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Tony is up before dawn, eating a cold breakfast while he double-checks that he’s emptied the pantry of perishables. He confirms that his carpet bag and carry-cases are properly packed and hold everything he might need for the trip to Cheyenne. He looks in on the goats and chickens and reads over the note he’s leaving for Jarvis. He’s ready.
Steve arrives just as the horizon starts to lighten. On Liberty, with one pack mule, clearly prepared for several days’ travel on horseback. Tony’s pretty sure there’s a tent secured among all those parcels, and a cast iron skillet, for cooking on an open fire.
“Stark,” Steve greets him. He raises an eyebrow at the luggage on Tony’s porch.
Tony sags against the door frame. He’s not ready after all.
“I had this wild idea,” he says, “that when you mentioned a trip to the city, you meant we’d travel by train. But you didn’t mean that, did you.”
“No,” Steve confirms. “I didn’t.”
“I could get us first class tickets,” Tony offers. “Padded seats, dining service, a compartment that locks . . . we could do this in style.”
“Waste of money,” Steve says. “Save it for Cheyenne.”
“The train is also faster,” Tony tries. “You could give your report in two days’ time instead of a week.”
“It’ll keep.” Steve dismounts and loops Liberty’s reins over the hitching post. He steps onto the porch with an expression Tony can’t quite read. Concern, maybe. Resignation. Or perhaps Steve is just tired.
“You don’t have to tag along, you know,” he says. “You can take the train yourself, if that’s what you want.”
As if Tony hadn’t seen the spark of eagerness in Steve’s eyes three days ago, when he’d appeared in the forge and said, Want to get out of town for a few weeks? As if Tony doesn’t know how much he’s been looking forward to this time away from prying neighbors and ever-demanding responsibilities.
He sighs. “Fine, fine. Horseback it is. Just—let me re-pack some things.”
“I’ll get Jo ready for you,” Steve says. He’s smiling, ever so slightly.
Re-packing means they get a later start, of course, which means fewer miles covered in the cool hours after dawn. By midday the afternoon proves unseasonably warm even for summer, and the heat is miserable. Tony tries not to complain too much. It is, after all, at least partially his fault they didn’t get an earlier start to the journey. On the other hand, Steve’s plan means they’d have been riding through this anyway.
Steve’s still wearing his usual town kit—long-sleeved shirt, waistcoat, trousers, boots, hat. Somehow, he manages to look comfortable, sitting easy in his saddle and urging Liberty along at a brisk trot. Thus far, Tony’s managed to restrain himself from removing more than his jacket and waistcoat. He used to know how to dress properly for this kind of thing, but it seems he’s forgotten the knack of it. His wrists and scalp complain of trapped heat and trickling sweat, but he knows it’d be worse if he removed his riding gloves, turned up his sleeves, or took off his hat. He’d just burn, probably over his hands and along the part in his hair, which is an experience he hopes to never repeat in his life.
He takes one final sip from his second canteen and uses the last of the water to wet his handkerchief in an effort to cool the back of his neck. Judging by the length of Steve’s shadow over the ground, it takes less than a quarter hour for the cloth to dry out entirely.
“We’ll stop at the bend in the river, by the ford,” Steve says. “Refill the canteens and water the horses.”
There are trees by the river. Shade. And the water is surely ice cold.
“We could have a cooked lunch?” Tony suggests. “Wait out the heat of the day?”
Steve hums, noncommittal. Tony tries to see whatever it is Steve’s seeing—animal sign or more human dangers, or maybe there’s a smell of smoke on the wind—but mostly he just fixates on the glint of sun on water and the halo of darker, richer green that stands out from the surrounding prairie. But then, Tony still has town eyes, despite his frequent travels.
Whatever his reservations Steve doesn’t voice them even after they arrive at the riverbank, so Tony takes that as permission enough. The shade is blissful and the water is, indeed, icy. Tony refills their canteens a little upstream while Steve checks the horses over and lets them drink and graze a little.
He’s just gotten his boots and socks off for some wading when Steve puts a hand to his shoulder and says, “We should press on.”
Tony squints up at him.
“Any particular reason for that?”
“Wagon party coming up to ford,” Steve nods toward a dust cloud in the distance. “Unless you want company, or to ford in their wake?”
‘Company’ means a few hours or more of traveling alongside whoever’s in those wagons: craftsmen, merchants, families, whatever. It means small talk with strangers, and being under constant, curious observation, and accepting offers of hospitality to prove they’re not a very small band of highwaymen. And fording the river in the wagons’ wake will mean hours of waiting whether they want to or not, and possibly the whole rest of the afternoon wasted if they don’t want to catch the group up again.
“Press on,” Tony agrees, and sighs. Steve squeezes his shoulder and grazes his knuckles over Tony’s jaw as he pulls away.
“We’ll cook for supper,” he promises.
“I’m holding you to that, Rogers,” Tony blusters as he yanks socks and boots back on. “And it better not be salt-pork and beans, either.”
Steve laughs. “No promises there.” But he’s grinning, and there’s something sly in his eyes, so Tony’s fairly certain he’s only teasing.
Their fording goes smoothly, and they make a quick meal of venison jerky and dried apple on the river’s far bank. The remainder of the afternoon passes in a sort of steady haze of riding with short breaks for the horses. Steve points out landmarks and plant life and tries to teach Tony to read more trail sign, and Tony intersperses his observations on various geologic features with pieces of gossip he’s picked up from the saloon and the letters he still receives from New York sometimes. Twice, they stop long enough to play a round of cards while the horses graze and Tony can almost see Steve letting the Sheriff’s mantle fall from his shoulders. He lets himself smile more, and doesn’t shy away when their fingers brush.
Tony lets himself relax, too. As much as he can. Relax into the ride, and the heat, and the company. Just the two of them, and mile upon mile of open road.
That doesn’t mean that the miles to take a toll. By the time they choose a campsite, Tony aches through most of his frame. It’s been too long since he rode like this, hour after hour, and he’s out of condition. He can’t imagine Steve’s in significantly better shape, given his town duties, but you wouldn’t know to look at the man. He moves around the camp with same effortless strength he always shows, beding to this task or that without obvious effort. And there’s plenty of work yet to be done in the fading daylight: there’s the horses to look after, and the tent to set up and the fire to get going. When that’s done Tony takes a walk to stretch his limbs and collect fuel, and returns to find Steve has caught a few trout in the nearby stream and already spit them over the flames.
“Smells delicious.” Tony bends to inspect the covered skilled, heating at the edge of the coals. “What’s in here?”
“Dessert.” Steve pulls him away with fingertips on his wrist. They take two steps to the side, and one step back, and it’s almost a dance. Tony could let his palm slide down to press against Steve’s and raise his other hand to Steve’s shoulder and it would be. Out here, there’s no music but evening insects, and no floor but dusty scrub, but there’s no one to see, either. No one to wonder.
Steve realizes it too, and he stills. His expression is even harder to read than usual, lit half in dusk and half in flickering firelight. Tony lets his left hand slide through Steve’s grip and—and Steve pulls away, turning toward the fire before Tony can latch their fingers together. Tony watches him check on the fish and tend the skillet and set it aside, and he clenches his hands tight. He lets go. Tighten. Release. There are some things Steve may never be ready for, and Tony will just have to be okay with that.
When Steve turns back to him, Tony has their camp plates and flatware ready to hand over. This is what he has, what Steve is willing to give him, what Steve has actively planned and worked for, for them both: flaky hot fish, tender and rich with wild garlic, and sweet, fresh-berry biscuits. They sit close as they eat, shoulders almost touching, and Steve tells him stories of other campfires, of jokes and tall tales, and disastrous attempts at cooking.
After, as the twilight fades and the fire dims, Tony points out as many constellations as he can find and tells their stories, even though he’s certain Steve already knows them, and sitting close becomes hands tangled between their bodies, and slow kisses caught on moonbeams, and then unhurried, almost sentimental sex. Steve touches him like he thinks Tony might break if he pushes too hard, like this is something precious and he’s savoring it, committing it to memory, and Tony does his best to make it memorable. He catches Steve’s sighs with eager lips and coaxing hands, and they curl together under shared blankets, and when Steve drifts off to dream with his face pressed into Tony’s shoulder, Tony presses awkward kisses to his forehead and whispers inside his own mind things he knows he won’t say out loud.
This is what he has, and he’s never letting go.