By the end of June, Madelaine knew most of the Van der Linde gang by face or name.

Their leader, Dutch, was the Saints Hotel's most frequent customer, though he never stayed behind for more than a bath. Arthur Morgan rented out a room every now and then, and so did a charming fellow by the name of Javier. She heard stories about some of the others. They were always funny little things, snippets of a life she couldn't dream of having.

To Madelaine, having a soft place to rest her head after long hours of hard work was what kept her on her feet and kept her positive.

The concept of running all the time just made her tired.

Still, she enjoyed hearing about them all. Arthur in particular had a lot to say about a man called John Marston, who seemed more of a little brother to him than a fellow gang member. There was talk of snow up to their knees, of an unlucky horse and a pack of wolves, of the poor man's mauled face. She listened to Arthur talk about the concerned fury John's lady brandished at him and the soft-spoken doctor who cared for his plentiful wounds when the yelling was done. She loved to read, but there was something about hearing an account from someone who'd been there that left her breathless.

"Do you deal with that sorta thing all the time?" Madelaine asked him once.

Arthur just looked at her for a moment, his blue eyes worn so soft, before chuckling. "Well, that's our life. Happens every day."

That made a certain kind of sense.

Tucking a bundle of sunshine yellow bedding over one of her arms, Madelaine hurried up the stairwell to one of the few unoccupied rooms with that and a basket of cleaning supplies in tow. Summers were always busy in Valentine, what with all the cattle coming through and the weather growing milder, but in the few years since she began working for Mister Hughes, she'd never seen so many people passing through.

There always seemed to be a bed that needed making or a head that needed scrubbing. Everyone took their turn at different jobs, but only a few of them were allowed to give baths. Evelyn was too prickly; she didn't have the manner that was needed for such work, which left Madelaine's hands pruned more often than not. She enjoyed whatever time she had to herself in the bedrooms.

The huge chests that stood at the foot of each bed left the rooms smelling of pine. Heaters kept the space warm well into the morning, even after the fires were extinguished to be cleaned. There was nothing uncomfortable about her surroundings, no matter how busy things were.

As she was tucking into one of the empty rooms, she heard a clatter of footsteps up the stairwell behind her.

Madelaine turned on a dime, holding the sheets at her back and putting on her most pleasant expression for the patrons. One of them just looked like any other man — dark hair and a mustache with a flushed and almost weasely demeanor. The other was a woman with golden ringlets piled around a pretty face and a delighted shine in her eyes. Delighted and mischievous. She knew that look.

When the young woman passed, their eyes met. Something familiar reached out to her, like something on the wind you couldn't quite get a taste for or put a name to. It was there, but she couldn't quite reach out far enough to get a hold on anything.

Madelaine turned once the patrons were crowded against one of the bedroom doors, stepping into the empty room she was meant to clean, thinking of the woman's face and the color of her hair and that feeling of familiarity that followed under her feet like a shadow. She'd never seen her before, but maybe she knew someone similar? Maybe she heard about her through other folks in Valentine?

Or, maybe she'd seen her at the saloon once or twice.

She didn't lock the door when she made sure to shut it; there was nothing worse than trying to unlock a door with your arms full of soiled bedding. No one made that mistake more than once.

The last occupant hadn't made a horrible mess of things, at least. The commode hadn't been used, just the piss pot, and he hadn't wrecked the bedding. From the look of things, he hadn't even slept there overnight. That didn't mean she could just smooth out the sheets and be on her way. It meant she didn't have to scrub and didn't have to call up Mister Hughes to have the mattress emptied and stuffed again.

As she began to strip the bed, Madelaine heard a giggle and something akin to a squeal.

Even in the coldest months, there wasn't a lack of that happening in the Saints Hotel. Between men and women, men and men, and even the occasional pair of female sweethearts — there was no shortage of petting going on behind closed doors when someone wasn't along. She didn't know what it was about a hotel that got everyone so fired up, but she didn't complain. She didn't have any reason to.

Another laugh was followed up with a thump that damn near rattled the framed drawing of a harebell off of the wall.

There was no making out particular words, but she didn't need to understand what was being said to know what was happening. The look that Madelaine caught on the woman's face wasn't one that spoke of how interested she was in her suitor. No, she was more interested in the platinum chain that dangled from his pocket and the fine leather of his hat.

At the very most, she was only interested in how well he could fuck.

Madelaine pulled the bedsheets together into the center of the bed, making a bundle out of the bright yellow fabric before setting the new set of sheets down beside it. The room needed a little dusting, needed a new flower for the vase, and the window panes needed to be wiped down, but other than that, there wasn't much that needed doing. Considering the state of the last room she'd been given, this was heavensent.

No more than ten minutes passed before she was halfway done with her cleaning and the thumping and laughing had turned into rushed moans. The woman's giggling deepened to something throatier. There wasn't much talking happening, either. Not anymore.

Tucking the rag she used to dust the mantle through her belt, Madelaine took a moment to sit down on the unmade bed. A twinge of pain ran up her back, branching out near her shoulder like a bolt of lightning. She rubbed both of her hands over the muscles. The pressure helped, even if she could barely feel it through the layers of her clothes. The shirtwaist she wore was thin enough, but her corset was old and thick and not at all well-made.

Her head sunk forward as she let go of a slow breath, drawing it out for as long as she could without gasping.

She sucked in another and straightened her back, no doubt looking like a chicken with her arms pinned back and her head held high. The image pulled a laugh out of her, but as soon as the sound slipped past her teeth, there was a crash in the room beside her.

The hair at the back of her neck stood on end, and as her arms sank to her sides, she listened. She strained to hear the next sound that would come, but there was nothing for a long while. Nothing but the squeak of carriages down on the road, the nickering of horses, the ebb and flow of conversation.

Until…

A voice rose above it all, rich and masculine and furious, and Madelaine snapped up onto her feet almost too quickly. She clutched onto the bed's frame to steady herself before launching forward, every part of her work forgotten.

The moment she pushed through the door, the man shouted again. That time, there was a crash rather than a thump, and when the woman yelled back at him, she didn't sound entirely helpless. But that didn't mean anything. Misplaced bravery in the face of another person's anger wasn't uncommon, in her experience, and it often got someone hurt or killed.

Madelaine didn't want to clean blood-soaked floorboards. She didn't want to talk to the sheriff any more than she had to, either.

Stopping in a flurry of skirts, she reached for the doorknob with a hand that was shakier than she realized. The tendons at the back of her hand tensed and released, fingers curling and twitching where they floated above the tarnished copper. Her heart hammered faster and faster, everything in her heart telling her to open the door, but her hand only landed upon the knob when she heard the woman's bellow turn into a panicked scream.

Madelaine leaned into the door, desperately twisting at and shaking the doorknob to no avail.

Locked.

Of course the door was locked.

"Unlock this door!" she yelled, yanking the knob to the right, then to the left. It didn't even budge. Any thought spared toward the other patrons was left at her feet; no one in that hotel mattered save for the woman on the other side of the door. "You betta unlock this door right now!"

The woman hollered again, but the sound of her voice was cut off with a hollow thump that turned Madelaine's stomach.

"Please!"

Madelaine shoved her shoulder into the door. The doorknob held, but the wood itself shifted just a little. A searing pain curled over her shoulder, as if she'd leaned into a bonfire, and she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from whining about it.

Futility didn't hit her often. She was just trying to get by, working day in and day out, making just enough money from washing and cleaning and sewing to keep herself fed. There was nothing sad about that, nothing worth crying over. But sometimes, she missed living in a world where she didn't have to fight down a door to save a woman from getting herself killed. Sometimes, she wanted nothing more than to turn back time and be a little girl again, in dewy Louisiana, with a mother, a father, and a life outside of her work.

She leaned back, preparing herself for the burst of pain that would come from trying to force the door open again, but before she could make contact, she heard someone charging up the stairwell. Their heavy footsteps caught her attention; it was the walk of someone who understood what was happening.

Madelaine turned toward the sound only to see Arthur Morgan mount that last step and make it onto the landing.

The sight of him pushed something into place — a cheeky young woman with golden curls, freckles over her nose and chin, and a laugh that was as loud as it was sharp. Arthur told Madelaine about her once, and she featured in more than a few of his stories. Javier mentioned her, too, though he never shared many details about the others. Just their names.

Karen.

"She's in here," Madelaine told him, stepping back to give the much larger man the room he needed to muscle into the room and keep the worst from happening. Rubbing at her shoulder, she watched as he did just that. Arthur planted one foot on the ground and kicked with the other, splintering the frame of the door on impact. "I think she's alright, but I couldn't know for sure! Should I run and get the sheriff?"

Arthur looked back at her only once. His brow laid heavily over his eyes to match the harsh set of his jaw. When he spoke, he was short and to the point, as if each word was a waste of his breath. "Don't need no sheriff."

With another kick of his boot, shards of wood flew, and the door swung open.

The man stood in the center of the room, stripped down to long underwear. His cheeks were painted the same red as his knuckles, the sight of which left Madelaine blanched of color herself. The room was in shambles. An upturned chair lay haphazardly against the wall, one of its legs cracked at the base. Yellow sheets spilled from the bed and onto the floor, so torn in places that it looked as if a cougar had spent the night. A few drops of blood darkened the floorboards.

Sprawled at his feet was Karen, clutching her jaw and staring up at Arthur as he approached without sparing a word to her or her attacker.

"I done paid for the room and the girl!" the man shouted, his voice carrying out of the door, down the hallway, and into the lobby. "Get out of here!"

Arthur strode forward without hesitation. "I can bet you ain't paid to beat her."

Madelaine followed in his wake. She didn't pay any mind to what followed, to the back and forth between the men. Every scrap of her attention was laid upon Karen, who didn't seem to understand why she was helping her.

"You've gotta stand up, chère," she whispered to her as the two men lashed out at each other. Another wave of panic threatened to seize her, but Karen needed patience after getting smacked like that. She had to sort through a few things before getting her legs to work. "Come on. I'll help you downstairs while your friend sorts out the rest, you hear?"

Karen dusted Madelaine's hands away from her arms. The expression she wore was a grateful one, even with the ache in her jaw, but aside from that, she wore pride. It took some effort, but she managed to stand without any more than the smallest of wobbles on her heeled shoes.

Just as soon as Karen was stable, the struggle was ended with another thump.

The man plummeted to the ground in a heap of bones and flesh. Another trickle of blood leaked from his nose onto the floor, just another mess to clean.

"The hell was this about?" Arthur said, turning on Karen in frustration more than anger. "You said you was gonna find some kind of diversion." He shook out his hand before straightening himself out. His voice softened, only an impression of its former rasp left behind. "You girls ain't nothing but trouble."

Karen's eyes shifted past Arthur's shoulder to Madelaine. There was a moment when she was convinced Karen wouldn't speak until she was gone, but that moment passed quickly enough.

"I'm just rusty, is all," Karen said, folding her arms over her chest. She looked as sullen as a scolded child with her full bottom lip poking out from the other. "I haven't tried playing a man in almost two whole months, you know."

Arthur let go of a sigh that shook his broad shoulders.

Then, nearly at the same time, he and Madelaine asked: "Are you alright?"

Their harmonizing made Karen snort around a laugh. She winced just after, rubbing at the growing bruise beside her mouth. "I'm fine," she insisted before taking her first step forward, stopping for a moment to give the fellow a sharp kick in his knee before leaving.

Madelaine listened to Karen's hitched steps as they faded down the hall and quieted even more once she made her way down the stairs. The urge to help nearly drove her to rush after the poor woman, but she gripped her own reins as tight as she could and stood there, quiet, watching as Arthur Morgan took account of the room. She couldn't tell if he was planning on paying for repairs or if he just intended to clear up any evidence of him or Karen being there.

She didn't know how outlaws operated.

She didn't think the Van der Linde gang was anything like the other operations in the area, but she didn't know enough about them to be sure.

"Thank you, miss." Arthur unbuckled his satchel with one hand and approached her with a clip of money between his index and middle finger. "Just… keep this. It ain't for the hotel." He jerked his chin in the direction of the man sprawled out on the floor, unconscious and bleeding. "Make him pay for the damages."

The clip held twenty dollars and some from what she could tell. No one had ever been so generous.

"I couldn't do nothin'," Madelaine murmured without looking up at him. He held out the money again, and she took it, holding the folded bills close to her chest. "You shouldn't give me this, Mister Morgan."

Arthur huffed quietly, setting his hand on her shoulder as he moved past her. "Your hollering got me up here quicker. You helped her as much as I did."

She opened her mouth to thank him, but he was already gone, leaving her alone with the piece of trash he just about killed. That didn't bother her any; Arthur struck her as the sort of man who didn't much like being thanked for anything.

Tucking the money into her belt, Madelaine stepped over the bunched up rug and out past the door that sat awkwardly on its hinges. She still had a room to clean, but that could wait until she spoke to Mister Hughes about the incident.

Madelaine knew the Saints Hotel's proprietor would be furious in his own way — the kind of way that put a man in tears the moment he was alone. That didn't frighten her. He was too gentle natured to raise his voice or blame her for what happened. What worried her was what would come next. The sheriff would visit. He'd question her, question the man, inspect the room. There wasn't much space in the hotel to begin with.

Money was bound to be a little shorter soon. At least she had the clip Arthur gave her.

Madelaine pressed her fingertips over where she knew it rested under her belt. She wondered if he had anticipated what would happen, if this was his way to apologize for all that happened and what would happen in the coming days.

He was a sweet-hearted man, and he could kick in a door like nobody's business.

She understood why all the ladies working at the Saints went silly when he was around.


Two days later, a new face arrived at Saints Hotel and asked for her by name.

It was Evelyn who told her the man was waiting in the bathing room on the first floor. She carried weighty purple bags under her eyes that even a bit of makeup couldn't hide, and Madelaine sympathized with her. The only reason she slept well enough at night was because of Mister Morgan's generosity.

"You're wanted in the bath downstairs," Evelyn said without looking up from her work the moment Madelaine stepped through the door that led in from out back. "He asked for you by name, so you best hurry up."

There wasn't a minute that passed from Tuesday to late Thursday when she hadn't been hurrying.

Still, she ducked out of the back of the hotel and asked Harvey to bring in two buckets of water as she always did. This time, there was no request for the oil from Penhaligon's, so she knew it wasn't Dutch asking after her.

More's the pity, she thought to herself as she folded a towel over her arm and made her way over to the room. I don't know why I keep expecting him to show up.

A gentle knock alerted the man inside that she had arrived, and when she opened the door, he stood there in his underthings, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. He was massive in size, larger than both Dutch and Arthur by more than a little, with an impressive beard and a receding hairline. None of that meant he wasn't handsome, however.

"Good afternoon, sir," Madelaine said with a cordial smile as she set the towel down on the seat of a chair pushed against the corner of the wall. "The water'll be in soon. Do you need help with anything?"

"You're Madelaine?"

The man's voice was higher than he expected. Reedy, even.

She turned to him, already nodding. "Yes, I'm Madelaine," she said. "You requested me, didn't you?"

"Yeah, just… gimme a —" He twisted away from her to rifle through his belongings. His long underwear was old and worn through on one of his knees, yellowed with age. It hugged his belly as he bent over. "I got somethin' for you."

One of Madelaine's brows rose. "You have something for me?"

"Yeah," he repeated himself. His rummaging grew more and more insistent until he finally found what he was looking for, leaving his muttered curses by the wayside as he stood and handed her a neatly folded slip of paper. "From Dutch."

The surprise that already sat on her face grew in size, forcing her eyes to widen. She took the slip of paper he offered her.

Rather than opening it right there, Madelaine looked across at him. She didn't know which of the stories belonged to this man. Neither Dutch nor Arthur had mentioned him in the past. Or, if they had, they neglected to describe him in any capacity. "What's your name?"

"Bill," Bill said. He set his hands high on his hips for a moment before dropping them to his sides, visibly uncomfortable with the situation at hand. She could tell it wasn't so much the letter as his state of undress and her unwillingness to leave. "Bill Williamson."

Madelaine nodded. Her fingers curled around one of the paper's folded corners.

"I heard what you did for Karen." Bill shifted on his feet. When Madelaine looked away to offer him some amount of privacy, she heard him let go of a relieved sigh. "Can't believe she let herself get caught like that."

"No man should ever lay his hands on a woman. Not like that." Madelaine cleared her throat. "I didn't do much, but I did what I could."

Setting the letter down beside the towel, Madelaine unbuttoned the sleeves of her shirt and began to roll them up to avoid dragging them through the water. She was nearly done when Bill interrupted her with a hoarse, "Now, you don't got to do that."

"Pardon me?"

"I'd rather bathe in peace, if you don't mind."

The request wasn't unheard of. Most of the time, Madelaine didn't do any more than facilitate the beginning of the bath — the soaps, the hot water, the drink of choice. Not many people asked for her help. They were either busy or cheap, and she didn't mind that. It gave her the opportunity to breathe and collect herself for once until someone put another job in her hands.

Before she left, Madelaine picked up the letter and held it tight enough to wrinkle in her hand.

Harvey met her in the hallway, looking about as ragged as everyone was feeling. She gave him directions, thanked him, and went on her way without any unnecessary exchange of words.

The Saints was just as busy as it always was in the summertime, even with one of the rooms unoccupied for fixing. Mister Hughes hated turning people away, but turn them away, he did. There was even one newly wed couple on a tour of New Hanover sharing a room with an old dowager who was passing through to Strawberry, simply because they had nowhere else to stay for the night.

She couldn't go anywhere without bumping into someone, nowhere except the hutch out back where everyone was busy washing bedsheets and laundering clothes for the ladies and gentlemen passing through.

The yard out back was muddier than ever. Even the wooden planks that ran through from the hotel to the front stoop of the house out back was wet with the stuff, dark and malleable near the center. It wobbled something awful as she crossed it and prayed to God that she didn't fall, thinking more of the letter she held at her side than her dress.

There was no one in the large room except for Viola. Both Evelyn and Ngoc were cleaning rooms, leaving the oldest of them to stir the giant buckets of water and lye and soaked through sheets as yellow as buttercups.

"What you got there, sweetheart?" Viola asked her from where she stood, leaned up against one of the sturdier chairs rather than sitting on it. In her hands, the paddle was quicker than anyone else could manage. "One of the boys slip you that?"

Madelaine laughed, even though her assumptions weren't wrong.

"I don't know what it is," she said, and that wasn't wrong, either. She didn't know the first thing about what the letter said. "He only delivered the letter; it's from someone else."

Viola made a sound that sat somewhere between understanding and disinterest.

While Madelaine had thought to be alone while she read the note, she knew that Viola's hearing wasn't the strongest, and if she whispered, it would be as if she was the only person for miles. There was something exciting about that. She smiled as she sat carefully on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs.

The letter itself was far from perfect.

She smoothed out the wrinkles she made in the paper with her fingertips. The sheet was ripped on one side, torn from a book or a journal, and there were flecks of ink in places. Fountain pens could be temperamental in her limited experience with them. Lines of omission cut through a few words and fewer sentences.

"Miss Madelaine," the writing began. Dutch's handwriting was slender and tall, like the words had been stretched out purposefully. "I hope this letter reaches you within the week. Bill can be a trustworthy man when he deigns to be one. I hope he has not bothered you much upon delivery. I am afraid he does not fully understand the etiquette of bathhouses and the like, preferring as he does to wash in a basin or even a stream."

Bill didn't seem like such a bad fellow.

Dutch didn't seem to think so, either; there was a fondness to the way he wrote about him that was so clear, Madelaine could hear the warmth in his voice.

"I appreciate all that you have done for me and mine. Your patience and your skills are a fine thing to see in this day and age. The same can be said about your open-minded nature. I hope recent happenings at the Saints Hotel have not dissuaded you from thinking of us with a certain fondness."

Madelaine couldn't help but chuckle. He wrote as if they were all monsters and as if she had never seen a drop of blood in all her life.

"I sincerely hope that we will cross paths again soon. If I may say so, I find myself missing your conversation just as often as I find myself thinking of the glorious baths on offer at the hotel."

Charming.

Dutch van der Linde was charming in a way that almost set her on edge. Men like him were as dangerous as they were beguiling, and she'd wash the britches of a thousand laborers in summertime before she let herself leave behind her place at the Saints Hotel.

"Thank you for what you did for Karen, and thank you for not speaking of what happened to the sheriff. Our place here is tentative, even when we are on our best behavior. You have saved us from having to turn tail and run yet again. For that, I could not be more grateful." Madelaine wet her bottom lip, thumb trailing over the ripped corner of the page. "Warmest regards, Dutch van der Linde."

She folded the letter as neatly as she could manage, then folded it in half again, making the slip of paper small enough to tuck into her belt alongside the money she couldn't bear to part with. Even leaving it at her small home on the edge of town felt dangerous.

"So," Viola piped up from where she stood. Her tight curls were pulled away from her face and wrapped beneath a brightly dyed cloth, leaving her lined face as bare and open as it could possibly be. Reading her expression was easily done. "Now that I know that's a letter from some man, you just have to tell me about what the fellow wrote. That look tells me it's interesting. No doubt."

All Madelaine offered her was a quiet, "He was thanking me," as she rose from the chair.

His gratitude wasn't misplaced. She could have easily given everything over to the sheriff. Names, if not locations. Faces, if not names. The fact of the matter was that she didn't. She didn't say a word when pulled out in front of the lawmen, and she wouldn't say a word if they asked her a thousand times more. The law in Valentine wouldn't do anything about them, anyway. Nothing short of contacting someone else to deal with them, which might just lead nowhere.

Madelaine knew better than anyone that officers of the law weren't meant to be trusted. There wasn't a soul wearing a badge from the East Coast to the West who could do anything about the Van der Linde gang, not even if she led them right to their doorstep.

Not that she wanted to.

There were men who passed through and only brought havoc to the good people of Valentine. From what little she knew of Dutch and his lot, they didn't seem to be that kind of gang. Making assumptions after only a few weeks was absurd. She knew that, but she couldn't help herself, either. Never before had she been tipped as generously as she was when it was Dutch or Arthur in the bath.

When they rolled into town, her ceaseless worries about making ends meet disappeared almost overnight. There was no way around the protective feeling she felt when it came to those men and women, even if it didn't make a lick of sense.

"Thanking you for what?" Viola asked, lifting the paddle from the water only to lean it against the side of the bucket to catch her breath.

Madelaine lifted one of her shoulders in a shrug. "I suppose I helped him," she said.

The smile that sat at the corner of her mouth was small, but present.