Chapter Text
Ch 1
The Heartlands, 1899
As if the ordeal of riding in a rickety stagecoach across the country wasn't unappealing enough, the decision to continue pushing the horses through the night and not rest in Rhodes was enough to make Margot Van Kamp want to plunge herself through the window and let the O'Driscolls take her. She took mental measurements of the size of the window, briefly appraised the massive heap of skirts and coats she had bunched around her waist, and rolled her eyes.
Simply not worth the effort, she decided.
"Miss Van Kamp, try to not look so miserable," Margot's attendant remarked. Hardwick was an old employee of her father's whose permanently swollen knuckles and deep scar across his forehead told everyone exactly what his role at The National Star was in his youth. Now, with his enforcing days behind him and several decades' worth of favors left to repay, William Van Kamp kept him on payroll as his recently-engaged adult daughter's minder, a role both parties despised equally. Margot twisted the soft gold-colored rope around her velvet coin purse between her fingers and rolled her eyes beneath the wide brim of her emerald colored hat. It was a platitude Hardwick had advised her of on several occasions, but with less and less enthusiasm as her wedding date grew closer and the end of his contract approached with it. Hardwick stretched his toe across the stagecoach floor and gently tapped Margot's foot to get her attention, and she looked up to see a sudden change of expression on his face. He looked across the coach at her, and all the resentment he typically wore on his face was replaced with something like empathy.
"Young Mister Cornwall will make this whole journey worth the effort, miss. I promise you that," the old brawler said with a wink. Margot blinked her dark brown eyes at Hardwick and managed to pause before immediately reacting. She swallowed her contempt eventually— it wasn't Hardwick's fault she had been Shanghai'd into a stagecoach with the promise of a loveless arranged marriage to the son of a railroad and oil tycoon, after all. Ezekiel Cornwall was undoubtedly waiting for Margot at their new mountain home north of Strawberry, prenuptial agreement in one hand and a freshly minted diamond-encrusted set of handcuffs in the other, Margot looked up from her now-tightly-knotted coin purse strap and gave Hardwick a flat smile, but said nothing. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the plush upholstery, and closed her eyes.
"WOOOAH!"
The stagecoach skidded to a halt on the loosely packed dirt road, knocking Margot off balance enough that she tumbled off the seat and onto the stagecoach floor. She adjusted her hat and pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes, but was stopped by Hardwick's large hand when she made an attempt to get up. She raised her eyes to look up at him, but the panic-stricken look on his ordinarily stoic face kept her from asking what was happening— at least out loud.
"Stay down," Hardwick whispered hoarsely, motioning for Margot to lay flat on the stagecoach floor. The grizzled old fighter peeked out the heavy velvet curtain and assessed the situation on the road, and his practiced had found his old war revolver holstered faithfully on his hip. After a quick glance at the cylinder, Hardwick snapped the gun shut up, gave one last warning to Margot, and covered her with his heavy wool coat as he kicked the stagecoach door open.
"Uh oh, fellas, we've got ourselves a hero!" a deep, theatric voice bellowed from the road. Margot shook violently on the floor under Hardwick's coat, the artificial darkness not doing anything to make the mystery any more bearable. She inhaled deeply, held her breath, and fought to separate the different sets of footsteps and hoof steps from each other in a feeble attempt to figure out what was happening. The stagecoach door slammed shut, followed by Hardwick's familiar, yet uncharacteristically nervous, overly vocal demands for surrender.
"Gentlemen, lay down your weapons. There is no need for violence," Margot heard Hardwick shout. There was not a good way for her to see the goings-on outside the stagecoach door, but the scattered sounds of footsteps convinced her that Hardwick was, unfortunately, out of his depth.
CRACK! CRACK!
As if on cue, Margot heard the telltale sounds of two newly-deceased bodies fall off the front of the coach heavily onto the ground. Her eyes shot open and a terrified scream threatened to burst out of her throat, but she muffled it with her own wrist just in time.
"Now, now, I assure you that was wholely unnecessary. Let me get into the lockbox. I can assure you we are not traveling lightly, and any amount of money you can find will more than compensate you for your troubles today, and—"
"Mr. Bell, I believe our bespectacled vigilante has outlasted his usefulness," the first mystery voice declared, cutting off Hardwick's diplomatic plea. A second mystery voice, one higher pitched and definitely lubricated with whiskey or moonshine, let out a laugh, strangled and coarse, before replying, "You read my mind, boss."
CRACK!
This time, the gunfire came from Hardwick's gun, followed by the unmistakable twang of a bullet ricocheting a metal sign in the distance. The two mystery men each laughed, and once more, there was the crack of a gunshot and the clumsy thud of body hitting the ground right beside the stagecoach door.
"Mr. Morgan, please make yourself useful and check the stagecoach for any valuables once you find our precious cargo," the first voice ordered, and the second voice added, "don't let this one slip away either, Morgan!"
She would have run if she'd been able to get her wits about her, but Margot lay frozen on the stagecoach floor. The giant coat that covered her from head to toe was still warm from being on Hardwick's lap just a minute ago— still smelled like pipe tobacco and liquor— as if she was just meant to hold it for him and he'd be coming right back any second. The sound of a bullet boring a hole through Hardwick's skull followed by the sound of his lifeless body crashing into the ground… both seemed so fake, like a vivid hallucination inspired by a childhood nightmare. She would have blinked her eyes or pinched herself or shouted for Hardwick to quit messing around and get back in the coach, but her body— her limbs, her fingers, her voice— remained hopelessly paralyzed.
"I know, I know… keep your shirt on… goddamn parasite…" muttered a new, third voice on the opposite side of the coach from where Hardwick's body lay dead in the dirt. The handle on the door jiggled roughly, and a brand new surge of adrenaline shot through Margot's body, allowing her to sit bold upright and scramble under the seat. It was a lost cause; the bandits clearly knew she was there, both exits from the coach were flanked by at least three armed and ruthless men on horseback, and the only means of self defense Margot in her possession was probably laying in a grassy ditch alongside the road after it flung out of Hardwick's hand as he collapsed. Without an escape, all Margot could do was quake violently under the seat and squeeze her eyes shut when the door finally swung open.
"Well, there y'are," the third new voice said. This one was warmer than the first two; nearly melodic in quality, even from just the one statement. Regardless of how calm the man sounded, Margot remained glued to the back of the stagecoach and shook violently. A stream of sunlight entered the coach and flushed out the safe darkness as the man swung the door even further open, and he bent low to peer under the seat. The bottom of the velvety seat cushion tipped his leather hat back on his sweat-soaked head, and in turn also pushed his stringy blonde hair out of his eyes along with it. Just above a filthy black bandana that covered his nose and mouth, the man's piercing blue eyes opened wide at the sight of Margot huddled under the seat, but they softened almost immediately and he tugged the bandana down, revealing a rough 5 o'clock shadow that covered his leathery, suntanned face.
"Come on out, miss. I ain't in the business of gunning down helpless ladies," he beckoned softly. Margot took a shaky breath and adjusted herself to be more mobile, but made no move to actually leave the safety of the coach. The stranger stood back, placed his hands on his hips, and tutted at her.
"I said I weren't in the business of shooting ladies, but I ain't above dragging them out of hiding by their ankles," he said jovially, and he reached back into the coach with one massive gloved hand.
"Don't you dare touch me!"
With one swift movement, Margot struck out with her left foot, jabbing the pointed heel of her shoe into the back of the bandit's hand. The bandit yelped and jerked his hand back, but with her eyes glued to the third bandit who looked back at her with a strange mix of fury and amusement on his face, Margot didn't notice the other door to the coach swing open and the first two bandits just outside. The second bandit, a scaly, greasy blonde man with a thick, unkempt mustache, reached blindly under the seat and cackled as he wrapped his hand around Margot's wild blonde curls and pulled— hard— until Margot fell to the dirty ground right beside Hardwick.
"Goddammit, Micah, she ain't a stuck foal," the third bandit hollered impatiently as he rounded the coach to join the other two men. The second bandit, the man known as Micah, rammed his boot into Margot's ribcage and laughed low and deep. Margot bellowed, but curled into herself rather than make a move to stand.
"Hellfire… get up, girl!" Micah cajoled, and as if the first kick to the ribs wasn't enough, he followed it up with a second kick to Margot's opposite side. Margot cried out in pain, but did her best to crawl into the weeds, gasping for breath to fill her bruised lungs. The thought that one of the three men might put a hole through her skull as well did enter her mind briefly, but it didn't last. She knew if they had any interest in shooting her, they'd have done so already.
"Arthur just hogtie her, would you? We're wasting precious time," the first man ordered. The third bandit, the blue-eyed man known as Arthur, sighed and loped into the ditch after Margot and unwound his lasso from his belt as he moved.
"You ain't getting away, ma'am. You might as well make this easy on yourself and come quietly," he said, and he reached down to flip Margot onto her stomach. With her face in the dirt and her hands and feet bound securely, she finally admitted she was in no condition to make a run for it.
"Want 'er on your horse, Dutch?" Arthur asked as he effortlessly swung Margot up over his shoulder like a feed sack. The first man, a clean and well-dressed dark fellow with a pristine silk vest and a glittering pocket watch chain dangling from his waist, shook his head and lit a cigar.
"No, put her on Bodicea, Arthur. Micah and I are going to ride into town and see what we can find out about Young Mister Cornwall's plans for picking up his betrothed," Dutch replied. "Get her back to camp, get her cleaned and dressed, and make sure she's comfortable. We'll be back before nightfall."
Micah chuckled darkly and he mounted his horse and followed Dutch down the road. "Don't let that nasty mare throw ya, Morgan!" Micah called over his shoulder, motioning to the bound socialite secured on the back of Arthur's horse.
Margot still could not see much of what haws happening. Her face hung upside down over the horse's croup and Arthur had not only hogtied her, but strapped her down like a slain deer. She listened intently for any clues as to what was going on— the crack of metal against a lockbox told her everything she needed to know. She heard Arthur rifle through her belongings and heard a pile of clothing hit the ground, then the telltale jangling of gold chains and cash, followed by the fffflip of a stack of bills.
"You got any more valuables on your person, Miss Van Kamp?" Arthur asked as calmly as he would if he were asking a store proprietor if he carried flour or salt. Despite everything, Margot had enough sense to shake her head.
"N-no. Nothing," she responded. The most expensive thing on her, her brand new hat she'd just picked up from the haberdasher that morning, lay trampled in the dirt a few yards from where Hardwick lay stiff in a pool of his own blood. Arthur grunted in response and mounted his horse, the warm pressure of his lower back against Margot's bruised ribs doing little to comfort or console her.
"Settle in, miss. It ain't a long ride back to camp, but that don't mean it's going to be comfortable," he said, and with a cluck of his tongue, Bodicea started off down the road going the opposite direction of Micah and Dutch. After a few minutes, once the dusty trail disappeared over the horizon and was replaced with rugged, rocky prairie and wild, thorny bushes. The relentless sun baked the back of Margot's neck, and horseflies seemed to stick to whatever sweat-drenched skin had come uncovered during the ordeal. Once in a while, Arthur muttered to his horse, but didn't make a move to even glance back at his unwilling passenger. For the first time all week, Margot cried, and the tears did not stop falling until Arthur navigated into a copse of trees and hollered a coarse greeting to his criminal companions.
Oh, Margot… what have you gotten yourself into now?