Post by Logan on Jun 10, 2012 4:24:29 GMT -5
The homestead proves to be a ranch on its last legs. The weather has not been kind to the landscape and what has managed to grow can hardly keep a herd of cattle standing. The ranch is running out of feed reserves and the situation is looking bleaker by the day. Still, when two men show up looking haggard and in need of rest, the family opens their homestead in exchange for labor. Honest pay for an honest day of work, and here pay comes in the form of a bed and warm, home cooked meals.
There are worse places to bide their time while searching for leads.
They should have left days ago and headed towards the nearest town when the homestead proved dry of information, yet they are still here working chores. It just so happened the pair arrived when the father of the family fell ill. The homestead needed the extra hands and Logan just didn’t have the heart to leave until they could stand on their own again. He may be a cocksure bastard, but he is a cocksure bastard with a heart. Secretly he thinks he might need the rest from constant travel under the Nevadan sun.
Logan has taken to patching what needs patching – be it the buildings or the fences. He is an old hand at ranch maintenance and it gives him an excuse to avoid the cattle. The bounty hunter may hail from a line of ranchers but that sure as hell does not mean he is any good at it. Controlling a horse is one thing – controlling an army of stupid large animals is another. There is also that damned bull that has made it a habit of charging at the hunter whenever he lingers near a fence too long. Any talk of cattle work, he has kindly redirected towards his new partner, with the excuse of the marshal having skills in gentling strong, impressive beasts. This, of course, was in reference to himself.
Despite the lasting stares and telling jests, Logan has kept his distance from the lawman. Niggling paranoia born from societal taboos likely has both men on guard. The people that live at the homestead are kind and generous, but they are also god-fearing. The hunter figures their faith is what lead them into putting up two strangers in the first place. It is a lesson in temptation that has Logan distracted and making stupid mistakes – like nearly busting his fingers open with a hammer. Fortunately he had been quick to react and the only thing that ended up bent was a metal nail, but the small gaffe left him frustrated. The days have left him anxious. His wolf is running itself ragged pacing circles in his mind, like it’s hungry for something, but Logan is not primed for a hunt. He hardly has the focus to even think about Ned Wallace.
Another day draws to a close. Dinner passes with easy conversation. The father is doing better and should be up and about soon enough. Logan plays the part of the perfect and polite man, all smiles and good cheer. He, as he has taken to in public, avoids so much as looking at the marshal. Plates are cleared, the eldest son heads out to guard the cattle from rustlers over the night, and Logan heads to the room he has been afforded on the second floor.
The night stretches on, the hours pass. Logan lays listless in his bed switching between staring at the ceiling and pretending like his body remembers how to sleep. The house falls quiet and his frustration comes to a head. The bounty hunter quietly makes his way to his window and opens it, looks out into the starry night then turns his attention onto the neighboring pane of glass. Nathaniel Hart’s room is right next to his. The itch underneath his skin is back and it is something so close to longing that the hunter grits his teeth and wills it down. A moment passes, then another. His hands grip tight at the windowsill and Logan thinks to the hell with this, and carefully steps out onto the overhanging roof. He crawls the short distance to the marshal’s window, pauses, and wonders what the hell he is doing. Logan nearly doubles back and crawls into his own room but a surge of bold recklessness seizes hold and has him tapping at the lawman’s window.
He waits there, with a baited breath, like a poor man’s Romeo.
Ned Wallace’s tally of escapes is growing, and it gnaws at Nathan with an unpleasant bitterness, a sting he can’t shake. His inclination is to ride off as soon as they’ve had a night’s rest, once the homestead’s lack of use and information becomes apparent; but his nature, when made aware of the family’s plight, disagrees. That Logan is of a similar mind comes as a surprise, but one the lawman takes in stride – the man is yet a stranger, if evidently a good-hearted one.
Days of endless riding are what Nathan had hoped to avoid, but are certainly not foreign to him, and he settles to the work with a will. Hot, home cooked meals and a turned-down bed each night are ample motivators. Ranching does not run in the marshal’s blood, but his mind is good and his horsemanship is sound; the little grey gelding they put beneath him knows his steps half as well as any human, and they make a decent team. It is a sobering sort of experience, ranging wide with the family’s middle son over miles of empty, desolate landscape for lost stragglers and new pastures – that somehow these people made a life out here, and are having it torn from them through no fault of their own.
Nate thinks he’d take his job any day, bed or no bed, bullet holes and all. The iniquity of man is a reliable thing, and he has learned to enjoy the benefits of continued employment.
But two honest men make their small effort against that tide, staying as long as they do at the tumbledown ranch. Nathan eats little and speaks less, keeping the burden of his care to a minimum – but when he does talk it is friendly, relaxed, and gives nothing away. The marshal and the hunter play their parts as strangers well, because it is not far from the truth, though sunrise after sunset of their charade leaves Nathan feeling uncomfortably on edge. He is bitter, unsatisfied, unfulfilled; the animal beneath his skin wants out, but the thought of a night in the desert seems to bring it no joy. Moments alone – out of Logan’s company – provide the marshal no solace, instead offering only another opportunity for the hunter to wheedle into his head. The night is no exception, and while sleep does not escape him, Nathan rests fitfully, haunted by a silver ghost.
The tap on the window, however soft, wakes him with a start; a learned mechanism of a wary life that has him reaching for his revolver in a reactionary gesture. But the shape silhouetted against the night resolves itself into a more welcome surprise, one that has Nathan rising from the bed in a fluid motion to cross the small room – before he stops himself, hand raised halfway to the glass. The marshal meets Logan’s eyes slowly, in an apprehensive stare, and lets the long seconds tick out between them – like he’s ready and willing to leave the hunter outside, and wants him to know it. But his wolf is awake, now, a burning fire in his blood, and there is no denying it’s desires – Nathan gives in, sliding the window open silently.
”…Something I can help you with?” The marshal’s voice is low, and he leans into the opening with his palms on the sill, bodily blocking any attempt to enter. It is a pointed gesture, one of well-managed control, driving home the point that it’s only by Nathan’s good graces that Logan may be invited in – which he is, after a beat, when the lawman backs away. And though Nate’s voice is calm, feigning ignorance, his heart is a thundering drum; he can feel it leap to his throat and catch, his pulse running hot, and he swallows around it. There is a wickedness in this, one he shouldn’t find alluring.
There are a lot of shouldn’ts about Logan Duvall.
”Or is sneaking through windows at midnight a habit of yours?” Cool, whispered words to hide heated thoughts. There’s seldom few reasons for skulking about at this hour, and Nathan has his preference – one that is revealed in a dangerous, dark gaze, and the subtle pull of a smug smile.
Logan is all confidence and cool devil-may-care attitude, except for when he isn’t -- like now. He is out on the rooftop skulking around like a tomcat and when Nathan shoots him that stare, something in Logan deflates. He thinks he is about ready to tuck tail and crawl back into his room, but the thought of being refused inspires his streak of stubbornness. Logan remains where he is and determinedly meets the marshal’s stare dead on, like there is nothing at all weird about being outside the man’s window at this time of night.
”Just, ah, thought I’d stop by...” It takes the bounty hunter every last shred of resolve to not wince at the lameness of his words. He swallows and draws in a quick breath, waits, and is rewarded with a surge of relief when the lawman moves aside. Logan wastes no time in slipping into Nathan’s room because he does not want to give the man a chance to second-guess his decision. He teeters near the edge of the man’s quarters, remains by the window and stands there awkwardly like he’s looking for something to say. Logan’s eyes drop to the floor before flicking up to meet the lawman’s gaze. He takes to looking at the man like he is either a riddle or a threat – maybe both – but there is no disguising the intent behind his visit. If Logan wanted a friendly chat, he would have used the door.
What he wants is difficult, perhaps impossible, to articulate. A silence stretches between them because, no, sneaking through windows at midnight is not a habit of his, and Logan’s not sure what he is doing here. That is a lie – he knows exactly why he is here. He is just too damned stubborn to admit it. Logan’s wolf has been grating at his nerves since that day he and the lawman woke up in the desert and summarily decided to partner up. The hunter has always been a man to pay attention to the details, and his wolf only magnifies that trait, but as of late his focus has been off-kilter. His focus has been entirely on Nathaniel Hart. He has noticed the marshal’s mannerisms, noticed the way he handles his gun and his horse. And he sure as hell has noticed how the lawman easily takes command of every task thrown his way. Logan would be fine if the reason behind his getting flustered over watching the marshal came from competition, but it doesn’t.
Grey eyes meet blue within the dark of the room and Logan can feel his animal rising. He takes a step closer. ”Been thinking,” his voice is low, hushed, because they are not alone in the house. ”About that day in the desert, when we woke up.” Logan stands before the marshal and he swears he can feel the body heat radiating off of the man even now. This is neither the time or the place for this kind of thing, but Logan can’t fight it. Not anymore. Not with his wolf so entranced and present. ”The thing you said about me. About my wolf.” He is not about to admit to being a lovesick dog but something happened that night, and whatever it was, has Logan entertaining thoughts of rolling belly-up for this man.
Two fingers slip beneath the hem of the lawman’s pants and tug. ”Been thinking – maybe you were right.”
Logan Duvall has projected a certain persona, and has created known patterns and reliable expectations as a result of that typecasting. That the man should appear before Nathan is surprising enough in itself – an admission of need for the lawman, a loss of control that would otherwise seem uncharacteristic – but that he should do so with a tone of deference catches the marshal off-guard. Nathan would not think that submission would suit him, but Logan’s quiet, even uncertain demeanor has something in him rising, a possessive and commanding presence that strikes him with a hungry suddenness – that causes him to regard the man with intrigued, hooded eyes. He stands up straighter, inclines his head just slightly to one side, and breathes out slow.
Though their experiences together have been limited, they have left lasting impressions; Nathan is used to playing off the other man, to feeding his guise of self-assurance with the stubborn edge Logan’s arrogance brings out. But this is new – something he hesitates on before wrapping his mind around, and only then at the flaring, confident insistence of his wolf. With an ease born of practice, Nathan adjusts to the change in plans, abandoning learned rules for novel exploration. There is a profound correctness to this, with the animal alive within him, even as it defies the marshal’s mild nature; but it is not a thing born strictly of humans. He has dominated this man beneath the moon once before, and the beast spurs him to seal the deal, to regain footing in this form and put them back on even ground.
Because Nathan doesn’t expect the hunter to remain docile forever – and he will leap at the chance being offered before he is refused.
The marshal steps forward with Logan’s tug, a physical representation of his willingness, of their aligned desires, and Nate’s eyes slide down the man’s body to linger on those fingers – and then flick upwards to catch Logan’s grey gaze. There is a curiosity reflected in his expression, and none of the cocksure triumph he had expected to fall back on; Nathan will not gloat in this, will not drive Logan away with clever jabs to his suffering pride. Instead, he simply moves forward, driving the hunter before him, until the other man rests with his back to the wall. Much like his wolf, he sees no reason to press an issue when the battle is won.
”About this?” And Nathan leans forward, one forearm braced to the wall, crowding in aggressively. He smiles, resting his free hand on Logan’s hip, and drops his head to the hunter’s neck; his breath is all that makes contact with skin, a determined denial as he inhales deep. Nate thinks that scent might drive him wild; he indulges in it. ”That your wolf likes this?” That hand slides from Logan’s side upwards, delving beneath the man’s shirt to explore skin and trace muscle, to drive his point home with a display of his desire. He will allow his partner to hide behind the guise of his animal, if that’s what it takes – but Nathan wants the man himself to enjoy this before they’re through.
”Nothing wrong with that,” the marshal whispers against skin, and then words are replaced with teeth and lips, scoring against Logan’s neck. Nathan’s hand roams freely and his mouth is hot, his weight solid and heavy where it pins the hunter to the wall; he is heedless of location, of taboos. Any thought spared for the danger in this only spurs him on, spikes a need in him centered on his groin; because if the lawman is already condemned, then there's sure as hell no reason to stop.
Feelings are not something that Logan spends much time analyzing. He follows his gut, and doing this has landed the man in his fair share of trouble, but he has always persevered. When he wants something, he goes ahead and gets it. When he needs something, he makes sure he acquires it. In the case of Nathaniel Hart, need and want have come together to create something impossible to fight. But Logan, stubborn mule of a man that he is, has tried to fight it anyway. Clearly it is a battle he has lost, but as the marshal presses him into a wall, Logan decides this is one failure he can live with.
There is a slow bleed of satisfaction into his gut and the itch under his skin abates enough to provide minor relief. Logan knows now, without a doubt, that this is what his animal is after. It craves and it desires, and Logan has been at this game long enough to know that the best way to control his animal, is to keep it well fed. His focus has been shot, his ability to function dulled – and all because his wolf is the only part of him willing to admit how much they want this man. It is an itch that needs to be scratched and the bounty hunter aims to do just that. Afterwards he will regain dominion over his mind, and his goddamned wolf will shut up and stop putting ideas in his head.
He can justify this anyway he wants, can say he is doing this to control his beast , but the truth of it is-- Logan has more than a passing interest in the marshal. That first night shared is ingrained within his memory, seared there to last.
Hot breath dances over his neck, the lawman’s hands set to exploring, and Logan lets them. Muscles skip beneath rough fingers and Logan draws in a long breath, revels in the feel of intimacy. He can smell Nathan this close and the following visceral reaction born from his wolf nearly has the man reeling. ”Oh, dang.” Two flustered syllables that indicate just how much his wolf likes this. The moment teeth settle against his throat is like a punch to the gut, but in the sweetest, most satisfying way. Logan sucks in a quick breath and releases it slow and with a shudder. He has to swallow to find his voice, blink to find his thoughts. The hunter’s fingers flex and twist in the fabric of Nathan’s shirt and he manages a smirk. ” Nothing wrong with that,” he returns in a quiet and musing tone, like there is a joke lurking in the sentiment. The hunter draws his bearded face against the marshal’s stubbled cheek, smiles against his skin. ”I’m going to hell, Marshal.” If he wasn’t sure before, he’s sure now. ”And I’m taking you with me.”
Logan draws back, meets the man’s gaze for a brief and electric moment, then kisses him. It is not a shy or docile gesture. His lips are hungry, his teeth demanding, his tongue seeking. His wolf may have certain ideas regarding bending over and letting this man breed him like a bitch, but Logan is not willing to let anything go without a fight. He meets Nathan’s aggression with his own, matches him through energy and action. Where the lawman pushes, the hunter pulls. They are lost to a game of tug-o-war involving roaming hands and breathless kisses, stilted groans and quiet curses. It is a test of resolve that reflects the night two wolves met and fought, though this is a much more satisfying dance.
”Bed,” he commands between kisses. ”Unless you want to do this vertical.” Deft, insistent fingers work the lawman’s pants open and it is clear that Logan thinks it’s about time to get things going.
Patience may be a virtue, but Logan isn’t exactly a devout man.
Separating at first light may be too little, too late.
Nathan wakes slowly, comfortably, with Logan tucked up against his chest and an arm wrapped about the man’s shoulders, the rising sun peeking in through the window. His limbs are heavy with sleep, with a supreme satisfaction that’s settled deep in his bones, and his consciousness is lagging and lazy – a state so unlike him, but one he’s in no hurry to escape. What would normally be registered as warning signs, as alarm bells, instead pass unnoticed, and the marshal’s debating the merits of shutting his eyes for another few hours when the reason for his wakefulness finally bleeds into his thoughts.
There are heavy footsteps in the hall, boots that clomp with a purpose and determination – and in a delayed, sluggish reaction, Nathan realizes they have paused outside his door. The knocking that follows shakes the last of sleep from his brain and he sits up, disentangling himself from the other man in a flurry of limbs and a tumbling rush to escape the twisted bedsheets; the marshal shoots Logan a wide-eyed stare as he stumbles back into his pants, and jerks his head towards the window. Whatever mistakes they may have made last night would pale in comparison to the discovery of hunter still in his bed.
Shirt open, hair disheveled, and pants askew, Nathan figures he’s already wasted a suspicious amount of time and so cracks the door slightly, presuming to talk his way through enough awkward minutes for Logan to make his exit. What greets him in the hall, however, encourages a swift change of plan; Pa, as it so happens, must be feeling well enough to be up and about, because he’s certainly looking menacing in his nightshirt and boots, his face darkened by a contained and brewing anger. The rifle he holds in one hand is not exactly balanced out by the Bible in the other – and the older man levels Nathan a hard, knowing stare, meeting his eyes unflinchingly.
”I think you and I need to have a chat, Marshal,” are the first threatening words, ”and your friend, too,” and that’s all the encouragement Nate needs to click the door unceremoniously shut. He leans up against it and slides the latch into place with one hand, turning to cast his gaze about for Logan – and subsequently fix the hunter with an expression that would be worried if he didn’t somehow seem so goddamn amused. Because this is, really, just his luck, and it’s easier to take it as a thrill than fret too hard over the seriousness of getting a few holes blown in him. Hell, as long as they make it out in one piece, Nathan’s a pretty firm believer in everything having been well worth it.
”It seems,” he begins mildly, ”it might just be our time to head out.” The marshal schools his face into a refined mask of calm – as though this were the most normal thing in the world – and it only falters slightly when the man outside starts banging his fist on the door, shouting something that sounds suspiciously like Godless Sodomites. A smug, shared little smirk grows on the lawman's lips – like this is all still a game, a challenge he’s pleased to take on with the bounty hunter – and Nathan offers Logan only a slow shrug as his eyes pull back to the open window; to the rooftop and empty landscape beyond. ”…and maybe not by the front door.”
The morning draws in and Logan does not so much as notice. He is tucked snoring into Nathan’s shoulder, arm thrown over the marshal’s waist. Logan would deny it, spit piss and vinegar, but he and the lawman are engaged in a little something called cuddling. The comfort and warmth holds onto him and though he is typically an early riser, Logan is dead to the world. It is not until the tail end of those footsteps, and not until Nathan moves, that the hunter shoots up. He runs a hand over his face, wipes the sleep away, and affords the marshal the look of a kid caught out doing something naughty. He eyes the door and then, in an ill-advised instant, is up on his feet and gathering his clothes. The ache in his backside has him limping, which subsequently has him flushing red and cursing under his breath.
Crawling through Nathan’s window for a late-night rendezvous in a god-fearing household was probably not among one of Logan’s best ideas.
The would-be Romeo makes his stilted and graceless exit out of the window and onto the roof. He crawls back into his own room and haphazardly throws his things into a leather pack as he listens to the voice behind the door. The connotation of threat has his hackles rising but instead of doing something brash, Logan smirks. A small, childish thrill grips at his heart and the hunter searches the room for his hat, finds it on a chair and replaces it on his head. In the next moment, he is scrambling out onto the roof and sticking his head into Nathan’s window.
Their eyes meet and there is a shared sense of adventure delivered with a look and a smile. ”Looks like it,” Logan agrees breezily and offers an outstretched hand, then beckons the lawman to him with the flick of his fingers. ”Hope you aren’t afraid of heights.” The roof slants to the point where it is not too awfully far from the ground but the point stands. Together they slide down the incline and Logan stops at the edge and looks over it. Normally the fall wouldn’t give him any trouble but after last night’s activities, he sure as hell is not looking forward to jostling anything.
”Marshal,” he delivers carefully, ”When we get out of here, remind me to beat your ass senseless.” Because clearly this is all the lawman’s fault. Logan takes in a steeling breath and jumps down, tumbles onto the dusty earth and scrambles onto his feet. His body protests but the hunter soldiers through the ache and makes his staggered run towards the stables. Their horses are in adjacent stalls and Logan quickly tosses a saddle over his old mare’s back. He is rough and quick enough to have the horse agitated. She balks and refuses the bridle, and the gunman is forced into sweet-talking her into behaving.
Two male voices cut into the peace of the homestead. They are yelling about sins and disrespect and righteous justice, and they are getting closer. The hunter tosses a look at Nathan and jumps into his saddle, wincing because, hell, this hurts. ”Let’s get the hell out of here,” he declares with a serious undercurrent because he is expecting guns. Logan spurs his horse into an immediate gallop and they barrel out of the barn like a bat out of hell, nearly bowling over the rifle-toting zealot and his son.
”Thanks for your hospitality,” Logan shouts loud and smug over the sound of thundering hooves. They leave the homestead behind in a cloud of dust and dirt, and Logan gives in -- he laughs. The hunter has been through a lot of crazy things, but this has to be the craziest. He feels like a kid, young and reckless and doing whatever the hell he wants. It is a good, reinvigorating feeling. When the ranch is a distance away, Logan draws the mare to a halt and sends a look towards the buildings. ”Guess they won’t be housing more drifters anytime soon,” he muses but the sentence draws flat when he notices a plume of incoming dust. Two horses, two men, drawing closer and after their trail. ” They can’t be serious. You’d think we’d killed somebody.” The gunman shoots the marshal disbelieving look, tugs at his mare’s reins and ushers her forward.
He hopes to lose them among the rocks and the brush, and hopes that their godly rage runs out soon. Logan has never been on this end of a witch hunt and his backside sure as hell isn’t agreeing with this kind of rough riding.
This is all the marshal’s damned fault.
His few possessions gathered and slung over his shoulder – and his hat safely pressed to the top of his head – Nathan follows the hunter out the window, sliding haphazardly down the sloped roof. Logan may be worse off (a fact that has the lawman grinning), but his own legs are still protesting their sudden abuse, still begging him to drag his ass back to bed and give this whole running-for-his-life thing a rest. Stubbornly, wisely, Nate refuses – and leaps off the roof with a grunt and a stumble while Logan balks, shouting after him.
”Oh, like this is my fault,” he snaps back when the gunman catches up. ”I’m not the one who went crawling around on the roof in the middle of the night.” But one look at the marshal’s face – alight with something close to mischievous excitement, a successful thief stealing away with a valuable prize – undermines the false anger in his voice, and he spares a moment saddling his gelding to shoot Logan a confident smirk. But the voices behind them have his hands working faster, spurred on at Logan’s insistence, and he hops up onto the stocky dun on the move, hot on the hunter’s heels.
But the combination of events – Logan’s mocking words and telling grimaces; the whole goddamned situation – has the marshal laughing along as they gallop off, relieved and exhilarated despite the early hour. It’s a feeling that doesn’t quite abate when they pause, though the men they’ve apparently slighted are mounted in pursuit, and Nathan is still smirking with a quiet confidence as he watches them approach. ”Probably worried we’ll be back for the cattle,” he snorts, shrugging. ”Bein’ godless heathens and all.” Lie with another man, lie with animals; the Bible is pretty good at wrapping all that under a general label of “Damned,” and men are pretty good at leaping to wild conclusions. But Nate wets his lips and boots his horse forward, leaving that moment of idle musing in their wake; he may be a man prone to planning, but overthinking does not suit him. Philosophy pales in the shadow of a thing that feels so right as Logan.
Not that he’d admit as much. It’s still the man’s damned fault they’re in this situation at all – however it amuses him, however worth the risk it may have been.
A gunshot echoes across the air, too close for comfort, and the marshal ducks involuntarily and lies low in his saddle, cursing up a storm. He spurs the animal beneath him to new speeds, lengthening the distance between them in ground-eating strides, and the solid horse responds with a bold show of effort. By the time he pulls them up again, letting the horses pick a more delicate, deliberate pace along the rocky landscape, they are blowing hard and flecked with froth – but free of their tail, so far as the marshal can tell. Nate pats the animal about the withers with a reluctant sort of affection reserved only for times such as these, and dismounts to let the spent creature rest.
”Doubt they could track us, even if they wanted to.” The marshal gives their trail once last glance before giving up, trusting that two ranchers know more about cattle than following a pair of horses through the brush; or at least that their fury has some sort of reasonable limit. Those blue eyes return to Logan, narrowed in good humor, and Nathan smirks slow and crooked. ”Guess we’re even now, though.” And he nods to the gunman’s horse and saddle, smug as anything at Logan’s plain discomfort and holding back a cocksure grin.
”Consider it payment for this trouble, too.” He waves a hand in dismissal, shrugging – because Nathan is a generous, forgiving man, and willing to absolve Logan of the blame that is clearly rests on his shoulders alone.
