melanie

A week passes, and without really meaning to, you fall into a rhythm. 

The days start to blur together. Simple chores. Nothing that asks much of you. Washing clothes down by the river. Dragging hay bales over to the horses. Helping when you’re told. Keeping your distance when you’re not. It’s fine. Easy, even. 

Too easy. 

The camp wakes up, moves, and settles again like it’s alive, and you move with it, slipping into the spaces no one else seems to want. People nod at you now. Some smile. A few stop to talk. You’re not a stranger anymore, but you’re not exactly necessary either. 

And with every day that passes, your head feels worse. Tight. Loud. Like something is pressing behind your eyes, constant and irritating. You fall asleep restless and wake up the same way, thoughts looping with nowhere to go. 

You didn’t come here to fold clothes forever. 

The people are tolerable, you suppose. But all the big promises about riding out, robbing alongside them, doing something real still haven’t happened. You’re tired of waiting. You want a job. Any job. Just one thing to prove you didn’t come all this way to wash clothes and haul hay. 

Most of the people here still rub you the wrong way. 

Especially Dutch. 

You’ve had a week to watch him now. Really watch him. Long enough to pick him apart piece by piece. The way he sits. The way he stands. How he talks about himself, and about everyone else. His clothes. His habits. His need to be in control. 

He’s a man of pride. That much is obvious. 

He cares about himself deeply, and it shows in every detail. He’s always groomed, from his hair to his boots. Nothing ever looks worn down from neglect, only worn the way he intends it to be. You recognize some of his clothes too. Expensive pieces meant for men with money to burn, not outlaws living from camp to camp. 

You read him easily. 

He stands tall, almost too tall, like the ground owes him room. Control and power aren’t just things he enjoys, they’re things he needs. The books he reads only confirm it. Half the time, you’re not convinced he understands what he’s reading, only what it makes him look like. 

A thinker.  A leader.  A man worth listening to. 

You don’t buy it. 

So you watch him. Quiet. Careful. 

There are a few people here you’ve grown okay with. 

Sadie is one of them. 

The first time you spoke, she was sitting at the edge of camp on a rock, a blanket pulled around her shoulders as she stared out at the mountains. Her posture said everything. Not just tired, but the kind of tired sleep doesn’t fix. The kind that settles deep. 

She noticed you out of the corner of her eye. When she finally looked at you, it confirmed it. Her eyes were dull, irritated, swollen. 

She’d been crying. Probably all night. 

Later that day, while you were cleaning your side gun, you overheard her talking to Abigail. Sadie’s voice sounded rough and hoarse, like it hurt just to use it. She was asking for help. For advice. For anything at all. That’s when you learned about her husband. 

Killed by O’Driscolls. 

The words hit you hard. She sounded like she was barely holding herself together, and you already knew how that felt. Grief doesn’t rush. It drags. You just have to survive it as it comes. 

You waited until she was alone that evening. Then you sat beside her and told her she wasn’t the only one who’d lost someone to those men. 

You told her about your parents. About how the O’Driscolls took them from you too. 

She didn’t say much after that. She didn’t have to. The look on her face changed anyway. Quiet gratitude. Raw and unguarded. She didn’t feel so alone anymore. 

The pain was still there. You knew it always would be. But knowing someone else carried the same ache, and had lived through it, seemed to loosen something in her chest. Maybe in yours too. 

When you finally sleep, your chest rising and falling slow and steady, your dreams don’t give you much peace. Images cling to you, sharp and unwanted, threading themselves through whatever rest you manage to get. 

You do appreciate the way your tent is set up. Sheltered from the rain. Turned away from the worst of the wind. Protected from most things that could disturb you. Even so, sleep never comes easy. 

It never really does. 

And especially not now. Surrounded by armed, dangerous people who don’t know you, people you don’t fully trust, you stay half-awake. Every unfamiliar sound pulls at your attention. Every footstep or shift of fabric keeps you tethered to consciousness. 

The hunting trip with Arthur and Charles helped. A little. Just enough to dull the edge. Not enough to trust them. 

You wake the second sunlight hits your eyes. Even through closed lids, it’s enough to make you wince. You groan, squeezing your eyes shut tighter and lifting an arm to block it out. 

Rolling onto your side, you slowly come to. The cot beneath you is hard and unforgiving, and your body makes sure you notice. You sigh, quiet and irritated. 

Yeah. No. 

Never again. 

You decide right then that tonight, you’re getting a hotel room. Even if you stay with these people, you are not sleeping on that damned thing twice. 

Once you manage to stand, you stretch, trying to spare yourself worse aches later. Your joints complain anyway, stiff and sore. Your spine feels more like steel than bone. 

You take a while to figure out what you’re doing today. Maybe resting. Maybe heading into Valentine to look for something, anything, to do. 

You’re so bored here. 

Birds chirp and twiddle in the trees, the low crackle of the fire the only other sound. It pulls a small smile to your lips. 

You remember days spent in endless hills and wide grasslands, animals grazing far off in the distance. The air had been warm but never heavy, hovering around eighty during the day and closer to seventy at dawn. Back then, the sun felt gentle, like it was pressing a thousand tiny kisses into your skin, warming you slowly, patiently. 

You used to watch the flowers sway beneath the soft wind, your eyes following fuzzy, fat, panda-like bumblebees as they drifted from bloom to bloom. You’ll never forget the one that landed on your hand. Calm. Curious. Almost as fascinated with you as you were with it. It even let you stroke it gently with your thumb before buzzing off in search of more flowers. 

When you finally leave, you decide you’ll stop at every stretch of grassland you can. Just to feel mornings like that again. As many as possible, before you find Colm O’Driscoll. 

For the second time since arriving, your ears perk up at the sound of footsteps approaching. They aren’t quiet. Whoever it is carries their weight openly, not trying to hide their presence. 

Still, you turn quickly, instincts flaring as you scan for a threat. You relax almost immediately when you spot Hosea, a bear fur blanket draped over his arm, his eyes fixed on you with a strange, gentle warmth. 

You furrow your brow as he comes closer. Without a word, he settles the blanket around your shoulders and lets out a soft chuckle, easing himself onto the log beside you. 

“You were shivering,” he says lightly, teasing. “Don’t know why you didn’t grab the blanket from your bed.” 

He laughs again, holding his hands out toward the fire. You look away, staring into the dimming embers. 

Your brows lift in surprise. He’s right. You had been shivering, and you hadn’t even noticed. 

“Thanks,” you murmur carefully. You’re still learning what’s expected of you here. How to act. What to say. Where you fit. 

Hosea waves it off with another chuckle, brushing away your thanks like it’s nothing. 

“You ever play dominoes?” he asks, nodding toward a nearby table where a tin sits carelessly tossed aside. 

“Once or twice,” you answer. You haven’t played much of anything that required another person. 

“Well,” he says, “how’d you feel about playin’ a game with me?” He gestures toward the empty table again, casual enough to spark your curiosity. You don’t really have a reason to say no. If anything, it’s a decent way to pass the time until Dutch wakes up. 

Hosea is one of the people you like here. He did most of the work easing you in, making sure you felt welcome. He knows you’re capable. He doesn’t do what most people do and look past your skills just because you’re a girl. You appreciate that more than you ever say. 

You nod and take a seat across from him as the sun climbs higher, spilling warmth across the camp. Around you, people begin to stir, stretching in their cots, murmuring softly to one another. It all fades once you focus. 

Hosea starts by explaining the basics, patiently pointing out the little things that separate winning from losing. You watch his hands closely, committing everything to memory. You’re determined to beat him at least once. 

The first game, you lose fast. Of course you do. 

The second goes better, but still no win. 

Each time he beats you, a soft laugh slips out, equal parts frustration and amusement at your own mistakes. Hosea chuckles too, not just at your plays, but at you. The way your brows knit together. The way your tongue peeks out as you think. The intensity you bring to something he clears with ease. 

“Fuck,” you mutter when he lays down his final domino and wins again. 

By the third game, your focus sharpens. You start noticing his tells. A flick of his eyes. A brief pause before certain moves. When you finally manage to win a round, your eyes widen in shock, pride blooming warm and heavy in your chest. 

Hosea lets out a low whistle, shaking his head as he laughs. “Didn’t expect you to catch on so quick. Good job.” 

He tells you about playing with Bessie all day, how it’s what made him so good. If you keep at it, he says, you’ll probably beat him more often than not in time. 

Eventually, the camp fully wakes. You spot Dutch near the edge of his tent, book in hand. One you have no interest in pretending to recognize. With a quiet sigh, you excuse yourself from Hosea and head toward him, rolling your sore shoulders as you walk. 

“Dutch?” you call. 

He looks up immediately, setting the book aside like it weighs nothing. “Hey,” he says, and the second his eyes meet yours, your gut twists, even though his tone holds no malice. “How’re you feelin’?” 

“I’m okay, I guess. I was just wonderin—” 

“How was huntin’ yesterday?” he cuts in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “Arthur and Charles were talkin’ about how fast you picked up that bow. Seems like you catch on quick to whatever’s thrown at you.” 

A faint frown tugs at your lips. “I… guess I’m learning,” you say, unsure whether honesty or modesty is safer here. 

Dutch chuckles. “You impress me more every day. Kids like you, you’re the future.” Then, almost casually, he adds, “Tell me, do you know how to read? I reckon you don’t.” 

The question catches you off guard. You blink at him, that uneasy feeling in your gut growing heavier. 

You furrow your brow, thrown by how easily he steers the conversation and expects you to follow along. 

“Uh… I don’t know,” you start, stumbling. “I’ve really— I was wonderin—” 

“How about I teach you?” Dutch interrupts, smooth as ever. “We’ll start easy. Jack’s book should do just fine. It’s a children’s book, sure, but basics are basics.” 

He begins to rise with a grunt, already halfway committed to the idea, boots shifting in the dirt as he turns his body toward Jack and Abigail’s tent. 

“Dutch, please.” 

Your voice comes out sharper than you expect, loud enough that it stops him. He freezes mid-step. 

He turns back to you slowly, brows lifting in genuine surprise. For just a second, the carefully curated charm slips, replaced by something more alert and calculating. 

“Sorry,” you say quickly, exhaling through your nose, hands now fidgeting with the waistband of your jeans. “I just… I need to know about those jobs you promised. The two. From when we first met.” 

Your gaze drifts to the trees at the edge of camp, their leaves glowing gold in the early sunrise. You ground yourself there, in something real and something steady, instead of the man in front of you wrecking your nerves. 

“Oh, of course,” Dutch exclaims, clapping his hands together like the idea delights him. The sudden enthusiasm makes you want to roll your eyes, hard. 

He doesn’t seem to notice your discomfort around him. He never has, even though you’ve spoken much over the last week. Or maybe he does and simply doesn’t care. 

“I was thinkin’,” he continues, clasping his hands behind his back as he rocks slightly on his heels, pacing a half-step like a man delivering a speech, “I’ll start you off with somethin’ nice and easy. No sense throwin’ you into the deep end, right?” 

You don’t miss the way his eyes linger on you as he says it. They’re measuring and weighing you out in an unsettling, almost hungry way that he does best. Like he’s already imagining ten different versions of your future and deciding which one he prefers. 

“Easy,” you repeat flatly.  

Dutch chuckles at your deadpan expression, a low, amused sound that makes the skin at the back of your neck crawl. He seems almost entertained by your annoyance. 

“Well, yes,” he says, voice smooth and deliberate, leaning just slightly closer as if to underline his point. “You need time to settle in, get a feel for how we handle things. But the one after this? That’ll suit you more, I’m sure.” 

He pats your shoulder with a patronizing weight, the kind that reminds you he’s sizing you up even as he walks past, leaving a faint scent of tobacco and leather in his wake. 

The talk, supposedly meant to soothe, to calm your frustration, has done the opposite. It’s poured gasoline over a small fire of anger already burning in your chest. You huff, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurts, the stubborn tension in your shoulders refusing to ease. 

You walk away from the camp altogether, boots crunching softly against the dirt, and make your way toward the camp’s edge. The smell of cooking meat and smoke drifts from the fire, but you barely register it. Hunger gnaws at your stomach, but you can’t bring yourself to eat any of it here. 

The air outside the camp feels cooler and sharper, a small relief against your skin. You take a deep breath, letting it fill your lungs as you step onto the open trail, letting your mind drift to food you actually want, something warm and clean you can trust, something that doesn’t taste funny on your tongue, hidden behind the feelings of discomfort you feel. 

You make your way to the horse area, Belle’s light brown coat glinting softly in the morning light. Her eyes follow a delicate butterfly as it flutters nearby, wings trembling in the sunlight. She snorts softly, nostrils flaring, utterly captivated by the tiny creature. 

You can’t help but smile at her childlike curiosity, the gentle innocence in her gaze warming something in your chest and making you forget the irritation you were just feeling. 

Your attention shifts, and you notice a man tending to the beautiful all-white horse you’d seen Dutch riding. His movements are careful and cautious, hands brushing through the horse’s mane with a precision that betrays both skill and tension. 

He senses your gaze before you can approach and turns toward you. His posture is stiff, the kind of awkward that comes from trying to seem confident when every nerve is on edge. His eyes flicker with unease, and his mouth tightens slightly, he looks nervous and vulderable. 

A pang of sympathy hits you, and you raise your hand in a gentle wave, offering a small smile in acknowledgment. 

Almost instantly, he waves back, and for a brief second, his face softens. Relief, like a curtain pulling back from his expression. And now, somehow, you feel even worse for him. 

You decide to talk, just a little, and step closer, but not too close. You can feel his nervousness spike as you approach, so you give him space, standing a few feet back. Close enough to engage, far enough to let him breathe. You feel bad for him. You’d never seen him in the camo, only confined to the outside of it, even in the rain. 

“Hey,” you call out, taking a moment to look him over properly. His beard is scruffy and uneven, hair slicked back beneath his hat, greasy enough to cling to his neck. He looks like someone who hasn’t slept well in a long time. 

“Hi, ma’am,” he replies. His voice gives him away instantly, high and tight, like it’s balancing on the edge of cracking. 

“I haven’t seen you around here,” you start. “You take care of the horses?” Your eyes flick down to the brush in his hands, the way his fingers fidget around the handle. 

“Uh—yeah, miss. I do.” He hesitates, then glances past you. “Is… is that your horse there? She’s real pretty.” 

You follow his gesture just as Belle ambles closer. When she reaches you, she presses her head and neck around your shoulders in her familiar version of a hug. You return it without thinking, pure muscle memory guiding you as your hand comes up to rest against her neck. 

“Thank you,” you say, smoothing her mane. “And… thank you for taking care of the horses.” You pause, then add, “I’m heading into town to get some breakfast. You want anything while I’m there?” 

As you speak, you adjust Belle’s saddle, checking the straps and readying her to be mounted. 

“You don’t want to eat breakfast here, miss?” he asks, gesturing vaguely toward the camp, where the cook has left out a spread that already looks a little questionable. 

“No,” you reply easily. “I don’t trust the folk here that much, if I’m being honest.” 

He hums in agreement, dipping his chin. The way he does it, it’s too quick and too knowing. It makes your brows knit together because it isn’t the response you expected. What reason did he have to be wary of them? 

“Well,” you say, swinging your leg up and over Belle’s saddle, settling into place, “do you want anything? I can get you oats, maybe some fruit.” 

He glances back toward the camp, eyes lingering there a moment too long, like he’s weighing the risk of being seen wanting something. When he looks back at you, his mouth twists into something almost apologetic. 

“You don’t gotta,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “I’d hate to trouble you.” 

You blink at him, slow and unimpressed. 

“Nobody troubles me,” you say flatly. “I do what I want. And I want to get you food if you need it.” Your eyes rake over him . “No offense, but you look like one good kick from a horse would put you in the ground.” 

That earns a quiet, awkward laugh from him. 

“I’d… yeah. I’d appreciate it. Thank you, miss.” He hesitates, then adds, softer, “They didn’t really let me eat much when I first got here. First couple weeks, mostly.” 

Your grip tightens slightly on the reins. 

“But I ain’t complainin’,” he rushes to say, like he’s scared the words themselves might get him in trouble. “I was new. They didn’t trust me.” He nods toward a tree near the edge of camp, the bark scarred and darkened. “Had me tied up there. Bill thought it’d be funny to put hot tongs to my privates. Made it real clear what’d happen if I stepped outta line.” 

He lets out a strained chuckle, like he’s trying to laugh it off, trying to convince himself it was just a joke. 

You don’t laugh. 

Not even a little. 

Your jaw sets, eyes flicking briefly toward the tree, then back to him. Whatever warmth had been in your expression before is gone now, replaced with something you’re not quite sure of. 

“Look,” you cut in before he can stumble into another half-hearted defense of the camp. Your voice isn’t sharp, but it’s firm and settled, like a decision already made. “From now on, if they don’t feed you, I will. I’ll bring you food. And I can sit over here with you if you want.” 

You glance toward the hitching post, then back at him. “We don’t gotta talk or nothin’. Silence is fine too. Sometimes it’s better.” 

For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s trying to figure out whether this is real or some kind of cruel joke. Then his face breaks open into a smile, wide, unguarded, almost too eager. 

“Oh, thank you, miss,” he says quickly, words tumbling over each other. “That’s… that’s real kind of you.” 

The way he says it makes something sour twist in your chest. Your annoyance with the gang deepens, settling heavy and unpleasant, like grit between your teeth. 

You don’t say anything else. You just nod once, decisive, and reach forward to pat Belle’s neck. Your hand moves without thought, familiar and steady. In seconds, you’re out of the camp, feeling anger at the camp once more. 

Poop poop poop. 

When you return, you look for him first, an extra cup of oats wrapped and stored in your saddle bag. 

He isn’t hard to spot. He’s exactly where you left him, still tethered to the same small pocket of space by the fire, bent over a worn saddle. His fingers work at it, stitching leather absentmindedly. The flames throw soft light across his face, highlighting the hollows in his cheeks and the tired set of his eyes. 

You hitch Belle to a nearby post before anything else. She gets fed first, always. You pull out the strawberries, and the moment she catches the scent, she’s all focus. They disappear from your palm in seconds, her lips ticklish against your skin. She nudges your hand insistently afterward, big head heavy and impatient, and you can’t help the tiny smile that tugs at your mouth as you dig back into the bag. 

Once she’s satisfied and chewing happily, you reach into your saddlebag and pull out your plate of food and a small cup of oats. The warmth seeps through the containers and into your fingers as you walk back toward the fire. 

When you reach him, you don’t announce yourself. You just gently nudge his shoulder with the back of your knuckles and hold out the oats. Then, almost as an afterthought, you pluck a couple of berries from your own plate and drop them on top. 

“They make the oats taste way better,” you say quietly. “That, and a little sugar.” 

Your mom used to make your oats like this every morning. 

  Warm, sweet, careful. She’d take the extra time to arrange the berries into a little smiley face before setting the bowl in front of you, like it was the most important part of the meal. While you ate, she’d stand behind you, gently brushing your hair, fingers deft and practiced as she braided it down your back. She’d always remind you to slow down. “don’t eat so fast, you’ll make yourself sick” she’d always say. 

The memory sneaks up on you, and it’s so unwelcome and uninvited, you shut it down instantly. 

You almost give the man a stupid little smiley face with the berries on his oats. 

Almost. 

Instead, you keep your face neutral and move to sit on the log beside him. The wood is rough beneath you as you unwrap your plate, the paper crackling softly. He looks up at you then, smiling, and it makes you furrow your brows as your eyes meet his. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask around a mouthful of food, already shoving it in like you’re trying to outrun the thoughts you just had. 

“Nothing, miss. I’m sorry,” he says quickly, the smile never leaving his face as his gaze drops back down to the oats. He eats like he’s afraid it might disappear if he doesn’t hurry. 

You pause, watching him for a beat before looking back to your own plate. 

“Stop calling me miss,” you say, not unkindly, just firm. “I’m pretty sure you’re older than me. I don’t care for that stuff.” 

You take another bite, eyes down, like the conversation is already settled.  The fire crackles beside you, and for a moment, the space between you feels a little less heavy. 

When you finish eating, you glance over at him, and after an awkward introduction, you learn his name is Kieran. Watching as he takes the last few careful bites of his food, his shoulders are hunched slightly, tired but steadied, and the small smile he gives you as you nod a quiet goodbye makes something warm settle in your chest. 

“See you later, Kieran,” you say softly, tipping your head before turning away. 

You walk a few steps toward a desolate table, the wood sun-bleached and cracked, and set your plate aside. From a leather pouch, you pull out one of your old guns, the metal dulled and engraved with intricate patterns that are beginning to gather grime and dried blood from past use. You run your fingers over the delicate etchings, feeling the ridges beneath your fingertips, and set to work with a cloth rag and a bottle of gun oil. 

You scrub gently at first, then with more purpose, the repetitive motion of cleaning and polishing turning almost meditative. Each pass of the rag through the engravings removes another layer of debris, another reminder of previous hunts and previous struggles.  

The sun hangs high overhead now, its warmth slowly creeping over your skin, mingling with the faint metallic scent of the gun oil. The late morning air carries a calm weight to it, nice and mild, neither too hot nor too cold, and you can feel yourself relaxing into it. This is the kind of weather you prefer, when it’s open and clear, quiet enough for your thoughts to settle. 

For a brief, precious moment, you let yourself marvel at it, the way the sunlight glints against the metal, the way the wind ruffles your hair, the faint scent of pine and dry earth mingling with the smoke from the nearby fire. It’s a small pocket of peace, a sliver of normalcy in a world that rarely allows it. 

But, of course, you have no real time to linger. A voice calls your name from somewhere nearby, sharp and familiar enough to make you sigh mid-swipe. Heavy footsteps follow shortly after, each one thudding against the earth louder than the other. Your hand tightens on the rag instinctively, and you glance up, bracing yourself for whoever has decided to interrupt this rare moment of calm. 

“Now,” Dutch begins, his voice carrying that smooth, commanding tone that makes heads turn, “since she’s become so well acquainted with us, I reckon she should join us for this next little outing, hm?” 

You feel the weight of his gaze on you, deliberate and unyielding, and as if on cue, Arthur, Charles, and John fall into step behind him. The four of them close in around you, the space shrinking, their presence pressing in like a tide you can’t push against. 

Dutch doesn’t waver. His eyes remain locked on you, piercing, calculating. “John here found us a real sweet spot,” he continues, voice thick with confidence, each word deliberate, measured. “There’s a train that runs through a remote stretch late at night. No towns, no crossings, nothing but open land. Maybe a lone fence post for miles. Nothing alive to interfere with our work.” 

He lets the sentence hang in the air for a beat, letting the image settle. Then he leans back slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching in a hint of a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s perfect,” he says softly, almost to himself. “By the time anyone realizes anything’s happened, we’ll be long gone.” 

John shifts beside him, scratching absentmindedly at his face. His fingernail catches on a fresh scar along his cheek, making him wince and mutter a soft curse under his breath.  

“Did you manage to grab that oil wagon we needed?” John asks, voice low and rough, the question more a check than curiosity. 

Arthur’s gaze flickers briefly toward John’s hand, “Yeah,” he replies evenly, calm as ever. “It’s exactly where we agreed to leave it. Everything on my end has been taken care of. No surprises.” 

“Oi! You lot are going out and robbing folks, and I’m supposed to just sit here on my ass doin’ nothin’!?” 

The familiar Irish lilt cuts through the morning air, sharp and loud, growing closer with each word. You can practically hear the exasperation dripping off every syllable. 

You can’t help it, a grin tugs at your lips that you hide behind your hand. Sean’s accent, especially when he’s annoyed or angry, is dumbly entertaining. 

“Sean, not now, we already have—” Charles begins, voice calm, smooth, trying to temper the storm before it fully hits, but he get’s cut off. 

“Let me join, Dutch, please! I’ll do good! Won’t be like last time! I swear!” Sean pleads, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. His hands fly around like he’s trying to physically shove idea of coming along in Dutch’s mind. 

From the corner of your eye, you catch Arthur’s reaction. The way he glances at Dutch, his eyes soft and eyebrows furrowed, it’s silly in its restraint. It’s a silent plea for Dutch to say no. 

Dutch exhales a long, exaggerated sigh, the kind that feels like it carries the weight of the entire camp on his shoulders. “…Well, I guess you need to do something,” he finally says, voice slow, deliberate, as if choosing his words carefully could somehow keep chaos at bay. 

The moment the words leave his mouth, Sean’s entire face lights up, like someone just handed him a mountain of gold. You have to hold back a laugh as he practically leaps away, shouting over his shoulder, “I’ll ready up my horse!” He skids across the camp, boots kicking up dust, his excitement spilling into every frantic motion. 

Everyone nearby groans in unison. John rolls his eyes, shaking his head, most likely from annoyence, while the others mutter under their breath, the chorus of irritation amuses you like nothing else, but you don’t let them know that. 

Arthur mutters quietly, his voice carrying that mix of annoyance you’ve come to recognize in him. “Oh, come on, Dutch. Not with her… shouldn’t we focus on welcoming her first and warming her into this?” His dark eyes flick toward you, lips tight. 

“I know,” Dutch replies, voice low but carrying the faint edge of irritation that betrays his own impatience. You can tell, beneath the carefully measured words, that even he doesn’t really want Sean tagging along.  

“But he needs to do something. He’s been sitting all week, and I’ll go crazy if he doesn’t do something quick. Just… ignore him.” His chuckle at the end is soft, almost forced, like he’s trying to ease some tension. 

Then his gaze shifts toward you. Your stomach twists just slightly at the weight behind it. “You let me know if he does anything, okay? It won’t be the first time,” he grumbles, eyes narrowing just a fraction. 

You nod once, careful to keep your expression neutral, and the gesture seems to satisfy him. A brief flicker of approval crosses his face before he mutters a few more instructions to the men, his voice fading as he turns and walks back toward his tent, leaving you sitting with the men as they talk more about the robbery. 

Eventually, they begin to walk away torwards the horses, a brief discussion passing through them, but nothing huge. They've moved on to more mundane topic, like Arthur asking how Johns scar is healing after seeing John scrape it on accidently. 

“So… how’re you feeling?” Charles asks, his voice calm, easy, Belle waits patiently, ears flicking at the distant noises of camp, nostrils flaring slightly as she sniffs the grassy air. 

“Fine, I guess,” you reply slowly, hesitating for a fraction too long before shrugging. “Maybe a bit nervous… I still don’t know much about you guys.” The words feel awkward leaving your mouth. 

“That’s fair,” he says, giving a small, understanding nod. “Hopefully that changes a bit once we finish this robbery.” His tone is casual, but there’s a faint undertone of reassurance threaded through it, you’d notice it only if you’re paying attention.  

He swings onto Taima’s back easily, patting her neck gently. She shifts beneath him, responding to his touch as if she understands exactly what he expects. 

You take a deep, quiet breath and swing yourself into Belle’s saddle. She leans into your hand, her velvety nose pressing against your palm, and you scratch gently along her neck. The familiar motion soothes you, and you can feel a thread of calm spin from your chest. 

Arthur, John, and Sean finish mounting nearby. Sean fidgets with his saddle, muttering to himself under his breath, adjusting straps so they sit just right. John’s movements are more deliberate, careful, while Arthur slides into his saddle with smooth, practiced precision, like he and his horse are an extension of one another. 

You take a few extra seconds to adjust your stirrups and give Belle another reassuring pat, letting her warmth sink in beneath your fingers. The camp grows quieter as you prepare, the distant clatter of breakfast and chatter fading behind you. Only the gentle crunch of grass and soft rustle of leaves remains, punctuated by the occasional chirping bird. 

Then Charles nudges Taima forward, and the movement begins. The horses fall into line naturally, their hooves making a dull, steady thud against the dirt. The wind brushes softly against your face, carrying the scent of wildflowers and dry earth, easing you even further. 

You let your eyes wander across the landscape as you follow Charles’ path, and you see the rolling hills bathed in golden light, scattered trees swaying gently, the long shadows of the morning stretching behind each horse. 

“We’re gonna place the oil tank in the middle of the tracks,” John says, breaking the silence as he glances toward you. “Train comes along, it’s gotta stop. Either that, or it catches fire. When they stop, we hop in, take what we can, leave, and don’t look back. That make sense?” 

It’s simple. You appreciate tha, complicated things only lead to confusion and people killed.  

“Yeah. I got it.” 

“Good,” John mutters, satisfied. 

The group rides on, and silence stretches again, broken only by the rhythmic thud of hooves and the soft jingle of tack. You fix your gaze ahead, letting the rolling countryside slide past, golden fields brushing against the edge of your vision. But you can feel it, the fleeting glance from John. His eyes flick toward you, he’s trying to be subtle, but he fails, your senses are always spiked. His jaw is clenched and his brows are furrowed, something’s on his mind. 

You don’t press. You’ve learned better than that. Questions aren’t always asked aloud for a reason. Plus, you lack enough care to ask.  

You focus on the ground beneath the horses, the wind brushing past your ears, you always mind your buisness, and don’t speak much when not spoken too. 

After a long moment, John exhales through his nose, it’s harsh, like he’s arguing with himself. When he speaks, his voice is lower, almost hesitant, like he’s weighing every word. 

“I know it’d be rude to ask a lady, Abigail would have my head on a stick,” He begins “but… how old are you?” 

Your chest tightens immediately. Of all the questions he could’ve asked, this is the one he chooses. It makes sense, you guess. You’d feel curious to know who you were commiting crimes with if you were him aswell. But for you, age isn’t just a number. It’s a brutal reminder of your stolen childhoos, your lost innocence, of things taken before you even had a chance to grow into them. 

“Not that you look old!” he adds quickly, as if sensing the sudden tension. “Quite the opposite, actually.” 

Your throat constricts. You force yourself to swallow hard, eyes flicking down toward the dirt beneath your boots, focusing on the tiny grains sliding under your weight. The words lodge somewhere deep, a quiet ache in your chest. You feel robbed of the simplicity, the carefree joy, the reckless laughter most people your age take for granted. You’ve never had that, not really. 

“Seventeen,” you say at last, voice soft but steady. 

The tension around you thickens until it’s almost physical, pressing in from all sides. You can feel it in the way the men ride stiffer, like they’re all holding the same thought and none of them know how to let it out. The silence stretches just long enough to make your chest ache, just long enough to feel exposed. 

Before anyone can break it, and before pity or protest can find its way to the surface, you speak again. Your voice comes out steady, but you’re feeling anything but. 

“O’Driscolls killed my parents when I was thirteen,” you say. The words fall flat and blunt, like facts carved into stone. “Took everything we had. I learned to shoot after that. Been tracking Colm ever since.” 

You pause only long enough to breathe. 

“So don’t think I’m no good with a gun just ‘cause of my age,” you add, sharper now. 

There’s a familiar weight in your chest, that dunb heavy and sinking feeling, you’ve just placed something fragile into the open air and can’t pull it back fast enough.  

John speaks before anyone else can. His voice slices clean through the moment, grounding it. The others fall quiet immediately, like instinct tells them this is his to say. 

“Alone?” he asks. His brows knit beneath the brim of his hat, concern plain and unguarded. “You’re probably gonna be outnumbered, kid.” 

You don’t answer right away. Your eyes stay fixed on the land ahead, trying to force down any feelings of anger and despair you’d been shoving down for years now. Your jaw tightens even more, your teeth begin to hurt. 

“I don’t care what happens after,” you say. “I just know I’m killing him. One way or another.” 

To you, it’s not dramatic nor is it brave, it’s a conclusion you reached a long time ago, a truth you’ve already lived with. 

To them, it’s like the world stalls. 

The uneven gallop of nearby horses seems to dull, hooves striking the earth softer, slower. The wind shifts through the trees, but even that feels distant. No one interrupts you, they just listen. 

John’s mouth parts slightly, like he wants to say something, but the words don’t come. He exhales slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing with something heavy and unspoken, something that looks dangerously close to grief. 

The robbery is a success. Nearly three thousand dollars pulled from the train, $2,950 exactly. 

It surprises even you, how smoothly it all went. Robbing people directly was never really your style, you preferred faceless companies, big operations that wouldn’t notice a missing ten dollar necklace or a misplaced crate. 

You’d done more than pull your weight. You knew when the law would arrive, could feel the timing in your bones. You read people the way you always had, posture, clothing, the way someone held their chin or avoided eye contact, picking out who had money without needing to open a single ledger. You moved quietly, slipping past danger and taking guards down before they even knew you were there.  

Riding back into camp, the adrenaline fades, replaced by something else. A tension that hasn’t let go since earlier. It’s not choking, but it lingers. You feel it the way humid air clings to skin, invisible yet impossible to ignore. It settles between your shoulders, in the base of your spine. 

You don’t like it. 

The feeling doesn’t ease when you reach camp. Doesn’t break when you swing down from Belle’s saddle or lead her to her tree. If anything, it tightens, quiet and awful. 

You unhitch her carefully, murmuring soft praise as you always do, fingers brushing along her neck. She did good, better than good, and you make sure she knows it. You slip her a few extra snacks, a small bribe and a thank‑you all in one, compensating her for the long ride and the exhaustion of the night. She eats them eagerly, nudging your hand like she always does, and it makes a tired smile graze your lips. 

As the others approach and dismount, you linger by Belle, letting your fingers absently swirl through the soft strands of her fur. She seems to take it as a cue for some mutual grooming, nudging her nose into your hands and lightly nipping at your neck. The sensation makes you snort quietly, and she presses her head into your shoulder, clearly proud of her contribution. 

“So, half goes to the box…” Arthur begins, his hands moving expertly as he splits the stack of bills in two, giving one half to Charles. 

“And we split this half five ways, giving us about…” He fans the remaining stack out across his fingers, dividing it into neat sections. “…We all get around $295 each.” His voice is gruff, but there’s a large hint of pride behind it as he passes the neatly banded stacks to the others and to you. 

You take the money, feeling the crisp edges of the bills between your fingers. You don’t need it, not really, your priorities aren’t luxuries, but money is money. You already have plans swirling in your head, a stop in town for clothes you actually like, some good food, maybe a few little upgrades for Belle’s saddle. Perhaps even a treat for yourself, whatever your heart decides to call for in the moment. 

You thank Arthur with a nod, feeling the weight of both the money and the quiet approval behind it, before heading toward your tent to gather your belongings. You stuff a few changes of clothes and some snacks into your bag, making sure everything is packed just right.  

Once everything is secured on Belle’s back, you swing onto her and settle into the soft saddle, ready to ride into town. The soft creak of leather and the gentle sway of her as she shifts under your weight feels reassuring and comforting. 

You refuse to sleep on that hard cot. No amount of exhaustion is worth another night on that unforgiving thing. The tent they set up for you can serve as storage, clothes, supplies, whatever, but you’d rather freeze under the stars than lie there again. 

Camp is loud in that way that feels empty. People are crowded around the fire, voices overlapping, laughter spilling out over stories you couldn’t care less about. No one notices when you saddle Belle. No one stops you when you swing up and turn her toward the dark, and that’s fine. 

With a soft nudge, Belle starts forward, and you ride off, letting the world stretch out in front of you. The smell of the warm earth, the quiet rustle of trees, the faint tang of smoke from campfires left behind, all of it mingles with your thoughts, a peaceful wave of tranquility washes over you. 

You’ll come back tomorrow. Talk to Dutch, see when your next robbery is. The night’s grown late, and you assume he’s already turned in. 

You’re wrong. 

Dutch isn’t asleep. He’s sitting by the fire, listening. Men speak in low voices around him, recounting your words in pieces, your resolve, your plan, your willingness to die if it means Colm goes down with you. They tell him how steady you sounded, how unafraid you sounded. 

They tell him your age. 

Dutch doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, fingers laced, eyes reflecting the firelight as something sharp and calculating coils behind them. 

By the time the stories finish, something has shifted in the camp. It’s subtle and quiet, but unmistakable. Like pressure building before a storm breaks. You ride on unaware, the night cool against your skin, believing your freedom is still yours. 

But once word spreads, about your age, your plans, your recklessness, you might as well kiss that freedom goodbye. 

You stretch instinctively when you wake, searching for that familiar, familiar , pleasant tug in your muscles when your eyes snap open.

Belle isn't beside you.

The cool morning air brushes your skin, sharp enough to jolt you fully awake. Panic flares in your bones, sudden and ugly, and you push yourself upright, scanning the area around you, half expecting her to appear from thin air like she's been there the whole time.

But she doesn't, just the faint rustle of leaves overhead and the low crackle of a nearby fire.

Your chest tightens as you take in your surroundings, and that's when panic rises even more. You're not where you fell asleep. Not exactly.

The place is familiar, and you're still in the camp you fell asleep in last night. But now a firelight flickers across a modest clearing, showing the uneven ground around it. A soft, heavy blanket made from bear for is draped on top of you. A few figures move through the space, their shadows stretching long as the sun climbs higher into the sky.

The camp is waking up, someone stirs a pot over the fire. Another man adjusts a bedroll, muttering under his breath. No one's paying you much mind, but the awareness settles in anyway, you've been moved. While you slept.

Your jaw tightens, but before you can stand, a voice cuts in from nearby, rough with sleep and smoke.

"You're awake." it says.

You snap toward it. A man sits himself near the fire beside you and stretches his legs out, nursing a tin cup. He looks over at you like this is a normal day for the both of you.

"Horse's fine," he adds after a beat, "Arthur tied her up just past the trees. Didn't want her wanderin'."

That helps. A little. Still, you don't allow yourself to relax. Not fully.

You push yourself to your feet, brushing dirt and grass from your clothes, eyes flicking instinctively toward the tree line. "Next time," you say flatly, "someone oughta ask before movin' me."

You say as you keep scanning the camp, counting people, exits, distance. The calm hum of morning presses in around you, almost convincing in how harmless it feels. How you'd probably be a bit more comfortable if you weren't in your current position.

"Well," he says, voice breaking the thick silence, "how d'you take your coffee?" He gestures vaguely toward the tin in his hand. "Breakfast won't be ready for a couple hours yet."

You shift your weight before you answer. "I'm headin' into town," you say. "Gonna grab somethin' from the lunch wagon."

It shocks Dutch a bit, he assumed you'd be hungry, and he didn't think you'd refuse food from them. From him. His smile falters for the briefest moment before settling back into place, practiced and smooth. If you hadn't been watching for it, you would've missed it.

"I don't quite follow," Dutch says after a beat. "Why ride all the way into town just to throw money away? Thirteen dollars, maybe more." He tilts his head, genuinely puzzled. "We ain't gonna charge you for a meal if that's what you're worried about."

You meet his eyes, unflinching. "Sir," you say evenly, "I don't know a single soul here. You could put anything you wanted in my food." Your voice stays calm and steady, like you're stating a fact instead of an accusation. "I ain't that quick to trust strangers. Truth be told, I barely trust the folks in town to feed me proper."

Dutch notices that there's no anger or edge in your tone, just a calm, steady voice explaining your reasonings.

Dutch studies you in silence, lips pressed thin as the firelight flickers across his face. He was kind of expecting a reaction from you in all honesty. The way you acted last night, like a stubborn bunny refusing help, it makes sense why you'd think that now.

He draws a breath, about to say something, probably press you further, but another presence joins you by the fire.

"Ah, John," Dutch says smoothly, turning on the log. "How're you feelin', son?"

John lets out a breath and rolls his shoulders, wincing a little as he does. "Alright, I guess. Arms're still hurtin' like a bitch."

Dutch hums, nodding as if he'd known that. "Well, then you oughta take it easy for a day or two." His tone lightens as he continues, satisfaction bleeding through. "We did more'n well on that train last night. Pulled in over seven hundred dollars."

John's brows lift despite himself. Dutch chuckles softly, pleased. "That puts us right where we need to be," he says. "Well, on our way."

John nods in agreement to Dutch, tipping his hat at you. "Ma'am," he says politely before heading off in search of coffee.

"See that?" Dutch says, chuckling, eyes still bright with amusement. "You're already a favorite. Told John on the ride back from the train 'bout how you took down Bill, shot Micah, and nearly killed Javier in under a minute." He shakes his head, still clearly impressed, even as he tries to sound casual.

You hum softly, acknowledging him without a word as you begin to walk away to where your horse was.

You lead Belle back to the same spot where you both slept last night, hitching her to the tree. The leather reins creak softly under your hands as you make sure she's secure.

You dig through your satchel, pull out the fresh fruit you bought for her, and begin feeding her. Her teeth scrape lightly against your palm, tickling enough to make you snort, and when her warm tongue brushes your fingers as she chomps an apple, you can't help laughing outright.

Once she's done, you leave her grazing and wander through the camp, finally climbing to a ledge overlooking the rolling hills and trees below. You crave the quiet, the camp's noise buzzing too loudly in your head. Everyone's riding high off the seven hundred dollars they snagged from the train last night.

You watch the little animals down below as you swing your legs softly, the squirrels darting up tree trunks, deer nuzzling their fawns through the tall grass, birds calling across the sky. For the first time since last night, you can just breathe. This solitude, your thoughts alone, it's the only thing that feels fully yours.

The sun hangs high overhead, midday, around 12 o'clock. A faint chill lingers in the air, not enough to make you rush for a tent, but enough to brush against your skin, reminding you it's there.

You're lost in your thoughts, mulling over what to eat for dinner, what to give Belle for her meals, when you might be leaving, or what the hell those two jobs Dutch kept rambling about even were. Then footsteps crunch behind you.

You spin around, heart skipping, only to see the man from last night approaching. He's not alone though. A slightly shorter man walks beside him, still tall enough to carry himself with that same quiet authority. Both pause when your eyes land on them, like they just got caught doing something they shouldn't, then quickly settle back into composure.

"Uh... hey there," Arthur says, voice easy but carrying a faint edge of caution. "Me and Charles were fixin' to go huntin' for some deer. Seems like now's a good time to head out."

At the mention of Charles, the other man lifts a hand in a small wave, nodding toward you with a quiet acknowledgment.

You give a small wave in return, then push yourself upright, straightening your back against the rock you'd been leaning on.

"Think you wanna come along?" Arthur asks, tilting his head toward you. "Charles here can show you how to hunt, he's damn good at it."

poop poop poop

You pause. It's not like you don't know how to hunt, you've spent more than your share of time tracking and shooting, but a little quiet away from camp wouldn't hurt. Especially if these two kept their mouths shut while you worked.

You nod and set your feet firmly on the ground. "Alright. Let me get ready," you say, brushing past them and heading toward your horse to grab your proper clothes.

You scratch Belle gently behind the ears before digging into the dark brown leather satchel strapped to her side. Inside are the fresh clothes you'd picked up near Blackwater, tossed a little haphazardly, but still clean and ready.

Glancing around in search of somewhere to change, you notice the tents scattered nearby. You shuffle your feet, wishing for a huge rock or tree to magically appear, shielding you from view but, of course, nothing of the sort is in sight.

Just as you resign yourself to hunting in the same well-worn clothes you've been wearing for the past two days, you tuck the fresh ones back into Belle's satchel with a quiet sigh.

That's when a woman approaches, slow and unhurried. Her dark hair is pulled into a low bun at the nape of her neck, and her eyes linger on you with open curiosity.

"Need someplace to change, hon?" she asks gently.

There's a warmth to her voice that catches you off guard. She lets out a small laugh, like she can't help it, clearly amused by the way you're shifting on your feet. Heat rushes straight to your face.

You hate that she caught you like this, fidgeting, uncertain, stripped of the control you usually cling to. God, you're terrible at this.

"Uh... yes ma'am," you mumble, eyes dropping to the dirt like it might suddenly become fascinating. Pebbles. Grass. Anything but her face. You shift again, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow you whole.

She laughs once more, like she finds your discomfort more endearing than awkward. Your stomach twists at that. Embarrassment, surprise, something unfamiliar knotting together. For just a second, you wish you could disappear into the earth beneath your boots.

"I've got a tent you can change in. Ain't nobody in there, I promise," she says, her voice calm, soft, like she knows exactly how much space you need. You nod quickly, muttering a quiet thanks, still refusing to meet her eyes.

You watch her feet move off before following, careful not to catch the curious gazes of anyone you haven't met yet. Their eyes linger for a moment, quietly interested, but you ignore them, focusing on the path ahead.

"My name's Abigail," she offers softly as you walk. "That kid over there's my boy." She nods toward a little boy, no older than five, crouched in the dirt, drawing with a stick. An older man sits nearby, a newspaper spread across his lap. He laughs at something the boy says, and the boy's giggle rings louder.

"He's... cute," you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips. You've always had a soft spot for the young, or the innocent, and seeing him so carefree stirs something warm in your chest. Almost instinctively, you offer your own name.

Abigail turns, smiling easy and open, the kind that makes you blink just a little. "Oh, I love that name. Would've named Jack that if he'd been a girl. Maybe next time," she says, a soft chuckle slipping past her lips.

The crunch of grass underfoot carries you forward for a few more moments, the sounds of camp fading behind you. Finally, you reach a dark green tent, canvas a little worn but sturdy, the privacy you've been craving at last.

"Thank you, miss," you say, nodding at her before slipping inside and letting the tent flap fall shut behind you. Outside, the sounds of camp drift through the thin canvas—voices you haven't heard yet, some laughing, others arguing quietly. A guitar strums somewhere in the distance, a familiar tune from your travels on the road, and a few women's voices rise to join it, singing an old song you know by heart.

You change quickly, methodical, almost on autopilot.

Once dressed, you adjust your gun belt around your waist and pull your loose hair back into a messy ponytail, tying it tight. Practical and efficient, no care of looking pretty. The wind already bites through the tent, sharp and restless, and you know it'll only pick up once you step outside. Any stray strands whipping into your eyes or mouth would drive you mad, so you don't even consider leaving your hair down.

You step out of the tent, and Abigail's still there, like she hadn't moved an inch. When she sees you, that soft, easy smile spreads across her face again, the kind she's been giving all day.

"I can wash those clothes if you want," she says, nodding toward what you're holding. "Reckon you don't feel too good all covered in that grime, honey." Her hands stay relaxed, patient, not pushy, just offering.

You bite the inside of your cheek, nerves buzzing under your skin, and give a small, hesitant nod. The clothes leave your hands and settle into hers. For a brief second, your fingers linger, unsure if you're allowed to let go yet.

Abigail gives you one last look, warm, steady, the kind that makes your chest tighten for reasons you don't want to name, before she turns and walks off, the clothes tucked neatly against her hip.

And then... you're standing there.

Alone.

Your weight shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. Every little movement feels amplified: the way your hands hang at your sides, your posture, the way you probably look like some stranger dropped into camp with no clue what to do next. God. Real smooth.

When you spot Charles and Arthur, they're over by the horses, both already mounted, reins slack in their hands as they talk quietly. Arthur leans easy in his saddle, one boot hooked in the stirrup, shoulders relaxed. Charles sits straighter, posture relaxed, eyes sharp even in the middle of a word, scanning the camp like nothing escapes him.

You start toward them, boots crunching against the dirt, but your eyes keep drifting to the treeline at the edge of camp. The forest feels heavier there, darker, like it's breathing on its own. Birds call sharp and clear overhead, and somewhere past the trees, the steady rush of the lake drifts to your ears, slow and constant. It's grounding in a way you didn't expect. Familiar. Safe, almost.

poop

Charles was right, now really is the perfect time to hunt. The air feels thicker somehow, like the world's holding its breath. You reach them without hesitation, grab Belle's reins, and swing up in one smooth motion, muscle memory guiding you like it never left. Belle nickers under your weight, that little sound she always makes just for you, and you can't resist patting her neck twice.

"Hey, girl," you murmur, low and soft, fingers threading through her mane. She shifts beneath you, steady and patient, like she knows this is work time.

Arthur watches you for a second before clicking his tongue and turning his horse toward the path out of camp. "Alright then," he says. "Let's not waste daylight."

Charles gives a brief nod, already scanning the treeline like it's a page in a book only he can read. "Wind's good," he says. "Quiet, too. Animals'll be movin'."

"We're headin' over to Dewberry Creek," Charles adds,"Deer're thick over there."

He nudges his horse forward without another word, Arthur follows, adjusting his reins, and you fall in behind them, Belle's hooves keeping a soft, steady rhythm against the packed earth.

Arthur rides in silence for a minute, then shifts uneasily in his saddle. The second the trees thin and the trail opens, he eases his horse into a trot, forcing you to slow with him.

"Hey," he says, glancing over his shoulder. "Mind switchin' spots with me?"

You tilt your head, waiting, not saying anything.

"I like bein' the watch," he continues, tone casual but firm. "Might be a wolf or two out here, kid. Wouldn't want you gettin' mauled off yer horse."

It's meant for a joke, maybe, but there's a thread of something—care, caution—buried in there that doesn't quite pass for humor.

Without a word, you nudge Belle forward, letting her drift past Arthur's shoulder. Her flank brushes the air beside his horse as you slip ahead, settling neatly behind Charles instead.

As you ride, your eyes drift to Charles's horse—or more accurately, the back of her. She trots just ahead, hooves striking the ground in a steady rhythm that echoes softly in the cool morning air. The sound is soothing, hypnotic, the only thing breaking the quiet of the open land around you.

Her coat catches your eye—mostly white on her hindquarters, with delicate black spots scattered like ink splotches. You follow the patterns with your gaze, and somehow, it calms you just to watch her move. You remember Charles calling her Taima, and the name feels right—elegant, serene, untouchably graceful, even from behind.

Belle shifts beneath you, keeping her own steady rhythm, but your attention keeps flicking back to Taima. It's strange how something so simple—the sway of a horse's back, the steady patter of hooves—can feel like a kind of quiet in a world that's never predictable.

The silence stretches longer than expected, broken only by hooves and the occasional whisper of wind through the trees. Apparently, the quiet isn't enough for Charles, because he leans slightly in his saddle, voice low but carrying clearly.

"You ever gone huntin' before?" he asks, not looking back, but it's clear the question's meant for you.

You nod instinctively, then remember he can't see. Clearing your throat, you speak up.

"Yes, sir," you say, steady and soft, letting the words settle in the cool air.

Your eyes wander again, scanning the path, taking in the little details you missed before. Clusters of wildflowers—white and pale yellow—dot the fields, swaying gently in the breeze.

"You ever hunt deer?" Charles asks this time, more pointed, more specific.

"Yes, I have, sir," you answer, careful, polite, keeping your tone measured. The words fall softly between the trees, steady like Belle's hooves on the earth.

From behind, a low chuckle rumbles from Arthur's chest. Quiet, almost amused, but you catch it.

"You ain't gotta be so polite with us," he says, voice easy, corners of his mouth quirking. "We ain't too concerned 'bout titles 'round here."

You glance back at him, curiosity flickering, but Charles cuts in from ahead, mischief in his tone.

"In fact," he says lightly, "we've robbed folks with them titles."

A small laugh escapes you, soft, surprised at how natural it feels, even with the wind tugging at your hair and Belle's ears flicking at the forest sounds.

By the time the three of you make it back, every muscle in your body feels wrung out. You swing down from Belle's back and let her nose into your hand as you lead her over to the hitching post. She nudges you like she always does, impatient and familiar, and you roll your shoulders slowly, easing out the tension that's been sitting there for hours. The ache doesn't leave, not really, but it settles into something almost nice. 

You'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy it. The hunt, the ride, the quiet stretches where nobody felt the need to fill the space. There was something steady about it. You wouldn't say that out loud, not to them, but it sits with you all the same.

The smell of stew hits you as you move closer to camp, thick and savory, cutting through the constant hum of voices. The sun sinks low, smearing the sky with gold and pink before giving way to deepening blue, and still, no one seems in any rush to quiet down. The camp feels alive in the dusk.

"I, uh... I had fun today," Charles says, voice low and easy, like he's not entirely sure how to phrase it. He gives you a small smile, rare enough that it makes something in your chest lift without you meaning it to. You return it, yours a little more reserved, but real.

"With both of you," he adds, glancing past you.

You follow his gaze to Arthur, who's just finished hitching his horse. He straightens up with an exaggerated stiffness, wearing that mock-offended look like a badge. Charles catches himself mid-thought and lets out a quiet laugh.

You lift a hand in a small wave to them both and let them be, turning toward the fire where you slept the night before without really thinking about it. Your boots crunch softly against the ground as you walk, the sound blending into the steady murmur of the camp around you.

As you draw closer, you realize the fire's already taken. A man sits cross-legged in the dirt, his back against a stack of logs, fingers moving easy and practiced over a guitar. Across from him, two women perch on a fallen log, shoulders brushing as their voices rise together in a duet. The tune seems to be something familiar one of those songs you swear you've heard before, but you can't quite place it.

For half a second, you just stand there, caught between slipping around the edge to grab your things or backing off entirely and coming back later. The fire pops softly, light flickering across their faces, and the music fills the space you hesitate in, warm and unhurried. It makes the choice harder than it should be.

You don't stay unnoticed for long.

One of the women glances up mid-verse, her voice trailing off when she spots you. She gives a little wave, friendly and unguarded, and smiles like it costs her nothing. Your chest tightens before you can help it, and you lift a hand back, returning the smallest, most tentative smile you can manage.

That movement pulls the guitarist's attention. His fingers still on the strings, the last note hanging unfinished in the air as he looks up at you. The sudden quiet feels sharper somehow, the firelight more aware.

When his eyes linger a second too long, that familiar prickle crawls up your spine.

It's subtle, barely there, but you know it. That tight, electric awareness that comes from being watched too closely. It roots you in place, makes you conscious of every breath, every shift of weight, every inch of space your body takes up.

"Uh, sorry," you say, breaking the moment before it stretches any further. You gesture toward your lone bag leaning against a log, half-lit by the fire. "I just need to grab my things." 

"Oh, that's yours?" the other woman says, tilting her head. Now all three of them are looking at you, and the prickling climbs higher, settling at the back of your neck. You shuffle forward anyway, determined to get it over with. "Yes, ma'am," you mumble, eyes dropping as you reach for the bag.

"Ma'am?" she scoffs, throwing her hands up. "Hell, how old do you think I am?"

Laughter breaks out immediately, a little wild in that way people get when whiskey's been involved. It washes over the fire circle, and for a second you feel like you've wandered into something you weren't meant to interrupt.

You wince inwardly, Arthur's words flashing through your mind.

They don't care about titles.

"Sorry," you say quickly. "Didn't mean nothin' by it. Just tryin' not to offend."

"Well, don't you fret," the woman says with a crooked grin, lifting your bag and passing it toward you. "Got bigger things to worry about than that." She pauses, then laughs again, fingers already testing the leather.

"Well damn, Tilly, this is a nice bag," she adds. "You don't mind if we look, do ya?" It's already too late. Her hands are all over the straps and buckles.

You shake your head, letting her look it over. She isn't wrong, it's a good bag. Solid and well-made.

"Where'd you get this?" she asks, turning it in her hands so the firelight slides across the smooth leather. "Prettiest bag I've seen all day."

You smile to yourself. "Stole it, actually. Somewhere outside Blackwater." She laughs, delighted rather than shocked. "Well, you got taste. It's real nice."

When she hands it back, you take it carefully, fingers brushing over the stitching out of habit. "Thank you," you murmur, quieter than intended.

“You planning on washing today?” the man asks casually from his place on the ground, fingers still moving over the strings of his guitar without much thought behind them.

He nods toward a wagon a short distance away, clothes hanging from its lines and swaying gently in the afternoon breeze, sun catching the fabric just right.

“There’s a basin over there,” he adds. “Full of water. I’ve got some soap you can borrow, if you don’t mind smelling like almond and honey.”

You hesitate for half a second before answering.

“Um. Yeah,” you say quietly. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

He glances up at you then, “Course not,” he says, setting the guitar aside. “Got plenty.”

You watch him head off toward the tents, something about the exchange sticking strangely in your chest. Not wrong, just unfamiliar. People don’t usually offer things without wanting something back.

The two women beside you continue their low conversation, words blurring together as your attention drifts to the fire. The way it flickers, breathes, shifts, hypnotic enough that you don’t realize how much time passes.

He’s back before you expect it. He holds out a small white bar wrapped neatly in cloth, another clean rag folded beneath his arm.

“It’s clean,” he says, like he already knows you’d be wondering. “Both of them.”

You take them, fingers brushing his for the briefest moment.

“If you need help,” he continues, nodding toward a woman nearby in the middle of scolding Arthur, "filthy", "smelly" reaching your ears as she playfully waves her finger at him “she’s usually the one who keeps us in line. Though,” he adds lightly, “I get it if she’s a bit intimidating.”

His attention lingers on you a second longer than necessary. “I’ll be around,” he says. “Just holler when you’re done.”

You start toward the wagon, then pause as he speaks again.

“You slept on the ground last night, didn’t you?” He hums softly, “We’ll fix that.”

He says before turning around and focusing back in on his guitar, like you don't exist anymore, leaving you in utter confusion.

When you make it back to camp, nothing looks different, except the sky. The last smear of gold is bleeding out behind the hills, leaving everything washed in deepening blue and shadow.

You feel lighter and clean. Whatever sweat and dirt had been clinging to you all day is gone, replaced by the faint scent of almonds that still clings to your skin. It's subtle, but it's familiar. Worn when you to used to take a bath in a hotel and use their soaps. Until one day, you just stole a bar of it.

You kneel by your things and dig through your suitcase, already reaching for your sleep clothes, and stop. They're gone.

A sharp spike of unease twists in your chest. Your things have been moved. Touched. The realization makes your fingers curl where they rest in the fabric, jaw tightening as irritation flares hot and sudden. It's small, sure, but it's yours. And nobody asked.

You shove the feeling down and stand, putting your hunting clothes back, eyes already scanning the camp. 

When you enter the camp again, your gaze snaps to the drying rack. There they are.

Your clothes hang neatly along the line, stirring gently in the evening breeze. One piece after another. Clean and dry. If anything, better cared for than you usually manage yourself.

It doesn't help.

You yank them down one by one, muttering under your breath as you gather the soft fabric into your arms. The audacity of it still burns, even as logic tries to cut in. You don't stop moving until you're back where you washed earlier, shoulders tight as you finally change.

Once you're in your pajamas, the anger dulls, just a little.

The fabric feels softer than it has any right to. Warm and comfortable. Like someone actually took their time with it. That realization brings a flicker of guilt, unwelcome and annoying in its own way.

It isn't the washing that bothers you. Not really. It's that no one asked. That the choice was taken from you, however small. That something was done to you, instead of with you.

You tug absently at the sleeve, caught between the comfort settling into your bones and the stubborn edge of irritation that refuses to fully let go.

As you tuck your clothes back into your suitcase, a voice cuts through the low hum of the camp, it's your name being shouted.

Your head snaps up, eyes scanning the shadows and flickering firelight. Confusion knots in your chest. You haven't spoken to half the people here yet, so who's calling your name? You freeze, unsure if you should move toward it or stay put.

Your stomach tightens, a flicker of nerves dancing across your skin. Every instinct tells you to be cautious, you're still the outsider here, a newcomer in a world full of people whose names and intentions you barely know. 

You take slow, cautious steps toward the sound of the voice, each footfall measured. Your eyes flick across the camp, scanning instinctively for any threat, guns leaning against tents, knives tucked into belts, the faint glint of steel catching the last light of the day. Every nerve is on edge, every instinct telling you to stay alert.

But as you draw closer, the tension in your shoulders begins to ease. No one is lurking in the shadows, no trap waits to spring. It's just Dutch, walking easily beside the older man you'd seen earlier with the little boy.

"See, here she is!" Dutch calls out as he strides toward you, his eyes still flicking to the older man at his side.

"She really doesn't look the type," the older man says, nodding slightly in agreement with whatever Dutch had said before. You quirk a brow at the comment, unsure whether it's a compliment or a gentle doubt.

"But she did anyway! She's the one that put that bullet in Micah's leg! I swear!" Dutch adds, his gaze finally settling on you. There's a faint pride in his eyes, the same distant, almost boyish pride he's worn all morning as he retells the story from last night for what feels like the hundredth time today.

"I was going to introduce you to everyone in the camp, but you disappeared on us!" Dutch says, chuckling. "Was scared you'd run off, until I realized Charles and Arthur were gone too."

"Oh... sorry, I guess," you mutter, eyes dropping to the ground. Your shoes suddenly seem fascinating as you shift from foot to foot, the familiar awkwardness curling in your stomach whenever socializing.

"Well, next time, just let me know, hm? I could tag along," Dutch adds, reaching out to pat your shoulder. The contact feels foreign, and you tense for a moment before forcing yourself to relax slightly at the weight of it.

"This lovely man here is Hosea," Dutch continues, gesturing toward the older man beside him. "You can come to either of us if you have any issues. He and I are pretty good at dealing with them."

You nod, keeping your gaze low, absorbing the words. It's strange, the way they both seem... unshakably calm and confident, like they've seen everything and nothing surprises them anymore.

"Hi, kid. You like it here so far?" Hosea asks, leaning down slightly as if to meet you on your level.

You blink at him, caught between surprise and mild irritation. The way these men treat you, like you're still a toddler instead of an almost-adult, is baffling, though not entirely shocking. Older folk everywhere seemed to have the same mindset: if someone wasn't above thirty, they were automatically a baby.

You chew the inside of your cheek, unsure how to answer. Part of you wants to shrug it off, assert that you're capable of more than they think. Another part, smaller but persistent, acknowledges that maybe... just maybe... it feels a little nice to have someone care this much without expecting anything in return.

"Yeah... it's... alright," you say finally, keeping your voice careful and neutral, all the while scanning the camp like it's another puzzle you need to read.

"That's great. Want me to lead you to your tent? Lenny, John, and I built it while you were gone. Jack thinks he helped," Hosea says, chuckling at the last part, shaking his head.

You offer a small thanks, just as Dutch speaks up from the direction of his own tent, preparing for the night.

"I'll make sure to introduce you to everyone tomorrow, okay? Relax, we're all family now!" he calls over his shoulder before turning completely away.

The train's soft sway, the clatter of wheels over the tracks, and the slight bumps feel like unseen hands carding through your hair and urging you to close your eyes have always been the best part. Beneath the violence of the outside world, even the occasional squeak or distant train whistle becomes a lullaby to you.

As you rest your head against the glass of the window, the faint vibration of the rails hums beneath you. It settles into your bones, loosens something you didn't realize you were holding so tight. You don't want to fall asleep. You know you shouldn't.

Valentine station should be coming up any minute now. There's that quiet, nagging thought in the back of your head telling you to stay awake, to get up soon, to not miss it.

You let yourself watch the scenery, fields blending into forests, trees blurring together until it's all just motion and color, when the train halts.

Hard. The sudden stop throws you forward, along with everyone else in the car. Someone yelps.

A worker stumbles into the aisle, losing his balance completely. The tray in his hands tips, champagne glasses slipping before smashing against the floor. Glass explodes everywhere. The sound is sharp and ugly, echoing loudly in the dim car.

Shards scatter across the velvet carpet, catching the lantern light as they settle, kinda pretty for something that just went so wrong.

In a second, the warm, drowsy calm of the ride is gone.

You frown. Trains usually don't stop like this. Not this abruptly. It feels sloppy and wrong. You tell yourself it's probably nothing, maybe a new driver, maybe an animal on the tracks. Something explainable. Still, you stand straight

The waiter is sprawled face-down on the carpet, his arms are bent at odd angles, the glass glitters around him. You shuffle and kneel beside him to carefully roll him onto his back. Your hands are steady, even as your stomach tightens.

There's a gash on his forehead, and it's deep.

You're just about to tear a strip from your shirt, already figuring out where to press, how to slow the bleeding, when a panicked voice breaks through the car.

"Everyone, unfortunately, this is not a drill, nor is it a joke! There are armed men on our cargo and th—"

The gunshot is deafening. It cracks through the air like the car itself has split open. Then comes the sound that follows. It's heavy and wet, sending a shiver up your spine. That's the sound of a body hitting the floor.

Your pulse slams so hard it almost hurts. Everything sharpens all at once, then blurs just as fast.  The frightened whispers of everyone, the distant crash of something else falling over, iIt all fades. Your muscles begin to lock.

For one suspended second, nothing happens. No screams. No movement. No breath. The silence presses in on you, thick and wrong, like the air itself has turned heavy. Everyone in the room with you seems to be waiting for something.

Then it shatters. Someone screams, high and terrified. Another shout joins it immediately, louder, closer. Horses erupt in their stalls, neighing and snorting, hooves slamming against wood and metal. You can hear them panic.

Above you, boots thunder across the roof. They're fast and heavy, heading somewhere with intent. The metal rings under their weight as voices bark orders you can't quite make out, just sharp, angry fragments swallowed by the sound of blood rushing to your ears.

Your heart slams against your ribs and your fingers tighten around the wounded waiter beside you, then they loosen, there's no time to just sit and not act. Your eyes flick around the car, already mapping the fastest way out.

You hear the sharp, unmistakable click of guns being cocked somewhere down the train, and your body moves before your thoughts catch up. You begin to run out of the train.

Glass crunches under your boots as you bolt into the dark, cold air lashes your face, sharp enough to sting, raising goosebumps along your arms, but you don't slow, you don't allow it. Your heart is a frantic rhythm, a sign of your clear distress.

Your horse waits nearby, big and calm, a familiar shape in the dark. The only thing you trust to get you out of this alive.

But the air feels wrong, like it's too heavy. A tight knot twists in your chest, warning you that this isn't going to be clean, you're not just going to slip away unnoticed.

"There she is!" someone shouts. "Move! Get that damned horse before she gets away! Now, hurry, fuck!"

The yelling cuts through the cold, it's loud and frantic. You freeze for half a second, just long enough to see movement in your peripheral vision.

Three men step through the doorway you'd just slipped out of, clad head to toe in all black. Their faces are hidden behind dark masks, and the way they move alone makes your stomach drop.

Your hand twitches toward your gun, and you repeat an all too familiar mantra to yourself in your head.

Think. Predict. React. Survive.

You force your breathing to slow, drag composure back into place piece by piece. Whatever your past carved into you, you cling to it now. Muscle memory begins to take over. Your leg swings into the saddle and Belle shifts beneath you, steady and ready, like she always is.

Then one of the men raises his revolver, but it's not pointed at you, it's aimed at Belle, and his finger is a mere breath away from the trigger

The world tunnels, and the sharp, bitter smell of gunpowder already finding it's way to your brain. Your heart slams once, hard enough to rattle.

Your hand is moving before the thought finishes. It slips beneath the folds of your skirt, fingers brushing the hidden holster strapped tight to your thigh. There's no hesitation. You take the first gun you touch and draw in one clean, practiced motion.

The shot cracks, it was your gun that's fired, The bullet hits where you aim, not in an attempt to kill him, but to get away.

The man jerks back with a curse, his grip breaking, his aim ruined as the revolver dips uselessly and clatters on the damp grass.

You don't wait to see him fall, your priority is already set. You would take a bullet for her, without hesitation. Nothing else matters to you more than your horse. The two of you have been through so much, it's hard to not bond hard with her.

You don't even get the chance to move as the man falls to the ground, a rough hand clamps around your arm and yanks. The world tips sideways and then you're airborne, ripped from the saddle and slammed into the grass. The impact knocks the breath straight out of you, and pain blooms almost instantly.

The cold seeps through your clothes, and for a heartbeat, you can't even breathe. Then two shadows fall over you. One of them drops his weight onto you, straddling your hips, pinning you down as rough hands scrabble for rope. Fibers bite into your wrists and he swears under his breath.

But if there's one thing you are, it's fast. Everything in you snaps awake at once. There's only motion and skill flooding through you.

You arch, twist, knees flaring as you search for space. Muscle memory takes over, lessons carved into bone by pain and nights where hesitation meant dying. Survival isn't a choice for someone like you, it's a reflex.

You drive your legs up hard, causing your foot to slam into his back with a wet, meaty thud. Air bursts from his lungs in a raw, choking sound as his weight pitches forward. The pressure on you falters. It's not much, but it's certainly enough for you to act. 

Your horse sees the commotion, and she's smart. She knows these mean around you don't have your favor in mind, so she acts quick. Her body surges forward without command, her teeth snap shut around the nearest man's arm. Leather tears first, then flesh follows. The mans screams rips high and frantic as his weapon clatters uselessly to the ground just like his fallen comrade.

Belle refuses to let go, she plants her hooves and locks her jaw, her strength is brutal and unyielding. He thrashes widely, he tries to claw at her, panic bleeding into every move he makes when he realizes nothing is going to work

Your foot drives into the man's other side, and his grip loosens a lot. You wrench yourself free, rolling as your fist snaps up in one clean, practiced motion.

He goes slack instantly, collapsing beside you in a useless heap. And you're on your feet before he hits even hits the ground.

Belle is still thrashing, her powerful neck snapping from side to side with the man screaming as she drags him like a ragdoll. You grab her reins and keep your voice low to ground her. You feel the tremor in her frame as she releases him. He hits the dirt hard, clutching his ruined arm and gasps. You refuse to give him time run away or draw a gun.

You haul him up by the collar of his shirt until your faces are inches apart. His eyes are blown wide and unfocused as blood and spit trickles down his chin. He reeks of fear. One strike, that's all it would take to knock him out and run. 

Click.

Hammers of guns cocking back, far too close for your liking.

"Put him down."

The command slices through the air. It's sharp and final, leaving no room for argument.

Your mind scrambles anyway, grasping for time that isn't there. Your breathing turns loud in your ears, ragged and uneven, scraping on the way in. You hear boots shift and leather creak. At least two guns trained on you possibly more.

You dropped the first two men fast and clean, it was quite easy as one was unarmed and the other couldn't handle a shot to the leg, but these men are ready, they are waiting and watching you for even the smallest twitch.

Fourteen seconds, maybe, that's what it would take to move, that's way too long. It's enough time for a trigger-happy man to plant a bullet somewhere in you.

Your grip tightens on the man's shirt without you meaning to and your eyes flick to Belle for half a second. Survival isn't just about speed or strength. It's knowing when you need to rethink and submit.

"Put. Him. Down."

The voice comes again, slow and even. It's calm in a way that makes your skin prickle, holding no anger or panic. Just authority.

You've dealt with plenty of loud men, furious ones, desperate ones. But men like this don't rush, and they certainly don't miss.

poop.

You grumble under your breath, cornered and enraged, but logic wins, as it always should. With a sharp shove, you release the man harsher than you meant, and he hits the ground hard, causing him to groan as he makes contact.

Your hands come up immediately, slow and empty Still, you can't bring yourself to look up. Your jaw tightens and every muscle in your body is pulled and coiled despite yourself. You hate this. You hate feeling cornered and trapped. 

The night feels even worse now, the panic from the train fades into background noise, it's distant and meaningless. You can feel their eyes on you, weighing you, probably thinking of how many bullets they need to put in you before you'd die.

"Did you do all this?" the voice asks.

Boots crunch closer, but you don't lift your head. You feel him close to you. Close enough to cause a shift in the air.

"You knocked this man out," he says, pointing to the fat man you just fought hand to hand with. "Shot that one. And your about to kill my third man."

He pauses for a second and looks around to see his men, scattered on the grass, the man you shot leans against the side of the train and groaning. Then, he speaks again, but it's softer, and curious. 

"You do this alone?"

There's no accusation in it or mockery. If anything, he sounds impressed.

You open your mouth to respond, then you stop. You don't trust your voice to not shake, or spit curses at him, so, instead you nod once.

The silence that follows stretches heavy. You can feel it a shift happening, like he's filing you away, turning the image over in his mind, studying it, like you've just become something worth remembering.

"...It's only been, what, thirty seconds?" he says, more to himself than to you.

A short laugh leaves him, low and disbelieving, like he's trying to wrap his head around it. "And somehow, you did all this damage."

The silence that follows is heavy and thick enough to choke on. You keep your hands raised and your shoulders stiff. Your pulse is pounding so loudly you swear they can hear it. Every voice in you screams to bolt, to reach for Belle, to move, but you don't.

Boots shift as you sense him turn fully toward you now, and after a beat, he speaks again, this time unmistakably to you.

"Look at me."

His voice is closer now, close enough that you don't dare ignore it. You lift your head, slow and reluctant, fear prickling along your spine at the thought of what might happen if you don't and you begin take him in.

Most of his face is hidden beneath the black mask, but his eyes are fully visible, and you've always been good at reading eyes, better than most.

His are dark and intense, there's a quiet arrogance sitting behind them, the kind that assumes obedience instead of it being asked for. A man used to being listened to. A man who doesn't tolerate argument.

They're narrow and calculating, sharp with intelligence and heavy with authority. The sort of eyes that measure you in seconds and decide exactly where you belong. You get the unmistakable feeling that he isn't just looking at you, he's evaluating you.

"This is good work. Seriously." A slow, incredulous shake of his head.

"I mean... this is impressive." His gaze returns to you, sharp and assessing. "I've been runnin' this gang for over fifteen years now, and never, not once, have I seen somethin' like this. Isn't that right, boys?"

The two men standing nearby shift their weight. Their guns lower just a fraction, but not enough to be comforting. Their fingers still rest near triggers, and their eyes are still trained on you like you might explode into motion at any second.

"Sure," one of them mutters, his voice deep, it carries a tiny bit of intrigue, but none you pick up on.

"Damn right!" the other blurts out, his Irish accent is thick and unmistakable. A short, disbelieving laugh follows, shock written all over his tone.

The larger man beside him immediately elbows him hard in the side, shooting him a sharp warning look.

The Irishman huffs, rolling his shoulder where he'd been hit, but his eyes flick back to you anyway, wide and curious, almost impressed despite himself.

Their agreement settles something their leader. When his attention returns fully to you, it's no longer just curiosity in his eyes, It's determination.

"Say," he continues, "how would you feel about workin' with us, hm?"

He gestures vaguely around him, like the bodies in the grass are nothing more than proof of concept. "We could use skills like yours. Put 'em to real use."

A pause. Then, almost teasing, "Robbin' banks and trains. How's that sound to you?" His eyes flick over you again, "You'd make a pretty penny doin' it, too."

The snarl comes back before you can stop it. Your lip curls, teeth flashing as your jaw tightens. You wish you could kill him with your bare hands. You don't like the way he speaks, like he decision's already made.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, itching for the familiar weight of a gun. Belle shifts behind you, he hooves scraping softly against the dirt, restless.

"With all due respect, sir, which is none," you begin, fingers digging painfully into your palm as you fight to keep your voice steady.

"I would rather have every bone in my body broken slowly, a million times over than ever join you disgusting O'Driscolls." You spit the name like it burns your mouth.

That causes the man to tense. Not the tense kind of quiet from before, this is different. It's heavier and sharper, the kind of silence that makes your stomach drop before your brain catches up.

"Oh, that's where you're mistaken, miss." His voice is calm. Almost gentle. Way too composed for what you've just accused him of.

"We are not O'Driscolls, ma'am."

He lets that sink in before continuing, patient. "In fact... we hate them. probably just as much as you do." Your stomach twists.

"We intend to kill every last one of them," he says evenly. Then his eyes lock onto yours again, "And I assume," he adds, "you want the same."

He's right. You've hunted O'Driscolls alone for years. Bled for it, but survived it. And now this man, this stranger, stands in front of you, offering the one thing you swore you'd never accept.

Help.

You swallow harshly before speaking again. The words come easier than you want them to, too familiar, too well-worn. The same line you've given a hundred times before. The one you offer to the ladies that ask to join you in the bath houses. The one you spit at drunk men in bars who think your solitude is an invitation.

"I prefer to be alone."

That causes the man chuckle softly, like you've amused him. Before you can pull away, his fingers brush under your chin, they're firm, and he tilts your face back toward his. You immediately try to turn away, your jaw tightening and your shoulders stiffening. Your pulse spikes, you hate being touched.

"Easy now," he murmurs, not unkindly, but not backing off either. His grip isn't rough, but it doesn't loosen. It's practiced and controlled. The kind of touch meant to remind you who holds the upper hand.

You meet his eyes anyway, your glare is sharp and unyielding. If he expects compliance from fear, he won't get it.

"Every crow needs its flock, sweetheart," he says, voice low and teasing, "How else do you think we've survived this long?"

The question is rhetorical, of course. He doesn't need an answer. But that doesn't stop you.

"By luck, only. But luck doesn't last forever," you murmur, your eyes snap back to meet his.

"Two missions," he says softly, like he's bargaining instead of cornering you. "Can you give us that?"

His thumb lifts from your cheek, but his presence doesn't retreat. If anything, it presses closer, his attention feels heavy and suffocating.

"Can you give me that?" he adds, emphasis subtle but intentional.

"You ride with us for two jobs. Big or small. Or both." He shrugs lightly, like it's nothing. Like it wouldn't change the entire course of your life. "Get a taste of how we do things. How we live." His eyes search your face, sharp and patient. Waiting.

"Then you decide," he finishes. "Stay... or walk away free." He gives you a faint, knowing smile. "How does that sound, hm?"

You would normally decline immediately. No hesitation or second thought, but this time you don't. The mention of a common enemy sinks its claws into you, and despite yourself, you pause. Seconds stretch on, each one heavier than the last as your mind spirals.

You think of the O'Driscolls. Of blood in the dirt. Of unfinished business.

If you really could walk away, if his promise holds any truth at all, then what's the harm? Two jobs. Just enough to see whether this life fits you, or confirms exactly why you've survived without it.

At least then, you could say you tried.

Your jaw tightens. You don't like the corner you've been backed into, don't like how easily he's found the one thing capable of making you hesitate, but the decision is already forming, slow and reluctant. 

"Two jobs," you say firmly.

The words leave your mouth solid and final. Despite the mask, you see it. The way his eyes crease. The unmistakable curve of a smile you shouldn't be able to see but you do anyway. It only deepens the queasiness twisting in your gut.

"Only two," you continue, voice low and sharp. "And so help me God, if anything happens, I will leave so quick," you say calmly, meeting his gaze head on, "or I'll kill you."

The silence that follows is electric. Then his smile widens, not offended or threatened. It's delighted.

"Well," he says pleasantly, like you've just sealed a perfectly fair deal, "I admire a woman who knows her limits."

And in that moment, you realize something awful. He thinks you're bluffing, he's not taking your threat seriously.

He straightens and extends a hand toward you, palm open in an almost courteous gesture. You don't take it. Instead, you plant your boots firmly in the dirt and push yourself to your feet on your own, dusting off your skirt as if his help was never an option.

For a second, his hand hangs there, then he lets out a quiet chuckle, clearly amused rather than offended. You ignore him entirely and shift your glare to the two men standing behind him, eyes narrowing as you stare holes straight through them.

The shorter one lifts a hand and gives you a lazy little wave, like this is all some friendly introduction of friends. You look away immediately, rolling your eyes hard enough it almost hurts.

"Dutch, we need to get goin'! The law's headed this way!" The shout echoes from inside the train, it's urgent and sharp.

The man in front of you lets out an irritated sigh, rolling his eyes and facing the train.

"For Christ's sake," He yells back, voice raising. "What did I say about usin' our names during robberies, John?!"

There's a beat of silence from inside the train. "...Sorry," the voice mutters, sheepish and clearly embarrassed.

The words barely leave his mouth before the two men in the back let out quiet laughs. They glance around for something, eyes scanning the scene, the train, the ground, planning on what to do next. 

"We need to get goin'. Now."

Dutch's tone shifts instantly, it's no longer amused, no longer curious, it's serious.

"Arthur," he continues, already turning, "put Micah, Javier, and Bill in the back of that wagon and get movin' back to camp. Take our new friend with you too"

Arthur nods once, sharp and immediate.

"Sean," Dutch adds, glancing toward the shorter man, "I need you to stay here and help us fight. There's no way John, Charles, and I are holdin' off that much law on our own."

"Yes, sir," Sean replies, already moving.

The men break apart without hesitation, each falling into their assigned role like clockwork. There's no confusion, just practiced motion.

The taller man strides toward the bodies, crouching to check them before lifting one over his shoulder. All of them are still alive, obviously. He grabs the man you shot in the leg first, careful despite the urgency.

Meanwhile, the shorter man turns and heads back into the train, boots clanging against metal as he disappears inside.

Dutch turns his gaze back to you, eyes sharp but calm, they make you want to listen even if you don't trust him.

"Arthur's gonna guide you back to our camp, okay?" His tone softens just slightly, just enough to sound reassuring. "We'll get your cargo and your suitcases. Don'tchu worry about that." He pauses, letting it sink in, then nods toward the horses. "Now, get goin'." He says before running into the train and reaching for the revolver he had.

"Goddamnit, Arthur! Could you be any gentler?!" a man shouts from inside the back of the wagon, voice sharp with frustration. "I got a fuckin' bullet in my leg, for cryin' out loud!"

He mutters the last part under his breath, dragging out the words like he's both angry and resigned. "Just throwin' me in here..."

"Shut yer damn mouth," Arthur growls, voice low and irritated. "'S not my fault you're stupid enough to get shot in the first place. Now move over, I gotta put Javier and Bill in here."

He bends down, rolling his shoulders under the bulk of the man you knocked in the head. The guy's fat frame makes it awkward, every step a grunt of effort, but Arthur doesn't complain, just curses under his breath as he hauls him up onto his shoulder.

He hoists the fat man into the wagon with a grunt, adjusting him so he doesn't slide off, then pivots quickly and strides over to you and the other man standing beside you.

"Miss," he says, voice low but steady, extending a hand to help the man up, "you should get on your horse. Follow us back to camp."

You glance at Belle, who shifts impatiently, her hooves scraping softly against the dirt. The other man runs ahead to the wagon, boots clanging against the ground, clearly anxious to get things moving.

Arthur watches you for a beat, his eyes are sharp like he's assessing whether you're about to obey or bolt. Either way, he's clearly ready.

"...Okay," you mutter, voice low, almost to yourself.

You step over to Belle, letting your fingers glide over her neck, scratching softly. She shivers under your touch, nostrils flaring, clearly anxious after the sudden scenery, and you murmur to her, soothing, steadying both of your nerves.

With a practiced motion, you swing your leg over the saddle and settle in. The familiar weight of her beneath you grounds you more than anything else tonight ever could.

You wait for Arthur to swing up to the front, giving a firm tug on Belle's reins, and when he settles in, you follow closely behind, making sure to keep your eyes forward but alert.

From this angle, you catch the movement from the back of the wagon in front of you. The men start peeling off their masks, revealing faces full of by dirt, scars, and exhaustion. Immediately, they begin bickering, their hands gesturing wildly, each one trying to out-shout the other over some stupid disagreement.

Meanwhile, the fat man you'd knocked unconscious stays flat on his back, completely oblivious to the shouting around him.

The two men still awake argue as the wagon rattles forward. You can't make out the full conversation over the scrape of hooves against dirt and the uneven clatter of wooden wheels, but sharp words slip through the noise anyway.

"Idiot." "Pendejo." "Greaser." "Gilipollas."

You don't know exactly what the Spanish words mean, but you don't need to. The way they're spat, with a low, bitter edged with frustration tells you more than enough.

Beneath you, your horse gallops and whinnies, her movements uneven and tense. She's confused, overstimulated by the gunshots, the shouting, the panicked cries of other horses as the train disappears behind you. You lean forward slightly, murmuring to her as your hand scratches along her neck, fingers pressing into familiar muscle. Slowly, she begins to settle, her pace evening out as she leans into your touch. A small smile tugs at your lips despite everything.

The ride to their camp is longer than you expected. But it makes sense, only a fool would rob a train right next to where they lived. The distance gives you too much time to think, to breathe and to feel everything catch up to you at once.

Half of your mind is screaming at you to run. To dig your heels in, turn Belle around, and disappear into the dark without ever looking back. The other half that's curious wants to see this through. Your goal has never changed. You will kill every O'Driscoll you can find, and you won't allow yourself to die until their leader is gasping in front of you, slow and helpless, begging for mercy the way his men made your family beg.

Now comes the memories, ones you've spent three years forcing down and locking away. They come rushing back anyway. Your breath quickens, it's shallow and uneven. You press a hand to your chest as if you can physically hold yourself together, but it doesn't help much. There's no instant fix for this, you've taught yourself to just breathe through these and wait these out.

After another fifteen minutes of riding behind Arthur, you finally spot light ahead, lanterns, maybe candles, flickering faintly through the trees. You both slow to a trot and follow a narrow trail until the camp comes fully into view. Several tents are scattered around, but nobody is out. They're likely asleep, it's nearly two in the morning, and the air has grown cool enough to bite. 

The wagon comes to a stop, and Arthur hops down, turning toward you. As he approaches, your body stiffens and you become a bit weary of his presence. You realize that you don't know these men. For all you know they've brought you here to kill you quietly, far from any witnesses. You're confident you'd survive the fight, but that doesn't mean you'd be able to walk away untouched.

"Here," he says, reaching up as he removes his mask, likely trying to seem less threatening, but, somehow, he looks scarier without it. "You can hitch your horse here, 'nd I'll take you to where we can set your tent up, hm?"

His voice is deep and rough around the edges, but there's an effort there, a conscious attempt to soften it. He speaks to you like you're something fragile, like a frightened animal instead of a seventeen-year-old girl who just shot a man without hesitation. Part of you appreciates the restraint, the attempt at kindness.

But another part of you is annoyed, irritated in a way that settles deep in your chest. You hate being coddled and being spoken to like something fragile that might break if handled wrong. You have no patience for it.  You are a damn near killing machine. For three years, blood and violence have been your constants, your language, your survival. You've learned how to spill blood and inflict pain with frightening efficiency, and you refuse to be pacified, refuse to be softened or reduced to anything less than what you've become.

But you force yourself to calm down. The man didn't mean any harm, clearly. You're sharp enough, mature enough, to let the irritation in your stomach slide, to swallow it down rather than letting it control you. You shake your head once, clearing the edge from your expression, and finally speak.

Arthur watches you carefully, his eyes soft with gentle confusion, trying to read what you're thinking, but he knows he can't.

"I can sleep over there," you say, lifting a hand to point toward a patch of grass a fair distance from the camp. "I'm sure Belle wouldn't mind, I can hitch her to a tree or something."

The words leave you easily, matter of fact, as if it's the most natural solution in the world. Arthur just stares at you, his confusion only deepens, his brows knit together as if he's trying to figure out whether you're serious, or if this is some joke.

"... W-why would you want that?" he asks, thick brows furrowing. "What if someone takes you while you're asleep?" He chuckles to himself, incredulous, like you'd grown two heads right in front of him.

"Not to be rude," you say, "but I don't know any of y'all. Y'all could kill me, and if you plan to, I at least want a head start. Plus... I'm not sure anyone here would take too kindly to a stranger just living in their camp. Sorry, sir."

Before he can respond, you give Belle's reins a gentle tug, guiding her toward the patch of grass you intend to sleep on tonight. You made your choice, and that's that.

Arthur watches you walk away, completely dumbfounded, his jaw is tight but his eyes holding a flicker of understanding. He takes a moment to regain his composure, and shakes his head slightly, when a loud, grating laugh cuts through the night air.

He slowly turns and there's Micah, leaning slumped up in the wagon, pointing at him like he's just witnessed the funniest thing in the world. His laughter rings mockingly, and this only causes Arthur to roll his eyes.

"Look at 'chu!" Micah slurs, "She wants nothin' to do with you! Probably 'cause you stink... or maybe it's yer ugly mug!"

Arthur sighs and steps to the back of the wagon, moving with calm precision. He helps Javier down first, muttering something about sleeping the night off, then hoists the fat man who's lying sprawled on his back, onto his shoulder and carries him toward his tent without a word.

He completely ignores Micah, whose eyes narrow and his face twists with irritation. The lack of attention and the dismissal only annoys Micah.

"Come back here and help me get out, boy! I've got a damn bullet lodged in my leg, I can't fuckin' walk by myself!" Micah shouts, flailing his arms wildly, as if Arthur could somehow see him while his back is turned.

His voice cracks and slurs, He's clearly enraged, but Arthur doesn't flinch, and he doesn't slow. He keeps moving steady, because to him, Micah's drunken temper tantrum isn't worth acknowledging right now.

Once Arthur lays the man on his bed and checks that he's still breathing, he starts toward his own tent, ready to call it a night. But then he pauses, just for a split second, glancing a little farther back behind the tents.

That's when he sees you, slumped on the ground, tucked into the grass in a way that somehow looks almost comfortable. Beside you, Belle sits patiently, her head and neck upright, yet remaining close, nudging you gently with her nose. You let out a quiet giggle before shifting slightly, curling more against the grass, clearly trying to find a comfortable position to sleep.

Michas's voice cuts through Arthurs staring. He huffs and starts walking toward the wagon, the grass crunching softly under his boots. When he reaches the wagon, he grabs Micah by the arm and hauls him down, guiding him over to a nearby barrel to sit. Micah grumbles and flails, but Arthur's grip is firm.

From his leather satchel, Arthur pulls out a small brown glass bottle of whisky, unscrewing the cap with a flick. He tilts it toward Micah, not to offer a drink, but to pour into the bullet wound on Micah's thigh. The one you left not even a full hour ago.

The amber liquid drips into the wound, and Micah flinches with a sharp, ragged curse, slumping harshly against the barrel. Arthur doesn't flinch, nor does he apologize. His eyes are steady and focused on pouring the alcohol into the wound and at the very least, disinfecting it, though his intent was to hurt the man.

Micah grumbles and spits curses, but Arthur's grip on his shoulder doesn't waver. One hand steadying him, the other controlling the bottle, brutally practical.

Once the bottle is empty, Arthur walks away wordlessly, every step he takes is heavy with fatigue. The night, the chaos, the, the exhaustion wrecking his body, it's all catching up to him. He's more than ready to call it a night.

Micah, of course, isn't done. He curses hoarsely after him, voice carrying through the cool night air.

"Fuck you, Morgan!"