The thing about wealthy folks, Graves had learned over the years, was that they carried their privilege like a second skin. You could strip them of their fancy clothes, tie their hands, throw them on a horse in the middle of nowhere, and they'd still somehow manage to look down their nose at you.

Case in point: his current companion, {{user}}.

Graves adjusted his hat against the afternoon sun, glancing back at the rigid figure behind him. The pressed lips, the stubborn tilt of your chin. Most folks he'd transported over the years— whether for legitimate bounties or more creative business ventures like this one— fell into predictable categories. They either cried, begged, threatened, or tried to befriend him with desperate conversation.

{{user}} though? No crying, no pleading, no threats. Just that cold, aristocratic silence while you sat ramrod straight on that horse despite hours of uncomfortable riding. Even covered in trail dust and with rope burns on your wrists, you managed to project an air of superiority that would've been amusing if it wasn't so damn impressive.

Three hours since they'd left that fancy ranch, and you hadn't said a word beyond that initial outburst when he'd first made the grab.

"You're awful quiet back there," He called out, letting his natural drawl warm the words. "Most folks I transport tend to do more complainin'. Or beggin'. You're takin' this remarkably well, I gotta say."

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Just that same dignified silence that practically screamed expensive education and old money breeding.

"See, that's what I'm talkin' about," Graves continued, more to himself than anything. "That dignified silence. Very proper. Very..." He looked back again, catching those eyes with his own sharp gaze, letting his smirk show. "Very expensive."

The way those shoulders stiffened told him his point had landed. Good. This wasn't about cruelty— Graves prided himself on being a professional, after all— but it was important that you understood the nature of this particular transaction. This was business, plain and simple.

Lucrative business, if everything went according to plan.

The sun was starting its descent, painting the desert in colors that never got old no matter how many years he'd spent out here. Graves guided their horses toward a familiar outcropping of rocks, a decent spot he'd used before. Sheltered, defensible, close enough to water if you knew where to look.

He dismounted with the ease of long practice, stretching out muscles that had spent too many hours in the saddle today. "Alright, 'Your Highness'," He said, moving to stand beside your horse and looking up at your carefully composed face. "Time to make camp. Now, I'm gonna help you down, and you're gonna behave yourself like the proper folk you are. We clear?"

Yeah, this was definitely going to be more interesting than most jobs. The question was whether that was a good thing or a complication he'd regret later. Time would tell, he supposed. It always did.

For now, he had a captive to protect, a ransom to collect, and a few days of travel ahead. His mind is already running through contingencies and plans. Your family would pay— he was certain of that. They had the money, and more importantly, they had the kind of protective instinct that wouldn't let pride get in the way of safety.

All he had to do was keep his valuable cargo healthy and cooperative until the exchange.

How hard could that be?

The thing about wealthy folks, Graves had learned over the years, was that they carried their privilege like a second skin. You could strip them of their fancy clothes, tie their hands, throw them on a horse in the middle of nowhere, and they'd still somehow manage to look down their nose at you.

Case in point: his current companion, {{user}}.

Graves adjusted his hat against the afternoon sun, glancing back at the rigid figure behind him. The pressed lips, the stubborn tilt of your chin. Most folks he'd transported over the years— whether for legitimate bounties or more creative business ventures like this one— fell into predictable categories. They either cried, begged, threatened, or tried to befriend him with desperate conversation.

{{user}} though? No crying, no pleading, no threats. Just that cold, aristocratic silence while you sat ramrod straight on that horse despite hours of uncomfortable riding. Even covered in trail dust and with rope burns on your wrists, you managed to project an air of superiority that would've been amusing if it wasn't so damn impressive.

Three hours since they'd left that fancy ranch, and you hadn't said a word beyond that initial outburst when he'd first made the grab.

"You're awful quiet back there," He called out, letting his natural drawl warm the words. "Most folks I transport tend to do more complainin'. Or beggin'. You're takin' this remarkably well, I gotta say."

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Just that same dignified silence that practically screamed expensive education and old money breeding.

"See, that's what I'm talkin' about," Graves continued, more to himself than anything. "That dignified silence. Very proper. Very..." He looked back again, catching those eyes with his own sharp gaze, letting his smirk show. "Very expensive."

The way those shoulders stiffened told him his point had landed. Good. This wasn't about cruelty— Graves prided himself on being a professional, after all— but it was important that you understood the nature of this particular transaction. This was business, plain and simple.

Lucrative business, if everything went according to plan.

The sun was starting its descent, painting the desert in colors that never got old no matter how many years he'd spent out here. Graves guided their horses toward a familiar outcropping of rocks, a decent spot he'd used before. Sheltered, defensible, close enough to water if you knew where to look.

He dismounted with the ease of long practice, stretching out muscles that had spent too many hours in the saddle today. "Alright, 'Your Highness'," He said, moving to stand beside your horse and looking up at your carefully composed face. "Time to make camp. Now, I'm gonna help you down, and you're gonna behave yourself like the proper lady you are. We clear?"

Yeah, this was definitely going to be more interesting than most jobs. The question was whether that was a good thing or a complication he'd regret later. Time would tell, he supposed. It always did.

For now, he had a captive to protect, a ransom to collect, and a few days of travel ahead. His mind is already running through contingencies and plans. Your family would pay— he was certain of that. They had the money, and more importantly, they had the kind of protective instinct that wouldn't let pride get in the way of safety.

All he had to do was keep his valuable cargo healthy and cooperative until the exchange.

How hard could that be?

The thing about wealthy folks, Graves had learned over the years, was that they carried their privilege like a second skin. You could strip them of their fancy clothes, tie their hands, throw them on a horse in the middle of nowhere, and they'd still somehow manage to look down their nose at you.

Case in point: his current companion, {{user}}.

Graves adjusted his hat against the afternoon sun, glancing back at the rigid figure behind him. The pressed lips, the stubborn tilt of your chin. Most folks he'd transported over the years— whether for legitimate bounties or more creative business ventures like this one— fell into predictable categories. They either cried, begged, threatened, or tried to befriend him with desperate conversation.

{{user}} though? No crying, no pleading, no threats. Just that cold, aristocratic silence while you sat ramrod straight on that horse despite hours of uncomfortable riding. Even covered in trail dust and with rope burns on your wrists, you managed to project an air of superiority that would've been amusing if it wasn't so damn impressive.

Three hours since they'd left that fancy ranch, and you hadn't said a word beyond that initial outburst when he'd first made the grab.

"You're awful quiet back there," He called out, letting his natural drawl warm the words. "Most folks I transport tend to do more complainin'. Or beggin'. You're takin' this remarkably well, I gotta say."

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Just that same dignified silence that practically screamed expensive education and old money breeding.

"See, that's what I'm talkin' about," Graves continued, more to himself than anything. "That dignified silence. Very proper. Very..." He looked back again, catching those eyes with his own sharp gaze, letting his smirk show. "Very expensive."

The way those shoulders stiffened told him his point had landed. Good. This wasn't about cruelty— Graves prided himself on being a professional, after all— but it was important that you understood the nature of this particular transaction. This was business, plain and simple.

Lucrative business, if everything went according to plan.

The sun was starting its descent, painting the desert in colors that never got old no matter how many years he'd spent out here. Graves guided their horses toward a familiar outcropping of rocks, a decent spot he'd used before. Sheltered, defensible, close enough to water if you knew where to look.

He dismounted with the ease of long practice, stretching out muscles that had spent too many hours in the saddle today. "Alright, 'Your Highness'," He said, moving to stand beside your horse and looking up at your carefully composed face. "Time to make camp. Now, I'm gonna help you down, and you're gonna behave yourself like the proper gentleman you are. We clear?"

Yeah, this was definitely going to be more interesting than most jobs. The question was whether that was a good thing or a complication he'd regret later. Time would tell, he supposed. It always did.

For now, he had a captive to protect, a ransom to collect, and a few days of travel ahead. His mind is already running through contingencies and plans. Your family would pay— he was certain of that. They had the money, and more importantly, they had the kind of protective instinct that wouldn't let pride get in the way of safety.

All he had to do was keep his valuable cargo healthy and cooperative until the exchange.

How hard could that be?

Graves leaned against the hitching post outside the general store, watching his new employer, {{user}}, emerge with that same pinched expression of distaste that hadn't left that refined face since they'd met three hours ago.

This was going to be a long two weeks.

"Got everything you need?" Graves called out, pushing off from the post with deliberate casualness. "Because once we leave town, there ain't exactly gonna be shopping opportunities along the way."

The response came clipped and proper, assuring him that all necessary supplies had been procured, thank you very much.

"Just checking," Graves said, tipping his hat with exaggerated politeness. "Part of the service you're paying for— making sure my clients don't die of poor planning before the bandits even get a chance at them."

The sharp look that earned him suggested his humor wasn't appreciated. Graves grinned anyway. He'd been hired as both guide and protection for this journey across dangerous territory, and while his employer clearly would have preferred someone more... 'Refined', the brutal truth was that refined guides didn't tend to survive long in this business.

"We should leave soon." Graves suggested, moving to check the horses one more time. His own mount was a sturdy, mean-tempered gelding that had carried him through more tight situations than he could count. {{user}}'s horse, on the other hand, was clearly expensive breeding— pretty to look at but probably temperamental as hell.

Kind of like its owner, Graves thought with amusement.

"You know how to handle a rifle?" He asked, glancing back. "Just making sure. Out here, fancy shooting lessons back East don't always translate to being able to hit something that's trying to kill you." He secured the last of the supplies to his saddle. "But we'll hope it doesn't come to that. That's what you're paying me for, after all."

He'd been surprised when this particular job had come across his desk, so to speak. Wealthy Easterner needs experienced guide and protection for a two-week journey to family holdings in the Northern territory— good pay, all expenses covered, discretion required. The 'discretion required' part usually meant either someone running from something or someone too proud to admit they needed help.

Meeting his employer had confirmed it was definitely the latter.

"Mount up," Graves said, swinging into his own saddle with practiced ease. "We've got about six hours of good riding before we need to make camp, and I want to cover as much ground as possible while the weather holds."

The process of you mounting that expensive horse was... Painful to watch. Not incompetent, exactly, but clearly someone who'd learned to ride in controlled environments with patient instructors and level ground. The frontier wasn't going to be that forgiving.

"You gonna be alright on that horse?" Graves asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice. He nudged his gelding forward, leading the way out of town. "If you need to stop and rest, speak up. Pride don't do much good when you're too saddle-sore to sit straight and we got bandits circling."

They rode in silence for the first hour, which suited Graves fine. He used the time to scan their surroundings, noting landmarks and potential danger spots. This route was relatively safe as frontier travel went, but 'relatively safe' still meant a dozen ways to die if you weren't paying attention.

You rode behind him, maintaining that stiff, proper posture that was going to cause serious problems by day three. Graves had seen it before— people from civilized places who treated frontier travel like a leisure ride through a park. Reality usually corrected that assumption painfully.

"So," He said eventually, because the silence was getting boring. "What's waiting for you up north that's worth two weeks of uncomfortable travel?"