VenusInBloom Note: I decided to make this series its own block because I just love it so and took a lot of time to edit and "re-write" bits of this story. I do not own this story and if you've read the original, you know it's nastier (read: good) than whatever I have here. This is a historical romance with terms and language that is not suitable for everyone - NC-17. This is also a completed story and I'll have all chapters up by the month's end.
Please review and enjoy!
The Outlaw Pt. 1
The snow may have stopped for the time being, but the cold wind coming down from the mountain was dangerous enough to freeze to the bone. Michonne felt the storm coming and was grateful that her intuition about preparing for it had paid off. She was also glad to get supplies before they ran out, as the town sheriff was assembling a posse to hunt down the gang that was nearby. With the storm over, she was glad to be hunkered down at home, nice and warm in her place.
Michonne figured that she would most likely see the posse coming back into town, as her house was on the edge of town. Judge Negan was always generous with money when it came to those who helped him, knowing that helping the posse stable their horses and feed the men would bring in some much needed cash.
As she had one of the largest barns in the town, she would often help a traveller who needed to stable their horse for a small fee. She even dealt with travellers' comments about paying a stable fee to a Negro woman who lived alone. Although it was from travellers going into town, she still felt the staring eyes and careless whispers about her being a Negro in an all-white town.
As the sky turned a cool grey and the howling wind picked up, Michonne retreated to the warmth of her home after putting her chickens in the barn with her horse. She glanced quickly around the barn, hoping that her only horse, Rose, was still warm.
The barn still reminded her of her late husband, Michael, after all these years. He had insisted on building a barn bigger than they needed, hoping they would keep horses. "Spend money to make money," he had said, as his salary from the railway was just enough to cover the move. Now it lay mostly dormant, a symbol of better times and when she had a husband and a son. Her son. Michonne shook her head, she had never dreamed or wanted to raise horses like Michael. She now relied on the sale of her handmade quilts in the town shop as her main source of income, along with an occasional stable fee in the spring.
Once inside the warm confines of her home, she threw off her cloak, lay it on her late husband's chair, and tended to the fire in her living room. Her meal was almost ready, but she knew the fire had to be kept burning to keep her home warm. Colorado didn't have the warm temperatures of the South and she added more wood, knowing that she had been spoiled with better winters before she went west.
Michonne thought that after she ate she would put on her nightgown and read by the fire. She smiled, knowing it was her favourite thing to do, bringing back memories of holding her son by the warm fire. Feeling the warmth of the fire brought back a flood of good memories, and reading by it at night in her nightgown was as close to reliving the past as she could get.
With several fires burning, Michonne knew she was spoiling herself by wearing her finest nightgown. She only needed the one fire going, but she wanted to enjoy the feel of the nightgown's silky material against her skin. It was her favourite and most expensive piece of clothing and wearing it made her feel like she was doing something naughty. It was something she wore when no one was around or would come around, as the thin white material did nothing to hide her shapely body.
She had just gotten dressed when she heard a horse's rearing loud enough to snap her out of her daydream. She glanced out of her window to see her barn door ajar. Remembering that she had secured it, she knew that someone had opened it. She grabbed her gun, pulled her cloak over her nightgown, and ran towards the barn. Her last stallion had died just a few weeks ago and Rose was now her only horse and only source of getting into town.
Michonne walked halfway between her house and the barn when she put the lantern down to get a better grip on her gun. She figured there must be someone inside, probably waiting for her, since the light from her lantern was the only light around.
She was not about to let a horse thief get away with her Rose. She slowly walked towards the entrance of the barn. She carefully opened the barn door and then heard Rose rearing up again. She moved in quickly, using this as a distraction to cover the sound of her feet. As soon as she heard the sound of her saddle being prepared, Michonne rushed in. With her shotgun ready, she moved quickly towards the dark figure trying to make off with her horse.
"Don't move. I will kill you as you stand." She hissed as she aimed the barrel of the gun straight at his back, ready to fire.
"Not here for you, ma'am," The male voice replied.
She knew as soon as he said it that he was betraying his southern roots. She had spent her life in the South and could pick out a Southerner even in a crowded room. With the city looking for the Sullivan Gang, she knew he must be one of them, as the group consisted of former Confederates.
"Best you go now. Don't wanna shoot you, but you ain't taking my horse." She ordered, her heart pounding with the knowledge that an outlaw was at the end of her shotgun.
"You sending me out in this cold?" He asked calmly as he turned and limped to look her in the eye.
She looked down to see blood pouring from his right leg, just below his gun belt. He was in his late twenties or early thirties and had about a week's growth of facial hair on his chiseled, face. He had a strong build from working in the fields, but he wore clothes befitting a man of some means.
"If I take you in, you gon' my prisoner 'til the posse comes back. You go now and you can get away. I ain't taking no outlaw into my house. Best you get outta here." Michonne said again, even though she knew there was a reward for every member of the Sullivan Gang. In her mind, she knew it was still dangerous to bring him in and it might not be worth her life for the bounty offered.
Michonne knew she was desperate for money, but not so desperate that she had to risk her life. She had always run from danger and enjoyed knowing that she had lived through certain times when she could have died. She just thought of the stories about how deadly the Sullivan Gang was and how they were known to kill those who tried to catch them.
"You really puttin' me on the spot here." He chuckled, stepping back again only to fall against the barn door.
Michonne knew he would not make it through the night in the cold, even if his leg was not injured. She knew she had other options than taking him prisoner.
"Drop the belt." She ordered, using the end of her shotgun as a movement device to emphasise her strength that she was in charge.
With him disarmed, she tied his hands and helped him walk towards the house, making sure he did not fall. Once inside the warm shelter of her home, she tied his hands and then one hand to the chair to keep him in one place. She figured that with him tied up she could tend to his wound and prevent him from gaining an advantage.
She was able to get a good look at her new prisoner with both fires going. She could see that his clothes were fine, he was not a vagabond or a dirty, simple ruffian. His strong blue eyes were also almost piercing in their brilliance, and his face was that of a man of good breeding, she thought.
She went to get her medicine kit and some bandages, while he sat there, not trying to struggle. From her limited knowledge she could tell that the bullet had gone through him and that stitches and rest were all he needed. Michonne knew he was lucky as she could sew a wound and also had whiskey for his pain.
As she knelt with scissors to get to his leg, she heard him protest. "I only got this one pair. Just take them off and don't cut them. I won't try anything."
She handed him the whisky in his bound hands. "I swear to God, if you make a move, I ain't helping you. You can freeze out there for all I care. I'll still collect the money on your head."
"Yes, ma'am." He replied sternly as she felt her message had been well received.
She pulled down his trousers to get a better look at the wound, now that nothing was blocking her view. She also saw from the bulge in his underpants that he was all man down where it counted. She put that aside because he was injured. She knew that he could tell that she was not properly dressed under the coat either.
"Why did you not shoot me?"
She saw him take a drink while she prepared her needle. "Best not think about it 'cause I might still shoot you."
He took another swig, then held the bottle. "I promise, I won't." She began to clean his skin with a clean washcloth. She pushed the needle into his skin to close the wound. Then he asked, "I reckon you miss them Southern winters too. You ain't from 'round these parts."
Michonne stopped and looked at him in confusion, knowing she was not from around here. She knew her accent was there, but it had faded to the point where most people could not tell. "Not too many people 'round here can recognize this drawl." She said.
"Oh, I can. You sound like you're from the Carolinas. Before the war?" He winced as she continued sewing.
"Charleston, then Georgia. Working in the Big House. After the war, I went to school and learned to read and write. White folks at the school were from the North and taught me how to sound like them."
She thought she would break the ice and ask him where in the South he was from. He didn't struggle and she didn't even know his name, nor did she tell him hers. It would be a few days before the Sheriff came by before he went back to town, and she was not known for being rude.
"So you gonna tell me your name and where you from in the South?"
"Richard Grimes. Born and raised in Virginia, but spent a lot of time in Tennessee. Fought with General Hood in Tennessee. The rest you probably know from the bounty posters."
As she stood, she looked down at her work and marvelled that she had sewn him up. "Well, Mr Grimes. You're all fixed up."
"Thank you, but I still don't know your name to thank you properly." Rick added, sounding like a Southern gentleman she used to serve when she worked at the big house on the plantation.
"Michonne. Michonne Roberts-Hawthorne." She smiled. He sounded genuine and thanked her as he would a white man.
"Well, thank you, Mrs. Michonne Roberts-Hawthorne." He said again, nodding like a gentleman.
"Just Miss." She corrected him. She used to get emotional, but now it was just a sad memory.
"Sorry 'bout that, just assumed you were with a man, is all." He fiddled with his fingers. "You can call me, Rick."
Michonne went to get him some hot food and put it on the table. "Well, Rick, I've got more than enough for both of us."
Rick popped his head up and smiled. "Southern cooking if I do smell it."
Michonne smiled. She knew the people out here didn't have the benefit of a good southern meal. As she placed the food on a plate, she realised that his hands were still tied. She was either going to feed him or trust him. Michonne picked up his gun and set it by her side. "If you try anything, I will use it."
"I wouldn't dare." He replied as she sensed he was still weak and the cold would keep him from going too far.
But Rick seemed more interested in the hot food and made no move towards her. The warmth of the kitchen also made her coat uncomfortable to wear, and she decided to make sure she was at his side or behind him so that he would not see that she was wearing such a revealing garment. She figured a white ex-Confederate would not be interested in her anyway, and he had a bandaged leg to keep him from running at her.
Michonne was still curious, he was a former Confederate and knew she was a former house slave. "You come from the Big House?"
"My Pa owned about half a dozen. Mostly household help though. Ma needed help around the house."
Michonne was now even more curious as to why a wealthy Southern man had turned to a life of crime. "So what made you rob the train and then the bank?
"Let's just say I didn't want to stay around for the end of the war and robbing banks became my source of income."
Michonne gave him a puzzled look, wondering how a wealthy Confederate could become a member of the Sullivan Gang. "How did you end up in the West?"
"Being told to attack when there was no hope of victory, to only to satisfy some general's need for glory, was not my idea of war. I saw my share of fighting and did my time. I didn't want to lose my life for a cause I didn't care for. I would rather steal from a bank than die in a hopeless battle. Figure we get out of the South and rob a few trains."
"We?"
"Me and a couple friends." He smirked and Michonne tried not to blush. She poured him more whiskey and got up to take his plate. Then she realised she had left the gun on the table. Her heart was pounding as she knew he could just grab it and take control of the situation. She looked at the gun and then at him. He stared at her and then at the gun, but made no move to grab it.
She ran over to the table and put her hand on it. Rick just sat back and took a sip of whiskey. "I rob banks, little lady. I don't kill innocent widows."
Michonne gulped. "You still wanted by the law."
"I still won't do it. Take my chances with the law, but not with God for doing something as evil as harming an innocent, beautiful woman."
"If it all the same, I be keeping this close." Michonne replied as she took the gun.
"I miss the South, though." Rick said, whistling to break the tension.
Michonne approached him from across the table and leaned against the wall. As Rick continued to whistle, she knew he was not good at it, but he was trying to whistle a nice tune. "Good heavens, you won't convert a sinner with that racket."
She loved to sing, and now that Rick had put a song in her head, she felt compelled to sing it. It was a beautiful song that she had sung hundreds of times in church. She loved to sing and now was as good a time as any to get the song out of her head.
Her sweet voice now filled the room and she could see it almost intoxicating Rick as he sat in total awe of her singing. Rick tried to sing with her, but she could tell that his voice was lowered so as not to spoil her volume as well. Michonne then let go and felt her soul escape through the song as she imagined a hundred people listening to her.
Her eyes closed and her hands covered her heart. She let her heart scream at the mere thought of the song. Rick joined in as best he could. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw him smiling, as if her voice had inspired him to see the blessing of what God had given her through her singing.
Just as she finished the song, she saw that her nightdress had risen as she covered her heart, showing more of her thigh than would ever be appropriate. She also saw his eyes fixed on her as if she were a woman to be taken to bed. She then quickly tightened her coat and scowled at him. She felt a little guilty for getting carried away and walking into his sight, letting him see her in such a thing.
"I see you lookin' at me like that. I ain't no house nigger that you can bed at your will." She hissed at him.
Rick's face showed remorse as he lifted his hands, showing they were still bound. "I would never... And I never took advantage of any woman, slave or not." He mumbled.
"You tellin' me you grew up around house niggers and never once took one?" She was lucky but knew others were not so lucky.
"If you askin' if I did something, then yes, I did," Her eyes widened, "But it was not what you think. Ruby and I had a special bond. I wanted to buy her so we could live together. She wanted the same. I loved her and I thought she loved me too.
Michonne raised an brow, "You loved her?"
"Ma sold her when she found out. I went looking for her but stopped..." Rick replied as if she had struck a chord of sadness in him that she knew only too well herself.
"Why?"
Rick reached for the whiskey and Michonne helped him, thinking he was about to reveal his heartbreak to her. He poured his glass and downed it before pushing the bottle away from her.
"Cause I was after her for all of the wrong reasons. I realized that she was only loving me to survive. That if I was any other man, she would not have cared. I was just a way to serve her, not get lashed by my Ma about messing up on her work. Volunteered after that."
"Did you ever find her?" Michonne asked curiously. His story sounded similar to one of the house slaves she knew.
"Some things have to be let go of. What's your excuse? There must be a hundred men lining up to marry you. Beautiful women like you don't go unnoticed, even out here."
Michonne could see his eyes looking at her as if she were something more than a captive. She could feel his eyes on her as if she were now prey to his male needs. His admission and comment proved that he liked the taste of coloured women. She could not shake the comment he made about her beauty as she felt it was only meant for white women when it came from a white man.