A/N: TW for abuse
Florence ducks underneath William's hand. "Come back here you little trollop!" he screams, scurrying after her. His hand brushes the back of her skirt as she attempts to go out the door and find help. Not that it helped last time. The men on horseback only stared at her as she's dragged back inside the house by the roots of her hair. They don't care about a lowly Native woman being beaten by her husband.
William used to be sweet on her. Bought her flowers and the golden feathers that hang around her neck, wrapped three times with a leather thong. What happened? He came back from town one evening and just beat her until she bawled on the floor, blood dripping into the wood. Florence doesn't know what changed. "No! Leave me the hell alone, you dirty man."
"You don't speak to me that way, bitch. I own you," William growls, bending low to center himself. He moves when she moves, small incremental steps with his feet to keep her centered with him. "Now come here!" He's gotten fat from all the alcohol he's consumed in the last year, but that hasn't hindered his speed nor his strength. His body takes her down and he straddles her middle while his hands wrap around her neck.
Florence struggles to fight him off, bucking her hips up and scratching at his hands. "No... No. I refuse to die by-" He presses his hands harder cutting off her words.
Her vision begins to darken, blacken at the edges. Light spills across William's back, illuminating the hatred in his eyes. Her mother calling her home perhaps? No. A sharp shot rings through the room and he falls forward on her, weight crushing. His hands go limp and she's able to take in ragged breaths of air. Or attempt to with the stench of him filling her nostrils.
Something warm and sticky spills into her hair. Dead. He's dead. Confusing emotions war in her. Relief she's out from underneath his thumb and no longer have to obey his whims and grief for the death of her husband. Somewhere underneath his rough exterior and his fighting hands was the William she fell in love with.
Florence is pulled from underneath him, spreading what she guessed correctly as blood across the wooden floor of the hotel they'd been staying in. She wanted to see a show in Valentine and in a moment of rare sweetness, he agreed. William then proceeded to get drunk at the local bar, coming back fired up by some apparent bar fight that was pushed out into the street.
The hands drop her painfully onto the ground some distance away from his body. William is a large man, made even larger by his face down position. She can see the glistening hole in the back of his head and the puddle of blood, smeared and disturbed. Florence wants to scream, but it gets caught in her throat and makes an uncomfortable lump that renders her completely mute. "Miss? Are you alright miss?" a male voice asks. His boots thump on the floor, the slight tinkling of spurs as he comes into her view.
A broken man. One eye is almost swollen shut and his lip is split. His clothes are muddied and look almost beyond repair. "Miss? He's dead. He can't hurt you anymore."
Her eyes trail to the owner of the hotel, the one who gladly gave them a room. Did he assume her a whore? Someone William was paying? His hands are over his mouth as he attempts to stutter out words. The rescuer doesn't wait another second. He presses a large stack of bills into the owner's hand, muttering something about compensation and drags her out without another scrap of clothing for her to change into.
She's out in the cool spring night, sky cluttered with stars. "What's your name?"
"Don't worry 'bout it for now. Just get over here, damnit," he growls, pushing her towards the horse. Was she rescued again just to be abused? She considers running, but with nowhere to, she has no choice but to climb onto the back of his bay. He climbs into the saddle in front of her, kicking the horse into a hard gallop as mud sprays around the horse's socks.
Silence drags on between the two of them as Florence is thrown against her rescuer's back with each rock the horse jumps over. When there is plenty distance between them and Valentine, he slows the horse and stops, dismounting. "You should be good from here," he says, giving her his hand and helping her down.
Her skirt is stiff with William's blood and she wants it off of her. "You're just going to leave me here?"
"You'll find another man to buy-"
"I am not a whore," Florence says, stepping close to him. He takes one back, seemingly surprised by the anger. "I was his wife and he took to beating on me like I was-"
"Alright, alright. I guess you can come back with me, though Dutch said no more passengers..." He rubs his scruff, looking away from her. "*But* he told Uncle and Reverend no more passengers. Not me."
He holds his hand out to her, leather glove caked in mud and what looked like blood, though she knows it's not from William. Was he part of the bar fight she heard down in the street? "Arthur Morgan."
Florence takes his hand, shaking it firmly, a slight smile on her lips. "Florence."
"Well Florence, come on." Arthur is back in the saddle, holding out his arm to help her into it. She sits on the horse's rear, the ride smoother this time. "What were you doing with a man like that?"
"He wasn't always full of hatred. He didn't always beat me..." She tries to think back to the last time it'd been a few weeks. He beat her almost everyday or threatened to. "We were in town for a show and... I think he got too rowdy in the bar. Came back with energy to spare and chose to-" She can't make herself finish the sentence.
They come to a grouping of trees and a gruff voice calling out, "Who's there?"
"Calm down, Marston. It's just me." Florence makes herself smaller, hoping the white of her bodice is covered by blood to keep her hidden for the moment. She can see fire flickering through the trees and the sound of folks talking. He stops the horse in a small gathering, helps her down and takes off the saddle, depositing it on the ground nearby.
"Come. Let's see what Dutch has to say about this." Florence follows him, almost too closely as eyes stare at her.
"Bring yourself back something?" a male voice calls out after a low whistle.
"Shut it, Bill. Or I'll shut it for you," Arthur threatens, coming to a stop near a tent. "Dutch, this is Florence. She-"
"I said no more passengers, Arthur. I may have directed it at Uncle and the Reverend, but I meant it for the whole gang." Dutch is a large man, spread across a cot with a book in his hand and a small candle casting light across the pages.
"I couldn't very well leave her in Valentine, Dutch," Arthur says.
"Your heart will be the death of you." Dutch stands, putting his book face down. He inspects her, circling her the way you would a cow or horse you're about to buy.
"I can talk. I have words. If you want me gone, then tell me. Not him," Florence says with a rough edge to her voice after jabbing her finger at Arthur.
Dutch laughs. "You'll be fine. We won't have an area for you to sleep in just yet, but Arthur can give you his cot for now, won't you?" His eyes cut to Arthur who looks like he's going to argue, but doesn't.
She's shown the way to his small tent propped up by a wagon and is given privacy to change into something one of the women of the camp brought her. It's a nightgown, unmodestly tight in the chest and hips area, but it'll do for now.
"We'll get you some new clothes, don't you worry dear," says the brunette after she collects Florence's bloody dress. "And you're safe here."
"I have nothing more to worry about. William is dead, may his soul rest in hell," Florence says simply.
"There's always something to worry about," says another woman in a thick accent, coming up behind the one holding her bloody clothes. "Arthur should've left you. Dutch said no more passengers and he meant it."
Florence shifts uncomfortably under the red head's stare. "Miss O'Shea, shush now. Don't scare the poor girl anymore than needed."
"Mary-Beth, if she is going to live in the real world with the rest of us and become an outlaw, she *must* understand this life is hard." Florence sits up straighter under the hard eyes of Miss O'Shea.
"I have led a hard life, Miss O'Shea. I will not shy away from work," Florence says in a stronger voice than what she feels. Her stomach flips again and again, making her sick.
"Miss O'Shea, Mary-Beth, leave the poor girl in peace!" a voice yells across the yard. Florence tries to find the source, knowing it's female, but she can't see anything past the oil lantern that hangs on the edge of the wagon.
"Good night, Florence. We'll see you in the morning," Mary-Beth says sweetly, clutching Florence's bloody clothes to her chest. She turns on her heel and walks off somewhere into the darkness.
Miss O'Shea stares at Florence for a moment longer, waving a fan in front of her face Florence hadn't seen previously. She opens her mouth to say something, but turns before she gets it out.
"You'll fit in just fine with some of the ladies." Arthur shows on her right with a bed roll in hand.
"I'm awfully sorry he's making you sleep on the ground. You rescued me and are giving me a second chance, if there's anyone who should be sleeping on the ground, it's me."
He waves her off, settling down on his back with his hat tilted over his eyes. "Don't you worry about me. Just get some sleep."
Florence nods, turning over and facing the fabric they have against the wagon side. Sleep doesn't come easy to her. She closes her eyes, fighting the want to leave. It wouldn't do her any good.
Arthur wakes somewhere around four in the morning if the face on his watch is at all correct. He sits up on an elbow, groaning as his back protests. He has to go into town and get her a cot of her own or ask Miss Grimshaw to find her a bed that isn't his. Sleeping on the ground while he's out and about is hard enough.
The cot is empty. In a panic, he sits up, searching for the girl. She couldn't have gone far, not in that too white dress. She'd stick out. "Lenny," he says, getting up as the boy passes his tent. "Did you see the woman, Florence leave?"
"Charles is out on patrol tonight. Want me to see if he's seen her?" Lenny offers, perking up at the prospect of something exciting finally happening.
Arthur shakes his head. "Too men come after her and we don't know what she'll do." He grabs his hat and makes sure his gun is still in his holster before he makes the long walk out to the beginning of the path. The trees cut out any dim moonlight from shining through and he takes longer as he tries not to trip over roots and rocks.
"Charles!" he calls quietly. "Charles, you there?"
"Morgan? What are you doing up so early? It's not your turn for another few hours, at least." Charles finds him stumbling over a large root.
"That girl I brought back, Florence. She's gone. Seen her go?" Charles takes three agonizing seconds to answer him with a shake of his head. She's gone. Or she's run off. Why would she do that? Stupid woman got mad at him when he told her she was free to go. And he sticks out his neck to bring her into the camp and risk Dutch's anger... what an ungrateful bitch. He breathes slowly, closing his eyes.
He'll get his bed back. That'll be nice. But part of him is disappointed. He hasn't known her for long, that's for sure, but she's snippy and quick with her tongue. Dutch seemed to really like her right away as well. Cursing, he stomps back to the camp, tripping over roots and rocks. He has to rationalize her disappearance. If she didn't wander off on her own, who took her?
Arthur spots his horse, who neighs quietly and makes a path to him. His horse is still here. She can't have gone far. Did the women take her shoes as well? "If you're looking for your woman, she's over by the edge that away," Bill grunts as he bumbles past Arthur, his hand on his fly.
"Hey! Don't do that over here." Arthur pushes the drunken man away. "Go piss outside the camp, where the ladies won't see you."
"Afraid they'll like what they see?" Bill's voice trails off.
"Hardly."
Silently, he works his way through the dark camp, using the oil lantern from his tent to make sure he's not stepping on anything that could wake up Dutch or half the camp. Voices drift to him and he slows down to listen to the conversation without being seen.
"He was all I had. What am I going to do now?" Florence sniffles at the end of her sentence and Arthur's heart seizes. She's crying?
"You'll move on. You'll find a better man," Abigail says. Abigail, out of all the women, has the biggest sense of logic. He knows Miss Grimshaw would tell her to stop mourning the asshole and Mary-Beth would console her with laughter and games. Abigail has a talent he's always admired of being able to do both.
"He was such a sweet man. What happened to my William? Why would he beat me?" Florence's voice is weak, edged with tears he can hear.
"Some men do that. They are sweet on you and then next thing you know, they leave you for a year to raise a child." Florence raises her head and turns it to look at Abigail. "I'm sorry Florence. I- I've had my own issues with my husband. The point is, you grow and learn. You are with the baddest outlaws." Besides the O'Driscolls and no one wants to be with them.
Florence wipes her eyes and nods. "Arthur the one who found you right?" Abigail puts a hand around the other woman's shoulder. "He'll look after you. Make sure your safe. He's a good man, Arthur Morgan."
He almost left before Abigail brought him up. Feeling even more guilty about spying on them, he settles behind a tree and looks up at the cloudy sky as their talk continues.
Florence finds him asleep against a tree closest to where she and Abigail were sitting. Was he eavesdropping or keeping guard? She nudges his leg with her foot, jumping back when he snorts awake. Wiping away any drool, not that he had any on his chin, he slides up the tree. "Listening in on our conversation, Mr. Morgan?"
"We have many enemies, Florence. I was simply keeping watching over ya'll." He walks away without another word, pulling out his pocket watch and sighing. "Do you think you can stay inside the tent this time? I have to patrol."
"Let me come with you. Earn my keep. Prove to Miss O'Shea I belong here." Florence catches up with him, putting her hand on his shoulder to completely stop him. His eyes rove down her body and she's vaguely uncomfortably in the too tight dress.
"You have no proper clothes."
"I'll just wear yours. If you give them to me, I can fix them to fit my body." He's not that much bigger than she is. Florence stands at five foot seven, her shoulders nearly the width of his. Her father always said she reminds him of a draft horse.
Arthur sighs, eyes once more on her body as he assesses what she said. "Fine. But don't complain if my pants fall down and your under clothing is showing."
Florence nods excitedly, following him. He pulls out a blue button up work shirt, a simple brown vest and work jeans. She's given her boots back after he fishes them from the 'women's area' as she's mapped it. The jeans are too big, slipping when she takes a move.
Rope is hanging off a corner of a hitching post and she ties it around her waist until something else can be figured out. "Know how to work one of these?" he asks, handing her a pistol.
"No. William never let me shoot."
"Forget William. Forget everything that happened back in Valentine. Now, know how to work one of these?"
"No."
"I'll show you after we're done patrolling. We have to get you a horse anyway. Can't have you riding with me all the time." Flutters work into her nerves, making her fingers shake as she hands the gun back to him. He plans on taking her out on rides. What does the gang do? He's killed before, having shot William in the head seemingly without hesitation.
Dawn arrives faster than she wants it to, bringing the golden outline of the sun past the far off, snow-capped mountains. Florence follows him back into the camp, tripping over the too long pant legs. "Wish you had a skirt now?" Mary-Beth calls, watching her as Florence stops and gives her a smile.
"There's freedom in pants, Mary-Beth. You should try it."
"I'm all good with my dresses, Miss Florence. But I can take that in for you. Make it fit more proper."
"And what will I wear until then?"
"You could walk around in your under clothing, you won't be me bitching." Florence turns around, glaring at the man who spoke.
"Leave the lady alone!" A man approaches her, his weathered face charming. "Forgive Bill. He often speaks before he thinks." Bill turns ruddy, pulling his hat down over his face. "Name is Hosea. I was asleep when Arthur pulled you into camp." He holds out his hand and smiles widely.
Florence relaxes, taking his hand. "Florence."
"So I've heard. The whole camp has been abuzz with the new woman Arthur seems to have found himself."
Arthur turns his face away, huffing. "Go get the pants refitted."
Florence nods, looking between Hosea and Arthur. Mary-Beth takes her hand and leads her to a small, cornered off section of the camp. Mary-Beth takes her hand and leads her to a small, cornered off section of the camp. They've hung blankets to give privacy. Mary-Beth takes in the hem of the pants and rolls them up, pinning them into place.
Florence sits in the corner with a blanket over her legs, head against a tree as she tries not to fall asleep. Her eyes drift closed and she can hear Mary-Beth singing quietly but poorly and then a slight chuckle at the end.