Blanket Made of Stars, Part 1 (NC-17, Ryan/Bob)
Title: Blanket Made of Stars
Author: arsenicjade
Fandom/Pairing: bandom, Ryan Ross/Bob Bryar
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Mentions of rape, violence.
Disclaimer: Don't know the boys of My Chemical Romance or Panic at the Disco or Pete Wentz, all fiction. Plot and pretty much everything taken from Catherine Anderson's Keegan's Lady. If you don't like the plot, it's hers. If you do, sadly, it is still hers.
Thanks: To rossetti for the amazing beta, which she did despite having way too much happening in her own life, and for helping me hammer out last minute details even though she was on vaca. Any mistakes left are mine, and most likely because I ignored something she told me to do. Also to doll_revolution for not letting me let go of the idea that I wanted to write Bob/Ryan. Last but not least at all, foxxcub and harriet_vane for running harlequin_bands, without which this would have never been written.
Dedication: This story is all liketheroad's. Beyond the fact that her love and dedication to Ryan Ross matches mine in odd and perfect ways, and the way she held my hand through every step of this story, there is simply the truth that she makes my day brighter whenever I see her sign on to gchat, and that deserves much more than a story. But that's what I have to give.
Author's Notes: Title comes from The Dixie Chick's Cowboy Take Me Away. Yes, I'm serious.
As stated in the disclaimer, this is based off a previously written book. Unlike other responses to this challenge, this isn't loosely based, and it doesn't really deviate, it's pretty much a recasting. That said, I did change slight things--the original novel takes place in Colorado--so if you're having moments of "wow, that makes no sense" it's probably due to an amalgamation of band-canon and book-canon. Additionally, I made the choice to let this remain extremely problematic in the way gender is represented. I think, that due to changing the bio-sex/gender of the heroine, it's a different kind of problematic, but I felt that gender politics being deeply fucked up is sort of an important aspect of Harlequins, and while there are things I changed because they annoyed the crap out of me in the original novel, I left a lot of the stuff that I was like, "wow, seriously?" *eye roll to follow* because I chose to preserve what I think is genuinely a part of the genre. If that's going to bother you, I recommend you not read.
Summary (the first couple of sentences from the back of the book, names replaced): A man of honor, Bob Bryar returned to No Name intending to avenge his stepfather's murder. But when his calculated anger damages the good name of his dead enemy's son, Bryar vows to make amends by marrying Ryan Ross.
Prologue
Bob startled from the nightmare and froze for a second before sighing, melting back into the bed. His leg twinged with long-gone pain, but that pretty much always happened when his subconscious took him back to the night his stepfather had died. It had been happening a lot ever since he'd moved back to No Name.
Bob closed his eyes, but knew within seconds that he wasn't going to be getting back to sleep. He tossed the covers aside. The bedroom was cool, steeped in the night air of Nevada's deserts. It was colder than Bob remembered. He pulled a shirt on, some pants, a jacket and walked out to the Hanging Tree. Twenty years had passed since he'd seen his stepfather lynched on that tree. He'd buried the man next to it that night.
The marker he'd made was gone, perhaps eroded, possibly simply taken by the desert wind. Bob still knew the exact patch of land where he lay. He hunched down next to it, curling over himself and for a long moment, allowed himself to not think, not at all.
After a while he whispered, "I got the land, Pa. I got it."
It was a long time before he went back down to the house, even longer before he was able to sleep again.
Ryan woke suddenly and cringed. It took a second for him to realize that a noise from outside was what had caused it. It took him another second to realize there was still noise--a lot of it. It took a third second for him to remember that his father was dead, and couldn't possibly be the cause. He unwound just the tiniest bit. "Fuck. Fucking Pete."
Ryan loved his older brother, he really did. Pete had been there for him all the times when nobody else in the world had bothered, but ever since their father had died the year before, Pete had seemed to feel the need to keep the bottles of whiskey George had left behind company, and then some. Ryan understood, to a certain extent, or at least sympathized. With Ryan, at least he was the younger son. People didn't seem to expect that he'd follow in George's footsteps, be the "man" his father had been. It was different for Pete as the eldest. Ryan knew the twisted expectation that Pete would turn out exactly like George was in some ways driving Pete to prove them all right: if he could be worse than everybody expected, then nothing anyone said could get to him, or something.
Ryan didn't really care, though. He wanted his brother back. He needed him.
Ryan sighed and went to go see what kind of trouble Pete was causing now. It was late, and nobody else was going to take care of the cattle if Ryan couldn't get up in the morning. The one ranch hand who had agreed to stay on for the minimal pay Ryan could afford was deaf as a post and not precisely in his glory days of cattle farming. Ryan tied a robe over his pajamas, slid his feet into his slippers and headed out in the direction of the barn, where the noise was coming from. He stepped in the doors and started to ask, "What the--" then stopped.
Pete was in the middle of the barn on a great black horse that neither Pete nor Ryan owned. There was a noose around his neck and he was sobbing, quiet, frantic tears. Ryan felt his stomach turn itself inside out. He looked around then, noticing the other men in the barn. He didn't recognize them, which could only mean one thing. They were the new boys in town, the brothers that had set themselves up on Northern Ranch. Pete had lost the land in a poker game with the oldest brother, Bob Bryar, a few months earlier. Ryan had just about shot Pete over it.
Ryan hadn't seen any of the brothers yet, but he'd heard rumors. Bryar himself was supposedly one of the best gunslingers in San Francisco. Ryan didn't know if there was any credit to the rumors, but one thing was for sure: all of them had guns, and Ryan was standing there in his pajamas, unarmed, and, as of yet, unnoticed. He asked, quietly, lest he spook the horse, "What's going on? Pete? What happened--"
There was a quick shifting in the hay and a man said, "He shot my prize bull, is what happened."
Ryan had a hard time seeing much at all at night. A man stepped out of the shadows, though, into the light of the lanterns and it took everything in Ryan's body--and a fierce love of Pete--not to just up and run. The man--Bryar?--was easily twice Ryan's size, and had the muscles and hands to fit. One of the hands was resting on the butt of his pistol.
"Prize--" Ryan looked at Pete, because crazy was one thing, but a prize bull in ranching territory? That was... Well, that was a hanging offense. Fuck. "There must be some mistake," Ryan said, even though he wasn't entirely sure he believed it. Pete was gentle and kind as they came sober, but once he started drinking it was like all the aggression and anger and stupidity that he tamped down on with his rational mind came out to play.
"No mistake," one of the other men said, this one shorter than Ryan, but covered with ink and markings that made Ryan think twice about whether they'd be evenly matched in a fight. He had a gun, too. "I saw him."
"Even if there was some mistake--which there isn't," Bryar said; "It's hardly the first offense. He's poisoned two of my wells, not to mention taken potshots at my hired hands. 'Bout damned time someone taught the boy a lesson."
"Less-- Lesson? He can't learn anything if he's dead." Ryan knew he sounded a little desperate. That was okay, though, since he was actually completely and totally desperate. Pete maybe hadn't been much of a brother the past year or so, but the twenty-two before that nobody could have asked for a better sibling, and Pete was all Ryan had in the world, anymore.
"Maybe he should've thoughta that before he up and aimed at my stud, yeah?" Bryar looked away, as though to give the signal.
Ryan said, "No, please, no, look. I'll-- I can pay you. What-- I can pay you back."
"That bull cost me three thousand off the top and that's not counting the extra two I probably would've had coming through breeding."
Ryan swallowed. "Five thousand dollars?" He tried to keep his voice even. It had taken Ryan the better part of five years to save one thousand dollars, though, and Pete had already managed to find that and swim through it like a creek full of water.
"I'm guessing you don't have that on you, so I think I'd best just be getting on with this, here."
"No, no, I mean-- I can-- How about something in trade?" When Bryar didn't respond, Ryan tried again. "Please. Anything."
Ryan knew he'd miscalculated when Bryar turned his gaze fully on to him. Ryan blinked and stumbled back a bit, despite the fact that Bryar was really nowhere near him. There was a scar running from his eye nearly to his jaw, and in the light of the lantern, his face seemed slightly lop-sided with it. Bryar asked, quietly, "Anything, huh?"
"I--"
"Boss?" The question seemed unsure.
Ryan swiveled and saw another man, one he hadn't seen before, also small, but with the muscles of someone who herded cows for a living. There were so many of them, six that Ryan could see, one of him. Ryan fought to keep breathing. Bryar glared at the smaller man and then turned his attention back to Ryan. "Well?"
Ryan looked at his brother, silent and flushed with shame. Ryan was shaking so hard he was certain everyone in the barn had to hear it, but he managed to keep his voice mostly flat when he said, "Just. Just not here. Please."
Bryar made a noise that might have been amusement and strode toward him. He had a slight limp, but it did nothing to make him less intimidating. It was the hardest thing Ryan had ever done, standing his ground. He made himself not think about what he was doing, not think about how it had felt the first time, being held down, pleas for the man to stop ignored-- He made himself not think. When Bryar nudged him toward the barn door, Ryan stumbled. He said, "You-- You give your word? I do this and you let my brother free."
Bryar said, "You go through with this, and he's all yours." He looked back at the other men. "If you see this one running, hang the bastard." He all but pushed Ryan behind the barn, in the scant space between it and the ranching area. He lifted the lantern and said, "Well?"
Ryan blinked. Bryar made a noise of frustration. "C'mon, show me the merchandise. I wanna see if it's really up to the five thousand dollar bond I'm letting go."
Ryan knew better, but Bryar had said, he'd said-- It took Ryan four tries just to get the knot on his robe untied. He couldn't feel his fingers. He told himself it was from cold, not fear. He told himself the same thing about his shaking, and the sick thud of his stomach in time with his heart. Finally, finally the damn thing came loose. Ryan made himself push it off. Bryar was still just looking at him, unimpressed. Ryan grabbed the hem of his shirt with hands that were shaking so badly he was actually hitting himself. In one motion he tore it off himself, keeping his eyes shut, reminding himself that nothing lasted forever. Even this had to end. It would be awful and painful and humiliating, but it would end, and Ryan would still have Pete.
Bryar said, "I can wait all night. And into the day."
Ryan repressed a sound that was sheer terror and started to push at the hem of his pants. He'd just about lowered them over his cock when a hand landed on his wrist. Ryan couldn't help it, he fucking squealed in panic. Bryar said, "Relax. Seems my boys are ready to go. Guess I'll have to take a raincheck."
And just like that, they rode off, leaving Ryan freezing and half-naked and near to vomiting with fear. It was a long time before he could remember to put his shirt back on, until his fingers could manage the robe, even longer before his legs worked well enough to go get Pete--who was safe on the ground, no rope or horse in sight--and take them both inside.
*
Bob rode hell for leather back to his lands, only slowing when Ray rode up next to him and forced him to slow down. When they had come to a stop, Ray asked, "What the fuck was that back there? What in Jesus' name were you thinking?"
Bob's horse shied from the anger in Ray's tone, his carriage, and Bob couldn't blame it. Then again, he couldn't blame Ray, either. He wanted to answer Ray that he hadn't been thinking, hadn't been at all. Bob didn't lie to his brothers, though. He owed them better. Hell, he owed his hired men, who were looking at him with an uncertainty in their eyes, better. He let out a breath. "Mikey. I was thinking of Mikey."
Gerard frowned, clearly also irate and unsure. "What's Mikey got to do with anything?"
They were all protective of their youngest brother, but Gerard maybe the most so. They all shared the same mother. Bob's mother had had him with her first husband, killed in the Civil War. Gerard, Ray, and Frank shared both a mother and a father with Mikey. Or so they had all thought until tonight. Bob had always had his suspicions, but Ma had always been so firm on the fact that Mikey was her husband's son. Bob wasn't sure he should say anything. He didn't think he could keep it to himself. Sooner or later they were going to send for Mikey and their Ma, and people would figure it out, the same way Bob had.
Bob took a breath. "That night-- That--"
"The night they killed Pa?" Frank asked. Frank was the youngest, and even though Ray, Gerard and he had all been away at the creek, washing up that night, it was easiest for Frank, since he didn't really even have the memory of coming back and seeing Bob work a spade into the ground, over and over and over again until morning, when he'd managed to fill the grave, leaving an unnatural lump on the landscape.
Bob nodded tightly. "Ma, she-- She was desperate. She said, uh. She said she'd do--"
"Anything," Ray finished for him softly. Bob nodded.
There was a moment of silence before Gerard asked, "What are you saying-- Are you saying that they-- That Ma--"
"George Ross raped her," Bob said, trying to quell the roiling in his stomach. "He raped her and then he told them to lynch Pa anyway."
"But Mikey--" Gerard's face was crumbling. "It coulda been Pa, it coulda--"
"You didn't see Ryan like I did. His mannerisms, it's just...uncanny. And you heard him. You all heard him." Bob waited, seeing dawning--if reluctant--acceptance on their faces.
"Well, shit," Frank said softly.
It was Brendon who ventured to say, "But. But Ryan didn't do all that. He didn't hurt your Ma. I mean, it's awful that you had to..." Brendon petered out, biting his lip. It was kind of rare that Brendon spoke up like that.
"I know, I-- Fuck. I don't know what got into me." Bob had found Brendon in a saloon in San Francisco, trying his best to look old enough to even get the barkeep's attention. Bob had bought him a drink and asked what he did and Brendon had said, "Whatever a person needs, I s'pose." For reasons Bob couldn't even explain to himself he'd hired Brendon on. Brendon knew pretty much nothing about ranching, but then, neither did he and his brothers, really.
"Whatever else, this needs to be kept quiet. This gets out, that boy's reputation isn't worth the paper I wipe my ass on." Ray looked at all of them expectantly. Bob didn't miss the shading of disappointment that fell over Ray's face when he looked at Bob.
Bob nodded. He deserved that. He looked at Matt and Brendon. "You know I like havin' you on as workin' men, but if you speak a word of this--"
Matt leaned off to the side of his horse and spit. Brendon said, "Cross my heart."
"All right then," Bob said. "All-- I'll just figure out how to say sorry to him and what's done'll be done. Nobody that much worse for the wear."
They all looked a little doubtful. Bob didn't really blame them.
*
Pete had been too drunk to do anything with him but pour him into bed and take his shoes off the night before, but in the morning, Ryan made some coffee and woke him, not feeling all that sympathetic regarding his hangover. Pete made a face at the weakness of the coffee. Ryan didn't say a word. They both knew they couldn't afford much else. Coffee needed to last, everything did.
Pete asked, softly, "Did he hurt you?"
"No, he-- No. He didn't touch me."
Pete looked down at his cup. "I-- It was like I was just watching, like in a dream. The whiskey, I can't even tell you, it's like I'm not even in my own body."
"You have to stop," Ryan said flatly. He'd given a fair amount of leeway in the situation, but enough was enough. "We've got cattle out there, Pete, that we gotta move this year. We have to breed a new stock or we'll--"
"I know. I know, Ryan. No more, I swear. I made a promise when my neck was in that rope and he was-- I made a promise."
Ryan wanted to believe, he did. He just nodded. He knew too much about men and alcohol.
"I s'pse this means we owe him the five thousand."
Ryan closed his eyes. Five thousand dollars. And a raincheck, maybe. Ryan suppressed a shudder at the thought and made himself open his eyes. "I've been thinking, Pete, 'bout the money."
Pete looked up. Ryan said, "Maybe, maybe after this season we should sell the ranch. I figure that's enough and then we could get outta here. Start someplace new where nobody knows nothing 'bout us."
Pete said, "We can't, Ry."
Ryan bit the inside of his cheek. "I know it's Dad's land and all, but it'll be an adventure, we can go anywhere."
"We can't."
Ryan heard the anguish in Pete's voice. After a second he asked, "Why not, Pete?"
"I mortgaged the ranch."
The world around Ryan disappeared in a high pitched whine for a minute or two. When it came back into focus, Ryan said, "You, uh. What? I thought-- The money you took from me, I--"
"Borrowed, Ry. I borrowed that money. I'm paying it back."
Ryan had heard it before. "The ranch, Pete."
"I just, I got drunk, and I was talking to some of those railroad prospectors--"
"You didn't. You fucking didn't," Ryan said. "We agreed. We said it was wrong, buying that land at dirt cheap prices from fucking dirt farmers for fuck's sake to turn around and sell it at a premium to the railroad. We-- What the fuck, Pete? The ranch?"
"I was drunk!" Pete yelled, and stood, not as tall as Ryan, but threatening in his anger all the same.
Ryan stood his ground. "You gonna hit me? Because if you are, you go on ahead. But you aren't Pa, and I'm not taking it from you. You do it, it'll be the last thing you ever do to me."
Pete flushed and sat back down. "Sorry, just. You gotta be so loud? My head--"
Ryan didn't want to hear it. He slammed his way out of the kitchen, taking care not to catch the door on his way out. The freedom to be loud wasn't something he'd had before this year and he delighted in it. He took some small satisfaction in the revenge as well.
Fuck, the ranch. That meant Ryan was well and truly fucked, stuck in paying off a debt that would most likely take over twenty years--not to mention the mortgage payments--stuck in this town, stuck waiting for Bob Bryar to decide he was ready for that raincheck now, please.
Ryan took a deep breath and started making his way out to the range. There were cows to milk and breed and check for signs of illness. There were cows that Ryan would have to figure out how to get to market, seeing as how there was no rail and he couldn't exactly either send Pete off to herd them there or to have him stay and watch over the ranch in Ryan's absence. They sure as shit couldn't afford to hire someone to do the job for them. These were immediate concerns. The other worries, they would have to wait until later.
*
Before Bob was able to find a way to talk to Ryan, apologize and let him know he needn't worry about the money, he found an envelope in his mailbox, neatly labeled "To: Mr. Bryar." Inside was eight dollars and nine cents, all in change, and a letter.
Dear Sir,
This payment is being made in advance of the month given in order to show good faith.
Ryan Ross
Below the note was an accounting: $5000 - $8.09 = $4991.91. Bob stared at it for a long moment before crumpling it up and pitching it across the room. Since it was paper, it just didn't have the same effect as throwing something like, say, glass, or metal, the purgative crash he was looking for. Nine cents. The five thousand dollars wasn't even an irreplaceable loss to Bob. He would have preferred not to lose the bull--shipping cattle in and out of No Name was still a tricky business, what with there being no railroad--but he could afford to buy another one, and in time for mating season. But here Ryan Ross was, including nine cents into his payment, which told Bob exactly the state of his financial affairs. Nine cents could buy a loaf of bread and some sugar, a carding of fabric or other necessities, if you had it to spend. Ryan clearly didn't.
Bob ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't meant to do this, hadn't meant to take money from a young man who hadn't done anything wrong other than be born to the wrong father. And if he was going to hate Ryan for that, he'd best get on hating Mikey and that, well. That would happen when hell froze over and shat flying pigs from its mouth.
He needed to find a way to apologize, to put an end to this. Bob looked at the pennies, spilled out onto the table. He needed to do it fast.
*
Ryan had been looking forward to the church social for weeks. He and Spencer had spent hours upon hours putting it together for the benefit of the dirt-farmers whose land was being bought out underneath them by railroad prospectors--people, evidently, like Pete. Ryan made himself quiet the thought. Pete hadn't had a drop to drink in four days. He'd been outside, with Ryan, helping to run the ranch during the day, helping around the house in the evening. What was done was done.
The evening of the social, Ryan said, "Maybe, maybe I should just go in and help Spencer set up, come back for a nice evening in."
Pete looked at him knowingly. "Every evening is an evening in for us. You're just worried 'bout letting me get near temptation. You gotta trust me a little, Ry."
Trust wasn't Ryan's foremost talent and Pete wasn't Ryan's singular concern. Church socials were open to everyone, not just church members. As long as he stayed on the ranch, Bob Bryar had to come to Ryan to cash in on that raincheck. Going somewhere where he might run smack dab into Bob seemed, well, idiotic at best.
"C'mon, Ry," Pete practiced his best smile on Ryan, the one Ryan had always been shit at resisting. "You deserve some fun."
Not having the heart to tell Pete that simply wasn't going to happen, Ryan walked back to his closet to change into his Sunday best, the only thing he had anymore that wasn't meant for working the ranch. Ryan touched his fingers gently to the chambray, softened by wear. Pete had bought him the shirt for Ryan's seventeenth birthday. He'd worked for months mucking out stalls at one of the local horse breeders to afford it. Ryan was just glad he hadn't grown much since then. The shirt was a little tight across his chest--he'd finally started to show some definition from all the work with the cows--but mostly it fit him nicely, still. Certainly nice enough for the social. The folks who lived further out probably wouldn't even bother to change out of their overalls. The thought made Ryan smile.
He changed into the shirt and the only pair of jeans he had that weren't worn through in spots--he'd finally outgrown his trousers about two years ago, and hadn't had the ability to replace them since. He took a deep breath, said, "Fun. You deserve some fun," and then made himself walk out to where Pete was, where the horses would be saddled and waiting.
*
Ryan knew something was wrong the moment they tethered the horses. He smiled and waved at Charlie Connelly, whom he'd known since he was five, and Charlie turned away. Pete said, "Weird."
Ryan shrugged. "Maybe he just didn't see me." Ryan was good at shrugging off things that hurt.
When he went inside, though, people who had known him his entire life skirted away as if he was carrying small pox. Spencer found him almost immediately and took him into the kitchen under the guise of needing help with some of the dishes. Spencer was nervous, though, Ryan could feel it in his grip, and as soon as they were alone, Ryan asked, "What's wrong?"
"Ry. I-- I don't exactly know how to tell you this."
Spencer had been Ryan's friend since before Ryan could adequately remember. He was the only person in the world Ryan had ever told about the beatings he'd taken from his father. He was one of only two people in the town who'd ever tried to help Ryan. Ryan said softly, "Just tell me, Spence. It's all right."
"Well, um. Joshua, your Joshua?"
Ryan nodded. Joshua was his farmhand, the one who stayed on for a pittance. "Is he all right? Has something happened?"
Spencer ran a hand over his face. "Ry, he came in town tonight, went and got drunk over at the saloon. He, ah--"
If there actually was a heaven, it was a place with no alcohol. Ryan didn't really believe it existed.
"He's saying Bob Bryar ruined you. He's trying to get together some boys to go and teach him a lesson."
The words took a bit to actually reach Ryan. He put his hand on the counter nearby just in case the dizziness he was feeling got out of hand and he needed something to support himself with. "Oh."
"I hate repeating something like that, 'specially when I know it can't be true--"
"You shouldn't be here, Spence." A ruined reputation was like a virus. No wonder all the other respectable sons and daughters in town had steered clear. "You shouldn't--"
"I'm married, Ry, remember?" Spencer brought up a hand to show off the handsome gold band Ryland Blackington had finally put on Spencer's hand the year before. They'd been school time sweethearts.
"Doesn't matter." And it didn't. The last thing Spencer needed was people saying he was the kind of partner who would cheat on his husband. Not that Ryland would believe it, but that wasn't the point.
"Shut your stupid mouth, Ryan Ross. I'm not leaving you to deal with all those judgmental asses on your own."
"Spence--"
"What part of 'shut your stupid mouth' needs explaining?"
Ryan couldn't help it; he reached out and hugged Spencer. Spencer said, "I'm sorry. I truly am."
Ryan shook his head and didn't say a word. What was done was done.
*
When Bob had decided on the church social as the perfect place to apologize to Ryan--lots of people around, less likely to spook him--he hadn't considered that Ryan would be able to use the people to hide from him. Or, well, should have been able to. Bob frowned as he noted that everywhere Ryan darted, people seemed to fall away, scatter, really, in a sort of panic. The only person who seemed willing to stand by him was another boy in a somewhat eccentric outfit with a face that was almost as pretty as Ryan's, almost.
Bob shut the thought pattern down. He was not thinking of Ryan Ross--of any Ross--as pretty.
On the one hand, the social ostracization made Ryan easy to catch. On the other, it gave Bob a sinking suspicion as to what was going on. Sure enough, Frank caught up to him and said, "Problem, brother mine."
"Somebody squealed?" He was going to kill Brendon or Matt when he figured out which one it had been.
"The Ross's old farmhand. Drunk as hell and raising some 'bout teaching you a lesson."
"Fuck," Bob muttered under his breath. He wasn't sure he'd ever met anyone less likely to catch a break than Ryan Ross. He would have hated having to let go of either Brendon or Matt, but to have someone who'd worked for him for years betray him like that? Jesus.
"Thought you should know," Frank said, giving him an enigmatic look and slipping off into the crowd. Some girl with black hair and a pretty laugh had caught his attention.
"Fuck," Bob repeated to himself, mostly for emphasis, and then returned to his previously scheduled Ryan hunt. It was then that he noticed Ryan had slipped away. It didn't take him long to get outside, discover Ryan haring off on a horse. Bob untied his own and rode to catch up. It didn't take long. Rhythm was a full Arabian, made to run like hell, and Ryan was prancing away on a palomino that looked like it had seen better days. Additionally, there was some sort of pattern to Ryan's riding that Bob couldn't quite determine, almost like he wasn't sure where he was going.
Bob pulled up alongside Ryan and asked, "Where're we headed?" He then felt like a grade A asshole when Ryan startled, spooking the horse and sending them both flying forward. Bob spurred Rhythm faster and caught Ryan's horses reins, slowing them both down.
Ryan said, "Let go," his voice a little breathless, but sure of the command. Bob did. The horse had been slowed enough.
Bob said, "I didn't mean to spook you."
"Staying at the social would have made that a sure thing."
Bob couldn't help but smile. He remembered why he hadn't stayed, then, and winced. "Look, Ryan. I-- I'm not happy with the way we left things the other night."
Ryan nodded once, sharply.
"I just mean--"
"I get your meaning. We're almost to my place. If you-- I made some cookies today. Peanut butter, if you like that sort of thing. Maybe, could we-- Could we have some tea first, do you think?"
Bob frowned. He wasn't entirely sure why he couldn't apologize while having tea, but all right, if that was the way Ryan wanted it, he was owed an apology any way he pleased. "I guess."
Ryan's sigh sounded like relief, which made no sense. He said, "Thank you," his voice definitely shaking on the second word. Bob felt like he was missing something important. In any case, Bob was glad for silence in the last few minutes of their ride, time to consider how, exactly, you apologized to a guy for ruining any chance he had of a good marriage, or even a decent life, really, in the town where he'd lived since birth and probably would until death. At the very least, he had to make it clear that Ryan didn't owe anymore for the bull. It was possible he should maybe offer some money in exchange for-- But no. No, Ryan wasn't a whore.
Bob watched Ryan fumble to light the stable lamp and then take care of the horses before leading them into the house. In the moments of darkness, Ryan's movements were always more careful, less sure. Bob thought, oh, nightblind.
Ryan lit three lamps once they were in the kitchen and Bob held back a wince, knowing how expensive lamp fuel was, that Ryan was probably never that extravagant with just himself there. Bob took a moment to look around. The house itself was clearly in need of some repairs. The wood was worn, the appliances ancient. But over the sink hung green gingham curtains. From the ceiling, a tangled, lush ivy plant dangled. On the table, a dented food tin held wildflowers above a clearly homemade table cloth. It made Bob think of the nine cents, of the way Ryan must have scrimped and saved and gotten creative to make his house feel like a home, make it feel, well, pretty.
"Your rugs are nice," Bob said into the silence. He took a seat at the table, feeling like a giant--a threatening, intruding giant--in the space.
Ryan blinked at him. "Oh, ah. There was a remnants sale last fall. I, uh. I like making things."
Bob started to say something else, but Ryan said, "I'll just-- This won't take a moment," and put the kettle to burning on the stove. There was a sound of distress and something darted out at Bob, claws first. Bob took a startled step back and Ryan said, "Sorry, sorry, she doesn't mean--" Gently, he peeled what Bob could now see was a dog from Bob's chest. Ryan cradled the dog. "Sorry, I didn't know you were under there." He set her down carefully. And said to Bob, "Sorry, she-- I keep trying to explain to her that the stove is dangerous, but Hobo, she-- It's just, she's a little-- And it's a good place to hide."
Bob wasn't entirely sure what to make of all that, so he just surreptitiously set to trying to brush free most of the hair the dog had managed to leave on him. Bob said, "Ryan, it's me who should be--"
But at that moment, Bob heard stomping on the stairs and the next thing he knew, Pete was coming in the door, waving a gun in his face. "How dare-- How fucking dare you?"
The smell of whiskey coming off him was so intense, Bob actually blinked. He was about to go for his own gun, mostly to scare Pete, when Ryan got between them. "Pete, stop."
"He ruined you, Ryan."
"I think I know very well what he did," Ryan answered.
"He ruined you, and now he has to marry you."
Ryan snorted. "Over my dead body."
"Y'know," Bob said. "I think he has a point."
Ryan turned, in shock, and in the moment that it took Ryan to ask, "Are you out of your fucking mind?" Bob had Ryan behind him, out of the way of possibly drunkenly discharged bullets. Ryan struggled, saying, "No, don't, he's just--" but Bob said, "Maybe," in response to Ryan's earlier questioning of his sanity, "Maybe I'm completely crazy. But I have a sense of honor."
Ryan laughed, sounding a little hysterical, and okay, to be honest, Bob couldn't blame him. He wasn't entirely sure why he was doing this himself. Ryan said, "You don't have to do this. There'll be new gossip next week, they'll--"
"Forget the nicknames and the slurs and the way nobody will even touch you for fear of, I don't even know, whoredom being catching?"
Ryan blanched.
Bob swore under his breath. "You aren't a whore. I meant--" He tried to figure out a way to explain, to make Ryan understand why he had to do this. It wasn't like Bob couldn't disarm and take Pete out of the picture if he really wanted to. But if he did that, he would be leaving Ryan with his huge eyes to the mercy of a brother who clearly loved whiskey more than his own flesh and blood, and a town that had already branded him cheap. Ryan, who moved and spoke like Mikey, but with less fire, more fear, more desperation for even the smallest hint of happiness.
There was no way to say that in words, at least not for Bob, who usually just showed people how he felt in his actions toward them. He shook his head, knowing suddenly, but nonetheless surely for it that there was nothing for it but to marry Ryan and hope he could make him see, make him. . .smile? Bob couldn't have said why that was so important to him, only that it was. He took a breath. "So, Pete. Where does a man get married at this time of night in this town?"
*
Ryan was a pretty realistic person. He was generally good at noting the harsh vagaries of life and taking them in stride. All the same, he maintained that this could not be happening. There was no way, no way, that hardly a year after he'd finally gotten free of his father, his brother was forcing him--at gunpoint--into the only legal form of slavery left to a man who could break Ryan with his pinky finger, and, oh yeah, hated Ryan. Ryan's mind simply couldn't wrap around the idea.
And yet, there he was, standing on the porch of the one justice of the peace in town. Ryan had always suspected that Gabriel Saporta had got himself licensed so that he could be privy to the drama of the town's shotgun weddings--the others were generally performed by the Minister--and it galled him a little to be fodder for Saporta. Ryan forgave him a little bit, though, when Bryar asked, "What're your rates?" and Saporta took one look at Pete before saying, "Dollar for a wedding," and then lowering his voice, "Two for the special version, if you know what I mean."
And yes, yes, that was perfect, only as soon as Ryan began to nod eagerly, Bryar pulled out a dollar bill. "We'll take the authentic kind, please."
Ryan said, "No, that's not--"
"Wedding jitters," Bryar said to Saporta. "He loves me. He'll remember in the morning."
The only thing that could possibly happen in the morning would be for Ryan to wake up from this nightmare. Saporta smiled, and reached out to pat one of Ryan's hands. Then he asked, "Porch or parlor?"
Bryar said, "It's a nice night, here'll be just fine."
Ryan had always dreamed of an outdoor wedding. He would have started laughing, only he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to stop.
*
Ryan couldn't really remember the ceremony. He must have said, "I do," but he didn't recall having opened his mouth at all. When Saporta had given him the pen to sign the marriage documents, it had fallen from Ryan's fingers. It had taken three tries just to sign his name. Pete passed out as soon as the deed was done, which was, of course, just late enough not to do Ryan any good. Bryar dragged him from the house and left him on the sidewalk.
Ryan said, "You can't just leave him there. I need to--"
"He'll be fine, Ryan."
"He'll be cold, I--"
"It's a little chilly, but maybe that'll help him sleep it off. He's not your responsibility anymore." The words were sharp, but the tone wasn't. It was, well, if it hadn't been Bryar, Ryan might almost have called it understanding.
Ryan took a couple of deep breaths until he was certain he wasn't going to vomit. When he could, he pulled himself onto his horse and said, "About that. There's something-- I should have told you before, but uh, things happened a little quickly."
Bryar laughed somewhat sharply and started riding. Ryan followed. This was his only chance. If he could get Bryar to agree to an annulment, then they could both walk away, no harm done. Spencer was still speaking to Ryan, and it wasn't as though much of anybody else in this town mattered to him. Doc Walker, but the Doc wasn't one to be taken in by rumor. Ryan hadn't had any real intention of getting married anyhow. Sure, it would make shopping in town and attending church and a number of other things somewhat uncomfortable, but Ryan was used to discomfort, both in small and large doses. He would take that any day over being married to Bryar.
"Well?" Bryar asked.
"Oh." Ryan nodded. "Just, you see, I've already been compromised, years ago. Actually compromised," he clarified, since Ryan's levels of ruin were becoming seemingly complicated. "So, you see, there's no need to marry me and we can get an annulment and everything can go back to the way it was."
Bryar was silent for a length of road. Finally he asked, "Did you love him?"
"What?"
"Or, I suppose it could've been a her, although that's unusual, but you're all kinds of unusual, so, did you love the person? The one who compromised you?"
"No!" Ryan couldn't help the horror in his voice. It would have been best just to keep his tone even, he knew, but the very thought made his skin crawl.
Bryar just nodded and kept riding. Ryan said, "Don't you see? There's no responsibility on your part--"
"We're married, Ryan," he said, just loudly enough that Ryan could hear him over the beat of the hooves. "Best get used to the thought."
Ryan wasn't ready to give up quite that easily, but he quieted for the moment. The road was dusty, and trying to talk over the horses was making his throat sore. They arrived at Northern Ranch faster than Ryan would have credited, but he knew how the mind played tricks with time.
Bob took him inside and showed him around. It was spacious and airy, with gorgeous wooden floors that Bryar explained had three coats of varnish with a pride that Ryan could kind of understand. Bryar and his brothers had built the house from the ground up, despite self-admittedly being fairly lousy at carpentry, but it was sturdy and handsome in a sparse way. Ryan mourned the loss of his colors. His father had never liked color, either. One year of getting to pick and choose what he got to look at in the morning when he woke up just hadn't felt like enough. If he'd known it was only going to be a year, he would have-- Well, he wasn't sure he could have cherished it any more than he had, but he probably would have tried.
There was only one bedroom finished, so Bryar's brothers were sleeping in the barn, and at least there was that. Ryan didn't think Bryar was likely to share him if he had to go out to the barn; probably not, anyway. Ryan hoped. One man was bad enough.
The night was cool and Bryar said, "I'm gonna get a fire going in the bedroom. We can have some hot chocolate while the room is warming up."
Ryan nodded, and waited until Bryar was out of sight. Then he ran. He'd seen a door in the back, if he could just get away for the night, maybe in the morning he could make Bryar see sense. People always thought better after they'd slept some. Ryan found the door, only to discover it was locked. He made a small noise of frustration and kept working at the problem until he managed to pull something loose, and the door flew open. Ryan took one step into the black of night and had just a second to realize that there was no porch. Then he was falling.
Part Two
Author: arsenicjade
Fandom/Pairing: bandom, Ryan Ross/Bob Bryar
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Mentions of rape, violence.
Disclaimer: Don't know the boys of My Chemical Romance or Panic at the Disco or Pete Wentz, all fiction. Plot and pretty much everything taken from Catherine Anderson's Keegan's Lady. If you don't like the plot, it's hers. If you do, sadly, it is still hers.
Thanks: To rossetti for the amazing beta, which she did despite having way too much happening in her own life, and for helping me hammer out last minute details even though she was on vaca. Any mistakes left are mine, and most likely because I ignored something she told me to do. Also to doll_revolution for not letting me let go of the idea that I wanted to write Bob/Ryan. Last but not least at all, foxxcub and harriet_vane for running harlequin_bands, without which this would have never been written.
Dedication: This story is all liketheroad's. Beyond the fact that her love and dedication to Ryan Ross matches mine in odd and perfect ways, and the way she held my hand through every step of this story, there is simply the truth that she makes my day brighter whenever I see her sign on to gchat, and that deserves much more than a story. But that's what I have to give.
Author's Notes: Title comes from The Dixie Chick's Cowboy Take Me Away. Yes, I'm serious.
As stated in the disclaimer, this is based off a previously written book. Unlike other responses to this challenge, this isn't loosely based, and it doesn't really deviate, it's pretty much a recasting. That said, I did change slight things--the original novel takes place in Colorado--so if you're having moments of "wow, that makes no sense" it's probably due to an amalgamation of band-canon and book-canon. Additionally, I made the choice to let this remain extremely problematic in the way gender is represented. I think, that due to changing the bio-sex/gender of the heroine, it's a different kind of problematic, but I felt that gender politics being deeply fucked up is sort of an important aspect of Harlequins, and while there are things I changed because they annoyed the crap out of me in the original novel, I left a lot of the stuff that I was like, "wow, seriously?" *eye roll to follow* because I chose to preserve what I think is genuinely a part of the genre. If that's going to bother you, I recommend you not read.
Summary (the first couple of sentences from the back of the book, names replaced): A man of honor, Bob Bryar returned to No Name intending to avenge his stepfather's murder. But when his calculated anger damages the good name of his dead enemy's son, Bryar vows to make amends by marrying Ryan Ross.
Prologue
Bob startled from the nightmare and froze for a second before sighing, melting back into the bed. His leg twinged with long-gone pain, but that pretty much always happened when his subconscious took him back to the night his stepfather had died. It had been happening a lot ever since he'd moved back to No Name.
Bob closed his eyes, but knew within seconds that he wasn't going to be getting back to sleep. He tossed the covers aside. The bedroom was cool, steeped in the night air of Nevada's deserts. It was colder than Bob remembered. He pulled a shirt on, some pants, a jacket and walked out to the Hanging Tree. Twenty years had passed since he'd seen his stepfather lynched on that tree. He'd buried the man next to it that night.
The marker he'd made was gone, perhaps eroded, possibly simply taken by the desert wind. Bob still knew the exact patch of land where he lay. He hunched down next to it, curling over himself and for a long moment, allowed himself to not think, not at all.
After a while he whispered, "I got the land, Pa. I got it."
It was a long time before he went back down to the house, even longer before he was able to sleep again.
Ryan woke suddenly and cringed. It took a second for him to realize that a noise from outside was what had caused it. It took him another second to realize there was still noise--a lot of it. It took a third second for him to remember that his father was dead, and couldn't possibly be the cause. He unwound just the tiniest bit. "Fuck. Fucking Pete."
Ryan loved his older brother, he really did. Pete had been there for him all the times when nobody else in the world had bothered, but ever since their father had died the year before, Pete had seemed to feel the need to keep the bottles of whiskey George had left behind company, and then some. Ryan understood, to a certain extent, or at least sympathized. With Ryan, at least he was the younger son. People didn't seem to expect that he'd follow in George's footsteps, be the "man" his father had been. It was different for Pete as the eldest. Ryan knew the twisted expectation that Pete would turn out exactly like George was in some ways driving Pete to prove them all right: if he could be worse than everybody expected, then nothing anyone said could get to him, or something.
Ryan didn't really care, though. He wanted his brother back. He needed him.
Ryan sighed and went to go see what kind of trouble Pete was causing now. It was late, and nobody else was going to take care of the cattle if Ryan couldn't get up in the morning. The one ranch hand who had agreed to stay on for the minimal pay Ryan could afford was deaf as a post and not precisely in his glory days of cattle farming. Ryan tied a robe over his pajamas, slid his feet into his slippers and headed out in the direction of the barn, where the noise was coming from. He stepped in the doors and started to ask, "What the--" then stopped.
Pete was in the middle of the barn on a great black horse that neither Pete nor Ryan owned. There was a noose around his neck and he was sobbing, quiet, frantic tears. Ryan felt his stomach turn itself inside out. He looked around then, noticing the other men in the barn. He didn't recognize them, which could only mean one thing. They were the new boys in town, the brothers that had set themselves up on Northern Ranch. Pete had lost the land in a poker game with the oldest brother, Bob Bryar, a few months earlier. Ryan had just about shot Pete over it.
Ryan hadn't seen any of the brothers yet, but he'd heard rumors. Bryar himself was supposedly one of the best gunslingers in San Francisco. Ryan didn't know if there was any credit to the rumors, but one thing was for sure: all of them had guns, and Ryan was standing there in his pajamas, unarmed, and, as of yet, unnoticed. He asked, quietly, lest he spook the horse, "What's going on? Pete? What happened--"
There was a quick shifting in the hay and a man said, "He shot my prize bull, is what happened."
Ryan had a hard time seeing much at all at night. A man stepped out of the shadows, though, into the light of the lanterns and it took everything in Ryan's body--and a fierce love of Pete--not to just up and run. The man--Bryar?--was easily twice Ryan's size, and had the muscles and hands to fit. One of the hands was resting on the butt of his pistol.
"Prize--" Ryan looked at Pete, because crazy was one thing, but a prize bull in ranching territory? That was... Well, that was a hanging offense. Fuck. "There must be some mistake," Ryan said, even though he wasn't entirely sure he believed it. Pete was gentle and kind as they came sober, but once he started drinking it was like all the aggression and anger and stupidity that he tamped down on with his rational mind came out to play.
"No mistake," one of the other men said, this one shorter than Ryan, but covered with ink and markings that made Ryan think twice about whether they'd be evenly matched in a fight. He had a gun, too. "I saw him."
"Even if there was some mistake--which there isn't," Bryar said; "It's hardly the first offense. He's poisoned two of my wells, not to mention taken potshots at my hired hands. 'Bout damned time someone taught the boy a lesson."
"Less-- Lesson? He can't learn anything if he's dead." Ryan knew he sounded a little desperate. That was okay, though, since he was actually completely and totally desperate. Pete maybe hadn't been much of a brother the past year or so, but the twenty-two before that nobody could have asked for a better sibling, and Pete was all Ryan had in the world, anymore.
"Maybe he should've thoughta that before he up and aimed at my stud, yeah?" Bryar looked away, as though to give the signal.
Ryan said, "No, please, no, look. I'll-- I can pay you. What-- I can pay you back."
"That bull cost me three thousand off the top and that's not counting the extra two I probably would've had coming through breeding."
Ryan swallowed. "Five thousand dollars?" He tried to keep his voice even. It had taken Ryan the better part of five years to save one thousand dollars, though, and Pete had already managed to find that and swim through it like a creek full of water.
"I'm guessing you don't have that on you, so I think I'd best just be getting on with this, here."
"No, no, I mean-- I can-- How about something in trade?" When Bryar didn't respond, Ryan tried again. "Please. Anything."
Ryan knew he'd miscalculated when Bryar turned his gaze fully on to him. Ryan blinked and stumbled back a bit, despite the fact that Bryar was really nowhere near him. There was a scar running from his eye nearly to his jaw, and in the light of the lantern, his face seemed slightly lop-sided with it. Bryar asked, quietly, "Anything, huh?"
"I--"
"Boss?" The question seemed unsure.
Ryan swiveled and saw another man, one he hadn't seen before, also small, but with the muscles of someone who herded cows for a living. There were so many of them, six that Ryan could see, one of him. Ryan fought to keep breathing. Bryar glared at the smaller man and then turned his attention back to Ryan. "Well?"
Ryan looked at his brother, silent and flushed with shame. Ryan was shaking so hard he was certain everyone in the barn had to hear it, but he managed to keep his voice mostly flat when he said, "Just. Just not here. Please."
Bryar made a noise that might have been amusement and strode toward him. He had a slight limp, but it did nothing to make him less intimidating. It was the hardest thing Ryan had ever done, standing his ground. He made himself not think about what he was doing, not think about how it had felt the first time, being held down, pleas for the man to stop ignored-- He made himself not think. When Bryar nudged him toward the barn door, Ryan stumbled. He said, "You-- You give your word? I do this and you let my brother free."
Bryar said, "You go through with this, and he's all yours." He looked back at the other men. "If you see this one running, hang the bastard." He all but pushed Ryan behind the barn, in the scant space between it and the ranching area. He lifted the lantern and said, "Well?"
Ryan blinked. Bryar made a noise of frustration. "C'mon, show me the merchandise. I wanna see if it's really up to the five thousand dollar bond I'm letting go."
Ryan knew better, but Bryar had said, he'd said-- It took Ryan four tries just to get the knot on his robe untied. He couldn't feel his fingers. He told himself it was from cold, not fear. He told himself the same thing about his shaking, and the sick thud of his stomach in time with his heart. Finally, finally the damn thing came loose. Ryan made himself push it off. Bryar was still just looking at him, unimpressed. Ryan grabbed the hem of his shirt with hands that were shaking so badly he was actually hitting himself. In one motion he tore it off himself, keeping his eyes shut, reminding himself that nothing lasted forever. Even this had to end. It would be awful and painful and humiliating, but it would end, and Ryan would still have Pete.
Bryar said, "I can wait all night. And into the day."
Ryan repressed a sound that was sheer terror and started to push at the hem of his pants. He'd just about lowered them over his cock when a hand landed on his wrist. Ryan couldn't help it, he fucking squealed in panic. Bryar said, "Relax. Seems my boys are ready to go. Guess I'll have to take a raincheck."
And just like that, they rode off, leaving Ryan freezing and half-naked and near to vomiting with fear. It was a long time before he could remember to put his shirt back on, until his fingers could manage the robe, even longer before his legs worked well enough to go get Pete--who was safe on the ground, no rope or horse in sight--and take them both inside.
*
Bob rode hell for leather back to his lands, only slowing when Ray rode up next to him and forced him to slow down. When they had come to a stop, Ray asked, "What the fuck was that back there? What in Jesus' name were you thinking?"
Bob's horse shied from the anger in Ray's tone, his carriage, and Bob couldn't blame it. Then again, he couldn't blame Ray, either. He wanted to answer Ray that he hadn't been thinking, hadn't been at all. Bob didn't lie to his brothers, though. He owed them better. Hell, he owed his hired men, who were looking at him with an uncertainty in their eyes, better. He let out a breath. "Mikey. I was thinking of Mikey."
Gerard frowned, clearly also irate and unsure. "What's Mikey got to do with anything?"
They were all protective of their youngest brother, but Gerard maybe the most so. They all shared the same mother. Bob's mother had had him with her first husband, killed in the Civil War. Gerard, Ray, and Frank shared both a mother and a father with Mikey. Or so they had all thought until tonight. Bob had always had his suspicions, but Ma had always been so firm on the fact that Mikey was her husband's son. Bob wasn't sure he should say anything. He didn't think he could keep it to himself. Sooner or later they were going to send for Mikey and their Ma, and people would figure it out, the same way Bob had.
Bob took a breath. "That night-- That--"
"The night they killed Pa?" Frank asked. Frank was the youngest, and even though Ray, Gerard and he had all been away at the creek, washing up that night, it was easiest for Frank, since he didn't really even have the memory of coming back and seeing Bob work a spade into the ground, over and over and over again until morning, when he'd managed to fill the grave, leaving an unnatural lump on the landscape.
Bob nodded tightly. "Ma, she-- She was desperate. She said, uh. She said she'd do--"
"Anything," Ray finished for him softly. Bob nodded.
There was a moment of silence before Gerard asked, "What are you saying-- Are you saying that they-- That Ma--"
"George Ross raped her," Bob said, trying to quell the roiling in his stomach. "He raped her and then he told them to lynch Pa anyway."
"But Mikey--" Gerard's face was crumbling. "It coulda been Pa, it coulda--"
"You didn't see Ryan like I did. His mannerisms, it's just...uncanny. And you heard him. You all heard him." Bob waited, seeing dawning--if reluctant--acceptance on their faces.
"Well, shit," Frank said softly.
It was Brendon who ventured to say, "But. But Ryan didn't do all that. He didn't hurt your Ma. I mean, it's awful that you had to..." Brendon petered out, biting his lip. It was kind of rare that Brendon spoke up like that.
"I know, I-- Fuck. I don't know what got into me." Bob had found Brendon in a saloon in San Francisco, trying his best to look old enough to even get the barkeep's attention. Bob had bought him a drink and asked what he did and Brendon had said, "Whatever a person needs, I s'pose." For reasons Bob couldn't even explain to himself he'd hired Brendon on. Brendon knew pretty much nothing about ranching, but then, neither did he and his brothers, really.
"Whatever else, this needs to be kept quiet. This gets out, that boy's reputation isn't worth the paper I wipe my ass on." Ray looked at all of them expectantly. Bob didn't miss the shading of disappointment that fell over Ray's face when he looked at Bob.
Bob nodded. He deserved that. He looked at Matt and Brendon. "You know I like havin' you on as workin' men, but if you speak a word of this--"
Matt leaned off to the side of his horse and spit. Brendon said, "Cross my heart."
"All right then," Bob said. "All-- I'll just figure out how to say sorry to him and what's done'll be done. Nobody that much worse for the wear."
They all looked a little doubtful. Bob didn't really blame them.
*
Pete had been too drunk to do anything with him but pour him into bed and take his shoes off the night before, but in the morning, Ryan made some coffee and woke him, not feeling all that sympathetic regarding his hangover. Pete made a face at the weakness of the coffee. Ryan didn't say a word. They both knew they couldn't afford much else. Coffee needed to last, everything did.
Pete asked, softly, "Did he hurt you?"
"No, he-- No. He didn't touch me."
Pete looked down at his cup. "I-- It was like I was just watching, like in a dream. The whiskey, I can't even tell you, it's like I'm not even in my own body."
"You have to stop," Ryan said flatly. He'd given a fair amount of leeway in the situation, but enough was enough. "We've got cattle out there, Pete, that we gotta move this year. We have to breed a new stock or we'll--"
"I know. I know, Ryan. No more, I swear. I made a promise when my neck was in that rope and he was-- I made a promise."
Ryan wanted to believe, he did. He just nodded. He knew too much about men and alcohol.
"I s'pse this means we owe him the five thousand."
Ryan closed his eyes. Five thousand dollars. And a raincheck, maybe. Ryan suppressed a shudder at the thought and made himself open his eyes. "I've been thinking, Pete, 'bout the money."
Pete looked up. Ryan said, "Maybe, maybe after this season we should sell the ranch. I figure that's enough and then we could get outta here. Start someplace new where nobody knows nothing 'bout us."
Pete said, "We can't, Ry."
Ryan bit the inside of his cheek. "I know it's Dad's land and all, but it'll be an adventure, we can go anywhere."
"We can't."
Ryan heard the anguish in Pete's voice. After a second he asked, "Why not, Pete?"
"I mortgaged the ranch."
The world around Ryan disappeared in a high pitched whine for a minute or two. When it came back into focus, Ryan said, "You, uh. What? I thought-- The money you took from me, I--"
"Borrowed, Ry. I borrowed that money. I'm paying it back."
Ryan had heard it before. "The ranch, Pete."
"I just, I got drunk, and I was talking to some of those railroad prospectors--"
"You didn't. You fucking didn't," Ryan said. "We agreed. We said it was wrong, buying that land at dirt cheap prices from fucking dirt farmers for fuck's sake to turn around and sell it at a premium to the railroad. We-- What the fuck, Pete? The ranch?"
"I was drunk!" Pete yelled, and stood, not as tall as Ryan, but threatening in his anger all the same.
Ryan stood his ground. "You gonna hit me? Because if you are, you go on ahead. But you aren't Pa, and I'm not taking it from you. You do it, it'll be the last thing you ever do to me."
Pete flushed and sat back down. "Sorry, just. You gotta be so loud? My head--"
Ryan didn't want to hear it. He slammed his way out of the kitchen, taking care not to catch the door on his way out. The freedom to be loud wasn't something he'd had before this year and he delighted in it. He took some small satisfaction in the revenge as well.
Fuck, the ranch. That meant Ryan was well and truly fucked, stuck in paying off a debt that would most likely take over twenty years--not to mention the mortgage payments--stuck in this town, stuck waiting for Bob Bryar to decide he was ready for that raincheck now, please.
Ryan took a deep breath and started making his way out to the range. There were cows to milk and breed and check for signs of illness. There were cows that Ryan would have to figure out how to get to market, seeing as how there was no rail and he couldn't exactly either send Pete off to herd them there or to have him stay and watch over the ranch in Ryan's absence. They sure as shit couldn't afford to hire someone to do the job for them. These were immediate concerns. The other worries, they would have to wait until later.
*
Before Bob was able to find a way to talk to Ryan, apologize and let him know he needn't worry about the money, he found an envelope in his mailbox, neatly labeled "To: Mr. Bryar." Inside was eight dollars and nine cents, all in change, and a letter.
Dear Sir,
This payment is being made in advance of the month given in order to show good faith.
Ryan Ross
Below the note was an accounting: $5000 - $8.09 = $4991.91. Bob stared at it for a long moment before crumpling it up and pitching it across the room. Since it was paper, it just didn't have the same effect as throwing something like, say, glass, or metal, the purgative crash he was looking for. Nine cents. The five thousand dollars wasn't even an irreplaceable loss to Bob. He would have preferred not to lose the bull--shipping cattle in and out of No Name was still a tricky business, what with there being no railroad--but he could afford to buy another one, and in time for mating season. But here Ryan Ross was, including nine cents into his payment, which told Bob exactly the state of his financial affairs. Nine cents could buy a loaf of bread and some sugar, a carding of fabric or other necessities, if you had it to spend. Ryan clearly didn't.
Bob ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't meant to do this, hadn't meant to take money from a young man who hadn't done anything wrong other than be born to the wrong father. And if he was going to hate Ryan for that, he'd best get on hating Mikey and that, well. That would happen when hell froze over and shat flying pigs from its mouth.
He needed to find a way to apologize, to put an end to this. Bob looked at the pennies, spilled out onto the table. He needed to do it fast.
*
Ryan had been looking forward to the church social for weeks. He and Spencer had spent hours upon hours putting it together for the benefit of the dirt-farmers whose land was being bought out underneath them by railroad prospectors--people, evidently, like Pete. Ryan made himself quiet the thought. Pete hadn't had a drop to drink in four days. He'd been outside, with Ryan, helping to run the ranch during the day, helping around the house in the evening. What was done was done.
The evening of the social, Ryan said, "Maybe, maybe I should just go in and help Spencer set up, come back for a nice evening in."
Pete looked at him knowingly. "Every evening is an evening in for us. You're just worried 'bout letting me get near temptation. You gotta trust me a little, Ry."
Trust wasn't Ryan's foremost talent and Pete wasn't Ryan's singular concern. Church socials were open to everyone, not just church members. As long as he stayed on the ranch, Bob Bryar had to come to Ryan to cash in on that raincheck. Going somewhere where he might run smack dab into Bob seemed, well, idiotic at best.
"C'mon, Ry," Pete practiced his best smile on Ryan, the one Ryan had always been shit at resisting. "You deserve some fun."
Not having the heart to tell Pete that simply wasn't going to happen, Ryan walked back to his closet to change into his Sunday best, the only thing he had anymore that wasn't meant for working the ranch. Ryan touched his fingers gently to the chambray, softened by wear. Pete had bought him the shirt for Ryan's seventeenth birthday. He'd worked for months mucking out stalls at one of the local horse breeders to afford it. Ryan was just glad he hadn't grown much since then. The shirt was a little tight across his chest--he'd finally started to show some definition from all the work with the cows--but mostly it fit him nicely, still. Certainly nice enough for the social. The folks who lived further out probably wouldn't even bother to change out of their overalls. The thought made Ryan smile.
He changed into the shirt and the only pair of jeans he had that weren't worn through in spots--he'd finally outgrown his trousers about two years ago, and hadn't had the ability to replace them since. He took a deep breath, said, "Fun. You deserve some fun," and then made himself walk out to where Pete was, where the horses would be saddled and waiting.
*
Ryan knew something was wrong the moment they tethered the horses. He smiled and waved at Charlie Connelly, whom he'd known since he was five, and Charlie turned away. Pete said, "Weird."
Ryan shrugged. "Maybe he just didn't see me." Ryan was good at shrugging off things that hurt.
When he went inside, though, people who had known him his entire life skirted away as if he was carrying small pox. Spencer found him almost immediately and took him into the kitchen under the guise of needing help with some of the dishes. Spencer was nervous, though, Ryan could feel it in his grip, and as soon as they were alone, Ryan asked, "What's wrong?"
"Ry. I-- I don't exactly know how to tell you this."
Spencer had been Ryan's friend since before Ryan could adequately remember. He was the only person in the world Ryan had ever told about the beatings he'd taken from his father. He was one of only two people in the town who'd ever tried to help Ryan. Ryan said softly, "Just tell me, Spence. It's all right."
"Well, um. Joshua, your Joshua?"
Ryan nodded. Joshua was his farmhand, the one who stayed on for a pittance. "Is he all right? Has something happened?"
Spencer ran a hand over his face. "Ry, he came in town tonight, went and got drunk over at the saloon. He, ah--"
If there actually was a heaven, it was a place with no alcohol. Ryan didn't really believe it existed.
"He's saying Bob Bryar ruined you. He's trying to get together some boys to go and teach him a lesson."
The words took a bit to actually reach Ryan. He put his hand on the counter nearby just in case the dizziness he was feeling got out of hand and he needed something to support himself with. "Oh."
"I hate repeating something like that, 'specially when I know it can't be true--"
"You shouldn't be here, Spence." A ruined reputation was like a virus. No wonder all the other respectable sons and daughters in town had steered clear. "You shouldn't--"
"I'm married, Ry, remember?" Spencer brought up a hand to show off the handsome gold band Ryland Blackington had finally put on Spencer's hand the year before. They'd been school time sweethearts.
"Doesn't matter." And it didn't. The last thing Spencer needed was people saying he was the kind of partner who would cheat on his husband. Not that Ryland would believe it, but that wasn't the point.
"Shut your stupid mouth, Ryan Ross. I'm not leaving you to deal with all those judgmental asses on your own."
"Spence--"
"What part of 'shut your stupid mouth' needs explaining?"
Ryan couldn't help it; he reached out and hugged Spencer. Spencer said, "I'm sorry. I truly am."
Ryan shook his head and didn't say a word. What was done was done.
*
When Bob had decided on the church social as the perfect place to apologize to Ryan--lots of people around, less likely to spook him--he hadn't considered that Ryan would be able to use the people to hide from him. Or, well, should have been able to. Bob frowned as he noted that everywhere Ryan darted, people seemed to fall away, scatter, really, in a sort of panic. The only person who seemed willing to stand by him was another boy in a somewhat eccentric outfit with a face that was almost as pretty as Ryan's, almost.
Bob shut the thought pattern down. He was not thinking of Ryan Ross--of any Ross--as pretty.
On the one hand, the social ostracization made Ryan easy to catch. On the other, it gave Bob a sinking suspicion as to what was going on. Sure enough, Frank caught up to him and said, "Problem, brother mine."
"Somebody squealed?" He was going to kill Brendon or Matt when he figured out which one it had been.
"The Ross's old farmhand. Drunk as hell and raising some 'bout teaching you a lesson."
"Fuck," Bob muttered under his breath. He wasn't sure he'd ever met anyone less likely to catch a break than Ryan Ross. He would have hated having to let go of either Brendon or Matt, but to have someone who'd worked for him for years betray him like that? Jesus.
"Thought you should know," Frank said, giving him an enigmatic look and slipping off into the crowd. Some girl with black hair and a pretty laugh had caught his attention.
"Fuck," Bob repeated to himself, mostly for emphasis, and then returned to his previously scheduled Ryan hunt. It was then that he noticed Ryan had slipped away. It didn't take him long to get outside, discover Ryan haring off on a horse. Bob untied his own and rode to catch up. It didn't take long. Rhythm was a full Arabian, made to run like hell, and Ryan was prancing away on a palomino that looked like it had seen better days. Additionally, there was some sort of pattern to Ryan's riding that Bob couldn't quite determine, almost like he wasn't sure where he was going.
Bob pulled up alongside Ryan and asked, "Where're we headed?" He then felt like a grade A asshole when Ryan startled, spooking the horse and sending them both flying forward. Bob spurred Rhythm faster and caught Ryan's horses reins, slowing them both down.
Ryan said, "Let go," his voice a little breathless, but sure of the command. Bob did. The horse had been slowed enough.
Bob said, "I didn't mean to spook you."
"Staying at the social would have made that a sure thing."
Bob couldn't help but smile. He remembered why he hadn't stayed, then, and winced. "Look, Ryan. I-- I'm not happy with the way we left things the other night."
Ryan nodded once, sharply.
"I just mean--"
"I get your meaning. We're almost to my place. If you-- I made some cookies today. Peanut butter, if you like that sort of thing. Maybe, could we-- Could we have some tea first, do you think?"
Bob frowned. He wasn't entirely sure why he couldn't apologize while having tea, but all right, if that was the way Ryan wanted it, he was owed an apology any way he pleased. "I guess."
Ryan's sigh sounded like relief, which made no sense. He said, "Thank you," his voice definitely shaking on the second word. Bob felt like he was missing something important. In any case, Bob was glad for silence in the last few minutes of their ride, time to consider how, exactly, you apologized to a guy for ruining any chance he had of a good marriage, or even a decent life, really, in the town where he'd lived since birth and probably would until death. At the very least, he had to make it clear that Ryan didn't owe anymore for the bull. It was possible he should maybe offer some money in exchange for-- But no. No, Ryan wasn't a whore.
Bob watched Ryan fumble to light the stable lamp and then take care of the horses before leading them into the house. In the moments of darkness, Ryan's movements were always more careful, less sure. Bob thought, oh, nightblind.
Ryan lit three lamps once they were in the kitchen and Bob held back a wince, knowing how expensive lamp fuel was, that Ryan was probably never that extravagant with just himself there. Bob took a moment to look around. The house itself was clearly in need of some repairs. The wood was worn, the appliances ancient. But over the sink hung green gingham curtains. From the ceiling, a tangled, lush ivy plant dangled. On the table, a dented food tin held wildflowers above a clearly homemade table cloth. It made Bob think of the nine cents, of the way Ryan must have scrimped and saved and gotten creative to make his house feel like a home, make it feel, well, pretty.
"Your rugs are nice," Bob said into the silence. He took a seat at the table, feeling like a giant--a threatening, intruding giant--in the space.
Ryan blinked at him. "Oh, ah. There was a remnants sale last fall. I, uh. I like making things."
Bob started to say something else, but Ryan said, "I'll just-- This won't take a moment," and put the kettle to burning on the stove. There was a sound of distress and something darted out at Bob, claws first. Bob took a startled step back and Ryan said, "Sorry, sorry, she doesn't mean--" Gently, he peeled what Bob could now see was a dog from Bob's chest. Ryan cradled the dog. "Sorry, I didn't know you were under there." He set her down carefully. And said to Bob, "Sorry, she-- I keep trying to explain to her that the stove is dangerous, but Hobo, she-- It's just, she's a little-- And it's a good place to hide."
Bob wasn't entirely sure what to make of all that, so he just surreptitiously set to trying to brush free most of the hair the dog had managed to leave on him. Bob said, "Ryan, it's me who should be--"
But at that moment, Bob heard stomping on the stairs and the next thing he knew, Pete was coming in the door, waving a gun in his face. "How dare-- How fucking dare you?"
The smell of whiskey coming off him was so intense, Bob actually blinked. He was about to go for his own gun, mostly to scare Pete, when Ryan got between them. "Pete, stop."
"He ruined you, Ryan."
"I think I know very well what he did," Ryan answered.
"He ruined you, and now he has to marry you."
Ryan snorted. "Over my dead body."
"Y'know," Bob said. "I think he has a point."
Ryan turned, in shock, and in the moment that it took Ryan to ask, "Are you out of your fucking mind?" Bob had Ryan behind him, out of the way of possibly drunkenly discharged bullets. Ryan struggled, saying, "No, don't, he's just--" but Bob said, "Maybe," in response to Ryan's earlier questioning of his sanity, "Maybe I'm completely crazy. But I have a sense of honor."
Ryan laughed, sounding a little hysterical, and okay, to be honest, Bob couldn't blame him. He wasn't entirely sure why he was doing this himself. Ryan said, "You don't have to do this. There'll be new gossip next week, they'll--"
"Forget the nicknames and the slurs and the way nobody will even touch you for fear of, I don't even know, whoredom being catching?"
Ryan blanched.
Bob swore under his breath. "You aren't a whore. I meant--" He tried to figure out a way to explain, to make Ryan understand why he had to do this. It wasn't like Bob couldn't disarm and take Pete out of the picture if he really wanted to. But if he did that, he would be leaving Ryan with his huge eyes to the mercy of a brother who clearly loved whiskey more than his own flesh and blood, and a town that had already branded him cheap. Ryan, who moved and spoke like Mikey, but with less fire, more fear, more desperation for even the smallest hint of happiness.
There was no way to say that in words, at least not for Bob, who usually just showed people how he felt in his actions toward them. He shook his head, knowing suddenly, but nonetheless surely for it that there was nothing for it but to marry Ryan and hope he could make him see, make him. . .smile? Bob couldn't have said why that was so important to him, only that it was. He took a breath. "So, Pete. Where does a man get married at this time of night in this town?"
*
Ryan was a pretty realistic person. He was generally good at noting the harsh vagaries of life and taking them in stride. All the same, he maintained that this could not be happening. There was no way, no way, that hardly a year after he'd finally gotten free of his father, his brother was forcing him--at gunpoint--into the only legal form of slavery left to a man who could break Ryan with his pinky finger, and, oh yeah, hated Ryan. Ryan's mind simply couldn't wrap around the idea.
And yet, there he was, standing on the porch of the one justice of the peace in town. Ryan had always suspected that Gabriel Saporta had got himself licensed so that he could be privy to the drama of the town's shotgun weddings--the others were generally performed by the Minister--and it galled him a little to be fodder for Saporta. Ryan forgave him a little bit, though, when Bryar asked, "What're your rates?" and Saporta took one look at Pete before saying, "Dollar for a wedding," and then lowering his voice, "Two for the special version, if you know what I mean."
And yes, yes, that was perfect, only as soon as Ryan began to nod eagerly, Bryar pulled out a dollar bill. "We'll take the authentic kind, please."
Ryan said, "No, that's not--"
"Wedding jitters," Bryar said to Saporta. "He loves me. He'll remember in the morning."
The only thing that could possibly happen in the morning would be for Ryan to wake up from this nightmare. Saporta smiled, and reached out to pat one of Ryan's hands. Then he asked, "Porch or parlor?"
Bryar said, "It's a nice night, here'll be just fine."
Ryan had always dreamed of an outdoor wedding. He would have started laughing, only he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to stop.
*
Ryan couldn't really remember the ceremony. He must have said, "I do," but he didn't recall having opened his mouth at all. When Saporta had given him the pen to sign the marriage documents, it had fallen from Ryan's fingers. It had taken three tries just to sign his name. Pete passed out as soon as the deed was done, which was, of course, just late enough not to do Ryan any good. Bryar dragged him from the house and left him on the sidewalk.
Ryan said, "You can't just leave him there. I need to--"
"He'll be fine, Ryan."
"He'll be cold, I--"
"It's a little chilly, but maybe that'll help him sleep it off. He's not your responsibility anymore." The words were sharp, but the tone wasn't. It was, well, if it hadn't been Bryar, Ryan might almost have called it understanding.
Ryan took a couple of deep breaths until he was certain he wasn't going to vomit. When he could, he pulled himself onto his horse and said, "About that. There's something-- I should have told you before, but uh, things happened a little quickly."
Bryar laughed somewhat sharply and started riding. Ryan followed. This was his only chance. If he could get Bryar to agree to an annulment, then they could both walk away, no harm done. Spencer was still speaking to Ryan, and it wasn't as though much of anybody else in this town mattered to him. Doc Walker, but the Doc wasn't one to be taken in by rumor. Ryan hadn't had any real intention of getting married anyhow. Sure, it would make shopping in town and attending church and a number of other things somewhat uncomfortable, but Ryan was used to discomfort, both in small and large doses. He would take that any day over being married to Bryar.
"Well?" Bryar asked.
"Oh." Ryan nodded. "Just, you see, I've already been compromised, years ago. Actually compromised," he clarified, since Ryan's levels of ruin were becoming seemingly complicated. "So, you see, there's no need to marry me and we can get an annulment and everything can go back to the way it was."
Bryar was silent for a length of road. Finally he asked, "Did you love him?"
"What?"
"Or, I suppose it could've been a her, although that's unusual, but you're all kinds of unusual, so, did you love the person? The one who compromised you?"
"No!" Ryan couldn't help the horror in his voice. It would have been best just to keep his tone even, he knew, but the very thought made his skin crawl.
Bryar just nodded and kept riding. Ryan said, "Don't you see? There's no responsibility on your part--"
"We're married, Ryan," he said, just loudly enough that Ryan could hear him over the beat of the hooves. "Best get used to the thought."
Ryan wasn't ready to give up quite that easily, but he quieted for the moment. The road was dusty, and trying to talk over the horses was making his throat sore. They arrived at Northern Ranch faster than Ryan would have credited, but he knew how the mind played tricks with time.
Bob took him inside and showed him around. It was spacious and airy, with gorgeous wooden floors that Bryar explained had three coats of varnish with a pride that Ryan could kind of understand. Bryar and his brothers had built the house from the ground up, despite self-admittedly being fairly lousy at carpentry, but it was sturdy and handsome in a sparse way. Ryan mourned the loss of his colors. His father had never liked color, either. One year of getting to pick and choose what he got to look at in the morning when he woke up just hadn't felt like enough. If he'd known it was only going to be a year, he would have-- Well, he wasn't sure he could have cherished it any more than he had, but he probably would have tried.
There was only one bedroom finished, so Bryar's brothers were sleeping in the barn, and at least there was that. Ryan didn't think Bryar was likely to share him if he had to go out to the barn; probably not, anyway. Ryan hoped. One man was bad enough.
The night was cool and Bryar said, "I'm gonna get a fire going in the bedroom. We can have some hot chocolate while the room is warming up."
Ryan nodded, and waited until Bryar was out of sight. Then he ran. He'd seen a door in the back, if he could just get away for the night, maybe in the morning he could make Bryar see sense. People always thought better after they'd slept some. Ryan found the door, only to discover it was locked. He made a small noise of frustration and kept working at the problem until he managed to pull something loose, and the door flew open. Ryan took one step into the black of night and had just a second to realize that there was no porch. Then he was falling.
Part Two