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Irene crossed the plains while the sun was still low on the horizon, following the path to the outskirts of Blackwater — the city as familiar as her own homestead, unfortunately — and swung down from Nephele just as Dr. Montgomery was flipping the sign to open."Late," the doctor sniffed, when Irene had slipped into the cramped home-turned-office."Thought you didn't like me lingering outside." Irene stomped out her boots on the mat just inside the door, a puff of dust coming off each one. Dr. Montgomery's back was turned, fussing with something on the counter, or Irene would never have heard the end of it. "Drew too much attention, you said.""Bah. They will hate me until they need me. They always do, they always will, everywhere."Irene knew hate too well to call it that. More like distrust and… what would Caleb call it? Disdain. Fear, even. "Late or early. Just make up your mind, Mae." The doctor's deep blue skirts swished around her legs as she turned back and dropped a bundle in Irene's arms. "Queen Anne's lace," she said pointedly, already rummaging through a cabinet."Not this time." Irene shifted the bundle under one arm, digging in her pocket. She should have had it out earlier, but the ride over had been nice, and she had forgotten for a moment how aggravating she found the doctor even on a good day."No?" Dr. Montgomery drew herself up to her full height — which wasn't any further off the ground than she was normally. "Mrs. Hyland! You should be nearly out."Irene grit her teeth. "Well, I'm not, so I don't need any more."The doctor studied her a moment, lips pursed."Mae. We're fine," Irene said, rubbing her temples in a vain attempt to stave off the oncoming headache. She needed to shut this down, now. "Caleb's just been tired.""The medicine isn't helping with that?" Dr. Montgomery recoiled, her flash of confusion quickly replaced by insult. She puffed herself up again.Irene groaned and dropped her hand. There was no stopping the headache now. "The medicine is fine! Just take your money. Good Lord."The doctor narrowed her eyes but caught the wad of bills Irene threw at her. She bristled, holding back her undoubtedly sharp retort. "Very well," she said stiffly.Irene scowled, almost wishing Mae had kept talking so she could have an outlet for the anger that was building inside her. Not that she wanted to snap — she would probably regret what she'd end up doing, and besides Mae was excellent at her job, it would be a mistake to lose her help — but there was no way the rage wouldn't just build and build on the way back home, and then Caleb would notice.She left the squat, cramped office and immediately breathed a little easier, though she still wanted to hurt something. Nephele blinked slowly at her, long used to her moods, and stood still as she tucked the bundle into the saddlebags and swung up with a bit more force than necessary. All she had to do was click her tongue and the leopard-print Appaloosa turned away from the hitching post. Within the minute she was out in the wide, free plains again, Nephele falling into a trot along the dirt road straight west. Toward home.As she had feared, with nowhere to go and no unfortunate thing to release on her anger simmered and bubbled, helped along by the stillness of the air and the spring sun baking the back of her neck on either side of her ponytail. Mae had a habit of digging deep with her words, even when she didn't intend to.Across the plains, the fuzzy outline of Tall Trees grew steadily closer and more distinct. Drawing within a hundred yards, Irene kept her face forward, pretending focus, but her eyes darted from shadow to shadow. Bears and worse lingered in these woods, and though she had grown to call the forest home, her heart would always be lighter in the wide open spaces of the plains.Just as she passed under the canopy, a man stepped out from behind the nearest tree.Well, strolled, more like. The slightest twitch of her hand had Nephele pulling to a stop, though perhaps she would not have bothered on another day. The man was drunk, alone, no threat to her at the moment despite the repeater held loosely in his hands.But oh, her blood sang."Now—" the man slurred, and Irene's eyes flicked over his ill-fitting clothes, his shitstained boots, his rusted repeater. "Now that a nice horse. Nice. I'd like that horse.""She's not for sale," Irene growled.The man blinked. Perhaps he had not expected her voice, for though it was deep for a woman's it was still unmistakably a woman's. "Ooh, whadda girlie like you doing all alone?" He grinned, grip tightening on the repeater. Was some of the drink wearing off?Irene clicked her tongue. Nephele turned sideways, and Irene had her shotgun up and a shell through the man's head before he could do much more than open his mouth again.The shot startled what birds remained in the vicinity. Irene let out a long breath, inaudible under the sound of wingbeats, and clicked her tongue again. Nephele stepped over the body, with the skull blown apart and bloodsplatter dripping down the tree bark, and they continued on without a look back.Their stead was near Manzanita Post, just far enough away that they couldn't hear anything but maybe gunshots through the trees if something went wrong on either end, which suited Irene just fine. Though she shared Scandinavian blood with them, the residents of the road-stop were strange folk, not five years gone from the homeland, and secretive. Oh, they accepted her well enough. (Here, passing by, the matron waved at Irene before going back to her work.) But they still made her wary.A few minutes of walking west along a path barely wide enough for a horse less sure-footed, and Nephele left the dirt behind to wind up a steep trail carved into the rock face. At the top, invisible from below, was a flat stretch of grass, and on this was her homestead.Little square footage was actually built on — the house and outbuildings took up less than a fourth of the space, the rest claimed by a fenced garden, the brook, and the meadow.Nephele stopped between the garden and the horse shelter, where the brook came down from the cliff above and pooled in a tiny, rock-lined pond before running off again. She drank while Irene got her tack off and rubbed her down, and was swishing her tail with impatience by the time she was done."Off you go, then," Irene said, fondness seeping into her voice. Her mood had improved greatly by meeting the man at the border to Tall Trees, but she still found herself tensing as she went to find Caleb, medicine in hand and shotgun slung over her shoulder. Silly, she knew — Caleb could read her as easy as one of his books. She had nothing to hide, anyway.The first step bowed slightly beneath her foot, and she swore low, going back down to kick at it. Going rotten, probably. Another problem, another expense. Goddammit.She sighed and went back up, shoving open the door. "Was it Jules who— Oh."Caleb blinked at her over his reading glasses, the determination on his face giving way to relief. He lowered his hand, letting the bone-handled knife rest in his lap, and let out a long breath. A few loose papers, marked up in his elegant penmanship, fluttered from the desk down to the hardwood as she closed the door behind her."Thought I was a bandit?" She shook her head at him. "If I were I'd shoot you from the doorway, you know."Caleb smiled, but she was confused by the sadness in it. "I don't need much range if a roving outlaw came to our door, Irene." He carefully laid the knife on the desk, then his glasses, and rubbed at his eyes. "I am glad you are home, though.""'Course," she mumbled, still unsettled by the whole thing. "No one been 'round though, right?""No, not close in any case. That cougar's screams last night was the worst it's been." He looked up at her as she came to his side, large blue eyes widening at whatever expression she wore. "You didn't hear it?"She picked up the knife, turned it side to side, set it down. She'd gotten it a year ago, new, and as far as she knew Caleb hadn't used it for anything but opening letters. "Never hear any screaming, a'least not outside—" She closed her mouth, feeling ill, and stomped away to the table, unwrapping the doctor's package with darting, shaky hands.The usual items: ointment, braces, and a large bottle of what Caleb had once called miracle elixir without a trace of irony, for though it was damn expensive it was also the only thing that seemed to work.She felt rather than heard Caleb move behind her, putting bare feet to the floors, then he was creaking gently to her side. He put one hand over hers, stilling the trembling in it, and reached up with the other, cradling her face.Irene froze, shoving down her instinct to run or fight, fight or run, and let him look at her. And she at him — it had been a while since they had truly looked, hadn't it?He was slight, stunted from long bouts of illness his whole life, and his skin pale as death next to her freckled tan. Those eyes gazed up at her from a round face that, even now, hadn't lost its baby fat, and the waifish look was only compounded by his refusal to grow a beard. His hair almost brushed his shoulders, and was so black she could lose herself in it.Jules had called them night and day. She hated that comparison, and though she didn't have the poetry to think of a better one, Caleb probably could. Still she could somewhat see what Jules meant. In appearance, they were so different that they'd drawn stares on the streets of Blackwater. She was tall not only for a woman but for a man, woven-gold hair kept in tight ponytails or buns, and a face that a rock could call daughter.She wasn't pretty, and when she'd first met Caleb she had known it. Now, well, she still knew it but cared much less.Caleb let out a breath and leaned into her, pressing his forehead to her collarbone. She still smelled of the road and old sweat, but he never mentioned such things. He just said, "I will listen," as if that needed to be said.Irene swallowed. "I know." What was there to say? She might be better off if he did insist, if he did go over her with a critical eye and a red pen, but he couldn't. And she couldn't hate him.Love was such a useless emotion.Later, she crouched before him and rubbed the ointment into his calves by candlelight. Usually he would prepare the braces or measure out the elixir into doses while she worked, but tonight he just sat there, like the world outside the window held all the answers.She rocked back onto her heels. "You're wasting ink.""What— oh," he said, tearing away from whatever distant land his mind had found and hastily putting the pen away. Too late — his idle tapping had left an inkblot the size of a dime in the middle of the paper.Irene straightened up just enough to see over the edge of the desk. "What're you doin', anyhow?" It had sharp creases, and what she could see of the handwriting wasn't his, though it was familiar. Not a poem, then.Caleb hummed, pulling the page a little closer. "Just looking through old letters. Thought maybe I'd let Jules know we survived the winter." He smiled softly at her, but it was sad, as it always was these days. "I was trying to make sure we actually had an address before I started."She huffed and rose to her feet. "He'd be careless to leave you one.""The law has more to worry about these days than him. They're hunting down robbers, murderers." She raised an eyebrow, and he amended, "Or trying to, at least. It's only a matter of time before the old gangs are gone."Irene frowned. "Time don't mean things just leave," she mumbled, and shook off the ghost of a memory. Waving away Caleb's concerned look, she returned to the letter. "He last wrote in, what, September? From San Fransisco?" She spoke to fill silence; she'd read it herself when it arrived in the fall, and she didn't want or need to anymore. "He wouldn't move over winter, even if he can now." Some habits you don't lose, and Jules was nothing but habit.Caleb nodded, still watching her. "Irene—""We should—" She took a breath, imagined it brought her stability. "We should each write our own. Yeah? You put whatever you want in yours, I know you've been missing someone other than me to talk to.""Of course, love. I…" Caleb was about to say something else, she knew it, but he hesitated, a beat, then another. Then the moment passed, the candles were burning down, the sliver-moon had risen high over Blackwater in the east, and the same spell that had ensnared him earlier came back. He wished her a good night, soft hands brushing against hers in the dark, and as she crossed to their bed, as she stripped down, as she put out the lamp — even as she closed her eyes he was still staring out the window, lost in a land she would never see.Caleb's medicine tucked safely into the saddlebags, Irene nudged Nephele further into the city for the eighth time in half as many weeks. The post office was, for the time being, still along the north street, but rumor had it it would be moved soon, as it had been there almost a century and the city had long since grown too big for the ancient building.She'd a late start today. Dr. Montgomery had said nothing about it, waspish and bustling herself, and they had concluded business in record time. Still it was early afternoon by the time she reached the post office, and she grumbled at the throngs of people in the streets. Loitering."Anything for Irene Hyland?" she demanded when she'd shoved her way in and up to the only available clerk.He glanced back, at the piles of sorted mail. "Afraid not, ma'am.""Still?" She swore, and the crowd — it felt like a crowd, but it was less than a dozen people, with how small the office was — shifted, not quite looking at her. "What about Hawkins?" she tried. She didn't think Jules would use that name, but it was worth a shot. "Irene Hawkins?""No."She growled through her teeth and slammed her fist on the counter. The clerk's eyes flicked over her shoulder, and she tore herself away before he decided to call for the law. This time the crowd parted without need for shoving.Once outside, she put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath. In, release. In, release.Caleb's exercises didn't work nearly as well in a city stinking of garbage and corruption. But though it still brewed, her anger was at least somewhat better contained. Time to go home, still not knowing if the letter had been lost or her brother."Come on, girl," she said to Nephele, patting the horse on the neck, and was about to swing up when something caught her eye. All the people in the street were moving in the same direction, at varying degrees of haste of course, but she wondered what had their attention.A deep, echoing horn cut through the noise of busy Blackwater, and the crowd surged further.Ah, of course. The ferry was coming in.She rolled her eyes. Money was what the world ran on, after all, and now the city would get even bigger and more corrupt. She hated that she relied on it.Grabbing Nephele by the reins, Irene led the mare toward the nearest alley, intending to cut south then west. It would get her away from the crowd better than trying to cross the street or fight against the tide. For it was a tide now — slow-moving, perhaps, and with the occasional gap, but she'd rather avoid running someone over or breaking Nephele's legs.She was almost to the mouth of the alley when she heard her name, shouted over the tumult of other voices — mostly excited — in the street.She turned, and there he was, crossing to her. Jules didn't shove; her half-brother was the kind of man who only needed to walk to part a crowd. He was even taller than her — and she was a full six inches above most of the city-folk bustling by — broad, too, and he'd gained weight since last she saw him, two years ago. And he'd grown a beard which was halfway to unkempt. But otherwise he looked much the same, if a little older. Didn't they all. He led a dark gray charger whose hooves could have crushed her head like a grape.He reached her, free hand running through his hair, which was much darker blond than her own, almost brown, and would've had wave if it were any longer. "Irene, thank God."She stared at him, see-sawing between wanting to punch him or wrap him up in a crushing hug. When he stepped closer, her body made the decision for her: she smacked him, hard, on the arm.He barked a laugh, and swept her into that hug."I'm glad to see you, sister," he said, breathless with joy but also… something else. She disentangled herself, and she studied him again, hoping that note of sorrow would be gone shortly."What's wrong," she demanded, when it refused to leave.He swallowed. "Nothing, Irene.""Liar." She knew what it was now. He'd never been delicate around her before, but here he was, holding back. "Suppose I know anyway. You don't have to tiptoe around me, Jules. I'm not a doll, and I'm not broken."His eyes — a darker brown than hers, too — wavered on her face, then he sighed. "I know. And I know you hate gettin' fussed over, so I'll only ask once, because I'm still your big brother. Are you—"The scream had them both whirling toward the docks.Then the gunshots erupted.Irene lunged for Nephele, tugging her into the alley, Jules on her heels with his own beast. She let him pass her and herd the horses deeper into cover, while she pressed her back against the sun-warmed stone of the post office, her shotgun in her hands — when had she pulled that? — and leaned out just enough to try to see what was happening.It was definitely coming from the docks. Past the civilians darting for safety and the lawmen swarming to the end of the street, she could just see the upper deck of the largest ship in port."The ferry," she said. "They're hitting the ferry.""Why?" She hadn't really been talking to Jules, but he crouched across from her anyway, peeking out of cover for a moment before looking back at her. He had one hand on his holster, the other steadying him against the wall.When she spoke, she sounded far away to her own ears. "The bank's stopped using stagecoaches, outlaws got them too much — the payroll's on that boat now." Her eyes were on the police, forming a hasty barricade at the end of the street. Most of them weren't in cover, but for every one felled from the other side, another popped up to replace him."I wonder — saw a lotta lawmen on my way in. Casual, of course, but you learn to spot 'em. Wonder if they—"A shout arose from the wall of blue, which broke as the lawmen scattered. Most didn't get to cover in time— the dynamite arced through the air and landed in the barricade, sending splinters and bodies flying.Irene was distantly aware that Jules had clapped his hands over his ears with a curse.Through the thick smoke charged almost a dozen horses. Their riders leaned over their steeds' arched necks, only looking back to fire on the regrouping law behind them. One was riding double, the man behind half-conscious as he clung to his partner in crime, a dark spot spreading on his abdomen. Another rider was fighting back tears, snarling as he shot at the law with one hand, the other keeping a limp young woman in front of him from falling off.Still another—Irene's hands tightened on her shotgun. They were close enough for her to see their eyes now, and eyes were all she needed for one man in the pack of fleeing outlaws to catch her attention. Her breaths stopped, her muscles tensed, her awareness tunneled to this one moment, this one man laughing as he picked off lawmen. She knew him. In the pit of her stomach and the aching joints of her jaw she knew him.Micah-goddamn-Bell the Third.
Snow swirling into the house through the open door, flakes gathering on her mother's golden hair, spread around her like a halo, her outstretched hand reaching forever…
Jules grabbed the back of her shirt and, with a strength she could never beat even in her worst rages, yanked her into cover as the gang thundered past. "Are you crazy?" he hissed, eyes wild.Then he had to pin her, because it was Micah Bell out there, in the flesh, and she needed to end his miserable life, above keeping her own."It's him," she snarled, twisting in Jules' grip. She would bruise. She didn't care.Jules hesitated, and she nearly ripped herself away from him before he pinned her again. She kicked at him, but his shins were like steel."Irene, for God's sake—""It's him," she said again, her strength fading even if her rage did not."Even if it is him—""It's him.""—what are you going to do? Get yourself killed? He's surrounded by his friends. Get the law set on you? They have no idea who you are."She growled wordlessly. It wasn't his words, his reason, that made her finally stop fighting him. She was goddamn tired."Fine," she snapped when he stepped back from her with an apology in his eyes, but never his mouth. Thank God for that. "Fine. But I will kill him, hell or high water, and he will pay.""Yes," Jules said. "I have no doubt."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

1875, Falk Lake, Minnesota.

Jules saw the smoke before she did. Smoke wasn't that unusual, she said with a roll of her eyes, though the burnt porridge-looking stuff in the distance didn't look usual at all. Jules just unslung the rifle from his shoulder and broke away from her, dashing back along the path they'd made on their way out to the play-fort in the woods.

The snow was high, and her legs too short, though Mother had assured her she would rival her half-brother one day if she ate all her dinner. She jogged after, following as best she could in Jules' footsteps, uneasy at being left alone even if the village wasn't far.

Jules had almost disappeared into the distance when he skidded to a stop. Irene wondered what could have him, normally unflappable, in such a panic. Then she got close enough to see the orange glow, lighting up the side of Jules' coat. He turned his head toward her, expression blank, but…

She stumbled, suddenly wobbly. Something was terribly wrong with her legs. Something was terribly wrong, but she pushed the last few yards to him, unable to take her eyes off his face and the reflection of flames in his eyes.

She wanted Jules to take her hand, but he just hefted the rifle and jerked his head. She didn't understand, not until he stepped forward again, signaling for quiet. And then her eyes were forced to leave his, slide over to the horror behind him.

Their outbuildings were ablaze, fire engulfing the barn and the privy, those thick gray plumes spiraling up into the clear afternoon skies. She prayed the animals weren't within. Then she saw. Opal, the pony Jules was learning to ride and that their father would sometimes let her sit on, lay on her side in the yard, the hole in her forehead splattered with blood like a mockery of the sun's rays.

She must have made a noise; Jules shushed her, and she tore her eyes away from Opal to look for Sparrow, Father's horse. She didn't see him.

Where were her parents? Father should have noticed the fire by now, should have gone for help. And Mother should have called them back from the woods.

The door to the house was open.

Jules left her side, creeping toward the house, signaling her to follow. She couldn't see around him, so she looked at the churned up yard, at the footprints in the dirty snow that she couldn't be sure were from her family, and obeyed.

He stopped again in the doorway. His bulky coat blocked her view, but she needed to see—

She pushed at him, and he whirled, putting his hands on her small shoulders.

"No!"

But she had already seen. Her mother, sprawled on the floor, her dress hiked up, forever reaching for her father, tied to a chair in the middle of the room, long red gash across his throat.

Snow crunched behind her just as Jules' wide eyes left hers. She squeaked as his grip tightened, the horror shifted to something else, and then he shoved her behind him, and she stumbled into the dark house where the bodies of her parents cooled.

"Hide!" Jules barked. She scrambled backward, afraid to turn, but she tripped over her mother and landed hard at her father's feet.

She froze, breath knocked out of her.

Beyond Jules, standing at the bottom of the steps with his hands in his pockets and blood splattered across his front, was a boy.

Rather, a young man, a year or two older than Jules, lanky and sharp-elbowed. His dirty blond hair hung limply around a fox-like face, and he sneered at Jules, unafraid of the rifle clutched in her brother's hands. "Knew there was a mulatto 'round here somewhere," he said, as if he'd won a bet.

She flinched at the word, said with a casual hate that would have made her bristle any other day, but Jules didn't react to the slur against him. "Who are you?" His voice was quiet, calm to the untrained ear, but she recognized the warning in it.

The stranger laughed. "Got nerve, boy. Who do you think I am?"

"A murderer."

"That's right." He grinned, genuinely delighted, and unbothered by the dried blood that flaked off his face. "I killed them. You ready to follow?" He leaned, looking past Jules, and tipped his white hat. "Are you, girlie?"

Irene gasped, and it hurt her lungs.

Jules moved, blocking the stranger's view, and hers. He said nothing, but from the shifting of his shoulders he was now aiming the rifle.

Another laugh, less amused, more pure cruelty. "You even know how to—"

"Son!" Another voice rang out, from around the side of the house.

Nausea rolled over her at the belated realization that the boy couldn't have taken on her father alone.

"Leave 'em," ordered the unseen man.

The stranger didn't answer for a moment, then he grumbled, "yes, Pa." Snow crunched under boots; she still couldn't see anything but the weak afternoon sun filtering in around Jules as he remained in the doorway, still as stone, but the footsteps were definitely retreating.

A horse whinnied — Sparrow — then silence but for her panting breaths and the distant rumble of the barn roof collapsing.

Neither of them moved for a long time. She wondered if this is what it felt like to dodge a bullet only to have it hit someone else. She wondered if her parents had suffered — of course they had, she felt like an idiot for thinking that.

She wondered how close she had come to following them, as that boy had put it.

That boy. Irene didn't know his name yet, didn't know the bloody trail he and his father and sometimes his brother had left from one end of the country to the other. Didn't know that he was wanted for more crimes at the age of fifteen than most outlaws were, ever. Yet she knew who he was.

He was the man she would kill someday, and if that meant Hell she'd drag him down alongside her.
Blackwater was in lockdown within an hour, but Irene and Jules — and, it seemed, the gang that had robbed the ferry — were long gone by then. The siblings slipped out along the back roads and pushed their horses into gallops, flying across the plains. Irene would have run regardless, perhaps at a less frantic and suspicious pace. Jules said that as a stranger to the city, the police would be looking at him too, and she conceded that she might as well have been a stranger herself. She had no ties, unless Dr. Montgomery counted, which she didn't."Dr. Montgomery?" Jules asked. They'd slowed down, at the boundary of the forest with no signs of pursuit.Irene huffed. "Makes Caleb's medicine. Most everyone else thinks she's nuts, playin' doctor, but she knows what she's doing.""Good." Jules' eyebrows drew together as he thought. "Can you get a newspaper from her? I want to know what we're dealing with.""We already do. I already do." She knew too well."Not— not him, whoever it is he's running with. That looked like a powerful gang." There was a strange undercurrent to Jules' voice, but she couldn't be bothered to decipher it."There weren't that many of 'em, and at least one's dead by now. Two within a couple days — unless they have a surgeon, I guess." Somehow she doubted that. And that was only the two she knew about — maybe more had been captured, or killed in the initial shootout.Jules winced. "Yeah, gut shots are nasty. But to even think about pulling off a heist like that in a city needs minds and manpower. Not just numbers, but skill. We'll know more if you can get your hands on a paper."They fell into silence as they passed Manzanita, Irene looking over the peaceful settlement that knew nothing of what had happened in the city, and wouldn't until the next traveler stopped over."You don't believe me," she said when the forest had swallowed them up again."What?" Jules twisted in his saddle, blinking at her."Micah Bell. You don't think it's him."Jules sighed, and her shoulders rose at the sound, so close to what she remembered of their father. "What are the odds, Irene?"She huffed. "Don't matter now, does it. It happened, and it's him." Jules and his probabilities, she thought, sorely tempted to throw his talk of odds back in his face."All right, I believe you believe it's him. But for it to actually be him?" He fell behind her as the trail narrowed and they neared the base of the rock wall, dismounting so he could lead his monster of a horse up behind the more sure-footed Nephele."You saw him clearer than I did that day! Why didn't you recognize him, that's what I want to know." When Jules remained silent, she glanced behind.He'd stopped, squinting up at her with a frown. "I don't remember much of it, 'rene," he admitted quietly.She stared. Her tongue lay heavy in her mouth and she swallowed until it came loose. "What does that mean?"Jules clenched his jaw, but that was the only sign of his frustration. "It means that I wanted so badly to forget everything that I actually succeeded, Irene. It's gone.""Gone?" She wanted to scream, to shake him until the memories fell out."I guess. I just— blocked it out, or something." He made a helpless gesture. "Listen, it doesn't matter. You remember, and you say it's him, and that's good enough for me."He was ready to drop the subject, and she was ready to chase it further. But the charger stomped his feet impatiently as Nephele tossed her head, and she begrudgingly led on, though it rankled her, dug under her skin and made it itch.Irene leapt down from Nephele, trusting Jules' habit of coddling horses would keep him back.Caleb wouldn't like her— well, not an idea, really, but a need. She would not be swayed, but he'd convince Jules to delay her enough that Micah slipped away again. She flung open the door before her brother had even dismounted."Saints alive! Irene." Caleb so rarely swore. She might have felt ashamed, if the intoxicating thrum of go go go in her head hadn't pushed all of that away.Bigger pack. Canteens. Clothes. Bow. Buckshot tasted terrible."Irene!" A cold hand on her elbow. Notminenotmineforeigngetitoff—Caleb leaned back out of her path. Her momentum kept her fist going into empty air, and that shocked her out of it, just enough.She sat down on the edge of their bed. "Jesus," she mumbled. "I'm sorry."Caleb waved the words away and gestured to the haphazard collection at her feet in the same graceful movement. "Never mind that," he said, but even she could tell he'd been rattled. "What is this for?""It's not— not worth that," she said.He reached, so gentle, and brushed at her hairline. Her jaw. Her chin. Asking.She shuddered out a breath and looked up. His eyes said he didn't understand, but he would.She'd always loved blue eyes."I was in Blackwater today," she said.He knew this, knew where she'd been going at least once a week, since their first winter when his health had plunged into free-fall from a simple steady decline. Now, well, Dr. Mae Montgomery was the only reason they hadn't been forced to move back East to beg for help from his thrice-damned family again. Who knew if he'd survive that trip anyhow. She wanted— she didn't know half the time, but he'd made it clear he didn't want to trade even a lingering death at their homestead for life, such as it was, in another hospital.She'd be left behind either way."Went to the post again, ran into my brother, that asshole, and—" Caleb barely had time to frown at the swear when the door swung open again, and Jules loomed in the frame."At least think about this." He was already resigned, but that wasn't a surprise. Maybe he'd even come to believe it was Micah. (Or believe that she believed. It was the same.) "Hey, Caleb.""Hello, Jules," Caleb echoed, blinking. He wobbled as he turned, and Irene tugged him down to sit on the bed before he fell again. "What are we not thinking about?""Oh." Jules frowned. "Were you not even going to tell him?"Asshole."I think she was about to when you came in. But perhaps it would make sense to start at the beginning, so that we all have time to calm down and think about… whatever it is." Caleb waved at the pile on the floor, then nestled his hand in Irene's. "How was your trip? It's good to see you, but I don't think I was expecting you to come in person. Were you, Irene?"Blast him, she had almost settled in to a sulk, just waiting for her chance to slip out and get on Micah's tail already. And while she wasn't quite calmed down, the edge was coming off too. Goddammit. "No. Thought you were busy in San Fran."Jules shifted uneasily. Interesting. Her words were careless, but he read more into it. "Never too busy to see you, sister. We agreed you came first.""How altruistic," Caleb murmured, and nearly made it sound like praise.She looked over — she hadn't heard Caleb make a backhanded compliment in years, since St. Louis, perhaps — but he didn't return her stare, only squeezed her hand.Jules flushed, barely noticeable between his dark skin and the fading light through the window. "I'd have outstayed my welcome there within a week anyhow. We were almost to the off phase.""The off phase?" Caleb echoed."Oh, you know enough about it to guess, I'm sure," Jules said crossly. "It's different when you have to hide."Now she shared a glance with Caleb. Both of them did know enough, and not just to guess.She'd only met the infamous (even by San Francisco standards) Théodore "Ted" de la Cruz once, and that was enough. She didn't understand the appeal, but her brother was as loyal as he was hopelessly in love. And Ted, for all that his faults were as vast and varied as the accents he switched between, loved him back. He just loved so utterly and so fiercely that it burnt him to ashes. Jules was the only one so far who hadn't been consumed along with him.Caleb had explained this to her last summer, from a close reading of Jules' letters and what they'd learned — a lot, and nothing at all — from meeting the man himself. She'd have tired long ago of being clung to one day and pushed away the next. But Caleb advised her softly that she could only keep reading the letters and supporting Jules.It was stupid. She was not the supportive one."Anyway, it worked out," Jules said. "I'm glad I came. I was gonna to ask you whether you were okay, before everything went to shit, but I realize now that was a stupid question."She flinched, and her free hand fisted in her pants. "I told you—""Yeah, I know. You hate gettin' fussed over. I'm just saying that this is not the time to be running off after the guy who killed our pa and your ma."Caleb jumped, eyes blowing wide. "What on Earth— what happened in Blackwater?""Ferry got robbed," Irene bit out. Fury washed over her again; she welcomed its embrace. She thrust herself to her feet, disentangling her hand from Caleb's. "And you've wasted too much time already.""Sit down," Jules barked. Too much like their father.She ignored him. Where had the canteen gone? She'd just had it. Ah."Please." Something about Caleb's voice made her pause, peer up at him with one hand groping in the dark recess under their bed. He was— he wasn't just upset. "Talk to me. What do you want to do?"The wording, let alone the tone, wasn't as neutral as he'd probably wanted it to be."Need. I need to find him. And end him."Caleb nodded. "Okay. I understand that. What is your plan? Maybe I can help.""She doesn't have one."Caleb frowned at Jules, and though the urge to snap dug at her ribs, the light was fading fast and the day was catching up to her. Maybe she should think about that plan she didn't really have (much as it irritated her to admit it to herself).But only the one delay, to rest up for her journey. That was all she would allow.She tried to hold onto her anger, but it seeped out of her and left that hollow exhaustion behind. It'd be back.Caleb said something, but it seeped out of her, too. Jules' strong arms levered her onto the bed with a finality, and the men went to talk by the door while she blinked dumbly at the tremor in her hands. Or was it her eyes that were blurring?Jesus Christ. They were dismissing her.A little surge of rage, but it drained away again. She'd deal with it later.Later.Jules,I'm going. I have to. Please stay with Caleb for me. I don't know if he'll understand He'll try to understand, I know he will. He'll need help with the medicine and with— with everything. Please. If I'm If I don't Teach him how to use it. I can't.Please don't come after me. And don't send Ted to track me down. I have to do this.Irene—Caleb,I love you.I'm sorry.Irene frowned at the page. It was nigh-unreadable with the multiple crossed out words, which she hoped no one would look too closely at. She'd scrap the whole thing, but she didn't have much time. She'd never had much time.The matron said something to her. She shrugged it off. Even if she knew a word of her mother's tongue, the question had sounded vaguely sympathetic. She didn't want it."For Caleb," she said again. "Or my brother. Yes?"The older woman said nothing, just watched her with that awful pity."Fine. Okay."She shoved the paper and the hand-me-down pistol she'd pawned off one of the sons across the counter and turned on her heel.Outside the sun was just beginning to rise. Caleb always slept late and Jules seemed tired from his trip cross-country, so she'd been able to slip out. She hated that she'd had to tiptoe, inching around her brother's sprawled out form on their floor. They were both heavy sleepers, which helped. She was no sneak-thief.Nephele tossed her head as she swung up. Irene frowned; it'd been a long time since anything had fazed her horse. "Better just be impatience, girl," she muttered as she settled in the saddle and turned toward Blackwater.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

She didn't get far past the border into Ambarino when the late spring blizzard stopped her. Or rather, Nephele, whose nerves were on full and unusual display for miles since heading north from Blackwater. Irene would've called it a sign of disapproval on the horse's part if she believed such a thing were possible. Whatever it was, Nephele refused to walk any further on the snow-blinded trail, and Irene conceded after a few minutes of trying to budge her that they weren't packed properly for it, anyway.It still chafed to turn back. But the blizzard was only gaining in strength as she watched it, and within a few minutes it was like looking at a howling white wall. She clicked her tongue and Nephele bolted south as if she'd be swallowed at any moment, and would not be reasoned with until they were halfway back to Strawberry.She debated where to set up camp as they went. A few bounty hunters had set up an outpost near the stables, but a few was swiftly becoming more. The ridiculous, tourist-trapping town couldn't handle the influx, of course. When she passed back though Strawberry, the sheriff was loudly complaining about it (probably because he wouldn't get credit for the fruits of the invader's labors, if any came) to the mayor on the porch of the inn, and both even threw a glare her way. She scowled back. She hadn't fought to distinguish herself from a bounty hunter in their eyes, but she wasn't sure if she should bother. The mayor had gotten what he wanted, a boom town, and had the balls to be upset about it.Though the mass of squint-eyed, road-rough poster-wavers currently sitting on his doorstep was a far cry from Boston socialites or whoever else he'd been advertising to."Hey, Shotgun!"It took the bounty hunter steering his horse into Nephele's path to make Irene realize she was being addressed.She stared at him. Nephele tensed beneath her. "Who?""You." He rolled his eyes. Big, watery. Probably had seasonal allergies. "What, you wanna be called 'blondie' or 'sugar' or whatever else the fellas can come up with?""No. What do you want?""Straight to the point, eh? A'ight. I wanna know what your deal is. You followed us up here, on the trail of them outlaws like the rest of us, but you ain't no bounty hunter."She was losing her patience. "I ain't?""You ain't got no posters, do ya? It's a big gang, can't memorize all their faces. You could walk right by one and not even know the prize you missed. You don't have no lasso, neither.""Maybe I don't want them alive," she snapped.He snorted, then spit to the side. "Ain't no way you're hauling a dead one up onto that horse by yourself.""Maybe not. What's it matter?"He raised his hands, tone softening. "Jesus, Shotgun, no need to bite my head off now. Just sayin', dunno what kinda grudge you got but be careful, a'ight? Them's a bad bunch, 'em van der Lindes. They stick together and they're damn good at killin' folk. An' they won't scatter at the first sign o' trouble like the O'Driscolls. Been at this a long time, Shotgun, and mark my words: it ain't worth it for a greenhorn, goin' after them. Go after one and you go after 'em all."She pursed her lips to keep from baring her teeth at the man. She had to remind herself that he probably meant well — and had neatly sidestepped getting a boot to the balls by not mentioning her gender. "All right. Noted."The man squinted at her. "Done my part, I guess," he mumbled with a sigh. "I can't keep ya. Good luck."His horse stepped out of her way, and she nudged Nephele on, breaking into a canter as soon as she wasn't in danger of running anyone over. It was evening already, the sunlight slipping through the trees weakening minute by minute.She scouted a campsite easy, away from the ramshackle bounty hunters' outpost and the neat, dignified town. The road was no stranger to her; she'd slept rough near every night for over a decade, with only a gun or two for defense and a horse for company, and she fell back to old routines well enough. If she thought hard, she'd even passed this way, before Strawberry was even a concept, on one of her cross-country chases. The distant noises had changed, the trees had thinned, but the white flashes in gloom as a doe fled from her were the same as years ago.Sad, she mused, how she returned to a time before Caleb.Despite herself, she thought on the bounty hunter's advice. Mostly at night, when her thoughts chased each other around her head until she slipped into sleep, and the slightest noise brought her back out to start the process all over again.It wasn't the message itself, more that he had seemed genuinely concerned. It ate at her, but she was in too deep to go slinking back now. The gang would have to leave the snowy mountains eventually, that or wait for the weather to warm enough to feed themselves, and risk the bounty hunters swarming them. She guessed they'd hole up for a week or two until the worst of the storm calmed and hightail it out as soon as possible.Where though? The passes were likely to remain blocked well into July, unless the summer was blistering. Even so, the gang would lose precious time and space hunkering down while the hunters inched north.As she suspected, the camp grew restless as they imposed on Strawberry's meager welcome and all the hunting they managed to do was depleting the surrounding woods of game. They had expected a chase, not a siege. Within a few days tensions in the outpost were ready to boil over, and by week's end all that was left were two bands of around ten men each, and their leaders. She was the only independent to remain.Not long after, the Pinkertons arrived.These were no poster-wavers. They moved as a unit, almost like the army if the army had ever been nearly as disciplined as they claimed they were. They ignored the outpost heading up the main road into Strawberry.Finally, men of action. Irene packed up Nephele and followed at a distance. She did not bother to stay out of sight. None of the bounty hunters moved to stop her, but she thought she saw a momentary worry cross over some of their faces. Unless she had imagined it, and why would she?The Pinkertons crossed Strawberry with an intent that made townsfolk scramble out of the way of their horse's hooves. On the bridge there was nearly a collision, but the lone rider coming the other way made the probably wise decision to turn around. The Pinkertons left Strawberry without incident.Irene wondered, briefly, why they had come through town if they were not going to stop, but then, just out of sight of town, the unit of Pinkertons came to a halt.Irene stopped, too, in the middle of the road, as the formation of men and horses shuffled around until the lead rider was able to emerge from the group, facing back the way they had come. Toward Irene.The others reformed behind their leader, and though Irene did not see any drawn weapons yet, she was beset by a strange nervousness.The leader raised his hand, and beckoned.Irene went, unsure of what she had expected when she followed these men out into the wilderness. Nephele walked forward, but stopped just outside of polite range, and refused to go further. Irene sighed, while the lead Pinkerton raised an eyebrow."Agent Milton, of the Pinkerton Detective Agency," he said, gesturing to himself. "Agent Ross." He indicated a man to his right and slightly back, watching her with a smile that sent shivers down her spine."Irene Hawkins." She was not sure what possessed her to give her maiden name, other than a sudden certainty that these men would hunt her and her family to the ends of the earth if she crossed them. Anything she could do to protect Caleb, as far away as she was, she would."Hmm. What brings you here, Irene Hawkins?" Agent Milton said, slowly. He did not smile, but he had the air of a lazy cat whose dinner of a mouse had run right into his jaws.She sat up straighter on Nephele. "I seek the van der Linde Gang," she said.Agent Milton tilted his head, studying her. "Very well. So do we, as you might have guessed. They hit a train belonging to Leviticus Cornwall."He said it like a revelation. She had no idea who Leviticus Cornwall was, though, so the effect was lost on her. She had been rather sheltered at home, she realized belatedly, rarely read newspapers — probably, Caleb would have known. If, that was, this Agent Milton was being genuine in his assumption.She nodded instead. "And he hired you all to hunt them as well? Suppose that gang is doomed, then.""Indeed," Milton said. Finally, he smiled. The effect was not a pleasant one. "Their days are numbered."She believed him. She just hoped she could reach Micah before they did. "I will leave you all to it, then." She turned Nephele, eager to get away from these intensely creepy men."You're not a bounty hunter then, Irene Hawkins," Milton said before she could ride away."No," she said, over her shoulder. "I am not."She missed home most at night.Four weeks into her chase, she kept going by sheer momentum, and what her mother had once declared "bullishness" in her thick Swedish accent. By day, at least; when she was conscious, she was aware of her wandering mind; could yank it back to heel by conjuring the feeling-memory of human bones breaking under her fists. Those will be his bones, she promised, locking her jaw. I will not get tired and run back home.But night was different. She went as long as she could, dreading it, and then would lie awake for hours with her thoughts like a hornet's nest. She'd always had trouble with that, but it got worse out in the wilderness with the wind and the small creatures rustling the leaves around her. Without Caleb's pen-scratching or soft sighs.This particular night she was actually fairly close to Riggs Station, and already regretted bypassing it this time round, if only because she needed more coffee. Surely she wouldn't need to sleep (or, try to sleep) as often, then?
Please try to rest, Irene.
She sat straight up, head brushing the canvas of her tent. Hallucinating Caleb's voice meant it was definitely time to move on.Nephele was a little annoyed at being roused and loaded up again, but at least she hadn't shied or refused entirely since the snowstorm, so Irene was certain this weird funk her horse was in would pass.She'd been up this road three times so far. New Hanover was big and she'd been all the way out to Emerald Ranch last week, sniffing around, but something drew her back to the area of Bard's Crossing. She never put much stock in premonitions, but she did trust her gut. Maybe they were the same thing.The horn of a distant train sounded as she swung up onto Nephele, forlorn in the night. Thin, high clouds covered the stars, and the moon was just a pale sliver where it peeked through. Other than the frogs croaking incessantly down the creek embankment to her left, it was quiet as the horn faded away. If she strained she could hear the train itself as it swung the bend past Riggs.She'd head north, just a bit over by Valentine way. The town stank of sheep but it was in the right direction the van der Lindes must have taken. They were probably laying low, licking wounds leftover from Blackwater and letting the heat from the train robbery die. Then they'd pop their heads up again, like a bad infection.From what she'd read on Dutch van der Linde, there were few things that could persuade him even this little bit east, and pressure from the law was one of them. But how far could he be pushed, really? If he were anything like the papers wrote and the gossips said, he'd die before that.A scream shattered the night's quiet.Irene snapped her head up and to the right, squinting through the darkness. There'd been a stead in that direction, squat and gloomy even in the day, that she'd given a wide berth, though it had been deserted all three times she'd passed by.Or, looked deserted.Nephele shifted beneath her, snorting her displeasure. Irene hummed in her throat, and, with a great shudder, her horse finally stilled enough that Irene could aim. She couldn't see anything to aim at, but anything could be lurking beyond the circle cast by the lantern affixed to Nephele's neck.That scream… cougars could sound an awful lot like a human in pain. What if, even now, she was being stalked?She glanced behind her, certain she'd see the bright eyes of a big cat reflecting the meager light.Gunshots — from the northeast now — had her whipping back forward and spurring Nephele, hands tight on the reins. She was not easily rattled by violence, but she could not afford to get involved in whatever was happening, not with Micah still out there.Nephele was all too happy to run from the noise, toward Riggs. Irene squinted into the distance as she went, and the small lights through the trees to the northeast — most evenly spaced and still, neither flickering nor moving — told her all she needed to know. The train hadn't managed to get safely to Bard's Crossing.Hopefully, the passengers would be safe. She was in even less of a position to fend off a train gang.An indistinct shout, and she felt the bullet pass in front of her by less than a foot, heat and the smell of gunsmoke in the air. They'd seen her. The lantern.Nephele swerved right, around a tree, and the second shot lodged in it. He was close, was going to cut her off before she reached Riggs. Some score-drunk outlaw with a better quality horse than brains in his head.The shouting was further away now, and she chanced a look back to find that it was as she had feared and hoped: a single outlaw, yes, but his horse was gaining on her already road-weary Nephele. She couldn't see the train-lights any more.She couldn't see Riggs either.Aiming a shotgun in the dark at full gallop was risky, she knew this by experience, but her revolver was holstered and she wasn't sure it would do the job either, as little as she used it. She didn't need to kill him — though of course she wanted to. Just get him to see she had more fangs than midnight train passengers.The first shot missed him so wide he had the gall to laugh at her. She ducked his answering bullet and cursed.She twisted more, trusting Nephele to at least avoid any trees, and aimed again, this time at his horse — was that a Fox Trotter? Jesus Christ, no wonder he was gaining so fast.The second shell was also wide, but less so: the Fox Trotter swerved left, grazing a sapling, and the gap between them widened as the outlaw untangled his panicked mount and urged it back into the chase.Ahead, faint light. Riggs.Nephele's hooves churning the earth combined with the blood in her ears into a roar so loud she didn't hear the next bullet whizzing over her head, only felt its passing in the heat on her hair.Safety — relative safety, of course, in this world — so close, and Nephele slowed, her sides heaving and great shuddering breaths clouding the air around them."Come on, girl!" Irene growled, but Nephele only whinnied in response, unable to sustain her pace.She dug her knees in — she'd make it up later, if they survived — but was forced to twist back to her pursuer, knowing that even if Nephele got her wind back the damage was done.The whites of the Fox Trotter's eyes gleamed as it barreled toward her. The outlaw was shrouded in shadow, hat and bandanna hiding his features.One shot. She had one more shot before he caught her. Make it count.She hefted her shotgun. Smoke curled from the outlaw's cattleman, his thumb on the hammer. Squinting down the iron sights, she forced her breathing to slow and willed her hands to steady. Aimed for his upper chest — Nephele, still moving if slower than before, would throw her off a little.The man's hammer clicked — she didn't hear it, but felt it, her window closing if she didn't act faster.Pull.Her shell blew the Fox Trotter's head apart, but before the horse had so much as faltered in step, another bullet had hit the outlaw square between the eyes.She sucked in a breath. Nephele slowed, then stopped just inside a circle of light. Riggs. They had reached Riggs.She slid off Nephele and landed awkwardly, legs numb from holding on, and stood there, hands on her knees. Dimly she was aware that the remains of her pursuers made it a few steps further, sustained only by momentum, before collapsing like their strings were cut. In a way, she supposed, they were."Ma'am?"Filtered through water, or more likely the blood still pounding in her ears, she registered the voice a few seconds too late. A hand — a big hand, gloved and stronger than Caleb's but no less gentle — alighted on her arm.She whipped back up so quickly the man stumbled, and he only barely managed to duck when her shotgun lashed at his head. "Whoa!""Don't," she said. It was all she could say, before her throat closed and she slung the shotgun over her shoulder, turning away from him to inspect the body.Nudging it away from the horse with her boot, she didn't bother looking at his face. She wasn't sure what she was looking for either — was it morbid curiosity or a natural need to know who had chased her so far? She got her answer when the green bandanna, stained with the Fox Trotter's blood, came into view and the stranger from the station gritted out one word: "O'Driscoll."He'd stayed where he was, apparently wary of her. That was fine."Waste of a good horse," she mumbled, and stepped over both bodies to search the saddlebags. A length of rope. An older, rustier cattleman. Three pieces of leftover jerky in a tin. Nothing of note, really.She sighed and straightened, the former turning into a groan when her spine made itself known."You alright, ma'am?"It was a strange question, and she thought about how to answer — if she should answer — long enough that the moment passed."Okay, sure."She blinked at him. His hat was in his hands, such honest concern writ on his face that for a moment she wobbled between reassurance and a breakdown, before — thank God — practicality took over."I'll be fine."His eyes — blue, also, but flecked with green unlike Caleb's — were guarded, but he nodded once and said nothing more on the subject. "If you need anythin', the station master's 'bout to close up shop."
Please, Irene.
She breathed deep, the smell of horse and gunsmoke filling her nose, and chanced smiling at the man. It hurt her face a little, and earned her a startled look."Thank you. I'm— sorry."He waved her apology off with the ease of a man who did that to everyone. He was handsome, she supposed, in a rugged way. One of countless such men here and further west.A silhouette moved in the window beyond, moving about the station. Shit, she needed coffee.Irene ran for the door, flailing her arms like a loon, but the deadbolt slid home and the lights winked out before she so much as hopped onto the platform."God dammit," she growled, kicking the luggage rack. It didn't help.She kicked it again."Ma'am…"The stranger jumped when she turned, and she attempted to relax her features into something less murderous. He'd stayed where he was, by the corpses and Nephele — the horse now blissfully munching on some grass."Uh, beg pardon, ma'am, was just… I'll leave you be.""No, no— shit, sorry." She breathed out. He was trying to be kind when he didn't have to be. Normally that kind of heroism would have made her bristle, but even she'd figured out the O'Driscoll could have managed to kill her anyway without his intervention.So, it had worked out, regardless of whys. The whisper that sounded like Caleb but was probably her conscience told her she was being rude. Again."Thank you for the, uh"—she gestured at the corpses, and he scratched the back of his neck sheepishly—"the assistance."He tipped his hat rather than speak, and they looked awkwardly at each other. She didn't know what else could be said on her part; was there something he was waiting for?"You're, ah, you're welcome to share my fire, if you like." He'd winced when he first spoke, like he was certain he'd regret the offer, but by the end his face had smoothed to neutral. "I ain't much company but where there's one there's a dozen." He jerked his thumb back at the O'Driscoll.If pressed later, she'd insist that she'd spent an appropriate amount of time weighing her options, but Irene was grumpy, and tired, and already knew she was as in much danger outside this man's camp as in it. She snorted and said, "Think I already proved I ain't a conversationalist either, but I'll gladly take you up on that as long as you have coffee.""'Course." The offended look he shot her startled her into a laugh.Nephele huffed and swished her tail as Irene came back and gathered her reins. The stranger led her around the station and up the small hill beyond. His tent was only half-raised, one stake at a crooked angle and the other lying abandoned next to the cloth. A brown and white Tennessee Walker grazed under a lone tree a short ways off.While she untacked Nephele and set her loose to go make friends or not as she wished, he finished setting up the tent. Irene found herself smiling as his grunts and occasional curses conjured memories — Jules had insisted on helping the hired men from Blackwater build their house, and had a similar cadence to his frustration.A cold breeze ruffled at her hair, and she busied herself with building the fire up. At least there weren't as many bugs as there had been near the river."Coffee's enough for another pot, at least. Just don't let Mayweather in it. Dunno how he got a taste in the first place but as long as you're firm he won't bother you too long," the man said as he came over, warming his hands on the fire."Mayweather?" she asked, amused. She was guessing the Walker, and got her answer when the man glanced over at them. Nephele had opted to stay a safe distance from the stranger's horse, and the Walker was watching her back. When the stranger took the lid off the coffee pot to check the contents, though, the Walker immediately perked up."Moody as the sky's been lately."She hummed. Horses were generally a safe topic with strangers, and his voice had been fond before, though she thought it turned darker at the last. "Nephele's usually calm, but something's ruffled her too recently. Can't figure out what it is." The distance from home? No, probably the time — she'd been out further than this on two-day hunting trips before.He shot her a strange look. "Nephele, huh? Pretty.""Means cloud, apparently. I didn't name her." Caleb had, and given her the translation. She had butchered the name when she first repeated it back, but it had grown on her."Well, suits her anyhow."She nodded, tired of the conversation. Why did words come so easily when she met Caleb, and never with anyone else? She was older, yes, weary of the world."Get some rest if you like. I'm going to stay up, I think."It was as if he knew.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Irene tried to sleep. She really did.Lying on her side, back to the fire, she felt the vastness of the world more than ever. Her lids sprung open at every noise, staring out into the dark at the still shapes of Mayweather and Nephele. They were sleeping. Why couldn't she?The stranger had been quiet so far. If he knew she was awake he gave no indication, and she wondered if he was meditating. More like dozing sitting up.She rolled over and found the man looking back at her. He met her gaze calmly, expectantly. Had he been watching her the whole time, and she unable to tell? She was too tired to guess."Ain't been sleeping rough long?" he said. It was only barely a question.She growled. "Plenty. Ten years long enough?""Apologies, ma'am." At least he looked sheepish, though it would be easy enough to fake and get away with it with how tired she was. "Didn't mean no offense.""I used to be able to sleep anywhere. Got too used to a bed, I guess." She knew, though, that a bed meant nothing by itself. Recreate her homestead down to the nails and it would still feel like a stranger's without Caleb in it. His very presence made it home.She was an idiot.The stranger coughed. "Ah, well. If it helps, you're welcome to my tent. Think I'll stay out here, the clouds've moved on."She sat up. The sky was clear now and crowded with stars innumerable and bright from horizon to horizon. The Milky Way wove above her, the moon heavy and full just below its arc. She couldn't blame him for wanting to stargaze, or just enjoy the peace without her directly in his line of sight.Sleep was calling, though, and she wasn't getting it out here. "Thank you," she remembered to say, and she didn't wait for a response before closing the flap behind her and collapsing onto the pile of bedding within. Oh, this was better. Was it the smell of the stranger clinging to the linens, the soft fur beneath her, the muffling of the outside world? Probably the walls of the tent itself, making her a space in the void.Whatever it was, she fell asleep easily.She slept deeply at first, but as the eastern horizon lightened ever so slightly, the first herald of the coming dawn, her scattered and unmemorable dreams turned dark.When she woke her heart was racing, and she didn't know why. Her body was heavy, pressed into the furs beneath her by a force she couldn't identify, but her eyes were wide open and her consciousness was painful.Move.Nothing would obey. She was breathing fine — no, as soon as she knew that it became harder and harder, weight on her chest that would not ease.And then it was gone — the pressure, the paralysis — as if it had never been.Irene burst from the tent. The stranger flung out his arm just in time to save her from scrambling straight into the firepit. She rocked back onto her knees and stayed there, dragging in breath after breath and blinking dumbly at the embers."You okay?""I… couldn't move," she said. The rush of oxygen was making her giddy, but talking helped. "Wide awake, but wouldn't move.""Here." He handed her a warm cup, and she wrapped her hands around it, took a sip. Blessed coffee. "Hold onto it."She obeyed. The shaking became a tremble, and she concentrated on the liquid sloshing in the cup until it, and her hands, stilled."Wow, it really does work for everyone.""Huh?""I, uh… a wise man taught me that trick. Said it keeps you grounded after a panic."She couldn't tell if his embarrassment was for himself or for her, so she elected to ignore it. "Never had that happen before." She looked down, ashamed to admit it herself — and caught him as he snapped the journal in his lap shut and shoved it back into his bag. Was that a drawing of Nephele?"You… were having a nightmare. Wasn't sure you wanted me to wake you, so I didn't." He picked at a dirt stain on his jeans, unable or unwilling to look her in the eye. "You said a name. Caleb.""Oh.""You said it a lot."Blood rushed to her face. She looked down at her hand. Her wedding band was where it always was, but suddenly it was too tight. She twisted it down her finger. The lighter skin beneath made her stomach flip, and she covered it up with the gold once more.The man was watching her. Words crawled up her throat. "My husband. I— I just miss him, 's all."Sympathy in his eyes. She hated it. "I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am.""Would you— it's Irene. He's not dead, just away. Well, I'm away. He's where he's supposed to be and I'm not." What the ever-loving hell was she doing. She'd known this guy for all of a few hours; he didn't care for her life story."All right, Miss Irene. My name is Arthur."Oh, hell. She leaped to her feet and paced, more words falling from her lips to spill at his feet. "I left him at the house with only my brother to help him — with his medicine — to go find the bastard who killed my ma and da. All right? And now it's almost a month later and I'm a fool cause I'm not any closer to killing him than I was ten years ago, chasing him cross-country. He's slipped away again, the piece of shit, I should have killed 'im in Blackwater."The man, Arthur, watched her sadly through her tirade. Not afraid of the crazy woman in his midst — yet, she thought bitterly — but sympathetic. Maybe they were both touched. He blinked when she got to the end though, having run out of breath. "Blackwater? Wait, were you there for that ferry robbery?"In for an penny, in for a pound, as her da told her once. She still didn't know what a penny and a pound had to do with each other. Maybe it was a British thing. "Yeah. Massacre, they're calling it in the papers. I could have killed Bell, I had the shot — but my brother stopped me." Logically, it had been the right call. She was not over it. Maybe she never would be.Arthur blinked again, a shadow crossing his face. He opened his mouth, but paused, considering his words carefully. "Why'd he do that?"She snorted. "He's deemed himself the brains, I guess. He has to take that title seriously. The asshole." She grumbled, breath misting in the early morning chill. "But he had, ah, his reasons not to want the attention. Which I understand.""Well, for what it's worth, that wise man I mentioned earlier? Also said the day siblings stop fighting is the day we go for a picnic on the moon.""So, never?" she asked, deadpan."Never," he affirmed, just as serious.They stared at each other for five heartbeats before everything — the stress, the loneliness, the slow progress of Arthur's eyebrow towards his hairline — combined, and she laughed.Triumph gleaming in his eyes, he grinned at her."Asshole," she mumbled, looking away even as her heart swelled, buoyant as it had not been in months. How had she not realized how lonely she was until she exchanged more than a few words, more than a transaction, with a stranger?He hummed in acknowledgment, owning the insult.They parted as the sun rose, and Irene suspected that, as little sleep as she had in the end, Arthur'd not even bothered.He showed no signs of it, though, tacking up Mayweather with ease and even giving her half his supply of coffee. "For the company," he'd said gruffly.She'd need it, she understood that much, so she thanked him and tried to quash the feeling of being pitied.As Arthur disappeared around a bend in the north road from Riggs, Nephele turned her head to stare at her with one big doe eye."Yeah, fine," Irene muttered. "I'm getting there." She still could not believe that she'd unloaded all her feelings — feelings that, in the daylight, she wasn't even sure were real or justified — at the feet of some random man. Because he'd… showed her an ounce of decency? Jesus.But the gifted coffee had reminded her to check her supplies, some of which were running low. She could get by with hunting her meals, but the one thing that couldn't wait were Nephele's saddlebags. The O'Driscoll had made a single lucky shot that ripped a hole in one of them, which would only get bigger. The Strawberry stable was closest, so that was where she would go.In truth, she was fine with changing her plans for once. The Strawberry area was beautiful country, and Valentine stank of sheep.Even the cheapest saddlebag was expensive, and would leave just a few dollars in her pocket. Irene stared at the worn leather, smaller than her old one. Her curse when she realized she had no choice echoed in the stables, drawing yet more whispers from the hands.The owner, at least, was more guarded with his judgment. "Back to work, you two," he barked. The hands jumped a mile and scurried off."I'll take it," she said, and too much exhaustion seeped into her voice for her comfort.The bounty hunters' outpost was gone, no sign left but for trampled earth. They must have moved on shortly after she did; not even their trash remained, except for a poster pinned to a tree. She wandered closer and discovered it was Micah Bell's.What are the odds, she thought. Then, not for the first time, she hoped Jules was getting on okay. She couldn't even blame him if he'd gone back to San Fran by now. She doubted he had, though.The text at the bottom of the poster was a bit faded, but the drawing of Micah's sneering face was startlingly accurate. She took it down and rolled it up. At least now she had something to show folks who might have seen him.Where to now? She thought she had visited most every place between here and Emerald Station, but she had done all of it without a map. Maybe the general store sold one — if she could afford it — that would give her some idea.It was overcast, threatening rain later, and a light wind ruffled her hair as she steered Nephele into town. She did still have one thing she could sell, a decent deer skin from a doe she'd felled just west of Riggs. When she reached the butcher's station, the man was peering up at the sky, grumbling to himself."Ah, I was just about to close up," he said when he spotted her approaching. "But I'll buy that off you 'fore the storm rolls in.""Thanks.""Damn shame they had to delay the hanging again," he remarked as he examined the doeskin."Hanging?" Though the town had a gallows, she couldn't see it got much use. Despite herself, she was intrigued.He glanced up at her, eyes lighting up, and she immediately regretted feeding his gossiping. “I haven’t seen him myself, but there was a fight here ‘bout a week ago. Two men shot by some fellers from outta town. The colored boy got away afore we could string him up, but the other’s gonna be hanged any time now. Got delayed cause they kept finding more and more to get him on, and now this damn storm… but word is he was involved in that massacre down in Blackwater. Sheriff is afraid the feds will try to take him out of custody before he can hang him, so now he’s rushing to get it done 'fore they come knocking.”“So he can claim he had no idea who he had?” Dangerous, perhaps, but not outright illegal since this man was unable to resist murder even with so much heat on him already. It sounded exactly like Micah. Finally, she had a lead.“Y-yeah,” the butcher said, suddenly nervous. She realized she'd been grinning at him."Great," she breathed, and leaped onto Nephele."Don't you want—" the man shouted after her. Her money. Well, she'd make it back easily.The sheriff’s was at the top of the hill along the road out of town, the gallows sitting starkly behind it. In many towns the two were at a distance from each other, and the condemned would be marched to their executions along streets lined with hecklers. Strawberry was small enough that such walks were unnecessary, she supposed.She hadn’t planned on Micah already being in jail when she came for him. She hadn’t planned much at all beyond watching the light die from his eyes, her revenge complete. Now actually getting to that revenge seemed easier than she thought. No indifferent lawman was going to take it from her.She wanted Micah to know who she was and why.The wind picked up, and the first raindrops fell, fat and cold. It was going to be quite the squall, but at least it’d mask her actions.She’d had just passed a large building that advertised itself as the Trackers Hotel when thunder boomed out over the town.Nephele half-reared, and Irene swayed in the saddle, nearly slipping off; she struggled to re-balance herself and direct her frightened horse to the side of the road at the same time. Over the pounding of the rain, men shouted, and then came the gunshots.Not thunder. An explosion.There was a hole in the side of the jail, two men scrambling away from the debris and shooting back as the sheriff and his deputies burst through the main door and fired on them.Shit.The rain was thick, and somehow the outlaws were far better shots. Or… one was, while the other shot more for quantity, laughing all the while. She could hear him over the howling wind, though the sheets of rain made it hard to see. Even as the three lawmen fell, one after another, the jailbreakers turned to the rest of the town, which was by then mounting a defense. Back the way she’d come, a wagon driver pulled a repeater, and he and one of his drafts were dead in seconds, the man with a single bullet by the sharpshooter and the horse with a spray of them by the maniac.She had no choice; she turned Nephele and dug in her spurs, and the Appaloosa lunged for the closest gap in the buildings like a wolf was at her heels.Irene twisted in the saddle, leaping to the ground mid-stride. Landing with a force she would definitely feel later, she ignored the jolt of pain and darted back toward the fray, trusting Nephele could fend for herself for a bit.She wiped the water from her eyes and hefted her shotgun, half-hidden by the hotel on one side and a huge house on the other. The squall was driving the rain sideways now, the street littered with more bodies though she’d only had her back turned for less than ten seconds. Were they shooting up the whole place?Apparently. Rather than take the main road, she could just barely see their figures on the far side of the bridge, in the thick of the town.It had to be Micah, and one of his cohorts. She was so close.She sprinted for the bridge and dove for the cover of a barrel just as a shot rang out over her head. They’d seen her, and from the single shot it wasn’t Micah, but his friend, who used much less ammo to get twice as many kills.But the shots grew further away, though no less intense. Distantly, she heard Micah shout something, with no reply. She risked a glance over the barrel.The rain was lessening, bit by bit as the clouds emptied themselves. The pair were nowhere to be seen, but the trail of bodies left in their wake would have been concerning if Irene couldn’t taste Micah’s blood in her teeth. She dashed across the bridge and followed the trail east as it wound past two houses.The rain eased into a patter, and the shots slowed, then stopped altogether. She paused, listening, then peeked around the side of the last house.“Micah! What the hell are you doing in there?”The yell was too loud and too close, and she had leaned out too far; she locked eyes with its source. For a horrible moment, she tried to process what she was seeing.It was the man from the station.Covered in blood and with a bandana on, but it was undoubtedly him. His smoking revolver was still in his hand, a body at his feet. He stared at her. He recognized her.The revolver swung up and he shot her.At first Irene just felt the impact as it tore through her side, and it knocked her further off balance.She hadn’t felt any pain yet when the next shot went wide of her left foot and stuck into the ground behind her.Instinct took over, and she spun, slamming her back against the side of the house. She gasped, sharp and burning, tasting copper. She blinked and her legs had failed her, and she was sitting in the mud.There was the pain. She had to clap one hand over the hole in her side to stem the flow of blood, but she grit her teeth and tried to lift her shotgun with just her right. He’d come to finish her, or Micah would, and at least she’d get a shot off. She had to.Another shot, and it took her a long minute to realize that it came from the house across the way. A door slammed, and she heard voices, then more shots and shouting. It was like listening underwater. Her blood pounded in her ears and leaked around her fingers, but she forced her eyes back open when she realized she had shut them.Bodies. Trees. The river, and the general store across the way.No Arthur, and no Micah.Just the silence, her hair plastered to her face, and the cold mud soaked into her pants. No other people. Somewhere, a dog barked.She was freezing, except for her side. Her blood was still warm at least. Eyes open.The rain was long over, and the sun out. She was just enough in shade that the rays only touched her boots, and did nothing to stop the cold.If she concentrated she thought she could hear voices. They must’ve massacred most of the men in this town — and probably some women, too, she knew Micah didn’t discriminate — so she couldn’t imagine where from. She should probably make herself known…
Don’t sleep. Keep your eyes open.

Don’t sleep.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Irene woke on a bed shoved into the corner of a too-bright room.She deduced she was in a doctor's office, or what passed as one in this tiny town, even before she saw the white shelves and white walls and the crinkled white bedsheets she was lying on. She'd been undressed at some point, and her side was unpleasantly numb. At least it was better than not being numb.Other than the shelves, her bed, and the sink squashed into another corner, the only other thing in the room was an examination chair with one broken arm. It was piled high with bloodstained linens. She wondered if it was all hers.She was still cold, but at least her shivering told her she was somewhat functional again. There was just a small, gray blanket over her and it barely stretched between her calves and collarbone.Where was her stuff? They better not have let her shotgun rust in the mud.She tried moving her left hand, which felt heavy and clumsy, and tingles down her fingers told her it had fallen asleep. It hurt as it came alive, but not nearly enough to make her stop. Only when she managed to jerk her whole arm up and pain radiated out from her side to steal her breath did she pause.The door opened, and a man hurried in. He stopped when he saw her awake, standing there frozen and gaping while she slowly lowered her arm. Jesus, she hadn't been in this much pain in a long time."Er—" the doctor finally started."Hello," she ground out."Careful, you were shot—" He was nervous, and she wondered if he'd been the same while she was unconscious. She really hoped not."I know."The doctor gave her an annoyed look through his jitters. "Well, lucky for you, nothing vital was hit. You will live and should make a full recovery. You… you were the only one I could treat."It took a moment for his meaning to get through. "Everyone else?""A few, completely unharmed. Most of the town has passed, however.""Goddammit." If she'd been faster… if she'd killed Bell in Blackwater, damn the consequences."You married, ma'am?" the doctor asked as he chanced a wary step closer.She blinked at him, and he looked pointedly down at her hand where it rested by her side."That is what a ring there means.""Yes, um. Your husband, uh— where is he?"Irene scowled. "Elsewhere." She was not going to talk about it with him."Oh! I am sorry for your loss, ma'am," he said quickly, and, even quicker, left her alone.She sighed and thumped her head back on the pillow. Caleb would be greatly amused at that exchange, she thought, even if it ended with him being presumed dead. The sooner she got out of here, the sooner she could be done and holding him in her arms again.Would it even be the same? Presumably, better, without the shroud of her parent's unavenged deaths hanging over her psyche, but would Caleb still want her at the end of it all? Or would he think she was putting her needs above his?She was. She was, but she had to see this through. There was no going back; if Caleb was gone he was already gone. She tried to draw some comfort from that.Until Micah was dead, her ghosts would not let her rest at all, even with Caleb beside her. She had to believe that. So. She needed out of here.The trail of carnage led southeast along the main road, but ended before the path split: further east to Riggs Station, or north, to… well, nowhere really.It was for this reason that Irene already suspected the northern road. She swung down from Nephele anyway, studying the ground. It was still soft after the torrent of rain, but enough horses had passed since then to make it a confusing mishmash of hoofprints and wagon ruts, with no clear trail to any of them, let alone Micah.Twigs cracked to her right at the same time as a reedy, trembling voice called, "Miss?"She whirled, taking up her shotgun in the same movement — ignoring the spark of pain in her side — and squinted down the barrel at the man who had emerged from the woods. He stopped in his tracks with a squeak, hands in the air. "Ma'am!"It wasn't Micah, and, after she assessed him with a glance, she deemed him no threat to her anyway. His suit was splattered with mud, and torn where he'd passed or stumbled into the local brambles. His hair was mussed, but not long enough to be properly wild. Though he was frightened and desperate, he was not so much so that he was a danger even unarmed. She guessed he'd been lost for a few days at most.She lowered her shotgun. "What?"He did not lower his hands. "I'm uh, terribly sorry to disturb you, ma'am. Terribly sorry. But uh, can you point me to Strawberry?"She jerked her head back the way she'd come. "Not five miles that way. Follow the main road.""Oh thank you, thank you!" The man finally lowered his hands, only to clasp them together like he was thanking God. "You have no idea— everything looks the same around here—""Uh-huh." It did not, in fact, look all the same, and if she hadn't pinned him for a big city man already that would have clued her in. She turned away, but he kept talking."I don't— I don't have anything to thank you with, I'm afraid, but… ma'am, would you happen to be trying to track the two rough-looking men who came by yesterday?"She froze, then forced herself to relax. Best not get too excited. "What? What men?""They were riding like the Devil himself was on their tails, came from that way," he pointed back at Strawberry, "and stopped here. They talked for a bit then split up. Brown-haired one went right, blond went left."Left. North. She'd been right. "Did you hear what they said?""I… I didn't want to get too close, ma'am. But the brown-haired one was angry. The blond called him Arthur and said he'd be at his camp 'round back of Strawberry, whatever that means. Said he needed a peace offering."She nodded, fought the urge to grin as it would only scare the man. "Thank you, that does help."The man — whose accent she finally recognized was from New York — flushed and made an awkward wave. "I'll be on my way to Strawberry now, thank you and be care—"But she was already up on Nephele and spurring her north.Despite the New Yorker’s directions, “‘round back of Strawberry” could have meant a lot of things. Irene was well aware of how lucky she was to find Micah's camp as quickly as she did.First she spotted a single set of hoofprints breaking off the path and climbing up through woods, to scrub-brush, to the cliffs overlooking Monto's Rest. Once she reached the rocks, she swung down from Nephele, the better to hide her approach. The barest wisps of smoke visible above the cliff before they dissipated into the blue sky told her she was on the right track. Someone was camping here.Clutching her shotgun, she left her horse behind. This was it. Either she'd find Micah here and it would end one way or another, or the chase would resume.She was so goddamn tired.First a horse — a sleek black and white Trotter, still as a stone and watching her intently. Creepy, for sure, but he didn't make a sound either, so she let him be. Coming round the corner, the little camp came into view. Lean-to, a fire, papers strewn about everywhere. Newspaper clippings and bounty sheets, from a single glance. That was all she allowed herself.She stepped out into the open, grip white-knuckled on her shotgun. There he was, puffing on a cigarette casual as you please, on the edge of the cliff above the Appleseed Timber logging site. Even from behind, she knew it was him.
I should just end it.

But that wouldn't be nearly as satisfying.

Forget satisfying, I want to go home.
She grit her teeth. Her hands were trembling, and she'd only have one shot. The poster in her pack made note of Micah's quick draw, in the fine print at the bottom. Closer was better for her aim, but—Micah huffed, flicking the cigarette over the cliff, and turned, thumbs hooked into his jeans. "Well, hello," he said, breaking into a grin.She froze. It was familiar, too much like that day, from the pose to the grin to his casual dismissal of the gun pointed at him.The grin widened. "Ah, you have got to be lost, little girl."Her heart pounded, furiously pumping blood and hot rage through her. How dare he."Your first bounty, maybe? What's the matter, different than you thought?" He spread his hands wide, as if indicating the situation, but she knew the gesture for what it was.Pull, her mind screamed. Finally, her body obeyed.The shell tore off Micah's left ear, shot flying everywhere. He jerked back with a strangled yell. She expected him to fall, he should have fallen, but instead he lurched forward, right hand reaching for his holster.Blood cascading down his face, Micah's eyes still held a manic gleam.His hand alighted on the revolver. She launched herself at him, shoulder ramming into his chest. Something gave way, and for a dizzying moment she thought it was her shoulder, but Micah collapsed, howling, writhing in the dirt.In his absence, the cliff was closer than ever. She nearly catapulted herself right over the edge, unable to stop in time, but Micah snarled and grabbed her leg, dragging her down with him. Her shotgun flew to the side, out of reach. No matter, she was too far gone for such advanced weaponry.He rolled to loom over her. "I'll kill you, you little bitch." The fury and fear flooding her brain mangled the words so badly they sounded like gibberish. Still, she well knew what he had said — it was written on his face, and in the scalding spray of blood from the hole in his head."Too late," she spat, dizzy with battle-high like a berserker of old.A flicker in his eyes — doubt, memory, did it matter? She twisted in his grip, skin on her wrists burning, but she kept going, going until she broke free of his fingers. She slapped her hand to his wound.He screamed, and she closed her eyes against the fresh onslaught of blood and spittle.Then she dug her fingers in.She clawed at him, raking her blunt nails into his flesh until she found purchase and could pull even through the blood making her grip slippery. Her thumb dug into his neck, found a tiny spot where the shot had grazed, like a hawk spots a shrew in the undergrowth. It curled inward until more red spurted out.Micah threw himself to the side, landing hard on his back, but only managed to give her an advantage, as their legs were tangled and she easily followed. She knelt over him, one hand finding his broken collarbone and pressing with all her weight.The other returned to his head. This time, her thumb found his eye.As she leaned down Irene bared her teeth, stained crimson and dripping viscera. And for the first time since the death of his father — a father he murdered over a cigarette — Micah Bell III would know true fear.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Irene woke groggy. She ached — her head, her right shoulder, her hands. Her side where she'd been shot was on fire, and her wrists weren't much better.She was also covered in something sticky, and her mouth tasted of iron.Was… was she lying on bare earth?"Jesus…" she mumbled, and opened her eyes.It was pitch dark, and the stars seemed distant and cold. She couldn't see the moon from her position, or the horizon. Her neck creaked in protest as she turned her head to try to gauge what time it was, shooting pain down her spine.She flinched. Micah's mutilated corpse was right next to her, nose mere inches from hers. A chill overcame her when she beheld her handiwork: the one glassy eye staring at her was one of the few recognizable features."Jesus Christ."Shuddering in disgust, she made to sit up. And stopped when she realized two things.Her feet were tied together, and her hands, though currently laying innocently on her stomach, were connected by a rope only a few inches long.She wasn't alone."I'm sorry, Irene," came a familiar voice. Arthur stepped into view by her feet, coming to kneel by her side. And he genuinely did sound sorry.What the hell.She stared at him, all the fight in her replaced by dread, mild annoyance, and a steadily growing hollow feeling. She'd have to deal with that last one later."I'd hoped to never see you again, because I knew it would be like this.""Then why didn't you kill me?" When he blinked at her, confused, she clarified. "In Strawberry." She didn't have the heart to be defiant about it anymore — apparently all her energy had gone into destroying the man beside her.Arthur sighed. "I don't know." Elbow draped over his raised knee, he looked once more like the kind soul who had saved her from the O'Driscoll — and not the outlaw who had shot her. He was a contradiction and it would have infuriated her if she could find the energy to care."So you're a van der Linde," she said.He nodded. "Yeah. And you're… a mother?" She blinked, momentarily stunned, and he gestured at her bound hands and the hem of her shirt riding up her stomach."No," she said quietly.Realizing his mistake a beat too late, Arthur opened his mouth, probably to apologize."No, don't. Not your fault.""Was a stupid assumption, anyhow.""Not… really.""I am sorry." He cocked his head at her. "You… seem different, if you don't mind me saying."Irene barked a laugh. "Highs and lows. My whole life is slingshotting from high to low, low to high. And that —" She gestured wildly at Micah's corpse. "—was a damn big high." She paused, studying him. "And you? You don't seem upset that your buddy is dead."Arthur scowled. "That bastard," he snapped, "wasn't no friend of mine. Been causing no end of trouble for us even afore Strawberry. I have no idea why Dutch put up with it."Irene snorted. From what she'd heard, Dutch van der Linde wasn't much better himself. "So, wait. If you're actually glad that shitstain is soon to be scrubbed off your boot — what's the problem here?" Surely she wasn't lucky enough to just be let go.The scowl deepened. "The problem is that he weren't killed by the law, or an animal, or falling off a cliff — it was you, and I ain't near good enough a liar to make this disappear."Good enough to hide who you were at Riggs, she almost shot back, but she bit her tongue instead. It wasn't that Arthur was a master conman, it was that she wasn't able to read his tells.Arthur sighed, and the scowl softened into a worried frown. "I wish I were," he added softly.Well, at least he was reluctant about it. "What if I were still the one to kill him, but you didn't find me?" A quiet desperation clogged her voice, distinct from her detached thoughts. Some part of her still had a self-preservation instinct, as worn out as she was at the moment.He didn't answer, but looked around them, brow furrowed. After a moment he sighed again, then nodded and reached for his knife."Hey, Arthur!"The man in question jumped, eyes going wide, and whipped his head around even as he let go of the knife handle to slide safely back into its sheath.A rider came round the cliff face into the camp, pulling his horse short when he caught sight of them. Irene squinted, trying to make out details, but thumped her head back onto the ground when the strain became too much for her neck."Hey, Javier," Arthur said, a weary and long-suffering drawl. His attention drawn to the new arrival, Irene got a better look at the scars crisscrossing his chin, half-hidden by his scruff.A thump as Javier dismounted. "Where've you be— what the hell happened here?" His footsteps were quick and sure."What's it look like?" Arthur said, rolling his eyes, and stood from his crouch. Despite the irritation in his words, he clapped the other man on the back when he got within reach. Another member of the gang, then. As the first light of dawn spread like spilled paint from the horizon behind her, she was even more certain her run of luck was over. She couldn't bring herself to regret it, though.Arthur sighed. "Found 'er passed out next to Micah's body. Looks like there was quite the struggle."Her side burned fiercely. A struggle well-fought, she'd say. If she had missed that first shot completely, it would have been very different.Stepping closer, around Irene's feet, Javier came into better view. He was shorter than Arthur, with long black hair held in a low ponytail and a neat mustache. His clothes were well-kept — a gentleman outlaw. He studied Micah's corpse with the disgust of the unwillingly fascinated. "Mierda, she…" He flicked his eyes over, and she scowled at him, but on her, his gaze was clinical, if assessing."Tore him a new one? Yeah.""Well, you don't have to sound so happy about it."Irene had not been able to detect an ounce of 'happiness' in Arthur's tone, only exhaustion. And maybe awe."Happy? Not really. Would have liked to do it myself. Wouldn't you?""Perhaps," Javier said, thoughtful, "but it remains that she did it, not you or I.""Come on, don't tell me you aren't relieved either way.""What exactly are you proposing here?"She wondered at the conversation the men were having over her head — again. Except this time there was more context, a background that she was missing. But it was obvious enough that Micah wasn't well-liked even by his own gang.Arthur sighed. "You're being awfully quiet, Miss. Was hoping you'd have something to add."Irene huffed, wriggling a little in her bonds, and stared up at Javier. She wasn't going to beg. She'd never beg. "If you want a confession, then yes. I killed Micah last night, with my bare hands. I don't regret it. I would do it again. Maybe cleaner. Maybe messier."Javier grimaced."Why?" Arthur asked.He already knew. She'd told him the whole story—Oh. It was for Javier, not him. He was trying to save her.She rolled this around in her mind, trying to decide if she hated it or not. Some part of her did desperately want to live. The rest wanted to sleep and see what the world looked like when she woke. None of it wanted to be saved, but she maybe didn't have a choice."I… he killed my parents, when I was seven. He was running with his father, learning the art of murder and, and rape— I didn't know it then. We barely escaped with our lives, I'll never know why his father spared us. Stoking fear, I guess. They certainly never had an issue killing children." It was difficult to talk, the position putting strain on her lungs and her side.Javier glanced at Arthur, expression grim. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and walked away, waving Arthur with him.Arthur spared her a saddened glance before following, stopping alongside Javier at the other side of the camp. If she strained her neck, she could still see them, but she could hear nothing of their conversation, though they seemed tense.Their hushed debate didn't last long. And why should it? She was not versed in persuasion — Arthur'd been helped along by his conscience, but Javier knew him better."All right," Arthur said finally, the first thing loud enough for her to discern, and made a frustrated gesture. "I suppose I should have. I'm still not comfortable with it, though.""Ay, and that's why you're the brawn of this little family, Arthur," Javier teased as they walked back to where Irene still lay in the dirt. She'd made no progress on her bonds — Arthur knew his knots. She would expect no less.They stood over her for a moment, but neither made a move for their guns. Instead something unspoken passed between them, and Arthur bent down, hauling her over his shoulder in one brisk movement.The cry wrenched from her throat was like a wounded animal's as the jostling sent spears of pain from her side up and down her spine. She hung limply, panting through the agony. Her stitches had ripped; or maybe that was during the fight.A distant satisfaction, cold and remote as the stars, whispered that she was getting blood all over Arthur."Sorry," he mumbled, trying to find a better angle, and ended up carrying her like a bride to Mayweather. He started to arrange her over the horse's rump, but stopped. "Shit, Javier," he called. "She's gonna die halfway there if she's tied down."
Halfway where?
Through the gathered tears in her eyes that she would never let fall, Javier appeared, holding Micah's bloody hat like it was infected. "What do you suggest? We can't let her ride her own horse.""She's losing enough blood it doesn't really matter if she does, but— Ah, fine. I'll hold onto her." Arthur jostled her again, drawing whimpers that she bit her lip trying to quiet. He let her down long enough to grab a bundle of cloth from his saddlebags and stuff it against her side. "Hold that there," he ordered.Irene was getting dizzy, but the feeling of the dense cloth against her side grounded her somewhat, and she held it with her elbow. She didn't think about running."Two of them, now," she tried to joke, though she wouldn't have found it funny any other time.Arthur had been glancing back at the camp, at the strewn papers and bloodstains and her beloved shotgun, discarded in the dust. "What?""Two shirts I've ruined."He shot her a concerned look, one which made her ache as it wasn't Caleb's gentle face holding it. "I'd say we're even enough. I'm the one who shot you."She shook her head. Arthur mumbled something about strange women. He cut the rope between her ankles and, without further preamble, scooped her up onto Mayweather.Her vision spotted, black overtaking her for a moment, and she swayed a little. Arthur was up behind her in seconds, reaching around for the reins.Javier had disappeared, but within moments he emerged from around the rock face, leading Nephele. Her horse had the remains of a carrot in her teeth, and nickered when she saw Irene. She'd never been particularly wary around strangers with treats.The Trotter was already secured to Javier's horse by a long lead, and Javier connected Nephele to Mayweather with another length of rope."Oh, grab that shotgun too," Arthur said offhandedly.Javier shrugged and jogged over, stowing it away among his many weapons on his own horse.They were out on the road within minutes, their strange procession emerging onto the main trail and working up to a measured, but hardly sedate, pace.Irene tried to sit up straight, but her exhaustion and bloodloss made the sides of her vision swim, working up a headache and forcing her to close her eyes. From there it was all too easy to slump further, and further, until she hit Arthur's chest."It's all right, miss. Rest," he murmured, touching her elbow to make sure his shirt was still tucked against her side.He didn't move other than that, and she eventually succumbed to sleep."I'm not wasting supplies on her until I get an idea of what the hell happened and who she thinks she is.""She will die without treatment before she wakes again, and where's your story then?"Irene's head was throbbing, like she'd drunk far too much whiskey. She groaned and attempted to turn her head into the pillow, so as to block out the argument that was in full force above her head, only to discover that the pillow was digging a button into her ear.She cracked open her eyes, registering that one of Arthur's shirts, absolutely soaked through with her blood, was under her head. In all other respects she'd been dumped on the ground like a sack of potatoes.Just as then the arguing pair noticed her movement and two pairs of furious eyes turned to her.She did not recognize Dutch van der Linde at first as the man from the posters, as the likeness had failed to capture the snarl currently on his face. She recognized him at first purely from the wide berth everyone else was giving him, and the man next to him, whose poster was much more uncannily accurate down to the laugh lines."Right here, Hosea," Dutch ground out. The last word. "It's right here."Hosea rolled his eyes, and the frown deepened, but he said nothing. His fury had been directed at Dutch, not her, strangely enough, though he did watch her warily.Then Dutch stepped to loom over her, blocking out both the sun and Hosea. "Good afternoon, Miss. Welcome to my camp."She didn't feel all that welcome, but that was probably the blood loss making her loopy. It did say something of him that he kept up the pretense of pleasantries despite obviously looking like he wanted to kill her."You have been here since yesterday afternoon. Arthur says you killed one of my own. From the looks of it, with your bare hands. Would you care to explain yourself, Miss?""It's—" She nearly spat out her name, detesting the slimy sound of the title on his lips, but somehow she knew he would not honor it. "—it's not like you can't ask him too. I told him the truth.""Ah, but I am asking you. And you, Miss, are not in a position I envy."She was so tired, and woozy, and she stank of blood and dirt. "I killed him. What is there to explain? Would you like the blow-by-blow?""No, thank you, I heard enough from Mr. Escuella. You are testing my patience.""Just tell us why, at least." Hosea said, rubbing his forehead. "You're right, Dutch, it might be a waste."Irene took a deep breath, tried to calm her pounding headache. "I don't regret killing him and I never will, if that's what you're looking for.""I see." Dutch inhaled, and Irene knew the prelude to a self-righteous rant when she heard it. "Are you such a monster that—""Don't you dare," she snapped. She tried to push herself up, but her arms were too weak, so she made her stand lying down. "Don't you dare try to shame me for doing what no one else could. Do you know how many times he was captured long before that fight in Strawberry, and how many times he avoided the noose and me? He led me on a merry chase for ten years, since I was barely a woman, and never once did he stop raping and killing. The law caught him a dozen times or more. But he always slipped away, until I finally had my justice. And I do not, will not, regret that."Dutch was grinding his teeth so hard his jaw was sure to feel it later. He did not look convinced, but she had not expected him to. It did, however, shut him up for a moment."So you're a vigilante?" Hosea asked, something shrewd in his watery eyes.Irene snorted. "You say that like I could be any friend of the law after they managed to lose that bastard the first time, never mind the last time. As far as I can tell there's more 'n a few sheriffs out there who should take at least some of the blame that he was still alive as of a couple days ago and however many women and children and folk that ain't white or that looked at him funny didn't live past meetin' him."Dutch still did not look convinced, or at all friendly, but her rant against the law had — unsurprisingly — softened his glare a bit. Just a tad though — he was still furious, though the longer he stood there, jaw working, the more the thought struck her that he was more upset that his impression of Micah was so wrong than anything else. Of course… it all came back to his ego."Dutch," Hosea prompted, touching van der Linde's elbow.The two men turned away for a moment, holding a whispered conversation. Dutch was animated, Hosea… soothing? Practical. It was probably a deeper glimpse into the inner workings of a gang of outlaws than she had ever wanted, but it was better than their anger.Dutch walked away, deeper into the camp, and pretty soon Arthur and another man were emerging from the hubbub. Working together, though Arthur far more gently, they moved Irene to a shaded cot halfway around the camp, a little set apart from the rest of the living space, at the back of a wagon filled with medical supplies.As soon as she was horizontal on the cot, the other man whose name she didn't know and didn't care to know stormed off, muttering under his breath."Ah, don't mind Bill," Arthur said, rolling his eyes."He smells like rot gut and old Army socks, why would I," she retorted. Her side was throbbing. She pressed her palm just above the wound, which she could feel was oozing blood still, and even there the skin burned under her hand. Shit, an infection.Arthur chuckled at that. "He was one of the few people who tolerated Micah. Funny, 'cause Micah couldn't stand him."Irene closed her eyes. "He was a leech. He knew better than to latch on to anyone as wasn't worth it." She was so tired. The cot was nowhere near as comfortable as her bed, but it was dry and even and not the ground, and as far as she was concerned that was the best she was likely going to get.The last thing she was aware of before she slipped into unconsciousness again was Arthur humming in agreement.The fever spread and consumed her in the span of hours.She wanted to live. She wanted to go home.It was one of her few coherent thoughts as the fever raged and the gang debated around her. For her wound, they had spared a poultice and a bandage that quickly soaked through and became part of the problem.It was infected, and the van der Lindes would do no more.Irene's dreams had been so rarely still in her mind come the morning, but these were a different beast entirely. They lingered like a bad smell, like unspoken questions, impressions so strong they stuck to her tongue.Irene dreamed of wolves all around her, of hawks and bears and hawks that turned into bears. She dreamed the rising sun brought with it a fire that spread from the horizon and consumed the world. She dreamed of horses, and trains, and ferries.The few times she surfaced from the void of shapeless dreams, she was aware of the cool cloth on her forehead, and a presence by her side, and the arguing, always the arguing about her.Then she would slip under again, and all that would be lost.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Then, her fever broke. Irene surfaced with a gasp like she had been drowning, and spent a few desperate moments sucking in cool night air. She turned her head, dislodging the damp — with sweat now, not water — cloth that had been on her forehead. It fell over her eyes."Oh!" came a voice, and the cloth was removed. Blurry shapes slowly sharpened as her brain caught up with not being on fire. A young man sat on the ground next to her, though even as she reoriented herself he stood up, wiping his hands on his dirt-stained pants.Her throat was dry, and speaking made it feel like it was pottery cracking in an earthquake. "Water?"The man — boy? It was hard to tell with his scraggly beard and the dim light — leaned forward, as if he hadn't understood, but just as she was despairing over having to repeat herself, he nodded sharply and scurried off. In a moment he was back with a tin cup of water."I should probably tell… no," he muttered as he handed it over and helped her sit up. He smelled like horses. "They can wait."Probably talking about Dutch and Hosea, she thought, though the undercurrent of spite in his voice gave her pause. "Who… are you?" she asked after she had drunk half the cup."Er. Kieran. I'm the— well, not quite a prisoner anymore, really."She raised an eyebrow. "And they sent you over here to keep an eye on me?"He blushed, all the way to his ears. "Well, well no, not really. They weren't thinking you'd live, and they put me over here as some kind of sick joke.""To tell them when I died?"Kieran nodded, miserable. "At night, at least. There's always someone around during the day to notice."He was, at least, a distraction from the remnants of the fever. "Well, then. Thank you for keeping an eye out, even if it was for corpse watch."That startled a huffed laugh from him. "I suppose that's one way to see it. You lived, though. Even the German was saying you was doomed, and he's a practical, soulless bastard. What—" He paused, the blush returning. "What's your name, ma'am?""Irene. Did they tell you what I did?""Yeah. I… I only met the feller once, back when I was first caught, and even so I'm glad.""The van der Lindes do you that dirty, huh?" He had not seemed like the kind of person to hold grudges, not a kindred spirit at all. He was more like Caleb, and her heart ached. Would she ever see her husband again?"Wha— no! No, it's more personal than that. He were a rotten bastard. Even I could see it. He would've fit right in with the O'Driscolls." Kieran had a sour look, one that spoke to personal experience.It hit her. "You were an O'Driscoll?""No! No, I— Jesus. Look, I was only a step up from prisoner there too, with only a bit more freedom. I can't leave this camp, Colm thinks I gave him up for a song."What an interesting fellow. There was so much more to this story, right there in his expressive face. That face had likely gotten him in trouble a lot. "Did you?" she asked, unable to keep the amusement from her voice.Kieran huffed. "Hardly. I starved tied on to a tree — that tree over there — for over two weeks with only the scraps the girls snuck me and a healthy terror of Colm keeping me going. Didn't do me much good in the end though. Colm'll never know or care and these fellers just see a turncoat."She could not help it, she giggled.He shot her a glare that wouldn't have frightened a fly. But he didn't leave, just crossed his arms and waited."Sorry— you're comically unlucky, Kieran," she said."And that's funny? You're strange."She sobered. It was not that funny. "Gallows humor, I suppose. I'm probably close to death myself. I may have survived the fever but van der Linde is like to kill me as not. I… I would, if I were him. I'm just too much of a risk."Kieran tilted his head. "Are you? A risk, I mean?""Anymore? No. No, I got what I wanted. Now I just want to go home. If there is one still there for me after I left it, I will never leave it again.""I thought you didn't regret what you did.""Heard that, did you. I don't regret the act. Killing Micah was the only thing I wanted for over ten years. I… I regret how I hurt the ones I love to do it." It was strange, admitting this to a stranger. It felt more personal, more vulnerable, than it had that night with Arthur. Kieran just made it so easy, somehow, to tip herself over like a gallon of paint spilling on the ground.He did not seem to mind, though. "Well, for what it's worth, I hope they waited for you. You must miss them so much." He had a wistful look. Was he missing someone too?"Yes. So much it hurts. I… I suppose it's a good hurt, though. It means I still have a heart.""You didn't think you— Oh. Granted I never knew you before, but ma'am, it seems to me you have the biggest heart. Bigger than most everyone else here, a' least."She snorted a laugh that made her side ache. She was afraid to look at the wound. "Is that really such a high bar, though? And Arthur seems decent, at least.""I guess," he mumbled, and ducked his chin.Oh.She smiled, though she wanted to tease, and looked away, out over the camp. There was movement across the way, early risers perhaps. The first light of dawn had barely kissed the horizon, but as she watched a flurry of movement arose in the camp proper all centered around a single woman."That will be Miss Grimshaw," Kieran said with a groan. "Right on time, as usual." Despite the groan she thought she detected some fondness in his voice. This prisoner or former prisoner situation was more complex than she had thought at first glance."Time to tell them?" she prompted, as Kieran had not moved."Maybe," he said, and looked back at her. "You want me to?""No not really, but won't you get in trouble?" She did not want him in trouble. He was a sweet guy, like her Caleb whom she missed so fiercely her side thrummed in time with the waves of it in her heart."Maybe," he said again, looking sad. "I suppose I have little to lose, though.""How did you get here, anyway? Off that… tree you said? You gave up Colm and they just let you stay?""No, that would be very unlike them. I gave up Colm, took them to where I thought he was, and in the fight with the gang there Arthur was ambushed away from the others and I saved his life. Still had to argue to get him to keep from just turning me loose, which was as good as killing me. Colm owns this state, I would never get away. I would never be able to get out of his territory alive. An' Colm holds grudges like you would never believe.""Would I?""No," he said shortly. "You, you are not like him. Not at all. He is a mean feller, past what I can even describe. He sees everyone as disposable, goes through men like matches. You are not him and I doubt you ever will be."Irene looked away, embarrassed by his words but holding them close to her soul anyway, a tiny light glowing with the unexpected denial and its vehemence."Ah, I… thank you," she said, throat closing. He tilted his head, looking at her with sadness in his eyes. "It ain't nothin'," he said softly. "It really ain't.""Mr Duffy!" came a shrill voice from across the way, and Miss Grimshaw stormed over, skirts swirling around her like the winds of her very own hurricane. "Get back to work!""She's awake, Miss Grimshaw," Kieran called back, belatedly, and scurried away toward the horses. Irene wondered when he slept.Miss Grimshaw looked at Irene, laying helpless on the cot, and huffed. "You lived, then," she said, though there was no malice, only fact. "Don't you move, I will be right back."She had not planned to. She did not want to test her post-fever strength just yet; even laying down her legs felt weak.Miss Grimshaw was, as promised, back within a few minutes, Dutch and Hosea in tow. As they approached Dutch lengthened his stride and overtook Miss Grimshaw, jaw set as he strode toward her. "Well, well, Miss," Dutch drawled when he reached her cot.Irene fought the urge to roll her eyes. Her will to live was still strong, her will to see Caleb again stronger than any petty grudge. She kept her face as neutral as she could — barring the natural downturn of her lips when her muscles relaxed. "We did not think you would live through your high fever. Your wound was infected."And you did nothing, perhaps less than nothing, she thought, though there was no anger even in her mind. And I knew that already, thanks. "I know. How long was I out?""It is the 7th. You were brought in on the 4th."Already a week since the wound happened in Strawberry, then. She wondered how Arthur had felt, watching her fight for her life alone. "That helps, thank you," she said.Hosea reached them and spoke up before Dutch could reply. "You must know what an impasse we are at. Regardless of whether Micah deserved what he got, now you know where we are and how many we are. We have everything to lose from letting you go."Irene sighed, propping herself up on her elbows. Her side burned with the stretch. She really didn't want to see what it looked like now. "I understand your caution, but I have nothing else to give than my word that the law will never hear a word from me.""And why is that, Miss? Forgive me if I don't believe you." Dutch put his hands on his hips, dangerously close to the twin silver revolvers there, in her opinion. "Even if I didn't think one of you would get your vengeance upon me, even if my own family would not be endangered by my associating too closely with lawmen, I am not Micah. I don't want to hurt those who cannot defend themselves. I will not put the blood of your noncombatants upon my hands, because I have no faith that the law won't kill you all without mercy, even the child."Dutch set his jaw, something flashing in his eyes.Hosea turned to him with a glare that could melt iron. "Go back to bed, Dutch, before you do something rash. Think about this a bit more.""Hosea—""She doesn't know, Dutch. Go back to bed, or take the Count out. Just let yourself calm down."Dutch met Hosea's glare without flinching. Finally the battle of wills broke, when Miss Grimshaw bustled around them. "Let's look at that wound, then," she said to Irene, pointedly ignoring the men. She bent over Irene, blocking her view, and felt her forehead.Irene put up with her brisk fussing, and when Miss Grimshaw straightened to rummage in a chest nearby, Dutch had gone.Miss Grimshaw had a better bedside manner than her treatment of the others, especially the other women, would suggest. She barked orders that gave Irene a headache with their volume over her shoulder at the scrambling girls, but her hands as she peeled away Irene's bandage were gentle, and her face gave nothing away. She said nothing to Irene at first, just had her swig from a bottle of whiskey that burned all the way down and made her pleasantly numb in seconds, then handed her a wooden rod to bite on.Still, when Miss Grimshaw started digging into her side with a knife, she howled around the rod, and the whiskey did little to dull that pain."I'll be quick," Miss Grimshaw said.It didn't feel quick.She did her best not to move, fearing that Miss Grimshaw's careful scrapings would tun into an actual stabbing, intended or not. The last thing she needed was to die here.Some time later, muddled by a haze of pain, Miss Grimshaw pulled back. "I'm done," she announced. "With that part, at least. You did just fine, girl. Most of the boys here would have passed out at the first cut."She nodded, dazed. Respect from who appeared to be the camp matriarch would only help her, she noted distantly.Miss Grimshaw turned away again, coming back with more whiskey, a sewing kit, and a large roll of bandages. "I would give you morphine, but one of the resident layabouts has stolen all our stock — again. Luckily we have alcohol in spades."Irene reached up to take out the rod, but Miss Grimshaw slapped her hand away without looking up from her task. "You may need that yet. I'm not stitching you up if you manage to bite off your own tongue."With that image now taking up space in her head, she almost didn't notice Miss Grimshaw tip the whiskey onto a cloth. She definitely noticed when she used that cloth on the raw, jagged edges of Irene's wound, though. In clinical, efficient movements she had Irene screaming in agony again.It burned like wildfire on her flesh, and the pain hadn't eased at all when Miss Grimshaw set the cloth aside and took up needle and thread.Her head spun, but somehow she didn't faint. It would have been a mercy if she had, no matter the camp matriarch's opinion. She was panting harshly through her nose, teeth clenched around the rod, when Miss Grimshaw finally straightened again. A glance and a click of the tongue, and Miss Grimshaw yanked the rod from her mouth."Impressive," she said, holding it up. It was ruined, deep imprints from Irene's teeth set into the wood. It looked like only a bit more pressure would have broken it. Irene shuddered at the thought of the slivers in her mouth."Rest up, you'll need it. I'll be around later to take a look and change your bandages. Don't do anything stupid…" Miss Grimshaw might have said more, as her mouth was still moving, but Irene could only hear the rush of water and pounding of drums as she finally, finally passed out.Irene awoke early the next morning and immediately wished she hadn't. A little more time asleep might have let her wound heal just that bit more, and now that she wasn't feverish the fact that she had been laying on a cot for several days made itself known. She was intensely aware of every single ache and sore spot on her body, and that she needed a wash. Preferably a dunk in a cold lake or river. That sounded nice.She sat up slowly, expecting to regret the movement sooner rather than later, but though her side burned with the stretch, that little bit of pain was nothing compared to her need to be up and about. She swung her legs over the side of the cot, touched bare feet to earth — and where were her boots? — and looked around her.The camp was still sleeping, for the most part, but for a watchman she could barely see through the trees to her left and Kieran, who was moving among the horses, patting noses and mumbling greetings to each one. She was glad to see her own Nephele among them, looking healthy as could be and nosing at Kieran's jacket for a treat.At the foot of the cot were her boots, and a bundle of clothes which she almost ignored until she realized that her shirt had been ruined and the one she was wearing was not her own. Between the doctor in Strawberry and this time, that was two shirts gone, and the spare in her saddlebags was for sleeping. Which meant someone had been dressing her while she was passed out.Her face flushed a bit at the realization. Anyone could have seen her stretchmarks and assumed the same as Arthur had. She hoped it was just Miss Grimshaw, and hoped her instinct that the older woman could not care less was correct.Although, maybe it could work to her advantage. Something about vulnerabilities, perhaps. She'd be more likely to let someone she pitied go.The thought of being pitied still left a sour taste in her mouth.She was no good at scheming, either way, and quickly gave up on that train of thought.Getting her feet in her boots was no problem. It was the laces she would have trouble with — that much bending was sure to rip the hole in her side back open. Maybe if she could get one foot in her lap—"Oh, Miss Irene!" came Kieran's voice, hushed in the pre-dawn gloom, and suddenly he was there, crouching at her feet and lacing up her boots so fast she had no time to be embarrassed."I— uh… thank you," she said.He nodded in response, and she expected him to leave again, go back to the horses he obviously loved so much, but instead he tilted his head at her in question. "You're getting up already?""Can't stay down forever," she replied. She should have been upset at the implication, but she was too weary and with Caleb on the brain, it was impossible to stay mad at anyone who resembled him even superficially."All right, just lemme know if you need anythin'. Mister van der Linde scares the shit outta me, I'll admit, but that ain't no reason to be rude. An' you're still hurt."Irene smiled at him, amused again. The idea that this pitiable fellow would stand up to his second-worst nightmare (after Colm, of course) for her on principle was sweet. "I could use a steadying arm, if you don't mind," she said."'Course, Miss Irene." He turned, offering his elbow, and she took it. For a moment as she stood and all the blood rushed from her brain she imagined herself as a lady of some distant land, alighting from a carriage pulled by white horses with the help of a footman so as not to snag her dress. She snorted at the image."Miss Irene?"She swayed, but found her footing. "Nothing. Just tired of being down. And hungry.""Alright. Stew ain't on for hours yet but there's lotsa canned stuff." He started to guide her toward another wagon — the chuck wagon judging by the hanging pheasants and crates of beer, and the hundreds of cans littering every surface. "Wouldn't recommend Mister Pearson's stew anyway — uh, not for a first meal, anyhow, good morning Mister Pearson."The man in question rolled his eyes at them, evidently used to the insult to his cooking. "I'm the only one around here who bothers, boy, and don't you forget it," he said mildly. "You looking for grub?""Miss Irene here is.""Hmm, well Dutch ain't said nothing about givin' her the same treatment you got, so I guess it's fine." He turned to Irene, looking her up and down with a critical eye. She bristled, until he said, "Yep, you need food, an' quick. Take what you like from the cans over there while I work on some eggs."His generosity was unexpected. "Oh. Thank you."He waved her off. As he turned away he mumbled, "Would hate starving anyone again, ain't right." She looked at the cans, surprised by the variety. Kieran stayed at her elbow, but he was distracted, watching Pearson's back with a slight frown as the latter cooked the eggs. Irene couldn't be bothered to wonder what he was thinking. Right now, food.She picked up a can of marinated fish, inspecting the label. Normally she would eat it without hesitation, but something was drawing her away from the stronger flavors."If I may, Miss Irene, I wouldn't eat that. After I came down from that tree, I had to eat bland for a bit cause I weren't used to anythin'.""What's good, then?""Umm, maybe this…"She ended up with a can of corn and some mashed potatoes, plus the scrambled eggs Pearson had made. The eggs were overcooked and underseasoned, but she was so hungry she ate them all.By the time her belly was full, the rest of the camp was up and about their business. Someone set a huge pot of coffee to brewing, and the girls Miss Grimshaw oversaw chattered away as they gathered up clothes to mend.Irene spotted Dutch emerge from his tent, to be greeted by Hosea. A gorgeous red haired woman that Irene hadn't seen before hovered behind them, putting on makeup in a compact mirror. Dutch smiled at her, asking something, and she passed him a book. He kissed her hand and took it."Kieran," she said. "How would I go about getting a wash?"Miss Grimshaw had two of the girls help her. One had the far-away look of a novelist, a look that Irene recognized immediately, and the other was equal parts exasperated and fond, and quite possibly the prettiest girl Irene had ever seen, at least without the aura that she knew it. Mary-Beth and Tilly chattered around her, gossip that gave nothing away, and they washed her with such gentleness that Irene almost thought they were grateful for what she had done. Perhaps they were.Micah hadn't exactly been a gentleman.After, when she smelled like lavender — Mary-Beth's scent, she said, apologizing with her eyes even as she smiled — and had been dressed again, though in a skirt this time while they washed the one pair of pants that fit her in the whole camp, Tilly brushed out her hair and braided it, and Irene finally felt somewhat human again.She stepped out from behind the folding screen, determination flooding her and making her blood sing — though in a different tune than her typical blood lust — as she made her way to Dutch.Hosea, who had been reading a newspaper at the table, glanced up and saw her coming first. He called across to Dutch, who closed his book with a snap and an irritated expression that morphed into surprise when he saw Irene almost upon him.One hand drifted toward his side, to the gleaming pearl-handled revolver there.Irene curtsied.Dutch froze. His hand paused inches from the handle.The curtsy was possibly the most awkward thing Irene had ever done in her life, and she was pretty sure after the fact that she had done it wrong, but at least no one around her laughed."Mister van der Linde," she began. "May we speak?"His eyebrows, if it were possible, rose even further toward his hairline. Then they furrowed as he frowned. "Of course, Miss— ah, you never did tell me your name."She was certain Arthur had at least told him her given name, but she had never given either of her last names to anyone but the Pinkertons since setting out. "Irene Hawkins, sir," she said, the title feeling funny in her mouth. Had she ever called anyone sir before? Certainly no one she respected so little."Of course, Miss Hawkins." He stood and flourished with his arm, indicating a spot near the cliff edge the camp was built on. "I would be delighted."No, you wouldn't, she thought, but bit her tongue before she could say it.Caleb. She needed to think about Caleb, and her home. Everything else was irrelevant.So she walked beside Dutch to the cliff edge, taking a moment to pretend to be awed by the view. It was fantastic, but everything was ash compared to her little homestead.Dutch cleared his throat, and she pulled her gaze back to his face."I wished to thank you, sir," she began, as demurely as she could. It ran counter to her whole being, set her nerves on edge, but she told herself that it was necessary, a means to an end. "I realize we still have unfinished business, but I also know that nothing happens here without your knowledge. Thank you for allowing me to rest.""Yes, about that… You seem to have grown close to that O'Driscoll boy. Kieran, was it?" Something glinted in his eyes, a trap about to spring.She clenched her teeth. "I know nothing about the O'Driscolls, to be honest. He seems a gentle soul, though, and I suppose I did need the company." No one else would dare, she thought, at least at first. "He reminds me a bit of someone I know, someone I miss dearly.""Ah. Your husband?""Yes. Look, I just want to leave all this behind and go home.""You want to forget?""As much as I can. I've been gone too long."Dutch tapped his chin thoughtfully, staring at her in a way that made her itchy. "I see. I would like to believe it, too, but there remains a problem. I could let you go, and you could return to your homestead as you so dearly desire. And what, dear Miss Hawkins, will you do if, after over a month alone, your husband has given up on you ever returning?"Irene's pounding heart lurched. How dare he. How dare he. She wanted to kill him.Dutch's hands flashed toward his revolvers.On the other side of the camp, a shot rang out, startling a flock of birds into flight.Irene and Dutch both jerked toward the noise, just as a new voice yelled, "Dutch van der Linde! Come out, now!"And so help her, she recognized it.Instantly the camp was up in arms, the girls scrambling to hide Jack while the men — and Miss Grimshaw — got low, guns in hand. Dutch tugged Irene to cover behind his tent. "We will finish this later," he promised."Give me my shotgun so there can be a later," she hissed back.He ignored her."Dutch van der Linde! I am Agent Milton, of the Pinkerton Detective Agency! I have been tasked to find you by Leviticus Cornwall. He is very eager to see you hang."Irene peeked out, dreading what she would see. Sure enough, the forest across from her was crawling with Pinkertons, with Milton on horseback at the main entrance. Ross was on foot beside him, holding Arthur in a headlock with a shining silver revolver pressed to his temple. Arthur was sweating, arms raised, but his expression was eerily calm. "Normally I would not show myself this early, but it so happens my hand was forced. My informant turned up dead, murdered, and what do you know but his killer is in your camp."Confusion flickered across Dutch's face. "Micah… was a rat?"Irene was not surprised, moreso annoyed. Micah just had to hedge his bets, didn't he. "I suppose that means you want me too, then?" she called out.Milton's grin was visible clear across the camp, and Irene immediately regretted opening her mouth."Ah, hello Mrs. Hyland."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Milton was speaking again, but all she heard were waves crashing in her ears, the deafening rush of her blood. What had she done? Oh God. Her heart lurched again, sinking and forcing itself up through her throat all at once, how could he know, how could he know, is Jules okay, is Caleb okay, did she doom them all?"Bastard." The word tumbled from her lips too quiet for even Dutch, crouched next to her, to hear; he leaned forward, worry writ on his face."Bastard," she said, louder. Dutch grabbed her arm. Only then did she realize she'd been about to stand up. To do what? She had no weapons. Surrender, perhaps. It would surely be her death. Did it matter? Her body felt separated from herself, and her mind was floating above it all.What had she done?Fear burst into rage and back again. She lurched away from Dutch, turning her head only by force of instinct, and vomited on the patchy grass. Her head pounded, the light suddenly too much to bear.Dutch yelled something at Milton, and Milton's smug reply wormed into her brain and echoed off the inside of her skull, growing in force and volume: "Run if you wish to run. Fight if you wish to fight. Neither will matter in the end.""You bastard!" she screamed, struggling against Dutch. She was stronger than she had been, but still too weak to break free."Stop, you'll get Arthur killed," Dutch hissed."So?" she spat back, out of her mind with grief and fear and a white-hot fury."Just stop, wait a minute, god dammit!"A deafening shot rang out, and Irene froze long enough to see the Pinkerton next to Ross fall, a hole where his head had been and a spray of his blood blinding the Agent. Arthur freed himself easily, smashing the back of his head into Ross' nose and drawing his guns, darting back into the relative safety of the camp proper in a flash.Dutch's hands went slack, but the gang were on the offense as soon as Arthur was out of the way, firing upon the blindsided Pinkertons. Bullets sprayed everywhere, most finding their marks in the bodies of the hunters before they could so much as figure out where they were being attacked from."Who did that, that was far too risky—" Dutch yelled, even as he took advantage of it himself.Miss Grimshaw appeared beside them, hair wild and her skin blotchy with exertion. "I don't think that was one of ours, Dutch," she said, breathless. "Here, girl." She shoved a repeater at Irene, whose hands molded to it as if of their own desire, and Miss Grimshaw dove out of the way as she thrust herself to her feet and aimed it at the crowd of scrambling Pinkertons.Nothing else mattered. She was armed, and she would make these toothless bastards bleed.It was not her own beloved shotgun, but it would do. Perhaps it was even better. She fired into the trees, where so many Pinkertons were crowded they could not all take cover behind the slender trunks. Bullets flew, men screamed, and bark splintered.Milton and Ross were nowhere to be seen; probably they had fled like cowards as soon as their standoff fell apart. She pushed up on those who remained, ending up at the corner of a wagon parked near the edge of the camp, picking off men as they leaned out or turned tail.She had to keep blinking to clear away the film from tears she wouldn't let fall.And she was so singularly focused she only processed she was out of bullets after the repeater had clicked twice.She pressed herself against the wagon just as Pinkerton's lucky shot whizzed past her face. "Shit!"The man — boy, really, how young did they recruit? — elected to charge her instead. She raised the repeater like a club—And he fell flat on his face at her feet, a hole in the back of his head.Wait—"Irene!"No."Irene!"She saw the charger first: the huge iron gray Ardennes leapt from the forest in a thunder, nostrils wide and eyes wild, scattering Pinkertons to the wind. One he caught beneath his stamping feet, crushing his head with a single steel-shod hoof.Then, her brother, atop the horse, face eerily blank but for the grim set of his jaw — she had only seen this look on him a handful of times, and it spooked her each one — hands wrapped around his own shotgun, shooting down those who fled before him with a precision she'd never possessed.And lastly—Oh, her Caleb.He clung to Jules, looking small next to him but once she saw him she only had eyes for him, her Caleb. Blue, blue eyes sought hers in the chaos, calling her name, oh God, he was alive, he was whole, what the hell was he doing here—"Caleb!" she gasped, or screamed, she wasn't sure which.Jules snapped his head around to look at her, opened his mouth to yell across.The charger tossed his head, half-rearing to crush another Pinkerton — Caleb slid back, gripping Jules tighter.Bang.The Pinkerton shot at point-blank range, and the charger didn't have time to scream as he jolted, then collapsed, crushing the man as he fell. Jules, flung forward over his horse's ears, struck the ground and was still.Caleb teetered, and in the split second before the charger's rear legs followed his front, he looked to Irene.A moment later, it all came down, and Caleb screamed as the horse's heavy body tilted sideways, over his lower leg.Then he was silent, and Irene was the one screaming."Caleb? Caleb—!" She dropped the useless repeater and scrambled for him, around the dead horse, to her pale and unconscious husband lying half-trapped beneath it. The revolver she had left him was still in its holster on his hip, and she stared at it through a veil of tears that also dripped down her face.She braced her shoulder against the saddle and shoved, with more strength than she should have been capable of still recovering from her fever. The stitches broke, blood ran down her side, but she kept pushing.Until someone grabbed her from behind. She screeched and kicked, but they just grunted and struck her, hard, with the butt of a gun.Dazed, she was limp for just a moment, but it was enough for Ross to drag her away from her husband — so pale, so still — and toward the camp, and by the time she regained some of her senses it was too late.Ross wrapped one arm around her throat, snug pressure against her windpipe. She kicked out, until he pulled just so and her breaths came short. She went limp again, and he eased up just enough — a promise moreso than a punishment.Dimly, she realized the gunfire had stopped.Dutch had ordered a ceasefire.Dutch had ordered it, and it had happened.Milton was on her other side, and she couldn't see Caleb or Jules anymore. The bastards had put her back to them, and she wanted to scream.She cried instead, limp in Ross' hold, while Milton grandstanded."Back where we started, van der Linde, and you are in no better a position." He waved at Irene, all smiles. "Her ambush failed, just like her, just like you. You can't stop what's coming, and the world will be better for it. The only question is — do you die here, or in a hangman's noose? It's all the same to me, to be honest."The worst part was, he was probably right. She had failed. Micah was dead, yes, but she had lost so much more than she could have ever gained. Why couldn't she have just stayed at home?She hung her head. She didn't want to see whatever expressions the gang members were wearing right now, and she didn't want them to see her, either. Her tears, once started, would not stop.
Forgive me, love. I couldn't be there when you needed me most, and now it's all over. They'll kill me, and you…
Irene sniffled as guns cocked behind her, the remaining Pinkertons surely emerging from the forest now that the tide had turned so dramatically.Ross stiffened, and she felt him pull away from her slightly.Bang.Something wet sprayed the side of her face as Ross's iron grip suddenly loosened and he collapsed into her, both of them tumbling to the ground.Instinct kicked in. She rolled Ross off her, snatched his pistol from his holster. She swung it up and around, aimed straight at Milton's mouth, now open in surprise.Bang.She waited only long enough to ensure he was dead. Ross was already cooling beside her — she would learn how Caleb became such a good shot later — and the van der Lindes were truly just cleaning up now, chasing the rest into the forest. They could have them, and the spoils. She needed no such things.Caleb needed her, and she needed him.She knelt in the dirt by his side, stained with the blood of man and horse alike, and held his hand. The pistol lay forgotten, its duty done, and Caleb had collapsed back. That he had even managed to sit up with a quarter of his leg still trapped underneath a horse was a miracle, let alone aim and fire.He was still so pale, even as he panted with exertion. His eyes never left hers."How did you find me?" she whispered. It was a broader question than she could ever express properly.Caleb smiled, but it was pained. "After the Pinkertons came around the first time, we needed to warn you. Ted tracked you down, I still don't know how he did it. He commandeered a doctor's office in Valentine — he's there now with Dr. Montgomery. Didn't want to come, though.""Let me guess; something about bloodstains on silk."He hitched a laugh. "Ow, yes. We need to get there. Doubt my leg's gonna survive, but the rest of me surely can. And— and Jules.""I know." Jules hadn't moved, but she would cross that bridge when she came to it. "I know, love."She braced herself against the saddle again, but before she could push Arthur and another gang member were there, wordlessly shooing her out of the way and easing the charger's body off to the side. Within minutes she was in the back of a wagon, holding vigil over Caleb and her brother, whose weak pulse she felt flutter under her fingers with every bump of the road up to Valentine.They didn't have much time; within days word of the Pinkerton's defeat and Dutch's narrow escape would spread, and her involvement in the whole affair would certainly be public too. If the Pinkertons had been able to find Jules and Caleb off her maiden name, there were few places she could run.Dutch would possibly help her, and Arthur promised to lend his support if it came to that, but she was no outlaw, and Caleb even less so. Jules and Ted were only by literal definition; her brother simply wanted to live in peace. She wanted this chapter of her life to be firmly over, not dragged out by associating with the gang that had also given Micah Bell refuge.For now though, those decisions could wait. Her little family was alive, she was alive. She brushed the hair back from Jules' face — careful not to disturb the bloody gash on his temple — and held Caleb's hand, and that was enough to swell her heart with defiant hope for the future.
A week later….
Irene crossed the plains at a leisurely pace, letting the summer sun soak her to the bones in warmth and light, and arrived in the outskirts of Blackwater for the last time in the late afternoon.Dr. Montgomery was waiting on the porch of her home-turned-office, hands on her hips. "Late again," she said.Irene smiled. It still hurt her face a little, but the unfamiliar was quickly becoming familiar. "I know, Mae." She swung down from Nephele, slipping the Appaloosa a carrot. "Just enjoying the ride. I won't be this warm again for a while."Mae raised an eyebrow. "It's not that bad. Especially not in summer.""How do you know?""I gave you the idea, didn't I? How do you think I know?" she retorted, stomping inside her office and leaving the door open for Irene to follow.She did. "You've lost me.""Bah, isn't that the truth. You'll be lost in general." She paused, hands on her hips again, scanning her shelves. "Suppose that settles it then.""Settles what? What are you on about now?" She took a deep breath, headache looming. She appreciated Mae more than ever since she had managed to save both Jules' life and most of Caleb's leg, but this was getting tiring."I'm coming with you.""What?""I'm coming with you. I miss Canada terribly, you need a doctor around — a competent doctor, not a hack — and the locals are about to run me out, so this is the best chance we have.""Mae, you can't. You know why we need to go, you can't be associated with us—""Can't I? I'm a doctor and a woman, you think I'm not at least one step outside the law anyway?""I—"Mae groaned, rubbing her temples. "Mrs. Hyland… Irene. It's no trouble at all. You have been my best customers for years, you know. Caleb will still need his medicine. Canada may be rich hunting but it doesn't exactly have a wealth of me. Yet.""Yet…" She breathed out a laugh. "You are one of a kind, Mae.""Yes, I am. Now, let's get packing, shall we? You're leaving with more than you bargained for, after all."