Butch awoke with a start. Taking a moment to gain his bearings, he idly scratched at the rough skin of his neck, irritated by the stiff material of the shirt Latham had found for him. He uttered a quiet curse and slowly unfolded his aching body from the desk chair. His bones creaked and his joints popped as he stretched. A groan escaped him. How he longed for the familiar comforts of a beaten-down trail, waking to the smell of horseflesh and dirt, bitter coffee and Skinny's beans and cornbread. Often his back had pained him after a particularly shoddy attempt to sleep on the rough ground, but never had it felt as though a knife had been lodged in his spine. He grunted, kicking the chair aside as he stumbled to the chamber pot to relieve himself. Latham and his fancy habits were turning him soft, that was it.
He sneered at his reflection in the mirror mounted on the wall before him. The man in the looking glass snarled back, exaggerating his haggard appearance. A silver tooth flashed from behind a mangled lip; scraggly black hair hung from his head in lifeless strands. The stranger in the mirror looked exhausted. Weary. Tired of running, fighting, scrounging to survive.
With a shout, Butch slammed his fist into the glass. The stranger before him shattered into jagged pieces, some of which fell to the carpeted floor and mingled with the drops of blood flowing freely from his knuckles. Panting, the wounded outlaw stumbled back from the destruction he had caused and found himself fixed with the stern glare of a very unhappy Chinese woman. She chastised him in her native language, the foreign words flying from her tongue as she pushed him into a chair and began fussing over his injured hand.
Amused, Butch looked on as she worked with quick and steady movements to wrap his hand in clean linen and bound it tightly. The alcohol she'd poured over the cuts had stung - enough to cause him to hiss and swear, which had earned him another reproachful look - but the amount he'd swallowed straight from the bottle numbed him to a point where the ache in his hand was a dull flare easily ignored. He eyed her handiwork, grudgingly impressed with her skill. Of course - Latham would have nothing but the best on his precious trains.
"Butch, I expect you to be presentable for breakfast. Mrs. Reid and - good Lord, what have you done to yourself?"
Latham Cole took one step inside the railcar and froze, staring at his brother in shock and frustration. Heat rose in the railroad tycoon's cheeks as he came nearer, taking in the mess of glass on the floor and the bloodstained cloth wrapped around Butch's hand. He turned to the china woman for answers.
"He hurt," she explained in broken English, gesturing to Cavendish. "I fix," she finished, proudly pointing at the cloth.
With a lazy grin, Butch raised the nearly empty bottle in a mocking salute to his brother. "Not a bad worker, this one."
Latham spared only the briefest of smiles to the immigrant lady and hurriedly shooed her out of the railcar before turning back to Butch, who was perusing the liquor cabinet. "I expect you to join us for breakfast," he continued, maintaining a slight level of control over his anger as he casually nudged his brother away from the cabinet and locked it. "Mrs. Reid and her son will be joining us, as will be Captain Fuller and Wendell, of course. I had hoped you'd at least try to make yourself presentable for our guests, but after that display last night -"
"He started it," Butch mumbled.
Latham shot him a thoroughly annoyed look. "Childish. Simply childish. I expect better behavior from both of you this morning. We're nearing Promontory, so this, brother, will be an excellent opportunity for you to... brush up on your manners and social skills."
With many complaints and curses, the outlaw allowed himself to be directed into the same chair from the night before, where he sat and angrily gnawed on a fingernail as he waited for breakfast to be served. Beside him, Rebecca Reid sank quietly into her chair, and he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She was still wearing the dress Latham had chosen, despite the torn hem and missing material.
His boredom was soon forgotten as he watched the Ranger's wife. Her movements were calculated, delicate and poised, but her sharp eyes missed nothing - from her son's carefully folded hands to Fuller's napkin, tucked into his collar just-so. She could perform the role of a well-to-do lady with ease, but there was something just below the surface, something wild and free, coiled like a moody rattler waiting for the right moment to spring.
He was beginning to see why the Reid boys had been drawn to her.
Feeling eyes upon her skin, Rebecca turned her head and met Butch's gaze. He grinned, a macabre display of scars and silver, and spat out a shred of his fingernail caught between his teeth. Rebecca grimaced, disgusted at the sight, and returned her focus to her son. Quiet laughter emanated from the man beside her. She ignored him.
"Are you hungry, Danny?" she asked her boy, struggling to smile for his sake. Her heart melted when he yawned and rubbed his eyes, nodding his blond head. His hair was beginning to darken and curl at the ends, reminding her so much of his father that tears sprang to her eyes. She quickly blinked them away and smiled again.
"Breakfast will be served soon," Latham declared as he took his place at the head of the table. "We will arrive at Promontory Summit within the hour." He fixed his brother and the cavalry captain with a stern gaze. "I expect you both to be on your best behavior. You represent the United States of America, a land proud and free."
Butch snorted, hiding his scoff in the shadow of the brim of his hat. Rebecca glanced uncomfortably between the outlaw and the railroad tycoon as servers entered the railcar bearing trays laden with food. Her appetite was all but gone, but across the table, Danny and Fuller tucked eagerly into their meal, oblivious to the animosity brewing between the two men.
Rebecca's hand trembled as she picked up her fork and began to eat. Freedom. Her husband had believed in it, fought for it, and ultimately, lay down his life for it. It was a pleasant dream, but seemingly little more than that. Her husband was dead, buried in some unknown grave, and John... Her heart clenched within her breast. God only knew what had happened to him. She could still see him in her mind's eye, blindfolded, standing before a line of guns. America, a land proud and free. A land built upon the blood of its own people.
A nudge in her arm brought her gaze up to meet Butch's eyes. "What's on your mind, Mrs. Reid?" he drawled, chewing noisily and with his mouth open. Rebecca swallowed and tried to ignore the hashed-up mess rolling over his tongue as she gave him her answer.
"Many things, Mr. Cavendish," she said, and sighed. "Many, many things."