Chapter Text
"Alright now, that's enough. You'll get fat on me," she huffed and wiped her hands on her skirts to clear the juice. The headshake that indicated disagreement made her chuckle.
"You're spoiling him, you know that? It's just a damn horse," came a voice from behind her, playful and gentle.
"He's not just a horse," she grumbled over her shoulder, still smiling and rubbing Cricket's long neck, "He's my baby".
Hosea shuffled to stand next to her, briefly joining her with the petting. "Looks like a horse to me."
She gave him a side-eye. "I trust this horse with my life. Can't say the same about most people."
"My dear," the old man sighed, a bit out of breath as the heat of the day prodded the cicadas to begin singing, "You spoil a man like this, he'd take a bullet for you, too."
Cricket shook his neck and swiped his long tail. The sunlight ran over his dark mane as his muscles shivered. He was undeniably ordinary as horses went but beautiful and as strongly bonded to her as she was to him.
"You off for work?" Hosea coughed to the side.
"Yes." She squinted up at the bright sky, assessed the angle of the sun. "I should probably get going."
He nodded absentmindedly. Several lazy minutes passed as Savigne gently rubbed and massaged Cricket. She liked Hosea and didn't mind being around him for long spells of silence (although he was the chatty sort so that didn't happen often). She also had a soft spot for him because ultimately he was the reason she was here.
Saint Denis, where she worked, was growing as fast as an ant hill and the incoming crowd had pushed the price of lodging up to ridiculous heights. The only options there were roommates and after repeatedly coming home to mountains of dishes in the sink or muddy boot prints in the hallways or a bunch of rowdy “guests” drinking and celebrating the occasion of the day in the living room, she had decided she was done with roommates.
That was easier said than done and what followed had been two disappointing weeks of walking out of rooms blotched with mold or cockroach infestations, rooms in distasteful neighborhoods, rooms where the asking price made her take a double take at the number, rooms with no windows or even washrooms in the building. She had reluctantly widened her search to outside the city, drifting further and further away until she found herself in Valentine. Here, the majority of her choices were older women who were looking to rent out a room and the only thing less desirable than rowdy roommates was some old spinster spying on her or nagging her to come to church on Sundays.
Savigne had been practically at the end of her rope the day Hosea had overheard her talking to people about lodging options.
"Young lady, I say we have an opportunity here that benefits us both!” had been his grandiose introduction. “I’m camping nearby with friends. If you stay with us, me and my friends can make some money and you can save some."
“A camp?” had been her stupefied question. She had heard of tent cities where lower income folks came together for convenience and the safety of numbers. Some of these eventually became villages and towns, others picked up and migrated like birds, circling around cities where there was work opportunity.
“Consider the selling points!” was his generous smile.
“Such as?”
“Well…easy to move in. Easy to move out if you don’t like it. No contracts. No rules or regulations. No stupid curfew. No one will bother you or tell you what to do. Cheaper than a room in any city!”
Savigne had initially turned it down. But once sparked, the idea had lingered. After another three days of fruitless looking, she had begun to wonder what Hosea's arrangement looked like. Three days after that she had convinced herself that there was no harm in inquiring further. So she had left him a message at the Valentine saloon to meet the following Sunday.
She grinned when he walked in, dressed up in a nice suit, the red carnation bright and pretty on the lapel of his gray suit.
"Meeting a lady is serious business," he said as he ambled over to her table.
"Thank you for coming," she smiled.
"But of course!" he waved an arm. He waited for her to sit down first before he sank into his own chair. There was some small talk about the weather and each other's health before she cleared her throat:
"I don't want to take too much of your time. Is the offer you made still valid?"
"It's valid," he said. It was subtle but she heard the hesitation in his voice.
"But...?"
"No buts," he recovered but before he could continue, the man behind the bar came over. "Beer for me. And for the pretty lady here..."
"Lemonade is fine."
"It's just that...I haven't embellished the details as much as I should have." he mused as he pulled out a pipe from his inner jacket pocket.
"Please do," she laced her fingers on the table.
"Well, me and my friends have been together for a long time and I guess it’s fair to say that we're an odd bunch."
"Odd how?"
Hosea coughed a little and stuck his pipe into his mouth without lighting it. "I would say, odd because we're a little old-fashioned."
Savigne gave him a long, suspicious look. "Are you a religious commune or something? I heard about the Chelonians around here."
"Jesus, no, not that odd! We have...different views of the world order and society."
She blinked at him owlishly until he decided that she was one of those people who needed straight on answers. "We're outlaws," was his sheepish addition as he sucked on his pipe.
Her initial impulse was to get up and walk out. Instead, to her own surprise, she found herself inspecting the mild mannered man sitting across from her. He was older, polite and well spoken - a stark contrast to what she had read about outlaws in books who were gangs of burly men with big mustaches, yeehawing and shooting at the sky.
"You're criminals?"
"See that's where the different view comes in."
"So you're not criminals?"
"Only to those who deserve it," he said as a smile tugged the corner of his lips. "We take from the rich and give to the poor." There was a pause and a grimace. "Well...we used to anyway."
"Like...Robin Hood?"
He sighed and looked out the large window they were sitting next to. "Sounds more convincing when Dutch tells it," was his weak mutter. A long moment passed before he turned to her again. "Young lady, I won't fool you. We are what we are. But first I must underline that we ain't bad people." When her look of skepticism deepened: "Consider the selling points!"
"What are the selling points?" was her astonished question.
"Well…being outlaws, we're crafty! Have to be clever to be in this business, right?” The crease between her eyebrows indicated that she didn’t understand the relevance of this, so he pushed: “And, due to the line of work we’re in, we have a lot of guns." A twinkle ran through his eyes. "That means guards at all times at the camp. So you could say protection is top notch. If you think about it..." a finger rose in the air, "...if you stay with outlaws, you will avoid outlaws."
She couldn't help the chuckle that fell from her lips. "How does that work?"
"Who will rob an outlaw camp?" was the amused hitch of shoulders.
Her chuckle turned into a chortle and he laughed with her as the beer and lemonade arrived. She waited for the man to walk away and ran a finger over the condensation of the cool glass, her intrigue slowly starting to outweigh her alarm. Under normal circumstances, it was madness to even contemplate it. But the circumstances she was in – tight budget and shit roommates…well let’s just say that it warranted a deeper discussion before dismissal.
“You seem like a nice man,” she said as she took a sip from her beverage. It was tart and watery. “But why would a woman go stay with a band of outlaws? Sounds pretty dumb.”
“Aha!” he exclaimed and scraped his chair closer to the table. “Glad you pointed that out. Because see, we ain’t the usual kind. We have women and children with us.”
“Really?” she blinked.
“Yes ma’am,” he straightened, seemingly proud. “Now, I’m not about to try to sell this lifestyle to someone like you – someone with a proper, honest job who works for their money. But life isn’t so simple, is it my dear? People fall on hard times and we all do what we must. It's a tough world out there on your own, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that."
A silence set in as she weighed this. Objectively, it was a phenomenally bad idea and Savigne had some of those under her belt, so she knew a thing or two about bad ideas. Subjectively, Hosea didn't seem the kind to hold her at gunpoint and rob her and it was only a temporary solution. And more importantly, cheap.
"How much would this cost me?" she said as she crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. "Considering the risk, I expect a bargain."
The notion of haggling seemed to revive the old man. "Good point," he straightened, eyes glinting with mischief. "How about...eighty dollars a week?"
She snorted. "I can get a room in Saint Denis for that money!"
Hosea beamed as if he had felt the twitching of a fish on the line and hummed with mock consternation. "Good point. Seventy-five." When her eyebrows rose: "Did I mention the excellent security? Guards on lookout all day, every day?"
She gave him a gaze from under her brows. "You did mention that. Forty."
"Forty! A meal in Saint Denis would cost you more!"
"I know how much meals in Saint Denis cost," she grinned.
He huffed in good humor and narrowed his eyes. "Sixty-five. I might have forgotten to add that our location is excellent. The view alone will stun you. And it's close to Valentine here, so you won't be in the middle of nowhere."
She bit her cheek and tilted her head. “That is a plus. However, a tent is a vast downgrade to a room. Forty-five.”
“I would argue a tent is far better for the summer! Open, airy and light! Sixty."
“I will have an added expense of a bath in a city..." she trailed, giving him a side eye.
“Which is why god, in all his wisdom, made rivers and lakes. Fifty-five.”
“Rivers and lakes are for fish. Fifty and we have a deal.”
"God damn it," he slapped his knee with exaggerated fluster and she laughed like a child. "Fine. Fifty."
His hand was soft and warm when she shook it and she ignored the voice in her head that she had just committed to something exceedingly dumb - even by her standards. Outlaws or not, fifty dollars a week was a steal! Her mind went over the numbers and her heart fluttered at the amount of money she was going to save over this summer.
"How much time do you need?" he asked.
"I will have to buy a tent and some other stuff. How about we meet here in two days at six?"
"You won't regret it," was his gentle response.
"Days are getting longer. It'll be lighter when you return," he interrupted her train of thought.
Neither of them said much after that. She was relieved that the short, dark days of winter were behind her. The ride was long but in the summer it was bound to be pleasant and a lot less stressful. The only downside was that people stayed up later and later in camp as the weather warmed and sometimes it tended to get noisy. But she had moved her tent to the furthest possible point she could without leaving the sight and security of the camp, almost all the way up to the edge of the clearing and usually was too tired to be bothered by the laughter and the music anyway. Most days she just came in, brushed and fed Cricket, wiped the grime and sweat off with soap and water, then just crawled into her tent and collapsed on her bedroll.
"Can you tell Dutch that I will pay my weekly rent tonight when I return?" she quipped as she pulled herself up and adjusted her position on the saddle.
"Is it overdue?" he squinted up at her, his hands still petting the horse's neck.
"No, of course not," she snorted.
She raised her hand in farewell and Hosea watched her go. God, how young she was! His own youth felt like a distant memory; an ancient, immemorial land – foreign and exotic. Sometimes he closed his eyes and tried to remember the feeling of waking up refreshed, awash with energy and eagerness. The lack of back pain. Joints all nimble and oiled. Lungs endless, heart strong, head clear. He tried to remember running, his muscles taut and springy. The good, healthy ache after.
He sighed and ambled over to the fire to retrieve a coffee mug from the pile of washed dishes. The coffee was dark and bitter. These days he could only have a single cup. Another thing to remember – having coffee whenever he wanted, several times a day without his heart going into palpitations and his stomach churning. He unfolded a discarded newspaper from yesterday, trying to find the spot he left off at for his morning routine. He didn't get far before a shadow fell on him.
"Morning, Dutch," he said without looking up.
The other man sank into one of the chairs around the dim campfire and lighted his cigar. Cigars: another luxury that neither his stomach, nor his lungs enjoyed these days.
"How are you, Hosea?"
"Doing well enough, thank you. Weather is warming up, my bones are happy at least."
"That makes two of us," Dutch mumbled around his cigar, throwing the matchstick into the fire. "Isn’t it fun, getting old?"
"Hilarious!" was the dry retort. “Miss Ricci wanted me to tell you that she'll pay her rent tonight."
"Why, is she overdue? I admit I haven't checked the ledger in a while. It depresses me.”
"No. I think she's just reminding us that she never was," chuckled Hosea.
"So – vanity?" mused Dutch.
You’d know a thing or two about that, wouldn’t you? he thought but merely replied with: "Nothing so sinister, I think."
"Likes to put the rest of us in our place," grumbled a third voice, making both men look up. "Like she's better'n'us."
"What bit you in your sleep, Arthur?" he looked up, shielding his eyes.
The third man, surprisingly silent in his approach for his large frame scratched his days long beard, squinting around the camp as he pawed for a clean mug. "I ain't blind," he said after a long minute, "Don' know why she thinks we gonna run out the carpet for her over $50 a week."
Hosea hummed and changed pages. Youth was all good and well but old age gave you something that youth never could: a certain kind of sharpness. Young Hosea would have thought nothing of it, but old Hosea found it amusing that, despite barely interacting with her, Arthur was increasingly irritated by a woman who slept at the other edge of the camp and kept to herself.
He wet his thumb and turned another page. "You ask me, it's a steal. She merely sleeps here, doesn't bother anyone, doesn't eat our food or require our help. She pays on time…” He side-eyed the younger man who sank to sit between him and Dutch. That pasty skin was the mark of a hangover and unfortunately too common as of late. “Also I don't know when you got rich boy, but $50 a week for letting a woman sleep in her tent at the edge of the camp is pretty nice. I consider that $200 a month my contribution to the box."
Arthur grimaced and Hosea ran his tongue over his teeth to hide his smile.
"You won't find me saying no to money," Dutch sighed, eyeing the coffee pot. "It's more than what some of the ladies contribute."
"They contribute more'n that," Arthur groaned with an undertone of displeasure. "Can't be easy, washin’ Uncle's underwear."
"Don't know why you're so sour on her,” Hosea pushed, pretending to read the paper.
"Don' care one way or another," Arthur growled. "I just see the way she turns her little nose up at us, is all."
“Does she now?”
Somewhere from behind them, Molly whined for Dutch.
“Gentlemen,” was Dutch’s apology tinged with mild exasperation before he rose and stepped away.
“You tellin’ me you don’ see that? How she slinks in and out like we lepers?” Arthur padded his shirt for his cigarettes.
“She’s just cautious with her trust. As she should be. Did you forget who we are, son?”
“Why she here then if we so vile?”
Hosea shrugged. “Cheap and safer than being alone.”
“Oh so we safe enough for protectin’ but not safe to mingle.”
Hosea pursed his lips. “Why do you care what she thinks?” was his mild question.
“Who says I care?”
“You wouldn’t yap about her if you didn’t.”
A defensive roll of shoulders. “Ain’t yappin’. You was yappin’ when I arrived.”
He gave Arthur’s profile a look from under his brows. “You have a point,” he conceded.
“Damn right I do,” was the grouchy response.
To be this young and dumb, Hosea thought wistfully. He probably shouldn’t, but the opportunity to get under Arthur’s skin was too good to pass. “She’s actually really nice if you bothered to get to know her.”
A sarcastic huff of disbelief. “Got better things to do.”
Like what – drinking yourself stupid? “If you say so.”
“I say so.”
Hosea sighed to himself. Another thing folks didn’t tell you about getting old was that it made you more melancholic, more prone to bouts of regret. He felt the familiar bite of guilt as he sat there next to his adopted son and worried about his emotional stiltedness. The man was steadfast, loyal, fearless, and formidable. But with that came a certain density, a rigidity. Like dirt that had baked into bricks under years of drought, now impenetrable to water.
“She say something to ruffle your feathers, son?”
A grunt of contempt. “No. She stayin’ well clear of me. As she should.”
The heart of the problem, the real reason for all this bristling. So obvious to Hosea but ironically so obscure and opaque to the speaker himself.
“Well it’s temporary. A few months at most.”
A grumble of “Here’s hopin’.”
"We ready with these yet or d'ya wanna replant the potatoes?"
Savigne didn't give her mind, focused on her task of adjusting the food just so, pushing the green beans gently apart. "I will let you know when we're ready, Susan," she murmured, the tip of her tongue resting on her upper lip. "Food needs to look good too, taste isn't enough."
Susan rolled her eyes, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ears. "How 'bout it needs to be warm? Cause I think that's definitely important."
"It's plenty warm. It needs to look pretty, like arranged-like but without looking too arranged-like.”
"That makes no sense."
"Don't hurt your head over it. I got it," Savigne sighed as she eyed the plates one last time. "They're ready."
Susan grabbed the plates with an exaggerated huff, throwing them on her tray. Savigne looked on with sour disdain as some of the ingredients shuffled out of their perfect positions.
"Don’ know where you think yer workin’, but this here is just a steakhouse. Ain't nobody gonna notice," Susan mumbled as she headed to the stairs to the dining room.
"People notice unconsciously!" Savigne yelled after her.
"Girl got a point," Luther grumbled from beside her as he flipped the steaks. "This ain't no fancy place. Just steaks and potatoes."
"It's steaks, potatoes and vegetables. And it's fancy enough."
He clicked his tongue.
"See, you have no imagination. I read in this magazine that Europeans fret over this stuff."
"That so?" was the incredibly disinterested groan.
"They have this steakhouse in France, I saw a picture of the plating, Luther, by god, you could call it art! They even cut the steak all nice and tidy…"
"Cut the steak? The hell kinda place is that?"
She gave the beans a stir and went over to mash the potatoes. "A place for rich folks, that's what."
"Rich folks, huh?" he plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and gave her a long look. "What d'ya know about rich folks? Youse here with me." A moment later an amused addition: "And poor enough to mingle with outlaws."
"Nothing wrong with sleeping in a tent!" she hissed, quickly looking around the kitchen to make sure they weren't overheard. "And keep the outlaw bit to yourself. I told you, it's a temporary arrangement. I'm saving money."
"If it's money you need why not join ‘em? Bet they make more in a week than you do in months."
“Not my line of work,” she shrugged as she took the beans off the stove. "They're not bad people but...as a matter of fact, they are bad people," she conceded lamely. "You know," she whispered with some heat, “I'm pretty sure they robbed a train not that long ago. A damn train! I heard them talking about it."
"That so?" Luther’s eyebrow curled up. "Sounds excitin'."
"Yeah well not if you are a passenger, I bet."
"Say, do they 'ave bounty on their heads?" He asked suddenly, contemplative. "Could turn 'em in and make bank."
"Please!" She tried to act as if this option hadn’t occurred to her before. Truth is, the gang had been nothing but nice to her and the idea of repaying that kindness by sending them to jail for money was repulsive. She thought of Hosea and Jack and Charles and Mary-Beth. "If the law wants to chase people, they will have to do it on their own dime."
A few weeks later Savigne was in Valentine because it was Sunday and it was her bath and leisure day. Most folks would go to church on Sundays or spend it with family so she had the day off. She went to Valentine early for her usual routine and it was a pretty enough day - bright and warm, nature sprouting around her like slowly unfurling fireworks. She rode through the knee length grass and stopped to watch a herd of horses play in the distance. She took out her binoculars and followed eagles roam in the sky. She liked the city well enough and had never really lived outside of a city, but the countryside was growing on her. At first the quiet, open spaces seemed intimidating and full with possible danger. But since she had started to live with the gang and grown more comfortable riding outside of the city, she had come to like the tranquility.
She took her long bath, dropped off her dirty laundry and picked up her basket of clean clothes that she had dropped off last week to be washed and pressed, exited the hotel...and watched men galloping away with Cricket in tow.
Savigne dropped her basket.
She was rooted to her spot for a few moments and then stupidly ran a few steps after them as if to follow, then stopped again when they rode out of sight. Her mind went blank and she started to hyperventilate, twitching with helplessness. Her intended cry of alarm was a weak, inaudible croak of "Help!"
She gulped to get more air into her lungs and doubled over, hands on knees. Dark spots danced in her vision. Breathe, breathe, breathe, don’t pass out, ohmygodCricket!!
She shot up straight and the dark spots intensified. DO something!
Her head swiveled around in a panic. There were some folks walking about, but like most Sundays, the town was quiet and calm. She didn't know anyone here except Bill, the receptionist of the hotel she just had a bath at. He'll know what to do! She managed to get control of her limbs back again and was stumbling back to the hotel entrance the when doors of the saloon across the street swung open and Arthur Morgan sauntered out into daylight.
Normally a man she would avoid, today he looked like an angel sent by god. She ran up to him instead and noticed his eyes give her a flicker of bored recognition.
"Mr. Morgan!" she panted, arriving by his side as he kept walking, "W-wait..."
To his credit, he did stop.
"Th-they took…took…my horse!" she stammered between gulps of air.
His face was as unreadable as ever but he did turn to look in the direction she was pointing.
"Who?"
"I don't…know," she panted, "Men! C-could you..."
"No."
The curt response stunned her speechless. Not even a "I'm sorry" or "That's too bad, but…" or "Calm down miss" - just "No".
She blinked at him with disbelief and watched his halo - probably a mirage of her lightheadedness – dull. “But…”
He walked away as if the conversation was over.
"W-wait," she gasped and ran after him. His pace was casual enough, but he was a lot taller than her and she was half running to keep up. "Hold on a minute, damn it!" She instinctively grabbed his arm and he stopped, his face still turned away from her. The tension was immediate, electric and sobering. She swallowed and slowly retrieved her hand. It had felt like holding a tree branch, the muscles of his forearm like wound rope under his shirt. She made a mental note that he was a man who didn’t like being touched.
"Please!" she begged. "I'll pay you!"
"Can't pay me enough to hold out my neck for an old horse, ma'am," was his growl as he slowly turned to lock eyes with her under his hat. Arthur's azure gaze had always made her uncomfortable and she had always been the one to look away first in the past, but given the circumstances, she found a reserve of courage and held the eye contact.
"Just name the price!" she waved an exasperated arm as she felt the sting of tears in her eyes.
"Don' want money." was the bored response.
The moment held for a breath or two before she pressed on: "What then? I'll owe you!"
"Owe me what?" was the lazy question as Arthur finally slightly turned her way. Up close, he seemed like a small mountain, towering over her with those wide shoulders.
She craned her neck and shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun. Her frustration throbbed in her temples and there was an overwhelming need to tap her foot that she stubbornly resisted.
“I don't know? What do you want?"
He looked at her for a long time and just as Savigne was about to repeat herself, she was hit with an understanding. Even she, as obtuse as she often was, gathered the unspoken answer. A wave of heat crept up her neck and fanned to her cheeks. She opened her mouth to speak, swallowed and tried again, feeling like all her confidence was melting under that heavy gaze.
"Seriously?" she heard her own voice, weak and shaky, "What the hell do you take me for?"
Arthur merely shrugged but didn't divert his gaze. "Y'asked." Then another smug addition of "Ma'am."
Savigne opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water, caught off guard by this bizarre development. A bold man was nothing unusual, but this man? Arthur Morgan wasn't lecherous like Micah or flirty like Sean – he was quiet and reserved. All she had sensed from him in the rare moments they had crossed paths had been a profound lack of interest. He was more away than around, and until this moment she had been convinced that he probably wouldn’t have recognized her outside of camp.
Now here he was, suggesting something that pushed a cloud of heat right into her gut.
"You're jesting, right? It's not funny if you are.” He straightened and crossed his arms. “That horse is my...please Mr. Morgan! I'll do anything to get my horse back!"
The cowboy took off his hat and scratched his neck, gazing in the direction the thieves had disappeared. He looked like a man with all the time in the world while the seconds ticked by like church bell gongs in Savigne's head. She waited with baited breath, not sure what it was she was waiting for. She should be offended. Hell, she should be outraged.
"Don' wanna make that promise to a man like me," he offered finally, donning his hat again. Another look at her, "Cause I will collect."
The warmth in her belly pulsed ominously and she swayed on her feet, confused, excited, repulsed all at once. "I..." she stuttered, glancing down the road, "…listen...I know you're a decent man, Mr. Morgan..." she ignored the slight jump of his eyebrows, "I think you're just...trying to…embarrass me?"
"Am I now?"
God, why did it have to be him? Why couldn't it have been Charles who would have gone after those thieves in a heartbeat and would have never asked for anything in return?
"Can you please, please, please bring him back? I really love my horse," she croaked, wiping furiously at her eyes. Her brimming eyes had no effect on him whatsoever.
"Sure" he said in that southern drawl of his and she dared to exhale with relief. "Once you make yer promise."
"Unbelievable!" she hissed, suddenly furious enough to forget her trepidation. She stepped up to him, resisting the urge to burrow a finger into that big chest. Arthur didn't move a hair, just looked down at her like she was a bug. "You should be ashamed of yourself!" The smell of alcohol wafted her way although he didn’t seem drunk at all.
He gave out a long breath through his nose, touched his hat with another maddening "Ma'am" and started to walk away with that lazy gait.
Savigne followed despite herself. "Well, wait a minute, are you seriously just going to..."
He walked on, unfazed as if she was a buzzing mosquito. Two steps, three, four...
He’s just toying with you, her inner voice drawled. He’s one of those men who think it’s funny to make a woman squirm, that’s all.
Her eyes crawled over his broad back and the slim hips and the long legs. The heat in her gut flared up and she swallowed with a click in her throat.
Not hard on the eyes, is he?
"Fine! I promise!" she yelled after him and to her relief, his steps stilled.
A moment of silence. "Promise what?" he said over his shoulder.
"I...ugh...whatever. I promise whatever!"
Arthur turned back to her, still maddeningly casual, still relaxed as if her horse wasn't galloping away while they stood here doing nothing.
"Whatever?" His tone was low, his eyes sharp as ice.
"Yes. Whatever you want."
To her relief he walked back to her. She craned her neck to gaze up at six feet of muscle, feeling like a child in his shadow.
"Ya sure? ‘Cause if you renege on me, woman..."
"I won't," she cut him off. It was damn embarrassing to have given this man what he had asked, she wouldn't suffer any further chidings or threats. "Just...he must be a million miles away by now!" she whined, trying to kick him into gear.
Arthur squinted at the bright sky as he weighed her offer. And then, as if it was just a simple business transaction and not an indecent proposal at all, he nodded at her once before whistling for his horse.
A relief so deep washed over her, she had to bite down a sob. Just a joke, she thought. It’s just a joke. He’s a brute who enjoyed putting you on the spot.
She watched him climb on his horse and adjust on the saddle and took a deep, shaky breath as he rode away without acknowledging her again. Her hands were shaking and her legs felt weak. She walked back towards the hotel, gathered her dropped basked, then just fell into a chair on the veranda, gulping air. Her mind furiously tried to justify what just had transpired. Of course it was a joke. No doubt a man like that enjoyed making a woman feel small and helpless, he was the type.
Asshole, she thought and wiped the hair off her wet face. Hope you fall and break a leg. After you return my horse.