A/N: I'm glad that people are actually reading and maybe even liking this story! But please, leave a review! It can be two words long, even.
John and Abigail did not speak often after their initial meeting. However, they did talk to each other when they happened to bump into each other. He would ask her how she's doing and usually she would answer vaguely with a shrug. She wasn't very outgoing; she didn't make much of an effort to make friends. There were few girls close to her age at the orphanage anyway, and she once mentioned disdainfully during one of their encounters that they were "foolish empty-headed girls without an ounce of common sense". Furthermore, she was less inclined to help those in need; instead, she would ignore them. After a while, a year or two, when asked for help, she would shoot the person an annoyed look and, in a snappish tone, say that they "shouldn't have got themselves in such a rut like a goddamn idiot". Her foul language, while shocking to hear coming out of the mouth of a 13 year old girl, greatly amused him.
He was probably her closest friend since she arrived at the orphanage. He was rather fond of her spunky nature, her refusal to take anyone's bullshit. In the first few months after her arrival, he found her to be a short-tempered and sardonic kind of person. She was stubborn and headstrong but also quite sensible. Though hardly educated, she had a sharp tongue and quick wit and desired to learn about anything that happened to peak her interest, almost to a point of nosiness. However, she could be quite cold and indifferent towards just about everything, people and occurrences. She didn't trust people very easily and he didn't blame her. Even he didn't trust many people despite having been at the orphanage for nearly eight years.
However, he remembers once when she asked him a question. It was during the winter. She was sitting by the fogged window, her elbow propped up on the windowsill, her finger tapping against her cheek. Wiping the window with her arm, she squinted, trying to look through it, only to see that the other side was streaked with dirt. She scowled. He glanced at her over his book and smirked. He watched as her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed. Her chair ground against the floor as she scooted closer to the window, her mouth open slightly, her lips quietly forming a question. Subtly, she turned her head and tucked her hair behind her ear, pointing it towards whatever it was outside. Her eyes darted to him, quietly asking him-then he could hear it, the sounds of horses. He liked to watch her sometimes, which was a bit odd, now that he thinks about it. But he liked the way she moved, the way every action was careful and deliberate, meaningful. Setting aside the book, which he could barely read anyway, he stood up. The clops of horseshoes against the cold dirt slowed to a stop outside as something that sounded like a cart creaked.
"Funeral parlor." He said simply.
Wordlessly, she stood up, walked over to the front door and walked out, the cold wind blowing in, nearly extinguishing the fire in the fireplace. Immediately following her, John quickly closed the door behind him as he put on his hat. She stood on the porch, watching as men unloaded half-frozen bodies, some disfigured beyond recognition, from the cart. There was the faint stench of rotten corpses in the air. Her arms were crossed over her chest, bracing herself against the cold. He shrugged off his worn jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Then he knew something was up. Unlike usual, she didn't throw it back at him.
"Why are there so many this year?" She asked, never taking her eyes off the bodies.
As the years passed, more and more people began to travel westward to get their own piece of frontier when settlements became well-established. They forgot that the West was still untamed, rife with thieves and murderers, liars and cheaters, ailing from disease and greed. Along with improvements came more problems.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he watched as the men carried an entire family down from the cart. "Died chasin' dreams. That's what Miss Heinrich used to say." He answered quietly. Miss Heinrich was a sad character, very depressing to be around. She hung herself a few months after arriving at the orphanage.
He had expected Abigail to call them foolish, to disregard them and walk right back inside.
Instead, she pulled the jacket tighter around her. "What's wrong with having dreams?" She murmured sadly. "We all have dreams, John."
He looked over at her and saw her gazing out at the vast expanse of the desert, watching horses trot in and out of the town, some with a rider, some without.
One night, John couldn't sleep, strange since he could normally sleep through just about anything. Even the construction of the new railroad tracks didn't bother him, the constant clangs of hammers against steel. He figured it was the heat; his clothes were damp when he awoke. Throwing off his sheets, he stood up. Squinting, he looked at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 2 in the morning. He sighed. Lying in a hot bed wouldn't do him much good. He threw on some clothes and decided to go outside, just for a while, to cool off.
A rush of cold air met him as he opened the back door. He let out a sigh of relief, feeling refreshed already. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he leaned against the wall. He listened to the howls of wolves and saw the silhouettes of the animals move in the white moonlight. Shrubs rustled as restless animals scurried across the ground. He shut his eyes, slowly drifting to sleep.
"You gonna fall asleep here?"
He jolted awake and looked around, searching for the voice. Then he heard a cluck.
"Over here."
Looking to his right, he saw Abigail sitting on a bench. "You startled me." He said rather crossly.
She laughed. "Looked like it."
He scowled. "What are you doin' out here anyway?"
"Same reason you're out here?" She shrugged.
He grunted, crossing his arms over his chest.
She sighed, pulling up her knees to her chin, the heels of her bare feet on the edge of the bench. Clad only in her night clothes, she seemed hardly fazed by the cold or by the fact that she was hardly decent. Her hair was wilder than the first time he saw her, messy curls that had grown from the waves. In the moonlight, her skin looked white, shaded with pale blue. He could see scars, dark marks that marred her skin.
"Like what you see?"
He raised his head slowly, careful to not seem like he was guilty. "Nope."
She let out a quiet laugh. "The scars, huh?" Her fingers crawled toward the scars. "The other girls say that they make me ugly. Makes them better than me."
He remained silent. He heard her laugh again.
"What do they know?" She scoffed with that quiet smile on her face. "At least God didn't mix my face up with my ass."
He choked back a laugh, quickly smothering it before someone heard.
"What do you think?"
He sniffed, rubbing his nose. "Hm?"
Her fingers traced one of the scars, a long winding scar that ran down her arm like a snake. "About my scars?"
He cast her a sidelong glance, seeing an inkling of shame on her face. She stared forward, refusing to meet his eyes.
Dropping his eyes to the ground, he kicked some dirt around. "How did you get them?"
She scowled. "I asked you a question first, Mr. Marston."
"You ask one too many questions, Miss Abigail." He countered, flashing a smirk. "'Bout time I asked you one."
He hadn't expected her to answer, really.
Setting her feet back on the ground, she leaned forward and sighed. She seemed to contemplating. He wondered if he should interrupt whatever train of thought she was having. "Bandits." She began before he could speak again. "Killed my mother, my father, and my brother. I tried to fight back. They grabbed my hair, threw me on the ground, cut me with their knives, just for their amusement. In the end, I gave up the supplies in exchange for my life."
She said it as if she had said it a thousand times before, as if none of it had hurt her.
"I figure they had their fill and decided it would be alright to spare me. They left."
He nodded. "I see."
She looked up at the sky. "I took my Daddy's gun and shot them in the back."
She sounded proud of herself but still, he wondered if she cried then.
"I'm probably goin' to hell." She said lightheartedly, a small smile on her lips.
He shrugged. "The way I see it, they got what was comin'."
She laughed bitterly. "In the end, God decides." She muttered almost mockingly.
Redemption or damnation. He hoped that she would be forgiven.
"Now, answer my question."
He cocked his head, shoving his hands into his pockets to grab a cigarette and his matchbox. Only an occasional smoker, he smoked when he needed to stall or when he was nervous. It was a little of both this time. He flicked the ash away as he breathed out smoke. "They make you stronger than anyone else."
He imagined her, a little girl, surrounded by the bodies of her family, holding a smoking gun too big and awkward to fit in her hands, watching a pool of blood grow before her with her flickering flame eyes.
"A strong woman." He continued, bringing the cigarette to his lips. "Now that's somethin'. Worth more than the prettiest girl in the world."
She looked out to the desert, her eyes bright and shiny, finally calm like water.
They sat in silence, looking out to the wilderness, and promised that they would become stronger.