CHAPTER THREE
Ensnared

∘⋆⋅∘⋆⋅ 𓄀 ∘⋆⋅∘⋆⋅

THE FIRST THING BRANDY REALISES when consciousness seeps back into her bones, is that her head is really fuckin' sore.

   A groan flutters from her chapped lips, her eyes screwed shut against the stabbing pain that courses through her skull as if she's just been trampled by a stampeding oxen. Her head lolls skyward and she feels the aftermath of a nosebleed beginning to dry on her chin, eyebrows furrowing in agony at the gruesome throbbing that courses through her. It feels like her ribs are constricting with every sharp breath and that intensifying ache from before extends to encompass her whole body.

  The next thing she notices is that she's propped upright, unable to move her hands. Her spine is supported by the wooden grooves of a tree trunk and bulky ropes tether her wrists behind her back, her midsection pinned to the tree by another thick, knotted cord. After tugging on the restraints ferociously for a few minutes, Brandy comes to the conclusion that she isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Ensnared in a trap, a helpless rabbit with the wolves closing in — it's a look that doesn't suit her. She scowls at the grass beneath her feet through a half-lidded glare, cursing the predicament she's fallen straight into and wriggling her limbs around as if it'll achieve something.

   Snippets of what happened float back into her brain, weaving together in mismatched patchwork to form a disjointed memory. She remembers sobbing before the stagecoach, tearing through the guards under the blistering sun, being told to take cover by Winona... then, what? She had tucked herself away in the thinly stretched woodland, got herself good and lost like she had been told. Think, Brandy, think. The rustling undergrowth, a sudden pressure on her nape, a burning glint of auburn hair... an Irish accent, perhaps? Mocking her. Or is she just inventing that?

   God, she could not be more confused.

   Her eyes snap open fully. She darts her focus around the scenery before her with a newfound urgency as consciousness and whatever's left of her sensibility begins to seep back in.

  The dying sunlight casts a flaming shadow across the tree-lined field before her. Melodic ballads of water rushing to shore drift into earshot and an inclination of her head reveals a sprawling lake to her right, rippling beneath the volcanic sunset. Life stirs within the circle of tents she can see pitched a few meters away, ignited by idle chatter and the distant clamouring of a poker match. There's a fire radiating smog and heat at the heart of the camp, a growing gaggle of people huddling around atop logs as the evening grows a little cooler and the stew bubbles warmer. She tries to ignore the growling of her stomach at the thought.

  As her eyes continue to trail around the makeshift camp, Brandy finally notices the man who's sat at a table about a stone's throw away from her. The ebon coils of his hair sprawl down his back, loosely tied away from his stony face to keep the flyaways out of his eyes. His shoulders are broad, his face serious, and Brandy can tell that he'll tower over her even from where he's slumped in a chair. The amber light cast over from the campfire makes his dark complexion glow like the contours of a fine jewel. He's grasping an arrow in his palm, fingertips working deftly, the tabletop at his elbow scattered with other ones that have yet to be completely strung together.

In the encore of a dying day, he sits as the epitome of concentration and composure. Brandy doesn't really care for it.

   She clears her throat harshly and takes it as a victory when his hands falter, his attention teetering between the task at hand and the whole hostage situation. There's a pressing question that wriggles its way out of her mouth before her brain has any time to catch up. She wants, no, needs answers.

   "Where's Reaper?" she demands.

   The man stops binding the arrows together and his stare floats up to land on her. Disinterested, blinking slowly and breathing steadily. His calm expression brings a sneer onto her face.

   "Reaper. My horse," Brandy snaps, dragging out the curt words as if she's trying to educate a toddler. "Where is he? What have you done with him?"

   He doesn't say anything, but his eyes momentarily drift to the side and she follows his line of sight until a smoky grey Nokota comes into view amongst the other horses, a sigh of relief shuttering from between her lips. Her pestering only lets up for a few seconds before she's back at it again — if these people were so certain that they'd be able to hold her hostage, she would at least make it a miserable experience for everyone involved. If there's one thing Brandy's particularly good at, it's never shutting up.

  "Who are you?" Her gaze strays across the camp warily. "Where am I?"

  He goes back to ignoring her. She watches in distaste as he dips the jagged tip of an arrowhead into a strange tincture that she can't get a good look at, but it doesn't take a herbalist to hazard a guess. Brandy's eyes snag on the bundled up oleander next to him and her mind drifts to Bonnie out of habit. To her sisters, whenever they may be. Her fingertips itch with the sudden urge to rob him and her heart is pinched by a grappling homesickness... or whatever the equivalent is for a band of outlaws who are constantly on the move.

  No matter the definition, that scalding hot feeling only has her yearning for freedom again. As soon as possible. It makes the fury inside her burn all the brighter.

  Brandy groans furiously, thrashing against her restraints. "Wow, alright. Fuck you then. Creepy son of a bitch..." Her nails scrape against her palms helplessly, twisting the rope to no avail. If only she could sever it with pure willpower. "Listen, mister, you're so lucky I'm tied to this tree right now—"

  "—Who's this?" a gruff voice calls.

  She freezes up as if she's been caught thieving. Still as a statue, her jaw ground tight enough to fracture a tooth. Her eyes grow slim and predatory.

The brooding man peers up unaffectedly. "Hostage from a stagecoach robbery."

   Brandy's head lolls up to pin him with a ferocious sneer. "Ah, so he can speak," she snarks, muttering under her breath. "Could've fooled me. Your brain cavity wouldn't make a drinkin' cup for a canary."

Her head snaps in the direction of the newcomer when he huffs an incredulous laugh at the phrase, one she'd coined off Clementine a while back. The surprise is worn down fast and Brandy narrows her eyes back into a practiced glare. Her movements are restricted as she thrashes against her roost on the tree trunk, wriggling around violently like a fresh fish on the riverbank.

She's only stopped when the back of her head hits off the tree with a dangerous thump, a fresh wave of pain washing over the day-old bruises she'd garnered from that skirmish with that Irish outlaw during the stagecoach robbery. The one who must've knocked her out, the one to blame for it all. Yes, it's all coming back to her now.

  "Ow," she mutters. As she nurses a tender skull and equally bruised ego, Brandy decides that if she ever sees that ginger son of a bitch again, she'll put a bullet between his eyes. The thought makes her smile.

  She can't find it in herself to care that the two men are both sat watching her struggle. The first cautions a side eye at her while the other one seems quite content with pretending like she doesn't exist.

   "Thought Dutch wasn't taking no more hostages after the O'Driscoll." He frowns, his palm grazing over his stubble thoughtfully. "Was she a passenger?"

   "No. She was robbin' it."

  Her eyes trace over the other man that had just come over to join them, his hat low over his eyes and his shirt the colour of a bluejay feather. The flyaway hairs that escape from the leather remind her of a buck's fur; of those speckled pelts that Winona occasionally brings back to camp — all golden brown and fair like a fawn amidst meadowsweet. The depiction feels too honeyed for a man such as himself.

   There's definitely something familiar about him.... she just can't pinpoint what it is, exactly. His shiny little deputy badge sparks her confusion even further. She squints to get a better look at him, trying to make out whether or not this is some kind of corrupt lawman she's crossed paths with before.

He glances down to meet her glare with an equally curious look about him. It almost comforts her. At least someone in this godforsaken prison is just as confused as she is.

   She eyes the guns holstered at his hips with caution, trying not to show how uneasy the twin bandoliers and repeaters slung over his shoulders make her feel. It takes a lot for a gun to intimate her when she was practically weaned on gunpowder, yet in her defenceless position, she feels significantly less confident than she would with her own pistols in hand. Her fingernails begin to nip through the ropes with newfound animosity.

   Her fumbling falters. It doesn't take long before her mind connects all the dots and a little gasp of disbelief utters from between her lips, eyes widening as the recognition sets in. She realises that she'd seen his face before on the bounty posters around town, his name infamous and crawling to the forefront of her mind after analysing his face for a few minutes too long. Something beginning with an A, maybe? It's definitely a vowel...

Hell, what would she know? She never got round to learning the full alphabet.

   Regardless of whoever he is, she can now recall which gang has got to be holding her captive and a pit of dread bullets into her gut. The gravity of her situation begins to creep up on her and she thunks the back of her head against the rough bark, grumbling in agitation.

   "Holy shit," she huffs. "Oh, no way. It's you guys?" Her voice slips into a bout of slightly hysterical laughter. "Fuck me, of course it is. Just my luck."

   They shift uncomfortably, shooting each other wary glances. She continues muttering away to herself like a madman, writhing against the rope and scraping her back on the gnarled bark behind her until she's bound to have grisly lacerations all up her spine come morning.

   "So, er, one more time. Why is she our hostage?"

"Her gang stole our score," he replies casually. "And almost killed Lenny—"

"Untrue," she singsongs. When they both turn to look at her, Brandy blinks innocently. "That... er, associate of mine ain't no killer. And if anything, you tried to steal our score."

They share another side glance. It makes her want to scream in frustration.

"How old is she, anyway?" he mutters.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she hisses. Her head hangs to fixate on the worn leather of her boots, the spurs around her ankles caked in carnelian dust from the winding roads surrounding Rhodes. Ha.

The quiet one shrugs. "Old enough to rob a coach, apparently."

    The outlaw grunts in assent, fingertips grazing over the notches in his gun belt. Something about her being there is making him uneasy, she can see it glittering in his eyes. A sensation mothered by doubt. His single splinter of insecurity ignites the urge within her to pry, to dig her heels into that scepticism and plead to see if it'll soften to strength that holds him secure.

Her eyes swivel between them. "Let me go."

"No," they echo in unison.

    Worth a shot. "Why?"

She's met with silence.

"You can't just ignore me, you know," Brandy says, tugging on her restraints. "Ignoring me will only encourage me to keep goin', so why don't we go ahead n' just save ourselves the trouble?" Her arms are beginning to burn. "I could do this all day, boys."

   They continue to ignore her.

   The other outlaw — the infamous one, his name escapes her now — still seems to be thrumming with curiosity. He looks between her struggling and his friend with an indecipherable glint in his eyes. The dormant nosiness within Brandy desperately wants to know what this guy's deal is.

   "What gang?" His tone is hushed but she can still hear him loud and clear. "She an O'Driscoll? Again?"

    "No," the quiet one reassures, "but they weren't anyone I recognised." He pauses thoughtfully. "All of them seemed to be women. Does that ring any bells?"

   He hums. "Maybe? Sounds like Etta Doyle's crew, but they was rounded up by bounty hunters a while back. I don't know." He begins to look around the camp. "I need to talk to Dutch."

   "He's in his tent."

   The gunslinger with the forgettable name disappears from her field of view in a whirl of sun-bleached azure and clinking spurs, trudging through the grass towards the largest tent at the head of the camp. His friend with the stony eyes goes back to sulking and poisoning arrows.

   However, Brandy isn't done glaring daggers yet. "Cute as that was, are you lovebirds finished pretendin' that I'm not here? Very mature of y'all," she says dryly. "I can respect that."

   He doesn't answer. Instead, he gets up and wanders over to the campfire, drowning out her complaints with the conversation and company that she's currently being deprived of. Her yapping falls on deaf ears and she eventually stops herself when she realises that nobody's there to listen. She curls back into herself, watching the distant figures as they indulge in far more fun than she's currently having.

   "Great," Brandy grumbles to herself.

   Now there isn't even anyone for her to annoy.

∘⋆⋅∘⋆⋅ 𓄀 ∘⋆⋅∘⋆⋅

THE NEXT FEW DAYS PASS IN A DULL haze of boredom and heat that has her flyaways sticking to her temples and her mind buzzing from sheer restlessness. Her arms are cramped up from where they've been bound behind her, her temper wearing thinner and thinner with every other taunt or jeer from the unfamiliar gang members round her. She's fed infrequently and interrogated every waking minute, every cruel remark only causing her to bite back thrice as hard.

   Her favourite victim to heckle has become the sour old man with the stringy blonde hair and a greasy moustache to match — he can sort of dish it out, but he has a hard time taking it, his insults poor and completely failing to impress her. Brandy has heard some creative wordplay in her time: it'd take a lot more than his blabbering to have her clutching at her pearls. He's more like a mosquito buzzing in her ear, if anything.

  At least his petty comments serve as some form of entertainment. She's tear-jerkingly bored and snapping back with more ferocity than he ever expects has a funny way of making her laugh.

Her predicament means that the past few days have been spent as days of reflection, which says a lot since Brandy has never had the knack for staying still. Though, every sacrifice reaps small rewards and she's discovered that being glued in place gives her the opportunity to simply sit back and watch.

And, boy, is there a lot to watch.

  From her observations of the camp, everything just seems to muddle up her brain more. The gang she sees before her isn't quite like any other she's encountered in her life — aside from the False Widows, she's only ever seen them populated with men, surprise ebbing in her brain at the sight of a gaggle of women pottering about by the roaring fire. She also has always had it in her mind that she's the youngest gang member on this side of the state line, so she has no choice but to admit her shock at the sight of a boy no older than four weaving his way in and out of the tents, a scrawny dog bounding along at his heels.

  She doesn't enjoy making the comparison, but there's something about the gang before her that reminds her of her own. They're woven together in a way that's almost reminiscent of a family — perhaps not one as closely knit as herself and her sisters, but they still share a bond between them that you'd never see out of the O'Driscolls or the Raiders. It's unusual.

And it takes a lot to catch Brandy off guard. She's surely seen everything by now—

  "Er, hello?"

  Brandy jumps, head whipping up and an ache in her collarbone making itself known. Her already ragged breathing spirals into a chorus of unsteady little gasps as she struggles to regain her breath. In all honesty, the last thing she was expecting to be met with was a woman standing before her.

She's undeniably gorgeous. Her mousy hair is in ringlets around her neck, curled neatly to frame every freckle that dapples her rosy skin, dusted like porcelain. A bulky necklace of turquoise and gold sits on her collarbones, too fancy to have been sourced from some place honest. Her eyes are green like clover, lashes long and framing those irises prettily enough to make even Brandy feel a snap of envy.

She doesn't try to hide the fact that she's staring, lips twitching at the way the woman begins to squirm under her glare. Although, the more she stares, the more she realises that there's some indescribable quality to this stranger that reminds Brandy so vividly of Dakota. Something... warm that lulls her into a calming sense of security — whether it's false or not doesn't matter to her just now. Oh, how she misses Dakota.

  The pretty woman hesitates. Her eyes dart around, lips parted as though there's something dancing on the tip of her tongue. A shift in her posture reveals a battered cup balanced between her callouses, the contents sloshing around with every tremor of her hand. Brandy can't help but arch an eyebrow.

The woman holds the mug forward and she eyes it warily. It appears to be water, though Brandy strains to ignore her thirst and reminds herself that she could never be too careful in a situation like this. Her paranoia creeps up on her and she begins to wonder if it's all a ploy, studying this mystery woman with intensity until her caution allows for her to dig deep beneath the surface. Brandy's head angles closer to her shoulder with interest and her unkempt hair rustles in the breeze.

"You tryna poison me?" she asks bluntly.

The woman's eyes grow wide. "No! No, 'course not! It's only water." Her face scrunches. "Why ever would I do that?"

Brandy doesn't move a muscle. Her distrust causes the stranger to purse her lips into a thin, concentrated line, eyebrows knitting under the eclipse of deep thought. Her fingertips drum restlessly along the side of the mug, liquid sloshing within at every staccato tap. Still, Brandy doesn't even dare to blink.

A sigh escapes her. "If it'll help, I can take a sip to prove that it's alright."

Too stubborn for her own good, Brandy's determined to hold her tongue. Though, she does dart her eyes between the kind face before her and the tin mug held in her hands as a wordless sign of approval. Her head ducks down into an almost nod, so slight that you'd miss it if you were to blink. She follows along with an eagle eye as the stranger poises the water to her own mouth and takes a sip.

Brandy waits. The cicadas chirp in a twilight choir, the faraway camp chatter dimming in her ears. Time beats on past them and yet, she simply waits.

Her eyes are beginning to hurt from the whole not blinking thing she's decided to commit to, so after a minute or so without any gruesome side effects, Brandy relents, allowing for this woman to pull the rim of the mug up to her dry lips and she begins to gulp down the drink. The water soothes the sandpaper feeling upon her tongue and makes her shoulders relax back into the tree, the pounding in her head slowly but surely beginning to lessen.

  The woman darts her eyes awkwardly between Brandy and the bustle of camp over her shoulder. She opens and closes her mouth a few times before settling on something to say, pressing her rose petal lips into a thin line.

"I'm Mary-Beth," she says eventually. "What's your name?"

Brandy scoffs. "Are they using you to interrogate me?" she asks. "I'm not that gullible, Miss Mary-Beth."

"No," she reassures gently. "'Course not. I— well, I'm not really supposed to be talkin' to you at all, in fact."

Brandy appraises her unsure expression. She can see the care beading in her eyes, the slight sympathy held for a captive in the throes of struggle. Unluckily for her, Brandy's quick to shake off any feelings other than contempt. When has she ever had time for Good Samaritans before? This changes nothing.

    "I'm flattered," she deadpans.

Mary-Beth twiddles her thumbs awkwardly. The sunset makes her hair glitter like faded bronze, the freckles spattered across the bridge of her nose a testament to the sleepy constellations above as they're roused from sleep to illuminate the night. Brandy relaxes back into the tree trunk, lids beginning to grow heavy under the darkening sky.

    "Were you really robbin' the coach?" Mary-Beth rushes out as if her mouth was running faster than her mind. Brandy peels an eye open fully. "I mean, you just look so young and all..."

    Brandy clicks her tongue. "Well, last time I checked, there's no age requirement."

    She blinks. "I suppose."

"Mhm."

   Even with her eyes closed, she can tell that Mary-Beth is lingering. It doesn't deter her from the promise she's made to herself of undisturbed rest, even if it's only for a few minutes. Her mind has just begun to quell enough for some semblance of sleep when a squawking voice begins to ring out across the clearing.

   Brandy's getting real tired of this unfamiliar gang's hustle and bustle after a few meagre days forced to survive in their company. She really wishes her sisters would hurry up and find her so that she could be free of all their melodrama.

  It seems that the voice isn't any consolation to her little fairy godmother, either, for Mary-Beth swears colourfully and titters a harsh exclamation of, "Grimshaw..." under her breath. She hazards a final glance at the battered teenager bound to the tree, expression tensed up with something akin to sympathy. She pauses like she doesn't quite know what to say before drawing away altogether, hurrying down the tiny slope back into the camp so that she can be berated by a severe looking woman.

   Brandy frowns. This gang just keeps getting stranger and stranger...

AUTHOR'S NOTE

me scouring the internet for different ye olde cowboy insults and giggling away because why tf were these lads so creative w it 💀 honestly i wouldn't even be offended if a cowboy read me to filth i'd be too impressed

christttt this was not good but i was so desperate to get a chapter out cause it's been a hot minute 😭 but yippee kieran's been promoted from camp punching bag (sort of) and now brandy's temporarily taken up the position

heart eyes for mary beth the loml!! call me mrs gaskill istg she can do no wrong in my eyes i love her — how could i resist doing a wee scene like that, i'm only human fr