Disclaimer: I don't own the turtles. I did my best to find fun wild west facts and incorporate history within a fictional story that has talking anthropomorphic turtles and animals walking around, so, you know, fiction.

Warning: hints of rape that is never explicitly shown, just hinted at.

Chapter 17

Saturday

Once Hun was dead, it had been easy enough to gather up the rest of the men. They folded like cheap cards as Raphael and his posse of townswomen tracked them down. Some got away, but for the most part, they caught and arrested fifteen men total and had them crammed together in the jail cells.

The dead lay in the streets two deep and fifteen long, the dirt soaking up the blood, and the faces of the unwanted covered in burlap, while the beloved lay beneath crisp linen sheets

There wasn't supposed to be that many dead. His plan was supposed to save them. All of them. Not leave children motherless, or leave widowers looking haggard and confused as they returned with Bishop's men to dead spouses and murdered children.

Raphael reminded himself they lost only six of the brave women who fought, and the rest were the bandits.

It was just six too many.

By dawn, Raphael had helped settle the remaining people; yet, it still stuck in Raphael's craw as he limped past the dead. He was supposed to keep them safe.

He hid Donnie away in the church, wrapped in the alter tablecloth as a make-shift blanket. Donnie had taken his hand, held it, staring at his knuckles with such a distant look in his eyes - and if Mikey hadn't hobbled in just then, he would have stayed. Doc patched him up, forcing him into a sling - and Raphael had tried to get rid of it the second he had left the office, but not a minute later, Miss Milo had walked by him and told him to keep it on, Docs orders, and word spread from there. Not one member of the town had let him get away with taking off the damn sling.

Before noon, the distant roll of thunder turned Raphael's attention to the mountains. A cloud of dust rolled toward the town, and Raphael grunted, picking up his pace in his rush to get down the main street. The sight of the man in plan pulling ahead and riding out to meet him, settled Raphael's nerves enough that he took his hand off his gun and a scowl settled on his face instead.

Bishop blew into town at a gallop, dismounting before his gelding had even slowed, his long coat catching the breeze and lifting just right to flare out behind him like wings, and he tugged his horse behind him, and striding in his direction.

"Show pony." He grumbled. Meeting Bishop's hard eyes. He spied the herd of Bishop's other men still trailing into town, their horses slower moving and burdened with additional bodies, and it was the red hair blazing in the rising sun that jackrabbited his heart in his chest.

"Ya found'em." Raphael said.

Bishop glanced over his shoulder, lips thin, before he returned his hard glare on him. "What happened?"

"Hun's dead."

Bishop scanned the line of bodies down main street, shoulders tightening when the large man wasn't laid out. Raphael catch his attention and with a pointed look, Bishop turned his gaze toward the pile of manure past the burnt remains of the livery where Hun's headless corpse lay tossed with the shit.

"I would have preferred him alive." Bishop sighed, leading his horse to a water trough and tying the beast to the hitching post there.

"It's best this way." Raphael said, watching the horse drink as the exhaustion hit.

A cry erupted behind him and he jerked, head spinning as he turned on his heel, six shooter in his hand. It was Mrs. Martin who recognized the girls first. She ran through the street, forgetting everything that had to do with womanly decency, and her husband followed behind, as did the other girls' parents, and Casey leaning heavily on Mondo's shoulder.

Leonardo reined his horse in, slowing the group as they met with the crowd on the edges of the town. He slid from his saddle and helped Debbie down, and the little girl began crying before her mother got to her. Mrs. Martin slid through the dirt as she dropped to her knees, sprawled on the ground with Debbie in her arms and rocking her baby. Mr. Martin followed; and if ever there was a time for a grown man to cry, it was now. Raphael would punch any who teased the man for sobbing into his daughter's hair. Scooped up in loving arms, Raphael watched from the sidelines as Jolynn marched up to her parents, chin held high and tears in her eyes and she was the one to drag them into a bruising hug. Amy Lee was carried in the arms of Usagi, met by her rushing parents, and he spoke to them, turning her over to her father to carry. It took several minutes before Amy Lee began shaking and hands clawing at her father's shirt, hysterical sobbing carrying down the main street.

Yet, no Angel.

At least there were some happy endings.

He witnessed his brother being given the honors to carry Miss O'Neil to Casey; seeing as how her feet were all bandaged up; and Casey, like the dunderhead he is, pulled her right out of Leo's arms and promptly collapsed to the ground with her. April scolded him, tears in her eyes, and the man laughed as if this were all an old joke, and he kissed her. Right there, in the middle of the street, in her nightclothes and her hair all a chicken-coop mess.

She slapped him, hiding her face in her palms, "I look a wreck! How could you?"

Casey kissed her fingers, and smoothed her frizzy, dirty hair back with a look of absolute love in his eyes. "Yer beautiful, no matter what."

She shook her head, and Casey pulled her hands away from her face. "Will you marry me now?"

She blinked at him, and Raphael snorted, shaking his head.

April hit him in the chest and pushed him away. "Now you ask me? At least wait till after I've bathed!" She climbed to her sore feet and shuffled away, finding support on one of the Marshal's arm as he guided her to a group of women who no doubt were planning to get all the girls cleaned up and patched up.

Leo spotted him and made his way to him. "Hun?" Leo asked, his shoulders stiff.

Raphael met his brother's eyes, holding them, then nodded, "Dead."

Leo bowed his head. "How?"

"Actually, Father Malone shot him. Saved me from a right bad death at Hun's hands. Not much left of his skull after he was through with him."

"He should have paid for his sins properly in the courts." Bishop said, folding his arms over his chest and glaring down his nose. It irritated Raphael, made him feel like he was a kid all over again.

"I think the devil dancin' on his spine is enough for me." Raphael said, and Leo met his eyes. He saw it, the agreement as well as the disappointment that he wasn't the one to do it. It was better this way. Leo had always been the better man. He deserved to have a real life, not some shadow of one after chasing a man for years only to gun him down in a little town and have nothing left in life to live for.

"How's everyone?" Leo asked, pointedly looking at the burned down remains of Donatello's home and work shop, and the partially burnt home next to it. They were just lucky they were able to stop the fire from spreading further, mostly due to the grace of the blacksmith shop being built a little further away from the other buildings.

"They're alive, if that's what ya mean. I ain't heard the whole story yet, but Doc's patching people up, and Mikey is organizin' people so no one goes hungry and everyone has a place ta sleep tonight."

"And the Father?"

Raphael frowned, looking down at the dirt and scraping the toe of his boot through it. "Rough." He whispered.

Bishop nodded, his gaze scanning the horizon, before he dropped his arms to his sides and offered his hand.

Raphael raised a brow, leery, not willing to shake the man's hand without a right good reason.

"Take care of the Father. He is a hero."

Raphael lowered his eyes and took his hand. That, he could agree with.

Bishop left them, calling several of his men to his side and pointing in one direction, off toward the Jenkin's farm.

Leo on the other hand stared off toward the church, tapping his fingers against his arm like he used to do when they were kids. It still pissed him off. He scowled at him and Leo just met his look in the same way their father used to do to him as a kid. There was a part of him that had missed that reprimanding look.

"Why aren't you taking care of Father Malone?"

Raphael dropped his gaze.

"Well?"

"I'm afraid that he's… not thinkin' straight."

"You know this for sure? Or are ya just afraid ta find out?"

Raphael scowled, but his brother knew him, all these years apart and his brother still could pick him apart. He hated it then, he hated it now. Especially because he was right. He hated him even more when he was right. Even after all these years, having Leo be right was a pain in his ass. But it was a good pain. Something he was beginning to realize was a pleasure only family had the right to truly indulge in. "I'm scared, is that what ya want ta hear?"

"You shouldn't be." Leo whispered, and Raphael didn't believe that load of bull-shit for one minute. "We got this handled. The men-folk are back, and Bishop already told me he is going to stay a few days longer and try and hunt down any who ran off. He's goin' ta help these people. So, you should be off and helpin' your… person."

He looked so awkward saying it, and yet, it brought back some of that embarrassment from— was it just yesterday? It felt so long ago. Raphael looked away, blushing, and he nodded, shuffling in place before Leo gave him a shove and he scowled, walking away from him.

The closer he got to church, the faster the butterflies gathered.

Danny's stomach roiled as he approached the Marshals, his palm moist as he rubbed them off on his pants, and sweat trickled down the back of his neck in a tickle.

"It's possible there's men still out at that ranch, and if any regrouped after the failed attack, they more than likely retreated back to the ranch." Flynn said, waving a hand over the rough drawn map in the dirt.

Marshal Bishop nodded, standing tall over his crouching men, arms folded, back straight, but when he looked up and stared at Danny, he questioned his decisions.

"I… I'll go. I can help."

Bishop narrowed his eyes at him and Danny rubbed his hands on his pants again. "How could you do that?"

"Those men know who I am. They might not like me much, but they won't question me bein' there. I could get in, get information or… or distract them so you can ambush them?"

Flynn looked up at Marshal Bishop and his brows disappeared in his hairline, a small shrug of his shoulder and another quick look his way made Danny think the big guy wasn't opposed.

"And how do we know you won't warn them?" Bishop asked, voice sounding dead and less human than some of the gramophones he had heard played back in the city.

Danny shook his head, dropping his eyes to his boots, his stomach souring from the last year of his life. With a sigh, he looked back to the Marshal and curled his fingers into fists. "Because I want to help. I never liked what Hun was doin', but I was stuck and felt like I couldn't leave. Now, I know better. If I can help capture those men, I want to do it. I'll tell you everything I do know about Hun's organization. I don't know much about Saki, but I do know he's the one running this operation, and I think I know of a place where to find him."

Turning toward him, arms dropping and head cocked, Marshal Bishop looked him up and down then nodded. "All right."

Flynn grinned and looked back to the map to discuss strategies with the other men.

Donatello remembered Raphael leaving him after he had clung to him, begging him in his mind to not leave him alone, but his voice, his mouth, they hadn't worked, hadn't done more than whimper or gasp for air. He knelt before the alter, feeling filthy and dirty before the alter of the Lord, wearing his tablecloth like a covering, and with his skin marked by what those men had done to him. He bowed his head, hands shaking where he held them up in prayer. But he felt so empty. He felt like the stink of sin itself hung around him like a shroud and there was nothing in all this world that would cleanse him.

He had killed.

He choked on his prayers, repeating them over and over again, saying the same thing time and again because he didn't know what else to say, "Please help me. Please help me."

Then he felt something a sense of safety washed over him. For three beats of his heart, he felt like someone was with him, someone cared. He bit his lip, making it split again and he tasted a hint of blood on his tongue. "Lord, please…"

So many things about him as a person… now this? This had to be the last straw. He knelt by the alter, brow pressed to the cool stone, trying to hold onto that feeling for as long as possible. It protected him in a way, from his own guilt and his questions. And that's what drove it away, when he allowed himself to begin thinking of how he had ruined his own soul, how it was his fault no matter what others thought. That feeling of comfort never left him, but the peace did, and he hiccuped with the pain of it all.

He heard the boots approach him, the feel of someone right behind him, and he trembled, praying harder. "Please forgive me… please…"

Large, warm arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling him close and pressing their face to his shell. He nearly fell forward, but the arms held him tighter, and he knew how much that had to hurt him, because he had been shot in the shoulder and it hurt him to move his arm. It hurt him, but he still hugged him close. He held him like it was normal. Like this was something that they were allowed.

It broke him a little more.

"Come on, Padre, Mikey said he's got a room for ya. You need rest."

Donatello shook his head, tears warming his already puffy eyes.

Raphael had to lead him through the back streets parallel the main street to avoid the town's people. He didn't think he could face anyone, let alone see the disgust on their faces and not shatter. The smell of the saloon, the bustling of people, the sight of injured all around in the once lively saloon floor overwhelmed him, but it was the snort from Mr. Snider and his scowl that made Donatello feel as if he were falling into a dark well, unknowing of when he would hit the bottom. The room spun, his breathing felt tight in his chest, and he couldn't see straight. He gripped at Raphael's arm, opened his mouth to speak, but only shallow gasps tried to fill his lungs with much needed air.

He didn't know when or where he was. Donatello only returned to the present to focus when water engulfed him and he gasped. He sat in a tub, luke-warm water making his skin shiver, his body still hurting everywhere, and he stared at Raphael as the man knelt beside the tub, eyes lowered, and wet a wash cloth and lather it in soap.

Donatello looked back to the water, realizing he wore no clothes, and the tears came unbidden, slow and hot, his lip trembling, eyes hurting and tired. He closed his eyes and Raphael ran the washcloth over his shoulders, down his shell, along his arms and even his legs. He didn't move, he didn't open his eyes, he drifted in the darkness with the feel of Raphael's hands grounding him in the moment as they ran over his neck and plastron, washing away sweat and soot, and touching him in such a way Donatello knew he would dream of this later and take great pleasure from it.

Then he whispered a prayer of forgiveness.

With a thumb against his cheek, Donatello turned toward him, soaking in the feel of Raphael's fingers washing his face of tears, ash, and blood. He leaned into his hand, finding himself a weak and craving creature. The washcloth passed over his face and eyes, wiping him clean, and he opened his eyes, drinking in the drawn, tired face of the most stubborn, pig-headed, thoughtless man who held him in his hands like he something precious. Like he was of value. Like he was worthy of his attention. His eyes slipped shut again, drifting on what felt like rolling hills of swaying grass as sleep tried to claim him.

The water swished, slapping against the side of the tub and against his freshly washed skin, and he felt heavy as Raphael urged him to stand. He swayed where he stood, the rough towel drying him quickly. He leaned on Raphael as the man redressed him in an over-sized shirt that smelled like Mikey and nothing more. He sank into the bed, not quite remembering when he lied down and Raphael pulled the blankets up over his shoulders.

He did remember the way Raphael squeezed his hand, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at him, watching him drift to sleep; and Donatello squeezed his fingers back, his request for him to stay dying on his lips.

Danny didn't think. If he thought too hard on this it would stop him from doing what he needed to do. Slapping the reins against the horse's flank, he rode into the farm at a run, slowing the horse with a shout when three men ran out of the house, gun's drawn.

"Danny?" One of the men, Jefferson, said, a long-toothed man all arms and legs. He shoved his gun back into his belt, and Danny jumped out of the saddle, wiping his sweaty brow. "How'd you get away?"

"Last night. They locked the women in the jail and they had to move me. I slipped away during the fight and waited till dawn before I ran."

Jefferson laughed, slapping a hand down on Danny's shoulder and dragging him toward the house. "Well hot damn! Didn't think ya had it in ya, kid!" He said.

"Me neither." Danny smiled, but it fell as he stepped inside, a girl perched on the lap of another of the men. Her face black and blue, her lip split, an eye closed. She held her bruised wrist to her chest in such a way that he knew it was broken, and when he jostled her she winced, then forced a half smile just as mottled and bruised as the rest of her.

"Got's ourselves a toy, see?" Jefferson chuckled, wandering over to her. He took her by the hair and jerked her head back, and she gasped, arching her spine, her torn dress slipping a little further down her shoulder and exposing parts more often covered. "Hun's dead, might as well enjoy, am I right?"

"Yeah," Danny whispered, bile rising in his throat. "I don't suppose I could be getting a turn?"

The men hushed, staring at him, and he felt himself blush, his spine stiffening, his ears feeling hot.

Jefferson let the girl go and looked him up and down, then laughed. It was like a dam bursting open and the men all howled in laughter. "Guessin' its time you had yourself a girl." Jefferson howled in laughter, then took the girl by the elbow, and she whimpered, turning into him, hurrying to get off the man's lap as he dragged her to Danny. "Here. Room's back there. Have fun." He sang, pushing her into him.

Danny fumbled as she fell into his chest, a soft cry escaping her as her wrist pushed into his chest. He stepped back, hands on her shoulders, his eyes wide. "You all right, miss?"

She glared right back at him— a feat as how her face was bruised and swollen.

His face warmed again. He glanced at the men, shuffling his feet, and then he took her to the bedroom, closing the door.

She pulled away from him, marching to the bed, her good eye shining with a fresh layer of tears, but she didn't seem the type to cry. He hesitated, staring at her, watching her sit on the bed and lift her skirts with one hand as if this was so very normal for her.

But the bruising, the smears of blood, the rips along her skirts— he took a step back and pressed his back to the door and tried to swallow away the retching he felt like doing.

"Hurry up." She snapped, and wiped at her cheek.

Danny jerked away from the door, her sharp voice startling him. He looked about the room, hoping to find a chair to wedge under the doorknob, but no such luck. He turned back to her and the bed, approaching quickly and her shoulders squared, her dark eye locking with him, and his ears grew warm.

He knelt on the bed and leaned over her to shove at the window, pushing it up and open.

The girl stared at him, her fingers curled in the bedding at her side.

"What's your name?" Danny asked, crawling over the bed as he poked his head out the window to look around.

She narrowed her eye at him.

"I'm Dan- My name's Daniel Pennington." He whispered, leaning in close, "The Marshals are outside. I'm goin' to help you out the window and we're goin' to make a run for the stream just on the other side of that hill, ya hear me?"

She glanced back at the door, then to him, her breathing picking up and making her breasts do interesting things that had him jerking his eyes up and at the ceiling.

"Why are you helping me?"

Danny frowned, dropping his gaze back down to hers. "Because… it's… it's not right, what they're doin'. I… I'm just as guilty— and its too little too late— but, maybe, if I help you, I can start learnin' what being a good man actually means."

She wrinkled her nose at him and rolled her good eye. "God, you sound like Father Donatello. Move." She shoved at his shoulder and rolled to her knees. She leaned out the window to look back and forth, only this time she crawled out as if having crawled out of a hundred windows and it was old hat. Danny blinked, and her face reappeared, waving him after her.

"Hurry up."

Danny scrambled to get his long legs out the window when wild pounding at the door rattled the frame before it burst open with three men crowded at the door.

"Danny! How you likin'-" Peels of laughter burst into the room before a sobering silence chilled him to the bone. Danny's wide eyes met Jefferson's, and Jefferson's eyes glanced to him, to the empty bed, and back. The shout Jefferson gave brought Danny's heart up into his throat.

A hard yank on his arm dragged Danny over and down under the window frame, and he fell into the dirt.

The girl took his arm and tugged, dragging him to his feet, and he scrambled after her.

"Run!" He shouted, and she did, bare feet and all, and the girl ran like a racehorse, out pacing him several yards. He heard Jefferson and the other men roar out of the house— just as the Marshal and his men tore into the yard, guns firing and men shouting.

The girl's pace slowed, though she still ran, and Daniel scooped her up around the waist, half-dragging-half-carrying her after him. She squawked in surprise, her good hand smacking his chest, yet, she didn't pull away, and the pair rounded the small hill and ran down the embankment to the stream below. Danny slowed his pace, glancing over his shoulder, his hand reaching for his gun.

"Thank you."

Danny looked back to her, blinking down at her face so close to his. He swallowed hard, staring into her dark eye and marveling at how pretty it was. To have two staring up at him probably would have made his toes curl and all language to leave him. "P-pardon?"

"I said, thank you." A small half smile curled the corner of her pink mouth.

Danny felt a smile curl over his mouth, "Hello."

She rolled her eye, but her shoulders relaxed, her fingers curling in his shirt, and Danny felt fluttering all over.

"Traitor!"

Danny jerked his head around, pushing the girl behind him and drawing his gun. Jefferson stumbled down the hill toward him, a bullet wound in his arm and another in his gut where he pressed down on the blood soaking his stomach. Six shooter raised and aimed at him, the man held a wild look in eyes.

"You traitorous scum!" Jefferson roared and drew the hammer on his gun back.

Danny fired first, the shot going wide.

Jefferson laughed at him, long teeth flashing in the noon day sun. Danny shot again but the shot plowed into the ground at Jefferson's feet. "You know, you was a pretty girl all dressed up. Shoulda spent more time shootin'—"

Jefferson jerked in place as the bang echoed above the hill. He collapsed, life leaving his eyes.

Danny pressed his hand to the girl's hip as he turned them both, gun raised up along the hill, his heart hammering wild in his chest.

Marshal Bishop sat on his horse, calmly reloading his rifle before he reined his horse to the left and went back toward the farm without so much as a second look his way.

Gasping for air, Danny shook, staring down at his gun.

Her small hand came over the top of his, guiding the gun out of his hand and back into his holster, easing the hammer shut.

"Sorry… I… I'm pathetic."

Stepping around him, facing him once more with her injured wrist pressed to her breasts and her dress threatening to fall open, the girl tilted his head up at him, the look in her eye soft.

Danny raised his eyes to hers, his fingers shaking, and he eased the strap of her dress back up over her shoulder. It just didn't seem enough though. Danny shrugged his jacket off, fumbling with it as it caught on his hands, and he swirled the jacked up around her and draped it across her shoulders.

She stared at him, head tilted, brows furrowed.

"Let's get ya home." He whispered, and she followed, walking beside him till her good arm slid around his waist and she leaned into his side, her face pressed to his shoulder with a small sniffle.

He didn't stop, because it would be stupid of them to dilly-dally about while still on land filled with bandits, but he did wrap his arm around her, and he guided her through the tall grass along the bubbling stream, leading her to where the hitched horses were.

"Angel."

"What?"

"My name, it's Angel."

Danny peeked down at her face on his shoulder, and he thought about that, rolling her name around in his mind. "Doesn't fit ya real well."

She laughed, a small, choked thing against his neck, and he did stop then, turning to hug her against his chest. She sniffled against him, holding him tight. "You sure are a smart-alack for a guy who rescued me."

"Guess that makes me a hero."

She snorted at him. "You look like an accountant."

Danny smiled, small and sad. "Being an accountant ain't so bad." He whispered.

It hurt to wake up, but his neck hurt and there was a crick in his back that refused to relax.

His bed didn't feel as comfortable as it normally did. It felt old and worn in, like a rock that dipped in the middle.

"Don? You awake?"

Donatello's brows knitted together and he hid his face into his pillow, arching his back a little to lessen the knot— then the pain returned lower down and memories rushed back into him.

Hun. The girls. That shed. Rope. Pain. Fire. Blood.

Donatello gasped and jerked himself up, holding himself up on his elbows, staring at the rough bed sheets he lay on.

A hand settled on his shoulder and he jerked away from them, and more pain flared up along his thighs and into his lower back.

Michelangelo stepped back, hands raised, eyes wide. He looked cleaned up, but still in need of a good bath. It took Donatello a moment to relax, his eyes roaming the room, looking, searching for someone else, only to meet Michelangelo's eyes to see the pity there.

He turned away, climbing out of bed on the other side, sitting gingerly on the edge. He pulled the bedding over his naked legs, not sure if he had the energy to even be embarrassed. In the last twenty-four hours every friend he possessed had seen him at his ugliest as they stripped him of his soiled clothing and pulled bits of information of his captivity from him.

"The girls are safe." Mike's voice filtered to him, and the bed dipped behind him.

"Are they…"

"They're uninjured. April has some cut up feet from runnin' barefoot, and the younger girls are shaken up. But Angel got back ta town a little over an hour ago. She's the only girl who was raped."

Donatello's shoulders stiffened, his hot face too swollen to consider tears. His throat closed up and talking seemed impossible, but he could nod and he did so, hunching his shoulders against that ugly word like it was a barbed arrow digging into his flesh and muscle, threatening to rip him apart if pulled out.

"Raph is helpin' the Marshal guard the men at the jail. The man needs ta sleep, but he's a stubborn son-uv-a-bitch. Said he ain't sleepin' till they know they gots everyone."

"Raph?" he whispered the nickname, his chest tightening.

"Hurt. Got shot— again— but Doc patched him up himself before sendin' him on his way. I think LH has done given up on hopin' that man will rest." Mikey shift on the bed.

Donatello ached, pressing a hand to his chest. He hated the feeling rising in him, like it would choke him to death, and maybe death would be preferable to this ugliness his life had become. A week ago he had known his place in the world. He had fit into his world. He had stood at the steps before God and he known he belonged in his world.

What was he now?

His eyes grew wet, but not enough to cry. It made his dry eyes scratchy and puffy. "I should go." He whispered.

"Don, you ain't got a home ta go home too."

The fire.

He bowed over his knees, shaking. "I've lost everything." His voice cracked and the threat of a wail lingered in his chest, heavy and pressing to escape. He covered his mouth, face twisted, and the bed shifted with Mikey standing.

His steps thumped around the bed and to his side, rejoining him and sliding a hand around his back. "You ain't losin' me. I'm gonna help ya get back on yer feet, ya hear me?"

"The others—"

"Are yellow bellied cowards. If they believe that rubbish Hun spouted, they don't deserve havin' you as their friends. You saved us, Don. This whole town saw. You have me, and the others will remember, even if it takes time."

Donatello trembled, breathing into his hand, and smelled the phantom gunpowder on the evening air. The feel of the powerful rifle firing, making him brace himself against the kick, the way his shoulder felt bruised like a hard punch had landed. He felt the mist of blood washing over his face, the way it had cooled his singed skin.

Let alone the fire eating its way into his home, forcing him and LH out a window with Mikey holding his hands and LH below to catch him as he dropped from the second story.

Letters, momentous, the one photograph he had of his parents, his Bible. Gone.

"Raph thinks he might go with Marshal Bishop after this. Help him get all those men off to Carson City so they can be put on trial."

Like hitting the water in the middle of January, a wash of cold dread consumed him and turned his blood to ice. Donatello closed his eyes, turned his face from his friend and died just a little inside. Hollowed out and left to rot in a field, Donatello's shaking ceased and the desire to go back to sleep threatened him.

Homeless and alone.

"Don't worry, Don, I'm here for ya."

"Thanks." He whispered, sitting on the bed and felt time slow to a crawl, his fingers aching and lonely.

"Anythin' I can get ya?" Mike asked, leaning toward him, trying to see his face, but Donatello closed his eyes to him and hid the only way he could.

"I need to borrow your Bible, please."

"Why?"

"I have one more sermon to give tomorrow. Your Bible would be helpful." He said, and felt Mikey pat his back, mumbling his answer.

He didn't honestly hear his friend's reply as he left.

All he could think about was a certain man riding out of town into the sunset, leaving him with nothing but a dead man's blood on his hands and the remembered burn of a rope around his neck.

Author's Note:

I hope ya'll enjoyed it. this chapter was a weird realization last week that I needed to have a filler/tying-up-loose-ends type of chapter... so I combined the original chapter 17 with last weeks chapter 16 into one. It worked better in the long run anyway, so I'm happy with that. This chapter is a bit of a mess though. I didn't have as much time to tweak it and re-read it... so it might be a bit rough. I wrote it all in one day and posted it after one quick read-through. :/ so yeah, there's that.

Anyway, Thank you to everyone who left me a review! I appreciate it so much! those reviews kept me motivated all week! I really did need them this week too, so it helped push me to spend all day Sunday writing this chapter and posting it right away. You guys are awesome, thank you!

~Melissa