Verboten

23.

Harry can feel your father's eyes on him as leaves the saloon, his stomach sloshing with dread as he replays the questionable credibility of how he handled the encounter in his mind over and over. He's terrified that he has left you with an angry father but he can't go back now for fear of seeming culpable; all he can hope is that the two people he pays weekly to monitor and keep you safe follow through with their job as promised.

He doesn't plan on informing you on what just occurred so as to not fog your mind with anxiety or unnecessary worry. He isn't scared of being brought down by your father and sees no point in dragging your thoughts through the mud unnecessarily. His mission right now is to capture this fugitive in less than a week so that he can be back in town to follow his mark into the desert alone and sink a bullet between his eyes.

The rest of your shift drags by in a haze of obscure reality, every moment that isn't consumed with serving tables is drawn back to Harry and how he will be leaving town to follow through with wildly fatal work in a few hour's time.

You actively attempt to reassure yourself with the knowledge that Harry has done this on countless occasions without so much as a hiccup on his end. You imagine how the scene will transpire; Harry hunting down the criminal in a town miles away, luring him outside in a clever and cunning fashion before drawing a gun on him and forewarning him of either death or prison. He would handcuff him and deliver him to the sheriff, the town erupting in cheers before the sheriff hands Harry a stack of cash for his efforts and duty.

You escape to the powder room to collect your thoughts and breathe deeply just as Harry taught you, in through the nose and out through the mouth until the beating of your heart slows to a dull and manageable roar.

When the cow bell rings at the end of the night, you succeed in staying hidden against the red velvet curtain in the back of the stage. You catch the sour and grim facial expressions that your father is sporting for the majority of the evening and decide to prowl away before he confronts and takes his anger out on you. It seems as though he is lost deep in thought, as if he is working through something that confuses or antagonizes him and you pray that it doesn't involve you.

The toes of your boots meet the nosing of each step with a quiet clap, your fingers working to pull your hair from its clips as your locks cascade down your shoulders and tickle your skin. Your fingertips dig into your scalp to loosen your tresses as you hiss in relief, your feet carrying you faster towards your bedroom in an effort to catch Harry before he leaves town.

When your hand reaches out to clutch your doorknob, five fingers wrap around your wrist and spin you towards a body veiled by shadows, their face unrecognizable due to obscurity. You look down at the hand grabbing your arm and gasp when you realize that it's unfamiliar to you, the fingers masculine yet bare of rings and clean of an inked cross.

You open your mouth to scream but the stranger's large hand covers your mouth, hissing a rushed "shh" as two feet step forward to reveal the figure as the bartender.

You dig your fingers into his thumb and pull his hand away from your face, tossing it away from your body and his eyebrows raise along his forehead to convey his shock at your effective self-protection. He stuffs his hands into his pockets to appear auspicious before glancing over his shoulder for eavesdroppers and taking another step forward to speak to you, his voice a bare whisper, "don't."

Your face descends into a frown, uncertain of what he is referring to but praying he's not alluding to you sneaking out to see Harry, "don't...?"

He assumes that you are still unknowledgeable about Harry paying him to watch over you in his absence and he isn't sure how you would feel about that information, so he works to keep his language as base level as possible, "your father confronted a customer today in regards to you shortly before he left the saloon."