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Rain turns the mud of No Name City into a thick, gray paste, but the crowd at the bull-and-bear arena doesn't care. They yell through the stench of cheap whiskey and wet pine. Pardner stands near the edge of the pit, a half-empty bottle in hand, his collar turned up against the November chill. Just hours ago, Elizabeth stood on the porch of the log cabin, her hair freshly pinned, her tone breezy and final as she sent both him and Ben packing to make room for Horton Fenty and two other suitors. For a year, three was a crowd they managed; now, it’s a crowded parlor, and Pardner has no interest in waiting his turn.
He throws a coin on the dealer’s felt, gambling away the last of his patience, while fifty feet away, a massive bull bellows against the iron chain tethering it to the grizzly. The bull lunges wildly, missing the bear, its hoofs skidding on the slick earth. With a terrible, splintering crack, the wooden ground gives way beneath them. The bull’s massive frame plummets through the mud, crashing directly into the maze of secret tunnels Ben and the crew dug beneath the town. Support timber after support timber snaps in rapid, drumfire succession. The ground groans, heaves, and collapses inward. Storefronts tilt, roofs cave, and within minutes, the entire wooden city swallowed by its own greed, tumbling into the earth in a roar of dust, splintered pine, and mud.
By late afternoon, the dust settles over the ruins. Elizabeth stands atop a pile of rubble, wiping a streak of dirt from her cheek, her eyes hard with determination. She announces to what’s left of her court that she’s staying to rebuild No Name City from the ground up. At the muddy town line, Ben stops his mule and looks back over his shoulder. The air is cold enough to hold their breath in white clouds. He turns to Pardner, his eyes tired, worn down by months of sharing a wife and years of chasing dust. He gestures toward Elizabeth, who stands a few yards away, watching them with a mix of expectation and quiet confidence.
"You got anything you wanna get off your chest?" Ben asks, his voice low and gruff.
Pardner shifts his weight, his hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets. "Yes."
Ben sighs, his shoulders slumping under the weight of an outcome he thinks he already knows. "You gonna stay with her?"
Elizabeth steps forward, a soft smile touching her lips, reaching out a hand. "Oh, Pardner, I—"
"Nope," Pardner cuts in, his voice deadpan and steady. He doesn't even look at her. "M'name's Sylvester Newel."
Ben blinks, stunned into silence for a beat. The rough edges of his brow furrow. "... You wan' me t'call you that?"
"Nah," Pardner says, letting out a faint, crackling breath that might be a laugh. "Never did like it. Just wanted to get it off my chest."
Ben stares at him, the tension in his heavy frame slowly dissolving into quiet disbelief. He stands by the edge of the settlement, his gaze drifting toward the ruined road that snakes its way out of the valley. The gold rush has left the land scarred and the town a skeletal remains of its former greed, but the air feels electric. He turns his head, his weathered face softening as he looks at the man standing beside him.
"So... you're comin' with me to other gold fields?" Ben asks, his voice a low rumble against the whistling wind.
Pardner closes the distance between them in two fast, predatory strides, his boots crunching on the frozen earth. He reaches out, his fingers locking tight around the lapels of Ben's heavy woolen coat, and jerks him downward. The collision is sudden and fierce. Pardner crashes his lips against Ben’s in a kiss that tastes of desperation and raw hunger, hot enough to melt the frost clinging to their beards. As they lock together, Pardner ruts his hips hard against Ben's thigh, his erection a rigid, demanding heat pressing through their thick trousers. He is firm, warm, and entirely unyielding, his body vibrating with a need that has been simmering for far too long.
"I'm yers," Pardner mutters against Ben's lips, his breath hitching.
Ben feels a surge of heat bloom in his gut, a familiar, heavy ache. They had shared Elizabeth for a year, a bond of three that had taught them exactly how to please one another, but the intensity between the two men right now is different—it's urgent, stripped of everything but the need for friction. Ben grins, a playful, horny glint in his warm eyes. With a sudden burst of strength, he wraps an arm around Pardner’s waist and drags him backward, hauling him into the dim, canvas-shrouded sanctuary of the covered wagon.
They tumble onto the bed of rough blankets and crates, the canvas snapping violently in the wind above them. The air inside is slightly warmer, smelling of old leather, dried tobacco, and the musk of men. Ben doesn't waste a second; he pins Pardner down, his heavy weight pressing the other man into the blankets. Their hands scramble, fumbling with buttons and laces in a frantic race to strip away the winter layers.
As the trousers fall, exposing their pale, shivering skin to the interior air, Ben reaches for a small wooden tin and a rolled piece of translucent membrane. He pulls out a dollop of thick, greasy crisco, the crude lubrication of the frontier. He smears the white fat over his fingers and then reaches down, sliding his hand between Pardner's cheeks.
Pardner lets out a sharp, guttural moan, his back arching off the blankets as Ben’s grease-slicked fingers probe his tight heat. "Fuck, Ben... right now," Pardner pants, his eyes clouded with lust.
Ben chuckles, a low, dominant sound. He takes the sheep cecum condom—a rough, organic sheath—and rolls it carefully over his throbbing cock. The material is imperfect, a crude necessity of the time, but it’s enough to let them lose themselves. He applies more of the crisco to the tip of the sheath, ensuring the slide will be smooth despite the roughness they both crave. Ben grips Pardner’s thighs, shoving them back toward his chest, opening him up completely. He positions the head of his cock against Pardner’s puckered entrance, teasing the rim for a heartbeat before driving forward with a powerful, singular thrust.
Pardner screams into the canvas ceiling, his fingers clawing at the blankets as Ben fills him completely. The friction is intense, the grease allowing Ben to slide deep, hitting the prostate with a blunt force that makes Pardner’s entire body shudder. Ben doesn't slow down; he begins a rhythmic, punishing assault, his hips slamming against Pardner’s backside with a wet, slapping sound that echoes in the small space.
"You're mine," Ben grunts, his voice strained as he hammers into him, "every damn inch of you."
Pardner can only sob out broken moans, his head tossing from side to side, completely undone by the raw, masculine power of the man above him. Ben reaches down, gripping Pardner’s cock and pumping it in sync with his thrusts, the friction of their bodies creating a feverish heat that defies the winter storm raging outside.