Outlaw's Prayer (ch. 8)
Title: Outlaw's Prayer (8/?)
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Skibmann (Neal Tiemann/Andy Skib), Cookson (David Cook/Kelly Clarkson), various others, both slash and het
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own; never happened, never will.
Summary: For his entire life, Kyle Peek always longed for the thrill and adventure in the open lands of the wild West. He gets more than he ever bargained for when he joins up with the legendary outlaw gang known only as The Kings.
Notes: This might be my favorite chapter of the entire fic; it's definitely my favorite chapter so far :D I have been working on this story for the past seven months and I am SO excited to post it. What started out as a fledgling idea grew to be a huge AU and I'm very grateful to share it with you. A ginormous thank you goes out to dreamerren, for her work as beta and practically as the story's second author. Title credit goes to Nick Gibson for his song "Outlaw's Prayer."
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5, part one
Chapter 5, part two
Chapter 6
Chapter 7, part one
Chapter 7, part two
"These men are bad citizens but they are bad becaue they live out of their time. The nineteenth century with its Sybaric civilization is not the social soil for men who might have sat with Arthur at the Round Table, ridden at tourney with Sir Lancelot or won the colors of Guinevere...what they did we condemn. But the way they did it we can't help admiring." - John Newman Edwards, about Frank and Jesse James
"So there we are in Prescott, right?"
"Pres-cuit," Joey demurred, rolling his eyes at his own reflex to correct David's pronunciation of a town none of them were ever going to visit again. Kyle thought it sounded like he was ordering a biscuit, but they hadn't even walked into the tavern yet.
David waved his hand at Joey's correction, his other arm slung over Kyle's attentive shoulders. "Totally out of our league. I'm talking, Arizona territory capital, governor's mansion...I don't know what we were thinking, maybe eyes too big for our stomachs."
"You can't eat money," Kyle said, brows knit together, confused on why David suddenly found this more hilarious than the time Joey nearly mistook a cowpie for a rotten beefsteak.
"No, but you can sure drink it," Neal chimed in, patting his belly and remembering the famed Whiskey Row back in Prescott, thinking it was such a shame they were chased out of the town before he could fully appreciate it.
After David composed himself, the crows' feet still inching their way into the corners of his laughter-prone eyes, he continued, shooting a mocking dark look at Neal for interrupting his story. "We just hit the bank and ran out onto Main Street. Little do we know, the sheriff's already caught wind of the job and is running up to the bank right as we leave."
"You were lucky he didn't have time to round up a posse," noted Andy, his understated voice barely registering over the braggart tone David adopted specifically for storytelling. Kyle heard it nonetheless; it was a rare event when the secret, fifth member of the gang rode into a town bravely alongside the others, one Kyle hadn't experienced before. David had assured him this town, a gross overstatement of a few shacks built up around a tavern, was safe for all members of the Kings, much like the Grove but with more familiar and friendlier faces. Kyle's thoughts had briefly fallen upon Megan, and wondered if any woman here could be friendlier to him than she.
Rolling his eyes, David pointed a warning finger at Andy. "My story," he proclaimed possessively. Technically it was more a tale of Joey's history, or what was known of it, but Joey said with great reverence that David could recite it far better than he, and David Cook was never one to turn down a good bit of banter. He waved a hand at Neal, indicating that the two were the only ones involved in the actual heist in Prescott. "So, right as we're walking out of the bank, we're staring down the sheriff's pistol. I'm thinking, that's it, we are gone, our brains will make indelible marks against the bank's stucco walls."
Kyle's eyes widened as they approached their destination, a busy saloon with haunting, intricately painted lettering along its entryway, identifying the establishment only as the Fallen. He had yet to determine if this meant the women and drink the Kings were sure to find here would be like angels fallen from Heaven, or if the saloon itself would represent the Earth, or the Hell, to which every man fell. He was too engrossed in David's story to ponder the name further; though he obviously knew the tale of Joey Clement joining the Kings had a foregone conclusion, David had a way of coaxing out the suspense in a story, the outlaw possessing a mad love for words and an ingenious knack for utilizing them to best capture his audience. Kyle knew the Kings somehow managed to wrest themselves from their dire predicament and live to tell him the tale, but he was dying to know exactly how.
"A shot rings out in the street, but it's not from a pistol. Next thing I know, the sheriff's on the ground, a load of buckshot in his belly. And this guy here's the cause of it."
He pointed to Joey, who waved his hand dismissively in an attempt to be humble, but he felt the effort took too much energy, and grinned indulgently instead. "It was just a gut reaction," he explained, shrugging his shoulders. "I see someone aiming, I shoot."
"And you did it fucking well," Neal slapped a hand against Joey's back genially, and Kyle caught the hidden smirk from Andy out of the corner of his eye, remembering vividly that Joey was by far no skilled marksman.
David continued, a large grin escaping from his cool outlaw demeanor. "So I say to Joey--I didn't know he was Joey at the time, at this point I just know he's some guy with a shotgun and a bad haircut-- 'Well, if you're on our side, come on then!' I figure, the guy just saved our lives and put this sheriff out of commission; we certainly owed it to him to get him out of Prescott alive."
"We bolted out of there damn quick," contributed Joey, remembering the hot air whipping against his face like breaths of fire as they crossed into Colorado, never once looking back, knowing if he ever caught sight of the territory again it would be too soon. "Once we got time to rest, we were already laughing about it like old friends. Guess the rest is history, really."
The rest truly was history, water under the bridge, as far as the Kings were concerned: Kyle noted the primary method of dealing with Joey's antics was to wait until they subsided and then move on as if nothing occurred. There had been no bad blood among the Kings since Joey had stormed away from camp two weeks ago, much to Kyle's relief, and it seemed there never had been in the first place: David had been right, as Kyle suspected he usually was, and Joey had just needed some time to himself to ride the frustration out of his system. He returned later that day, every man at camp silent about his outburst and with reconciliatory nods all around he was readmitted back into the fold; no harm, no foul. It had been so seamless and routine that Kyle wondered if Joey wandering off on his own happened often.
As Neal swung open the doors to the saloon ahead of the others, Kyle concluded that the Fallen was neither pleasure den nor devilish bordello, both of which he felt he had gained quite a bit of knowledge on his travels with the Kings. The saloon itself was unremarkable, with worn wooden furniture meant for function, not style, and a polished bar in the back manned by a tall figure wiping off the contents of a spilled tankard. But the ordinariness of the saloon quickly lost Kyle's attention to its extraordinary decoration, the finely painted sign at its entrance only a small indication of the wonders to be seen inside. Every inch of the walls and ceiling were painted with wide, sweeping swaths of color, magnificent scenes of fantasy, mythical creatures and beautiful beasts dancing upon the air in backdrops of lush green meadows and pristine waterfalls. Each figure was marked with exceptional detail, from the scales upon a mermaid's tail to the hues of a pixie's flesh, so lifelike and inviting Kyle felt he could reach out and feel the warmth underneath his fingers.
He had never seen such beauty, such skill with color and a brush in all his life, and had never expected to find it in such a nondescript corner of the West. Kyle found himself blatantly staring at the walls, seemingly the only one in the crowded saloon entranced by the mural, and he barely registered David concluding his tale.
"The funniest part of it is--Kid, are you listening?" He felt a rap against his shoulders, breaking Kyle out of his reverie, snapping back into reality as if from a dream. David was always up for being the storyteller, but only if he had a captive audience. "The funniest part is why Joey was in Prescott in the first place. You want to give away the punchline, Joe?" he asked, looking over to his right; Joey was already hungrily eying the poker tables in the back of the saloon.
With a knowing snicker, having supplied this detail many times before during David's retellings, Joey answered, his gaze flitting over to Kyle. "I was there to rob the bank."
No one appreciated the irony in this statement more than David, who broke out into a loud laugh, slapping his hand against his thigh in amusement and momentarily catching the attention of the other patrons of the establishment. "The Dr. and I just happened to get there first," he explained through his laughter, tiny, genuine creases lining the corners of his eyes, a rare sight to witness the notorious outlaw so happy.
"David Cook, are you telling that same, tired old story again?" rang out a voice from the crowd, a lilting, musical tone that contrasted so starkly with the rough masculine voices echoing throughout the saloon. "Aren't you tired yet of hearing yourself speak?"
Out from a sea of nameless grunts came a woman draped in black, from the tough bulls' leather on her boots to every stitch in her elegant yet simple dress. The neckline of her dress plunged as deep as her sleeves curved high, revealing the delicate, pale skin of her arms and above her chest, as daring and dangerous as her title of owner and proprietor of the Fallen. Even her hair was black, a dark, haunting contrast to her skin, running long and free of traditional decorum down her back, only adding to the mystic allure of her striking blue eyes the color of the mural's deep oceans. Upon her right arm was a tattoo of a woman much like herself, with white skin, midnight black hair and delicate features that were as potent in their strength as their beauty. It was the same face upon her upper arm, Kyle realized, as was in the center of the mural, directly behind the bar, a woman warrior of the Orient in dashing, colorful robes, a deadly sword in one hand while the other gestured temptingly towards the viewer.
Years after the fact Kyle was finally goaded to admit he had been a little in love with Carly Smithson when he first laid eyes upon her, but even he was wise enough to realize she was well out of his league.
Not many souls in the West could provide such tart words to David Cook and live to tell about it, but she was certainly one of them, loud and unapologetically controlled, the Fallen saloon her kingdom and she its sovereign. Hands confidently on her hips, she waited for David to approach her instead of coming up to the man herself, a satisfied smirk on her lips indicating she was well aware of her power within those walls. There may have been rowdy, rough men frequenting her saloon, and there may have been many a time she washed blood off the beautiful images along the walls, but she made it clear she was always in control.
Seeing their humble hostess put an entirely different smile on David's face, and his arm slipped from Kyle's shoulders to approach Carly, arms outstretched, voice booming with the joy of reunion. "Ah, the merry widow herself," he beamed, ducking down into a mock bow at her skirts before taking her up in a bear hug. "How is my dear Irish lass faring these days?"
"Much better after seeing your wretched mug around these parts again," she said out of relief, accepting the embrace of the dear friend who lived such a dangerous life.
Just as Carly was one of the few souls still breathing who could playfully insult David, he was one of the few men brave enough to remind Carly Smithson of her departed husband. The rugged idealist who had brought his Irish picture bride into the dangerous frontiers of the West had succumbed to illness before ever seeing his dream of managing his own saloon come to fruition. Carly had taken up his cause as if it were her own, the saloon flourishing under her own name and management but always retaining the spirit of the original owner through the elaborate mural lining the saloon's walls, his beloved bride at the center of it all in more ways than one. There were rumors Carly still pined for him, and rumors on the other end of the scale that she had happily poisoned the man into illness to escape her marriage contract. David, one of the few people who took the time to discover the woman behind the legends and find a friend in the process, knew Carly's true story landed far more into a gray area, a tale much more complicated than any rumor could fabricate.
The other Kings followed suit and gave their warm introductions to Carly, and Kyle thought it best to follow along, nervous hands in his pockets as he looked everywhere but the group of friends reuniting and catching up on the months missed among them. Neal gave a cocky smirk and demanded dinner, to which Carly wittily replied without a beat that the kitchen was closed for the evening, but he was welcome to the hogs' trough if he desired. She carefully warned Andy with a wink to keep the Dr. on a tight tether, and immediately whispered the status of the back wall's poker game into Joey's ear as they embraced; only then did she notice the fifth of their fold, straggling behind and taking a great interest in her late husband's masterpiece.
"David, you damn oaf," she curved her lips into a smirk, blue eyes honing in on Kyle, piercing him like an arrow bolting him to the spot. "You haven't introduced me."
"Him?" David quirked an eyebrow at the kid, as sheepish and shy as the first day he approached the Kings; David had to remember not every man was as immune or accustomed to Carly's striking features as he. "That's just the Kid, you'll get to know him soon enough."
"How do you know he's with us?" joked Andy, a skeptical look on his face as Joey went to the poker tables to join the gamblers and Neal made his way to the bar to join the drinkers. "Maybe he's our hostage."
Carly replied flatly, her deep Irish accent ringing true through her voice when she was happy. "Neal doesn't take hostages," she pointed out. "If that were the case, he'd probably have shot him by now."
"Trust me, ma'am," Kyle found whatever courage he had been holding onto since joining the Kings and spoke up, pulling his hat down from his head out of courtesy. "It's not for lack of trying."
David ignored Neal's shout of protest against the defamation of his good name, the sharpshooter already ordering a round of liquor for the outlaws. "This," he presented, ushering Carly over to the kid as he seemed to be rooted to the spot. "is Kyle Peek, our horse handler, our camp manager, our invaluable lookout." Kyle couldn't tell what was making him blush more: Carly's bright eyes taking him in, or David's glowing introduction, which made him feel more like a part of the Kings than anything had before. "Kyle, this is Carly Smithson, Dublin-born and raised, esteemed proprietor of the saloon of the Fallen, and an absolute cheat at cribbage."
"You lie!" she accused, giving David a playful shove.
"She's also irascibly violent."
"Ma'am," Kyle gave his greeting politely, tipping his head slightly towards her and trying not to focus on her striking eyes, or her breasts, or any part of her that might make him less of a gentleman.
Carly couldn't remember the last time a man had been so courteous to her without expectations; she had come to think all etiquette in the territories had gone out of fashion. "There's finally a decent one among you," she commented.
"Hey!" protested David, putting on a playful pout, the two bantering like siblings. "I'm fucking decent!"
With a leering smile Carly leaned over to plant a dramatic kiss against David's cheek, silently thankful that fate and the law had not yet caught up with him and she was free to have this moment with her friend. "Then the next time you say hello to me, remember to say it to my face," she joked, and roughly cupped her chest in her palms. "And not these."
David mimicked her gesture, palms spread against his own chest indulgently. "I could request the same courtesy."
"Five minutes in the saloon, and you're already fondling yourself in front of women," Andy teased, shaking his head as he went off to the bar to retrieve his share of the first round.
Watching the exchange unfold before him, the hard, ruthless outlaw and the no-nonsense woman playfully spar in a test of wits and laughter, Kyle felt a pang of sympathy for the leader of the Kings that had grown to become his friend. It had been two weeks since David had told him the full story of his love affair with Kelly, the quick, mad passion that had overtook them and the great sadness and regret he held over leaving her. Kyle remembered every word, every emotion that washed over David's face as if it were his own love story, the outlaw who was quickly becoming legend in the West revealing a vulnerability about himself few knew even existed. It was a comforting feeling for Kyle that someone who had experienced tragedy and heartbreak like David could be granted these small moments of happiness, to tell a beloved tale and laugh with an old friend.
"Carly here," David continued his introduction, slinging an arm across her shoulders. "Is the master artist round these parts. Gave me every inch of ink I've got." To prove this, David pulled up the sleeve of his cotton shirt, the heavy fabric only revealing one of the tattoos that adorned his body, the unblinking, ever-watchful eye across his wrist, so large and life-like it felt indeed like David Cook always had an eye on the world, even in sleep; even would in death. Kyle had seen all of the tattoos along David's arms and chest by now, from the initials against his bicep mirroring the design along the barrel of his gun to the colorful eagle on the other side, decrying honor and loyalty as David's most treasured values. Though not nearly as apparent as the Dr.'s tattoos, David found a comfort and an identity in each piece; it told Kyle a world about Carly Smithson's close friendship with the outlaw as well as her skill as an artist that she created them all.
Peering over at David's wrist, Carly admired her own handiwork, observing how the inked colors had faded over time and thinking of ways to improve her technique when the outlaw inevitably decided to come back for another. "They're good enough," she humbled, attempting to pull open David's collar to get a personal view of the condition of her other masterpieces, much to his resistance. "But there have been better." A flash of wistful sadness crossed over her face, visible only to Kyle who was unable to take his eyes off her, as she indicated towards her own arm, the Oriental warrior woman tattooed there echoing the elegance of the figures along the pub's walls.
But in another instant the expression faded, the memories retreating back to their hiding places within her mind, the sadness she learned long ago she must overcome, and move on. "Never thought I'd see the day I'd be happy to slap you for your cheek, Cook," said Carly, the bright smile spread across her features making her appear youthful, like the girl who ran barefoot along the emerald green hills of Ireland and less the wise, experienced woman the West had forced her to become. David presented the side of his face to her, a playful gesture to allow her the honor, but she pinched him instead, garnering an unexpected yelp from him. "With all the stories about you lately, I was sure the only way I'd see you again was a public execution."
There was the talk about executions again; Kyle swallowed the lump forming in his throat at just the sound of that word on Carly's lips, reflexively loosening his collar that had suddenly started to feel like a noose. David, however, focused on a different part of Carly's sentiments. "Stories?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Someone's been writing about us?"
"More than one someone," she noted, walking over to a reading table in the far end of the saloon, framed by the greasy glass of a windowframe. It was the quietest section of the saloon, the others shying away from both the sunlight and the neat stack of newspapers atop the desk, the only area in the building Carly could find some peace for herself. The weekly newspapers she received by stagecoach weren't the best means of finding news of the world outside of the Fallen, but they were more reliable than the whispered rumors and whiskey-fueled rants supplied to her by her patrons. Quickly shuffling through the stack, she found what she had been looking for, and handed a sheet to David.
There were indeed stories, and from more than one publication: the Kings had been a popular topic of the sensational journalism that ran as rampant in the West as the outlaws themselves, but now nearly every issue Carly handed to him had a mention of their exploits. Kyle peered over David's shoulder to catch the headlines, most reporting on the funds lost at each heist and the people killed or injured along the way--which, as he noticed, were always exaggerated, and in all the reported fatalities since he joined, completely fabricated. He looked down at the similar byline for each article; guess this Seacrest reporter fellow had to find some way to sell papers.
"Well, I'll be," David couldn't hide the grin spreading across his face, his satisfaction on a deeper level than simple egotism and pride. It was one thing to see your name in bold-face type in the papers, committing crimes he would have had to live a thousand lives to truthfully accomplish; it was quite another knowing that someone else was possibly noticing your name as well. "Andy hasn't been keeping his eye out for these headlines, I told him to pick up a 'pape whenever he saw the Kings mentioned." He noted that each article mentioned the calling card he painstakingly left at each robbery, the single playing card that sensationalist journalists like this Seacrest used to give a burgeoning outlaw gang a name, a dashing identity to match their growing fame. David hoped that she paid mind to it, as well.
"It's how I knew he was with you," Carly motioned towards Kyle, who had still been reading over David's shoulder about an eyewitness account of their Colorado Springs heist, quoted by Seacrest giving warnings to bankers across the West to take caution, lest they get caught unprepared for the Kings to arrive at their door. When she mentioned the young Californian he brought his attentions once again to rest upon her features, Carly's skin glowing pale in the grimy daylight streaming through the window; he had tried to focus on subjects other than the beautiful woman escorting the outlaws around the Fallen, but once that connection was made, Kyle found himself remiss to break it.
"They mention me?" Kyle asked incredulously.
Carly smiled as she nodded over to a yellowed newspaper within the stack, not yet scanned by David and Kyle's eyes. She couldn't determine if Kyle's personality overlaid a deliberate naivete, or if the months riding with the Kings still hadn't hammered out that precious cluelessness of a greenhorn. David Cook sure did know how to pick them. "The Atlanta Gazette," she indicated, and sure enough once David procured the correct newspaper they found an article filled with speculative prose and needless cliffhangers on each paragraph, questioning the rumors of another rider's arrival into the gang. "Said there were four riders now, definitely spotted at more than one robbery." She smirked at David, remembering her own thoughts when she had read of their latest exploits. "Didn't know you were recruiting, David."
It wasn't a remark that required any snide retort, though it was a rare occurrence when he didn't have a lewd comeback against Carly Smithson's conversation. David simply took the time to skim the article in silence, wondering far less about their names in the papers and more about what these developments meant for their future. Adding Kyle to their ranks now meant that there were four Kings visible to the public eye, giving substance to the wisps of previous rumors of a fourth rider among them, the often overlooked accounts of witnesses seeing Andy ride with David, Joey and Neal. If this satisfied the public's curiosity over their fourth rider, as the articles seemed to indicate, then there would be even less of a chance that snooping reporters--or those with the mind to catch more than a story--would look for evidence of Andy's existence, of his part in their successful heists. The shadow of the Kings would be as stealthy and effective as ever, and now, no one would even attempt to look for him.
"This is perfect," he expressed his thoughts aloud, eyes widening with the possibilities. They could hit every town from here to the Rio Grande if they wanted; David could find himself in the papers so often Kelly could get sick of hearing about him. "I could kiss you right now, Carls."
A dirty smile played on her lips, oblivious to the heat rising in Kyle's face at the mere mention of someone kissing Carly Smithson. "I think you'd have to bring that up with Michael first, Davey," she said coyly. There had never been anything romantic between them, nor would there ever be, but the free, shameless flirtation between good friends was something they both found comforting, teasing quips and jabs at each other that clearly showed their affection.
David raised an eyebrow over the headlines. "Michael? Still?" The slight blush that washed over Carly's cheeks, evident only because of her fair skin, told him her given nickname as the merry widow was not too far off. "The last time I saw you two, you were trying to bludgeon him to death with a cooking pot."
Carly shrugged. "He deserved it."
The smile on David's face widened and was unmistakably lewd; being in Carly's vicinity seemed to coax that out of him. "I'm taking it you made up?"
"Multiple times."
Her gaze unconsciously flitted over to the bar, catching view of the tall bartender behind it keeping up conversation with Andy and Neal. She smiled when he returned her stare though she had not meant to reveal such an indication of affection; letting anyone besides David in the bar know about her extra-professional relations could lead to dicey situations. The West thought of her romantic life as that of legend and rumors carried by the wind; she would not be the one to contradict them.
It was a quick, unconscious notion that turned Carly's head, but one that did not go completely unnoticed: the gesture, that smile she gave to the bartender was all picked up by Kyle, his instant infatuation with the owner of the Fallen running its course in a silent, crushing end. His fantasies of igniting a mad love affair with the older Irish woman were doused before they ever caught flame. He looked sullenly between Carly and her handsome bartender, wishing for a love of his own, to have the adventurous life of an outlaw and a woman to call his own, like David had.
But romance in the untamed, treacherous West, as Kyle learned, certainly had its price: he could have said David Cook had it all, but the statement would never ring true until he was reunited with Kelly, if ever at all. Kyle wasn't sure if he could bear to find love on the open plain only to have it ripped from him, like Carly's husband, or forced to separate and speak only through letters and criminal exploits in the papers, like David and Kelly. And he only had to look so far as to Neal and Andy to remember how complicated love could be even when you found it.
"All right there, Kid?" Kyle was snapped out of his reflections by Carly's lilting voice, her concerned tone calling him not by his name but by the moniker David gave to him that seemed to stick despite any attempts otherwise. "You look like you could use a drink."
He let Carly lead him towards the bar, trying not to reflect too forlornly on the guiding hand she placed on his shoulder, suspecting it would be the only opportunity he had to experience her touch. The bartender grinned as they approached, a cool, professional exterior giving way to the unmistakable attraction in his eyes for the Kings' hostess. He seemed friendly enough, openly chatting and laughing with Neal and Andy, his accented voice loud but not obnoxiously so. Kyle decided it was a fair loss, to a worthy man who seemed to have genuine feelings for Carly and she for him, though he neglected to remind himself that there was no battle to win or lose here; he had never even been in the running.
"Who the damn hell are you!"
The shout boomed over the hearty rumble of voices in the Fallen, and stopped Carly and Kyle in their tracks. It wasn't unusual for an argument to arise over a hand of cards or a wrong turn in conversation, especially late into the night when there was more liquor inside the patrons than behind the bar. But the windows, grimy and neglected as they were, revealed daylight through their glass panes, and from the hairs rising on the back of Kyle's neck he felt that the accusation wasn't over something as innocuous as a card game.
The bar fell into silence, quiet enough to hear a single man breathe, to hear the scrape of a chair and two boot heels on the wooden floor as one man stood in the back of the saloon. He was stout and squat, with his substantial weight composed more of fat than muscle, his short legs indicating to Kyle that whatever horse he owned was probably small, and strained to weather the burden of that girth upon its back. He frowned; from the angry, unprovoked sneer upon his lips and the unintelligent sheen in his eyes, Kyle bet that the man was cruel to his animal on top of it.
He took a few steps forward, the pints of ale in him emboldening his step but not enough yet to cause them to stumble. Kyle felt the hand on his shoulder tighten its grip, then disappear, as Carly clenched her jaw. It was clear from the pudgy finger pointed where they had been standing exactly who this man was challenging.
David didn't even flinch, not even an eyebrow raised at the accusation; the man was clearly not much of a threat, or he wouldn't have waited so long since the Kings's arrival to the Fallen to stir up trouble. Even so, his face was a stone slab, the happiness Kyle saw there before as he joked with Carly completely gone, as if David Cook never had a pleasant memory in his life. But this wasn't the same man that had smiled and laughed before him a moment ago; this was now the legendary outlaw, the leader of the ruthless and gravely successful bank robbing gang, and with a grit of his teeth Kyle knew with a sad certainty David had set that happier man within him aside.
"Didn't know I needed to be formally introduced," he answered, eyes keenly aware and watching the other man's every move. "Have the rules of conduct changed since I've been here last? Is this now a black-tie establishment?"
The other man's sneer grew deeper and more pronounced, small eyes narrowing as he took another step forward. "You know what the fuck I'm talking about, Cook," he shot out, emphasizing his distaste by spitting on the floor, obviously of the breed of man who believed true masculinity came from those who didn't swallow.
His expression of machismo had no effect on David, but the utterance of his name from the man's lips surely did. "So you do know who I am," he said with a click of his tongue, crossing his arms against his chest casually while taking inventory of the man, as well as any saloon patrons behind him that may be his associates. "If we're talking about rules of conduct here, it's really not prudent to ask a question to which you already know the answer." His tone was undeniably condescending, a habit of his that at twenty-six he was too old to break, but he knew not to mock the other man too much, bring him to a place where he felt ridiculed. If this man already had bad blood against David, there was no need to create more. "The real question here is...who in the hell are you."
Disgusted that his own reputation did not precede him nearly as much as David Cook's, he hooked his thumbs into his belt, pridefully puffing out his chest as much as he could, though the effort only caused his belly to protrude even farther past his waistline than before. "The name's Scott Savol." David couldn't place the name but he knew the cockiness in the man's stance and his tone of voice well enough; he experienced it with every bounty hunter to fall at his hand. "You better remember it, 'cause it's the name of the man who's about to bring you down."
For a lesser man it would have been difficult not to laugh in Savol's face at the remark, but David took every threat, frivolous though it may be, as if it could be the last. "No one's going to bring anyone down today," he negotiated; his words were quickly conciliatory but there was no mistaking the dangerous, low growl of his voice, the darkness clouding over his eyes, staining what was once a brilliant, joyful blue-green a dull, threatening gray. "I'm going to get myself a drink. You're going to sit back down in that chair. And we're going to pretend this never happened."
Savol, hell-bent on causing a scene, overlooked the menacing darkness washing over David's face and continued into a rant. "You're not telling me to do shit. You think you're the best damn bank robber that ever was, just because you're the fucking papes' darling." David realized he was no lawman or bounty hunter, for even the most bumbling of the men after the price on his head knew better than to confront him in a crowded saloon. He was probably a thief himself, David considered, who through no less than a miracle was a successful one, but neither his crimes nor his name ever graced the pages of a newspaper like the Kings. That's what this was all about: face time. "But you've just got a name and a shit reputation."
"I guess I've got a good publicist," David deadpanned, his face stoically still. The bar was dead silent save for the two. Some men wanted to see Savol run his mouth until David split it open; some were banking on the notorious outlaw to be taken down a peg, also jealous of the gang's fame and success. Most didn't care who won; they just wanted to see blood.
"Not good enough to get that pretty bounty off your head." Another step forward; David caught in his peripheral vision the slightest movement from the bar, from the crowd of blackjack players in the back. The other Kings were paying careful attention to how close Savol dared to get as well. "David Cook. Leader of the Kings. At least a dozen men dead by your gun -"
"Don't want to make it thirteen, fella," David warned, mouth curving into a sneer, though Kyle had seen the flash of emotion in his eyes, a shock that he could have killed twelve people in the years he had been an outlaw. In truth, the tally was probably higher.
But that flash was gone when Savol took another step, leaving behind only the experienced, cold outlaw who had earned those notches on his gun, even if he was not proud of them. "- And that's not to mention the bank robberies you're wanted for, all over the territories. You racked up quite a bounty on your head; got every damn sheriff from here to Tularosa clamorin' for your neck in a noose."
David narrowed his eyes; he knew where this was heading, and he didn't like the sound of it. He wouldn't be caught in a hangman's noose, not now; not when the letters still came, when there was someone still to live for. Scott Savol should have come to him five years ago: David would have gladly given him the rights to the bounty and the glory of bringing the deadly outlaw to his end.
But now, he couldn't bear to imagine the blow it would cause to Kelly if she had to read of her love's execution in the newspaper.
"You don't want to do this, partner." It was the last warning David would give the man, devoid of emotion, his left hand already itching to reach for the revolver at his side.
Savol's tone grew harsh, his sneer downturning into a primal scowl. "I ain't your partner," he shot back. "And those wanted posters back in Canyon City say the bounty's just as good dead or alive -"
He reached for the pistol at his hip but was dreadfully too slow. Neal and Andy reached for their guns first, the pair keeping a keen eye on the argument by the bar to Savol's left and behind. If they had been on his other side Neal could have shot the gun clean away from his hand before anyone took another breath, but as it were the Dr. wasn't picky with where on Savol's person he shot. Joey had rested his prized shotgun when he sat down to a game of cards, propping it up by the barrels against the table, but in an instant it was in his hand, ready to aim at the Kings's latest foe. Even Kyle felt the instinctual pull to draw the pistols at his sides, his head abuzz with adrenaline as he thought not of his shooting lessons, but only of backing up David with extra firepower, a King protecting one of his own.
But there was one gunslinger in the saloon, unnoticed during the standoff, that managed to outdraw all of them, and Scott Savol felt more than heard the cock of the Derringer's hammer as the barrel pressed against his temple.
"Savol, you no-good, lazy, terrible excuse for an outlaw." Carly Smithson's lilting Irish accent grew deeper and more pronounced when she was angry, spitting out the words with a fire behind them that brought her all the way back to Dublin. Kyle hadn't needed another reason for his infatuation with Carly, but with the expert way she trained the small pistol on Savol and the bundle of her skirts bunched in her free hand, revealing the hidden thigh holster at her garter, he certainly found quite an eyeful.
No one had watched the owner of the Fallen silently make her way out of Savol's sight line, reaching for the Derringer while David outmatched him in a battle of words. Often underestimated, Carly had shown time and time again--with her successful saloon, her independence over her love life--she was a force to be reckoned with. "You think you can just walk into my saloon and threaten any man here with their freedom--with their life?" The fact that the Kings were good friends of hers had no bearing on her anger; her saloon had become a safe haven for outlaws, the laws and bounties of the West existing outside of its walls, never to be invited in. The Fallen was the one of the best-kept secrets for those on the other side of the law, and Carly intended to keep it that way.
Savol stammered, his courage gone in the face of real weaponry pointed at his temple. He began to sweat, the fear in his small, beady eyes suddenly very real. It would be one thing to attempt hauling in the Kings to justice and getting cut down in the process; quite another to be killed begging for your life by a woman. "You're such a coward," she sneered, disgusted at the instant transformation from tough man to blubbering idiot. If he never had a gun trained on him before, he must not have been such an excellent thief. "Been waiting a long time for you to give me a reason to kick you out of here. You like talking about undeserved publicity? How about your bragging in this bar, about the crimes you've committed, the places you've hit; the people you've said you've robbed up and down this trail."
He came in periodically, often enough for Carly to attach a name and the unpleasant disposition with the equally unappealing face, and each time he attracted a small audience to hear of his latest exploits in crime, whether it be a successful stagecoach robbery or looting the treasury of a rich carpetbagger. It was clear from the increasing elaborations of each heist that Savol spent more time running off at the mouth than pulling off a job worth anyone's breath. "The only time I've ever heard you were even worth a lawman's second glance is over beating your wife." She leaned in with a scowl, her voice low for effect; she didn't want to get any closer to Savol than she had to. "I should let you loose on these men now, let them tear you to pieces, because knowing them? I'm the one who'd be more merciful."
Time itself seemed to stop for those moments, a heavy silence falling onto the crowd as Carly contemplated her next move, the only sound a pitiful whimpering from Savol, almost wishing he had been done in by the Kings instead; then at least his death might have been quick, and possibly not so humiliating. He waited for the gunshot, for the Derringer's bullet to pierce his skull and end it at the miserable hands of a woman, but it never came, the gun barrel warming from the sweat pouring down his temple.
Carly pushed him away with the butt of the gun, holding back the impulse to crack him over the head with the pistol, watching Savol stumble cowardly away. She would have had to clean up the blood, anyway, and there was no way in hell she'd dirty up her late husband's mural with Savol's worthless hide. "You're leaving," she ordered, her voice loud and demanding, the light, musical tone Kyle had heard in it when they first arrived hardened and cold. "Walk your corpulent ass out of this bar; walk it out of this town. Walk the hell out of the territory, if you know what's good for you. Because if I ever see your face again--" Carly narrowed her eyes, the Derringer in her hand not nearly as deadly as her glare. "--you'll not be walking anywhere."
A sneer formed on Savol's lips, though his feet started their journey towards the saloon door. It didn't matter what bar Carly owned, or how many threatening looks she could shoot him; no woman talked to him that way, not if they understood what was good for them. "Why don't you go back to liftin' your skirt and serving drinks," he threw the comment back. "A woman's place ain't never holding a gun on a man--"
And in an instant Savol had more than just Carly's Derringer trained on him: the standoff was well under Carly's control until that moment, the one time when her ability as a woman was challenged, and five other guns came to her defense. The Kings finally drew their weapons, a fearsome sight with each man capable at a moment's notice to revoke Carly's gracious generosity in letting Scott Savol live.
"No one talks like that to her," the words escaped Kyle's mouth before he could censor himself, but when he looked back on them and the smile of gratitude Carly gave him afterwards, he didn't regret one word.
"The lady asked you to leave," was David's official response to Savol's actions, the growl in his voice far more personal now that a friend had been involved. He cocked the hammer on his revolver slowly, making sure Savol heard the click, could feel the chambers in the gun turning to a fresh new bullet. "I suggest you take her up on the offer while it's still available to you."
Sensing he was clearly outnumbered and outmatched--and none of the barflies that had goaded him into confronting the leader of the Kings would jump to his aid now--Savol backed up until his frame hit the door to the saloon, startled by the contact, and took the rest of the distance to his nag at a scampering run. He dared not show his face at the Fallen again, knowing he would not be welcome if he returned. Any outlaw, regardless of their station or the severity of their crimes, never looked kindly upon a thief who decided to go turncoat on another.
With his narrowed eyes on the door, David lowered his revolver, the threat now gone but the adrenaline that kept his body alert and his mind wary still running its course. This wasn't the first time the outlaws had faced someone with fame and fortune sparked in their eyes, and it wouldn't be the last. Grimly, he reminded himself that Savol was certainly one of the easier bounty hunters to handle: no shots fired, no blood spilled. Most encounters weren't so fortunate or so lucky.
Just as he holstered his gun David felt a sharp poke at his side; he turned, caught off-guard at the prospect of another standoff, but this one was far less deadly than the last--though much more terrifying.
"And you," Carly scowled, poking a long finger into David's ribs, her other hand still holding onto the Derringer; David supposed it was a good sign she wasn't accosting him with the barrel of the gun, that at least meant she didn't intend to shoot him over his transgressions. "You know better than to pull a damn gun in this saloon. It's difficult enough trying to keep order here, I don't need you adding to the trouble."
"But -" David tried to protest, but Carly cut him off. Now it was his turn to look like the reprimanded child; Kyle had to react quickly to hide a snicker behind his palm.
"Don't try to tell me he started it," she warned, finger now waggling in David's face. "He is a bottom-dwelling, conniving, unpleasant waste of breath who will probably get himself killed before he even reaches the border. And you -"
"I," David interrupted, the harshness in his voice completely gone out the door with Savol, his eyes softening to let his sympathy shine through. "Am your friend." He grasped Carly's offending finger in both hands, his words sincere. David knew Carly's plight, the struggles of an Irish immigrant widow making it on her own in a wild land where nearly everything was held against her favor. She worked hard to maintain not only the physical walls of the Fallen but also the respect she earned that kept them standing. The saloon and everything in it wasn't just a career for Carly, it was her past--David looked over towards the bar at Michael, who was shooting daggers with his eyes where Savol had stood, one hand underneath the bar where David knew he kept his rifle for emergencies--and her future.
David's admission softened the angry lines in Carly's face, melting her scowl into a perturbed pout. "You owe me," she said, taking her hand back from David and pulling up her skirts once more to holster the Derringer in her garter. Kyle gulped, realizing that was quite a lucky Derringer.
His smile turned wicked once again, the somberness broken, the tension-filled moment passed. "Owe you what?" he asked with a wink. "I don't do sexual favors, Carls; my body's not for sale."
Carly wrinkled her nose as if David's words just released a foul odor into the air. "Ew," she noted with a disgusted expression, but she smiled underneath the grimace, pleased to return to their normal banter, like the calm of the open seas after threats of a terrible storm. "It'd be a favor if you never mention that again, Cook." But she gave David a parting wink as she returned her hand to Kyle's shoulder, guiding him towards the bar as if the encounter with Savol had never happened. If not for the pistol in his hand and the blood still thumping in his ears over the standoff, Kyle wouldn't have recognized the moment as anything different, either. "But you know what you owe. And I expect it by last call."
Indeed, David knew well what Carly requested to repay his debt of lost respect, but he held it in with a knowing little smile throughout the night, without giving Kyle so much as an inkling to Carly's desire. Kyle soon forgot about the promise altogether, the debt pushed to the back of his mind to make room for stories and laughter among his fellow Kings, reveling in the freedom to enjoy a drink with the other four outlaws without worry or threat. He loved the outlaw life, the thrill and excitement he had always yearned for, but the endless weeks traveling aimlessly on the open plain, running from the dangers their excitement begat, made moments like this ones to be treasured.
The quick and steady flow of liquor from Carly's top shelf--only the best for her boys, she declared as she playfully ruffled Neal's hair, the only woman in the country offered that privilege--allowed Kyle's inhibitions to dissipate along with his doubts and worries, the anxiety he sometimes felt lowering with each hearty laugh over David's stories, Andy's tales of gossip, Joey's loud, corny jokes. The melancholy he experienced over losing the chance with Carly before it ever began lessened as well, watching the easy, loving touches between her and Michael when they thought no one else was looking, their heartwarming laughter and light, witty retorts quite different from the ones between Carly and David. Carly Smithson was breathtaking, he'd go to his grave admitting that, but Kyle knew any man who tried to stand in the way of love was a damn fool.
David looked at the same couple, Carly complaining about her heavy skirts being the current yet uncomfortable fashion and Michael coyly offering to remove them for her if she so pleased, and came to the same conclusion as Kyle; he had been the fool for standing in the way of his own love, once.
It was well into the night before Carly's retribution was mentioned again, the mirrored oil lamps scattered around the saloon sending shadows across the walls, a warm orange glow that reminded Kyle of California sunsets, of home. The sounds of tankards clinking together in inebriated celebration and familiar, friendly voices filled his ears, and Carly pointed out the uncontrollable smile spreading across his face before he even noticed it was there. But it was the sound of soft music notes floating through the buzz of the Fallen's crowd that caught their attention, the dance of skilled fingers against piano keys unmistakable to anyone who had heard it before.
"Ah," Carly said with a grin, her eyes wide and dancing in anticipation. "Here's my present."
Kyle looked over to the far corner of the saloon, an upright piano of sturdy oak standing tall and vigilant; a common staple in drinking houses across the West, though most were horribly abused by the drunk and untalented, mistaking absurdity and noise for true entertainment. An avid lover of music, Carly never allowed laymen to put fingers to those keys lest they hammer the poor instrument irrevocably out of tune. It was reserved for a special few who proved their worth and talent, her Michael being one of them; the first time they had kissed had been at that piano, hours after the last call, Carly falling far into a trance from the beauty of Michael's music and never emerging again.
But this was not Michael at the keys: instead it was a slender young man, his black clothes dusty from the desert trails, back curving towards the piano as a flower to the light. A stray lock of dark hair fell into his face but he paid it no mind, the black and white keys before him calling his fingers to them, calling them home. The slightest hint of a smile graced his lips, fingers playing a quick chord and a run to acclimate himself; he was, after all, blissfully out of practice.
The player's head faced the keys, shielded from view, but Kyle could recognize the familiar figure anywhere by now, and his eyes widened in wonder as Andy's music filled the room, bringing the saloon to quite a different kind of silence than when Savol disrupted the merriment earlier in the day.
"Wow," he found himself saying, awestruck at not only the technical talent Andy was exhibiting, but the emotion he put forth into the music, creating and projecting in a way he hadn't allowed himself for years. "Never knew he was that good."
A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder; Neal's eyes held an admiration Kyle had never seen in them before as he watched Andy at the piano, and there was something indefinable in his smile as his heart swelled. "Oh, he's a lot better than just good," he corrected, never taking his eyes off Andy.
The tune was unfamiliar to Kyle, but that was no surprise to him: on the Peek ranch in California he found little time or opportunity to hear the popular songs of the day, the concert halls and music taverns in town a rare luxury for him. He found a love of music not through the keys of a piano or a concert orchestra, but in the simple, earthy rhythms of the world around him: the staccato of a horse's hooves as they galloped towards the sun, the slow, steady beats of a drenching rain against a tin roof.
Kyle did not know the melody Andy played but the others did, their smiles and nods of assent increasing with the crescendo of the notes. He let the music flow inside him, accepting it into his heart and stomach by way of his ears, a soft tune Andy started deliberately slow, then sped up as it increased in intensity. Before Kyle knew it his body was responding in the best way it knew how, tapping his palms against the bar to the rhythm, complementing the piano’s notes with a timely beat. The other outlaws and the rest of the crowd responded with a good cheer to Kyle’s contribution, his grin wide and giddy as he fell into the drumbeat. When he banged his metal tankard against a dinner plate with a resounding and pleasant crash, he almost thought he felt a kiss upon his cheek from the merry widow herself, though he was too engrossed in the music by now to notice.
The entire saloon was enraptured by the music, the Kings’s gift to Carly and to themselves, to relax and enjoy a night of freedom while they had it. Joey had chimed in with a steady, deep stomp of his feet to accompany Kyle’s rhythm, and even the Dr., typically excusing himself from public attraction and self-humiliation alike, nodded his head vigorously to the music, stepping away from an occupied Kyle as he approached the piano, flashing a toothy grin. But it wasn’t until David Cook’s voice rose over it all that the saloon brightened, his words and melody breathing life into the Fallen.
“Break your neck for some substance…”
Haunting, gritty, and real, David’s voice seemed to bear the weight of his history in its timbre, the volume soft and mournful at first, each note a eulogy to those who had fallen: the men he killed, the family for whom he killed. His eyes were closed as if pained by the memories, the very words themselves; he had been through so much, they all had, and each moment was brought forth in his voice, emotions so great they filled men’s eyes with tears.
“This is temporary sanity, an exercise in vanity. So long to the ordinary day, wrought with fictitious tales of how there’s any other way…”
His voice cracked then, the strong timbre giving way to emotion as he reluctantly reflected on the last line in the verse. He tempted his mind every day with fantasies of what could have been: if the lawman had left his family alone, intact, and alive; if David had never followed him, intent on the type of revenge only spilt blood could offer; if he accepted Kelly’s request and stayed with her, taken all of these years to fall deeper in love. He thought on these possibilities every day, but at every sunset the outcome was always the same, and he was still an outlaw, leading a life that at best would get him killed. The other roads he dreamed about were not his; they never were. No matter what David desired, there was no other way but this one, leading these men through the West and into the newspapers and history books. He might trade the lifestyle, yes, but never the loyalty. Never the companionship.
The clench of Andy’s jaw slackened when David began to sing, his clear, true voice taking center stage and mingling perfectly with the piano and Kyle’s impromptu accompaniment. He had stepped up to the piano as a favor, knowing his place at Carly’s establishment forever lay there at that bench, but when the eyes of the saloon drew upon him he wished he had never revealed his talent in the first place. He was fifteen at his parent’s house all over again, playing for a crowd of strangers watching his every move, and he wished to shrink his slender frame further into the bench, curve his back lower towards the keys until he could disappear. He certainly preferred being the observer over being the observed.
He felt his presence before seeing the flash of blond hair and red leather boots beside the piano, watching Andy play intently, always entranced at the rare occasions he was privileged to see him in his element. Andy took a quick turn of his head and smiled, Neal already reciprocating the grin. Just his company alone emboldened Andy, made everyone else in the saloon fall away, and suddenly he didn’t feel so averse to being watched anymore. His voice chimed in with David’s, his harmony not as strong or resonating but holding a uniqueness in itself, drawing depth out of the second verse.
“Hold on to anything at all; it’s a long way down between the summer and the fall…”
He tried not to look Neal in the eye for so long while he was singing, as if Andy were singing directly to him, but he found his efforts futile; Neal wouldn’t let him look away.
“If I told you that you’re everything, would you sing along?”
Kyle shared a grin with Joey from across the room, his enthusiasm for finding the song’s rhythm and running with it not lost on the crowd, who cheered and waved with every crash of the tankard to dinner plate, every animalistic run of beats fueled by his heart. He hadn’t even been paying attention to the main attraction in the room until David had snuck up on him, approached him with a sly, knowing smile. The mournfulness in his voice was gone now, replaced with an energy he fed from his fellow Kings, as he poked a finger at Kyle and directly sang to him the repeated proposition.
“Would you sing along?”
And sitting there, surrounded by sounds, great drink and even greater friends, Kyle knew he would follow the Kings until his dying breath.
By now the entire crowd was eager to join in the revelry, though many did not know the words in order to participate. But they waved their hands all the same when David enticed them to, a satisfied, adoring grin flashed over to Neal and Andy as they all basked in the camaraderie.
“Would you sing my song, at the top of your lungs…”
The Fallen was in a rare state of bliss that night, the joyous celebrations radiating from the building like warmth from a blazing bonfire, one of the most notorious gangs in all the West leading the saloon in song, the energy coursing through them much different than the thrill of a robbery or chase. In their hearts all five men knew it would be the happiest moment they all spent together, focusing not on bank heists or bounties but on friendship, companionship, and love.
“And we’ll all sing along. We’ll all sing along…”
Chapter 9
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Skibmann (Neal Tiemann/Andy Skib), Cookson (David Cook/Kelly Clarkson), various others, both slash and het
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own; never happened, never will.
Summary: For his entire life, Kyle Peek always longed for the thrill and adventure in the open lands of the wild West. He gets more than he ever bargained for when he joins up with the legendary outlaw gang known only as The Kings.
Notes: This might be my favorite chapter of the entire fic; it's definitely my favorite chapter so far :D I have been working on this story for the past seven months and I am SO excited to post it. What started out as a fledgling idea grew to be a huge AU and I'm very grateful to share it with you. A ginormous thank you goes out to dreamerren, for her work as beta and practically as the story's second author. Title credit goes to Nick Gibson for his song "Outlaw's Prayer."
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5, part one
Chapter 5, part two
Chapter 6
Chapter 7, part one
Chapter 7, part two
"These men are bad citizens but they are bad becaue they live out of their time. The nineteenth century with its Sybaric civilization is not the social soil for men who might have sat with Arthur at the Round Table, ridden at tourney with Sir Lancelot or won the colors of Guinevere...what they did we condemn. But the way they did it we can't help admiring." - John Newman Edwards, about Frank and Jesse James
"So there we are in Prescott, right?"
"Pres-cuit," Joey demurred, rolling his eyes at his own reflex to correct David's pronunciation of a town none of them were ever going to visit again. Kyle thought it sounded like he was ordering a biscuit, but they hadn't even walked into the tavern yet.
David waved his hand at Joey's correction, his other arm slung over Kyle's attentive shoulders. "Totally out of our league. I'm talking, Arizona territory capital, governor's mansion...I don't know what we were thinking, maybe eyes too big for our stomachs."
"You can't eat money," Kyle said, brows knit together, confused on why David suddenly found this more hilarious than the time Joey nearly mistook a cowpie for a rotten beefsteak.
"No, but you can sure drink it," Neal chimed in, patting his belly and remembering the famed Whiskey Row back in Prescott, thinking it was such a shame they were chased out of the town before he could fully appreciate it.
After David composed himself, the crows' feet still inching their way into the corners of his laughter-prone eyes, he continued, shooting a mocking dark look at Neal for interrupting his story. "We just hit the bank and ran out onto Main Street. Little do we know, the sheriff's already caught wind of the job and is running up to the bank right as we leave."
"You were lucky he didn't have time to round up a posse," noted Andy, his understated voice barely registering over the braggart tone David adopted specifically for storytelling. Kyle heard it nonetheless; it was a rare event when the secret, fifth member of the gang rode into a town bravely alongside the others, one Kyle hadn't experienced before. David had assured him this town, a gross overstatement of a few shacks built up around a tavern, was safe for all members of the Kings, much like the Grove but with more familiar and friendlier faces. Kyle's thoughts had briefly fallen upon Megan, and wondered if any woman here could be friendlier to him than she.
Rolling his eyes, David pointed a warning finger at Andy. "My story," he proclaimed possessively. Technically it was more a tale of Joey's history, or what was known of it, but Joey said with great reverence that David could recite it far better than he, and David Cook was never one to turn down a good bit of banter. He waved a hand at Neal, indicating that the two were the only ones involved in the actual heist in Prescott. "So, right as we're walking out of the bank, we're staring down the sheriff's pistol. I'm thinking, that's it, we are gone, our brains will make indelible marks against the bank's stucco walls."
Kyle's eyes widened as they approached their destination, a busy saloon with haunting, intricately painted lettering along its entryway, identifying the establishment only as the Fallen. He had yet to determine if this meant the women and drink the Kings were sure to find here would be like angels fallen from Heaven, or if the saloon itself would represent the Earth, or the Hell, to which every man fell. He was too engrossed in David's story to ponder the name further; though he obviously knew the tale of Joey Clement joining the Kings had a foregone conclusion, David had a way of coaxing out the suspense in a story, the outlaw possessing a mad love for words and an ingenious knack for utilizing them to best capture his audience. Kyle knew the Kings somehow managed to wrest themselves from their dire predicament and live to tell him the tale, but he was dying to know exactly how.
"A shot rings out in the street, but it's not from a pistol. Next thing I know, the sheriff's on the ground, a load of buckshot in his belly. And this guy here's the cause of it."
He pointed to Joey, who waved his hand dismissively in an attempt to be humble, but he felt the effort took too much energy, and grinned indulgently instead. "It was just a gut reaction," he explained, shrugging his shoulders. "I see someone aiming, I shoot."
"And you did it fucking well," Neal slapped a hand against Joey's back genially, and Kyle caught the hidden smirk from Andy out of the corner of his eye, remembering vividly that Joey was by far no skilled marksman.
David continued, a large grin escaping from his cool outlaw demeanor. "So I say to Joey--I didn't know he was Joey at the time, at this point I just know he's some guy with a shotgun and a bad haircut-- 'Well, if you're on our side, come on then!' I figure, the guy just saved our lives and put this sheriff out of commission; we certainly owed it to him to get him out of Prescott alive."
"We bolted out of there damn quick," contributed Joey, remembering the hot air whipping against his face like breaths of fire as they crossed into Colorado, never once looking back, knowing if he ever caught sight of the territory again it would be too soon. "Once we got time to rest, we were already laughing about it like old friends. Guess the rest is history, really."
The rest truly was history, water under the bridge, as far as the Kings were concerned: Kyle noted the primary method of dealing with Joey's antics was to wait until they subsided and then move on as if nothing occurred. There had been no bad blood among the Kings since Joey had stormed away from camp two weeks ago, much to Kyle's relief, and it seemed there never had been in the first place: David had been right, as Kyle suspected he usually was, and Joey had just needed some time to himself to ride the frustration out of his system. He returned later that day, every man at camp silent about his outburst and with reconciliatory nods all around he was readmitted back into the fold; no harm, no foul. It had been so seamless and routine that Kyle wondered if Joey wandering off on his own happened often.
As Neal swung open the doors to the saloon ahead of the others, Kyle concluded that the Fallen was neither pleasure den nor devilish bordello, both of which he felt he had gained quite a bit of knowledge on his travels with the Kings. The saloon itself was unremarkable, with worn wooden furniture meant for function, not style, and a polished bar in the back manned by a tall figure wiping off the contents of a spilled tankard. But the ordinariness of the saloon quickly lost Kyle's attention to its extraordinary decoration, the finely painted sign at its entrance only a small indication of the wonders to be seen inside. Every inch of the walls and ceiling were painted with wide, sweeping swaths of color, magnificent scenes of fantasy, mythical creatures and beautiful beasts dancing upon the air in backdrops of lush green meadows and pristine waterfalls. Each figure was marked with exceptional detail, from the scales upon a mermaid's tail to the hues of a pixie's flesh, so lifelike and inviting Kyle felt he could reach out and feel the warmth underneath his fingers.
He had never seen such beauty, such skill with color and a brush in all his life, and had never expected to find it in such a nondescript corner of the West. Kyle found himself blatantly staring at the walls, seemingly the only one in the crowded saloon entranced by the mural, and he barely registered David concluding his tale.
"The funniest part of it is--Kid, are you listening?" He felt a rap against his shoulders, breaking Kyle out of his reverie, snapping back into reality as if from a dream. David was always up for being the storyteller, but only if he had a captive audience. "The funniest part is why Joey was in Prescott in the first place. You want to give away the punchline, Joe?" he asked, looking over to his right; Joey was already hungrily eying the poker tables in the back of the saloon.
With a knowing snicker, having supplied this detail many times before during David's retellings, Joey answered, his gaze flitting over to Kyle. "I was there to rob the bank."
No one appreciated the irony in this statement more than David, who broke out into a loud laugh, slapping his hand against his thigh in amusement and momentarily catching the attention of the other patrons of the establishment. "The Dr. and I just happened to get there first," he explained through his laughter, tiny, genuine creases lining the corners of his eyes, a rare sight to witness the notorious outlaw so happy.
"David Cook, are you telling that same, tired old story again?" rang out a voice from the crowd, a lilting, musical tone that contrasted so starkly with the rough masculine voices echoing throughout the saloon. "Aren't you tired yet of hearing yourself speak?"
Out from a sea of nameless grunts came a woman draped in black, from the tough bulls' leather on her boots to every stitch in her elegant yet simple dress. The neckline of her dress plunged as deep as her sleeves curved high, revealing the delicate, pale skin of her arms and above her chest, as daring and dangerous as her title of owner and proprietor of the Fallen. Even her hair was black, a dark, haunting contrast to her skin, running long and free of traditional decorum down her back, only adding to the mystic allure of her striking blue eyes the color of the mural's deep oceans. Upon her right arm was a tattoo of a woman much like herself, with white skin, midnight black hair and delicate features that were as potent in their strength as their beauty. It was the same face upon her upper arm, Kyle realized, as was in the center of the mural, directly behind the bar, a woman warrior of the Orient in dashing, colorful robes, a deadly sword in one hand while the other gestured temptingly towards the viewer.
Years after the fact Kyle was finally goaded to admit he had been a little in love with Carly Smithson when he first laid eyes upon her, but even he was wise enough to realize she was well out of his league.
Not many souls in the West could provide such tart words to David Cook and live to tell about it, but she was certainly one of them, loud and unapologetically controlled, the Fallen saloon her kingdom and she its sovereign. Hands confidently on her hips, she waited for David to approach her instead of coming up to the man herself, a satisfied smirk on her lips indicating she was well aware of her power within those walls. There may have been rowdy, rough men frequenting her saloon, and there may have been many a time she washed blood off the beautiful images along the walls, but she made it clear she was always in control.
Seeing their humble hostess put an entirely different smile on David's face, and his arm slipped from Kyle's shoulders to approach Carly, arms outstretched, voice booming with the joy of reunion. "Ah, the merry widow herself," he beamed, ducking down into a mock bow at her skirts before taking her up in a bear hug. "How is my dear Irish lass faring these days?"
"Much better after seeing your wretched mug around these parts again," she said out of relief, accepting the embrace of the dear friend who lived such a dangerous life.
Just as Carly was one of the few souls still breathing who could playfully insult David, he was one of the few men brave enough to remind Carly Smithson of her departed husband. The rugged idealist who had brought his Irish picture bride into the dangerous frontiers of the West had succumbed to illness before ever seeing his dream of managing his own saloon come to fruition. Carly had taken up his cause as if it were her own, the saloon flourishing under her own name and management but always retaining the spirit of the original owner through the elaborate mural lining the saloon's walls, his beloved bride at the center of it all in more ways than one. There were rumors Carly still pined for him, and rumors on the other end of the scale that she had happily poisoned the man into illness to escape her marriage contract. David, one of the few people who took the time to discover the woman behind the legends and find a friend in the process, knew Carly's true story landed far more into a gray area, a tale much more complicated than any rumor could fabricate.
The other Kings followed suit and gave their warm introductions to Carly, and Kyle thought it best to follow along, nervous hands in his pockets as he looked everywhere but the group of friends reuniting and catching up on the months missed among them. Neal gave a cocky smirk and demanded dinner, to which Carly wittily replied without a beat that the kitchen was closed for the evening, but he was welcome to the hogs' trough if he desired. She carefully warned Andy with a wink to keep the Dr. on a tight tether, and immediately whispered the status of the back wall's poker game into Joey's ear as they embraced; only then did she notice the fifth of their fold, straggling behind and taking a great interest in her late husband's masterpiece.
"David, you damn oaf," she curved her lips into a smirk, blue eyes honing in on Kyle, piercing him like an arrow bolting him to the spot. "You haven't introduced me."
"Him?" David quirked an eyebrow at the kid, as sheepish and shy as the first day he approached the Kings; David had to remember not every man was as immune or accustomed to Carly's striking features as he. "That's just the Kid, you'll get to know him soon enough."
"How do you know he's with us?" joked Andy, a skeptical look on his face as Joey went to the poker tables to join the gamblers and Neal made his way to the bar to join the drinkers. "Maybe he's our hostage."
Carly replied flatly, her deep Irish accent ringing true through her voice when she was happy. "Neal doesn't take hostages," she pointed out. "If that were the case, he'd probably have shot him by now."
"Trust me, ma'am," Kyle found whatever courage he had been holding onto since joining the Kings and spoke up, pulling his hat down from his head out of courtesy. "It's not for lack of trying."
David ignored Neal's shout of protest against the defamation of his good name, the sharpshooter already ordering a round of liquor for the outlaws. "This," he presented, ushering Carly over to the kid as he seemed to be rooted to the spot. "is Kyle Peek, our horse handler, our camp manager, our invaluable lookout." Kyle couldn't tell what was making him blush more: Carly's bright eyes taking him in, or David's glowing introduction, which made him feel more like a part of the Kings than anything had before. "Kyle, this is Carly Smithson, Dublin-born and raised, esteemed proprietor of the saloon of the Fallen, and an absolute cheat at cribbage."
"You lie!" she accused, giving David a playful shove.
"She's also irascibly violent."
"Ma'am," Kyle gave his greeting politely, tipping his head slightly towards her and trying not to focus on her striking eyes, or her breasts, or any part of her that might make him less of a gentleman.
Carly couldn't remember the last time a man had been so courteous to her without expectations; she had come to think all etiquette in the territories had gone out of fashion. "There's finally a decent one among you," she commented.
"Hey!" protested David, putting on a playful pout, the two bantering like siblings. "I'm fucking decent!"
With a leering smile Carly leaned over to plant a dramatic kiss against David's cheek, silently thankful that fate and the law had not yet caught up with him and she was free to have this moment with her friend. "Then the next time you say hello to me, remember to say it to my face," she joked, and roughly cupped her chest in her palms. "And not these."
David mimicked her gesture, palms spread against his own chest indulgently. "I could request the same courtesy."
"Five minutes in the saloon, and you're already fondling yourself in front of women," Andy teased, shaking his head as he went off to the bar to retrieve his share of the first round.
Watching the exchange unfold before him, the hard, ruthless outlaw and the no-nonsense woman playfully spar in a test of wits and laughter, Kyle felt a pang of sympathy for the leader of the Kings that had grown to become his friend. It had been two weeks since David had told him the full story of his love affair with Kelly, the quick, mad passion that had overtook them and the great sadness and regret he held over leaving her. Kyle remembered every word, every emotion that washed over David's face as if it were his own love story, the outlaw who was quickly becoming legend in the West revealing a vulnerability about himself few knew even existed. It was a comforting feeling for Kyle that someone who had experienced tragedy and heartbreak like David could be granted these small moments of happiness, to tell a beloved tale and laugh with an old friend.
"Carly here," David continued his introduction, slinging an arm across her shoulders. "Is the master artist round these parts. Gave me every inch of ink I've got." To prove this, David pulled up the sleeve of his cotton shirt, the heavy fabric only revealing one of the tattoos that adorned his body, the unblinking, ever-watchful eye across his wrist, so large and life-like it felt indeed like David Cook always had an eye on the world, even in sleep; even would in death. Kyle had seen all of the tattoos along David's arms and chest by now, from the initials against his bicep mirroring the design along the barrel of his gun to the colorful eagle on the other side, decrying honor and loyalty as David's most treasured values. Though not nearly as apparent as the Dr.'s tattoos, David found a comfort and an identity in each piece; it told Kyle a world about Carly Smithson's close friendship with the outlaw as well as her skill as an artist that she created them all.
Peering over at David's wrist, Carly admired her own handiwork, observing how the inked colors had faded over time and thinking of ways to improve her technique when the outlaw inevitably decided to come back for another. "They're good enough," she humbled, attempting to pull open David's collar to get a personal view of the condition of her other masterpieces, much to his resistance. "But there have been better." A flash of wistful sadness crossed over her face, visible only to Kyle who was unable to take his eyes off her, as she indicated towards her own arm, the Oriental warrior woman tattooed there echoing the elegance of the figures along the pub's walls.
But in another instant the expression faded, the memories retreating back to their hiding places within her mind, the sadness she learned long ago she must overcome, and move on. "Never thought I'd see the day I'd be happy to slap you for your cheek, Cook," said Carly, the bright smile spread across her features making her appear youthful, like the girl who ran barefoot along the emerald green hills of Ireland and less the wise, experienced woman the West had forced her to become. David presented the side of his face to her, a playful gesture to allow her the honor, but she pinched him instead, garnering an unexpected yelp from him. "With all the stories about you lately, I was sure the only way I'd see you again was a public execution."
There was the talk about executions again; Kyle swallowed the lump forming in his throat at just the sound of that word on Carly's lips, reflexively loosening his collar that had suddenly started to feel like a noose. David, however, focused on a different part of Carly's sentiments. "Stories?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Someone's been writing about us?"
"More than one someone," she noted, walking over to a reading table in the far end of the saloon, framed by the greasy glass of a windowframe. It was the quietest section of the saloon, the others shying away from both the sunlight and the neat stack of newspapers atop the desk, the only area in the building Carly could find some peace for herself. The weekly newspapers she received by stagecoach weren't the best means of finding news of the world outside of the Fallen, but they were more reliable than the whispered rumors and whiskey-fueled rants supplied to her by her patrons. Quickly shuffling through the stack, she found what she had been looking for, and handed a sheet to David.
There were indeed stories, and from more than one publication: the Kings had been a popular topic of the sensational journalism that ran as rampant in the West as the outlaws themselves, but now nearly every issue Carly handed to him had a mention of their exploits. Kyle peered over David's shoulder to catch the headlines, most reporting on the funds lost at each heist and the people killed or injured along the way--which, as he noticed, were always exaggerated, and in all the reported fatalities since he joined, completely fabricated. He looked down at the similar byline for each article; guess this Seacrest reporter fellow had to find some way to sell papers.
"Well, I'll be," David couldn't hide the grin spreading across his face, his satisfaction on a deeper level than simple egotism and pride. It was one thing to see your name in bold-face type in the papers, committing crimes he would have had to live a thousand lives to truthfully accomplish; it was quite another knowing that someone else was possibly noticing your name as well. "Andy hasn't been keeping his eye out for these headlines, I told him to pick up a 'pape whenever he saw the Kings mentioned." He noted that each article mentioned the calling card he painstakingly left at each robbery, the single playing card that sensationalist journalists like this Seacrest used to give a burgeoning outlaw gang a name, a dashing identity to match their growing fame. David hoped that she paid mind to it, as well.
"It's how I knew he was with you," Carly motioned towards Kyle, who had still been reading over David's shoulder about an eyewitness account of their Colorado Springs heist, quoted by Seacrest giving warnings to bankers across the West to take caution, lest they get caught unprepared for the Kings to arrive at their door. When she mentioned the young Californian he brought his attentions once again to rest upon her features, Carly's skin glowing pale in the grimy daylight streaming through the window; he had tried to focus on subjects other than the beautiful woman escorting the outlaws around the Fallen, but once that connection was made, Kyle found himself remiss to break it.
"They mention me?" Kyle asked incredulously.
Carly smiled as she nodded over to a yellowed newspaper within the stack, not yet scanned by David and Kyle's eyes. She couldn't determine if Kyle's personality overlaid a deliberate naivete, or if the months riding with the Kings still hadn't hammered out that precious cluelessness of a greenhorn. David Cook sure did know how to pick them. "The Atlanta Gazette," she indicated, and sure enough once David procured the correct newspaper they found an article filled with speculative prose and needless cliffhangers on each paragraph, questioning the rumors of another rider's arrival into the gang. "Said there were four riders now, definitely spotted at more than one robbery." She smirked at David, remembering her own thoughts when she had read of their latest exploits. "Didn't know you were recruiting, David."
It wasn't a remark that required any snide retort, though it was a rare occurrence when he didn't have a lewd comeback against Carly Smithson's conversation. David simply took the time to skim the article in silence, wondering far less about their names in the papers and more about what these developments meant for their future. Adding Kyle to their ranks now meant that there were four Kings visible to the public eye, giving substance to the wisps of previous rumors of a fourth rider among them, the often overlooked accounts of witnesses seeing Andy ride with David, Joey and Neal. If this satisfied the public's curiosity over their fourth rider, as the articles seemed to indicate, then there would be even less of a chance that snooping reporters--or those with the mind to catch more than a story--would look for evidence of Andy's existence, of his part in their successful heists. The shadow of the Kings would be as stealthy and effective as ever, and now, no one would even attempt to look for him.
"This is perfect," he expressed his thoughts aloud, eyes widening with the possibilities. They could hit every town from here to the Rio Grande if they wanted; David could find himself in the papers so often Kelly could get sick of hearing about him. "I could kiss you right now, Carls."
A dirty smile played on her lips, oblivious to the heat rising in Kyle's face at the mere mention of someone kissing Carly Smithson. "I think you'd have to bring that up with Michael first, Davey," she said coyly. There had never been anything romantic between them, nor would there ever be, but the free, shameless flirtation between good friends was something they both found comforting, teasing quips and jabs at each other that clearly showed their affection.
David raised an eyebrow over the headlines. "Michael? Still?" The slight blush that washed over Carly's cheeks, evident only because of her fair skin, told him her given nickname as the merry widow was not too far off. "The last time I saw you two, you were trying to bludgeon him to death with a cooking pot."
Carly shrugged. "He deserved it."
The smile on David's face widened and was unmistakably lewd; being in Carly's vicinity seemed to coax that out of him. "I'm taking it you made up?"
"Multiple times."
Her gaze unconsciously flitted over to the bar, catching view of the tall bartender behind it keeping up conversation with Andy and Neal. She smiled when he returned her stare though she had not meant to reveal such an indication of affection; letting anyone besides David in the bar know about her extra-professional relations could lead to dicey situations. The West thought of her romantic life as that of legend and rumors carried by the wind; she would not be the one to contradict them.
It was a quick, unconscious notion that turned Carly's head, but one that did not go completely unnoticed: the gesture, that smile she gave to the bartender was all picked up by Kyle, his instant infatuation with the owner of the Fallen running its course in a silent, crushing end. His fantasies of igniting a mad love affair with the older Irish woman were doused before they ever caught flame. He looked sullenly between Carly and her handsome bartender, wishing for a love of his own, to have the adventurous life of an outlaw and a woman to call his own, like David had.
But romance in the untamed, treacherous West, as Kyle learned, certainly had its price: he could have said David Cook had it all, but the statement would never ring true until he was reunited with Kelly, if ever at all. Kyle wasn't sure if he could bear to find love on the open plain only to have it ripped from him, like Carly's husband, or forced to separate and speak only through letters and criminal exploits in the papers, like David and Kelly. And he only had to look so far as to Neal and Andy to remember how complicated love could be even when you found it.
"All right there, Kid?" Kyle was snapped out of his reflections by Carly's lilting voice, her concerned tone calling him not by his name but by the moniker David gave to him that seemed to stick despite any attempts otherwise. "You look like you could use a drink."
He let Carly lead him towards the bar, trying not to reflect too forlornly on the guiding hand she placed on his shoulder, suspecting it would be the only opportunity he had to experience her touch. The bartender grinned as they approached, a cool, professional exterior giving way to the unmistakable attraction in his eyes for the Kings' hostess. He seemed friendly enough, openly chatting and laughing with Neal and Andy, his accented voice loud but not obnoxiously so. Kyle decided it was a fair loss, to a worthy man who seemed to have genuine feelings for Carly and she for him, though he neglected to remind himself that there was no battle to win or lose here; he had never even been in the running.
"Who the damn hell are you!"
The shout boomed over the hearty rumble of voices in the Fallen, and stopped Carly and Kyle in their tracks. It wasn't unusual for an argument to arise over a hand of cards or a wrong turn in conversation, especially late into the night when there was more liquor inside the patrons than behind the bar. But the windows, grimy and neglected as they were, revealed daylight through their glass panes, and from the hairs rising on the back of Kyle's neck he felt that the accusation wasn't over something as innocuous as a card game.
The bar fell into silence, quiet enough to hear a single man breathe, to hear the scrape of a chair and two boot heels on the wooden floor as one man stood in the back of the saloon. He was stout and squat, with his substantial weight composed more of fat than muscle, his short legs indicating to Kyle that whatever horse he owned was probably small, and strained to weather the burden of that girth upon its back. He frowned; from the angry, unprovoked sneer upon his lips and the unintelligent sheen in his eyes, Kyle bet that the man was cruel to his animal on top of it.
He took a few steps forward, the pints of ale in him emboldening his step but not enough yet to cause them to stumble. Kyle felt the hand on his shoulder tighten its grip, then disappear, as Carly clenched her jaw. It was clear from the pudgy finger pointed where they had been standing exactly who this man was challenging.
David didn't even flinch, not even an eyebrow raised at the accusation; the man was clearly not much of a threat, or he wouldn't have waited so long since the Kings's arrival to the Fallen to stir up trouble. Even so, his face was a stone slab, the happiness Kyle saw there before as he joked with Carly completely gone, as if David Cook never had a pleasant memory in his life. But this wasn't the same man that had smiled and laughed before him a moment ago; this was now the legendary outlaw, the leader of the ruthless and gravely successful bank robbing gang, and with a grit of his teeth Kyle knew with a sad certainty David had set that happier man within him aside.
"Didn't know I needed to be formally introduced," he answered, eyes keenly aware and watching the other man's every move. "Have the rules of conduct changed since I've been here last? Is this now a black-tie establishment?"
The other man's sneer grew deeper and more pronounced, small eyes narrowing as he took another step forward. "You know what the fuck I'm talking about, Cook," he shot out, emphasizing his distaste by spitting on the floor, obviously of the breed of man who believed true masculinity came from those who didn't swallow.
His expression of machismo had no effect on David, but the utterance of his name from the man's lips surely did. "So you do know who I am," he said with a click of his tongue, crossing his arms against his chest casually while taking inventory of the man, as well as any saloon patrons behind him that may be his associates. "If we're talking about rules of conduct here, it's really not prudent to ask a question to which you already know the answer." His tone was undeniably condescending, a habit of his that at twenty-six he was too old to break, but he knew not to mock the other man too much, bring him to a place where he felt ridiculed. If this man already had bad blood against David, there was no need to create more. "The real question here is...who in the hell are you."
Disgusted that his own reputation did not precede him nearly as much as David Cook's, he hooked his thumbs into his belt, pridefully puffing out his chest as much as he could, though the effort only caused his belly to protrude even farther past his waistline than before. "The name's Scott Savol." David couldn't place the name but he knew the cockiness in the man's stance and his tone of voice well enough; he experienced it with every bounty hunter to fall at his hand. "You better remember it, 'cause it's the name of the man who's about to bring you down."
For a lesser man it would have been difficult not to laugh in Savol's face at the remark, but David took every threat, frivolous though it may be, as if it could be the last. "No one's going to bring anyone down today," he negotiated; his words were quickly conciliatory but there was no mistaking the dangerous, low growl of his voice, the darkness clouding over his eyes, staining what was once a brilliant, joyful blue-green a dull, threatening gray. "I'm going to get myself a drink. You're going to sit back down in that chair. And we're going to pretend this never happened."
Savol, hell-bent on causing a scene, overlooked the menacing darkness washing over David's face and continued into a rant. "You're not telling me to do shit. You think you're the best damn bank robber that ever was, just because you're the fucking papes' darling." David realized he was no lawman or bounty hunter, for even the most bumbling of the men after the price on his head knew better than to confront him in a crowded saloon. He was probably a thief himself, David considered, who through no less than a miracle was a successful one, but neither his crimes nor his name ever graced the pages of a newspaper like the Kings. That's what this was all about: face time. "But you've just got a name and a shit reputation."
"I guess I've got a good publicist," David deadpanned, his face stoically still. The bar was dead silent save for the two. Some men wanted to see Savol run his mouth until David split it open; some were banking on the notorious outlaw to be taken down a peg, also jealous of the gang's fame and success. Most didn't care who won; they just wanted to see blood.
"Not good enough to get that pretty bounty off your head." Another step forward; David caught in his peripheral vision the slightest movement from the bar, from the crowd of blackjack players in the back. The other Kings were paying careful attention to how close Savol dared to get as well. "David Cook. Leader of the Kings. At least a dozen men dead by your gun -"
"Don't want to make it thirteen, fella," David warned, mouth curving into a sneer, though Kyle had seen the flash of emotion in his eyes, a shock that he could have killed twelve people in the years he had been an outlaw. In truth, the tally was probably higher.
But that flash was gone when Savol took another step, leaving behind only the experienced, cold outlaw who had earned those notches on his gun, even if he was not proud of them. "- And that's not to mention the bank robberies you're wanted for, all over the territories. You racked up quite a bounty on your head; got every damn sheriff from here to Tularosa clamorin' for your neck in a noose."
David narrowed his eyes; he knew where this was heading, and he didn't like the sound of it. He wouldn't be caught in a hangman's noose, not now; not when the letters still came, when there was someone still to live for. Scott Savol should have come to him five years ago: David would have gladly given him the rights to the bounty and the glory of bringing the deadly outlaw to his end.
But now, he couldn't bear to imagine the blow it would cause to Kelly if she had to read of her love's execution in the newspaper.
"You don't want to do this, partner." It was the last warning David would give the man, devoid of emotion, his left hand already itching to reach for the revolver at his side.
Savol's tone grew harsh, his sneer downturning into a primal scowl. "I ain't your partner," he shot back. "And those wanted posters back in Canyon City say the bounty's just as good dead or alive -"
He reached for the pistol at his hip but was dreadfully too slow. Neal and Andy reached for their guns first, the pair keeping a keen eye on the argument by the bar to Savol's left and behind. If they had been on his other side Neal could have shot the gun clean away from his hand before anyone took another breath, but as it were the Dr. wasn't picky with where on Savol's person he shot. Joey had rested his prized shotgun when he sat down to a game of cards, propping it up by the barrels against the table, but in an instant it was in his hand, ready to aim at the Kings's latest foe. Even Kyle felt the instinctual pull to draw the pistols at his sides, his head abuzz with adrenaline as he thought not of his shooting lessons, but only of backing up David with extra firepower, a King protecting one of his own.
But there was one gunslinger in the saloon, unnoticed during the standoff, that managed to outdraw all of them, and Scott Savol felt more than heard the cock of the Derringer's hammer as the barrel pressed against his temple.
"Savol, you no-good, lazy, terrible excuse for an outlaw." Carly Smithson's lilting Irish accent grew deeper and more pronounced when she was angry, spitting out the words with a fire behind them that brought her all the way back to Dublin. Kyle hadn't needed another reason for his infatuation with Carly, but with the expert way she trained the small pistol on Savol and the bundle of her skirts bunched in her free hand, revealing the hidden thigh holster at her garter, he certainly found quite an eyeful.
No one had watched the owner of the Fallen silently make her way out of Savol's sight line, reaching for the Derringer while David outmatched him in a battle of words. Often underestimated, Carly had shown time and time again--with her successful saloon, her independence over her love life--she was a force to be reckoned with. "You think you can just walk into my saloon and threaten any man here with their freedom--with their life?" The fact that the Kings were good friends of hers had no bearing on her anger; her saloon had become a safe haven for outlaws, the laws and bounties of the West existing outside of its walls, never to be invited in. The Fallen was the one of the best-kept secrets for those on the other side of the law, and Carly intended to keep it that way.
Savol stammered, his courage gone in the face of real weaponry pointed at his temple. He began to sweat, the fear in his small, beady eyes suddenly very real. It would be one thing to attempt hauling in the Kings to justice and getting cut down in the process; quite another to be killed begging for your life by a woman. "You're such a coward," she sneered, disgusted at the instant transformation from tough man to blubbering idiot. If he never had a gun trained on him before, he must not have been such an excellent thief. "Been waiting a long time for you to give me a reason to kick you out of here. You like talking about undeserved publicity? How about your bragging in this bar, about the crimes you've committed, the places you've hit; the people you've said you've robbed up and down this trail."
He came in periodically, often enough for Carly to attach a name and the unpleasant disposition with the equally unappealing face, and each time he attracted a small audience to hear of his latest exploits in crime, whether it be a successful stagecoach robbery or looting the treasury of a rich carpetbagger. It was clear from the increasing elaborations of each heist that Savol spent more time running off at the mouth than pulling off a job worth anyone's breath. "The only time I've ever heard you were even worth a lawman's second glance is over beating your wife." She leaned in with a scowl, her voice low for effect; she didn't want to get any closer to Savol than she had to. "I should let you loose on these men now, let them tear you to pieces, because knowing them? I'm the one who'd be more merciful."
Time itself seemed to stop for those moments, a heavy silence falling onto the crowd as Carly contemplated her next move, the only sound a pitiful whimpering from Savol, almost wishing he had been done in by the Kings instead; then at least his death might have been quick, and possibly not so humiliating. He waited for the gunshot, for the Derringer's bullet to pierce his skull and end it at the miserable hands of a woman, but it never came, the gun barrel warming from the sweat pouring down his temple.
Carly pushed him away with the butt of the gun, holding back the impulse to crack him over the head with the pistol, watching Savol stumble cowardly away. She would have had to clean up the blood, anyway, and there was no way in hell she'd dirty up her late husband's mural with Savol's worthless hide. "You're leaving," she ordered, her voice loud and demanding, the light, musical tone Kyle had heard in it when they first arrived hardened and cold. "Walk your corpulent ass out of this bar; walk it out of this town. Walk the hell out of the territory, if you know what's good for you. Because if I ever see your face again--" Carly narrowed her eyes, the Derringer in her hand not nearly as deadly as her glare. "--you'll not be walking anywhere."
A sneer formed on Savol's lips, though his feet started their journey towards the saloon door. It didn't matter what bar Carly owned, or how many threatening looks she could shoot him; no woman talked to him that way, not if they understood what was good for them. "Why don't you go back to liftin' your skirt and serving drinks," he threw the comment back. "A woman's place ain't never holding a gun on a man--"
And in an instant Savol had more than just Carly's Derringer trained on him: the standoff was well under Carly's control until that moment, the one time when her ability as a woman was challenged, and five other guns came to her defense. The Kings finally drew their weapons, a fearsome sight with each man capable at a moment's notice to revoke Carly's gracious generosity in letting Scott Savol live.
"No one talks like that to her," the words escaped Kyle's mouth before he could censor himself, but when he looked back on them and the smile of gratitude Carly gave him afterwards, he didn't regret one word.
"The lady asked you to leave," was David's official response to Savol's actions, the growl in his voice far more personal now that a friend had been involved. He cocked the hammer on his revolver slowly, making sure Savol heard the click, could feel the chambers in the gun turning to a fresh new bullet. "I suggest you take her up on the offer while it's still available to you."
Sensing he was clearly outnumbered and outmatched--and none of the barflies that had goaded him into confronting the leader of the Kings would jump to his aid now--Savol backed up until his frame hit the door to the saloon, startled by the contact, and took the rest of the distance to his nag at a scampering run. He dared not show his face at the Fallen again, knowing he would not be welcome if he returned. Any outlaw, regardless of their station or the severity of their crimes, never looked kindly upon a thief who decided to go turncoat on another.
With his narrowed eyes on the door, David lowered his revolver, the threat now gone but the adrenaline that kept his body alert and his mind wary still running its course. This wasn't the first time the outlaws had faced someone with fame and fortune sparked in their eyes, and it wouldn't be the last. Grimly, he reminded himself that Savol was certainly one of the easier bounty hunters to handle: no shots fired, no blood spilled. Most encounters weren't so fortunate or so lucky.
Just as he holstered his gun David felt a sharp poke at his side; he turned, caught off-guard at the prospect of another standoff, but this one was far less deadly than the last--though much more terrifying.
"And you," Carly scowled, poking a long finger into David's ribs, her other hand still holding onto the Derringer; David supposed it was a good sign she wasn't accosting him with the barrel of the gun, that at least meant she didn't intend to shoot him over his transgressions. "You know better than to pull a damn gun in this saloon. It's difficult enough trying to keep order here, I don't need you adding to the trouble."
"But -" David tried to protest, but Carly cut him off. Now it was his turn to look like the reprimanded child; Kyle had to react quickly to hide a snicker behind his palm.
"Don't try to tell me he started it," she warned, finger now waggling in David's face. "He is a bottom-dwelling, conniving, unpleasant waste of breath who will probably get himself killed before he even reaches the border. And you -"
"I," David interrupted, the harshness in his voice completely gone out the door with Savol, his eyes softening to let his sympathy shine through. "Am your friend." He grasped Carly's offending finger in both hands, his words sincere. David knew Carly's plight, the struggles of an Irish immigrant widow making it on her own in a wild land where nearly everything was held against her favor. She worked hard to maintain not only the physical walls of the Fallen but also the respect she earned that kept them standing. The saloon and everything in it wasn't just a career for Carly, it was her past--David looked over towards the bar at Michael, who was shooting daggers with his eyes where Savol had stood, one hand underneath the bar where David knew he kept his rifle for emergencies--and her future.
David's admission softened the angry lines in Carly's face, melting her scowl into a perturbed pout. "You owe me," she said, taking her hand back from David and pulling up her skirts once more to holster the Derringer in her garter. Kyle gulped, realizing that was quite a lucky Derringer.
His smile turned wicked once again, the somberness broken, the tension-filled moment passed. "Owe you what?" he asked with a wink. "I don't do sexual favors, Carls; my body's not for sale."
Carly wrinkled her nose as if David's words just released a foul odor into the air. "Ew," she noted with a disgusted expression, but she smiled underneath the grimace, pleased to return to their normal banter, like the calm of the open seas after threats of a terrible storm. "It'd be a favor if you never mention that again, Cook." But she gave David a parting wink as she returned her hand to Kyle's shoulder, guiding him towards the bar as if the encounter with Savol had never happened. If not for the pistol in his hand and the blood still thumping in his ears over the standoff, Kyle wouldn't have recognized the moment as anything different, either. "But you know what you owe. And I expect it by last call."
Indeed, David knew well what Carly requested to repay his debt of lost respect, but he held it in with a knowing little smile throughout the night, without giving Kyle so much as an inkling to Carly's desire. Kyle soon forgot about the promise altogether, the debt pushed to the back of his mind to make room for stories and laughter among his fellow Kings, reveling in the freedom to enjoy a drink with the other four outlaws without worry or threat. He loved the outlaw life, the thrill and excitement he had always yearned for, but the endless weeks traveling aimlessly on the open plain, running from the dangers their excitement begat, made moments like this ones to be treasured.
The quick and steady flow of liquor from Carly's top shelf--only the best for her boys, she declared as she playfully ruffled Neal's hair, the only woman in the country offered that privilege--allowed Kyle's inhibitions to dissipate along with his doubts and worries, the anxiety he sometimes felt lowering with each hearty laugh over David's stories, Andy's tales of gossip, Joey's loud, corny jokes. The melancholy he experienced over losing the chance with Carly before it ever began lessened as well, watching the easy, loving touches between her and Michael when they thought no one else was looking, their heartwarming laughter and light, witty retorts quite different from the ones between Carly and David. Carly Smithson was breathtaking, he'd go to his grave admitting that, but Kyle knew any man who tried to stand in the way of love was a damn fool.
David looked at the same couple, Carly complaining about her heavy skirts being the current yet uncomfortable fashion and Michael coyly offering to remove them for her if she so pleased, and came to the same conclusion as Kyle; he had been the fool for standing in the way of his own love, once.
It was well into the night before Carly's retribution was mentioned again, the mirrored oil lamps scattered around the saloon sending shadows across the walls, a warm orange glow that reminded Kyle of California sunsets, of home. The sounds of tankards clinking together in inebriated celebration and familiar, friendly voices filled his ears, and Carly pointed out the uncontrollable smile spreading across his face before he even noticed it was there. But it was the sound of soft music notes floating through the buzz of the Fallen's crowd that caught their attention, the dance of skilled fingers against piano keys unmistakable to anyone who had heard it before.
"Ah," Carly said with a grin, her eyes wide and dancing in anticipation. "Here's my present."
Kyle looked over to the far corner of the saloon, an upright piano of sturdy oak standing tall and vigilant; a common staple in drinking houses across the West, though most were horribly abused by the drunk and untalented, mistaking absurdity and noise for true entertainment. An avid lover of music, Carly never allowed laymen to put fingers to those keys lest they hammer the poor instrument irrevocably out of tune. It was reserved for a special few who proved their worth and talent, her Michael being one of them; the first time they had kissed had been at that piano, hours after the last call, Carly falling far into a trance from the beauty of Michael's music and never emerging again.
But this was not Michael at the keys: instead it was a slender young man, his black clothes dusty from the desert trails, back curving towards the piano as a flower to the light. A stray lock of dark hair fell into his face but he paid it no mind, the black and white keys before him calling his fingers to them, calling them home. The slightest hint of a smile graced his lips, fingers playing a quick chord and a run to acclimate himself; he was, after all, blissfully out of practice.
The player's head faced the keys, shielded from view, but Kyle could recognize the familiar figure anywhere by now, and his eyes widened in wonder as Andy's music filled the room, bringing the saloon to quite a different kind of silence than when Savol disrupted the merriment earlier in the day.
"Wow," he found himself saying, awestruck at not only the technical talent Andy was exhibiting, but the emotion he put forth into the music, creating and projecting in a way he hadn't allowed himself for years. "Never knew he was that good."
A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder; Neal's eyes held an admiration Kyle had never seen in them before as he watched Andy at the piano, and there was something indefinable in his smile as his heart swelled. "Oh, he's a lot better than just good," he corrected, never taking his eyes off Andy.
The tune was unfamiliar to Kyle, but that was no surprise to him: on the Peek ranch in California he found little time or opportunity to hear the popular songs of the day, the concert halls and music taverns in town a rare luxury for him. He found a love of music not through the keys of a piano or a concert orchestra, but in the simple, earthy rhythms of the world around him: the staccato of a horse's hooves as they galloped towards the sun, the slow, steady beats of a drenching rain against a tin roof.
Kyle did not know the melody Andy played but the others did, their smiles and nods of assent increasing with the crescendo of the notes. He let the music flow inside him, accepting it into his heart and stomach by way of his ears, a soft tune Andy started deliberately slow, then sped up as it increased in intensity. Before Kyle knew it his body was responding in the best way it knew how, tapping his palms against the bar to the rhythm, complementing the piano’s notes with a timely beat. The other outlaws and the rest of the crowd responded with a good cheer to Kyle’s contribution, his grin wide and giddy as he fell into the drumbeat. When he banged his metal tankard against a dinner plate with a resounding and pleasant crash, he almost thought he felt a kiss upon his cheek from the merry widow herself, though he was too engrossed in the music by now to notice.
The entire saloon was enraptured by the music, the Kings’s gift to Carly and to themselves, to relax and enjoy a night of freedom while they had it. Joey had chimed in with a steady, deep stomp of his feet to accompany Kyle’s rhythm, and even the Dr., typically excusing himself from public attraction and self-humiliation alike, nodded his head vigorously to the music, stepping away from an occupied Kyle as he approached the piano, flashing a toothy grin. But it wasn’t until David Cook’s voice rose over it all that the saloon brightened, his words and melody breathing life into the Fallen.
“Break your neck for some substance…”
Haunting, gritty, and real, David’s voice seemed to bear the weight of his history in its timbre, the volume soft and mournful at first, each note a eulogy to those who had fallen: the men he killed, the family for whom he killed. His eyes were closed as if pained by the memories, the very words themselves; he had been through so much, they all had, and each moment was brought forth in his voice, emotions so great they filled men’s eyes with tears.
“This is temporary sanity, an exercise in vanity. So long to the ordinary day, wrought with fictitious tales of how there’s any other way…”
His voice cracked then, the strong timbre giving way to emotion as he reluctantly reflected on the last line in the verse. He tempted his mind every day with fantasies of what could have been: if the lawman had left his family alone, intact, and alive; if David had never followed him, intent on the type of revenge only spilt blood could offer; if he accepted Kelly’s request and stayed with her, taken all of these years to fall deeper in love. He thought on these possibilities every day, but at every sunset the outcome was always the same, and he was still an outlaw, leading a life that at best would get him killed. The other roads he dreamed about were not his; they never were. No matter what David desired, there was no other way but this one, leading these men through the West and into the newspapers and history books. He might trade the lifestyle, yes, but never the loyalty. Never the companionship.
The clench of Andy’s jaw slackened when David began to sing, his clear, true voice taking center stage and mingling perfectly with the piano and Kyle’s impromptu accompaniment. He had stepped up to the piano as a favor, knowing his place at Carly’s establishment forever lay there at that bench, but when the eyes of the saloon drew upon him he wished he had never revealed his talent in the first place. He was fifteen at his parent’s house all over again, playing for a crowd of strangers watching his every move, and he wished to shrink his slender frame further into the bench, curve his back lower towards the keys until he could disappear. He certainly preferred being the observer over being the observed.
He felt his presence before seeing the flash of blond hair and red leather boots beside the piano, watching Andy play intently, always entranced at the rare occasions he was privileged to see him in his element. Andy took a quick turn of his head and smiled, Neal already reciprocating the grin. Just his company alone emboldened Andy, made everyone else in the saloon fall away, and suddenly he didn’t feel so averse to being watched anymore. His voice chimed in with David’s, his harmony not as strong or resonating but holding a uniqueness in itself, drawing depth out of the second verse.
“Hold on to anything at all; it’s a long way down between the summer and the fall…”
He tried not to look Neal in the eye for so long while he was singing, as if Andy were singing directly to him, but he found his efforts futile; Neal wouldn’t let him look away.
“If I told you that you’re everything, would you sing along?”
Kyle shared a grin with Joey from across the room, his enthusiasm for finding the song’s rhythm and running with it not lost on the crowd, who cheered and waved with every crash of the tankard to dinner plate, every animalistic run of beats fueled by his heart. He hadn’t even been paying attention to the main attraction in the room until David had snuck up on him, approached him with a sly, knowing smile. The mournfulness in his voice was gone now, replaced with an energy he fed from his fellow Kings, as he poked a finger at Kyle and directly sang to him the repeated proposition.
“Would you sing along?”
And sitting there, surrounded by sounds, great drink and even greater friends, Kyle knew he would follow the Kings until his dying breath.
By now the entire crowd was eager to join in the revelry, though many did not know the words in order to participate. But they waved their hands all the same when David enticed them to, a satisfied, adoring grin flashed over to Neal and Andy as they all basked in the camaraderie.
“Would you sing my song, at the top of your lungs…”
The Fallen was in a rare state of bliss that night, the joyous celebrations radiating from the building like warmth from a blazing bonfire, one of the most notorious gangs in all the West leading the saloon in song, the energy coursing through them much different than the thrill of a robbery or chase. In their hearts all five men knew it would be the happiest moment they all spent together, focusing not on bank heists or bounties but on friendship, companionship, and love.
“And we’ll all sing along. We’ll all sing along…”
Chapter 9