Where am I?

She remembered little, bits and pieces of fragmented memory filtered through a foggy glass. It was as if someone had gone through and cruelly offered her pieces of the puzzle instead of the whole thing. She could see the side of the building but not enough to realize it was a barn instead of a home, for example. More realistically, she knew she had traveled on horseback made evident by the clip of the hooves against stone and dirt, but she didn't know where she had been brought to or by whom.

If she really tried, she remembered jostling back and forth. She remembered two men speaking, both sounding more irritated than either had any right to be. She remembered frenzied worried voices and a cool damp rag being laid upon her forehead.

Remembered the infuriating pleasant smell of evergreen and clean soap when a hand had been pressed against her cheek.

But then… nothing… blissful sleep, her body finally succumbing to the damage done to her, to the beating she had withstood. She had been too tired to fight it, too drained to stay awake any longer.

Now, however, she was groggily awake, and her mind was reeling with questions.

I must figure out where I am.

No ropes bit at her exposed wrists to create angry, puckered welts. No gag was forced in her mouth to prevent her from speaking or screaming for help. She was on a padded surface, soft and comfortable, with her head supported by a pillow. She was warm due to the quilt that had been draped over her by….

By who…?

Was she surrounded by friend or foe?

Did she need to run? Flee? Would she be able to? Did she even have to?

Prisoners weren't often left unbound and cared for. That had to count for something, right?

Or was it just for show? A conniving ploy to catch her unawares gussied up to appear innocent and acquitted. A scheme to lull her into a serene calm right before the rug was ripped out from underneath of her?

Mathias would do that. It was not outside the realm of possibility. Nothing was with him. He was always one step ahead of her… made obvious by how he managed to track her down after all this time, so far from home.

All she could picture was tight gowns, greedy uncaring sneers, and disgusted remorse. Poorly lit rooms. Rustled linens. The taste of blood on her tongue.

Her heart lurched as terror simmered in her gut. No, she wouldn't go back there. She couldn't.

Okay, okay, you can do this. Take it slow. What can you hear?

Muffled voices reached her ears – broken hushed dialogue she couldn't quite string together no matter how hard she strained to listen. The crack of a fire and the pop of embers on sap coated logs followed. Something sizzled on a heated pan, someone plucked at an instrument, the tune light and melodic. Almost familiar but she couldn't figure out from where. Gentle laughter bubbled from further out, childlike almost.

She inhaled slowly. The scent of wood smoke filled her nose paired with the spiced smell of meat and potato stew coupled with honeyed mead. Her stomach pinched with hunger, reminding her that she had not eaten since… since…

Was it still the same day? How much time had passed?

Her fingers twitched, chipped nails dug into the soft thin mattress beneath her. Her body ached but was not nearly as pain laden as she had assumed it would be. Flashes of memory flickered into her mind's eye – Mathias standing over her, his grip curled around her throat, a dagger in his arm… falling… white hot agony as her head connected with the rocky jagged face of the canyon wall.

Hands wrapping around her.

But who…? Who?! Who pulled her away from the cliff? Who brought her here?

"Oh! Someone retrieve Arthur. I think she's waking up," a woman explained, tone pitched with excitement.

She instantly recoiled from the voice, frightened by its proximity. Someone had been watching over, stationed to… guard her? Protect her? Or retain her? Her eyes flicked open, her gaze uncertain and fearful as she took in her surroundings.

Night had fallen at some point leaving the sky above littered with sparkling stars and a half full moon. Campfires dotted the ridge in a gentle golden glow. People sat around them, unrecognizable and unknown. A woman knelt beside her, face plastered with concern. Her brow was knit with worry as her summer green colored eyes widened. Lazy ringlets framed the woman's slender rosy-cheeked face.

Not Mathias.

She doesn't look like a savage killer neither.

She licked her dry lips. When she spoke her voice was harsh, cracking around the words due to hours without water, "Who are you?"

"It's okay, darling. We hear you've been through quite the ordeal. My name is Mary-Beth," a soothing palm clasped her arm. "You're safe here, I promise you that much."

Safe. It was such a flaky word spoken by mouths who didn't know its true meaning. No one was ever honestly safe. There was always a catch.

Her lips tugged into a thin line, her eyes narrowed. "Where am I?"

"Little ways out from Valentine, miss. We're in Horseshoe Overlook, it's our humble camp."

"Careful, Miss Gaskill. She doesn't need to know everything," a second woman warned as she approached, bowl of steaming stew and mug of ale in hand. "No offense. But, until we know if you are with us or against us, we can't take our chances." Leaning down she rested the meal upon the bed roll.

"Aww, look at the gal, Susan. She is shaking like a leaf. Least we can do is be a bit forthcoming with information," Mary-Beth argued.

"This ain't like one of your books, silly girl. Do not be fooled. She could be a wolf in sheep's clothing."

Lovely people. Just charming. Though… she couldn't blame them. She knew she wouldn't feel any different if their roles were reversed. Hell, if she had to be frank, they had done more for her already than she would have done in their shoes.

Mary-Beth huffed out an exasperated sigh much to Susan's chagrin. "I'm just sayin' that maybe we shouldn't be treating her like the enemy."

"That's not for us to decide." Then, to her, "What's your name, dear?"

She swallowed her spoonful of stew, weighing her options. A pretty lie would be easier. But… if what this Mary-Beth said was true, that she was safe here… being honest would get her further. She didn't know the status of the Manzanita Chance posse. She didn't want to dwell on it, too afraid to uncover that those she held dearest were possibly dead. Until she knew what she was up against, it would be wiser to play along than to fib. "McClellin. Lillian McClellin."

Susan nodded, offering a smile in kind. "Pleased to meet you, Miss McClellin. I am sorry it is on such terms, but I do hope that we can come to an understanding."

"As do I, ma'am," she replied.

Heavy footfalls made all three women look up as a man neared them. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his trousers, navy shirt unbuttoned, and collar disheveled. He wore a wide brimmed hat that would have covered his eyes if she was standing up. But she wasn't, and instead she was hit by the startling blue hue that seemed to pop against the darkened sky above them.

And, as he knelt down to get a better look at her… she was met with the familiar aroma of soap and evergreen.

"You… You're the one who brought me here," she asked, though it was more of a statement than an inquiry. Her mind flashed to the last time she had smelled that combination, the scent filling her nose as a rough calloused hand grazed her cheek, the heat warming her chilled body. It had been unexpected, but somehow what she needed.

The gentle touch was in stark contrast with that man that stood before her now. He wasn't cold, but he did not seem to be the type to commit such a heartfelt gesture either. Perhaps she had been wrong?

He nodded, the action slow and deliberate, and clearly indicating how right she was. "Sure. I'm also the one who dragged you back up the side of the canyon too." His gaze swept over her, pausing shortly on the bandage that wrapped around her bicep, the gauze already bloodied from the wound underneath. "I apologize for not getting there quick enough."

She could still feel the burn of the bullet as it grazed her arm, the bite of the rocks digging into the skin of her stomach and thighs. She could still feel the way Mathia's grip bruised and squeezed at her throat. The events were a blur, but the sensations were raw and unbridled. No matter how hard she strained, her brain refused to develop a clear picture. Granted, she didn't care for a play by play… there was one thing for certain she needed to know. The rest could wait. "What happened? To the man, I mean."

Arthur's face turned grim. "He got away. Micah managed to get him with a throwing knife, but we were too far away to catch up to him. It was a wonder we got to you before you fully fell."

A shudder of cold dread rippled down her spine. So, she wasn't safe after all. Mathias didn't have her now, but it was only a matter of time. Without her posse at her back, she couldn't help but feel exposed and vulnerable. She couldn't say she enjoyed the life she had been leading but the protection that was offered to her by the LeClerks far outweighed whatever burdens her conscious had to bare. If she was forced to go on her own… she wouldn't stand a chance.

"Charles and Lenny are out scoutin' though, miss," Mary-Beth said, giving her hand a kindly squeeze. "If he's out there, they'll find him. I assure you of that."

Doubt they'll turn up anything.

"In the meantime, I've got some questions for you," Arthur addressed, stern and direct. Though there was a mild tenderness in his eyes whenever he glanced in her general direction, it never touched his tongue. Was it for her benefit he remained neutral and distant? Or was it just who he was as a person? If so, why?

"Oh, come now, Arthur. She just woke up," Mary-Beth quipped.

Arthur grunted, cocking his head up to peer at the woman. "I don't make the rules. Dutch wants to know if we can trust her. Last I checked, we were running on borrowed time."

Dutch? Was he the leader then? Why did that sound so familiar? Where had she heard it before? Was it in conversation? Had she run any heists against him? Stolen from him? Had Jessica mentioned him? Or was he from before?

Then it clicked. Crystal clarity snapping into focus.

Her eyes widened a fraction of an inch, eyebrows rose. No, she had seen that name before. Only once. In passing. So quick she had forgotten until now. It had been at the post office in Blackwater. The wanted posters littered the oak walls there, and she had taken to reading them whenever she was waiting for Tucker or Kurt to finish speaking with the man at the counter. One in particular had been added recently, and she remembered running her fingertips along the uneven edges. The blocky script was faded and damaged from the rain, but she could still make out the name carefully printed onto the yellowed parchment… DUTCH VAN DER LINDE: Wanted DEAD or ALIVE.

She should be scared. She should be trying to find a way to break out, to run to the authorities. Old Lillian would have too. But she died years ago, along with her morals, pride, and sense of decency.

In truth, she wasn't much better than the outlaws around her.

Which is a far more terrifying thought.

"-attest to that?" the tail end of Arthur's gruff question yanked her from her thoughts.

"Sorry?" She blinked dumbly up to him, brain scrambling to piece together what had been asked.

Susan scoffed in annoyance though Mary-Beth quickly consoled by saying, "Probably the blow she took to her head. There, dear. Take your time."

"We don't want to rush ya, ma'am. Miss Gaskill's right on that. You've been through enough." A second man stepped forward, having joined them a moment prior when she had been too wrapped up in her own mind to notice. While Arthur hadn't jogged her memory, this one certainly did. His face had been painted onto each wanted poster. His face was warm, smile friendly, but even she caught the slight tightness in the corners of his eyes, the tensing of his muscles through the crisp white shirt he wore. He was one to fear. Of course, she wouldn't ever assume differently for the leader of such a notorious gang.

"I could've handled this," Arthur commented dryly, those blue eyes of his turning icy cold.

Dutch patted Arthur's back and chuckled, an almost too bright laugh that sounded practiced if she listened real closely. "Oh, dear boy, I don't doubt that. I just wanted to meet the lady for myself. You're quite the beauty, if I may be so bold."

Arthur shook his head, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. "Flattery? Really, Dutch?"

Dutch, as if not hearing the man's words, continued, "We are just a cautious people, miss. You understand that, right? Course you do, you're smart, intelligent. Would have to be for Mr. Trelawny to take a liking to you." Her brows furrowed at that. Was Josiah an associate of the Van der Linde gang too? She shouldn't be surprised. He seemed to have his fingers in everything. "Ah, good. I was worried he was simply telling another tall tale of his. Fine man, that one, but," he leaned close enough for her to smell the cigar smoke on his breath, voice hushing as if he was sharing a secret just between the two of them, "Bit dramatic for my liking, if I'm being honest."

He pulled back, arms crossing in front of his scarlet colored vest. "Mr. Morgan is correct. We do have questions but, in truth, they can wait a moment. Above all, we have needs. Our family has needs. Namely food, resources, ammo, provisions. The essentials." He waved a hand for another person to step forward. This time it was an older man, hair graying and face riddled with wrinkles. He seemed kind though, gentle. The warmth he imbued reached every facet of his expression and wasn't forced. He was genuine. "Such supplies cost money. Money, we don't currently have, unfortunately. However, we do have a means, simply no way to retrieve it. Hosea if you could please show the lady."

The man, Hosea, held out a wooden container with metal binding that glinted in the auburn flames from a nearby fire. It was intricate and complicated, sealed shut by a locking mechanism she hadn't seen before. Something was etched into the surface, unreadable from her distance. "This," Dutch tapped the container with his ring covered fingers, "Is a bonds box. We have been trying to get into it for the past few weeks but have made little progress."

"Arguably none," Arthur grunted.

Hosea cleared his throat. "Trelawny has spoken rather highly of you. We were hoping you might be able to do what we cannot," he clarified, gesturing for her to take the box.

She cradled it in her lap, thumb playing over the dial and accompanying lock. Pieces shifted as she tapped them, disappearing and folding in on one another. It was a puzzle, a complex one. At that moment she wasn't so sure she could pick it, but she knew better than to tell them that. She was more interested in what she would get in return.

As if able to read her thoughts, Dutch added, "We can provide you our protection. It has come to my understanding that you may have some bad people trying to find you. We don't want that any more than you do." Unless it were to benefits you, her mind quietly cut in. "We won't ask for details as long as you don't ask the same of us. All we want is to care for our loved ones," his hand swept to the people behind them. They were all still seated around their fires, heads bowed in conversation, attention not turned towards the arrangement being made off to the side.

A young boy sprinted between two groups, his childlike laughter echoing off the willows and elms. The man with the guitar had finished putting together his song and was strumming it casually, a few voices softly singing along to the words. Another was collecting empty bowls from supper into a large container to wash later. Two women were playing dominos on an overturned crate.

Horses knickered in a makeshift pasture, well cared for and obviously loved.

Mary-Beth gave her hand another squeeze. The woman's heartfelt voice drew her in, "It'd be a joy to have another gal in the group, if I might add."

Susan grumbled under her breath, "Only if she can do her fair share of the work."

"I'm sure she will be able to, Miss Grimshaw," Hosea commented.

"Once she has recovered," Arthur corrected, weight shifting as his gaze moved back to her.

There it was again, the barely detectable warmth tucked against his irises, almost so delicate she missed it entirely.

For a bunch of 'outlaws' and 'criminals', the Van der Linde gang looked rather caring and considerate to her. It wouldn't be the last time lawmen and authority figures skewed the truth to meet their narrative. She had witnessed that first hand when she had escaped from Mathias. It was startling how quickly he was able to twist the truth to benefit his own greed.

Perhaps they were no different.

What Dutch was asking was reasonable. That is, if it were to be believed. And, regardless, she was more or less out of options. She wouldn't last longer than a week on her own. She was capable, but Mathias had eyes and ears everywhere. If Dutch was offering her safety, as fragile as it was, among his people, she would be a fool to turn it down.

Was she trading one nest of vipers for another? Yes. Did she care? Hell no.

"You, Mister Dutch, have yourself a deal," she agreed, grasping his hand to give it a firm shake.