DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING!
A/N: It's been a while since my last YG fic, but I was recently struck by a muse to write one. I plan it to be a short postscript to "Rampaging Riddle," told once again from the perspective of Serena. Hope y'all enjoy it.
April 1st, 1880
Today began normally enough. Chavez and I decided to make the trip to Albuquerque for a shopping trip. Of course there are stores in Lincoln, but Albuquerque has a wider selection. Listen to me; I sound like a regular stuck-up housewife, (which, I can assure you, I'm not). Anyway, since going to Albuquerque was something of a special occasion, I chose to dress more like a proper woman: a simple white shirtwaist and a plain brown skirt.
Like always, I used my husband's bandanna to tie back my hair and I secreted a knife in my boot, so you could say my skirt was where convention stopped.
Chavez and I hitched our dun workhorse to the buckboard wagon and set off. The journey passed as quickly as it usually did and without incident. When we arrived in the main street of Albuquerque, Chavez stopped the wagon, got out first, and extended his hand to help me get out. It's funny. Chavez knows I can throw knives harder, ride a horse longer, and track somebody farther than any man in Lincoln County, but he's always so damn polite and chivalrous. Not that I mind terribly.
"I need to stop at the feed store to get some more grain for the horses," Chavez told me. "Can you think of anything else we need to get?"
"Apples, butter, flour, eggs..." I trailed off, noticing the broad grin on his face. "What?"
"I bet I can guess what we're having for supper tonight." he said. "Apple pie." I shook my head. "Apple dumplings."
"Exactly."
Chavez rubbed his stomach hungrily. "Those are my favorite, Querida."
"Hey, if I didn't know that after cooking for John Tunstall and the rest of you guys for three years, I'd be a sad case," I said. "And speaking of sweets, I'm gonna head down the road to the sweetshop. We're low on candy and cakes back at the house."
I had only developed a sweet tooth in recent years, something I guessed was born of riding with the Lincoln Regulators. Billy the Kid sure loved his sweets, a trait that eventually rubbed off on all of us.
"Are you sure you'll be all right on your own?" Chavez asked as I turned to walk away. In reply, I lifted up my skirt just enough to reveal the knife hilt protruding from my boot. "Right." he mumbled. "I forgot who I was talking to."
I walked back to Chavez and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll meet you at the wagon in about half an hour." I promised.
-----
After exiting the sweetshop with few bags of gumballs, mints, and toffees, I started to make my way back to where I'd seen Chavez park the wagon. There was a crowd of people gathered on the station platform of the train station, a crowd so large I could scarcely get through. A train pulled by a big black engine sat steaming beside the platform, a line of children of varying ages exited it nervously. Smiling women rushed forward with their husbands to great their new charges. I watched them sadly, wishing with all my heart that Tommy O'Folliard had found this kind of happy ending in New Mexico.
Gradually, the new mothers took the children away, the childrens' meager belongings carried by the new father. The crowd thinned and I was able to take in one of the passengers. A burly conductor was escorting a boy down the corridor of the train. The boy was dressed in a secondhand suit, a tattered bowler covered a head of light brown curls. The boy looked about thirteen years old, but very small and skinny for his age. Gold-rimmed spectacles flashed in the sunlight, occasionally hidden from view by the book the boy's nose was buried in.
'I bet the kid's from a wealthy family and had those before he got to the orphanage,' I thought. From what little Tommy had shared with me, I'd gleaned that little things like poor eyesight were overlooked by orphanage owners. Most of them just wanted to get the kids out of their hair as quickly as possible.
"Move it along, son!" growled the conductor.
The boy's brown eyes never left the pages of the book he was carrying. The conductor wasn't pleased by this at all. He swung one of his massive arms into the boy, knocking him off balance. He tumbled down the train's steps and landed hard on the platform. I immediately rushed forward, and as usual, my temper got the better of me.
"You fat bastard!" I screamed at the conductor. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"What did you say to me, girly?" said the conductor, baring his tobacco-stained teeth at me.
"I called you a fat bastard," I said. Even though I hardly came up to his waist, the guy didn't intimidate me. I'd dealt with worse dirtbags in my day.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chavez walking past, shouldering a heavy sack of feed corn. He took one look at me, dropped the bag of corn, and came over to me.
"What seems to be the problem?" Chavez asked lightly.
"That yellow-bellied bastard threw that poor kid down the stairs," I said.
"This whore's got a real fine mouth on her," said the conductor, pointing a finger in my face.
I saw a red flush enter Chavez's dark cheeks. "Never call my wife a whore again," he said, drawing his knife and waving it threateningly.
The conductor looked from the knife to me and back to the kid that was still lying on the platform. He scampered back to the safety of the train like a frightened mouse. Now that he was out of the way, Chavez and I moved to check on the boy. He whimpered quietly as I put my hand on his back.
"It's all right," I said in a soothing voice. "You're safe now. Did he hurt you?"
"No," the boy replied, picking himself up.
What I could see of his face belied his words. He must have landed on his glasses when he fell, because blood was trickling from his eyebrow. I motioned to Chavez; he produced a handkerchief from his pocket. I leaned in to mop up the boy's face, but he ducked his head so I couldn't reach. I put my hand under his chin to make him look up and choked back a gasp. There was a bump on his forehead, a half-healed cut on his ear, bruises on his face, and his bottom lip was split. These injuries couldn't just be from the fall; somebody had beat this kid half to hell.
"Please let me help you," I said. "Tell me your name."
"I'm...I'm...a m-mistake," the boy stammered.
Chavez shook his head solemnly. "The Great Spirit makes no mistakes, little one."
The boy stood quietly for a minute, trying to digest this concept. I bent to pick up his scattered belongings: his hat, a little satchel like the one Tommy used to have, and his book. The book was one of the five-cent novels written about Billy and I. I opened it enough to peek inside the front cover. Scrawled in cursive was the name Cyluss Fitzwilliam.
'Whoever named this kid sure couldn't spell,' I thought.
"I'm Serena Chavez, and this is my husband Jose," I introduced.
"P-Pleased to meet you, ma'am," Cyluss mumbled, taking his hat from me and twisting it in his grubby little hands.
I looked pleadingly at Chavez. I was unable to get pregnant and we had been discussing adoption for a while. We just knew there was a kid out there who needed us, and Cyluss sure as hell did. Chavez, understanding me, nodded his consent. I handed Cyluss the handkerchief so he could stem the flow of blood coming from his injuries.
"We're going home now, and you're coming with us, Cy," I said firmly.
"I'm both indebted and grateful to you and your husband, Mrs. Chavez," he said formally.
"Call me Serena," I said, leading him to our wagon.