A/N: Sorry for the long delay in update. I have a few little incidental scenes leading up to the final chapter and I was having a problem figuring out a way to get them wrapped up together. I also feel that "oh and they all lived happily ever after" kind of endings just aren't meant for Revolution stories, especially when it comes to Charloe. For one, I don't think that Monroe's character can ever be "normal" he's too complicated and conflicted for that, and I think that I was dangerously headed that way, especially when it comes to the final chapter. This chapter kind of takes that away from him, but I don't think that after being involved in a war for months that he would ever be able to just come home and pick his life back up where he'd left it. WARNING! This chapter does allude to some pretty prickish behavior from our superhero, and also events happen which will show him that he can never truly "retire".
"I'm fine," Monroe ground out. Charlie had been pestering him since he'd gotten back two days ago to let Gene take a look at him. Knowing it was the only way to get her to back off, he'd finally relented, and he had no problem telling Charlie's grandfather exactly that. "I'm only doing this so she'll leave me alone about it."
"We'll why don't you let me be the judge of who's fine and who isn't, unless of course you've somehow managed to obtain a medical degree while you were out killing the Patriots," Gene said calmly. He refused to let Monroe's grumpiness get under his skin.
Monroe gritted his teeth and submitted himself to the indignity of the examination. Gene began by removing the sling that kept his left arm immobile. "I need a better look, take off your shirt."
He complied, wincing as he moved his arm. Gene noticed the reaction, but didn't say anything. He prodded his fingers along the break. "Well it's not that bad, so at least I won't have to re-break it." Gene did little to hide his amusement at the grimace Monroe made when he'd mentioned the possibility. "How did you manage to walk away from a horse rolling over on you with only a broken clavicle?"
Monroe shrugged back into his shirt. "The ground was soup. It'd been raining for two weeks. The horse just kind of squished me into the mud – not fun, by the way."
"Regardless, until you can at least take your shirt off without pain, that sling stays on, got it?"
He let Gene put his arm back into it. "It's annoying."
"Too bad. Okay, drop them," he said.
Monroe considered telling him to go fuck himself, but figured in the end Gene would only rat him out and he'd end up being browbeaten into it anyway. Monroe stood up and undid his jeans awkwardly with one hand, letting them fall to the ground before sitting back down. The bullet had hit his right femur and the closest thing to a doctor in Charlottesville had been afraid to continue digging for it.
"Gene felt around his leg. "Did they even try to get the bullet out?"
"I was kind of unconscious at the time, so I don't really know. I was told it was too risky," Monroe snapped.
"Leaving the bullet in is risky too and in this case may very well turn out to have been a stupid decision." Gene found Monroe's attitude irksome, so he was snapping right back. "Walk – without the cane." With a sigh, Monroe kicked his pants off completely and walked across the room and back a few times. "That's enough. That bullet needs to come out."
Monroe shook his head. "No way. It's already healed. I'll get used to it."
The doctor crossed his arms over his chest, resolute. "And when you lose that leg because of it, I'm going to have to tell my granddaughter that it was because she married an idiot." He waited for that to sink in a second. "Look, you're walking has gotten a lot worse since you got back – and it's only been two days. You're also running a low grade fever. More than likely, it's infected."
"Fine, take it out then," he said, becoming even more agitated. "Get it over with."
Gene rolled his eyes. "I'm not just going to cut you open right now, dummy. I need to prepare. And I'm warning you right now, I'm knocking you out for this. Last thing I need is you bleeding out because you moved."
"No drugs," he said with a shake of his head. The last thing he wanted right now was to bring back old memories.
"Not an option. Don't make me get Charlie." He let that threat hang there.
Monroe narrowed his eyes at his wife's grandfather while he got dressed. "I hate you."
The next day Gene set up the kitchen as his operating room. Charlie had Aaron and Priscilla take Danny and Angie to Avery's for a few hours so they wouldn't be underfoot. Despite Gene's insistence that he operate, the surgery itself was a risk and they'd only be in the way if something went wrong.
Charlie kissed him lightly and sat down on the only remaining chair. Miles and Connor decided it would be best to cool their heels in the living room while Gene and Rachel worked. "All this fuss over a little lead," Monroe muttered as he laid back on the cot that Gene set up in the middle of the kitchen. He was stripped down to his boxers and already regretting the fact that he'd agreed to this.
Rachel placed a cloth over Monroe's face and slowly began to add the ether drop by drop. "God that stinks," he said from under the cloth, coughing as the fumes hit his airway. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief that he didn't panic when his face was covered. She'd been terrified they'd have to hold him down through that part.
"Ether stinks, but it's less dangerous than chloroform. Just breathe slowly," Rachel said quietly as she counted in her head. Monroe watched as Gene set out and checked everything he'd need. He'd set everything out to soak in alcohol overnight and had boiled everything he could when he arrived at dawn. Within ten minutes Monroe was completely out. Rachel kept the cloth in place for a while longer while Gene got started.
When Monroe woke up he was in his own bed. The aftereffects of the ether had left him feeling groggy and nauseous – and his leg hurt like hell. Charlie was using the rocking chair that she'd drug out of the twin's room once more. "Hey Bass. How you feeling?" She asked quietly when she looked up from her book to see him watching her, glassy eyed.
He blinked a few times while he waited for his mouth to catch up with his brain. The late afternoon sun was shining through the window and the room was uncomfortably hot, only adding to his nausea. "Kinda high," he slurred as a boyish and dopey grin formed on his face. "How long?"
Charlie got up, setting the book aside. She went to the dresser where a pitcher of water waited. "Half the day. Grandpa said you'd be a little out of it when you woke up." She poured some water into a cup. "Thirsty?"
She helped him drink a little and then went to get Gene. While she was gone, he slowly sank back into the fog that the ether still surrounded him in and daydreamed for a while.
They pull apart after several minutes. He's reluctant to let her go but his leg is killing him and he wants to see Danny and Angie. He'd been lurking outside the dairy with the kid from the training camp for half an hour, waiting for the right moment. The only person he's seen other than Charlie is Miles, and that was just briefly – just long enough to shoo him away before the surprise was ruined.
She helps him make his way slowly to the house. The twins are playing on the front porch under their older brother's supervision. As he climbs the stairs Connor rises in greeting. "Finally got sick of Charlottesville?" he says with a grin as he gives his father a hug.
Before Monroe can respond, two squealing little whirlwinds rush towards him. "Daddy home!" Angie shouts. Her twin echoes her. They start to pull at him, begging to be picked up. With his bad leg and an arm in a sling, he's hindered. Charlie and Connor intervene and pick them up so Monroe can sit on the porch swing. Once he's settled they are released. Within seconds they've already scrambled to join him.
He releases the occasional grunt as a knee or elbow gets him where he's injured, but he doesn't complain. There is nowhere he'd rather be right now. Here are the reasons that he was fighting; the reasons why he was able to walk away from the fight before he lost himself again completely.
Brodie trots up the stairs and barks excitedly. Charlie takes the time to kneel down and give him a quick rub down. "Good boy," she says. The dog flops over and exposes his belly for a scratch. He doesn't know why he's being praised, but he's more than happy for the attention. "You brought him home," she coos at him. She decides that tonight she won't even yell at him when he gets up on the furniture (after so many months away, she's sure that's the first thing he'll do when he gets inside).
That night supper is celebratory. Miles and Aaron set up makeshift tables outside so that everyone, including the farmhands can participate. The Carters join them, including Katie Carter who spends the evening fawning over Connor. He can tell just by looking at him that his eldest child doesn't seem to mind as much as he acts. Twice he catches Connor looking away from Katie right before he's caught watching her.
Daniel has to be brought out in the wheelchair that Gene had managed to find somewhere, but he's insistent that he will be there to welcome Monroe home. He spends most of his time in the chair now, Monroe is saddened to see – his body is finally giving out little by little. But he's here now and that's what matters. The old man rises out of the wheelchair with help from Priscilla (who's grown about as close to him as Monroe has over the past months), so that he can greet the returning warrior properly. "Welcome home boy," he says in a rare display of emotion. Daniels eyes mist up and he gives Monroe a paternal hug.
"It's very good to see you," Monroe tells him as he pats him on the back.
They celebrate long into the night, enjoying the warm June breeze. Before long, Danny and Angie are put to bed. Daniel follow snot long after. His days of staying up and drinking with Monroe until the wee hours are long over (not that he hasn't gotten a hold of a few glasses this evening, much to Gene's disapproval).
Much later, Monroe and Charlie head to bed together. He's tired and more than a little drunk and very sore, so when Charlie joins him in bed he just wraps his good arm around her and holds on tight. Brodie is enjoying a place of honor at the foot of their bed, and all he can think of is how good it is to be home.
The effects of the drugs fully wore off right before Gene entered the room. He was finally able to hold a conversation without trouble focusing or slurring his words. "We've gotta stop meeting like this," he said to the doctor as he went about the ever irritating task of taking his vitals. He swore the man probably dreamed about blood pressure cuffs and thermometers.
"We will if you'd stop trying to get turned into Swiss cheese," he replied mildly. "I got the bullet out without too much difficulty. It should have come out right away. I was right about the infection; a piece of your pants was wrapped around the bullet. Causes one every time."
"Next time I take a bullet to the leg, I'll be sure to drop trow first." Charlie gave him a look from the doorway that suggested he be nice. "Thanks Gene," he added.
Gene packed up his bag and turned to leave them alone. "In bed until the stitches set, maybe two or three days. Oh, and you're housebound for two weeks. I swear if you go against this, I'll handcuff you to your bed, without the benefit of my granddaughter's company."
Monroe sat in the hayloft in the stable, hiding behind the bales of hay and straw. He was desperately trying to forget about the chore he should be doing right now. The bottle he'd smuggled out of the kitchen sat next to him, its wax seal still not yet broken. He'd been hiding for almost an hour in indecision.
Mucking out the stalls was not his favorite chore, but the stable was undisputedly his baby, just as the dairy had become Charlie's, so the task fell to him. And he'd always taken care of it without complaint, or at least he'd never complained when anyone could hear him. But now he just couldn't seem to get himself motivated to begin.
It has been nine months since he'd done it – first there had been his capture, torture and subsequent recover followed by the war. He'd just recovered from the surgery to remove the bullet from his leg. Today was, in fact the first day he'd been allowed to undertake a full day's work. Isn't this what you wanted? He asked himself as he picked up the bottle once more and stared at it. And it was. All he'd hoped for all those months was to just survive the war long enough to get back to his life here and to his family. It's what had kept him going, but now when he was faced with finally getting back to a normal life, Monroe just couldn't find it within himself to accept it.
Seven weeks ago, he'd commanded a regiment of 7,000 men, and now here he was today, shoveling up horseshit. A mentality that had become second nature to him before the war now seemed so foreign that no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't seem to get it back. And what scared him the most was the fact that it wasn't just about his work here.
Monroe cracked the bottle finally and took a long pull from it. No, the work was just another piece of the jumbled pile of puzzle pieces that his life had collapsed into. More than once since he'd been home he'd found himself unreasonably angry or anxious while around his family.
Monroe sits at the kitchen table, working on the farm's account ledgers. He's got several months of accounting to catch up on. Daniel's decline has prevented him from keeping them up. He's still healing from Gene's work on his leg, so he has little better to do.
It's just him and Danny. Daniel is resting in his room; the others are in town. Angie is still down for her nap, but Danny has apparently decided that naps are not fun and won't go down. As Monroe works, his son is sitting on the floor under the table playing with some wooden blocks.
He's been playing by himself for a long time and is getting bored. Later it will dawn on Monroe that it was a miracle that his son managed to stay entertained as long as he had, but now he just wants to get this last inventory page done. The numbers just don't seem to want to come out right and Monroe is getting frustrated as it is.
So when Danny climbs up on the table, Monroe is distracted and doesn't notice – not until the cup of coffee he'd long since abandoned goes spilling across the ledger. He jumps out of his chair. "Dammit, Danny!" he shouts as he picks up the book. He's angry enough to spank the child; the fact that the ledger is large enough to require two hands is what prevents this. The quickness of his movements and the sharpness and volume of his voice startle the toddler and he starts to topple backwards off the table. His daddy has never yelled at him before and he's scared. He starts to cry as he slips.
Monroe drops the book and catches him before he can fall. The sound of Danny's wailing is like being doused in ice water – immediately the anger vanishes. He doesn't even notice the fact that the book is now soaking up the puddle of coffee that is now dripping off the edge of the table.
"Shah. It's okay. I'm sorry, Danny." Monroe holds him tight and sways back and forth, doing his best to sooth him. Danny stops crying after a few minutes, his breath still hitching every so often. Monroe is appalled at his behavior. He asks himself over and over again: What the hell is the matter with me? Even in his darkest days in Philly the thought of yelling at or spanking a one year old would have been ridiculous to him. (Not that anyone would have trusted him within fifty feet of a small child at that time).
Once Danny is soothed and happy once more Monroe cleans up the mess and takes his son into the living room. He plays with him for a while, but the whole time he's wracked with guilt and self-loathing. He can't believe that he'd even thought about striking his son, and for the life of him he can't figure out where that instant rage had come from.
Monroe took another swig from the bottle. He knew he'd been an absolute dick since he'd been back. He'd found himself snapping at Charlie over practically nothing. Granted, she'd snapped right back and put him in his place each time, but still. He just didn't get it. This was his family – he'd spent months dreaming about being with them, but now that he'd gotten it he couldn't settle down and just be. He felt like a stranger in his own skin.
He kept drinking and berating himself all morning and well into the afternoon. When he finally moved to emerge from his hiding spot he realized he was well and truly plowed. "What the hell am I going to do?" he said aloud as he sat back down and put his head in his hands to wait out the spinning that was going on around him. Once it subsided a little he climbed down and headed towards the house.
Charlie was at the pump cleaning up from her daily chores in the dairy when he walked passed. "Hey you, how were the stables? Did you get them done?" Her question is innocent enough. She'd been secretly worried about him getting back to work. She'd noticed that he wasn't sleeping and barely eating as well, on top of the fact that he was grouchy as hell.
"I'll do it tomorrow," Monroe mumbled as he kept walking, head down.
Charlie abruptly stopped what she was doing. "Are you drunk?" she could hear it in his voice. She hurried to catch up with him.
"I'm just tired." He knew that he was busted, but he really didn't care one way or another.
"Bullshit!" She went to stand in front of him. "You're tanked, and you smell like you took a bath in the still."
Monroe grabbed her by her upper arms, and physically moved her out of his way. He didn't hurt her, but he wasn't exactly gentle either. "Back off, Charlie." He got moving again, leaving her to stare after him in confusion. He stormed into the house and went directly to their room, slamming the door behind him. Having spent the day drinking, his head was now pounding in his ears. He kicked his boots off so she wouldn't bitch at him later and flopped down on the bed. He stared at the ceiling and contemplated his stupidity until the alcohol did its job and he fell asleep.
His life took on the same pathetic pattern over the course of the summer. He'd gotten minimal work done. He just spent his days drinking and avoiding everyone. He only ate when his body forced him to and rarely slept at night. He only managed a few hours in the afternoons once the whiskey had kicked in.
Aaron took over most of the physical labor in the stables and one of the field hands took over the rest of Monroe's duties. Charlie did her best to work with the administrative side of things, like the paperwork, but she really didn't have the same knack for it that Monroe did.
"Get up," she practically snarled as she started shaking him. Charlie had decided that after two months, she'd had enough. It was time to find out what the fuck his problem was. The rude awakening snapped Monroe awake. Before he even knew what he was doing he reached under the pillow and pulled out a pistol, pointing it at her out of reflex.
Breathing heavily he kept the gun trained on the body before him until his eyes cleared and adjusted to the low light in the room. The look on Charlie's face made him feel sick – it was a mixture of revulsion, fear and hurt. He immediately uncocked the gun and lowered it, his heart still pounding in his chest. "Damn Charlie. Don't sneak up on me like that!"
Charlie responded by backing away from him slowly. "Since when do you sleep with a gun?"
Monroe looked at the weapon in his hand. I don't, he thought to himself. He didn't even remember putting it there. He shook his head, not able to accept his own actions. "Charlie, I –" he broke off and looked at it again. His hands were shaking. He popped out the clip and set it on the nightstand before removing the bullet form the chamber. Once it was empty, he tossed the gun to the floor. "Charlie, I'm so sorry," he croaked.
She just gaped at him. "You pointed a gun at me." She was still trying to wrap her head around it. "What were you going to do, Monroe? Shoot me?"
He flinched at the way she said his name. She was backed up against the door now, her hand on the knob as if she was ready to run at moment's notice. Even when she'd arrived in Philly and he'd ordered Strausser to put a gun to her head, he hadn't seen the fear that she betrayed when she looked at him now. "Please don't," he begged.
"What the hell is going on with you?" Charlie relaxed her grip on the doorknob just a little.
"Nothing is going on," he said but he was unable to continue looking her in the eyes. The fear was more than he could bear. Further angered by his continued denial, Charlie turned and started to leave. "Wait. I'm sorry. I don't know. I'm just…" He sighed heavily. "I just don't know."
Charlie opened the door and gestured for him to leave. "Well, until you figure it out, you need to sleep somewhere else. You know where to find me when you're ready to talk."
He slowly rose. "Don't do this," he said quietly. When he realized how resolved Charlie was he left the room, feeling completely dejected. Connor was still using the cot in the stable so he grabbed a bedroll form the storage area in the barn and headed out to the stillhouse. At least there was whiskey there.
Unfortunately for Monroe, while the stillhouse had booze, it also had Miles. "What are you doing here?" Miles looked like he was almost haunting the building. If he was in a better frame of mind, he'd have found it laughable.
"I drink in here where Rachel can't see me and in turn, she pretends that I'm not drinking. It's kind of our arrangement," Miles explained as he held the bottle up for Monroe to take, always happy to share. "I could ask the same about you."
Monroe accepted the whiskey and sat down next to his life-long friend. "Charlie kicked me out of the house."
"Bout time." Miles didn't fail to notice the way his response only seemed to wound Monroe more than he already was. "You've been an ass since the day after you got back. And if I didn't get it, I'd probably kick your ass for it."
Handing the bottle back, Monroe held his head in his hands. "I don't see how you can get it, when I even don't."
Miles looked at him like he was an idiot. "And I'm the one that barely graduated high school? Are you really that stupid, Bass? You just spent months back in action and you can't adjust back. How many friends did we see that happen to when they got home after Iraq?"
What Miles was saying resonated with him, but he wasn't ready to face it yet. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said as he got up off the floor. He grabbed a bottle off the shelf and picked up his bedroll to find someplace else to sleep.
Monroe reined in his horse as he approached Providence's town proper. It was still fairly early, but the town was slowly coming to life. He tried to block out the last several hours of his life, but the images refused to leave him. He guided the animal to the one inn in town, ignoring the occasional greeting and subsequent looks of concern by his friends and neighbors. After getting his horse settled in the inn's stable, he headed inside and rented a room, refusing to make eye contact with the innkeeper as she looked at him questioningly.
He headed to his room without a word and closed the door behind him. All he needed was a few hours of sleep before gearing up and heading back out.
He sits on the back porch, alone and gets started on the bottle. Miles knows better than to follow him. He's not in a listening mood. After over half a bottle of liquid courage and several hours to reflect on his life these past few months he gets up and makes his way to their bedroom. They have to work this out. He's not going to give her up without a fight.
Of course she's still awake when he opens the door. She's been worrying and thinking all night. She's sitting up in the bed. "What are you doing?" she asks, weary and still upset. He goes to her side of the bed and stands over her, not sure of where to start. Annoyed, she lets loose at him. "You've been a jerk since you got back. You don't eat, you don't sleep, you snap at the least provocation. All you seem to get done every day is drink yourself stupid. If you're not ready to sit down and talk about it, then I don't want you around me or the kids."
In the drunken haze he's in, he realizes that they haven't had sex since he returned. He leans over to kiss her. If he can get her interested, maybe he can fix things without having to talk. She stands up and shoves him away. He sees red and tries again, more forcefully. He doesn't mean to, but he's drunk and unsteady on his feet and so when she pushes him the second time, they both topple backward onto the bed.
Monroe loses it and a struggle ensues. "Get off of me! You're hurting me!" she yells as she fights him off. Miles comes crashing into the room and before he knows it, Monroe is flying. He hits the wall with a bang. Before he can move Miles' fist is connecting with his face. Both impacts sober him instantly.
"What have I done?" he says quietly to himself. He backs out of the room, disgusted with himself. He stumbles into the kitchen and finds the old coffee can where they keep a small amount of gold and diamonds for household purchases and takes just enough to get by. He pulls his sword belt out of the closet by the front door. He doesn't know how long he'll be gone, so he grabs his jacket as well. That way he won't have to buy one later. He walks back through the kitchen to the back door and heads to the stable.
His presence has woken up his son. Connor sees the panic in his eyes and the blood dripping from his nose. "What happened? What's going on?"
Monroe ignores him and finishes saddling his horse. He leaves without a word. He knows he's just done something unforgiveable and that he's become a danger to anyone around him. Until he gets his head on straight he needs to leave.
He woke late the next afternoon. His head was pounding and his nose throbbed. He had a sneaking suspicion that Miles may have broken it. His stomach was burning with regret and too much booze on too little food for too long. He made a decision that whiskey was definitely not on his pre-traveling shopping list. Not bothering to clean himself up more than washing the dried blood off of his face, he headed down to the common room of the inn.
After picking at a plate of food, he left the inn and headed to the small general store in town to pick up a few supplies before retrieving his horse and heading out. He didn't get that far. As he passed the Sheriff's office his way was blocked by the crowd gathered there. Bob Beecher stood in front of the door to the office trying to calm them down. "I've already sent a message to Lexington to request aid. Until I get a response, my hands are tied. The new government has made it very clear that vigilantism will not be tolerated. I have to follow the law."
Curious, Monroe joined the crowd. "What's with the lynch mob?" he asked the man next to him.
"Bandits hit a farm outside of town – Clayton Armstrong's place. Got away with some cattle and roughed up his old lady a bit, if you know what I mean."
The man hadn't wanted to say it aloud but Monroe caught the drift. Mary Armstrong had been assaulted. She was pretty enough and was probably too tempting. The locals were not happy over Beecher's decision it seemed, and from the look on his face, Beecher wasn't even happy with it. Donovan had been adamant about restoring real order.
Even before Georgia and the Republic fell thieves, murderers and rapists were fair game if they were caught in the act. Neither republic had the resources to deal with every crime. With the new U.S. government however, the sheriff was expected to send for aid from the federal army for manhunts and all criminals were expected to be tried for their misdeeds.
Monroe backed away from the disturbance and went back to retrieve his horse, his errand forgotten. Without even thinking about what he was doing he mounted his horse and rode south out of town. Before he knew it he was approaching the Armstrong farm. As he dismounted, Clayton came out to greet him.
"Monroe? What do you want?" Clayton was not happy to see him. But that was to be expected. He was the original person to make an accusation about his identity the day he'd first come to the area. He'd been made a fool of when his accusation had fallen flat, only to be revealed as truth later. And to add insult to the injury, two of the men that had helped to apprehend Monroe in that bar – Avery Carter and John Greene had later befriended the man.
"I heard you had some trouble with bandits a few days ago. So do you want to catch the or not?" Monroe bit out. He wasn't here to make amends or friends or whatever. Hell, he didn't exactly know why he was here, but it didn't include politeness.
Clayton considered him. "What about Beecher?"
"I'll take the heat for it."
"Well okay then," he said as Monroe shook the hand he now offered.
They tracked the thieves for several days. The path the cattle had made following them extremely easy. Monroe and Clayton came upon their camp in the middle of the night. There were only five of them and from all indications they were poorly armed at that. More than likely they were just drifters and had been displaced during the war.
"Stay here," Monroe whispered harshly to Clayton from where they watched the thieves. He started to protest, but thought better of it. If Monroe was going to take the heat for this, he was happy to let him take the lead. The man had pretty much wiped out the Patriots after all. He was more than capable of handling a handful of cattle thieves.
Monroe decided to give them a fair chance. He walked into their camp boldly. "Well look at what we have here," he said as he approached. "I've been looking for you."
The thieves didn't look all that worried. "I'd leave if I were you," one of them said. "We don't like to kill, but we will if you get in our way."
Monroe laughed. "Yeah, good luck with that. I'm giving you about five seconds to surrender. Give back the cattle and turn yourselves in and we don't have to do this the hard way."
The bandits started to laugh now. "Are you stupid or just crazy," one of them asked in between bouts of laughter.
They hadn't noticed Monroe's hand inch towards where his swords hung. "That's usually debatable. Probably a little bit of the former and a whole lot of the latter."
The bandits rose one by one. "You're obviously bad at math, mister." The obvious ringleader said. "Five to one make the odds pretty shitty for you. Now we'll give you five seconds to walk away before we tear you to pieces."
Monroe drew both of his swords. He saw the slightest flash of fear in their eyes when they saw how quickly he moved. "Have it your way," he said with a smirk right before he went on the offensive. His surveillance had shown that only one of them had an actual firearm so he was the one he took out first.
A shout came from his left. "You killed him!" Monroe didn't give the man in his blind spot a chance to attack. He backed up to put him in his line of sight and took him down with a single slash. Clayton watched from his vantage point as Monroe moved gracefully, dodging a punch while he lunged at another, catching him in the arm and forcing the knife out of his hand.
They backed away from Monroe now as if they realized that the five to one odds were never in their favor. "Who are you?" one of them stammered.
He poised to strike again. "I'm Sebastian Monroe." He lashed out once more, running the leader of the unfortunate band of miscreants through. He yanked the sword out of the man's chest before turning to the other two.
They thought better of continuing the fight. They had no chance against him and they knew it. They dropped their knives and knelt on the ground in surrender. Clayton came out of hiding and helped Monroe bind their hands.
Together they started the slow journey back to Providence with the cattle and their prisoners. "I've never seen a man move like that," Clayton commented as they made camp a few hours later. On the fourth day they arrived at Clayton's farm. They intended on stopping just long enough to drop off the cattle before leading the two remaining thieves to town. Beecher could deal with them from there.
Mary Armstrong met them at the gate, having seen the cattle and the riders from the distance. As she reached them, she stopped dead in her tracks and shrank back in fear. Monroe overheard her indicate that the younger of the two thieves had been her rapist.
Monroe saw red and felt the violence and rage consume him. "So it was you, huh?" he growled as he stalked over to the man. "You like to rape women?" He grabbed the man by his throat.
He shook his head in denial. "I didn't –"
"Don't lie to me," Monroe said. He cocked his head to one side while he watched the filth before him blubber and sob.
"I'm sorry," he whined right before Monroe's fist connected with his face. When the beating finally stopped the man was dead and his assailant was covered in red. Mary had gone inside as soon as she'd identified her attacker but Clayton had stood and watched Monroe beat his wife's rapist to death. He didn't know whether to be grateful or scared. In some ways, he was a little of both. He couldn't deny that Monroe had just done what he'd wanted to do himself. "Why did you do that?" he stammered as Monroe used his sleeve to wipe the blood spatters off of his forehead, succeeding in only smearing them more.
He grabbed the other thief from where he cowered, yanking him to his feet. "So you didn't have to," he said flatly. Together they brought in the one surviving thief and what was left of the other one. When Beecher saw them approach he didn't know what to think. The remaining criminal was locked up to await transport to Lexington to stand trial for cattle theft and accessory to rape and the body was disposed of.
The problem was what to do with Monroe. He was a friend and Beecher had a lot of respect for what he'd done to fight in the war with the Patriots. But on the other hand, he'd just beaten a subdued and bound man to death. Granted, that man had raped one of his neighbors and secretly Bob Beecher thought he deserved it, but technically it was still murder. Not knowing what else to do he locked Monroe up in the other cell in his office before sending word to the Forrester Farm.
The only consolation to his arrest was that at least there was a wall in between the two cells so he didn't have to look at the cow thief or be watched by him. Ignoring the cot in his cell, Monroe slid down against the wall. Spending the night there, he finally broke. He'd taken every ounce of self-loathing he had and had unleashed to on the man that had raped Mary Armstrong. It occurred to Monroe that the only difference between what the deceased scum's crime and his own was that Miles had stopped him before he'd succeeded. He did not move throughout the night. Sitting with his knees bent, his arms crossed over them and his face buried, he silently wept.