Thread: A Tale of the Old West (Isabelle & Master Machiavelli)

Mal knew how his little Sure Shot felt about his occasional use of excessive force, but the man had brought it on himself and so he was at peace with his actions. He made quick work of Bleene, between the gun wounds and his busted jaw, there weren't much fight left in the man and Mal hogtied him as efficiently as if he was one of the thousand or so calves he'd roped and tied in his childhood. Don't go falling off now Bleene. He offered the captured man before turning back to his little darling. She took his arm easily as she had a thousand times before and pulled her small body into him. Mal sighed contentedly- this was easily the best part of his day. He watched the sunset and how Stella's hair seemed to burn with an added intensity as the fading rays of light illuminated her face and the dark red hair he loved so much. He shifted his battered Stetson back on his head using his free hand, covered in a thin calfskin glove he wore to better appreciate the setting sun. Both were equally stained with sweat from the hot days and Mal hadn't ever given much real thought to his attire. He wore what was comfortable and necessary for the job, owning in the way of clothes only what he was able to keep in his saddlebags. He too wore a duster, his a thick canvas with a wide leather dyed a deep brown. His face was perpetually tanned from far more years in the saddle and it only served to make his ice blue eyes seem all the brighter, brought on by the contrast. Around his neck was tied a black bandana, he'd never wear blue- the color of the Yanks. It served as a collar and helped keep the perpetual dust from getting beneath his linen shirt to irritate his skin. Everything he had served a purpose. He'd spent more nights of his life sleeping on the hard earth than in a proper bed, and the ones where he got to feel his little girl curled up beside him, nestled into his chest for warmth and comfort... well they made him happier then he'd ever imagined he could be. As Stella grew older and her body began to develop, Malachi became more and more aware of the fact that she was becoming a woman and he'd worried silently to himself if she would at some point decide not to join him beneath his bedroll. But it never came to pass, and Mal hoped it never would. He loved the feeling of her soft and full breasts pressed against his chest, her arm stretched out across him and his running along her spine coming to rest in the small of her back. The feel of her breath on his cheek and the small noises she made while she slept. He was never so content as when he was with her. It really is pretty isn't it? He heard Sure Shot say and it brought Mal back to the present. Not half as pretty as you are my sweet one. Mal said softly, moving the arm she clutched around her waist and pulling her closer to him. He tried to burn this moment into his memory. Like every day since he'd rescued his beauty. Mal knew that someday, she'd likely find another and these memories would be all which remained. He didn't allow himself to linger in the melancholy of it long. It was time to get going and Mal slid his hand from around his little girl's waist, his hand brushing absently along the delicious curve of her bottom. Yeah, I wish we could dally longer, but you're right Sure Shot- it's time we got going. Stella was already calling Watson and Buck hadn't moved a muscle since Mal had hoisted Bleene aloft. He saddled up and pointed Buck back towards the ranch. They'd likely arrive just in time for supper and at the thought of it Mal's stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn't eaten since dawn.