Chapter Text
“Sheriff Hopper’s after us. Has his new Pretty Boy deputy with him too.”
The sun is high and bright and bothersome but you’ve been on a job for the last month, which paints everything bothersome, even Max’s warning.
“Didn’t know Hopper was working with anyone,” you muse, as you dismount your horse, Calliope, and hand the young girl the reigns. Your muscles are stiff and achy from riding so long and you smell like a manure pit. You desperately want a proper bed—or a shallow grave—to fall into.
“He’s new. Hops probably needs the help on account of his leg being fucked up since you shot him,” Max responds, admiration tinging her voice.
You scoff, “I didn’t fuck up his leg, he’s just old and fat.”
You had barely even grazed him.
“Pretty Boy, huh? I’m sure your brother is seething about that.”
Max glares at you through her lashes, “he’s not my brother,” she warns.
You know this, of course, you’re just in a bad mood and looking for a bruise to poke. You should probably apologize but Max’ll get her lick back soon enough—it’ll be easy with you, too. You’re all bruise.
“Billy hates him, already ran into him and the Chief in Amarillo. Came home all black and blue from their scuffle, ended up running him off the trail and he fell off his horse.”
You whistle lowly, knocking Billy Hargrove off his horse is no easy feat. He must’ve been angry after that.
“He said that they had a list of all the gang’s members. Not our names or nothing, just descriptions, I guess. Apparently, Hopper has you on the list as ‘crack shot girl’. ”
You drink this information up, eyes scanning the horizon, half expecting Billy or Hopper or even Creel to spring out any moment. Nothing but the wind through the grass, though.
“What does he have you as?” You probe.
Max nearly pouts in response, “Red.”
You’re trying not to laugh, and instead grapple to change the subject.
“What about the ‘Pretty Boy’ deputy? Does he have a name?”
You don’t care too much, you want to keep the conversation going, it’s the only real one you’ve had in weeks.
“Heard it was Harrington or something like that,” Max shrugs, quickly losing interest in favor of brushing Calliope’s mane.
It has to be “something like that”, you decide, because you knew for a fact there wasn’t a single Harrington west of the Appalachians. There hadn’t been in years.
_______________
Steve Harrington was the first in his family to leave Wyoming in thirteen generations. It wasn’t by choice.
Steve’s daddy had been a cattle rancher. He hadn’t owned any land like yours had but he was the best bull rider in all the West. That was, until his fatal fall off the saddle when Steve was barely old enough to ride himself.
The heartbreak of her true love’s death had made a ghost of Steve’s mama, effectively making him an orphan.
He was thirteen when he had come to your Daddy’s ranch, threadbare hat clutched tightly in his fists nervously as he asked for work.
You were twelve then and watched the whole exchange from the top of the stairs with your sisters, the three of you drinking him in with an odd curiosity. He had been all limbs back then, thin and awkward but as tall as a man. His face was uncreased and fearful, giving away his true age. You listened, unseen as the young boy stuttered through an explanation of his pitiful circumstances.
He wasn’t looking for charity, he made a point to specify, but work. He could ride and wrangle and he knew how to work the land, too, he explained, chest puffing with pride. He would earn his keep, he propositioned.
The ranch was always in need of hands, and your father was always benevolent to necessary causes and in circumstances that made him seem like a better man than he was, so it was a done deal before night’s end.
_______________
“Son of a bitch,” you exhale through gritted teeth, desperately trying to reload your goddamn shotgun.
It was supposed to be an easy enough job—a little stagecoach stick up right outside of Tombstone. You had been scoping the target for days, a miner and his family making their way back East after striking it big in the mines. They were obnoxiously flagrant about their wealth—just like all New Money—and it was obvious that they were traveling with their coffers full of that fine California Gold. The plan was that you, Billy, and Tommy would ambush their stagecoach sometime around twilight before they reached Tombstone proper but then Max had decided to tag along and, while she was your favorite member of the gang by miles, she had no place at an armed robbery.
The whole operation was slowed down to accommodate the tagalong and suddenly it had become too dark and late to hit them before they arrived in Tombstone, so you had to adjust and hedge your bets on ambushing them when they left the small town the following morning. Someone must have recognized the crew that night and tipped off the sheriff, though, because next thing you know, the four of you are about to run the stagecoach off the trail when you hear gunshots and Hopper’s gruff demands for your surrender.
There goes that easy $800, you sigh to yourself, steadying your aim over your shoulder. You’re a lousy shot at this angle especially while riding a horse, but you’re not hoping for a miracle, only to distract long enough to give Max a chance to get away. She’s the slowest of the four and you refuse to leave her behind. (Even if all of this is kind of her fault.)
On the opposite side of the road from behind the stagecoach, you see a sharp movement— the deputy, you’re sure. From the corner of your eye you catch fragments of familiar hair, eyes, lips and suddenly your finger slips on the trigger, a stray bullet flies behind you, spooking a horse and causing some commotion. You hope it’s Hopper’s but you can’t bring yourself to check. You can’t bring yourself to do anything. At all. Because there, on the other side of the road, all tan skin and freckled-faced is Steve Harrington, alive and older and looking at you with an expression of shock matching your own.
“Sunshine?” He shouts over the gallop of hooves and in hearing his voice you’ve lost all doubt that this was some sort of joke you managed to play on yourself.
It’s him. Truly.
What you say back is lost to the wind as a lone shot rings out and suddenly you’ve lost your balance on your horse and you’re sent tumbling down, fingers fighting for purchase along your reigns.
Steve’s stunned face and the smoke from his gun are the final things you see before hitting the ground.
Son of a bitch.
_______________
You and Steve became fast friends, being close in disposition and most importantly, age.
While you loved your younger sisters they were just that: younger. At six and eight respectively, Hattie and Lottie were far too preoccupied with dress up and tea parties, hobbies that you had also adored at their age, but at the mature age of twelve, no longer stimulated you. In Steve you found a confidant and an accomplice.
You snuck him extra portions at supper and spent your spare moments following him around reading aloud from one of your many books. He had a penchant for war epics and horror while you liked romance and mystery. Both of you could agree, though that Westerns were the best.
In exchange for your generosity, Steve taught you how to ride and shoot and lasso.
He was the best teacher truly and would often outdo men of twice his age and size when it came to rearing and riding. He learned everything from his daddy, he had told you. Steve talked about his father a lot. About what he was like and everything he was exceptional at and how the crowd had gone stone silent when his broken body hit the dusty ground.
“That’s how I’m going to die too, one day,” he had told you, grim but not sad. “On a bull in Cheyenne. Probably the same one, he’s the only one that could take me out.”
“How do you know how you’re gonna die?” You awed at him.
“Just a feeling in my gut. Sometimes you just know,” he shrugged sagely.
You nodded along and tried, desperately so, to will your gut to give you a precognition about the circumstances of your own death.
“I don’t know how I’m gonna die,” you admitted to Steve after a long moment of self-assessment, “but I know you’re gonna be there.“
You had no clue what possessed you to say that other than the fact that you knew it to be categorically true.
Steve smiled in response, pleased.
_______________
You wake up under a sky of pinprick stars. Dreams of childhood vows and muddy fields filled with promise fade as you take in your surroundings.
There’s a fire burning next to you and a sharp pain running along your entire body, burning to match. Max suddenly appears by your side, looking equal measures relieved and frazzled.
“What happened?” You ask weakly.
“Pretty Boy shot Calliope and you fell into the ravine. Had to fish you out of there and find a place to lay you down.”
“What about Billy and Tommy?”
“They left us.”
Of course.
“Bastards.”
“Bastards,” Max agrees.
“And what about the sheriff… and the deputy?”
“Sheriff fell off his horse when you shot him and his deputy went after Billy. Didn’t see where though, but I’m sure he didn’t catch him.”
“Probably not,” you croak before accepting the canteen Max brought to your lips. Billy was a menace on a horse, agile and quick in ways most men could only dream and he already had too much of a head start.
You try to stand up now, too fast evidently, since Max rushes to your side to help you along when you waver. Eventually, you’re on your feet, stumbling forward with only Max keeping you upright, your whole body screaming at you to stop.
“Come on then, Red, let’s go back home.”
Your whole body aches so much your vision blurs and there’s a pain along your ribcage that may hint at a broken bone. The ride back to the Creel House on the back of Max’s scrawny horse is utter agony but at least Max has gifted you a mercifully silent journey by not trying to make conversation.
“You know him,” Max murmurs. It’s nearly morning when she finds enough courage to bring it up.
“Pretty Boy called you ‘sunshine’,” she continues, “I heard him.”
You freeze.
“You must’ve heard wrong then. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
You leave it at that.
_______________
By the time you were sixteen, you felt like you knew Steve better than you knew yourself. You could read him like a book—every crook of an eyebrow, every sideways glance, and their meaning were neatly categorized in your mind. Part of that was the familiarity bred by endless idle hours together and part of that was the burgeoning ache that had been festering inside of you in the past months; the soft, comforting ember of friendly affection had given way to something hotter, something you couldn’t bring yourself to define yet but singed your skin at the sight of him and made you want to chart his every mood like sailors charted the stars.
This was exactly why you could tell he was upset even though he denied it. Something about the way he clenched his jaw while he aimed his gun at the row of cans sitting on a broke down fence a little too hard indicated that he had something weighing on his mind.
“You’re meant to hit the targets, you know,” you goaded after he had missed all of five shots.
His jaw clenched harder.
“You can’t be cross just because I’m the better shot than you,” you needled further.
“I’m not cross,” he argued back, crossly.
“Yes, you are! You’ve been sullen and cross three weeks now even though you say otherwise and it’s driving me mad so, why don’t you stop being stubborn and tell me what it is that’s making you act like this and we can fix it and be back to normal. I don’t want to spend my last week here watching you pout all over the ranch.”
He sighed a drawn-out, guttural thing, and then suddenly, it hit you.
“Wait, are you mad I’m leaving?” Your tone wasn’t accusatory as much as it was curious. Truthfully, when your parents had share the news that they were sending you to a finishing school, you had been devastated at the prospect but you tried your best to keep your true feelings from view. Your father had made it known that he had gone to great lengths to secure your spot and your momma got misty eyed when she spoke about how many doors this opportunity would open for you.
“No, I’m not mad you’re leaving,” he argued back and flinched at how unconvincing he sounded. You knew deep in your bones that you'd miss Steve the most when you were gone. No matter how fair you'd go or how'd long you'd be apart, you're sure you'd miss Steve.
“Steve, you know I’d rather be here, shooting cans than anywhere else, even that fancy school,” you cajole. It's a simple, earnest statement but as far as you could trust yourself saying without confessing your devotion.
“You say that now,” he petulantly threw himself down on a tree root and you moved to sit next to him, “but as soon as you make friends and meet new people, I’ll be dust.”
You laughed at the uncharacteristic display of self-pity. “You really think I’d find someone I would love more than you?”
The idea of it was so ludicrous you didn’t even realize the carelessness by which you threw out such hefty claims of affection. Of course, you loved Steve and he you, and while you were never scared to voice that to each other before, now the word meant something different—at least to you it did.
Your eyes shift down to your boots, hoping he didn’t pick up on the change in your heart.
“Not more, just different.”
“Different how?”
“You're going to find someone,” it was his turn to get flustered and glanced at the ground, “... someone you want to spend the rest of your life with.”
“Well, I want that to be you,” you responded, not thinking and far too quickly.
“No, I mean, someone you want to marry,” he spits out, exasperation being quickly replaced with embarrassment as his words sank into place.
You stalled at the implication your heartbeat becoming almost deafening. Steve was afraid you were going to go out and find someone else to marry and leave him behind. Was it possible that he was equally consumed by that same burning affection that had been sieging your heart for months?
Out of the two of you, you had always been the braver one. The one that always jumped in first, the one to take a risk on a whim. And, while it terrified you and made your voice small and wavering, you couldn’t help but say right back, “I want that to be with you, too.”
Steve beamed in response.
_______________
Tommy and Billy had beaten you and Max back to the Creel house. At least the bastards had the decency to look a little ashamed as they watched Max support your limping form through the threshold. Mostly, though they looked surprised.
“Thought the deputy had gotten you,” Billy whistles lowly through the toothpick that is perpetually resting in the corner of his mouth.
“He killed my horse,” you bemoan. “ Max had to fish me out of the ravine on her own, no thanks to you two.”
The blond man shrugs in response, “We couldn’t go back. Thems the rules, you know that.”
You do know that but you are miserable and tired and just looking for someone to blame for the life you had fallen into so you glare back.
Billy is unfazed by your glare and in a rare moment of kindness, offers to acquire a horse for you during his next round through the nearby ranches. This uncharacteristic show of pity makes you realize you probably look as bad as you feel and for a brief moment wish that Max hadn’t pulled you out of that ravine.
You manage to stumble onto your cot, body raked with pain and you lay there, unmoved until night comes and it’s not until the dark has truly settled and you are sure that no one could possibly see, that you begin to cry.
Silent tears stream down your face for your companion, your horse, the last thing you called your own. One more thing stolen away--and this time, by a ghost no less. A gift from your daddy when you had turned seventeen, her name plucked from one of your books on Greek mythology she had been your companion when you had felt most alone.
Calliope was the final reminder of a life long gone and now she’s just another thing you’re left mourning.