Dutch van der Linde seemed like an honest enough man.

But of late and through no uncertain terms, Charlotte learned not to trust honest-looking men. Men who dressed well, men who combed their hair, men who spoke and carried themselves like gentlemen — they were snakes. All of them.

Gratitude nestled itself in her chest. She wanted to dust it off, to shoo it away, but she knew herself well enough to know that it wouldn't budge unless she repaid Dutch and his what they were owed. Juniper, the wild-eyed redhead who took that first step in rescuing her, deserved compensation. Whether they would take it or not, she wasn't convinced either way. Two of them looked keen enough to rob her themselves, not that she had much to offer them.

The older gentlemen had a tired, but gentle way about him. There were frayed strings along the hem of his trousers and the fabric of his shirt was threadbare in places, a little faded. He could use some money to get himself something new to wear.

Then, there was Dutch, who looked rich as Croesus compared to the others. She had no idea what she could give him to compensate him for all he'd done.

The thugs would be paid once they delivered her to Saint Denis, not before. They carried enough money to pay for a train ride from Valentine to the city where Angelo Bronte was waiting for her, liquor for the trip, and a handful of dollars to spend on the way.

Charlotte had even less than that, given you didn't count her mother's brooch pinned on the high collar of her blouse. She couldn't part with that.

Reaching up, she curled her fingers around the brooch as she stared across at Dutch van der Linde, as if one of them was already preparing to steal it right from her grasp. The smooth corners pressed into the softness of her palm, and the silver stuck out at her like tiny, open mouths, inlaid with pretty drops of turquoise.

"I did nothing to him," Charlotte continued, her words crackling on her tongue. Still, she did not cry. That was a small victory. "I don't owe him money. I haven't wronged any of his men, or any of his many businesses."

She swallowed hard, stamping down the fear that curdled in her stomach.

"He had no reason to track me down when I was only attempting to make a life for myself."

Dutch leaned back in his chair, one hand on the table and the other on his knee. "What a truly heart-breaking story, Miss Charlotte," he said. Scraps of genuine sympathy clung to his words. They were plastered on rather haphazardly. "I am glad we crossed paths when we did."

She hummed her agreement, fingers curling tighter around her brooch. The pain of clutching onto it was a flicker at the back of her mind.

"This husband of yours…" Juniper said, leaning forward until the ragged ends dragged over the surface of the table. "Sounds like he got you into this mess. That's all gamblers are good for, if they don't have any sense."

Charlotte sighed. "Perhaps."

Forcing her hand away from her throat, she straightened her back as much as she could with her aching muscles. The brute dropped her, certainly, but more than that, she'd gotten enough of a scare to coil her up like a spring. There was no doubt in her mind that she would ache for days after. Her voice was no better from all the screaming. Whether it would still by hers to use by morning would be decided in her sleep.

If she ever allowed herself a moment with her eyes closed after everything.

"This Bronte feller sounds like he'll track her down just about anywhere," Juniper said. Her attention shifted to Dutch, who stared up at her thoughtfully, but Charlotte didn't take her eyes off of the woman speaking. "She won't be safe in this town or any other."

"And if allowed her to come with us tonight, she very well might lead them directly to our family."

Juniper worked her lips together, jaw tight. Under her freckles and under the dirt, the tops of her cheeks were red. She glanced in Charlotte's direction once or twice before finally making one last attempt at convincing him.

"If we keep killing 'em, he'll stop sending 'em."

Dutch let go of a long sigh, like a disappointed father. Charlotte knew that sigh better than most.

"If Bronte — whoever this man is — has enough pull in Saint Denis to send his men all over creation to find this one woman for seemingly petty reasons," he explained, "then it stands to reason that he may have the influence to bring what few freedoms we have left to ruin."

Whatever hope buoyed inside of her sank as she watched him, watched the determined set of his brow, watched as he made his decision and as it became almost immovable as stone.

Reaching up to her throat, Charlotte unpinned the brooch that sat there. She set it down onto the table, right in front of him. The winding silverwork glittered in the lamplight. And while the stones did not glitter merrily in quite the same way, they were beautiful.

Convincing.

"His reasons aren't as petty as you think. I know the location of a safe." She struggled around the words. Her throat felt as if it'd been mauled, and unpinning that brooch was as good as letting the wound bleed. "North of Saint Denis. That's where my husband kept everything he didn't need — valuables, jewelry, bonds. My dowry is stowed there, as well as what he stole from Bronte."

Interest softened Dutch's expression.

Men had been carving beautiful things from stone for thousands of years.

Dutch leaned farther back in his chair. His chest was too broad for his paisley suit; the fabric pulled at his shoulders and at the buttons cinched around his middle. The colors didn't suit him, either.

"Miss Charlotte, you are far more adept at negotiations than I was led to believe."

"I wasn't going to tell you," she admitted somewhat painfully, her eyes glued to the brooch on the table. Dutch did not reach for it. Juniper did not reach for it, either. It sat there on the table and drew no one's attention but her own. "When I left Saint Denis, I…"

Her voice cracked. When she lifted her fingers to her throat to soothe the ache, she could feel her pulse right beneath her skin. Her heart was hammering a quicker beat than she was used to, and she couldn't calm it.

"When I left Saint Denis, I thought I would rather die than give up that money." Charlotte ducked her head. The voices of her father, of her husband, of Angelo Bronte himself told her to stop. They cried out simultaneously, their words twanging and discordant. She silenced them with a sharp breath and pinched brows and a look of steely resolve. "But I can earn all of that back, in the end, as long as I am alive."

Dutch glanced around at the saloon's patrons. Some of them looked over in their direction, curious in the least invasive way someone could be curious, but he didn't seem to care much for that.

But it was nearing eight, and there weren't many places to be alone in a saloon. Privacy came at a premium.

"Saint Denis is a ways yet," Dutch said to Juniper, to John and Arthur. They stood nearby but didn't pry into the conversation. She understood why they might want to keep their noses out of Dutch's business. "I had no intention of traveling so far south."

He thumbed over the roundest part of his chin.

"What did your husband steal from Angelo Bronte?"

Charlotte swallowed hard, even if it felt like choking down sandpaper. She reached out and picked up her brooch, holding it in her palm rather than returning it to her high collar. She didn't want to tell him. She wanted to open her mouth and have a beautiful lie spill out.

"I don't know," she told him. "Archie never told me."

Dutch shifted forward on his seat, as if he was moving to stand. The stab of fear that gave her was what forced her long-fingered hand out in his direction, not far enough to grab him but close.

He stared down at her hand for a moment that lingered on long after it began, bordered on either side by the silence they shared.

The tune some stranger was playing on the piano was a jaunty thing she didn't recognize, but it followed the rapid pulse of her heart almost to the note. She struggled against the urge to pull her hand back, to apologize. Those weren't the words that found her.

She couldn't lie outright, but she could bluff.

"Whatever it was is worth tracking a widow across Lemoyne and well into New Hanover." The tremble in her hand went still, and Dutch planted his own flat on the table, peering across at her with the expectation of hearing more. "There's something worth killing for in that safe, and I'm the only person alive who knows where it is anymore."

For the longest time, Juniper stayed quiet. She stood there, arms folded over her chest, listening rather than watching. Even then, she didn't open her mouth. It was the older man — Arthur — who intervened.

"Come on, Dutch," he said, his voice a trickle of sense that Charlotte was grateful for. "You're makin' the poor girl squirm like a worm on a hook. Hasn't she been through enough today?"

Dutch didn't even look up at him when he spoke. His stare was focused on a single point — on Charlotte. "I have my reasons to be cautious."

"You've taken worse people for less," Arthur said. His words felt like a gentle push with both hands, like coaxing someone into taking that first step out into the winter cold. Whether or not Dutch would budge remained to be seen. "Useless people for less, too."

"How much do you believe resides is that safe of your husband's?"

Charlotte sat back in her chair and let her hand fall to her lap to join the other one, her fist still curled around the sharp wings of the bird. She shut her eyes, forcing herself to remember the money that never made it into their accounts, the jewelry that she was only allowed to wear once or twice before it disappeared. She tried to remember the value of her belongings and of what her father gave to him those few months back in return for enough money to pay off his debts.

One by one, piece by piece, she calculated everything she could recall, and when she opened her eyes, she stared across at Dutch with pleading brown eyes.

"It has to be at least three thousand dollars," Charlotte whispered. "I don't know how long he's had the safe or all that he put in it before we were married, though, so it could very well be thousands more besides."

Surprise ran through Dutch van der Linde and the members of his gang. They stood there, listening to her with a mixture of awe and avarice.

Is that enough? she wondered. Is everything Archer Lee ever kept secret enough to buy myself freedom from Angelo Bronte?

"Prove yourself useful to me and mine, and you're more than welcome to join us," Dutch said with a surfacing cheer that didn't do much to ease her concerns. He moved to stand again, and this time, she didn't stop him. "I cannot promise it will be comfortable, but you won't be running from this Bronte gentleman."

There was something in the way he phrased that that tampered with the surge of hope she kept expecting.

You won't be running from Angelo Bronte, but you'll be running from everyone else.

Charlotte nodded and lifted herself up from her chair with as much delicacy as she could muster. The muscles in her legs trembled, threatening to give out, but she steeled herself. Dutch expected something from her. Strength of character, perhaps. Or strength of person. Either way, fainting from exhaustion on the floor of the saloon wouldn't be the most auspicious beginning to her time with the gang.

"Arthur, since you were so kind as to speak up for the woman, she'll be riding with you." Dutch smoothed back the tails of his coat. The movement was sharp and fringed with discomfort. "I'll meet the four of you outside the town once I have my things."

No one asked any questions. They listened to him and nodded and did as they were told. Charlotte had never been around a man like that, not in all of her life.

Arthur stepped up beside Charlotte. He was a tall man, but there wasn't a thing about him that struck her as intimidating. Capable and likely dangerous, but she didn't feel fear when he stood beside her.

"Do you have much experience with horses, miss?"

"A little." Charlotte pinned the brooch to her collar and tried to ignore the sharp pangs that radiated through her hand. Her palm was sore from gripping onto it, the skin torn in the fleshiest part of her hand from its beak. "I had a horse for riding around Saint Denis, but I didn't have much time with her."

"Amaranth has a steady gait," Arthur told her once Dutch had passed the swinging doors. "He's big, but he's careful. You shouldn't have any trouble."

Leaving Smithfield's felt as if God himself had reached down from the clouds and lifted the weight of the world from her shoulders, even if she still had trouble conquering the few wooden stairs on her weak legs. She squinted at the ground and lifted up handfuls of her skirt to keep the scalloped ends from dragging in the mud.

So distracted was she by keeping herself relatively clean that she didn't notice when Arthur unhitched his horse.

The enormous creature's face loomed in front of hers when Charlotte glanced up, giving her another start that nearly drove her to the ground. On a second look, she saw how pretty the horse was with its long strawberry blond mane and a coat of red and silver that looked like stippling across canvas.

Amaranth's ears pricked forward, which calmed her somewhat. Still, she looked to Arthur for advice, her brows pinched upward in question.

"Go ahead," he murmured as he ran a heavy hand through Amaranth's long mane. The horse lifted his massive head and shook out his long hair, almost as if he was showing off. "He's just about the friendliest horse you'll meet. 'Specially out of our lot."

Charlotte moved around to stand beside Amaranth. When she ran her fingers along his neck, she found that he was just as soft as he looked, even dusty from the road. The power that lay beneath his skin in the shape of corded muscle was just as impressive. Her worries were sated. At least, for a time.

Arthur scooted up on his saddle, clearly making as much room for Charlotte as he could. Given the state and size of her, she was worried she'd never climb onto the creature's back. There weren't many men who could pick her up without snapping something in their backs. Archie tried once, and it left him bedridden and miserable for days.

"Do you suppose someone nearby has a ladder?" she asked him, head tipped to the side as she tried not to sound as unsure as she felt.

"A ladder?" Arthur laughed under his breath and gave his head a shake. "Come here, girl."

Watching him lean over and reach for where she stood, Charlotte went still in a moment of panic. If Arthur fell off of his horse or strained something, it would be awfully embarrassing. Everyone in the gang would know her only as the plump woman who nearly broke Arthur's back in two. She couldn't deal with that.

His hands tucked under her arms, and the panic she felt rang outward from her chest. Her words were lost to it, leaving her to only make a short, concerned sound as she clutched onto Arthur's shoulders.

He lifted her as if she was willowy. Panic became something else entirely — a flustered delight that felt out of place considering all that had happened since that morning.

She didn't have time to think on it overmuch, however, as the moment she was settled and as secure as she ever would be, Arthur set Amaranth off at a comfortable trot.

Charlotte wound her arms around Arthur's waist and watched as the town she hoped to call her new home moved by at a steady pace. There wasn't much to be said about Valentine. There were only a dozen or so buildings and only two or three times as many people at any given time of day. Metropolitan, Valentine was not, but upon taking the train up north, Charlotte entertained a few fantasies about the life she might have led there.

Getting attached to those fleeting, watercolor dreams had been ridiculous, but she could hardly help herself. Her heart was broken by her father in London. Her trust, shattered in Saint Dennis.

What was left for her out west, except for a simple life?

Not that she thought even for a moment that life with the Van der Linde gang would be simple. Life in Valentine, maybe, but with a bunch of outlaws, she was only safe as long as the money she promised was ahead of them. The moment the combination was cracked, she feared that her usefulness would come to a sudden and tragic end.

Charlotte grabbed onto her own wrist and held tight.

The three of them slowed. Juniper rode a sprightly Arabian, while John's horse was almost as big as Amaranth. They made for a strange-looking bunch, which only became more apparent when they were joined by Dutch on the prettiest horse Charlotte had ever seen.

Dutch had changed in the short while since she'd last seen him. What he wore suited him, unlike that overwhelming mess he donned before. He was a man who wore blacks and reds well, and he sat upon the back of his horse like a king rather than an outlaw.

As he passed to the front of the group, Charlotte caught a flush in his cheeks. Either the ride to meet them had been invigorating, or he'd brushed elbows with someone of interest.

"Careful with her, Arthur," Dutch warned as he took his place up front, speaking to him without looking back over his shoulder. "We don't want her to fall."

"No, we don't."

Charlotte clutched onto her wrist and held firm, her thighs tensing as they began to move again. She hoped she wouldn't fall. She hoped she wouldn't drag Arthur down into the dirt path, either.

Unable to focus on anything else when Amaranth picked up speed, she pressed her face into the back of Arthur's coat and squeezed her eyes shut.

What she couldn't see, she could smell. They passed a farm that filled her nose with a fresh, barnyard scent, and they passed a sprawling field of wildflowers. She breathed in time with the pound of Amaranth's hooves. Every time she inhaled, she caught another picture of what might be spreading out all around them.

Every time the horse landed through his stride, Charlotte bounced, and every time Charlotte bounced, she felt a pain shoot up her back. She wasn't meant to cling to someone on the back of a warhorse. She was meant for carriages, for leisurely rides through town.

As she sat there, clinging to Arthur, praying to God that she would stay on the horse, the others conversed. Charlotte didn't pay them much mind, but she did her best to memorize the names that passed between them — Hosea, Grimshaw, Edwin, Pearson. Juniper mentioned a Bill, while John said something about a Victor.

Life was a dime novel, she realized in between Valentine and the clearing they called Horseshoe Overlook.

Life wasn't a winding tale told by George Eliot, not for her, not anymore.

Fate passed between the hands of men even still — William Glanville, Archer Lee, Angelo Bronte, Dutch van der Linde. And what was she worth? More than a dime, perhaps, but there was no one there to show her that she was worth more than hundreds or thousands of dollars, that she wasn't a price to be paid.

Charlotte worked at the ache in her jaw and fought back the tears that rose in the back of her throat. She didn't want to leave Arthur tear-stained.

She hadn't shed a single tear by the time they reached the camp. Someone shouted out at them a warning, "Who is it?" from deep in the foliage. It was Dutch who confirmed that it was them, and the man said nothing else.

"We're here, Miss Charlotte," Arthur said as Amaranth plodded up a worn path to the camp. She could see the warm light of a few, well-kept fires, as well as a few covered wagons and even more tents. Everywhere she looked, there were either people or horses. Some of the men and women wore smiles. Some japed with each other, while some sat alone, isolated and quiet. There were no gunshots. There was no blood. "I'll let you down once I hitch my horse."

She opened her mouth to thank him, but nothing came out save a quiet rasp.

After an hour of not using her voice during the ride, it had deserted her completely.

Charlotte gave his shoulder a pat rather than forcing the issue. When he glanced over his shoulder to see if she was alright, she rubbed a hand over her throat. That got the point across well enough.

Once they arrived at one of the free hitching posts, Arthur slid down from his saddle and reached up to help her to the same. The moment her boots hit the ground, her knees nearly buckled again. She was lucky that Arthur hadn't quite let go of her yet. He stared down at her with the a worried, almost fatherly expression.

"We need to get you a chair," he muttered to himself before looking around to see if there was anyone nearby.

John was already gone, and Juniper was trailing behind Dutch, waving her hands about something Charlotte couldn't hear. There was only a few of them within earshot — a beautiful woman with golden ringlets set around her face and a man with a bow on his back. One of them couldn't hold her up even if she wanted to, while the other looked sturdy enough for the job.

"Charles!"

They hadn't mentioned a Charles on the road.

He moved where he was called and without complaint. His hair was longer than any she'd ever seen on a man, as straight as a board and black as coal. The woman had been beautiful, but so was he.

"This here is Miss Charlotte," Arthur told him, indicating the woman standing in front of him with a nod of his head. Charlotte watched as Charles looked her over, from the top of her head to her muddy shoes. "She's had a hell of a day, so if you could help her into camp, that'd be much appreciated."

Charlotte didn't care for being passed between hands, but she was grateful for the help. Grateful enough to manage a small smile when Charles curled a supportive arm around her waist.

"Hello."

His voice was low. She felt it more than heard it from where she stood, half-leaned against him.

While she couldn't find it in herself to speak to Arthur, it seemed wrong not to say something to the man beside her, whether in introduction or in apology. She tipped her head up to look at him. There was only an inch or two difference between them.

"Thank you," she rasped. The sound was so horrible that she scrunched her face. When she spoke again, her voice was even worse. It crackled uselessly, unable to find a sound that wasn't that of a squeaking door. "Oh, good heavens."

Charlotte laughed, though the sound was mostly lost somewhere between where it began and her teeth. She choked out a quiet, "Awful," and took her first step towards the chair Arthur had pulled out for her.

Though she ducked her head in embarrassment, she caught a sliver of a smile on Charles's face before she did.

They both helped her down onto the chair, though it was Arthur who lingered for a while to make sure she was comfortable. Not that he said so exactly. She could tell from the way he looked at the chair and her dress and the general state of her. He didn't budge until she gave him a pat on his arm and told him, "It's okay."

And then, she was alone, perched on a splintering wooden chair that had seen more rain in its life than she had in hers.

Charlotte stared into the camp, hands folded neatly in her lap, and thought of the safe. She thought of the old plantation house where it was buried. She thought of what lay inside and what it had purchased for her, in a way.

Freedom was a strange thing.

To her, freedom was being able to afford canvas and pigments. Freedom was a soft pillow and the warmth of a blanket. Freedom was the roll of dice, the churning musculature of a horse, the death of fear.

Charlotte gulped down a shallow breath. She hoped she would find a place with the Van der Linde gang.

Hope was the pretty hat that sat upon freedom's head.

After everything, Charlotte was surprised she could still wear it.