The Outlaw's Mail Order Bride

Wives of the Wild West (Steamy Romance)

Dawn painted the canyon walls in hues of rose and ochre. Jaxon was already packing, movements efficient and silent. He didn’t look at her as he saddled the stallion. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, devoid of the fire from the grove.

“Bellamy’s wife,” he repeated, cinching a strap tight. “You chose silk and safety. You don’t belong in the dust.” He turned, his eyes scanning the horizon, avoiding hers. “Go back.”

Faye stepped closer, the morning chill biting her skin through the torn chemise. “Silk feels like chains now. Last night... wasn’t that real?” Her voice cracked, raw with vulnerability. “I know danger. I choose you.”

Jaxon paused, his hand tightening on the saddle horn. He didn’t turn. “Real?” A harsh laugh escaped him. “Real is a bullet finding your spine when Bellamy’s men corner us. Real is starving in some desert shack while the law closes in.” Finally, he faced her, his eyes like flint. “You’re a spark, Faye. Bright, reckless. But sparks burn out fast in my world.”

She stepped forward, the dew-wet grass cool under her bare feet. “Then let me burn with you.” Her hand reached out, trembling, to touch his arm. “I know the risks. I saw what you are, who you are, last night. That wasn’t just lust. That was... recognition.”

“I wish it were that simple, Faye,” he murmured, his voice rough with regret. “This here?” He gestured vaguely at the camp, the canyon walls rising like prison bars. “This is my life. Dust, blood, and running. Always running. We’re ghosts haunting the borderlands, hunted men with prices on our heads. We move fast, live hard, and die young. It ain’t... it ain’t the kind of world silk survives in.” His thumb brushed her cheekbone, a fleeting, almost tender gesture. “You’re a lady. Bellamy’s lady. This life would break you.”

Her heart sank, the weight of his words pressing down on her chest like a physical stone. She had known the risks, the danger that came with choosing him, but she had hoped... what? That he’d give it all up for her? That they could somehow find a way to be together without the shadow of the law hanging over them? That the raw connection forged in the firelight could transcend the harsh realities of his existence?

Standing there, shivering in her torn clothes, the cold dawn light revealing the stark lines of exhaustion and hard living etched onto Jaxon’s face, the fantasy crumbled. He wasn’t a knight; he was an outlaw. His world offered only violence and flight. The adventure she craved wasn’t a romantic escape; it was a death sentence. The realization was a cold knife twisting in her gut.

“I can’t just go back, not after this,” she protested, her voice trembling with a mix of desperation and anger. “I don’t want to live without you.”