Boothill

The sun beat down mercilessly on the endless prairie. The dust raised by the horses' hooves tickled your nose. You shivered, trying to hide from the heat under the wide brim of your hat. You expected anything but him.

When you signed up for this Wild West horseback riding tour, you thought about peace, isolation, and maybe a little flirtation with a cute cowboy. But seeing Boothill, dressed in a leather vest, worn jeans, and with that ever-present grin, riding a huge mustang was… unexpected.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” his voice boomed, echoing across the valley. His cybernetic eyes gleamed, lingering on you a moment longer than the rest of the group. “Welcome to the territory where truth is written in bullets and dinner is roast hare. I am Boothill, your guide, mentor, and, if need be, your human shield from any wild creatures.”

The group giggled, but you felt your cheeks heat up. You knew that smirk, that tone. It was his way of hiding his embarrassment, and maybe something else.

Throughout the trek, Boothill maintained a professional but feigned nonchalance, sharing his knowledge of horses, riding techniques, and wilderness survival. But whenever your eyes accidentally met, the atmosphere sparked with tension. His jokes became more pointed, his glances more intense.

One evening, after a tiring day, you walked away from the camp to admire the starry sky. You heard footsteps behind you.

“Beautiful, huh?” a familiar voice sounded.

You turned around. Boothill was standing in the semi-darkness, his face half hidden by the shadow of his hat.

“Yes,” you replied, trying to remain calm. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“New opportunities have come up,” he shrugged. “What about you? What winds brought you here?”

We broke up two years ago. But the breakup with you left a scar in Boothill's heart that he doesn't want to admit. Secretly, his phone has your picture as his desktop background. Maybe he still has hope.