and Tony Stark's brush with death.

"Rumlow was out in the middle of the street, braying like a jackass," Sam mused. "But he wasn't alone, remember? We ran into an unsavory fellow in the alley. Sharon and Tony missed him, and I'm damned sorry that I did, too. He wasn't that big. Sounded like he wasn't from around here."

"You mean, out of the state?" Bucky asked.

"Not even from the states," Sam clarified. "Not sure. He sounded like his kinfolk came over on a boat, maybe from Europe?"

"Aren't many folks who can make that claim," Bucky said, nodding. "Good memory, Wilson."

"I remember a lot of things about that night." Sam didn't add that crouching behind the bar while he shielded Natasha from a hail of broken glass was something that still haunted his sleep. "Rumlow was the distraction. I have the feeling that his partner in the alley knows about us, Steve. All he had to do…" Sam stopped himself before he said something that could hurt their friendship.

"What did he have to do, Sam?"

"All he had to do was see how protective you were with me," Bucky pronounced. "He would've watched you cover me like your life depended on it. Because it turns out, that's just something that the good Captain does."

Steve's expression was stricken. His fists were clenched at his sides. "What did you expect me to do, Bucky?" he growled. "Just… just what the hell did you expect me to do? Huh? Let that evil bastard put a bullet between your eyes? Let the mayor appoint a new sheriff? This town as a problem keeping one that actually obeys the law, Bucky. There were rumors about the last one, if you haven't heard."

"Sheriff John Walker. No, I've heard about him. I know he had a habit of looking the other way for the right price. I know some of the ladies of the night have their own stories about what kind of customer that he was, and that he liked things rough," Bucky said, and his voice took on an edge. "He was a cheater at cards, and there are plenty of folks around here that knew his help would always cost them something."

"He's been gone for some time, now," Sam said. "Folks around here don't miss him, even though he seemed like a real golden boy, in the beginning. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth."

"But, the folks that were paying him to look the other way are still around, aren't they?" Bucky reasoned. "The same ones that let him evict good, hardworking families from their property, or who let the Hydra Gang burn them out or steal from their flocks."

"Makes sense. I mean, look at this town, Sheriff Barnes. It was nice, once. My ma and pa remember when this was a different place, way back, before Steve here lost his pa in a train robbery."

Before they could continue the discussion, the squeal of the door hinge, followed by the thump of Clint's boots interrupted them. "Hey. What's going on out here? The fun's inside the saloon, not out here."

"We can make time for fun later, Barton," Sam told him. "Steve's ma has gone missing."

"Whoa," he muttered, frowning deeply and folding his arms across his middle. "Are you serious? When's the last time you saw her, Rogers?" The color drained out of his face, too. Folks that went missing around the End of the Line seldom made it back home. Clint was one of the town's many orphans, and his brother, Barney, went to jail a long time ago for numerous crimes, leaving Natasha as the closest thing that he had to family.

"This afternoon, before she left the clinic," Steve said grimly. "She left us two notes. One that the ones who took her wanted us to find, and one that they didn't. She told us with that note that someone took her, Ma's been kidnapped," he confirmed.

"Damn it!" Clint swore.

"They might be connected with the men who shot up this place," Bucky mentioned.

"Then, we need to get together a search party, or something!" Clint told them.

"No. This can't be big and loud," Steve told him. "I have the feeling this was personal. That note that Ma left didn't say anything about ransom. I think they want to draw me out."

"But, why? I mean, you just run your pa's store, Lord rest his soul. He was a good man, Steve, and your ma is an angel."

"It doesn't matter why," Steve told him, voice and shoulders stiff.

"Uh. Okay." And Clint knew well enough by now, that sometimes, you just didn't ask too many questions. "Can I tell Bobbi?"

"It might be best not to let too many folks in on this," Bucky said. "We'll need Sharon."

"Okay. Hey. You know what else I just heard today? Stark's gone missing, too. I don't know if I was supposed to know about that, but I stopped by his place. Miss Pepper there, and she was in a bad way. That man's just as rich as the rest of those fat cats who have been digging around here for oil," Clint said. "Stark's exactly the kind of man who someone might try to hold for ransom, and y'know… the same folks that dragged him out of his fancy house might have taken Mrs. Rogers."

"The fat cats digging for oil?" Bucky asked.

"Fisk," Steve and Clint said in tandem. Steve added, "He's the fattest cat of them all. He's greedy, and he's sharp."

"One of the cattle barons," Bucky said somewhat belatedly. "I remember him, now."

"Oil is bigger money in these parts ever since the gold rush went bust," Sam said. "All the old claims dried up, and the old mines shut down. All of 'em are condemned."

"All of them?" Bucky asked.

"Well, most of them. Especially after we lost Walker. The mines blew up when they were doing a sweep. Word has it, Walker knew that the men who had the biggest stake in that mine were planning to do one last dig for gold ore. Those caverns aren't safe, and the walls of those mines aren't stable anymore. Walker died in that blast, and no one could be bothered to head back in there to find his body." Clint scratched his nose. "I sure don't miss that sonofabitch."

"They made him a grave marker out of respect," Sam said.

"Who did?"

"Fisk, and the rest of the cattle barons. Stark even donated toward it, even though he wasn't fond of Walker. Miss Pepper might have had something to do with that. She is his better half."

"Why are we talking about the mines?" Clint wanted to know.

"Because if someone wanted to hide two people in this town, that might be the hardest place to look for them. No search party in their right mind would go there," Bucky said.

They pondered this for a few moments, but then, the sound of an approaching horse, headed toward them at full gallop, made all of them look up. The horse shied and danced a little as the rider tugged up on its reins, and Steve recognized Callisto and Caliban from Xavier's place. She wore dark riding clothes, dungarees as rough as his, and both of them looked excited as they dismounted and hurried to greet him.

"Mr. Rogers, it's a pleasure, or it would be, under different circumstances. Charles and Erik informed me of what happened to your sweet ma."

"We saw something mighty strange, and it's important, too, we think," Caliban chimed in.

"What are you doing out this late?" Steve asked.

"Never mind that. I'm hardly a lady. I get myself home whenever I want." Callisto's tone was haughty. "But you need to know what we've seen. Tell him, Cal."

"I know, Cal," he shot back, and his face was excited. "We saw the old sheriff's house. It's right down the road from our place."

"What about it?" Sam asked.

"There were men leaving it," he said. "The lights were lit out front. They had masks on," he added.

Steve felt dizzy, suddenly, and Bucky reached out to grip his arm, giving it a comforting squeeze.

"We followed 'em for a while," Callisto continued. "We stayed far back, so they didn't notice us. They were headed out toward the edge of town."

"Where?" Steve asked, wondering why his voice sounded so vague to his own ears.

"It looked like they were headed to the old mines. I don't know why. No one's been out there to dig in years. There's nothing left digging for out there anymore."

*

Callisto and Caliban grumbled for a while about being told to head home before Charles and Erik began to miss them. Eventually, Steve, Bucky and Sam settled for telling Sharon and Bobbi what they knew behind closed doors, back in Natasha's stock room.

"Ma was at the clinic today, before I asked you if you felt like visiting and having supper with us, Buck."

"You mentioned that, Stevie."

"Uh. Yeah." That pet name was still doing things to Steve, and he missed Sam and Clint exchanging looks, or the way Sharon bit her lip. "And from the sound of it, Tony went missing first. Who do you think might have a grudge against him so bad that they'd just snatch him out of his house in the middle of the night?"

"Could be just about anyone in town," Clint said, shrugging. "Stark has money to burn, so he makes a valuable hostage. Hell, it's a wonder he hasn't been kidnapped before now."

"Tony told me about those guns," Bobbi said. "The ones whose design his pa perfected."

"Yes, he did," Sharon agreed. "Someone knows what Tony knows, that he found those designs missing from his family's safe."

"What's the big deal about some fancy guns?" Clint wanted to know.

"Someone was shooting one of those fancy guns at us in the alleyway behind the saloon," Sharon clarified.

"Oh. Well, shoot." Clint looked chastened. "Never mind. Sorry I asked."

"It's fine," Bobbi offered. "Someone in Stark's circle of friends has been watching him and waiting for an opportunity to eliminate him."

The door to the stock room opened, letting in a slice of light from the main saloon and some of the noise and clamor. Natasha eyed them all. "Have you decided what to do yet?"

"Steve, Bucky and I are going to track down the men who took Mrs. Rogers, since they probably also took Stark," Sam told her as he reached for her hands, squeezing them. "And you're going to stay here and tend the bar and hold things down, and help us with a story for why we're not here tomorrow, if something untoward happens."

"Sam…" Natasha frowned at him.

"I'll be all right, sweet girl," he promised. Sam lifted her hands to his lips, and Clint turned away for a minute. "I'll have quite the story to tell to our children, one day."

"You swear?"

"I swear. Cross my heart," he said, giving her a gentle smile and making an 'X' over his chest.

"Are you all done making eyes at each other yet?" Clint asked indignantly. "Can we go and get Steve's ma, now?"