Chapter Text
DAY ONE
“What a mess.”
There’s a lumber wagon missing half of its wheels, driven straight into the hillside, blocking the junction. A woman sobs into her hands while a man with a wide-brimmed hat stumbles over his words, failing to console or question her properly. Her private stagecoach parked on the side of the muddy road, unscathed. Down the road to Riggs Station is a trail of bodies, innocents and masked men alike, blood soaking their garments.
With a firm tug on the reins, US Marshal Williams waves his hand, and his two deputies, Rick and Gregory, bring their horses alongside him. He turns to Rick and shakes his head; his thick mustache and mutton chops hide his facial expression from view. Not like it was easy to read the man in the first place, but his narrowed blue eyes say enough. “Search the bodies. Ask around, though, I don’t think you’ll get much.”
Rick and Gregory dismount their horses and lead them away, loyal and obedient as two dogs.
Marshal Williams clicks his tongue, urging his horse forward. He only moves a few feet ahead before he halts suddenly, neck craning and turning back like he has forgotten something. His facial hair bristles in the cool morning wind, further steeling his gaze. A firm hand rests on his pistol holster; he yanks the leash.
“You coming, Winter?”
Winter does not balk at the man. He calls her name like a threat, a cutting reminder of duties and debts that must be paid. Lifting her hand, she fixes her gambler hat so that no loose strands of hair slip past the haloed brim, she gently rouses Mal, guiding the red chestnut horse across Hawks Eye Creek.
He’s not her horse; officially, he belongs to some oil tycoon in New Austin, but Williams hasn’t tried to return stolen property. Maybe because Mal responds to her better than Williams’s own Morgan. Or maybe he finds it ironic that the Oriental rides an oriental horse. Folks don’t think too much like that around here, though. Not out loud. This isn’t Lemoyne or California.
“Come with me. I’d like to speak to the Sheriff,” he orders, leading his black Morgan to the rocks where Rick and Gregory tied theirs at. He dismounts and pats his horse gently on the behind, a reassurance that he’ll be back soon.
Winter brings Mal to the furthest end. It’s out of habit; closest to the road means fastest to run when things go wrong. But there’s nowhere to run. She might not be in chains, but the second she leaves Williams’s sight, she’s asking for a bullet to the head. The leash on her is a promise; a promise that’s keeping her alive… for now.
“Sheriff Farley,” Williams greets a man with a gleaming star on his breast, the only thing clean on his dirty, worn coat. “A fine morning, ain’t it?”
“Marshal,” Farley answers with tired eyes. “Glad you’re here. Helps me sort this mess before the mayor learns of it.”
Williams pulls a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers one to Farley. Farley takes out a lighter and lights Williams’ before igniting his own. “Who’s the feller with you? New deputy?”
Winter straightens her posture and averts her gaze, but Williams ignores Farley. He takes a drag and stares at the train.
Following the marshal’s lead, Farley drops his attention off Winter and points at the train. “So, from witness accounts, the train stopped at the station when it was supposed to, and a group of men swarmed the train from all sides. Got on the train and took a bunch of luggage from the cargo car. Then, a Davis Overland stagecoach coming from Blackwater approached, and all hell broke loose after that—”
“Listen, I ain’t here about the robbery. I got a telegram from the US Marshal of the State of Lemoyne.”
Winter narrows her eyes, mirroring Farley’s confusion. Then, Williams reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “Do you know if anyone saw a woman get taken from the train?”
Farley exhales smoke. “No, sir, all passengers are accounted for.”
“Not all of them,” Williams says. “This train was supposed to arrive in Saint Denis at eight this morning, carrying a… very important woman coming in from Ohio. When her friend came to meet her at the station, there was no train in sight. The train coming in from Emerald Station, scheduled for an hour later, came before the 8 o’clock one was supposed to.”
“That can’t be. We didn’t hear word of the robbery until an hour ago. Riggs Station ain’t that far from Strawberry.”
Winter glances at the nearest body; one of that woman’s stagecoach guards. The blood on his neck is still unmistakably red, neither too dark nor too dried. He couldn’t have been dead for more than four hours. Her eyes rake over the scene; there are twice as many civilians as there are masked men. That man didn’t stand a chance against those outlaws.
“What do you see, boy?”
Always watching, always listening, even Winter’s thoughts aren’t free from his grasp. Winter turns back slowly, only comfortable with meeting Williams’s eyes. “Bodies are fresh but not recently-killed fresh. It takes four hours to get to Saint Denis from here, ain’t it?”
Her tone is rough and gravely, low in pitch to mask the truth. It’s one thing to be “one of them coolies”; it’s another to be a woman in the land of free men, and the existence of one of those stains is enough to hide the other.
Farley’s cigarette dangles between his fingers. “I’ve never been to Saint Denis, but I’d say so.”
“So, it was this train,” Williams concludes. His face reddens as he lifts his hat and scratches his head. “God damn it all. Taken right under our noses.”
“Who was taken?” Farley asks.
Williams’s anger is a silent inferno. He never erupts, never loses his composure, but Winter could always see it in his eyes that the fire rages fearlessly. “My patience is very thin, Sheriff. This should have never happened, and now Washington is gonna be breathing down my neck until I fix this.”
Farley takes a step back and stares him down. “Listen, Marshal, Strawberry is a quiet town. We ain’t got the men to stop outlaw gangs. I’ll help where I can, but there’s a reason oil men have been hiring Pinkertons to hunt down those bastards.”
Winter flinches and swallows the lump in her throat.
The marshal’s eye twitches, nose crinkling as his mustache bunches up right at his nostrils. “Thank you kindly, Sheriff.” He pats Winter on the shoulder and leads her away towards Hawks Eye Creek. “Come on, boy.”
The rushing water down the stream serves as the perfect cover for a private conversation. Williams insists on conducting their business together in secrecy. For a good reason. He spits out his cigarette butt and stamps it into the dirt. Then, he looks at Winter; the fire in his eyes slowly dissipates into embers. “You know of the gangs that operate ‘round here? You ever run with any of them?”
Winter crosses her arms and scowls at the insinuation. “I don’t kill, and I certainly don’t kidnap.”
“But if you did,” Williams presses further, taking another cigarette from his pack and holding it out, “what would you hope to get out of it?”
Her gaze flickers to the cigarette. It’s patronizing how he taunts her, dangling a carrot in front of her. Her lips purse tightly, but her hands shake with want. Slowly, she takes the white cylinder from his hands and exhales as she reluctantly answers, “Ransom. For money or the law off our backs.”
“An exchange,” Williams chuckles. “That’s how all them lawless bastards see people. No regard for life, just how much others can give them… or how much they can take from them.” He does not address her directly, but each word is deliberate; his gaze held firm while daggers of syllables pierce her.
She brings the cigarette between her teeth. She pulls out her lighter and lights the end. She draws in smoke, deep and slow. Her eyes close as she lets it swirl in her mouth before letting it escape. It heals the wounds, if only for a bit.
Williams watches her, waits until she’s smoked enough to approach serenity, before he says, “I need you to do one last favor for me.” His lips curve underneath his imposing bushy mustache. “One last favor, and I’ll let you go.”
Winter watches ash drop from the lit end. Her heart pounds in her chest. Each time she thinks she understands Williams, the explanation unravels at the seams. But that’s not what leaves her like a cornered rat with nowhere to run as the predator inches closer and closer…
“You can’t.” Her voice cracks; her natural tone breaking through as a woman in fear for life, not a man broken down enough that he no longer feels anything. “The Pinkertons…”
He shakes his head almost sympathetically. Almost. “You’re a wanted woman. You and your associates have wreaked havoc from California to New Austin. The government didn’t send Pinkertons after you, but I’m sure you know who did. I have no power over them bringing you to justice.” He takes a deep breath. “Frankly, I should have left you to the wolves.”
Winter bites the inside of her cheek.
“But if you do this one last favor for me, I can keep you from the hangman, or get a pardon for your federal crimes for your service to the United States government.”
Freedom. Freedom has always been just outside of her reach. Each step closer she gets to attaining it, it slips further away. Her whole life… Every good and bad thing she’s done… was for the chance she could finally say she had found it. But broken promise after broken promise, betrayal and abandonment, Winter had sworn off hope. Until Williams, the man who keeps her on a tight leash, offered to release her.
It’s too good to be true.
“What happens if I say no?” Winter asks.
“Then, I kill you,” Williams says without a second thought. “You’re of no use to me once you stop cooperating.”
Winter’s forehead creases as she glances back at the bloody carnage that has Williams asking for her help. The marshal answers to the federal government. Without proper law enforcement outside of Blackwater, it’s the US Marshal of the Commonwealth of West Elizabeth’s responsibility to maintain law and order. Whatever the government wants, Williams is sworn to provide or face the consequences of his failure and lose his post.
She glances back at him. The cracks in the facade start to show. The corners of his mouth twitch as he sways back and forth; he squeezes the folded piece of paper in his hands tightly, like it’s his lifeline.
He’s right. Lawless bastards only see people as a means to get what they want.
She’s out of options; there’s nothing left to lose.
They’re not coming back for her.
If she wants to live, she has to obey.
“Tell me what I need to do.”
Williams stifles a sigh of relief. He flashes her a tight-lipped smile as he takes another drag. “You ever heard of a woman named Katarina MacAlister?”
“No.” Winter blinks.
“Neither have I, until about two hours ago,” he chuckles. “But if the president himself demands she be found and brought home safe, I have no choice but to tear up this entire open country here to find her.” Then, his lips purse together. “But I’m only one man, and I have enough problems back in Blackwater.”
“So, you send me to do your job instead.”
He glares at her, smacking her on the back of her head like a father punishing his son. “Like I said, you do this for me, and I will help you,” he reiterates. “You know the land, you know how these… uncivilized folk think. You are my best chance of keeping my post.”
Williams says the quiet part out loud, and Winter fights another snarky comment. Tools. All these government men are tools. She finishes the last of her cigarette, letting the butt fall into morning-dewed grass, and a stomp of her foot finishes the job. “Fine. And what should I do if I find her?”
“When you find her,” Williams corrects. “Head to Valentine and leave a note at the post office for Marshal Mattersby. He’ll help me coordinate with the Marshal of the State of Lemoyne to secure an escort back to Washington once you’re in Saint Denis.” He spits his cigarette out carelessly and whistles. “Rick! Gregory! Let our friend here have his guns back.” Rick stumbles over to his and Gregory’s horses and unloads Winter’s weapons: her repeater, rifle, shotgun, and bow.
Winter doesn’t bother hiding her surprise, gawking like a dumb idiot with her mouth wide open. This cannot have been the idea of the same man who kept her locked like an animal in a cage for days until he was certain she wouldn’t try anything before letting her see sunlight.
Williams snorts, clearly bemused. “Trust me, boy. You’re gonna need them.” Rick hands him the weapons, and one by one, some of them dirty and in need of gun oil after weeks of neglect, Williams hands them to her, helping her sling the straps over her shoulders and stowing the ones she cannot carry on Mal’s saddle.
“I can keep the Pinkertons off you so long as you are in the state of West Elizabeth, but as soon as you cross the Dakota…” He narrows his eyes pointedly. “You’re on your own.”
Winter stiffens. “That goes for the law too, ain’t it?”
“What?” He raises his eyebrows. “Gonna go back to robbin’ and thievin’ days now that I’m letting you off on your own?” He bellows with laughter. Boisterous, so damn loud that it vibrates through her, spitting saliva droplets onto her face. She grimaces in disgust. “No, you understand this now…”
Williams grabs her shoulders and yanks her close, whispering harshly in her ear, “Do what you must to get the job done, but if she ain’t back in one piece, it won’t just be you who’ll have hell to pay. I’ll find every last one of your friends, too.”
Winter does not recoil. She grits her teeth and stands as tall as she can, sweaty palms pressing against sharp fingernails digging into skin. “I have no friends,” she spits, the same four words she repeated throughout his incessant interrogations while in his captivity, the truth ringing louder each time she says it. Her jaw tightens as she looks him in the eyes, mirroring his menacing demeanor.
“But let me make it very clear, Marshal Williams, I can promise the same hell for you and your friends if you don’t keep your word.”
The stagecoach rolls down the road, shaking as it crosses pavement not made for its wheels, leaving deep parallel lines in the mud usually disturbed by footprints and hooves. The pocket watch dangling from the driver’s coat reads that its big hand is at twelve and the little one is just hitting eleven. It was supposed to arrive in Strawberry about an hour ago, but this Davis Overland Despatch coach is far behind schedule—and far off its scheduled route—right into outlaw territory.
“It’s quiet; don’tcha think? Too quiet.”
“Shut it, git. Nobody passes through here except those looking to get robbed by us.” The driver snorts. “Think those outta-towners would learn, eh?
“You don’t think… You don’t think we’ve been followed?”
“Damn it, Dillon, will you quit getting your breeches in a knot? No one gave us trouble coming through Strawberry, so I say we’re fine.”
A muffled sound of a woman’s scream comes from inside the coach’s cabin. Loud enough to catch the driver and his companion and pound their fists on the roof to drown it out, but quiet enough to sound no different than an elk’s bugle.
Winter can tell the difference, and this stagecoach won’t be crossing the Little Creek River if she had anything to say about it. She had a hunch as soon as she followed the stagecoach tracks from Riggs Station. Listening to the Davis Overland worker in Strawberry bemoan and lament the stagecoach never arriving confirmed it, so she took Mal far ahead through the foothills of Mount Shann and laid her trap.
Blood still sticks to her hands as she covers them with her riding gloves. She tips her gambler hat lower to hide her eyes, for she knows they will weaken her. Then, the finishing touch: a black cloth mask to obscure her face. For most men, a mask is a dead giveaway of a robber. For Winter, it lets her keep the charade up longer with no facial hair to show for.
She slings her rifle over her shoulder and darts into the tall grass.
The stagecoach rolls to a stop as the horses whinny and neigh. Confusion washes over the driver’s face as he yanks on the reins. “What’s the matter with ye? Hyah!”
“Connor, look.”
Blocking the road are three ravaged whitetail deer corpses. The bodies’ decay varies from a fresh kill to a few hours of rotting. A trail of blood leads from the right side of the road, where the eldest of the corpses was dragged from. The horses shake their heads in panic, refusing to cross over the blockade of death. Animals always know better than men do.
“What in the—” The driver sputters, taking off his mask to see better, revealing his ginger mutton chops. “Did the Indians do this?”
That’s him. Without a doubt. This ain’t the first bounty she’s hunted, and the reward for this job could change her life.
And now, the show begins.
Winter emerges from the trees, shoulders pushed back and head held high. Swaggers with confidence. Like she’s untouchable. Like the men on the coach couldn’t puncture her with bullets from the big shotguns in their laps. “Morning to you, gentlemen,” she greets, low and gravely.
Connor Nelson immediately points his double-barreled shotgun at her. Dillon, his masked accomplice, holds his up shakily.
Winter lifts her hands in the air. She forces a laugh through her chest. “Hey, now, there’s no need for that. I’m just looking to talk.”
“You're too well-armed for a man looking to talk,” Dillon challenges, thrusting the barrel forward like he’s pressing a knife to her neck, but Winter is a good fifteen feet away from the coach.
She looks down at her gunbelt with her double-action revolver and cattleman revolver, both holstered and fully loaded. She glances one last time to check if the dynamite stick is still tucked where she left it and out of sight. Exhaling through her nose, she looks back up, letting the brim of her hat continue to conceal her eyes. She shrugs and responds dryly, “Oh, these? They’re just for decoration.”
“Funny.” Connor narrows his eyes. “Talk. Or I’ll blow you to bits.”
Winter takes a step closer, just an inch. With a hand on her hat to hold it in place, she raises her voice. “I’m looking for a woman named Katarina MacAlister. She was on a train bound for Saint Denis, but it got held up at Riggs Station by some local outlaw gang. By the time Sheriff Farley arrived? Poof. Gone, and so was a Davis coach bound for Strawberry.”
Dillon’s eyes widen, yet he composes himself so quickly it could’ve been a trick of light. Still, Winter keeps her eyes trained on him, as much as she can see under the brim.
Connor does not budge, his mouth pressed into a firm line into the curve of his mustache. “Never heard of a Katarina. Won’t find many Catholics west of Saint Denis, boy.”
“How do you know she’s Catholic?” Winter’s lips curve slightly beneath the cloth mask. She’ll get them to squirm. They always do.
“We’re Irish. Everyone’s a Catholic,” Connor answers coolly.
“Hard to miss her, she’s got eyes like those coolies that work on the railroads.” The words that leave her mouth are bitter to taste but necessary. Like castor oil fed to an uncouth child. If she dares lift her hat even an inch so those men can see her face, they’ll see her eyes are kindred to the woman’s, crumbling the walls she constructed to shield herself.
“Never met a Chinawoman with the name MacAlister.”
“Hey, ain’t that the name of the pre—”
Connor stomps on Dillon’s foot, effectively shutting him up. Another scream rips from inside the coach, no longer mistakeable for a horned animal’s cry. The right door of the coach shakes once. Twice. Winter glances at the lock’s chains that jiggle but do not detach. It’s locked tighter than a bank safe; no ordinary stagecoach has the locks of a payroll wagon.
“Carrying precious cargo?” she quips.
Connor turns to Winter threateningly, the shotgun now lifted properly over his shoulder, finger resting on the trigger. “Now, I suggest you move along, fella. We’re behind schedule, and our passenger is getting quite restless. So I’m going to count to three, and if you ain’t clear off the road, I’ll blow your smart mouth off.”
Winter lets out a long exhale. She shakes her head, feigning disappointment. “I gave you a chance to come clean, gentlemen, but let’s be honest...” She tips her hat back and lowers her mask to reveal her youthful, feminine features that contradict every lie she told them with her tone and posture alone. “You and I ain’t civilized folk, so let’s stop pretending we ain’t anything else.”
What happens in only a second feels like a minute. Winter was always the quickest draw of all the gunslingers who were stupid enough to challenge her. This time is no different, even in the face of two shotguns that could turn her into minced meat. She only has a few blinks of the eye to get it right.
Her left hand unholsters her double-action revolver and cocks it with a spin and a flourish. The right hand shoots the cattleman at Connor at hipfire; it doesn’t matter if it hits him or not—it’s only a warning shot. Then, she aims at the stick of dynamite just under the horses, halfway under the middle deer’s corpse. She fires the second revolver and throws herself to the ground. Bullets fly over her, piercing air instead of flesh.
Fire and heat erupt behind her, vibrating through her bones, ringing in her ears, and almost drowning out the horrified screams of two men being burned alive. Winter swallows thickly and grabs a handful of the dirt beneath her, gaining her bearings. The sickening smell of charred horseflesh reaches her nose. Those are the only casualties she hates to be responsible for. Not because she is a sentimental woman, but it truly is a waste. Horses are lifelines in the American frontier.
She pulls herself to her feet and assesses the damage. Bloody and burning carnage. She dares not look longer than to confirm the men are dead, no more than mangled corpses dangling off the driver’s seat. The front wheels of the stagecoach are completely gone. The body of the stagecoach tilts forward, digging into the ground while flames that have caught the grasses in the center of the road lick the frame hungrily. Yet, the fire dies as quickly as it was set.
It would be a miracle if anyone survived.
“Damn it.” Winter inhales and hurries toward the side of the stagecoach; the tightly locked door had been blown clean off. A small cloud of smoke envelops her as she reaches into the cabin, searching for something… anything…
Her hands meet cotton cloth and the curve of a woman’s hip. Rope traps her arms behind her back. Winter coughs up smoke, lifting her mask back over her mouth and nose. She hooks her arms under the woman’s torso and legs, stumbling as the woman squirms in her grip.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no!” she cries hysterically.
Winter grits her teeth. “Stop fighting, woman.”
That only makes her wriggle and thrash harder. She curses under her breath and hoists the woman over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She carries her away from the wreckage, thankful that this woman was restrained, for she has no time or patience to deal with this. Somebody will come looking. An explosion like that could be heard from Wallace Station to Strawberry.
She tries to put the woman down gently, but suddenly, she feels a sharp pain in her lower back. The woman somehow found a way to bite her through her jacket. “Goddammit!” she curses and throws her to the ground. “Crazy bitch!”
The woman coughs and sputters. Ash and dirt litter the woman’s skin and leave dark spots in her white nightgown. The sick bastards must not have allowed her to get dressed before they took her; the thought makes Winter grimace.
The woman shuffles and scoots until she props herself up against a tall birch tree. She lies on her side, her hands tied in her lap, while her bare feet, also tied, sit brushing against the grass like she’s cleaning the dirt off her feet, to no avail.
Her breaths turn laborious; sweat presses the front strands of her hair to her face. Swelling bruises cover both sides of her neck. Yet despite her injuries, the woman’s face was kept mostly intact. Matching the description Williams provided to Winter perfectly. Dark brown eyes, thick wavy hair, pointed chin with a V-shaped jawline, a mole beneath her lip on the left. A woman with foreign features but an American name.
Winter stands over her. She does not lower her gambler hat for there’s no reason to hide her eyes, but there is a reason to hide the rest of her face. “Are you Katarina MacAlister?” she asks, low-pitched and inquisitive.
The woman bares her teeth into an almost-snarl and glares at her. “What’s it to you?”
Winter narrows her eyes. She’s in no position to be difficult, and yet— “Answer me.” Winter puts her boot on her stomach, prepared to dig her heel in and scrape her with her spurs.
“You— You—” She coughs up a dirt-speckled phlegm. Her cracked lips stay apart as her eyes water. “You’re making a big mistake. My daddy will come for me. You can’t run from him,” she forces out in a single breath.
Winter scoffs. “I’m sure he will, but there ain’t gonna be much of you left for him to bring back if you don’t cooperate.” She sucks her teeth in and tries again, “Katarina.”
The flicker in her expression is oh-so-subtle; a small scrunch of the eyebrows and brief locking of their eyes. An involuntary response whenever anyone hears their name is a knee-jerk reaction for most, the more uncommon the name. But Winter has learned to observe and study her prey, then draw their attention and take advantage of the brief moment of distraction to go for the kill. Had the name meant nothing to her, Katarina MacAlister would not have answered her call like an unsuspecting deer in a quiet meadow.
“No use in lyin’ to me, Miss MacAlister,” Winter smiles wryly. “It’ll just make things harder for you.”
Katarina’s gaze turns venomous. She looks down at Winter’s boot before the hatred in her eyes falls upon Winter. Winter merely looks back at her with indifference. It’s a raging flame trying to melt a wall of packed ice; it doesn’t matter how she feels about Winter, she’s coming with her no matter what.
“You must think you’re so big and brave, threatening a woman.”
Pathetic.
“Appealing to morals don’t work on me, lady.” Winter shakes her head. “I have none.” She lifts her revolver and presses the barrel against her sweaty forehead.
She expected the woman to cower, to plead, to beg for her life. But no, this woman’s audacity knows no bounds. Even with a gun so close to shattering her skull, she screams and screeches like nails against a chalkboard, disturbing the quiet and tranquility of Big Valley’s open country.
“Help! Somebody, help me! I’m being kidnapped!”
“Goddammit, woman,” she hisses. “You’re only making it worse for you. I ain’t here to–”
A galloping horse skids to a stop in front of the burning stagecoach. A woman in a bonnet and a poorly stitched together dress looks at them with wide eyes; her hands tremble with the reins.
There’s a moment of silence as the three women look at each other. Winter keeps her finger firmly on the trigger.
Then—
“Oh, Lord! Help! There’s been a robbery and a kidnapping!”
The woman, now a witness to a big understanding that Winter couldn’t even attempt to talk herself out of, screams as she turns her horse around and sprints away. By the time Winter spins around to shoot her, she’s gone, and the bullets fire disappear into the foliage further up the road.
“Shit,” she curses, biting hard on her lip. “Shit, shit, shit.”
That lady’s going straight to the lawmen—lawmen that are probably already on the way here because of the explosion.
Her nostrils flare in fury as she snaps her head back to Katarina; she glares into eyes that defiantly glare back into her own. Before she can even open her smart mouth, Winter pistol-whips her, knocking her out cold, which is what she should’ve done in the first place, but she thought a damsel in distress would be grateful for a mysterious cowboy coming to save her.
She puts two fingers in her mouth and whistles for her horse, lifting the unconscious woman over her shoulders again. Dizzying herself each time she looks behind and toward the sound of Mal’s welcoming gallops, all too aware of the trouble coming for her if she doesn’t get the hell out of here. Her knees buckle under the familiar weight of yet another job going wrong.
What was supposed to be a rescue attempt has now turned into a botched kidnapping, and it’s entirely Katarina MacAlister’s fault.
♡ ♡ ♡
Her head throbs with excruciating pain, centered on what feels like a dent in her skull. The pain awakens the rest of her aching bones, the tightness around her wrists and feet; she wrestles and writhes but cannot seem to free herself from her restraints. Hunger gnaws at her stomach, sending quiet ripples across her. Cracked lips open and seek sustenance from saliva that she barely has enough to swallow.
She cannot sleep again, though her weakened body begs her to. Yet if she wakes, she dreads the inevitable disappointment knowing she is not free from this endless nightmare. She must ground herself with affirmation of truth, letting reason soothe the fear that is constantly on the brink of consuming her.
Her name is Karina. She was waylaid by bandits on the road two days ago. They’ve taken her west. She’s switched prisons twice. No one has come for her. (No one is coming for her.)
The one comfort she has is that at least she is no longer confined to a stagecoach. The silence of her surroundings, only broken by the occasional bird call, all but confirms it. She stretches her legs, knocking a tattered blanket to the ground.
She’s in bed. That’s new. Change is never a good thing.
Karina’s fingers reach for the ropes and tug, but her arm twists in ways that make teeth latch into the fabric of the dusty pillow beneath her. She rolls onto her side, swinging her feet forward to meet cold air.
Finally, she opens her eyes—and screams.
Hoarse, choking on air, she rolls back and forth before the momentum sends her tumbling to the wooden floor next to the source of her horror. A great beast skinned of its pelt and claws; a grotesque display of raw flesh and bloodied tissue.
Boots stomp and clamor as a long shadow appears above her. Drool forms at the corner of her mouth, shivering as she finds herself looking up at a man with a cowboy hat and a black mask covering his face. “What’s the matter with you?” he growls. “Do you want half of the state coming down here?”
Karina sucks her lips in, rigid as a board. Her shaky eyes return to the carcass next to her, the smell finally reaching her and making her gag and cough dryly.
The man sighs. He bends over and grabs the beast by its two paws and drags it out the door he came from. Karina squirms and writhes, trying to sit up, but instead, it tires her out even more. Her stomach roars in reminder.
He returns, wiping blood on his trousers, some of it splattering and landing on his white cotton shirt. With another shake of his head, “It’s only a grizzly bear. Trapped inside this cabin here. Sprang upon me when the door was halfway open. Shotgun met his mouth before my neck.” She hears his nostrils flare, and he scowls, seemingly at himself. He shakes his head as he continues, “Nearly mauled us like that feller over there while I was trying to hide you from the lawmen you brought down on us.” Karina’s eyes follow his gaze to a pile of chewed bones at the other end of the room with torn clothes, the previous occupant no doubt.
Then, the lines on his forehead start to retreat. “I have him on the fire right now, if you’re hungry. Seasoned him with mint I found on the riverbed.”
She exhales deeply and stays silent, which seems to irritate the man as he glowers again. As if she would trust a single word coming out of this lone cowboy’s mouth or take anything he has to offer.
“Fine, be ungrateful. Don’t matter to me.”
He returns outside without another word.
Karina’s heart jumps as she realizes she’s about to be left alone, and her stomach lurches, hunger scolding her for turning down the first decent meal she’s been offered in days.
“Wait.”
He stops, gripping the door frame as he looks behind his shoulder. Her lips twist in thought, observing that his hands are notably smaller than any man she has ever met. Even her own. But perhaps he’s not so much a man but a boy. Given his lack of an Irish accent, she assumes she isn’t with the bandits. And there’s a bit of… what’s the word… Restraint? Carefulness? Kindness? No, none of those words fit a man who has already demonstrated otherwise.
She brings her knees close to her chest and uses the floor boards to support her tied hands as she pushes up into a kneeling position. Her gaze softens, just like her mother taught her, when she must appeal to a man’s inherent weakness for women’s wiles.
“You’re not with them, aren’t you? It’s obvious.” Doe eyes remain trained on the man’s face for any sign of vulnerability.
His stare is cold, uncompromising, but there’s a sliver of hesitancy that she catches on to.
“What is it that you want from me? Money? My daddy is the most powerful man in the country. Name your price, and he will give it all for my safe return.”
He narrows his eyes.
Karina hums in thought. “If it’s not money, then what else does a man want? Power? Vengeance? No, I know…”
She bites the inside of her cheek as she forces a suggestive smile, using her bound hands to brush against her nightgown and hike it up. Slowly revealing her knees, thighs, edging closer and closer to the point where she can push no further. Enough to emburden her with another sin on her journey to salvation. “My body?”
“No.” He looks at her with the same disgust Karina feels bubbling inside her. Her sigh of relief is masked by the scratching the ropes make when she covers herself back up.
“I don’t want your daddy’s money, and I certainly don’t want you.”
He crosses his arms across his chest and huffs, but Karina notices that such a defensive pose doesn’t seem to be out of protection, but more to suppress something from view. Then, she notices color rising to his face. She has never met a man who blushed, not even the men who approached her at parties ever burned so boldly.
Karina clicks her tongue and tuts. “There must be a reason why you kidnapped me from bandits, if not to take a reward for yourself.”
“I did not kidnap you,” the man interjects. He sighs in frustration, weight shifting from side to side; he wants nothing more than to slam the door and lock her inside. Maybe he will knock her out again to shut her up. Or worse, silence her for good with that revolver in his holster.
And still, knowing the very likelihood of such viciousness, she continues to push. She cannot back down.
“You confound me, mister. You have no problem with threatening women, but the second you’re accused of kidnapping, you’re on the defense—”
“I came to rescue you!” he yells. “I was promised a reward I could not refuse if I brought you back to Saint Denis, where you were supposed to be this morning.”
The man swiftly approaches her. Karina lurches back against the bed. He kneels in front of her and grabs her nightgown by the collar, yanking her toward him.
“Whatever big, bad bastard you think I am—that I know I am—what they was going to do to you is way worse. So, be glad I found you before men meaner than me took whatever innocence you have left,” he spits.
She exhales through her nose. Her mouth opens then closes again, struggling to come up with words she has no trouble composing with her congeniality and natural charm. Her shoulders shudder as he looms over her menacingly. “You’re a bounty hunter,” she concludes, mustering enough confidence to feign that she still has the upper hand.
“You know nothing about me—”
His voice cracks, interrupting him and shattering the facade he created in one fell swoop. He slams a hand over his mask, but it’s too late; Karina couldn’t forget the change in pitch even if she were knocked out again.
Dark eyes shaped just like her own, glassy and overwhelmed with fear, bear into hers with trepidation.
“And you’re a woman.”
Without verbal confirmation, her captor grips the black mask and pulls it down, revealing soft, feminine features. In the dying sunlight, she makes out small lips and round cheeks—hints of innocence that have no place among bandits and bounty hunters, but eyes are still windows to the soul. And with just a peek behind their curtains, Karina sees hatred, bloodthirst, wickedness only found in the damned and the lost.
Karina thinks she doesn’t need to be a man to strike fear in the eyes of her enemies, but she has opened Pandora’s box, and there’s no going back.
The woman propels backward, like a gust of wind overpowering her, slamming her back against the old vanity on the other side of the cabin. The mirror cracks behind her, but she does not flinch, glaring down at Karina like she had just touched fire. Agitation escapes her like steam in a boiling pot.
Her sharp exhale makes Karina flinch. She’s had a gun held to her head, been so close to this woman that she could feel each breath brush hotly against her neck, and she felt no fear. But now, facing the wounded animal, she wonders how hard she has to beg for her life, and if she invokes the name of God, will this woman show her mercy?
Her cheeks bulge out, mouth opening and closing on a piece of chewing tobacco. “You should know better than to stick your nose where it don’t belong, miss.” Her eyes narrow, and she spits just in front of Karina’s bound feet. “If you value your life, which I don’t think you do.”
The bounty hunter dressed in all black spins on her heels and exits. The desperation of her situation only hits when the cabin’s door slams shut. Karina lunges forward as her stomach also growls in protest. Shouting and banging her elbows against the floor, a flimsy attempt to alert her, stop her, bring her back… leads to nothing. Defeated, Karina shivers on the floor with hunger pangs and goosebumps. Karina groans and rolls onto her back, tangled and dirty tresses sprawling out across the dusty floor.
For the first time since she was taken by bandits, Karina feels the days of exhaustion, distress, and dread, and now, frustration, take root and consume her. She curls into a fetal position, bringing her bound hands close to her face. The silver rosary she managed to hide in the palm of her hand when they tied her up scrapes the inside of her wrist. The beginnings of tears stream down her face; for the first time outside the comfort of the parish near her home, she prays. Prays for the hunger to wane. For the thirst to subside. For the devil dressed in black to find the goodness in her heart and embrace her womanly virtues instead of the carnal sins of men that rob, steal, and kill.
No, Karina laughs sardonically to herself.
That last prayer is too far-fetched. She’s heard stories of the West from her father; some people will live and die uncivilized. That’s why the few US Marshals assigned to the West are the only law among the lawless. So, even if this bounty hunter was hired by her father himself, this woman is only out for herself, and Karina would do well to treat her the same way.
Karina is a captive expecting order, but chaos is her captor.
♤ ♤ ♤
How did she know? How did she figure it out?
Winter pokes the fire with a long stick, shifting some of the dying embers onto fresh wood. The moon is at its highest peak. The water she boiled earlier should be ready to drink. Mal, tied to the horse post in front of the abandoned cabin, lets out a deep sigh. Winter makes a note to check her saddle bags and count the remaining provisions in the morning.
She sets the stick down and wraps her arms around her chest. Reaching under her partly buttoned shirt, she runs her hands across the cloth wrappings on her breasts. She winces when she tugs on the ends. They certainly feel like they’re tight enough; her bosom is much smaller compared to most women. In loose clothing, it’s hardly noticeable, but she can’t be too careful. Clearly, it wasn’t enough to fool Katarina.
Katarina.
Winter scowls even at the thought of her name. What a heartless shrew with the audacity of rich socialites in Saint Denis, or the ignorance of the prissy wives of railroad men that visit their husbands’ work camps only to be disappointed by how dull and dusty the deserts of New Austin are.
So, how could someone frightened and fooled by a skinned animal could see right through the man she had so carefully crafted herself to be?
Winter could stew for hours, wasting the night away trying to answer questions she doesn’t have the answers to. She could offer a solution, resolve to try harder, wipe coal dust beneath her nose to prove to the naked eye that she has facial hair. But it won’t do. Some folks don’t even see the men who look like her as men. But outside of California, in the prairies and plains, the deserts and mountains, men believe her when she tells them (and shows them) she's a man. They got no reason to question it because women don’t wear trousers, or shoot guns, or walk and talk like they belong, or ride with masked men that aren’t her husband.
It took the men she used to associate with a week or two to figure it out, depending on how long they stick around. A woman, whom she has just met, figured her out in minutes.
It’ll drive her mad, she thinks; she won’t be able to sleep tonight. She can’t be a woman, not the way Katarina thinks she is, and trying to explain that to a proper lady is like trying to convince Mal to stay calm when he hears wolves howling—it ain’t gonna change a damn thing.
Exasperation leaves her with a forced exhale, hands tangling in her short tresses, fingernails scratching the grime on her scalp. She still needs to figure out how the hell they’re gonna get out of West Elizabeth after the shit Katarina pulled.
The bear meat sizzles on the grill. She uses two twigs to flip it to the other side and check it. Two thick black lines run down the middle. It should be cooked enough. She plops it down on the tin plate she ate off of—there’s only grease and meat juice left, not worth wasting her water canteen to clean it.
She glances at the back door of the abandoned cabin. She hasn’t heard Katarina’s whining in a good while. How long had it been since she last ate? Can’t have been more than a day; she was taken from the train this morning. She refused to eat before. And hell, Winter certainly isn’t her servant. Still…
“…if she ain’t back in one piece, it won’t just be you who’ll have hell to pay.”
Williams’s warning sends a chilling reminder down her spine. Miles away and far from where she left them, she knows he’ll keep his word as much as she tried to convince him there’s nobody else.
She stares into the orange blaze that rages against the cold night and hugs her knees. Sometimes, if she looks hard enough into the flames, she can see big brown eyes staring back at her. (She wonders when she’ll start seeing two pairs. Regrets like to show themselves in the quiet contemplation around the campfire.)
“For the love of…” she mutters and buries her head into her hands, muffling a scream in frustration. It ain’t easy to keep promises when promises made are so easily broken. But she can’t play nice to a brat who’s asking for it.
Winter pours more of the cooled-off water into her canteen and takes the plate of meat. A northeast wind blows her hair across her face as she descends the hill towards the cabin, eerily devoid of the sounds of Katarina’s scuffling and swearing. She uses her elbow to push down the handle, and her shoulder pushes the old wooden door open.
Moonlight shines faintly through the window, cascading over Katarina’s shivering body, curled up tight as her tied hands lay in front of her.
“Katarina?” Winter calls out.
She barely lifts her head, and even though a shadow casts itself across half of her face, Winter can see deep, dark circles under her eyes. But she doesn’t look at her with as much strain as she did before, almost like learning her true gender had softened who Winter was to her.
Winter can’t have that.
She places the plate and canteen down, keeping a careful distance between them.
“You need to eat. And drink, too.”
A shaky laugh escapes Katarina’s chapped lips.
“Eat,” Winter insists.
“With what? My mouth?”
Her snark is still there, a dying light, but Winter doesn’t think anything can snuff it out but cutting out her tongue.
She holds her breath and steps forward, heartbeat skipping when she sees Katarina tense. Her hands stop at her sides. She doesn’t get it. Why does she bark with no bite? People like Katarina are exactly why she lives as a man. They see women are weak, and Winter will never let anyone think she is weak.
“You expect a lady to eat like a dog?” Katarina tries again, but her voice rasps. An empty water pump with nothing but drops left. Her gaze flickers to the bruises on the woman’s neck.
Did those Irish bastards do that to her? She imagines Katarina didn’t make it easy for them to take her, but Winter figures she’s more valuable alive than dead, given the government’s vested interest in her rescue. Bah. It’s not up to her to decide who deserves to live and die, but she doesn’t believe in excessive and undeserving suffering.
Winter pulls her hunting knife from her belt and approaches her. She reaches over and grabs Katarina’s wrists, extending her arms out.
Katarina yelps and tries to struggle out of her grip and yelps hoarsely, “What are you doing!? Unhand me now!”
“Stay still,” Winter hisses through her teeth. “I’m trying to cut your restraints—“
Katarina freezes, letting out a sigh of relief that neither of them seemed to expect. It makes Winter’s insides churn. Had she been tied up all day? She takes the brief moment Katarina stills herself to cut the ropes in between her wrists, unwrapping and falling to the floor. In the faint light, she can make out thick lines on her wrists and a silver trinket in the palm of her hand.
Winter stands up as Katarina finally moves her hands for the first time. Clenching and unclenching her fists, looking at the back of her hands, a string of beads unravels and slips between two fingers.
She looks up at Winter, shoulders shaking as her lips form the beginnings of a “thank you”—when her stomach roars. She bows her head; her hands shake as she rests them on the floor, fingers spread wide. Then, slowly, she uses her hands to help move into a seated position.
A deep exhale as she leans against the bed. “Do you…” Katarina swallows thickly. “I’ve never eaten meat with my hands.” Her nose crinkles. “You do carry utensils, right?”
Winter stares at her. She wants to laugh. Genuinely. Because, of course, the princess demands luxury when a piece of seasoned game meat is about luxurious a meal can get outside a saloon. Her cheeks puff up as she holds her hand up to her mouth, hiding any semblance of a smile from Katarina’s watchful eye.
She lowers her hand once she’s certain she can keep up an expression of stone. “Do you want a glass of wine with that, too?”
Katarina bites her lip and slouches. “I should’ve known. You have no morals, no dignity, and no courtesy, too.”
(Yet her tongue barely pokes out, and she salivates over the bear meat like a starving animal.)
“Eat quickly before it gets cold. Grease ain’t gonna kill ya.”
“Please, can I just use your knife?” Katarina begs.
“You want me to give you my knife,” she deadpans. Then, Winter scoffs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “You must be outta your goddamn mind.”
Katarina shrugs. “It’s better than nothing. At least my hands won’t get dirty,” she reasons.
“Maybe I should be glad you ain’t seeing the bigger picture.” Winter rolls her eyes with a chuckle. “But I’m not givin’ you any ideas.” She turns around.
“Then, stay.”
Winter’s lips purse together as she stops at the door. Looking back at her under her arm like she wasn’t sure she heard her the first time.
“If you don’t trust me with your knife, then stay. Watch me.” Katarina gestures to where Winter stood earlier. “You have a gun. If I try something, you’ll shoot me before I could even hurt you.”
Every rational thought in her head screams at her for even considering it, but Katarina’s logic is sound. She wouldn’t be able to do anything against Winter’s reflexes. She’s a sharpshooter, and she upholds that reputation with pride. Some might say it makes her head bigger, but Winter can count on both hands how many men she’s killed in one round in one cylinder rotation. “It’s true,” she sneers. “You’d be dead before you’d even realize what was happening.”
She steps back into the cabin and takes her knife out before sliding it across the floor. It hits the tin plate with a loud clank. “Here. Enjoy your meal, madame.”
Katarina eagerly snatches the knife and plunges it into the center of the cut without second thought. She lifts it and starts eating around it, chewing the outside and into the center. Grease and meat juice drip from her lips. Hums and satisfied moans of relieved hunger fill the silence. Winter watches with a half-smile. Even society’s prissiest can become barbaric when they are stripped down to just human instinct.
“I’ve… never… had… bear… before,” she says between bites and swallows. “But this might be the best grilled meat I’ve ever eaten.”
“Anything tastes good when you’re hungry,” Winter remarks as she sits down and leans against the vanity. “Even tree bark. It helps trick your stomach when you don’t have any food.”
Katarina drops the knife on the plate, wiping her mouth with her arms, then licking the remaining juices. She uses her fingers to scrape off the last pieces of meat she didn’t eat and uses her hands to pop the small bits of fat into her mouth. When she finally notices Winter had been watching her, she scowls and crosses her arms. “You know it’s rude to stare.”
“It’s also rude to eat like a pig.”
“I did not—” Katarina glowers, but then she lets out a loud cough. Strained and scratchy. She grabs the canteen and chugs the water down. Loud gulps replace the sounds of lip smacking and satisfied sighs.
Seriously, even Winter is surprised by her manic behavior. “God damn, woman, you’re eating like it’s your last meal,” she mutters.
“Three days,” Katarina responds sharply, putting the empty canteen back down. Her eyes gloss over with something unrecognizable. “I haven’t eaten for three days. They gave me water only once.”
Winter furrows her brows and straightens her back. “I thought you were taken this morning.”
Katarina pauses, pursing her lips together in thought. Then, she shakes her head almost nonchalantly. “It felt longer,” she says vaguely.
Winter’s nose scrunches up. The story the marshal gave her and Katarina’s behavior don’t seem to fit right. She certainly looks like she’s been in captivity for longer than a day, but maybe she was just roughed up a bunch when they were moving her from the train to the stagecoach. Yet, how does that explain—
“You need to stop staring. No wonder you tell everyone you’re a man. You got the manners of one.”
Winter rolls her eyes. “I’m just noticin’ that you should look better than you are right now.”
“You proud, selfish bastard.” Katarina grabs the knife and points it at her, but Winter does not flinch. Briefly glancing at the ropes tied around her feet, Winter has nothing to fear but the wicked words of a riled-up woman. “You should be glad you’re a woman because you’re a sorry excuse for a man. No real man would ever comment on a lady’s appearance unless it’s to compliment them!” Then, her face falls. “Hold on, how awful do I look?”
Winter scowls. “I ain’t answering that.”
“But you’re—” Katarina groans in frustration, bringing her hands up to her hair. Her lips quiver when her fingers do not go through her long, dark locks with ease. “It ain’t usually like this,” she mutters almost frantically. “Lord, please don’t tell me I got warts on my feet or boils on my face.”
Winter does not gawk, despite her eyes being as wide as the quarters she carries to buy drinks at the saloon. She shakes her head. “You’re fine. Nothing a bucket of water can’t fix.”
“Of course, you say that because you don’t bathe.”
“I’m taking the knife back.” Winter stands up and saunters to her, sucking her breath in to soothe her rising vexation.
Katarina snaps out of whatever vanity-obsessed fog that has clouded her judgment. Her gaze flickers to the side, and her lower lip juts out as Winter takes the knife from her.
Wiping the juice off on her sleeve, Winter wraps her fingers around the handle, rubbing her thumb against the smooth antler. It reminds her of calmer days and better times, when all she had to worry about was when she would get her next meal.
“That knife. What’s it made of?” Katarina seemingly reads her mind.
“A friend made it for me,” Winter answers in one breath. Her chest tightens as she forces out the next lie, “I spent a year of my life with the Indians. She was part of the tribe. Crafted with a buck’s antler and forged with iron.” She puts the knife back in the belt and shakes her head. “We should rest. Tomorrow, we leave at dawn. It’s a long way… to get you home.”
“Right.” Katarina swallows the lump in her throat. “Could I ask one more thing of you…?”
She wants to know Winter’s name. She usually would tell those who asked “Winston” or “Winfred”, but Katarina knows those names aren’t truly hers. She bites the inside of her cheek. What are the odds she knows the most wanted outlaws in the states of West Elizabeth and New Austin? Slim. But Winter has already made one gamble tonight; she might as well play another round.
“Winter. Call me Winter.”
“Winter,” Katarina repeats like she can’t quite match the face with the name. Maybe she doesn’t believe her. (Maybe it doesn’t matter what Katarina believes. Winter has already presented herself as a living contradiction. What’s true and false may simply just be… both.)
“Could you stay with me in the cabin?” Katarina pauses, but her mouth is still open like there’s more to say, dangling at the tip of her tongue. Like she’s begging not to be alone, scared someone else will take her in the night—from one captor, to another, and another…
Her brows furrow together tightly as she considers her next words before settling on, “I don’t want to sleep alone with a corpse.”
Winter glances across the room at the forgotten previous owner, chewed and discarded like a dog’s bone. Her nose scrunches up. “Right.”
She exits the cabin to retrieve her bedroll, carrying it back inside while Katarina lifts herself onto the mattress. Winter spreads the blankets out on the floor close to the door and facing Katarina, so she can watch both without straining her neck. She yawns and situates herself, finding her gaze landing on Katarina one last time.
Katarina is curled into a fetal position again, hands dangling off the side of the mattress while her fingers play with the beads. She notices Winter looking at her, and Winter swears she sees a ghost of a smile. But the moonlight has faded in that corner, and rubbing her eyes makes her vision no clearer. When she opens them again, Katarina’s eyes are closed, and she’s murmuring to herself using words Winter can not understand.
She tips her gambler hat in farewell like she’s seen the stuffy gentlemen do in the streets of Blackwater. Only unlike those gentlemen, she mocks her. “Rest well now, my lady.”
Removing her hat, she lies down and closes her eyes.
Sleep takes her faster than she anticipates, for it is the first night she has slept outside of a jail cell.
♡ ♡ ♡
The riverbed is a canvas of lupins; a sea of purple that goes as far beyond the eye can see, even through the soft morning mist. She stumbles through the tall grass, tired legs learning to walk again. Taking the knife was easy, almost too easy. Winter’s sharp reflexes were nowhere to be found when Karina hovered over her when dawn broke; she sleeps like she’s dead. Without even a stir from her captor, she seized the opportunity as soon as she saw it, nimbly swiping the knife and slicing the ropes that bound her ankles tighter than a nun’s legs.
A terrible joke. A terrible, sardonic joke.
Yet Karina does not think she needs to worry about how far she has strayed from the Heavenly Father until she’s back at a parish.
Then, she ran. She ran until she could find somewhere to clean the remnants of the past three days.
Three days.
Three days of living hell.
They snatched her off the road south of Bacchus Station. They took all her possessions: money, clothing, and books, leaving her with nothing but a cotton nightgown and her rosary. They beat her senseless while she screamed, struggled, and resisted any time they laid hands on her. They tried to silence her by squeezing the life out of her, leaving deep bruises around her neck that make her throat sore each time she speaks. They denied her thirst, starved her, threatened to make her a woman no respectable man would want anymore.
Until a bounty hunter, a woman, of all the capable men her father could send after her, blew up the stagecoach with dynamite. The irony is bitter to the taste. It took the lawmen two days to realize she was gone. If everything had gone to plan, she would’ve been in Saint Denis by yesterday morning, and no one would even know she disembarked early for a little detour.
She collapses when she reaches the stream, weakened knees shaking as they dig into the gravelly shore. The water is rushing too fast for her to see her reflection, only jagged lines that cut through what looks like her face. She cups the cool water and splashes her face, runs her hands through her greasy hair. Each scoop of water is a bucket to cleanse her ruined skin, washing away the dirt and grime. There’s nothing she can do about her clothing, or lack thereof; she can only hope Winter will be merciful.
Merciful. Karina laughs dryly. At the whims and will of a woman who calls herself a man, who treats her with hardly a shell of decency, and the only good thing she can say about her is that at least she fed her and let her sleep in a real bed.
There isn’t enough water to fully clean herself. This body of water is more of a creek than a river, and it’s only deep enough to cover her feet. But she hears rushing water in the distance, further up the hills to the west, and it gets her hopes up. The gravity of a waterfall would be most advantageous.
She slowly stands, gritting her teeth when dirt stains the fabric where she had kneeled. Perhaps it’s a good thing she can’t see her face, she shudders at the thought of how hideous she could be without the proper care she takes of herself..
(Beauty is everything—beauty is all she has. Because no man wants a college-educated woman, even if her father is the most important man in the country.)
Karina lifts her garments and travels upstream, letting the flowing water mute the squelching sounds her bare feet make when they hit the river bottom. The depth does not change; Karina exhales through her nose. She passes a patch of wild mint on the left, some of the plants clearly picked over. Is this the same mint Winter seasoned the meat with? An idea pops into her head. She trudges to the shore and reaches across the rocky incline. Grabbing a fistful of mint leaves, she crushes them in her hand, kneeling in the water and using the other hand to splash herself and soak the mint in the river before wiping it on her body.
The corners of her mouth twist at her mostly submerged body. She should’ve thought this through. The morning air already has a nipping chill; emerging soaked with water will leave her freezing.
“Beauty is pain,” her mother used to say. Both of them. And now she pays the price to smell of peppermint and glisten with clean skin.
She stands slowly, throwing her arms around her chest and almost doubles over as all she can think, all she can feel is, cold, cold, cold, cold.
She climbs out of the riverbank and wrings as much water as she can from her nightgown, but each drop of water that rushes down her legs leaves her teeth chattering and saying the Lord’s name in vain.
Then, she spots a shadowy figure in the distance, emerging from the tree line. Large, majestic, with antlers like broad tree branches. “An elk,” she whispers in awe. It’s a Rocky Mountain Bull Elk, to be precise. Native to Ambarino… Does that mean she’s still in New Hanover? That can’t be right. The West is too vast for its own good, but it doesn’t take three days to travel across one state.
The elk is mesmerizing, a gentle giant. It grazes on grass, disrupting the silence with low gruffs and snorts. Karina can’t help but get a closer look. Careful not to make any noise, she takes slow, deliberate steps, avoiding sticks and stones, and keeps her breathing no louder than a breeze.
Too soon, the silence breaks. A twig snaps. The elk sharply lifts its head. She freezes and looks down at her feet. Her stomach twists in knots when she realizes there was nothing beneath her but wet grass trampled by her bare feet. Only when she lifts her head does she see an encroaching shadow loom.
Hot breath tickles the back of her neck. A voice she dreads hearing the most. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”
Karina screams and whirls around to knee her in the crotch.
Sleep no longer protects Karina from Winter. She dodges her knee and quickly grabs Karina by the wrists. She spins her around and grapples her, locking her arms tightly over her stomach. The elk’s bugle is a scream of agony, like the creature is the one grabbed from behind roughly by a crude cowboy. Then, the elk charges. While the pendulum swings between fight or flight, the elk has chosen the warpath.
Karina can hardly register what happens next, other than the full body weight of Winter on top of her, slamming her to the ground. Dirt flies over her head as she gasps for breath, inhaling dust as Winter pushes her head down. The elk gallops, the earth rumbles beneath them. Hooves land dangerously close to Karina’s hand; the belly of the beast eclipses the sun peaking out of the sky. Until the ground stops shaking, water splashes in the distance, and the elk’s bugling dies into murmurs.
But all Karina focuses on is that dirt and grime stick to her once more. Her wet skin and wet gown… All that effort, wasted.
The weight pressing her down lifts as Winter gets to her feet. Karina hoists herself up by the elbows. Rolling on her side as she winces, new bruises threaten to paint her skin. She finally meets Winter’s eyes, and the raging inferno burns brighter than the explosion that killed her previous captors.
“You…” Winter’s lips purse tightly. Her eye twitches as she scratches the back of her neck. “You. I’ve met dogs smarter than you. Hell, I’ve met chipmunks smarter than you. I’ve killed chipmunks smarter than you.” She shakes her head indignantly. “What part of ‘Don’t move. Don’t make a sound,’ do you not understand!?”
“You scared me,” she protests; her voice no less hoarse than it was yesterday. “Sneaking up on me like a prowling wolf. And for what? There’s no one out here but you and me.”
“Stupid girl,” Winter spits. She leans forward, teeth baring as she rubs her temples. “You escaped. You cut your restraints and ran, but not far enough.” She snorts. “You think I wouldn’t come for you?”
Karina’s eyes widen, lips parting in disbelief. Then, she laughs. Hard, with her whole chest. Clutches her stomach and rolls on the dirty ground. Escape. Escape. Oh, how she wishes she could escape.
Winter looks at Karina with pure bewilderment. Standing half-menacing, half-ready to drop her guard, she narrows her eyes as her cheeks burn crimson. “What the hell you laughin’ at?”
The laughter leaves her teary-eyed, watching the heavens with a smile on her face that means no happiness. “You— You—” She sits up and sighs, wiping her eyes with her fingers, but the heaviness in her chest remains, squeezing her for dear life. Karina struggles to hold Winter’s gaze as she forces out through heavy breaths, “You idiot.”
Hysterics and hyperventilating become a rushing, rapid flow of tears. Choking on sobs as she brings her knees to her chest and wails freely, openly, in front of the one person whom she does not want seeing her like this.
“You think I have anywhere to go? Look at me.” Karina lifts her head, gritting her teeth as Winter has turned away from her. “Look at me.”
Winter’s head snaps back almost instantly at her call, eyes widening as she looks at Karina with something that makes her stomach churn in nausea. Pity.
“I’ve been through hell and back again, and somehow, maybe by God’s grace or stupid dumb luck, I ain’t dead yet. But that don’t mean I don’t feel dead,” she says shakily. “I’m cold, dirty; beaten, bruised; lost, terrified…” She swallows the lump in her throat. “I should’ve stayed on that train, but I’ve never been one to ignore the call to adventure. This was my only chance to meet the only woman paleontologist in the United States of America. And I wanted that more than attending a stupid governor’s ball to be paraded around as an exotic beauty with a ten thousand dollar dowry. Now, look at me.”
Winter doesn’t seem to be registering a single word she’s saying. Or if she is—goodness—this woman has mastered the art of stoicism, and Karina might as well just be talking to the secluded walls in a confessional.
“I was going to come back.” Karina lowers her head. “I just needed to wash myself. Goddamnit, I just wanted to feel myself again for one moment. Before the wickedness of men and the wildness of nature wreck me again.”
She doesn’t hate Winter’s silence as much as she thinks she should. It’s oddly comforting, baring her soul to a stranger, even if said stranger might be the most disagreeable person to walk the Earth.
“You know this country; I don’t. For all I know, we could be deep in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Time and place lost meaning ever since they took me.” Slowly, she lets herself look at Winter again—into those small dark eyes that hold so much viciousness—that now look at her but not exactly at her. Like her perception of Karina is changing right in front of her eyes, or at least, peering past the smoke and mirrors. “You’re my only chance of getting home. I have no choice but to take it, flaws and all.”
She’s said her piece; although, she’s not entirely sure what she’s asking for. Mercy? Grace? Understanding? For Winter to stop treating her as a prisoner, even though she is one? (She could say now, though, she is a prisoner by choice.)
Winter’s expression has not changed. Not by a single eye twitch, nose crinkle, lip curl; she’s a statue that continues to stare at her. Uncompromisingly, uncannily.
Then, Winter takes off her coat. It’s a ridiculous piece of clothing. Only hunters and fashionable rich folk wear furs. But this dark brown fur coat suits her, and it looks very comfortable in cold weather. Cold temperatures that Karina is now suffering through in a flimsy nightgown. She approaches her, and Karina tenses. Usually, when Winter comes close to her, nothing good happens, so she steels herself for anything. But she does not touch her; instead, she drapes the coat around Karina’s shoulders. The immediate warmth that soothes the goosebumps scattered across her skin lets her guard down completely.
“Wear it. It’s made of a wolf’s pelt and a ram’s hide. It should be enough to cover you and keep you warm until we get you some real clothes.”
Karina shudders and slips her arms through the sleeves. It’s like a warm hug from a giant grizzly bear, or a fire that’s grown limbs and embraced her with its heat. She looks at Winter, dressed in only a maroon dress shirt with tan suspenders holding up her work pants. Still too light for this valley between the snowy mountains in the north and a large mountain to the south. “But what about you?”
Winter shakes her head. A ghost of a smile finally breaks through her stone face. “I’ve got another coat. You don’t have to worry about me, Miss Katarina.”
“Karina,” Karina blurts out, finally finding the nerve to correct her. “Nobody calls me Katarina except for Father Peter. My parents are Methodists.”
Winter blinks. “Sure.” The meaning has gone completely over her head, as Karina imagines most things do.
Winter exhales through her nose, turning toward the horizon, but Karina catches her eyes flickering back to her with hesitancy. Almost like she’s not sure of herself, or sure of Karina. She crosses her arms and clears her throat. “I promised to bring you to Saint Denis once I found you. That ain’t gonna be an easy trip for us because I’m a…” She pauses. “...we’re a long way from Lemoyne. We have to make a stopover in Valentine so the marshals know I’ve got you with me.”
Karina watches the lines on her forehead crease, eyebrows pressing together, deep in thought. “And I don’t think we’ve seen the last of the men who took you,” she continues. “O’Driscoll Boys. Nasty folk. Territory runs from here to Cumberland Forest, so we’d best not stick around here for long.”
“So, what are you trying to say?” Karina raises a brow, impatience prompting her to interrupt Winter’s musings.
Winter turns back to her. Her lips curving upward in amusement as she lets out a low chuckle. “I’m sayin’, since you don’t seem to value your life, I guess I have to value it for you.”
It’s a double-edged sword; a threat and a jest, but when Winter offers her hand to help her to her feet, she doesn’t immediately pull her up. Winter’s gaze darkens as she makes sure each word she speaks next is burned into Karina’s memory. “I’ll lose all I have left if I don’t bring you to the US Marshals safe. You’re not the only one with stakes in this. I ain’t letting you out of my sight until you’re on that train home.”
Karina bites back a smile. She tilts her head to the side and shakes Winter’s hand like they’ve signed an agreement—it is a business deal of sorts. Only in this transaction, Karina is entrusting her life to a bounty hunter, a person who has already shown a dichotomy of herself. Man and woman. Restrained and ruthless. Alone and, perhaps, lonely.
“Take me home, cowboy.”