A/N: Thank you for reading!

Chapter 8

Rhett had listened to Shapeley as long as he could bear it. Listened and uncrossed his legs. Listened and refolded his paper, studying it intently. Listened and recrossed his legs. The flower wasn't wilting delicately under the onslaught, he had to hand it to her. Shapeley's inane utterances only brought more stinging rebukes, and he felt oddly, begrudgingly proud of her for it.

"Looks like you're two up on me now," old Believe-You-Me was saying, when Rhett at last decided his ears deserved some blessed silence.

He stood, leaning one arm against the luggage railing. He loomed over their seats, and felt formidable—satisfyingly so.

"There's a seat over there for you."

Scarlett needed rescuing from no man, but she couldn't help smile smugly at Shapeley when she heard that resonant voice behind her.

"What's the idea?" he asked, stammering. Scarlett nearly dimpled at him.

"I'd like to sit next to my… wife, if you don't mind."

Scarlett's neck swiveled around to look up at… him, in utter astonishment.

"Your wife?" Shapeley asked uneasily.

"Yeah, come on, come on," he was saying, growing impatient. Exactly what did he intend to do with this ruse, Scarlett wondered, still looking up at him. He wasn't looking at her.

"Oh yeah, yeah, sure," Shapeley said, the stammering growing more pronounced. "Excuse me, I was just— uh, sure, I was just— trying to make things pleasant, see… I—I didn't mean anything by it," he continued babbling as he got up from his seat and crawled over her.

Scarlett scootered over toward the window, and the sometimes-considerate cad sat down next to her.

"I didn't mean anything by it, uh, Doc— no offense, Doc." Shapeley was still talking, still holding up the two fingers he'd used to signal Scarlett's small conversational victories in an ineffectual V. He seemed to notice the gesture and shook his fingers out grimly.

How like a man, Scarlett thought, to ignore a woman's protests, but listen as soon as another man asked him to be quiet. She wanted to silently fume, and rail that she did not need to be rescued, but she suddenly remembered him trying to recapture her suitcase, finding her ticket and giving it back to her, and covering her with his scarf and coat as she slept. He was an arrogant devil, but, oh, he could be so nice!

She angled herself toward him, dimples drawn, fluttering eyelashes at the ready, to turn the full blast of her charm on him in honest gratitude. He still wasn't looking at her, though, and her smile faltered as she absorbed his standoffish demeanor. He seemed to be holding her at a distance: saving her from that awful companion, but not remotely interested in her, as though they had never met before or shared any kind of kinship at all. It made her uncomfortable, and sad, and before she could descend any further into feeling the loss of his company, she decided it simply wouldn't happen. Anyway, she had to thank him, for he mustn't think her ill-bred. Ellen had taught her manners, even if she'd never been able to overrule her temper.

"If you promise not to snap my head off, I'd like to thank you," she said, hoping a more demure air would soothe his curious, fey mood.

But her hopes, as always when it came to this stranger, were dashed. Without looking up, he shook out his paper, frowning more. "Forget it. I didn't do it for you. His voice gets on my nerves."

Scarlett sat back in her seat, stung. Men! Why did some of them have to be such mysteries! She crossed her arms over her chest, worrying at her lower lip, absolutely refusing to cry, for she had nothing with which to wipe her eyes, and reminded herself that she was alone. Well, she wasn't on this trip to make friends. It would suit her fine to get to New York without having to exchange more than five words with anybody else.

Rhett studiously avoided the flower's gaze as she turned to him, all smiles and sooty eyelashes and dimpled charm. He was annoyed with himself, feeling oddly guilty for his own rough mood. Her thanks, when she offered it, sounded heartfelt, and his own response came out much gruffer than he had intended.

She turned back to face the seats in front of them, an embarrassed blush creeping across her fair skin, and he felt unfairly and needlessly rude. Eleanor would never approve. Damn all, what was it about this girl?! Out of the corner of his eye, he noted her posture, spine ramrod straight, and suddenly wanted to apologize, or tease her more.

"What did you do all day?" he asked, settling for neither.

She didn't look at him as she answered. "Ran in and out of doorways, trying to keep out of the rain."

Rhett turned and looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time since he'd sat down. "Your clothes are all wet." He stood and fished his scarf out of his bag overhead, and sat down again. "Here. You're as helpless as a baby."

"Thank you," she said, as she knotted the soft fabric around her neck. The consideration and warmth of the scarf cheered her more than the insult affected her. She couldn't help being caught in rain. He knew her bag had been stolen.

A vendor called out down the aisle, "Cigars! Cigarettes! Chewing gum! Candy! Magazines!" and the thought of a chocolate bar cheered her further.

"Here, boy!" she called to him, pulling out her wallet. "A box of chocolates, please."

"Never mind, son, she doesn't want it." The cad had the gall to interrupt her transaction, motioning the young seller away.

"Oh, but the lady said—"

"Well, of course I do!"

"Beat it, beat it," he continued, brooking no opposition.

"Well, you've got your nerve!" Scarlett cried, turning flashing eyes on this infuriating man. Oh, she'd rather put up with Shapeley than this! "Here, boy!" she called over the seat, but it was no use.

The man was now actually riffling through her purse. "A dollar and sixty cents." He looked at her disdainfully. "You had four dollars last night. How do you expect to get to New York at the rate you're going?"

She hated to admit she hadn't thought of it that way. Sixty percent of her budget in one day! Oh, that wouldn't do, that wouldn't do at all. How dare he! "That— that's none of your business," she said, reaching to get her wallet back.

"You're on a budget from now on."

She certainly was, but she wasn't about to let him be the one to tell her what she already knew. "Well, now just a minute, you can't—"

"Will you be quiet? Though I suppose asking a woman to keep her mouth shut is asking the impossible."

He tossed her wallet back into her lap carelessly, and she clutched it like a lifeline. He was impudent, and hateful. Certainly a goon, even if he wasn't her father's. Her face tingled with rage that kept her warm long after most people around her were asleep.

~~nb~~

Rhett was awoken, too few hours later, at the sensation of the bus braking and stopping. They couldn't be in Savannah yet. He slipped out of his seat and up the aisle, his nascent reporter instincts overtaking him to investigate.

"You won't be able to pass 'til morning," he thought he heard a voice outside the bus.

"Not even then, if this keeps up," somebody answered. His voice, too, was hard to make out, the 'this' in 'if this keeps up' being something of a torrential downpour.

"What's going on?" Rhett asked, turning his attention to the driver. The two men—policemen, he now saw—from outside were now standing at the bus door.

"Bridge washed out around Dawson," the first one said.

The driver turned to Rhett and explained apologetically, "Looks like we can't get through until the morning."

"Not even then, if this keeps up," the second voice chimed in again. In a better mood, or better weather, Rhett might have been inclined to smirk at this. Being on the short end of the stick with regard to the rain and the roads, however, he felt the second officer was much too pleased by the prospect of the stranded travelers.

The first officer spoke again. "Any of your passengers want a place to sleep, there's an auto camp up yonder a piece."

Rhett turned to him, definitely interested. "Where?"

The officer pointed at a place just visible through darkened trees. "Up yonder. See the lights?"

Rhett hunched over more to see out where the policeman was pointing, and squinted. He could just barely make out a row of lights. He nodded.

"That's it. Peter's Auto Camp."

Rhett nodded again. "Thanks," he said, really meaning it. A bed! To sleep in a bed, instead of a bus seat, to stretch out his legs. Oh, he'd dealt with discomfort often enough—he stood it whenever he had to, without complaint, but that didn't mean he'd choose it when he didn't need to.

The flower, on the other hand, might need some convincing after his jeers. She'd probably need him more on this journey, but what she didn't know was that he needed her, if he was going to get his job back. And if she did know, she'd be even more likely to refuse his help. He'd have to turn on the charm.

He turned back up the steps and stood at the front of the bus next to the driver's seat.

"Hey, brat!"

The flower's ivory skin paled considerably. "Are you talking to me?"

"Yeah. C'mon, we're stopping here for the night."