The sound of horses’ hooves settle against the flimsy wood panelling, a dull echo that travels only a stones throw across the barn. Lighter and longer feet push dust and outside debris into the ground, claiming the earth before the horse leaves its lasting impression. A hand affectionately slaps the horse's shoulder, a small price to pay for his hard work, but the gesture is well received and the horse nudges his owner’s neck. 

“Alright, alright,” he whispers to the chestnut beauty. He takes a ripening apple from a basket situated on the barn floor. Pushing his fingers into the dimple beneath the stem, he breaks the fruit in half and pushes a part into the horse's welcoming mouth. As the horse loudly crunches, he takes a bite of the other half himself. 

“What are you doing tonight?” he asks, pushing the apple to the side of his mouth as he talks. The horse replies by lifting his head, chewing the small remnants of the apple. “Come on now Scamp, it’s rude to talk with your mouthful.” He pushes the half eaten other half into Scamp’s mouth, stroking up his nose and face and brushes away a fly. 

“You’ll be fuckin’ that horse one of these days,” a voice breaks the gentle hum of silence, accompanied by a tall man walking through the door of the barn. 

He needn’t look up from his horse, instead he rolls his eyes at the creature and continues to pet him. “Light a shuck, Pete.”

“I was jokin’, but you are acting frustrated, Champ. This horse is getting ridden all day,” Pete says, smacking Scamp’s hind and he walks over, the horse kicks his back leg in frustration. “But who’s riding you?” 

He walks away from Pete, regretfully pulling himself away from Scamp too. He begins distributing hay to the barn floor, the armful sparse across the ground, he reaches for another pile. “No time brother,” Pete commands. “We have plans tonight.” Pete begins tracing the rim of Scamp’s ear with his finger, causing Scamp to twist and flick his ears in protest. 

“I didn’t make plans.” 

Pete chuckles, “I know that, James. But mother’s practically paying me to get you out the house.” James lets out a sigh, almost synchronised with Scamp’s frustrated exhale.

“Get your fingers from his ear,” James warns without turning his back from the hay spreading, Pete hesitates in his compliance. “I’m not leaving Mom alone.” He throws the last of the hay from his arms, letting his anger scatter amongst the ground too. 

“Say goodbye to your misses or,” Pete checks below the horse, “mister. I don’t know what it is. But come on cowboy.” 

—

“Jimbo,” an older man slaps James on the back as he walks up to the table. Greying stubble peppers his face, checkered flannel coats his arms, and strong blue denim flows around his legs. “How are you?”

“Michael,” James tries to match the enthusiasm, he really does, but he barely covers just a fraction. “I’m,” he stalls for just a second, attempting to find the right word to cover it, instead he lies. “I’m good. How are you?” 

“Janet left.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s been the worst few weeks, you wouldn’t even imagine.” 

“I wouldn’t?” James replies in a sardonic mumble, thankfully his rudeness goes unheard as his brothers, Tom and Pete, return to the bench. Michael says something about spotting somebody and walks away. 

Amber liquor splashes over the rim of the glass as Tom thrusts the drink in front of James. He moves his elbows off the table to avoid the pooling substance. 

“You know I hate wasted money?” Tom directs his question to James but briefly looks at Pete for support.

James points at the alcohol that is currently sinking into the oak slowly, but before he can quip back Pete intervenes. “And we hate seeing you so down.”

“In the most literal sense,” Tom adds, he nods towards the table, but more so what lies beneath - James’ crotch. 

“I’m sorry, what?” James spits out. Tom and Pete laugh, Tom motioning somebody over from behind James’ shoulder. 

James turns to look in the direction of the person, quickly turning back to the table as he sees a woman walking through the saloon and over to their bench. “Goddammit,” he mutters to himself, his head down, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

“Hey sweet, what's your name again?” Tom addresses her as she stands before them. 

“Pamela,” she replies, her voice loud in competition with Tom, full of confidence. 

“Well, Pamela this is James,” he motions with his head to his brother. James looks up to be polite, nodding his head to register her presence, but quickly ducking his head before he can note anything more about this woman. 

“He’s shy around women,” Pete adds. To which James snaps his head to meet Pete’s gaze in a warning. “Go easy on him sweetheart.” 

James follows the conversation around the table, the back and forth of his brothers, trying to one up each other in their effort to embarrass him. He chances a glance at Pamela as Tom discusses positions and pleasure, he’s zoned out to protect himself. He finds her looking at him, not shying away with his challenging gaze. She sends a small smile, he knows she’s taking pity on him for having to put up with his brothers. He shrugs in reply, what can you do, he attempts to tell her with the gesture. They both snap out of it when Tom drags the glass away from James’ loose grip.

“You know I hate wasted money, James,” Tom reminds him. “Make every second of it count, okay?” He sips the stolen drink, licking the burning liquid from his lips and sending a wink to Pamela. 

Strangely, James finds himself complying. He has no plan, but he follows the woman through the saloon and up the old wooden staircase. He watches the ground as he walks, hiding his face from the whoops and hollers, mainly coming from the table he just vacated.

—

He stands before her now, in a darkened bedroom on the top floor of the saloon. Its dull light creates soft shadows against the walls. Damp swims in the stagnant air, creating a chill deep within his bones as he inhales. He allows himself to study her. Now that he is out of his brothers’ watchful eye, he notes her beauty and lingers on the thought. He can admire her assets that warrant her profession; that’s just the symmetry of her face. He hasn’t, and won't, let himself venture any further south than the tip of her chin.

He mutters the truth when he whispers, “I respect you.” 

“Well, Mr…”

“Halpert.”

“Well, Mr Halpert. Thank you, that’s certainly not the way this has ever begun.” 

“That is what I am trying to say,” his brow knits together in frustration, with his brothers. “I understand this would be a strange request, but could we not do anything?”

“Of course. Anything you want.”

James swallows deeply, his gulp cuts through the silence of the room. He bows his head, looking at his feet. 

“What do you suppose we do? You know Tom hates wasted money,” Pamela jokes.

“I wouldn’t believe everything he tells you, he’s a gambler. A bad one at that.”

“So am I not to believe that I was supposed to be,” she smiles mischievously, “educating you?”

He understands what she is alluding to, or maybe knows the depths of his brother's attempts to embarrass him. “No. No, you are not to believe that.”

“I didn’t. As soon as I saw how handsome you were, I knew there was no way.”

He blushes, but it goes unnoticed under the orange glow of candle light. “So, um, what do we do?” he asks.

“Talk,” she states simply. He nods his head but makes no effort to do just that. “What did you do?”

“Um, I'm a cowboy.”

“I know that,” she touches the rim of his hat. “I mean, what did you do to deserve this,” she hunts for the word, “situation.” 

He thinks for a moment, this time the orange glow catches the way his eyes glaze over. “I’m not sure what I ever did to deserve any,” he mimics her pause, “situations.” He takes a few steps across the creaking floorboards to the bed. A thick mattress with white ruffled sheets spread across it with short wooden pillars for bed posts. He sits on the edge of the bed. She watches him for a second, watching the way he studies his calloused thumb. She follows him, standing before his legs. 

He notes her movement, notes the shadow that presses itself against him as she blocks the flickering candle that sways wildly in her movement. He looks up, his eyes drifting up her body. He promised himself he wouldn’t do that. That he would look at her in a way nobody inside this saloon would ever think to, but he wants to view her in her entirety, just for a second. As if sizing her up before he spills himself out. Calculating just how much of him she can take. Because he needs it. 

At the moment, he doesn’t need nor want pleasure. He doesn’t care for the brief feeling of overwhelming ecstasy. He wants to feel his pain. To sit in it and to have it reflected back to him. To be seen, to be heard, to be held. He needs to feel alcohol flooding his deepest of cuts. The sting making his wound real, like a pinch in a dreamlike state. 

He looks up at her face, slightly parting his legs and letting her in, if she wishes. “My father died,” he admits in a whisper.

She walks into his webb, getting caught between his knees as she stands closer to him. She takes his hat off, placing it over the bedknob just an arms length away. She combs her fingers through his hair, flattening the unruly strands that stand up in protest of the hats removal. 

“When did he pass?” 

“Um,” he gets lost in her touch for a second, his eyes close of their own accord. He doesn’t have to think, he’s been counting the days, minutes and seconds ever since. “Five weeks ago.”

With his hair flattened, she pulls her fingertips down either side of his face, along his temples and stopping at his cheeks. He opens his eyes to find her face, a tear spills as his eyelid can no longer hold it back. She dampens his cheeks as she pulls the teardrop from the dark shadow beneath his eye. “I’m sorry, James.”

He nods. He understands when people apologise for the passing that was completely out of their hands. He sees it as an apology for just that, it’s out of their hands, and it’s out of his. There’s nothing they can do, and they are sorry about that. “Can you call me Jim?” 

She nods without hesitation. “I don’t have a nickname. My family call me Pammy but,” she scrunches her nose up in disgust.

“What’s your last name?”

“Beesly.”

“Beesly,” he repeats.

“Now I sound like one of the men downstairs,” she giggles. “Beesly, good to see you. Does the misses know that you’re here,” she speaks in a mocking male voice. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“No, I’ve always wanted to be like one of them.” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for her to elaborate. “I’d much prefer to be sat downstairs drinking than,” tears tempt her own eyes. She sighs and shakes her head. “You wouldn’t believe how those men act.” He swallows, unfortunately he does know what they are capable of and the respect they lack. He places his own hands over the top of hers that are still resting on his cheeks. “I don’t like it.”

His hands leave hers, they hover skin and fabric until they pull her in by her shoulders. She wraps her arms around his head, his hands grip the fabric of her dress at her back. His forehead resting on her collarbone, shallow breaths ghosting her breasts. An amicable vulnerability.

He looks up when she sniffs, and then she laughs amongst the tears as she's been resting her wet cheeks on his hair. His hands hold her waist, holding her at a bended arms length. “Why don’t you leave?” 

She shakes her head, it’s not that easy. “Jim, I can’t. it’s not that simple.” 

He furrows his brow, he knows if she could not be doing this then she wouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he says delicately. There’s nothing she can do, there's nothing he can say, he apologises. She offers a light smile, she knows. “I’ll be your every customer. I’ll spend my nights paying for your company. I’ll be your bodyguard. Anything I can do,” he pushes a loose curl behind her ear. “I’ll do it Beesly.” She smiles a real smile this time, one that pushes her cheeks into hilltops and turns her eyes into hazel valleys.

“There is one thing you can do.” He nods. “You can let me sit down, my legs are starting to hurt.” 

He loosens his grip, reluctantly. He sighs so she knows of his disapproval. She sits beside him, their bodies turning into each other. They each focus on the other's face, eyes wildly chasing features. 

“Can you, um,” he laughs at his sudden anxiety, after being so vulnerable. “Can you hold me?”

She crawls across the bed, pulling the sheets into a creased mess as she does so. She lies down with her head against a pillow. He takes a moment to take her in. Her skin washed orange. She nudges his leg with her barefoot, catching her ankle as she taps at his thigh, impatiently waiting for him to join her. He sees her innocence in a place, in a bed, and in a time where it’s usually anything but innocent and pure. 

He toes off his ankle boots, they hit the floor with a thud. Crawling over to her, he rests his head on her chest and closes his eyes. She strokes his hair softly as he weeps. He feels the pain, he lets his heart sit heavy in his chest. She allows it. She allows him to be weak and vulnerable. He lets it out, lets himself go.

His mother sits at a wooden table with three bowls perched atop. It’s a scene reminiscent of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Betsy Halpert a temporary Goldilocks, as she stirs and chews on warm oatmeal from her bowl, leaving the other two to cool unattended. The fairy tale cuts short when Jim’s presence manifests itself, his whistle gracing the room before he enters. His hair is unruly without a hat, a white vest is revealed beneath his unbuttoned shirt. 

He kisses her cheek as he takes the seat next to her, finding the bowl to be a perfect size for him. “G’mornin’,” he says around a mouthful of oatmeal. She points her finger at him, warning him of his table manners. He finishes chewing before he speaks again. “How was your night?”

“It was nice. I suspect I’m not alone in having a pleasant evening?” 

His eyebrows furrow in question, again he finishes chewing before answering. “Why? Did Pete return slewed?” 

“I wasn’t awake, but probably.” She pauses her own breakfast eating, studying her son's face. “You’re in a good mood.” She notes the twitch of his top lip, threatening to rise into a smirk. 

“It’s just good to have gone out again,” he says simply, focussing his attention on blowing on the spoon of steaming oats before his mouth.

“Is that what it is?” He nods. She continues to watch him, not convinced with the story and predicting something lying beneath. 

“I saw Michael,” he changes the subject, or offering an alibi to the previous evening.

“Oh, is that why you didn’t come home with your brother?”

“Janet left him,” he offered with sympathetic eyes and a shrug. She opens her mouth to reply but Pete bursts through the doorway and sits at the table.

Pete lets out an approving grunt as he eats his oatmeal, a well needed source of energy for a hungry cowboy.

“James tells me you all had a good night,” Betsy directs to Pete. Jim cuts daggers into his near empty bowl, wishing his brother would not say a word.

“It was great to see him up and out,” Pete replies, Jim rewarding him with a light kick in the shin. “He’s been ever so uptight as of late.”

Jim sends Betsy a pleading eye. “Pete, stop trying to get a rise out of him,” she warns.

“I’m sure we got more of a rise out of him last night,” Pete mumbles as he takes a spoonful of oatmeal.

Jim pushes the chair back with a sigh, he collects his bowl and announces that he is going to continue getting ready.

With Jim out of earshot, Betsy pushes Pete for information.

“So, what did you folks get up to last night?” she presses.

“Tom and I took Jim to the saloon.”

“And?” Pete’s face falls into a guilty expression. “Pete. What did you do?”

“It was Tom’s idea,” he protests. Betsy sighs. “You know when he gets an idea he just rolls with it,” he rushes out.

“Oh Pete,” she says in a breath. “You know he’s vulnerable. You’ve taken advantage of him.”

“It was Tom.”

“You and Tom have taken advantage of him.” Pete sighs, sitting cowardly in the seat opposite his mother. “What happened?” she questions in a stern voice.

“Tom paid for a soiled dove,” he mutters, almost inaudible. Betsy understands but requests him to repeat. “Tom and I helped James meet a girl,” he says almost proudly.

“Did this girl happen to take your money and lead your brother to the back room?”

“Tom’s money,” he reminds her.

“I’m not impressed. You are not to support those wretched schemes. Do you know the extent of the way those women are treated? And you have paid into that.” She stands taking the bowls away. “Shame on you, Pete Halpert.”

—

She’d sent him away with a kiss on his cheek. He’d rejected any form of intimacy that surpassed the emotional kind. He hadn’t wanted to pay for his pleasure, especially from her. As suspected, his heart had jumped when her lips brushed his cheek, and a delicate whisper of ‘goodnight’ had ghosted his jaw and neck as she stepped down from her tiptoes. “How dare you,” he’d replied. A mock disapproval of her overruling the boundaries he had set. She’d taken the joke, laughed at it even, but missed the subtext that lingered beneath the words. 

How dare she let him fold, his hand overturned to reveal what he had concealed for weeks. His perfected poker face and nonchalant reply to concerned friends. His hard exterior crumbled underneath her touch. Yet still, he didn’t find it in himself to mind.

His mother had questioned him as he left home this evening. He mumbled out words she was familiar with and hoped she didn’t worry. He faintly remembers crafting a story of “Kevin, wild dogs, and helping.” He was aware of the liability he had become since the death of his father, and he is constantly reminded of the way others have dealt with the unfortunate situation. His brothers and mother had also lost, and they too have to carry around the emptiness that seems to latch onto a different vital organ each day, just like him. He was unable to move on, he struggled to wipe dry dirt from his hands and continue surviving. He was merely existing recently, until the prior evening that is. When he could feel the very essence of surviving - pain. 

His grandmother would often care for him as a child. She was old and frail and so watched from the porch, elbows carefully placed on the wooden rail as to dodge splinters and rust. When a Halpert child fell she would bellow their name across the yard and usher them inside the shack to treat their wounds. Her husband, Jim’s grandfather, had fallen from a horse and received a nasty gash. He passed, his wife suspected from the untreated wound, causing her to learn, create, and discuss herbal remedies. Jim remembers her speaking to him softly as she poured a liquid into the wound. He was always unsure of the substance, but when Gerald Halpert, Jim’s father, would return home from his endeavours, Jim would note the similarities in the aroma of his father’s breath and his scuffed knees. She would whisper the importance of cleaning wounds, and whilst it may hurt, it’s a sting that is evident of survival and recovery. 

It’s the kind of sting he had been craving since leaving the saloon late in the night. 

—

He enters the saloon, his hat perched atop his floppy hair and a bandana covering the tip of his nose, mouth, and jaw - he figured that if he is going to spend his money and an extortionate amount of time with a prostitute he should hide his identity.His mother would kill him. 

He sees her. Her back is to the entrance, the same white dress she wore the night before flows over her legs and torso, he can almost see the way his hands held onto her those several hours ago. He also notices the wide set man stumbling his way over to her, Jim swerves in about out of drunken men, his boots sticking to drying liquor on the floorboards. He grabs her arm gently, the other man noting that she is now occupied, he grunts and walks away in search of another girl.

He loosens his grip, realising his covered identity, while thankfully is enough to be unrecognisable,he forgets she isn’t in on the plan. He leans in, the fabric over his nose tickling her ear, “Beesly,” she relaxes at his voice. “We ought to get out of here before news spreads and gets back to your misses.”

With that, he follows her up the staircase that is becoming increasingly familiar, the woman who has been sitting on his mind all night and all day. The truth is, even with her hand in his and standing in front of him, he’s still thinking about her. He makes room to remind himself to live in the present. To not waste money, as his brothers kept reminding him last night. He is paying for this privilege afterall. 

In the safety of the bedroom, Jim pulls down his bandana and lets it sit around his neck. Pam frees him from his hat, his hair damp from the short walk in Austin summer heat. She gently places it on her honey curls, grinning from ear to ear. 

“What brings you here, cowboy?” he asks in an overly dramatic southern accent.

“I was about to ask you the same question,” she bats her lashes, teasing him in a light tone.

“I’m your hero, minus the steed. I give Scamp the nights off.”

“Mr Halpert, what makes you think I need saving?”

He shakes his head, a small smile present. “Well, Miss Beesly, you’re right.” He reaches out and hovers his index finger over the skin that peeks over her cheek bone. “I think I’m the one who needs saving,” he says, laughing softly in his admission. Her eyes soften, eyelids sinking with empathy. He notes her sodden look, admitting internally that he has dampened the mood that was light and breezy just moments ago. 

From the back pocket of his trousers he retrieves a pack of cards, and money from the breast pocket of his shirt. He reveals both as if a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. He pays her what is due, an hour in her company for a forgivable price. 

Jim sits cross legged on the mattress, Pam sitting opposite him in the same position. He sits at the bottom of the bed, her towards the pillows. Five cards are messily pilled face up in the small space between them. Jim holds the rest of the pack in his hands, his index finger running up and down the side of the cards as he waits for her to decide. 

“Higher,” she says, but corrects herself instantly. “No… lower!” She buries her face in her hand, peering out between her fingers as she watches him dramatically overturn the deck's top card.

He places the card on the pile with a sigh. “You’re strangely good at this,” he admires. Her giggle fills the small bedroom, the walls suffocating the sound as it keeps their private moment between them. 

He waits for her to make her next decision, watching her face and the way her eyes reveal the gears that turn behind them. She stops flicking between thoughts, he sees, and challenges his gaze. He recognises this as an internal attempt at seeking courage, he feels that the words she holds down with her tongue and lips have more at stake than the card game. 

“Tell me about your father,” she speaks softly, she is hesitant and understanding of the painful request.

“He was a good man,” he begins, as if reciting a eulogy. He speaks delicately, holding his fathers legacy like water in his hands. “My mother is a strong woman, and he let her be. I know that is unheard of, and I am possibly remembering wrong, but he cared for my mother. I will always remember that about him.” He looks at the cards in his hands and thinks of the simplicity of its outcomes, the fifty-fifty decisions, similar to the choice he had five weeks ago - rise up to the occasion and be the man Gerald always was, or sink down, stricken by the loss. “I think he would be disappointed in how I have handled, or rather not handled, his death. And I don’t think he would be thrilled that I am paying for your time, pleasure or no pleasure, whilst my mother is home alone feeling the absence of her late husband.”

She places a hand on his knee, her thumb drawing light circles over the seam of the denim. “Jim, your father would be so proud of you.” 

He shakes his head, he doesn’t mean to undermine her, but he thinks she is incorrect. “I am not the man he taught me to be.”

“Jim Halpert,” she says, almost scolding him. “I have been in your company for not even two hours and I find myself in awe of you. So believe me when I say your father would be proud.” She lifts his head with her hand on his cheek. “I meet many men, I witness their actions in public and in private. In both, you are dignified and kind. Your father would be proud.”

He tilts his head in her hands, his lips touching the skin of her palm that runs down to her wrist. He doesn’t peck her skin, as much as he wants to. He will not pay to take advantage of her body. He predicts that kissing her intimately would create a thrill for himself, and he has promised himself he will not take advantage of that. Because he has paid she will not turn him away. If he kisses her he wants her to have the choice to turn him down. So he lets his lips rest on her skin. 

“What do you do when you are alone?” he whispers against her palm. 

“I draw.”

He sits back, eyebrows shooting up in excitement. “Can I see your art?”

“It’s not art.”

“Pamela Beesly,” he mocks her previous scolding in a good natured way. “You exceed my expectations time and time again. I can guarantee that you’re an artist and,” he shys away from pushing her too far. “If it’s okay with you, I would love to see your work.” She smiles and nods her head.

There’s a clocktower not far from the saloon and he hears its bells echo through the thin glass. He remembers hearing them as he walked inside to find Pam. He understands that his time with her is just a few minutes from playing on loop inside his brain until this time tomorrow. 

“Tomorrow,” he says.

“I’m not working tomorrow.”

“Even better,” he says with a smile.

She lies back on the bed, her head elevated on the pillow, she looks at him with a smile. 

“I’m going to take you out,” he says, touching her ankle lightly as she stretches out her legs. It reminds him of the night before. When in a similar position, he had concluded, in his head, that she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. 

When a cat exposes its stomach, it is not inviting you in. It’s trusting that you won’t become a danger to its life. It is confident that you will leave it alone. But Pamela Beesly is a woman, and he finds her aura the most inviting. He crawls up the bed, as if a wild animal waiting to pounce, and hovers over her, hands pressed either side of her head. 

She watches him closely, their eyes playing a game of cat and mouse as they travel from eyes to lips to cheeks. And when Jim’s eyes find her eyes looking at his lips, he figures his rule making a foolish thing. But, he’s a man of his word. 

He clears his throat before speaking. “Well, I guess my time is up then.” 

“I guess it is.”

He nods.

“But technically” she begins. “If we both agree that your time is up. Right now, you are not a paying customer.” 

“Huh, is that so?”

She nods.

“Then I guess that makes the rules,” he thinks for a second. “Obsolete.”

She nods her head and watches his lips as he leans in.

He returned that evening, two hours after leaving home, to witness his mother crying in the kitchen. He had taken a long walk after leaving Pam, hoping the breeze would wash away the smell of whiskey, women, and a sinking feeling of guilt. Jim was at Betsy’s side in an instant, crouching before her as she wept into her hands on an old chair of the kitchen table. 

There is something Jim fears more than losing his sense of direction, in a metaphorical and internal way, and that's having somebody notice the piece of you that has become dislodged and unsettled. Having someone whom you respect so dearly become disappointed, outraged, or distant due to your change in nature. To become his worst fears and face real consequences because of it.

Again, the fifty-fifty decision presented itself. You either do something or you don’t. You either lie to your mother or you tell her the truth. 

“I, uh,” he began but Betsy interrupted him the second he stalled.

“I don’t want to hear it, James. I can’t stand to hear any more lies. I can’t bear to see my sons turn out this way.” She placed her head in her hands, stubborn as he tried to peel her fingers from her eyes. 

“Please, just listen to me,” he pleaded, the volume of his voice making himself fall apart. He too was crying.

“What would your father think?” Jim was in shock. Those words felt more like a blunt object penetrating his skin, only to have it removed and try again elsewhere. “He would be ver-”

“That’s not fair,” he spat out as he sat back on his heels. “Don’t say that. That’s not right,” he said it to convince himself, more so than teach his mother of rights and wrongs.

Betsy didn’t back down. “What’s not right, is supporting the poor treatment of those women. You and your brothers may have these names, these things you call them, maybe to make yourself feel better about getting some from a stranger.” She continued, even when Jim tried to object. “But these women are human. This career is dangerous. And you,” she emphasised with a point to his chest - the blunt instrument aiming straight for his heart. “You have enabled this. And I cannot believe a son of mine would do that.” She ends with a sob. Jim stared at the floor, the weight of the words sinking through him.

“Right,” he clears his throat. “I, um. Please just let me explain this,” he chanced a glance at her, she nodded with a red face and wet cheeks. “Her name is Pamela.”

“Oh, Jim,” she sighed with disappointment. 

“No, please. Let me explain.”

He told her about the influence of Tom and Pete, about following Pam up to the bedroom. He told her of his rules, that he laid out before them both, that he would not pay for her to carry out her usual ministrations. He told her that he trusted Pamela, that he felt pain between those four walls and beneath her two arms. He told her he was enamoured by her presence and couldn’t bear another second knowing that she performs dangerous duties.

“And I’m going to help her leave that place,” he told Betsy. “I don’t have a plan or, I just, how do I do it?”

—-

Now he stands on the wooden porch of the Beesly home, half a dozen eggs sent by his mother in one hand and a bouquet of flowers he had picked from the prairie during his walk the night before.

He sends hollow thuds on the door with his knuckles, gently stomping the dust from his boots anxiously. The door opens with a loud screech, directing Jim’s attention away from the bird's nest balancing on a beam that supports the porch. 

A frail man stands in the doorway, holding the door for support. 

“James Halpert,” Jim introduces himself and offers his hand.

“William Beesly,” he replies, meeting Jim’s hand with a firm grip. “She said she’ll be a couple a minutes, why don’t you come in and wait?” 

“Thank you.” He follows William into the house, noting a limp to his gate and how he uses passing objects to hold himself up. 

“Pammy says you’re a cowboy?” 

“Yes sir, all Halpert’s tend to be. Well, apart from my brother, Tom. He’s a sheriff.” They reach the small kitchen, where a woman stands before the stove. 

“Me and the sheriffs never used to get on,” he says with a laugh.

“Tom and I are the same, but it’s more to do with him being my brother than the sheriff part,” Jim’s joke is received well judging by the chuckles from William and the woman.

“This is Pamela’s mother, Helene.”

“Mrs Beesly, it’s nice to meet you.” He shakes her hand. “James Halpert. Oh, and these are for you,” he says as he hands her the carton of eggs. “My mother tends chickens and she insisted that you have some.” 

“Thank you, James. Please tell your mother how grateful we are.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Howdy, cowboy,” Pam jokingly greets Jim as she walks into the room.

He turns quickly at the sound of her voice, the reaction to her beauty exclusively for her as he turns his back on her parents. She wears a thin beige dress that surpasses her knees but reveals her ankles and her shins. He thinks of how beautiful she is, how lucky he is, and how it's best that he stops gawking because he's not sure he can outrun William Beesly’s pistol and doesn’t think he would like to try today. 

“Um, howdy partner,” he’s shy as he says it, anticipating a thump on the head from William which thankfully never comes. He hears a feminine laugh behind him and is grateful that it's taken in good nature. “Shall we saddle up?” 

Pam laughs, eyeing him in question. “Saddle up?” 

He rolls his eyes at her mocking and turns to face her parents. Helene is watching with an expectant smile, William’s smile seems to be more forced and hesitant. 

By the front door, out of sight and earshot from parents, Jim stills Pam as she reaches for the doorknob. 

“These are for you.” He holds out the bunch of lilac flowers tied together at the stems with string.

“I was wondering when you were going to let me have them,” she teases. 

“I was avoiding stepping on landmines around your father, Beesly.”

“They are just flowers. It’s not like you were feeling me up or something.”

He hushes her laughter when he pulls her in with a hand on her waist and the other softly at her cheek as he kisses her. He pulls back quickly, realising that it is indeed a dangerous game to ‘feel up or something’ a daughter around her parents. He guides her out the door, his hand at the small of his back because he can’t help himself. 

She leaves the flowers in a small cup of water to save them from wilting. When far enough from the Beesly homem Jim intertwines his fingers in hers, and swings their arms back and forth happily. 

After two minutes of content silence, Pam speaks.

“I heard you say the eggs were from your mother?”

“Yeah. We have chickens, so.” 

“So she knows where you are and who you’re with now, right?” She sees him nod out of the corner of her eye. “So, you um, what have you told her about me?”

He sighs, reliving how his mother had reacted the night before. “Well, she kind of figured out, or was told, where I’ve been for the past couple of nights.” 

“Oh?”

“She was upset.”

“Oh.”

He stops them from walking and turns to face her. “She thought I was taking advantage of the women who work there. That I,” he shakes his head, again pained by the man his mother mistook him for. “She understands the dangers you face. She didn’t want me to pay into that, and be one of those men.” She nods. He sees the worry in her eyes and so places a hand on her upper arm. “She wants to meet you.”

“Oh, um.”

“Beesly, read the room. Betsy Halpert is my best friend and I have told her how in awe of you I am. She really wants to meet the person who has put a smile on her favourite son’s face for the first time since…” Pam smiles, despite the reference to his fathers death, she's happy he can smile again. “They were her words, not mine.” He begins to walk again. 

“Sure they were,” she giggles, walking faster to catch up with him and reclaiming her place in his hand when she does.

—

He lets her walk through the gap in the barn door first, she looks back over her shoulder nervously. Their eyes adjust to the barn, harsh beams of light pouring through the cracks of the wood only making the dark harder to see through. 

A neigh echoes from the corner of the barn causing Pam to jump back in surprise. Jim chuckles and walks in front of her, walking towards the sound of the horse. When he disappears behind the barn door she doesn’t follow. He awaits the swing of the gate but it never comes. Holding Scamp in place by his neck, he opens the gate slightly and greets a worried Pam.

“Pamela, I am a cowboy. Now what did you expect?”

“Horses frighten me, that's all, James.”

He leaves the stable, reaching for Pam’s hand and holding it behind him as she follows him apprehensively into the stable.

“Pam, this is Scamp.” Pam stands behind his arm, flinching when Scamp shakes his head and sighs. “Scamp, this is Pam.” Jim reaches out to pat Scamp’s neck but he turns his head away from him. “Come on buddy, don’t be like that. You’re both equally beautiful, Pam’s a slightly better kisser but-” 

He sees Pam’s tension loosen with his joke, his intention of making her feel more comfortable slowly working. 

“Come on, I promise he won’t hurt you,” he says softly, leaning his head into Scamp's face with exaggerated puppy eyes. 

She takes slow steps forward, standing back at an arm's length away and strokes Scamp’s nose. Jim’s arm is hooked underneath his neck to secure him. He watches Scamp’s reaction as she runs her finger tips down the bridge of the horse's nose, tiptoeing forward when Scamp remains still. 

“He likes you,” Jim whispers, he diverts his attention to Pam’s expression. She pouts and furrows her brow, writing his statement off as false information. “Well, I like you,” he continues in a delicate whisper. “And any friend of mine is a friend of Scamp’s.” She breathes out a laugh through her nose, standing closer to Jim’s body so she is directly in front of Scamp, he to the side. 

“He has your nose,” she whispers and looks at Jim, he looks unimpressed and humoured at the same time.

“Scamp, I take that as a compliment,” he says softly, but shakes his head at Pam. “You should ride him sometime.”

“Oh, no, I don’t know how to ride.”

“I’ll teach you,” he insists.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

Jim doesn’t reply. He notices the glazed eyes that flick over Scamp’s features as she touches them. She drops her hand and looks at him with a tight lipped smile, he thinks her mouth's expression doesn’t seem to reflect that of her eyes. She wipes her hand on her thigh. 

“I guess we should get on with the show then?” he asks, with a final pat to Scamp’s neck and ushers Pam out of the stable.

He stands expectedly before a ladder, almost eyeing her up to see if she hesitates in the vertical voyage. 

“Ladies first?” Pam challenges him, reaching out for the ladder to begin the assent. 

“No I was,” he stops his attempt at halting her when she is halfway up the ladder in the blink of an eye. “Tryna to see if you were okay with the climb,” he mutters under his breath as he places his foot on the ladder. 

Spare hay and barrels hug the wall of the sparse barn floor. A window frame, absent from glass, welcomes sunlight to softly kiss the wood panels. Gentle exhales of wind run it’s fingers through Pam's hair as she stands before the view, their town visible, admittedly small, but certainly not a million miles away as she feels. 

It feels more intimate than the bedroom at Malone’s Saloon. No violent ghosts haunting the walls, the rules lifted from their shoulders, and the low hum of drunk, horny men no longer tap at the soles of their feet. As Pam thinks this, she becomes aware of Jim’s past. A rather hypocritical evaluation of this space as she realises he crumbled in her arms in a bed where many other men have also had overwhelming experiences before her. Whether he senses or predicts it, possibly even by coincidence, he begins to speak.

“I’ve lost track of the times I’ve sat up here just feeling,” he stares blankly outside and shakes his head, “so, so lonely. Watching everyone continue, feeling everyone move on while I was still on that day, in that second that I received the news. I never came back from that.” He swallows deeply, as if forcing his emotion back down into his heart. “I never thought I’d come back from that.” He looks at her, finding her already holding his face with her eyes. 

She places her hand on his arm. “You can come back from it.”

“I know,” he says.

Betsy had sent him on his way with a wicker basket packed with bread, raspberry jam, cheese, fruit, and a thick tweed blanket stuffed between the handle and the lid. Some cowboys sometimes hang out after work to smoke and bitch about their wives, so Jim had decided he’d kill two birds with one stone and make sure his place of work was empty and to drop off the food before heading over to the Beesly’s.

He drags his foot across a large perimeter of floor to make sure no nails are exposed before draping a blanket across it unceremoniously. Pam watches him, observing his boyish face and how his lips slightly parted to focus attentively on his task. She thinks about what can’t be seen with the naked eye, how thoughtful he is and how unburdened he is to do these kind things for her. She bites the hard skin around her thumbnail, lost in thought until he begins to pick food from a wicker basket. 

They top and tail on the blanket. Jim’s legs outstretched, leaning on an elbow facing towards Pam’s side of the blanket. Pam is sat cross legged on the other side. She is deep in thought, chewing slowly as she stares at her hands that pick off small chunks of bread. 

After applying a generous layer of Betsy’s homemade jam to bread, he offers the piece to Pam. He watches her face, the way a crease runs deep between her eyebrows as her brow furrows. 

And the way she chews slowly, sometimes stopping before remembering what she was supposed to be doing. She looks up as she sinks her teeth into the thick slice of bread, finding his eyes readily available as his gaze does not falter. She smiles around her mouthful, the bread causing a bump in her left cheek. He thinks it would be adorable if it wasn't forced and untruthful. He lifts his eyebrows. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

She nods her head, swallowing before replying. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? I’m having a picnic with a very attractive cowboy, I am more than okay.”

He chuckles, eating a piece of bread that he just broke off. He nudges her hip with his socked foot, urging her on to tell the truth. “Are you sure you’re okay?” She nods but he presses further. “I am very sorry Beesly, but that contemplative look you’re wearing is making me nervous.”

She stretches her legs out, the fabric of her dress and the shine of her skin just inches from him. 

“I’m just thinking,” she says as she wipes crumbs from her dress. Looking up she sees concern pass over his face, she admits to herself that he had every right to be startled by her unintended, long dramatic pause. “Nothing bad, I promise,” she rushes out.

He finds himself unable to reach for her any longer. He runs his finger over skin as he finds it, just above her ankle in the space absent of fabric. He runs his fingers up her leg, just two inches beneath the hem of her dress, he rests them there. Cursing his impatience and consistent need to hold onto her, as if to ground himself.

“Jim.” 

He looks up from her leg and his fingers. 

“Nobody has ever recognised the dangers I am in. Let alone try to resolve my issues as if they are their own.” His fingers, that stroke her skin, stand still, the sound and movement putting the delicate moment at risk. “Yet here you are.” She leans back on her elbows, looking down at him. He sits up, wanting to see her face clearly again. His left hand holding his weight on the blanket and his right hand resting on her knee, above dress this time. “I just feel so used. I’m just an object to replace their right hand. But they feel the pain of their hand, at least they have respect for it, you know? They don’t dominate and belittle it,” she rants angrily. 

“Pam, I am so sorry,” he whispers. 

“I don’t know how to describe it, but they are just so… angry. I’m what they use to get it all out, I guess.” She sits up, her head just inches away from Jim’s. “I realised very quickly that I don’t even have to fake it, they literally don’t care, they have no interest in me,” she offers a self-deprecatory smile but the sadness glazes over her eyes. “Jim when I saw your sullen face I was so scared. I saw the weight of the world on your shoulders and I just knew I would bear the strength of it.”

“God,” he mutters. “I would never treat you like that. I’d never treat anybody that way.” 

“I know.” She kisses his shoulder before resting her forehead against it. His hand leaves her leg and rests on the back of her neck, the other holding her hip. They do physically what they have been doing mentally since meeting - leaning against each other. 

Two hundred intertwined heartbeats pass before Jim speaks, but placing a kiss at her temple first. “I would never treat you that way”

“I know”

“Pam, look at me.” She lifts her head to meet him, her eyes heavy with threatening tears and the darkness she was just sitting under. “I would worship you. I would fall at your feet and sacrifice my pleasure for yours. I would not stop until you felt as important as you make me feel. I would kiss every inch of your body, learn every indentation, every freckle, every scar on your skin. The only emotion I would translate through our pleasure is the adoration I have for you. I am completely smitten with you. Unequivocally falling head over boots. I would make you feel so good, Beesly.” He dips his head and kisses her softly. “I want to make you feel good,” he whispers softly almost against her lips. He pushes her to lie on her back with the urgency of their kiss. He curls fanned out against the blanket. Although wanting to kiss her lips for a lifetime he made promises and expanded expectations, he kisses a path to her jaw, down her neck and across her shoulder. 

She closed her eyes when she anticipated and welcomed his kiss just minutes prior to now, and she has not opened them since. Her other senses shutting down, as if retiring their duties, all she can feel is Jim Halpert and his wonderful, wonderful mouth. She gets lost in his touch, and then he’s gone. His lips disappeared, the trail they left behind cooling and drying. The goosebumps he created begin to sink. His weight falls off her completely. 

“Oh,” she says simply, preparing to open her eyes and succumbing to bright light, shocking her other senses back into submission. She feels him somewhere by her legs, her mind crafting an image of how he looked at the beginning of their picnic. She had thought of how delicious the jam was, and stored a mental note away to compliment his mother, maybe asking for a recipe. But, now with the reminder of Jim’s kiss, she thinks that the jam is not nearly the most amazing thing that has been created at the hands of Betsy Halpert. She chuckles at this thought, and then wills herself to open her eyes, expecting Jim’s unruly hair and signature grin watching her. 

“Oh,” she says boldly this time. In shock as she becomes witness to James Halpert’s head disappearing beneath her dress. 

The sun has lowered a noticeable amount since the eight distant chimes from the clocktower. Jim always wonders why the sun slips from the sky in such a hurry. It hangs above them for hours, and then rushes away from them at the end of the day, leaving so fast that it spills its orange for the clouds and rain to mop up. The loud bells of time passing did nothing but remind Jim that it’s been an hour since he’s spoken to Pam; he went earlier this evening to eat dinner with her and hear about the reasons for her fathers limp. He had fallen from a horse, is the short story. An accident that could have been avoided is the way that Pam had elaborated. She told it in a manner that amused Jim, she was so sympathetic to her fathers condition but, “man, he’s an idiot,” she had sighed. The mistake has led to him unable to provide for his family, which snowballed into her asking Kevin Malone for a job. She tells her family that she looks after rich families' children most nights as they have dinner parties and other events she fabricates. 

Whilst Jim knits his expression and polishes his boots, Betsy knits a blanket for her friend's upcoming grandchild. He’d told her how the date went, missing information where necessary, and she encouraged him to bring her round for dinner. Now they sit in a comfortable silence, apart from the clacks of needles and bristles versus leather, both very aware of the energy radiating from Jim as he sulks about missing “his girlfriend”. Betsy had used the term when she teased him.

A soft knock at the door startles the pair. They look at each other accusingly as if telepathically asking the other if they were expecting a guest. 

“I’ll get it then,” he teases as he abandons his boots. 

There she is. When he opens the door she is sobbing, a purpling oval on her cheekbone standing out amongst the blotchy red stains left from her sadness. He gathers her in his arms, letting the door swing closed behind her. She sobs into his chest as he whispers into her ear as his cheeks rests against her head.

“What happened?” he asks softly, but anger courses through him. He knows where she has been, he can assume what has happened. Her attempt to respond just comes out as a gasp for air and a heart shattering sob. “Are you okay?” he tries again with a simpler question, which also seems as if it's a silly one. He hopes she hears his question as he really means it, will you be okay? He feels her head move against his chest, he doesn’t know if it was an attempt at a shake or a nod, neither answer would make him feel any better. 

The door swings open. “Pamela!” she greets cheerfully, but she sounds like a distant echo to Jim’s ears. He reluctantly pulls away from Pam, as if he’s a magician with a disappearing act, it's like a ta-daa! moment but horrific and heart wrenching. Predictably, Betsy gasps and rushes to their side, inspecting Pam’s face as she lightly cradles it in her hands. “Oh dear, honey. Are you hurt anywhere else?” Jim stands to the side, feeling helpless, worried and absolutely fuming all at once. 

“Um, just on my wrists,” Pam says between shallow breaths, revealing tender pink handprints that wrap around her forearms. Jim bites back a sob himself, he couldn’t stop himself from imagining what she had gone through and the fact that he couldn’t be there to protect her. He sees them walking back inside the house and thankfully there's some part of his brain that isn’t evaluating the pros and cons of throwing rage at every single man inside the saloon as he finds his legs carrying himself right behind them.

Betsy sits Pam at the kitchen table and rushes around the kitchen, putting a pan of water on the stove and grabbing a handkerchief from a clean pile of washing that sits in a basket on a tabletop. Jim stands beside Pam throughout this, holding her head against his hip and stroking her hair with a delicate touch. Her sobs subside, either calming or running out of energy to continue the internal fight.

Before either of them know it, a mug of steaming herbal tea is held between Pam’s fingertips and Betsy is sat on a chair next to her, she ushers for Jim to sit down also. He takes Pam’s hand as she begins to speak.

“I was at work and um, this regular came in and he was so angry and drunk. And I don’t know why,” she rubs her fingers over her brow, “I was so stupid. I resisted. I was scared and I resisted and he just lost it.” Jim reaches out and catches the tears from her cheeks as they spill, mindful of the delicate skin of her right cheekbone. “I’m so sorry for interrupting your evening.”

“Not at all honey, you only interrupted James feeling bad for himself that you weren’t here,” Betsy makes light of her guilt. 

Pam looks up at Jim, a light teasing smile amongst the damp bruises. “It’s true,” he confirms. 

“So you say he was a regular?” Betsy questions.

“Uh, yeah. He’s been coming in way longer than I’ve been working there. It’s kind of a joke between us girls, Roy’ll go for anyone. Most people hav-”

“Anderson?” Jim interrupts.

“Yeah.” 

“Shit,” he mutters through his teeth. 

“James,” Betsy scolds. 

“You know him?” Pam asks.

“I know of him, he’s an absolute a-”

“James Halpert, do not complete that sentence.” 

He rolls his eyes, exaggerating the gesture to amuse Pam - it works. “Are you going to be okay for a little while?” He stands and heads into the other room. 

“Where are you going?” Betsy and Pam call out in unison. 

He re-enters, leaning on the kitchen table as he clumsily puts on his boots. “I’m just going to talk to Kev, I need to sort this.” He stands before Pam. “Are you going to be okay with my very lovely mother for fifteen minutes?” He’s kissing her on the brow of her nodding head before she can really have the chance to be worried about spending time alone with a woman she’s never met. He kisses Betsy’s cheek quickly on the way out.

“Don’t do anything stupid please,” she scolds.

As long strides carry him towards the saloon he notes the irony of polishing his boot only to go and kick Roy Anderson’s ass with it.

—

“He’s a smart boy, he’ll be okay,” Betsy recognises the worry on Pam’s face, how she pushes aside her own turmoil to think of Jim’s safety. She smiles lightly at her words. 

“I couldn’t imagine him as a fighter.” Pam’s statement earns a chuckle. 

“Not physically, no. But he’s a pain in the ass with how he winds his brothers up.”

“Language, Mrs Halpert,” Pam scolds jokingly.

“Ahh, I won’t tell if you won’t. And that’s Betsy to you,” she holds the top of Pam’s hand as she begins to speak more seriously. “I want to apologise for how my sons treated you that night,” she continues, even with Pam’s attempted objections. “I have not brought them up to treat women, especially women of your career, the way that they did.”

“Jim, sorry James, was a complete gentleman.”

Betsy smiles knowingly. “Gerald, his father, used to call him Jim all the time. I think he’s missed it.” Pam nods knowingly, letting the steam settle on her top lip before taking a sip. “Please don’t go back there, honey,” Betsy pleads.

“I don’t want to, but I don’t really have a choice.” 

“How so?” 

“My father had an accident, he can’t work. If they don’t have my income I’m scared of what will happen.”

“Oh honey, do they know where you work?”

“Absolutely not!” 

Betsy sighs through her nose, out of frustration but not because of Pam. She understands the weight that dilemma holds, better than anyone. “I used to be a saloon girl.”

—

Jim, thankfully, didn’t see Roy on his way into the saloon. He formed his plan on the walk over. It took him from the kitchen to the steps of the porch to decide the ingenious two step plan: talk to Kevin, kick Roy’s ass. 

It’s not until he’s standing before Kevin in an unorganised storage room that he realises talking requires words. 

“I need a favour from you,” he begins and hopes to find the rest of his convincing speech along the way. “You have to let Pamela Beesly go.” 

“Erm… no.” Jim realises he was foolish for not thinking Kevin would object. “She’s our greatest asset… if you understand me?” Jim looks blankly at Kevin until he raises his arms and cups the air away from his chest, Jim’s face fills with anger. 

“She almost got killed by one of your customers. Do the right thing Kev,” Jim pleads.

“Paying customers. I think you’re misunderstanding what those whores are for. Don’t be selfish, you can’t have her all for yourself, that's not how this works.”

“What?” 

“I know things,” Kevin does an awful job at stifling his laugh. “We’ve all had a bet on how long it will take until you marry her.” His laugh spills out completely. 

“Talking of bets,” Jim realises he needs to play dirty. Kevin has been a friend since he was a boy, his father had owned the saloon and Kevin took over when he passed. But his loyalties belong to Pam, and his desperation stems from the thought of her. “Don’t think that I’ve forgotten about the money you owe me.” 

Kevin no longer has anything to laugh about. “Oh, you know I’m going to get that to you one day.”

“I can forgive you for the money, if you let Miss Beesly go.”

“I can’t do that. She has something so special, you’d know.” Jim raises his eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. “She just lies back and takes it, the boys love that.”

“Well that does leave us with a dilemma then doesn’t it,” Jim says with a finger on his lips, thinking. “I think the best option is, Miss Beesly is dismissed as of today, my money will be returned to me by the end of the week.” Kevin opens his mouth to object but Jim holds up his hand. “Or, I’ll bring up your illegal weaponry at the dinner table, maybe I’ll do it when Tom visits.” He clicks his finger, if lightbulbs were invented one would definitely float above his head. “Yeah, you know what, I think I’ll do just that.” He slaps Kevin on the back on his way out of the room.

—

Pam stands before a kitchen counter peeling potatoes ready for the stew Betsy will cook tomorrow. She cubes the peeled potatoes and puts them into a pan of water and piling the peels on the counter to feed to the chickens. Betsy prepares beef beside her. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to tell my parents,” Pam admits. “They will freak out when they see my face.” She laughs lightly, nervous laughter. 

“Why don’t you stop here tonight? We can work out a story in the morning when you’ve had some sleep.”

She places the knife on the counter and turns to face Betsy. “Are you sure?” 

“Of course! I meant what I said about James sulking in your absence, it will get him out of my hair. You’ll find it difficult to sleep tonight when the shock and adrenaline wears off, and I know that that son of mine will want to make sure you’re okay,” Betsy says, not looking up from cutting meat.

Pam turns back to her prepping, scooping a pile of potatoes and placing them into the pan. “Thank you so much.”

The front door shutting heavily and multiple footsteps making their way to the kitchen breaks their content silence.

Tom walks into the room first, Jim following slightly behind, his head down like a scolded puppy. 

“When did Jimmy grow a pair and learn how to fight?” Tom announces. 

Betsy and Pam turn around quickly, seeing a proud Tom and an embarrassed, or rather, guilty Jim. 

“Oh, James.”

—

Jim made his way into the main room of the saloon, a bustling post work crowd making it hard to find what he wanted. His name was called from the back, approaching the table apprehensively, his brother sat amongst many men, cards and liquor lined the table.

“You here to meet your lady friend?” Tom asked. 

“Jimbo, you have a lady friend? Why didn’t you tell me?” Michael asked from the other side of the table. 

“Probably because it’s one of the girls you see floating around here,” Tom said. “What was her name? Erica? Angela? Mary?”

“Pamela,” Jim replied through gritted teeth. 

“Oh Halpert, I wouldn’t bother with her.” Jim snapped his head at the sound of that voice. “Uptight bitch. I mean, what kind of whore resists.” Jim walked over to the chair where Roy sat, cards in his hand and talking enthusiastically to the rest of the table. “It’s literally her jo-”

“Excuse me?” Jim spat, his demeanour causing Roy to stand up in defence. 

“I paid that bitc-'' Jim's hand connected with Roy’s cheekbone before he could complete the insult.

—

The mattress dips, the movement causing the springs to squeak in reluctance. 

“Beesly, stop moving. Mom threatened that if we… fornicate under her roof she’d castrate me,” Jim whispers into the dark, the soft moonlight creates a dim glow on her face, he can see her lips turning into a smile. 

“Sorry, I just can’t get comfortable.” She readjusts her position as if to prove her point. “Did she actually say that?”

“She did.” 

Something about being away from the saloon and lying in bed has made them nervous. The rules lifting left debris of an unspoken agreement and a silent yearning energy between them both. Neither would cross the line dividing them. Instead, they spoke against it in quiet whispers.

“What did you do at the saloon?”

“I made sure that Roy will never lay another hand on you, that’s for sure. And I spoke to Kevin.”

“Really?” she asks, nervously.

“You don’t have to go back there, and you’ll still get money to give your parents. At least for a while anyway.”

“How?”

“I had a bet with Kevin and won. He still hasn’t given me the money, it’s enough to help you for a bit.”

“But Jim, that's your money, I can’t take that from you.”

“The only thing that's mine is you, cowgirl,” he jokes.

“Don’t call me a cowgirl until you’ve seen me ride.”

Jim sits up, leaning on his elbow trying to see Pam better. She can just about see her smiling face, and feel the bed moving with her shaking shoulders. “Miss Beesly, you are awful.” He lies back down, crossing the line and gathering her into his arms so her head rests against his chest.

“Mornin’ Ma,” Pete calls as he walks into the kitchen, focussing on the buttons of his shirt even as he sits down. Jim, Betsy, Pam, and now Pete, sit at the kitchen table eating oatmeal and fruit. Jim cuts an apple into slices that Pam eats as he puts them on the table, it’s an attempt at sharing. Pete is on his third spoon of oatmeal as he looks up at the rest of the table, the spoon dropping into the bowl with a thick splash and quiet thud. Betsy looks at him with an expectant smile. 

“This is Pamela, you’ve met before.” It’s all Betsy can do to fix his slack jaw, besides reaching across the table and picking it up for him. Pete’s eyes flicking between the three of them.

“You don’t like wasting money?” Jim helps.

“Oh,” Pete looks at Betsy who nods at him, “I’m really sorry about that.” Pam smiles at him around a slice of apple. “What happened to your eye?” he asks her. 

“Roy Anderson,” Jim answers for her. “But I gave him a matching one.” Betsy stands, collecting bowls and gives the back of Jim’s head a light smack. 

“Anderson’s always been a…” Pete glances at Betsy who waits for him to continue. “Person that I find distasteful.” Betsy continues to clean up the breakfast preparations. “Are you okay?” he asks Pam. 

“I feel a lot better than yesterday, thank you.”

Jim takes his and Pam’s bowl over to Betsy. “We should continue getting ready, otherwise I’ll be late. You know Scamp hates waiting around.” 

“You don’t want to upset the girlfriend,” Pam teases as she rises.

“Pamela,” Pete says, holding his hand out as she walks past. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

—

It was going to be a long day for Pam, counting down the hours until Jim returned home. Betsy took her under her wing, teaching her how to start cooking a stew in the morning, how to feed the chickens, and how to do laundry. Pam had admitted that she had never been taught how to do these things, her mother had never been very attentive with sharing her wisdom of being a woman. Pam thought it’s something you just started doing when you got married and had children. She can’t help but think that it’s Betsy’s plan to teach her how to be a wife, and she hopes they share the vision that it would be with her son. 

Pam anticipated a couple more hours before her parents would grow worried of her whereabouts. She wouldn’t return home from work until early hours of the morning and often slept until noon, she didn’t think her parents cared much about her whereabouts and if they did, they never made too much of a fuss about it.

Betsy had asked careful questions, one for every task. 

“Did you sleep well?” Betsy had asked over the stove. Pam stirred the contents of the pot as she told Betsy of her frequent nightmares throughout the night, but was assured by Jim each time.

“Any thought of what you’re going to tell your parents?” Betsy had asked as they both tossed seeds and vegetable scraps into the chicken pen.

“I can cover my wrists,” Pam had replied. “And I’m a total klutz, so I can just say I walked into a shelf or something.” 

“What did they think of James when he picked you up?”

“They really like him. But who can’t resist that charm?” 

“How are you really feeling? With meeting James, last night, and losing your job all in one week?” Betsy now asks as Pam watches her knitting, attempting to practise her technique with her borrowed yarn and needles.

Pam thinks for a second. “I’m okay actually. Any time I start to feel overwhelmed about it all I just think of Jim. He’s so great, I mean you know this but,” she shakes her head, unable to put it into words.

“He acts with his heart.” Pam nods. “He really cares about you and I can promise he will make it his life mission to look after you.” 

—

She’s leaning against a distant fence watching them. Jim and Scamp are walking, sometimes trotting, around a large patch of yellow grass, she suspects it’s just for fun. It’s as if Scamp has recognised her when he begins to trot over, rebelling against Jim’s commands, but then he sees her and pushes his friend into a canter.

“Hey you,” he calls out as he gets closer. 

“Howdy Cowboy.” She has to tilt her neck to look at him, his eyes glistening in the sunset, his smile wide. Scamp brushes his nose into her neck, demanding attention. “Hello to you too Scamp,” she laughs. 

“Do you want to hop on and I’ll ride us back?” He drops his hat onto her head. 

She thinks about it for a second, but shakes her head. They begin to walk at a slow pace, Scamp pushing his head down, as if sulking that he cannot go any faster. 

“How was your day?” he asks. 

“It’s been good. Your mother’s been teaching me how to be a woman.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh you know, how to cook and clean, she’s making sure I’m ready for when I meet the right man.”

“When, huh?”

They grow silent. The words lingering between them.

—

Pam is still hesitant when Jim, now dismounted, walks Scamp through the barn and into his stable. She leans over the gate, her crossed forearms laying on the wood panels so she can rest her chin on herself. She feels safer with the wooden separation, she lets herself watch Jim toss hay and thinks things. 

She remembers when he changed his shirt after breakfast, he had spilled oatmeal on himself before taking his first bite. “I have farm girls to impress, Miss Beesly. It’s important to maintain a good image,” he had told her when he insisted he had to change. Revealing the undershirt that hugs his torso and leaves his arms bare, Pam can almost think of the way his biceps would tense and relax as he picks up and throws down hay. 

“I guess when you don’t have charm or brains to go off, looks are very important,” Pam had quipped back as she helped him button the shirt. His hands had stilled, kissing her before she could prepare for it, what should've been him wiping the smirk from her face just made her laugh even more. She tutted him away as she continued to button his shirt, motioning to the wide open door and the risk of a roaming Betsy Halpert. 

She thinks back to other moments where they have teased the terms of their relationship. The jokes of liberty for each, no strings to tie each of them down, not even to each other. And with the thought of Betsy’s not so subtle lesson on how to be a good wife, the thoughts of Jim’s masculinity get weighed down by a dissection of their acquaintanceship, friendship, possible relationship. She has always been led to believe that marriage was for convenience, not love. Are she and Jim friends until either parent finds a match of convenience? Was her day with Betsy actually just a test, to see if Pam would be a convenient wife for her son? She tables the internal discussion as more thoughts of Jim and his body float to the surface of her mind. It’s not her fault this time, Jim has no business looking at her from the other side of the gate, his chest meeting her gaze if she looks straight forward, rolling a strand of hay between his teeth. 

“You okay?” he asks, noting the vacant look on her face. He leans down to study her face, causing her to nod in silence. “Are you going to move out of the way of the gate or do I have to climb over it?” 

“It seems that you’d find much joy from that, Cowboy.” She plucks the hay from his teeth and lets it fall to the floor, reminding him of his macho cowboy display. 

“I won’t give you the pleasure,” he scoffs, pushing the gate open and sliding through a small gap. “So what’s the first rule of being a woman?” 

“What? Oh,” she says as she follows Jim across the Barn, bouncing on her feet as she seemingly skips along ready to watch him do any activity. “She told me to never, under any circumstance, give my heart to a cowboy.”

“Oh really?” He places Scamp’s reins, that were hanging from his shoulder, onto a hook. 

“She always told me to stay away from saloon girls, and yet… here we are,” he states matter-of-factly, placing a hand on Pam’s shoulder as if to conclude his point. She warned him with her eyes and a tilted head until they were serious for far too long and she smiled. “I know that she probably spent the day trying to persuade you to stick around.”

She did, actually. Pam thinks back to earlier in the day and replays all the times Betsy had said ‘Jim did’, or ‘Jim is’, or just anytime she mentioned Jim. Of course a mother would act like her child was a hand carved piece of art. Admiring the beauty she created herself, and overly cautious and protective. But Betsy was willing to place her sculptured child into Pam’s shaking hands. Maybe Helene Beesly carved Pam out of ice, completely transparent, and Betsy could see that Pam’s estimated value for Jim surpassed Betsy’s in its infinity. 

“I missed you today,” she admits. His hand moves delicately from her shoulder and down her arm, frowning at the bruising fingerprints on her wrist. 

“Are you okay?” He attempts to meet her gaze but finds himself locked into the bruise on her cheek, hurt floods his eyes as if he was the one to place it there. 

“I’m okay,” she rubs his cheek lightly, soothing him and wishing he could swallow his guilt and digest it, for it to dissolve deep down and never resurface. “Whenever I’m with you, I’m okay.” She has to stand on her tiptoes and tilt his head down for her to be able to kiss his cheekbone, knowing the pain he feels for what happened to her hurts more than her own tender skin. He captures her lips when her heels touch the floor, he kisses her gently, to him she is fragile. 

She guides him backwards, his back presses against the exterior of a cart. She noticed its beauty when she first visited the barn, intrigued by the beautiful carpentry that remains hidden away in the back. She thought nothing more of it since, almost blinking away its existence. But she is so thankful for its craftsmanship now, as now fraying wood pierces her skin as her knuckles knock against it, her fingers finding their way into Jim’s hair. 

She feels him hesitating in the way his hands are static on the small of her back. Of course, it’s him. Apprehensive in giving her pleasure when any other man would raise his hand to inflict pain in an instant. She thinks back to the tight walls of the saloon bedroom and imagines how the light would barely reach their skin. Laying vulnerable, as if their skin peeled back, as if a nose hovering above canvas, witnessing brush strokes. Seeing something exist that was never intended to be inspected. An important part of existence, but flawed in its design. 

She opens her eyes, the sun’s rays bouncing from a rusting nail causes her to squint. She finds herself craving the heavy cloak of vulnerability, the weight lifted by dark close corners and Jim Halpert’s touch. She takes him into the cart.

—

The cart creaks loudly as they shift their weight to lay on their sides, parallel to one another. It humours them for a moment, until critical thinking becomes spooked by contrasts. Like the way the sun's bright orange glow is blackened by Jim’s face moving closer to Pam’s, leaving her unable to think about the world that sits outside this barn, this cart even. The worrying feeble wheels are nothing when all she can hear, see and think is Jim, Jim, Jim. Hunger sunders sobriety. Respect ached by impatience. She melts under him as he kisses and nips at her skin, creating a field of overlapping desire paths until each pore is cooled by the ghosts his lips leave behind. He gently pecks at the bruise on her cheek, murmuring a promise he made a dozen times the night before. 

He sits up, kneeling over her as each of their legs are tangled. He takes her arms, kissing her wrists gently before dropping them back on her stomach. He unbuttons his shirt, Pam a happy witness to the destruction of her early morning handiwork. Her shaking hands would only slow down the decloaking of Jim Halpert, and she thinks about how much of a shame it was to cover his torso earlier in the day. He leans back down and captures her lips, like a travelling cowboy returning to his wife - as if he spent too much time away. He feels his arms become restricted and suddenly his face is buried under a white fabric. 

“Can you just, ugh,” Pam says in a frustrated sigh as her aim to strip Jim from the waist up ends up in a suffocating tangle at his shoulders and neck. She’s thankful as he pulls it off and stops complaining when she gets to voyeur at him freeing himself. He raises his eyebrows at her and leans back down, supporting himself on his hands on either side of her face. 

“I don’t want to go too fast,” he whispers. 

She smiles, warmed by his earnest respect but yet absolutely ravished by the shadow sitting in the depths created by his collarbone. “Well not at first, at least,” her smile mischievous, her eyes aching. 

“Beesly!” He drops his forehead to her, noticeably, still concealed shoulder. He hides his blush but she feels his heart quicken as her hands venture the skin above his ribs. 

“What?” she laughs. “You can find your way up my skirt during a picnic, but I can’t make one joke?” 

“But that was different.” He raises his head and sees the insincere scowl he knew would be on her face. “I forgot dessert.” He kisses the heartbeat behind her ear. “You should always have dessert.”

“But I didn’t get any,” she says with a struggle, and also finds it difficult to quip back without it being nonsensical when his lips walk the trail from her ear to her collarbone. 

“Oh, you got some,” he assures her. 

She flicks the silver from the hole in his heavy denim. Spurred on by his words, her shaking hands are strong enough to push away his jeans and turn him so his bare back risks splintering on the floor of the cart. 

She realises as she looks down at him, and him up at her, at how monumental this moment and the moments that will soon follow are to her. Although not willing to transfer currency for her pleasure, he named her heart priceless and spends every moment proving that he is, and always has been, its rightful owner. Her heart throbs in the confines of her chest, and the only thing she thinks will stop the delicious pain is to reach through her ribcage and offer him her bloody mess. She registers it as a physical ache, one she really feels outside of her profound reading of their situation. The ache is a want, but she can’t bring herself to have this moment if it isn’t promised to be the beginning and the end to everything. 

“Are you going to marry me?” she asks. 

“Yes,” he whispers, sliding his hands under the fabric of her dress and pulling it over her head, much slower and graceful than she was with his vest. “If you stop lying,” he says as his eyes can’t navigate her body quick enough, he soaks her in and his eyes water, unseen to the naked’s eye.

She scowls at him, he is quick to elaborate. “I thought you never wanted to learn how to ride,” are the last words he is able to form, and any attempt to follow are just curses and exasperated sighs.