Blood and Iron Ch. 01

"Just had a little talk with your mama," James explained. "You ready to try again, take your first shot?"

"Uh-huh," she nodded back vigorously, feeling a trifle tongue-tied beneath his gaze. Her heart beating quick and eager, quietly giddy as she glanced up again into his eyes, powerful but gentle.

"Well, all right then." A soft smirk flickered on his lips, pushing upward at his bushy brown moustache. Bare moments before the iron revolver sat again heavy in her hands, before he crouched behind her, steadying and strong. The hammer pulled back, ready to fire; the can lined up again in the sights. "Like I was sayin'," his murmur came low and instructive, his voice rich and honeyed as sweetcake. "You pull the trigger back slow and careful. Might help, too, if you let out your breath as you're doin' it." She could feel his cheek brush upon her ear, a slight tickle of his stubble. "Anytime you're ready, little rose."

The pleasure of the name spread again like syrup in her consciousness, thick and delicious. She almost didn't want to shoot. Just wanted to stay right here with his arms half around her, his head light on her shoulder, his breath running warm along the curve of her neck. Could hardly imagine feeling more wonderful than she did right this moment. But she had to learn, to practice. One day, she was going to be a real gunslinger too, a hero the same as her pa - and there was only one way to get there. So she kept her eye glued to the sights as she slowly squeezed the trigger, trying to hold steady the revolver against the tiny unconscious tremors that shook her grasp. A moment more, a fraction of an inch further.

She'd heard guns go off plenty of times before, but the explosion in her hands still shocked her, her eyes blinking instinctively shut at the noise. The recoil, too, was a surprise - she felt her back push against her father's chest, and might even have fallen over if not for his support. An acrid smell of gunpowder in the air, harsh and smokey. Not until James spoke did she waken from her light daze. "Well, lookee there." Amused, impressed.

Her eyes shot open again, looking for her target; it was a moment before she caught the dull gleam of metal on the ground past the fence. Her voice high with happy astonishment. "I got it?"

"You got it," he confirmed, a smile in his tone - she couldn't resist turning around to see it on his face, too. To see his eyes sparkle on her, bright and loving. "Your very first shot. Seems like you're a natural at this."

Joy circulated swift and shining in her veins, merry laughter bubbling from her throat. An impulse irrepressible, throwing her small arms suddenly around his sides, pushing herself up close. "Thanks, pa."

"Hell," faint surprise, slowly subsiding as he returned her hug. The revolver still clutched in her hand, pressing awkward at his back. "This here's your show, little rose. I didn't do nothin'."

Alice just sniffed happily, the corner of her smile touched to her stubbly cheek. Feeling so light in his arms, so warm, as though she'd go floating off like a hot air balloon if he let go. "'Course you did." Her voice a melody of pride and admiration. "You're my pa. If I'm a natural, it's 'cause of you."

He laughed at that, a gentle chuckle of appreciation. "Well, maybe so. But you can't let off here - got plenty more practice to go 'fore you can take on a gang of desperadoes all by your lonesome."

She nodded acknowledgement, but didn't let go. Didn't yet want to surrender the feeling of his strong arms crossed around her back, the comfort of her chin nestled at the crook of his neck. Spoke soft, a murmur lightly imploring. "Just a bit." Bidding for delay, to bathe a while longer in the glow of this moment, in pride and satisfaction and the simple, honest joy of her father's affection. Of his love.

The feeling stayed with her even as the brightness of memory faded, as she rushed forward through the years to the present, to reality, to the dry and dusty scrubland just outside their makeshift camp. She could still feel his fingers on her back, his arms squeezed around her tight and tender as if they had been there only moments prior. The rough, ticklish scrape of his whiskers on her skin, the heat of his body against her, around her...and the answer warmth inside, the ache so deep within, a wordless cry knotted at the back of her throat. Emotion, powerful and urgent, the tug and tremble of belonging.

She hated it. A spiteful oath silent on her lips, the nails of her hand biting fierce into her palm as it balled into a shaking fist. Hated the foolishness of her heart, to be so moved by a memory she knew was little more than lies. The blood coursed hot in her veins, emotions turning on each other like faithless schemers, righteous anger tearing into this echo of old devotion. As though he'd ever loved her. As though she should even care if he did, this man, this murderer. Cheat. Liar.

But her fury could little stop the feeling that pulsed slow and almost painful at her chest. The long shadow of that little girl from a cooling August afternoon - it continued on, blithe and bittersweet, murmuring quietly melodic in the dark corners of her soul. How it felt when he held her close, the warm solace of his arms around her. The ticklish tingle of his fingers in her hair, when he helped her sometimes with her braids. The moment's bliss like limelight in her heart when he'd kiss her on the forehead goodnight...it took just the memory, and despite her resistance she was that child again. Feeling what she felt so long ago.

And more, beside. The heat that circulated slow beneath her stomach when she closed her eyes, remembering his embrace. The crawling itch between her thighs, deep and hungry...these were not things the child had known. Only with the passage of years had they emerged, sensations ambiguously aching, confusing and raw when she immersed herself in recollection. Embarassing, when mentioned even obliquely and shorn of context to her mother, who had only spoken vaguely in response of Womanly Urges. Advised her that her husband would help her deal with such things, once she was married - that until then, she should just ignore them. Keep busy her hands, so idleness could not tempt them to the Devil's will.

Time and the occasional snippet of gossip had since given her a slightly greater sense of what such feelings meant. But she still lived largely dutiful to her mother's advice. Busy hands - once attending to the endless chores of the ranch, working industriously until the throbbing heat inside her faded from her consciousness. In the past few years, the distractions had been more forced; reorganizing her pack, grooming her horse. Sometimes heading out like this to shoot, banishing that primal itch with the thundrous music of gunfire.

The thought kicked her back to full awareness, releasing the tight grip of her fingers at the handle of her revolver. Shaking off the lingering languor of her wandering mind. Nothing truly new, this feeling - stronger than usual, perhaps, but she knew how to move past it, how to drive it off. A brush some distance before her bore seven blossoms, white in their early unfurling but beginning already to yellow. Her eyes drifted over them, breath dropping deep and slow as the familiar, welcome calm of concentration fell across her mind. The count of three she always gave herself to prepare, fingers flitting inches from the gun, waiting for her imagined opponent to make his move. Then...

The gun fairly blinked into her hand, held loosely at her hip. Six shots sounding in quick succession, her left palm working the hammer back into place as swiftly as the bullets cleared the barrel. A small cloud of smoke billowing outward around her, the scent of it now almost a comfort...as it cleared, three white blossoms were drifting down to the dusty earth. A fourth missing altogether, obliterated by a bullet barely too low. She permitted herself a little smile at the sight, the faint satisfaction of success.

Not perfect, of course. There was always further to go, always room to do better - but this was enough to feel a bit of pride. Enough to set her heart to ring again with an echo of the exultation she'd felt after that very first shot. Her heart beating a trifle too quickly as she reloaded the revolver from the pouch of bullets on her belt, holstered it once more and turned back towards their small encampment.

----

Ambivalence kept hold of Alice's tongue as they broke camp and set out once more upon the trail, alongside a still uncertain anger that roiled back and forth inside her, to and fro. At him, for his abandonment so many years ago, the offense of it burning freshly in her mind. At herself, for the other emotions which crept defiantly inside her, polluting the purity of her wrath. It was an effort, trying to shutter her heart against the warm memories which kept rising up unbidden, the sterling glow which suffused her early childhood and the anguished longing that so often possessed her after he was gone.

Weakness - the voice of the woman, spitting again scornful and hot. Whatever she felt when she was just a fool child, whatever tears shed and desperate bedtime prayers...it didn't mean a damn thing. This was about justice, nothing more or less. The kind of justice that comes from the barrel of a gun. Making him pay for his crimes, for his sins. Emotion didn't enter into it. She was just the executioner.

But the little girl was there, too. Quieter, a voice deep inside, pleading, whispering, asking 'why' - despite the answer already given. Obstinate and stubborn as only a child could be. And it was this part of her that finally drove her to speak as they broke bread at the next town, after a long and silent journey. "Weren't you happy, at home?" The words emerging low, halfway uncertain. Her throat tight, struggling for cool against the conflicted tide of feeling that crowded in as soon as she opened her mouth.

James was slow to answer, chewing thoughtfully for a while at a tough chunk of meat. His eyes tired on hers, dark and opaque. "Hell, Alice." A sigh, as he finally spoke. "'Happy' ain't got nothing to do with it."

She softly frowned at that, shoved listlessly with her fork at the substantial steak on her own plate. "I just don't...I always thought you liked it there with me. With me'n ma, I mean." A flicker of feeling at her lip, subtle and unhappy. "Was it really so bad you'd rather get by cheatin' at poker? Livin' outta cheap saloons?"

"You ain't listened." He shook his head with a trace of irritation - though it wasn't clear if it was aimed at her or at himself. "I said it wasn't about bein' happy. Those years I spent with your ma, with you...they was probably the finest of my life." His lips tightened, thin and humorless. "Hell, there ain't no 'probably' about it."

"Then why leave?" Alice demanded, her brow low with baffled frustration. Her voice straining higher, mindful of the other diners not so far away. "If you were happy there, why-"

"Like I said," he interrupted, quiet and weary. "I ain't expectin' you to understand it. Ain't even sayin' it makes a lick of sense. But a man starts to regret, little..."

A sigh, as he caught himself. A tremor down her spine. "Alice. Starts to look back on the things he done, and sometimes more on the things he ain't. To think about the kinda mark he made."

"And that's why you got to 'ramble?'" Her voice emerged scratchy and sharp. "You figured you'd make a bigger mark wanderin' around, playin' poker?"

He snorted at that, a bitter amusement. "Well, could be the ramblin' thing weren't exactly what was thinkin' about at the time." His eyes crossed hers momentarily, heavy with resignation. "I considered myself a crack shot once too, you know."

"Of course," she answered automatically, a trace of surprise at the question. "You was..." Trailing off. No, he wasn't - the reminder cut again into her consciousness. He wasn't the man she'd thought he was, hadn't truly done the things that shaped his image in her mind. Trace accusation coloring her tone. "Well, maybe. If you ain't lyin' even now."

"'ts how I got involved with Miller in the first place. I was a trigger man. Watched out during a heist, making sure nobody tried playin' hero." He briefly closed his eyes, wet his sun-cracked lips. "I was proud of my eye. Only thing ever really set me apart, only real talent I had. Tried to keep in practice, more or less, even after I went straight. Then one day, not long after you turn eight, I'm out there shootin' at cans, and it takes me four tries to knock one over."

Alice dared no answer to this. Just eyed him, hesitant; after a moment, he continued. "Was maybe just a mischance, a string of bad luck...but that's when I get to thinkin'. How I was gettin' older all the time, slower, rusty. And I start thinkin' about what Miller was sayin' that day before I run off. About glory, makin' your mark on the world, on hist'ry. I realize, here I was tellin' you all the time about the things he done, people he killed, places he robbed. And damn sure nobody out there wasn't tellin' his daughter stories how James Blake run off like a coward instead'a facin' the Marshals."

His head shook, quick and sharp. "I realize then that Miller was right. Crazy, maybe, but dead or not he's got his glory, got his own kind of immortality. I'm alive, but...that's all I got. Ain't no newspaper ever gonna tell how I sold a particular large steer." A faint sigh through his nose as his gaze flitted away. "Anyhow, the notion sticks in my head, how I can't just let myself be forgot. How I gotta do something big, 'fore I get too old even to try, 'fore I lose my eye entirely. Figure maybe I can pull off a great heist or two, somethin' that'd earn me a name of my own. Somethin' that'd let me tell you some tales that was actually true when I come home. Maybe big enough to make us a good chunk of cash, so I could buy you some of the things you never had. Real toys, real dresses, kind they got back East."

He fell silent then, jaw closing tight as his gaze turned heavily away. A bitter violence in his manner, awkwardly sawing off another hunk of his steak. Alice's lips parted faintly uncertain, the anger still inside her blending with a cooler curiosity. Concern. "Did you do it? Her eyes searching, seeking his. Probing at their depths. "The heist?"

Brief, humorless laughter. "You were trackin' me down, weren'cha?" Lips tugged into a joyless smile. "Ever hear anyone talk about Bloody Blake? Feared desperado, infamous bank robber?"

Her head shook, small and quiet. "Didn't seem nobody knew your name at all, if they hadn't seen you personal." She took a silent breath, reflective. "Didn't make a lot of sense, with what I thought you done, but...I figured it was 'cause you always worked in secret."

"Pity, too." Half a sigh drifted from his throat. "Got a ring, don't it? 'Bloody Blake?' Even if I ain't so keen on the 'bloody' part as Miller was." A scowl briefly flitting through his expression, before it settled back to its familiar lethargy - he rose from his chair, snatching up the remaining chunk of bread from his plate along the way. Leaving half his steak behind, still uneaten.

"Where you goin'?" Surprise at this sudden withdrawl crowded any threat or accusation from Alice's voice as he moved to leave.

"Ain't goin' nowhere." There was a faint scratch in his voice, a rasp of suppressed emotion, of frustration, his shoulders standing stiff and tight. Facing away from her. "Just don't much care for the air in here."

Disbelief quirked quiet on her lips, staring after him as he strode swiftly from the eatery. Faint suspicion flickering as well, that he might be trying to escape, to flee. But somehow, she didn't think he was. In light of that morning...he scarcely seemed to care that she had promised to lead him to his death. As though he wanted it, welcomed it. Madness, but...

Indeed, once she'd polished off her meal and followed him outside, she found him merely leaning against the wall, staring off into the distance. Another rough-rolled cigarette loosely clutched between his lips, smoke curling slowly upward in a smoothly-flowing ribbon. His eyes trekking heavily over to her in acknowledgement before returning again to their sightless vigil.

It was a strange feeling, looking at him. Comparing the man she saw now to the one that lived in her memory. Hard to say how much was real and how much just the blind adoration of a child, but...he had always looked so tall. Towering above her, strong and hearty, smiling that little bushy-moustached smile. Now - the years perhaps had been unkind. A beginning of a gnarl to his posture, curling inward on himself like an old tree. Standing just a head or so taller than her. Older. Weary. Worn down by some great unrest inside himself, whittling away at his substance like he used to with those wooden blocks.

But despite all this, the feeling of him was not so different from that which she remembered. She did not even have to close her eyes to see him as he was. Just let them fuzz a bit. Open a crack the vault in her soul, let shine out the longing of a thousand tearful nights, and her heart beat faster as he stood before her again. Her pa...emotion blooming inside swift and dazzling as an oil-fed fire, spinning dizzy at her stomach. If she could let it be him, if she wanted it to be...if she could just rush over, have again the comfort and the warmth of her father's arms around her back, the scent of dust and sweat, the scratch of bristly whiskers at her cheek. The flame of feeling, familiar but so long absent, burning brightly in her heart...

No. Anger answered, sharp and seething. This man...he wasn't her pa. She didn't have one - not really. Just a host of lies, a long and aching void. A question, a need that had lodged inside her, drove her forward urgent and unrelenting only to find...him. A villain, not a lawman. A murderer, not a protector. Not her hero. Not her Pa.

And yet his shadow was the same, there before the slowly setting sun. The profile of his face, as he exhaled another lungful of smoke to drift heavy in the air - it was imprinted in her memory, on her soul, and the child's joy shivered still inside her past years and pain and fury. She'd found him. A light of longing, opposite the dark of bile and of anger. Ambivalence tight and twisted as she stepped forward, joined him against the wall, tilting down the brim of her hat against the sun. A mutter in her throat. "You got another one of those?"

His head shook in slow denial. A long moment, one more drag before he pulled the half-smoked cigarette from his lips and held it out to her. Her eyes instinctively following the cherry glow of the tip, loose-packed tobacco smouldering with an odor faintly sweet. There was a slight yellow stain between the fingers that held it, his hand rough, calloused. Leathered by the sun. The memory of that hand on her back, on her shoulder, her cheek...

"Mm." No more comment than that low, acknowledging mutter as she plucked the thin cylinder from his fingers, brought it to her own lips. Her heart beating unaccountably faster, feeling a trace of moisture there, dampness from his mouth.

"Fresh out of tobacco," he finally spoke. Watching from the corner of his eye as she blew out a thin plume of smoke. "Guess I ain't got to worry about buyin' more, now."

She nodded at that, acknowledgement slow and slightly reluctant. Idly turning the cigarette over in her hand. She didn't often smoke, herself - but right now, she felt she needed it. To settle her heart, her nerves. A glance over at James, at his posture stiff and still. Looking away from her, out into the distance, to the horizon blue and majestic. Questions tugging insistent on her tongue. "How come you didn't pull off this heist of yours?"