FIC: What is Done in the Dark (Part 1)

[losdosmos]

Title: What is Done in the Dark
Author: losdosmos
Pairing: Brittany/Santana
Rating: M
Word count:41,000+
Spoilers: None
Summary: Santana is on the run from her father's killers as she searches for her surrogate brother, the most infamous outlaw in the West.
Author's Notes: Huge thanks to my beta metalphoenix, who convinced me to do this in the first place. I couldn't have done it without you. Also thanks to qlurk5 for the awesome art! I love it. The title is taken from a line from the Johnny Cash song God's Gonna Cut You Down.



Stepping off the train just means trading one crowded, noisy, hot prison for another, and not for the first time, Santana Lopez wonders what on earth she thinks she's going to accomplish by doing this.

The outdoor platform is identical to every other one she's found herself on over the past few months: narrow, made of rough, uneven wooden planks, and far too small for the number of people and the amount of freight jammed into the space.

What seems like hundreds of people are crowded in front of her, there either to welcome someone from the train, or waiting to get on it themselves. The sun is beating down from the cloudless, painfully blue sky, Santana's thick black hair absorbing the heat to an uncomfortable degree. Behind her, the train's engine belches steam, and she can feel the press of her fellow passengers at her back, impatient to disembark.

Most would find it overwhelming, and at one time, Santana would have as well. Now she just takes a deep breath of the hot, stuffy air, and plunges into the crowd, letting her hard-earned instincts take over.

As a young woman traveling on her own, she's often wished for a more intimidating physical presence, but in situations like this, being short and slim works to her advantage. She's able to slip between and behind people and their luggage, going unnoticed amidst the crush of the crowd and the cacophony of noise that accompanies it.

She makes it to the back of the crowd without much trouble, relieved to spot a door that leads to the interior of the train depot, where the tickets are sold. It's quieter and less crowded inside, with benches throughout for people who are waiting, but without the benefit of even the mildest breeze, the air is still and stifling, and even more miserable than outside. Scanning the depot, Santana is uncomfortably aware of the sweat rolling down her back, but she can't leave and head into town until she finds...

There. A harried-looking couple is sitting at the end of one of the wooden benches, surrounded by half a dozen large trunks of luggage, trying to contend with an equal number of young children who seem to be the only ones in the room not affected by the stifling heat. A folded-up newspaper is lying, forgotten, on top of one of the trunks, and as Santana passes by behind the bench and out of the couple's sight, she grasps one corner of it between forefinger and thumb, tucking it casually under her arm and walking away.

Santana doesn't like stealing. She would gladly pay for a newspaper or anything else that she needs; in fact, she would rather do that, and wishes that she could. But her money is perilously close to running out, and she needs to save as much of it as she can for important things, like food.

And bribes.

Leaving through the front of the train station, Santana steps out onto the front porch and, hot as it is, immediately feels better for the fresh air. Like the train depot itself, what she can see of this town looks like all the others she's passed through: a wide main street made of hard-packed, dusty earth, lined on either side by mostly-wooden shops and businesses with faded paint and grimy windows. Horses, most looking a little worse for the wear, are tied up at hitching posts in front of a few of the stores; there are quite a few in front of a large, two-story building at the end of the street, and even without looking at the sign above the door that reads Emma's Place, she would have known it was the local saloon. Probably the local brothel, too.

In all likelihood, Santana will end up there before the day is done, but in the meantime, she plans to do everything she can to avoid it.

She turns in the opposite direction of the saloon, taking care to avoid eye contact with the passing townspeople, and to stay under the protection of the overhangs that jut out from all the buildings. She traded her parasol for a hot meal two towns ago, and her toffee-colored skin already draws enough attention as it is; the last thing she needs to do is get any darker.

There's another rough-hewn wooden bench sitting near the door of the general store, and Santana sits down, unfolding the newspaper. She doesn't even have to open it; the headline she's looking for is on the front page: Finn Hudson and the Sunshine Kid strike again!

According to the accompanying article, the pair--"the country's most notorious outlaws"--had robbed a stagecoach between Providence and Sundown, making off with $10,000, a veritable fortune. As if that weren't bad enough, the stagecoach had belonged to Puckerman's, one of the largest banks in the country, and had been protected by an escort of U.S. Marshals. If Hudson and the Kid hadn't been at the top of the Most Wanted list before, they were now.

Santana reads the article three times, drinking in every detail, her heart never failing to clench painfully when she sees Finn Hudson in stark, impersonal black type against the dingy newsprint.

Finn Hudson. To most people, he is an infamous, if strangely charismatic, criminal.

To Santana, he is just Finn, her beloved older brother.

And she is going to find him.

---

“Finn!” Santana races through the pasture, trying to keep up with her friend and avoid tripping over the too-long cuffs of her pants at the same time. “Finn, wait up!”

Like she knew he would, like he always does, Finn stops and waits for her. “Those don’t fit,” he announces unnecessarily when she’s caught up with him, pointing at the dark brown trousers she’s wearing.

“That’s because they’re yours,” Santana replies. “And you’re taller than me.” She tugs at the pants, trying to pull them higher, but they’re too big around the waist as well and slide right back down to settle low on her hips. “Papi tried, but he’s not very good at sewing.”

Finn’s brow furrows. “Come eat supper at my place,” he says. “Ma can fix those up right. And the shirt, too.”

The loose, long-sleeved white shirt that Santana has tucked sloppily into her trousers used to belong to Finn too, before a growth spurt necessitated new clothing. He’d passed them on to Santana, who was thrilled to have something besides a dress to wear. Even though the pants were so long that she sometimes stumbled over them, they made playing with Finn so much easier. Girls weren’t supposed to wear pants, but Santana didn’t care, and neither did her Papi or Finn or his mami, and that’s all that mattered.

“Okay,” Santana says agreeably. “Where are we going, anyway?”

Finn grins, revealing a gap where one of his front teeth had been up until a few days ago. It had been loose for a week, and when he got tired of waiting for it to fall out on its own, Finn had tied one end of a string around it, handed the other end of the string to Santana, and told her to pull. The result had been bloody, but effective.

“To the river,” he says, taking her hand. His is dirty and a little sweaty, but Santana doesn’t mind; she always feels safe when Finn holds her hand. “Come on.”

The sun is blazing in the painfully blue summer sky as they continue across the pasture toward the river that marks the boundary between the Lopez and Hudson ranches. Finn reaches up to brush his brown hair off his sweaty forehead, and it sticks up at a funny angle, giving him a dopey look. Santana giggles and stretches up to brush it back down, and Finn grins at her. He tugs at her hand. “Come on,” he says again, and starts to run.

He doesn’t go any faster than Santana can keep up, and holds onto her hand the entire time.

The riverbank is steep, and even though they help each other, they both slip a few times as they make their way down to the river itself. The water is cold and clear, rushing over a bed of rocks, but instead of heading for their favorite swimming spot like Santana expects, Finn takes her further upstream to where an ancient tree stump, so big that Santana’s fingers don’t touch Finn’s when they wrap their arms around it from opposite sides, partially juts out over the water.  Another huge tree is growing near the stump, this one so tall that it makes Santana dizzy to look up at the top of it. Finn picks his way through the tangle of roots that have pushed up through the ground and climbs up onto the stump, and Santana follows.

“What are we doing here?” she asks as soon as she’s gotten settled. “D’you think this is a good spot to fish?” She leans over the edge of the stump, peering into the water. “I bet there are a bunch of catfish right underneath us.”

“We can fish later,” Finn says. He tugs on her arm until Santana straightens up again. “This is important.”

Finn sounds both pompous and a little nervous, and Santana squints at him. “What’s important?”

He ignores her question. “We’re best friends, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Like brother and sister.”

Santana doesn’t have any siblings, and neither does Finn, but she thinks she understands what he means anyway. “Yeah.”

He takes a deep breath. “I think we should make it official.”

“Official?” Santana echoes skeptically. “How do we do that?”

Finn pulls his knife out of the sheath that he wears attached to his belt. “With this.”

Santana eyes it dubiously. “You’re gonna stab me?”

“No, dummy,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You’re gonna stab yourself. Or cut yourself, anyway.”

“What for?” she demands. Finn is always careful when he uses his knife, especially when Santana is around, but she’s cut herself with it before, and it isn’t something she’s eager to do again.

“We can’t be real brother and sister,” Finn explains, “but if we mix our blood together, we’ll be blood brother and sister, and that’s just as good.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” Santana frowns at the knife. “How much blood? Papi doesn’t like it when I come home all bloody.”

“Just a little,” Finn reassures. “Here, I’ll go first.” He takes a deep breath, then presses the tip of the knife just under the knuckle of his index finger and drags it diagonally across the palm of his left hand.

Santana watches in fascination as dark red blood wells up. “Wow,” she breathes. “Finn, you’re so brave. Did it hurt?”

“Naw,” he says brashly, but he’s blinking rapidly, and Santana thinks he’s probably lying. “Your turn.”

He gives her the knife. The blade is smeared with Finn’s blood, and its coppery scent is so strong she can almost taste the tang of it on the back of her tongue. It makes her feel a little sick to her stomach, so she leans over the side of the trunk and plunges the knife in the water, letting the current wash it clean. When she’s satisfied that none of Finn’s blood remains, she sits up straight again.

“Quit stalling and hurry up,” Finn says. Rivulets of blood have started to trail down his wrist and forearm, and he’s holding his hand up at an awkward angle to try to keep the problem from increasing. “Don’t be a ‘fraidy cat.”

“I’m not afraid,” Santana snaps. “Don’t rush me.” She looks uncertainly from the sharp edge of the blade to the soft flesh of her right palm, then shrugs. No use putting it off. Mimicking Finn, she makes a diagonal slice across her palm.

It doesn’t hurt at first, even after the cut starts to bleed, but as Santana stares at it, a little shocked, it suddenly starts to throb and sting. She clenches her teeth against the pain. “Now what?”

“Now we mix our blood. Gimme your hand.” Finn holds his bloody hand out to her, and she places her own in his. Their blood is sticky and warm and the whole thing is a little yucky, but it’s still Finn holding her hand, so it’s still kind of nice. “I promise to always love you and watch out for you and take care of you like a brother should,” he says solemnly.

Finn’s words sound rehearsed, and Santana wonders just how long he’s been planning this. She can’t think of anything to say, and since what Finn told her was really nice, she decides to use that. “And I promise to always love you and watch out for you and take care of you like a sister should,” Santana says. She squeezes Finn’s hand, and he squeezes back. “Now what?”

“Now we’re brother and sister forever, no matter what.”

Finn beams at her, and Santana decides it isn’t yucky at all.

---

"Well, I don't recall seeing you around town before."

Lowering the paper to her lap, Santana looks up to see a finely-dressed young woman around her own age standing in front of her, one hand cocked on her hip, an amused, curious expression on her face. Her dress appears to be made of violet satin, many times more expensive than Santana's own worn muslin, and is almost indecently low-cut, but what draws her attention is the woman herself. She's clearly of Asian descent, an even rarer sight in this area than Santana's own Latina ethnicity.

This isn't the first time she's been questioned by a local when she's in a new town, so Santana isn't flustered. She smiles politely and replies, "I'm just passing through."

"I hear that a lot," the woman says wryly, and something in her tone makes Santana think that while she hears it, she doesn't often see it followed through. "I'm Tina."

"Santana."

"That's quite a name," Tina says, looking at her with open speculation. "You're not from around here, are you, Santana?"

That much is obvious no matter how she replies, so she decides she might as well be honest. "No, I'm not."

"I thought so." Fingers drumming on her hip, Tina studies her in silence. Santana stares back, smart enough not to speak and give anything away, but too stubborn to be the one to look away first.

After a moment, Tina straightens up, offering her a smile. "I work at Emma's," she says, jerking a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the saloon. "Stop by later if you want, and I'll buy you supper."

Her back goes up, even as her stomach growls. "I don't need a handout."

"Didn't say you did," Tina says easily. "And girls like us know that nothing comes for free, don't we?" When Santana doesn't reply, Tina grins. "You're cute. Come see me later, Santana. You look like you've got a lot of stories to tell." She winks, then turns around and strolls away, heels echoing on the wooden decking with every step.

Now that the thought of food has been put into her head, Santana can't stop thinking about it. She can't remember the last time she ate until she was full, but going hungry isn't a new experience; she's had years to get used to it. She closes her eyes, and instead of food, she thinks of her brother, of his kind eyes and dopey grin and the way he likes to muss her hair, as if she's just one of the guys. She's doing this to find Finn, and if that means dealing with the painful gnaw of chronic hunger for the rest of her life, that's fine. She can deal with that. What she can't deal with is the prospect of returning to the place she's called home for the past few years, and to the pathetic existence that has passed for her life.

She's not going to let that happen.

When she opens her eyes, it's with renewed purpose. Refolding the newspaper, she stands, tucks it under her arm, and heads for the brick building at the end of the street that's sporting a sign that reads Sheriff.

It's a small building, and seems even smaller from the inside. On the left wall is a large map of the United States, as well as a notice board liberally papered over with wanted posters, most yellowing or with corners curling up with age. The far wall is the barred frontage to several cells, one of which contains a woman lying on a bunk bed, snoring loudly.

On a desk on the right side of the room is propped a pair of dirty boots that contain a pair of feet that are, in turn, attached to a man that Santana assumes is the sheriff. His clothes are covered in a fine layer of dust, and the Stetson that is tilted down over his face is sweat-stained. Something about its dark gray color makes her think it might have been white before the dirt took over. In fact, the only thing about him that looks clean is the shiny star pinned to his shirt. Like the woman in the cell, he's asleep, leaning back in a wooden chair that is propped precariously on its rear legs.

Exasperated and amused, Santana clears her throat once, twice, and when that fails to wake the man up, finally resorts to kicking the front of the desk.

He wakes with a startled snort, the front legs of the chair banging to floor as he stands up. Seeing Santana, he blushes and swipes the hat off his head, revealing a head of curly brown hair atop a pleasant, nondescript face. "Ma'am," he says. "Beggin' your pardon, ma'am. I'm William Schuester. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Are you the sheriff?" she asks, fixing him with her most friendly smile.

"Yes ma'am, I am." He seems to puff up a bit as he says it, standing up straighter. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so." Handing him the newspaper, she taps the headline about Finn and the Sunshine Kid. "What can you tell me about this?"

He scans the article, blowing out a breath. "This is some heavy stuff, ma'am," he says. "Not anything for a nice young lady like you to get mixed up in."

The patronizing sexism is something she's used to, but the sheriff sounds genuinely concerned for her welfare instead of condescending for the sake of it, so she isn't even annoyed by it. "I understand that, sir," she says, doing her best to sound like the meek, sheltered girl that he obviously thinks she is. "You see, my grandfather is very interested in Hudson and the Sunshine Kid, but he's getting on in years, and his eyes aren't what they used to be. I read the newspaper stories to him, but they leave a lot to be desired, so I thought I'd ask one of our fine lawmen for some extra details." She lets her voice end on a higher note, sounding hopeful. "Any help you can give me would be greatly appreciated, sheriff."

"Well, I guess that would be all right," he says slowly, twisting the brim of his hat in his hands. "I haven't had any dealings with them myself, thank the Lord, but I can tell you that they're headed west, straight as an arrow."

Santana knows this, of course, and suspects she's known far longer than Schuester has--it's why she's in this town to begin with--but she nods and turns to study the map pinned up on the wall as if it is an entirely new revelation. "Surely you don't think they'll come through here."

"They well might, ma'am." He comes to stand beside her, frowning at the map. "We're the only big city around these parts for miles. If they're looking to rob something, they'll be through here, sure enough."

"Or being the only big city could be why they stay away," she says, seeing his concerned expression and taking pity on him. "I'm sure they wouldn't want to run into you, Sheriff, unless they absolutely had to."

He beams at her. "That's a right nice way of thinking of it, ma'am."

She acknowledges the comment with a smile, then asks, "Do you know anything about the Sunshine Kid?"

"Just that that's what he's called," Schuester replies. "Nobody even knows why. Just one of those things, I guess."

This is one of the things that bothers Santana the most. She knows why Finn left her, and she's pretty sure she knows why he's turned to crime, but she doesn't know a thing about the Sunshine Kid. She's asked every sheriff in every town she's been through, and no one does.

"I guess," she says noncommittally. "I appreciate your time, Sheriff," she says, smiling. "I know my grandfather does too."

"No problem, ma'am."

"Hey, Schuester!" Santana peers around him as the sheriff turns around. The woman who had been sleeping in the cell is on her feet, banging a tin cup on one of the bars of the door. "You got anything worth drinkin' around here? I need a little nip a'somethin' to set me to rights."

"Now, Ms. Castle, you know I can't be giving you any whiskey," Schuester chides. "You're in here to dry out, not get drunk again."

"Dry out, my ass," the woman retorts. "I wasn't drunk before, and I'm not drunk now. Quit flirtin' with that young chippie, Schuester, and get me a drink, I'm parched!"

Reddening, Schuester turns back to Santana. "Maybe it's best if you go, ma'am," he says. "Ms. Castle isn’t herself right now, and I wouldn't want her to be embarrassed later." He lowers his voice. "And her language isn’t fit to be heard by a lady."

It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she's a far cry from a lady, but Santana manages to restrain herself. "No problem, Sheriff," she whispers back. "Good luck."

"Thank you being so understanding, ma'am," he says. "Feel free to come back if you have any more questions!"

The last thing Santana hears as she walks out the door is Ms. Castle yell, "My taxes pay your salary, Schue, an' sweet-talkin' pretty young things ain't in your job description!"

Away from the train and the hustle and bustle of its station, it doesn't seem nearly as hot outside. There's a light breeze blowing, bringing with it the sounds and smells of the livestock at the end of the street. Further on, towards Emma's Place, she can see a branch of Puckerman's bank, and across the street, hear the sound of metal striking metal from the blacksmith's shop. She can also see a general store, gunsmith, millinery and ladies’ clothing store, and a church, among other things. If she didn't have to keep moving, it might not be a bad place to settle down, at least for a little while.

Her gaze slides past the church and back to Emma's Place, and Santana sighs. She's tempted to go into the millinery and browse through the fine, clean dresses she can only dream of being able to afford, but the fewer townsfolk she interacts with, the better. She'll wind up at Emma's soon enough anyway, so she might as well get it over with.

As she approaches the front of the saloon, a portly man comes flying through the swinging double doors, tumbling head over heels into the street. A man with Asian features, presumably the one who had done the throwing, follows him out, wiping his hands on a linen cloth. "Don't come back until you can pay, Howard!"

Tossing the towel over his shoulder, the man turns his attention to Santana, his face relaxing into a pleasant smile. "Hi there, miss," he says. "'Scuse me."

She knows she should probably ignore the entire incident, but Santana can't help but look at Howard, who is still in the street but has levered himself into a sitting position and is brushing ineffectually at the dust that has settled over his clothes. "Is he all right?"

"Oh, he's fine," the second man replies, unconcerned. "Howard's one of our regulars. This happens once or twice a month." He pushes open one of the swinging doors, holding it open for her. "After you."

Steeling herself, Santana walks into the saloon. To her left, a long, waist-high bar runs along the length of the room, behind which are shelves lined with differently-colored glass bottles of various liquors. Another pair of swinging doors are set into wall on the right, leading off into another room. There are half a dozen round tables spread out at intervals across the uneven wooden floor, each with a few chairs. At the back of the room is staircase leading up the second floor where, she assumes, the carnal activities take place. Near the staircase is an upright piano, currently producing an upbeat tune thanks to the efforts of a slim, baby-faced man in an immaculate white shirt and black vest. The air is hazy with cigarette smoke and smells not altogether unpleasantly of tobacco, alcohol, and unwashed bodies. It's cleaner and brighter than she expected, though, and not one of the people in the room appears drunk, lecherous, or otherwise inclined to put a damper on Santana's day, so she decides to count her blessings. She's been in much rougher places.

The man walks behind the bar and presses his palms against its top, leaning forward and smiling at her in a friendly manner. "I'm Mike," he says. "I run the bar here. Can I get you something to drink?"

"No thank you," Santana replies, resting an elbow on the bar. Sharp-eyed as she's learned to be over the years, she doesn't see Tina anywhere in the room. "I'm looking for someone. Tina?"

Mike grins. "Tina? That's my cousin. She's here, but--excuse me." He leans over to look around her, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the piano and the low bass rumble of male voices in conversation. "Quinn! Have you seen Tina?"

Twisting around to look, Santana sees a slim, fine-boned, scantily-clad young woman with blonde hair slide out of a man's lap, leaning over to whisper teasingly into his ear before sauntering to the bar to take up a spot next to Santana. "She's upstairs with Deputy Abrams," she replies. Her voice is softer and more girlish than Santana expected, her hazel eyes gentle when she turns them in Santana's direction. "Are you a friend of Tina's?"

"She told me to stop by," she says evasively. One lesson that Santana has learned well is to never give away more information than she has to.

Quinn's eyes light up. "You must be Santana! She told me to keep an eye out for you." She smiles, taking in Santana's figure at a glance. "I don't know why I didn't recognize you right off. You're just as pretty as she said you'd be."

Nonplussed, Santana looks back at Mike. "Do you think Tina will be long?"

"She's with Artie," he says with a shrug, as if that should mean something to her.

"Deputy Abrams is Tina's...special friend," Quinn says carefully. "So yes, she'll probably be a while."

"Might as well have a seat and have a drink," Mike adds, more cheerfully than Santana expects, given his claim of relation to Tina and the subject they're discussing. "On the house."

It isn't as though she has anywhere else to go. "Sure."

"I've got to get back to Figgins," Quinn says, rolling her eyes as she pushes away from the bar. "Wish me luck!"

Leaving Quinn to her work, Mike turns his attention back to Santana, gesturing at the bottles of liquor lining the wall behind him. "Pick your poison."

"I'll drink anything you've got," she replies. It's a brash thing to say, but proving her toughness and her ability to take care of herself is something she has to do from time to time when she finds herself in a new town. Usually the easiest way to do that is to throw back a few shots of liquor without making a fool of herself or passing out.

"You're my kind of girl," he says approvingly, so when he hands her a drink a moment later, she's surprised to find that it's nothing but water. "I figured we'd start you off slow," he says with a wink. "I've got plenty of the hard stuff for you later, after you've got some food in your belly."

"Thanks." She's tempted to ask questions, but by doing so she might open herself up to questions in return, and that's never a smart thing to do. Besides, Mike seems to be content to wipe down glasses, occasionally taking the towel off his shoulder to run it along the surface of the bar, and if he's not going to initiate conversation, she's certainly not going to.

Instead, Santana turns her attention to the rest of the saloon. Quinn is back in that man's--Figgins's--lap, her arms twined around his neck, looking for all the world like she's having the time of her life. There's a noisy card game going on at another nearby table, and more men are scattered at the other tables in twos and threes. She notices again that none of them seem to be drunk or rowdy, and is pondering the reason for that when the batwing doors set in the opposite wall swing open and a man steps out.

He's tall and muscular, with skin a few shades darker than her own, wearing dark trousers and a crisp white shirt with the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing brawny forearms and the strong column of his throat. He's laughing now, calling something over his shoulder to someone in the room he's just left, but Santana doesn't need confirmation from Mike to know that this man is the muscle who is here to protect Tina, Quinn, and any other girls that are employed at Emma's.

A particularly loud burst of male laughter erupts from the far corner of the room, and Santana tracks the sound to see a tiny brunette woman in a low-cut, dark blue dress trying to tug her wrist out of the grasp of a beefy, leering man, while his equally-beefy companion looks on and laughs.

"Should you," Santana begins hesitantly, thinking of Mike's earlier eviction of poor Howard.

The bartender shakes his head. "Matt's got this."

The enforcer, Matt, heads straight for the corner, his face a stony mask, and reaches out to grab the wrist of the man holding onto the girl. A squeeze, a yelp, and the man's fingers spring open, allowing the girl to back away.

The music abruptly goes silent as the smooth-cheeked pianist stops playing, turning a concerned gaze onto the tableau in the corner. Everyone in the saloon seems to be doing the same thing, and Santana and Mike are no exception. She doesn't know anyone who is involved, but she can't help feeling a little breathless all the same.

Quinn slides off of Figgins's lap, wrapping a protective arm around the waist of the brunette girl as she backs into her. The pair begins to edge away, back towards the bar, and Mike whispers, "Watch this."

With an enraged roar, the beefy man surges out of his seat, apparently intent on head-butting Matt, who simply side-steps out of the way and brings his elbow crashing down on the back of the man's neck. His friend ducks under the table, and for a moment Santana is taken aback by his outright cowardice, but then the table is upended, sending glasses and alcohol flying everywhere, and suddenly the whole saloon has erupted into a brawl.

Santana flicks her gaze back to Mike. "That probably wasn't what you wanted me to watch, was it?"

Mike's sigh is audible even over the din of the fight. "Feel free to hide behind the bar," he tells her, vaulting over it. "Excuse me." He pulls the damp towel from his shoulder and flings it into the face of a man just beginning to take a threatening step toward Santana, then tackles him, sending them both flying over the nearest table.

"Quick, do what he said and get behind the bar!" Santana takes a quick glance over her shoulder to see that the piano player has taken refuge behind it, looking not so much frightened as annoyed. Something that Santana thinks might be a boot whizzes past her face, skimming the top of the pianist's head, and crashes into one of the rows of bottles along the wall behind him, shattering them and sending their contents showering over his pristine clothes. "Not again!"

At one time, Santana would have found the prospect of being even peripherally involved in a saloon brawl terrifying, but now it's nothing more than an interesting diversion. She notices a few people pounding down the stairs from the second floor, among them Tina and a brown-haired man in glasses who is holding her hand, but before she can remark on it to the piano player, who is busy muttering about the state of his clothes, Quinn and the little brunette girl collapse breathlessly against the bar, panting.

"Does this happen often?" Santana shouts.

Quinn shakes her head. "Not really," she shouts back. "Matt's usually able to keep things calm. I don't know what happened!"

"Karofsky was overwhelmed by his passion for me!" the brunette chimes in, big brown eyes wide, somehow managing to add enough inflection to her voice while yelling to sound completely overdramatic.

Quinn tugs the girl closer, not rolling her eyes until her head is tucked safely under Quinn's chin and she can't see it. "I'm sure that's it, Rachel."

"What in the hell is going on out here?" A short, stout black girl with a thunderous expression has appeared at Quinn's elbow, and from the tone of her voice, it's obvious she suspects that either Quinn or Rachel is directly responsible.

"It's a bar fight," Santana answers helpfully.

The thunderous expression is turned in her direction, and Santana unexpectedly finds herself having to bite the inside of the cheek to keep from grinning. "And just who the hell are you?"

"I'm Santana." Giving in to the impulse to grin, she leans forward and extends a hand. "Pleased to meet you."

The girl jams her fists on her hips and glares at Quinn, who winces. "You have got to be kidding me."

"I'm Kurt," the piano player pipes up. "She's Mercedes. Don't ask what her name means; nobody knows, and she's touchy about it." He gestures grandly around the saloon, as if there's no fight going on, continuing right over Mercedes's offended squawk. "Welcome to our humble abode."

Something thunks into the side of the bar near Santana's feet; she looks down, and after a moment's study, concludes that the single boot is probably the mate to the one that's behind the bar. "Quite a place you've got here."

"It's not much, but it's home," Kurt says with a fond sigh.

"Why are we talkin' to her?" Mercedes demands of Kurt, Quinn, and Rachel, before turning back to Santana to add, "And I still don't know who the hell you are!"

Before anyone can respond, Karofsky's friend comes flying into the side of the bar between Santana and a startled Quinn and Rachel, the latter of whom lets out a tiny squeak. The noise is nearly drowned out by the eerily similar sound Kurt makes when the man reaches over the bar and grabs onto his vest. "Watch the buttons!"

Instinctively, Santana grabs a fistful of the man's hair, pulls his head back, and slams his forehead onto the bar with all of her deceptive strength. His fingers go slack on Kurt's vest, and he slowly slides backward to collapse in an unconscious, undignified heap at her feet. "Oops."

"I'm Mercedes," the stout girl says unnecessarily, sticking out her hand to shake Santana's. "The pleasure's all mine."

---

When the dust clears, Mike, Matt, and the bespectacled man with Tina are the only brawlers left standing. Most of the men had left when it became clear that order was on its way to being restored, and the few who hadn't were sprawled on the floor, unconscious. The one exception is Figgins, who is sitting in the exact same chair he was before the fighting started, when Quinn was perched in his lap. If Santana hadn't seen him cowering behind the piano with her own eyes, she would think he hadn't moved at all.

Now, as Rachel inspects Mike and Matt for injury, Figgins catches Quinn's eye and pats his knee. "Where were we, Miss Quinn?"

Quinn looks around helplessly at the wreckage of the saloon. "Mr. Figgins, now isn't really a good time--"

"Do you want to get paid, Miss Quinn?" he asks sternly. "Sit!"

Before she can move, Tina steps forward into Figgins's line of sight. "I don't think Quinn is feeling very well, Mr. Figgins. Maybe I can--"

Eyes bulging, he interrupts, "No, no, that's quite all right. Another time. Good day!" He rushes out, standing up so quickly that he overturns his chair.

Santana looks at Tina, eyebrows raised. "Guess you're not his type."

"Figgins thinks that Tina is a vampire," Quinn explains.

"You're kidding." Quinn shakes her head to indicate that no, she isn't kidding. Santana continues, "Are we talking about the same kind of vampire? The bloodsucking kind?"

"Do you know of another kind of vampire?" Rachel asks.

It was a good point. "You look more like a vampire," Santana tells Mike. "Tall, skinny, pale..."

He brushes the back of his hand across his mouth, leaving a bright red smear. "Bloody."

Mercedes and Kurt bustle through the batwing doors on the far wall, which Santana has come to realize leads to the kitchen, between them carrying assorted bottles, rags, and a pitcher of hot water. "Fortunately for Mike, Figgins has never requested the pleasure of his company for the night," Kurt says.

"One night he wouldn't take no for an answer from Tina, so I started talking in a Cajun accent and said I was a voodoo priestess and pretended to turn Tina into a vampire," Mercedes explains. She hands Santana a damp rag and a brown bottle of witch hazel. "If you're gonna hang around, you might as well make yourself useful."

"You should have heard her," Rachel says, admiration clear in her voice as she and Quinn begin righting overturned tables and chairs. "She sounded just like a voodoo priestess. At least, she sounded just like I imagine a voodoo priestess sounds, and obviously Figgins thought so too."

Tina is standing on tiptoe in front of Mike, dabbing at his split lip with a rag, but at Rachel's comment she looks over her shoulder to grin at Santana. "He can't even stand to look at me now."

Rachel leans against the back of the chair she's just picked up, a mischievous expression on her face. "Go on, Mercedes," she says. "Do it for us! You'll love it," she adds for Santana's benefit.

"Will you look at this place, Rachel?" Mercedes demands. "Will you look at our people?" She gestures to Mike and Matt, both a little battered and bloody. "I have more important things to do than entertain your little friend! No offense," she adds as an afterthought, glancing at Santana.

"None taken." Without waiting for his permission, Santana takes one of Matt's hands and begins to dab at the bruised, torn knuckles with the witch hazel-soaked rag, not wanting to get involved in the middle of an argument between people she doesn't even know.

An obstinate expression crosses Rachel's features and she opens her mouth to retort. Before she can do so, Kurt thrusts a broom into her hands. "You look like you need something else to do, Rach," he says loudly. "Why don't you help me sweep up some of the broken glass behind the bar?"

"I'll help with the glass," Quinn says quickly, plucking the broom from Rachel's grasp. "You just fix the tables and chairs, okay?"

"Quinn Fabray. You're handling me." Rachel glowers, crossing her arms over the swell of her breasts. "I do not appreciate being handled."

"Then don't make me have to do it," Quinn replies, and to Santana's complete stupefaction, leans forward to brush her lips across Rachel's. The kiss itself is shocking enough, but what surprises Santana the most is that, despite its brevity, it's so obviously intimate and routine, both for Quinn and Rachel, and for everyone else in the room.

Except for Santana.

"Who are you people?" she mutters under her breath.

"I don't mean to be rude, miss," Matt says, "especially since you’re patching me up and all, but who are you?”

"Santana," she replies shortly, going to work on his other hand.

"Tina picked her up earlier today," Mike adds. He grins, then winces when, to Santana's satisfaction, his lip starts to bleed again.

"Nobody picked me up," she says irritably. "I've been traveling a few days, and Tina made it sound like I could get a meal here, so I decided to stop by." She flicks a scowl in Rachel's direction. "I didn't realize I'd be walking into a bar fight."

"I can't help it that men find me irresistible," Rachel says defensively. "It's what makes me so good at my job."

"It didn't look like walking into a bar fight bothered you all that much," Kurt adds, ignoring her. "You didn't have much trouble with Azimio."

Annoyed with the entire direction of the conversation, Santana stops tending to Matt's hands and sets the witch hazel and rag on one of the tables that Rachel has already righted. "I can handle myself."

Tina's smile is knowing. "She's got stories to tell."

Santana glares at her, and is on the verge of walking out, meal or no meal, when the bespectacled man standing beside Tina toes the still form of the unconscious man at their feet. "I need to get these guys over to the jail before they wake up." He looks up at Kurt, Matt, and Mike. "Will you give me a hand?"

"Sure thing, Artie." Mike bends down to grab Karofsky's booted feet, and begins to drag his dead weight toward the front doors. "I hope you don't want us to be gentle."

"Just don't do anything to kill them," Artie says dryly. His expression when he looks back to Tina is possibly more startling to Santana than Quinn kissing Rachel, because the naked adoration in his face is so different from anything she's used to seeing. There's more love in that one look, that one instant, than Santana has seen in years. "I'll be back later."

Tina's features are smoothed into an impersonal mask, but her eyes glitter with emotion that isn't quite repressed. "I look forward to it, Deputy." Her throat bobs when he presses a kiss to the back of her hand, then joins the other boys and their unconscious foes outside.

"'I look forward to it, Deputy'?" Mercedes shakes her head ruefully. "Girl, if you knew what you sounded like--"

Tina glares at her. "Don't start."

"I don't understand why you don't just marry Deputy Abrams," Rachel says. She's finished righting all of the furniture and is sitting on top of one of the tables, ankles crossed, legs swinging back and forth. "He obviously loves--"

"Rachel." Rolling her eyes, Mercedes takes the bottle of witch hazel from Santana as she gathers up the supplies she'd brought from the kitchen, and inclines her head in the direction of that room. "Come on. You can help me get started on supper. I think we're closed to the public for night."

"Me?" Rachel says with a frown. "Why me?"

"Because unlike you, I can take a hint. Now come on." She pushes through the doors into the kitchen, Rachel following with a long-suffering sigh.

After the noise of the fight and its aftermath, the saloon suddenly seems very quiet, the only sound the soft brush of straw broom bristles across the wooden floor and the clink of glass as Quinn sweeps up the broken bottles. Without anyone to knock unconscious or to tend to, Santana begins to feel the weight of being an intruder in this place, amongst this strange group of people.

"Listen," she begins, "I think I should--"

"You're staying for supper." Tina's tone brooks no argument. "I told you I'd buy your meal, and that's what I'm going to do."

"There's really no need to--"

"Today's last train out of town has already left." This time it's Quinn who interrupts, pausing to lean against the bar and look at Santana. "And you won't find a better place to stay for the night." One eyebrow arches up before Santana can speak. "Don't say you're staying with family or friends. We're not stupid."

Her blatant refusal to allow Santana the graceful exit she desires rankles, and she finds herself scowling at the other girl. "Really?" she counters. "Because offering a bed to a total stranger seems pretty stupid to me."

"That's what we do for a living," Quinn says, bemused.

Santana blushes. "That's not what I meant."

"Look at us," Tina says. "Listen to us. Do we seem like the kind of people who should be working in a place like this?"

They aren't, Santana realizes, and instantly feels foolish for not thinking more of it before.  Like Santana herself, everyone who works at Emma's sounds educated, and none of them look like their formative years were spent living a hardscrabble existence out on the frontier.

"No," she says guardedly, crossing her arms. "So what?"

"So there are reasons we all ended up out here," Quinn replies. "We helped each other along the way. Maybe we can help you."

It's the first time since running away that anyone has taken a genuine interest in Santana or offered any kind of assistance that didn't come with a fee or strings attached, and she's so taken aback that for a moment, she is literally speechless.

Finn has been the only person she's trusted for years, and even though he left and didn't come back for her, she still trusts him, trusts that when she finds him, he'll explain everything and that it will all make sense, and that even if they have to stay on the run forever, she'll have a home.  Finn is her home.

But maybe...maybe she can trust these people too, at least for a little while. Considering her dwindling resources, maybe she doesn't have a choice.

"Okay," she says finally, reluctantly, still not sure she's making the right decision. "I'll stay, at least for the night." She pauses. "Thank you." It's been so long since she had a reason to say the words that they stick awkwardly in her throat.

"I'm glad we've got that settled." Tina's smile is faint and flickers quickly across her face, but it's there, and Santana can't help thinking that the other girl, for some unfathomable reason, genuinely likes her. "Now let's finish getting this place cleaned up. There's some blood on the floor near the piano; would you mind getting that, Santana?"

Then again, maybe she doesn't.

---

Finn is already waiting for her in the stable by the time Santana is able to excuse herself from the dinner table and sneak out of the house.

“It’s about time,” he says as she slips inside. The horses are already put up for the night, and Finn is standing in front of the stall of her favorite, a young paint foal with chestnut and white coloring. They’d helped Santana’s Papi deliver him only a few weeks before.

“Shut up.” Santana joins him at the foal’s stall, smiling in spite of her foul mood when the horse bumps his nose against her hand. She scratches between his ears. “Hey, boy, how are you?”

“Chickenshit’s fine.”

“Shut up.” Santana scowls at Finn, who grins back unrepentantly. “His name is Charlie; call him that.”

Finn takes in her appearance--black hair only just taken down from its pins and allowed to tumble over her shoulders and down her back, her best dress, and her delicate women’s shoes that button up the sides. He, on the other hand, is dressed as he usually is, in a white shirt and dark vest and pants. His bony wrists and ankles stick out awkwardly from the clothes he’s already outgrown. “You look really pretty, Santana,” he offers. “You look like a girl.”

“Finn.” Santana punches him sharply in the gut, both pleased and a little ashamed when he doubles over and groans. “Stop it.”

Wheezing, he straightens up and glares at her, rubbing his stomach. “Nice punch.”

“It should be,” she retorts, lips curving in a reluctant smile. “You’re the one who taught me.”

“And that’s why you don’t hit like a girl, even when you look like one.” Finn pulls a couple of carrots out of the pocket of his vest and hands them to her, a sort of peace offering. “How did the dinner go?”

“Awful.” Santana breaks one of the carrots in half and begins to feed it to Charlie. “Terri and Shelby made me put on this stupid dress, and Papi made plans to go hunting with Sandy, and Sandy kept looking at me like...” She trails off, unable to describe his face when she caught him watching her, or how it made her feel. “He was looking,” she finishes.

Terri, Shelby, and Sandy had all intruded into Santana’s life at roughly the same time. Her Papi had decided that since Santana was “becoming a young woman,” she needed to learn to dress and act the part. Since neither she nor her Papi could bear the idea of the months of separation necessary if Santana were to go back East to finishing school, they’d brought the East to them in the form of Terri Del Monaco and Shelby Corcoran, sisters and schoolteachers from New York. They’re both beautiful, intelligent women, and Santana’s Papi likes them because they’re good teachers, and charming whenever he’s around.

Santana can’t stand them. They disapprove of everything about her, from the way she likes to dress--still in Finn’s old clothes--to the way she rolls her r’s, to her “inappropriate” friendship with Finn.

Sandy is a more recent problem. After the death of Finn’s father some years before, his mother had struggled to maintain the Hudson ranch, and recently sold part of it to Sandy. He seems to be going out of his way to befriend Santana’s Papi, and she resents it, partly on Finn’s behalf, and partly because of the attention he pays her.

“He wants to marry you,” Finn says. His voice is quiet but matter-of-fact.

“What?” Santana says, disgusted. “Why would he want to do that?”

“To get your land,” Finn explains. “He’d marry my ma if she were interested, but he’ll just end up buying us out instead.”

Panic flutters in Santana’s chest at the thought of the Hudsons living somewhere else. “You can’t sell,” she says. “You can’t leave. I’d be stuck with those--those assholes,” she spits, meaning Terri, Shelby, and Sandy.

Finn grins. “That’s not a very ladylike word, Santana.”

She clenches the fingers of her right hand into a fist, brandishing it at him. “I’ll hit you again, Finn.”

“Okay, okay, don’t hurt me.” Finn takes her hand in both of his larger ones, slowly uncurling her fingers until the thin, pale scar that slices across her palm is visible.

“I don’t want to marry Sandy.” Santana can’t imagine her Papi giving Sandy permission to court her, let alone marry her, but just the idea of it has her fighting back a combination of nervousness and disgust.

“Then don’t.” Finn taps the scar on her palm. “Marry me instead.”

Santana cocks her head to the side and frowns at him. “Did Charlie kick you in the head or something?” she demands. “I can’t marry you, you’re my brother.”

“I mean if Sandy tries to marry you,” Finn clarifies. “That way you could keep your land, and I could stay here, even if Ma has to sell the rest of our ranch.”

Explained like that, the suggestion is tempting. “But I don’t love you like that.”

Finn flashes a lopsided grin. “I don’t love you like that either. But if we have to, we can get married and still be brother and sister and find other people to love.” He taps her scar again. “I promised I would protect you, Santana.”

It would be strange, being married to Finn, but being married to Sandy would be worse. And marrying Finn would piss off Terri and Shelby, something Santana enjoys doing as often as possible. “Okay,” she agrees. “But only if it’s so I don’t have to marry Sandy.”

Finn ruffles her hair. “That’s the only reason I would marry you, squirt.”

---

At supper that night, Santana eats as much as she wants, and no one comments on her appetite.

No one comments on her presence, either. Mike, Matt, and Kurt have returned from the jail, and it's like they all expected that Santana would still be at the saloon, sharing a meal with them, staying in one of their spare rooms. Even stranger is that none of them seem bothered by this in the least.

Santana is bothered by it. The day has become increasingly surreal since Tina spoke to her outside the general store, to the point where she finds herself sitting with a group of noisy strangers, trusting them enough to eat their food, and enjoying herself.

It isn't like her to be so foolish, so reckless, and part of her knows that this can only lead to problems when one of them pushes too hard for information, or when she has to leave. She can't afford to let down her guard.

But she watches as Quinn's hand brushes Rachel's and they share a secret smile, as Kurt gestures so broadly when telling a story that Matt and Mercedes constantly have to move their drinks out of the way, as Mike teases Tina the way a big brother would tease his little sister--the way Finn would tease her--and oh, how badly she wants to.

After the meal, Santana helps Tina wash the dishes, and when the other girl shows her to her room, it's to find one of Quinn's nightgowns and several of her dresses laid out on the bed, and a bathtub half-hidden behind a dressing screen, full of hot water carted up by Kurt, Matt, and Mike.

It's one kindness too much, a shock to Santana's tired system, and she closes her eyes against the hot tears she feels pricking there.

Briefly, Tina lays a sympathetic hand on Santana's shoulder, squeezing. "Sleep well, Santana," she says quietly, and leaves, closing the door behind her.

Santana hasn't bathed in weeks, hasn't worn fresh clothes in longer than that. She strips out of her filthy dress, and sinks into the blessedly hot water.

And then, exhausted and overwhelmed, she buries her face in her hands and weeps.

---

They give her food, and a bed, and a bath, and clean clothes, and in return, Santana sneaks out of her room in search of the saloon's safe.

There might not be an actual safe, but there will be money somewhere, and she's going to find it. Not to take, she tells herself. At least, not yet. But she can't stay here more than another couple of days at the most, and she's nearly broke, and there's no way she's following Tina and Quinn and Rachel into prostitution, at least not while there's an alternative.

She can't get stuck here. She hates having to lie and cheat and steal, hates just the thought of doing any of those things to the people of Emma's Place, but finding Finn comes first. Nothing is more important than that.

Santana creeps down the dark hallway, the wooden floor cool and rough beneath her bare feet. With the rest of the household asleep upstairs, searching those rooms will have to wait. Instead, she heads for the staircase, planning to search the rooms downstairs.

As she nears the head of the staircase, Santana notices a sliver of soft golden light emanating from the cracked-open door of one of the rooms along the opposite end of the hall. Santana stills, one hand on the banister, and holds her breath. When she concentrates on listening, the murmur of voices is clearly, if quietly, audible in the otherwise silent hallway.

It's too risky to do any searching, even downstairs, when someone is awake. The smart thing to do would be to go back to her own room and take advantage of the clean sheets and comfortable bed by trying to sleep, but Santana's curiosity has been piqued, and she's learned to trust her instincts. Moving even more cautiously, she bypasses the stairs and continues down the hallway toward the light.

The voices become distinct as she nears the doorway. "...much do you know about her?"

"Besides her name?" Santana recognizes Tina's voice instantly. "Nothing."

"We know she didn't have a place to stay," Quinn's softer voice contradicts, "or she wouldn't have agreed to stay here. She nearly refused anyway."

Santana's scalp tightens and prickles as she realizes they're talking about her.

"And so we've taken in another stray." This voice, one as light and sweet as Quinn's but with an added depth that comes with maturity, isn't one that Santana has heard before. "Is she going to be a permanent addition?"

Santana can hear the shrug in Tina's voice. "I don't know."

"Do you trust her?"

"Yes," Tina says quietly. "I do."

The ensuing silence is telling, and after a beat, Quinn says, "So do I. Santana is searching for something, Emma, but she's not here to hurt us."

The longer she listens, the more Santana is unsettled by the conversation, but there's no way she's going back to her room now. She would only lay in bed and wonder what else had been said. She eases closer, pressing her face to the crack in the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of the people and the room beyond.

"Why do you two feel so strongly about this?" Emma asks, curiosity clear in her voice.

"She reminds me of me," Tina answers softly. "Before I found this place, and Artie."

Santana shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and the floor underneath her creaks, the sound as loud as a gunshot in the otherwise silent hallway. Inside the room, the silence is suddenly thick and tense, and with a flash of dismay, Santana knows that the women heard her. There's no way that she'll be able to hide or make it back to her room in time before one of them comes out into the hallway and spots her, so before she can think better of it, Santana pushes open the door and strides into the room, determined to brazen it out.

Tina is halfway to the door, and when she sees Santana enter, she stops short and blinks at her in surprise. Beyond Tina, Quinn is sitting on the edge of a comfortable-looking bed, an equally nonplussed expression on her face, and nearby, an unfamiliar red-haired woman--older, but still young--is seated in front of a mirrored vanity, kerosene lamps burning on the counter behind her.

Unlike Tina and Quinn, she doesn’t look surprised at all.

“Hi,” Santana says, striving for a normal tone of voice. “I couldn’t sleep, and I saw light shining out into the hallway, so I thought I’d come see who else was awake.”

The red-haired woman smiles. “You must be Santana.” At Santana’s nod of assent, the woman continues, “I’m Emma Pillsbury. Welcome to our home.”

It’s strange to think of the combination saloon/brothel as home, but of course it is to everyone who works here. “Tina offered me a place to stay for the night,” Santana says, eyes following Tina as she moves to stand at Emma’s elbow. “I hope I’m not inconveniencing you.”

“Not at all,” Emma says smoothly. “We’ve got plenty of room. How long are you planning on staying with us, Santana?”

“As long as she wants,” Tina says quickly. “You can,” she adds catching Santana’s eye. “It’s not a problem.”

“We want you to,” Quinn pipes up reassuringly.

Santana is completely unaccustomed to such generosity, especially when she’s done nothing to earn it. It flusters and confuses her, so she reacts in the only way she can think to, which is to ignore it. “I’m just passing through,” she says guardedly. “I don’t want to be an imposition.”

“You’re not,” Emma says. “We’ve seen a lot of people pass through; some stay, some don’t.”

Strays, Santana thinks. As distasteful as it is, the term certainly applies to her.

“Quinn.” Santana’s head swivels to the open doorway. Rachel is standing there in a white shift, long dark hair curling and tumbling down her back, dark eyes heavy-lidded with sleep. “Come back to bed.”

Quinn’s entire being seems to soften. “I’ll be there in a minute, baby,” she says gently. “You go on.”

Rachel nods. “Don’t take long,” she says sleepily, adding, “Hi Emma. I’m glad you’re home,” before disappearing back into the darkened hallway.

“Why don’t you go back to bed, Quinn,” Emma suggests with a small smile. “You too, Tina, Santana. We can finish talking in the morning. It’s been a long day for all of us.”

“Sounds good to me.” Quinn stands and hugs Emma, and Tina follows suit. Santana watches it all from the middle of the room, feeling more awkward and out of place than ever. “Goodnight.”

“I’ll walk you back to your room,” Tina says to Santana as they leave Emma’s. Quinn squeezes Santana’s arm in a gesture of goodbye before heading down the hallway toward the room she shares with Rachel, leaving Santana and Tina to go in the opposite direction, toward their own respective rooms.

Santana doesn’t have anything to say, and Tina doesn’t speak until they reach Santana’s door. “So how much did you overhear?” she asks quietly.

Santana’s hand freezes over the doorknob. “Nothing,” she replies automatically.

“I’m not stupid, Santana,” Tina says. “I know you were listening outside the door before you came in, because that’s exactly what I would have done.” Her lips twitch. “I wouldn’t have made such a racket, though.”

Santana ignores her comment, instead giving voice to he question she’s wanted to ask since she first heard the unfamiliar voice through the doorway. “Who is Emma?”

“She owns the saloon,” Tina says. “She’s like an older sister to all of us. She took us in, put us to work, when we didn’t have anyone or anywhere else to go.”

“Put you to work,” Santana echoes, looking sharply at Tina. “As prostitutes?”

“Emma doesn’t force any of us to do that,” Tina says, gaze hardening. “And I don’t have to justify anything to you.”

So, that was a sore spot. She files away the knowledge for possible use at a later date. “Fine by me.” Santana twists the knob and pushes open the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Santana, wait.” Tina grasps Santana’s elbow, stopping her, and Santana jerks her arm free, uncomfortable with the contact. She’s been touched more today than in what feels like years, and it unsettles her. “You can trust us.”

She looks over her shoulder at Tina. “I don’t trust anyone.”

“I know,” Tina murmurs. “Who hurt you, Santana?”

Her heart clenches, her hand doing the same around the doorknob, but Santana manages to dredge up a semblance of a smile. “Goodnight, Tina,” she says, and gently closes the door in the other girl’s face.

Part 2