Vaughn woke up, blinking his eyes blearily. He felt cold. Squinting in the early morning light that filled the room he craned his neck to the side and glanced over at Chelsea – a shock, for a moment he forgot he had been in her company. She had stolen the sheets at some point during the night it seemed. Grumbling and wearily massaging his temple, he got out of bed and staggered up. Vaughn was not a morning person.
Again, he turned his gaze on Chelsea. She was tucked up, warm and cosy, in their 'shared' covers. He scowled. He had heard her last night – talking to him. She wanted to travel with him, did she? And drag whatever mess she had gotten herself into along with them? Vaughn didn't like trouble and this girl certainly appeared to be the epitome of the word trouble. She nearly had him killed the other day and now she had them playing husband and wife.
"Knock, knock." Vaughn heard the muffled voice of a woman outside their door. For the life of him he didn't understand why she didn't just knock normally. Why did she have to say it?
Vaughn wasn't in the mood for socialisation. He rarely was. But he especially wasn't in the mood at that moment. "Come in," he answered reluctantly.
The door swung open and in sauntered a young woman, hair pulled back into a golden mass of curls and wearing a dress that flared and pinched in all the right places. She held aloft a tray, laden with what was a considerably hearty breakfast. "Mama said you two would be needing some food." she said, setting down the tray on the bedside table, the clatter it made causing Chelsea to jolt awake. She jumped to sit upright, grunting as she came into consciousness, hair in complete disarray. For a moment, she looked panicked, probably going through a similar thought process as Vaughn had. But then she remembered her current situation, so now she just stared at the newcomer in drowsy confusion.
The woman watched Chelsea in amusement and drawled out, "So Mama sent me up with the food. On the house, she told me. You must have made a real impression on her."
No indication of realisation appeared on Chelsea's face. Her gaze was just as blank as it was drowsy. "…Who are you?"
Now the woman was laughing. Obviously, she found Chelsea's slowness more amusing than Vaughn did. "I'm Julia, Mirabelle's daughter."
For another moment, Chelsea was impassive, but then her eyes lit up as memories of the previous night flooded back to her. She remembered Mr Lavenhar, drunk, licentious, eyes dancing over her body. A shiver ran through her at the thought of it. He had told her she reminded him of Mirabelle's daughter. This was her then: the girl who had a pretty face, the girl who was off-limits to the men of this saloon. Or maybe the better way to describe her was as a woman. That is what Chelsea saw. A woman – an attractive, mature woman at that. How on earth, in her muddy overalls and with her girl-like face, had she been reminiscent of Julia?
Chelsea leapt up to give Julia an enthusiastic hand shake. So, this is the daughter of Mirabelle? Chelsea was pleased to greet her, the offspring of the woman who had helped them. Well, helped her, she supposed. Vaughn would most likely fiercely object if he heard her say he had been assisted by Mirabelle. He would more likely argue that she had pulled him into a wagon-load more trouble.
Julia was laughing louder, more brightly now, as her hand received a thorough shake. "Alright, alright. Nice to meet you too. And what would your name be?"
Chelsea looked mortified. "Oh-Ah—Sorry. I'm Chelsea," She smiled sheepishly, rueful of the fact she could so easily forget her courtesies. "And this is Vaughn."
Vaughn spared a grunt of acknowledgement for Julia before leaving them for the far side of the room, stomping over to the washbowl to clean his face. Julia raised an eyebrow at Chelsea, sparing no softness in her voice. "Your husband's a surly one."
Somewhat smilingly, somewhat embarrassed of the company she kept, Chelsea said, "He certainly is."
"I'm not your husband," Vaughn spoke sternly through a sodden washcloth.
Chelsea scowled, put out. "It seems my spouse is a spoil sport too."
The waddy threw the cloth down. "I'm not your goddamn husband!" he shouted in indignation.
There was a moment of terse silence in which Chelsea and Julia stared wide-eyed at Vaughn. They shared a look and then they began to giggle. Pretty soon they were bent double, trying to contain their laughter, and Vaughn was left standing as the cause of their amusement, cheeks burning in embarrassment.
Snarling, he snatched up his jacket and hat. He stormed from the room, muttering something along the lines of "making a fool of me" and slammed the door behind him. The sound broke the two women from their hysterics. They straightened themselves out, doing their best not to fall about again. Now calmed, Chelsea smiled gratefully at Julia – not just for bringing up food, or for being the daughter of Mirabelle, but also for laughing with her. She doubted she would ever be able to explain how much anxiety it had seeped from her system.
"I should probably get to that breakfast you brought for us, but..." She let herself trail off, glancing towards the recently slammed door.
Julia gave her an understanding look. "It's on a warm plate. It should stay good for a little longer. Go find that faux beau of yours. Mama wouldn't want one of you going without food, not after she went out of her way to make it."
Chelsea thanked Julia and, like Vaughn, picked up her prized possession before leaving – her satchel. There were just some things you could not go anywhere without. Although appearing rather worthless at first glance, that satchel held her world in its parameters. Losing it would ruin her. It would render everything she had suffered up till now pointless.
Slinging the bag over her head, Chelsea left the room, now finding herself on an indoor balcony that overlooked the ground floor of The Dead Adder. Now this was a scene she was used to: seeing the last of the drunks being kicked out in the early morning. She had partaken in this particular saloon ritual back at Ol'Benny's. Sometimes the job could be amusing, seeing the men totter out of their doors, at other times it was the most life-leeching task ever. Drunkards could drain the energy from you sometimes. They would natter until the cows came home, dance until their legs buckled, and heckle Benny for free drinks until he threw them out on their sorry asses.
Now, as Chelsea looked down upon the bar area, Mirabelle was the one fulfilling this task. "And you stay out until you can pay off your tab, Mortimer!" Chelsea heard Mirabelle shout, kicking the last of the all-night saloon-goers out, as she descended the rickety stairs.
"Nice technique." Chelsea grinned, just as Mirabelle turned to face her, wiping her hands down her front like she had just touched the dirtiest man in the world. Maybe she had.
Mirabelle, despite her clear disgruntlement with the clientele she had just booted, now smiled slightly at the sight of Chelsea. "I've had years of practice and experience. You need to be brutal with them or they'll never go."
"Ain't that the truth." Chelsea nodded knowingly. "Have you seen Vaughn around? He's abandoned your lovely looking breakfast in a fit of rage."
"He passed through, madder than an old wet hen mind you." Mirabelle said, and then raised an eyebrow, scrutinising Chelsea. "What did you two girls do to him?"
"Why'd you think we did anything to him?"
"Because I know the face of a child who has been picked on." Mirabelle answered.
Chelsea snorted amusedly at hearing Vaughn get called a child, but then immediately sobered when Mirabelle aimed her a disapproving frown. "I'll just... I'll go look for him now."
Under Mirabelle's instructions she made her way outside to an animal shed – a small building to the side of the saloon – where apparently Vaughn would be. "Now why would he be out here?" Chelsea muttered to herself.
She found her answer soon enough.
Vaughn was petting a calf and it was surely one of the most bizarre sights Chelsea had ever seen. She stopped, dumbstruck, a few paces away and stared at Vaughn (who fortunately had his back to her or else he would have a clear view of her dangling jaw). A strange urge to coo at the oddly endearing sight came over Chelsea, an urge she didn't act on for fear of further inspiring Vaughn's ire. They would have to have a somewhat amicable relationship if they were to be travelling together, which she had yet to receive go-ahead for after asking last night (not that she thought she needed it).
"Good morning Vaughn."
He stiffened for a moment, hand stilling over the calf's side, but then he continued on like he wasn't a man caught in a cute situation. He didn't reply though and Chelsea, for however much she had annoyed Vaughn, didn't feel that was at all appropriate. "I said 'good morning Vaughn'," she said, a little louder this time.
"Mornin' Granger."
Now that she had her reply Chelsea wasn't sure what to do. She shuffled awkwardly on the balls of her feet as silence settled and Vaughn continued his petting of the cow, but she could quite clearly see a new ridged tension that had spread through his shoulders. "Soooo," she said finally, "I didn't know you had a soft spot for cattle."
"Tch. It's no soft spot. I just find their company more amicable than most humans."
Chelsea's face fell into an expression an onlooker may have described as a cross between unimpressed, amused, and oddly charmed. It seemed even she did not know which reaction she should settle on, for she stammered, feeling compelled to say at least say something and continue his reluctant conversation, "W-Well, if that isn't the prettiest bunch of blather I've ever heard!"
She huffed, feeling a little warm across the face, and walked forward to plant herself at the cowboy's side. She scrambled through the nearby straw to grab a cloth bag she saw to be filled with grooming tools and turned towards Vaughn, bag open in offering, only to find the usual frown on his face to be smoothed over, replaced by a thoughtful look, if not a look of some confusion. She felt embarrassment surge forwards, more strongly so this time, and rushed to explain her contradictory remark.
"It's just I didn't realise that some waddies actually enjoyed their work with the animals. Nice to see someone in it not just for the coin, you know? Still, it's rather insulting to be put second to a cow." She shifted her eyes away from Vaughn to pat the calf. "They are sweet creatures though…"
Vaughn's eyes flashed for a moment, with some indecipherable emotion, before he grunted in apparent agreement and reached into the bag to withdraw a second brush.
They worked in what was near companionable silence – quite the shock for Chelsea – for a good few minutes, Chelsea mummering to the calf as she combed through the more delicate areas around its face and Vaughn working on its flank, before – even more shocking – Vaughn broke the hush with a question. "So, Granger," and he put emphasis on the nickname, "You said you worked a plot of land back in Virga. S'wondering whether you looked after any animals. You seem to have experience."
"I…" Chelsea was not so much reluctant to answer as she was reluctant to remember. She felt a little choked and replied in what left her lips as little more than a whisper, "Just a dab hand with animals is all. Always have been."
For the second time that day Vaughn was looking at her funny and she had to fight the urge to bite down on the inside of her cheek at the intensity of it all. She hadn't had to open up like this in a long time. Not even at Ol'Benny's. Benny talked little, Will only ever made jokes, and Angela and Molly had never asked the right questions. Now Vaughn was asking all the wrong questions. It was her fault really. She shouldn't complain. Not when it was her who wanted to be friendly with the man in the first place.
"Well, I was thinking people wouldn't go calling you Grand Granger simply for working a measly plot of land. Thought you might have some experience on a ranch."
"Uh-I—"
"But then you seem quite sheltered. Almost like a city girl."
Chelsea couldn't help herself, she felt herself prickle at the indignity of it. She exclaimed compulsively, "I ain't no city slicker! I was born and raised on a ranch."
Then she saw him smirk from under the brim of his hat. "I thought so…"
"You—!"
An ominous click had both of them freezing in place, Chelsea's words halfway out of her mouth and Vaughn still in the act of grooming the cow. Slowly, in unison, their heads turned and they found themselves eye level with barrel of a revolver.
"Git your dirty paws off my livestock," A gruff, scruffy looking man loomed over them, who in one hand held the gun and in the other he gripped a small knife. His eyes were two dark sunken sockets that flicking between Chelsea and Vaughn like cinders jumping from a hearth. They narrowed on Vaughn and the man pushed the revolver against his temple, saying, "That cow's not yourn'."
To Vaughn's credit, he did not panic or falter, even though he was a trigger pull away from being splattered over the flank of a cow. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, leaning into the revolver, saying, "And I suppose it belongs to you," – he ran his eyes up and down the man's form – "but you don't really look like you take care of yourself well enough to be taking care of livestock too."
Well, Chelsea thought she would have preferred him not to provoke the man.
The man growled and swung his knife out in Chelsea's direction, stopping inches from her throat. Her breath hitched, watching with a wide, near-disbelieving, gaze. This bad luck of hers was going too far.
Oh, she really wished Vaughn hadn't provoked him.
Vaughn's eyes darted over to Chelsea, immobile in her ridged yet trembling stance. His face twisted into a frown. Then he looked back at the man, his gaze roving, searching. She could almost see the gears whirring in his head.
After a beat, Vaughn spoke, slow and cautious, "As you can see, we're only taking a look over your cow, at the behest of your wife that is."
Chelsea's eyes near bulged from their sockets. What wife? They had never met this man in their life. What gibberish was Vaughn spouting? Unless Vaughn knew this man, which she would have presumed if not for this man's behaviour. Even a cold acquaintance didn't act like this. So, what? Vaughn was just making things up, stabbing blindly in the dark for a solution, hoping that this man did in fact have a wife who worried about cows and as a result the man wouldn't slash into Chelsea's neck.
She would later reflect on how intelligent Vaughn proved himself in a pinch and how slowly her brain worked in life or death situations.
But, for the present, she was dulled by adrenaline, pushed into some primal slow-wittedness.
"What in the tarnation is going on out here?" A familiar voice joined the fray, the matured drawl of the barkeep Mirabelle. She had stepped around the side of the saloon, a pail of water in hand, and her face fell slack in astonished fear upon seeing this man bearing his weapons upon Chelsea and Vaughn. Promptly, this expression shifted into something much nastier; it was the expression she wore while facing down Mr Lavenhar, but this was tenfold in its intensity. She steeled herself and surged forward, a swelling tide of anger, meeting this man with barbed words, "You whelky, ten-cent, whoremongering yack!"
Her pail of water was upended, thrown over the aggressor in a flash. For a moment of stillness, Mirabelle stood there, chest heaving, face slipping, and the man slowly cocked his head back. A snarl rolled forth from between his lips. Mirabelle's eyes widened.
It happened in seconds, a mere blink of the eyes.
The grubby man whipped around, knife sailing, catching Chelsea across the face, dragging open a stream of red over her cheek, and the gun followed, arcing towards Mirabelle, clumsy but fast. The sound of a gunshot so close, had Chelsea jolting and crying aloud, as images of Will crushed beneath his horse came to mind. But, that had been distant, a far-off sound that she couldn't quite accept. This – this was palpable. She could hear the high-pitched hum of the bullet whizzing through the air, feel the vibrations, the force, reach her where she lay sprawled across the straw surrounding the cow pen.
Chelsea had anticipated blood when she pulled herself up, thick and red, viscera like porridge against the floor, and it was blood she got. However, the quantity of blood did not quite meet up to her expectations.
Mirabelle was staggering, swaying madly, all colour gone from her face, with a bullet hole through the foot. At her feet, the man and Vaughn wrestled.
Vaughn had reacted as the man turned his violence on Mirabelle. He had been tensed, wound like clockwork ready to spring a trap, and, with the opening Mirabelle provided, he leapt forth. Vaughn managed to entangle himself into the limbs of the man, just as the trigger was pulled. So instead of the bullet tearing through Mirabelle's skull, it instead met the expanse of her left foot.
In the dirt, they struggled, Vaughn's hands groping madly for a grip on the revolver, while his assailant bucked and lunged at Vaughn's hands with his teeth, actually breaking the surface of his skin and sinking into the delicate fleshy area around the thumb. Vaughn hissed out his pain and withdrew his hand instinctually. The man took the opportunity to seize the advantage and roll Vaughn off his back, scrambling to pin his weight over the cowboy before he could recover. Vaughn was once again staring down the barrel of a gun, back pressed hard into the ground, with one of the man's arms putting pressure into Vaughn's windpipe, causing him to wheeze and splutter any slurs he may have slung at the man. He was a trigger-pull away from the bone orchard.
And, fortuitously, that was the moment Chelsea swung a heavy spade (which she found leaning obligingly against the cow pen), taking the rusted metal expanse against the back of the man's head.
Vaughn lay there for a few startled seconds, a now unconscious man reeking of liquor slumped across his chest, and Chelsea looming in his line of sight, panting, clutching the spade's handle like a lifeline, but still managing to find it within herself to be gratingly self-righteous, as she snubbed her nose at him, "Well, a sappy saloon dancer indeed!"
A/N: Wow its been a long time since I last updated this. This has been in need of a new chapter for far too long.
Here it is. I don't know if there will actually be any returning readers now after such a long time but if so welcome back to the plot. Welcome to new readers too!
(I have not done any spell checks btw. Its far too late - 3 am to be precise - for such matters of concentration. Sorry for that.)
The Slang Saloon:
Whelky – Protuberant, rounded.
Ten-cent – A small, narrow-minded, trifling man.
Yack – A stupid person.
