Summary: Charles never cared about the backstories of his family of gang members. He was here to do his bit till he would find a reason to move on. But sometimes, sitting under the oak tree, his eyes would stop on the gentle, dreamy bookworm and he wonders just why she would choose to be here. Unlikely romance - Charles Smith/Mary-Beth Gaskill.
She had been there from the start, but it was only a month after Charles had joined the gang that he noticed her. His brown eyes had grown large at the sight of a stranger emerging from the woods, a book in her hands and her eyes glued to the faded yellow pages. Her dress, as long and plain as it was never got in her small elegant stride and he found himself conflicted for the first time in his new position as a guard. The gun in his hand felt heavy - an unarmed and relatively harmless young woman in front of him and his finger never daring to edge near the trigger. He had been here only a month and he could not afford to be causing anyone trouble or attracting trouble. This woman could be both or none.
He found his mouth dry - conversation was never his strong point, but how were you to talk to potential killers in the form of elegant bookworms anyway? He almost let her walk through to the camp when an image of a little boy following him around came to mind. Jack, son of Abigail and potential son to many would follow him around as he collected herbs littered around the camp. He had told the boy a secret - he liked feathers and Jack had emerged with a squawking chicken and had smiled toothily - "This chicken has tons of feathers, Uncle Charles!" He had reluctantly accepted the present, but quickly he grew fond of the boy even when he had reminded himself that he could trust none. And now letting this woman who could be anyone walk right up to that boy was something unacceptable to him.
"Hey." He announced, his smooth voice slightly gruff at the edge with a warning. The best approach was to handle this as cleanly as possible which meant more observation and little chitchat. A singing bird flew down from the third branch and swiftly glided to the other before the girl looked up, her greenish blue eyes far away even when they connected with his own. She blinked for a few seconds, her face so open and unconcealed that he wondered what had lead him to think she could be someone dangerous. Unless, this was her tactic - to play dumb and get a clean pass from dangerous men like him.
But then she smiled, her teeth glistening in the setting sun and her cheeks red from exertion. "Mr Smith!"
He almost asked who she was talking to, but he quickly collected himself when she shut the book and turned her body to face him, her attention now solely for him. He lowered the rifle then, trying to defuse any danger she may feel from him, but kept a hand above his left leg where his fingers brushed the hilt of his hunting knife. He had been in this environment long enough to know that innocent faces were often the most devious ones.
"Oh, what a pleasure it is to see you settling in! Although, I am sure it's boring as hell being on guard duty." She ended the sentence with a tinkling laughter - a sound Charles had never heard before. His mother never used to laugh much - no doubt the grief of being disowned from her tribe always on her mind and the ladies at the saloon only ever let out an occasional belly laughter here and there. He must have been distracted for his fingers that were tracing the hilt of the knife were now relaxed at his side and he quickly placed them where they needed to be.
"Are you okay?" She finally asked, her freckled forehead crinkling ever so slightly as she leaned forward on her toes to peer up at his face. "You look really confused. Is it the heat?"
"No." He stated simply, his eyes narrowing again.
This time it was she who looked confused. "No what? No, I am not okay or no, it is not the heat?"
She was good, he decided. Playing dumb and around his obviously straightforward answers, she was wasting his time with talk and allowing her accomplices to slip in unnoticed. He turned to look behind him, but found only a deer in the foliage hopping away into the sunset. Was she a lone wolf then perhaps?
When he turned to face her again, he found her eyes fixated on his beaded necklace. "Wow . . . pretty." She whispered to herself, but just loud enough for him to catch it.
It had belonged to his mother once and he deeply cherished it. She had enough training in this art of deception to know that jewellery was always a good icebreaker for conversations and for drawing attention to mundane things. Charles was now ready to call her out on her bullshit - the knife clutched tightly in his hand - he didn't want to disturb or worry the others and this was the only way even if he did not prefer it. He had never used a hunting knife on a human before.
Suddenly before he had even brought his arm forward, she shrieked - a hand clutching at her light brown ringlets with authority and Charles let out the breath he did not know he had held. Before him, stood the woman everyone called Miss Grimshaw. Like her name, she often came when something grim had occurred and Charles had learned that very soon when he had disappeared from the camp for a day of hunting without informing anyone. He had never had to answer for his whereabouts and the concept still seemed alien to him, but he had taken care to not anger the woman again.
"Just where the hell have you been, Miss Gaskill?" She yelled, her hand shaking the girl's head for emphasis. She shrieked again, tears forming at the corners of her eyes as she bent towards the woman to ease her pain. Charles was surprised then that Miss Grimshaw knew the identity of this stranger - his knife disappearing back into the belt and the tension leaving his taut body like the fading rays of sunshine.
"Nowhere - Miss Grimshaw! Just a walk, I swear, just a walk!"
The woman sneered. "Not walk, Miss. Idleness! You slacking off while I do the work - how dare you!"
"I am sorry! I am sorry! I am sorry!" She cried frantically in response and it was then that it hit Charles. He had never noticed her before, but he had remembered Miss Grimshaw tearing her lungs apart looking for a Miss Mary-Beth Gaskill. At the time, Charles couldn't have cared less - the wheels had needed fixing, the horses had needed grooming and they had been short on supplies again and the last thing he needed was facing this old woman with a temper as big as his leader Dutch's.
So this was the girl Grimshaw had lost sleep over and caused many others to as well?
As if reading his mind, she turned to him with a start - her grey eyes that were once clouded with fury regarded him with mild respect. "And was this stupid girl bothering you too, Mr Smith?"
He almost didn't bother to reply, but then her tear filled, frightened eyes met his and he felt compelled to speak the truth. Whatever the truth was at this point. "No."
She sighed with relief, a small smile lingering on her lips for him just as Grimshaw lead her deeper into the camp. He was left alone once again, the silence of the night not as comforting as it usually was for it was filled with many questions.
Charles did not like thinking about the what ifs, but he felt obliged to think through them at this point. He had almost killed one of his own gang members due to his own lack of attentiveness. Had he been so fixated on his work that he had not noticed the girl? His troubled thoughts prevented him from feeling tired and sleepy.
And so the next time he carried out his chores around the camp, he always made an active effort of noticing the dreamy bookworm hiding behind a shaded oak tree. And sometimes, a thought would enter his mind - just why was someone like her here?