A/N: This story is unedited and un-beta'd. It's my nano project and when it is done, I will edit it and upload it again.
Hosea pulls Arthur over towards the horses. "Pants?" He raises his eyebrows and Arthur waves a hand.
"I don't know, Hosea. She's been a wild ride since last night. Coming out to patrol with me, stepping up against Dutch *and* Miss O'Shea. That takes balls." He pulls out a small brush he keeps with him at all times and brushes the bay's fur. He still hasn't named this horse, refusing to get attached. It doesn't feel right. "I'll probably take her into town after Mary-Beth is done with the pants and get her some proper clothing."
"Clothing fitting for a lady or an outlaw?"
Arthur laughs. "Which ever she decides I suppose."
"Mr. Morgan!" Dutch's voice rings out. Arthur's back straightens, recognizing the voice from when he used to get in trouble. He doesn't have to seek Dutch out man approaches them both, clapping his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Hosea."
"Dutch, don't give the boy too much trouble. I don't blame him for bringing her back. It won't hurt to have more pretty faces around the camp."
"I didn't bring her back because she's a pretty face. I brought her back because her husband was choking the shit out of her," Arthur says, frustrated nobody's listening to him.
"Well, she needs to earn her keep. She told Molly she's not afraid of hard work. Put her to work." He turns away and starts to walk away, then pauses. "And not that kind of work either. We don't reduce our women to whoring unless they want to be whoring."
"Dutch, I know that." Arthur pats the bay's neck. "I'll take her into Valentine today and get her a proper horse. She'll learn how to shoot as well."
"Good. She's your responsibility now, Arthur." Dutch sighs. Arthur pauses, looking at the man's back. Was it wrong to bring Florence back here? Should he have left her to be choked? Killed. It's in the forefront of his mind-if it wasn't for him, she'd be dead on the floor of that hotel and they'd assume she was another whore with a man who got out of control.
"My responsibility? The last time I checked, she's an adult."
"And we don't know what her previous life was about. Was she spoiled? Did she grow up on the back of the horse? Until we know, she'll be yours to keep safe."
"You do not intend on keeping her around do you?" Miss O'Shea asks, coming up behind the men. Arthur notices she keeps her distance, turning her nose downwind to keep from getting the stench of horses. "She's trouble."
"How do you figure, Miss O'Shea? If she's trouble, I'll go drag her out of the camp and ask her to never come back." Arthur doesn't move. "She just arrived yesterday night. She hasn't been here long enough to be trouble."
"Molly, she'll be quite alright." Dutch turns and puts an arm around her as if to try and ease whatever she's feeling. Florence barely looks like she could hurt a fly with her large, innocent green eyes and small puckered mouth.
And she was quite alright. At least in the clothing department. He lays down on the cot, getting a nap in when she nudges his foot. He raises the hat over his head, holding back the urge to whistle. She looks good in men's clothing. Her large form fills out his old pants and shirt well. Mary-Beth did a good job bringing it in, though he suspected for the shirt, she didn't have to do much.
"You look good, new girl," Bill says. He seems to be in a constant state of drunkenness or dumbassery. "Men's clothing suits you so *well*." He draws out the last word.
Florence turns around and crosses her arms. Arthur sits up, pulling his leg into him as he watches the stand off. Will she say something? Bill walks off and Arthur hears a full sigh of relief and watches her shoulder release. "He won't stop until you say something."
"Why don't you say something?" Florence asks not turning around to look at him.
"If you are going to live like an outlaw, you need to learn how to speak like one."
Her shoulders tense again and her words grit out through her teeth. "The last time I spoke against a man, he beat me."
When she turns to glare at him, he can see a necklace he hadn't noticed yesterday and faint lines of bruising along her brown skin. "Nobody here will beat you. And if he tries to lay his hands on you, he'll have to answer to all of us." Arthur makes a wide sweep with his hand, indicating the whole camp.
"Come," Arthur says, standing and putting a hand on her shoulder. Florence blinks up at him. "Let's get you a proper horse. An outlaw needs a horse." They stay there for a moment, silence dragging between them.
Hosea clears his throat. "Going into town? Take the ol' black fella with ya," he says pointing to a large shire horse on the edge of camp. "Doesn't take well to folks around here."
"Surely you don't mean-" Florence puts a hand to her mouth. He doesn't look all that mean.
"We need horses that trust us. Horses that will help, not fight." Hosea gives her a crinkly smile.
She puts her head up and as straight backed as she can manage, she walks slowly towards the shire horse. He tosses his large head, pawing the ground. "Oh shush you." She puts her hand out, brushing his nose as he continues to throw his head. "Stop it. You're being ridiculous." Making shushing noises, she moves her hand over his face, catching his head gently.
He huffs at her, bringing his head down to look her in the eye. "See? You aren't so bad."
Conversation continues behind her, voices rising and falling in pitch as she continues her hands over his body. One hand down the back of his leg and he lifts it easily. Her fingers trail his strong stomach and down his back leg which he also gives her. He's larger than she is, wouldn't be built for speed, but he's strong and she can't let them just sell him.
"I think we found her a horse, don't you?" Arthur asks Hosea as they come up behind her.
"Well, I've be damned." Hosea laughs. "Let's get you a saddle."
Florence tries not to notice all the people gathering around, watching her with the shire. There are more women than she expected having only met Mary-Beth and Miss O'Shea. Arthur comes back with a simple blanket and saddle. "Do you know how to put it on?" he asks quietly.
Florence nods. She only knows how to put it on because she's had to run from William before. Too bad she hadn't stayed out. Focusing on the saddle alone, she bends to tighten the cinch, hair falling into her face. Someone grabs it, bunching it behind her head softly. "Name's Tilly," the woman says, giving her a wide smile. "Nice to have more women folk around. I was afraid we'd get overtaken by men." Her laugh slides over Florence's skin and it's a pleasant sound. "I'll braid your hair before you leave."
The crowd has dispersed, no longer entertained by her ability to calm down the shire. Florence is taller than Tilly and has to bend down slightly to allow the woman to braid back her auburn hair and tie it off with a leather string.
"Alright, alright. Let's get going." Arthur already has his bay and he's waving his hand.
Florence grabs the shire's reins and follows him on foot out to the path they took up. In the daylight, with her breath misting around her, she can barely make out the road. "You've got yourself a good little place here," she says to break the silence.
"Yeah. I think that's why Hosea pointed it out to Dutch. It's out of the way and we're mostly hidden." He shrugs. "Sometimes we get people who wander into camp and if Bill doesn't draw his gun first, we can send them on their way without too much trouble."
Arthur mounts his horse, motioning her to do the same. Even as tall as she is, it's hard to get on the shire's back. Her foot raises uncomfortably high and she's glad for the pants rather than a skirt. Finally hooking it into the stirrup, she pulls herself up into it, standing one-footed as she gains her balance enough to throw over her leg. "You'll have to get faster at that," he mutters as if he's taking stock of what she needs to do.
The ride is mostly peaceful. Gunshots ring through the air and Arthur puts his hand on his pistol out of habit, looking towards the echoing while his bay dances under the saddle. He glances at Florence who looks like a deer caught in the sights of a barrel. Voices with a tinge of accent carry towards them. "Let's get to Valentine." The outline of the town is almost like an old friend. Almost. If it weren't for the fight he gotten into last night and the corpse with his bullet in it, Arthur would feel no anxiety in coming back to Valentine.
Hooves kick up dust as they settle into a trot. During the ride, Arthur watches Florence like a hawk for her reaction. More gunshots echo through the air, seeming to get closer as the town begins to take shape. If he watches her just long enough, he can see her shaking. They slow down as they hit the main street. "First clothing."
Florence says nothing, her eyes drawn to the ruts in the mud under the shire's feet and a stray hand playing with the golden feathers around her neck. "Florence, we'll be okay," he says quietly, breaking whatever spell was over her.
Her eyes are wide, with fear of being back in town or the gunshots, he doesn't know. All he knows is he wants to soothe her, calm her and make sure she never feels this way again. *No, Arthur. Remember last time?*
Florence looks at him. "I know we are," she says in an attempt to look braver. It doesn't work. Her forehead is still lined with worry and her eyes are so wide, he can see most of the white. "This town is relatively safe."
"You-you're the man who shot William back in the hotel!" a man growls, pulling at Arthur's leg to stop him.
"I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else, friend," Arthur lies easily, leading his horse away from the idiot. Florence is looking wildly between him and the man at his foot.
He purposely bumps into her shire, sending the black horse into a slight panic. "Arthur!" Florence cries as the horse runs ahead. "I can't stop him!" Men try and fail to stop the frightened horse.
Giving the man who bothered him a cold smile, he kicks the bay into a faster trot, catching hold of the reins and turning both animals around. The man just stares at him, hand on the rifle across his back. Will there be trouble? Arthur can guarantee the man won't make it out alive, but it seems the man knows better. "Do you know him?" Arthur's hand follows the man's form walking into the saloon.
"Yes. William took to hanging around a bunch of strange, rowdy men." Florence pets the shire's side. "It's alright, Chance. You're alright."
"Chance? Why Chance?"
Florence looks at him, the emotion in her eyes almost unreadable. The dark green sparkles under the full light of the sun. Shivers begin at his lower spine and travel upward to the base of his neck. "Because you gave me a second chance," she replies simply, returning her attention to the huffing horse. She dismounts, taking the reins. "Perhaps it's best if we go on foot to the tailor's. We wouldn't want you to bump into him again." Is she unaware or playing unaware? Unsure of the footing and territory they've ran into, he leads her to the tailor.
Arthur leaves Florence outside to get a chance to talk to the tailor by himself. "Look, I have an unusual request," he begins, pushing open his jacket and putting his hand on his gun. It's almost as good as drawing it. "My friend out there. She needs clothes, but not lady's clothing. Men's. Shirts, pants, vests. Perhaps a heavy jacket."
The tailor's eyes are glued to Arthur's belt. "Ye-yes sir."
"And there will be no arguing. No asking if she's sure. You will get her what she wants, make what she wants without a damn word. Do you understand me?" Arthur flips the jacket back over his gun, turning around and leaning against the counter with a smile.
Florence spends the next hour picking out a few outfits, most of them browns. He suggests a dark green, long sleeved shirt that would be good for sleeping outdoors in. It brings out the color in her eyes. The tailor kept good on his word, never asking her if she's sure. Only suggesting different styles to better fit her and fixing the clothing that doesn't.
Now dressed in the dark green shirt, a black, fur lined jacket, dark pants, women's riding boots and a tan leather vest, she's just missing a hat. Arthur picks a circular one off the top of a shelf and plops it on her head.
He's able to add in a small holster and belt without her seeing. It's slightly extravagant with tree embroidered into the dark brown leather.
He tries not to physically show how much it hurt his pocket when he had to pull out the cash to hand to the tailor. The holster is stowed away in the pocket of his blue coat. They exit with brown parcels, stuffing them into her empty saddlebags. "I'll pay you back every cent, no matter how long it takes me," Florence says, hiding under her new hat.
"You'll worry about nothing." Though his personal stash is smaller, he gets satisfaction watching her in that shop.
"Don't you tell me what to do." Her voice is edged with tension.
"Whoa, Florence. You can pay me back, but I'm not worried about it. I'll pick up more money later." Arthur peers at her over the bay's back. Grabbing the reins of the bay and Chance, he heads for the stable. She follows without another word, though the air becomes thick with conversation at a woman dressed in men's clothing.
The stable is warm and smells of hay and horse shit. Both smells he'd rather have than Bill's piss in the middle of camp. It's a smaller stable, two rows of three stalls on either side and a large walk in area. "Looking to sell this fella," Arthur says, patting the bay's side. "Need something fast with good stamina."
The owner nods, pointing to a dapple palomino. "Quick and wiry. Could get you out of trouble if needed. He does get spooked easily though."
The palomino tosses his head in greeting to Arthur. "I'll take him." He sells the bay and pays for the rest on the Palomino, switching over his saddle. The entire exchange between him and the owner, Florence stayed quiet. Stayed underneath her hat. If she's going to use it to hide, he'll have to take it from her.
Or shoot it off her head.
"Name him for me." Arthur stops the horses outside of the stables, keeping out of the way of the door and wagons.
"Your horse? Why?" It's the first time Florence has looked at him since he bought that damned hat.
"Because." He can't think of a real reason to give her. "Just do it."
Florence looks at the palomino, putting her hands on his muzzle and laughing softly when his lips open over her palm. "Lemon," she says with a quick glance at him,
Lemon. Lemon. He holds his breath, resisting the urge to sigh strongly. "Lemon it is." What a silly, ladyish name. If only to see her smile once again.
What's happening to him? Why is he so quick to please her?
"What's next?" Florence swings herself into Chance's saddle easier.
Learning how to shoot. It sounds exciting in theory until he presses the weight of the pistol into her palm and she stares at it. This gun delivered the bullet that killed her husband. As much of a bastard as he was, he didn't deserve that death. Or did he? She's torn between the emotions still warring inside of her. Florence puts her finger on the trigger gently.
"Hey! Whoa!" The gun is wrenched from her hand. Pain blooms in her finger and down into her wrist. "Never put your finger on the trigger until you plan to kill the person you are shooting at," Arthur scolds, handing her back the gun more gently.
His hands are on her, in places only William's have been previously. Using both, Arthur shifts her weight so most of it sits on her back foot. He squares her shoulders, twisting her body in different directions. "I know it's uncomfortable," he says quietly, putting his hands on hers and making sure her form is good. Her body warms from where he touches her. "You'll get used to it and remember to breathe."
With his chest against her, she follows his breathing. Inhaling deep and exhaling. "The gun is a part of you. It's an extension of your arm. When you think like this, you'll aim easier."
Arthur set up an empty beer bottle on a stump a good thirty feet away. She takes the first shot, jumping when the gun fires. She would've dropped it if it'd not been for his hands keeping her steady. The shot takes her back to the hotel room, blood bursting through William's forehead and coating her vision red. "You're alright," he says in a low tone. "That was supposed to happen."
Florence wants to drop the gun. Get it out of her hand. Memories like that aren't supposed to happen. She doesn't say anything to him. Doesn't bother to tell him what the gun holds for her. "I-I'm not okay."
"You are. Try it again now you know what to expect." He's the very photograph of patience.
Florence shakes her head, raising her hands again and getting into that twisted position. He fixes her hips, letting his hands linger far too long. She looks over her shoulder at him, wisps of hair sticking to her neck. He steps back, clearing his throat. "Eyes forward. Focus on that tip on the end of the barrel."
She breathes, seeing the tip. When she breathes out, she fires. The jump doesn't startle her as much and she hits the stump below the bottle. Arthur breaks into a smile that she catches in the corner of her eye.
They stay at it, Lemon and Chance grazing away. Each shot she fires, her husband becomes further and further away from the man he becomes and she starts to aim at the man he was. In her mind's eye, William begs her not to shoot. To put down the gun. He cries how sorry he is and he never meant to hurt her. To become to monster he was. When will she be released from him?
The sun dips further, golden rays outlining the mountains. She's long shed her jacket and rolled up the sleeves to her elbow. Florence doesn't know how many bullets they've wasted teaching her to shoot, but she's better. Collapsing into the dust against a large rock, she puts the gun gently on the top of it.
"What do you think? Ready for the outlaw life?" Arthur looks as refreshed as ever, having removed his own jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt.
"I'm ready for a break." Florence stretches, looking up at the golden sky.
He laughs and it fits into the scene. Shards of the bottle reflect the sun, casting warm light across the dust and scattered patches of green grass. "Here."
Arthur holds out something leather to her. She sits up, dusting off her shirt and taking it. It's a long, large strip of leather with what looked like a gun holster. The holster has dark green trees embroidered on it. "It's beautiful, Arthur."
He turns slightly red and Florence laughs. "Yeah... well..." He scratches his head. "It's nothing."
It's not nothing. It's everything to her. She stands, fitting the belt around her waist and experimentally putting the in it. It hangs with a solid weight, making her feel slightly more comfortable in the wide open space. Of course, after she's practiced with it.
It's like the feathers William got her. The best thing she's ever owned. Untying the leather, she looks down at the golden pendant, memories flooding her senses. She can smell the flowers he brought home and taste the chocolate. Arthur remains silent.
"He got me this on our first anniversary," she says quietly. "He wasn't always that man you shot."
"Do you regret me rescuing you?"
A lot has happened in the past twenty four hours. Her husband is dead. Her life is upside down. She's in pants and running with what seems to be an outlaw gang. She knows how to shoot a gun.
His question hangs in the air as she remains still, staring at the feathers in the fading light.
"Maybe."