The town of Black Hollow lay under a moonlit sky, quiet except for the occasional howl of a coyote and the distant crooning of a drunken ballad from the saloon. Caleb Ryder rode into town on a weary black stallion, his duster coated in desert dust, his revolver heavy at his hip. He was an outlaw, a man without a home, a name whispered in wanted posters and sheriff's offices across the West.
But tonight, he was here for something more than trouble.
She was waiting for him.
He found her at the edge of town, in a crooked wooden house with herbs hanging from the rafters and candlelight flickering through the windows. The locals spoke of her in hushed tones—Isolde, the witch from the Old Country, a woman whose magic ran as deep as the roots of the earth.
She met him at the door, dark eyes steady, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "You're late," she murmured.
Caleb tipped his hat, his smirk lazy but his heart thundering. "Ran into a little trouble. You know how it is."
She stepped aside, letting him in, the scent of sage and something ancient filling his lungs. The room was small but warm, lined with books older than the town itself, vials of strange potions glimmering in the dim light.
"They say you can tell a man's fate," he said, watching her as she moved. "That true?"
Isolde tilted her head, studying him. "Only if the man wants to know."
Silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. Then, slowly, he reached for her hand, calloused fingers brushing against her smooth skin. "And what if a man just wants to stay a little while?"
She smiled, leaning in just enough for him to catch the scent of lavender on her skin. "Then he best not break my heart."
He swore he wouldn't. But the West was wild, and so was he. And some things were never meant to last.
The night deepened, and a storm rolled over the desert, lightning splitting the sky in jagged streaks. Inside Isolde's home, the fire crackled, casting flickering shadows over the walls as she poured them each a drink—some dark, spiced liquor from a bottle with no label. Caleb took a sip, the burn warming him from the inside.
"You don't ask why I came," he noted, watching her over the rim of his glass.
She sat across from him, the golden light dancing in her dark eyes. "I already know."
His mouth curved. "That so?"
Isolde leaned forward, her elbows resting on the worn wooden table between them. "Men like you don't come to witches unless they're running from something. A bullet, a bounty, or their own past."
Caleb exhaled, setting his glass down. "Maybe I just wanted to see you again."
She held his gaze for a long moment before rising from her chair and crossing the small space between them. She stood beside him, fingers grazing the rough fabric of his coat before she slipped it from his shoulders. He let her, the heat of her touch leaving a trail of fire against his skin.
"You're a dangerous man, Caleb Ryder," she whispered, voice like a spell itself.
He caught her wrist gently, thumb brushing against her pulse. "And you're a dangerous woman."
For a moment, the storm outside was forgotten. The past, the future, none of it mattered. Only the present—the hush of the desert, the scent of her hair, the press of her against him as their lips met, slow and searching.
Time unraveled in that moment. He memorized the taste of her, the way she sighed against his mouth, the way her fingers tangled in his hair. He had kissed plenty of women in his lifetime, but none had felt like this—like temptation and fate woven together in one impossible moment.
And yet, even as he lost himself in her, some part of him knew the world would not let this last.
Dawn crept in too soon, pale light filtering through the wooden shutters. Caleb sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots as Isolde watched him from beneath the tangled sheets, her dark hair spilling over her bare shoulders.
"You don't have to go," she murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.
He paused, fingers tightening against the leather. "You know I do."
A flicker of sadness passed through her gaze, but she didn't argue. Instead, she sat up, pulling the blanket around her. "Then take something with you."
He turned, brow arching as she reached for a small leather pouch on the bedside table. She pressed it into his hand, her fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Protection. A charm. A little piece of me." Her smile was small, knowing. "Just in case."
Caleb swallowed, tucking the pouch into his coat. "You believe in fate, witch?"
Isolde leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "I believe in choices. Make the right one."
He left without another word, the desert stretching before him, endless and unforgiving. But as he rode away from Black Hollow, the scent of lavender still clung to his skin, and the small pouch inside his pocket felt heavier than it should have.
He had been an outlaw his whole life. A wanderer, a fugitive.
But for the first time, he wondered if he had finally found something worth coming back to.