Occupational Hazards

Over the next week, Chloe Miller began the arduous task of gentrifying the Wild West.

She couldn't cook, sew, or ride a horse. But she could organize.

Using a piece of charcoal from the fire, she turned the main wall of the cabin into a Kanban board.

**TO DO:**

* *Install Plumbing (Priority: Critical)*

* *Sweep (assigned to Jericho)*

* *Inventory Cows (assigned to Jericho)*

* *Create Shade (assigned to Chloe)*

Jericho would come home from twelve hours of breaking horses to find Chloe lecturing him about the "inefficiencies of his herd rotation."

"If you move the cows to the north pasture on Tuesdays," she explained, pointing to her charcoal diagram, "you optimize the grazing potential by 15%. It’s simple data analytics, Jericho."

Jericho just stared at her, dirty and exhausted, and then silently moved the cows to the north pasture.

He fascinated her. He was silent, lethal, and shockingly patient. He did all the heavy lifting. He washed his own clothes because Chloe shrank his shirt the first time she tried.

But mostly, he watched her. Like she was a bomb that might go off, or a butterfly that might blow away.

On Thursday, Chloe decided to "audit the perimeter." She walked out to the woodpile to see if she could find anything to make a curtain rod.

She reached for a log.

A sound like a maraca rattle filled the air.

Chloe froze. She knew that sound from nature documentaries.

A rattlesnake was coiled on the wood, its head reared back, inches from her hand.

"Oh," Chloe whispered. "That’s a liability."

She stared at the snake. The snake stared at her.

"Don't move," a voice rumbled.

Chloe didn't breathe.

Jericho was standing on the porch, thirty feet away. He didn't run. He didn't shout.

His hand moved to his hip in a blur.

*BANG.*

The sound was deafening. Splinters flew from the woodpile.

The snake’s head vanished.

Chloe stood there, her hand still reaching out, staring at the headless reptile writhing on the log.

Jericho was beside her in a second. He grabbed her shoulders, spinning her around. His face was pale beneath the tan. He checked her arms, her hands.

"Did it get you?" he demanded. His voice was shaking.

"No," Chloe squeaked. "I think... I think you terminated its employment."

Jericho gripped her arms tighter. "You foolish woman. You don't reach into dark places without looking. You could have died."

"I was just looking for a stick!"

"I would have gotten you a stick!" Jericho roared. "I would get you the whole damn tree! Just... stop trying to die!"

He pulled her against him. It was an impulsive, frantic hug. He buried his face in her hair, breathing hard. He smelled of leather and sweat and gunpowder. He felt like a rock wall—solid, immovable.

Chloe froze. Then, slowly, she wrapped her arms around his waist. He was shaking.

"Jericho," she whispered into his duster. "Are you... worried about me?"

He pulled back abruptly, as if realized what he was doing. He stepped back, pulling his hat low.

"I paid five hundred gold for you," he growled, turning away. "Bad investment if you die in a week."

He stomped off toward the barn.

Chloe watched him go, grinning. "Oh, he is *so* in love with me. I need to update the personnel file."

\---