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It was a small yet pleasant stroll from the cabin to the lakeshore. When Belle had suggested you picnic and fish, you had balked at the idea. Well, not the idea itself but the fact that she was the one who had come up with it. The infamous Black Belle fishing? Now that was something you were eager to see. She spent nearly the entire walk trying to convince you there would be no gators. “And what if there are?” You huffed, unconvinced.
She pulled a pistol from her belt and spun it with a confident smirk. “I think I can handle ‘em. Don’t worry, sweet pea, I’ll protect you.”
Your cheeks grew hot and you couldn’t help but smile. She always trying so hard to be your knight in shining armor, trying to be suave and cool and impressive. She was charming and she knew it. You scrunched your nose and made a face but said nothing. Both of you could handle a couple of gators, but you just really didn’t want to have to deal with that right now. It had been weeks since you’d last seen Belle and you just wanted to spend some good quality time that didn’t involve running down a stage coach or freeing some silly buffoon from custody and no bellowing reptile was going to ruin your picnic date.
The afternoon was muggy, but as you reached the lakeshore, a cool breeze came sweeping across the water, cutting through the Lemoyne heat. It was a picturesque little spot, with cypress trees sheltered the little slice of beach, hiding it from the view of the road. The air was full of the sound of chirping birds and lapping water. Your hand found hers effortlessly, fingers intertwining with instinctual ease, and you squeezed gently. It was a perfect little spot.
You let her guide you down the little ravine to the sand, and the two of you set about setting up a little camp for the afternoon. A few minutes later, you were both lounged on a blanket under the shade, leaned shoulder to shoulder and enjoying the lunch you had prepared for the two of you. As you ate, you recounted your adventures of the past couple weeks to her: the dramatic magician with a penchant for stage coach robberies; the lawman out in New Austin; the fisherman in Lagras. Belle watched you with a smile and a glint in her eyes. As a wanted woman, she couldn’t move as freely as she once could. She’d never admit it, but she lived a little through your stories. You knew it. You knew the look in her eyes, and you were happy that your freedom gave something to her.
After an hour or two of conversation and lingering hands and chaste kisses, Belle decided it was time to fish. She pulled you to your feet with a flourish. “Time to catch dinner.” She announced.
You raised an eyebrow. “Dinner?”
She shrugged. “What? I like fish and I know you do too, and ain’t nothing taste quite as good as something you caught yourself.”
You watched her pick up her fishing pole and move towards the water’s edge, a little taken aback but the sudden… declaration of culinary inclination. She squared herself and cast out the line, and as you came to stand beside her, you could see the hard lines of determination in her face. It was a familiar look of concentration. You’d seen her make enough trick shots and beat enough men to know that look. She meant business.
The sun sank lower and lower on the horizon, painting the water deep shades of red and orange as it crept towards the horizon. You past the time with talk of the west. Of a small, lovely little cabin you had found in the desert, next to a small little oasis. It was a perfect spot for a little ranch, far off the beaten path. It was quiet and quaint and just the kind of place you could imagine spending your twilight years… maybe even sitting on the porch hand-in-hand with a certain lovely gunslinger. As you have mumbled the idea, she gave you a sideways glance, the expression on her face softening. She was a woman who had known much heartbreak, but she was still and optimist and, dare she say, a dreamer. Belle loved when you spoke of a future that included an ‘us’.
Sunset came and neither of you had managed to catch anything except weeds. “Well, darlin’,” Belle said with a sigh, putting down her pole, “Looks like we’ll have to use a different strategy to get our dinner.”
“We don’t have to keep fishing. There are plenty of deer or boar… or even a rab…”
Your voice trailed off at the distinctive sound of a match being lit and the sizzle of a fuse. You had time to process this, and to watch the stick of dynamite follow a lazy arc over your shoulder and into the lake, but not enough time to think about how you might move away. The thought may have lingered for a breath, then was washed away as water splashed up into your face and drenched you. You gasped. The water was surprisingly cold. You spun to face Belle and for the first instance, in all the time you had known her, she looked sheepish. “I’m sorry, sweet pea,” she said, trying to hide her blush with a lopsided grin, “I thought…”
You held up a finger, silencing her and then turned, wading into the water and collecting the petrified fish left in the wake of the explosion. With squelching, soggy boots, you stomped over the picnic basket and shoved the fish into it. You dropped down onto the blanket and gave her a pouting look. “You get to skin them.”
Belle’s hand flew to her mouth as she tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a snort. This of course made you snort. Soon you both had devolved into the laughter, Belle sitting down beside you and picking a piece of water weed out of you hair, which only made you laugh harder. The giggles faded and you rested your forehead against hers. As the sun dipped below the horizon, its last light illuminated Belle’s face, and you found that it wasn’t just the laughter that was leaving you breathless. You pull her into a kiss. It was as warm and familiar as the desert would soon hopefully be for the both of you. Together.