Chapter Text
As the orange sunset is purpled by a twisting twilight, Winona pinches a wad of chewing tobacco between her teeth, watching the world around her sway pensively. The horizon buzzes with amber nightlife from the crowds flocking to the Rhodes saloon, a feeble flame that's one patron away from being snuffed out. Her boot thuds against the ground in an impatient lurch, tapping up and down as she grows more restless with every onwards tick tock of her pocket watch.
She's been waiting for twenty minutes. Twenty whole minutes. In that time, she could've earned herself some blood money or robbed a stagecoach, maybe even won a hand at blackjack in the saloon that's been taunting her ever since she got here. Not that she's welcome in there anymore — once again, thanks to the godforsaken men she's waiting on.
No hard feelings, Bonnie had drilled into her before she left for this job. Winona tenses her jaw. No hard feelings.
The grinding of wooden wheels against gravel rings true in her ears, a promising sound that has her posture straightening. Her trigger finger twitches with phantom urgency and she feels hyperaware of the chewing tobacco flattened beneath her tongue, caustic upon her gums as it wilts beneath her amylase.
"Oh!" calls a voice, thick with an Irish accent. "Look wha' the cat dragged in!"
The wagon comes rumbling to a halt before her. The men piled on the front seat make for an unlikely pair — Mister Morgan's sitting front and centre with the reins bundled in one hand, looking as though he's got a migraine budding from his ear being talked off. The outlaw to his right is practically thrumming with energy, a tatty bowler hat tugged low over his unkempt hair and his face prickled by auburn scruff.
"Mm. I remember you," Winona says, squinting up at the ginger man. "You're the bastard that took Brandy."
He chuckles. "Ah, can we not let bygones be bygones now? S'all in the past. We're all friends here, ain't we?"
Winona fixes him with a stare, her eyes still narrowed to slits, feline and predatory.
"Friends," she tests the word out on her tongue, rolling the vowels around thoughtfully. Her face twists with a cryptic little smile and she shakes her head. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, partner. Let's just get this over with."
She steps forward to hook her boot into a notch on the side of the wagon, steadying herself with a hand on the back of his seat as she hangs off the edge precariously. Her palm smacks down on the wood to urge them forward and the wheels start obediently trundling over the crooks and divots of the road.
As they move and Winona watches the bob of the Irishman's throat, hears his raggedy breathing, she gets to thinking — a dangerous pastime for a woman, she's been told. Still, she can't help the way her thoughts stray how easily she could just... reach around and stick her hunting knife in his gullet. How easily, in this perfectly perched position of hers, she could press her shotgun to the base of his skull and relish in the aftershocks. Maybe then she'd feel satisfied that his gang had repaid the damages wrought from Brandy's capture.
No hard feelings. Winona scowls to herself, cursing this alliance she's been shackled to. Horseshit.
Oblivious to her wrath, 'Mister Macguire' reclines comfortably, continuing to rattle on about whatever they'd been discussing before Winona hopped aboard.
"So far, we've destroyed the Braithwaite's still, tried to sell the shine back to them, now we're on this fool's errand!" he exclaims. He whips around to glance at Arthur. "Which I'm very much lookin' forward to, by the way."
Arthur has his eyes fixed on the winding road and barely acknowledges him with a grunt. Winona almost sympathises.
"They was saying Old Man Gray's doubled security after that business at the saloon," Sean continues, unaffected by his tough audience.
Winona perks up at that, her eyebrows furrowed. "What happened at the saloon?"
Sean bursts out laughing. "You don't know?" He turns to face her. "There was a shootout and all."
Her face brightens with incredulity. Slowly, she turns to look at Arthur, a harsh chuckle rumbling slow and steady from the depths of her chest like the running of a river.
"I thought you was trying to stay on the down low after that mess in Valentine. Now you're startin' more gunfights in the middle of town?" She sucks her teeth. "I don't know why Bonnie bothers with you boys."
Arthur hums in disagreement. "Weren't you blowin' up a meadow full of Raiders just the other day?"
"That's different, Morgan," she bites. "I ain't the one playing deputy with Sheriff Gray."
He shakes his head and keeps his focus dead ahead on the twisting road, chuckling exasperatedly. "Whatever you say, Miss Bennet."
Winona leans back with a bitter twist about her lips, ignoring the ache in her arm from the way she's been clinging to the side of the wagon. She huffs petulantly, losing interest in the conversation, only half listening now that she's invested in her sulking.
Arthur shifts in his seat. "So... we're just gonna drive on in there, is that it?"
Sean waves him off. "Don't worry. I got a plan."
Winona and Arthur share an uneasy look over his shoulder. Still oblivious, or maybe just too brash to care about what they think, Sean continues to rattle on about this plan of his.
"Wagons go in and out of there all the time," Sean explains, "with supplies, equipment, payroll... Especially now they've taken on all that extra muscle. We're making a delivery, that's all. Just leave it to me — I can talk a dog off a meat wagon."
He trails off into a barking laugh, easily entertained by the sound of his own voice.
Arthur sighs gustily. "Alright then..."
Winona frowns. "Didn't you say the Grays were at your necks over the saloon situation?
"Aye, good point," Sean says. He turns to address Arthur. "Are you not worried about them Grays, English?"
Arthur frowns. "Excuse me?"
"You not worried 'bout them Grays?" he repeats, dragging out every syllable patronisingly.
He still looks bewildered. "In what sense?"
"Well, they knows you," says Sean as if it were obvious.
Much to her surprise, Arthur seems to consider what his companion has to say. She watches the cogs whirring to life in his head, sees the recognition lighting up across his face as he connects the dots and thumbs over the reins with a conflicted expression.
"Yeah..." he says pensively. "Maybe you're right..."
The wagon slows. Winona digs her fingers into the seat before her, eyes going wide as she tries not to fly clean off.
"You know what?" he says to Sean. "Here. Miss Bennet and I'll go hide in the back — if you can act naturally and stop us from getting into a fight before we're ready."
Winona arches an eyebrow. "Does Miss Bennet get a say in this?"
He sends her a flat look. "No."
Arthur slips beneath the canvas covering their cargo of moonshine, poking his top half out so that he can offer Winona a hand into the back. She regards the gesture with a scoff and slips in next to him without any assistance, shimmying around to curl her legs beneath herself without smashing any bottles.
It's hardly comfortable but Winona's lived through worse. She tucks her knees up beneath her chin and bows her head low so that her hat doesn't create an outline against the canvas. Her hands curl protectively over her weapons and her ears keen for any signs of trouble, the engraved hilt of her hunting knife burning against the pad of her thumb.
"We're here," they hear Sean mutter after a few moments. "Stay out of sight. I'll do the talking."
As the wagon surges forward, the distinct sound of lashing footsteps come closer and a distinctly Southern voice cries, "Hey, hold it right there!"
Winona shares a cautionary glance with Arthur before twisting slightly, reaching up to wriggle her fingers beneath the canvas and lift it just enough to peek her eyes out at the passing landscape.
A wave of cool evening air rolls into the stuffy heat beneath the cover and she takes in the rows upon rows of crops, her eyes darting around wildly. She's hit by the cloying scent of pollen and restrains a gasp when the wagon comes grinding to a halt, bringing her eye level with a burly guard's rifle. She swallows thickly and lets the fabric fall back down over her fingers, sinking back onto the wood and squeezing her eyes shut.
They can hear Sean's muffled yapping as the wagon stands stationary before the front gates, a back and forth that's difficult to discern from beneath the caravan cover. He tries to bribe the guard with the offer of moonshine, reaching down to swipe a bottle from next to Arthur as the pair of hidden outlaws hold their breath. Eventually, the wagon dips with an additional weight and they suspect Sean's got them inside alright, judging from how things haven't broken out in a gunfight. Yet.
Winona is hardly paying attention to the guard's directions and Sean's attempted small talk as they round the perimeter of the manor, her vision blurring in a series of picket fences and ocherous dust clouds. When their faraway voices are dimmed to echoes by a ceiling, it's clear that they've made it through to the wagon store.
Footsteps clatter against wooden floorboards. Sean pops up to shoulder one of the crates from the back of the wagon and glances at them both pointedly, keeping his voice steady as he continues to whittle away at the guard's defences through the con of easy conversation.
Arthur slips out from their cover first, catching the guard when his back is turned and wedging a knife into his throat. He gathers him up by the ankles and draws him back into the shadows, leaving it up to Winona and Sean to secure the barn doors.
The three outlaws set to work as the world quietens down outside, the sky bursting with pearls of starlight as the constellations shoo away the puffball clouds from the day. Winona peeks out an old, cobwebbed window and stares up at the rising moon wistfully, transfixed by its silent glamour amidst the cooling nocturne.
Sean is working dutifully to craft some fire bottles from various flammable spirits and a cloth fuse, while Arthur lingers by the door to keep an eye out for any curious guards straying over in their direction. Winona reclines against their wagon and simply waits, unsheathing her knife to sharpen it against an angular stone.
She glances up when the barn door grinds against the straw-covered ground, her eyes swooping between the two men as Mister Morgan straightens up pointedly.
"How you getting on?" Arthur drawls at last, peeking out from behind the large sliding door.
"Good," Sean chirps. "Nearly got these things ready."
"M'kay," Arthur murmurs, beckoning them both over. "There's plenty of guards out there. Here's how I feel we should deal wi' things..."
Winona rises to follow Sean across the wagon store, the two outlaws standing on either side of Arthur to follow his eyes across the plantation. He points at an old barn with the doors flung wide open, spilling buttery light across the orange soil and teeming with wooden foundations — perfectly prone to burning.
"You and Miss Bennet head over to the dry barn."
"Sure," Sean says. He glances at him curiously. "And you?"
Arthur grunts, tugging the squeaky old door back over. "I'm gon' deal with the fields themselves."
Sean turns to face Winona. His wide grin reveals a few missing molars and she grimaces at the impish expression scribbled across his features.
"Looks like you're wit' me, milady," Sean says gleefully.
Winona squeezes her eyes shut in disbelief. "Good lord..."
"We coat everything in moonshine," Arthur continues unaffectedly, lifting one of the moonshine bottles over his shoulder. "and then we light things up with these little fellers here."
Winona follows his lead and picks one up, turning it over in her palm and studying it. Despite her distaste for the man, she has to hand it to him — Sean can be quite the craftsman when he puts his mind to it.
"Thankfully it ain't rained," Arthur says. "That ole barn over there should go up like a torch."
Sean raises the fire bottles. "How many of these boys you think you'll need?"
"This should do it," he answers, gathering them up. "Let's head out the back."
Winona tugs her scarlet bandana up over her nose, fastening the knot tightly beneath her plait. She shoulders past Sean and tugs two of the moonshine bottles over either shoulder, unphased by the staggering weight of them.
"Get the fire bottles," she instructs Sean. "I'll handle the moonshine."
He whistles, eyebrows raised. "Yes, ma'am."
She glowers and that only spurs him on more, sending him into a muffled fit of giggles that grates against her ears.
"Look..." Arthur says, voice low with warning. "Once they get wind of us, there'll be no turning back, so move quickly."
"'Course," Sean replies. "I'm rebel stock, boy. I wis born burnin' down manor houses."
He grunts. "Well, burn quietly."
She hardly spares a glance at him before she's ducking out into the open, her head bowed low as the hairs raise along her nape. The chilly air sparks goosebumps along her forearms and her gun belt clanks faintly with every step. She can hear the rumbling chatter from the guards as it carries through the air in quavering vibrato, their voices trembling in the stillness of the evening like a pair of flies caught in a cobweb.
Winona nearly crashes into Sean when he comes to an abrupt stop, ducking behind a stack of crates. He raises a finger to his lips over his bandana.
"Quiet," Sean hisses through his teeth. "There's someone comin' on the left."
Winona knows better than to make a snarky comment, so she snaps her mouth shut and draws back the hammer of her gun. Just in case.
The three of them stay low behind a shed, watching with sharp eyes as a rickety wagon goes rumbling past. As the driver begins to talk down to the guard on patrol, Winona realises with a sinking feeling that it's the actual supply wagon turning up in their wake, armed with the payroll and tools that they failed to bring. They're gonna have to move quick.
Without another word, Arthur ducks off into the leafy fields with his bottle of moonshine uncorked, disappearing amidst the tall leaves as a shadow beneath the midnight stars. Winona and Sean split off in the other direction, making a beeline for the dry shed that glows eerily on the horizon.
Sean beckons her over. He lurches up to take down the guard that's stalking through the barn, clapping a hand over his mouth and bringing him silently to the ground. Winona steps around him as he drags the body off into a corner, turning around to gather her bearings and take a quick look at the barn.
Winona pops the cork of the moonshine between her teeth, spitting it out and paying no mind to where it rolls by her feet. It'll all be the same when it's burning. She sets to work shovelling the liquor all over the wooden surfaces until her nostrils are scalded from the overwhelming smell, her eyes watering slightly as the musty oak glistens. She steps back to admire her handiwork.
"Here we go," Sean says, grinning.
Winona takes another step back for her own safety and he volleys one of the fire bottles into the barn, the glass shattering and raining down upon the floorboards with all the beauty of something biblical. The heat from the licking flames feels pleasantly warm against her cheeks, fanning over the freckles of her forearms where she's rolled up her sleeves.
"Look at that!" Sean exclaims gleefully. "Now, let's burn those bloody fields to the ground."
Winona follows him from the barn in a low crouch and fumbles to light the fuse of her fire bottle, relishing in the grounding heat of it against her palm. Arthur pops up from amidst the plants and meets them in the middle, leaving a path of fire scorching in his wake.
Panicked shouts fan out across the tobacco fields as the barn catches and the plants go up in flames. Then come the gunshots — smoky and loud and familiar. Winona can't help the grin that curls around her lips as she ducks behind a rickety old wheelbarrow and fires a few shots over her shoulder.
They drop like flies when her bullets start raining down, paving the way for the three outlaws to start going from cover to cover. When she slides behind a crate and lands next to Arthur, a stray bullet goes skittering past her cheek and she barks a laugh above the roaring chaos.
A haze brindles the air and seeps through the tattered fabric of her bandana, smoke congregating at the back of her throat in a thick, heady coil. Her breaths sharpen through her nose and she rises on her knee to shoot her pistol, her thumb caught in the familiar notches of the engravings. Every shot shakes through her forearms like electricity, each bullet a thunderclap followed by the strike of lightning through her veins.
Just as Winona gets to watch the last man fall and feel that sweet satisfaction warm her chest, she hears Sean shout, "Look out, there's more of 'em!"
She scowls and spins on her heel, unslinging her other pistol from her gun belt to fire at the men coming from the house. Chaos takes root as the wild flames are stoked by the gunfire, the world a messy cyclone of brutal heat and discordant noise. Winona just keeps shooting on through the thick of it.
Distantly, she can hear Arthur and Sean running from cover to cover, but she's fixed in place with a steady hand and unruly shot. Picking them off, one by one. Yet, as a guard readies his rifle, her finger bangs down on the trigger and she's met with a stiff click. Winona groans in outrage and begins to jog after the others, defeatedly fumbling in her pockets for more bullets.
"They didn't tell you there'd be an army of them?" she hears Arthur demand over his shoulder.
"They didn't tell me nothing!" Sean says breathlessly.
"Clearly," Winona snaps.
They've made it to the burning outskirts of the plantation, flames licking at their heels as they duck under a smattering of thin trees. A wagon faces them, the strong draft horses kicking off the ground in protest and throwing their heads against their restraints when the flames inch too close.
She fights her sigh of relief. They're not out of the woods yet. . .
Just when Winona takes a step towards the horses, the wind is knocked out of her and her world is rocked sideways. Her senses roar in agony as a gloved hand presses down on her windpipe and her head gets knocked back by a punch, the cool barrel of a gun positioned beneath her chin before she has time to blink.
Blood trickles from her nose and collects in her cupids bow, scalding her mouth with the metallic taste. Panic seizes her chest as she squirms, clawing its way up her throat while her eyes sting and breathing becomes futile. Fuck, she can't breathe. Her boots scrape and kick at the ground, her nails digging crescents into the meaty flesh of his hands, fixed tight around her neck. Her vision begins to blacken with spots and the moment her head begins to swim, a withering wheeze huffs from between her lips. Hell. This can’t be it. This can’t be the end—
The man pinning her is vaulted off all of a sudden, leaving her to blink the tears from her eyes and gasp air back into her lungs.
Arthur has kicked the guard to the ground and delivers a final blow to his skull, offering her a hand up without any hesitation. And, for the very first time since she met him, Winona takes it.
"Come on," he says, breathless. "We'll take those horses.”
She nods. "I'll cover you."
As the men begin to free the Shires and mount up, Winona stands her ground, squeezing one eye shut as she focuses on hitting the bullseye. She distantly hears Sean searching for payroll at the back of the wagon but she’s too preoccupied to give it a second thought. Her bullets zip through the smoke, cleaving through sparks and flame, finding purchase in the hard skulls.
The horses nicker as they're freed from the wagon. A shrill whistle cries over the discord to get Winona's attention and she spares a glance over her shoulder, locking eyes with a slightly frantic looking Arthur.
"What are you doing, woman?" he hollers at her. "Let's get!"
"Yeah, yeah," she calls back, firing one last shot for good measure before jogging over.
Winona lurches onto the sable Shire, hooking her feet steadily into the stirrups and soothing the hulking beast with a calloused palm against its neck. Sean swings himself up into the saddle behind her and she pins him with a scowl. Much to her chagrin, he just grins back.
"Christ," she complains.
"No, just me," Sean says.
"I have half a mind to throw you into that fire—"
"Well, use the other half to get us outta here!"
She grits her teeth in annoyance, contemplates hitting Sean with an elbow square on his nose, before digging her spurs in tight to the horse's sides. He yelps and anchors his hands on her waist so that he doesn't pitch himself right off the back, ignoring the lethal glare that's shot his way.
“Okay, let’s get the hell out of here,” Arthur says urgently. “Fast.”
Winona rides after Arthur. The flames rise higher as the plantation is engulfed in a thick, perfumed smoke. Sean clings to her for dear life as he takes down the corps of guards that flock across the fields and Winona’s too busy avoiding the flames to scold him. The heat licks at her face and singes her knuckles as she skirts the Shire around the great walls of fire, whispering consolations to it as it begins to spook from all the noise.
They vault over the slumped fence next to the front gate, the wood jutting and pearly like exposed bone, leaving the Gray's tobacco fields to burn away in the background like a sepia memory. The cool night welcomes them and the air slowly clears until it's devoid of smoke, giving them more room to catch their breath.
“Jesus, that turned into a right party!” Sean calls, his voice even louder than usual now that he’s breathing down her neck.
Arthur scoffs a laugh. “You call that a party?”
“That Braithwaite hag got her money’s worth, alright!”
He hums. “Let’s just get out of here first…”
Amidst the constant chirping of the cicadas and the distant outcry of wildlife, their hoofbeats thunder against the hillsides. They come grinding to a halt after they pass over the railway tracks, nestled in a quiet crook of the valley in between rolling green fields and rosy wildflowers poking through the earth.
"Quite a night," Sean remarks.
Arthur grins. "Sure."
"Interesting little fight Dutch has put us into the middle of here."
"I hope him and Hosea are right and that there's a lil' money at the end of it."
Winona laughs bitterly. "Y'all are crazier than I thought, getting mixed up in all their business.
"You disapprove, Miss Bennet?" Arthur asks dryly.
"Let's just say that we Widows know better than to pull off somethin' like this," she mutters. Her throat bobs and her head ducks away. "We learned not to go and double cross the wrong folk."
That sits in the air between them for a while. Settled and stagnant. Prickling like goosebumps or the skeletal hand of dread. Shifting awkwardly behind her, Sean peeks his face over her shoulder to look at Arthur properly.
"Well, what now?" Sean wonders.
"Head on back to camp," Arthur says.
"You coming?"
He shrugs. "Sure."
They turn to regard Winona, their eyes heavy with the silent offer that's been overturned at her mercy. She rolls her shoulders and considers it for a minute, resisting the urge to buck Sean off the back of the Shire and take off into the midnight. What would Bonnie do?
"Oh, what the hell," she acquiesces, throwing her hands up. "I've already been cheated out of a night down the saloon. You boys owe me a beer."
Sean hoots, clapping her on the shoulder. "That's more like it!"
"Watch your hands if you plan on keeping 'em, boy," Winona barks.
His laugh echoes over the valleys and plains of Scarlett Meadows. The Van Der Linde camp dawns on their horizon, cool and welcoming, while the tobacco fields smoulder in their past. Ever so daunting, though she can’t quite put her finger on why.
Winona really hopes Bonnie and Dutch know what they’re doing. A dread prickles at the back of her mind but she pushes it away, squashing it beneath the debilitating weight of blind trust. Her face melts into a frown and she shakes her head, digging her spurs in to ground herself.
She never doubts Bonnie. When the hell did she start?