Archive of Our Own

Mary Linton receives her first letter from her lover, Sadie Adler, early in the year of 1903.

It’s quite a pleasant surprise for Mary, this letter, as she has few friends and almost no family left, and usually only receives mail from her younger brother, Jamie, who has finished his schooling at university and since moved to Saint Denis to apprentice with burgeoning companies of some renown, learning the inner workings of business and sales and accounting and other things that are beyond Mary, out here in the simple country she has grown to enjoy. Mary is terribly proud of him, especially after everything he went through some years ago—what with him running away from home and joining that horrible Chelonia cult, thank goodness for Arthur, getting him back like he had—and she makes sure to say so in her letters as often as she can. Jamie always writes back that he is doing well and is healthy and happy, which is what matters to her most of all.

(She has not told him about Sadie, and the empty space in Mary’s quiet little life the other woman has settled somewhat roughly into, over these past few years. Or, at least, not yet. She is still trying to figure out how. The very idea is daunting. She needs Jamie to understand what is in her heart, and to put how she feels into words and then put those words onto paper is difficult for her. She will continue to try, however, and one day, she will write that letter to her brother, and tell him what he deserves to know, and she will not be afraid of what is to come afterwards.)

Mary, therefore, when she arrives at the post office in town to collect her usual biweekly letter from her little brother, finds herself quite confused but also curious as she is handed not one but two envelopes. The second one is smaller than Jamie’s, battered and darkened in spots as though from dirty hands where Jamie’s is pristine, her name—Miss Mary Linton—dashed across the front in a neat, tightly-looped hand she doesn’t at first recognize. She brings it closer to her face to ensure it is, in fact, her name written there as the addressee, and a faint, familiar scent of horse and leather wafts to her nose from the rough-handled paper, and at once she feels a soft flutter in her chest, and knows that, inconceivable as it may seem, it’s from Sadie.

She opens the letter right there in the post office, an action which, some time later, she will realize was somewhat foolish; she has enough people looking at her strangely or whispering behind her back when she goes into town as it is. No one has much forgotten that scene in the restaurant Sadie caused, a good amount of time ago. Mary understands why. The well-known, rough-and-tumble bounty hunter storming into a reputed place of business to haul a gentleman out by his lapels for reasons unknown had certainly been a scene to remember. Mary herself can recall it as if it were yesterday. Thomas Campbell surely does as well, though Mary is positive he hasn’t dared tell anyone exactly what occurred in that alleyway, and of what happened afterwards, well. Only she and Sadie know of that, she’s sure.

The letter inside the envelope is folded askew, the single piece of off-white paper wrinkled and ripped, looking as if it’d been taken from a scrap pile for tinder, or ripped hastily from the end of a book. Puzzled, Mary unfolds it and reads:

Mary. Will be delayed. Trip to Ambarino going slow due to weather. Everything well. Not hurt. I will be home soon. Love, Sadie.

It’s a short message, all in all. Concise. Gruff, as Sadie always is. But it’s still the first real letter Mary’s ever gotten from the other woman, and those modestly curt, yet profound words fill her chest and make her glow with warmth. 

Between the two of them, there is an unspoken promise, forged by the pain, love, happiness and tears they’ve shared over these past few years together; that no matter how long she is from home, Sadie will always return, and Mary will be there, waiting for her. Though Mary’s confidence in this promise has not wavered—not once—she had indeed these past few days been beginning to wonder and grow slightly concerned as to why Sadie had not yet graced her doorstep, as she was due back by now, set out on a bounty hiding somewhere in the East Grizzlies. 

Sadie, it seems, knowing that Mary would worry the longer it took for her to return, and knowing also that Mary would not dare ask for word or news for fear of overstepping the agreement between them, had been kind enough to take it upon herself to write and send her this short letter, so Mary wouldn’t make herself sick with dread, imagining all sorts of horrible scenarios for her lover’s delay, like a year ago when Sadie was away for almost two months, and turned out in short order to have been tangling with a local gang called Del Lobo, got herself shot up and then caught pneumonia. She had nearly died. 

Bad weather, clearly, is much less for Mary to fret about, and she finds herself relieved and grateful in no small amount, touched by Sadie’s gesture of comfort. Without further ado, she folds the letter back up, tucks it into its battered envelope, finishes her business in town, and then heads home. If anyone notices the warm, happy glow in her eyes, or the extra-bright smile on her face, they make no mention of it, and Mary is grateful.

Over the next few days, as she tends to her house and her property, cooking, cleaning, chopping firewood, and minding her garden, Mary sneaks the letter out whenever she is feeling particularly lonesome—which, because of that same letter, seems to be happening far less often than usual—and reads those scant few words again. Particularly, the last part; seven words she cannot get enough of. Seven words that keep her strong.

I will be home soon. Love, Sadie.

—

When Sadie rides in on Bob almost a week later, calfskin hat pulled low over her eyes, duster off and slung limply over her saddlebags, her chaps and button-down shirt gone brown and stiff from the dry dirt of the road and hair loose and frayed by the heat, looking tired and harried but relieved to be home, Mary is incredibly pleased to see her. 

So pleased, in fact, that in her excitement she thunders downstairs with all the grace of a mustang at a rodeo, catching a glimpse through the kitchen window of Sadie sliding smoothly off Bob’s back in a loud jingle of holsters, heading for the house. She opens the door before Sadie has quite reached the porch, dashes out and makes a little jump from the front steps straight into the other woman’s arms. Sadie grunts and catches her as if by instinct alone, stumbling backward a step or two to find her balance and laughing in surprise. The lit cigarette dangling at the corner of her mouth falls and fizzles out on the sun-baked ground at their feet.

“Well, now,” Sadie drawls in a low chuckle, grinning teasingly at Mary in that warm, wicked way she always does—the way that makes Mary’s heart race by the sheer cocky impetuousness of it all. “Som’buddy miss me?”

Mary kisses her, then, boldly. To do so outside the privacy of her own house and in broad daylight is downright scandalous, yet Mary cannot help herself—her closest neighbors are several miles away in any case. If Sadie had not sent her that letter, explaining her untimely delay, surely Mary would have been an annoyed, snappish, nervous wreck at this moment, too caught up in her own upset to truly greet her lover as she so deserves—with a smile and a kiss and a promise for more—but Sadie did send the letter, and the idea that she was kind enough to do so and to think of Mary is just… Oh, it’s lovely.

Sadie makes a soft, startled sound against her lips, her mouth falling slightly open, but then those lean arms wrapped around Mary’s torso give a breathtaking squeeze to her ribs, and she kisses Mary back sweetly for a moment, and then roughly as ever for even longer, until Mary is dizzy and breathless and quivering. 

When they pull back, brows resting against one another’s, both gasping and flushed for air, Mary laughs at herself and her earnestness and tries to lower herself back to the ground, sure she is heavy and hard to hold. Sadie resists, and then boosts her higher and hooks her elbows under Mary’s bottom, holding her tightly in her arms, and carries her with seemingly little effort up the stairs of the porch and then inside the house, kicking the door shut behind them.

Mary is sure Sadie will collapse the second they’re inside, but instead, the other woman heads determinedly for the stairs. She wobbles on the first few steps, and Mary shrieks, partly delighted by Sadie’s daring but also afraid to fall and hurt themselves. Sadie laughs again, and gives Mary’s bottom a rude little pinch.

“Quit yer wigglin’!” she growls. “Ah ain’t ‘bout t’drop ya, but if y’keep squirmin’, Ah jes' might!”

Mary wants to kiss her again, just because. She is no small woman, and Sadie is near her size, so she is rather impressed by the other woman’s tenacity when they reach the top of the stairs in short time without incident and barrel onward into Mary’s sunlit bedroom.

The moment is broken when Sadie’s boot slips on the rug by Mary’s desk, and they jolt, teeter and fall in an ungainly heap on top of Mary’s pristinely-made bed with a loud thump and twin gasps. 

“Shit!” says Sadie. “Did Ah hertcha?”

“No, you silly thing,” says Mary with a bubbling laugh, breathless already. “Come here.”

They kiss deeply. Sadie smells as if she could use a bath—her hair is dusty, clothes sour with the combined scent of cigarette smoke, old sweat and the dry, weary road—but Mary finds she likes the muskiness clinging to her lover’s skin, the smell of herself at her most base level; and besides, Mary is simply too impatient to wait for the water to be fetched and heated, for the bathtub to be filled. She wants Sadie now.

They undress each other in a giddy, feverish rush, laughing as they’re waylaid by tightly-knotted ties or belts or buttons that don’t seem to want to cooperate with them. Mary has Sadie stripped first, and is able to admire the play of gold-streaked sunlight streaming through her bedroom window onto her lover’s bare, freckled back as the other woman bends double, struggling to undo Mary’s complicated skirts, too distracted by kissing the soft fold of Mary’s exposed stomach. It tickles, but Mary doesn’t push her away—rather, she rests her hands on Sadie’s wiry, hard-knotted shoulders and holds her in place with a sigh. 

At last, Sadie finds the proper catches and rids Mary of her skirts with a growl of growing impatience. Her mouth lifts to Mary’s delicate neck, sucking hard under her jaw, bearing her backwards and down with the weight of her own body. Mary shudders, and finds that she wants to resist—usually, she is more than happy to lie back and allow Sadie to take charge when it comes to their love-making. Sadie makes it easy to do so; she is unselfish and singular in her purpose to give Mary as much pleasure as she can possibly handle, sometimes even to the point of neglecting herself the same. Often, Mary will be half asleep before she realizes Sadie has been touching her for hours, but has yet to give her a chance to do the same.

This time, however, Mary finds herself twisting around, reversing their positions and pushing Sadie down to the pillows to straddle her hips like one would a soft, warm saddle. Both of them are swollen and aching and wet and Mary gasps when she feels herself brush against Sadie. Rather than stop, however, she presses harder, so their hips are practically joined to one another, and can’t help a soft, shaky moan at the feel of them touching in such a way. This is something they have not done before—Mary doesn’t even know if it is a thing to do. Sadie, at least, seems as taken as her with this new discovery, gripping at Mary’s pale hips with those hard-callused hands of hers, fingers digging in almost to the point of bruising.

Mary takes a shuddering breath, and, unsurely at first and then with growing confidence, begins to rock her hips against Sadie’s—a slow, steady back and forth motion that sends wild flutters up and down her belly. It feels like fire where they touch, if fire could be so wet and slippery as this. She risks a quick peek downwards, finds Sadie gazing up at her as if she has never seen anything greater, mouth hanging open, coyote eyes half-lidded. 

“Mary,” she whispers harshly. It’s almost a snarl.

Later, Mary will remember how she sat atop this woman in broad daylight without a stitch of clothing or a hint of modesty, and rocked against her so crudely, and loved every single ragged moan and desperate cry she wrung from her lover’s throat, and she will be mortified with herself and her shamelessness.

But that will be later, and this is now.

The rocking comes faster. Harder. The bed shifts with every thrust, the headboard thumping faintly against the wall in a hollow, quickening rhythm. Mary feels as though she is not in control of herself anymore. She could not slow her hips if she wanted to. She reaches out, braces one arm on the flat of Sadie’s chest and the other lower, by her own calf on the bed, and bears down all the more. She isn’t sure if this is making love anymore, what they’re doing. It feels like something far more primal, more raw and wild.

Sadie’s eyes are closed now. Her head is thrown back, neck pulled taut and quivering, baring the delicate white skin of her throat that is usually hidden from the sun by her kerchief. Her naked chest is flushed pink, sternum gone clammy beneath Mary’s palm. The shallow dip between her breasts glistens with a light sheen of sweat. She looks almost in pain, her bottom lip caught beneath the sharp white line of her teeth. A loud, guttural moan hits the air. Her hands clench, helping Mary along as their hips buck and jolt against each other. The fluttering in Mary’s stomach is lower now, relentless. The bottoms of her feet are tingling. She feels faint, dizzy. But she doesn’t stop. She can’t.

Sadie cries out first. Her hands clutch and go still as her wiry-hard body arches back against the blankets under them. Her blunt nails pinch into the softness of Mary’s shaking hips. One more hard rock, two—and Mary cries out as well, frozen upright as her body wracks with a numbing fire. Then she goes limp and slumps forward, melting away from New Austin and her house and her bed, until she has forgotten everything and it is only her and Sadie and the warmth created between them, and all that matters is how happy Mary is in that instant, with Sadie there.

Afterwards, as they lay together in a panting, sweaty heap, Mary returns to herself and is taken aback by her brazenness; she has always considered herself proper and reserved when it comes to making love, as a lady should be. And yet, Sadie makes her want to be brash and loud and brave.

Now, however, when Sadie sighs and kisses her reddened face and smiles at her tiredly, one arm crooked behind her head, hair hopelessly mussed, naked as the day and entirely uncaring, Mary feels herself blush hotly and look away, abashed.

“Christ, Mary,” says Sadie, her gravelly voice gone even rougher than usual. “Y’always gon’ greet me li’ this? Ah’ll be dead inna munth.” She laughs when Mary hides her face in the pillow in reply, and kisses her again where she can reach, on Mary’s glowing pink ear and jaw. “Aw, don’ b’shy. Ah liked it.”

“Did you?” Mary asks, muffled, into the pillow, as if afraid her lover had been offended by her… forwardness. She peeks at her, makes a quiet noise when Sadie lays a palm against the side of her neck and kisses her firmly on the mouth.

“Ah like e’rrythin’ y’do wi’ me,” Sadie husks. They kiss again, lazily now. Mary can feel the growing weariness in the weight of Sadie’s limbs and the slack of her mouth. Probably, the cold and brutal Ambarinos had worn her out, not to speak of all those days on the road to come home. Mary is happy she is here, no matter how soon she will leave again.

“Thank you,” Mary says suddenly, before Sadie can fall asleep. “For writin’ me. It—it was kind. Your letter, that is.” She looks away, gone shy all over again, plucking at the blankets bunched underneath them with nervous fingers. 

“Sure,” Sadie says flippantly. As if it had been easy for her, putting those words to paper and sending them off to Mary like she did. But it had been so much more than just words for Mary. Sadie seems to understand this. She rolls to her side and pulls Mary into her arms. “Ah did’n wantcha t’worry.” 

Mary hmms. The sweat on her body is cooling, and she shivers. Before she can ask Sadie if she wants a bath, or maybe something to eat, she hears a soft exhale and realizes her lover has fallen asleep. Mary watches her for a time with a quiet smile on her face, then eventually gets out of bed, intent on properly putting away Sadie’s horse and other things, so, when Sadie wakes, they can fully enjoy their time together.

First, though, she finds an extra blanket, and lays it over Sadie. Sadie mumbles something incoherent, scarred brow twitching in her sleep, and then relaxes bonelessly against the pillows, her breaths coming steady and slow. She’s beautiful, lying there, and in that moment Mary falls more in love with her than ever.

She will be sorry to see Sadie go, when she does leave. But it is worth it—the waiting, the worrying—to have her in these short, tender moments in between.

—

Mary receives a second letter from Sadie, more than a week later; after her harrowing trip into the northern Ambarinos, Sadie had stayed with her for almost five days before heading out again, this time for more mundane work in Rhodes, protecting a shipment of tobacco bound for Saint Denis. Such jobs are no less dangerous than bounty-hunting, Mary has come to discover—everywhere in the world, there are people intent on hurting and taking from others, and she holds her hope close, that Sadie does not take harm out there among such cruelty.

Happy to see the envelope, but anticipating it must mean another delay in her return as the first letter conveyed, Mary holds off reading it until she is home, trying not to feel terribly disappointed on the carriage ride back to her house. Sadie, she knows, is a busy woman, with aspirations beyond standard protection jobs and bounty hunting—though Mary finds both of these certainly enough for her—and it takes hard work and no small amount of money to make those plans a reality.

To her surprise, however, the letter (written on a proper piece of paper, this time) is not to inform her of impending trouble. Rather, it seems Sadie has, oddly enough, written her for the sake of writing, itself.

Mary, it says, in Sadie’s now-familiar neatly-looped hand, I hope you are well. Since you so liked my last letter, I have decided to send another, just to give you something to read. How are you, my sweet girl? Are you keeping busy without me? I want you to tell me about Jamie, the next time I come home. I remember you said he is learning all about what businessmen do over in the big city of Saint Denis. I wonder if I will pass him in the street without knowing it once our shipment has reached its destination. 

We saw a cougar near the camp last night, but Bob scared him away, big and mean as he is. If it comes back, maybe I will try to bring home a cougar-pelt rug for you. Knowing you, though, I think you would be happier with some sweets, so perhaps I will do that instead.

Sitting at her desk as she reads, Mary laughs, tickled. Sadie goes on to describe their journey so far, and then mentions a prospective bounty job on the way back; hunting a lawyer in Blackwater who cheated some good families out of their money. The way she talks of it, the job is not an especially dangerous one, which Mary is relieved to hear.

Then she reads the last few lines of the letter, and feels her heart thump longingly in her chest. 

I will be home soon, so don’t you get too lonely, now. Keep the bed warm for me. I miss you and that sweet mouth of yours. I think often of the way you kissed me, last time, right there at your porch. I ache to see you again. Love, Sadie.

Mary sits there for a moment, stunned, the paper in her hands crinkling faintly between her fingers. In a flustered rush she folds the letter up and stuffs it back into the envelope so forcefully she hears a rip, then shoves the envelope into a drawer in her desk and goes downstairs in a huff, feeling the entire time as if her head is about to burst from the heat of her embarrassment. 

She has never, in all her years, received or even read something so… so forward. Beyond suggestive. Arthur and her husband had always been proper gentlemen in their letters. They had certainly never hinted at things like Sadie had. They’d never mentioned kisses, or beds, or—or aching. For Sadie to write those things, knowing Mary will read them, knowing she will be missing her and how she will react… 

Oh, that Sadie—she’s a scoundrel, is what she is. 

That night, Mary tries and fails to fall asleep. Her bed feels colder than usual. Bigger. Far more empty. Finally, after an hour of tossing and turning, she gets out of bed to fetch the crumpled letter from her desk and slides back under the covers with it, holding it like a closely-guarded secret. Under the faint light of a stray moonbeam shining through a gap in her curtains, she reads the words again and again and again, her heart pounding in her throat the entire time. 

Keep the bed warm for me.

I miss you and that sweet mouth of yours.

I ache to see you again.

Love, Sadie.

Mary nearly whimpers aloud. All too easily, she is aware of her body, gone warm and excited and greedy for the weight and feel of the absent woman in her bed. If Sadie aches for her, then Mary aches too, just as fiercely, if not more. She squeezes her eyes shut against it and clutches the letter to her pounding chest, then slides it under her pillow and tries, again, to fall asleep. When she does, she dreams of Sadie, and wakes missing her more than ever. 

—

Mary can barely look at her, the next time Sadie comes home, a week or so later. She has read Sadie’s letter countless times by now; its creases are weak from so much folding and unfolding, the paper gone soft and thin from the constant touch of her hands. She knows every word by heart. Just imagining them sends her pulse pounding as hard as the very first time she read them.

Sadie, of course, can tell immediately that something is the matter, what with the way Mary is fidgeting about her kitchen from one thing to another—cupboard to cupboard to stove to sink—all flushed and a-flutter, stomach knotted with sudden nerves, the likes of which haven’t afflicted Mary since that night on the town they had together, years ago now, and when Mary had kissed her afterwards, right there in front of her house.

She did kiss Sadie, just now in the doorway in greeting, but it was a quick and fleeting thing, barely more than a brush of their lips. Mary wanted more, but every time she lays her eyes on Sadie, she thinks of the letter she sent, and the daring words she’d written, and feels her face go hot and red and her heart begin to race, and her thoughts fumble and her mouth goes dry. She must look a complete half-wit.

She covers it up—or tries to—with asking Sadie easy questions about her travels, and then talks rapidly about her own past few days, all while busying herself with preparing their meal, tending a pot on the well-banked stove. Sadie has arrived just in time for supper; a grouse Mary shot herself yesterday with her varmint rifle, a gift from Sadie a month ago. She’s quite sure she’s picked all the pellets out of the fat little bird, and she’s proud of herself. It was her first successful hunt. She’s even added a collection of dried herbs to the recipe, and her house smells wonderfully of oregano, thyme, and roasting meat.

Sadie responds to her questions with short, gruff answers, as she usually does, but makes no mention of Mary’s odd behavior, just wipes her boots politely on the mat by the door and takes off her holsters and bandolier with a loud jingle of metal catches and fasteners, hanging them with the coats by the lintel. Her hat, she keeps on. Her shirt today is clean and sky blue, her kerchief black. Her straw-colored hair is in a loose braid, draped over her left shoulder. She looks beautiful and roguish and Mary has to turn away for fear of saying or doing something entirely foolish.

Without prompting, Sadie rolls up her sleeves to her elbows and washes her road-worn hands in the basin by the sink. Mary darts glances at her all the while, tracing her up and down—her brown, flexing forearms, dappled with freckles from time in the sun; her eyes, low-lidded and dark-lashed, watching her subtly in return; her mouth, pulled up on one side in a subdued yet smug, knowing smile—and spins away, pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat as she tends to the food and kitchen with superfluous concentration.

“Will’t burn?” Sadie asks suddenly, when Sadie has cleaned the table a third—or is it fourth?—time in just as many minutes, simply for something to do. When Mary looks at her, she jerks her chin at the pot on the stove. “Th’ bird, if y’leave it be fer a minnit.”

“I—” Mary says weakly, trying to think of a reason to protest. “No, but—”

Sadie leans back against the wooden kitchen countertop, crosses one ankle over the other, and tips her hat back with her thumb. “Then c’mere.”

Again, Mary hesitates. She remembers what happened the last time Sadie said those words to her in her kitchen—come here. How she’d pushed Mary onto the table and  ravished her. Put her mouth between her thighs and did wicked things to her with her tongue. She shivers at the very memory, and the way the predatory gleam in Sadie’s eyes grows sharp and cutting.

Helpless, she obeys. Sadie doesn’t grab her, or pick her up and throw her on the table like she did before. She merely extends an arm and pulls Mary close, so they stand crowded together, their legs touching, and cups the small of her back with a gentle hand. Her thumb traces Mary’s spine. She smiles down at her sweetly. Drawls, “Hey there, sweet gurl.”

Mary’s heart thumps. I ache to see you again, she hears, and looks away, shy. Sadie chuckles, as if she knows exactly what Mary is thinking, what’s got her so bothered. Mary’s breath stutters when Sadie kisses her reddened ear, and then whispers lowly in that rough, ragged voice of hers: 

“Didja like muh letter?” 

Lord. Embarrassed beyond belief, Mary snatches Sadie’s hat off her head and hits her playfully with it, as if that will teach her any manners. Sadie, of course, just laughs, and then leans forward, crushing the hat between them so they can kiss. Mary lets her. Her mouth falls open. Sadie’s tongue slides over hers and sends a hot, tingling rush throughout Mary’s body. She moans before she can stop herself. It’s loud and wanton and shameful. 

Sadie, proper scoundrel that she is, loves it, and lets out a groan of her own before kissing her all the harder. She takes the crumpled hat trapped in Mary’s hands and tosses it on the floor and pulls her even closer. Mary doesn’t stop her when she leaves her sore mouth behind to kiss hungrily at her neck, sucking rose-red marks onto the pale skin of her throat. Sadie growls, somewhere deep in her chest, and Mary whimpers in response. Her legs are shaking. She feels dizzy, weak, as if about to fall. She needs… She needs—

As if again reading her mind, a hard, leanly-muscled thigh pushes forward. Mary lets loose a strangled noise and pushes right back, threading Sadie’s knee between her legs. Even through her skirts, the pressure is just what she needs, her hips jerking back and forth against the hard thigh Sadie has proffered for her to ride. 

And Mary does ride, right there in the kitchen. Suddenly it’s as if she can’t stop herself. Her world has collapsed into the wet throb at her crux and the firm leg between her own, and Sadie’s voice in her ear, urging her on. Her hips stutter with the effort. She seizes the front of Sadie’s shirt with both hands, uses them as leverage to bear down all the more. Her head droops; she loses herself and her thoughts, panting loudly, mouth hanging open, eyes closed.

In mere minutes, it’s too much. Mary writhes and feels the familiar clutch of her pleasure reaching its crescendo. Her jerking thrusts freeze in place. Her back strains and arches as she rises on tip-toe, a weak moan squeezing from her lungs. A wave of dizziness consumes her and she sways. The only reason she does not completely fall over is Sadie’s strong hand, still there on her back, keeping her steady. The tension washes out of her like water wrung from a rag; Mary sags forward against her lover, trying to catch her breath and hiding her red, sweaty face under Sadie’s chin.

Sadie chuckles, hugs her tightly. “There, now,” she says, cocky as ever. “Y’feel bedder?”

“You’re terrible,” Mary mumbles into her shirt. Sadie laughs again.

“Oh, am Ah? An’ here Ah thought Ah wuz bein’ sweet, writin’ you like Ah did. But Ah guess Ah’m jus’ terrible, ain’t Ah?” 

“Yes,” says Mary. “No.” Lord, what is she to do with this woman? Kiss her, she decides, and does just that, turning her face up and catching Sadie’s lips with hers. It’s tender and delicate and Mary’s heart melts at the gentleness with which Sadie holds her. “I’m happy you’re home,” she murmurs against Sadie’s mouth.

“Me too,” says Sadie. Her lips quirk. “Maybe y’kin tell me jus’ how much y’liked muh letter after supper.”

Mary tsks, extracts herself from the warm, strong circle of Sadie’s arms. Her knees wobble as she crosses to the stove to check on their food. It’s ready and smells wonderful. Over her shoulder, she catches Sadie’s eye, and, in a rare moment of boldness, says, “Maybe I will.”

“Well, then,” says Sadie, taking a seat at the table. “Nex’, Ah’ll write y’a book.”

—

A month passes. The New Austin summer grows hot and oppressive and dry, though at night, the temperature drops until it’s nearly chilly. Sadie comes and goes, working steadily through a variety of bounties and protection jobs. For a time, her trips are shorter, closer to home. There is no chance for her to write letters for Mary or send them off. Mary doesn’t mind; she has the others to re-read when she is feeling lonesome, but she finds that is happening less often. She is happy, she realizes, and deeply in love. 

Then Sadie leaves for several jobs up near Valentine. She will be gone for at least two weeks, by the sound of it. The separation will be bittersweet but Mary knows she will be able to endure it, for Sadie’s sake, and her own.

Sadie kisses her in the doorway before she goes, early, before the sun has risen, with Mary still muzzy and warm from sleep, hair loose and a-tumble down her back, shawl clutched around her shoulders. They hug, afterwards, and Mary breathes in deep the fresh scent of Sadie’s skin and hair, the bold leather of her hat and gloves, and holds her close for as long as she can. As Sadie pulls away, mounts her horse, and trots down the road on Bob’s sturdy back, Mary watches until she is gone, and feels somehow at peace.

Life goes on. As the days pass, Mary becomes caught up in her own responsibilities of tending her well-sized property, a duty which she takes up as she always does, with diligence and care. Her house needs fixing here and there, and Mary manages as best she can. Her garden and horse require hard work to keep healthy, and her flowers need patience in the dry soil, but Mary is well capable of both.

Five days after Sadie’s departure to Valentine, Mary heads into town for her usual shopping of supplies, and makes a stop at the post office, to see if any letters from Jamie have come in. The postmaster smiles but shakes his head when she asks, and then, confusingly, holds out a stampless envelope all the same. On the front is her name written in a distinctly familiar hand. Sadie’s.

At the very sight, Mary feels a hot pulse erupt in the pit of her belly, and then her face goes bright red, right there in the post office in front of everyone. The postmaster, looking concerned, actually asks her if she is feeling well. A few patrons murmur in similar sympathy. The woman behind her is staring. Oh, Lord.

Completely mortified, Mary snatches the letter from the postmaster, throws a handful of change on the desk—No need, he calls after her, postage paid!—and rushes through the rest of her business in town in such a state of disarray it is a wonder she makes it back home at all.

She purposefully does not read the letter until late that evening, after she has eaten, cleaned up, bathed, and readied herself for bed. It is her way of punishing Sadie for sending the letter by depriving her the satisfaction of opening it immediately; though as a result, Mary has gone about the rest of her day in a terribly distracted state, enough so that she burned herself cooking supper and forgot to brush Bela earlier before stabling her in the barn.

Sitting on the side of her bed in her nightshirt, covers thrown back in anticipation of sliding beneath the soft cotton sheets, Mary opens the envelope with hands that only shake the slightest bit.

Mary, the letter starts, and already Mary feels as though she is being mercilessly teased, and begins to color, a pulsing warmth creeping up her collar, my sweet girl. I haven’t been gone from your arms longer than a day, and already I find myself missing you. You make it harder and harder for me to leave you each time I go. I know you worry, silly girl, but I will always come home, so long as you are there to greet me.

Charmed, Mary can’t help a soft smile. Sadie describes her journey so far, listing mundane observations from the road seemingly at random. All the while, a tension builds in Mary’s abdomen, a knowing that this letter will ruin her, if only she reads on. Sadie doesn’t disappoint, and Mary is proven correct when she reaches near the end of the letter—the final paragraph is just as filthy as she anticipated. Her face glows as she reads.

Wait for me, Mary, Sadie writes. I know you must feel lonesome when I am gone, as I am when I’m without you. The next time you find yourself missing me, and aching for me in our bed—oh, she said their bed, not just Mary’s… Lord, this woman—I want you to close your eyes and think of me, and the things we do together in there. And when you ache as I ache, I want you to touch yourself like I touch you. I want you to scream like I make you scream. And then, when I come home at last, I want you to tell me all the things you did, and make me do them to you myself.

Love, Sadie.    

Mary had thought herself prepared for this letter. Surely, she believed, Sadie could not write anything more forward or daring than the last one. She sees now she is wrong. Sadie Adler cannot be restrained in any fashion, and certainly not when it comes to words on paper.

She slaps the letter facedown onto her night table and dives into bed as if to hide, yanking the covers up and over her head in refuge. For a long time, she lays there in the dark, until the air trapped under the blankets with her goes stuffy and hot and she is forced to surface, sweaty-faced and gasping. She listens to her heart as it races in her ears and stares up at the ceiling and waits for her skin to stop its tingling, for her body to cease its sudden throbbing. 

When you ache as I ache, I want you to touch yourself like I touch you.

Mary closes her eyes, tries to calm her breathing. Already, she is cannot stop imagining all the ways Sadie has ever touched her in this bed—their bed—and elsewhere in her house; she can remember all of them in fine detail. Despite herself, her hips stir at the very idea. Heat swells in her stomach and her fingers clench at the blankets, sweat prickling across her torso.

A proper lady, Mary knows, does not do something so sinful as touch herself. Such things only occur in the marital bed with one’s husband, and no one else. The Bible says so.

Then again, the Bible says a great many things, some of which Mary agrees with, and some of which she does not. Besides, what has Sadie Adler shown Mary other than that she might not be as much of a proper lady as she first thought. 

Sadie’s letter has planted a seed inside her, and now it is growing. Slowly, carefully, Mary slides her arms, folded stiffly on top of her belly, fully under the sheets until they lay at her sides. With tentative fingers, she inches her nightshirt up over her bare legs until it is bunched around her waist. Immediately, she feels terribly exposed and slightly panicked, even covered as she is by her blankets. 

She closes her eyes, fights to calm herself. Steadies her breathing. An unsure hand drifts downwards. Her fingertips brush the flattened thatch hair between her legs and part through to find herself beneath. She sighs shakily when she feels her own warmth and slight wetness, and tries to stroke herself like Sadie does. 

The jolt of pleasure that twinges through her hips at the slightest pressure startles her. The breath stutters in her chest. She almost stops entirely, suddenly terrified with herself and what she’s doing. She has never even imagined such a thing before, touching herself this way. Like a jug of water that has sprung a leak, her courage begins to fade, fast. 

She fights not to panic. She is alone, she reminds herself; there is nobody here to judge her. Not now, and not here in this bed—her and Sadie’s bed. She shouldn’t be afraid.

Sadie; she thinks of Sadie. It helps, and she tries again. 

Touch yourself like I touch you.

Mary finds that when she and Sadie make love, she likes it very much when Sadie slips her rough-worn fingers deep inside of her, and likes it more when Sadie simply rubs at the outside of her in measured circles, or back and forth over her crux, or licks her all over with a wicked tongue, but trying to push her own fingers inside herself at this angle is awkward, and Sadie’s wicked tongue is miles away in Valentine, so Mary settles for rubbing at herself in slow, steady circles. Dangerously quickly, her hips are following the motions, the rasp of her skin against the sheets loud in the quiet of Mary’s room.

Her mind spirals, as if unable to comprehend what is happening; she imagines Sadie there, that she is the one touching her like this, or—Heavens above—watching Mary do it to herself. That thought alone makes her thighs quiver, and quite suddenly she is wet enough to squirm. A warm thread of dew rolls down her leg and soaks into the mattress beneath. 

Decent women don’t do this, she’s sure. If they did, they would never leave their beds. It would drive them mad like it is her. 

Everything inside Mary is gathering up, twisting in on itself until she feels as if she has become a great big tangle of snarls and knots, and all she needs do is pull a single thread the right way, and the whole thing will unravel.

I want you to scream like I make you scream.

She turns her face into her pillow and gasps Sadie’s name into the feathers—to scream is too much, but she can manage this, at least. Her fingers work quicker down below, circling faster, tighter, harder. With her free hand she touches gently at a covered breast, passing her knuckles over the aching hardness of her nipple under the thin cloth. Just that sends a quivering bolt down to her groin. She rasps for air. She is shaking so hard the bed shudders as if in sympathy. Her fingers blur between her thighs.

And then, when I come home at last, I want you to tell me all the things you did, and make me do them to you myself.

The thread is pulled, and Mary unravels.

Her back jerks. Her damp hand clamps into her wetness. Her belly tingles. A long, drawn out whimper falls onto her pillow. She thinks again of Sadie, feels her body hitch once more—

Afterwards, she collapses against the mattress, boneless, and tries to catch her breath. She is slick with sweat and all a-throb below the waist. She does not feel as good as she usually does when Sadie is there, in bed with her, but she does feel… relieved, to some degree. Sated. A little less like a wild animal in a menagerie, pacing its cage, ready to attack. 

The inbred shame of what she’s done, Mary knows, will come later, creeping in with the morning sun, though she will do her best to fight it. For Sadie, if not her own sake. But for now she’s tired, and sleep comes easily enough as her racing heart goes sluggish and slow and calm.

She dreams of Sadie, and wakes lonely for her and aching once again. Between her legs she feels faintly swollen and sore, but the urge to touch herself again is not there. Instead, heavy with want, she gets out of bed, and sits at her desk in the dark. She lights a single candle, and by its meager light fumbles for paper and pen. Dazed and half-asleep, she composes a letter to Sadie that she knows already she will never send. 

Sadie, she begins. Words cannot express the way you make me feel at times, but I will try my best to help you understand. In a world where I have always felt so afraid and unsure of myself, you give me courage. You have never been shy in your love for me, or in things you wish for us to explore, so in return, I will let myself be bold as well. You make me curious and wanting of so many things.

The words come hazy and quick. Mary’s first few wants are simple. I want to hold your hand in town and not be afraid. I want to braid your hair in the mornings. I want to kiss you where people can see without care.   

Her thoughts thicken, like warmed syrup, growing more explicit. I want you to have me until I can’t take it anymore, until I beg you to stop. I want you to turn the world upside down for me. I want your wonderful fingers, I want your beautiful mouth.

The next time I see you, she writes, I want to try something new. I want to taste you for the first time, and I want you to hold me down and ride my mouth the way I see you ride that saddle of yours so well. We will ache together.

She dares not read the letter, afterwards. It is, if Mary is being honest, complete filth. Some of the most depraved things she can imagine, not fit for the eyes of another. Before she can rip it up or burn it, she folds it clumsily, finds an envelope, and stuffs it inside. On the front, she writes in a shaky hand the name of its would-be recipient; Sadie Adler. Then she looks down at it and laughs at herself. At her utter foolishness and audacity.

The letter, she puts in her desk drawer, and then she stumbles back into bed, still partially asleep.

—

Only two days later, Mary hears the loud thud of footsteps on her porch and her heart leaps into her throat. Sadie is not expected home for at least another week. Still, a kindle of hope alights in her chest—perhaps Sadie’s work ended early, or she decided against one of the jobs, or picked up a simpler bounty closer to New Austin. Giddy with the idea, Mary darts from her living room, where she had been tidying, and runs to answer the door in her stocking feet, pausing momentarily when she hears a cadence of knuckles against wood—her visitor is knocking, she realizes, which is odd, as Sadie wouldn’t knock, she would simply walk in and call out to Mary—but she is already there at the door, and reaches out and twists the knob and throws it open—

It isn’t Sadie.

Jamie, her dear little brother, smiles down at her. He seems to have somehow grown even taller in their time apart. He has a full head on Mary now. His shoulders seem broader as well. Perhaps it is because he now stands proudly, where before he had always seemed trapped in a cowering half-cringe, like an animal used to mistreatment. The beginnings of a beard darken his squared chin, and his hair is neatly combed. He looks so well.

The heady anticipation at the prospect of seeing Sadie disappears abruptly, and in its absence comes a swell of overpowering happiness.

“Jamie!” she cries, and lunges forward to hug him. He is a solid, sturdy thing in her arms, nothing like the boy who was always crying and running to her when they were younger. 

“Surprise, Mary,” Jamie says, hugging her back, and what a surprise it is. At his feet is a heavy-looking suitcase. A dapple-gray gelding Mary didn’t even hear approach the house is hitched by Bela’s stall, nibbling on a haybale.

“You—you didn’t tell me you’d be visitin’!” says Mary. “Oh, my house is a mess!”

Jamie laughs. “I can leave n’ come back—” he jokes, pretending to reach for his suitcase, but Mary grabs him by the arm, laughing as well, and pulls him inside, and soon enough, her empty house is filled with laughter and light.

They sit and talk for hours about everything and anything, until Mary is hoarse and Jamie begins to droop from his long travel from Saint Denis. His apprenticeship in the city is going well—so well, in fact, his employers have given him some well-earned time to visit Mary for a week. Mary is beyond delighted; an entire week with her little brother, after so long apart! Only one person could make her as happy, and, as Mary is terribly aware, she is currently and unavoidably away.

It’s late when she puts Jamie up in her guest room, and over the next few days, they spend nearly all their available time together, catching up on each other’s lives. Jamie’s work in Saint Denis sounds busy but thrilling, while Jamie seems slightly envious of Mary’s slow, quiet home out here in New Austin. He invites Mary to visit him sometime in the future, which she accepts without hesitation.

They go on peaceful walks and horse rides together, following shallow streams and trickling brooks as Mary points out notable landmarks and her neighbor’s distant ranches and properties. Mary even takes him hunting once or twice, showing Jamie the tricks Sadie taught her over the past few months; how to step lightly and follow tracks and listen for movement and draw a bead on a critter from a distance. When she shoots a grouse half a field away, and up in a tree besides, her little brother seems impressed, and Mary preens.

They go into town, just to visit the stores, browsing wares with interest but not buying much, content with simply spending time with one another. Jamie takes her to the moving pictures, and then they decide to have a photo taken, so Mary can have one in a frame at her house—she already has a few of Arthur, Barry, and even one of Sadie, hidden in her bedroom—and afterwards, they have a nice dinner at a restaurant to celebrate.

At home, Mary cooks the hardiest of meals for Jamie and in return lets him work on odd jobs around her property, like fixing her dilapidated fence, patching spots on her roof that seem ready to leak, and mucking out her barn. 

Jamie brought presents with him from Saint Denis, and gifts Mary with exciting new books from the big city. As thanks, Mary helps him shyly compose letters to a girl he is sweet on, back home, the well-bred daughter of a business associate; though he seems embarrassed at first, he is encouraged by Mary’s ability for flowery prose, and once they’ve finished, the single white page filled with Jamie’s wide, neat hand, Mary is sure the girl will be pleased to receive such a nicely-worded letter from a young man with nothing but good intentions.

(Good intentions, if somewhat misplaced at times, as Mary soon discovers, when Jamie asks her one morning if she has any mail to send out, as he plans to head into town to send off his own carefully written letter to his newly prospective sweetheart. Busy cooking breakfast, Mary directs Jamie upstairs, where she’s left a letter to the bank in her desk, and listens distractedly to her brother’s footsteps pacing her room above. She hears shuffling, the muffled clap of a drawer shutting, and then Jamie, letter in tow, returns downstairs, eats with her, and then departs.

It’s only after he’s left that Mary realizes what she’s done, and races upstairs.

Her letter to Sadie is gone.

Mary nearly upends her entire desk in her frantic search for the damned thing. She completely removes her desk drawer and empties it onto the floor, going through each slip of paper with a fiery determination, sure she’s mistaken, sure that Jamie wouldn’t take a letter she didn’t mention. In the end, however, she cannot find it.

She is in a state of fright until she hears Jamie returning, more than an hour later. She meets him at the door, feeling rushed and sick in turns.

“Jamie.” Mary pauses, fights not to let her obvious panic show in her voice. “The letter. The letter—in my desk. Where is it?”

"I mailed it t’ the bank,” says Jamie, sounding slightly concerned, eyes wide at Mary’s tone. “Just like you asked.”

"Not that one,” Mary says quickly.

"Oh,” says Jamie, and suddenly he smiles. “You mean the one t’ Missus Adler?” Mary’s heart almost stops. He did take it. Oh, no. “I mailed that one, too. Thought I’d do you a favor, save you a trip into town.” His smile fades at the mounting look of horror etched onto Mary’s face. “...Sorry. Should I not’ve?”

Mary schools her expression, forces a stiff smile. “It’s fine,” she says.

It is not fine. If Sadie sees that letter—

“Alright,” says Jamie. He hesitates. Follows Mary into the house as she steps from the doorway. “Say, who’s Missus Adler, anyways? One a’ yer neighbors?”

“No. She's a... “ Mary struggles for a moment. “A friend.”

Mary has never been a good liar—then again, this is not, exactly, a lie. She and Sadie are friends. That they are also lovers is beside the point.

Thankfully, it’s left at that, Jamie soon forgetting his hasty mistake, though from that morning on, Mary’s stomach is filled with a heavy dread. She should have ripped that letter up the other night. She shouldn’t have written it at all. Now she can only hope the post won’t reach Sadie in time, or find wherever the woman has wandered off to. Oh, please, let it be lost to the mail. Let it simply cease to exist.)

Mary refuses to let something as small as a letter—no matter what is written inside—ruin her time with her little brother. She puts it from her mind, and determines herself to enjoy Jamie’s company fully.

At his suggestion, they take a day to visit Arthur, boarding the train early to Bacchus Station before making the slightly strenuous walk up to his marker by late afternoon. Jamie takes Mary’s hand and helps her along when she grows winded. Together, they stand before Arthur’s grave and talk of him fondly, revisiting old memories and settling lingering debts of apologies and gratitude before eventually returning home. 

Mary, as the days progress, finds herself amazed with her little brother’s growth. Not simply physically, either. While Jamie may still be her sweet boy inside, he has since grown into a good, kind-hearted man, the likes of which she is fiercely proud of. She wishes Arthur could see what he’s become. He would be proud as well. Mary is sure the other man certainly had something to do with that; if he had not helped Mary when he did, where would Jamie be now? Lost and afraid? Dead? Or worse, a criminal, bent only on hurting others?

Where would Mary herself be, if not for Arthur? Without Sadie, surely. Alone. Destitute. Heartbroken. Thankfully, Mary is none of these things. Fate had intervened, that day at Arthur’s grave when she met Sadie Adler, and for that, Mary is most thankful of all.

—

Before Mary knows it, the week has almost come and gone. Jamie is set to leave in only two days. Mary already misses him, though she takes comfort in how well he seems, how confident and capable he has become, without her. He doesn’t need his big sister anymore to coax him through life. 

Their morning starts off quiet, a modest breakfast followed by chores. By late afternoon, Jamie is cutting firewood out back to add to Mary’s stacks behind the house and Mary is tending to Bela and Frisk—Jamie’s horse—in the mare’s open-stalled barn when she hears the thud of familiar hoofbeats plodding up her road, and her head jerks up, all the breath driving from her lungs as her stomach swoops and pulls sharply.

Awash in the bleeding rose-pink light of the lowering sun, a figure on horseback approaches, and this time, through Mary’s squinting eyes she sees it really is Sadie Adler; head down, shoulders slumped, hat pulled low, reins held in loose hands, dust-chapped trousers astride an equally-weary looking Bob.   

Mary’s heart fills her throat at the sight. She thinks fleetingly of her letter in the mail, if it perhaps reached Sadie after all, but then Sadie’s head sways up, and she spots Mary by the barn. An enormous, happy, tired smile breaks across her travel-worn face—not the teasing sort, just one filled with shameless love, and Mary is at once relieved. If Sadie had the letter, she would be insufferable, not sweet. Oh, thank God. Perhaps it did get lost in the mail after all. 

Sadie heels Bob a bit faster toward the barn, then throws her legs over his arched neck and slides from her saddle before the horse have even come to a complete halt at his stall, as if she simply cannot wait to get to Mary. Crooking a thumb into her belt by her jingling holsters, Sadie strides up to her, the weary smile on her face growing with each step. She looks ready to swoop Mary up into her arms and kiss her senseless. Mary wants it, oh, more than anything—

—and then she remembers Jamie, just out of sight, behind her house. Her little brother, who knows nothing of this rough, bounty-hunting woman nor the place she holds in Mary’s heart. If he sees them—

Sadie is still grinning. She reaches Mary and puts an arm around her, leaning forward with a low, content sound, and then stops suddenly when she spots Frisk next to Bela, brow puckering in confusion. The sharp crack of an axe splitting a piece of firewood in two echoes from the backyard, and as if on instinct, Sadie’s hand snaps from Mary’s back down to palm the butt of her revolver.

“Who—?” she starts.

“Jamie,” Mary says quickly. 

"Yer… Yer brother?” The feral, protective light in Sadie’s eyes fades. She takes a brisk step back from Mary, shoulders gone tight and rigid, looking, for the first time that Mary can recall, terribly unsure of herself. Mary does not like the sudden distance between them, but finds herself similarly unable to breach it. Sadie flicks her gaze between Mary and the backyard. There is another crack of firewood splitting. “Y… y’wan' me t’go?” she asks lowly, voice a rumbling husk.

For only the barest of moments does Mary consider it, and feels a coward anyways. There is still time; Jamie has not seen Sadie yet. The moment he emerges from the backyard and spots her, this stranger he does not know, things will change, for all of them. Jamie will ask questions, and Mary will have to answer them in person rather than in letter, where she could plan exactly what to say, down to the very last word. This, here and now, is her chance to avoid all that, by sending her lover away before she can be discovered.

But, no. Mary refuses to break Sadie’s heart, and her own, by doing such a hurtful thing. She will not send Sadie Adler away like she is some dog, a thing to be beckoned and dismissed according to Mary’s needs or fears.

She grabs Sadie’s hand in a grip that turns her fingers white from the force. “Stay,” she whispers. Sadie looks into her wide, pleading eyes, swallows thickly, and nods.   

Oh, Mary missed her. Two weeks without, and now, with Jamie here, they can’t hug or kiss each other as they would so freely. It pains Mary to realize this. With a glance behind her shoulder—another crack of firewood tells her Jamie is still busy—she yanks Sadie further into the barn, where they will not be seen.

It’s dark, and smells powerfully of horse and hay, but Mary sees and smells only Sadie; the glint of her coyote eyes, the stink of those awful cigarettes of hers, the flash of her smile, the soft, familiar musk of her unwashed skin. Mary embraces her tightly, unable to dare more, even hidden as they are. Sadie copies her, squeezing until Mary is lightheaded from want of air. She tucks her face under the crook of Sadie’s jaw, breathes her in, and aches. This is nowhere near enough, and yet it is all they have, for now.

“I missed you,” she says into Sadie’s neck.

The wiry-strong arms around her tighten. “Mary,” Sadie husks in her ear. Her lips brush Mary’s temple. “Sweet gurl.”

Mary could weep for the way those two words make her feel. She wants to hold Sadie forever, to take her into the house and have her in their bed. She wants to—

“Mary?” she hears suddenly. 

At once, she and Sadie jolt away from each other, just as Jamie walks into the barn, Mary’s axe held low at his side. He’s flushed from the exertion of chopping, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and sweat dotting his brow.

“Y’think—” he starts, and sees Bob’s hulking figure beside the other horses, and then Sadie, by Mary. His eyes dart from her hard, brow-scarred face to the twin revolvers hanging from her hips and the gloved hands beside them. His shoulders square in alarm. As a boy, he might have panicked and started shouting for Mary to explain herself—but now, as a grown man with patience and care, he doesn’t demand to know who this stranger is, or what she’s doing here. He simply waits for Mary to speak.

“Jamie,” says Mary carefully. “I—I’d like you to meet someone.” Clearing her throat nervously, she gestures at Sadie. “This is my… my friend.” The words feel wrong in her mouth, but they are all she has. For now. For now, she tells herself. “Sadie Adler.”

Sadie, ever the rogue, tips her hat at him cordially enough, but does not extend a hand to shake, perhaps thinking Jamie will not want to do so. To Mary’s surprise, however, Jamie himself steps forward, hand outstretched. Sadie takes it in a firm grip, looking steadily up at the taller man. 

“Adler?” Jamie says, with cautious familiarity. He must remember the name from the letter he accidentally sent the other day. He releases Sadie’s hand and looks at Mary, then back at Sadie. Good manners win out. “How d’you do, Missus Adler?”

“Well ‘nuff,” Sadie grunts. Mary notices she has put a distance between herself and Mary and does not seem keen on closing it. A necessary thing, she knows, yet she cannot help feeling empty and cold without her.

“How d’you two know each other?” Jamie asks, sounding doubtful yet curious.

“Arthur,” Mary says, with an air of respect for the man who saved all three of them in one way or another; Sadie from a life of vengeance, Jamie from a cult, and Mary from having to watch him die, or die with him, trapped along with that gang of his. “Sadie was a… a good friend of his. She ran with the Van der Lindes for a time.”

“Oh,” says Jamie. Mary knows, by his inflection, that he is thinking of all the crime the Van der Lindes have ever committed, and wondering how many of those heists or bank robberies Sadie herself participated in.

“Don’ do none a’ that no more,” says Sadie gruffly. “Ah’m a boun’y hunner now. Respect’ble.” She shares a quick, private grin with Mary. “Well. Near ‘nuff.”

Mary stifles a giggle. Jamie frowns faintly. “I see,” he says, though he still sounds confused. “So you’ll be… stayin’ fer supper, then?”

Sadie glances at Mary in askance. This is another chance, Mary sees; she could have Sadie stay for supper, and then send her off afterwards, to wait in town until Jamie has left for Saint Denis. Sadie’s expression is blank. Calm. It’s clear she will do whatever Mary says without complaint. The smart decision, Mary knows, is to keep their distance. And yet… 

Mary clears her throat again. “Actually, Missus Adler will be stayin’ with us a few days. She’s had a hard ride. Only polite to put her up for a night or two.”

Looking as puzzled as ever, Jamie nods. Sadie’s expression does not change, but Mary can see, in the set of her jaw and the gleam of her eyes, that she is pleased, despite the danger they have now walked themselves into. They will have to be careful; of the two, Sadie and Jamie, Mary could not bear to lose either. She hopes she will not have to.

—

Dinner is a quiet affair. Sadie has brought venison, freshly shot, and with it, Mary cooks a thick, bubbling stew and a crusty loaf of bread to be eaten alongside. It is easy for her and Sadie to fall into their usual rhythm of a comfortable home life together—as Mary cooks, Sadie fetches ingredients for her from their respective cupboards, moving about the kitchen as only one who has spent much time within can. As the stew boils and Mary chops vegetables, Sadie tends the fire expertly so their meal won’t burn, then wipes and sets the table without prompting. 

Jamie watches them all the while with a somewhat critical eye. Nervous, Mary has to tell herself it is not because he is suspicious, and that she is simply being paranoid. Still, by the time they are all seated and served, her heart is beating quicker than usual. Beside her, Sadie seems comfortable enough, smoking idly. Under the table, she touches Mary’s hand, once, as if in solidarity, and Mary takes what strength she can from that fleeting brush.

Then, while they are eating, Jamie asks, quietly, “So, ya’ll do this often?”

Mary swallows wrong, and has to clear her throat. Sadie puts her utensil down, back stiff. They look at him, then each other.

“Just... sure seems that way,” Jamie goes on. 

“I… I suppose,” says Mary lightly. “Sadie’s a… a good friend of mine. She visits me, whenever she’s in the area.”

Sadie grunts in agreement. Her face gives away nothing. She meets Jamie’s eyes without blinking, then returns to eating her meal as if nothing is wrong. Mary’s stomach has turned, but she forces herself to do the same.

The tension in the room remains for a time. Conversation returns when Jamie asks Sadie polite questions about her line of work. Sadie answers as she always does; brusquely, though with more patience than usual, as though she is trying to make an effort in establishing a good impression on her lover’s little brother. Mary hides a small, appreciative smile behind her spoon.

Soon, they are scraping their bowls with the last of the bread and yawning, the homestead winding down for an early night’s sleep. Sadie, Mary knows, is exhausted. Mary fetches her water for a bath and cleans the kitchen while Jamie reads in the living room. Afterwards, Sadie emerges in fresh clothes and damp hair tangled across her shoulders, and heads outside to put the horses away for the night. Jamie watches her go with a slightly sour look on his face, as though someone has taken something from him—he has been the one tending their horses before bed all week. Mary almost wants to smile again, but settles for patting his shoulder.

“You head up now,” Mary tells him. “I need to settle Sadie down here for the night.”

Jamie hesitates. “I’ll stay up a bit longer, I think.”

Dismayed that this means she won’t get to kiss Sadie goodnight, Mary simply nods, resigned. She can’t exactly order Jamie upstairs without him growing even more suspicious. Swallowing down her disappointment, she arranges the living room so there is a space among the furniture for Sadie’s bed roll, and finds a lamp for her to use if she wants to read. Sadie walks in just as she finishes. 

Mary can’t stop herself from touching Sadie’s shoulder with her fingertips. Her hand aches with want for more. “Good night, Sadie,” she says softly, and then pulls away. It nearly hurts.

Seeing Jamie lingering on the stairs, Sadie only nods. There is a flicker of pained longing in her eyes. “G’night, Mary.” She nods at Jamie. “G’night, Mr. Gillis.”

“G’night, Missus Adler,” Jamie replies. He walks Mary up the stairs, oddly silent, and watches her enter her bedroom, face blank. Mary tries to give him a reassuring smile, just before she closes the door, but can’t muster one. The snick of the knob is loud in the silence of the house. Her bedroom feels big and cold and empty as she undresses, listening to the faint sounds of Sadie one floor below, moving about the living room. In her nightshirt, Mary, heartsick, creeps into bed and snuffs the light.

Sleep does not come. For a long time, Mary only lays there, breathing steadily, hands folded over her chest and a growing tingle of anticipation in her belly. She feels as though she is waiting for something, and yet fears it at the same time.

More than an hour later, she hears it; the nearly imperceptible sound of a foot on the stairs. Her heart immediately begins to pound. She prays Jamie is asleep, that he will not wake and leave his room to investigate the faint noise. Suddenly she is a young girl again, sneaking around with Arthur, who her parents had always disapproved of—half thrilled, half terrified.

The board just outside her room creaks softly. Mary holds her breath. Her door opens with a whisper and closes with a sigh. Only a few seconds later, the covers lift and a warm body slides into bed with her. Oh, Sadie. Mary turns into her with a muffled sob rising in her throat for her longing.

They don’t speak. In the white of the moonlight shining through the nearby window, Sadie’s face is fierce with hunger, and Mary trembles from the sight. Sadie rolls her to her back and presses the heavy length of her body onto Mary, kissing her furiously. Her rough fingers pull Mary’s nightshirt up past her hips, her naked thighs already so sensitive it makes the sheets feel as though they are covered with prickly straw. With her other hand, she palms Mary’s clothed breast, twisting at her nipple through her shirt. Mary realizes this is not terribly dissimilar to how she touched herself a week ago, and practically convulses at the thought. Sadie swallows down her strangled moan with her rough mouth, hushing her even as her fingers dart between her legs and begin to rub her in those quick, tight circles Mary is already so desperate for.

In mere minutes, Mary comes to a hushed, shuddering finish, gasping into Sadie’s open mouth her relentless moans and whimpers. Sadie licks her fingers afterwards with relish; Mary can’t bear to watch—it’s simply too much. Instead, she grips Sadie by the back of the neck and holds her close, and whispers in her ear as she requested, telling her everything she did to herself that night, alone in their bed.

Sadie stiffens at the very first word. Her breath comes hot and heavy. Then her fingers are back between Mary’s thighs, smearing through the mess Mary has made before slipping deep inside her. Mary has to bite her lip not to cry out. She buries her face in Sadie’s unbound hair, feels it stick to her open mouth, her sweaty brow. She quivers and shakes. Sadie’s fingers are relentless, driving into her sopping wetness over and over. Mary can hear it. She flounders, grabs at Sadie over her clothing—her face, her breasts, her groin. She seizes Sadie's crux, cups her, feels the warm heat building beneath her trousers. Sadie gasps, bucks. Somehow, Mary manages to undo the catch at her waist and shoves her hand inside, where Sadie is wet and hot and wonderfully swollen.

Sadie snarls without sound and ruts against her, the hand between Mary’s own legs driving all the harder. Soon they are racing each other to a gasping finish, clinging together, bodies heaving. Afterwards, Sadie collapses on top of Mary with all her weight, and they catch their breath with cramped, shaky lungs. Sadie kisses her, and Mary whimpers. She won’t be satisfied, not after how long it’s been since she's held her, but it will have to do for now.

—

The following day is spent in quiet company. Sadie, who snuck back downstairs to her bedroll long before the sun rose, wakes them with the scent of hot coffee and oatmeal drizzled with honey and freshly-picked berries. The day is mild and sunny. In the lazy heat of the afternoon, they decide to go fishing at a pond a short ride away, and saddle up and head out. Mary rides with Jamie on Frisk—Bela, she’s noticed, has developed a limp that will need to be looked at soon.

At the pond, Jamie and Sadie bait and flick their lines far into the water with enviable skill. Mary is content to watch. As they wait for the fish to bite, they talk and laugh; Jamie seems to have grown a bit more comfortable in Sadie’s presence, helped no doubt by Sadie’s carefree attitude and her blunt, honest nature. She tells Jamie a story or two of her time with the Van Der Linde’s, harmless tales of adventure meant to entertain more than horrify.

They catch three fish; Jamie, two, and Sadie the one, though hers is larger than either of his. On the ride back, Sadie mounts Bob and instinctively extends her hand to Mary. Without thinking, Mary takes it and lets the other woman swing her up onto the saddle behind her. Before she realizes it, she is sitting as she usually does; snug against Sadie’s back, arms tight around her waist. 

An honest mistake, but a dangerous one. Mary dares not look behind her, for fear of Jamie’s face, watching them. It’s already too late to dismount. Then again, is it really so strange for friends to ride together? Surely not. Still, Mary worries, and sweats.

The fish make an excellent supper. Jamie seems the same as he always does; polite, amiable. Mary tries to relax. Again, the three of them bid each other goodnight and retreat to their respective rooms. An hour later, Sadie once more sneaks into Mary’s bed, though they do not make love this time. Instead, they hold one another, and whisper about things late into the night, until Mary has gone heavy and warm and sleepy from the husky lull of Sadie’s voice. She falls asleep clutching at Sadie’s wrist, and wakes early to an empty bed and a bitter taste in her mouth that does not come from the dry morning air, but her own regret and shame, that she should believe this loneliness is necessary.

—

The following morning is Jamie’s last with Mary; to catch the train back to Saint Denis, he will need to leave the house by 9 o’clock. Sadie is out, gone to town early to speak with the Sheriff about prospective bounties. It is an obvious though kindly-intended excuse to give Mary the time and privacy to bid her brother a proper farewell. Thankful, Mary shares a quick breakfast with Jamie and then helps him pack. 

“Sure you’ll be alright?” Jamie asks a bit later, as he watches Mary put together a quick lunch he can take with him on the train, wrapping up a sandwich in paper and string and sliding it into a nearby saddlebag. “I don’t much like the thought of you out here, all by yer lonesome.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” says Mary, without quite thinking her next words through. “I’ll be just fine. Sadie will take good care of me.” It hits, afterwards, what’s she’s said, and Mary feels herself go bright red. When she dares look at her brother, Jamie’s face is still and oddly blank.

Oh, no, she thinks, and her heart sinks.

"Before I go,” says Jamie, sounding unsure but determined, “I—I wanna talk t’ you ‘bout that. About… About you n’ Missus Adler.”

"What about us?” Mary asks, feeling herself go abruptly pale. Oh, Lord. Not here. Not now. Please. A knot of jittery panic fills her stomach.

"Well, just... “ Jamie sighs, as though exasperated. “You know. She… She visits you, n’ stays here. You write her letters.”

Lord. Of course that damned letter would come back to haunt her. Mary is sure Jamie would never break her trust by actually reading it, but still, her knees go weak at the thought. She sways, catches herself on a settee, and sits shakily. 

“Friends write letters,” Mary says weakly. Her mortification has quickly curdled into dread. Jamie’s face is uncharacteristically somber. He sits across from her on a rocker, elbows on his knees.

"Come on, Mary,” he says. “I know I’m young n’ all, but I ain’t stupid.” He pauses, and Mary’s heart stops at his next words. “I—I saw you n’ her, in the barn. That first day. She was… holdin’ you. I didn’t say nothin’, ‘cuz… I dunno. Just ‘cuz.”

Mary scrambles for an excuse, but her mind is utterly blank. She isn’t ready for this conversation. For this truth to be revealed after so long being hidden. She wishes Sadie were there. She wishes—

“We—we were just—”

"Mary,” Jamie says, and Mary falls silent. Her eyes burn and prick with sudden tears. She looks away, ashamed with her dishonesty. She will never regret anything she and Sadie have ever done, or what they’ve built together. Yet the idea that their love could drive her brother away breaks her heart.

"Do you… hate it?” she asks timidly. With what is left of her courage, she looks at him.

Jamie doesn’t seem particularly angry, or disgusted. Rather, he appears baffled more than anything else. “I dunno,” he says at last, and shrugs. Mary sniffles, blinking through the blur of her tears. “D’ you love her?”

Mary expects her voice to shake, but it is steady as a gunslinger’s grip when she says, “I do.”

Now Jamie seems slightly uncomfortable. Mary supposes she can understand. Before Sadie, she had never imagined that two women could love each other, or care for each other the way a husband and wife could, though she is glad to have been proven wrong.

“I guess…” says Jamie, “I guess I just thought you’d always love Arthur. Or Barry.”

"I did love him, Jamie,” Mary insists. “And Barry. Just because I love Sadie don’t mean I’ve forgotten about ‘em. They’re gone, and Sadie… She was here for me when I needed it. She was my friend, first. And then we… we just…”

Jamie is quiet, playing with his hands in his lap. Finally, he says, “There was a feller I knew, back in school. He always seemed sort of, I dunno… Diff’rent. I think, maybe—I think he fancied fellers, or somethin’ like that. And, well, people, they weren’t nice to him ‘bout it. I—I always thought was stupid. Ain’t hurtin’ nobody, him likin’ a feller 'stead of a lady. The world, it’s a hard place. We all know that. If—if someone can find somethin’ or someone they wanna hold n’ cherish, well, who are we t’ say they can’t?” 

There’s a pause. Mary waits, breath held.

"That feller…” Jamie goes on sadly. “I didn’t stand up for ‘im, back then. I r’member feelin’ sorry ‘bout that. But…” Suddenly, Jamie stands, and Mary can see in the broadness of his shoulders and the set of his jaw, that there is no doubt he’s a man now, the cowering boy from before left far behind. “But I want you t’ know if anyone comes ‘round n’ gives you trouble ‘bout you n’ Missus Adler, then—then they’ll have t’ deal with me, alright? You—you tell ‘em that.”

"Oh, Jamie,” says Mary, and sobs. Jamie smiles at her, still looking so young and confused and unsure yet somehow none of those things at all, and she flings herself up into his arms and cries and cries.

—

Late afternoon, when Jamie is gone and the house has gone quiet and still once again, Sadie returns. 

“Mary?” she calls out, when she isn’t greeted in the doorway.

“In here,” says Mary, in a voice that’s gone reedy from crying. 

Loud, quickened footsteps approach the kitchen, where Mary has been sitting for a time at the table. Sadie stands for a moment in the doorway, taking in Mary’s red eyes and flushed cheeks. She goes still, face cold with alarm, assuming the worst. But then Mary smiles and laughs wetly, and she relaxes. They are alone again, and so she strides across the room to Mary and takes her up into her arms at once, kissing her sweetly on the lips several times.

“Y’okay?” she asks gruffly. Mary sniffles and nods.

“Yes, I just… Jamie, he… He’s such a good man, is all.” Suddenly tired, Mary lays her head on Sadie’s shoulder and sways with her for a time. Despite her sore throat, her sandy eyes, the tightness lingering in her chest, she has never been happier.

“How was town?” she asks, wiping her eyes as they separate.

“Fine,” says Sadie, digging in her pockets for something. “Sheriff ga’ me a cupla tips fer a boun’y. Las’ seen down near Armadilla. Ah’ll head that way inna few days.” Mary nods, glad they will still have some time to enjoy together. Sadie goes on. “Then, when Ah wuz leavin’, th’ Pos’master flagged m’ down.” Mary’s stomach drops into her feet as Sadie finally withdraws a battered envelope from her pocket. Mary’s envelope. “Ga’ me this. Guess they cuddin fin' me on th' road, sen'it back. S’fer me, right?” She smiles teasingly. “Thought maybe Ah’d open it wi’ ya—”

Mary lunges, tries to snatch for the letter. Surprised, Sadie jerks it back. A burst of shocked laughter leaves her mouth. 

"Hol’ on now,” she says, and laughs again as Mary tries a second time to grab the letter to no avail. “Mary!” she scolds, and then retreats, the letter held above her head. Mary follows. Soon she is chasing Sadie around the kitchen table like a petulant child in want of her favorite toy. 

"Sadie Adler, you give me that letter!” she cries.

"Whut? No!” laughs Sadie.

A small part of Mary can’t believe they’re doing this. It’s beyond silly. She almost wants to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, but the other, larger part of her thinks she’ll just about die if Sadie sees what’s written in that letter. Desperate, she corners Sadie between two chairs and tries again to grab for it, held just out of reach above their heads. Sadie cannot read the things Mary wrote to her. She can’t.

Still laughing, Sadie twists away, hat knocked askew, arm extended, the other trying to hold Mary back. Mary jumps for the envelope, feels her fingertips catch on the paper, but Sadie pulls it higher before she can get a good grip. When she tries again, Sadie puts a boot behind her heel and trips her backwards, right into one of the chairs, her bottom smarting from the fall. Before she can try to stand, Sadie is across the room, and the sound of paper tearing fills Mary's ears. Then it’s too late—the letter is in Sadie’s hands and all Mary can do is hide her face in hers, mortified beyond belief.

There is a moment of utter silence as Sadie begins to read. A low, drawn-out wolf-whistle hits the air, and Mary flushes hotly, groaning under her breath.

"Missus Linton,” Sadie says, mock scandalized. As if the scoundrel could ever be embarrassed by anything. “How crass.” She chuckles lowly, teases, “Why, this’s th’ mos’ unladylike thang Ah’ve ever read. Ah should…” 

She falls silent, then, presumably reaching the letter’s far more shameless and wanton second half. Mary dares a peek, sees Sadie's mouth hanging open, eyes wide and darting back and forth as she reads on, looking decidedly hot under the collar, her scarred, sun-spotted face gone a deep red. Despite herself, Mary stares. In all their time together, she has never seen Sadie Adler blush like this. She hadn’t even thought the other woman was capable of such a thing.

Only a few seconds later, Sadie finishes the letter. She doesn’t laugh, or joke, or even speak. She merely stands there, as if at a loss somehow, blinking slowly with glazed eyes, letter clutched in her fist, a blank expression stuck fast to her flushed face. She looks, if Mary’s being honest, as if a horse has kicked her. After a moment, she opens her mouth, stops, and then clears her throat loudly. 

Oh, Mary could die from embarrassment. The letter, it was too much. What has she done? How could she be so stupid, writing those sorts of things out on paper for someone to see? Now everything is ruined.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Sadie, I never—I didn’t—” she blurts, eyes squeezed shut, hands pressed to her face. She turns away, ashamed. Behind her, she hears a harsh intake of breath, and then jumps at the thud of heavy bootsteps barreling straight for her. “I—” she tries again, scrambling to apologize, to somehow make this right before Sadie leaves her, or—or slaps her, or—

She gasps sharply as she is caught up into the hard ring of Sadie’s arms and held breathtakingly tight. Through her creeping fear and embarrassment, hope springs into her heart.

“Sadie—” she whispers.

“Don’t,” Sadie rasps, her voice shaking. Mary goes still. “Don’t you ever ‘pologize fer sumthin’ like that, y’hear? Fer… Fer wantin’ thangs.” She takes Mary suddenly by the shoulders and kisses her bruisingly hard, until she is woozy and warm and tingling. When they separate, breathing fast, Mary practically sobs with relief. 

“Ah’ll give ‘em to ya,” Sadie says, the hands on Mary’s shoulders gripping her firmly, refusing to let her run or hide. “Errythang y’want. Y’know why?” Mary shakes her head, gone dazed and stupid from the kiss, from—from everything. “Cuz Ah love ya, Mary,” she whispers. 

Mary’s breath catches in her chest. As many times as it has gone unsaid between them—their love, their commitment to one another—this is the first she can recall of Sadie saying it directly to her face, aloud, and not just through action or letter. Tears fill her eyes.

“I love you too, Sadie,” she warbles. Sadie smiles at her with fond exasperation and wipes at the tears on her cheeks.

“None a’ that, now,” she says softly. Mary sniffles and blinks furiously until her eyes are clear again, though the warm, happy pulse in her chest and throat remain. They kiss. Mary feels brave enough to make her intentions known first, and pushes her tongue into Sadie’s pliantly surprised mouth. The arms around her clench in shock.

Mary pulls away slightly, flicks her low-lidded gaze into Sadie’s with purpose, and kisses her again. “I want to go upstairs,” she breathes lowly against Sadie’s lips.

“Er,” says Sadie, looking uncharacteristically flustered. The trouble-making letter, still held in her fist, crinkles against Mary’s back, and Sadie goes redder. Probably, she is thinking of all the things Mary wrote there. Imagining what it would be like, doing some of them. That it appeals to Sadie rather than offends gives Mary all the courage she needs.

She gathers what she can of that fleeting boldness, and whispers in Sadie’s glowing ear, “I want to taste you.”

“Hell,” says Sadie, and snatches Mary up into her arms.

This time, she runs up the stairs, and Mary is not afraid of falling at all.

—

Afterwards, Mary lies soft and warm and sated in their bed, limbs limp, hair a-tangle, body aching pleasantly, damp with sweat, covered only by a single sheet. Her head is still spinning, and her mouth is sore and swollen, full of the heady, lingering taste of her lover, like nothing she’s ever sampled before. Just thinking about it, and what else they’d done right there in that bed only moments ago, makes her heart thump hard in her chest.

Before, when they had only just begun, and Mary had seen the way Sadie quivered with anticipation as Mary drew off her worn belt and dusty trousers, she had fought not to let her own nerves show. She kissed Sadie, shushed her, undressing her with gentle hands, then pushed her down to the sheets firmly. It was odd, seeing her lover so reserved in bed, yet arousing, making it clear that Mary was, for now, the one in charge. 

She undressed herself, then, and let Sadie watch. When the both of them were naked, she kissed Sadie until they were dizzy and wanting, and then trailed her mouth lower, pulse roaring in her ears. Between her legs Sadie was hot and wet and musky, dew clinging to her lean, milk-pale inner thighs, her straw-colored pubic hair. The warm smell of her sent a pang of longing through Mary’s stomach.

At the first pass of her tongue, Sadie had—well, not exactly screamed, but made a much louder noise than Mary was accustomed to; she nearly jumped at the sound, spooked. Somehow, she managed not to, dedicated to her task—and what a task it was. Mary had tasted herself before, of course, here and there—off Sadie’s own lips, usually, and always with a great deal of embarrassment on her own part—but the taste of Sadie was completely different. Light where Mary’s was heavy. Strangely sweet, with a curling tang at the end. Not at all unpleasant, as Mary had worried.

For all the times Sadie had ever told Mary to scream, and Mary had obeyed, now Sadie was the one screaming instead.

Shy with the memory, Mary smiles into her pillow. Twice, she used her mouth to make Sadie squirm and and gasp and buck there on the sheets, babbling curses and nonsense and long, keening cries. The third time, Sadie came alive and twisted herself around, straddling Mary’s face backwards—ride my mouth the way I see you ride that saddle of yours—and pulled Mary’s thighs apart so she could taste her, too.

Thinking of the way they moaned and jolted into each other’s mouths, Mary refuses, for the first time, to be ashamed of what they’ve done, of the beauty they created, together.

Nearby, Sadie is at Mary’s writing desk, sitting casually in her chair with one leg crossed over the other, utterly naked but for her calfskin hat, which Mary guesses she only put on to make her laugh (it worked, of course). She is writing a letter, pen scratching noisily on the blank piece of paper she’s taken from Mary’s drawer. When Mary tries to prop herself up on an elbow to take a glance at it, Sadie shies away, hiding it behind her forearm and telling her sternly, “No peekin’!”

Smiling only somewhat grudgingly, Mary obeys and lays back down, content with simply waiting and watching her lover sit there so regally at her desk. She could watch Sadie for days—though, sadly, it only takes the other woman a few minutes more to finish her writing and stand, unabashed with her nudity—scars, wiry limbs, tan marks and all.

"There,” says Sadie, sounding satisfied. She rejoins Mary in bed, flopping beside her in the sheets, and hands the piece of paper to her, looking for a moment strangely shy.

Mary peers down at the paper, dashed through with Sadie’s neat handwriting. On it, Sadie has written a letter similar to Mary’s of her different wants and yearnings. Mary looks to her in askance—she is envious of how easily the other woman handed it over, when Mary could not do the same. It had taken a mistake to get the letter into Sadie’s hands, after all.

Sadie smiles at her encouragingly and nods. Mary balks. Does Sadie really expect her to read it right here, while she watches the entire time? Lord.

Mary girds herself and begins. Sadie, of course, starts off foul. 

Mary, my sweet girl, I want to ruin you in every way I can. I want to make you scream until you’re hoarse. I want to please you until the stars burst behind your eyes. I want to have you in every room and then outside. I want to cover every inch of you with my mouth until there is not a place on your body I do not know.

Mary’s face goes redder and redder the further she reads. Beside her, Sadie chuckles lowly. Mary is tempted to grab that stupid hat off her head and hit her with it, but decides to just ignore her as best she can.

The letter’s tone changes. Mary’s heart flutters at the next words.

I want to play my harmonica for you. I want to take you into the northern Ambarino snows and show you what is left of my ranch and tell you of my life there. I want to make you as happy as you make me. I want to be with you until you tell me to leave. I want you to know how much and all the ways I love you.

"So?” Sadie says gruffly, when Mary has been quiet for a time, gazing adoringly at the paper in her hands. “Where y’ wan’ start?”

Mary laughs wetly and smiles at her, holding the letter close to her chest, like a precious thing. “Oh, I have just the one.”