Diamond Road - Mowglie - Red Dead Redemption (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Summary:

Do you want me to turn this coach around and head back to your daddy’s pig farm? So you can keep shoveling sh*t the rest of your life? Is that what you want?

“Just suck in a tiny bit more, Mrs. Crawford.”

I draw in a deep breath, subconsciously placing one hand on my chest and the other on my stomach, as if I could physically slim my frame by doing so.

Janie yanks the ribbons on my corset, pushing out any oxygen that I had left in my lungs. “There,” she muses, tying it briskly behind me, then bending down to unfold my new shirt and drape it over my head. “Just a few more garments and then you're all set.”

“I sure am gonna miss you,” I say quietly, still trying to catch my breath, my chest unable to expand to full capacity. “I've never put on corsets and petticoats and all that before. How am I supposed to get all this on without your help?”

“Well, I wish you’d miss me more than as just a way to get you dressed in the morning,” Janie tuts, walking around to fluff my hair out from underneath the back of my shirt.

I stare at her gray eyes as they busy themselves with fussing over the wrinkles in my skirt. “Aw, don’t start that. You know I will. And don’t be calling me Mrs. Crawford before my wedding day. It’s bad luck,” I sneer at her, but it quickly curls into a smile.

Janie rolls her eyes before turning back to the dresser, opening the top drawer and pulling out a sparkling, green-stoned necklace. She holds it up in the light of the window, the morning air casting its reflective sparkles on the walls.

She’s momentarily encapsulated by it; I am, too. “You won’t be needing no luck, Mrs. Crawford. Besides, I wanted to get to say it to you in person, at least once.”

I feel my heart skip a pitiful, sad beat. Janie turns back to me, unfastening the chain to lay the necklace across my collarbone. She reaches around to secure it behind my neck, her dark lashes hiding her eyes from me.

I don’t know what she’s feeling, so I say, “Janie, this isn’t goodbye forever. Saint Denis ain’t too far. Once me and Ray is all settled in, and the, uh,” I pause as she pulls back, the dark emerald stone now hanging heavily from my neck. She smiles slightly, as if to say something, but doesn’t, letting me continue, “the wedding is all finalized, I’ll be visiting as much as I can. I know Daddy don’t have much time left, and I want to see him as much as I can before… you know.”

“I know, I know,” Janie responds, but I see something in her eyes that tells that she doesn’t believe I’ll be back soon. “But don’t you go hurrying back here too quick now. I hear Saint Denis is a bustling city, full of life and opportunity.” She leans against the dresser, crossing her arms. “And I’ve been young and in love before, believe it or not!” She chuckles. “I know what it’s like to be all caught up in that honeymoon phase. So, enjoy yourself a bit before dragging yourself all the way back to America’s backside.”

I snort, turning to look at myself in the mirror. The dress is really something else. Long flowing cream skirt, a snow-white corset beneath an even whiter top. My hair is curled and tousled to perfection. The emerald glimmers from my neck like a lighthouse beacon, a stark contrast to my alabaster attire. I raise my hand to cradle it gently, turning it back and forth.

I glance at Janie and grimace. “It’s a bit much, ain’t it?”

“Hush now,” Janie waves her hand before smacking my fingers away from the gem. “That was Ray’s mother’s emerald. He wants you to wear it on your journey. Says it’ll bring good fortune.”

“Well, I’ll be needing that, with all the curses you’ve been putting on my wedding day by calling me a missus.” I smile at Janie, and she returns it, giving my skirt a final fluff.

“Lily?” I hear Ray calling from the foyer. “The coach is all packed up. We need to leave soon to reach Saint Denis before the sun completely sets.”

“I’m coming!” I yell back, grabbing my suitcase from the bed. Janie smacks my hand again, opting to carry the case herself, and ushers me out of the bedroom door and to the stairs.

From the small balcony in the hallway, I can see Ray pulling out his pocket watch, flipping it open and shaking his head. He closes it quickly when he hears me take my first step down the staircase, and his lips curl into a smile.

“Well, well, Miss Lillian,” he toys, “now I see all that time in the bedroom was well spent. That dress looks lovely.”

“Thank you,” I nod, descending the stairs. When I reach the bottom, Janie whips around behind me to fix my skirt.

“And that necklace. Mother’s emerald.” His eyes shine with pride. “It brings out your eyes.”

“It’ll bring out my neck muscles too, no doubt,” I say under my breath. Janie shoots me a look.

Ray tilts his head, his eyes still focused on the gem. “Hmm?”

“Nothing,” Janie interrupts, handing Ray my suitcase. “You two had best be on your way now.”

Ray nods, walking quickly out the front door of the house, swinging my case lightly. As soon as he is out of sight, I turn back to Janie, wringing my hands. “Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this. I… maybe I could marry Ray here, spend a little more time with you and Daddy.”

“Honey, sometimes birds have to leave the nest, and that's alright,” Janie says softly, giving me a sympathetic look. “You’re going to be a beautiful bride, and you and Ray are going to have an amazing life in Saint Denis, and that’s the end of it. You weren't meant to spend your entire life on this farm.”

I swallow. “I just… Now might not be the right time to be getting married. We’ve only been together a couple of months.”

“Hush!” Janie repeats, leaning to see if Ray has returned from the coach. I glance behind me as well; he has not.

Janie sighs, licking her lips. “That’s just your nerves talking. It’s a big change. It’ll be overwhelming in the beginning, but you’ll get used to it. You and Ray has been close for so many years now, since you was kids. I think we all knew you two was meant to get together. Your daddy knows it, I know it, hell, I bet your mother even noticed, all those years ago.” I see sorrow flash in Janie’s eyes, and she clears her throat and busies herself with primping my shirt one last time.

I pull her hands from my blouse, holding them in front of me. “I’m going to say goodbye to Daddy.”

Janie’s eyes soften. She returns the gesture, gentling squeezing my hand. “Alright, dear. But don’t dally too long.”

“I won’t,” I concede, passing Janie and heading toward the hallway underneath the stairs. Our home faces the East, leaving the back rooms still dark and cool, untouched by the morning sun. I turn left, pressing my hand against the farthest, coldest door, and push it open gently.

“Goodbye, Daddy,” I say lowly, brushing a finger along his cheek. “I’ll be back soon, don’t worry.”

Daddy hiccups, grunting a little before turning over and facing the opposite way. I don’t pay it no mind. I knew he wouldn't hear me.

“Lillian!” Ray calls again, with a bit more urgency in his voice. I huff a breath and stand up, hiking up my skirt and heading toward the door. I give Daddy one more glance to make sure that he wasn't struck by a miracle and awoken. When another snore rumbles from the bed, I return to the hallway.

Ray is standing with one foot in the door and the other on the front porch. “We gotta get going, dear.”

“I know,” I say quietly, but I pause to speak to Janie again. “Take care of Daddy, please. Make sure he takes his medicine and gets some time outside. The doctor said it’s good for him.”

Janie nods her head. “I’ve been taking care of this family for thirty years, Lily, before you were but a thought. I don’t intend on stopping any time soon.”

“Lillian?” Ray shouts again, and my chest flares with irritation. I turn to shoot a dirty look at him, but he’s already gone, hiked up on the seat of the coach. He plays with the reins to the horses impatiently.

“I’ll write as soon as I’m in town,” I promise Janie as I make my way to the door.

“I know, dear,” she calls after me.

Janie rushes out the door, stopping on the porch and waving her arms. “Be careful on the way down! Keep a steady pace; don’t go too fast or too slow. Stop in Valentine, they have a few saloons where you can grab a decent lunch and there ain’t no folk to be afraid of there. All farmers and the like.”

“Alright, Miss Janie!” Ray calls, and he snaps the reins.

The horses neigh and begin a slow pace down the dirt path. My eyes travel across the pigs bathing in the cool mud, the chickens that scuttle about and peck each other, the rustling of the crops. It’s the only place I’ve ever known since I was born—I try to commit each sight, sound, and smell to memory.

“Watch out for ruffians on the roads! I hear talk of some gangs and escaped prisoners hailing folk down and robbing them! I don’t care how nice they look, no stopping until you’re in town!” Janie cups her hands around her mouth to make sure her instructions make it to our coach.

“Yes, ma’am,” I shout over my shoulder.

The horses pull us into the tree line; my home is growing smaller.

“No shortcuts, neither!”

“Okay!” I yell a final time.

I scowl and attempt again to settle my body into its satin confines. The physical discomfort is less painful than the emotional one, heightened by Janie’s need to coddle me even as I ride out the front door and toward my new life.

Ray cracks the reins again, and we turn left onto the main road to Valentine. It'll be a few hours until we arrive. Deciding that I will just be uncomfortable for the entire ride down to Saint Denis, I drape my arm over the back of the seat and sigh.

“She’s a worry wart, ain’t she?” Ray laughs, snapping the reins a final time. He nestles himself farther down into his seat, his blazer glistening in the sun.

“I mean, you can’t blame her. With Mama gone and Daddy… being how Daddy is, I’m pretty much all she has left to fuss over.”

A mosquito buzzes near my face, and I swat it away before we lose it behind the stagecoach, swirling around in the air where my cheeks once were.

“Just one more thing we won’t be missing,” Ray says lightly.

My heart pangs slightly, feeling defensive of our old family maid. “She’s a good woman.”

“I never said she weren’t,” Ray clicks his tongue, turning to look at me. His jet black hair is slicked back with pomade, the sides of his mustache curled upwards. He’s donned a navy blue blazer, a black satin vest, and pleated pants.

“You know, you really do look lovely.”

I snort. “Well, I’m uncomfortable as hell." Ray laughs, throwing his head back. I giggle along with him, then ask, “Why do we need to be all dressed up for a coach ride all the way to Saint Denis? Who you trying to impress?”

“Just trying to get you accustomed to the new garb, dear. First impressions are vital in a city such as that one.” The coach jostles slightly over a cluster of rocks. I grip the sides, groaning when the wiring of the corset digs into my back. “With this new job I got, I don’t want no gossip that we came into town looking like a pair of pig farmers.”

“But we are a pair of pig farmers,” I grunt.

“Not anymore,” Ray quips. “Not after this opportunity. I told you it weren't a waste of time to be bumping elbows with them folks at the saloon."

“Don’t start,” I tease.

“I won’t,” Ray concedes, grinning. “But you know it’s true. Gentleman down in Saint Denis needing some help with selling lots and the like? And I got a beautiful wife that needs officiating? What better place to go? Especially after how we’ve lived all these years?”

We pass our first sign for Valentine, pointing south. Ray pulls the reins, directing the horses. I’m silent for a moment, contemplating just how much my life is about to change. I’ve spent all my days in tall working boots, tending to the livestock and crops, butchering animals, selling items to the small post down the road in exchange for more seed, more equipment, new clothes. The only dresses I’ve worn have been light, airy, and reserved for special occasions. Becoming a lady in a wealthy city seems a bit daunting to say the least, especially considering I've never had a problem with how we've lived all these years.

“Are you sure we need to get married tomorrow morning?” I ask bluntly.

Ray blinks a few moments before responding. “Is you getting cold feet?”

“No, it ain’t like that!” I exclaim. We pass a pair of men on horses, who give us polite nods that we don’t return. “I just…”

“Don’t you wanna just enjoy the city for a bit, take in the sights, get settled in? It just feels a bit… rushed.”

“Lillian, I told you before that the banks look more favorably on loaning to couples that is already married.” Ray speaks in a hushed tone, as if there’s someone who could overhear. I almost check the back of the coach for a stowaway before he continues talking, “I told you, we’re gonna tell them we’s already married so we can secure that spot I found just outside the city. Then, in the morning, we get it done, and none will be the wiser.”

“So romantic,” I roll my eyes, grinning at him.

Ray nudges me with his shoulder as we continue along the path, the summits of the Heartlands finally peeking over the green horizon.

- - -

The sun is high in the sky by the time we reach Valentine, although I smelt it long before it came into view. Not that I mind it; I’m used to the scent of manure, animal fur, and sweat while working my family’s farm, though never to this degree.

Ray heads to the counter to order for us, and I place my elbows on the table, resting my chin on my fist and gazing out into the muddy streets.

I see two men burst out of the doors of another building a few yards down the intersecting street. From their wobbling stances, I can tell that they are drunk. I crane my neck to watch them. They raise their fists, stumbling a bit, before the much larger one charges ahead and lands a strike to the other man’s jaw. He crumples to the ground, lying motionless for a few moments. Finally, he raises his head and tries to regain his stance, but his feet keep sliding in the slick mud.

The bartender rushes out after them, waving his hands erratically. “Stop, Tommy! Stop!” He runs between the two men and faces Tommy, the larger one, and shoves him backwards, though his tiny frame doesn’t do much to the strong, towering, drunkard. “You can’t keep doing this to folk! You want Valentine to never have a visitor again?”

“He started it,” Tommy grumbles, straightening his jaw.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure, just like every man before him.” The bartender pushes Tommy gently again, who turns and begins to walk down the road, away from where I sit. “Get on home now, ya hear?”

Tommy waves his hand aimlessly behind him.

I’m startled by Ray plopping down loudly in the seat next to me. He’s holding a shot of whiskey in his right hand.

“You know, I hear the potatoes here are to die for. I ordered us a pair, along with some local chicken.”

“Sounds lovely,” I smile at him.

Ray settles himself in, then glances out the window. “What was you looking at?”

“Bar fight?”

“Seems so,” I muse, eyeing the small shot glass in Ray’s hand.

Ray's jaw feathers when he notices my staring. “You know you don’t have to worry about anything like that with me.” He gives me the small disclaimer before downing the shot in one gulp. He slams it back on the table, his face contorting from the taste. “You know I always stay level-headed.”

“Of course,” I respond. I’ve only seen Ray drunk a few times with some of his buddies, and he never seemed to get out of control. The thought of him getting into some kind of saloon brawl hadn’t even crossed my mind until he mentioned it.

Ray stands, heading back to the bar to order another whiskey. I resume my position of staring out the window.

A few minutes later, a waitress arrives with our food. The chicken and potatoes are piping hot, nearly searing my throat when I swallow the first bite.

Ray begins devouring his meal, washing it down with a new, cold beer. I push the sliced chicken to different corners of the plate, flopping a potato over with my fork. He looks at me, eyebrows raised. “Not hungry?”

“I think my nerves are just getting to me,” I admit, staring at the food. “I ain’t got much of an appetite.”

“Have a shot, it’ll calm you down some,” Ray responds through a mouth full of food.

“You know I don’t drink,” I say lowly, as if admitting that while sitting in a saloon was some sort of damnation. “Plus, I ain’t got much room under this corset for any kind of food.”

Ray shrugs, continuing to eat. “Just trying to help you out.”

After a while, the waitress returns to collect our plates, eyeing my nearly intact meal pointedly before she snatches it away. Ray stands, wobbling just a bit, and heads to the counter. I sit and watch as he orders a final shot and heads back to our table.

“Ready?”

“How many have you had?” I ask, and a few men at the bar turn to look at us.

“Just a few, Lil,” he responds, and he reaches a hand out to help me back to my feet. I notice him struggling to retain his balance as he pulls me up. We charge out the door, heading down the street and back to our coach where the Shires wait patiently.

“You know, you ain’t started that job in Saint Denis yet,” I snap, my arms swinging by my sides as I try to keep up with him. “We don’t need to be blowing money in every town we pass, especially on alcohol. Nothing is a done deal.”

I hear Ray sigh as he mounts the coach. This time, he doesn’t help me up, leaving me to struggle my way back onto the wooden seat with wires digging into my ribs.

“I don’t get you,” he mutters under his breath as we pull away from Valentine and back onto the main road.

The journey is filled with a pregnant silence. Ray leads us down a road that runs along the coastline, through the dusty, southernmost point of the land. We haven’t spoken a word to each other since we left Valentine; Ray’s eyes are staring intently ahead, with the occasional swaying that I assume to be from his drinks. He forces himself to blink his eyes. I sit with my arms folded, watching the trees and houses creep by at an agonizingly slow pace.

“How much farther until we're in Saint Denis?” I ask, the sun now beating on the back of my neck, making its slow descent toward the opposite horizon from which it rose.

“You’ll know it when you see it,” Ray quips, snapping the reins again.

“That ain't what I asked you,” I fire back. “The sun is gonna set soon.”

“We’ll get there quick, Lil. If you had actually eaten your food in Valentine instead of sitting there and judging me, we might have gotten on the road sooner.”

I scoff at him. “Or perhaps we would have gotten on the road quicker if you had stayed away from that bottle.”

“Lillian, this is a long trip, alright? I just wanted to blow off some steam after staring at two horses’ asses all day.”

“You ain’t acting like yourself. What’s gotten into you?”

The sun must have finally dropped behind the horizon—the world darkens and cools almost instantly. I wrap my arms around myself.

“And you’ve just been a smiling peach the whole time,” Ray sneers. “All this talk about not being sure if you want to marry me, how nothing is set in stone, how we ain’t got money yet—”

“I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it!”

“—giving me looks while I’m drinking, saying we’s just a couple of pig farmers-”

“I ain’t never been but a stone’s throw away from my house as long as I’ve been alive!” I scream, my lungs pressing against the corset. “And now here I am, all dressed up like the farmer’s prized cow, on my way to some industrialized city that I ain't never seen before, with a husband that promises all this crap that I ain’t sure if he can deliver!”

Ray hesitates and grinds his teeth before speaking, “Do you want me to turn this coach around and head back to your daddy’s pig farm? So you can keep shoveling sh*t the rest of your life? Is that what you want?”

“I wanted better for you, for us. I wanted to be looked up to instead of down at all the time. Is that a crime now?”

I swallow, blinking back my tears, forcing down the words that I want to shout at him. “There ain’t nothing wrong with my daddy’s pig farm or the way we lived before.”

“We struggled, Lil. And we always will living there.”

“My daddy has plenty of money that he’s saved over the years. If anything ever happened, if we ever needed it—”

“Your daddy ain’t ever spending a dime of that money, and you know it. If he could take it with him to his grave, he would.”

I clench my teeth together, my hands balled into fists. My fingernails dig into my palms so forcefully I swear they’re bleeding. I turn away from him, trying to hide the flush in my cheeks, the tears in my eyes. I focus on the trees again, their trunks much darker without the light of the sun.

After a few minutes, I hear Ray sigh. “Lil…” he starts, and I see his hand reaching for mine out of the corner of my eye. “Lil, I didn’t mean all that. We’s stressed. This is a big change for us. But things have always worked out for us, and they'll keep on working out. You just gotta trust in me, believe in me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

I release my fists, instead opting to play with the ring on my finger, the one Ray gave to me when he asked me to marry him. It feels like decades ago, but it was actually just a few weeks. I try to picture my excited response, the tears of joy, Ray picking me up and twirling me around. But now, I can only focus on the icy feeling that his words left in my heart and how desperately I wished I had just stayed at home with Daddy and Janie.

I hear Ray start to say something else, but he is interrupted by a voice some distance away. “You there! In the coach! Can you help me?”

Both of our eyes shoot forward. A man, dressed in a long black coat and wide-brimmed hat, limps from behind a rock, clutching his side. I see Ray’s hands tighten on the reins, and Janie’s warnings flash in my head.

“Ray,” I say, my voice harsh and clipped, “don’t stop.”

“You! The feller and the lady! Please stop!” The man stays where he is, waving his free hand.

“He’s hurt, Lil,” Ray says under his breath.

I whip toward him. “He could be faking it!”

“What if it was us on the side of the road and everyone refused to help because we could be faking it?” Ray exclaims, glaring at me. Now that I am actually looking at him, dead on, I can see the glaze of the alcohol in his eyes.

I feel my heart pounding in my ears. “Ray,” I say slowly, making sure to enunciate every syllable. “You’ve had a few drinks. I need you to listen to me and not stop for this man. Please.”

“Hey!” The man screams again.

Ray sets his jaw, and I see a multitude of thoughts pass through his silver-blue eyes. Suddenly, he pulls the reins back, slowing the horses.

My heart feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest and I stand immediately, gripping the sides of the coach. “Ray, don’t!”

But he ignores me, pulling up next to the man so that he is closest to me. I lean back toward Ray, but he pushes me forward, looking down at the man. “What seems to be the problem, mister?”

“Oh, thank you, thank you so much. You all is kind folk,” he says, walking forward to stand in front of our coach.

I'm frozen where I am. My breath hitches in my throat, watching the man's every move. I can hear a twinge of a different accent underneath his southern drawl. “My horse got spooked by a rattlesnake and bucked me off, leaving me here to rot and die, I guess. Can I get a ride into town?”

“Ray?” I warn under my breath, glaring at him.

Ray ignores me again, but I can see that his hands are trembling against the reins, as if he finally realizes what he has gotten us into. “Sure, friend, why not?”

“Yeah,” I hear another voice, this one thick with an Irish accent, from behind us.

I whip around and see a man with a similar coat and hat approaching on horseback, a scar running down his face and a revolver in his hand. “Why not?”

“Ray?!” I cry out.

There is none.

“Why don’t you and the lady step outside of the coach, have a little talk? We can look through your things, take what we need, and you can be on your merry way." The man that stopped us smiles, a wicked and cruel grin, as he pulls back the hammer on his gun.

“Ray!” I scream again.

He doesn't respond; just stares down at the man, his hands still iron-clad to the reins. The Shires begin to move around restlessly, neighing and whining. They stomp their feet, their instinct to run hindered by the harnesses that trap them with us.

“Well, Ray, what’ll it be?” The man behind us asks.

I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to believe that this has happened, that my future husband and I will never even make it to Saint Denis. That I am going to meet my end at the barrel of some random man’s pistol.

“I said,” the man, much closer now, reaches up and grabs my sleeve, yanking me violently off the side of the coach, "what'll it be?!"

Summary:

Listen, if you’re coming, we gotta go. Now. I don’t wanna leave you, but you gotta get some fight in you real quick if you wanna get out of here alive.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

I squeeze my eyes shut, then try to open them, but I don’t have the strength. I groan and lol my head to the side, seething when a sharp jolt pangs in the back of my skull.

The shock allows me to finally crack open my eyes. My vision is blurred—I'm barely able to make out the few shadows throughout the room, lit by a single candle. There's something large and wooden in front of me. Something red hanging from the ceiling. Another piece of furniture behind that. I blink, trying to clear the fog. The shapes are a bit sharper, but not by much. I try to pull my arms down and push to a stand but can't. I look up to find my wrists shackled in a clamp on the wall above my head.

Panic bubbles in my chest. I pull my arms down as hard as I can, but they don’t budge. I lift up and use my entire body weight to lever against the shackles. They only move and clink against each other, unrelenting in their hold. My breathing shudders, and I lift up and yank down again. Nothing.

A loud groan echoes in the room and I jump, whipping my head and scanning the room fervently. The red object swings gently, and I follow its form to the floor, where I see fingertips brushing against the stone. I yelp; it’s a man.

I scramble to get a better look, but his face is obscured by the wooden desk between us. He groans again, a deep, guttural sound.

“Ray?” I call out, surprised by the weakness in my voice. My words reverberate painfully in my head. “Ray!?”

I can hear his labored breathing, but he doesn’t answer me. Is it Ray? I focus my vision again on the parts of his body that I can see. He looks thicker than Ray, his muscles clad in a red union suit. My heart pangs when I remember that Ray was wearing a jacket and pleated pants when we were ambushed. Then who is this? Another poor soul captured on the road by the black-coated men?

I hear a door swing open and slam against the wall. Light pools into the room from the right, where I see a staircase leading down from a higher floor. A shadow appears, footsteps approach. I scurry closer to the wall.

A man enters the room, lantern in one hand, plate of food in the other. The lantern swings, casting shadows around the room and across his tired, cracked face. A hat sits on his greasy hair. My eyes dart to the large pistol holstered to his hip.

He creeps toward the other man, peering down at him. “Arthur Morgan…” he spits, his voice creaking. “It’s good to see ya.” He puts the lantern down.

I jump when the swinging man responds, the voice deep and raspy. “Hello, Colm.” He coughs loudly, the pain in his body evident.

“How’s the wound?” The stringy man I now know as Colm points the knife from his plate at the man’s body.

“I hardly feel it.”

“You will.” Colm approaches him, raising the knife again, and jabs it at the man. He swings, trying to move his body away from the food-stained instrument. “Septic, it ain’t nice.”

The whimpering of the man makes my stomach turn. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold down the bile.

“Now, tell me,” Colm continues after returning the knife to his plate, “fine gun like you…” He pokes at his food, cramming into his mouth and chewing loudly. “Why you still running around with old Dutch? Could come ride with me and make real money.”

“It ain’t about the money, Colm.”

“Oh no… it’s Dutch’s famous charisma!” Colm shouts, and he kicks the man in the ribs. The man cries loudly and I bite down a scream, my body trembling. “You killed a whole bunch of my boys at Six Point Cabin!”

“I ain’t got a clue what you’re talking about,” the man responds. There’s still strength in his voice, defiance, gnarled with the pain that wracks his body.

Colm grins—a nasty, wicked grin. “Oh, you lie…”

“And I thought Dutch preached truth!?”

“Let me go, Colm,” the man, Arthur, says plainly. “And end all this crap between you two. We all got real problems now.”

“The way I see it,” Colm shrugs, “they get him, they forget about me.” He puts his gun away and shovels another mouthful of food.

“They ain’t the forgetting sort,” Arthur warns.

“If I were you, I’d run as soon as I had the money.”

“Oh, I know you would. But see, we lure an angry Dutch in to rescue you, grab all of you and hand you in, then disappear.”

I struggle harder against the shackles.

“So, you only met him to grab me?”

Colm laughs, a sickening sound. “Of course. He’s gonna be so mad. He’s gonna come raging over here with a whole lot of you, and the law’ll be waiting for him.”

And he slams the butt of the gun into Arthur repeatedly. Arthur’s cries mingle with the sound of the blows to his chest and I scream, the sound ripping from my throat, my feet scrambling to get me out of here, get me anywhere but here. Hot tears pour from my eyes, dripping down my neck.

Colm’s head whips toward me, and his face cracks to reveal his mangled teeth. He struts toward me, and I struggle and flail against the shackles, my instinct to run overtaking me.

Colm sheathes his gun, squatting down on his haunches to look me in the eye. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he mocks, “I forgot we had a guest down here.” I can’t look at him, instead opting to stare up at the wall, trying to mentally prepare for whatever is about to befall me. “We’ll have fun later, you and me, once Mr. Morgan and Mr. Van der Linde and his miscreants are taken care of. Don’t want nobody getting no free show, now do we?”

Colm laughs loudly, readjusting his position so he can peer down at me even closer. “Heard your daddy got a lotta money back up north of Valentine. Little pig farm near the Dakota River?” I widen my eyes, my blood turning to ice, and I finally turn my head to stare into Colm’s dead ones. He chuckles, relishing in the fear that he is instilling. “We’ll get to that.” He turns to shout over his shoulder to the swinging man. “Hear that, Arthur? Might just be thatrun money you was talking about!”

Colm swivels back to me, his slim hand reaching forward at an agonizingly slow pace. I grit my teeth, preparing for the worst. His cold fingers snake around the green jewel hanging from my neck, gripping it tightly. “Look at this,” he says lowly, craning his neck. “You could spot this from miles away. It’ll do for now.”

He jerks his hand down and the chain snaps, slicing across my skin. He holds it up toward the light of the candle, turning it over in his hand. “You better hope, for your sake, that it’s real.” He laughs a final time, standing up, and saunters back to the lantern and tray of food he left on the desk. He snatches them up and heads back up the stairs, flinging open the wooden door. It snaps shut when it connects with the latch.

I suck in a deep breath, trying to keep my composure and quell my trembling body. My neck stings from where the metal chain was raked across my skin. I glance up at the shackles once more, but I cannot summon the strength to try and escape.

I hear Arthur groaning from the other side of the room, his chains clinking together. His breathing becomes labored, and I glance over to see him swinging his body toward the desk. My eyes trail to the top, where I see a single, forgotten metal file.

Arthur gives his body once last heave before his hand flails forward, grasping for the file. He snags it, immediately reaching up and working it into the shackles around his feet. They open with a clink and his body crumples to the ground. He groans loudly before shuffling over to the desk and sitting down. He takes a deep breath, then heats the file over the flame of the candle, turning it slowly. He glances at me: “One moment, ma’am.”

He winces before he moves, bracing himself, before jabbing the file into his shoulder and twisting it. I whip my head around and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the reeking smell of burning flesh, Arthur’s cries of agony, and the squishy sound of the file digging into his wound.

I hear a pop; something small and metal dances across the ground.

I dare to peek my eyes back at Arthur. He has his teeth around a shotgun shell, popping off the casing and pouring the gunpowder over the bloody mess on his shoulder. He reaches for the candle, his hand shaking, and slowly brings it toward him.

“Just…” he grunts, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or himself. “Almost done.” And with a final heave of his breath, he presses the flame to the wound, barely able to hold back the sounds of pain through the grit of his teeth.

He releases a breath and finally replaces the candle, then stands, wobbling a little and bracing himself on the desk. He hobbles toward me, rolling his hurt shoulder. “Goddamn…” he mutters, shaking himself off. He stops midstride, whipping back around to grab the file, and holds it limply in his hand.

He slides down next to me and begins working the file into my shackles. He fumbles a bit; his hands still trembling. He stops to flex his fingers before trying again.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he mumbles, wincing as he is forced to raise his shoulder to work the file. “I’m a bad man but… but I ain’t Colm.”

I watch as he continues to work, nearly able to break the shackles but his hand slips. He growls in frustration, rolling his arms, and tries once more.

“My husband…” I say softly, my voice weak.

“What?” Arthur says bluntly, still working on my shackles. He gives the file one last jerk before the shackles pop open, crumbling to the ground with a loud clang.

Arthur stands, extending me his good arm, and I take it. He pulls me to my feet, my body aching as it unfolds from the position it must have been in for hours. He steadies himself against the wall and repeats, "What?"

“My husband…” I start again, but I can’t find the words. I roll my wrists, rubbing them with my palms. “He was with me when… when this all happened… I don’t know where he is.”

Arthur’s eyes darken, and he glances down at the floor. I see him suck his lip in between his teeth. “Probably nothing good, ma’am.” He meets my gaze again, his face softened. “I’m sorry.”

My throat constricts, heart pounding through my chest. A bead of sweat forms across my hairline. “No,” I say, shaking my head, backing away from him. “No, he’s probably chained up somewhere like we was. Can we look… if we see anything—”

The door to the cellar swings open. “Shut your hole!” someone screams, the same accent I recognize from the men that held up my wagon.

Arthur spins around, one hand flying back to press me against the wall. He glances back at me. “Stay here,” he breathes, before creeping along the wall toward the stairs.

“I don’t wanna go to Mexico. I wanna go home… home!” A shadow casts itself across the room, with the same long coat and brimmed hat. “Hold on, I’ll be back in a minute.” The shadow turns; I see it sway as the man trudges down the stairs.

Arthur continues his slow trek, looking back at me and putting a finger to his lips.

The man enters the room, holding his lantern above his head. A quick survey shows him that both Arthur and I’s shackles are empty.

“What the hell?!”

He turns slightly, and my eyes connect with his for a moment before Arthur lunges from behind, wrapping his arm around the man’s neck. He drops his lantern in a panic, clawing desperately at his throat, but Arthur only tightens his grip. The man struggles for what feels like ages before he finally stills, his legs and arms growing limp, and the light leaves his eyes.

Arthur releases him, letting the body drop to the floor, and turns him over, searching his pockets. I hear Arthur grunt in frustration before he finally finds a small knife. “Damn,” he mutters, tossing it up before snatching the handle in the air. “This’ll have to do.”

He crouches and slides to the wall again, peeking out, listening. No one appears to be approaching. He makes a move to dash out of the cellar, then stops, whipping back to me. “You coming, woman?”

“I…” I start, taking one step forward. But I cannot summon myself to follow him. “I…”

“Listen, if you’re coming, we's gotta go. Now.” Arthur motions for me to join him, readjusting his grip on the small blade.

When I still don’t move, he looks up the stairway again, then back at me. “I don’t wanna leave you,” he says lowly, the light of the candle brightening his blue eyes. “But you gotta get some fight in you real quick if you wanna get out of here alive. So, you coming?”

I shudder a breath, taking a moment to glance back at the broken shackles that lay near my feet. “Sir, sir, my husband. I can’t—”

“Look.” Arthur’s tone is still hushed, but laced with agitation. "If we see him, we see him. If we don’t, we don’t. But I need you to make a choice right now.”

I stand still, my thoughts muddied by images of Ray in shackles somewhere else—perhaps hung upside down just as Arthur was—beaten, shot, or worse. I think of him awakening and searching a dark cellar for me, only to find nothing, to await his fate alone in a musty basem*nt with the same uncertainty and fear that pulses through my veins right now. There may not be a man in his cellar that can finagle his way out of chains and murder his own captors in order to escape.

I open my mouth to speak but Arthur stands, shaking his head and charging over to me. He grabs my arm, yanking me alongside him. “I ain’t doing this, ma’am. Come on and follow me.”

Arthur crouches again, and I follow suit. He releases my arm to slowly creep up the steps. I climb up behind him, looking up at the night sky, pinpricked by stars. It looks beautiful, and I’m momentarily encapsulated by it, suddenly grateful to be able to see it again.

Arthur approaches the mouth of the cellar, then shoots a hand up behind his back, motioning for me to stop. I do, my body frozen. He creeps out of the cellar, staying low to the ground, flipping the knife in his hand again. He disappears, I hear a few thuds, and he reappears, waving quickly for me to follow him again.

I dash out of the cellar, feeling the cool night wind on my body. I look to my right and immediately see three bodies piled on top of each other near a campfire. Arthur is crawling near a set of horses, focusing on a black one. He frees the reins and looks back, waiting for me.

I shuffle over toward him, trying to stay low to the ground. I can hear laughter and talking from the other side of the building. I turn, listening, waiting, perhaps for Ray’s moans or cries of help.

I hear footsteps approaching, the gravel cracking under their feet, and I gasp when someone grabs me from behind, yanking me in the other direction. I fight against it until I see the sleeve of a red union suit. Arthur guides me to the horse, releasing me and pushing me toward it. “Get on.”

“Arthur,” I say his name and he pauses for a moment, staring at me. “My husband, he could be in that shack, he could be—”

I hear a loud crack, and something small and invisible whizzes by Arthur’s head. He ducks and I scream, backing into the horse that is now neighing and bucking wildly. Arthur lunges again and grabs the reins, steadying the horse. I hear panicked shouts and more footsteps, this time hurried.

“Get on!” Arthur orders again, and I obey him this time, tucking my foot into the stirrup and swinging my leg across the saddle. Arthur still has the reins, so I grip the horn as tightly as I can, pressing my body down against the saddle to avoid the fray. He pushes the horse to a start and hops onto the saddle behind me, throwing the reins over my head so he can steer.

“Keep your head down!” he shouts as we pound across the small pathway, weaving down the side of the hill and toward a bridge. My body aches against the beats of the horse. Arthur’s body is heavy behind me, trying to steady himself without being fully on the saddle. “Get us home, boy,” he says lowly.

A few of the black-coated men appear from the left. I scream, shying away from them and burying my head into the crook of Arthur’s arm.

“It’s alright!” he yells, but I can hear his strength dwindling, his body beginning to give out. “Just keep your head down!”

We charge up another hill and through the trees. Arthur weaves us through with ease, the horse settling into his commands. A few more bullets shoot by, some nearly clipping my ears. But the men seem to be dwindling off, losing us in the maze of a forest. Arthur’s body feels heavier against my back, his breathing growing labored.

We break through the tree line to open grassland with a slim dirt path snaking across it. Arthur directs us toward it, the horse slowing to a trot. His body relaxes slightly, leaning more heavily against me. “Alright, just gotta keep going…”

I hear hoofbeats behind us, gaining quickly, approaching from the left side to overtake and cut us off. I turn and see a flash of black; the man raises the pistol and fires, a tiny explosion from the barrel of his gun.

We head down the hill and my vision blurs. The horse plows through a bush, clipping its body and slicing my cheeks. I think I’m still screaming but my throat is raw. I can’t hear anything, the pain becoming unbearable, overtaking me, spreading throughout my body like wildfire.

We approach the shoreline. Arthur yanks the horse to the left and we continue on, hoofs pounding against the sand, the spray of water on my arms. I feel myself slipping off of the horse as my body gives out, the pain slowly fading away.

“No!” Arthur’s voice sounds like it is miles away, or it’s in reality and I’m asleep—I’m in a dream and he’s awake and I can barely make him out. “No, stay awake! Keep your eyes open!”

He shakes me, jarring me back into the present, the one with the blazing pain that throbs sharply though my body. We’re in the trees again, the dark trunks zipping by. I don’t think I’ve ever moved this fast in my life. The pain jolts with every bounce of the horse, Arthur is shaking me, his own body wobbling against mine and it’s all too much, I can’t think, I can’t see—I feel my conscience slipping away again, and I let it.

It’s all black for a moment before I feel the shaking again, my eyes peeling open. “You gotta stay awake!” Arthur’s voice sounds farther away than before.

The horse slows. “We’re almost there. Look, there’s… there’s the camp. Stay up.”

The horse trots into a sea of people waiting for us, some rushing forward and clamoring around the horse, others standing back, staring apprehensively. Their voices melt into one, speaking in a cacophony of nonsense.

I feel myself slipping again.

“Arthur?” A woman.

“Arthur?” Another woman.

“Arthur!?” A man’s voice, deep and raspy.

I open my eyes and there’s an older woman, hair piled into a bun and a scar on her painted cheek, raising her hands to help me off the horse. I accept gladly and nearly fall into her, but she catches me, a few other hands patting my back and head as they lay me gently on the ground.

I groan, the pain still pulsing throughout my body, and they stare down at me, three of them, with concern in their eyes. “Arthur, who’s this?” one of them asks, turning back to the horse.

“I told you… I told you it was a set up, Dutch,” Arthur says weakly, stumbling off of the horse. A dark-haired man catches him, then wraps Arthur’s arm around his neck and leads him away.

“My boy…” the same raspy voice I heard before, “my dear boy, what?”

“Arthur, who is this?” the woman asks again.

“The O’Driscoll’s caught me, was gonna bring the law on us when you came for me,” Arthur moans, hobbling his steps. “But I got away.”

“That you did,” the man responds, patting his arm.

“I’m sorry, Arthur!” somebody shouts from a distance, but they are quickly cut off by the dark-haired man: “It’s a bit late for apologies! Swanson! Miss Grimshaw!”

“I’m coming! One moment!” The older lady shouts, still cradling my head. She returns her gaze to me. “Who are you, dear?”

I squeeze my eyes, my brain foggy, trying to fight through the pain in my shoulder and the fuzziness of the past events. “My… my husband and I… we was attacked…”

“She’s bleeding,” one of the younger women says, “in her shoulder, right there.”

“Was you shot?” the older woman asks.

“I think… I think so… it hurts… really bad…”

“Go get some medicine from the wagon, Mary-Beth. Now!” The older woman pulls me up slowly and I seethe. One of the women dashes away, the other bracing herself on my side, the opposite one of the older woman—what’s her name, Grimshaw?

“This isn’t gonna be too pleasant, miss. But we gotta get that bullet out so you can heal.”

I’m being led to a cot underneath a tent, surrounded by a few crates and a lantern sitting atop them. Miss Grimshaw and the unnamed woman help lay my body onto the cot, pressing a pillow behind my head.

“Abigail, some whiskey?” The younger woman nods her head and disappears. Miss Grimshaw pats my head, staring down at me pitifully. “I’ll be as quick as I can, love.”

“What…” I start. Quick with what?

Mary-Beth returns with bottles, some wrapping, and some kind of scissor-like instruments. “Thank you.” Miss Grimshaw takes the items and lays them out. “Just wait for Abigail and we’ll get started.”

“What are you…” I start, and both women look down at me. “What are you going to do?”

“Here!” Abigail returns with a bottle of alcohol.

“Alright, sit her up,” Miss Grimshaw commands, and the pillow behind my head raises. My shoulder flares in opposition and I cry out. Abigail places a cold, wet cloth on my head as Miss Grimshaw brings the bottle to my lips. “Alright, take a big gulp now, miss.”

I shake my head. “No, I don’t… I don’t drink…”

“Trust me, honey,” she says flatly, “you’re gonna start today.”

“Miss Grimshaw!” The raspy-voiced, dark-haired man appears again. “Arthur says the girl is shot.”

“We’ve got it, Dutch!” Abigail calls back to him, then she turns back to me, staring intently with her light blue eyes. “Listen, I need you to drink as much of this as you can. We’ll be as quick as possible, but we gotta get started.”

“It’s alright, miss,” the other girl, Mary-Beth, says, rubbing my arm gently. “You’re gonna be okay.”

The dark-haired man, Dutch, appears at the foot of the cot, speaking with Miss Grimshaw. He glances at me, then approaches from behind Abigail, leaning down over her. “What’s your name, miss?”

“Lil… Lillian,” I croak.

“Alright, Miss Lillian, you are in good hands, I promise.” Dutch raises his own hands, stepping away. “Just do what these ladies tell you, and you’ll be alright.”

He turns back to Miss Grimshaw and mutters something under his breath. Abigail snatches the bottle of whiskey from Miss Grimshaw and approaches me again.

“What…” I start again, but Abigail presses forward with the bottle, forcing the lip into my mouth and draining it down my throat. I try to swallow, but the liquid stings my throat and I cough, sending shooting pains down my arm. Mary-Beth grips my body, soothing me and rubbing my back, and Abigail tries again, forcing even more whiskey down my searing throat.

The liquid hits my stomach and I feel my vision blurring, my body relaxing. I lean against Mary-Beth, who lowers me back down onto the cot and fluffs my pillow. Abigail caps the whiskey and sets it down, retrieving a pair of scissors and cutting into my bloody shirt. I look down at the gnarled mess of my shoulder, but I am too dazed to be concerned about it. My head feels heavy and I blink, barely able to open my eyes again.

Dutch walks away and Miss Grimshaw reaches under the cot, pulling out a candle and a blade. She swipes a match across her boot and lights the candle, then shakes the match and drops it onto the ground. Just as I saw Arthur do, she holds the blade over the flame, joining Abigail by my side.

“Did she get some whiskey?”

“Yeah, she’s feeling better,” Abigail answers, pulling a needle and thread from under the cot and placing it near my shoulder. “I can see the bullet. It ain’t too far in, should be able to just pop it out and stitch her up.”

My eyelids sag down, closing completely. I can’t be bothered to open them again. I feel heat near my shoulder, and something hot digs in—my body recoils and contracts but hands hold me down, keeping my limbs against the cot.

Notes:

Hi!
Thank you so much for reading! I plan on having chapters out in a more regular time frame, but grad school and new job opportunities got the best of me. Working through a chapter where I basically have to transcribe cutscenes was a bit difficult, but looking at my outline, I think this'll be one of the few times, if any, that it happens. Please let me know what you think and I'm glad you took a look at my story!
<3
Mowglie

Summary:

I don’t know what your plans are. I don’t know if you’re leaving this gang and never looking back, or if you plan on staying. I stayed, I had nowhere else to go. But if you wanna give those bastards what they deserve, well, it’s been something I’ve been thinking about for the past couple of months

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

“You need to eat something, Miss.” The voice sounds distant, miles away. “It’s been a while.”

“I don’t…” My stomach turns at the thought of ingesting anything. “I don’t want to.”

“You need to, honey,” an older voice insists.

“Come on, now,” she prods.

“Don’t force her,” the other voice quips. “She’ll just yak it all over herself.”

“It’s been over a day, Abigail. Her body needs it.”

The food is brought to my lips again. It's kind of stew., and it smells rotten. When the women refuse to relent, I pry open my lips, and the food enters. I swallow it whole, unable to even think of chewing it. The moment it hits my stomach, it clenches.

“Just a little more, dear.”

I force down a couple of bites before my body refuses any more. I nearly crash back down onto the pillow, and I feel those same hands tucking a blanket around me.

“Shh, it’s alright now, you’re alright.” It's the older voice.

And then, nothing but the dark.

There’s blackness for a while before I return to reality yet again by a soft justling. I am raised, forced food and water, then laid back down. Hands encasing my own, soft fingers against the bone. A wet rag to my forehead.

It happens more times than I can remember before I finally return to the world for good.

---

My eyes peel open, drinking in the morning sun that cuts through the trees and directly into my line of vision. I grunt, squeezing my eyes shut, then slowly raise my body on my own. A sharp pain slices through my shoulder, but it’s nothing compared to the flashes I felt during my rest. My hand juts to my wound and I rub the skin around it gently.

Where am I?

There are people scattered around a smattering of tents, cots, and wagons. A large man squats in front of a pot over a fire, stirring and mumbling to himself. A blonde woman in a yellow shirt and dark hat chops vegetables near him, collecting the pieces in a basket to the side. Women are washing clothes by a tub; one I recognize faintly. Mary-Lou? Beth?

And then, I remember.

"Well, well," a familiar voice blurts. The older woman with a scar on her cheek appears from the other side of my cot, wiping her hands on a cloth. She tosses it to the side and puts her hands on her hips. “Good morning to ya, ma’am.”

“Good morning,” I croak out, wringing my hands against my blanket. When she looks at me with her stern, weathered eyes, I can’t help but to feel a twinge of guilt. “Thank you... for what you did for me. I feel much better.”

The woman waves my words away with her hands. “We don’t just let innocent folk die like that, especially not by those damn O’Driscoll’s.” She approaches my cot, gently pulling the blankets off of my body. “Now, let’s get you dressed and get you some food.”

She helps me onto my feet, allowing me to brace myself on her strong shoulders. I follow her to a large chest on the other side of the nearest wagon. The woman bends down and shuffles around a bit before she retrieves a green dress, unfurling it and brushing it out. I look down at myself and realize that I am in some kind of night clothes, a large red stain around my shoulder. Without thinking, I peel the fabric back, peering down at the suture that snakes across my skin. The wound has scabbed and is beginning to crack, but there are no signs of infection: no irritation, no pus.

“It weren’t too bad,” the woman says, handing me the dress. She glances around, ensuring that no one is headed our way, then nods at me to put it on. “The bullet weren’t deep. It was an easy job. We knew you was gonna be fine.”

“Thanks anyway,” I say, slipping off the white garment and stepping into the green one. The woman struts behind my back to tie it behind me. It’s a bit snug but otherwise comfortable; nothing compared to the corset that I was imprisoned in. “This is Abigail’s old dress. Before she had little Jack.”

As if on cue, I look to my right to see Abigail appear from the tree line, a bundle of flowers in her arms. A little boy prances behind her, his own bouquet wrapped tightly in his palms. Abigail sees us and strides over, the boy in tow.

“Well, look who’s up!” she beams. Her dark hair shimmers in the light of the sun. “And in my old dress, too! I told you it’d fit her, Miss Grimshaw.”

“That, you did,” Miss Grimshaw concedes. “But now, we need to get a real meal in her. Does that sound good?” She turns her attention to me. “I can get some coffee on, too.”

“That sounds amazing,” I oblige, suddenly aware of the empty rumbling in my stomach.

Miss Grimshaw turns on her heel and heads toward the largest wagon in the camp, where carcasses hang and fruits and vegetables litter the table. She scoots past the yellow-shirted woman to retrieve a percolator and a can of coffee.

“Here, come sit with us,” Abigail starts, patting me on the arm and pointing toward a lake at the back of the camp. She waits for the little boy to join her, then turns back to me, “Miss Grimshaw’s got it. You shouldn’t really be walking around too much yet.”

I follow them toward the lake and onto a small pier, the ancient wood creaking beneath our feet. We reach the very end and sit. Abigail takes off her shoes and lets her feet dangle in the water. I opt to keep mine tucked underneath me.

The boy plops down and folds his legs underneath him as well, spreading out his flowers and plucking two from the batch. He bends the stems into a knot, grabs another flower, and begins to create a chain.

“This is my son, Jack,” Abigail says lightly, then turns to the small boy. “Say hello, Jack.”

“Hi,” he says quietly, his attention still focused on his flower project.

“Hey, there,” I return, smiling. He returns it, not showing his teeth, then turns his attention back to his collection.

“So,” Abigail starts, patting her thighs and turning toward me. Her voice is clear and cut above the singing of the insects around us. “What’s your story? How did you end up here? Or I guess, with them? Those O’Driscoll’s?”

My mouth runs dry and I pause, staring down at the water and licking my lips, trying fruitlessly to get a drop of saliva to form. I glance up, instead focusing out into the distance of the lake, where a flock of white birds sail over the horizon. I take a deep breath.

“One of them pretended to be hurt and alone on the side of the road, my husband pulled over. And… that was that. I woke up in a basem*nt, chained up.”

Abigail scoffs, shaking her head, and something like animals escapes her lips.

“Arthur was down there too, hanging upside down. Their leader, Colm, I guess?” Abigail nods. “He came down and was taunting Arthur about something, I don’t know. Said he was gonna get someone all mad, draw him out to save Arthur, then have the law waiting.”

“Dutch?”

“That sounds right. And then he left, Arthur got out, got me out, and rode us out here. Not without injuries, though,” I sigh. My hand jumps to rub my shoulder, but I force it down. “How long has it been, by the way? Since then?”

Abigail gives me a sympathetic smile. “A few weeks, I think.”

“Oh, Lord."

“Abigail?” She tilts her head, as if in anticipation for what I am about to ask, “Do you think... if they took my husband, do you think he’s still alive?”

Abigail’s eyes darken, and I see her jaw tighten, but she holds my gaze. “I ain’t had much experience with them folk. It’s mainly the men in our camp that would know. But, from what I’ve heard, I don’t… I don’t think…” Abigail falters, trying to choose her words, and my heart pounds against my ribs. “I wouldn’t hold hope for too long, I guess.”

I nod, and the horrific images return. I can’t help for a few tears to spill over. I swipe them quickly from my cheeks, but I know Abigail sees. Not that it matters. Not that anything really matters.

I hear Abigail open her mouth to add something, but Jack interrupts her. “Mama, I need more flowers.”

Abigail clamps her mouth shut, a breath escaping her nostrils. By the time she turns back to Jack, she is smiling. “Alright, now, just stay where I can see you.”

“Okay, Mama!” Jack twists his body into a standing position and scampers back into the trees, almost immediately disappearing around a large rock.

“Jack!” Abigail stands as well, brushing her skirt. She grabs her shoes from the pier and dangles them in one hand. “What did I just say?! Stay where I can—oh, good morning, Arthur!”

I turn to follow Abigail’s gaze and see Arthur making his way down the pier, two tins of coffee in hand. I can’t help but to remark on how different he looks; his face has color and his eyes sparkle, a stark difference from the shell of a person that I had seen in the O’Driscoll dungeon. His hair is much longer, his beard grown out—a testament to the time that has passed. The thought makes me shudder.

Arthur nods and smiles at Abigail as she passes, and she hikes up her skirt to chase after her son. He then turns his attention back to me, finishing the trek across the pier and plopping down where Abigail once sat, however, he opts to lean against a pole and stretch his legs across the wood. He groans under his breath, rolling his shoulder, then hands me one of the tins. “Your coffee, Miss Lily-Anne.”

“Lillian,” I correct, taking the steaming mug from him. The metal is heated to the point it almost stings my palms, so I place it gently on the dock beside me.

“Sure,” Arthur grunts, leaning back and stretching his shoulder again.

He brings the coffee to his lips. “Ah!” He rips it away when the liquid undoubtedly singes his tongue. “Goddamn…”

We are silent for a moment, the only sounds being the slosh of nearby fish, the call of ducks, and the chatter in the camp behind us. Arthur blows on the top of his drink, but to no avail. The steam disappears for a moment, only to swirl just as angrily above the coffee again. I decide to leave mine alone for now.

“Thanks…” Somehow, I can’t get myself to utter the words, to thank him for saving my life and rescuring me from a situation that surely would have led to my death, or worse. I wring my palms in my lap. “…for the coffee,” I sigh lightly.

Arthur looks up at me through his lashes, still nursing his drink. “I didn’t make it, Lily-Anne. Thank Miss Grimshaw.”

I ignore him mispronouncing my name immediately after I corrected him and continue, “Well, thank you for delivering it.”

Arthur chuckles: a flash of pearly white teeth. “Yeah, I hear I’m quite the parcel boy. Coffee, letters for star-crossed lovers,” he pauses, raising eyebrows at me, “women in distress.”

I can’t help but to snort, and a smile breaks my face, until I think on Ray and his undetermined fate. I remember that, more likely than not, he is not enjoying a cup of coffee on the pier of a lake.

A lump forms in my throat, and the words form before I can think better of them. “Arthur,” I start, and for some reason his name feels weird on my tongue. “Abigail said that you would know best…” I stare at him, and his demeanor changes; he shifts his position, grits his teeth, averts his gaze. A pill bug on the dock has suddenly become more interesting to him. “Do you think there’s any hope for Ray? Should I go…?”

Arthur swallows. He flicks the pill bug into the water below, then drums his fingers on his tin before finally looking at me and answering, “I don’t think that’s a conversation you want to have with me, Miss.”

I nod, the lump growing larger, and turn away in anticipation of the inevitable tears. They don’t come; perhaps I dried them out when talking to Abigail. I stare up at the sky instead, as if the burning of the sun is a replacement for the emotion I should be expressing for Ray.

Arthur clears his throat. “That’s actually why I came to talk to you.” I close my stinging eyes and co*ck my head toward him. “Do you have family, or friends, someone we can take you to?”

I picture Janie’s face when I turn up at the house after weeks, without a husband, without a future, without anything, and collapse at her feet. I picture lying next to my father and telling him my story, his faltering mind unable to listen or process. I picture going back to working the farm, closing the book of what could have been without even opening a single page. It sounds enticing, familiar, safe, but somehow shameful. I picture Ray’s words.

Do you want me to turn this coach around and head back to your daddy’s pig farm?

The memory is immediately trumped by another one: Colm O’Driscoll.

I swallow, and the thoughts I have of returning home to Janie and Daddy are much different now. How could he have possibly known that?

My world nearly goes black when it finally clicks: Ray. Ray, more than likely being tortured, more than likely being beaten, starved, sliced, gave up my daddy’s farm as a last-ditch attempt to save himself.

And now, sitting on a dock with a lukewarm tin of coffee, next to a man I don’t know in a camp full of people I don’t know, I realize that it is entirely possible that everything I once had is gone.

It must have been a while since I said a word; Arthur clears his throat and shifts closer to me. “I mean, anyone we can take you to, or drop you off at? I assume you ain’t trying to join a gang?”

“No… No, I…” The words can’t form, jostled by macabre thoughts of my family. I try to shake them away. “Yes, I have a family. My Daddy lives near Valentine—north, then east along the Dakota River. I can go back there.”

Arthur nods, finally able to take a sip of his coffee. He clicks his tongue after he swallows it down. “I can take you up that way. Or, someone here can. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you,” I say under my breath.

Arthur nods, taking a large gulp of his drink, then stands, grunting as he does. “I’d take you now,” he swings his arms by his sides, “but we got some… sh*t going on with these two families, I don’t know. Gotta meet some folk in Rhodes.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Can you make it til tomorrow morning?”

Despite the sadness of it all, I smile up at him. “Yeah, I think I can.”

Arthur nods. “Alright. Just try to make yourself comfortable, I guess. These is friendly folk.”

He doesn’t wait for my response—he strides down the pier, swirling the tin around his finger before placing it on a stray crate. Arthur heads toward a field filled with grazing horses, some saddled and some not, until he reaches a solid black Standardbred, patting it on the rear before pulling its reins from the post.

I glance back at my coffee, my appetite suddenly dissipated, and snatch it up, turning it over into the lake and letting the dark brown liquid spill into the dark blue.

---

I find myself chopping vegetables for a man named Pearson. I carry them on a tray to the steaming pot and dump them in gently. Once tonight’s stew is brewing, I unpack the crates from the local general store and sort them on his wagon, preparing for the next day’s feast. My shoulder aches with each movement, but I ignore it as best I can and press on.

Helping the gang with their daily tasks brings me a temporary solace, something to distract my mind from the swirling thoughts of all that I have lost. It's also the least I can do after they nursed me back to health. They had no obligation to make sure I didn’t rot in the dust somewhere—I’ve done nothing to earn a place among these people. Anything I can do, no matter how small, is surely appreciated.

Pearson spends most of his time recounting his days spent in the navy. As he hacks away at a turkey carcass, splitting the legs in two, he brags about the weeks that his platoon was left adrift and all they had to consume was a bottle of navy rum. “It’s the only thing, now,” he growls as he swirls a bottle above his head, “the only things that gets me by.”

These stories are often accompanied by the blonde-haired woman, Sadie, rolling her eyes and muttering under her breath. I can’t help but to smile as he snaps at her, and she slams her knife down and argues back, until someone else from the gang orders them to quit fighting and shut up.

As the sun begins to set, over the chatter of the gang and the knife blade digging into the cutting board, I hear Abigail calling for her son. She's walking briskly around the camp, her hands balled into fists and her neck whipping back and forth. She gives each wagon, crate, and barrel a thrice look-over before moving on. She sighs, exasperated, before charging over to us.

“Pearson! Lillian! Sadie!” We all stop to look at her. “Have you seen Jack!?”

“No, I…” I trail off, glancing back at the other two. They both shake their heads. “Last I saw him was on the pier, Abigail.”

She lets out a small whimper, her hand jumping to her chest, and she darts away. “Hosea!” she calls, shooting toward an older man sitting on a log near a smaller fire. He looks at her. “Hosea!?”

“I hope that boy’s alright,” Sadie mutters, yanking up a crate of corn and sliding it onto the wagon. “He’s a sweet kid.”

“He’s fine,” Pearson grunts as he finishes skinning the turkey. He hangs it by its legs from the canopy above. “Wouldn’t be the first time he’s wandered off.” Hewipes his hands on his pants before pulling them back over his bulging stomach, then turns to approach the back of the wagon.

I notice Sadie scooting closer to me, and before I can even look at her, she’s talking. “I heard about what happened to you and your husband, and I’m real sorry.”

My hands, which were secured around a box of carrots, release, and I stand up, sucking in my bottom lip. “I… thank you, I guess.”

“You know, they did it to me, too.” At this, I return her gaze. I can see sadness in her hazel eyes, but underneath it, something else. Something wild, untamed, unhinged. “They broke into my house and murdered my husband. Took everything we had, like it was nothing. Like it was swatting a fly.”

She swallows, and I wait, letting her continue. “I don’t know what your plans are. I don’t know if you’re leaving this gang and never looking back, or if you plan on staying. I stayed. I had nowhere else to go. But if you wanna give those bastards what they deserve, well, it’s been something I’ve been thinking about for the past couple of months.” Her hand shoots out, grasping the blade of the knife I was using, gripping it in her palm but not removing it from the cutting board. “So, if you wanna be a part of that, you just let me know. I can’t let those fools just keep doing what they’re doing. And I’m sure you agree.”

“I…” I start, wringing my skirt in my hands.

And then, I feel the fire that I know courses through her veins. “I… maybe…”

“Mrs. Adler! Miss Lillian!”

“Ladies, have you seen the boy? Have you seen Jack?”

I shake my hand as Sadie answers. “No.”

He growls, glancing back at the camp. Everyone is either looking around the camp or at Dutch expectantly. He turns back to us. “They think the Braithwaite's got him. Kieran said he saw two men sneaking around about an hour ago.”

Despite my limited knowledge of the situation, my heart sinks. The boy with soft auburn hair and warm blue eyes, looking up at me while he holds a bouquet of flowers, burns into my brain.

Sadie scoffs, her arms crossing, “You’re f*cking kidding me?”

Dutch shakes his head, his own agony plain on his face. “No, no, I wish I was, but, no… have you seen anything, any suspicious characters, any…?” he trails off, looking wildly around the camp again, before he spots a man dismounting from a black Standardbred, wiping his brow and heading toward the fire. “Arthur! Have you seen that boy, Jack?”

Arthur’s eyes are dead, the spark that I had seen in them earlier completely extinguished, and his body moves sluggishly. He looks at Dutch, then at me, then back at Dutch. “No,” he says quietly, almost as if it was a question.

And then, out of nowhere, Abigail, darting across the camp, her arms swinging at her side. “Where’s my goddamn son?!” The panic and desperation in her voice is evident. She reaches the two men and I can see that her eyes are rimmed red, her voice nearly hoarse. “Where is he?! Where’s my goddamn son!?” She pauses, gasping for breath. “They took him, didn’t they? They took my son!”

Almost instinctually, we all gather around Abigail. Sadie glances at me, her eyes filled with that same hate that I saw in her before, before turning her attention back to Dutch.

“Who took him?” Arthur asks, crossing his arms.

“We think the Braithwaite woman took him,” the older gentleman, Hosea, says. “That Kieran saw a couple of fellers, sound like Braithwaite boys.”

“Where is my son!?” Abigail calls out again, grasping at her hair. She turns to Dutch, his eyes alight with fire. “If anything…” she shakes her head, refusing to speak the words. “Where is my son, Dutch van der Linde?”

Dutch turns toward Abigail. “We will find him, and we will bring him back to you, and we will kill any fool that had the temerity to touch one hair on that boy’s head! Abigail, you have my word,” he exclaims. As he does, the rest of the men in the gang surround him, nodding their heads. I feel my heart pound in my chest, my focus shifting on each of the gang members, watching as their hands rest on the grips of their weapons.

Abigail holds Dutch’s gaze. “Just get me back my son,” she says adamantly.

“I will get that boy back, so help me God. Right now!” Dutch trails off, heading toward the horses. Arthur turns to fall in line behind him, then swivels back to me and Sadie. He raises a hand, as if to tell us to stay here, and then saunters toward the horse that he had just dismounted.

“Dutch!” one of the other men calls, appearing from the other side of the camp, “We just heard about Jack. Do you need some extra guns?”

Dutch stops and ponders it, but only for a moment. “Yeah, why not?” And then he continues his trek for his horse, Arthur in tow.

Abigail stands still for a few moments, her breathing haggard, before she falls to the earth, her hands racing through her hair. Sadie and I rush down to her, each of us holding one of her arms and bring her back to her feet. We guide her toward a log near the campfire.

The other women join us, sitting around Abigail, rubbing her legs or whispering words of encouragement.

“They’re gonna find him, Abigail.”

“No one would hurt a child, Abigail. They’s just trying to scare us.”

“He’s alright. Just wait for the boys to get back.”

“Kieran! Micah!” Dutch’s voice cuts through the camp like a heated blade. “Anyone strange turns up, you kill them!”

I glance up to see the men have all mounted their horses. I catch one more look from Arthur as he turns his steed to follow the others.

Dutch, on a snow-white Arabian, ushers himself to the front of the pack, raising his arm over his head.

And I hear the sound of several hooves pounding into the earth, and one by one, the men of the gang disappear around the bend.

Abigail cradles her head in her hands and begins to sob, her chest heaving, and we all gather closer to her. “I swear…” she mutters through garbled breaths, “I swear, if John don’t find that boy, I swear it this time, we’re done!”

I run my hands along her arm, turning my attention back to the path that snakes its way from the fire of the camp as the last horse tail disappears from view.

Notes:

Thank you so much for continuing to read my story! I know it's been a while; I started a new job and am still working on my graduate degree. However, I feel that I am finally kicking back into gear and will have these chapters posted regularly. Please let me know what you think, and again, thank you so much! It's so great to be back!
<3 Mowglie

Summary:

I don’t know, it’s just…It takes a real strong woman to go through what we’ve been through and rise above it, come out alive on the other side. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past couple of months, it’s that the main thing that matters in this life is loyalty. This world is full of evil, everywhere you turn. Some nice house in the city isn’t going to protect you from that. The only thing that will is aligning yourself with the right folk.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

The gang didn’t find the boy.

Abigail fell to her knees, sobbing, screaming obscenities at the man I now know as John. He stood with his lips pursed, eyes cast down to the ground, and simply took it, nodding his head occasionally. Dutch knelt beside her, a firm grip on her arm, and informed her that they knew where he was, that he had been taken to Saint Denis by someone named Angelo Bronte, and they were going to find him. Hosea crouched on the other side of her, ushering the same words of encouragement. But Abigail was inconsolable, shaking her head and crying, ignoring anyone that breathed a single word to her. Her focus was on John.

A tall, broad, thick man named Bill told Abigail that they had slaughtered the Braithwaite’s, every single one of them inbreds, and burned their mansion to the ground. They would get Jack back and never have to worry about something like this happening again. “They’ll learn,” he had said. “Everyone in Lemoyne saw the smoke. No one will touch that boy again.”

Simultaneously, Bill’s promises did nothing to Abigail, whether consoling her or frightening her.

The gang was consumed by the night’s events, sitting around separate fires, speaking in hushed tones. Abigail eventually went to bed with the help of Mary-Beth and a girl named Tilly. I stayed where I was for a few minutes, not sure what to do with myself, afraid to step a toe out of place in a den of ravenous lions. At some point, Arthur walked past, giving me a small nod before joining another group of men at a table. His back was tense, yet his shoulder sagged, the only member who seemed to carry some weight of what had been going on the past couple of days.

I realized that, as I watched Arthur press his knuckles to his forehead, speaking lowly to Hosea, more than likely I wasn’t being returned to my home tomorrow.

I stood, brushed off my skirt though there was no dust or grime, and headed to my cot.

---

And now, it is morning.

I had tossed and turned all night, plagued by thoughts of my family, thoughts of Ray, thoughts of the poor boy, Jack, and now, thoughts of the murderous men that walked around me. My back aches, and my neck has a crick in it. I press my hand against the muscle, massaging it and rolling my head, then resume my post of washing clothes.

There’s an eerie silence in the camp like a thick fog. I am accompanied by Tilly and Mary-Beth, and we don’t speak to each other. I dunk the clothes into the bucket, swirl it around in the foam, and hand it to Tilly, who scrapes them fiercely against the board. Then, she hands it to Mary-Beth, who grabs a handful of pins and hangs the clothes from the line.

Abigail still lays in her cot, facing away from the group, her arms crossed over her chest and huddled into herself. Miss Grimshaw, who I noticed is very quick to get onto anyone who isn’t doing their share of work, leaves her alone.

Without any noise, without any chatter, I can’t pull myself from the terrorizing thoughts of my mind. I glance around the camp and see Arthur, John, Dutch, and Hosea sitting at a table. They’re speaking quietly—so quietly that I can’t hear—but I see their lips move, their expressions change, Dutch’s hands waving occasionally. I want to approach Arthur, to beg him to take me back home, but I can’t help but be fearful of these men and what they might do if I try to get away.

We burned that bitch’s house to the ground.

Arthur knows where I live. I told him plain as day. It would be nothing for them to show up and raid and dismantle my house, too. How do they know that I won’t go straight to the law, tell them everything I’ve heard? Name as many of the gang members as I can? They don’t, and honestly, I don’t either. All I know is that packing that coach and leaving the safety of Janie and Daddy was the biggest mistake I have ever made.

I dunk my trembling hands into the bucket again.

It feels like eons pass before I hear a voice that I am not yet familiar with: “Dutch, we have a problem.”

Mine, Tilly’s, and Mary-Beth’s heads swivel toward the sound. A man—one I recognize from the camp but don’t know his name—maybe nineteen, escorts an aging lawman into the center of the clearing at gunpoint.

I stand, nearly beside myself with elation, and take a step toward him, but Tilly grabs my arm and yanks me back. I whip around to her, but she shakes her head quickly, her large, almond eyes wide. “Don’t,” she whispers.

“Not a problem,” the lawman insists, his hands raised.

To John: “And… who are you?”

“Rip Van Winkle,” John spits, his body rigid, fingers flexing near his revolver.

I am frozen, my eyes jumping to every person with my line of vision: the gang is solidified, stern, agitated, slowly encircling the two lawmen. The lawman who speaks is smug, unabashed, almost enjoying his teasing. The other, the one who stands back with the rifle, is silent.

“Huh,” the lawman clicks his tongue at John. “Good day, sir.” He takes a step forward, slowly gazing at everyone in the gang. “Agent Milton, Pinkerton Detective Agency.” He nods his head behind him, toward his comrade. “Agent Ross.”

Arthur peels himself away from the table, walking slowly toward the clearing. I can see anger in his eyes, his brow knotted, jaw taut.

“Ah, Mr. Morgan!” Agent Milton smiles coyly. “How nice to see you again.”

The only one who remains sitting, calm and composed, is Dutch, who barely looks over his shoulder when he speaks. “And to what do we owe the pleasure, Agent Moron?”

Agent Milton is unfazed by Dutch’s taunting. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but this…” he trails off, letting his eyes meet everyone’s in the clearing.

But he passes over without a skip in his beat. “This is a civilized land now. We didn’t kill all them savages only to allow the likes of you to act like human dignity and basic decency was outmoded or not yet invented. This thing…” He waves his hands around, and the gang tenses, some even drawing their weapons, “it’s done.”

Dutch finally stands, his hands balled into fists, and approaches the agent “This place… ain’t no such thing as civilized. It’s man, so in love with greed, he has forgotten himself and found only appetites.” Dutch sneers his words, clicking his teeth on every syllable.

My body tenses, ready to bolt the moment that this becomes a blazing gun fight. We burned that bitch’s house to the ground. I survey my surroundings, attempting to ascertain the safest and quickest exit point. Across the lake? Behind the wagons and into the trees? Underneath a tent and simply wait it out?

Agent Milton scoffs. “And as a consequence, that lets you take what you please, kill whom you please, and hang the rest of us?” He bares his teeth, glaring at Dutch. “Who made you the messiah to these lost souls you’ve led so horribly astray?”

Dutch’s voice grows soft. “I’m nothing but a seeker, Mr. Milton.”

“You ain’t much of anything more than a killer, Mr. Van der Linde,” Milton fires back. Then he pauses, reining in his anger and regaining control. “But I came to make a deal. It’s time. You come with me, and I give the rest of you three days to run off, disappear, and go and live like human beings someplace else.”

I glance around the gang, waiting to see their responses. All of them, every single one, have eyes of steel, white-knuckled hands grasping their weapons. They don’t even flinch at Milton’s proposition—don’t even consider it.

Dutch smiles. “You came for me? Risked life and limb in this den of lowlifes and murderers so that they might live and love?” He chuckles under his breath. “Ain’t that fine?”

The gang echoes his laughter, closing in on the two agents. A few of them grab their revolvers or rifles, pointing it at them. I can only watch with bated breath. All this time, Tilly has kept her hand on my arm, and she rubs it gently with her thumb.

Milton’s cavalier attitude disappears with the retort of the gang. “I don’t wanna kill all these folk, Dutch.” His eyes narrow. “Just you.”

Dutch raises his hands in the air mockingly. “In that case… it’d be my honor to join you.” He takes a few steps forward. “Excuse me, friends… I have an appointment to keep with…”

And suddenly, every gun is raised, every body is rigid, forming a solid frame behind Dutch.

My heart pounds in my chest, my eyes darting back and forth between Dutch and Milton, watching, waiting.

Miss Grimshaw saunters into the crowd, a large rifle in her hands. “I think your new friend should leave now, Dutch.” Her voice is crisp, cutting through the air like a church bell. Nobody moves. Nobody breathes.

I hear something like a scoff under Agent Milton’s breath. “You’re making a big mistake, all of you!” he shouts, turning toward the other agent. The latter offers nothing, just simply co*cks his gun.

Dutch laughs yet again, menacingly, knowing that he has won, that his gang has remained loyal to him in the face of the law. “Yeah, dreadful. We have got something, something to live and die for—how awful for us, Mr. Milton.” He stops, his posture changing, morphing from the laughing goat to the growling wolf. “Stop following us. We’ll be gone soon.”

Milton glowers at him. “I’m afraid I can’t. And when I return, I’ll be with fifty men. All of you will die.” Tilly’s hand grips me even harder, harder than I ever thought possible. “Run away from this place, you fools. Run!”

And with that, he retreats, followed by the other agent and the young man, who he sneers at as he escorts out of the camp. Everyone immediately huddles into each other, their voices a cacophony against the echo of the lake, bustling, trying to figure out their next move.

I feel my body physically relax, and I take a deep breath. I start to walk into the clearing, but Tilly swivels me around. Her eyes are sorrowful, ashamed.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she says lowly. “I’m sure that was scary.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand this,” I say quietly, so that only she can hear; not that anyone is paying attention to us. “You, Abigail, Mary-Beth. Y’all seem so normal, so—”

“Don’t,” she quips, giving me a look. “I know what you’re fixing to say, and I’m telling you not to. I know… how it seems.” She tilts her head for a moment, as if to admit something, give something away, and then her eyes are fixed again, the fire beneath amplifying her words. “I know how that would look to someone who ain’t been running with us for months or years. But I’m telling you now, Dutch fights for the good of this country. There ain’t no sense to those men.” She shakes her head. “They’re only going after us cause Dutch pissed off some bureaucrat or something. They don’t care about the common folk, the good folk.” She lowers her eyes. “Dutch does.”

“I ain’t so sure about that,” I manage to whisper. “I spent twenty-eight years on my Daddy’s pig farm, keeping to myself, and I ain’t never dealt with no lawmen, or gangs, for that matter.”

Tilly’s mouth contorts into a sort of grimace. “You and your daddy have a pig farm because of people like Dutch. If it weren’t for those fighting back, this whole country would be industrialized, with the hard-working folk at the bottom, scrubbing sh*t, while the elites drink their tea and fan their faces and kick their feet up and watch.”

I purse my lip into a thin line, chewing on the inside of my cheek, biting back the words that I want to fire back. There ain’t no sense in trying to talk this gang off their high horse, out of their convoluted view of the world. I don’t know who the Braithwaite’s are, but these people angered them enough to come rob a child out of their camp. Colm O’Driscoll had Arthur strung up by his toes in a basem*nt. And they still think they are making the world a better place?

All I can do is get the hell out of here before anyone gets pissed off enough to follow me. And that includes Tilly. While she might not come after me herself, she might talk, and I’ve seen these men with their glistening guns, their muscular horses, and their lack of remorse.

“You’re right,” I finally muster, and I see her soften. The words taste like venom in my mouth. “That was… that was just a lot. I don’t know you folk. I was just scared.”

She places a hand on my shoulder, my good shoulder, and squeezes it. “It’s alright, honey.”

“Rest of you,” Dutch’s voice is suddenly booming, roaring over the crowd. We turn to look at him. “Get packing!”

Tilly is gone in a flash, headed straight to the nearest wagon, and begins to load it with anything her hands can reach. She doesn’t organize, she doesn’t assess what she’s grabbing; just throws everything on and marches toward the next item. I stay where I am, rooted to the spot, and watch the others wrangle their belongings at an unreasonably fast pace.

Mary-Beth approaches, raising the soap bucket and dumping it out onto the ground behind her. She rips the board out of the second bucket, shakes it for a few seconds, then tucks it under her arm to empty that one as well. She glances up at me, her cheeks already flushed. “I know you’re hurting, Lillian, but do you think you can help out? Grab what you can? I have a feeling we gotta scurry out of here as quickly as possible.”

I force myself to nod vigorously. “Of course. I’ll do what I can.”

She smiles, a genuine one, and hands me the washboard. I toss it onto the wagon behind me without a regard as to where it will land, just as I had seen the others do. Anything small, anything easy for me to carry, I bundle it into my arms, and when the pain in my shoulder begins to throb, I return briskly to the large wagon and throw it over the edge.

I grab a few bags of supplies, mainly medicine, and head toward the wagon. I see Arthur mounting his horse, brushing his long hair out of his face. He glances back at me, and our eyes connect for a moment before he turns his steed toward the path and rides out, followed by John. I swear, for just a moment, I saw a hint of sadness, of anxiety, the realization of what exactly just unfolded in the middle of the camp. I stop in place, my good arm holding out one of the bags, and watch until the tail of his horse completely disappears.

“Lillian?” It’s Abigail, standing behind me, her arms wrapped around a large chest. Her cheeks are pink with the effort to hold it, but it’s nothing compared to the redness in her eyes. Her lip trembles as she speaks, and I can hear the exhaustion in her voice. “You alright? We really gotta get going.”

I nod, embarrassed. “Yeah, sorry. Here, let me help you.”

And I fling the bags over the edge of the wagon one by one. Then, with as much strength as I can, I hoist the other end of the chest with my uninjured arm and help her guide it to the back of the wagon.

---

The road is bumpy and long, and the heat is unbearable. It is now the middle of the afternoon, and the sun beats down on us harshly, the only relief coming from the momentary canopy of trees that stretch across the red dirt road. I wipe the sweat from my brow and coil my hair into a knot at the nape of my neck. However, with nothing to tie it back with, I growl and let the strands fall back and cocoon my body again.

Abigail sits across from me, the only other soul in the back of the wagon. Her head is pressed into her hands, her only movements to fight against the rocking of the wagon and keep herself upright. She said it herself; she has no dealings with the O’Driscoll’s, and I assume none with these Braithwaite folk, and yet her son was taken, ripped away from her when he was momentarily out of her sight. The anguish is clear, following her around like a black cloud. I want to comfort her, to say anything, to let her know this isn’t her fault, but Tilly’s warning was clear. The less I say about the actions of the gang, the better. I don’t know if she truly believed what she was saying or was cleverly trying to get a point across, but either way, the message was received. I don’t say a word for the entirety of the trip.

After what feels like hours, I feel the wagon beginning to slow. Almost immediately, I stand up, bracing myself on the wood of the wagon, and look ahead. A large mansion, unlike anything I have ever seen, looms before us, its stark white color a contrast to the lush jungle behind it. There’s a fountain in the center: old, dry, and crumbling. The remnants of a few wooden shelters stand to the left and right, barely able to keep themselves together. The water is swamped and muddy, the gnats and mosquitoes already nipping at my body. I swat one away absentmindedly as the doors to the house open, revealing Arthur, a jovial look on his face.

“Welcome home, all of you, to my humble abode!” He stretches his arms out and waves toward his surroundings. “We got fine living! Ignore the corpses and the alligators…” He trails off as my wagon stops, and I hop off the back, turning to extend a hand to Abigail. “It’s paradise!”

“I love it!” Dutch dismounts his horse and strides toward the fountain, an unbreakable grin on his face. “Miss Grimshaw! Mr. Pearson!” He turns back to the group. Abigail wipes her eyes, giving me a soft smile; I return it. “Would you two kindly work your magic? Arthur, take a ride with me, come on.”

Miss Grimshaw immediately begins unpacking her wagon, handing off the items to the other women and a few men. They turn to begin setting up tents, campfires, washing areas, a chicken coup. Pearson waddles around to the back of his wagon as well, yanking off the stewpot and lugging it to where Mary-Beth is creating a circle of rocks for a fire.

Without thinking, I fall into line, taking some items from Miss Grimshaw and heading wherever she orders me to. As I do, I pass Arthur, whose eyes are on Dutch. “Where to?”

Dutch’s words are laced with sarcasm. “To take a look at this eight wonder of the civilized world, Saint Denis, I keep hearing about.”

“According to the map, the road up this way should lead us right in there.”

I watch as Arthur shakes his head, but nonetheless retrieves the black Standardbred, grabbing its reins and heading out behind Dutch. I watch as they depart, my mind swimming.

Saint Denis, and the home that Ray bought for us, is right around the corner?

Sadie approaches me from the right, two crates in her hands, and leans in. “Where did they say they was going?”

“Saint Denis…” I trail off, my thoughts still a blur. “They said it’s real close, just down a road not too far from us.”

“Oh, I want to go!” Mary-Beth squeals, rolling out a cot beneath a tent she had just pitched. “It’s the biggest city for hundreds of miles! All kinds of shops, saloons, and men for the taking!”

“Me too!” Tilly calls from behind a wagon.

“Well, let’s go tomorrow,” Sadie starts as she walks away, headed toward the mansion. “We can get a wagon all set up and take it out in the morning. I don’t think we grabbed everything we had. We can pick up some supplies that we’s missing.”

“Sure, ladies,” Miss Grimshaw calls as she rolls a barrel toward a wagon, setting it upright. She unfolds her arms, revealing a few picture frames and a booklet, and stacks them on top of the barrel. “Let’s get this camp all set up for everyone before we start making leisure plans. And make sure all them chores are done! I want them horses fed, the chickens all ready to go, some clean clothes, the food chopped…”

I hear Mary-Beth groan under her breath, wiping her hands on her skirt, and I can’t help but to snort. I head into the mansion, stopping when I reach the threshold, and stand idly in the hallway. The place smells like must and grime. There’s a dining room and kitchen to my right and a living area to my left, all littered with trash and overturned furniture. In front of me is a large staircase leading up to the second floor. I hear Sadie shuffling down them.

“Where does this go?” I call out to her.

She turns the corner, brushing her hands together. She approaches, opening the bag in my arms and peering in. “Uh… I think that’s Arthur’s sh*t. Head up the stairs and turn left, then turn left again, I think…” she trails off, glancing back at the stairs. “Just keep going left until you can’t no more. There’s a little room with a red wooden dresser. I think that’s where he’s staying.”

“Sure,” I nod, and I pass around her. Pain begins to throb in my shoulder, dull but ever present, so I quicken my pace, shuffling up the stairs.

I grimace and stop at the foot of the stairs. There are four rooms up here. In the one to my right, I see a red-haired woman, someone I had never seen before, setting up a gramophone, then sorting through a stack of books. She pauses, turns, and stares at me, her icy blue eyes piercing.

My heart leaps and I shuffle along my way, turning to the left. In the next room, I can hear a woman crying softly: Abigail.

I pause again, wanting to enter, but it doesn’t feel right. No one has been able to console her so far, and I don’t know that the words of some woman who’s been in her camp for five minutes are gonna do her any good. So I keep going, making my final left turn, and head into Arthur’s room.

It’s mainly bare; the few furniture pieces in here seemed to have been rotting in the house for quite some time now. There’s a stained mattress against the far wall, some brown dressers and papers scattered about. I see the red one and head toward it, unfurling the knapsack. I find a few small possessions—some photographs, one of an older woman, another of a young, beautiful woman, and finally, two young men with a boy. I stare down at it, squinting my eyes. Is that Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur? Arthur looks young, not a hint of a wrinkle on his face, his hair fuller and thicker, his eyes brighter. I flip it over, but there’s no date on the back. I set them on the dresser.

I also find a mason jar with a little flower in some dirt, still blooming. I set it next to the photographs. A mirror, a shaving kit; I set them on the brown dresser. And then, a letter addressed to Arthur from a Mary Linton.

I glance back at the photograph of the young woman, her dark hair pulled into a braid, makeup applied beautifully. Is that Mary? What she in the gang? I shake my head, not my business, and prop the letter against the photograph.

When the sack is completely emptied, I head back down the stairs, trying to drown out Abigail’s sobs and the stare of the red-haired woman. I head back to the wagon, pulling out another box and asking Miss Grimshaw where she’d like the contents.

---

Arthur and Dutch haven’t returned by the time the sun begins to set. The smell of Pearson’s stew permeates the small area, and we all gather in a line to get our fill. The camp dog, Cain, circles the gathering and attempts to infiltrate. Miss Grimshaw scolds him, swatting him away, but pulls a few pieces of cooked turkey to toss over to him. He grabs it greedily and tucks himself underneath a wagon, scarfing it down and gnawing on the bones.

I make myself a small plate and head toward the rocking chairs that adorn the front of the house. Everyone else has settled in near a fire, underneath a tent, or at a table, but I don’t feel like chatting. A part of me wants to run down the path that I saw Dutch and Arthur leave on, wave my arms until I see a wagon, catch a ride into Saint Denis and never look back. Or even simpler, walk my way down until I find it myself. But I know it’ll be easier and safer to ride in with the girls and slip into the crowd, find the house that Ray bought, and settle in. I could even swear to never say a word about what I’ve seen. I feel better about the threat of my house being burned to the ground if I’m in the outskirts of a nice city. The law is close. The gang may not even dare to antagonize me.

I choose to cling to the hope that Janie and my father are alright—after all, Arthur got me out of that camp well before anything had been done. I can write her a letter, tell her what happened and assure her that I’m fine. There may even be a letter already waiting for me. The thought brings me solace, and I am able to eat a few bites of stew before I see Sadie approaching me, her own plate of stew in one hand and two beers in the others.

She sighs as she plops down into the chair next to me. She smiles, then extends a bottle of beer my way.

“Oh, no, I don’t drink, thank you.”

Sadie rolls her eyes. “Everybody drinks.”

“Not me.”

She thrusts it to me again. “Come on, now. The best way to meet new people is to loosen up a bit. And frankly, you’re stiff as hell.”

She winks as I take the bottle from her, and I admit I am a bit thirsty after the day’s work of setting up camp. I take a long swig and I grimace; the taste is abysmal and does nothing to quench my thirst. Sadie laughs, and I take another gulp, my stomach heating and my cheeks flushing.

I stare ahead at the setting sun, its orange rays breaking through the trees, and listen as the camp talks and laughs and sings. I feel my shoulders begin to relax, my eyes tugging downwards.

“How’s your arm?” Sadie asks between shovelfuls of food.

“It’s hurting,” I admit, and Sadie nods. “But it’s better today than it was yesterday.”

“That’s how I look at life now, since I lost Jakey,” Sadie muses, suddenly growing serious. She swallows, then takes a drink of her beer. “Better today than it was yesterday.”

I’m pushing a carrot around in the sauce before she speaks again. “Are you going to Saint Denis tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” I admit, the words tumbling out of my mouth. “My husband… he bought us a house in Saint Denis. That’s where we was headed before all this sh*t happened, and I found myself here.”

“Do you know where it’s at?” she asks.

I pause. Did Ray ever give me an address? I search my memory bank. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay, well,” Sadie drawls, “what does it look like?”

I falter again; did he ever even tell me that?!

“I… I don’t know. I just know it’s on the outskirts of the city, not directly in it.”

Sadie stares at me, her eyes searching for something. She clicks her tongue and leans back. “Alright, I guess we can ask around, find it…” she trails off, chewing on some stew, “and just drop you off, I guess, right?”

“That’s the plan,” I mutter, swirling around some more stew with my fork. I sigh, dropping the utensil and heading back to the beer, taking another long drag of it. For some reason, I want to drink more of it, despite its awful taste.

“What are you thinking?” I ask after a few more beats of silence.

“I don’t know, it’s just…” Sadie begins. “It takes a real strong woman to go through what we’ve been through and rise above it, come out alive on the other side. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past couple of months, it’s that the main thing that matters in this life is loyalty.” She looks at me, her hazel eyes boring into mine. “This world is full of evil, everywhere you turn. Some nice house in the city ain't going to protect you from that. Hell, my house up in Ambarino wasn't safe from the world." The sadness consumes her again, and she gulps, blinking back tears. "The only thing that will is aligning yourself with the right folk.”

“And you think this gang is the right folk for that?” I ask, perhaps a bit too loudly, as Sadie shushes me and glances around us. Nobody seems to overhear.

“Not all of them, that’s for sure,” she mutters, repositioning herself on the chair and tucking a leg beneath her. “But some of them. Abigail and John, for instance. They’re just a family that got caught in the wrong business, I think. Apparently, John tried to leave and was gone from the gang for a year." I raise my eyebrows, and Sadie nods. "And Hosea seems to have his head on straight. Charles, not sure if you’ve met him, but that man has a heart of gold. And Arthur…” she stops, staring out into the distance. “Arthur is, well, Arthur.”

I lean my elbows onto my knees, take a deep breath, and shudder it out. The camp breaks out into a song, their off-key voices howling into the night air.

“I’m just saying,” Sadie adds after I don't say anything back to her, “I can see something in you that’s hard to find in people. You don’t think like some of these folk do. And neither do I. And neither do those people I mentioned. But it’s a safe place to hang your hat, even if for the time being. If you create loyalty to the right folk, you have friends that last forever, connections that’ll never break. And sometimes, you’ll need those folk. And you wanna have them when you need them.”

I swallow, drinking in her words, and take yet another swig of my beer. The liquid is warm in my stomach, the lights in my eyes beginning to dance. And for the first time since I left my home, I feel my body completely relax.

Notes:

Thank you guys so much for reading, for the comments, the kudos, the bookmarks, everything! I am excited for the actual plot of this story to begin; the first couple chapters were just fitting in cutscenes and setting everything up as I would like. There's lots more artistic license to come, and I really hope you guys enjoy it! As always, please let me know what you think, and thanks again for stopping by!
<3 Mowglie

Summary:

When I was just a lad, you know

I met a gal from ole Bordeaux

She had blonde hair, and blue eyes, too

She let me ride on that ring-dang-do!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Its partner stands calmly, already strapped to the wagon, swatting away a fly with its long tail.

I’m leaning against the wagon, my arms crossed and head resting on the wood, laughing as she tries to jam the bit into its mouth. “Do you need help?”

“Naw, I got him.” Once she finally has the horse contained, she gives it a slap on the rear. “Jackass.”

Mary-Beth, Tilly, and another girl named Karen all pile into the back of the wagon. I make a move to join them, but Sadie nods her head toward the front. I smile and hoist myself into the seat next to her. The women are chattering loudly as Sadie snaps the reins, and the Shires start their slow crawl toward the tree line.

“Did the boys come back last night?” Mary-Beth asks, leaning her elbows on the back of me and Sadie’s seat.

“Just Dutch,” Sadie quips, flicking the reins again. “I didn’t see no sign of John or Arthur.”

“Wasn’t they supposed to be looking for Jack? For that Italian man that supposedly has him?” Tilly spouts, crossing her arms.

“Yes, which reminds me,” Sadie shouts over the horses’ hooves beating into the red-caked earth. “I know you’s gonna be doing your thing in the saloons and alleys and whatnot, but pay attention to what you see and hear. Dutch didn’t say nothing when he got back, just trudged up to his room.” Sadie shakes her head, her lips pursed. “I didn’t like it. Especially with the other boys not coming home. Just be on the lookout for any suspicious characters or the like.”

“Well, you know John ain’t gonna come back without little Jack,” Karen adds, fanning herself. “Abigail would string him up by his toes.”

“What about Arthur?” Tilly chimes.

“He’s probably helping John. Or scouting. Or…” Sadie waves her arm aimlessly. “Whatever he does when we don’t see him for days on end.”

“Probably getting himself well acquainted with the ladies of Saint Denis,” Karen coos, tossing her head back.

“The well-refined women of the industrial world,” Mary-Beth laughs, and Karen joins her. “We could never.”

“Oh, we could never!” Karen draws out the last word, and they giggle. I feel my own smirk cresting my lips.

“Oh, come on,” I hear Tilly tut. I glance back and I see that her arms are crossed, a scowl on her face. “Y’all know Arthur ain’t like that.”

“Oh, look at this cowboy,” Karen drawls, and Mary-Beth snorts and slaps her knee. “Why, is that dirt under your nails? Horse sh*t on your boots? Why, my stuffy old husband hasn’t seen dirt or horse sh*t in years.”

“I didn’t even think dirt was real anymore.” Mary-Beth swipes her hand across her forehead. “And my husband hasn’t even seen his own sh*t in years.”

Karen erupts into fervorous laughter. “My my, cowboy, you’re making it so hot in here.”

“Come here and get some of that sweat smell on my bosom!”

“That’s some gold material right there!” Sadie chuckles, her nose crinkling, and snaps the reins again. “Put it in your book, Mary-Beth!”

“Yeah, put it in your book!” Karen agrees. “I’d buy it!”

“I’ll be the mother of modern romance,” Mary-Beth smiles. “I’ll be sure to make it out to the lovely ladies of the Van der Linde gang! I wouldn’t be here without you!”

As we crest around the red-dirt bend, I can see smoke pluming into the blue sky. A large, wrought-iron bridge looms before us, with Saint Denis in large block letters across it. I can hear bells ringing, and the ground slowly morphs from caked-dirt into cobblestone. The city buildings reach high into the sky, taller than any tree I have ever seen.

As we cross the bridge, I see the water below us is a murky brown, broken up by rainbow swirls and ribcages of animals. Despite the open air, I can’t help but to feel claustrophobic; there are men on foot, on horses, or on carriages everywhere we look. There’s barely any room to breathe.

“There’s the post office,” Sadie muses, nodding her head toward a long wooden building. “I bet you can ask about recent house purchases there.”

She pulls back the reins and the horses slow, allowing three men carrying barrels of hay to pass the crowded streets.

“Why are we stopping?!” Karen calls out, but Sadie ignores her.

“Yeah,” I nod, watching as a blue-uniformed lawmen enters the building. “I can send a letter to Daddy, too.”

“Do you need money?” Sadie asks, digging into her pocket. She pulls out a few coins and extends her hand to me. "Mailing letters ain't free."

“Oh no, I don’t—”

“Goddamn, you are bashful.” Sadie rolls her eyes and grabs my hands, prying open my fingers and placing the coins inside. “I assume the O’Driscoll’s didn’t let you keep your purse, did they? Did they make sure you grabbed it on the way out?”

I snort, giving her a faint smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t,” Sadie smiles, “It ain’t mine.” My mouth drops, and Sadie laughs, clapping me on the back. “You got a lot to learn, Miss Lily.”

A man on a horse behind us shouts for us to pull off to the side or get the hell out of the way, and the women of the wagon all turn in unison to shout obscenities at him.

Sadie keeps her eyes on me. “Go in there and do what you need to do. The general store is just a few blocks up the street.” She juts her thumb forward. “Just meet me there when you’re done. I don’t know what these fools are gonna be up to, but I’ll wait for you.”

I nod, sliding off the wagon and heading toward the post office. I hear Sadie shout and the horses continue down the street, their hoofbeats lost in the sounds of the city. I twist my hands nervously, switching the coins from one palm to the other, and head inside.

The air is much cooler, the floor nearly impeccable and free of any specks of dirt. Yellow-lighted sconces adorn the walls. The people inside are clad in suits or dresses, some reading the paper, some smoking cigars and talking, some writing letters in perfect, swirling script. I head to the counter where the lawman approaches. He sees me, smiles, and waves his hand in front of him. “Go ahead, miss.”

I return his grin and walk briskly toward the suited man behind the counter. His smile is nearly concealed by his thick mustache, but his eyes crinkle warmly. “How can I help you, ma’am?”

“I wanted to check for any letters addressed to a Lillian Gentry, or Lillian Crawford.” It wouldn’t surprise me if Janie addressed it to my married name. I realize that it’s very possible that I could have been married now, if Ray had listened to me, if he hadn’t pulled over, if the barrel of the revolver wasn’t slammed into my head by the man in black. I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away, and swallow the lump in my throat.

“Let’s see, Lillian Gentry or Crawford…” the man repeats, heading back into the rows of boxes. He glances around, his hand hanging in front of him, then snatches one from the bottom shelf. “Here we are,” he smiles, handing it to me.

“Thank you!” I nearly rip it from his grasp and shimmy off to the side, allowing the lawman to step forward in line.

I tear open the letter and breeze through it. I can almost hear her voice scolding me, asking why she hasn’t heard from me in so long, how she gave me the benefit of the doubt as a newly married woman in a newly lived in city, but it was getting ridiculous at this point, how she’s been telling my father that I’m fine even though she didn’t know for sure, how her old heart couldn’t take it.

I race over to the writing desk and yank out piece of paper and pen, quickly scribbling down my apologies. There was a tragedy, a horrible chain of events, I tell her. My hand hovers over the page, somehow unable to write out Ray’s fate. I don’t know it for certain, I reason with myself. Maybe he’s returned to the farm? Maybe he’s out looking for me? Maybe he’s at the house?

I finish by telling her that I will be home to visit as quickly as I can and that I’ll fill her in upon my return. I grab an envelope and seal the letter, heading back to the counter and handing it to the attendant. “Ten cents,” he says politely. I rummage through Sadie’s coins and give him his due. He smiles, assures me that it will reach its destination within the week, and departs back to the boxes.

I am about to leave when I freeze in place, whipping around and heading back to the counter. The woman that was in line behind me jumps back as I cut in front of her, and I hear her mutter under her breath. When the attendant returns, he raises his eyebrows at me. “Yes?”

“Do you know of any houses that have recently been sold here?” I ask, my fingers gripping the polished wood. “Or are about to be sold? Or are on hold?”

The attendant clicks his tongue. “Most everything around here’s been bought up for a while now. Old money, you know how it is. Houses ain’t on the market much long here.” He tilts his head to the side. “Although, I know there’s a white house on the outskirts of the city that was recently purchased by some fellow from out of town.”

I smile so widely I’m surprised my face doesn’t crack in two. “Where, exactly?”

“Just head straight out these doors, then make a left, and on your right will be that main street that takes you through the city. Keep going 'til you see grass again. There’s lots of smaller houses around there, some farmland and working folk. You’ll know it when you see it. When you see the big red barn, turn right. It’ll be on your left—a small white house with a little well in the front.”

I nod my head, spinning on my heel. I call out a “thank you” over my shoulder as I burst through the wooden doors and scamper back into the bustling street. The sun feels warm on my face as I glance to the right and stride toward the general store, past the docks and the cawing seagulls and the working men and the smell of sea water.

I know it once I find it; Sadie is leaned up against the newly filled wagon, her arms crossed, scanning the area for me. When she spots me, I know she is greeted with a luminous smile. “Did you find it?” she calls out, already walking around the wagon to resume her post in the driver’s seat.

I nod, and I pull myself onto the wagon and settle into my seat, barely able to contain my excitement.

Sadie redirects us back down the road, turning right where I tell her to. We pass a small park on the left, where I see a tiny pond and children playing while their mothers watch on benches. I can smell the stables on the right, hear the impatient hoofbeats of the horses contained within. We travel north until the buildings become sparse and blades of grass begin to peek through the stone.

I see the red barn and my chest alights, and I tell Sadie to turn right. She does, but I can already see it; a little white house, some of the paint peeling off from the salty air, a well sitting in the front yard, unused and rusted, lined by a tiny wooden fence that needs some repair. Sadie is barely able to stop the wagon before I jump off, barreling around the horses and flinging open the gate. I run up the thin dirt path to the house.

Is Ray inside, waiting for me, sitting on a newly purchased sofa? Is he pacing back and forth, chewing on his fingernails, only to get the shock of his life when I walk through the door? Perhaps he’s out, perhaps he’s running errands and he’ll come home to his love, his soon-to-be wife, preparing something on the stove for him as if nothing ever happened, as if the entire ordeal with the O’Driscoll gang was a bad dream, a fleeting memory that we can wipe away because we’re both here, we’re both alive, we both made it.

Endless possibilities race through my mind as I scamper up to the door, grabbing the handle and attempting to open it, but it’s locked. I falter, trying again, yanking harder this time. Perhaps it’s just stuck? The house needs some work, after all.

But it doesn’t budge. I stand back, staring at it for a moment, then glide over to the window, cupping my hands over my eyes and peering inside. But I can’t see anything through the yellowing curtains.

I hear boots on the porch, and I turn to see Sadie sauntering up behind me. “He ain’t home?” she asks, crossing her arms again. Something in her eyes leads me to believe that she isn’t surprised, that she didn’t expect him to be here, and she’s playing along for the sake of my sanity.

I decide to not let those thoughts boil in my mind. “No, I guess not.” I feel my bravado fading, the fire in my belly fading to dying embers. I walk briskly to the next window, but I can’t see anything through it, either. I stand back, staring at the house, huffing shuddered breaths.

Sadie stays where she is, her eyes downcast. “I mean…” she trails off, kicking a pebble with her boot. “Maybe we can talk to someone, get you a key? Let them know what happened?”

Tears well in my eyes, my throat constricting, and I force myself to swallow. I blink, trying desperately to compose myself. I don’t know what I expected. It was foolish to think he would be here. I nod, refusing to look at her.

“Excuse me?” someone calls out, but we ignore them.

Sadie approaches, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “It’s alright. You’re here now. You made it. We’ll get the key, get you all settled in. I can stay for a few days, I don’t think my gang is going nowhere—”

“Excuse me!” someone calls again, this time closer. We turn to see a man in a navy suit, white gloves, and tiny round glasses hurrying his way around the fence, trudging toward us, his heavily pomaded hair glinting in the sunlight. “Excuse me, this house is already sold!”

“Look at that,” Sadie says lowly, smiling at me, then turns to call back. “Yeah, we know! This is his wife! She just got into town. There was an unexpected delay. I ended up bringing her down here to go ahead and get the house all fixed up for her husband.” She nods back toward the house. “Could you let us in, give us the key, so we can get started?”

The man reaches us on the porch, huffing his breath, resting his hands on his knees. “Oh, good,” he says breathlessly, “We weren’t expecting Mr. Alvarez for another few weeks.”

“Yeah, we just—”

“I’m sorry, who?”

The man looks at me curiously. “Your husband? Mr. Alvarez? You are Mrs. Alvarez, aren’t you?”

Sadie glances at me, waiting on my response.

“No…” I say slowly, and a sickening feeling pools in my stomach. “I ain’t. I’m Mrs. Crawford. I’m looking for the house purchased by Mr. Ray Crawford.” How long was I with the gang again? I wrack my brain. “Should have been around a month ago.”

The man pauses, searching his memory. “That… I don’t…” He finally straightens up, wiping his brow. “I don’t think we have a home purchased by anyone by that name.”

“Well,” I start, and I feel the panic rising in my throat, the bile.

No, there has to be a house for us. We packed an entire wagon and were heading down here. Where to, if there wasn’t a place waiting? Did Ray not have everything set up? Did he pull me from my home without a plan in motion, for us to just wing it in an entirely new city, something entirely outside of our pay range and with dollars to our name, based on some job he heard from someone in a saloon?

Or, did he… lie?

“It may not be purchased just yet.” The words pour out of my mouth like vomit. I feel sweat cresting my brow. “My husband, well, not quite my husband, we wasn’t married yet, we was planning on it once we got down here from my farm. It may just be on hold, I don’t know how these things work.” I raise my hands up as I speak.

“He’d said that the… the banks look more favorably on married folk, so we was… He just got a new job here, and… what about Raymond Crawford?”

The man does nothing to quell my fears. No recognition illuminates his face. “Ma’am, we don’t put holds on houses for people who ain’t got jobs to back it up.”

“No, he did have a job, we just had to—”

“And this house was purchased by a Mario Alvarez from New Austin.”

“I understand that. I’m looking for—”

“And we don’t got no record of anyone named Ray or Raymond Crawford buying a house here.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” There’s no emotion in his words, no genuine remorse. “But I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

I’m rooted to the spot, the cool breeze blowing across my heated body. I feel faint, my teeth grinding so hard together I swear they’ll shatter.

Sadie approaches, wrapping an arm around me. She squeezes me against her. I barely feel it.

“This house is owned by someone, so I need you to—”

“Yeah, we got it,” Sadie snaps, her head whipping toward him. “Give us a minute, we’ll get out of your hair.”

“I can’t leave you here on property not owned by you.”

Sadie snarls, lacing her arm through mine and yanking me toward the stairs. Her shoulder slams into the skinny man, who yelps and nearly stumbles down the wooden steps. She guides me to the wagon, helping me onto it, shooting daggers behind her. She then stomps back around to the other side, plopping down and yanking on the reins.

I watch as the small white house and the squirrely man disappear from my view. Sadie says nothing, her jaw taut, simply whipping the reins over and over. The horses whinny in protest. She makes a right, leading us back into the city.

---

The girls were easy enough to find. Sadie scoured the streets, looking for the nearest saloon, and found one with Karen sitting outside, her head tilted and a warm smile on her face as she leaned closer to a man with pomaded hair and a curled mustache. Wordlessly, Sadie approached and snagged her by the arm. “Hey!” Karen shouted, then muttered under her breath. “He was about to take me up to his hotel room. You know, where the safe is?”

Tilly and Mary-Beth were back at the general store. Mary-Beth had swiped a few dollars from a pocket and was perusing the books. Sadie’s intrusion forced her to choose a favorite, and she hastily snatched it up and paid the cashier. Tilly already had her goods and waited patiently on the porch.

Finally, with the troops gathered, we make our way out of the city. I stare up above me, watching as the swirling smog of Saint Denis transforms into the clear blue sky that I’m used to. The trees and the songs of the creatures that inhabit them return. The wagon bounces on a large rock.

The girls giggle and recount the tales of their time spent in the city. The shouts and laughter eventually morph into songs:

When I was just a lad, you know

I met a gal from ole Bordeaux

She had blonde hair, and blue eyes, too

She let me ride on that ring-dang-do!

“Come on!” Karen cries out, leaning forward to where me and Sadie sit. “You know the words!”

Sadie purses her lips, giving me a sideways glance. I hold it for just a moment, then glance down at my hands, wringing them in my lap. I take a deep breath, trying to release the pounding thoughts in my skull with the oxygen in my lungs.

How can there be no house? Where were we going? Where was Ray taking us to?

I realize that I’ll have to move back to Janie and my Daddy after all. Not a visit, as I had hoped. Not Janie fixing us cups of tea, slipping a bit of whiskey into hers, and leaning back in a chair to listen to what I’ve been up to for the past couple of weeks before I kiss her on the cheek and head back to my house in the city. No, instead, I’ll be back to work. Back in my manure-crusted overalls and decaying boots.

Back to shoveling sh*t.

Ray’s words pierce into my mind, and I shake my head. I lean back. The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon, the orange rays slicing through the tree branches.

I feel a hand on my knee; it’s Sadie, giving me an encouraging grin. “So, he didn’t get the house,” she says lowly, the girls oblivious, still singing their shanty. “Men don’t keep promises. That’s nothing new.”

Sadie leans out of the wagon to spit, wiping her mouth. I lick my lips. “I guess I can’t really say I’m surprised. Almost like I knew all along.” Sadie nods, and I continue. “It’s almost like I ain’t even knew him. The way he was talking on the way down, everything that happened with this gang, and now there ain’t no house? I can barely remember the man that I was engaged to. Like he slips from my memory a bit more every day. Is it like that with your husband?”

Sadie shakes her head vehemently. “No, quite the opposite. Every day, I know Jakey better. I remember him better. I remember what was taken from me, and who took it, better.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I don’t say anything.

For me, the rest of the ride is silent. The crickets are chirping by the time we return to camp. Pearson, grasping his pants at the back and waddling over to us, immediately barks, “Mrs. Adler! Did you get everything I asked for?”

“I got everything on your list,” she responds, pulling the horses to a stop. The girls shuffle out of the back, dropping to the ground and laughing as they head toward the campfire to the right of the mansion. I slide off of the wagon as well, wiping my hands on Abigail’s dress, just in time to hear Sadie mutter, “Ain’t my fault if you forgot something.”

“Well, haul it over to my wagon, then. I need to get it all sorted.”

“Are your legs broke!?” Sadie snaps, but she nevertheless trudges to the back of the wagon and begins pulling off the cans and crates of produce.

I follow to help her, grabbing what I can with my sore arm, and bringing it over to Pearson. He opens the first crate and yanks out a few carrots, slapping them onto the chopping board. “Ah, Miss Lillian!” he calls as I approach with a bundle of corn. “Thank you!” I smile at him, then return back to the wagon to grab more supplies.

The night passes without incident. Pearson prepares a stew, and we stand in line to grab a plate. I saunter back to the porch of the mansion, just as I had the night before, and this time, Sadie doesn’t follow me.

I cross my legs underneath my body, picking at my meal. A dormouse scampers out from a crack in the foundation of the house. I watch as it scurries in a circle in front of me, rummaging in the wood until it finds a morsel of food. It scarfs it down quickly, squeaks, then darts into the grass.

I chew slowly, then look back down at my plate. Suddenly, engulfed with an anger that I didn’t know I was containing, I attack it, swallowing without tasting.

Stupid Ray. He’s such an idiot. Packing up our entire lives with no plan. Pulling over for that man. Leaving me alone hundreds of miles away from my home.

I lick the plate clean, quickly standing back up and heading back to the camp. The same man picks at his guitar, a soft melody, and hums along to it. I pass him as I return my dirty dish, slamming it into the wash bin.

“Hey, I don’t think we’ve met!" He calls upon my return. "Come have a seat!”

I oblige, hiking up my skirt to sit on a log encircling the fire. Another man, the blonde with a handlebar mustache, lays on a pallet to my left, hiking himself up on his elbow. I recognize him as the man that I saw cleaning his gun on my first night here.

“Now, here’s the new broad in the gang.” He leans forward, smiling, but it almost looks like a grimace. “I’m Micah, sweetheart. That’s the only name you need to know in this whole lot.”

The man with the guitar scowls. “Try not to be so creepy, hombre,” he says softly, then resumes his strumming. “I’m Javier.”

“Lillian,” I respond, giving Javier a warm grin. He returns it. “Lillian Gentry.”

“Lillian Gentry,” Micah repeats, drawing out my last name. The sun has now completely set, and the light of the campfire casts shadows across Micah’s face, dancing in the lines of his cheeks and his heavy brow. “Well, aren’t you just the lily of the valley?”

I snort, shaking my head. Another man, strong and wide, sits on the log next to me. His long hair is pulled back, decorated with feathers. “What’s so funny over here?” His voice is low and calm and filled with the most warmth I’ve heard since I arrived here.

“Just getting to know the new hen in the roost,” Micah muses, groaning as he stands up. “It’s about time we get to drinking. I’ll be back.”

He disappears toward Pearson’s wagon, and the man next to me speaks. “Don’t pay no mind to Micah. He’s strange, but he’s harmless.” Another flash of white teeth. “I’m Charles Smith.”

“Lillian,” I respond. I remember Sadie speaking his name, that he was one of thegood ones.

“Yes, I know. I’ve heard talk around the camp,” he muses, rubbing his chin. “I’m sorry, by the way, for the circ*mstances.”

Charles’ once beaming face is now drawn in a tight line. I nod, the side of my mouth curling up. My heart sinks with the fuming thoughts I had about Ray mix with Charles’ apologies. “It’s alright. I mean, it’s not, really. I’m gonna have to head back to my Daddy’s farm up north of Valentine.”

“How are you getting there?” Charles asks as Micah saunters back to the group, several beers balanced in his arms. He hands one out to each of the men, then extends his arm toward me. I shake my head, but he persists, shoving it closer to my face. Reluctantly, I take it.

“I… I don’t know,” I take a small sip of the beer, and just as before, it immediately warms my insides. I hadn’t really thought about how I was going to head back home. Arthur had mentioned taking me, but he must be preoccupied with finding Abigail’s son. “I guess I could take a train? Or a coach? I ain’t got no money, though.”

“I could take you,” Charles says, his eyes boring into mine. “I don’t have anything to do for the next couple of days.”

“Aw, you ain’t staying, princess?” Micah croons.

I shake my head as Javier adds, “Reel it back in, amigo,” as he sways to his own music.

“When are you wanting to head back?”

I chew on the thought. “Would tomorrow morning be too soon?”

“Not at all.” Charles smiles. “Taima is a strong horse. I’m sure she could get both of us up there by midday. I’ll come wake you.”

I smile at him with genuine pleasure. “Thank you,” I mutter.

With a plan for return in motion, I feel my body relax. I'm excited to see Janie again, to lay in her arms and finally release all the pain and emotions I’ve been harboring for the past couple of days. I take a long swig of my beer.

“He’s back! You’ve got him! He’s back!”

We all whip around to see Abigail charging from the mansion, a wide smile cracking her face. I follow her gaze to see Dutch, Arthur, John, and the little boy heading into camp, the latter breaking away from the group to dart to his mother, arms outstretched.

“Mama!” he cries, and she scoops him into her arms, cradling his head.

“My boy,” she says softly, swaying him gently. “Thank you, Dutch, thank you,” she says into the boy’s hair. She turns to Arthur. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Arthur nods, shaking out his hands, and walks to Pearson’s wagon, where the crate of beer sits upon a table. Abigail glances at John and opens her mouth to speak, but doesn’t, instead turning on her heel and walking back to where the girls stand waiting to greet little Jack.

“Aw, the boy’s back,” Micah muses, but there is no emotion in his words. He swats absentmindedly at a mosquito hovering around his ear.

“Thank God,” Charles says under his breath. “I can only imagine what he’s been through.”

I hear a low grunt from behind me. Arthur approaches our campfire, beer in hand. He takes a long draw before plopping down on the log in between me and Charles. “Lily-Anne, Charles,” he says, and he nods at Javier and Micah.

“Lillian,” I correct once again.

“Sure.”

Notes:

I know it's been a hot minute since I updated. With a new job in law enforcement and pursuing my Master's, it's been hard to find time to write. The first couple of chapters always tend to be a bit difficult as well, since I'm setting up the main plot of the story. If you click and take a read, thanks so much! I hope to return to the groove of things and get chapters coming up on a consistent schedule. I almost wanted to quit, but I'm glad I didn't, and the action and rootin' tootin' cowboys will start soon! (: please let me know what you think and thank you for dropping in!
<3 Mowglie

Summary:

Keep going straight here, alongside the river. My farm will be on the right, through some thicket. We’ll hear the animals.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

He gives me a sideways glance and licks his lips. The sight makes my stomach turn.

Arthur doesn’t even look at him. He takes a sip of his drink, a few droplets hanging in his beard. He leans toward me but keeps his gaze fixed forward. “I didn’t expect to see you still around.”

“I, uh,” I chew on the inside of my cheek and shift my drink from one hand to the other. “There weren’t a house for me in Saint Denis.”

Arthur is still for a moment, staring at the fire. It grows brighter as the night grows darker, occasionally snapping and popping, sending little embers swirling into the warm air. Javier continues strumming.

“What?” he finally says, co*cking his head toward me. "I thought you lived north of Valentine?"

“Me and my husband, well, he weren’t my husband yet.”

“We was from north of Valentine. We was heading down to Saint Denis to a house he’d told me he bought. Only, he didn’t.” I shrug my shoulders. “There weren’t no house, and I made a fool of myself, acting all belligerent in front of this agent. It was a sight.” I take a long pull of the beer and grimace. “Mighty embarrassing.”

Arthur clicks his tongue. “So, what does that mean for you?”

“I’m heading back to my Daddy’s farm I told you about. Guess I’ll just… act like it didn’t happen. Back to birthing pigs, raising them, slaughtering them, selling the meat, on and on. Back to a simple existence of not knowing what’s on the other side of the river.”

Arthur chews on this. “Ain’t nothing wrong with honest work,” he finally mutters, raising his drink to his lips again.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with it, but it’s really boring,” Micah cuts in yet again.

He twirls it in front of his face. “You could always stay with us. I got room in my tent for another.”

I see Charles and Arthur exchange a look, but neither of them address Micah.

“I’m taking her back in the morning,” Charles says pointedly.

“Good.” Arthur’s response is almost immediate, nearly clipping Charles off. “Wouldn’t want her moseying her way back up there alone, or with some other feller from this camp.”

I know his words were directed at Micah, but the latter doesn’t seem to notice. “Arthur’s got a room in the house. Him and Dutch, and then John and Abigail and their little boy they can’t keep track of.” Micah flips the knife over his head, catching it by the blade. I can see the alcohol beginning to glaze his eyes. “Not all of us got a bed, sweetheart, but I’ll make sure you’re comfortable.”

“Do you ever shut up!?” Arthur snarls, lunging forward. Some of his beer spills onto my skirt, onto Abigail’s skirt, and I brush it off quickly. “You’ll get a room in the house when you earn it, instead of shooting up towns and getting yourself in jail and need of rescuing.”

“Funny you mention needing rescuing,” Micah sneers, standing. Arthur stays rooted to the log, but his body is tense. I notice his hand slowly lowering to his holster. “Cause I seem to remember you being strung up in an O’Driscoll camp not too long ago.”

“I got myself out of that camp just fine.” Arthur leans back, relaxing, tipping the beer again, as if he thought better of whatever was previously running through his mind. “And I got the lady out, too. Maybe you should watch how you talk in front of ladies. Might have more willing to pay you some mind if you did.”

Micah seethes, his breathing haggard, and stumbles a bit to the left. He catches himself quickly.

Charles fails to hide a grin behind his hand, tossing Arthur another look, who does not return it, instead keeping a sly smile pointed at Micah.

“Uncle Javier!” The tense atmosphere is broken by Jack prancing through our seats, barely making his way around the fire. I notice Arthur jump up to catch him, then realizing he doesn’t need to and returning to his seat. “Uncle Javier, I want to hear a song! I want to dance!”

“What do you want to hear, little man?” he asks, hoisting the guitar further onto his leg. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll play it.”

“Dancing music!” Jack shouts again, and he runs in a circle, waving his arms. “Come on, Mama!” he calls to Abigail, who is storming toward our campfire. “Uncle Javier is gonna play us a song!”

“Don’t you go running off like that,” Abigail tuts, her hands on her hips, “I just got you back.”

Jack is unfazed and grabs his mother’s hands, swaying them back and forth. Javier strums up a hearty tune, leaning forward and singing loudly into the moonlight. I lean back, staring up at the stars.

I hear the girls squealing and giggling as they run over. Karen extends a hand to Charles, who smiles and takes it, twirling Karen around and pulling her back into him. The knock their feet together, hook their arms together and spin, and then CLAP!

They break apart and Karen bends down to hook her arm into little Jack’s. He giggles with delight, trying to match her footwork, and she holds his hands delicately as she matches his footsteps with her own.

Tilly runs over and grabs Abigail’s hands, who rolls her eyes but nonetheless taps her feet against Tilly’s. A smile breaks her face, the first I’ve seen in the past couple of days. They step once, then twice, left foot, right foot twice, left foot twice, right foot once, then spin around each other again.

CLAP!

I see more members of the gang making their way to our campfire. Dutch joins in, laughing loudly, and grabs Abigail and gives her a spin before they begin their footwork. I notice the red-haired woman, the one I saw in the mansion, standing back with her arms crossed. Her icy stare finds me and I immediately look away.

A few people echo Javier’s singing, preferring to sit back and hold their drinks and watch. I can hear Arthur mumbling along to the tune, neither English nor Spanish words—just a low garble of nonwords. I look at him and chuckle, and he meets my eyes, grinning sheepishly. Then, he sings louder, his nonsense mingling with the voices and the laughter of the others.

CLAP!

I look up and I see Pearson bending over gaudily, his hand reaching for me. I stare at it for a moment, unsure, then hand my beer to Arthur and stand. Pearson grabs my hands and kicks his feet toward me. I try to copy him, but I fumble over myself, missing the double taps. Pearson’s grip keeps me steady, and I find the beat and move my feet along with his. The music begins to crescendo, I try to time it but I miss it—

CLAP!

Pearson shoves his arm under mine and spins me around. I laugh, twirling along with him. He releases me, and I feel a slender arm loop into my elbow. I turn, and Abigail’s sweet blue eyes, filled with joy, find mine. We keep our arms hooked as we twirl, and then she begins the footwork; I try again, how have I already forgotten it? And the music builds once more.

CLAP!

Javier wails into the night and we’re all laughing and singing. Abigail spins me and when she lets go, I see little Jack has made his way to the edge of our circle, standing idly. I head over to him and grab his tiny hands, and his face lights up. Between him and me, the footwork is nowhere near where it’s supposed to be. I hear the music growing louder and I try to time it just right.

CLAP!

I missed it by just a second. I bend and hook my arm with Jack’s, whose laughter is the loudest of them all, and we spin slowly.

When I release him, I glance around idly, waiting for the next person to hook me and spin me around. I feel a much larger, stronger arm find my body. I turn around and it’s Arthur, cradling our two beers in his free arm. His warm palm finds mine and holds it, his holster jostling as he raises our hands and tries to dance along. He can’t find his bearings either. He chuckles, a flash of pearly white, and I grab a beer from him and slug it down. I finish it, chucking it to the side like I see so many of them do, and I wait, my hands at the ready. I won’t miss it this time. Arthur stares at me, confused, then realizes and holds his hands in front of him.

CLAP!

Right on cue. The feeling is jubilant.

Arthur takes my hand into his and pulls me back toward him. “That was fine dancing, Lily-Anne,” he says lowly.

“Mighty fine,” I laugh, and I snatch his other beer and take a long swig of it.

Arthur says nothing about his stolen drink.

The gang begins to disperse again. I notice Micah sauntering his way back to the wagon, and he yanks a whiskey bottle out of a carton and rips off the cap. Instead of joining the group again, he heads into the tree line, slinking against a trunk and downing the drink in nearly one gulp.

I scan back to the crowd. Abigail is crouched in front of Jack, wiping something from his face and smiling. She looks up, directly into my eyes, then at Arthur. When her eyes find mine again, she wiggles her eyebrow. Something coils in my stomach, and I pull my hand away from Arthur’s.

The girls huddle together as they traipse back to their original campfire. I walk away from Arthur and head toward the wagon to get myself another drink. Sadie joins me, clinking her bottle against mine, and we walk together toward the back of the house.

Sadie leads me over to a set of crates, plopping down in one and raising the drink to her lips. I copy her, and I feel my eyesight begin to blur and I sway a bit on the weakened wood. She catches my arm with her hand and laughs. “Slow down, Miss Lily!”

The girls begin to gossip, whispering behind cupped hands. Tilly laughs loudly, throwing her head back. Miss Grimshaw walks past, rolling her eyes. “Y’all better not get too drunk that you ain’t gonna do chores in the morning!” she calls, her fists balled, but I notice a grin on her lips as she turns away.

Sadie scoffs, then leans forward and begins recounting a story of her and Jake in the mountains of Ambarino. She talks about him as if he’s still around, like he’s simply gone on a trip and she’ll see him again soon. We all listen thoughtfully, Mary-Beth nodding her head.

I wonder if I will ever be able to talk about Ray like this?

I hear footsteps approaching from the rear—I turn and it’s Charles, crouching down and whispering something to Karen. Her palm flies to her chest, drinking in his words, and she stands, wobbles a bit, then grabs his hand. They disappear around the bend of the house.

I stare back up at the stars again, a few bugs flitting across my vision, and take another drink.

---

The sun pounds into my skull, almost as if it was whacking me over the head with a mallet. I groan and sit up, rubbing my eyes, my arms and chest aching. I notice that I have completely rolled off of my pallet, my body lying on the hard dirt for who knows how long.

“Oh, good,” he muses, nodding at me. “I was just coming to wake you." He stares down at the streaks in the dirt. "How was the ground?”

“Painful,” I mutter, taking a step toward him. I thrust my hips forward again, eliciting another crack. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes. You said it’s just north of Valentine, right? Along the river?”

“Yes.”

He nods, wiping his hands on his pants. “Shouldn’t take too long. Do you need to pack?”

“No, I ain’t got nothing.” I start to walk toward him, then immediately freeze in place. Charles stares at me, his brows knotted. “This…” I turn back to the house. “This is Abigail’s dress.”

“I assume you have clothes at your house,” Charles says calmly. “You can change there, and I’ll take the dress back to her. Best not to wake anyone right now. It was an eventful night.”

I nod, glancing around the camp. Everyone is spilled onto their pallets in a similar fashion that I was, their snores and grumbles slicing through the quiet morning air. I see Bill turn over, knocking a stack of bottles onto the ground with his shoulder. They roll toward the middle of the clearing.

I stare up at the house, then at the horses that graze in the pasture nearby. My heart pangs; I want to say goodbye to Abigail, to thank her for letting me wear her dress. I want to hug Sadie and thank her for keeping me steady in the city, for being there for me when she barely knows me, for angrily defending me against that idiot of an estate agent. I want to thank Arthur for being the reason that I’m even here to wear other people’s dresses and act crazy at a house that isn’t mine, that isn’t Ray’s.

But instead, I follow after Charles as he approaches a brown-spotted Appaloosa, patting it gently on the rear before swinging around and hoisting himself onto the saddle. The horse trots in place, getting used to the weight, and he pulls her to the side to wait for me. He reaches his hand down and I take it, one foot in the stirrup, and I pull myself behind him and wrap my arms around his chest. He grunts, knocking his spurs into her side, and she neighs and clops her way to the path.

“Let me know if I go to fast! I know it can get tiring to sit back there and hang on!” Charles calls, Taima picking up speed as we clear the brush and head onto the main road. I settle into the back of the saddle, trying to keep my body from sliding down and knocking into Charles. I realize it’s fruitless, and I press myself entirely against him as we head north, back to my home.

The greenery becomes thicker and the air cools slightly as he leads me back to the mountains, back down the winding paths that slowly become more familiar. At every junction that we pass through, I look around and attempt to place it as the one where Ray and I were apprehended by the O’Driscoll’s. I stare at the ground for the wheel marks of our wagon, for footprints heading out from behind a rock, for gunpowder that may still be swirling in the air. But I find nothing, the memory of what happened erased away after weeks spent healing in a camp of strangers.

I dread having to tell Janie what transpired. I told you! she’ll say, I told you to stop for no one and stay on them main roads. And now look what happened. That poor boy. She’ll raise her hand to her heart, Oh, that poor boy. I watched him grow up, just like you. His heart is just too big to not help someone in need. And look where it got him. You ain’t never leaving my sight again.

The thought of leaving my home couldn’t be any less appealing than it already is. I’ll assure her that I’ll never go astray again. The past month has been plenty of excitement to sate me for the rest of my life. Nothing sounds better than returning to the work that I know so well, that I’ve been doing my whole life. I’ll grieve the loss of Ray through the monotonous days that lay before me.

The trip is quiet, Charles keeping to himself and me lost in my thoughts. I’m thankful for it. He doesn’t speak until I hear the gurgling of the river and the splashes of the wildlife scattering away from us. “Where to, from here?” he asks, Taima scraping her hoof impatiently.

I look around, trying to find something that I recognize, and I see it, the first sign for Valentine that Ray and I passed—wooden, decaying. I’m silent for a moment, dazed by the memory, then slowly part my lips. “Keep going straight here, alongside the river. My farm will be on the right, through some thicket. We’ll hear the animals.”

Charles tuts and Taima starts again, continuing down the path. I nestle into him, rocking my body against the rhythm of the horse. I know we’re just a few minutes away now. I prick my ears, listening for the grunts of the pigs, the clucks of the chickens.

The terrain becomes more intimate. I see the tree that Ray and I used to sneak off and meet at in the middle of the night. The poison ivy that I always forget is hidden behind that rock. The clearing by the river where my Daddy, before he got sick, used to take me fishing.

“You know, if you ever need anything,” Charles starts, and I return my attention to him. “You can just write to us. The gang has some fake name that it uses, Tacitus something? I don’t know. Or you can address it to me. But we’ll come for you. You’re one of us now.”

I’m not sure how his words make me feel. I open my mouth to retort, but a bend appears to the right, the worn down path where Daddy used to lead our wagon through the trees. “Here!” I shout, my body tingling with excitement. “Turn here!”

Charles veers the horse onto the trail. Taima pounds down the beaten brush, a few thin branches slicing at her legs. She neighs loudly, shaking her head, but he presses her on. I see the roof of the pig pen cresting over the trees, and I release my hold on Charles, preparing to lurch off and dash back into my house, back into familiarity, into safety.

We break through the trees and I see it; I’m back home. The smell of manure fills my nose, and for once, it comforts me. I slide off the horse and dart toward my house. “Janie! Daddy!” I storm around the porch, my foot slamming onto the first step.

I freeze.

The front door is wide open, leading into a dark hallway.

I stare at it, into the abyss, like the gaping mouth of a panther. What feels like a winter's first frost consumes me. I step back and suddenly my ears are ringing, my body is hot, and I smell more than just the feces of the farm. It’s quiet. Dead silent.

It stares down at my pigs. I watch as it flaps its wings and lands on the back of the largest one, grabbing its ear with its beak and yanking it back. The pig doesn’t move. The pig doesn’t react.

I feel faint. The world around me begins to spin, just like I did last night, spinning round and round with the gang. Drinking and laughing and dancing and singing while crows pecked at my dead pigs.

I whip toward the chicken coop. There’s no movement, no sounds, no signs of life. My eyes dart around the crude wooden structure, my breathing haggard—somehow I can’t draw in enough oxygen to sate my lungs. And then I see it, a small, curled chicken foot peaking out from the opening to the coop. It’s unnatural, the way it lays. I know it’s not sleeping.

I hear footsteps behind me. They slowly stop. I know Charles looking at me, then at the pig pen, then at the coup, drinking in the scene before us.

He means it. Come to him.

But I don’t. Instead, I turn on my heel and fly into my house.

The kitchen is in disarray; every cupboard opened, the table on its side, trash strewn across the floor. I don’t stop to asses the damage and instead scramble toward my father’s room, turning left and tearing down the hallway.

The door is ajar. I know what I’ll find but I don’t stop. I hear Charles yelling for me again. I don’t stop.

Even in the darkness I can make out the shape of Janie’s feet at the foot of the bed. They are twisted and gnarled, just like the chicken's. A dark, almost black puddle surrounds her. I stagger, falling to the floor, and I scream. I don’t hear it but I feel it. The searing of my throat, the burning in my chest. My heart pounds painfully against my ribs. I can’t breathe but I keep screaming.

“Lily!” He sounds miles away. The door creaks behind me and Charles enters, his revolver in front of him. He spins around the room, pries open the unhinged door of the closet, points his gun in there. He turns and slowly lowers it, staring at Janie. His eyes are wide as his gaze turns toward the safe that was ripped from the chest in the corner of the room, blown open and ransacked.

He looks at the bed and stops entirely. I know he sees my Daddy. I can’t bring myself to look.

“Lily.” I don’t hear it but I see his mouth move. I’m still screaming. “Lily!” Again, and he rushes toward me and wraps his free arm around my chest, pulling me up and against him. He moves through the house, toward the stairs, his revolver leading the way. He says something—I don't know what, but I feel the words reverberating in his chest.

He says something else. I look at him, and my screams have morphed into sobs and I feel myself collapsing again.

I’m staring at the floor when Charles’ gentle hands find my face. He wipes away my tears, but they are replaced immediately. He swallows, tries again—“Is this yours?” I finally hear him say. “Are these your belongings?”

I can’t answer him. I try to suck in a breath but instead, the air catches in my throat and I heave.

There’s nothing in my stomach. The bile scorches my throat.

Charles turns away and grabs the bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He holsters his gun, using his arms to scoop me up and cradle me down the stairs. The quiet stairs.

I fight against him, thrashing and crying as he leads me out the front door.

The sunlight burns my eyes but I don’t dare close them. I’m wide-eyed as Charles lowers me to my feet. “It’s alright," he whispers.

It’s not alright. Nothing will ever be alright.

As soon as Charles releases me, I whip around to reenter the house. I want Janie. I want Daddy.

I yank against him, screaming again. “Let me go!”

“Lily, come on.”

“No!” The word is a gurgled mess as I fall to the earth. Charles lifts me again, turning me around and holding me close to him. His hand finds the back of my head and his other arm snakes around my back. He grips me tightly as I cry, digging my nails into his shirt, pounding my fists against his chest.

I slink against him. There’s nothing left of me. It’s all gone, my light extinguished.

He slightly releases his hold but keeps his arm around me as he leads me back to the horse. Taima stares, her large eyes following me as Charles helps me back onto her. He removes the bag from his shoulder and ties it to the rear of the saddle. He gets back on the mare, this time behind me, reaching forward and cradling me as he grabs the reins and leads Taima back down the dead path.

It’s all my fault. All of it. I should have fought harder against Ray when he wanted to stop for those men. I should have never agreed to go to Saint Denis. I should have never said yes to his proposal.

The thoughts tussle with the images of Janie’s warped feet, the blood that stained the floor beneath her, my sick Daddy laying on the bed with his chest blown open or his head shot off.

“I’ll come back,” Charles says quietly into my hair. “I’ll bury them right. But you need to get out of here. You should have never seen this.”

“It’s because of me,” I start, my voice barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t have—”

Charles shushes me as we break back onto the main road. He digs his heels into Taima and she whinnies loudly, but he pushes her as fast as she’ll go. We race down the path, along the Dakota River, away from the bodies of my father and caretaker.

I scream again.

---

We return to the camp as the sun begins to set, the orange glow cutting through the leaves. It fries my eyes. I don’t care. I don’t feel anything. I don’t deserve to feel anything.

Charles brings the horse to a stop but I’m already off, stumbling as my feet catch the dark earth. I wipe my face, tears dried and cracked against my cheeks. The camp grows quiet as I storm through the crates, the barrels, the pallets, looking for her. My eyes scan every face that stares back at me, wide-eyed, jaw dropped.

Arthur is sitting at a table with Dutch and John, and they turn their heads to look at me. Arthur’s gaze catches mine and something morphs across his face; he immediately stands but I look away. I don’t have time to explain. Where is she?

I hear John begin speaking, “I f*cking knew it.”

I find Abigail and Jack. When she sees me, she rises as well and begins to walk toward me, her arms outstretched. I turn away, continuing to stomp toward the mansion. I look beyond it and I see her, Sadie, sitting in the gazebo, cleaning her weapon. I swing my arms as I approach.

The silence of the camp is replaced by hushed whispers. I know they’re talking about the wild look in my eyes, the exhaustion of my body, the defeat in my movements. I keep going. I keep going until I reach her.

Sadie glances up, and the same look of horror crests her face. “What happened?” she asks as she stands, stuffing her gun back into its holster.

I don’t speak until I’m directly in front of her. My words feel like knives in my throat. “I’m in,” I say gruffly, and she stares at me, bewildered. “I want every one of those sons of bitches rotting on the goddamn earth.”

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! I'm having a fun time with this chapter, and things are really starting to get into full swing. Please let me know what you think! (:
- Mowglie

Summary:

Listen, I’ve killed a lot of folk in my day. Some for good reason. Some not. But a wise man once told me that revenge is a fool’s game. It’s an endless cycle. You ain’t gonna feel better, so you keep killing, and it’ll never sate you. And you’ll end up emptier than you were before.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

My eyes didn’t close for the rest of the night.

Sadie said nothing in return. She didn’t need to. I could see it in her eyes. The understanding. The hurt. The grief. For a moment, I saw what looked like pity, but it was gone in a flash, replaced with her own determination. She promised to take me to Saint Denis in the morning, get me my own weapon, teach me how to use it. That was all I needed to hear in the moment.

We parted, and I stormed back to Pearson’s wagon. I could feel the eyes of the camp on me again. Each group silenced as I grew closer. I didn’t care what they had to say or didn’t have to say. I grabbed another drink and then scurried back to my cot.

I drank it quickly and silently. I didn’t taste it.

I laid back down, my hands crossed behind my head. Somehow, I felt completely exhausted and wide awake at the same time. I watched as the moon skirted across the sky at an agonizingly slow pace. The stars began to snuff out, one by one. And then, from the east, a hint of pink across the dark blue sky.

---

I guess I had caught some sleep, or maybe I was so far lost in my own thoughts that I didn’t realize that Charles had brought my bag to the foot of my cot. I groaned as I sat up, rubbing my neck, and eyed it. I pulled it to me, shuffling around until I found one of my pairs of overalls. Gray, plain shirt with a few stains. Cowskin poncho, one Daddy had brought back with him from one of his trips into Valentine. Said there was a traveling salesman there that had a whole lot of boots, cowls, gloves, that he had skinned and made himself. He said the cowskin would look good on me.

I scoop all of the items into my arms and trudge to the back of Pearson’s wagon. I peel off Abigail’s green dress, which had nearly grafted into my skin at this point, and lay it gently across a barrel. I pull on my shirt, slip the overalls over my legs and across my upper body, clicking it together. I then drape the poncho around my chest. When the fabric catches the breeze, I get a whiff of my room at home; I take a deep breath before the pelt settles around my shoulders.

I walk back to my cot and bag, shuffling around until I find my boots and stomp my feet into them. The leather is worn, my toes and arch of my foot fitting perfectly into the mold. I tie my hair back into a low bun; the ribbon is old, and the bun isn’t secure against the nape of my neck. A few tresses fall into my face as I lean over and close the bag shut.

Everyone stares as I head to the provision wagon, snatch bag of crackers and a coffee tin, then pour myself a cup from the campfire. A few people call out a “Morning, Lillian!” but I don’t respond. I only speak to Hosea, who says quietly and politely, “Morning, Mrs. Crawford.”

“It’s Gentry,” I say flatly, not bothering to look him in the eyes. “I weren’t ever married.”

He says nothing more, and neither do I.

I eat the crackers slowly so as not to wretch it back up. My throat is still sore from the hours spent screaming and crying on the way back from my old home. My old home. I look up in front of me, watching a butterfly flit across a small patch of wildflowers. It settles into the largest petal, its blue wings hitching on and fighting against the breeze, when I hear footsteps approach from behind.

“Alright, chores are done.” It’s Sadie. I hear her clapping her hands together, probably getting rid of dirt or some other grime that is caking them. “You ready to head into town? Saint Denis’ got a gigantic gun smith, should have some good stuff.”

I dig my hands into the cracker bag sheepishly. “I ain’t got no money.”

“I’ll buy it.”

I rise, walking around Sadie and heading to dispose of the bag. “I don’t want no handouts. I can earn the money.”

“And how are you gonna do that?” Sadie calls out after me. I can hear her walking briskly behind me. “Miss Grimshaw ain’t paying no wages for the work she makes us do.”

I take a long sip of the coffee. My heart feels cold, dead, stone-like. I stare across the camp, where Jack digs a stick into the soft earth while Abigail watches with her own tin of coffee, Micah cleans his precious pistol for the umpteenth time, and Charles and Arthur stand in the shade of a tree, talking quietly to themselves.

I catch the sound of shouting; I glance up at the mansion and see Dutch and the red-haired woman arguing. She throws a book at the ground—he throws his hands up in defiance.

I realize Sadie is still behind me, waiting on an answer. “Same as you lot,” I finally say, turning to face her. Her hair is in a long braid down her back, hat on her head, pristine white shirt. “I’ll rob some bastard for it.”

I expect this to shock her and for her to shake her head and tell me no, but instead, she quirks an eyebrow and shifts her weight to her other hip. “And how you gonna do that with no gun?”

I falter. “Same way Karen and them do it.”

Sadie scoffs. “You gonna sell yourself to some man and then loot his pants while he recovers, asleep on some hotel bed?” She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I know that’s not what you’re trying to do. Ain’t trying to become no outlaw.” She gives me a small smile. “I know how this is gonna go. We’ll get you a gun, take care of those heathen O’Driscoll’s,” she spits the word like snake venom in her mouth, “and then you’ll move on, do some honest work, find an honest man again.”

“Again?” I repeat. The words pool out of my mouth like the vomit on the floorboards of my old bedroom. “I’d have to find one first in order to do it again.”

“Lillian, my Jakey told white lies, it’s just something men do. It don’t mean—”

“No, it weren’t a tiny white lie!” I yell at her. “He drug me outta my home and down here, knowing we had no place to go, and then got us ambushed and sold my Daddy out to that gang. And look where it got me. Where it got him. And my family.”

Sadie stares for a moment, then nods, turning on her heel and heading toward her horse. I follow.

---

Sadie picked me out a beautiful revolver: shiny silver body, dark wooden handle. It was heavier than I expected, hanging lowly on my hip in the cheapest holster that Saint Denis offered, at my insistence. The total for both was around ninety dollars, and I intend to remember that number. She pulled me onto the back of her golden Turkoman and we rode back to camp, the firearm bouncing weightily against my right leg.

When we returned, I slipped off the horse and sauntered back into camp. The others glanced up to see who had arrived, and a few of them stared at the gun at my hip, as if unsure what I was going to do with it. I followed Sadie as she approached Pearson’s wagon, snatched a few empty bottles around his table, and headed out into a small clearing near camp.

She stacked the bottles a good distance away and returned to me, instructing me to unsheathe my weapon. “Alright, look,” she had said, drawing her own revolver from her side and holding it up in front of her. “There’s a groove up top, before the barrel, and a small groove that is closer to you. Close one eye and look down it.”

I did, aiming blindly at the bottles.

“No, you gotta—” she came beside me, leaning the weapon up farther with her left hand. “You gotta line them up. It should look like one groove when you do it right.”

I adjusted my aim on the weapon, my left eye scrunched tightly, and focused on one of the bottles. My hand trembled against the grip of the gun.

“Okay, you always want to shoot on an exhale,” she said. “Let your breath go out slowly and your shoulders relax. Put your finger on the trigger.”

I did. I pressed on it lightly, feeling the resistance. I hesitated, lifting my finger, then returned it to the trigger. I pulled again slowly, somehow fearful that the gun might explode in my hands if I didn’t do it right.

“You’re fine,” Sadie had said when she saw my reluctance. “Take your time. We’ve got plenty of it.”

I blew my breath out steadily, lined up one of the bottles in my sights, and pulled the trigger.

I heard the bullet lodge deep into the earth, missing the bottle.

“Try again.”

And that was how my next few days were spent. I woke up, grabbed some clothes from the bag at the foot of my bed. Sauntered over to Pearson’s wagon to change. Grabbed myself a cup of coffee, a biscuit from a tin. I helped with the chores silently, not speaking to anyone unless they asked me a direct question that required an explicit answer. I hauled the bags of produce to Pearson. I yanked the bales of hay over to the horses. I brought the buckets of rainwater to the washing bins. I missed the aching pain that I used to feel in my arm; it was a reminder to feel something, anything. But it faded away after about day three.

Once the chores were done, I walked with Sadie back out to the small field. She would line the bottles up for me. I missed consistently for the first couple of sessions. The gun still felt heavy every time I pulled it out. The sights were hard to get perfectly lined up. I learned eventually to control the kick on the gun, to keep it steady. I couldn’t even fathom how many bullets dug into the ground around that line of glassware. But we went back every day.

On the fourth day, I finally made a shot. The glass shattered across the grass, the sound of the shot ricocheting across the clearing. Sadie and I laughed loudly, and she clapped me on the back, and it was the first glimmer of happiness that I had in some time.

After our sessions, we went back to camp and grabbed a plate of stew. We sat together, ate it, talked minimally. Sadie would grab us a pair of drinks that we would share. We’d watch as the gang members swapped shifts for watch over our land, as Abigail and John would argue over something mundane, how others would come in and out from whatever errands or missions they found themselves on.

One night, Arthur rode in, stared at me and Sadie sitting on the porch, but said nothing as he dismounted his horse and headed toward the back entrance to the mansion.

Once me and Sadie had eaten and drank our fill, we each went to our respective beds. I would snuggle down, the alcohol helping me to find some semblance of sleep, and roll over and close my eyes. Sometimes, it took longer than others. But the images of Janie’s warped body, my last glance at Ray before we were attacked, and my imagination formulating mutilated images of my Daddy began to subside. I had a plan. And once that plan was fulfilled, I could find some honest work, like Sadie said. Make my way out of this camp, maybe find some other pig farm that needed an extra hand. Or I could sew clothes. Or I could clean houses. It didn’t matter. Once my revenge was enacted, I could continue on with my life again.

This morning was like any other. I rose, got my morning coffee and biscuit, and completed my chores.

I nod at her, wiping my mouth on the cowskin poncho. I notice that her tone with me was much different than the other girls, similar to how she treated Abigail while Jack was missing. I resolve myself to earning her shrieking directions again as soon as possible.

Eventually, Sadie appears around the bend of the mansion, grabbing another set of bottles from Pearson’s wagon, and we head out into the small area by camp. I swat away a few mosquitoes that buzz around my face before settling into position. I fire twice, hitting both of the targets I aimed for. Sadie, jubilant as the first time I ever struck a bottle, cheers from the tree line.

A few minutes pass before I hear twigs snapping from behind us. Without thinking, I whirl around, gun still in hand, when I see Arthur cresting the small hill between two trees, his arms raised.

“Whoa, don’t shoot!”

“Hi, Arthur!” Sadie laughs, holstering her revolver and approaching him. “We was just working on some shooting.”

“Yeah, I see that,” he says lowly. I hold my revolver limply at my side. He looks at the gun, then at me, then at Sadie. “Mrs. Adler, do you mind leaving me here a moment with Lily-Anne?”

I open my mouth to remind him again how to pronounce my name, but Sadie beats me to it. “Sure, no problem.” She tips her hat, disappearing over the ledge and heading back into camp.

Arthur turns to me, his eyes solemn. I decide to look away, aiming my revolver at the remaining bottle.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he says quietly.

“Hi,” I say, keeping my eyes on the glass. I shut my left eye, my tongue slightly poking out of my mouth, and fire at it.

I miss.Damn.

“So, I see you got yourself a gun,” Arthur nods at me. “And learning how to shoot it, too.”

“Yeah,” I concede, firing again.

I scowl, turning the gun over in my hands. Arthur’s presence makes me nervous, and I can’t focus. Talking to anyone drains me of what little energy I have left. The only person I give any of my attention to is Sadie, in these sessions in the clearing and our nightly dinners. Any more than that exhausts me.

“What for?”

“Huh?”

I raise the gun and fire again, missing it by a mile. I huff out a beath and try again, moving my feet, digging them into the wet, swampy earth. I close my left eye. Line it up just right.

“What you need to be shooting at bottles for?”

“To learn,” I quip.

I grumble, reaching into my pocket to retrieve some more bullets. I open the revolver and begin to reload it, my fingers fumbling.

Arthur comes closer, nearly standing directly behind me. “You know how I mean. Why are you doing this?”

I slide the first couple of bullets into the chamber. I rotate it slowly, trying to focus on the task at hand.

A fourth.

“Lily-Anne?”

“That’s not my name.”

“Answer me.”

The fifth bullet is in the chamber. I ignore Arthur, the sixth round falling out of my hands. I manage to catch it against my overalls, rolling it back up with my palm to finagle it into the weapon.

Arthur grunts as he yanks his own firearm out of its holster. He looks at the bottle for a moment before raising his gun and firing, the bottle shattering and glass littering the ground. He twirls the gun twice before sheathing it again, and his fingers find his belt.

His eyes cut back to mine. “Don’t ignore me. Look, the bottle’s gone. It’s shot.” He waves his free hand toward the clearing. “Now, pay attention to me and tell me why you’re doing this.”

I swallow, sheepishly stuffing my own weapon back into my holster. “You know why.”

“I suspect,” he says, taking another step closer to me. “But I don’t know. Tell me.”

I feel the tears spring to my eyes, and in a flash I can see Janie’s body again. How? I had been so good the past couple of days? I sniffle, wiping my eyes on my sleeve.

“I gotta kill them.”

“You don’t.”

“They took everything from me!” I yell. “They took Ray! They took my family! My pigs! My home!”

Arthur doesn’t falter. He stays right in front of me, his stance firm, unwavering.“I understand that.”

“And I can’t just let them!” I throw my hands to the side. “I can’t just let them do that to me, to any folk!”

Arthur’s blue eyes stay locked on mine. He licks his lips and readjusts his footing. He makes a move as if to reach out and touch me, but he doesn’t. “Lily-Anne,” he says faintly, resulting to simply crossing his arms, “going and killing a bunch of folk ain’t gonna make anything better.”

“It’ll make me feel better.”

“It won’t. Trust me,” Arthur says softly.

“Listen.” He shuffles around again, kicking at a small pebble near his feet. When his gaze returns to mine, his face is saddened. I notice the lines that snake across his face, around his eyes, in the orange glow of the setting sun. “I’ve killed a lot of folk in my day. Some for good reason. Some not. But a wise man once told me that revenge is a fool’s game. It’s an endless cycle. You ain’t gonna feel better, so you keep killing, and it’ll never sate you. And you’ll end up emptier than you was before.”

I grit my teeth. I can hear the sounds of the camp beginning its night life; the clinking of glasses, Javier singing, the shouts becoming more and more drink-induced. I turn to look, even though I can’t see over the ridge, as an excuse to not look at the man before me.

When I don’t say anything, Arthur continues, “I promise, Lily-Anne, this ain’t the way to move on.”

“That ain’t my name!” I shout again, more pointedly this time.

Arthur says nothing to this. Instead, he sighs, readjusts his holster on his hip, and tips his head at me. His black hat sits on his head, his eyes peeking out from thick lashes. His shirt is rolled up to his elbows, where his hands and arms are peppered with whatever work he had been up to today. I think back and realize that I haven’t seen him around camp too much. If he comes home at all, it’s in the early hours of the night. He hitches his horse, says some greetings to a few folks, and then heads into the mansion.

A thought occurs to me. “You killed them O’Driscoll’s at the camp we was at,” I say quietly. “And it don’t seem to bother you too much.”

“I was saving our lives.”

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes a difference,” he says, his voice elevating. “Shooting a man in cold blood is different than shooting to survive.”

I snort, shaking my head. “It seems a bit backwards, don’t it?” I look down at my finger, picking at the nail. “You, of all people, giving me this talk.”

Arthur clicks his tongue. He’s silent for a minute, contemplating, before he speaks again. “It’s way too late for me. I’ve accepted that. But it ain’t nowhere near too late for you. Don’t get wrangled up in this.” He takes another step, and now we are inches apart, so close that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

“I wouldn’t wish this life on anyone. Don’t do it.”

I chew my lip. Suddenly, the gun that I had grown accustomed to feels heavier, more foreign than before on my hip. I think of the revolver that was pointed at Ray, the one that slammed into the back of my head. I think of the gun that ended Janie’s life, that ended my Daddy’s. How could all of the confidence and assuredness I had built over the past few days be gone so quickly, after one simple talk?

Arthur is still standing before me. I stare up at the newborn stars, trying to blink away the sadness that always follows me like a pack of coyotes, silently scouting for my moment of weakness.

I think of my last moments with Ray on the wagon; I cycle through thoughts of strangling him, of getting off the wagon in Valentine and walking home, of never saying yes to being his wife in the first place.

These thoughts are interrupted by Arthur clearing his throat. “You wanna go fishing with me?”

The complete turn in conversation scrambles my brain. I bring my attention back to him. “What?”

“Fishing. You know, with a boat, a pole, some bait…” he trails off, and a smile crests his face. “Not here, obviously. With all the gators and whatnot.” He turns, starting to walk toward camp, and I fall in line behind him. “I can take you back up where we was camped before. That was a great lake, full of sturgeon that are probably bigger than you.”

We make our way up the slope, and the mansion comes back into view. I see the gang members huddled around different campfires; Jack picks at the last bits of his stew, Mary-Beth and Karen laugh and loop their arms around each other, Hosea leans back at a table to the left and grins at them.

Arthur walks alongside me, his cadence cavalier. “Fishing always helped me to clear my head. Sort through some thoughts. Think about what I’ve been doing.”

I look up at him, and he stares back, smiling. He leads us toward Pearson’s wagon, where he grabs two bottles and hands one to me. He shakes his head. “If it’s a bad idea, just tell me. I ain’t gonna twist your arm.”

I pop the cap off of the beer and take a long swig, just as every night before this one. The alcohol helps me to forget, to sleep at night, to get the nasty images out of my head. It’s incredible, how you can feel every emotion and also none of them at the same time. Arthur waits for me to join him before approaching a campfire to our left.

“Yeah, I think I could fish.”

He plops down on a log and I follow him, hiking my leg over the side and sitting next to him. The only other soul at this fire is the Reverand, who I’ve learned is really just the camp drunk and not a true man of faith. His head lolls back and forth as he tries to focus on the sights before him.

“You sure you can handle a big old pole?” Arthur grins at me, then his ears turn pink and he looks away, grunting under his breath.

Without thinking, I knock my shoulder into his. The sensation is warm, and I feel it from the tips of my toes to the length of my fingers. I gulp down some more beer.

Arthur clamps his mouth shut, trying to hide his smile. I laugh, covering my face with my hand, and he finally utters, “Well, I’d hope that a lady knows more about operating a pole than I do.”

We both chuckle, and our shoulder brush again, when I hear someone approaching from the other campfire. I turn to see that it is Micah, and a pit suddenly forms in my stomach.

“Well, howdy, folks,” he says dryly, his own drink splashing into his lap as he sits on the crate adjacent from us. The warm atmosphere suddenly dissipates, filled instead with an icy bleakness. “Lily of the Valley, I see you’re getting to know this cowpoke very well.”

I feel my own face flush with embarrassment. Subconsciously, I scoot myself farther down the log away from Arthur. “He was just talking about—”

“Arthur!” I hear Dutch’s raspy voice cutting through the clearing.

“Arthur! Time to cut that hair and shave that beard! You have a date at the ball tomorrow night, Cinderella!”

“What are you on about?” Arthur asks, leaning back. I see a few other gang members beginning to close in on us, listening.

“Well, Mr. Angelo Bronte,” he starts, slapping his hands on his pants, “has invited me, you, and a few of our colleagues to the party at the mayor’s house tomorrow evening. Should be all kinds of bureaucrats and wealthy men for the plucking. Could pick up on some new leads.”

“And who all are you taking to the dance, Dutch?” Micah asks lowly, swirling his bottle in his hand.

“Well, I figure Hosea and Arthur, of course,” Dutch quips, and his eyes scan the camp. “And… Bill! Bill, you can clean up real nice, right?”

“Oh, absolutely!” I hear Bill shout from Pearson’s wagon. “Don’t even worry about it, Dutch! I’ll be your princess!”

I hear a few snickers around the camp. I turn back to Micah, and I see him growl under his breath, taking a ferocious swig out of his beer. I toss my own drink back and forth between my hands.

“Oh, Dutch, we wanna go!” Karen calls, running up to him, Mary-Beth in tow. “We would love a night on the town in Saint Denis!”

“Boy, would we!” Mary-Beth agrees.

“Well, ladies.” Dutch raises his hands defensively. “I was only allowed a few spots for accompaniment.”

Karen is undeterred. She grabs Mary-Beth’s hands, pulling her toward herself. “No matter. You know there’s bound to be other parties around the town that night. Maybe we could hit up that hotel, meet a couple of suitors…” she trails off, and Mary-Beth squeals, squeezing her hands tightly.

“Now, I don’t care what you ladies decide to do,” Dutch waves his hands, then takes a bottle of whiskey offered to him by John. “If you want to get all dressed up and head out as well, be my guest. I’ve heard talks of some kind of riverboat poker game that’s coming up in the city. You might meet some of these eligible bachelors getting ready for that.”

“Excuse me!” Miss Grimshaw’s shrill voice echoes through the camp. “Not until all them chores are done! And y’all better be prepared to get them done the next day as well!”

“Come on, Miss Grimshaw,” Dutch sits at the campfire with us, taking a sip of his drink. “Let the girls have a little fun.”

“Yeah, let us have a little fun,” Karen drawls, erupting another giggle fit from her and Mary-Beth. “Tilly, I know you’ll come, right?”

Tilly nods her head. Karen scans the crowd. “Abigail?”

“No, I don’t feel comfortable leaving Jack alone yet,” she says quietly. She presses her hand on Jack’s shoulders, who stands just before her at the edge of the campfire.

"I'll watch him," John offers quietly.

Abigail is quick to retort. "I don't know about all that."

Karen rolls her eyes, then looks around again until she spots me. “Lillian! Are you up for a night on the town with us?”

I pause, chewing my lip. I’ve spent the past several days wordlessly completing the chores at camp, stewing in my own emotions, blasting away at bottles like they were the reason for my enveloping sadness. It could be fun to go out with the girls for a night, drink away my problems, perhaps learn how they got so good at pick-pocketing?

Arthur’s head is down, twisting his bottle of beer in his hands. I glance up at her and smile. “Yeah, sure, I’ll come with you! But I ain’t got no dress!”

The girls laugh and clap their hands. Mary-Beth approaches me. “Don’t worry, we’ll fix you right up! We’ve got makeup—you should be close to Karen’s color, and we’ve got extra dresses. It’ll be a blast!”

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! (: Please let me know what you think!
<3 Mowglie

Summary:

Alright, no leaving the city. Don’t do anything stupid. You know where I’ll be. And for God’s sake, don’t get yourself killed!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

It seems like today’s chores tick by at an agonizingly slow pace.

A few of the men’s clothes need sewing in the armpits and knees, some buttons replaced, bloodstains washed out to the best of our ability. Normally, these tasks would go by quickly; I’d finish, the sun would be about halfway through the sky, and I’d head out into the clearing with Sadie. Shoot a few bottles. Eat dinner. Rinse and repeat.

But today was different. Today, there is a buzz of excitement among the women. Mary-Beth in particular gushes about the city as she dunks Micah’s shirt into the foamy water.

“It ain’t like anything I’ve ever seen before!” she wails, handing the soaking shirt to Tilly, who rinses it in the last bucket and hangs it to dry. “You know all the men are gonna have heavy pockets today!”

“Well, hopefully, something else is heavy in their pockets,” Karen says under her breath.

I snort, threading a needle between the seam of one of Dutch’s white shirts, holding it up in the sunlight to evaluate at my work. Just a few more stitches. I return it to my lap before I speak. “You know, you’re gonna have to teach me how to be enticing to men. I don’t know anything about that.”

Mary-Beth crinkles her nose. “Wasn’t you married?”

Pain surges through my chest. I ignore it. “I almost was. We never made it official. Was supposed to do that once we got to Saint Denis.” I push the needle through a final time and finish with a knot. I rip the thread with my teeth and fold the shirt gently, laying it on a barrel to my left. I cross my arms. “Ray was just a boy from a farm a few roads down. We was friends as kids, then he found work with my Daddy. He had to talk to me. I’ve never…” I trail off, waving my arms. “I don’t know. Gone to a saloon and attracted attention to myself.”

“Well, the first part is to wear a nice dress that makes your bosom look fantastic. Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered there. Found a real nice, solid black one in my trunk.” Karen waggles her eyebrows. “Then, you know, you just gotta flirt. Be friendly. Smile a lot.”

“Ask him for a drink. Bonus points if he’s already half in the bag. Makes the whole thing a lot easier. Easier to get up into his room, too,” Mary-Beth winks.

“Oh, I ain’t trying to do all that,” I say quietly, digging my boot into the ground. “Ain’t there a way to get his money without bedding him?”

“You could always take it straight out of his pocket,” Tilly remarks, yanking another shirt from the bucket and shaking it out. She turns and adds it to the clothesline. “That’s what I prefer. I can show you how to do it.” She clicks her tongue as she removes the final garment. “Still gotta flirt, though.”

I shrug, standing from my crate and stretching my arms. I swing them by my side, glancing around the camp.

“You know where he’s been?” Tilly’s voice startles me and I nearly jump.

“Getting a haircut?” I ask. I couldn’t help but to notice his long hair replaced by a short fade, longer on the top and pomaded to the side. His beard has been trimmed down as much as possible, leaving just a faint stubble. He left his mustache thicker.

“Oh, I know,” Mary-Beth grins. She picks up the bucket and dumps it near the front of the wagon. “I saw the letter in his room.”

My mind flashes to the day we moved into the old white mansion. I carried Arthur’s things to the top floor, last door on the left. I sifted through the pictures, the trinkets, until I found the photograph of the beautiful woman and a letter addressed to him from someone named Mary.

“I don’t know when that boy will learn,” Tilly tuts. She dumps her own bucket on the opposite side, then wipes her hands on her skirt. “That girl is just using him. If she was serious, they’d have been married a long time ago.”

“I think it’s romantic,” Mary-Beth croons. She glances at Arthur and I follow her gaze, managing to catch sight of him just as he is eclipsed by the tent flap. “Star-crossed lovers, can’t be together cause they come from opposite sides of the world, but still managing to find each other in fleeting moments, chance happenings in the same cities.”

Karen spits on the ground. “That’s sh*t, and you know it. That girl’s a piece of work. I gave her the benefit of the doubt, but after Valentine, after she just up and left after Arthur saved her dumbass brother from a cult, well, I think there’s something real wrong about that.”

Somehow, for a reason I can’t pinpoint, the mystery woman is more intriguing than the cult part of the story. I turn to Karen. “Who are you talking about?”

“Mary Gillis. Oh, excuse me, Mary Linton.” She rolls her eyes. “Got every last name under the sun except Morgan.”

“Mhm.” Tilly raises her eyebrows.

The girls continue finishing up the laundry, and I try again. “Who?”

Mary-Beth answers this time. “A girl that Arthur met some years ago. They really hit it off. They was engaged at one point. But she couldn’t handle his outlaw lifestyle, and she broke it off.”

“Doesn’t stop her from writing him all kinds of letters whenever she needs a favor,” Tilly muses. “And keeping that ring.”

To that, Mary-Beth says nothing, simply shaking her head. A small pit forms in the bottom of my stomach, and I turn back to the tent, but Arthur hasn't emerged. Something tells me, from his down-trodden walk and his lowered eyes, that this visit was similar to the ones recounted by the girls.

---

Once Miss Grimshaw had finished her shrieking, and the chores were once, twice, and three times checked for being completed, we were allowed to start getting ready to head into Saint Denis. Tilly brushes the length of my hair down my back, fishing out all of the tangles from simply tying it into a knot every day, and wets a few rags. She weaves them into my hair, pinning it to the top. “Just let these sit for a while, and you’ll have nice curls.”

I nod and smile, finding a place at the fire while the girls go to work. Karen pulls out her impressive collection of blushes, lipsticks, and creams, laying them out across the length of a bench. She starts with Mary-Beth, forcing her face up by her chin and powdering her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. Ruby-red lips. Darkened eyes. Pink cheeks. She works on Tilly next, then offers her services to Sadie and Abigail, who both decline.

“I might catch up with you later,” Sadie calls from her table and her beer. “I ain’t trying to find no man or no money, but I could find a whiskey at that run-down saloon on the east side of town.”

“It might be late,” Karen shouts. “Or it might not. I have no idea, honestly. Everyone might be at the mayor’s house, could be slim pickings. Or they’ll be scattered about. No way to tell.”

Sadie leans back in her chair. “Well, I’ll be there. Hope to see you fine ladies at some point.”

Karen finishes setting Mary-Beth and Tilly’s hair, then waves her hand over to me. I push myself off the log, my legs sore from sitting by the fire for a while, and waddle over, plopping down in the seat before her. Just as she did with the other girls, she cranes my face up to hers, pulling a brush from her plethora of utensils, and dips it into a compact of powder and dusts it across my face.

Instinctually, I close my eyes, fighting the urge to pull away from her. The powder is dry and makes my face feel like it will crack down the middle.

When she finishes and begins working on my lips, Tilly approaches and begins unfurling the rags from my hair. I look down, and just before Karen yanks my face back up, I can see that my long hair is curled loosely and still a little damp.

I’ll make some money tonight. Fool some other sucker just like Ray and me were fooled.

This isn’t makeup. It’s war paint.

Karen works on my eyes and cheeks, then sends me over to Mary-Beth, who is clad in a sunflower-yellow dress, her hair pinned and her teeth glinting against the crimson lipstick. She holds up a black, form-fitting gown, one that I can already tell will leave my shoulders, and other upper-body areas, plentily exposed. She leads me back to the wagon and helps me slip off my work clothes, then shimmies me into the new gown.

She spins me around, yanking the back and tightening it around my waist and bodice. Thankfully, while snug against me, it’s nothing compared to the corset I was forced to wear on my carriage ride down to Saint Denis. How strange to think about: the same city, but with a new dress, new companions, new intentions.

“As always,” Karen announces as she trots toward a barrel, placing her mirror on the top, “I’m forced to get myself ready.”

Me and Mary-Beth ignore her. She walks around me, eyeing the dress up and down. “Do you like it?” she asks, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I have some more colorful options if you’d like.”

“It’s perfect,” I say quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly. The thought of walking into Saint Denis clad in black, in mourning for my family and the life I once had, seems all too appropriate.

Once Karen’s face and hair are done, she disappears behind a wagon, carrying a dark blue dress in the crook of her arm. Tilly rejoins the group, her body hugged by amethyst satin.

Mary-Beth is helping to put pearl trinkets in her hair when Dutch enters the center of the gang. “Ladies and gentlemen! We will be back!” He's wearing a black suit with a white shirt, shining vest and an alabaster flower pinned to his lapel. Most ridiculous of all is the towering top hat cresting his head.

Bill and Hosea join him, followed by Arthur, all dressed in strikingly similar attire, minus the conspicuous hat.

“Did they all rent from the same place?” I ask, and Tilly snickers.

Lenny pulls a wagon to the front of the clearing and the suited men approach. He hops off to open the door for them.

“Hardly necessary, my boy,” Hosea says quietly.

“Just practicing,” Lenny says simply, and he winks.

Arthur is at the back of the pack, and he turns and gives a final look to the members of the camp. When his eyes find mine, he nearly freezes in place, his body wavering against the momentum. I give him a small wave, and he returns it, his hand curled and fingers not stretching out fully.

“Arthur! Come on!” Dutch yells, and Arthur is broken from his reverie. He shakes his head and turns, stumbling over a rock before pulling himself into the coach.

“Guess we’re in the sh*tty wagon,” Karen says simply as she saunters out in her new dress, her hands on her hips, “and I guess one of us is driving, too.”

“I’ll drive y’all,” Sadie says, slugging down the last of her beer and wiping her mouth. “I can just take it to the saloon and wait on y’all. I want you to have reliable transportation back to camp.”

She tosses the bottle onto the ground and heads toward the wagon, already equipped with two eager Shires, and hoists herself into the driver’s seat. The other girls start heading toward it and I follow, then stop as a thought pricks my mind.

I rush back to my pallet, where the bag from my home sits at the foot. I dig through it quickly and snatch up my satchel. It’s dusty and worn, the leather nearly slack in my arms, and I blow on it before slinging it over my shoulder.

I sift through the bag again and my hand catches the handle of my revolver. My finger grazes the glazed wood, and I stop, glancing back at the girls. None of them have bags of their own, and I don’t see any holsters sitting over their dresses. I know Sadie will have her weapon, but she won’t be with us the entire time. We’ll need something in case things go sour. I yank the gun quickly out of its confines and throw it into my satchel, whipping it closed. Would I even be able to use it? Could I honestly point a gun at someone if the situation called for it?

I chew my lip, pausing as I think about it, then opt to keep it in my satchel. I head back to where Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly wait by the wagon.

We all pile into the back and I find myself next to Tilly. We lay our dresses out neatly beneath us as Sadie cracks the reins and we wobble toward the beaten path.

Tilly’s shoulder knocks into mine as she leans into me. “Start with a satchel or a jacket.”

I stare ahead, my brow knotting. One of the Shires neighs loudly as Sadie forces it on. “What?”

“You said you wanna rob?” Tilly raises her eyebrows. Karen and Mary-Beth fuss over their hair and makeup across from us. “You seemed a little nervous about taking straight from someone’s pocket. Well,” she shrugs, “be on the lookout for bags or coats unattended. Take a look through without drawing attention to yourself. The longer the night goes on, the more people will lose their heads, and their belongings.” She smiles. “They’ll just chalk it up to having too much to drink.”

The wagon powers through the tree line, and Sadie makes a hard right toward Saint Denis. The air is thick and muggy, but starting to cool from the setting sun. I stare up the road and I can see the lights of the city through the misty air, blurry pinpricks against the inkiness of night.

I feel my chest alight, my body tense. I’m really about to do this.

“Plus, I’ll cover you,” Tilly chuckles. “The best bandits come in pairs, I always say.”

I grin at her, and we ride the rest of the way in silence, drinking in the placid atmosphere through the shrieks and giggles of Mary-Beth and Karen.

---

“Alright, no leaving the city.”

Sadie pulls the wagon to the front of the first saloon we pass, sitting on the corner of an intersection of cobblestone roads. I can hear the piano playing wildly through the glass doors and the drunken laughs of its patrons—shadows taking shots or slapping each other on the back or wading toward the bar, stumbling on their feet.

“And for God’s sake, don’t get yourself killed!”

“We got it!” Karen calls back, but I can see the smile on her lips as me and Tilly plop down onto the street. “You’ll be at the nasty bar! We’ll find you in a few hours!”

Sadie rolls her eyes, snapping the reins and disappearing down a street to the left. Tilly’s arm finds mine, and we head into the saloon behind the other girls. Once the doors open, the music grows much louder. A cloud of cigar smoke engulfs me and sears my nostrils. I see a man on a higher level playing the piano furiously, his fingers dancing across the keys, a few men surrounding him and puffing their cigars and laughing. A few try and move their feet to the beat, nearly tripping over themselves.

My ears are already throbbing as Karen leads us through the sea of people and to the bar.

She pushes herself through the barricade and leans her chest against the bar top. “Four whiskeys, please,” she says as she pulls three crisp dollars from her bosom.

The bartender stares for a fleeting moment before he nods and reaches down, pulling out a crystal bottle filled with a rich brown liquid. He pours four shots as Karen lays the bills down. “Keep it!” she shouts, smiling, and wrangles the shots, handing them out to each of us.

We raise our glasses and clink them together. “To a fun and lucky night!”

“To a fun and lucky night!” Mary-Beth echoes, and we all toss the drinks back.

The taste is acidic, like cough medicine, and I nearly gag as I force the whiskey down my throat. But it's warm, and I feel its heat trailing down and burning in my chest. I slap my hand against my sternum—Karen finds this amusing and immediately orders me another.

“They got rooms upstairs!” Mary-Beth waggles her eyebrows, and Karen grins. She spins on her heel and heads into the crowd, Mary-Beth in tow, and I'm too busy choking on my second drink to follow where they went.

I place the glass gingerly back onto the wood, wiping my mouth, and scan the faces. I can’t see either one of them. I turn to Tilly to complain, but she’s gone too: evaporated like a puff of smoke. I groan, suddenly feeling conspicuous in my revealing dress, and look around, rubbing my arms.

Can I really do this? Was I anywhere near ready for this?

I realize then that I have no idea where this shady saloon is. Could I find it if I tried? How big is Saint Denis?

I stare down at the large satchel that I brought to collect my earnings. I grasp it awkwardly, feeling around for the revolver that I know sits patiently within, only an arm’s reach away. I would be fine, right? Could defend myself if I needed to? If I was cornered in some alley by a drunken fool, or a pack of drunken fools?

I decide it’s too late to mull over things like that. I’ll be fine. I stare back at the door, huffing a breath, and take two steps forward, until someone’s shoulder collides roughly into mine.

“Oh, miss!” The man swivels around, his drink sloshing onto my exposed shoulder.

“He just charges in here, does as he pleases, never mind anyone else! Is your dress alright?”

His eyes scan my body, and I know he’s not looking for stains. He takes a step back to better asses the condition of my garment. I keep my eyes fixed on him. He’s young, his stare a bit glazed and his cadence a bit wobbled. I remember Mary-Beth’s words: Bonus points if he’s already half in the bag.

My grip tightens on the strap of my satchel.

“I think you got some drink on me,” I say lowly, brushing my fingers along my bodice. The man’s eyes follow. “It’s soaking through, and I’m freezing.”

“Well, some whiskey should warm you up,” the man tuts, and he heads to the bar. “Is whiskey alright? I mean, can I buy you a drink?”

I smile. “That would be lovely.”

The man grins back and turns, waving his hand toward the bartender. The bartender looks, nods his head in acknowledgement, but continues pouring drinks for another customer.

I slide in next to the man, nearly pressing myself against his side. His attention returns to me. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Peter. Or Pete if you'd like. Just no Petey.” Peter’s brown hair glistens in the overhead lamps. “You?”

“Caroline.” The lie flows smoothly without me even really thinking about it. Who is this man to me? Nobody. He doesn’t know my story, my tragedy. Why does he need to know my name?

The bartender approaches and Peter orders us a round, placing a few coins on the bar top. I think of Karen’s crisp dollars as he hands me the glass, clinking his against mine and tossing it back. I throw mine back as well, the now familiar warmth cascading through me, and I notice my vision beginning to blur a bit. The floor spins as I stare down, the piano music suddenly piercing, the shouts and laughs of other patrons suddenly overwhelming.

Peter must sense the shift in my mood. He leans his mouth to my ear, his breath hot and sticky and smelling of bourbon. “Do you want to go somewhere a bit more private?”

“Yes,” I say quietly, and he grabs my hand, using his other one to split a pair of men in front of us. I stop in my tracks, and he turns around when he’s unable to pull me forward. “I’m still cold.” The words tumble out before I even know where I’m going with this. “Can I wear your jacket?”

“Of course, m’lady!” Peter yanks his suit coat off and drapes it around my shoulders, turning back around to guide me through the crowd again.

Peter’s head swivels back to me. The hand in the pocket is used to pull the jacket farther onto myself and I fake a shiver.

I decide not to push my luck any further as he drags me toward a door in the back of the saloon. He pushes it open with his shoulder, nearly spilling into the room, where I see a much higher stakes poker game in the center and much less people idling around. The smoke is thinner here, but my head still swims as Peter yanks a chair beneath him and pulls me into his lap, his nose grazing my neck. He takes a long drag of my scent and my stomach churns.

I glance around and by some miracle spot Tilly, in a similar position as me, trailing her finger along the vest of another man in the opposite corner of the room. She smiles, a fake one I can already tell, and looks around; she sees me and her eyes widen. She waves her hand and I stand, but Peter pulls me back down.

“Peter,” I start, “my friend is over there. I want to sit with her.”

“Sit with me,” he mumbles. I notice his eyes beginning to roll in the back of his head.

“I’ll sit with you, but let’s move.”

“Let’s not.” Peter wraps his arms around my stomach, pinning me to his chest.

I struggle, my heart fluttering, trying to push him away, but his hands are in a drunken lock against my body. Tilly notices this and rises, heading toward us.

“Pete,” I say, his eyes barely slits, “What do you say about one more round?”

“And then?” His eyes close again.

“And then, you can show me where you’re staying.”

At this, his eyes open once more and he gives me a lopsided grin. He stands without warning, nearly knocking me over, and heads back toward the bar, bracing himself against the wall as he tries to focus on opening the door.

Tilly arrives, her hand eclipsing mine. “Are you alright?”

“Go,” I say quickly, shrugging off Peter’s jacket. It pools into a puddle on the floor. “I got it, now go. Go!”

Tilly laughs, covering her mouth and looping her arm in mine. “Here, we’ll go out this way.” She points to another door on the south side of the room.

“This way!” I shout, pointing as well, having to shoulder my weight against Tilly’s body.

We erupt into laughter as we slink past the man that Tilly was sitting with. “Hey!” he calls. “Where are you going!?”

We scurry past him and exit, fighting our way against the packed people and bursting into the somewhat cooler night air of Saint Denis. But Tilly doesn’t stop, instead veering right and guiding me quickly down the road. The passing streetlamps distort my vision as we cross, and we hike up our skirts to move faster. I feel a plunk of water on the center of my head; I look up and see dark clouds huddling together, getting ready to let loose against the cobblestone.

Tilly weaves us through the center trees, and I see a hotel on our left. “In there!” I shout, and we dip under the awning and slide through the frosted doors.

There is a bar here, much smaller and quieter, the people inside hunched over and speaking in hushed voices. The air is still thick with smoke but it's different, less suffocating—we approach, nearly slamming our elbows onto the wood.

“Two whiskeys.” Tilly holds up her fingers, laughing. The bartender raises his eyebrows, but still dips down to retrieve the bottle as Tilly turns to me. “So, what did you get?”

I stumble back as I fish out my prospects, making sure to leave the revolver unseen. I yank out the bundle of cash and the pocket watch and splay them onto the bar top.

Tilly shakes my arm. “Wow! Not bad, for a first timer!” She snatches the pocket watch, holding it up in the light. “Not bad at all!”

“How about you?” I ask. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth. “What did you find?”

Tilly reaches into her dress and pulls out a smaller lump of bills and a golden wedding ring. She nearly flicks it onto the counter in disgust. “This was in his pocket,” she says lowly. “What a piece of sh*t, right?”

“Aren’t they all?” I laugh. “Good thing you stole it! Teach him a lesson!”

Tilly shushes me, glancing around, but still smiles. “Aw, he’ll probably lie and say it fell off.”

The bartender gives us our drinks, and I retrieve two bills from my stash and place them before him. The bartender nods, a genuine look of appreciation on his face, and pockets the money.

Tilly and I raise our glasses and clink them together, and we toss back the whiskey. When the alcohol hits my stomach, I feel a sudden lurch; I hold myself steady until it passes. Tilly notices this. “You better slow down, cowgirl!” she chuckles, swirling around her empty glass with her finger.

I wrap my arms around my trinkets, picking them up and stuffing them back into my bag. Then, I turn and lean my back against the bar, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. When I close my eyes, the world spins faintly, then restarts from the same spot and swirls again, and again.

I wonder if the cash I swindled is enough to pay Sadie back, or if I need more. I crack my eyes open, scanning the room for my next victim. I see a man sitting by himself, dark hair peppered with streaks of gray and glasses glinting in the light, sipping tenderly on a glass of brandy. I push myself off of the bar, about to saunter toward him, when someone else enters the bar. My eyes snap to the door, and I nearly fall to the floor.

I’d recognize the outfit anywhere. Long, dark coat. Black-brimmed hat. Holster slung against his waist. Slinking through the room quickly and with purpose as he makes his way to a back room to the right of me and Tilly. He doesn’t look at anyone; he isn’t searching for anything. He knows where he is going.

O’Driscoll.

I look back at Tilly. She’s leaning against the bar, trying to get the attention of the bartender. I pat her on the shoulder, whisper lowly, “I found one,” and glide away from the bar and turn right, falling in line behind the dark man.

Tilly must have looked back, must have seen who I was trailing, because she calls out, “Lillian! No! Don’t!”

But I ignore her, the adrenaline pumping through my veins suddenly making my vision laser-focused, my arms swinging by my sides. My satchel knocks against my leg, the revolver begging to be retrieved, to be used. I reach my hand into the bag, not yet grabbing the weapon but keeping it close.

This has to be fate.

The O’Driscoll flings the door open and I follow, my hand reaching for the knob. I turn it; one hand on the brass, one hand in my satchel.

I enter the room. There’s still people inside, though not as many; there’s a ledge of wood that snakes across the walls, where glasses and elbows rest and men talk and hold their cigarettes. There’s a couch sitting in front of a raging fireplace, and I can hear the patter of rain through the stone. And yet, the fire still rages.

A single man sits, staring at the flames, raising a glass to his lips and then placing it on the small table to his right. Even from the back, it's apparent that he’s dressed well, his suit tailored to his body, hair pomaded against his head. His legs are crossed—I can tell from the oil-black shoe that glistens in the light as it taps against his knee.

The O’Driscoll does not stop, heading straight for the man. My ears grow hot. Who is it? Is it Colm? Another leader?

My fingers snake around the handle of the revolver. I’d shoot him dead in the middle of this hotel, I don’t care. I’d watch him bleed out. Watch his feet curl into themselves like Janie’s. Watch his eyes turn from recognition to shock to lifelessness. I’d wait until I’m shot, apprehended, drug out, I don't care. I’d accept whatever comes after I end his life.

I’m a few steps behind when the O’Driscoll leans down to the man and speaks. “The necklace was f*cking fake. You owe Colm for this one, you do.”

The man turns to look at the O’Driscoll.

My heart explodes into my chest and I freeze in place. Time stops, the world stops spinning. My heart pounds in my ears, my lungs refuse to draw oxygen. I want to brace myself against something, anything, but my body won’t move. It isn’t Colm. It isn’t some other O’Driscoll gang member.

Ray opens his mouth with a grimace. “Who cares if the necklace is fake? You got your money from the safe.”

“There weren’t near enough in that safe to cover you. Especially not with your cut and all. You better give me the rest of that money, now, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

I stare. I stand and stare in a room full of people minding their own business, tending their drinks, unaware that the world is crashing around me. My hands are shaking so violently I’m afraid they will fall off. I force myself to swallow, to breathe, to turn around and charge toward the wooden ledge, slamming myself against it and folding my arms. I lean my head down, forcing my hair to cocoon my face. I turn to the right, toward a man that looks at me and scowls like I’m something drug up from the pits of a sewer. I prick my ears, trying to listen over the wild thumping of my heart and my ragged breaths.

Ray speaks again. “I told you, the money will be doubled in the riverboat game. You just have to give me time.”

“You had time,” the O’Driscoll barks. “You had time when you promised all that money in that f*cking safe. And it weren't sh*t. That old man didn’t have near as much as you claimed he did. And that little bitch of yours escaped before Colm could do sh*t with her. And the necklace was f*cking fake.”

“Colm having his way with her weren’t ever part of the deal,” Ray spits. His voice sounds foreign, like I’ve never heard it before, like it isn’t the man I pledged my life to so many weeks ago.

I feel bile rising in my throat and I try to force it down but my mouth keeps salivating. I swallow but more spit just replaces it, my chest heaves and I try to stop, try to keep myself composed. I press my hand against my mouth and shudder out a breath.

Ray continues, much calmer now. “And the necklace weren’t, either. That was just so you’d find us, see us taking that little piece of sh*t wagon down the trail, and you’d know who to stop.” A moment of silence. I can tell by Ray’s voice that he has taken another drink when he begins talking again, licking the bourbon or whiskey or what-f*cking-ever from his lips. “Let me play this poker game, and Colm’ll be paid in full. You’ve just gotta calm down. I got a man on the inside. We’ll all be riding pretty into the sunset before you know it.”

Notes:

Thanks so much for reading! Let me know what you think! (:

-- Mowglie

Summary:

You know, if there’s one thing I learned tonight, it’s that folk are never who they say they are. If people profess that they’re a good person, or that they’ve got money, or got a job and a house lined up for you, they actually don’t. And the people who say they ain’t right, that speak lowly of themselves, they’re usually the right folk to be around. They see the world for what it is and want to be better.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

The irritated man has become a life-line, a lighthouse in the dark, something that I can’t help but reach for as I feel my world crumbling at my feet.

“We was already riding pretty before we met you in that saloon.” The O’Driscoll’s words are laced with malice, with disgust. “Don’t get it twisted. You ain’t helping nobody but yourself, paying your own debts. And your time is running out. Colm’s getting impatient. It’s been over a month, and that wagon was sh*t, your girl was sh*t, the necklace was sh*t, and the safe—”

“You’ll get your money!” Ray snaps, and I hear him slam his drink back onto the tiny table. “I told you from the very beginning that I was gonna play this game and that I had an in. Colm agreed to wait. And now we’re days away, and he’s got his playthings in here trying to threaten me, scare me—”

“That was before we lugged our asses back to Valentine and wasted plenty of bullets on a tiny safe that ain’t got near enough money. You think we ain’t gonna keep eyes on you while you’re walking around with half of what you owe?”

“The money in that safe was more than you f*cking had before.”

“It’s less money than what you gambled and bluffed with Colm O’Driscoll. You owe him, you owe us, and every day that passes—”

I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take this bar, the fact that every f*cking thing that Ray promised to me was a lie, that he sold myself and my family to pay off some f*cking debt that he probably accrued at those rinky-dink saloons he used to disappear to. I can’t take this red-faced man’s beady-eyed stare at me, I can’t take the shots of whiskey trying to hurl themselves from my stomach, I can’t take the flashes of the decayed and rotting house where I used to live. Janie’s feet. The blood on the floor. The crow yanking on my dead pig’s ear.

I push myself off the ledge and slam through the door, stumbling over my steps. My breath catches in my throat, choking painfully in my esophagus. I look to the bar, but Tilly is gone, her chair empty. I whip around wildly; she’s nowhere to be seen. Not at a table, not on the lap of some man, not outside on the street.

It’s just me, the men that ruined my life, a hotel full of strangers, and the revolver in my satchel.

Now that Ray’s chilling voice isn’t piercing my ears, I can think. I take a moment, steady my breathing, press my palms into my sides. I’m not leaving this hotel and going back to camp and rebuilding my life while he does this. While he takes the money my Daddy saved for years and throws it away on some poker game, on the men that ended his and Janie’s life. I’m not letting him get away with destroying me.

Calculating, I look to my right, to the desk on the opposite side of the bar, and see that it’s the front counter. An older woman, gray hair curled into a chignon on the top of her head, scrawls something on a piece of paper, shoving her glasses further up her nose with her finger. I charge toward her, my satchel swinging. When I arrive, she glances up at me and raises an eyebrow.

“Hi.” I smile as sweetly as I can. The look on her face tells me that I’m not convincing. “I’m looking for my husband, Ray Crawford.” The sentence makes my stomach swirl again, but I tamp it down. “Is he staying here?”

“Ma’am, I can’t just give away the name of guests staying in this hotel.” Her voice is worn, tired, probably aged from dealing with drunken patrons for years upon years. She dismisses me by looking back down at her paper and continuing to write.

I glance back at the door to the private room; he’s still in there. I didn’t see the O’Driscoll leave, either.

“I just wanted to give him a little surprise. Something fun to come home to after a night in Saint Denis.” I try to hide the trembling in my voice by giving her a little laugh. “We’s country folk, you know. Not used to this style of living.”

The woman ignores me again, folding the paper and placing it in a drawer. She heads toward the register, opens it, and begins counting a stack of bills.

“Please,” I say again, desperation creeping into my voice. My heart thumps in my ears, the anxiety mingling with the hatred, the anger, the bloodlust. “I wanna remind him exactly who he put a ring on, and why.”

The woman holds my gaze for a few torturous moments before she grabs the money and pockets it, bending down and pulling the ledger out from underneath the desk. Her fingers trail the numbers and letters as she reads, then rummages around for a key and plops it into my hand.

“Room 304,” she says simply, nodding toward the stairs in the back-left corner. “And strip them sheets when you’re done. We ain’t one of those kinds of hotels.”

I whirl around to head to the stairs without thanking her, stomping up the steps until I reach the third floor. It’s the second door on the left, and I jam the key in, my hands still shaking, and unlock it. There’s a bed, clearly slept in, and an opened trunk at the foot of it. I see Ray’s familiar farm clothes shoved to the left and a couple of suits sitting underneath a jar of hair pomade. There’s a long mirror where I can finally take a look at myself: flushed cheeks, bloodshot eyes, frizzing hair. I walk past it, toward a chair tucked into the corner of the room, and sit down, pulling my satchel into my lap. I open it and withdraw my revolver.

I hold it up in front of me, watching the light from the sconces glide across the barrel. I take my thumb to the hammer and co*ck it back, just as Sadie had taught me to do, and then point it at the door.

Should I ask him why he did this? Get a full explanation? Get an entire rundown of just how little he values my life, what made him think that he could sell me out and murder my family? Should I ask if he ever loved me at all? How he was able to look me in the eyes and lie through his teeth?

I hear footsteps in the hallway and I tense, my hands gripping the handle of the revolver so tightly that it hurts. Sweat beads my palms, and I wipe them individually on my skirt, constantly having one hand pointing the gun at the door. But the mystery person passes, and I hear them unlock another door, and I’m back to stewing in my thoughts.

Should I make him beg for his life? The thought of him on his knees, shaking his head, crying as I point the barrel at his forehead, momentarily makes my heart alight. I can’t help but to smile. It’s sick, it’s twisted, but he did this to me. He created the woman sitting in the chair in his hotel room, stalking, waiting for him.

Revenge is a fool’s game.

I hear Arthur’s voice in my head again, and I lower the gun slightly. You ain’t gonna feel better, so you keep killing, and it’ll never sate you. And you’ll end up emptier than you was before. A nauseous feeling pools in my stomach.

I picture pointing my gun at Ray again, and then I play the rest of the scene. I think of the crack of the weapon, the blood that would splatter and drench the hotel room, his lifeless body crumpling to the floor like a sack of meat. The thought makes me cringe, draw into myself.

Am I weak? Maybe. Am I a fool? Probably.

I sigh, replacing the hammer on the gun and pulling it into myself. The tears flow out, hot and fast, and I try to subdue my sobs as I cradle the revolver against my chest. It was fun to pretend, to shoot in the woods with Sadie like I was capable of doing something. Like I had any sort of agency in my life. I don’t have her determination, her strength. I worked on my Daddy’s farm my entire life; it was small, but it was his, and he built it from the ground up. I didn’t get my own job. I let Ray whisk me away from my home, even though I didn’t really want it. I let myself get stolen into the night by the O’Driscoll’s. Arthur had to save me from that. Miss Grimshaw had to dig the bullet out of my shoulder and make sure I ate. The other girls dressed me. Sadie got me my gun.

I wipe the tears from my face. I’m pathetic. I’m not going to do anything. I’m going to leave this hotel room like an injured dog and head back to camp to lick my wounds. And then what? Find someone else to take care of me?

I stand, tucking the gun into my bag, and start to head toward the door. But then, I pause.

I stole that money from Peter. Took it right out from under his nose. And I bought me and Tilly drinks with it. And I remember the elation, the feeling of something being mine, that I was able to do something for someone else, provide for someone else.

I don’t have to murder Ray to get my revenge.

I snap toward his trunk, digging through and flinging his clothes around. Nothing. I head toward the wardrobe and yank out every single drawer, but they are all empty. I stand back and stare at the wall; could he really have all that money on his person?

He was about to take me up to his hotel room. You know, where the safe is?

I turn back toward the bed, and then I see it: small and green, sitting on the opposite side of the nightstand. I nearly lunge for it, crouching down and grabbing the handle. It’s locked, of course.

I sit back on my haunches and think. What could the combination be?

I try my birthday, but that’s not it. I scoff. Of course, not.

Ray’s birthday?

I turn the dial and my ears grow hot when I hear it click open. Wiping the sweat on my dress again, I slowly turn the handle and open it. I gasp, staring at the numerous wads of cash. There must be at least a couple thousand dollars in here. Some trinkets, my mother’s diamond earrings—my stomach lurches at the sight.

Before I lose my bravado, I grab the cash and stuff it hurriedly into my satchel. It’s nearly busting at the seams, but I’m not leaving Ray a cent of Daddy’s money. The bag won’t close completely, and I’m forced to actually use the buckle to hold it shut. I yank down as far as I can, making sure there is not a sliver of money visible, and fasten it.

My hand finds the door to the now empty safe, about to close it and leave, when I pause. I stare at the bare shelves, then look down at my hand.

My lips curl into a smile as I pull off the engagement ring and place it neatly in the center of the safe. And then, I close it gently, making sure it hitches with the faintest of sounds. I spin the dial and rise. I sure hope that ring wasn’t fake, too.

My satchel hangs heavily on my shoulder. I move the strap across my body to better distribute the weight. I look down at my finger, at the red line that snakes across it, a ghost of where my promise to Ray once sat. I rub it gingerly as I approach the door and open it gently. Thankfully, the hallway is empty. I pull the door closed behind me and walk briskly to the stairs. My feet glide down the steps and then I reach the bottom, pausing at the base and glancing around the lobby. No sign of him or the O’Driscoll anywhere.

I walk back to the counter, where the old woman is polishing her glasses on her sleeve. I place the key on the wood, and she gives me a confused look. I smile at her and wordlessly head toward the exit.

Just keep walking. Don’t look back.

I burst through the frosted doors, and as they creak to a close, I feel invigorated. Like the doors of my previous life are closing. I have a satchel full of cash to start anew; where should I go?

I pull the bag a bit closer to me and turn right, back toward the saloon where I left Mary-Beth and Karen. A brush a piece of hair behind my ear, smile at a couple of men that pass me on the street. They tip their hats.

I nearly scream when a dark horse crests my line of vision.

“Lily-Anne!”

Arthur hops off the black Standardbred before it completely stops, leaving the steed to stomp around the street and neigh confusedly. He rushes up to me, his eyes on fire, still clad in his suit but now with his holster draped around his waist.

My lips peel open. “Arthur?”

He stops, surveying me, before wiping his brow. “Tilly came,” he says breathlessly. “Said you was following an O’Driscoll into some back room, and she thought you was gonna do something stupid. Get yourself killed.”

“I…” I trail off, glancing back at the door to the hotel. My heart still thumps with the thought of Ray seeing me and giving chase.

“Well,” Arthur continues, still catching his breath. I turn back to him, and he stands up straight. “I see you didn’t do that.”

“I thought better of it,” I say quickly. “You was right. Revenge is a fool’s game.”

I’m not sure if I’m convincing Arthur. He gives me a quizzical look as I push my satchel behind my back. I see a thought cross his eyes, and he grits his teeth, but it disappears, left unsaid in the crisp night air of Saint Denis.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to run up and…” he waves his hand, “startle you, I guess.”

“It’s alright.” I force a laugh and it sounds more like a gargle. “Sorry you had to leave your swanky party.”

Arthur grins, shaking his head, and turns back to the black Standardbred. He grabs the reins and pulls him closer. “It’s alright. Weren't too much fun. Had some nice fireworks at the end, though. Didn’t miss those.”

He puts a foot into the stirrup and yanks himself onto the horse. Then, he leans down, extending an arm to me, and I pull myself onto the back of the saddle. I slide down and press against Arthur’s back, and I wrap my arms around him as he leads the horse into the street.

“Where to?” he calls back, craning his neck. “Want me to take you back to camp?”

“Where’s Tilly?” I ask. “Did she go back?”

“I don’t know, I kind of…” Arthur trails off as he spurs the horse, increasing our speed. “I left kinda quickly, after she told me what was going on.”

I feel heat flush my cheeks, and I stare down at the road. The rainwater has collected in the cracks of the cobblestone, the streetlights flashing and glimmering as we ride on—like a road of diamonds.

I pull my satchel into my lap. “Sadie is at some saloon somewhere else. Karen said it ain’t as nice as the other ones. Do you know which one she’s talking about?”

Arthur’s laugh rings into the Saint Denis streets. “You ain’t done yet? Wanna keep on with the party?”

“I mean,” I can’t help but to smile. “I got some cash that I’m just itching to blow.”

“Oh, really?” Arthur muses. He turns down an intersecting street, past a barber shop. “And I’m sure you came about this money in a perfectly ethical way?”

Now I’m laughing, my head lolling back with the trots of the horse. “Of course! And I can fit some more whiskey in my belly, no doubt.”

Arthur turns the horse again, this time left. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I think I know where she is.”

The thought of seeing Sadie, of sitting down with her and having a drink with Arthur, makes the pain of the night simmer. I think on being scared of the gang, of watching my every move, thinking of them as a den of murderous lions that would slash my throat without question. But after spending a week with Sadie every day, of her taking time to teach me to shoot and eat dinner with me every night, of Abigail and Miss Grimshaw fussing over me for weeks when they didn’t even know my name, of Charles taking me back to my pig farm and cradling me as I cried, of Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen taking me in as one of their own, I can’t help but to think that Sadie is right. That aligning yourself with the right folk, making friends with the right people, is the smart thing to do. That I’m going to be alright if I stick around. That I actually… love them. Like I love Daddy and Janie.

There’s good folk in the world. I just wasn’t engaged to one of them.

---

Arthur pulls up to a wooden saloon with cracked paint and hitches his horse, jumping down and turning to help me descend. I know it’s the right tavern; I see the wagon from camp parked along the side road. I abandon Arthur in the street and rush toward the door, bursting it open.

Immediately, I see Sadie in the back room, her hat hitched up on her head as she nurses a beer. Her eyes snap to the door and she smiles, standing. “Well, look who it is!” She raises her arms as Arthur enters behind me. “Perfectly safe!”

At this, I see Tilly’s head poke out from behind the wall and a grin cracks her face. She scoots her chair back and runs toward me, slamming into me and wrapping her arms around me tightly. She rocks me back and forth. It’s compassionate, desperate, like Janie’s hugs when I went on a delivery with Daddy and didn’t come back for a few days. I clutch her just as strongly.

“Oh my god,” she murmurs, pulling back to look me in the eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to leave you. But I didn’t know what you was doing, and I didn’t have a gun or nothing, but I figured one of the boys would, and—”

“It’s alright,” I shush her and smile, gripping her arms. “I made my way out. Thought better of it and left.”

My heart surges at the lie from my lips and the heavy satchel on my shoulder.

Tilly throws a hand to her chest. “Thank God. Come on, let’s get a drink. I need one, with all the fussing I’ve been doing over you.”

“Go sit,” I say, fidgeting with my satchel. “I’ll get the first round. Just the four of us?”

“Mary-Beth is back there, too.” I follow Tilly’s gaze and find the blonde sitting at the table next to Sadie. She looks at me and waves excitedly. “Said that Karen bed some man, so she came here to find Sadie.”

I nod and head to the bar, yanking out a few dollars and placing them on the countertop. “Five beers, please.”

The bartender puts down the glass he was polishing and takes the money. “You sitting back there? I’ll bring them over.”

I smile at him and head toward the back room where the gang sits. I notice that Sadie has pulled a chair up to her right and I sit down, Tilly on the other side of me.

“So,” Sadie starts, finishing her beer. She quirks an eyebrow at me. “Heard you was following some O’Driscoll boy?”

“I didn’t do nothing.” I raise my hands up defensively, but I feel a smile on my lips. “I let him go.”

“Should’ve shot him in the back of the head,” Sadie says lowly. Arthur scowling at her.

Arthur scowls. “Hey now, Mrs. Adler.” He leans over the table. “What did I tell you about all this revenge talk?”

Sadie opens her mouth to retort, and I can tell from the knot in her brow and the curl in her lips that it’ll be an argumentative one.

“Speaking of guns,” I announce loudly, reaching into my satchel. Sadie turns back to me as I pull out a lump of cash and hand it to her. “Here. For the gun and the holster, plus the lessons.”

Sadie pouts her lip as she counts the money. “Well, now, looks like you did do something tonight!” She takes about half of the stack and hands it back to me. “You overpaid, by the way. You’re lucky that I’m an honest crook, and that I like you.”

“Damn, Lillian!” Mary-Beth squeals from across the table. “You’re becoming a regular outlaw already!”

I feel Arthur’s eyes on me as I laugh, leaning back in the chair. Before he can offer his opinion, the bartender appears with our drinks, handing them out slowly from his tray. I take a long swig of the drink, relishing the cold liquid and the newfound freedom that I feel.

I pull back and wipe my mouth as Sadie stands again. “Well, looks like this saloon is the place to be tonight!”

I turn to look as Lenny and Hosea step into the room, smiles on their faces. “We heard the party kept going here,” Hosea muses in his soothing, placid voice.

Hosea groans as he folds into the seat. “We can’t stay too long, Lenny. I’m getting too old for these kinds of things.”

“You ain’t too old for nothing!” Lenny shouts, then points at Arthur. “Shots, Arthur?”

Arthur laughs and stands. “I suppose so, boy, but don’t you go disappearing on me!”

The night goes on with stories of different bank heists, pours of drinks on the floor for those the gang has lost, and plenty of laughs. Eventually, Karen arrives, rolling her eyes about some man that couldn’t last more than five minutes and had nothing in his pockets.

Someone gets up on the piano and begins playing. Lenny coaxes Hosea into dancing with him and he eventually relents, standing and locking arms with Lenny as they try and swing their legs around to the sound. Arthur laughs, now back in his seat next to me, leaning back and clapping his hands. Then, he drapes his arm over the back of my chair. I look at him, and his eyes are glazed, his coat removed, shirt unbuttoned and rolled at the sleeves. He glances back at me and gives me a lopsided grin.

Tilly and Mary-Beth shriek when John and Abigail arrive, hanging their jackets over the chair where Hosea once sat.

“Just one drink,” she says, staring pointedly at John as he walks toward the bar.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Sadie drawls as Abigail sits down next to her, fussing with her hair, “the day that John and Abigail join us out for a drink.”

“John said I needed a break, to calm my nerves after what happened with Jack.” She rolls her eyes. “We left him with Charles, who I trust with my life, but riding around town on that big brute of a horse and stopping at every place in town, trying to find y’all, rattled me up a bit.”

Sadie pushes a whiskey shot toward her. We’ve ordered so many that they randomly appear on the table, as if conjured by magic when someone needs one. “That’ll help.”

Arthur raises his glass and clinks it against Abigail’s. “To you, Miss Roberts. To your family’s health.”

Arthur downs the shot as Abigail stares, her eyebrows raised. I look back and see that Arthur’s arm is still hooked around my chair.

With so many of us in the tiny saloon, there was no use in pulling up more chairs and crowding around a little table, and the gang begins to disperse, slowly taking over the tiny tavern. Lenny and Hosea are still encircling the piano, where the player has stopped and is listening to Hosea tell a tale of some huge bear that he and Arthur hunted in the woods.

This leaves Abigail and Mary-Beth at the table with me.

“I need to talk to you!” Abigail jumps up from her seat and plops down next to me. Instinctually, Mary-Beth follows, sitting on my other side.

My whiskey glass swirls around in front of me. I try to focus on it, steady it. “About what?”

“You know what,” she says, and I wrack my brain. About the robbing? About Ray?

I didn’t respond to Abigail quickly enough and she whispers hurriedly into my ear, “Arthur!”

“About what?!” Mary-Beth calls over the noise of the saloon. “Secrets are no fun!”

“About Arthur,” Abigail repeats, then turns back to me. “I see the way he’s been looking at you.”

“Don’t—” I stumble over my words. I try desperately to focus on Abigail’s face, but my eyes just can’t seem to zero in on her. “Don’t start that sh*t.”

“What do you mean?” Mary-Beth asks, leaning in.

“I saw him holding your hand after that dance when Jack came home, I saw him sitting with you at the fire, and I saw him with his arm around you just now.”

Mary-Beth gasps, clutching her heart, and I interject quickly before she can chime in: “It weren’t around me, it was on the chair.”

“You’re so right!” Mary-Beth gushes anyway. “Apparently, Tilly said he peeled out of that party as soon as she told him what happened. Fastest she’s ever seen him move.” She knocks her shoulder against mine. “Lillian, sleep with him and tell me all about it. We’ve all tried.”

“What? No!” I lean back in my chair. “You told me earlier today that he’s got some girl that he keeps visiting over, er, pining over, or whatever you said.”

I widen my eyes, trying to stop the spinning in my head.

“Yeah! Break him of that! He can move on from her and you can move on from your husband!”

“Mary-Beth,” Abigail hisses, shooting her a look.

“Look, all I’m saying is, if you never try, you never know. Hell, I never would’ve guessed I’d be stuck with Marston, but here I am.” She smacks my arm. “Go talk to him!”

“Abigail, I ain’t doing all that.”

“Shh.” She whips around to the bar, where John and Arthur still stand. “John! John, come here!”

He raises his head, then slowly turns from the bar and heads toward our table. He stops, staring at her expectantly. “Yes?”

“Come sit.” She pats the chair next to her. “Come hang with us.”

He looks around the table, first at Abigail, then me, then Mary-Beth, and knots his brow. “With the girls? I’m having a drink with Arthur.”

“Just sit!” she snaps, then she slaps my arm again. “Go, go!”

John looks at me confusedly and I huff a breath, craning my neck to look at Arthur. He’s still hunched over the bar, his back muscles visible through his thin white shirt. He swirls his empty bottle on the counter with one finger, his head tilting as he stares at it. I think about what it would be like to kiss him, about going back to the camp and sleeping in his bed, and the thought almost makes my heart burst.

I clench at my bosom. Is it the whiskey? How much have I had? I don’t know.

And then, another idea: maybe there’s more than one way to get revenge on Ray tonight.

The thought makes guilt pool in my stomach, but if what Mary-Beth and the other girls said is true, and he really has been in love with the same girl for years, then maybe one night of release wouldn’t be a big deal. Just a way to unwind, forget about our trouble. I do like his new haircut.

“You know what?” I say to Abigail, but I don’t look at her. I keep my eyes on him. “f*ck it.”

I grab one of the whiskey shots, one of the many that are crowding our small table, and guzzle it down. I feel the familiar heat in my chest as I stand and make my way to the bar, Mary-Beth giggling behind me.

I nearly slam myself into the counter next to Arthur and splay my hands out. Jesus, I should really stop. I blink my eyes rapidly.

Arthur’s head cranes down to me. “You alright, Lily-Anne?” His voice drips like honey.

“Yeah, I, um.” I finally meet the blue eyes that watch me wobble against the bar and I falter, my bravado lost. “I, um...”

“You got dirt under your fingernails? Horse sh*t on your boots?”

A long pause.

“What?” Arthur laughs.

I echo his laughter and grimace inwardly at myself. “I don’t know, I’m sorry. Something Karen had said.” I look back at the table and Mary-Beth is staring while Abigail keeps John occupied. I turn back to Arthur. “I think I had too much to drink.”

“Yeah, me too,” Arthur muses, but neither of us move. We stay locked at the bar as our friends and other patrons laugh, drink, dance.

Arthur takes a deep breath, leaning down toward me again. “What are you doing with us, Lily-Anne?”

I crinkle my nose—another turn in conversation that I don’t expect. “How do you mean?”

His eyes are saddened, as if the fun of the night was suddenly zapped from his body. He clears his throat, coughing a little. “Why are you still hanging around with us?”

The question makes my heart pang painfully in my chest. It comes suddenly, like a pricked finger or a step on a sharp rock. I swallow a lump in my throat. “Why?” I ask, now playing with the same bottle that he was. “You want me gone?”

“No, it ain’t like that.” Arthur shakes his head. “I just… you’re so…” He waves his hand again, like he often does when he can’t think of the words he wants. He returns his hand to the bar, snaking it under his arm. “I just don’t want you to get wrapped up into something that you don’t want to be. You didn’t choose this, you know? I kinda forced you, taking you back to camp with me. I mean, there weren't really anywhere else we could go, and you was shot—”

“You know,” I cut him off, and the words start pooling out of my mouth before I can stop them or really even think about what I’m going to say. “If there’s one thing I learned tonight, it’s that folk are never who they say they are.”

“If people profess that they’re a good person, or that they’ve got money, or got a job and a house lined up for you, they actually don’t. And the people who say they ain’t right, that speak lowly of themselves, they’re usually the right folk to be around. They see the world for what it is and want to be better.”

Arthur’s brow knots. I know he has no idea who or what I’m talking about, and is probably too drunk to piece together what I am referencing. Honestly, so am I.

“All I’m saying is,” I continue when he still doesn’t speak, “I don’t care what you do. Or what this gang does. I like you all. I’ll hang around for a bit longer, get myself together, and then, you know…” I shrug. “Leave, I guess.”

Arthur clicks his tongue, nodding, chewing on my words. He’s silent for a few painful moments before he finally speaks again. “I think they like you, too.”

He glances into the back room, and thankfully, Mary-Beth is no longer spying.

“And you?” I ask.

Arthur whirls back around. “Hmm?”

“You said they like me. Do you like me?”

Arthur’s eyes dart away, and he grabs the empty beer and tries to drink from it, but only a few drops slide down the glass. He slams it back down and waves his arm at the bartender, who cracks two new bottles and slides them in front of us. “Put it on my bill,” Arthur slurs.

“Yeah, yeah.” The bartender rolls his eyes.

The bartender walks away and, without thinking, I immediately head back to the table, moving someone’s coat and snatching up my bag. I walk back to the counter and place a lump of cash near the edge, carefully balancing the empty beer bottle on top of it. Arthur stares at it, then at me. “Did you really steal all of that?”

“Yep,” I say triumphantly, raising my chin at him.

He holds my gaze, and then laughs, taking a drink of his new, cold beer. I follow suit, my stomach swirling in protest, but I force the liquid down. Silence again, and then Arthur straightens up, pushing himself away from the bar and grabbing his drink. “You wanna take a walk with me?” he asks, co*cking his head toward the door.

I smile and nod, falling in line behind him as he guides us back into the streets of Saint Denis.

Notes:

Thanks for reading guys I came down with a little something and might have some downtime to get some writing done, so I should be able to crank out a few chapters here soon. (: please let me know what you think!
<3 Mowglie

Summary:

I know what I am, and she knows what I am, too.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

The night air instantly cools my hairline, the small of my back, and the sweating bottle in my hand as Arthur makes a hard right, leading us along the outskirts of the city. I recognize the familiar fading of the cobblestone and return of blades of grass. The smaller homes, the humbler dwellings, loom like shadows against the dark sky. I know the little white house, Mr. Alvarez’s house, is down there some ways, near the red barn. I find myself staring down the paths as Arthur clears his throat and takes a swig of his beer.

I tear my gaze away from the houses. “Where are we going?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Around.” His attention is piqued momentarily by a passing horse before he returns his gaze forward. “It was getting a little hot in there.”

“Mhm,” I say quietly, nodding my head. My steps feel heavy; I pull up one side of my dress, trying to make it a little easier to keep one foot in front of the other.

We continue on in silence. A graveyard appears on my right, the mausoleums reaching into the sky like fingers, like teeth from an open mouth. I focus on one in particular, just barely able to make out the rose-stained cross window in its steeple, when Arthur speaks again.

“Tell me about your life before all this.”

“Before all what?” I repeat, still staring at the graves. The courtyard is bigger than any I’ve ever seen before.

As we grow closer, the stone structures slowly slink beneath a brick wall. I can only catch glimpses through a few wrought-iron gates.

“Before I found you, I guess.” I return my attention to Arthur and he shrugs again. “Before them O’Driscoll’s, before… you know.”

“It ain’t much to talk about,” I say quietly. Another group of horses pass. “I worked on my Daddy’s farm.”

Arthur waves his beer in front of him, raising his eyebrows. “And, what kind of work did you do?”

“You ain’t ever worked with livestock before?”

“I have, but… I don’t know. Just trying to get to know you.” Arthur slows his pace and I match it. “If it’s too soon to talk about, that's alright.”

“No, it’s alright.” I clear my throat, brushing a piece of my hair behind my ear. “Daddy raised pigs for as long as I can remember. They’re easy, you know, they’ll eat whatever, live wherever. I just helped maintain them. It was hard, at first, raising little piglets when you know where they’re gonna end up.” I chew my lip, and the crow flies into my brain again, encircling one of my pigs, waiting to see what can be ripped from its body. “My mother died when I was younger. Twelve, I think? She got real sick out of nowhere. Daddy knew she didn’t have long, and Janie had been doing small work for my family years, before I was even born. He hired her full time to pick up Momma’s chores and to help raise me.”

Arthur nods. “My momma died when I was young, too. Real young.”

I glance at him, and I see something swimming in his eyes, some emotion that I can’t place. A few beats pass between us before I utter, “I’m sorry.”

I sigh and continue. “Daddy kept all the money we earned, but he took care of us. We always had clothes, food, a safe place to sleep. But I think that bothered Ray.”

A dark realization settles over me and I freeze in place, my muscles locked.

Arthur takes a few more steps before he notices, and he turns, giving me a questioning look. The lights of the city dance in his eyes as they scan my face, surveying me. “Ray’s your husband, right?” he prods.

“He almost was.”

“We never married. He was a boy from a farm a little south of ours, closer to the Heartlands. We used to play, meet in the middle, when we was kids. When he got old enough, he started helping Daddy. He was the only one who stayed, maybe because of me, I don’t know. But… no other workers did. And because he did, I think he wanted… I think he felt entitled to…”

My breath catches in my throat. My eyes snap to the street to our left, the one that cuts into the bowels of the city. I search for the hotel, scan the faces for Ray or the O’Driscoll man, but they must be farther in, concealed by the busy streets and the glowing streetlamps.

Arthur is silent, still staring. “You took your ring off.”

It’s not a question.

I swallow, refusing to meet his eyes. “Daddy is dead. That’s…” I pause, shuddering a breath, and run my free hand along the length of my arm. “That’s all done now.”

I hear Arthur gulp. “Charles told me.” He follows my gaze into Saint Denis. Finding nothing, he turns and begins walking again.

I offer Arthur nothing, my gaze now cast down at my feet. The cobblestone swirls with my vision and I stumble a bit. Arthur waits for me to be beside him again before he keeps on, taking another drink of his beer. I slosh down my own, trying to drown out the thoughts of Ray, his motivations, why he felt the need to betray Daddy in the most inhumane way possible. Maybe all this, the O’Driscoll’s, the robbery, the murder, wasn’t ever about me. Maybe it was all about Daddy. About the money that Ray believed was his.

I scoff at myself as I swallow another mouthful of beer. Once again, I’m a pawn in someone else’s chess game, a cog in the wheel, a means to an end. Why hire workers when your daughter can tend the farm? Why find a wife when you can bewitch the owner’s daughter? Why cut your losses on a poor farm boy when you can ambush my wagon and chain me up in your cellar, murder my family, and steal from us?

I grunt under my breath, forcing the thoughts away. This ain’t Daddy’s fault. None of this is Daddy’s fault. It’s Ray’s, it’s the bloodthirsty men’s who had no qualms taking something that didn’t belong to them or their debtor, and murdered innocent folk in the process.

I kick a rock that had found its way in front of my feet. It bounces across the brick and skitters into a gutter.

We saunter past a few more houses, growing in size now that they are closer to the city. I look at the two-, three-, and four-story buildings, the plants dangling from the porches, the pristine yards encased by fences. I want to ask Arthur more about his father and mother, but I find myself plagued with questions of another, someone who has been mingling in the back of my mind since I first heard her name.

When I turn to look at him, I feel the heaviness of my head tilt it to the side. “Tell me about Mary.”

Arthur recoils, nearly spilling his drink. The incredulous look on his face helps to lighten the mood. “How…” he rolls his shoulder and knots his brow. “How do you know about Mary?”

“I took your letter to your room,” I say simply, “when we first got to Shady Belle.” And then, I tack on, “And the girls talk.”

I hear Arthur scoff. He stretches his arms behind him awkwardly, biding time, before he finally answers. “She’s what you’d expect, I guess. Fine woman. Too fine for me.”

My first instinct is to argue and tell him that’s not true. But I think better of it; I'm unsure of how that kind of comment would be received. I swallow it down and instead say, “Well, why don’t you be with her?”

Arthur glances around before he turns us to the left, back toward the heart of Saint Denis. He doesn’t speak as we look both ways, wait for a carriage to pass, and then cross the street hurriedly. We pause at a darkened alleyway, where a group of kids snap their attention to us before darting in the opposite direction.

Arthur waves his bottle aimlessly before pulling it to his lips again. “I know what I am,” he says finally, licking the droplets from the stubble beneath his bottom lip. “And she knows what I am, too.”

Something about his response rips my heart from my chest and stomps it cruelly on the ground. I’m disappointed by it. Angered by it. I grit my teeth to the point that it hurts; my fingers curl into the brick painfully, a few pebbles cascading to the ground. I can’t look at him, so instead I look back out into the street, focusing on a rat that squeezes itself from the sewer, squeaking quietly, darting onto the street and burying its paws into the cracks of the cobblestone.

I notice Arthur yank his beer to his mouth again for a final time. I hear him gulping the rest of it down before tossing it to his side. It clinks loudly in the alley, rolling to a dip in the street. It knocks against the wall once, twice, and settles. He pushes himself off the wall and toward me.

Why do I hate the thought of it? Why does it make my blood boil in my veins?

I hear Arthur’s clunky footsteps come to a stop, just in front of me.

He takes another step, and his head lowers, eyes close, and my chest hurts still but this is a different hurt. It’s electric, heated, pulsing through my veins to the point where my body just might explode from the pressure, the rushing blood, each beat of my heart intensifying and multiplying it.

His lips crash into mine with a force that knocks my head into the brick.

Suddenly, my body is ablaze; quick and intense, like throwing a match onto wood drenched in oil. My lungs can’t catch a breath. My head swims. Arthur’s teeth clank against mine, his stubble grates against my chin, his body forces me back into the wall. He tastes like whiskey and it’s more intoxicating than the drink itself.

His hands move from my face; one finds the back of my head, the other my neck, pressing his thumb onto the center. The beer bottle slips from my fingers and shatters at our feet. I wrap my arms around him and clutch him tightly, desperately.

It’s sloppy. It’s messy. It’s so different than any kiss I had with Ray. Those were short, quick, calculated, practiced. This is wild and untamed. It’s pure instinct, a surrender to the darkest depths of my heart, a glimpse into the recesses of my mind that I refuse to acknowledge.

With a final press of his lips, Arthur pulls away, just barely, keeping his mouth inches from mine. His breathing is stuttered, fluttering against my face. I suck in my own gulp of air and realize just how deprived of oxygen I am. I fight the stars in my eyes, beating my lashes, as he releases his hold on my head and neck, backing away slowly. He shakes out his hands, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

I keep my body against the brick, trying to recover from the aftershock.

“I…” Arthur trails off, looking down, then to his right, into the streets of Saint Denis. I still can’t speak, and even if I could, I don’t know what I’d say. My mind is utter hogwash, about as put together as the remnants of the bottles that me and Sadie shot. I couldn’t form a coherent thought if I tried.

“We should get on,” he says finally, turning to make his way out of the alley. I nod, teetering away from the wall and wobbling behind him. I can still feel his fingers on my throat and his lips on mine as he guides us back to the tavern.

- - -

When we arrive, the wagon that Sadie brought has disappeared. The tavern is much quieter, the last of the guests stumbling out and making their way back to their hotels or houses or wherever they came from.

I can see the delay in his eyes, no doubt from guzzling down over half of his beer in the alley.

I lean against the hitching post, the weight of the alcohol suddenly making my eyelids heavy. I stare at Arthur. “What?”

“I don’t think I can…” he trails off, looking at the horse, then back at me. “Can you?”

I glance at the Standardbred, at the confused look in its eyes as me and Arthur face each other, at an impasse. I shift my weight uncomfortably. “Arthur, I ain’t ever ridden a horse.”

Arthur is silent for a moment, then breaks into laughter, rolling his head back. “What do you mean? You’re a farm girl, ain’t you?”

“We had a wagon!” I exclaim, throwing my hands up. His laughter is contagious and I chuckle along, embarrassed at myself. “I ain’t never ridden a horse by itself! Hitch it up to a wagon and I’ll get us home.”

Arthur shakes his head, forcing his foot into the stirrup and throwing himself onto the saddle. His stomach hits the leather and he pauses, grunting, then yanks himself up the rest of the way. The Standardbred trots in place before Arthur leans down and pulls me up with him, this time settling me into the front of the saddle.

He hands me the reins. “Everyone can ride a horse.”

“Arthur, I’m telling you—”

“Just give him a little nudge with your heel. I’ll direct you.”

I dig my boot into the side of the horse and it whinnies loudly, nearly sprinting into the street and toward a set of barrels to our right.

“Whoa!” Arthur yells, snatching the reins from my hands and yanking them back. The horse veers away at the last second, slowing in the street and snorting irritably. He hands me the reins again cautiously, like he’s handing a child a loaded pistol. From behind, he leans his head forward, craning his neck to look at me, and the smile on his face is incredulous. “Is you serious?”

“I told you, I ain’t ever done this.”

Arthur scowls, but I can hear the playfulness in his voice. “Just, gently, nudge the horse forward and head down this street. We’ll hit the train tracks. Follow those until you cross the bridge, and I’ll let you know from there.”

“Can’t you just do it?” I say, exasperated. I give the horse the most gentle of kicks and it starts again, its hooves clopping slowly against the cobblestone.

“No, ma’am!” Arthur nearly shouts. The alcohol slurs his speech. “Everyone has to learn at some point!”

“This ain’t the way to learn,” I mumble, holding the reins limply in front of me.

We find the train tracks and I follow them, just as Arthur instructed, until we reach the bridge. The horse falters, as if nervous that I’m the one guiding it over a body of water, but eventually relents and walks us along the wood.

“See?” Arthur croons. “It ain’t so hard, is it?”

“I don’t know why you’re trusting me with this,” I say lowly.

Arthur chooses to ignore me, his body rocking along with the steps of the horse. We cross the bridge and Arthur’s hand finds my hip, holding it firmly as we enter the dirt path. The trees are dark, nearly black without the light of the sun, and I can barely see the trail in front of us. Arthur tells me to turn left and I do.

“What’s his name?” I ask, releasing my iron-tight grip on the reins to pat the horse gently on the neck. His head bucks to look at me briefly before continuing on, as if afraid to take his eyes off the road.

“Soterio,” Arthur responds. The horse looks back again at the sound of his name. “Easy boy, keep on.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, but Arthur doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans back, taking a long draw of the summer air. I follow suit, drinking in the muggy atmosphere that fills my lungs and expands them to capacity. I turn to my left to watch the fireflies dart out of the bushes, temporarily illuminating the inky world around us. Arthur hums a tune under his breath, the low rumble of his chest vibrating against my back.

When we get back to camp, I lead Soterio to where the other horses lay and snore around the last bits of hay that they have left. I slide off, my feet forcing a few wobbled steps to keep me steady, and Arthur follows, crashing into me and nearly knocking us both over.

We laugh and Arthur shushes me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and leading me into the camp. I can faintly make out the bodies of the others, some surrounding the last embers of the campfires, some actually making it back to their cots, sprawled out across their pallets.

Instinctively, I duck out of Arthur’s grasp and hobble my way to where my bedroll resides, on the right side of the camp toward the tree line. I stumble down toward it, groaning loudly as I shove my bag out of the way and stretch my legs out. I keep myself propped on my elbows as Arthur stands over me, nearly wading in place, shifting from the balls of his feet to his heels to keep himself steady. I look up at him and I can tell that he’s stewing over something. He glances back at the large, looming mansion.

“Do you…” he starts, turning back to me. I wait, twiddling my feet.

And he turns, traipsing toward the mansion, throwing open a door and shuffling in.

I watch the door swing open back and forth before finally settling, left ajar in the faint wind. I yawn, yanking my satchel off and stuffing it in my bag, then turn over and pull my pillow toward me. The dress is uncomfortable but I’m too drunk to care. Sleep is calling, sinking its claws into my body and dragging me down to the ground. I know that once I close my eyes, I won’t move again. I curl into myself and drift off.

- - -

“Ugh.”

I try to open my eyes, but the sun singes them immediately, nearly melting them out of my head. I squint, groaning, and cup a hand over my forehead so I can see.

Sure enough, I haven’t moved from my initial position. My head throbs as I force myself up with my free hand, my muscles screaming in protest, and glance around the camp. It must be around noon now; Pearson is cutting ingredients for his nightly stew and the chores look to be completed. Miss Grimshaw will have a fit that I didn’t help.

I stand the rest of the way, kicking a bottle that rolled up next to my bedroll, and begin the trek to Pearson’s wagon. I don’t realize I’m looking for him until I spot him; Arthur is sitting on a stack of crates, smoking a cigarette and talking to Mary-Beth. She giggles and Arthur shakes his head. My heart pangs with some unknown emotion and I quicken my pace.

He wouldn’t tell her, would he? Air out the business of last night, what I thought to be a private moment between us, to Mary-Beth? Arthur doesn’t strike me as the gossiping type, with his stoic mannerisms eclipsed by sly jokes and low chuckles.

Thinking of last night brings me back to the feeling of his lips on mine and his hand on my throat. My chest sparks, mingling with my nausea, and I grimace.

“Well, good morning, Sleeping Beauty!” Sadie shouts, her voice reverberating painfully in my ear. She just finished unpacking a crate at the foot of the wagon. She rises and wipes her hands on her pants, giving me an exaggerated smile.

I scowl at her, swiping a tin of biscuits from the chopping table. I realize that I’m still wearing the black dress from last night and I feel my cheeks flush.

“Morning,” I mutter, digging my fingers into the tin. There’s only one biscuit left, sitting at the bottom, and I turn the container over and let it drop into my hands. I take a hurried bite and try to swallow, the dry bread resisting my even drier throat.

As if sensing my discomfort, Sadie snatches a cup from the wagon and dunks it into the water barrel, handing it to me. I guzzle it quickly.

“You better drink up. We got hunting to do.” She turns to grab a carrot and slaps it onto the table. “Better wash your face, too.”

My hands find my cheeks, where I feel last night’s makeup still heavily caked on. The feeling makes me cringe.

I take another bite of the biscuit. “Hunting?” I ask through a mouthful, trying to draw attention away from my disheveled appearance. “What, animals?”

“Well, yes, for now,” Sadie waggles her eyebrows as I finish the biscuit and take another drink. “And then, O’Driscoll’s.”

I choke on the water, pounding on my chest. I give her a look but I realize she is serious; I can see the fever in her eyes, the tightness of her jaw. I pick a piece of biscuit out of my teeth. “Sadie, I don’t know about all that, I mean—”

“Oh, good grief,” she rolls her eyes. “You have one talk with Arthur and all the sudden you’re over it? You’re above killing them sons of bitches?”

“Revenge is a fool’s game,” I echo him, trailing off on the last word. My eyes to flick to Arthur, who is now standing, puffing on the remnants of his cigarette.

I glance back at Sadie and smile to let her know I’m joking, but her expression is still cold. “There’s a small camp of them not too far from here. Should be easy to take out.”

“Sadie, again, I—”

“Mr. Morgan!”

Sadie and I’s heads snap to the clearing, where Miss Grimshaw bursts through the doors of the mansion and charges toward Arthur. Her back is rigid, cheeks flushed, arms swinging by her sides. Arthur immediately rushes toward her, straightening the hat on his head, and meets her in the middle.

At first, I think she’s going to tattle on me for not helping with the chores, until I hear her screech, “Mr. Morgan, we have a problem, a real problem. It’s Tilly.”

I look at Sadie, but her gaze is transfixed on the screaming woman. I glance back to find Miss Grimshaw heading toward the wagon, nearly knocking Mary-Beth on her ass, to reach into the back and grab a revolver, spinning it, making sure it’s loaded. “She’s been taken by them Foreman Brothers she used to run with.”

“Foreman Brothers? Is that another gang?” I ask Sadie. She shrugs her shoulders, keeping her attention forward, and I exclaim, “Goddamn, how many of y’all are there?”

“Foreman Brothers?” Arthur echoes, watching as Miss Grimshaw forces herself into the clearing again and heads toward a different wagon, the one Sadie rolled into Saint Denis last night. “What are they doing here?”

“I don’t know what they’ve been doing here,” Miss Grimshaw spits, clawing her way up the side of the wagon and into the seat. “But I can tell you what they will be doing. Dying. Now come along.”

Arthur adjusts his holster and trails after Miss Grimshaw. He pauses, glancing back into the clearing. “Do we need any more guns?”

“I’ll come, Arthur!” Sadie yells. She nearly jumps over the chopping table, pulling her revolver from its confines.

Arthur wheels around, holding his hands up in front of him. “No!” His eyes are wide, trying to force her back with the sternness of his voice. “No, you stay here. We’ll handle this.”

“Come on, Arthur!” Miss Grimshaw barks again. He climbs onto the wagon with her, snatching the reins and speeding out of the camp. At the last second, Arthur leans his head back, whistling for Soterio, who flicks his tail and slowly trails after them. I watch them as they go, my heart pounding in my chest.

Tilly is gone. Tilly, the girl who nudged my shoulder and advised me to start on jackets. The girl that wrapped her arm around mine as we scampered out of the Saint Denis saloon, bounties in our pockets and laughs on our lips. The girl that ran wildly into the night to find Arthur and save me from an undetermined fate.

Sadie shoves her revolver back into its holster, and she spits on the ground as she returns to me. Her eyes are downcast as she grabs the carrot again, yanking it toward her and finding a knife, chopping at it angrily. She mutters to herself as I trudge away from Pearson’s wagon, headed toward my little bedroll on the edge of the clearing.

- - -

After I had scrubbed the night’s paint off of my face and dressed into my regular clothing, I wandered out into the camp to see if there was work to be done. The horses and chickens had been fed, the rainwater brought to the washing area, all of the produce loaded onto Pearson’s wagon and sorted. Everyone around the camp was quiet besides Micah, who had already begun to drink and was yelling about something, how everyone here was a bunch of yellow-bellies that get themselves caught by some rival group the gang has run into. He called them sloppy, careless.

Abigail nearly lunged at him; John had to drag her away as she called him every name under the sun.

I was itching to find purpose, work, distraction, while Arthur and Miss Grimshaw were gone. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, and the devil had done a number in my mind. All I could think about was Tilly trapped in some dungeon like I was, at the mercy of her captors. I prayed that Arthur would get there in time to free her from her chains, just as he had done for me, for himself.

Eventually, I returned to Sadie and helped her cut the remaining bag of produce. It flew by quickly with two knives and two silent choppers.

The sun begins to fall to the west, and there is no still no sign of Tilly or the wagon.

Gritting my teeth, I rummage through the folded bills to retrieve my revolver and place it next to me. I shuffle around some more until I find my mother’s earrings, settled at the bottom of the bag by their weight. I pull them out, let them shine in the remaining sunlight. I remember her wearing them faintly, a glint in my memory like a face on a passing train that you only see once. I can’t see her surroundings, can’t zero in on where we were. But I remember them.

I pull my lobes down to loop them into my own ears. I wanted them pierced just like her, fussed until Daddy took me into town to get it done and I cried like a baby the entire way home. Momma told me I looked beautiful, and the tears miraculously dried. I felt like a lady, a grown up, and I wore the same, plain silver pair for summers. One day, my right earring fell into the pig slop and Daddy never bought me a second set.

To be fair, I never asked. Ray never pointed out that they were missing, and Momma wasn’t around anymore to tell me how good they looked and how brave I was.

I force the second earring in, struggling against the semi-healed hole. They feel heavy for their small size. When was the last time I had jewelry on?

I scowl at myself, then resume my perusing of the satchel and grab three wads of cash. I bundle them in my arms and zip the bag shut, returning it to its original resting place. My free hand grabs my revolver and holster, and I fumble as I secure them to my hip while my other hand balances the money.

I make my way to the mansion. I know Dutch is inside; I can hear his phonograph playing some warped opera music from the upstairs window. I enter and slowly ascend the staircase, reaching the top and glancing at Arthur’s room, all the way to the back and to the left. The door is slightly ajar, and I catch a glimpse of the distinct red dresser and jarred flower before I huff a breath and head toward Dutch’s room.

I can see him through the crack in the wood. He’s leaning back on a sofa, sucking on a cigar, his arm draped around the red-haired woman. She is scrawling something on a piece of paper, writing what looks to be a poem. She hastily scratches out her last line and begins again. I knock softly on the door to let them know of my presence.

Dutch removes his arm from the woman and leans forward, and he smiles when he sees me enter. “Miss Lillian! How are you getting on?”

“Just fine, Dutch,” I grin.

“Have you met Miss O’Shea?” He gestures to the red-haired woman, who glances at me with her icy blue eyes. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you haven’t, she ain’t exactly the friendly type.”

I hear Miss O’Shea grumble something under her breath as I pull the bill folds from my pocket. “No, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.” I nod at her. “Miss O’Shea.”

I open the lockbox to find various crumpled bills, random pieces of jewelry, belt buckles, and a few tonics inside. I push them apart gently to make way for my contribution.

“Well, would you look at this!” Dutch stands and approaches me from behind. He claps me on the back, leaning forward to see what I am adding. He smells like tobacco and sweat. “All this, from your night in Saint Denis?”

“I guess I got beginner’s luck,” I smile, tucking the money inside and closing the lid.

“Well, make sure you sign your name and write what you put in.” Dutch finishes his cigar and lets it drop to the ground, snuffing it out with the toe of his shoe. “And make sure you keep some for yourself! Look’s like we made a regular outlaw outta you after all!”

Notes:

Thanks for reading! (: Let me know what you think!

Summary:

I have a horse.

You can have more than one.

I don't need more than one.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

I instantly peel away from the porch, joining the other gang members as the older woman pulls the horses to a stop. Tilly rises, shuddering a breath, and climbs her way down slowly. She swivels around to hug Mary-Beth, the first in line, then Charles, then me. I wrap my arms around her as tightly as I can, nearly squeezing the life out of her, and she hugs back with just as much fervor—just as she had when she thought I had followed a murderer into a back room.

“What happened?” I ask as she releases me to embrace Karen.

Miss Grimshaw disappears to another wagon to retrieve a blanket, then ushers Tilly to the nearest campfire and orders her to sit down. She drapes the quilt around her, and Abigail hands her a cup of coffee.

“I guess they was in the city,” Tilly starts, her hands shaking against the mug. Most of us have gathered around her at this point, like a flock of vultures around a carcass. “Anthony Foreman was in this back alley of the saloon, reading a paper under a lantern. He saw me, called my name. I turned to walk the other way but some of his fellers was over there. And then, you know…”

She shrugs her shoulders, and we don’t push her any farther. Abigail joins her on the log and rubs the length of her arm. Tilly is silent for a while, staring at the fire, until a smile suddenly breaks her face. “I can’t even tell you how good it felt to see Arthur bursting into that house. After all them boys had done... I knew I was gonna be alright then.”

Abigail nods her head. “He’s a good face to see when you’re in a pinch.”

I straighten my posture a bit, looking back to the wagon that Miss Grimshaw and Tilly had rode in on, and I realize that Arthur wasn't with them. I crane my neck back to check out the horses, and sure enough, the oil-black Standardbred is nowhere to be found.

“Where did he go?” I ask Tilly.

Abigail co*cks an eyebrow at me, her lips curling into a smile.

“Said he was going to Saint Denis for something, I don’t know.” Tilly brings the mug to her face, blowing on it softly. “Said he’d meet us back here.”

What would Arthur be stopping in the city for? My mind flashes to the saloon, him leaning against the bar and swirling his empty bottle around. Someone approaches, a woman, whispers something in his ear, and he nods toward the door and they depart into the cool air. He leads her past the houses, past the graveyard, makes a left and ducks into an alley, finishes his beer and—

Jesus Christ, Lillian.

I stand immediately and shake my head, then trudge toward one of the wagons and hide myself behind it. I run my hands through my hair, fluff out the bun at the nape of my neck. What is wrong with me?

I find my degenerate, would-be husband in a bar with a member of the gang that stole my life, rob him of my own father’s money in a safe in his hotel room, and disappear into the night, and this is where my mind goes? This is what I focus on?

Something small and blue catches my attention, sitting on a barrel to my left. I reach my hand out and grab the cardboard box: cigarettes.

I open it and peel back the foil. There are three rolls left in the carton, slinking to the right as I turn the container over in my hands. I pull one out and place it tentatively between my lips, taking a small draw. Though not alight, I can still taste hints of tobacco in my mouth.

“Need a light, dear?”

I jump out of my skin as Hosea appears around the edge of the wagon, then leans against the wood next to me and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a pack of matches, strikes one against his boot, and cups it to my cigarette. I suck in, the smoke racing through my lips and teeth and down my throat, spreading through my lungs. I yank the cigarette out of my mouth and cough, slapping my chest.

“First time?” Hosea smiles, taking his own out of the pack and lighting it. I nod, unable to speak, and Hosea takes a weathered, practiced breath and lets it out slowly. “Yeah, I figure you’ll have a few first times as long as you’re running with us.”

I swallow, my coughing fit abated, and look down at the cigarette. Its end glows a faint red, the smoke curling and pluming above my head to where it eventually dissipates into the night air. I watch it until I can’t see it anymore. I can feel a tingling sensation in my hands, my head starting to swim, and my body relaxes.

Despite my initial reaction, I take another draw. I still cough on the release, but not as much.

“How are you, Miss Lillian?” Hosea asks. He presses the back of his shoe against the wagon. “We don’t talk much.”

I ponder the question. Hosea always seemed like a level-headed man: calm, quiet, calculating. He’s Dutch’s foil, the one that keeps him in check, the one that makes sure the gang doesn’t get into too much trouble. I contemplate telling him about what happened with Ray, asking if it’s a common occurrence for poor farm men to gamble over their heads and get roped into a gang. If he’s ever dealt with a situation like this before.

But I decide that even Hosea shouldn’t know about the money that I have stashed away in my bag.

“Better.” I nod my head slowly. “I’ve gotten real close to the women here. But you’ve all been very welcoming in your own ways.”

“That’s good,” Hosea remarks. He clears his throat and spits on the ground, wiping his mouth.

A companionable silence falls between us, interrupted only by the sounds of the gang from the other side of the wagon. I take another draw of the cigarette, letting the taste fill my mouth and another wave of tobacco calm my body further. I flick the ashes to the side, just like I had seen Sadie do a few times.

I look at Hosea. “You heard about Tilly?” His mouth morphs into a grimace and he nods. “Does that happen often? I mean, I’ve only been here a short while, but her, Jack, and I guess Arthur, too, right? Was taken?”

Hosea straightens up and scowls. He finishes the cigarette and lets it drop to the ground, snuffing it out. “It didn’t used to. Something has changed, I think. Whether it’s with the world, or with us, I’m not sure yet.”

“Meaning?”

Hosea’s eyes are downcast as he speaks. “I don’t know if we’re just getting sloppy, or…” he trails off.

“Dutch is a smart man. Always has been,” he mutters between puffs. “But lately, I just think he’s been too focused on the money and not the potential outcomes for his plans. I mean, you was there for the tail end of all that Braithwaite mess.”

“And now?” I ask.

“And now, he’s wanting to rob some trolley station in the heart of Saint Denis. Says Angelo Bronte gave him the tip.” Hosea blows out his smoke slowly. “That city is crawling with the law. The jail ain’t even but two streets away from it.” He shakes his head. “And I know, once he pitches it to Arthur, that he’ll go with him. Dutch keeps saying we need one more good steal, one more rob, and then poof,” Hosea waves his hands in front of him, “we’ll disappear. Buy some land. Earn an honest living.”

“Is that even possible, with the way you’re used to living now?”

Hosea laughs, pulling his cigarette out of his mouth to look at it, turning it over in his hands. “You know, I’ve thought about that. I’d like to think that we’d be able to exercise some self-control, but I’ve had a nasty cough for some months now, and here I am, smoking. No reason to, other than the way it makes me feel.” He clicks his tongue. “It’s just an old habit that won’t die.”

We finish our cigarettes quietly. Hosea claps me on the shoulder, holding it and squeezing firmly, before setting off into the clearing. I stand for a few more moments, until I hear the noise of the camp start to die down, and then I emerge, heading straight for my pallet. I hear a few people call out: Abigail, Karen, Mary-Beth. I give them a small wave, but don’t approach.

I plop myself down onto the bedroll. I kick my boots off, loosen my pants, untie my hair. And then, I curl up and drift off into a deep sleep.

- - -

“Get up.”

A boot knocks me lightly in the ribs and I groan, rolling over onto my other side. Someone crouches down and shakes me. I try to swat them away but they snatch my hand midair. My eyes peel open and it’s Sadie, her almond eyes narrowed to stare down at me.

“Wake up, lazy bones. We got hunting to do.”

She stands, pushing my bag of clothes closer to me. I sit up, rubbing my eyes, and realize that the camp is still engulfed in the dark of night.

I scowl at her. “What time is it?”

“Early,” Sadie muses. When I don’t move, she starts to reach into my bag to grab my clothes on her own—I swipe it from her. “Best times to hunt are sunrise and sunset. Plus, I wanna get outta here before Miss Grimshaw finds me and ropes me into some chore I ain’t got time to do.”

Sighing, I rise and get dressed: black shirt, poncho, jeans, and tie my hair back again. I follow Sadie to the gold Turkoman and glance around at the other steeds, just starting to rise and much on their hay. Still no sign of Soterio.

She pulls me up onto her horse with her and we head out, riding straight instead of turning right to Saint Denis.

We continue on into a swampier area. The trail nearly sinks into the wet earth, and the insects buzz around our faces and necks. I can hear the gators, more than I’ve ever heard in one place, hissing and snapping as we ride past. We eventually break through the moss-covered trees to a larger, open area—still squishy, but less vegetation and standing water for the gators to hide in.

Sadie pulls the horse to a stop and jumps off, then searches the side of the saddle until she finds the gun she wants. It’s long, with light brown wood encasing its dark steel barrel. She waits patiently for me to dismount. I do, wiping my hands on my jeans, and she extends the gun out to me.

“This is a little large,” I say nervously, pulling the weapon up to look down the sights. How do I even hold this thing? I try to fit the stock into my shoulder and Sadie rolls her eyes.

“Relax, it’s a varmint rifle. It’d take ten shots in the ass for me to even feel anything.” She walks over and raises the barrel, and the gun settles into my arm. “There’s a lot of little critters here that you can practice on. Frogs and sh*t.”

With the rifle finally nestled comfortably against my body, I pull it forward, staring down the sights. I focus on a rock on the ground, a blade of grass, a lightning bug. “So what, we’re just going on a frog massacre?” I mimic the kick of the gun, pretending to fire on an unsuspecting slug.

Sadie snorts. “For now. Who knows? Maybe you’ll graduate onto a turtle before the day is done. But frogs can’t run, especially the big swamp ones out here. They’re slow as hell.”

“Not as slow as a bottle propped on a ledge.” I wink at her and she smiles, then leads me out to a small bundle of trees swarming with insects.

We hunt until the sun has settled into the middle of the sky. The frogs were more plentiful in the morning, just as Sadie had said. They’re easy to spot: giant green body hopping lazily against the earth. They don’t pick up the pace when I approach, some even stopping next to a rock or stump, hoping to blend in. These were easy, once I learned the recoil of the gun, learned to relax my shoulder and not brace against it.

I shot the first ones from a few feet away, then slowly increased my distance. Then, I challenged myself to only shoot the frogs as they were mid-jump. This proved to be a bit more difficult, but I managed three large bullfrogs this way. Sadie and I perused the carcasses, checking which frogs’ legs were free of bullets, and strung the winners up on the saddle of the golden Turkoman, who I learned was named Bob.

“You ever ate frog legs?” Sadie asks as she pulls me up onto the saddle behind her.

“Have I ever ate frog legs,” I repeat as she spurs Bob back onto the trail, heading back to camp. “What kind of farm girl do you take me for?”

Sadie laughs. “Good! I ate them all the time up in Ambarino. Jakey had these tiny little arrows that he’d use on them in the summertime, when the snow melted a little ways down the mountain. There was a creek just full of them. He’d carry about this many back to the house every week.”

“I bet you make them good, then.” Our bodies wobble against Bob’s trots down the road, the bullfrogs swinging at our feet.

Sadie spits. “As if Pearson would ever let me near the stew pot.”

“Just get him some navy rum and maybe he will relent.”

When we arrive back in camp, it appears the chores have already been completed for the day. Tilly and John are engaged in a battle of dominoes, with Jack sitting on a crate next to his dad. He leans forward and asks a question that John answers without looking at him. The boy reaches for a domino, and John pulls his hand away.

Abigail is curled onto a blanket with a cup of coffee, Hosea and Dutch sit on the patio, and Lenny and Charles sharpen their knives. I look to my left and I spot Soterio, his tail whipping back and forth as he devours a bale of hay in front of him. I immediately scan the camp again, looking for the black hat, the tan jacket; but I don’t see Arthur. I try to ignore the disappointment pooling within me.

Sadie and I dismount, unhooking the frogs and slinging them over our shoulders. Pearson has already begun organizing his ingredients, and his eyes alight when he sees the bounty heading toward him. “Ladies!” he exclaims, arms wide. “Well, just look at that!”

“Yeah, yeah, keep it in your pants,” Sadie mutters, swinging the frogs and dropping them onto the table. I laugh and throw mine on as well, then wipe the slime on my jeans.

“Well, I’m glad you were doing something productive,” Pearson sneers, grabbing a leg of one of the frogs. “Instead of just avoiding your duties back here.”

Sadie whips around, shouting some sort of insult back at him.Iturn to grab a beer from the crate at the base of the table when I hear a familiar voice calling me.

“Lily-Anne!”

I glance to the left and see Arthur walking briskly into the camp from the clearing, heading straight for me. I try not to stare as I twist off the cap, instead focusing on the first sip—and my breathing.

And yet, I still hurriedlyswallow and wipe my mouth. “Yes?”

“Come here. I wanna show you something.” He waves his hand and I follow, trudging across the mucky earth.

He leads me back up the trail, away from the mansion, past the gazebo and the barricades and heading for where the horses graze. He walks past Soterio, patting him on the rear, and continues on to a Leopard Appaloosa standing near the edge of the clearing, a safe distance from the other horses. Her tail swings behind her, hooves beating apprehensively as we approach. Her eyes find me, the left one encapsulated in one of her many black spots, and her ears fold back.

I stop, but Arthur keeps going, muttering softly to the mare. When he reaches her, he rubs her neck, looking back at me and smiling. “Well, what do you think?”

“You bought a horse?” I ask, craning my neck to look around him. The mare grumbles and chews at her bit.

“I…” Arthur’s head hangs slightly. “No, I didn’t buy the horse.”

I walk past him and up to the mare, her large head swinging around to watch me. I hold my hand out, which she sniffs and nips at before realizing that I don’t have food. She turns to face forward again.

“She’s beautiful,” I say lowly, stroking her mane.

“She’s yours.”

I knot my brow and turn to look at him, at the smile playing up his lips. “You stole me a horse?”

“Her previous owner ain’t gonna need her anymore,” Arthur tuts. “Ain’t gonna come looking for her, neither.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Ah, so you’ve got a hot horse on your hands. Blood horse.”

“Wouldn’t that be perfect for you, Miss Money Bags?” Arthur comes up behind me, reaching around and clasping the horn of the saddle. “I stopped in Saint Denis, got her a new saddle.” He pats the dark brown leather. “So it might be a little stiff at first, but I figure you wouldn’t want to ride around on someone else’s crotch sweat all day. It’ll break in eventually.” He digs into the side pocket, pulling out a carrot and handing it to me. “I also got you some food for her, you know, cause horses gotta eat.”

I life the carrot to the mare’s mouth, which she munches on greedily. She's probably starving—too afraid to go near the other horses and attempt to eat their hay. Arthur takes the beer from my hand and reaches into the saddle again, pulling out a brush and holding it up near his face. He shakes it gently as he speaks. “This is a brush. You have to brush the horse.”

The mare finishes the carrot and I toss the butt onto the ground. She follows after it, taking a few steps forward, and I snatch the brush from him. “I know how to take care of a horse, Arthur,” I snarl, holding it at my side. “I just ain’t ever ridden one by itself.”

Arthur holds his hands up in mock defense, stepping back. “Alright, ma’am. Just making sure.” He takes a swig of my drink.

I look back at the Appaloosa, her worried eyes finding mine again, and trail my hand down the length of her mane to the base of her saddle. I shush her, petting her again, and she seems to somewhat relax. “Are you sure I can have her? She really is a gorgeous horse.”

“I have a horse,” is Arthur’s simple reply.

“You can have more than one.”

“I don’t need more than one.”

The mare lifts her head, taking a step toward me and nibbling at the strings of my poncho. I laugh, backing up and pushing her nose away gently. The saliva-coated string dangles limply at my shoulder.

“Look, she already likes you.” Arthur adjusts his hat and hands me back my beer. “Come on. Finish that and let’s stretch her legs.”

- - -

The first minutes of the ride were abysmal to say the least. Arthur watched tentatively as I attempted to pull myself onto the saddle, swinging my leg around with a bit too much force. The mare started, neighing loudly, and lugged her head around to stare at me. I tried to spur her gently, just as I had done with Soterio, but this horse is more sensitive and a bit jumpier.

She speeds past Arthur and his mount. “That happens sometimes,” he calls after me as I yank back on the reins, slowing her. “With stolen horses, you know. She’s gotta get used to you.”

Arthur and Soterio join us at the mouth of the trail, and I let them walk in front. Following another horse seems to settle the mare, and she eases into the cadence of the pair ahead of us. I reach down and pat her speckled neck again.

Arthur turns left to lead us north, and the swampy atmosphere starts to slowly fade away, back to the blazing hot sun and red-caked earth near Rhodes. T

“That’s a fine-looking horse,” someone calls, and I smile at him before returning my steely gaze to the back of the mare’s head.

We come up on a large stretch of green grass to our left, and just beyond it sits the familiar lake where our camp used to be. Arthur leads his horse into the clearing and I follow. “Alright,” he mutters, turning back to face me. “Let’s see how much juice she got.”

“What?”

“Yee-haw!” Arthur shouts, and Soterio rears back and charges across the long expanse of land.

My horse trots after them, wanting to keep their pace. I pull back on the reins, but she only slows slightly. She looks back at me, pounding her hooves. I close my eyes and whisper a quick prayer before I jam the edges of my boots into her sides.

The horse takes off, hooves slamming into the dry earth, and I scream as I feel myself bobbing off the saddle. I squeeze my legs tightly against her body and in a flurry, I let go of the reins to wrap my arms around her neck. I can hear Arthur laughing loudly from somewhere ahead of us, but I don’t dare pull away from my iron-tight grip on the mare.

“Let go!” Arthur calls.

I look to my left. He has slowed Soterio to run alongside us, only one hand holding the reins. He releases the rope and spreads his arm out, his palms stretched wide. “Come on, let go!”

“No!” I screech at him, and he laughs again. My fingers fumble blindly for her reins, and I find them slapping against her neck. I try to grab them, but they dance out of my reach.

“Let go!” Arthur yells again, speeding up to run in front of me. He leans his head back, his hat nearly flying off, and lets out a “Woo-hoo!” I stare at him and wonder how he’s able to steady himself against the horse with the sheer muscle of his thighs.

I slowly release my hold on my mare’s neck. She still pounds along as I sit up, pushing my toes farther into the stirrups, tensing my legs. I pull my arms to my chest, not yet able to throw them at my sides, and get used to the feeling of my upper body loose against the movements of the horse.

And then, finally, I fling my arms to the side. The wind catches my sleeves, my poncho, and my hair.

“I was ready to haul ass back there and tend a broken arm if I needed to.”

“Not the safest first lesson,” I throw at him, smiling, reaching down and patting the mare on her side. She sputters happily, shaking her head.

“No, but it was a fun one.”

Arthur turns his horse toward the lake, taking a much more leisurely journey to the water’s edge, and we follow after him. He dismounts and Soterio walks a few feet away to chomp on a dandelion. I slide off my horse as well, and she stands idly a few moments before clomping after the black Standardbred and burying her nose into the tall grass.

Arthur stands at the foot of the lake, reaching into his satchel and pulling out his fishing rod. He clicks it into its full size and grabs some bait, securing it to the hook on the end of the line. When I’m standing next to him, he hands it to me. “Now, this is a fishing pole.”

“I know how to fish! We already talked about this!” I snap. I take the rod from him and scoot a little to his left, then toss it back over my head. I release the line and let it shoot out over the lake. The hook lands into the water with a faint plopping noise. Arthur turns and walks back toward the trees, then slides down one of the trunks.

I slowly reel the line in, but nothing takes the bait. I fling it out again and glance back at Arthur. He has a dark brown, leather-bound journal in his hands and is now staring at the horses. He pulls a pencil out of his satchel, flicks his eyes to them one more time, and begins to draw.

I cast the line a few more times, but nothing is biting. I reel it in, take a few long steps further left, and perch myself onto a rock. I toss the hook out again. I can see the silhouettes of fish swimming right under the edge of the water, but they’re small and skittish and dart away as soon as my lure hits the surface.

I growl lowly. “I ain’t catching anything.”

“We ain’t far out enough,” Arthur muses, still focused on his journal.

I reel the line back in and begin to break down the pole. “Know where we can get a boat?”

Arthur raises his head to glance around. “Usually, there’s some sitting around here. They must all be taken out.”

I trudge back over to him, tossing the shortened fishing rod at his feet. I slump against the tree and wipe the sweat from my forehead. When he reaches down to retrieve the pole, my eyes dart over his journal and I see a drawing of Soterio and my horse grazing, their caricatures perfectly encapsulated in the charcoal.

I can’t help but to stare as Arthur puts away the rod, and his pencil returns to the space above the black steed, scrawling out Soterio in a swirling cursive script. His hand juts over to my spotted mare, utensil hovering above the page. “Did you think of a name for her yet?” he asks quietly.

I glance back at my horse—her lips wrap around an orange flower and yank it from the ground. I click my tongue. “I was thinking Dottie.”

Arthur is quiet for a moment, then snorts loudly, shaking his head. “That’s real creative, Miss Lily-Anne.”

I scowl at him. “It’s my horse. I pick her name. It’s easy to remember, at least.”

Arthur’s pencil touches the journal. “You sure that’s what you wanna name her? I’m about to seal the deal.”

I stare at his hand for a moment before I nod quickly, and he slowly draws her name across the cream page.

Dottie.

Arthur leaves his journal open as I look back at the horses. Dottie raises her head and stares back, flicking her tail, and a lump forms in my throat. She drags her hoof across the dirt as I swivel back to Arthur. “Thank you for the horse.”

“Sure,” he mumbles, still focused on his book. He flips the pencil around in his hand.

I stare out over the lake, watching the sunlight dance on the small ripples. A flock of ducks honk as they swoop down and land in the crystalline pool.

I swallow. “Thank you for everything else, too.”

Arthur doesn’t respond to this, and I find myself sliding down a bit more, my shoulder pressing against his. Even this small gesture is enough to sputter my heart, and I worry that Arthur will be able to hear the thumping through my thin black shirt. I try to tamp down the thoughts that pound in my head: walking in the city with Arthur, him leading me into the alley. He swallows down his beer and approaches, his hands on me, his lips on mine, the world around us stopping for that indeterminate time where the other people on the street didn’t matter, Ray didn’t matter, the O’Driscoll’s didn’t matter. And here we are again, alone, away from the gang and their prying eyes. No Mary-Beth to encourage us, no Abigail to set the scene; we’re here on our own volition.

I wonder if we’ll kiss again.

I open my mouth to speak but Arthur beats me to it, clearing his throat before he talks. “I actually wanted to…” he stops and I wait, my heart still clambering around behind my ribs. “I wanted to apologize.”

My throat constricts. I try to swallow but my mouth has suddenly run dry. “For?”

He shrugs lightly, snapping his journal shut and tucking the pencil back into his satchel. “I don’t know, I…” He licks his lips. “I don’t remember too much of that night. I know we went out walking, but…” He waves his hand. “I went to that party for the mayor, then we went to that saloon, and I just kept drinking and drinking.” He co*cks his head to the side. “If I said or did something out of line, I…”

My heart dies. Crumples into a blackened char and slips down into my stomach.

He doesn’t remember the kiss. He isn’t sure what his drunken state led him to do, and he wants to skirt around it, do damage control, stomp out any lingering thoughts that I might have about anything that could have gone down.

The lake suddenly looks toxic and uninviting. The sun’s heat becomes unbearable; the sounds of the insects grow annoying. The pleasant day is ruined by a dark cloak of… something settling over it. It makes my shoulders sag, my breathing quicken. Now, I want nothing more than to return to camp.

Arthur doesn’t say anything further, and he’s not looking at me as he waits for my response. I decide to give him what he wants; I pull my shoulder away from his and sigh. “You don’t have anything to apologize for. You didn’t do nothing. We just talked and then road home.”

Arthur’s head lowers and I hear him swallow. He’s quiet, chewing on his thoughts, before he finally whispers. “Alright. Good, then. Sorry for getting all serious.”

I nod, then stand and wipe my hands on my pants. I walk toward Dottie without a word. She raises her head, and it bobs gently as she meets me in the middle. I pat her nose, watch as her ear bends to avoid a fly buzzing around it. I hear Arthur groan as he rises, hear his footsteps sauntering into the clearing; I don’t look at him as I throw myself onto the horse and turn her back toward the road.

- - -

The rest of the ride is silent, and not like the silence that we had before. The air is pregnant, permeating, nagging. The journey drags on. Arthur makes a few noises: clearing his throat, hiding a cough into the sleeve of his jacket, whistling. I ignore all of them.

When we get back to camp, he pulls his horse to the left. I nearly stomp Dottie to the right, to another group of horses, and dismount her there. She gives me a sideways glance as I yank the brush out of her saddle and run it down the length of her body, her legs, then back up to her mane, the red dirt swirling into a cloud off her coat. I see Arthur trudge into camp in my peripheral vision.

How could he not remember? I was drunk, too: stumbling over my own feet, biting my tongue as I talked. And I was sobered by the electricity that jolted my body when he touched me, the fire that spread to the tips of my toes when his lips met mine.

And then, I stare at the Appaloosa as my mind churns.

Arthur remembered that I couldn’t ride a horse.

It was after the kiss, after we stumbled our way back to the saloon. He asked me to ride, and I said I couldn’t—he gave me an earful as I steered Soterio pitifully back to camp. He showed me Dottie, teased me about not knowing how to care for her, dangled a brush in my face. If he remembers that, how could he not remember the kiss?

Because it didn’t mean anything to him.

My hands pause against Dottie’s side, my fingers still wound in her mane. His words right before he downed almost the entirety of his beer flicker in my mind. I know what I am, and she knows what I am, too.

He was thinking about her. Drowned himself in the remainder of his alcohol to forget why she won’t have him. Maybe in that moment, I even looked like her, like the framed photograph he keeps next to his bed, undoubtedly one of the last things he sees every night. Maybe the beer and the inky night sky and the shadows across my face morphed me into someone else, someone that he would want to kiss with such fervor and passion, someone he has a history with.

No wonder he doesn’t remember. It wasn’t me that he kissed that night.

I walk around Dottie to brush her other side, then head back into the camp. The sun has lowered into the sky and Arthur has found himself in a poker game with Lenny and Bill. He laughs, looks at his cards and pushes his chips into the center of the table. He teases Lenny, “You better put them chips where your mouth is, boy!” He doesn’t look at me. His mission is over.

I snag a beer from Pearson’s wagon and head toward my cot. I stare at my bag as I pass it, at the thousands of dollars huddled inside my satchel, underneath my clothes. I pop the drink open and sit down, fighting the urge to formally count the money. Not here, not now. But soon.

I take a swig of the drink.

Notes:

Hey guys! Thanks for reading, and as always, please let me know what you think. I managed to crank out a good deal of chapters while I was sick at home with Covid, and I'm going to try and stay ahead so I can keep a consistent schedule with posting. RDR2 is so fun to write about and dive into and I'm enjoying it so much! I also made a little playlist with some music that I listen to while I write or work on the outline, so I'll drop a link here. Cheers, y'all!

Diamond Road

-- Mowglie

Summary:

I'm sick of all these men lying to me.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

The next few days are a blur, a mirage, a series of moving pictures. Sadie wakes me in the early hours of the morning to hunt. We rise, mount our horses, and trot the short journey to the swampy clearing. Initially, we returned to the frogs, bringing back two horses’ worth of food. The targets had become easy; it had gotten to the point where I could close my eyes, listen for their little webbed feet to leave the ground, fire, and wait for its bloated body to hit the swampy earth.

Once the amphibians had been conquered, we moved a bit more north, where the earth solidified beneath our feet a bit. Sadie handed me a bigger gun, a repeater. We saw rabbits, whitetail deer, foxes—each one a bit more challenging to down than its predecessor. It took practice and time for me to find my footing, to steady my trembling breaths and let out a long, slow exhale, to pull the trigger and absorb the shock of the much more powerful gun. I remember the first deer that I secured behind my horse’s saddle, the triumphant swagger of riding in with the large doe on the back of my horse. Pearson nearly cried.

Dottie and I were still learning each other. I’d take her out in the morning with Sadie, where she’d get to graze in some new area that we hadn’t yet explored. I’d ride her to camp, relieve her of the extra weight of the animals on her back, and she’d sputter thankfully. She had relaxed around the other horses, but she mainly stuck around either Bob or Soterio, the two that she knew best. I’d smile at her like a proud mother when Bob would lean his head down, sniff her snout, and give her a little lick underneath her chin.

Sadie and I had fallen back into routine, as if Arthur’s warnings of revenge and the trip to Saint Denis had never happened. We were back to planning, back to exacting our revenge. Thoughts of Arthur standing in the clearing with me and going on about what could happen if I became consumed by rage only formed a sickening feeling in my stomach.

In fact, anytime my mind drifted to Arthur, it was met by a bout of nausea and regret. My eyes wouldn’t find him in the camp anymore. I didn’t try to pick out his voice. I steered clear of the black hat sitting at the campfire or waiting in line for a plate of stew.

Our eyes met a few times. I’d walk past, and my own mind would get the better of me and I’d glance his way, only to find him already looking. There were times that he’d wander near me, say something aloud that would elicit a response: a remark about the weather, an open-ended question posed to anyone. But I never answered him, and eventually, he stopped.

Abigail noticed. She followed me to my pallet one day, swinging her arms by her side. “What happened?”

“With what?” I had asked through a mouthful of rabbit that me and Sadie had brought home.

“You know what.” She put her hands on her hips, leaning down to speak more quietly. “You and Arthur seemed to be getting on, and now you’re avoiding each other like the plague.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mused, stirring the stew around with my fork, choosing to focus on that instead of the wild blue eyes that stared down at me.

She huffed her breath, shifted her weight onto her other hip. “It might help to talk to someone about it.”

I ignored her, shoveling in another bite of stew, and she was forced to leave by her son calling her name hurriedly from the other side of camp. “This ain’t over,” she threatened, and I gave her a small smile as she walked away.

When I finished my food, I went to bed, hands knotted behind my head and eyes staring up at the stars.

This particular morning, Sadie awakens me at the ass-crack of dawn, but there’s something else in her wide eyes, easy to pick up on even with only the light of the moon.

“What?” I ask as I sit up, though I think I already know.

Sadie, once she confirms that I’m getting up, heads back to her cot and yanks her repeater out from underneath it. “You ready to graduate onto something else? Something that can shoot you back?”

An icy hand grips my heart as she co*cks her gun back, then slings it over her shoulder. I swallow. “Do you think I’m ready for that?”

“Ready as you’ll ever be,” she quips, walking back to my pallet. I rise and dress as she stares off into the distance. “Plus, now’s the perfect time. Them boys will be gone on some riverboat poker scheme, and I don’t need Arthur breathing down my neck about how wrong this is and how I’m only gonna spiral into a revenge-filled nightmare. Javier will be gone, too, and Strauss.”

“Which one is that?” I murmur. I throw a light denim jacket over my shirt and jeans and try not to ruminate on the fact that Ray should have been on that riverboat, betting my father’s money to give back to the men we plan to shoot and kill.

He could even still end up there somehow. Maybe seduced some other woman into getting all her family treasures.

I can barely hear Sadie’s response, “the German,” over my own thoughts pounding in my head, over and over. The idea of Arthur and Ray in the same confined space makes me shudder.

I follow after Sadie before I can lose my nerve. I picture pointing the gun at one of the black-coated men, firing, watching him crumple to the ground just as so many deer and foxes before him had. I’m not sure how I feel about it now.

Sadie and I mount up, and she leads us down the trail and surprisingly turns right. I spur Dottie on to trot alongside her. “What are we going to Saint Denis for?”

Sadie scoffs. “What, you wanna share a gun? Toss it back and forth while we’re getting shot at?”

We cross the wooden bridge and follow the train tracks, then turn left, and Sadie takes us to the familiar gunsmith in the heart of the city. “Get whatever you’re comfortable with,” she says softly as she pats Bob on the neck.

I slide off of Dottie and look back at her. “What was I shooting with before?”

“Litchfield repeater.”

The bell dings softly as I duck inside. The gunsmith raises his eyebrows, glances at the clock; I’m probably the earliest customer he’s ever had.

“How can I help, Miss?”

“I wanna look at the repeaters,” I say softly but sternly. I place my hands on the wooden countertop.

The man nods, turning and grabbing a few rifles off the back shelf and laying them out on the counter. I’m instantly attracted to one with a cherry wood grip and black steel barrel. I lift it gently; it’s a bit heavier than Sadie’s, but nothing that I couldn’t get used to.

“You like that one?” the man encourages.

“How much?”

“Three fifty. Four hundred if you want it wrapped.”

I nod, sliding the gun back toward him. He reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a series of blond leather wraps, laying them in a neat line above the rifle. I pick one up as he collects the other guns to return them to the shelves. Some wraps are plain, while others have little designs etched into them. One of a snarling wolf catches my attention. Even though it’s indents on a piece of cowskin, I can see the ferocity in the wolf’s eyes, the dribble of saliva around its bared teeth, its ear curled back and hair standing on end.

Let me clean it for you,” he mutters, turning his back to me and reaching for a bottle of gun oil. “It’ll come fully loaded, but we have extra ammunition on that table over there.”

I saunter over to his display, grabbing two packs of bullets and returning to the counter. He wipes the rifle down as I pull the bills from my satchel, smacking them and the boxes of ammunition onto the wood. He returns and hands me the weapon, then counts the money that I’ve laid out for him.

“Happy hunting,” he smiles. I force one back at him as I sling the gun over my shoulder, tuck the bullets under my arm, and exit the shop, trying to tamp down the knot in my stomach.

Sadie is still on Bob when I approach her. I shove the repeater through Dottie’s saddle straps, place the ammunition into my bag and unhook her from the post. I stuff my foot into the stirrup and throw myself onto my mount. “

Where to, now?” I ask.

“General store,” she says calmly, urging Bob back into the street. “We’ll need some provisions. Do you have a tent?” I give her a look and she rolls her eyes, waiting for me to join her. “Alright, come on.”

We turn down a few more streets, dodging carriages and men and woman crossing the cobblestone, until we reach the store. I stare to my right, down the road to the post office where I had inquired about Ray buying a house in the city. I watch a woman exit the door, picturing myself walking in there just a few short weeks ago, when Sadie clears her throat. “You coming?”

I tie Dottie up and follow Sadie in. She stops at the dry goods, picking up a tin of biscuits and a bag of candy. “Don’t get anything that’ll go rotten in a few hours,” she instructs.

I make my way to the back, scooping up a few apples, some cheese, and a package of oatcakes for Dottie. I glance to the left and find materials for camping outdoors: some tents, bedrolls, grills, knives and the like. I pick out a simple looking tent, a rolled cotton pallet, and some stakes before carrying my bundle up to the front counter.

With the provisions all settled and my new equipment attached to my saddle, Sadie leads me north through the city, back to the swampy area where we had started hunting. The sun has completely risen by the time we cross the rickety bridges. At a crossroads, Sadie turns left, and I follow her as the terrain rises, bringing us back to the rolling green pastures.

Though it isn’t the same meadow, I picture me and Arthur soaring across the clearing to my right, our arms spread wide, laughing and screaming. I growl under my breath and return my attention to Sadie. “Where are we headed?”

“Northwest,” she says simply, and I scoff. I figured that much. She looks back in time to catch my irritated response. “Up to the Heartlands. Not quite there; we’ll camp up in the hills near Emerald Ranch. I heard there’s a gaggle of O’Driscoll’s that hang around that area, scouting for stagecoaches on their way to Saint Denis.”

“And how exactly is you getting all this intel?” I ask, leaning forward to snatch a bug out of Dottie’s mane.

“I have my sources.” Sadie gives me a sly grin as we turn, heading past Rhodes and farther down the beaten path.

The earth continues to rise now that we’re a good distance from Flat Iron Lake. We pass an old stable on our left, and Sadie veers off behind it, toward a dried up creek littered with rocks and dead tree limbs. She starts to head up the ridge further on, a sharp curve on otherwise even terrain.

When we reach the crest, she pulls Bob to a stop. I falter behind her. “Alright,” she muses, hopping off the horse. “This is as good a place as any. We can see anyone coming and going.”

I dismount Dottie, patting her on the side as I approach Sadie. She digs in her satchel, pulling out a pair of binoculars and slowly swiveling her head down the paths beneath us.

“See anything?” I ask.

Sadie shrugs. “No, but I doubt they’d just be sitting around a campfire all day.” She pulls the binoculars away to squint her eyes up at the sun. “Wanna catch some dinner? There’s pronghorn around these parts.”

Sadie and I retrieve our repeaters from our horses. I tuck mine under my arm, slipping my fingers into the action and pushing it forward, then pulling back. I hear the gun snap into a ready position, a sound I had grown used to on my many escapades with Sadie.

We crouch down, searching the earth for tracks, then huddle underneath a sparse group of trees about fifty yards away from the horses. The pronghorns arrive after about an hour or so, and I try to ignore the fire searing through my hunched legs as I finally rise. I shift my weight, bring the sights to my eyes.

Her head raises. She looks around, then flicks her tail.

BANG!

The bullet sears through the doe's neck, and she lets one tiny, guttural sound leave her lips before she collapses to the ground. I stand as the herd scampers away, rolling my shoulder and stomping toward the carcass.

Sadie trails behind me. “How’s the new piece?”

I turn it over in my hands, my thumb sliding across the engraved stag. “Shoots pretty good, right?”

“How did it feel?” she asks.

I stop in front of the dead doe, the crimson blood pooling out of her throat and staining the grass beneath her. Sadie steps forward and unsheathes her knife, turning the doe onto its back. I crouch beside her to help but she waves me away, then plunges the blade into the pronghorn’s sternum and rips it down her abdomen.

“It’s got a little more kick than yours does,” I admit, straightening back up. “But that don’t matter when I’m aiming.”

Sadie cuts as much meat as she can from the doe and stacks it in her arms, and I walk with her back to the horses. We gather a few rocks and arrange them into a small circle. Sadie slams her grill down in the center as I head to the nearest tree, breaking off a few branches and collecting the loose sticks from the ground. I return and stack them up beneath the grill, and Sadie lays the meat across the iron.

“Start cooking, would you?” She flicks her lighter toward me, and I catch it against my chest. “I’m gonna get these tents set up.”

I click the lighter at the base of the wood and give it a gentle blow. I move the largest log so that the flame catches the other sticks, and a small fire starts to nip and grow from the center. I hear Sadie banging the stakes down into the ground, grumbling to herself, then the tarps flap open. I turn and watch her drape the tents over the stakes, secure them to the ground, and tie them closed. I periodically return my attention to the grill to flip the venison onto its other side, cursing as the hot meat singes my fingers.

Once dinner is cooked, Sadie retrieves two plates from her saddle bag and hands me one, then uses a fork to yank the meat from the iron and dump it onto them. There’s quite a few extra pieces, and she salts and wraps them into a stained cloth before she folds her legs and scoots closer to the campfire.

I stab my venison with my fork. It’s one long piece and we don’t have knives, so I bring the entire cut up to my teeth and tear a chunk off of it. Deer has always been chewy, and the pronghorn is no exception. My jaw aches, but my stomach aches even more, so I rip another piece off and gnaw on it slowly.

Me and Sadie eat in companionable silence. The sun slowly sets in the west, cascading an orange hue onto the hill, the grass, the tents, her. With our plates cleaned, Sadie leans back against the stake of her tent, picking something out of her teeth and sucking it off of her finger. I snort as I shuffle back against my own stake and copy her, stretching my legs out and letting out a soft sigh.

"You know,” I start, rolling my boot in the dirt. “I’ve gotten used to this kinda life. It’s so… freeing.” I wave my arm. “You just do your share of chores, get some money for the camp, but otherwise you can do whatever you want, go wherever you want. Kinda,be whoever you want." I tilt my head toward her. "It’s so different than the life I had before.”

Sadie nods, and I suck in a deep breath of the sunset. The warmth feels good on my face. It’s soothing.

The crickets sing. A hawk cries off in the distance. Bob and Dottie snort into the grass and drag their hooves across the dirt.

“It’s a fine life, but it ain’t the like I had with Jakey.” Sadie’s neck is craned back and she looks up at the sky, the beginnings of stars blinking against the purple haze. She sets her jaw, then whips her head back down to look at me. “How are you feeling about all this?”

I straighten. “All what?”

“Ambushing them O’Driscoll’s.”

I chew on the thought. I’m sure she’s noticed that my vigor has dissipated in the past few days—ever since Arthur talked to me in the clearing. Revenge is a fool’s game. I can still hear it crystal clear, as if he’s sitting right next to me and whispering it in my ear. I can still see the resolve in his eyes, the downward curl of his lips.

I don’t respond, and Sadie continues. “I wouldn’t blame you if you headed back to camp right now.”

“I ain’t leaving you out here to do this alone,” I say sternly, lowering my gaze.

Sadie holds it just as fiercely. “Lillian,” she starts, and she repositions herself to curl her legs underneath her. “You might have those others fooled, but you ain’t fooling me.” She grits her teeth. “You don’t care too much about revenge, and you ain’t never loved that man.”

I seethe, twisting my neck, looking away from her. It’s a fear that had been creeping in the back of my mind for weeks, and now, hearing it out in the open, it feels sick, disgusting. Wrong. It makes sense to feel that way now, after seeing Ray in that hotel room with the O’Driscoll man, arguing over my father’s money. But it shouldn’t have before that.

I dig my finger into the ground, drawing a circle and then slashing through it.

I want to tell her. I want to finally get it off my chest, what I’d seen, what I’ve been feeling. What I’d done. If there’s anyone I can trust, it’s her. If there’s anyone that will give me an honest opinion about my possible descent into madness, it’s Sadie Adler.

“He sold me out,” I say quietly, refusing to meet her gaze. “Sold my family out.”

It’s Sadie’s turn to be quiet. I hear her shuffle her position again, clearing her throat. I don’t know where to go from there, so I sit and wait for her to speak again, for her to urge me into what I should say next. “How do you mean, Lillian?”

My cheeks flush, my jaw tightens, and I feel tears threatening to spill out of my eyes but I refuse to let them fall. I brush my hand violently against my drawings in the dirt, erasing them. “Remember that O’Driscoll I ran into in Saint Denis?”

I finally look at her, and her eyes are steel, unreacting to the bugs that swirl around her face. She’s breathing deeply, preparing herself for whatever information I am about to divulge. She gives me a curt nod.

“Well,” I start, sighing, pulling one of my legs into myself but keeping the other extended. “I did follow him into that back room. I had my hand in my satchel, ready to draw, ready to shoot. I didn’t care about who saw or what happened to me after that. But…” I chew my lip. “He was meeting someone. He was… meeting Ray.”

It is only through the absolute stillness of the night that I am able to hear Sadie’s lips part, her lungs draw in a sharp and quick breath. And then, her swallow. “He got out?”

“Oh, he did more than get out,” I spit. Rage slashes at my insides, clawing, begging to be freed. “He set the entire thing up. Got into debt with Colm O’Driscoll cause his dumbass was betting with money that he didn’t have. So, he dressed me up, put this huge f*cking necklace on me that you could see from a mile away, told me we had a house, that he had a job lined up.”

“Rode that rickety wagon down the road, stopped when he saw the O’Driscoll’s come out. And then, with me out of the house and left to the f*cking wolves, they raided my home. Murdered my father, my caretaker, left the animals to rot, rummaged through everything we owned. Stole my Daddy’s money and gave Ray half the cut for the tip.”

“Jesus,” Sadie breathes. She’s still for a moment, then reaches for her satchel and pulls a large flask out of the center pocket. She takes a long swig and then hands it to me, wiping her mouth. “Jesus Christ, Lillian. Take a sip of that. Honestly, take the whole thing. You deserve it.”

I take the flask from her and unscrew the top, letting the contents slide down my throat and warm my belly. I swallow, licking the acidity from my lips—a memory conjures, something that had seemed strange in the moment but now makes absolute, disgusting sense.

“He’s supposed to be on that riverboat game with Arthur and them. Supposed to be doubling his earnings. Apparently, Colm's cut of Daddy's money didn't cover the debt.”

Sadie tilts her head tentatively. “But… he’s not?”

“Nope,” I snap, letting the flask rest in my lap. “Nope, I went up to the counter of that hotel and gave the attendant the last of my cash from that night. I asked her which room he was in, said I wanted to remind him what he was marrying.” I snort. “And then I looted his safe, took all the money—well, all my Daddy’s money—that was in there.” I hold up my now bare hand. “I took off my ring, put it in the safe, and left. Arthur found me, took me to the bar, and… I spent some of it on our drinks, but I have more in my bag back at camp. A lot more.”

Sadie’s jaw drops open, and she’s still as a tree. Then, a bewildered chuckle tumbles from her lips. She shakes her head, knocking back against the stake of her tent, and crosses her hands behind head. “That’s… holy sh*t.” She sits up again, as if she doesn’t know what to do with herself. “That’s honestly the most badass thing I have ever heard in my life.”

I throw back a laugh, taking another swig of the flask. I can already feel my head starting to swim, even with the pounds of deer meat in my belly. I screw the cap back on and toss it back to her and she barely catches it, as if her mind was miles away. “Yeah, so…” I stumble over my words. “I guess you could say I’ve already gotten my revenge.”

Sadie is silent for a while, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the mosquitoes encircling our heads. She tilts her head again, calculating, and then her eyes flick to mine. “Does Arthur know all this?”

A flash of irritation scorches my chest and I sneer at her. “Why?” I ask, throwing my arms to the side. “Why would it matter if Arthur knew that?”

Sadie raises her eyebrows, looking at me through her lashes as she takes a drink. She licks her lips and then shrugs. “I don’t know. Sounds like something he’d like to know.”

I shake my head, grumbling, and cross my arms. “I ain’t even talked to him in days.”

“Yeah,” Sadie shoots back. “You haven’t. Why?”

I don’t respond to her. The conversation has drifted to an uncomfortable topic that, for whatever reason, still stings just as sharply as the day he admitted that he didn’t remember what happened our walk. I take a deep breath, in through my nose, out through my mouth.

I still say nothing to Sadie and she leans forward, extending the flask to me again. I reach to take it, and as my fingers curl around the silver and attempt to yank it back, she holds it in place, forcing me to look at her. “What happened with you two after you left the saloon?”

“Not a damn thing!” I snap at her, perhaps a bit too loudly, a bit too quickly. She releases her hold on the flask and I lean back, fiddling with the top.

She raises her eyebrows again and sticks her bottom lip out, casting her eyes to the side. “That’s not what he told me.”

Another flash of anger, this one ten-fold to the previous one, wracks my body and I glare at her. “How do you mean?! He told me he don’t remember!”

At this, a nasty grin forms on Sadie’s lips, and I know that I’ve been duped. I scoff, leaning back against the tent and taking another swig, heat throbbing in my cheeks.

“What happened?” she prods.

“He kissed me. It ain’t a big deal. I’m sure he…” I grit my teeth. “I’m sure he’s done it with plenty of women.”

“No,” Sadie says slowly, shaking her head. “He don’t.”

“He said he don’t remember.”

“Well, he had a lot to drink that night. We all did. Why’s that got you all in a tizzy?”

“Because he’s lying,” I lean forward, pointing my finger to the ground. “He said he don’t remember it, but that night, after it all was done and we walked back to the saloon, he asked me to steer his horse back to camp for him, and I told him I couldn’t ride a horse on my own. Next thing you know, he’s got a brand-spanking-new horse in the camp for me to have. Teaches me how to ride it. And then,” my voice raises, piercing into the otherwise still night, “proceeds to tell me that he don't remember the kiss that happened ten minutes before the horse thing.”

Sadie is quiet, her hazel eyes scanning my face. I settle back into my seat, flicking open the flask and taking a long swallow. My head spins when I return my hands to my lap. I shudder a breath, staring off into the distance, where I can see the horses’ silhouettes against the navy backdrop of the Heartland sky. I rake my teeth, fuming, and those familiar tears crest my lash line.

“I’m just sick…” I trail off when I hear my voice quiver. I suck in a breath, hold it, let it out, compose myself. Images of Arthur battle against ones of Ray, fighting for prominence in my mind. “I’m sick of all these men lying to me.”

“Lillian, I don’t think he’s—”

“He was talking about Mary before he did it. About how she, how she—” I hiccup loudly, and I ball my hand into a fist and slam it into the ground.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry over something so utterly stupid.

Sadie begins again after minutes of silence. “Arthur is a complex feller, Lillian. He… stews on things. Overthinks.”

“Hardly,” I spit.

Sadie stares at me before she sighs, pulling herself into a standing position. She saunters over to me and grabs the flask, giving herself another draw before she seals it and puts it back in her bag. “Alright, well, try and channel some of that anger into tomorrow’s hunt, would you? This is the most fired up I’ve seen you since we met.” She stretches her arms. “We’ll get up at dawn, just like we normally do. Hopefully, we’ll find them still sleeping.”

And with that, she disappears into her tent, and I hear her unfurling her bedroll and stretching it out across the dry earth.

I sit for a few moments, groveling in my own thoughts, before I angrily force myself up and snap open the flap to my tent. I yank my new travel pallet open and slap it against the ground, crawling onto it and forcing myself to sleep.

- - -

The first rays of sunlight are weakly poking their heads into my tent when I hear the horses nickering. I groan, rolling onto my other side, and stare out of the thin slit of the tarp. My heart starts when my mind realizes that the sun has risen and Sadie hasn't awoken me.

I pull myself into a sitting position, rubbing my cheeks with my hands and then shaking them out. Sadie is awake; I hear her walking around the camp, clattering dishes, fluttering fabric. I snatch my boots and hike them onto my feet, standing and digging my heels into the leather. I buckle my pants, return my jacket to my shoulders, grab my holster and sling it around my hips.

I’m about to emerge from the tent when I see him: a dark figure, clad mostly in black with hints of dark brown, his hands digging through Sadie’s satchel. I freeze, my breath hitched in my throat, as he turns the bag over and lets the contents spill onto the dirt. He grunts as he crouches, picks through her belongings and tosses away what doesn’t interest him. He finds the flask and brings it to his lips.

My fingers hover over the revolver on my hip. The pads touch the glazed wood, sleek, heavy, and I yank it out and hold it by my side, my thumb co*cking back the hammer. I take one step toward the flap, let my hand curl around it.

“Shut up!” the crouched man shouts at her.

“She’s a whiner, ain’t she?” Another voice, another O’Driscoll, calls from my left, obscured by the fabric of my tent. The muscles in my legs tense, my mind reeling. There’s at least two of them.

Where is Sadie?

I let one shuddered breath leave my lips before I tear the tent open, pointing my revolver at the head of the man shuffling through Sadie’s things. He jumps up, grabbing his own weapon from his side and aims for my chest, flexing the fingers on his free hand.

“Well, look what we have here,” he croons lowly, glancing to his right. I follow his gaze and find the second O’Driscoll, his arm looped around Sadie’s shoulders, pressing her body in front of his. He walks to the left, keeping the barrel of his gun flush against her temple, and gives me a snarling, wide-toothed grin.

Notes:

Thanks so much for reading guys! This story is so fun; rootin' tootin' cowboy land is such a joy to write a story in. I appreciate all the kudos, bookmarks, comments. AO3 is such a great community and I'm having just as much fun in my second story as the first. Let me know what you think of the latest installment.
- Mowglie
Diamond Road

Summary:

Wow, that'll make some story, Mary-Beth.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

I keep the barrel of my revolver pointed at the man’s head, following as he laughs, his own weapon aimed at me as he bends down to retrieve the flask that he dropped. He dusts it on his shirt with his free hand, then screws off the top with one finger.

“I remember you,” the other O’Driscoll says lowly, repositioning his hold on Sadie. “Little shack up near the Dakota River? Lots of animals up there?”

The mention of my home brings back the vision of when I was last there, of my family’s bodies on the floor, my rotting pigs, the cans on the hardwoods, the chicken foot. I lick my lips, reposition the weapon in my hands, and I open my mouth to speak but he shouts, “Try anything, and I’ll blow her brains out.”

“You slipped away for a bit, didn’t you?” the other agrees, taking a long swig of the flask. “Looks like we found you again.”

He accidentally drops his revolver when he loses his grip on the flask. He bends down to pick up both items.

Shoot him. Shoot him now.

I grit my teeth, my hand quivering against the gun. The hatred and fury that pounds in my skull is eclipsed by the fear, the realization of what I have gotten myself into, what I’ve gotten Sadie into. I glance at the revolver pressed against her head. I can’t move—can’t even drag my finger back to pull the trigger.

I stay rooted to the spot. The O’Driscoll stands when he collects the flask and the revolver.

“Where’s your bag?” the man holding Sadie asks me.

He snarls and turns his attention back to the man grabbing Sadie’s bag, filling it with the flask and whatever else he felt worthy enough to take with him. “Oi! Eamon! You need to be looking through her sh*t.” He nods his head toward me. “She’s the one that stole the money.”

Sadie’s eyes find mine. My hands are shaking so violently that I almost drop my gun, but I don’t dare move, don’t dare to solidify my footing or wipe the sweat onto my pants. “It… the money ain’t here,” I manage to croak out.

“Oh, I’m sure it ain’t.” The man, Eamon, smiles at me. He takes a few steps toward my tent. “Put your gun away, sweetheart. We both know you ain’t got the sand to shoot me.”

“I don’t have the money here,” I say quietly again. My lip quivers, and I curse myself for it, but I keep the gun aimed at him despite the barrel dancing to and from his chest.

Eamon digs his feet into the ground, as if remembering that he has a weapon as well, and raises it to point it at my head. “I ain’t asking again, bitch.” He spits the word. “Move aside, put your gun down.”

My heart pounds in my ears. My body is numb. My mind can’t wrap around the fact that this is really happening, that me and Sadie’s ambush turned into an attack against us, that she has a gun pressed against her skull and this man has his weapon aimed at me.

My gun lowers slightly as my body convulses. I try to stand steady but my knees buckle. All I can see ishis face, and I fight the instinct to cry out his name, to beg to be saved from these men again, to apologize for—

Sadie screams, a piercing, guttural sound, and in one quick motion, she ducks out of the hold of the O’Driscoll and snatches her revolver from its holster. She grabs his arm and holds it down, her barrel raises and presses to his chin, and she fires; the bullet piercing through the soft underbelly of her captor's jaw and blowing out the back of his head.

She whips around and fires again. Eamon barely has any time to react before a cloud of red bursts from his chest. Blood gurgles in his throat—the muscles in his body die and bring him to the ground in a sickening, heavy sound.

I gasp and grip my chest, my gun dropping from my hands and clattering to the earth. The horses whinny from the sidelines, stomping their feet, the whites of their eyes visible in their panicked expressions.

Sadie wipes her mouth, a smear of O’Driscoll blood coating her face and now her sleeve, and she bends over and yanks the man onto his back. She rips her satchel from his body and hooks it onto her own, then digs into his pockets.

She straightens up, shoving some crumpled money, a bottle of whiskey, a watch, and a case of bullets into her bag. I still haven’t moved, a statue against the bloody scene, and Sadie glances at me. “Search him,” she nods at the other man, the one that held her, the crimson liquid encircling his body. She snorts and spits onto the earth. “Hurry up, before you lose your nerve.”

I bend slowly, grabbing my revolver and co*cking the hammer to its original position. I release it back into my holster on a few tries, my shaking hands struggling to place the weapon back into its confines.

I walk slowly toward him. Sadie has already snuffed out the fire and begun to break down her tent.

The man’s eyes are glazed, pointing toward nothing in particular. Blood oozes from the hole in his jaw, dripping down his neck, already beginning to crystallize and harden. The back of his head is splayed open, bits of gray matter dotting the grass behind him.

My hands fumble as I search his jacket pocket, forcing my fingers into the cotton. I find a bill fold, the corners stained maroon, and shove it into the crook of my elbow. Then, ammunition, a pair of earrings, a stick of dynamite, a tarot card—I grab everything and bundle it into my arms.

Sadie has already packed her tent and grill, her hands like lightning, and has started to pull the tarp down of mine. She rolls it into a bundle, then reaches to grab my satchel from my bedroll and tosses it to me.

I grip the bag to my chest and slowly place the contraband into it. I feel my vision beginning to swim, the contents of my stomach churning, my fingers and toes growing numb.

“Hey.” Sadie is before me in an instant, snapping her fingers in front of my face. She cradles the pieces of my tent in her other arm. “You’re alright. We gotta move. There will be more coming. There’s no way there was just two.”

She hands me the tarp and the stakes and I wrap them tightly, whistling weakly for Dottie. Her and Bob return to the camp, shaking their heads and whimpering, and I shove the tent onto the back of her saddle. I snatch up my pallet, rolling it as tightly as possible.

Sadie wipes her brow, then hoists herself onto Bob and he trots in place, waiting for Dottie. I pull myself onto her and Sadie immediately takes off down the hill.

I follow her as she navigates us to the dirt path, but instead of following it, she crosses it, opting to dart across the grass and toward the tree line.

Dottie stomps behind her and my legs tingle. Every trot is another wave of nausea that washes over me. I look down at my hands, at my blood-stained fingers that tightly grip the reins, and I feel my throat constrict. I lean over, ready to spill the contents of my stomach onto the green grass, when I hear Sadie scream: “Ride, Lil!”

My head snaps behind us and I see three more dark-coated men riding on even darker horses, their revolvers drawn and aimed directly at us. I shriek and duck my head down as a bullet flies past, swiping the loose hair that dangles around my face. I hear Sadie grunt, and Dottie’s body raises as we climb up another hill. I squeeze my eyes shut, praying that she doesn’t stumble over a rock or wrap us around a tree as we charge through the brush.

Sadie returns fire and it’s like the gates of Hell have opened up around us. The O'Driscoll's shots are frenzied, and I can hear the bullets zipping past my head, feel the heat in the air, the cracks piercing my ears. Dottie neighs loudly and throws her head back, her mane clipping my face.

Before I can think, before I can reason or force myself into another frozen state of fear, I reach down and pull my revolver from the holster. I think back to riding across the field with Arthur, of leaving my upper body free and clinging to Dottie with just the strength in my legs. I force my eyes open, watch as flashes of green and brown whip past, and release my hold on the reins. I swivel my body, aim my gun at the nearest black blob I can focus on, and fire.

I hear a man scream and a horse whinny. The O’Driscoll falls off his steed, his back slapping against the ground, and the horse kicks its back legs and shoots the opposite direction, down the hill. The man rolls over, grasping at his leg, the familiar crimson fountain pouring down his skin and dripping onto the ground.

Dottie slows and Sadie appears on my right—I nearly jump out of my skin, nearly aim my revolver at her, but manage to keep it held tightly in my hands. She leads Bob over to the man slowly, reaches down to yank something from his saddle, and then slides off the horse. The sun catches the silver of the large hunting knife in her hands.

The O’Driscoll sees the machete and spurts out, “No! Please! I’ll let you go, I don’t care!” He flips onto his hands and knees, his shot leg dragging behind him. “I don’t care about no money! I don’t care!”

Sadie is unrelenting in her pursuit. She grabs the man’s hair, pulls his head back and forces him to look her in the eyes. And then, she growls, bringing the blade to the man’s neck and slicing it open. Blood spurts from his throat, and his last cry is mangled by the liquid that is undoubtedly flowing from every orifice from his neck up. She stares down, her chest heaving, before she finally releases her hold, and the O’Driscoll drops back onto the ground.

I pant, Dottie whipping her tail and shaking her head as Sadie holds her position for a few moments. Then, she spins and walks back toward Bob. She’s entirely drenched in red: her shirt, her pants, her shoes, her face and arms. She wipes the knife against her jeans and slides it back into her bag, then hops onto the saddle and swings her leg up over the horse.

I look back and I see the bodies of the other two O’Driscoll’s crumpled in the dirt a few yards away. I shove my gun back into the holster as Sadie brings Bob up right beside us. “Well,” she muses, spitting onto the ground, “Looks like we’ve made a few enemies.”

She smiles at me, and the blood coating her face mingles with the saliva in her mouth and spreads across her teeth. My stomach lurches and bend over to the left, the pronghorn meat making its last appearance on the grass beneath us.

Dottie snorts and shimmies away from my mess as Sadie laughs. “Hey, now! Keep it together.” She leans her arms across the horn of her saddle. “You actually shot one. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

I wipe my mouth begrudgingly. “We… are not doing that again.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Sadie mutters. She cranes her neck to look at our surroundings. “You know, we ain’t too far from Rhodes. There’s a fence where we can sell all that sh*t we got off of them heathens.”

I wave my arm sarcastically behind me. “What, you don’t wanna loot these fools, too?”

Sadie is deadpan in her answer. “No, we should probably get on.”

She claps Bob on the side and spurs him on past us, Dottie naturally falling into line behind them. We continue to the top of the hill, where I can see a small, dusty town ahead of us. Red clay swirls up underneath the coming and going wagons and horses. The derelict buildings have rotten wood and chipped paint—the one structure that seems to be even somewhat maintained is the large white saloon on the edge of the street.

As we get closer, Sadie pulls back on the reins and digs into her satchel. “I shouldn’t go anywhere near town with all this blood on me.” She grabs the watch and bottle of whiskey and tosses each one over to me. “Go up to that little group of shacks and sell those for me. It’s the red one.”

I swivel Dottie to head toward the strip, but Sadie calls me back: “Wait, come here a second.”

I approach and she digs into her satchel again, this time retrieving a white rag. “Just….” She gives it to me, then waves her hand in a circle. “Wipe your face a little.”

I oblige, digging the cotton into every crease of my skin, and pull back; I feel my stomach churn when I see several small smears of blood on the white rag. I glance down at my shirt and jacket, where many more flecks of red dot the light denim and pale yellow fabric.

“Alright, you’re good.” She takes the rag back. “I’ll wait right here.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” I say quietly, turning Dottie toward the town again.

“If anyone asks, it’s deer blood!”

I give her a mock salute as Dottie trudges up the hill, sliding onto the clay path. The shacks are a small distance away from the town, a few pathetic structures huddled around each other and littered with sleeping people, alcoholic beverages, and a couple loose pigs. I stare at one, watch as it sniffs an apple core, its little snout puckering before it sticks out its tongue and scoops it up. No crows encircling this one, waiting to peck at it. I pull Dottie to a stop and slide off the saddle.

A group of chickens caw and scuttle away as I make my way toward the red building. I walk around the corner where I find a little window in the side and a skinny, long-haired man smoking a cigarette. His eyes, creased as if permanently staring at the sun, scan over me as I step up to his booth. “Ye got blood on ya,” he says simply, flicking away his cigarette.

“It’s deer blood,” I retort, and I reach into my bag to splay my contraband on the counter before him.

He snatches one of the earrings and holds it up, rubbing his chin. “Yeah, you know all them deer that walk around with jewelry and bottles of whiskey?”

“I didn’t say I looted the deer.” I cross my arms. “Found all this in an abandoned wagon outside of town when we was coming back from a hunt.”

“Sure.” The man moves onto the watch and whiskey, taking his time to cradle each in his hand and survey the quality. Then, he scoops it all up and heads to the back of the building. “I’ll take it all. Fifty good?”

“Sure,” I echo him. I realize that he left the tarot card on the counter and I finger one of its corners. “This ain’t worth nothing?”

The man glances back to see what I am referring to, then grunts, placing me and Sadie’s loot on a back shelf and crouching down to retrieve some money out of a black bag. He counts it out as he returns, then hands it to me. “I ain’t into all that collectible sh*t. No value in it for my customers. There’s a traveling witch that comes around these parts that might be interested, though.”

I run my fingers across the money, then stuff it into my bag. I reach out and grab the tarot card, quirking my eyebrows at the man. “A witch?”

“Sure.” He nods his head, then pulls another cigarette out of his pocket and lights it up. “She don’t stay in one place for too long. When she comes around here, she usually camps around Bolger Glade. You know, that Civil War field south of town?” I shake my head and he leans out of the window to point. “Just follow that road south, heading near that Braithwaite property, or what’s left of it, anyway. She’ll sit a big red wagon on the side of the path. Plays some God-awful music. You can’t miss her.”

I nod and smile, putting the tarot card back into my bag and turning on my heel. I shuffle my way around the building to find that a woman dressed in rags, knotted bun on her hand and dirt caking her arms, is standing near Dottie, holding out a rotten carrot and trying to get her to take it. Dottie stomps her feet and swishes her head, walking away from the woman who meekly trails after her.

I whistle for Dottie and she perks up, taking a few steps toward me, and the woman falters, dropping the carrot. She stares as I approach and mount up. “That’s a beautiful horse, Miss.”

“Thank you,” I say shortly.

I’m about to spur her on and head back to Sadie when the woman speaks again. “I used to have a horse, too. It died in a fire. Some bad, nasty folk wanted some money they thought my husband had.” She shrugs her shoulders. “He wouldn’t give it up, so they threw some kind of dynamite into the house and left. My husband didn’t make it out, nor my kid. I… I had a problem, with the bottle, you know? Didn’t even think to grab my child.”

I swallow, looking down at the saddle. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I mumble, unsure of what else I could say. I’m about to offer my own story of loss, of husbands and money and bad men, but she begins speaking again.

“It’s alright.” She puts her hands on her hips. “You live and you learn. You can’t dwell on the past, only learn from it. I’ve been sober for nigh-on six years now. But never seemed to really get back on my feet.” She kicks a rock. “It’s hard to look at children now, you know? Every child looks like him. I see his eyes in all of their eyes.”

She then crosses her arms, and her throat bobs, as if choking back a sob. “My horse didn’t look near as good as yours. Just a plain old brown Morgan. But she got the job done, was a sweet girl.” The woman grits her teeth. “I didn’t think to go to the barn, neither. Just hiked up my skirt and ran.”

Dottie is growing impatient, scratching her hoof and snorting. I’m silent for a few moments, then reach down for my saddle bag and pull out a fresh, orange carrot. I toss it over to the woman, then lead Dottie over so she can feed it to her. The woman gives me a wide smile, revealing years of rotting teeth, and lets Dottie take the carrot from her hand. She pats her on the nose.

Once the carrot is gone, she throws the butt away and I spur Dottie. The woman waves as I pass. “Thank you, Miss. Nobody gives us the time of day around these parts.”

I tip my head to her, then head back to the clearing where I know Sadie to be waiting. When she leads Bob out from behind a bush, my heart starts. I had forgotten that she is still completely drenched in the scarlet blood.

“How did you get on?”

“Twenty-five each,” I call to her, pulling the money from my bag, splitting it, and tossing her half to her. “I had a tarot card, but he didn’t buy it. He said some traveling witch might be interested in it. Said she camps a little south of here sometimes.”

Sadie raises her eyebrows, just as I had done back at the shack. “A witch?”

- - -

When we arrive back at camp, it seems like most, if not all, of the gang is here. The campfires are mostly full, the chatter is loud, and everyone’s horse appears to be hanging around the edges of the field. I see Soterio, whose head bucks when he sees Dottie approaching. He wades out a little farther from the group to greet her.

We slide off the horses and head into camp. Miss Grimshaw is walking her empty plate to the washing bin when she catches us in her line of vision. She dumps the plate hurriedly, then storms over to us, her arms swinging. “Well, look who it is!” she calls. “Y’all’ve been gone for nearly two days, leaving the other ladies to—” Her face drops as her eyes settle onto my companion. “Oh, mother of Christ, Sadie!”

The camp grows quiet, everyone craning their necks to look at Sadie and me. I hear Abigail gasp loudly.

“It ain’t nothing,” Sadie tuts. The blood on her is now caked, cracking at the creases of her arms and face. It coats her hair, stiff as straw. “Just cutting up some deer, got a little bit messy.”

“Oh yeah?” Pearson shouts from his wagon. His eyes are squinted as he looks us both over suspiciously. “Where’s the meat, then?”

Sadie growls, digging into her satchel and flashing the bundled pronghorn meat at him. “It’s right here, you moron!”

Miss Grimshaw walks over to me, holding out my arms, checking my shirt, and clicks her tongue. “Get undressed, both of you, and take a bath. Give me them clothes. You gotta act fast if you wanna get any of that out.”

I look to Sadie. “You should probably go first.”

She snorts, giving me a small smile, and follows Miss Grimshaw around to the back of the mansion. I hear her fussing over Sadie as she begins unbuttoning her shirt.

I head over to my cot, digging through my bag until I find some soft riding pants and a loose shirt. I head to the back of a wagon, undressing quickly and throwing on the clean, blood-free garments. I crumple the old ones into a ball and emerge; Miss Grimshaw is already waiting, her hand outstretched and an eyebrow raised. I hand them to her.

My stomach grumbles, now completely empty after what happened with the O’Driscoll’s. Being back at camp, surrounded by safety and familiar faces, my adrenaline finally begins to drop. Despite my hunger, my stomach twists and turns with images of the bullet piercing the back of the O’Driscoll’s head, of them chasing us and me firing blindly, of Sadie stalking toward the last one like a hungry panther and ripping his throat out.

Sweat breaks across my hairline and I wipe it away, forcing myself to take one step, then another, until I reach the stewpot and pour myself a heaping portion. The smell is nauseating, and the thought of chewing is repulsive, but I make my way over to one of the fires and plop myself down. It’s smaller, closer to the outskirts of the camp, and unoccupied.

Everyone else carries on as usual. Javier is strumming his guitar and singing lowly and softly. Most are already well into their drinks, laughing and shouting and reliving memories. Jack tottles around to different individuals, sitting with them momentarily before growing bored and leaving to find something else to occupy him.

I’m swirling the stew with a fork when Mary-Beth arrives, sitting on the stump to my left. She is clutching a book tightly against her bosom, a pen in her right hand. She co*cks her head and smiles at me, “Hello, Lillian.”

“Mary-Beth,” I nod at her. I stab a piece of meat and bring it to my lips, cringing, then open and pull it into my mouth. My stomach knots immediately and I close my eyes, thinking about Dottie, or the fun I had in Saint Denis, or sitting with Sadie on the hill and staring up into the Heartland sky. Anything except the massacre that we left in our wake, or her blood-drenched clothes, or the sound of the O’Driscoll’s cries of pain and desperate pleas for mercy.

“I wanted to ask you something,” she starts, shuffling around in her seat. “If it’s too soon, that’s quite alright.”

I swallow the food down. “What is it?”

Mary-Beth bites her lip. “Well, you know how I’m trying to be a novelist?” I nod and begin playing with my food again. “Well, I want to write a romance story. Set it out in the wild west, draw on some of the experiences I’ve had in my life.” She opens the journal, where I see her neat penmanship on the lines. She flips to a clean page. “But, I ain’t ever experienced real love. I ain’t never been close to marrying nobody.”

I fail to realize where she is going with this and I give her a sympathetic look. “Mary-Beth, you’re young. You’ve got plenty of time to find the right man.” I shovel some stew into my fork, then let it plop back down onto the plate. “That ain’t something you need to concern yourself with. He’ll come along at some point.”

She brushes the thought away. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. I just don’t know when that will be, and I don’t wanna wait around for some man in order for me to write the greatest book of all time.”

I grin and jab my fork at her. “Sure. Get on, then!”

I force down some more food as Mary-Beth stares. “Well, that’s kind of the thing, Lillian. It’s the one experience that I don’t have yet, so I don’t know how to write about it.” She cross her legs, readjusting her grip on the journal. “Can I ask you, if you don’t mind?”

“Ask me what?”

“You know,” she pauses, her eyelashes fluttering. “What it’s like. What were your thoughts when you first met your husband? What was it like when you kissed him for the first time? How did you know you wanted to marry him?”

And with that, my entire appetite is officially gone. I lower the stew onto my lap and stare down at it. My mind drifts from seeing him in Saint Denis, of stealing his money, to seeing the corpses of my family, of swearing revenge on the O’Dricsoll’s. And then, to today, where I shot a man in the leg. Where blood sprayed onto my face like I was standing at the foot of a waterfall.

Sadie’s accusation, You ain’t never loved that man, and the realization that perhaps it’s true, I never had. That I never really gave myself a chance to make a decision on my own. I never explored the world, never knew what was beyond the river that snaked along the north side of my father’s ranch or what laid across the Heartlands. Ray was the only man I knew that wasn’t my Daddy, besides the old, weathered workers that would stay with us for a few nights.

I’m not sure how long I’m quiet for, and Mary-Beth stands, adjusts her skirt, and sits back down. I can tell she wants to say something, but isn’t sure what, and lets me stew in my thoughts. I think about love, what it really means to love someone, and I can’t conjure thoughts of Ray. Even the good times are tainted now, stained by what he did to me. They’re blood-red, just like Sadie’s clothes.

Revenge is a fool’s game.

I place the fork into my stew and sigh, leaning back. Why does that always come back to me?

I stare up at the stars. I want to give her an honest answer, but the last thing I need is everyone knowing what Ray has done and what it has shaped me into, what I’m becoming, what I did and what I plan to do. I try to focus on the times that were good and force them to still be some kind of good, so I can channel some kind of response for her. “You don’t…” I trail off. “You don’t really realize that you’re starting to care for someone until it’s much too late. You don’t decide, you don’t have some… aha moment or anything like that. You talk with them, get to know them, start to crave their presence or their touch or their eyes on you.”

Mary-Beth immediately begins scrawling across the page, her words less neat and more hurried, like chicken-scratch. I decide to try and stomach another bite of stew before she speaks again. “Okay, and what’s it like when you finally realize you love them?”

I grumble under my breath. “Mary-Beth, I find it hard to believe you ain’t never felt anything for a man.”

She scoffs. “Well, I ain’t gonna pretend I ain’t never fancied a man at a bar or nothing. But that ain’t love. I wanna know what the real deal is like.”

I sigh, stretching my legs. Tilly saunters over, a shawl draped over her shoulders, and sits down. “What y’all ladies talking about?”

Mary-Beth ignores her, still staring intently at me, her pen at the ready. “Well,” I start, then stop.

I simply can’t do it. I can’t picture Ray and talk about love. I can’t think about him proposing, picking me up and spinning around, and kissing me with closed, tight lips and call it love.

My mind flashes to the camp with Sadie last night. The emotions that consumed me, the fire that lapped at my chest, my heart. The anger, and then the tears, the realization that I refused to acknowledge.

I put my fork down. “It’s scary. It’s a lot. It… consumes you. It creeps into every thought that you have, every decision you make. It ain’t all rainbows and fairy-tales, that’s for sure. But, when you think about it, it feels good. Sets your body alight.”

Mary-Beth’s eyes flick to her right, then dart back to me. I’m tempted to follow her gaze, but I don’t, instead focusing on the plate of stew. “And the first kiss?” she asks.

And then, Ray completely disappears from my mind, gone like a heavy stone dropped into a racing river.

I shudder a breath. “It… ain’t like anything you’ve ever felt before. His lips and hands are like a hot iron on your skin. The world melts away, and nothing matters but him and what he’s doing to you. Everything… makes sense. Everything will be alright.” I suck my lip into my mouth and pick up the fork again. I stab some meat and hold it up before my face before forcing it into my mouth, chewing on the gritty tendrils. I realize what I have admitted, the mistake I have made. Mary-Beth doesn’t, but I do. The next sentence out of my mouth sickens me to my core, but I utter it anyway: “That’s what it was like to kiss Ray.”

Mary-Beth looks to the side again, and I prick my ears. I hear boots against the dirt behind us. Someone opens a bottle, takes a sip and grunts; I know who it is immediately. I feel my cheeks grow hot as the silhouette of Arthur appears on my right. “Wow,” he mutters, some emotion laced in his voice that I can’t pick up on. “That’ll make some story, Mary-Beth.”

He walks away and I can’t move, can’t think. My fork hangs limply in front of me. Mary-Beth says nothing. Tilly says nothing. We are silent around the campfire until Miss Grimshaw struts around from behind the mansion. She’s staring pointedly at me as she approaches. “Lillian!” she shouts, knocking me out of my trance. “Up!” She snaps her fingers. “Get up and take a bath, right now!”

I rise slowly, resting my plate of stew on the log where I once sat, and trudge after her.

Notes:

Thanks so much for reading! I appreciate all the engagement and am having such a fun time writing this. I am in the interview process for a new job, and my graduate program starts soon, but I hope to keep these updates at a weekly consistency. Please let me know what you think of the latest installment.
Cheers!
Mowglie

Diamond Road

Summary:

The stars whisper their secrets to me, write it in the palms of our hands. They can see farther ahead than we can. For five dollars, I can tell you where your journey will end, or answer any questions you may have about your future.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

I awaken, on my own volition, in the early morning. The sun has begun to crest the horizon and flood the camp in a light blue hue. The embers of last night’s fire glow faintly. The birds sing a sweet tune. My stomach is sick.

I stand and grab a fresh shirt and pair of jeans and head to the wagon to change. As I pass, I see that Miss Grimshaw has mine and Sadie’s clothes from the previous night hanging on a line, swaying in the breeze, not a speck of blood on them. For that, I’m grateful. Another memory that I can hopefully erase.

Once my shirt is draped over me and my jeans are pulled up, I head back to my bedroll to shove on my boots and grab my cowskin poncho. I toss on my satchel, grabbing a bit more money from my stash and stuffing it inside. My holster and revolver sit at the bottom of the bag, and my fingers curl around them, gently removing them from their bed of clothes and securing them to my waist.

I’m not entirely sure where I’m going, but anywhere is better than here. There’s a heaviness that sits on my shoulders, some guilt that I cannot place. Something feels off. My mind keeps drifting to the conversation that I had with Mary-Beth, that Arthur overheard, his reaction, and the stillness of the night that followed.

I realize then the story itself probably didn’t meant anything to him. Hell, our kiss didn’t mean anything to him. Perhaps it was the fact that me and Sadie rode back to the gang covered in crimson, washed ourselves, and I sat at a campfire and told Mary-Beth what it was like to love someone. The juxtaposition of it all. Arthur discovering that his words about revenge had fallen onto deaf ears. That I was no different than the O’Driscoll’s that stole my family, that I was no different than Ray. Not that he knows that part, but I do: I growl under my breath as I adjust the satchel across my body.

I head to the horses. Dottie is up, yanking hay from the bale and chomping on it. She hears me approach and raises her head, taking a few steps toward me.

“Where are you going?”

The soft female voice startles me. I turn to the right and Abigail is sitting by the closest campfire, tin of coffee in her hands, shawl draped over her shoulders. Her sleepy eyes are piercing mine despite the droop of her eyelids.

“Out,” I say simply. Dottie finally reaches me, and I grab her reins in my hand.

“Out, where?”

“I don’t know, Abigail.” The words come out sharper than I had intended. I give her a soft shrug to ease the blow. “I ain’t had any alone time in months now. Just wanna ride around for a bit.”

I turn to face Dottie and slip one foot into the stirrup as Abigail speaks again. “You ain’t leaving, are you?”

My eyes catch hers, halfway pulled onto my horse. Her lips are pursed, almost into a grimace. I yank myself the rest of the way onto Dottie.

I could do it, if I wanted. I have a horse. I have money, though I’m not sure exactly how much. It’s probably plenty. I know how to shoot a gun. Hopefully, I’ve gained some sort of sense of whether or not folks could be trusted. But where would I go?

Perhaps, while I’m out riding for a while, I could take a look at places to settle down.

“Not today, Abigail,” I say. Dottie stomps impatiently, ready to get on the road.

“But soon?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know, I don’t think it’s wise to go out on your own,” she quips, crossing her arms. Her body is suddenly rigid with irritation. “You’ve got a lot of folk here that really care about you. And I know you care about them, too, so don’t try and say you don’t.”

“I weren’t going to,” I say quietly. Their faces form a line in my head: Sadie, Abigail and Jack, Tilly, Mary-Beth, Karen, Miss Grimshaw, Charles, John, Hosea.

Arthur.

“And every night, you got food in your belly and a place to sleep and people watching your back.”

“Sure.”

Abigail’s eyes soften and she swallows. “Right, well,” Her body relaxes. I guess she was expecting me to argue with her. “Just be careful, you hear? You got your gun?”

I roll my eyes but toss her a small smile as I direct Dottie away from the mansion. “I’ll be back, Abigail.”

- - -

The sun is beginning to perk up, the heat of the day starting to increase and stagnate in the air around me and Dottie. I feel a trickle of sweat racing from the nape of my neck to the small of my back and I wiggle fruitlessly, trying to get the cotton of my shirt to wipe it up. My poncho has been forgone, stuffed next to my bedroll on the back of the saddle. I’ve undone a few buttons of my shirt.

What was supposed to be a relaxing, mind-clearing ride has turned into a miserable journey to nowhere. I had subconsciously traveled north, the same path that Arthur and I took when he first gave me Dottie. I passed the field where we raced, the lake where we sat and he drew and told me he remembers nothing. The memory of his admission mingles with the conversation from last night and I scowl. “f*ck him,” I mutter under my breath to no one. I’m alone on the road. “No,” I say on a sigh, as if the bugs that flit around my face could repeat my words. “I didn’t mean that.”

The dusty town of Rhodes appears on my right and I veer toward it. The heat is sweltering, and nothing sounds better than a cold beer. Seeing as the saloon is the only building with some sort of maintenance, I figure it would be a good place to stop.

Dottie veers her way through the crowded streets, past the men with dirt on their faces that call out for money, attention, anything. The workers naturally weave out of Dottie’s path. Some nod their heads, some keep their eyes downcast. There’s a comment about my pants: “Ladies shouldn’t be wearing that.” I’m not sure where it comes from. I ignore it. I can’t help but to notice the copious amounts of horse manure that litter the dirt-caked road.

I bring Dottie up to the hitching post, where there’s a nice pool of crystalline water for her to drink from. She snorts an appreciation and bends her strong neck as I slip off, wrapping her reins quickly around the wood. I pat her once on her spotted rear as I head into the saloon.

The inside is even more immaculate than the exterior. Polished wood floors, rugs, table cloths, candles. It looks like the saloon in Saint Denis, where Tilly and I giggled and fled after reaping what we could from the sorry, drunk fools we encountered. I ignore the large staircase to my left and instead head for the bar, yanking back a stool and plopping into it.

The bartender approaches, slapping his hands on the countertop. “What can I get for you, miss?”

“Just a beer,” I say sweetly.

He grunts, reaches around to pop open a bottle, and slides it down the bar to me. I take a long, thankful swig and place a dollar down for him. After plucking a handful of the complimentary almonds and shoveling them down, I cross my arms, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. I rest my head into the crook of my elbow, suddenly feeling sleepy. The drops from the bottle cool my hands.

Someone enters from behind; I hear the creak of the door and a few greetings from other patrons of the bar. I raise my head as the unmistakable scent of a man working in the sun for hours envelopes me. He slides into the seat next to me and orders himself a whiskey.

“Ma’am,” he nods.

He’s handsome enough. His hair is a light blond, and a thin mustache crests his upper lip. Warm brown eyes, crooked smile.

I return it. “Sir.”

“Sorry for the smell,” he adds as his shot is given to him. He swivels in his seat to face me. “Wrestling pigs all day will do that to you.”

A surge in my chest: remembrance, loss. My body naturally turns to meet his. “I had pigs, too. I get it. No harm done.”

“You had pigs?” he asks, curiosity piqued. He reaches into his pocket and grabs a pack of cigarettes, smacking the bottom and pulling out a roll. He offers me one and I take it, and he leans forward to give me a light. Our knees gently knock together. “What happened to ‘em?”

I take a long draw of the cigarette and blow it out slowly. I swallow, eyes cast to the floor. “They uh… they didn’t make it.” I give him a sad smile. “Bad year for us. Bad… weather.”

He nods, smoke puffing out the sides of his mouth. He yanks the cigarette out to ash into the tray. “Happens to the best of us. I’ve found since I moved more south, down here to Rhodes, that they tend to fare better with that sort of thing.” He clicks his tongue, then his eyes dart to me. “Was you further north? I don’t recognize you.”

“Near the Dakota River,” I muse. “North of Valentine.”

“Jesus.” He shakes his head. “Valentine’s about the cut-off for that kind of livestock.” He knocks back his shot of whiskey, then tips his head at the bartender for another. “You looking for work? We could always use another set of hands.”

My mouth runs dry. I turn away from him, knees back to the countertop. I flick my cigarette.

This could be the escape I wanted, found so easily from some random worker in a saloon. Another farm to slip into, ease back into work that I know so well. Return to the gang one last time, like I promised Abigail, only to snatch my belongings and head north on a final ride and never look back.

Why does it feel wrong? Repugnant, even? Because I owe them something? Because I genuinely don’t want to leave?

I chew my lip. “Where’s your farm?”

The man’s eyes light up. “Just a few roads south. Head straight outta Rhodes, take the first left path, continue on until you reach the trees. We got a little property in a field down there.”

I order another beer. And another. And another. The man’s name is Jedediah, but call him Jed, and he runs his farm that was passed down from his daddy, not unlike myself. Says he’s got plenty of workers, but he’s planning on buying a few more sows from a gentlemen near Saint Denis next year. He’d house me until then, pay me for the minimal work I could provide, and then hire me full on once the new piglets are born.

“You ever birthed a pig?” Jed’s eyes are beginning to swim in his head, a look I’ve grown familiar with on my escapades and nights spent with the gang. The drink is beginning to take its hold and drag him down to the murky depths beyond recollection.

“Yes, almost every summer,” I respond, my last beer still firmly in my grip. The sun is now high in the sky, but will soon begin its trek back to the earth. I glance out the window to check on Dottie. A man emerges from the side of the building, carrying fresh water to dump into the trough. She bucks her head excitedly.

“Ain’t that a treat,” Jed muses, leaning back in his chair, almost losing his balance but regaining it at the last moment. “It’s almost like we was supposed to meet tonight, don’t you think?”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Perhaps.”

After another shot of whiskey, Jed has had his fill and fumbles out of the bar stool. He extends a hand out to me. “Wanna come upstairs with me?”

“You ain’t headed back to the farm?”

“No… no I won’t make it.” Jedediah laughs. “Takes a real man to admit that!”

I snort, swirling the empty beer bottle. I give him a look over, at his dirt-stained jeans and rolled shirt. A large satchel hangs across his chest.

“Why not?” I wink at him.

“Well, come on then, Miss Anna.” He addresses me with the fake name of the day, and I slip out of the chair.

Jed guides me up the winding staircase, keeping his palm firmly locked onto the railing. He stops for a moment, steeling himself, and then finishes the trek. He opens the door to the farthest room and rips off his satchel, dropping it into the chair on the corner. He turns back to me, puts his hands on my shoulders, squeezing far too tightly, takes a deep breath and leans in.

His taste is revolting: cigarette smoke and unwashed teeth mingled with the acidic aftertaste of alcohol. I stomach it, keeping my lips firmly pressed together when his tongue tries to gain access to my mouth. His palms slide down to my waist, pulling me into him, and I keep my own locked at my sides. His fingers lace together with mine, and finally, after what feels like decades, he pulls away.

“I’m just gonna… freshen up for a second.”

“Sure,” I say lowly, looking at him through my lashes, my stomach churning.

He gives me a predatory stare, not even bothering to hide his observation of every part of my body, and slides out of the door, leaving it cracked open a sliver.

I waste no time in digging through his bag. A wad of cash, a handle of rum, the remainder of his cigarettes. I stuff them hurriedly into my own satchel, then peek my head out of the door. The bathhouse is firmly closed, steam creeping out from the bottom of the frame and swirling into the relatively cool air of the saloon.

I quickly peel out of the room, skirting down the stairs as quietly as I can.

I glance back at the counter, and the bartender give me a quizzical look. Brazenly, I raise my finger to my lips, ordering his silence, and walk confidently out the front door of the Rhodes Parlor House. The sweltering heat returns, but I welcome the sun on my face as I dart toward Dottie and rip her reins from the post.

Just as it was in Saint Denis, the feeling of getting away with a clean rob is exhilarating. I peel Dottie around the outskirts of the town, away from the roads that snake through it, and charge back to the main path. The less people that see me, the better. I want to minimize the individuals that will recognize me as the woman with the speckled horse that robbed Jedediah Barnes in broad daylight.

I pass the fence and the rotting structures that surround it, and I contemplate unloading the rum that I stole. No, you don’t have time. Get out of here. I oblige myself and turn left.

Once I feel a safe distance away from the town, I slow Dottie down to a trot and drop the reins. I finger through my satchel and retrieve the new wad of cash, faintly catching a whiff of Jedidiah’s odor, and force down a grimace. Seventy-four dollars. I giggle to myself.

I replace the money and pat Dottie on the neck. She shakes her head and sputters her lips, and I grab the last carrot that Arthur bought and bring it to her mouth. She munches happily as we pass the field.

I opt to travel along the path that runs parallel with Flat Iron Lake. It’ll take longer, but there’s plenty of day left, and with the sun beginning to set, the heat has become more bearable. Not to mention, I’m still riding the high of my steal. I crack my neck, take a deep breath of southern air mingled with the scent of still water.

Dottie brings me around a bend, and I see old barricades across an open field, rotted and crumbling. Some have trenches dug alongside them, scraps of metal and trash littering the red clay, and I realize that this must be the old Civil War battlefield. My heart leaps into my chest as I remember my conversation with the man at the fence, and I pull the mare to a stop, my ears pricked. And then, so faintly I can barely hear it: the sound of opera music.

I charge Dottie forward, nearly ripping through the trees. Thin branches whip and lash at my face, and I raise my arm in a futile attempt to keep them at bay until I find a large patch of red hidden in the leaves. I urge her forward, despite her neighs of protest, and we reach the clearing.

I find a very large wagon, larger than any of the gang’s at camp. Several signs stand in front of it: “PALMIST.” “SEER.” “TELLER OF FORTUNES.” A bird cage dangles from the canopy, along with drying plants, trinkets, and orbs. I see a phonograph placed gingerly on the edge of a table, the source of the music bellowing out into the clearing.

I pull Dottie to a stop, sliding off the saddle and digging through her bag. I find the tarot card at the very bottom, a slight tear to one of the corners, and I brush it off, making my way toward the big red wood. There’s no one in sight. I crane my neck around the wagon and clear my throat.

The woman that appears from the other side is breathtaking, and I am momentarily stunned by her presence. Dark skin with even darker hair, a scarf wrapped around her head, large almond eyes that pierce into my own as if drinking in the depths of my very soul. My breath hitches in my throat as she smiles, revealing perfect teeth. “Well, hello there, traveler.” His voice is silken and entrancing. “The leaves told me that I would have a visitor today.”

I don’t know what to say: I just stare, tarot card in hand. I hear Dottie nicker and stomp her foot.

“What brings you here?” she asks, co*cking her hip to one side. “My wagon does not reveal itself to just anyone, you know. There must be a reason for us to make acquaintance.” She pulls a stool from the base of her wagon and ushers for me to sit. I don’t, still rooted to the spot. “What do you want to know? The stars whisper their secrets to me, write it in the palms of our hands. They can see farther ahead than we can. For five dollars, I can tell you where your journey will end, or answer any questions you may have about your future.”

“Actually, uh-” My voice sounds painfully ordinary after hearing hers. “I heard you collect things. I have a tarot card that you may be interested in.”

“Hmm,” she says simply, reaching out her slender hand. I surrender the card and she holds it before her face, perfect eyebrows creased. “You present to me The Tower.” She flicks her eyes at me. “Upright.”

“I, uh…” I scratch my shoulder. “Found it, while I was out camping.”

“Sure,” she muses. “Are you sure the card didn’t find you?” She closes her eyes, her head tilting to the side. She purses her lips. “What happened in your home life?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The Tower, upright,” she repeats. She opens her eyes and reveals the card briefly to me before swiping it back toward herself. “Upheaval, sudden change, chaos, revelation, awakening.” She wanders around to my side to stare at the card with me, holding it up in our view. Her free hand snakes across my shoulder. “Something changed in your life, dramatically, and it has altered your view of the world. Perhaps relationships were broken, or even entirely lost?” She quickly tucks the card under her arm and spins to face me again. “I can tell you, for five dollars.”

I ignore my heart beating wildly in my chest and swallow. “Actually, I just want to sell it. Someone told me you have an interest in them.”

She smiles. “I do, dear, but the price is much better if you give me an entire set.”

“That’s all I have.”

Her lips draw together into an almost-scowl. “You only have one?”

“I mean, I can search around… I don’t really know where to find these types of things.” I reach to take the card back from her but she waves her hand wildly, yanking it from my fingers.

“No, no. You’re in luck. Actually, we both are. I have been seeking The Tower for quite some time now.” She heads back to the wagon to retrieve a maroon, gem-studded coin purse. “How is ten dollars?”

“For one card!?” I gasp. The woman digs into the bag and hands me a few bills, and I take them from her gingerly and stuff them into my satchel. “Goddamn, how much is an entire set?”

“A lot,” the woman teases, smiling at me. “You know, I need some travelers to keep their eyes out for items such as this one. They are closer than you may think. Some may even be right under your nose, under the paths that your horses ride, within abandoned buildings or unsuspecting trees.” She reaches into the wagon again and pulls out a few pieces of folded paper. “If something like that interests you, I have maps where these objects are rumored to be hiding.” She spreads the papers out and fans herself. “For fifteen dollars a piece, that is.”

She holds the papers out in front of her, and I slowly raise my hand to take one. I unfold it, revealing scribbles and notes taken in places like Saint Denis, Valentine, and cities and towns that I have never heard of. Heirlooms is scrawled at the very top of the page. I co*ck an eyebrow at her.

“I’m not easy to find,” the woman teases, and she dances around to the stool and sits gently upon it. “I never stay in one place for too long. But if the stars will it, we will meet again. And it's best to be prepared if we do.” She glances down at the map in my hand.

“How much for three?”

“Forty-five.”

“Thirty-five.”

The woman laughs loudly, throwing her head back. The sound mingles beautifully with the music from her phonograph. “Oh, I like you.” She raises her palm to me, and I instantly dig into my satchel and count Jed’s money for her. She folds it neatly and places it into her coin purse. She hands me another two pieces of parchment. “Until we meet again, traveler.” And she rises, nearly floating and disappearing around the opposite side of the wagon, effectively dismissing me from the conversation.

I stand idly for a few moments before I turn and stare back at Dottie, as if to ask her if she can believe what just happened as well. Dottie shakes out her mane, the white in her coat beginning to glow in the setting sun, and I trudge back to her and hoist myself back onto the saddle.

- - -

The day is almost over by the time I return to the gang. The stew has been cooked, the chores are all settled, the horses snort and graze on the edges of the camp. I steer Dottie toward the others, dismount, and make my way back to the looming, white mansion.

Sadie is sitting on the porch talking to Arthur, and I slow my pace. The sight of him brings back the emotions that made me initially abandon this camp in the morning. He’s dressed in a thin black shirt, jeans, leather gloves on his hands. His signature hat is missing, revealing that his haircut has begun to grow out, a few locks framing his face and the ends curling at the nape of his neck. Sadie glances up and locks eyes with me, and Arthur’s gaze follows. He pushes himself off the chair.

I am about to entirely change my directory until Dutch appears from the left, calling to Arthur and ushering him into the house. When both of the men disappear through the paned door, I quicken my pace toward Sadie.

“When are you gonna let me come robbing with you, Dutch?” Sadie call after the men’s backs. She scowls, leaning back in her chair in time to catch me standing before her. She crosses her arms. “Oh, look who it is. Thought you’d run off.”

“I was gone not even a day,” I fire back at her, leaning against one of the columns. “I was getting my own robbing done, instead of pining after Dutch for some action.”

Sadie scowls. “Were you, now?”

“Sure was,” I smile at her, reveling in her irritation. “It ain’t as hard as the lawmen make it out to be.”

Sadie laughs, a much harsher sound than the jingling of the witch’s, as I peel out Jed’s money from inside my bag and fan it out. I cut the money in half, placing the rest of the wad into my bag. I realize now, after paying the mysterious, eclectic woman for the maps and dividing my cut for the gang, that I didn’t make out with much. I decide to withhold this from Sadie as I waggle the bills in front of her.

“You got a black heart, Lillian,” she muses, her mouth twisted into a wicked grin.

I snort as I push off the column and waltz toward the door. “How can you be sure this is a man’s money?”

“Am I wrong? I know you ain’t holding fellers up on the road, pointing that revolver and robbing the right way.” She leans her head forward so her voice can follow me into the mansion. “You’re out there charming the money out of men’s pockets!”

I shake my head, crossing the threshold of the house, then pop out my head to call out to her, “Oh! I met that witch, by the way!”

Sadie laughs again. “Oh yeah? And how was that?”

“’Bout what you’d expect. Paid me ten dollars for the card.”

“No sh*t! You know, five of that is mine!”

I turn away from Sadie and begin the trek into the mansion, curling my body around the railing and heading up the stairs to Dutch’s room, where I know the lockbox and the ledger to be. I clap the money in my hands, my comfort and bravado lost without Sadie’s presence. I turn right and dip into the room.

The door to the balcony is open, and I can smell cigar smoke wafting in. I approach the lockbox and crane my neck to see Dutch and Arthur standing on the patio, both with cigars hanging from their lips. Their chuckles rumble into the room as I open the box.

“Well, well!” Dutch’s raspy voice cuts through the still air. I place the money down and grab the pen. “The prodigal daughter returns, and with cash!” I hear him smack Arthur on the shoulder. “Would you look at that, Arthur?”

“Sure,” Arthur muses. After I sign my name, I raise my head to give them a warm smile. Dutch greets my grin with his own, eyes alight, and Arthur’s lips are curled, but there’s some emotion in his eyes that I can’t place. I feel Jed’s lips on me again, and I wonder if his mouth left a stain that is visible to Arthur, as if he can look at my body and know where it’s been. That familiar sickening feeling grips my heart.

“Maybe we won’t need to rob this trolley after all," he continues.

The trolley. Hosea warned me about this. That Arthur would agree to the plan posed by Dutch, simply because of his loyalty to the man that wants it.

“Don’t start that, Arthur.” Dutch’s voice descends into a dark tone that I haven’t heard from him before. “We’re robbing that trolley. But we’ll need another gun.”

I’m frozen in place, even after both men have turned their backs on me to continue the conversation. I close the lid to the lockbox slowly.

“I say Lenny.”

“Not Micah?”

“Well, that depends.” I hear Arthur lean his body against the railing. “If you want a massacre or a pay day.”

“Now, I wish there was something I could do to make the two of you get along better.”

My mind flashes to one of my first nights with the gang, where Micah flipped his knife in his hands and muttered about me going to bed with him. Arthur snarls, a flash of anger, his hand flexing near the handle of his revolver. I know I’m not meant to hear this, the private talkings of Dutch and Arthur, but my body refuses to move.

“Well, that’s easy,” Arthur’s voice deepens. “Make him change.”

“Very funny,” is Dutch’s simple reply.

I take a deep breath, searching my brain for the mechanism to make my feet walk. I finally turn, my eyes catching the door to Dutch’s room. I am about to head toward it when I hear Dutch ask in an incredulous, almost fearful voice, “What is that?”

I stop, glancing back, and see both Arthur and Dutch leaning over the barrier and staring down into the clearing. I take one step, and then another, twisting my neck and standing on my toes to see if I can gaze around them.

Someone is riding into camp on a horse. Who?

A piercing scream slices through the calm night air: Mary-Beth.

I find my footing and race out onto the balcony, my heart sputtering, and I slide in between the two men. My eyes see it but my brain refuses to compute, to understand, to process. My fingers grow numb, my head spins.

Kieran, the boy who tends to the horses, is riding into camp, blood cascading down his shirt, his severed head cradled in his hands.

Notes:

Hi guys!
I am loving writing this story so much, and already have the next chapters planned out and am busting at the seams to write them. Your continued support means so much to me, and I'm excited to see what you think of this latest installment! Cheers!
- Mowglie

Summary:

Surprise can be a powerful tool.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

My chest convulses and sputters out a pitiful breath. Someone screams. The gang is suddenly thrown into a flurry, scurrying rapidly around in my line of vision. Some rush toward Kieran, some draw their weapons and crouch behind a barrel or crate. Mary-Beth darts to the left, past the one of wagons, and vomits.

And then, the trees begin to move, sprouting from the ground—ripping their roots from the earth and closing in on us. I stare until my heart drops into my stomach: it isn’t the trees, it’s O’Driscoll men, their black-coated bodies emerging from the brush, guns raised.

The first bullet flashes from the barrel of a repeater. Bill retaliates and the floodgates open, crack after crack, unrelenting, like a sudden swarm of locusts. My mind spins as bullets smack into the old wood of the mansion behind me, shattering the glass of the windows and splintering the columns of the balcony.

Arthur acts so quickly that it appears as one fluid motion: he snatches his revolver, his left arm jutting out across my body and grasping my shirt. He nearly throws me back into Dutch’s room, following me in and knocking me onto the couch. “Hide,” he growls, raising his gun in his other hand. “Hide, and don’t move.” And then, he’s gone, back out into the onslaught of fire.

I’m frozen for a moment, watching as he presses his back to one of the columns, revolver in hand. He whirls around and fires three shots, blood spouting from the heads of the O’Driscoll’s closest to the camp. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t have to steady his aim or steel himself. He moves, shoots, and the O’Driscoll’s drop like flies.

My mind finally returns to me, and I obey Arthur. I glance around the room until my eyes settle on a large dresser in the corner. I lower my head, my hands covering my ears, and slink toward it, yelping as a bullet slices through the window and into the wall behind me.

When I reach it, I press myself against the side and tuck myself into the corner. I can still hear the cacophony outside: snarling, shouting, screaming, some I know to be O’Driscoll’s, some I recognize as members of the gang. Dutch is shrieking orders, Arthur is grunting, Abigail is crying out.

Each beat of my heart intensifies the piercing, ringing sound in my ears. The seconds tick by like minutes, like hours, like days. It won’t cease. The gunfire is not dwindling. The bullets continue to barrage against the mansion.

I clap my hand over my mouth, trying to draw in an effective breath. If we lose anyone, it’s on me: Kieran’s death is on me. It’s on the blood-free clothes that hang in the breeze down below, probably ripped to shreds in the madness.

And then, almost as quickly as it began, it ends. The camp grows silent. I hear labored breaths, guns being shoved back into holsters.

Someone enters a door below, and I hear hurried footsteps making their way up the staircase. I stay rooted to the spot, watching, hoping for Abigail or Tilly or Sadie. But through the cracks in the walls I see a flash of black, a wide-brimmed hat that I recognize all too quickly.

The O’Driscoll shoves his way into the door, waving his revolver around. He doesn’t see me, still squished down into the corner of the room. My eyes catch Arthur from the end of the patio, approaching the door from the outside. His body is beginning to relax as his adrenaline cools, slowly placing his gun back in his holster.

The O’Driscoll’s attention snaps to Arthur, and he instantly charges toward the balcony. My heart leaps into my throat and my body flashes with heat.

“No!”

The word comes out on gargle and my legs lurch me forward. My fingers curl around the grip of my revolver. I yank it forward and fire blindly at the O’Driscoll.

The man hears me shout and turns, and my first bullet shatters his shin. He crumples, but I don’t stop. An angered, panicked scream erupts from my lungs as I fire again and again. One slices through his chest, the familiar red cloud bursting from his clothing. Another, into his cheek and out the back of his head.

Scarlet pools from the O’Driscoll and dampens the wooden floor beneath him. It trickles out of his nose and his mouth, spreading across his jacket and shirt. His leg twitches once, twice, and then he finally doesn’t move again.

My trembling hand pulls my revolver back to me, gingerly shoving it back into my holster. I suck in a breath, and then another, until my eyes dart to Arthur. He’s standing in the doorway, his own chest heaving, and I watch the realization cross his face of what he almost walked into. His eyes find mine, and we stare at each other for what feels like hours before Dutch crashes into the door beside him.

Dutch’s revolver is raised, sweeping the room quickly, until he glances down and sees the twisted body in the corner. He looks at me, the pieces falling together, and he holsters his weapon and strides toward me.

He reaches out and envelopes me into a hug, and I drink in the scent of cigar smoke and sweat. He clutches me tightly and leads me out of the room. Arthur doesn't follow.

Dutch guides me down the stairs and out the side door, where I see Miss Grimshaw striding toward me, her arms outstretched. Dutch releases me and I fold into her. “Is everyone okay!?” he calls again as the other gang members begin to creep toward him, as if they’re afraid that if they make any noise, another wave of O’Driscoll’s will appear. “I want to see everyone’s faces, every one of you!”

The ringing in my ears begins to cease as Miss Grimshaw cradles me; I can hear the birds again, the insects, the wind in the trees.

The camp smells like gunpowder. Mary-Beth sobs.

“What happened?” Miss Grimshaw soothes in the most comforting voice that she could elicit. She pulls back to give me a glance over. “Was you shot?” She picks at my shirt where she sees specks of blood, then her eyes dart across my body, looking for an injury. When she finds none, some emotion settles on her face and she yanks me back into her again.

I killed a man. Snuffed the life out of his eyes and then gave him three more rounds of lead. My mind races through the memory, and each shot ringing out from my gun is another plunge of my heart. I choke back a sob, and Miss Grimshaw’s firm clasp on my body turns it into a cough. She pats my back.

“Abigail!” I feel her voice vibrating in her chest. “Get this girl some coffee. Set her down at the fire over there.”

Miss Grimshaw slowly lets me go and almost immediately, a slender arm snakes across my elbow. Abigail’s soft blue eyes are sympathetic, her lips curling downward. She walks with me to the farthest campfire and presses her hands on my shoulders. My legs bend under the pressure, and she sits me down on a log. “It’s okay, Lillian,” she says softly. “I’ll get you something to drink. Just hang on.”

She disappears as quickly as she arrived, heading toward Pearson’s wagon. I follow her and catch a glimpse of Mary-Beth curled against a barrel, her head buried in her hands, her body trembling. Karen is knelt before her, trying to offer her a shot of whiskey but she shakes her head. Tilly runs her fingers across her back as Karen brings the bottle to her own lips. I pull my eyes away.

Boots crunch to my right: Sadie. She grunts as she plops down next to me. I can feel her staring, but I keep my gaze to the ground.

“You alright?” she prods after I don’t acknowledge her. “Did you shoot one?”

I swallow, bringing my eyes to hers. “Was that because of us?”

“How do you mean?”

“That!” I nearly scream, waving my hand toward the clearing. “What happened to Kieran, that ambush. Was that because of what we’ve done?”

Sadie’s face morphs into a grimace, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her. She draws in a long breath. “No, Lillian. I don’t think so. He was… he was one of them, at a time. They was just angry he fell in with Dutch.” But her frown stays put.

It’s not enough to convince me. I pull my body farther into itself as Abigail returns with a tin of coffee.

- - -

My drink grows cold before I take the first sip. Sadie has long gone, vanished back into the main hub of the camp, joined into the low whispers and the glances over backs. Everyone is quiet, a solemn aura in the air. I watched as Hosea and Lenny packed up Kieran’s body and placed it into the back of a wagon. Other than that, no one moved much. Folk stayed near the fires and near each other.

Abigail remains with me, her hand placed on my knee. She gives it a gentle squeeze every few minutes. She says nothing, no words of encouragement or pity, doesn’t offer any advice or ask questions. For that, I am grateful. Her silence is more comforting than anything she could have uttered.

Some time passes before I hear two sets of footsteps to our left. I keep my eyes on my coffee as one stops, but the other, much softer and quicker, continues on until they are standing in front of me. I glance up to see Jack’s big blue eyes, his mouth twisted in nervousness. He cradles a flower-chain necklace in his hands. Behind him, John stares with his arms crossed.

“What are you doing, boys?” Abigail asks lowly, turning her attention toward John, who gives her a slight nod.

“Hi, Aunt Lily,” Jack says quietly.

My breath hitches in my throat. He’s never called me that before. The term instantly warms my heart, melting it before it could permanently harden into stone. I give him a soft smile.

“My daddy said you was having a hard time.” Jack digs his tiny shoe into the ground, flipping over a rock, and sways his body. “So I made this for you.” He flings his hand out and the flowers dangle limply, the scent catching on the night breeze.

I reach out and take the necklace from him, draping it over my head. I finger one of the petals, trying to keep my eyes on it and not the flecks of red on my shirt. “Thank you,” I say as jubilantly as I can. “This helps a lot. I feel much better.”

“That was very thoughtful, Jack,” Abigail tuts, and Jack smiles shyly before turning on his heel and nearly collapsing into his mother. Abigail drags him up and sits him on her knee. “I hope you didn’t wander too far from camp to find those flowers.” She shoots John a pointed look.

“We went out together.” John enunciates every syllable, eyes narrowed at her. I hide my smile behind my hand. “He wanted to come over earlier, and I said that Aunt Lily doesn’t feel well and that Mama was helping her. It was all his idea to get the flowers.”

I expect Abigail to have some sort of reply, but surprisingly, she brings her attention back to her son. “Well, like I said, that was very thoughtful of you.” She pinches Jack’s cheek. “That’s how a man should treat a lady.”

I snort. There it is.

I catch John rolling his eyes as a figure appears from behind him. Arthur claps John on the back, perhaps a bit roughly, as he circles around to join the campfire. His free hand is wrapped tightly around a flask. “Howdy, folks.”

Abigail releases Jack, who starts to tottle away from the fire as Arthur glances at me, his eyes catching the flower-chain. “Jack!” he calls, leaning back. “Did you make that necklace?”

“Yes.”

Abigail stands and reaches for Jack’s hand, who gladly takes it. Arthur is silent, a grin creeping onto his lips. “That’s a fine necklace. Where’s mine?”

The Marston family begins to walk away as Jack twists his head and calls back, “Flowers aren’t for boys, Uncle Arthur!”

“I like flowers!” he yells back, but Jack ignores him, skipping ahead of his parents and racing toward another campfire littered with people and bottles. Abigail immediately rushes after him and John shakes his head.

Arthur laughs to himself, then shimmies over to my log and squats down. He grunts as he stretches his legs out in front of him. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. The crickets hum lightly into the star-pricked sky.

“How are you getting on?” Arthur finally mutters. He brings the flask to his lips.

“I’ve been better,” I say lightly, surprised at the weakness in my voice. I bring my attention back to the flower necklace and take a deep breath.

“I think we all have,” he muses. “Here.” He snatches the cold coffee and pours his flask into it, bringing the liquid back to the top of the tin. “Whiskey’ll help.” I take a tentative sip and immediately pucker my lips as Arthur laughs. “That’s called an Irish coffee. Something Sean taught me.”

“Sean?”

Arthur’s smile fades, but the memory of it is still present as he stares at the white mansion. “He ran with us for a while. He was like… an annoying little brother. We lost him around the time we picked you up. I ain’t sure if you ever met him.” He takes another swig of the flask. “It was right before the boy was taken.”

“I don’t think I did.”

Arthur nods, then reaches into his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. He lights one up, sucking in a deep breath of tobacco. He lets it go slowly. “I don’t think Karen’ll ever be the same.”

“Were they together?” I ask. I reach into my satchel and pull out Jedediah’s cigarette pack. He only had two left. I yank one out and extend it toward Arthur. He raises his eyebrows, but relents, shrugging and striking another match.

I take a draw as Arthur continues. “I don’t think officially.” He shakes the match out and flings it into the fire. “They weren’t married or nothing. But we knew.” He grows quiet again, then juts his head toward me. “Watch that cigarette with those flowers.”

I stretch my arm out, holding the cigarette farther away from my body, and crane my neck to look back at the gang. “And Mary-Beth?” She’s stopped crying, but her body is still coiled around itself by the barrel. She stares into the distance, her chest slowly rising and falling.

Arthur follows my gaze. “She was sweet on the boy, Kieran.” He clicks his tongue and ashes into the fire.

“I regret…” Arthur trails off, and I stare at him until he continues. “We wasn’t particularly nice to him. He was an O’Driscoll boy, and he had to gain our trust. And he did, eventually.” He shrugs. “But he still weren't one of us. Still a bit of an outsider. I was always giving him a hard time, even after he stopped me from getting shot.” He twists his mouth, but says nothing more on the subject.

I nod, flicking my cigarette before taking another draw. I watch as the smoke swirls from the end and up into the air, mingling with the smoke from the campfire.

I think back on my time spent at Rhodes, at the opportunity to disappear from the gang and never look back. If only I had known what I was coming back to, what was awaiting us just outside the tree line. Images of the O’Driscoll men flood into my brain just as they had flooded into the camp.

As if he had read my mind, Arthur clears his throat and speaks. “What you did up there…” His eyes flick toward the mansion. I stare at him, at the orange light from the fire dancing across his face. The lines around his eyes, his mouth, the scars across the bridge of his nose and his chin, the light brown locks that frame his face. Stubble around his jaw, his mustache thicker. He looks at me, a brilliant flash of blue, but his eyes are solemn. “Thank you.”

I swallow, tossing my spent cigarette into the fire, and watch as the flames quickly consume it. Arthur follows suit, throwing his own roll in as well. He spins the flask in his hand.

“I killed a man,” I say on a whisper. I touch the flowers again, a symbol of birth, renewal, the beginning of spring. Even they are dying slowly around my neck.

“It weren’t your first time, were it?”

I give him an incredulous look.

“Well, I thought you and Sadie…”

I sigh, bringing the whiskey-laden coffee to my lips again. “That was… mainly Sadie. I froze up. Shot one in the leg while they was chasing us down a hill, but I didn’t kill him. Sadie took care of that.” My stomach turns and I look away from my drink. "Gruesomely."

Arthur nods, licking his lips. The only sound is the crackling of the fire before Arthur speaks again. “You saved me.”

I scoff, smiling weakly. “With the way I saw you handling yourself on that balcony, I think you would have been fine.”

“Surprise can be a powerful tool,” is all Arthur says.

I suck my lip into my mouth, chewing it. My stomach still feels sick, my heart weak. I picture the bloodied O’Driscoll again, my revolver firing mercilessly into his corpse. “It don’t feel good.”

Arthur sets his jaw. “It never feels good.”

He could have said I told you so. Could have brought up our conversations in the clearing while I was shooting bottles like a madwoman and swearing revenge. He warned me about this, about the feeling of taking a life. That it would turn me to illness. Haunt me. Never sate me. But, he doesn’t. Instead, he sits quietly, lets me stew in my thoughts without projecting his own.

“Thank you,” he says again so quietly that I can barely hear it.

I think again about leaving with Jedediah. If I had taken his offer instead of letting him get drunk and raiding his satchel. If I hadn’t been there, crouched in the corner of the room, and if what Arthur said is true…

He walks in, the O’Driscoll is armed and ready, he doesn’t have time to react, Dutch is on the balcony, a shot rings out.

I physically shake my head, dispelling the thought. Somehow, my heart plunges even further down into inky blackness. “I guess…” I start, “I guess we’re even now.”

Arthur co*cks his head. “Even?”

“We both got each other out of a mess with the O’Driscoll’s.”

Arthur grunts. He leans back, taking a drink, and looks anywhere but at me. The ground, the house, the sky. I open my lips slowly. “Well, except for Dottie.”

Arthur’s brow knots. “The horse?”

“I haven’t paid you for her.”

Arthur grits his teeth. Some emotion passes his face, a series of thoughts in his head. “I didn’t buy the horse, Lily-Anne.”

“You bought her saddle. And the carrots. And the brush.” I pause. He still refuses to look at me. “I need to pay you for those.”

Arthur breathes deeply, his wide chest rising and falling. He swallows, then quickly darts his face toward his shoulder and coughs into it. Then, shaking his head, he rises, trudging back toward the door to the mansion. He opens it slowly, his hand lingering on the knob for just a moment before he slides in.

- - -

Just as I had done the morning before, I rise early, before many of the gang member’s eyes have cracked open. There are no stray bodies littered around the camp today; drunkenness was not enough to keep everyone from finding their way back to their beds. Bodies are curled up tightly in their rolls, some even with guns tucked into their arms or laying neatly beside cots. Even now, hours after the attack, the atmosphere is tense and morose.

Dottie is asleep, stretched out near the base of a tree. Soterio stands near her, swishing his tail, and his ears perk up when he hears me approach. He swivels his head to greet me but does not move.

“Morning, boy,” I say lowly, and I dig around in my satchel for something to give him. I then remember that Dottie finished off the carrots on the way back from Rhodes.

I opt to simply pat him on the nose. He sputters, warm breath in my palm, but allows me to run my hand up to his forehead, scratching his mane. “My riding ain’t so horrible, is it?”

Dottie, upon hearing my voice, raises her head and begins to wobble herself into a stance.

Once she’s finally up, I make sure her saddle is on correctly before hoisting myself up and grabbing the reins. “Whatchu think, girl?” I ask as I steer her toward the path out of camp. I pat her neck. “Wanna hit the city today? Get you some new snacks, and get me some new clothes?”

Dottie shakes her head, and I spur her into a trot as we break the tree line and head left toward Saint Denis.

The streets are much less crowded in the early hours of the morning. There are a few workers bustling about, mainly around the train station or sweeping in front of the stables. I consider stopping there for Dottie’s food, but figure that the general store will have lower prices.

As we make our way down the outer street, I stare out over the water—the orange glow of the sun spreading across the still, murky water, broken up only by the jumping of fish or the wakes behind the fishing boats that have already made out several yards away. I see the lines cast over the edges, the shouts of men still groggy from sleep.

The general store has just opened, and only two other souls are in their with me, one being the cashier. I snatch up some carrots, celery, apples, and pears, and a handful of peppermints and sugar cubes. I also buy myself a couple packs of cigarettes—enough that I can share just as much as others have shared with me—a water canteen, my own grill for cooking meat, a lighter, and a hunting knife. When I return to Dottie, I let her lick up one of her sweets before I mount up again and head into the bowels of the city.

I follow the signs to the tailor’s. On the way, I pass a jeweler, a large display of gemstones and crystals in the window. Dottie naturally slows as I stare down at the necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and rings. I search for mine, the one I left in a hotel safe a few blocks over, and ponder if Ray came and sold it in an attempt to earn back some of Daddy’s money. I wonder where he is now; how the O’Driscoll’s took the news that their debtor once again didn’t have the funds to back up his running mouth. I imagine it can’t be good. I shake away the thought before I can plunge too far deeply into it.

The tailor is up in a square a floor above the streets of the city. I tie Dottie to a post and head up, making a swift left and heading inside.

The tailor greets me with a wide grin: “Good morning, Miss! Anything in particular that I can help you find?”

“Just browsing.”

“Well, our catalogue is up front, near the register. I can dig up anything that piques your interest.”

He sweeps the floor while I flick through the booklet. I stop at the shirts, picking out a few basic colors in plain material. Two new pairs of jeans. Riding gloves. My eyes find the page for jackets and ponchos. I see a seal brown leather coat and another cowskin poncho, this one a lighter hide than the one I own. My Daddy’s words flash into my mind: “I thought you’d look good in the cowskin.”

They’re a bit pricey, but I buy the lot.

The tailor is wrapping my clothes into a thin paper sheet when my eyes catch the hats lined up in a row on the wall. I traipse over to them, my fingers gliding over the brims, until I find a solid black one at the end of the row. I pick it up, place it on my head, then remove it to stare at the turquoise and brown leather band that snakes across the base.

“That’ll look fine on you!” the tailor calls and I glance back at him. “Want me to ring that up as well?”

I don’t move for a moment, then finally cradle the hat in my hands and head back to the counter.

When we’re finally all settled and I’ve tied my new garments to the back of the saddle, I steer Dottie to the north side of Saint Denis and charge her through the residential area. The familiar red barn crests on the horizon, and I can’t help but to stare down at the white house that I had insisted belonged to my husband.

Instead, there’s another man, Mr. Alvarez, patting his horse on the dirt path while a woman watches from the porch, bouncing a child on her hip. He rushes back to give her a kiss before departing. For a moment, it's not the Alvarez's but the Crawford's, a glimpse into what my life could have been if I had met an honest man. It's sickening, and I can't force down the scowl that curls my lips.

Dottie leads me across the bridges that adorn the marshlands, the air growing thick with the rising sun. We continue north, farther north than I had ever been with Sadie, toward the dense forest. We keep the ocean in sight, never straying too far from the shore. The last thing I need is to get lost.

We stumble across a small heard of whitetail deer, perhaps five of them. I slide off of the saddle noiselessly, slowly remove my repeater, and crouch down. I get about as close as I can before I settle the gun into my shoulder, aim, and fire. A doe topples down, her comrades whining and darting into the shrubbery. I creep toward her with my gun still locked onto her head, ensuring that the life has left her, before I roll her onto her belly and unsheathe my new hunting knife.

- - -

The grill works great, as I had expected—it's a newer model than the one Sadie owned. The meat cooks quickly and about as tenderly as deer meat can. I stab a piece with my knife, chewing as I lay out the maps that the witch had given me. I find Saint Denis, trail my finger north in an attempt to figure out exactly where I am now. I’ve spent a good deal of money, way more than I have been bringing in. While I have a fat amount of cash stowed away in my bag at camp, I know that it won't last forever, and I'm going to need more.

North of the city, though I’m not sure exactly how far north, is a shack that stands just a few yards from the edge of the water. It’s been circled in red ink. I glance toward the water, half expecting to see it sitting idly before me, but I don’t. I don't recall seeing it earlier, either. It must be farther up.

I finish the chuck of deer on my knife. I wonder if the shack is abandoned. I also wonder if it isn’t.

I suck a piece of meat from between my teeth as I fold the map back up and stow it into the saddle bag. I grab the grill, my knife, bundle the last bits of venison before I mount up again, bringing Dottie to the edge of the water and stomping up the edge of the coastline. A house appears eventually, two stories, stilted on uneven columns, and surrounded by wagons.

I bring Dottie to a stop and pull my revolver from its holster. I stare down at it for a moment, the sun reflecting off the silver barrel. I chew my lip, the sounds of the shots against the mansion ringing in my ears. The red clouds. The twisted body in the corner. Sadie’s bloody teeth. Janie’s curled foot.

I grunt, then shove six bullets in and snap the revolver closed. Hopefully, I won’t have to use this. Hopefully, the house is abandoned. My eyes travel over the various wagons stationed in front of the shack. I swallow a lump in my throat.

But, I press on, spurring Dottie until we are just a few yards away from the shack.

Notes:

Welcome! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you're enjoying the story so far. Please let me know what you think!
Mowglie

Diamond Road

Summary:

There’s been plenty of women that've come in and out of this camp. And he’s never looked at any one of them the way he looks at you.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

I bring my attention forward again, shuddering a breath, and gently nudge the door open.

Immediately, I can hear snores from within the residence, and I still. I can’t see any bodies—there’s no light on the first floor, but perhaps a candle or lantern in the basem*nt, its glow dancing across the walls, illuminating the dust that swirls in the air.

I stand for a few more minutes, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Slowly, the inky forms of two men spread across pallets morph into view, directly in front of me. The light flickers across the empty bottles surrounding them. One snorts, dragging his hand lazily across his body and scratching his stomach, then it flops back to his side again.

I slide into the room, pulling the door slowly closed behind me, wincing at the noise the latch makes as it connects again. As I approach the stairwell, my fingers instinctively trail out in front of me. I take tentative steps, carefully side-stepping the trash that is littering the floor. My hands finally find the banister and I dart down the stairs, my feet as light as feathers.

There’s a fireplace to the right, the last embers clinging to the wood. On the mantle is the lantern I had suspected, and I reach out and grab its handle. It sways, casting shadows of my frame, the furniture, and the whiskey bottles across the walls. Another loud snore echoes from above.

I take the lantern with me as I glance around, immediately finding a large, wooden table in the center of the room. There’s plates scattered about, food crumbling on the porcelain.

I grimace as a large co*ckroach darts away from my light and crawls off the table.

I approach, finding a pack of cigarettes and stuffing them into my satchel. Every sound from upstairs is another throb of my heart, and my ears are hot as my eyes rapidly scan the table. There, on the left-top corner, is several bundles of cash. Without thinking, I quickly make my way over to them and swipe them into my bag. It must be a couple hundred, but I don’t dare examine it now.

Someone speaks from above, nonsensical mumbles warped by sleep. I freeze where I am, the lantern dangling in my hand. There’s no response, and a body readjusts itself, the floorboards creaking in protest.

I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and look around the room again. What’s supposed to be here again? I think back to the map, where I saw the shack encircled three times. It was this shack, right?

I search the cupboards and wardrobe that slowly loom into view as I traipse around with the lantern. However, I find nothing that could be of use to the witch in Rhodes.

I am about to leave, cut a loss and just make out with the cash I had found, when the light catches a chest in the corner of the room. I stare at it, an electric current coursing through my veins, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention. One foot says to head for the back door, silently make my way around the foundation and jump onto Dottie and get out of here. But the other says to get what I came for. It’s right there: just walk over and take it.

I tip-toe toward the chest, around the table, and bend down, my hands finding the latch. I pry it open just slightly, dust swirling in the air and the old hinges screaming. I wince, waiting, listening. Someone grumbles up above, the bottles clink. I quickly open the chest entirely and dig around inside.

I know it almost immediately when I see it. A dark ebony hairbrush glints in the light of the lantern, turned down so its bristles sit in the collected film. I curl my fingers around it, pulling it toward me.

It looks ancient. It looks like the witch would want it.

I quickly wipe it down and stuff it into in my bag, and as the muscles in my legs pull me to a stand again, something catches my eye and I nearly jump.

A tarot card, similar to the one I found on the O’Driscoll man. It’s turned face down; I can only see the back of the card. The same sun face is staring up at me, eyes wide, mouth curled into a wicked smile. Before I realize what I’m doing, I reach for it, pulling it up so I can take a look. I flip the card.

There’s a young man printed across the paper. He’s holding a knapsack in one hand and a flower in the other, staring up at the sun at the edge of a cliff, his curled shoes dangerously close to the edge. “THE FOOL” is written in flowing script at the base of the card.

I stare at it until I hear a voice from upstairs: “Cleet, are you up?”

My body stiffens, fingers curled against the tarot card almost painfully. My eyes dart to the back door, left slightly ajar. I hear shaking, the rustling of sheets. “Cleet, are you awake?”

“Huh?” someone responds.

My shaking hand leads the card toward my satchel. I yank it open, my elbow jutting back; it hits a whiskey bottle that shimmies toward the edge of the table behind me. I whirl around and stare, wide-eyed, as it wobbles one last time before tipping over and smashing against the hard ground.

Someone gasps. “Did you hear that?”

The other man mumbles. I hear the shuffling of feet, the click of a gun.

I drop the lantern to shoot my hand toward my holster, the glass breaking on the floor, the room immediately enveloped in darkness. I yank out my revolver and spin on my heel to the exit.

“Hey!” the man calls. “Hey, who’s down there!?”

I burst into the cool night air and race around the side of the house, past the wagons and crates, my thighs burning as they carry me rapidly up the slope.

“Dottie!” I cry out on a gurgle, followed by a panicked whistle, and she raises her head. My revolver swings by my side in my free hand, and when her eyes catch mine, she sputters loudly and runs toward me.

I hear the front door burst open behind. “Get back here, you bitch!” the man calls and I shriek, flinging myself onto the saddle. I spin Dottie into the trees before I have fully mounted her, trying desperately to wrap my other leg around her body as she charges into the shrubbery. I hear the crack of gunfire and I bury my head into her mane, finally locking my thighs against her sides.

I shove my revolver back into its confines. I can’t bring myself to fire back. Not after my family, Sadie, Kieran, the bloodied O’Driscoll lying on the floor of our mansion.

“Get back here!” His voice is much fainter now.

Dottie’s hooves pound into the earth and I veer her left, whipping through the trees and brush. Something scurries out from beneath a rock and she neighs loudly, but I press her on.

We ride for what feels like hours until I finally let her rest, feeling we’ve made a safe distance from the shack, and she trots in place, snorting his disapproval. I wipe the sweat from my brow, then settle my hat back onto my head. I look behind me, but all I see are the tops of the trees reaching their way into the night sky.

- - -

The next few days were spent searching for less dangerous bounty. One of the rolled maps in my bag was titled Bird Eggs, and most were located either in nests on the ground or relatively low branches that I was able to climb or stand on Dottie’s saddle to retrieve. I’d spend my time riding around, following the ambiguous chart until I found what I believed to be the treasure, some several yards or even a mile away from where they were supposed to be.

Then, hunting, curling the meat over the grill and eating my fill, and stuffing the rest into my satchel. I’d lay out my pallet, pitch my tent on the one night it rained, and fall asleep to the sounds of the forest around me.

When I had collected the hairbrush, the tarot card, and six bird eggs, I made my way back down to Rhodes. Still weary of entering the town, I steered Dottie toward the fence to dispose of some of the loot I had acquired and make a bit more money.

I pulled Dottie to the red building and dismounted, unloading my items and laying them about before the beady-eyed, stringy-haired man. He took his time examining them, as he always does, and then shoved thirty-seven dollars across the wooden countertop to me. I told him to have a good day, and all he did was grunt.

The same disheveled woman from before was hovering around Dottie when I started the trek back to her. She locked eyes with me, gave me a wide-toothed grin. “Howdy, ma’am!”

I felt my heart surge, remembering her story of loss, so similar to my own, and reached into my bag to give her the money I had just received from the fence. Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head as she clasped the small bundle.

“Here,” I had said, “start yourself over again.”

She scuttled away with the cash as the man at the fence cried out, “You didn’t give her no money, did ye? You know she’s still on the bottle!”

I pause for a moment, watching the woman scurry away toward the trees, before I yelled back at him. “It ain’t up to me what she does with the money. It’s up to me whether or not I help someone in need.”

When I reached Bolger’s Glade, the witch was nowhere to be found, her red wagon disappearing like a puff of smoke. I trailed Dottie around the edges of where I had last glimpsed it, to see if perhaps she had just moved farther away from the road, but found nothing. The only proof of her existence rested in the curled maps in my saddle bag.

Feeling decidedly dejected, I led Dottie back down the familiar dirt path that would eventually return me to the Van der Linde gang.

- - -

When the white, towering mansion finds it way into my line of vision, I silently pray that the gang is still here. I had been gone about three days, maybe four? I lost count. Dottie stomps through the brush, and my heart is relieved to see the wagons still parked around the edges of the camp, the horses still grazing, the laughs and shouts still ringing from the silhouettes huddled around the fires.

I lead Dottie over to the hale bales, which she happily approaches before I have even fully dismounted her. I pat her on the rear as Soterio saunters over, sniffing her neck and then lobbing his head around to me. “Oh, that’s right,” I muse, digging into my satchel. “I owe you a treat.”

I present him with a peppermint, which he laps up from my palm and turns over in his mouth, his large teeth cracking down on the candy. I scratch his forehead when I hear more hooves coming from behind: this time it’s Bob, bucking his head in expectation.

“Good grief…” I pull out a peppermint and hastily shove it into his lips before another horse realizes and comes to beg as well.

I cross the wooden bridge into the camp, past the barricades, past the pools of O’Driscoll blood that has started to turn brown as it rots in the open air. Most of the boys are surrounding the campfire to the left; Charles and Karen are sitting on a couple of crates near the edge of the tree line, speaking lowly and passing a bottle between them. Jack pokes into the ground with a stick. In front of me, Javier is strumming his guitar and singing softly, the mansion towering over him like a stage. I notice Arthur and Mary-Beth swaying to the music, his strong arms clasped around her. Mary-Beth’s face is still contorted with pain, her eyes solemn and downcast, but she manages a small smile at Arthur as he spins her around and brings her back to him.

I head over to Pearson’s wagon and grab a bottle of beer. My throat is parched, my body tired from days spent on the road. My satchel is heavy against my shoulder as I grip the cool glass in my hands.

When Abigail notices me, her nostrils are flared, blue eyes boring into me. “Where were you?” Her voice is sharp and pointed.

I give her a confused look before I collapse onto the crate next to her. “Out,” I say simply, twisting the cap off of my beer.

“Quit being all cryptic. You was gone for three days.”

I roll my eyes, leaning back on the crate and cracking my back. “I was out trying to find some loot for this…” I wave my arm, “witch that pays me a pretty penny for it. She gave me these maps… I don’t know.” I drum my fingers on the table, co*cking my head. “Can’t find her now, though. So now, I’ve got all this random sh*t in my bag—”

“Well, I hope you enjoyed your vacation,” Abigail spits, “because it’s been a real sh*t storm since you’ve been gone.”

I cross my brow at her. “What is going on with you?”

I take a sip of the beer and wipe my mouth—the liquid feels good sliding down my throat, quenching a deep thirst that I didn’t know I had. The alcohol warms my belly and relaxes my shoulders.

Abigail scowls at me, opening her mouth to retort but Tilly beats her to it. “We think Dutch is losing his mind.”

I glance at her, but Abigail has already started talking again. “The trolley heist was an absolute bust. Not even a hundred dollars in that station.”

“So, Dutch takes that as some personal attack from Angelo Bronte, like he set them up or something, and rounds up all the men to snatch him from his house and kill him.”

I’m quiet for a few moments, letting the information sink in. I raise my eyebrows at Abigail. “Was it a set up?”

“It was Bronte’s tip,” Tilly says softly. “He told them about it at the mayor’s party.”

“It don’t matter!” Abigail snarls. She leans forward, taking a moment to reel in her anger and lower her voice. “Dutch’s taught us since day one that revenge is an idiot’s game. All it does is cause more trouble. It's a luxury we can't afford.” She purses her lips, and tears pool in her eyes for a fleeting moment before she bats her lashes forcibly. “We’ve lost more folk in the past few months than we ever have. Sean, Mac, Jenny, Kieran. Arthur got strung up in some basem*nt, Tilly was found by them Foreman Brothers, and my boy—”

She sucks in a breath, closing her eyes. I look in her lap and her fists are clenched and trembling. My eyes drift to Jack, still squatted near the edge of camp. He has dropped the stick and is now trying lazily to catch a lightning bug.

Abigail’s voice quivers. “John said Dutch held Bronte’s head underwater in the swamp.” I turn back to her. She swallows, staring up at the sky, blinking. “And then fed him to an alligator.”

Her words hang limply in the night air between us. Tilly folds her hands. I chew my lip, then glance back to the middle of the camp. Arthur is still dancing with Mary-Beth, the beginnings of a genuine smile forming on her face. He spins her around and pulls her back to him again.

“What are you getting at, Abigail?” My voice is surprisingly hoarse. “Ain’t Bronte the man that—”

“Yes,” she says quickly. She shudders a breath. “But he ran that city, Saint Denis. And now the trolley’s been robbed, Bronte is dead… And we’re hitting the bank tomorrow.”

I whirl back around hastily, knocking over my beer with my hand, fizzing across the ancient wood. I snatch the glass back up, muttering obscenities to myself, and wipe the alcohol off the table.

“We?”

“All of us,” Tilly responds. “Dutch says we all gotta play a part if we want it to run smoothly. We’s gonna plant some dynamite in a wagon, drag all the law to the other side of the city. Then the boys’ll rob the bank and we’ll hightail it to some other location, I guess." She shrugs and looks at Abigail. "Can’t come back here. It’s too close.”

“That ain’t gonna work,” I say lowly. “That city’s got law on every street.”

“I know.” Abigail shakes her head. “Dutch is leading them boys down a dark path. The law gets closer every day, and it… it ain’t ever been like this!” Her voice grows shrill again and my hand juts out, shushing her. “We ain’t never had men with their heads cut off riding into our camp. Ain’t ever had this Pinkerton Detective Agency following our every move. This whole entire gang is unraveling before my eyes and I can’t…”

Another pause. The crickets sing into the air. Tilly and I wait. “If anything happens to John, I…” she sighs, resting her forehead on her palm. She closes her eyes. “Jack will be very upset.”

I watch her as she shakes her head, bringing her other hand to her face to bury it. Her body is rigid, stiff with apprehension, with worry.

I swallow what’s left of my beer and rise to retrieve another. Pearson nods as I approach him, and he reaches into the crate and hands me a bottle. I muster up a grin to shoot back at him and nod my head. When I return to the table and crack open the beer, neither woman has moved.

I grunt as I plop back down into my seat and take a fresh sip, placing the glass on the table, farther away from my arm this time. “Alright then,” I start, clapping my hands together. “You would know more about the state of this gang than I would. What do you propose?”

Abigail is silent for a few beats before she answers. “I’m gonna talk to John. See how he feels about all this.” She darts her eyes to the side to look at me, between her fingers. “Can you talk to Arthur?”

My heart pangs painfully in my chest. “Jesus fu—” I roll my head and then snap back at her. “Would you get off of this? I ain’t got no kind of sway with that man.”

“Lillian.” She says my name harshly as she rips her hands from her face and slams them into the table. Her eyes are steely, her teeth clanking together. She seethes through her lips: “I have known that man for as long as I can remember. I’ve seen him with Mary. I saw him with Eliza.”

“Just try, for me, please.”

I keep my eyes on Arthur, my lips slowly parting to reply.

“Mama!” Jack cries, skipping over to the table. He parks himself in front of Abigail and raises his hands. “Mama, come dance with me.”

Abigail’s body is still stiff as a board, barely turning her neck to look down at her son. She curls her hand into a fist and rests her chin on it. “Not now, baby.”

Jack’s eyes sink, his hands lowering to his sides. “Okay,” he says quietly.

He turns to wander off again and I jump up from my seat. “Can I dance with you?”

Jack smiles a toothy grin and walks over to grab my hand. “Sure!” His tiny fingers wrap around my palm, and he guides me to the center of the camp, where Arthur cradles Mary-Beth against his chest.

Javier looks up from his strumming and nods his head. “Welcome, little man!” He strikes up the tune a little bit as Jack swivels to grab my other hand, lazily waltzing off-beat to the song. He swings my arms back and forth, wobbling from his left foot to his right, before reaching up and releasing my hands. I twirl around, then reach back down to slide my hands into his palms.

“Jacky!” Mary-Beth croons, releasing Arthur to bend down to the little boy. “Look how grown up you are, dancing with ladies!” Jack nods and smiles. “Can I dance with you, too?”

“Sure,” he repeats, and he immediately drops my hands and reaches for Mary-Beth. She picks him up, balancing him on her hip and grabbing his free hand. She dips him low and yanks him back up and he giggles, wrapping his arms around her neck. She buries her face into him and I can’t help but stare, to see the emotions that cross her face as she holds the little boy. She relaxes, lets go of something she had been repressing. She sways to Javier’s music, and her chest releases a slow exhale.

Something about the scene captures me, immobilizes my body. My eyes travel to everyone else, lingering over Charles and Karen, John sitting at the fire with the other men, Abigail and Tilly at the table.

It feels blasphemous, almost. To think about what I've left behind, what Ray led me into, and what I had done to him in return, of Daddy, of Janie. To just abandon it entirely, to be swallowed up by this gang and not even care. To enjoy my freedom, to spend days away at a time without having to really answer to anyone other than Abigail's prying eyes and Miss Grimshaw's regime. To have a group of people that you are with because you choose to, not because you owe them anything, not because you're told to, not because it was what you were raised and trained to do since you could walk on two feet.

I could go anywhere I want in the world. I could have walked away from them in Saint Denis. Could have taken Jedediah's offer and worked another pig farm. Could have taken the witch's maps and never returned. But here I am.

I realize then that Arthur is standing idly next to me, watching Mary-Beth and Jack. I see his head turn toward me out of my peripheral vision, and I meet his gaze, giving him a soft smile. He returns it. His expression holds the same one that I feel coursing through me right now: pride, appreciation, belonging. I glance at Abigail once more, and her head is craned to stare back at me. Her hands are knotted tightly in front of her, her foot bouncing, and my heart starts.

Just try, for me, please.

I turn back to Arthur, swallowing a frog in my throat: “Wanna have a—”

“Hey there, Lily of the Valley,” I hear a drunken voice from behind me, cutting into the otherwise quiet atmosphere. I whip around to find Micah sauntering toward me, bottle in hand, eyes glazed. His teeth glimmer through the curls of his mustache.

Arthur steps forward, settling almost directly behind me. Micah stumbles over his feet. “Wanna dance?” He stretches his hand out to me, fingers curled upward.

“I…” I trail off, Abigail popping her head around the silhouette of Micah to raise her eyebrows expectantly. I sigh. “Well, I was actually—”

“I just asked her,” Arthur butts in. I feel a warm palm snake around mine and he appears from behind me, pulling me gently toward him and wrapping his other hand around my waist. Mine instinctively finds his shoulder. His holds our hands up and begins to sway, staring pointedly at Micah. “You snooze, you lose, partner.”

Micah sneers, juggling the beer bottle to his other hand. “Guess so, cowpoke.” His lips curl into a snarl, the words dribbling out of his mouth like molasses. He keeps his eyes glued to Arthur as he slowly walks away, staring until he is finally forced to look where he is going when his shin smacks into a barrel.

A quiet rumble emanates from Arthur’s chest as he spins me around. His head lowers, the stubble of his cheek grazing my soft one. “That was close,” he whispers, and I can tell from the jovial sound of his voice that he’s chuckling. I look up at him, at the soft blue eyes that stare down at me. I tighten my grip on his hand.

Javier continues singing into the night as Arthur attempts to lead me into some sort of waltz. He steps forward, I step forward. He moves left, I go right. He tilts back toward the sky and lets out an overly exasperated groan.

“Damn it, woman.” He shakes his head. “You ain’t ever danced before?”

I crinkle my nose at him. “Not with a man with two right feet.”

“Mary-Beth seemed to get on just fine,” he mocks, pushing me gently back and spinning me around his finger.

His hand finds my waist again and he pulls me closer this time. From behind the curl of hair at the nape of his neck I can see Dutch and Miss Grimshaw have joined in, their dance much quicker, feet moving expertly. Dutch dips her down, her high bun brushing the ground. From the barricade, I can see Charles and Karen walking hand in hand toward us, their free palms clutching bottles. Charles bows and Karen curtsies before they find themselves in their own dance.

Arthur moves us much slower, our feet inches apart. His arm is wrapped around me so tightly that I’m almost flush against his body. My head reaches just below his chin, and I fight the urge to nestle into his chest. Javier’s singing mingles with the songs of the insects, the sounds of critters in the brush, the crackle of the fires.

Abigail is still staring, as are Tilly and Mary-Beth, who has joined the table in the back and has little Jack propped onto her knee. He whispers something into her ear and she giggles.

“You know,” I finally muse, looking up at him, “you can move us a bit faster than this.”

“I’d like to keep all my toes, if that’s alright with you,” Arthur says on a laugh as he spins me again.

When he brings me back to him for the second time, we’re even closer than before. I can barely move my feet, his iron-grip on my body not giving me much room to sway. I lean my head back to stare up at the stars encapsulated by the trees and the roof of the mansion. And in that moment, I choose to forget.

I push away the thoughts of my own home, of my Daddy and Janie’s bodies left behind in the life that I once had. I forget Ray, forget what sort of fate he may have met at the hands of the O’Driscoll’s. I forget the witch, the nights I spent robbing, the loot in my bag.

I forget that Arthur said he doesn’t remember our kiss. I forget the many days that we didn’t speak, that I didn’t dare to even look his way. I forget Abigail’s words, her request for me to try and steer Arthur some other direction. I forget Dutch. I forget the gang. Right now, it’s me and him under a starlit sky.

Before I lose the nerve, I release the hand that clings to Arthur’s and raise it to his neck, hooking my hands behind him. I close the distance between us, letting my body settle against his. Arthur is momentarily frozen, his legs locking into place. He quickly regains himself and sways us around again. Surprisingly, his other hand finds my waist as well, similarly locking together with his other at the base of my jeans.

“I like your hat,” he mutters, his chest reverberating against mine.

I smile and lower my cheek to rest on his shoulder. He smells like cigarettes, whiskey, and gunpowder, and I lose myself in it. “Thanks. I liked the turquoise.”

“It’s nice,” Arthur muses.

We’re silent for a few more minutes. Javier finishes the song, but we don’t stop in the silent interim where he sifts through his catalog of others and strums a few random chords. I’m not sure if Dutch, Miss Grimshaw, Karen, and Charles are still dancing. I don’t really care.

Javier begins again.

“Be careful around Micah.” Arthur breaks the silence to pull away slightly, and his light blue eyes catch mine again. “Don’t go dancing or nothing with him. You might catch something.”

I laugh and nod, wanting to settle back into him again but he keeps his distance. He releases his hands, taking an additional step back, and nods at me. “That was fine dancing, Lily-Anne.”

I give him another smile, momentarily swallowed by the last memory of us dancing together. Jack had just returned home, spirits were alight; we timed the beats perfectly to clap together at just the right moment.

“Mighty fine.”

The corner of Arthur’s lips curls into a smile, then he knots his brow. "Was you gonna ask me something, before I had to swoop in and save you from that toad?"

I snort, kicking a pebble with my boot. "I was fixing to ask if you wanted to share a drink with me."

Arthur clicks his tongue, tilting his head toward Pearson's wagon. "Still want to?"

I sigh. I know that I should. I know that Abigail wants me to. But the thought of talking to Arthur about a subject that may ruin the night, that might push him away again, is almost unbearable. I shake my head. “I think I’m gonna head to bed, if that’s alright with you?”

Arthur nods. “Sure. Need an escort?”

“I think I’ll manage. It ain't too far,” I toss back at him, turning slowly on my heel.

Notes:

Hey guys!
I know it's been a minute since I posted. We moved last week and getting everything packed then unpacked and set up has been a bit of a chore. I finally got my WiFi set up today and I'm so excited to be back. The next chapter is one I have been waiting to write for a long time, 16 chapters worth of buildup, and I'm so thrilled to get started on that >:)
Please let me know what you think of the latest installment!
- Mowglie

Summary:

You said you don’t remember much of that night, our walk in Saint Denis. But you got me that horse cause you remembered that I had never ridden one on my own, without a wagon. And you taught me how to ride it. So don’t look at me and tell me that you remember that, but you don’t remember kissing me.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

In the morning, the camp is bustling. I can hear the rings of laughter and stomps of feet, even from my deep slumber.

I crack an eye open to find Sadie standing over me, her hands on her hips and a large, frilly, canary yellow dress draped over her frame. Instead of her usual cowboy hat, she dons a feathered headpiece, with over-the-top plumes blowing in the wind, casting shadows over her scowling face.

She looks absolutely ridiculous.

I can’t stifle the laugh; it tumbles out of my mouth and bounces off of the mansion and back at her. Sadie scoffs and spits on the ground. “Shut your mouth and get up.”

Still chuckling, I crawl out of the bedroll and brush off my jeans. Sadie’s arms are now crossed, her upper lip curled into a snarl. “My, my,” I croon, shaking out my hair, “What a lady!”

“Oh, don’t you worry!” she snaps, uncrossing her arms to charge around me. “We got one for you, too! Gotta look the part in good ole Saint Denis!”

As she passes, I reach out and slap her hard across the buttocks. Sadie whirls around, her eyes aflame, and I dart away before she gets a chance to smack me back. She continues her pursuit, her hand raised.

Just as promised, Miss Grimshaw struts over to us, tossing a glance at Sadie before she shoves a deep purple gown at me. “Quit your squabbling and put this on. You gotta help the other girls load that wagon up with dynamite.”

I snatch the dress from her and hold it up: lacy, gaudy, and slightly stained around the bottom hem. I whirl it around, and I'm just about as impressed with the back as I was with the front. I tilt my head. “Do I have to put this on to work on the wagon?”

Miss Grimshaw, who had already begun to depart, turns on her heel to shout back at me, “Well, if you hadn’t slept in past noon, you’d have more time to work in whatever attire you prefer!” She waves me off and continues toward the wagons that have been parked around the side of the clearing, where Karen is securing the bit to one of the Shires.

Sadie gives me a sly look as I trudge past her and behind a wagon, and she wastes no time falling in line behind me. “You need help, m’lady? Need me to tighten them ribbons for you?”

As if summoned by Sadie’s offer, Abigail appears from the other side of the wagon, clad in her own light blue sun dress, ushering me over to get me ready into my bank heist ensemble.

- - -

After the dress is set, my headpiece is adorned, and my hair and makeup is near perfection, Abigail releases me back to the camp. I notice that everyone is dressed to the nines; every man is in a suit, even Micah—his small gut clearly visible through the white shirt and thin vest, hanging over his belt buckle. I feel his eyes on me as I pass him, but I ignore him and head toward the wagon at the back of the line, where Tilly is shoving dynamite sticks into a bundle on the bed.

As I grow closer, I hear Sadie calling from behind me, “Tilly! Let Miss Lillian finish up that dynamite! The girl could stand to lift a single finger!”

I roll my eyes as Tilly grins, handing me the stick in her hand.

“Careful!” she tuts. “Them things explode, you know?”

“Alright, alright,” I mumble.

I glance to my left and find a large red crate filled with explosives, dragged near the tree line and splayed open. I saunter over, grab as many as I can carry, and tuck them into my arms. I return to the wagon and shove them in, a bit more tentatively this time.

Beads of sweat trickle down my back by the time I start the second bundle. I unwrap the band and cover it with more dynamite. The camp is still getting ready, putting the finishing touches on their looks, making sure their guns are stocked with ammunition, loading up the other wagons and getting the money bags ready. Something about it makes a sickening feeling pool in my stomach.

I remember Abigail’s words from last night: Dutch is leading them boys down a dark path. I know that city is crawling with the law; I saw them almost every time I ventured into Saint Denis. The trolley heist was a bust. Angelo Bronte is dead. And now, we’re going to waltz right down that street and attempt to rob the biggest bank on this side of the Dakota River.

I pause, chewing my lip, dynamite in hand. Should I go grab my revolver? Would I look too conspicuous to have it hanging on my hip while I’m wearing all this fancy garb?

Sounds like a decent plan. But I can’t shake the dropping feeling in my stomach and the tightening of my throat.

I retrieve another armful of dynamite from the ruby red crate.

“Lily-Anne!”

As I turn with the explosives, I see Arthur sauntering toward the wagon. He is calm and casual, a small smile cracking his face. He’s wearing a suit jacket, just like the others, with a shiny red vest and white gloves. I’m instantly taken back to our previous time in Saint Denis together, with his freshly shaved face, pomaded hair, and a different suit on, but a suit nonetheless.

I also can’t help but to notice the dark blue bandana hanging around his neck.

I ignore the fluttering of my heart as he leans against the wagon, resting his elbows on the side, his hands dangling near the dynamite. “Mr. Morgan,” I nod at him, pulling the bundle toward me and filling it. It’s begun to expand, making stuffing it easier. The sticks slide into place next to each other, stretching the band just as Tilly’s had done. I toss him and over-exaggerated smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure, fine gentleman?”

I grimace at myself, but Arthur chuckles, shaking his head. He clicks his tongue and looks off to the right. He turns back to the wagon, then co*cks his head. “That’s a fine packing job.”

“It was mostly Tilly,” I grunt as I shove more explosives into the bundle.

Arthur nods, and I turn around to get another load. There are only a few more left in the box; I should be able to get the remaining sticks into the last bundle. I grab about half of them and return.

He’s staring down at the dynamite again as he speaks. “I actually wanted to talk to you, before all this gets going.”

“Sure.”

He’s silent for a few moments. I splay out the dynamite before me to grab them individually to shove into the band. It’s starting to get more difficult—the band is stretched almost to capacity. I yank it back as far as I can and try to hide my pressed breaths as I shimmy the stick in. With that one successfully placed, I snatch up another one.

“You know, this would be a good time to… slip away, if you wanted.”

I stop and crane my neck to look at Arthur. He’s staring up at the sky, his throat bobbing as he swallows.

When he doesn’t elaborate, I return to my work and prod him on, “What?”

“This gang. I… I know it ain’t what you want.”

My arm freezes midair, still clutching a stick of dynamite, and trembles. My mouth runs dry. I try to swallow, to speak, but I cannot.

Arthur continues, oblivious to what his suggestion has done to me. “If you wanted, you could leave now, never look back. There’ll be a lot of ruckus in Saint Denis, a lot of noise. You could just…” Arthur waves his hand in front of him, almost in a shoo-ing motion.

I grit my teeth. My fingers wrap tighter around the dynamite, to the point where I might just snap it in half.

We both say nothing, but Arthur remains where he is. Anger courses through my body, to every extremity, every inch of my skin. The sweating intensifies. My breaths are labored, short spurts. Have I not earned my place in this gang? Have I not proven, with my continued returns to the camp, the money I bring in, the relationships I have established, that I want to be here? That I deserve to be here?

Did the dance last night, and all the talks, and both of us saving each other’s lives mean absolutely nothing? In and out of his mind like a passing thought?

Just like the kiss had been.

Arthur breaks the silence first by drumming his fingers on the wood. “Just something to think on,” he concludes, before he swivels on his heel and continues his nonchalant cadence back into the clearing.

The sheer ice of abandonment, of uncaring, of unrequited feelings, entangle with the white-hot anger that churns through me.

Un-f*cking-believable.

Fire and ice battling inside me. Shut up and take it, duck my head like I always do, or fight? Challenge him, like I’ve always wanted to do? I stare at the back of his head, swept with pomade but longer now, more unruly, still curled at the nape of his neck.

Fire and ice. Fire and ice.

Fire wins.

“Is that why you gave me that horse? To get me gone? So I had no excuse to hang around anymore!?” I shout after him, the words pouring out of my mouth before I can even muster a cohesive thought.

In every one of our previous interactions, Arthur held his tongue. I never knew what he was thinking, what the thoughts were that danced behind his eyes. What he couldn’t articulate. He’d leave the campfire, or my bedroll, or the alleyway, and I’d stew over where we stood and the nature of our relationship.

Not this time.

Arthur’s body freezes, his head co*cking slightly to the side. His shoulders tense, and he curl his fingers. And then, he turns, his blue eyes stark in the sunlight, and takes hurried steps toward me. He cranes his neck and knots his brow as he asks loudly, “I’m sorry?”

And suddenly, I can’t look at him. I whip my head back down to the dynamite bundle, nearly dropping the stick as I fumble trying to get it in. My fingers are numb; I can’t feel the band or the smooth, rolled paper.

The ice ends up on top this time, my cheeks flushed with fear, but I know it’s too late to back out now. The thoughts that have been consuming me for well over a month bubble to the surface, begging to be spoken, begging to be released first.

f*ck it. Maybe I will leave. Just, say what I want to say to him first.

He reaches the wagon and stops, his boots slamming deliberately into the marshy earth, making his return known though I can’t meet his gaze.

With the dynamite stick securely in the bundle, I begin working on another. “You keep saying this ain’t what I want, but I know you’ve seen me pay my dues and get close to all the folk here. You don’t know how I feel. And I don’t think you know how you feel, either.” I snap the band against the dynamite. Scowling, I grab another. “Why are you so desperate for me to leave? Are you feeling…” I grunt against the strength of the band. “Guilty, or something?”

“Guilty?” he repeats, nearly incredulously.

I snarl back at him. “You lied to me.”

I get the final dynamite secure and immediately whirl around to stalk toward the crate and grab the last of the bunch. There’s only a few more remaining. I scoop them all up, able to cradle them in one arm, and still refuse to look at Arthur upon my return.

He hasn’t left, his body still rigid against the side of the wagon, watching me as I begin on the next stick. What is he waiting for? An explanation?

I decide to give him one. I don’t care anymore.

“So don’t look at me and tell me that you remember that, but you don’t remember kissing me.”

My lip trembles at the admission. The words of Sadie and Abigail, their encouragement to talk to Arthur, that he looks at me in certain ways or feels some type of way about me, feels foolish now. I had wanted to confront him, to hear from his mouth how he feels about everything; but now, I feel conspicuous, stupid, manic. I try to focus on the task at hand and force the second to last dynamite in the bundle.

I can’t look at Arthur. I don’t know how his body reacted. But I know what he said, in a much more subdued, calm tone: “You remember that?”

“Yeah, I remember that!” I nearly shriek.

“And I think about it. A lot. And I think about what you said before you kissed me, about how Mary will never accept you for who you are. And then, all of a sudden…” I trail off, unsure of what to say next, of how far my anger will actually take me. So instead, I wave my arm, just as Arthur does when he refuses to use his words.

A few beats of silence. “What?” he prods.

I can't answer and instead zero in on finishing this stupid dynamite pile so this stupid conversation can be over. And then I can be gone.

But do I really want to be gone? Would I really ride out on Abigail, Tilly, Mary-Beth, Sadie, all them, for a man? For Arthur?

“What, Lillian!?” Arthur yells when I don’t answer him quickly enough.

I realize that, for the first time since I have met him, he pronounced my name correctly. No Lily. No Lily-Anne. I don’t know what to think of it. My mind spins even further.

His hands grip the sides of the wagon, nearly splintering the wood. I keep my gaze down on the bright red dynamite.

“You used me,” I whisper, much quieter than before, much more diluted.

I'm still wrestling with the final explosive when Arthur finally moves.

There’s nothing in his crystal blue eyes but absolute fury.

“Look at me,” he barks, though I already I am. I take a step back. “Look at me and explain how I used you.”

He points his finger at me, nearly pressing into my chest.

That’s it, I guess. We’re doing this.

“I know exactly what you were thinking that night," I fire back at him.

Arthur tosses his head back and chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. His eyes darken as he tilts to the side. “And what’s that, princess?”

His laughter angers me even further. “A momentary fix. A bandage on a wound,” I say almost lightly. “Did it help, Arthur?”

I manage a snarl at him. “Did it help you forget the woman that won’t have you?”

I struck a nerve. I can see it in the way he shifts his body. He breaks eye contact first, staring out into the trees, and grits his teeth. “You…” he shakes his head, then the cobalt eyes find me again. He throws his hands out to the side, as if he regains himself and remembers where he is. “You’s f*cking married, Lillian!”

I thought I would like him saying my name correctly, but I hate it. It creates distance between us, like we aren’t the same people that we were last night, that we’ve been for the past month. This, coupled with his assertion, crumbles me even further.

“I ain’t married,” I say surprisingly weakly, without the harshness that I intended. Like I’m breaking in half before him.

“Like hell you ain't,” he spits. He curls his upper lip, as if the thought disgusts him, and his breath comes out in short, heavy spurts. He walks toward me again, and that finger once again juts out at me. “The first, the very first goddamn thing you said to me, when you was all healed up back in Clemens Point—” Now, he points toward the exit of the camp. “—was if your husband was worth waiting on. If he had a chance. And then, we move here. Next day, you go looking for the house he bought!”

“There weren’t no house!”

I know that it doesn’t matter. It’s not the point he’s making. But I don’t know what else to say.

“Arthur!”

It’s Dutch, screaming from the other side of the camp. I realize then just how quiet it’s gotten. There’s no other voices. No one is moving, undoubtedly watching the scene play out in front of them.

Arthur is undeterred by both the silence of the camp and Dutch’s intrusion. He smiles, but there’s no joy behind it. It’s pained. “And then, we’re walking together in Saint Denis, after I rode clean near over half the city in five seconds to make sure you wasn’t walking into some death wish in the back of a hotel!” His voice is elevating, echoing across the quiet clearing. “And I ask you about the pig farm, and you go into talking about him and get all choked up, get all worked up.” He pauses, panting, and I see his shoulder relax a bit. “And don’t get me started on what you told Mary-Beth the other night.”

Pain pierces my chest—cold, all-consuming, unrelenting. I shudder a breath, forcing back my tears. The anger dissipates. Nothing is left but the throbbing in my ribs. “That weren’t…” I stop.

That wasn’t about Ray. I wasn’t talking about him.

I was talking about Arthur. About what it felt like to kiss him, to think about him. To talk to him, to laugh by a campfire or dance under the stars or walk alone together in a busy street or an open field. But what do I say? Do I admit that? Make myself look like an even bigger fool?

I say nothing.

Arthur takes a deep breath and releases the tension in his hands. Behind him, I can see Dutch approaching rapidly, his arms swinging by his side. Arthur glances at the ground, then back at me. The rage has dissolved and something else is plaguing his features, an emotion that I can’t place, that I’m too afraid to.

He parts his lips slowly. “You’re not over it.” That same curl of his upper lip, that same, almost disgusted look, appears for a brief moment. “And I don’t blame you for that. You shouldn’t be over it. But I don’t…” He stops.

Tell him.

Tell him how you finally found freedom in a life that was planned from your very conception. And, despite that freedom, how you kept coming back. Kept coming back to him.

But I can’t. The words won’t form. I keep my lips firmly pressed together.

“But, when you came up to me in the bar that night, I knew what you was doing, what you was thinking.” Guilt pools into my chest as he lowers his head. “And I tried to be… I tried to not…” He looks back at me fiercely. “I gave you an out! An opportunity to agree that it weren't nothing but a drunken mistake so it don’t hang over your conscience, so it don’t change things for you. But don’t you dare say that I used you, or that I don’t—”

“Arthur!”

Dutch’s voice, much louder now that he is directly behind Arthur, makes me jump out of my skin. Arthur doesn’t move, keeping his eyes on me. Dutch pauses, his mouth slightly open as he stares at me, before he claps Arthur on the back and swallows. “Son, we… we gotta get on. We gotta do this.”

Arthur is still heaving, looking at me through hooded lashes. Then, he slowly turns, keeping his eyes on me until his head snaps forward. Dutch wraps an arm around him and guides him toward the horses. Once they arrive, Dutch retrieves a money bag and throws it over Arthur’s shoulder, patting it against his chest and releasing him.

I stay where I am, and a single tear slips from my left eye and trails down my cheek, undoubtedly leaving a stain where Abigail had painted my face. I hear footsteps from the other side of the wagon: Abigail herself. She grabs my cheek, the one stained by the tear, and turns my face to look at her. “Are you alright?”

I nod quickly, then swipe the tear away hurriedly and glance around the camp. I meet almost everyone’s eyes; they’re all staring, as if frozen in time, paused in their movements. Abigail grabs my hand, curling her fingers around it gently, and pulls me to the front wagon. She opens the back and lets me crawl in, her almost directly behind. I slide down next to Tilly and shudder a breath as Abigail closes the latch behind us.

Tilly rests her hand on my knee and gives me a small smile. I can’t return it.

- - -

Saint Denis is as busy as it always is, just as I expected it to be.

The wagon with the dynamite is before us, Hosea manning the reins. The other men had ridden in on their own horses, a bit of distance between them, and had entered the city before us. The explosive wagon kept straight as we veered left, a few blocks away. Our horses trail behind our wagon and settle across the street, naturally huddling around the posts and swishing their tails.

Sadie parks the wagon in front of a store hidden from view from the others. Her plumed hat sways in the breeze as she slides herself off of the driver’s seat. “Come on, y’all,” she says pointedly as she marches around the corner.

Abigail unlatches the wagon and we exit one by one, following Sadie’s path and turning at the bend. My footsteps feel muffled against the cobblestone, like I’m not really here, like this is a dream and I'm really asleep on my bedroll at the camp. Staring down at the bricked path reminds me of the bottle that Arthur released in the alleyway.

It clinks once, twice. Then, he approaches me.

I seethe through my teeth. This is it. I’m gone after this. I have the money. I have a horse. How could I ever look at Arthur in the face again after what was said? After what he admitted, if he even really admitted anything. My brain is fogged, like I can’t remember exactly what we screamed at each other, what we said under our breaths. His body language. The curl of his lip.

We pass a barber shop, a butcher, and the same jeweler that I saw when I rode out here on my own. We turn right, and I see Hosea waving his arms animatedly as he drops down from the side of the wagon. The explosives are covered by a large, thick blanket, wedged in between a few nondescript, empty crates.

“There you are, ladies! Thank you so much for agreeing to help me unload my goods!” He’s in character, his voice raised to be heard by those around him.

Play your part, Lillian. Act like you are going to help the elderly man with his wagon.

“Between the lot of us,” Sadie calls just as loudly, “we each should be able to grab a box and put it wherever you’d like us to!”

Abigail reaches into her bag, pulling out a box of matches. She lifts the lid, pulls one out, and then returns the box to her satchel. She pauses, lifts her shoe, strikes it against the bottom, then walks calmly toward the wagon.

“Yes, yes, of course! Thanks again, really!”

Play your part. Play your part.

I stop a good distance away from the wagon. Hosea rushes out to meet us halfway. I stare down the street, searching for the boys that are undoubtedly huddled across the street from the bank, but I don’t see them. I didn’t expect to. The bank is a few blocks over, a safe distance from the explosive wagon.

Abigail is the only one who approaches. She lifts the blanket and bends down into the wagon. My heart beats wildly in my chest.

She suddenly darts away, discarding the match and sprinting down the busy street.

There’s a couple and their small son sitting on a bench on the side of the road. I have just enough time to mourn their fate before we all charge away from the wagon, running as fast as our legs can carry us. I brace myself, but it’s no use. Nothing could prepare my body for two gigantic bundles of dynamite exploding on the side of the street.

The sound is deafening. Heat sears into my back, the energy flinging me down onto the cobblestone. My hands splay out, my cheek grazing the brick. There’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears, but through it I am able to hear Abigail and Tilly’s loud wails and the sounds of footsteps echoing around me.

I open my eyes and peel myself off of the road. Everyone is rushing past me and toward what’s left of the wagon. Before me are shards of wood, aflame and littering the street. Crumbled pieces of dynamite float gently down from the air like petals.

Abigail pulls at her hair, then presses her hands against her chest, sobbing loudly. A few lawman appear. One grabs her shoulders, shaking her, but she just crumples to the ground.

I stand and turn back, my purple dress swaying the breeze and tangling in my shoes. The law surrounds the wagon, their brows furrowed. A few more appear from intersecting streets and charge toward us.

I’m not sure how long I stay there, unmoving against the chaos of the city, before I hear gunfire from a few roads over. My head snaps in the direction of the fray. I take one step, and then another, before a uniformed officer rushes down the lane, directly at Hosea, and grapples him to the ground and places a gun against his temple.

I scream, but I don’t hear it. I can’t hear anything. An arm loops around me quickly and forces my body to turn and run down the ruined street.

Notes:

And this is the end of Act 1!!
Thank you everyone for being so patient with me these past couple of weeks. Writing this is such a joy, but I just haven't been able to find much time with my master's program and starting a new, big-girl job on the sixteenth. Much of my time has been spent working or sleeping, but I plan on seeing this one through! Please let me know what you think!
Mowglie
Diamond Road

Summary:

I'll be back.

So will he.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

“Where are they taking him!?” Tilly screams.

A man appears from the same street where the officer came from: black bowler hat, ironed suit, sagging face. I recognize him as the detective that I had seen in camp so many weeks ago—Agent Morton? Milton? My feet falter, slowing to a crawl as I watch the lawman hand Hosea over. Agent Milton snatches his arm roughly, replacing the gun pointed at Hosea’s head with the barrel of his own.

As someone continues to drag me forward, I hear Mary-Beth wail, her screech distinct over the civilians crying out around us. A body rushes past me; Abigail appears and nearly tackles Mary-Beth, whirling her around and forcing her to run alongside us. “Stop!” Abigail screams, “We gotta get back to them horses!”

I finally face forward to see who is tugging me along—it's Sadie, her own gun retrieved from its holster. She faces the barrel toward the sky, charging ahead and weaving through the sea of people that are rushing to see what happened to the wagon, why there was an explosion, who the man being held at gunpoint is.

She cuts down the alley way, yanking me down behind a trash can. She opens her revolver, spinning it and counting the bullets that she has in the chamber.

“No!” I hiss, pushing the firearm down toward the ground.

“What is your problem!?” she snaps back. A few lawman race past us, guns in hand. Sadie’s eyes cut toward them and she snarls, lunging away from the garbage.

My hands shoot out after her, wrapping around her torso and forcing her back down beside me. She whips around to face me, her eyes wide as saucers. “What?”

“We ain’t shooting no law,” I say with as much conviction as I can. I try to rip the gun away from her, but she immediately snatches it back. My thumb hitches on the guard around the trigger, and I seethe and shake out my hand.

“Like hell we ain’t!” she argues. “You saw one of them making off with Hosea. Lord know what they’re going to do if they catch us!”

“They ain’t gonna catch us if we just act like terrified citizens and flee on our horses like we don’t know what the hell is going on!”

More men pass, some of them in similar suits to Agent Milton. Sadie doesn’t notice; her wild, hazel eyes are still fixated on me.

I don’t comment on it. Neither does Sadie.

“You’ve lost your goddamn mind if you think I ain’t shooting our way out of here if I have to,” she growls, raising her weapon again.

“And you’ve been lost yours! This ain’t you, Sadie. These men are just doing what they’re supposed to do. The law didn’t take your husband from you.” I lower my eyes, gritting my teeth, and I seethe. “You remember that. You shoot any of them, it’s over for you. There ain’t no turning back from this life.”

Sadie doesn’t respond, her breathing haggard, fluttering a lock of sandy-blonde hair that hangs in her face. Her eyes soften, however slightly, and she glances at the weapon held tightly in her hand. She opens her mouth to speak, but the other girls come hurdling down the street, their arms swinging by their sides.

“Come on!” Abigail yells, slapping Sadie roughly on the back as she passes.

We scramble behind them. We don’t pass any law as we break into the much larger, much more populated street, where the other wagon and our horses sit just a few blocks to the left. Abigail guides us toward them, and Sadie breaks off to clamber back into the driver’s seat of the spare wagon. I continue on, keeping my eyes fixated on Dottie, trying to keep my head about me and not think about the deafening silence we heard earlier, about Hosea being dragged down the cobblestone toward the bank, about Arthur and John undoubtedly being surrounded, undoubtedly—

A single, piercing shot rings out into the air.

Time slows. I hear more shouts, singed with agony.

I watch, transfixed as the world around me slowly begins to turn again, like a picture movie just beginning to play. Sadie slaps the reins against the horses’ backs. The rear up, neighing loudly, their hooves circling in the air before they lurch back down and race down the street. Dottie, spooked by the other horses’ reaction, shakes her head and beats her feet, her wild eyes darting every direction. I grab one of her reins, but she fights against me.

“Lillian!” It’s Tilly, slung up on her own horse, waving her hands at me. “Lillian, let’s get on! Get on that horse!”

I yank on Dottie’s reins again and she somewhat settles, her body still tense, still trying to flee. I mount up and clap her once on the side before guiding her down the street and jamming my heels into her sides.

The gunfire has returned, this time ten-fold: hurried, frenzied, without inhibition. I fold myself down, keeping my head pressed against Dottie’s neck, hoping to God that she is able to navigate us through the chaos of the city. My teeth are clenched so tightly that, compounded by the beating of Dottie’s hooves against the cobblestone, I swear they’ll break.

I hear a different noise beneath me: wood. I must be crossing the bridge out of the city. I raise my head to look forward and see Sadie’s gun still held by her side as she veers the wagon to the left, nearly toppling it over.

Abigail rides up on my right side, whipping her head back, then forward, then back again. “Sadie!” she screams, then ducks her head as a bullet flies by. “Sadie!”

Sadie whirls around, pointing her revolver behind her, and begins to fire in quick succession. I lower my head again and press Dottie forward, bringing her up around the left side of the wagon. We pass the turn to camp, instead continuing forward into the open fields.

At this speed, the bullets sound more like insects buzzing around my face instead of high-powered lead intended on killing me. They slice into the wood of the wagon, the bark of the nearby trees, or slam into the earth, kicking up the dust that they eat away. I steal a glance behind me to see our pursuers; it’s the law, their pristine blue suits riding after us on dark horses.

One of them comes up on my opposite side, his horse’s teeth held fast to the bit, hooves pounding. He raises his gun directly at me, his reddened face scrunched in concentration, and I see a flash of white before I hear the crack of the weapon. I instinctively duck down, bracing myself against Dottie, who neighs and launches herself to the right, directly against Sadie’s wagon.

The sound of my shriek pierces my own ears as my back rakes against wood of the wagon. I feel the pieces jutting into my skin, ripping my clothes, the loose nails digging into my flesh. I cry again, forcing myself to hang onto the horse despite the pain that surges through my body, that pulses from my exposed spine to the tips of my fingers.

Dottie corrects, pulling herself away from the wagon. I hear Sadie growl, and a series of three quick shots ring out from my right side. I hear the other horse whinny, the lawman shouts and gurgles, and something large and heavy slams against the dusty earth.

I open my eyes, staring at Dottie’s spotted mane. My mouth hangs open, swallowing the air in ragged breaths. The pain does not cease, instead doubling, quadrupling, as I realize what just happened to me. I feel my grip on the reins beginning to loosen, my consciousness attempting to flee, to rid my body of the pain that courses through me like molten lava.

“Down here!” Mary-Beth shouts. “Turn down here! We’ll lose ‘em!”

With all the strength I can muster, I pull Dottie to the left; she understands and charges down what I assume to be some sort of embankment. I hear the wheels of the wagon groan in protest as they turn over rocks, roots, expertly weaving between the trees despite the panic of the horses.

A few more gunshots ring out, each one a bit more distant than the previous one. Dottie presses on until I feel her screech to a halt. Her hooves dive into water and she swivels around, nearly throwing me off of her back. I manage to sit up, and fire erupts down my entire spine. I can’t help but to cry out again as Sadie pulls the wagon to a stop, slides off the seat, and rushes toward me.

“Holy sh*t, Lil.” Her hands find my ribs and she grips firmly, pulling me down toward her. My legs can’t support my weight and I crumple into her; she grabs my waist, keeping her fingers as far away from my back as possible. I groan into her shoulder.

“What happened?” It’s Abigail. I hear her dismount her horse and approach me.

“She got raked on the side of the wagon,” Sadie spits, and I feel her guiding me somewhere. A wave of nausea courses over me and my head lolls back, my body begging to pass out, to rest.

“Put her in the back,” Abigail commands, and I feel another set of hands on me. “Get her to Grimshaw. Come on, now.”

I’m hoisted up, gripped under my arms and by the crook of my legs. The bend in my upper body surges more pain through me, like my entire back is being ripped apart again. I scream once more, and then blackness.

- - -

I awaken to the sensation of lightly swinging, as if I am being cradled by my mother, and for a moment, I succumb to it. I see her perfect green eyes staring down at me, full of warmth, compassion, as she swipes a strand of hair off of my forehead. “You gotta be careful, now,” she tuts, gripping my chin to force me to look up at her. “You was way too high in that tree. I told you not to climb that far.”

“I wanted to see the Heartlands,” I say softly, sniffling, my tiny hands wrapped around my skinned knee. “Ray says you can see the canyons if you climb far enough.”

“Ray don’t know nothing about climbing trees, and neither do you.” She clicks her tongue as she pours more alcohol on the cotton ball, then dabs it onto my exposed skin. I grit my teeth, a few tears peeking out the corners of my eyes, and my mother begins speaking again. “You’re lucky your leg ain’t broke. Keep it together, now.”

And I do, forcing back the tears and choking back my guffaws. My mother wraps my knee expertly, tearing off the cloth with her teeth. “There, all better.” She pats my wound with her fingers. “You’re a big girl, now. And being a big girl means listening to what your father and I tell you.” She releases me and I stand, wiping at my eyes gingerly. “Are you a big girl?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m a big girl.”

- - -

My eyes finally flutter open, and I’m staring up at what appears to be a wooden structure. It’s nothing like the marbled walls of the mansion—much more aged, archaic. I look to the side and see that I’m swathed in fabric, swaying gently against the weight of my body. A hammock?

I groan as I try to pull my legs up and swing them over the side. My back immediately aches in protest, like hundreds of cats raking their claws against my skin. It feels stretched to the brim, like there’s nothing left to protect my spine, and what is, I just ripped off.

I pause for a moment and glance around. There’s a few other hammocks and some mattresses on the floor. I hear voices from another room, speaking in hushed tones so as not to wake someone—probably me. I sigh loudly as I force myself to a standing position, then turn the corner and head into the other room of the shack.

It’s Sadie and Abigail, sitting on crates, coffee tins in their hands. When they see me, they both stand; Sadie saunters in front of me while Abigail immediately circles back, pulling up the fabric of my shirt to look at my wound.

“Well, look who’s up?” Sadie smiles, but there’s sadness behind it. Something she’s holding back. She co*cks her head to the side. “You ever get tired of just lounging around in bed all day?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I snap back, “Next time, when we have law chasing us and firing for our heads, I’ll make sure not to slam my back into a moving wagon. Save some recovery time for someone else.”

“It’s still pretty red.” Abigail releases my shirt and heads for one of the chests. I hear her digging around, glass clinking against glass, and she pulls out a bottle of topical medicine.

“Don’t act like you don’t sleep in every day anyway.” Sadie laughs and I snarl at her. Abigail returns and lifts my shirt up again.

“Well, maybe, if I hadn’t spent over a week waking up at the ass-crack of dawn with you to shoot damn frogs, I’d get up earlier—oof —now.”

Abigail spreads something cold across my back, the medicine seeping into my cuts and stinging against my flesh. I grit my teeth as a guttural noise gurgles from the back of my throat.

Sadie raises her eyebrows and shrugs. “If anything, you need more practice. If you’d just taken out that law man, we wouldn’t be here.”

I’m about to fire back at her, but Abigail walks in front of me, her soft blue eyes solemn. She screws the lid to the medicine back on and shifts her weight onto one hip. Her lips part with hesitation before she speaks. “Do you remember anything?”

I lower my eyes. “I remember the pain. Getting away, collapsing into Sadie.” At this, Sadie averts her gaze, focusing instead on the small tin that she cradles between her hands. I swallow. “How long has it been?”

“Two days,” Abigail says quietly. I see sadness building in her own eyes, and she lets a long breath out through her nose. Some emotion flashes across her face. “John is in prison.”

I feel the blood pooling away from my head, my chest surging. Sweat pricks the crown of my hair, dots the palms of my hands. Sadie sits back down on the crate and readjusts her boots on the floor.

“Just John?” I ask tentatively.

Abigail and Sadie exchange a look.

“Well,” Abigail begins, “Charles came back. He said…” She drifts off, her eyes darting behind her, as if confirming that no one is around to overhear. “He said that he and the others camped out in a building in Saint Denis for a night. Then, he created some kind of diversion, he won’t get into details.” Abigail’s hand finds her forehead, her fingers digging into the skin, then her hairline. “Most of the boys got onto a boat, rode out to God know’s where. So I don’t—”

“We don’t know when they’ll be back,” Sadie interrupts, leaning back on the crate. She takes a sip of her coffee.

I look back at Abigail, the dark lashes against her porcelain cheeks as she stares down at the wooden floor. I speak aloud what she refuses to admit: “We don’t know if they’ll be back.”

Sadie and Abigail both say nothing. It’s amazing what can be heard in the silence of people; sometimes more than they’re willing to speak aloud. A series of acknowledgments pass through us, almost simultaneously. We don’t know if the boys will be back. We don’t know what we’re going to do in the meantime. We don’t know if this is the end of the gang that we had somehow found ourselves all swallowed into.

I, for one, don’t know where we are. Don’t know how long I plan to stay put. Don’t know if those were the last words that I had ever spoken to Arthur Morgan.

How can you start something over that never really began?

My heart pangs with the absence of something that was never truly mine.

I fold my arms across my chest, then loosen them when my back scorches in protest. I open my mouth to speak, but Abigail begins first.

“Hosea is dead.”

My body freezes in place. At the time, I had been staring down at the floor, preparing to raise my eyes and start a new wind of conversation. That’s gone now. So my gaze stay downcast. I want to cry, want to scream, want to deny it and walk outside and find him sitting on a barrel, playing his harmonica or smoking a cigarette. A part of me believes that I will. If my soul wasn’t utterly crystallized, I might just go out and check myself.

I swallow. It’s the only movement I can manage.

“Lenny, too,” Abigail whispers.

My head nods, as if independent from the rest of my body. I can see Sadie shifting her weight uncomfortably to my right. She pulls a leg up from the floor and perches it on the edge of the crate, her free hand snaking around it.

We sit in silence for what feels like ages.

I finally clear my throat and turn to Abigail. “Where are we?”

“A shack in Lagras,” she answers. “Deep in the swamp. Ain’t no one gonna come out here without good reason.”

“Finding the remnants of the Van der Linde gang is probably good reason,” Sadie adds begrudgingly. She spits on the floor as Abigail huffs a breath. Sadie turns to me. “I left a note at the old camp, in the mansion. When the boys return—” She emphasizes the word, her eyes boring into me. I do nothing but hold her gaze, “—they’ll be able to find us.”

“Everyone’s here except them. All the girls are alright. We got Miss Grimshaw, who you can thank for what remains of your backside,” Abigail raises her eyebrows, “Pearson, the Reverend, Strauss.” Abigail pauses. “All of them.”

“Good,” I say quietly. I don’t know what else to say or what I can offer her.

Sadie turns her attention to Abigail. “We need money.”

“I can get some,” I respond instead. “Are my things here?”

“They’re behind your hammock in the back room.”

Abigail gives Sadie a bewildered look. “She ain’t going anywhere in that condition.”

I’ve already turned back to the bedroom, made my way around the hammock, and reached forward to pull my bag toward me when I hear Sadie respond: “What else are we supposed to do?”

- - -

The sun is settling toward the horizon as I make my way out of the tiny wooden structure. There’s a few other cabins dotting the landscape, all circling around a campfire in the middle. I see the horses a bit down the main path, surrounded by the muggy swamp. Dottie stands out, her white hair glinting off the misty air that hangs around us. The sun shines through her ear, reddening it as I approach, my satchel on my shoulder and my revolver swinging from my hip.

Charles is out here as well, tucking his bow into his horse’s saddle. His long hair is plaited down his back, strong hands securing the buckles on his horse, when he hears me walking toward him. I give him a curt nod as I untie Dottie’s reins from a damp tree.

“Are you out?” he asks calmly. There’s no hostility in his tone; instead, his words are laced with a genuine curiosity, as if he not only wouldn’t be surprised by it, but expects it. He folds his arms across his chest and leans back into his Appaloosa, dark eyes settled on me.

I swing myself onto Dottie and nestle into the saddle. I lead her away from the tree, then pause in front of him. “No,” I answer, surprised by the bravado in my own voice. “Just going out to earn some money. We’re gonna need it.”

“Visiting that witch again?” His eyes twinkle, undoubtedly remembering some comment that someone had made to him about my shenanigans back at the mansion.

I give him a soft smile. “If I can find her. She pays a pretty penny for junk.”

“Must not be junk, then.” I give him a solemn chuckle as he mounts his own horse. “I’m going to hunt. The camp only took the bare essentials when they high-tailed it out of Shady Belle. We’re pretty low on food.” He pulls his horse back to stay adjacent to me. “So head home before it gets dark.”

I stare up at the sky, already beginning to glow with the setting sun. “Don’t wait up for me,” I mutter. “I’ll probably be gone for a while.”

Charles pauses. “How long?”

“I don’t know.”

A silence settles between us, broken up only by the sounds of wildlife surrounding the small camp. Dottie beats her hooves, ready to get on the road. Charles clears his throat. “I only ask so I know how long to wait before I go looking.”

Another sad smile. “I’ll be back,” I assure him.

Charles holds my gaze, then nods his head pointedly. “So will he.”

I swallow a lump in my throat, moving my body against Dottie’s marching. I tear my eyes away from his to pat her on the neck and urge her forward.

“Sure.”

- - -

The journey through the swamp was one that I am not looking forward to traversing again. The gators that surrounded our previous camp are nothing compared to the ones we face now, lounging lazily merely feet away from the trail, their mouths held agape, beady eyes watching as me and Dottie ride past. I have never felt more elated than when the ground became dirt and grass—my back finally relaxed and freed me from the pain of my wounds.

Abigail is probably right; I shouldn’t be going out like this. It’ll slow me down, slug my movements, tire my body more quickly. But I want to bring hope back to the sorrowful eyes of the camp. Some money, and the food that I’m sure that Charles will be able to procure, may be enough to lift everyone’s spirits, even if just for a few nights.

Dottie makes her way to the coast north of Saint Denis; I recognize the smell of the salt water mingling with the pollution of the city. I am able to faintly make out the lights of the buildings when I turn to the right. I wonder if I will ever be able to return, or if I would even want to.

I hear Arthur’s bottle clinking against the brick again.

I turn Dottie to the left instead, away from the city lights, and she walks quietly along the coast. I see a fox chasing a rabbit through the tall grass, yipping wildly, its tail swirling behind it to help it keep up with the rabbit’s erratic running. I should probably hunt and give my stomach something to work on. But stopping feels like an impossibility now. The urgency to take care of what remains of the gang is more pressing that the hunger that gnaws at my insides.

Once Saint Denis is out of view, I pull Dottie to a stop and reach into her saddle bag, retrieving one the witch’s maps. I unfold it, the ink now smeared in a few places, smudging a few words, and attempt to make sense of it. Saint Denis is the easiest to spot, and I trail my finger upwards, squinting as the sun nearly disappears. There’s a trading post up ahead, circled just as the shack I had robbed was before. “Van Horn” is written in scrawled script above it.

My eyes find the title of the map, “Lost Jewelry.” Most likely worth a significant amount more than the bird eggs that are probably fossilizing in my satchel as me and Dottie stand here. There’s a square drawn into the map, probably signifying a building, with a small ‘x’ etched into the parchment.

I fold the map again, shove it into my bag, and press Dottie forward. I lead her back to the path and slow our pace. Anything more, and I’m not sure my back could take it.

The insects begin to sing into the night, a sweet lullaby for lonely travelers. We weave through some trees until we reach a break in the forest, returning to the coast now lined with jagged rocks. I see a lighthouse in the distance, though it doesn’t appear to be operational. It stands stoic and idle, blacked out against the dark blue sky.

We come around the bend, and I smell the town before I see it; rotting wood, drunken bodies, excrement. I bring a hand to my face, covering my nose as Dottie trots around the stone.

It looks about how I expected it to. At first, I assume the trading post is abandoned —it must be —but I see a few souls stumbling out of a saloon, the only buildings with any sort of light shining through the windows. The structures all lean on their sides, broken wood jutting out across the street. There’s an abandoned wagon sitting in front of a particularly derelict house, its wheels shattered, wood chipped. I bring Dottie alongside it and dismount, my fingers absentmindedly brushing against my revolver as I lean down to enter the old building.

The sight of a man huddled in the corner of the decaying room nearly makes me jump out of my skin. He’s sitting against what remains of a stove; the shelves above him are broken and covered in grime. There’s old food in a pot; the smell hits my nose and once again I’m forced to cover my face and compose myself. He’s cradling a liquor bottle in his lap, nearly empty, and staring straight ahead as he rocks himself. He doesn’t speak when I enter. I’m not sure if he even noticed me.

A set of decrepit stairs to my right immediately pique my interest. I start toward them, dodging holes in the ancient, darkened wood. I reach forward for the railing, then realize that there isn’t one; just a few holders hanging idly where a bar once laid between them. I huff a breath, readjusting the fit of my shirt on my aching back, and head up the steps quickly.

The top floor is even more destroyed than the bottom. A large, gaping tear in the side of the building exposes me to the chilled wind with a single stained sheet hung in front. As the wind tugs it, I catch glimpses of the deceased lighthouse.

My eyes scan the room, searching for anything that might be hiding an old jewelry box. There’s a few items splayed on the ground next to an overturned table. I decide to try my luck there.

Gingerly stepping around broken glass, I reach the table and bend down, sifting through the discarded items. There’s an emerald-green box laying on its back, its golden latch glinting in the light of the moon. It can’t be that easy, can it?

I reach for it immediately, cracking it open to find a dusty necklace coiled inside. The gems are dull, duller than the exterior of the box. It looks old. Certainly lost.

I bring my satchel forward, grimacing as the strap scratches against my back. I shove the box inside and am about to rise when something else catches my eyes. That same, disconcerting sun-face, staring up at me from the darkened wood, as if taunting me to pick it up.

Another tarot card?

I don’t know why the sight of it is so unnerving to me. It’s almost like there’s an energy radiating from it; a piece of a puzzle that I don’t have any hope of understanding. I remember the witch’s words, The stars whisper their secrets to me, write it in the palms of our hands. They can see farther ahead than we can.

My trembling hand reaches forward, fingers curling around the edge of the card. I lift it over, almost afraid of what I might find. It’s a man and a woman, facing each other, their lips locked together. Their hands are clasped, the sun beating down on them. Though it’s upside down, I can make out “THE LOVERS” written at the top, in the same, swirling script that I recognize from the other cards.

I sit back on my haunches, trying desperately to pull the verbiage from the other card that I had found. Was it upright?

I scowl, shoving the card into my bag and standing up. They’re cards, Lillian. There’s nothing to figure out. Nothing that they are telling you. It’s just money for the witch, if you ever find her again.

I turn to leave, stalking back toward the staircase, when I see a figure standing at the top of the steps. He’s swaying, obviously drunk—but it’s not the man from downstairs. He’s too strong on his feet, despite the alcohol that undoubtedly is swirling in his head.

My feet stop moving. I stare, trying to make out a face, to assess his condition before I try to pass.

He croaks, “Lillian?”

I choke down a yelp and yank my revolver from my side, pointing it directly at his chest.

Notes:

Hey everyone!
I know it's been a while since I posted; life has been crazy. My new job has me training almost constantly, and with my Master's program, it's all just a bit much. I was so excited to finally sit down and get this chapter out. Hopefully, I'll be able to get back to a more consistent schedule after this. Please let me know what you think of the latest installment.
Diamond Road
Mowglie

Summary:

Anything you have let go of recently? Anything you have chosen yourself over?

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

“Why… why you pointing a gun at me?”

It takes everything in my power not to scoff at him. It gurgles up in my throat, ready to be released, but I hold it in and keep my lips firmly pressed together.

A long silence follows—the only sound the sheet in the window slapping periodically against the decaying frame of the building.

The longer I stare at him, the more clearly I am able to make out his features. He’s skinnier now, cheeks gaunt against his bone, clothes hanging off his frail build. His nose is crooked, as if he was punched or his face was slammed against something in the recent past and is just beginning to heal. His hands are trembling.

He takes a tentative step toward me, his shaking palms lowering. His eyes fiercely hold mine despite the drink that glosses them. “Lil… I thought you was dead.”

“Did you?” My words clip his—like a coyote snapping at a bird in a tree.

“Those monsters…” Ray starts, still approaching me. “I’m so sorry that I pulled that wagon over. I…” He shudders, as if shaking loose some horrible memory that he just couldn’t bear to relive. “They was trying to get information out of me, about you, about the farm.” My revolver stays pointed at his chest. He’s still walking toward me. “They said you wouldn’t talk, and that they…” He gulps, but he doesn’t look at me as he does it.

I readjust my grip on the weapon, co*ck my head to the side. “How’d you get away?”

“I broke out of them shackles and ran as fast as my legs could take me, into the dead of night.”

“I ended up here, in this ass crack of a town. I’m hiding. I thought I lost everything, I thought I lost…” Now, he gives me a fake sob. Buries his head in his hands. His knees buckle, as if to collapse to the ground, but he doesn’t actually let his body fall.

My mind flashes to Janie’s foot poking out from behind my Daddy’s bed, and I’m consumed again by a blinding rage.

“Where’s my father’s money?”

Ray opens his mouth to answer the question—his buzzed mind momentarily forgetting that I shouldn’t know anything about what he agreed to with the O’Driscoll’s. But he immediately clamps it shut. His eyes dart to the ground, and the cogs begin to turn in his head.

He slowly returns his gaze to me. “How do you mean?”

My finger hovers over the trigger. “It ain’t in the safe in Saint Denis anymore? You ain’t gone to that poker game to double your earnings?”

His features morph into something I have never seen before. A look I’d never witnessed in all the years I’ve known this man. Never as a child, or a teenager—never, until this very moment. They darken, like the last sliver of the sun disappearing behind the Heartland horizon.

“Did someone steal it?” Now, I take a step toward him. “Leave their ring behind, so you know exactly who it was?”

His lip twitches.

I give him a crooked smile. “You hiding out here so them O’Driscoll’s can’t kill you themselves?”

His body is still. Dangerously still. He looses a shaky breath, his shoulders growing tense.

“You f*cking bitch!”

The sudden movement disorients me. Ray was standing by the stairs, but now his wild, fury-filled eyes are nearly inches from mine. I yelp as his torso crashes roughly into me and sends us both toppling down. When my back connects with the floor, white-hot pain sears from my spine to the tips of my fingers and knocks the wind out of me. I'm momentarily paralyzed, my arms splaying out and my revolver knocking against the rotted wooden floor.

He straddles me, pinning me with his weight.

I hear the sickening crack of metal against bone. He screams. And then I’m shoving him, throwing my hands against the weight of his chest, and he crumbles to my left.

I scramble to a stand as Ray moans, cradling his head and curling into his body. I nearly trip over my own feet as I dash toward the stairs and slide down them quickly.

Louder this time—“Dottie!”

I hear her neighing and the clopping of her hooves. The hazy light is soon eclipsed by her silhouette and a cloud of her chilled breath. She leans her head down to me and I claw up at her, grabbing her stirrup and pulling myself to a panicked stand. I shove my foot in, yank myself onto the saddle, and spur her on before I’m fully settled in.

My back is throbbing and my chest is burning as I charge her down the empty street.

I don’t keep her on the path out of Van Horn. Instead, I try to get as far away from the trading post as I possibly can, on a route that would be difficult to follow. Dottie crashes through the foliage, weaves herself around the trees and stumps. She whinnies her protests and shakes her head but I keep my thighs wrapped around her, heels digging into her sides and slapping her reins every second that I remember to.

It’s only after a few minutes that I realize that I am whimpering between my jagged breaths.

Eventually, Dottie slows her pace as we come upon a rather sharp hill. I chance a glance behind me, somewhat expecting to see Ray’s angry, icy eyes charging up from the rear, but I don't. Just the dark trees jutting into the darker sky and a milk-white moon.

When we reach the top, Dottie plants her hooves into the ground and swings her head around to me. I sigh, and as I release my grip on her reins, I realize just how tightly I had been holding them, how hard I had been pressing her. My legs ache when I finally loosen the muscles to slide off my mount.

A shock shoots up my back when my feet slam into the wet earth, radiating the same scorching pain as before. Now that my adrenaline has cooled, I can feel hot, sticky fluid seeping into the back of my shirt—I’m bleeding again. I’m not sure how much.

My legs still throb as I lean into Dottie’s side, stroking her nose and holding the bottom of her chin. “I’m sorry, girl.”

She grunts lowly and blows out a sharp breath. I kiss her quickly on the snout, then reach my trembling hands into her saddle bag. I pull out an apple for her and a map for me.

I attempt to ignore the writings of the witch as I try to figure out where we are. I know we are north of Saint Denis, but that’s about the extent of what I can make out. I feel like I continued north out of Van Horn, but I have no way to know for sure. I glance around me quickly and see no paths that I could identify or landmarks to use to figure out my location.

The reality of my isolation begins to creep in again, so I force my attention back onto the map. Starting again at Saint Denis, I trail my finger to the west, just a smidge north, where I see what looks to be a series of islands and a snaking river. I imagine this to be the swamp—perhaps even Lagras. I also imagine that trying to navigate that at this hour is a death wish for both me and Dottie. Not with this crudely drawn map and the patient alligators that I know reside there.

A series of hills catches my attention, northwest of Van Horn. If I were to continue that direction, I would come upon some body of water—possibly a lake. I prick my ears, but I can’t hear any sounds of a creek or any splashing fish. Regardless, it’s the best that I can do at the moment. I wait until Dottie finishes her apple before I mount up again.

Dottie trots forward until the ground begins to slope downward. Her ears roll back, and she snaps her mouth once, as if cursing me for getting us so lost, and begins to precariously scoot her hooves down the hill. I pat her once on the neck, then use both hands to grip the saddle horn, keeping my body as still as possible.

Once the dirt evens out again, we are rewarded by the sound of slurping water a few yards away. Dottie’s head bobs excitedly and her pace quickens.

We are greeted by what could be considered a large pond. The moon glimmers against the surface of the water, cut by the reflection of the towering trees.

Dottie parks herself in a small, rounded peninsula and swallows mouthfuls of water as fast as her throat will allow. I slowly lower myself to the ground, careful not to jolt my back again, and retrieve my tent from her saddle and begin to pitch it.

After, I gather some stones and sticks and build myself a campfire. I had to venture a bit farther than I’d like to get wood that wasn’t damp from the surrounding water, but managed to find a nice helping in the tree line. The warmth of the small blaze works instantly to soothe my aching bones and tense muscles. I can hear squeaks and nickers of small wildlife nearby; nothing we would have to worry about. Yet, I can’t help but to freeze at every snap of a twig, every rush of the wind through the leaves. Dottie’s newfound serenity is the only thing that manages to release the breath that I hold in my throat at every foreign noise that finds us.

Sitting at the mouth of my tent, I pull my satchel to me and dig through until I find my cigarettes. It’s a brand new pack: bought the day after I shot that O’Driscoll man to save Arthur. My chest heaves with the thought. The swirling, dizzying effect of tobacco probably won’t mix well the nausea of that memory returned, but I light it up and take a draw anyway.

Just as promised, my head immediately begins to swim. I flick the ashes into the fire and stare up at the sky.

I pull the cigarette to my lips, sucking in the smoke, then let it blow out of my nose slowly. The tobacco helps to unwind my body, to relieve my mind of the fear that Ray is lurking in the tree or that he’s behind my tent. I close my eyes, and I picture myself awakening to him straddling me again, caging my body and raising his fist. My body tenses, bracing for impact, but all I feel is the chilled wind running its fingers through my hair.

I must have had about five more rolls before my mind could even fathom trying to sleep. After a while, even Dottie bends her legs and rests her head on the ground. I scoot back into the tent, laying back on my bedroll and keeping my eyes on the slit in the fabric. The wind rustles: I see the embers of our fire and what stars I can make out behind the thin, wispy clouds. I snuggle farther into myself.

I force myself to relax—take a deep breath, let it out slowly. I let my mind travel to someplace warm, someplace safe, someplace that's the exact opposite of where I find myself now. I end up settling on the night that Jack was rescued and brought back to the gang.

Another fire, much bigger than the one that warms me now. Abigail, Jack, Pearson, Javier, Arthur—they’re all there. There’s beer in my belly, a warm hand encasing mine, light blue eyes that stare at me excitedly as we wait for the final CLAP! of the song.

I open my eyes one last time before surrendering to the exhaustion of my body. The stars twinkle against their oil-black backdrop.

I wonder, whether he’s on a boat or a city or a mountaintop, if he’s looking up at the same sky, the same stars, the same moon. It's the last thought I have before I close my eyes for the remainder of the night.

- - -

My sleep was dreamless.

It was more like a prolonged blink. The sky was dark and now it's not; my eyes were closed and now they're not. Not much more to it than that.

Dottie watches me as I roll the tent, shove my bedroll inside, and cram it onto the back of her saddle. She chews her bit lazily, much more relaxed and in a more pleasant mood than she was last night. At least someone got some rest.

I can tell by the way my skin stretches that there are new scabs on my back. Abigail will have something to say about it, I'm sure; hopefully she won't need to crack them back open to get the medicine into my cuts.

She ain't going anywhere in that condition!

I snort to myself as I kick damp dirt onto the remnants of my campfire for good measure. Abigail could not be more correct in her assessment that I should not have left the camp last night.

Once we are all packed and the area is cleaned up a bit, Dottie saunters over to me, already aware that we are to head back to the gang. Nothing sound better than Abigail's scowling and reprimanding, Sadie's sarcasm, or Charles' soft words after a night spent by a lake in the middle of God knows where. For reasons that I can only assume to be paranoia, I scan the tree line after securing all of my belongings.

No sign of Ray.

I pull myself back onto my mare and give her the smallest kick I can muster. She sighs, almost thankfully, and begins a lazy trot around the edge of the pond.

I’m about to dig around in my satchel for another cigarette when I catch wind of a phonograph playing in the distance. It’s faint, nearly lost under the sounds of the forest, but every few seconds I can make out a distinct, high-pitched note cutting through the clearing.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

I turn Dottie to the left and lead her around the opposite side of the water. The music grows louder, and I give her another kick toward the shrubbery ahead.

The red wagon appears on the opposite side of another gap in the trees.

“PALMIST.” “SEER.” “TELLER OF FORTUNES.”

I slide hurriedly off of the saddle and shove my hand into my bag. I grab the eggs, the jewelry box, the hairbrush, and the two tarot cards, bundle them into my arms, and charge toward the wagon.

The witch appears from the other side of the stark red wood—a contrast to her piercing green eyes and dark skin. She smiles widely and holds her hands out to the side, perfect fingers held at perfect angles. “Well, hello again, traveler! I was wondering when I’d be seeing you!”

I saunter over to the small countertop of her wagon and splay out the items from her maps. “I found some… things for you.”

“So you did,” she croons. She plucks an egg from the wood, holding it up in the air and turning it slowly. Then, she grabs another. And another. And another. Then, the hairbrush, the necklace, and the cards.

The witch claps her hands excitedly, then whips around to retrieve her burgundy coin purse. “Let me take a closer look at them, then I will give you a price.” Her fingers trail across the trinkets again, chewing her lip in thought. Then, she opens the purse. “How is one hundred and seventeen for all that you have?”

I can feel my eyes bulging out of my head. I try to hide it and relax my forehead but she catches it, a sly smile curling her lips. “Yeah, that would be just fine.”

She hands the cash over to me, then gathers the items and shovels them into a glass box.

I call out to her, “Wait!”

Her green eyes find mine and give me a knowing look.

I swallow, then peel ten dollars off of the wad she just gave me and shove them back at her. “You can have them cards, but…” She shifts her weight to her other hip. “Can you tell me what they mean first?”

She laughs, that familiar, woodwind sound, and her fingers gently wrap around the money. She pulls out two chairs from inside her wagon, then retrieves the two tarot cards and plops herself into the seat furthest from me.

She gestures for me to sit down across from her. I do.

She stares at the two cards, then at me, then back at the cards. “Which did you find first?” she asks in a tone that suggests that she already knows the answer.

“Not the Lovers.”

The witch raises her eyebrows. “That answer leads me to believe that the latter card is the one you are most concerned with.” She sighs. “But that does not mean we can ignore the message of the former.”

“Sure,” I say blandly.

She takes a deep breath. “Do you remember if it was upright or reversed?”

“Upright. I remember being able to read it right when I flipped it over.”

She chews on this, then spins the card to face me. I am greeted with the familiar sight of the young boy, with his curled shoes and knapsack, walking toward the edge of a cliff. “The Fool,” she says lowly, “If I recall, you had the Tower previously.”

I nod.

“Upheaval in your life, a tremendous change that you overcame. The Fool represents new beginnings, naivety, spontaneity. You found yourself in a new journey in life, one that you are not familiar with. However, the upright position indicates that these changes will be positive for you.” The witch smiles. “Well done, traveler.”

I nod again, scratching at a new layer of sweat at the back of my neck. “And the other?”

“It was upside-down.”

She clicks her tongue. “Imbalance. Choosing self-love. A breaking apart of a relationship.”

My ears grow hot, and the word pools out of my mouth before I really know what I’m denying.: “No!”

I shift around in the chair, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. I opt to sit on my hands in the event I need to contain another outburst. “It… it ain’t like that. I ain’t… giving up or anything, if that’s what that means.”

She lays the Lovers down, face up, so they can taunt me with their kiss. “You know, this may not signify a current relationship. It could be one from your past. Anything you have let go of recently?” She rests her chin on her hands and smiles. “Anything you have chosen yourself over?”

I hold her gaze for what feels like hours, then let my eyes dart back down to the card again. I see the man’s hand ensnaring the woman’s and instead of passion, I feel dominance. Control. Manipulation.

I swallow another lump in my throat as the image of another man's hand, curled into a fist, takes its place.

- - -

Before I left, the witch had coaxed me into buying another set of her maps, as well as a shovel and some kind of electric device. A metal detector, she had called it, something that could be used to find treasure in the ground, from jewelry to coins to even certain kinds of fossils. “I pay almost double for those,” she had said as she walked me back to my horse. “So keep it strapped to your steed. Search along the coasts, under bridges, and near clotheslines. You would be surprised what people are unaware that they are throwing away.”

“Ain’t that stealing?” I had asked.

She raised her eyebrow at me. “Are you suddenly above it?”

With the help of the fresh maps, I was able find a path that snaked through the hills that I had charged Dottie through the night previously. Part of me was tempted to head back to the coast and search through the rocks near Van Horn—after all, I had plenty of daylight left. But the thought of being anywhere near where I knew Ray to be made me want to head directly back to camp. I needed a hot meal from Pearson, then to snuggle into a hammock surrounded by my friends and rest my aching back.

It kept Dottie’s nose pointed directly down the trodden path, through the familiar trees and railroad to where I knew the right turn into the swamp would be.

When I arrive, there isn’t much activity in the hub of small cabins hidden deep in the marsh of Lagras. Pearson has begun his stew, but I can tell by the way he leans back onto his heels, fingers looped into his belt, that it still has a while to simmer before anyone will be eating any of it. There are fresh rabbit carcasses hanging from his wagon, undoubtedly from Charles—who is tacking away at his Appaloosa’s hoof. He perks up at the sound of me returning.

“Well, look who it is.” A greeting I have grown familiar with from my time spent with the gang.

I smile as I swing my satchel over my back. The bag rakes against the wounds on my back and I grimace.

Charles notices; I can tell by the way his eyebrows knot and his lips part, but I respond to him before he is able to ask about it. “I told you I’d be back soon.”

“I wouldn’t call this soon,” he says lowly. He falls in line with me as I head to the largest cabin. “I was about to send out a search party.”

“Don’t be talking like that. You know I always come back.”

He nods solemnly. “I know. It’s just… after everything we’ve been through the past couple of days…”

I shrug in response. He doesn’t want to comment on the fate of the men he ran with, and neither do I. It remains unspoken in the swampy air.

“I have money.” I stop to swivel toward him. “It ain’t too much, but should be useful in getting everyone back on their feet. Where’s the box?”

“It’s in there.” He nods to the cabin to our left. “But… someone’s guarding it.”

“Guarding it?” I nearly laugh, already heading in the direction he indicated.

I’m digging out my new cash as Charles speaks again. “You’ll see.”

“I’m sure I will.”

The inside of the cabin is even more stuffy than the muggy atmosphere of its exterior. I enter and pull the door closed behind me. There are more hammocks in the farther room, a mirror, a set of dressers. It’s nearly identical to the set up in the cabin that I am staying in.

Her lips purse, and her eyes glisten. She takes a deep breath and snaps the book shut.

Abigail's blue eyes catch mine and I give her a curt nod as I quicken my pace toward the back of the shack.

The lockbox is sitting on a crate in the back corner of the room, and slung across it is a woman in a green and gold dress. Her fiery red hair cascades over her shoulders, back hunched across the tin. Her shoulder raises on a shaky breath, fingers curling around the corner of the metal box.

I curse myself for not remembering her name. I remember getting her surname, her being called Miss O’Shea, but her first name escapes me. I stall in the doorway for a moment, simply watching, before I finally gather myself and take the first few steps into the room.

At the sound, she raises her head. Her eyes are red and puffy, lipstick smudged at the edges of her mouth. I can’t tell what emotion she’s feeling at the sight of me approaching her. She sits up fully, rubs at her cheeks and just beneath her lashes, then lets her hands fall in her lap.

“Miss O’Shea,” I smile at her.

“Lillian,” she greets back. She says it with a thick, Irish accent, one I know I would remember if I had heard it before. It’s similar to some of the O’Driscoll men, but hers is more pure, more enunciated. I realize this may be the first time we have ever spoken.

A pang of guilt surges in my chest; she knewmyname.

I clear my throat, then hold the money up sheepishly. “I’m coming to contribute.”

“Sure,” she says meekly, and scoots herself further away from the box.

I clear the distance between us and open the dusty tin. There’s some cash in there, but not much. Not a whole lot to get us by for a while. I contemplate counting it, then decide that’s probably a job for the members of the camp that have a bit more rapport than I do. I release the wad and close the box slowly.

I am about to retreat, about to show Abigail my back or find Sadie and tell her about what happened to me today, but something about it feels dirty—like it’s somehow my fault that hands were laid on me. That I had walked into it, invited it onto myself.

It’s foolish, sickening even. But I was told not to leave the camp, and if I did, to return by the end of the night. I didn’t listen to anyone’s advice. But if Sadie or Charles or even Abigail were to know what fate befell me last night, I can’t imagine the blood bath that would ensue.

I’m still chewing on my thoughts when Miss O’Shea shuffles her position again, inching closer to the lockbox. “Thank you.”

I turn to face her, and what I see is not a woman that is precariously guarding the money for the camp. Instead, I see someone in mourning, stricken with grief, hanging onto what remains of the man she loved. Unaware of his fate, she drapes herself over what she has left as if to cling to his memory, his scent, his voice. I remember the few times that I saw her, laying in Dutch’s tent or sitting in the sofa in his room at the mansion. I don’t recall seeing her anywhere else.

Before I know what I’m doing, I plop down on the hammock across from her, using the bottoms of my feet to keep myself from swaying too much. I suck a lip in between my teeth before I utter, “How are you getting on, Miss O’Shea?”

“You can call me Molly.”

“And… about the same as everyone else, I guess.” She sniffles and runs a hand through her unruly hair.

“Miss Grimshaw ain’t whipping you into an obscene amount of work, is she?”

Molly laughs, but it’s a weak one. “I never helped out around the camp, you could say. Don’t think she cares too much to get onto me about it now.” There’s undertones of some other emotion in her response, as if spending all of her time alongside Dutch had also ostracized her from the women of the camp. I never saw them talking, and, truly, never did see her a lift a finger in the minimal time I spent at the camp.

Without Dutch, she has no place here, a realization that settles over me in the dank back room of the Lagras shack. I can pick up resentment in her voice, both for the women that don’t pay her any mind and for her own decision that isolated her in the first place.

Arthur’s loud, booming laugh sears into my brain and I feel it suddenly, like a crashing wave on the shore, like Ray’s lightning-fast assault on me. I’m just as disoriented and paralyzed as I was then.

My hands suddenly feel unbearably cold.

I swallow, blinking back the onslaught of tears that barrage my eyes, the tight constriction of my lungs, the pain in my chest that pales anything that I had felt on my back.

“I… they’ll be back.” I manage a smile at her. I can tell by the way she looks at me that whatever shape my face had taken, it wasn’t an encouraging grin. “Just gotta hang on. Keep doing what you’ve been doing.”

She nods, then her eyes find her lap again. She says nothing further, and neither do I.

Notes:

Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading, and please let me know what you think! Couple of things:
1. I hope that the character's voices/accents are able to come through in this story. Just replacing any word that ends with a 'g' with an apostrophe just looked a bit cluttered to me when I began this, but I hope you are still able to hear what I'm intending you to!
2. I'm sorry that we aren't really following the canon missions or the exact plot of the game. I found rehashing cutscenes or mission to just be kind of tiresome; we all know what happens, and I don't want to place Lillian in situations that wouldn't make sense for her character. As the story progresses, I may do it, but copying dialogue and actions from YouTube videos and transcripts just got a bit tedious. I find that I have more fun and my writing flourishes when I am able to create my own plot that ties into the existing story. I hope you are enjoying Lillian's journey through the game, as well as the inclusion of sort of the collector role from RDRO (my personal fave, love easy money).
That's it for now! I see this being around 40 chapters so you have an idea of how far along we are in the story. Around halfway!
<3 Mowglie
Diamond Road

Summary:

I can't be who you need me to be.

You already are.

Notes:

The return of the king.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Notes:

Hiiiii. So I realize it has been a hot minute since I have posted on here. I had started a new job that had intense training, and after that, I was put on an 11 pm - 7 am shift and if I wasn't at work, I was sleeping. Now, I am back on a regular schedule.

I found myself thinking about this story so much and wanting to go back. I was so excited for this chapter, and the one that follows it (it's a doozy, whoo!). I'm glad to be back and am so glad you're here.

<3 Mowglie

Summary:

Let's get in and out of this armpit of a town as quick as possible.

Notes:

TW: Assault

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Notes:

Hello everyone!
I am going to try and get a better schedule with uploading - life has just been crazy right now. I am GOING to finish this, and my goal is by October, so fingers crossed! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter, as it was a long time coming.
Cheers!
Mowglie

Summary:

It wouldn't have mattered how long you were gone for. I would have waited years.

Notes:

&& we're back folks. <3

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Notes:

I had fallen away from this story, but I am so excited about its conclusion that I just had to come back. Life has been difficult lately - big changes at my job and planning a December wedding have definitely taken a toll on me. It feels good to take a break in the lavender fields. I'll need to revisit my outline, but we should wrap this one up in around 10 more chapters.

Thank you for stopping by and reading. Please let me know what you think.

Mowglie

Summary:

You’ve had it rough, Lily-Anne. We all have. Things ain’t what they used to be, and… I don’t really know why. If it’s me that changed, or other folk, or the world. But I’ll do everything I can to make it easier.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Notes:

Aaaand we're back finally! I really hope you enjoyed this - I know my scheduling has been awful but I feel that I'll have more time to settle and get this written. Let me know what you think (:

Summary:

I’m thinking you need to set aside some things for yourself. Money, valuables, provisions. Keep them by your cot. Sort of like a… just-in-case bag.

… just in case what?

Just in case things go to sh*t.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Notes:

Hi everyone!
It is at this point that we begin the canon divergence. While some key points will appear in the story, they may come slightly altered or in a different order. This is to make things move more smoothly for the story and conclusion I have for Arthur and Lillian. It is my hope that you enjoy it!
Please let me know what you think!
- Mowglie

Summary:

It's all gonna be alright. I've got some things I need to do, some loose ends that need tying. And then... it'll be fine. It'll all be fine.

Notes:

TW: Sexy times.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading! I apologize for the delay - I moved cross country (around 2,000 miles) and am settling into a new house, new job, and new state. I am so excited for the conclusion of this story, and I hope you are too!!
<3 Mowglie

Summary:

Today's a great day! The birds are singing, the sun is shining! Perfect day for revenge!

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Notes:

Good evening everyone!

I realize that this chapter, and the one before it, were a bit dialogue heavy. I hope that you all still enjoy it-the next chapter is one that I've been dying to write as Act 2 comes to a close. Act 3 is upon us, and I am so excited to get started. I've thankfully found some downtime and am churning and burning this writing. I know it's been a long time coming!

Also, I hope you guys don't mind the omission of some (most) of the missions in Chapter 6. The whole thing is just a bit dreary and not too fun to get into. Arthur is helping out his comrades during the times that Lillian is off doing her own thing and bringing us closer to the end of this story.

Please let me know what you think!

<3 Mowglie

Summary:

I'll follow you wherever you go without a second thought.

Notes:

TW: Angst, angst, and more angst.

It's been a long time coming.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Notes:

Dear Readers,
It's a chapter that's been on my mind since I wrote the first word.
Please let me know what you think.
<3 Mowglie

Summary:

It ain’t right, but it’s life. Things happen. And I wanna be there for you when they do.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Notes:

Good evening everyone!

I hope you enjoyed the latest installment. It made me feel some things, and I hope it did for you, too.

Let me know what you think!

<3 Mowglie

Summary:

It's gone to sh*t. It's all gone to sh*t.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Notes:

Good evening (:<

Please let me know what you think of the latest installment.

<3 Mowglie

Summary:

Where is he!?

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Notes:

<333