A/N: Moving right along! I'm not sure how long I'll be able to keep up this pace, but I'll keep right along writing as long as I have the time. Thank you for the reviews, PMs, and support!
Carl ran into the house like a bat out of hell, breathless and sweating. "They're coming!" he yelled, frantic.
"Who is?" Michonne was on her feet at once, pushing her empty plate away from her. Rick was a split second behind.
"Son, breathe," he instructed, walking quickly towards him. Rick's hands on Carl's shoulders had an immediate calming effect, though the boy still panted. "Who's coming?" Rick repeated, kneeling to look Carl in the eye.
"Some men," Carl took a gasping breath. "From town."
The kitchen mobilized at once, people leaping to their feet. Half-eaten breakfast dishes and tin coffee cups clanged as the men leapt into action. Morgan seized Duane, hurrying him from the room. Their newest arrival, Theodore, brawny and bald, headed immediately for an axe sitting in the corner of the room.
"We'll be back when we hear the signal," he told Rick.
Rick nodded the affirmative, watching as Glenn scrambled around the kitchen, looking for his rifle. As he left the room, Judith burst into tears.
"What's happening?" she wailed, her panic betraying her young age. They'd all been sitting at breakfast just minutes ago, laughing happily. Judith seemed to thrive with so much company, happy for a house filled with voices and laughter. She'd taken to each one of them with an ease that surprised even Michonne. Theodore had only been there a day or two, but already Judith dogged his steps, asking him to tell her more stories about Anansi, the spider trickster.
Rick moved towards her, but Michonne beat him to it, sweeping the girl into her arms.
"We're going to go upstairs," Michonne told Judith, her voice calm and sweet and unnaturally high. "And you and I are going to put on pretty dresses and do one another's hair."
Judith wrapped her arms around Michonne's neck, still crying quietly. From the other side of the table, Rick watched them.
"I'll meet the men out there," he assured her. "Carl, grab a drink of water and wash up a few of these dishes, then we're going to head outside," Rick's voice was level, as though they did this song and dance every morning. Michonne wondered, not for the first time, what life had been like in Jones County. Morgan, Theodore, and Rick had fallen quickly into a pattern, operating together like they'd been living with one another for years.
Carl nodded, steadying himself. "It's going to be fine, Judy," he soothed his sister, already gathering cups from the table. Rick watched in approval. The back door of the house slammed shut as the men headed for the woods.
"You remember the plan?" Rick asked Michonne.
"Of course," she shifted Judith to her hip. "C'mon, pretty girl."
Still sniffling, Judith allowed herself to be carried towards the stairs. As they passed Rick, he laid a protective hand against the girl's back, bending down to drop a kiss on her forehead. It brought him in close contact with Michonne. Her breath hitched as his hair grazed her chin, his scent like soap and cedar wood filling her nose.
"Be careful," Rick whispered as he straightened back up, pausing to look her in the eye.
"You too," Michonne cautioned him, hurrying away from him and up the stairs. Judith settled down as she went through the all-important task of helping Michonne into the yellow dress. It was even tighter now than before, the result of regular square meals and a mattress to sleep on. She wiggled it over her hips, hastily pinning her hair up.
Judith ran to the window, pressing her face against the glass. "Daddy and Carl are out there," she informed Michonne.
Michonne took a rag, wiping at the tear tracks on Judith's face. "What are they doing?" she asked the little girl, determined to keep her distracted.
Judith shrugged. "Some boring stuff with the chickens."
Smiling despite herself, Michonne chanced a glance. The two were indeed fussing with the chicken coop. Carl seemed to be wrangling them back into the pen. His father was busying feeding them. Michonne watched as Rick bent over, seizing a feedbag and hefting it over one shoulder.
"Can we go outside too?" Judith asked.
"In a little bit," Michonne startled away from the window, fixing a smile on her face. Regretfully, she pushed her sword beneath the bed. "C'mon," she prompted Judith again, leading the child downstairs.
-l-l-l-l-
"Do you think Miss Michonne will be ok?" Carl asked him, his expression pained.
"We're not going to let anything happen to her," Rick assured his son. "Miss Michonne is smart, she can fight. Even if we weren't here, she'd be ok." He'd caught a glimpse of her in the kitchen window, Judith back on her hip. The little girl had been chattering away, her fear forgotten. The smile on Michonne's face as she gazed at his daughter almost made him forget the situation at hand as well.
When he saw the men approaching in the distance, he quickly sobered.
"What do I do?" Carl asked, his voice low.
"Let me do the talking," he instructed, tossing a handful of feed at the chickens. Picking up his hatchet, he started toward the group, Carl at his ankles.
"Permission to come on in?" the leader of the posse grinned gap-toothily from the saddle. Rick recognized him immediately.
"Depends, Dixon," he paused, staring up at him. He looked much the same as he had before the war, pale and leathery, with a smirk that smacked not of mirth, but trouble.
"Depends on what?" Merle Dixon was enjoying the game already.
"On what you're doing here," Rick leaned on the gate.
"Heard you hired some new help," Merle glanced up at Rick's house in the distance. Behind Merle, his brother stirred in his own saddle. Rick had never known his name. He took in the dark-haired teenager. He had an air of neglect about him, like a dog who was used to being beaten. Rick couldn't say he was surprised. The oldest Dixon and patriarch had drunk himself to death, but he was a mean cuss, the kind of overseer that even southerners thought was too cruel. Merle had taken his role after he died. Out of a job since emancipation, Merle was most often to be found kicking up trouble. The other three or so men behind Merle never strayed too far from him, backwoods boys with no formal education and not an acre to their name. They were down a few since the war, but the group still presented a problem.
"Might be," Rick tilted his head, bringing his attention back. "Don't see how it's any of your business."
"Heard she's pretty, for a nigger," Merle smirked. "Didn't take you for the type, Grimes."
"And what type is that?" Rick struggled to contain his anger, knowing that Merle was baiting him on purpose. He had half a mind to put his hatchet right between Merle's ugly eyes.
"You was always in town with that Yankee preacher, acting holier than thou," Merle laughed, a dry, bark-like sound. "Guess things change when you ain't got a pretty wife to warm your bed no more."
At his elbow, Carl began to flush, his skin turning bright red in anger. Rick shot him a look, willing his son to calm down.
"Hoo boy, looks like I pissed off the baby here," Merle raised his hands in mock surrender. "I meant no disrespect little Grimes. You gotta excuse us common folk."
Carl glowered but remained silent. Rick moved to put an end to this. "What is it you need, Dixon? I know you didn't ride all the way out here to talk smart." Rick's hands twitched around his hatchet handle. Merle didn't miss the motion.
"Coupla men went missing two weeks or so go, way down somewhere by the river. Now that the weather's done pissing on us, we're investigating. You ain't seen nothing unusual, have you?" Merle tilted his hat up, looking down at Rick.
"Besides this weather?" Rick shrugged. "No. You're welcome to look around though." He paused, "outside of the fence." Rick patted it to illustrate his point.
"Thank you kindly," Merle's smile did not reach his eyes.
"You're welcome," there was no warmth in Rick's voice. He stood, hands on his son's shoulders, staring the man down. With a reluctant whistle, Merle moved his men away.
"Should we give the signal?" Carl asked lowly as they walked back to the house. Merle and his men had disappeared off into the distance.
"Not yet," Rick was on edge. "Something ain't right yet."
"Will they be ok out there?" Carl's eyes darted into the distance.
"They're used to this kind of thing," Rick wished it wasn't true. "They'll be fine."
Still, his eyes lingered on the forest before he went back inside to check on the girls.
-l-l-l-l-
A half hour after they sent the signal, Michonne began to worry. Forty-five minutes after that, she was beside herself.
"Something happened," she whispered this lowly to Rick. "They should be back." Glenn never lost his sense of direction, and Morgan and Theodore supposedly knew this land like the back of their hands.
Rick frowned, his face creasing. He cast a nervous look at his children. Carl was making a valiant attempt to distract his sister, playing a game of pickup sticks on the parlor floor. "I'm going to go look," he told her, fingers drumming a nervous pattern against his leg.
"You can't go alone," Michonne protested.
"I'm not leaving the children here by themselves," he told her, voice still low. "And I ain't risking you."
"I can protect myself," she protested.
Rick looked distressed. He exhaled, face creased in thought. "We'll go outside, take a quick look. See what we can see."
"Together?" she asked, surprised he gave in so quickly.
"Grab your sword," he told her, nodding.
Michonne hurried away, meeting him on the porch. Rick was standing, hands on his hips, wearing a beat up leather jacket and holding a second one up for her.
"Can't risk a light," he told her, helping her into the warm garment. He tucked his hatchet into his waistband.
Michonne adjusted her sword beneath the jacket, "I know my way around in the dark," she assured him. "Let's go."
Surprisingly, he followed a half step behind her. "Maybe Morgan took them back to his camp," Rick muttered, more to himself than her.
"Maybe," Michonne hoped it was true. In just a few short days, she'd become accustomed to the presence of the men around her. Perhaps it was a residual of her old life, the sense of responsibility that she'd felt for the men and women in her charge as she led them across the country by night to Canada. Perhaps it was Morgan's calm demeanor and deep voice, Theodore's easy laugh and slight gapped smile, Duane's never-ending questions as he ran about the fields with Carl. She and Glenn were family already, bonded by the blood of the battlefield and experience. The others were quickly joining the ranks.
She led Rick through the darkness, pleased that he managed to be so quiet despite his inexperience. He lost his footing a time or two. Michonne reached out to steady him, clasping her hand around his wrist.
"How are you doing this in a dress?" he asked in awe, wincing as a tree root connected with his toe.
"Practice," she allowed herself a small smile. Rick always took a similar tone when he dared to ask her about her past. He sounded almost like his son waiting for a story.
"I can see why you prefer pants," he whispered, chuckling lowly.
Michonne clung to the distraction, desperate for a relief from her worry. "I don't mind dresses, not really," she told him, stepping lightly, looking for evidence of their friends.
"No?" Rick sounded surprised.
"I just never had one of my own," she shrugged. "And this one doesn't really fit." She felt better with the jacket over it, less exposed.
Rick digested this. "Lori, my late wife, she was rail thin. Sometimes I had to remind her to eat," he said.
Michonne paused. Rick had never spoken of his wife before in her presence. "I never needed to be reminded to eat," she said, attempting levity, "Any chance I got, I took it."
Rick smiled at her, looking at her with obvious fondness. "Well," he mused. "There's never been a pair of women so different as you."
Michonne raised her brow in surprise. She suspected Rick meant this in more than just looks. "How did you meet?" she ventured, still picking her way around his grounds.
"Her daddy's plantation," Rick recounted quietly. "My family was sharecroppers."
Michonne had supposed Rick hadn't come from money, but the realization that his wife did startled her. "She was a plantation-owner's daughter?"
"She was," Rick sighed. "Moved away with me for love," his tone did not match the romantic nature of his words. Perhaps he noticed because he moved to amend them. "It was good for a while," he told her. "Then the succession happened."
"Why did that make things unhappy?" Michonne wondered aloud.
"We disagreed on it. Turns out we disagreed on lots of things. She couldn't keep pretending anymore, I guess," he sighed as though the whole issue still exhausted him.
Michonne could think of nothing to say. She paused in her steps, trying to regroup her thoughts, attempting to focus on the task at hand. Rick silenced, glancing around.
"Any sign of them?" he asked lowly.
Frustration returned, and fear. "Someone's been here," she gestured to the forest ground. "But I'm not a skill enough tracker to—"
The sound of horses in the distance killed her words before they could leave her mouth. She ducked down, heading for a cluster of bushes, tugging at Rick's arm. She shoved him in before he could protest, climbing in after him.
They came into sight suddenly, lit by the low glow of a few lanterns and torches, four men on horseback, chattering excitedly. She knew the leader by sight if not by name. Her heart clenched when she saw the others, hands tied together, being led in a line behind the animals like sheep to the slaughter. Glenn was tied between Morgan and Theodore, with Duane just in front of them. The only one not bleeding was the child.
Rick inhaled sharply, anger practically radiating off of him. He gripped the hatchet at his side. Michonne's mind raced, calculating. On foot, she could take them. Mounted like this…
She quickly reached over, stilling Rick's hand with her own. He looked at her, incredulous. Silently, she begged him to stay still. The group passed on, the forest darkening as they got further off.
"We need to rescue them," Rick practically growled. There was a rage inside of him, one Michonne recognized intimately but had never seen before in the usually stoic farmer. "We should have rescued them." He paced restlessly, looking like he was about to chase them up the path.
"We will," Michonne reached for him again, attempting to calm him. His skin was hot, burning below the surface. He glanced at her.
"If we ambush them…" he began.
"They'll kill us all. One of them had a crossbow," Michonne pointed out. "We'd all be dead before anyone got free."
Rick looked on in distress, only half hearing her. "We have to…" he repeated.
"We will," she squeezed his arm, bringing his attention back to her. "I've done this before. But we have to be careful." He turned his head to her, blinking away his rage, his eyes dropping to her hand on him. Michonne released him.
"What do we do?" he asked, voice hoarse.
"We need horses," she told him, already moving back to his farm. "And we need to be quick. We have to beat them to town."
Rick followed, "What else?"
"Tomorrow's Sunday," Michonne said. "Courthouse will be closed."
"A man like Merle ain't going to wait for the law to handle anything. He's not going to the courthouse." Rick practically spat the words.
"Exactly," Michonne said. "He's going to wait till everyone is in church, good and distracted." She'd seen enough lynchings to know. "That's when we strike. But we need a place to hide them."
Rick swallowed, his expression grim. "I know a place," he told her.
"Good," Michonne began to run, streaking for the house. "Then we leave Carl in charge, and we go."
Rick did not look thrilled by the prospect, but ran alongside her.
"All right," he agreed.
Together, they raced off into the darkness.