Outlaw's Prayer (ch. 13)
Title: Outlaw's Prayer (13/22)
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Skibmann (Neal Tiemann/Andy Skib), Cookson (David Cook/Kelly Clarkson), Kradam (Kris Allen/Adam Lambert), 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: 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
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
"People thought me bad before, but if ever I should get free, I'll let them know what bad means."-- Billy the Kid
When Kyle had first met the Kings, when Neal revealed he would rather shoot him than trust him, Kyle's healthy fear was mixed with a sense of awe that a classically educated observer might call hero worship. The Dr. had been imposing the first morning, watching the plains with a cigarette burning slowly between scowling lips, the revolver with which he never missed his target always present at his side. But this morning outside of Hope Kyle saw something different in the man, his lone silhouette the only indication that humankind had ever visited the barren landscape. Neal didn't look intimidating; Neal looked lonely.
"I slept like the dead last night," Kyle announced, approaching the ridge and its lone guard, Neal sometimes pacing and cursing the passing hours underneath his breath, other times still and silent, as if the slightest move might disrupt the vast, unchanging horizon. It was unwittingly cruel for Kyle to mention his sound sleep, stretching his arms over his head to rouse the limbs back into alertness, especially when Neal had spent the night restlessly, feigning slumber while listening for the sound of horse's hooves or a familiar voice. David should have known better than to send Neal away from watchguard duty and expect him to actually sleep.
"Nice for you," was the mumbled reply, Neal concluding it would take too much energy to get frustrated with Kyle's attempts to make small talk. Kyle, keenly inquisitive and observant in all the ways that did not show him Neal's desire to be alone, interpreted this as his indication to go on.
"Never really slept in on the ranch," he recalled, receiving a shock this morning when he awoke to David making breakfast. He'd have to remember the next time David claimed his corncakes were outstanding, not to take his word for it. "My brother and I were always up before dawn, bringing in the cows for milking, keeping track of the herd. I always--"
"Kyle," Neal interrupted, shaking his head. He didn't attempt to mask the irritation in his voice but there was also a hint of a smile on his face, wondering with amusement where the former ranch hand's anecdote would have led. If he had gotten Neal to crack a smile, just for a moment, Kyle believed it was worth it. "Not another one of your stories, kid."
Despite protesting that it was a good one--which it wasn't, Kyle realized that by now, any tales he could spin about his childhood on the ranch, now that he experienced true adventure, were as bland and unappealing as David's corncakes--Kyle kept his mouth shut, distracting it with a hearty bite of his breakfast. Appetizing or not, it was better than an empty stomach. "You're missing out," he said between chews.
Neal surrendered himself to indulging him, sensing Kyle wasn't going to relent until they had a proper conversation. "Can't believe you're actually eating that," he commented, learning years before that a griddle pan in David's hands was almost as dangerous as a revolver. "Just because his last name's Cook, doesn't mean he actually can."
Shrugging and smiling through a mouthful of food, Kyle tossed the rest of the cake to a desert mouse, scurrying across the landscape in search of its own breakfast. It sniffed tentatively at the morsel, climbing up on its hind legs to investigate, and then decided to leave the corncake untouched. Fine cuisine, it was not. "Better than nothing," he said, a rationale every hungry highwayman adopted during lean months on the open plain. Though the Kings had money to burn, their supplies were running low, and would only be replenished after Andy's return; another reason to watch for an approaching rider.
Kyle watched as a strong gust of wind scattered the dust along the ridge, peppering the untouched corncake with red flecks of clay and sending the little desert mouse retreating back to its home. It blew in cold from the north, a crisp, startling feeling that reminded Kyle more of the coastal winds of California than any breeze they encountered in the desert. "Nice breeze," he said.
Neal narrowed his eyes against the coming wind, tasting the traces of its arctic origin on his lips. "It means a storm's coming." His voice grew serious as he stared out into the distance, the absent member of their gang not the only thing on his mind. "We should probably move everything below this ridge for cover by nightfall if we want to stay anywhere close to dry."
Though the wind kicked up the flyaway strands of Kyle's hair, sending them blowing annoyingly into his face, he searched the skies along with Neal and saw no storm clouds for miles, an unyielding, blue sky the Kings's constant New Mexican companion. Maybe the sleeplessness was getting to Neal. "How do you figure? There isn't a cloud in the sky. I mean, I'm not used to the fall out here, but back in California--"
But this wasn't California, Neal wanted to remind him, not the land of lush fields and fruit groves; not the last stop on any railroad line in the country, forced to cease their endless routes of iron and steel in the face of a vast ocean. They were in the open West--a few hundred miles and a few hundred banks between that ridge and the city he once tried to call home, but Neal's type of territory, all the same. "The winds come from the Northwest; they're only gusts now but they're picking up speed. There's cold promise in that wind--snow, too, probably not this far south so we'll just be pelted with rain." He took a deep breath; even recalling the lessons he learned from his adoptive Creek tribe was a hefty exertion. It had been so long since he and Andy were in Tulsa. "Something about nature today is restless; I can feel it in the air."
"How you do know all that?"
Neal smiled, tearing his eyes away from the landscape to look down at his inked knuckles, his hands. He couldn't remember his real parents anymore, the memories of a young boy pushed aside in a mind fit for marksmanship and bank robberies, but there were some things about his upbringing that he could never forget.
The Tulsa marketplace was crowded with people, every one of them trying to ignore him. Carpetbaggers from the East, fresh from the railroad station and looking to make their fortune off the backs of displaced Indians, hiked their noses up into the air at the sight of the orphan, an Irishman no less, whose reddish-blond hair and freckled complexion reminded them of the urchins they saw on every streetcorner in Boston or New York. The locals of Tulsa already knew where the young man stood in their strict hierarchy: a town built on tough, immigrant backs and rugged individualism, they cared less about the shade of his skin and more about the inked colors adorning it. A symbol of pride among the Creek Indians was a scarlet letter to others, the prejudices of an entire country thrust upon him for the people who took him in as a boy, the company he kept.
And the men of the tribe were no better, though their ire was less public than the townspeople: with the tensions rising between the peoples forced off their native lands and the white settlers claiming acres of the Indian Territory as well, the Creek men's resentment tended to land on their foster son. Although the tribe provided shelter, food, and the training to make him a fearsome warrior in either world, he was constantly reminded that he would never be a full Creek, always an outsider surviving on their benevolence. It was only a matter of time before they, too, decided Neal Tiemann was not one of them.
He wasn't buying but he wasn't begging, either; technically the stallmasters at the marketplace had no reason to eject him, but he knew they'd make one up eventually. On his way to find some less judgmental location to loiter, he felt the gaze of someone not staring at him with disgust or superiority, but fascination. Neal turned to meet large, round eyes, brown like the dark Tulsa soil but speckled with flecks of green; a fertile field on the cusp of sprouting its bounty. He was slightly younger than Neal, his tailored suit making him appear more mature, on even keel with men three times his age. He had an aquiline nose and a tight line of lips softly parted in awe, taking in Neal as much as Neal was assessing him. He fit himself into the shadows of the marketplace, finding comfort in being overlooked where Neal only held a resentful acceptance of the fact.
No one else seemed to even notice Andy Skib, but Neal couldn't take his eyes off him.
"The Creek are some superstitious sons of bitches," Neal replied, a whimsical smile on his face. Never had he thought he would get nostalgic for Tulsa. "But they know their storm watching."
Looking out towards the empty horizon, Kyle still couldn't understand how Neal divined a desert storm from a gust of wind, but stranger things had happened. A new thought came to him with this acceptance; perhaps he was the only one who couldn't sense the oncoming storm. "Maybe that's why Andy's taking so long," he said, more to himself than his companion on the ridge, though Neal had certainly heard it. "Maybe he's waiting out the storm."
The silence that followed Kyle's suggestion was so deliberate and resentful it was near violent; it filled the space between them, flowed out over the ridge and into the dark crevices of the desert mouse's hole. He couldn't imagine that David didn't feel it all the way back at the camp, that a chill didn't go down the outlaw's spine without knowing the reason why. Whatever smile lingered on Neal's lips vanished, his face as cold as the storm he predicted was inevitable.
Kyle's mouth drooped into a nervous frown, his eyes both sympathetic and hesitant. "...Or maybe not?"
"He's not," Neal immediately responded, a little too quickly and too resolute for his liking. The suddenness of his retort startled Kyle, though he should have realized such a topic would have enlivened Neal. "He wouldn't..." Neal stopped his own words, letting his more rational side--a side to himself he didn't know he possessed until David coaxed it out of him--calm his emotions. He knew the true answer was that Andy wouldn't let the others worry for such a prolonged time over him for nothing, wouldn't let Neal wait endlessly for him with no indication of delay or return. But all he managed to explain to Kyle was "Andy ain't gonna risk it just for a little rain."
Running a hand through his hair, Neal took a deep sigh, wondering if his emotions were getting the best of him in more ways than one. Had David been the one delayed in Hope, Neal wouldn't have been waiting on that ridge, and he would have probably had a decent breakfast on top of that. "Dave's probably right," he admitted under his breath. "There's probably nothing wrong, nothing out of the usual. I'm just being an idiot about it."
There wasn't much else for Kyle to say, really; Neal didn't need a placater but he didn't need a doomsayer, either. He needed a friend. "He could be fine," he said, choosing his words carefully. He hoped his partnership with Neal was solid enough that Neal would no longer be provoked to shoot him, but when it came to his emotions over Andy, all bets were off. "Or, maybe he's not. But we shouldn't jump to any conclusions; we shouldn't think of the worst until we know otherwise, and we won't know what happened until Andy himself comes up and tells us."
He paused, knowing he owed more than an explanation; there was an apology deserved to Neal as well, for doing exactly what he just cautioned the Kings should not. "I'm sorry I suggested he might wait out the storm." Andy was cautious when returning to the Kings after a heist but he wasn't lazy or selfish; he wouldn't have left them waiting--wouldn't have left Neal waiting--over a storm Kyle still wasn't fully convinced would come. "He's not leaving there till he figures it's safe, but he's not staying there any longer than he has to." A pang of sympathy surged through Kyle as he thought of the connection between Andy and Neal, the history they shared, the intimate touches he had seen. He knew Andy wouldn't waste one unnecessary second away from Neal.
"Kid," Neal said after a contemplative silence, biting his lip to keep the impressed smile from spreading across his face but failing, resulting in an unadulterated, guilty grin. "You are some piece of work."
It was the biggest compliment Neal had paid to the younger man since his first heist in Fox Canyon, when he proved to them all that he had the skill and the bravery to join them. Those months ago, Kyle felt accepted as a partner in crime by the fearsome outlaw, something he as a wide-eyed, idealistic young greenhorn would have never thought possible. Now, even more incredulously, this felt to Kyle like Neal accepted him as a friend. "You know," he observed, the initial tension he felt when confronting Neal being lifted for the better. "You're not really that scary, after all."
The amused smile grew into a laugh; Neal understood full well how the public forged their impressions of him, the simmering disgust he encountered in his youth transformed to an open fear from civilians and a wary respect from fellow gunfighters. He just never knew how he had deserved it. "Am I supposed to be?"
***
Andy had never been in so much excruciating, skin-shredding pain in all his life.
He had earned his lumps during the Kings's years on the open plain; no man who made his living on the fastest gun, the easiest payout, ever survived for as long as he had without scars. The one time a spooked Vera had bucked Andy off her back, sending him into a ravine and earning him a broken leg; the misguided return to camp by way of a cactus patch that he never heard the end of. And the wallop he took from a duo of ambushing bounty hunters who caught him off-guard, though Neal had thankfully shot one dead, and the other received a far worse, rage-fueled, fatal beating in return from Andy before the night was through. He was not ignorant of the physical hazards of his career path and always expected there to be more troubles along their way; though being impetuous, young, and cocky, Andy admittedly always thought that time would come much farther down the road than now.
But this was a pain he had never experienced before nor had he ever expected to; his right arm felt like it was on fire, burning from a furnace built within. The bullet wound at his back spread the pain like spilled black ink throughout his body, waves of rolling, dark sensation that made it difficult to breathe. He drifted in and out of consciousness the entire night, his body shifting between shutting down from the loss of blood and shocking him awake from the pain.
Someone had once told Andy that a burst of self-surviving adrenaline surged through your body when you were shot, that after a while one's brain turned a blind eye to the pain, deadening the senses to become numb. He waited for the numbness, for the pain to become monotonous and so familiar it barely registered, but it never came. Andy wished he could remember who told him that so he could shoot him.
The only thing that kept him sane through the night--and consequently the only thing that probably kept him alive that night--was the kindly deputy of Hope, administering the common, rudimentary medical knowledge of every frontiersman, making sure he didn't end up with a dead body in his jail by the morning. Stating his name was Kris with a friendly smile and a tip of his hat, the deputy removed the bullet wedged between Andy's shoulderblades with a sharp Bowie knife and prayer, apologizing with every movement, every incision. If Andy could have gathered the energy to scream during the backalley surgery he would have, but it took all his will not to black out.
Insisting under his breath that it would be too much of a victory for the sheriff to allow Andy to die, Kris took care of his health, providing equal amounts of strong, antiseptic liquor to Andy's wound and Andy's stomach, the only thing the outlaw found helped to kill the pain. Kris insisted on water as well, claiming that Andy couldn't replace all the blood he lost just with gin, and what didn't go into the outlaw's mouth to drink was used to clean up the floor of the jail cell, Andy still too weak to sit up and move away from the pool of his own lifeblood, its metallic scent pungent and sour. The bandages he used to dress the wound were old, albeit clean, rags; the bedrest Andy received was upon cold, hard-packed dirt.
It was more hospitality from a lawman than Andy had ever expected to get; he reminded himself, if he got out of Hope alive that Kris Allen would change his perspective on the cruelty of men of the law, and possibly owe him a gift basket in return.
Though drifting in and out of consciousness the entire night, Andy's mind was constantly on the seriousness of his dilemma, that he was wounded--dying, almost, or at least it sure felt that way--and lying in a jail cell, accused of being a member of the Kings. Even if there had been no evidence in Hope that Andy was an outlaw--he was careful, damn cautious not to leave traces of his real self behind, as he was in every town they hit--there was always the possibility the truth would come out, and one way or the other, by bullet or by hangman's noose, he'd die.
He wished above all else that Neal were there with him, a selfish, desperate desire just to feel the other man's arms around him, rest his heavy, wound-weary head on his shoulder, hear Neal whisper to him that it would all be okay. Then, at the least, he could believe there was a happy ending to this bleak situation, or that even if there seemed no escape from death in sight, that Andy would die right beside him, clutching hands, experiencing the last breath expelled from his body. He couldn't bear to think of Neal surviving without him; he couldn't bear to think of surviving without Neal.
The rising sun streamed in through the single grimy window of the sheriff's office and underneath the wooden door, pathways of light to the outside world that never reached the iron bars of Andy's prison. He made it through the night; only time could tell if he could survive the day.
***
Kris wiped his brow with a sleeve already stained with sweat--his--and blood--decidedly someone else's. It was a long, brutal night, possibly the worst the deputy had ever experienced in his young life, though for all the trouble he found, it couldn't have been worse than his prisoner. There were moments when the night was as its darkest, when the only reason Kris knew the poor traveler was still alive was from faint mumblings during his weary fever-dreams, the mind continuing to race long after the body reached the limit of what it could endure. He removed the bullet to stop infection, gave him gin to numb the pain, but with all the nursing and worrying Kris could do, the heaviest of his duties was to wait, silent and patient in the sheriff's office, to ensure Hope's prisoner lived through the night.
By dawn he realized that he was likely not the only one Chris Richardson told of a midnight arrest by the sheriff: the people of Hope were converging upon the small building, hovering around its windows like hives of bees, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man. Kris soon doubted it was the kindly ranch hand that tipped off the town and suspected his boss himself when questions started being thrown in through the grimy glass, young boys asking with wonder if Gokey really brought down a King, and women fearfully fretting that the arrest could cause the outlaw gang to have unfinished business with their town. Turning a wounded man's misery into a public spectacle before judge and jury were even requested for a trial...yes, that did sound like Danny Gokey's work.
Already they rapped upon the door, men claiming to be there to satisfy the curiosity of their wives but were just as curious and prone to gossip. They tried to peek in through the window, bribe and trick the deputy into opening the door for a public viewing, desperate to be a small part of the biggest news story to hit Hope in its entire history--barring, of course, yesterday morning's robbery. As much as he loved and vowed to protect the people of this town, Kris regretted that they had stooped to Danny's level, caring more about the spectacle of the arrest than the guilt, or well-being, of the stranger involved.
"No interviews!" he opened the door the tiniest crack to shout to the crowd, an opportunist farm hand anxiously holding a pad and a pencil, hoping to make his fortune in sudden journalism. Kris made sure his body blocked any type of view of the jail cell inside; nobody gets a free show, and nothing gets revealed about Hope's prisoner until the lawman got the details hashed out. "No look-sees! Just go back to your homes--there's nothing to see here!"
Curious but not disrespectful, the crowd immediately began to thin, the resolve of Kris's squared jaw a clear note that he would not back down. The citizens all knew, either way, that any information they desired would be readily given by the sheriff himself, holding court at his own home, more than willing to tell the tale. As people began returning to their daily business or heading for the other side of town to hear Danny Gokey's version of the truth, Kris noticed one man in the crowd who did not call for a peek at the prisoner or an explanation for the trail of blood leading towards the sheriff's office door. Dressed in an immaculate white suit, irrepressibly flashy for most men in the West but modest for his tastes, Adam stood with an unsure expression on his face, eyes rimmed with dark but from sleeplessness, not kohl, silently asking permission to step inside.
Kris gave the slightest of nods towards Adam, and once the townspeople of Hope got bored waiting at a stagnant, uninteresting door, Adam quietly slipped inside. The sight that was awaiting him there, however, was not what he expected.
"Holy shit!" he exclaimed when he saw the room, the smears of red along the doorknob and on Kris's hands, a trail of dark, drying blood leading to the motionless body in the jail cell. He stared at the scene, a macabre, horror-like room he never thought he would see Kris Allen at the center of. "Thought the rumors were false," he started babbling, unable to keep his eyes off the carnage. "Never thought Gokey could have done the damage he was bragging..."
"Oh, it's true," Kris deadpanned, reaching for a rag and cleaning his hands as best he could, the blood from the impromptu surgery still underneath his fingernails. The rest of the town, or at least the sensible-minded prostitutes at the Lambert Inn, must have shared Adam's skepticism that Danny could have shot and arrested someone. If this day taught Kris anything, it was never to underestimate an incompetent man when he's desperate.
Adam rushed over to the deputy, fearing the blood on his hands was not wholly from the prisoner. "Are you okay?" he asked, trying to mask the panic in his voice as it rose an octave. "Are you hurt?" He reached for Kris's hands but the younger man was hesitant; the brilliant white of Adam's suit was rarely seen in the West in places other than a virgin snowfall or a bucket of freshly-milked cream. The brothel owner was notoriously picky about his wardrobe and Kris simply couldn't handle adding one of his rants to the troubles of the day. But Adam's feelings for Kris overwhelmed his feelings for fashion and he insisted on touching Kris, ensuring his well-being, and he compromised on stroking a thumb against Kris's cheek while the deputy respectfully kept his bloodied hands behind his back and away from Adam's suit.
"I'm fine," Kris assured him, though he made no move to stop the gentle touch against his face, soaking in the gesture like a wine bladder drunk dry. He should have been more cautious--grimy, opaque window or not, he was in the goddamn sheriff's office and sighing dreamily at the touch of his secret lover's hand upon his cheek, it just wasn't smart, wasn't safe. But at that moment Kris needed the physical contact, needed some reassurance of something good in this world. It was risky, but he was willing to take the risk; Danny was far too busy happily telling his story to the masses to return to the office, and it wasn't like the wounded stranger--eyes closed, brow knit in discomfort, shallow breaths the only indication he was alive--was in a condition to be watching.
Adam saw the stress and fatigue in Kris's eyes, wanted to kiss it away, hold him until all of last night was just an illusion. "You were gone all night, I was so worried." He recalled every act to grace the inn's stage, every drink ordered while waiting for Kris's return until he was the last one in the bar, the paradox of a lonely man in a brothel. "What happened?"
Taking a deep breath, Kris looked around the office, remembering the fight he had with the sheriff that led him to this position. "Danny did more than just arrest someone," he explained, pointing towards the jail cell, exhaustion in his voice creeping in just at the thought of his full explanation. "The guy was nearly dying when I got here, I couldn't just leave him."
"I understand," Adam said immediately, admiring the sympathy Kris held for a stranger; not many lawmen, or men in general, would have done the same. The way Kris mentioned Danny's victim inferred he was still alive; from the amount of blood in the office Adam would have assumed otherwise. "So he's--"
"Not out of the woods yet. I'm going to stay here and keep an eye on him, and make sure no one tries to get in here for a peek and fuel the gossip mill." His eyes fell upon the extracted bullet lying on the sheriff's desk, Kris's own bloodied fingerprints marring the grain of the wood; the desk of a dead, good man, tarnished by the deeds of his successor. "I took out the bullet and tried to clean the wound as much as possible," he said, finding no humor in the pained look on Adam's face just hearing about the procedure. Kris couldn't imagine what Adam would have thought had he actually witnessed it. "Do you have any bandages back at the inn, or some linens you're not using? All I've got's some rags here."
Adam snickered, assessing the familiar swath of fabric in Kris's hands. "Rags?" he questioned, quirking an eyebrow. "Looks like Gokey's spare pair of trousers to me."
"Same difference," Kris replied, with little sympathy to the original owner.
With an amused, inappropriate little smile, Adam nodded, agreeing to commandeer clean bandages and some iodine antiseptic from the inn. But first, he had to see for himself if the rumors Gokey spread were true, if the sheriff who had been nothing more than a nuisance up until last night actually did what he was claiming up and down the streets to have accomplished. "God, Kristopher, deserting me to spend all night with another man, I should be insulted," he said with a wink, moving around the desk in the center of the room to get a better look between the iron bars. "Maybe I should get a good look at him--"
Stooping down to the prisoner's eye level was unnecessary; Adam recognized the profile immediately, though encountering him now in much different circumstances, the stranger understandably much paler than before. "Oh my God," he said in shock, realizing how false the rumors really were; this man wasn't an outlaw at all. "I know him...he's staying at the inn."
"Are you sure?" Kris asked. "You get lots of patrons, Adam."
The deputy's statement was true, but Adam remembered the traveler clearly; the Lambert Inn had many patrons but not many of them stayed in rooms alone. "I'm sure," he said. "I remember him: skinny, quiet, brunette...totally my type." He looked over in Kris's direction to see a bemused frown on his face, which only caused Adam to smirk indulgently. The brothel owner liked to look, but he never did touch. "Oh, you know I have a type, just look at you," he toyed with Kris, his attempt to wrest a smile from the sullen deputy but his efforts fell short.
"Flattered, Adam, really."
Kris was in no mood for Adam's playful jabs today, not when his eyes watered from sleeplessness and his joints ached from keeping watch on the stranger's condition. And thank God he was unconscious; Kris didn't think he could ever explain away the conversation he and Adam were having right now. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his exhaustion away and replacing it with indecision and doubt. "I just don't know what to do about this," he admitted, weariness ingrained into his voice; he sounded far older than his twenty-four years to Adam, as if the experiences of the night mystically aged him, wore his idealism down. "He wasn't part of the robbery but Danny's dead set on claiming he's an outlaw; he thinks the town'll run him out of office if he doesn't deliver them one of the Kings."
"It'll be okay, baby." Adam approached Kris with sincerity, his heart immediately going out to the troubled deputy, wishing he could help in some way other than mere support. He took Kris's hands in his, delicately manicured fingers contrasting with rough, bloody palms. "You'll think of something."
Pulling his lower lip in by the teeth insecurely, Kris looked up at Adam, his familiar, comforting blue eyes inviting him to open up, reveal what his mind had repeated over and over to him like a magpie. "I can't let a man die over Gokey's damn ego. He's calling for a judge from Santa Fe; he wants this to go to trial."
"You could write to them yourself," Adam suggested. "It'll take a long time for a judge to get here from Santa Fe. Tell him there's been a misunderstanding...or, the prisoner died, and there's no reason for him to go through the trouble of coming to our little Hope."
"Or I could testify," the wheels were turning in Kris's mind now, his plans tentative except for the primary goal to keep an innocent man's neck out of a noose and Danny Gokey's lauded name out of the papers. "Let everyone know that Gokey's got the wrong guy."
"Or," spoke up a voice from behind the pair, hoarse from exhaustion and disuse. Kris and Adam turned quickly in the direction of the voice, their eyes wide in shock at the sight of the wounded stranger, very much awake, alert, and alive, propping himself up on his good arm, a hint of a smirk on his face. "You could just let me go."
***
After their initial shock that Hope's wounded, unconscious prisoner was not quite as unconscious as the two men were led to believe, with Kris agast at hearing him speak and Adam announcing dramatically that his heart was about to stop, the conversation turned guarded, the lingering fear dwelling within Kris that the stranger had heard and seen more than he should have--more than Kris and Adam wanted him to see. They discovered that, as Kris suspected, he did nothing to provoke Danny's shooting, the wounded man also finding it rather distasteful of the sheriff to shoot someone in the back under the cover of night, though he admitted with a dry wit and a weak smile that he might have been a bit biased. He was still, expectedly, in quite a bit of pain, though thankfully his wound had stopped bleeding, the bloody makeshift bandage dry to the touch, and he remarked that the alcohol Kris gave him last night had been just as beneficial to him as the water.
Then, as they all found inevitable, came talk of escape.
For a wounded man his speech was well thought-out and practical, the conversation meandering from talk of his release only as far as he would allow it, then reining it back in like an unruly calf on a tether. Kris stubbornly refused to let the prisoner go without consequence: yes, he believed Danny had wrongfully arrested the man, and did so for selfish reasons, but Kris still upheld the law in Hope, despite his hatred of its execution. Besides, he had pointed out with a sympathetic frown, the man could barely muster the energy to sit up in the cell; Kris doubted he'd get very far by foot if Danny got wind of the escape and rounded up a posse, if he managed to get to his feet at all.
"And I'd probably have to be a part of that posse," he added sadly. After spending so much time and effort the previous night on keeping the prisoner alive, Kris found it such a waste just to have to track him down and shoot him all over again.
For far more selfish reasons that Kris kept to himself that day, not even sharing them with Adam for fear that he might try to convince him otherwise, the deputy wanted to keep the prisoner there for the same reasons as Gokey: job security. If Kris allowed Danny's prisoner to escape, the sheriff's hopes of redeeming himself in the eyes of the town--as well as the whole of the West--would be dashed, and undoubtedly his rage and revenge would fall upon Kris's shoulders. The paranoia in Danny Gokey's mind was always present; he might even go so far as to turn the rest of the town against Kris, making him lose more this time than just the position of sheriff. He couldn't bear the thought of being ostracized by the town he opened his heart to and made his home, and if they forced him to leave...
He looked over to Adam briefly, felt his heart soar and his lips curl into a smile from just the sight of him. He could never leave Hope, never.
"We don't even know your name," Kris countered, crouching down to meet eyes with the stranger, who had finally managed to hoist himself up to a sitting position, his back against the wall of the cell. Kris placed a hand to his chest in a gesture of good faith, the stranger relatively talkative about methods of escape but tight-lipped about his identity. "I told you my name yesterday, if you recall it." He gave a half-smile, hoping the wounded traveler would join in. "Though I understand if you were a bit distracted to remember."
With thoughtful, discerning eyes, the stranger surveyed Kris, internally assessing his character as much as he was jogging his memory. Of all things, Kris thought that he should be the one analyzing his prisoner's character: Kris couldn't be sure exactly what the other man had seen between him and Adam, the clasping of hands, the gentle brush of a thumb against his cheek that had made Kris sigh out of pleasure. The fact that this man was being as guarded about his own life as Kris was being about his unsettled the deputy, made him fear what a wounded, desperate man could do with that information.
After a moment of thought a weak smile spread across the stranger's face. "You're Kris," he said, his tone slow in speech from both fatigue and a careful planning of his words. "You're the deputy here." He paused, the calculating expression in his eyes giving way to a sincere gratitude, one that spoke of his character far more than any of the carefully crafted words he said. "You saved my life last night. I can't thank you enough for that."
Kris couldn't help but smile back, feeling the blush in his cheeks and a swell of pride that he had done something important in his role as deputy, repairing what his sheriff could have destroyed. And, in gratitude for his actions, Kris received the courtesy of knowing the stranger's name. "I'm Andy," he said after an internal deliberation; Kris wanted to press further out of sheer curiosity, but the look on the wounded man's face told him that would be all he'd reveal to the pair.
"I'm Adam," spoke up the voice beside Kris, his eyes lighting up at the thought of introductions. No matter how many people he encountered or the scores of them he promptly forgot, Adam always liked introductions. "We met before; I own the Lambert Inn down the road." He thrust his right arm in between the iron bars with a grin, absent-mindedly meaning to offer a handshake; sympathetically Andy looked down at the outstretched hand and shrugged, glancing down at his own heavily damaged, bloodied right arm. It was the best indication he could give that, had he the ability, he would gladly return the introduction.
"I remember you," Andy nodded, eyes squinting as he replayed in his mind the first time he had met Adam Lambert. He recalled there being a lot more glitter involved. "You checked me in." His eyes then grew cloudy, confused; he understood the presence of the deputy in a sheriff's jail but the owner of a brothel checking in on a town's inmate made little sense. "...This isn't the inn..."
"He's a friend," Kris interjected quickly, before thinking of the implications of such a word on his own heart, or on Adam's. The quick flash of surprise and hurt in Adam's eyes was lost on the deputy, who focused on the knowing half-smile Andy gave the both of them. He understood what manner of friendship they had, but he would not speak a word of it to a soul.
Still the town's sole prisoner persisted with his talk of escape. Andy wasn't the negotiator of the Kings but he was the best damn observer that ever dirtied their boots with Hope soil; now he just had to borrow a bit of David's power of coercion to put it to his advantage. Where there was a will, there was a way, and Andy had to get back, he just had to. "I have friends, too," he said after a while, though he didn't care to indicate whether or not they were the type of friends he reckoned Adam and Kris to be. "I've got to get back to them...they're waiting for me."
Adam narrowed his eyes skeptically; it was a different story from what he remembered upon their first meeting, of a solitary traveler probably on his way to the riches of the Pacific. "Thought you were just passing through," he said, Kris immediately picking up the wary intonation of Adam's voice.
"Was getting supplies," was Andy's succinct and quick answer; a little too quick, admonishing himself, the half-truth sounding like a well-practiced excuse--which, of course, it was, but Andy hadn't expected it to sound so obvious.
He took a deep sigh, eyes closing, the darkness behind the lids conjuring images in his head of Neal's eagle eyes searching the horizon for him, heart already on edge from an unexpected, lonely night watch. The deep, guttural feeling of loss was aching from his chest, and not other parts that tended to stir when riding back to Neal after a heist. Andy was starting to think his desire to return to camp, to see Neal again, had nothing to do with the sex they shared.
"They're my people," he said, breathing the word out like ambrosia, like precious gold. His brow furrowed on its own accord, his heart aching with longing.
Cocking his head to the side and sporting a bemused pout, Adam still appeared doubtful of Andy's sincerity here, his instincts as a successful businessman kicking in, refusing to let him see anything at face value. But the man at his side--the deputy who held the keys to the jail cell--instantly softened at Andy's words, sympathizing with him in ways he hadn't considered possible. He had people, too: every man, woman and child in Hope who depended upon him, who entrusted Kris to protect them from the evils that plagued the West, whether they be from outside the city walls--or within.
"I wish I could do that for you," he said, the regret heavy in his voice, noting from Andy's slumped shoulders that he had been holding out hope, too. "You're my responsibility...but you're the sheriff's prisoner. If I let you go...there would be repercussions."
The comment earned Kris a dramatic roll of a pair of blue-gray eyes to the ceiling; Adam wished Kris wasn't always such a stickler for the law. "Forget about what Gokey's going to do," he groaned. It was times like this he wished he could take charge himself of the situation, storm across town to Danny's homestead and show him a real man doesn't solve his paranoid problems with a bullet in someone's back. If Kris wanted to do things his way, Adam would stand aside and respect his good judgment; but he wouldn't allow Kris to do things Gokey's way. "His common sense couldn't fill a thimble. He's not even worth our breath, especially after this."
Kris took in a deep sigh; the argument was always the same, and as much as his heart would have loved to agree with Adam, the badge pinned to his chest forced him to do otherwise. "He's still the sheriff and I've got to mind him," he said. "No matter how incredible it may seem."
"Funny," spoke up the prisoner; both heads turned towards the jail cell, Andy's wounded body still propped up against the back wall, but a spark of cunning in his eyes brought new life to his features. "He's exactly who I wanted to talk to you about."
While each man in the small building had a personal distaste for Danny Gokey, they all agreed that Andy's was the most recent and by far currently the most significant. In rare form Andy discussed what he had learned about the other men's grudges, dismissing away his hidden observation skills by only admitting he "asked around:" how Danny had won the position of sheriff over the more deserving Kris, and that his first order of business was to bring down the Lambert Inn. Andy never revealed his secrets to others outside of the Kings, knowing a slip-up could be a death sentence; but he wasn't too far off from that fate already, and what he had learned about Hope for the bank heist could now pay off more than he had ever imagined.
It wasn't difficult to convince Adam and Kris that Gokey was more than just a nuisance and a threat to the both of them; with this shooting, he was a danger to those in the town, strangers and residents alike who merely got in between the ambitious sheriff and his lofty goals. That's why, Andy concluded, Danny Gokey needed to disappear.
Kris balked at the thought, eyes widening in shock even from the proposition. "We're not killing anyone," he insisted; it was unlawful, it was immoral...and it would prove he was no better than Gokey, stopping at nothing to achieve his own desires.
Andy tried not to roll his eyes visibly in front of the deputy: despite being a rational, resourceful man who deserved the outlaw's respect, he was quickly discovering Kris's optimistic idealism and staunch support of justice was a real drag. "I'm not talking about killing him," Andy assured him, though it would undoubtedly make the outlaw's week if he could get a shot at the sheriff. "I'm not even talking about hurting him. Just...getting him to leave town, unannounced. And making sure he doesn't come back."
He explained, very succinctly and giving no more away than he desired, that the people he had waiting for him, once he was returned to them, would help Kris and Adam alleviate their problem of the pesky sheriff. Aware of the dangerous line he toed, Andy kept details to a minimum, giving away none of the Kings's identities nor his own, simply stating that his friends could intimidate Gokey into deserting Hope on his own accord. The threats and restrictive ordinances placed on the Lambert Inn could be lifted; the town's loyal deputy could take his rightful place as their main lawman. And Andy and his people could ride off in the New Mexican sunset, never to trouble the town with their presence again.
"No violence, no bloodshed," he negotiated, a little disappointed with Kris's conditions. The Kings only killed when they had to, and he knew David felt quite strongly about selfishly taking a life, but he assumed his fellow outlaws would have gladly taken Gokey as an exception. Especially Neal.
"You sure they could scare him enough?" Kris raised an eyebrow.
Unable to hide the amused smile spreading across his face, Andy nodded, pleased with the added relief that it no longer caused stabbing shots of pain when he moved his head. Always a good sign. "Oh, I think they can handle it."
Chapter 14
Author: honestys_easy
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Skibmann (Neal Tiemann/Andy Skib), Cookson (David Cook/Kelly Clarkson), Kradam (Kris Allen/Adam Lambert), 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: 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
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
"People thought me bad before, but if ever I should get free, I'll let them know what bad means."-- Billy the Kid
When Kyle had first met the Kings, when Neal revealed he would rather shoot him than trust him, Kyle's healthy fear was mixed with a sense of awe that a classically educated observer might call hero worship. The Dr. had been imposing the first morning, watching the plains with a cigarette burning slowly between scowling lips, the revolver with which he never missed his target always present at his side. But this morning outside of Hope Kyle saw something different in the man, his lone silhouette the only indication that humankind had ever visited the barren landscape. Neal didn't look intimidating; Neal looked lonely.
"I slept like the dead last night," Kyle announced, approaching the ridge and its lone guard, Neal sometimes pacing and cursing the passing hours underneath his breath, other times still and silent, as if the slightest move might disrupt the vast, unchanging horizon. It was unwittingly cruel for Kyle to mention his sound sleep, stretching his arms over his head to rouse the limbs back into alertness, especially when Neal had spent the night restlessly, feigning slumber while listening for the sound of horse's hooves or a familiar voice. David should have known better than to send Neal away from watchguard duty and expect him to actually sleep.
"Nice for you," was the mumbled reply, Neal concluding it would take too much energy to get frustrated with Kyle's attempts to make small talk. Kyle, keenly inquisitive and observant in all the ways that did not show him Neal's desire to be alone, interpreted this as his indication to go on.
"Never really slept in on the ranch," he recalled, receiving a shock this morning when he awoke to David making breakfast. He'd have to remember the next time David claimed his corncakes were outstanding, not to take his word for it. "My brother and I were always up before dawn, bringing in the cows for milking, keeping track of the herd. I always--"
"Kyle," Neal interrupted, shaking his head. He didn't attempt to mask the irritation in his voice but there was also a hint of a smile on his face, wondering with amusement where the former ranch hand's anecdote would have led. If he had gotten Neal to crack a smile, just for a moment, Kyle believed it was worth it. "Not another one of your stories, kid."
Despite protesting that it was a good one--which it wasn't, Kyle realized that by now, any tales he could spin about his childhood on the ranch, now that he experienced true adventure, were as bland and unappealing as David's corncakes--Kyle kept his mouth shut, distracting it with a hearty bite of his breakfast. Appetizing or not, it was better than an empty stomach. "You're missing out," he said between chews.
Neal surrendered himself to indulging him, sensing Kyle wasn't going to relent until they had a proper conversation. "Can't believe you're actually eating that," he commented, learning years before that a griddle pan in David's hands was almost as dangerous as a revolver. "Just because his last name's Cook, doesn't mean he actually can."
Shrugging and smiling through a mouthful of food, Kyle tossed the rest of the cake to a desert mouse, scurrying across the landscape in search of its own breakfast. It sniffed tentatively at the morsel, climbing up on its hind legs to investigate, and then decided to leave the corncake untouched. Fine cuisine, it was not. "Better than nothing," he said, a rationale every hungry highwayman adopted during lean months on the open plain. Though the Kings had money to burn, their supplies were running low, and would only be replenished after Andy's return; another reason to watch for an approaching rider.
Kyle watched as a strong gust of wind scattered the dust along the ridge, peppering the untouched corncake with red flecks of clay and sending the little desert mouse retreating back to its home. It blew in cold from the north, a crisp, startling feeling that reminded Kyle more of the coastal winds of California than any breeze they encountered in the desert. "Nice breeze," he said.
Neal narrowed his eyes against the coming wind, tasting the traces of its arctic origin on his lips. "It means a storm's coming." His voice grew serious as he stared out into the distance, the absent member of their gang not the only thing on his mind. "We should probably move everything below this ridge for cover by nightfall if we want to stay anywhere close to dry."
Though the wind kicked up the flyaway strands of Kyle's hair, sending them blowing annoyingly into his face, he searched the skies along with Neal and saw no storm clouds for miles, an unyielding, blue sky the Kings's constant New Mexican companion. Maybe the sleeplessness was getting to Neal. "How do you figure? There isn't a cloud in the sky. I mean, I'm not used to the fall out here, but back in California--"
But this wasn't California, Neal wanted to remind him, not the land of lush fields and fruit groves; not the last stop on any railroad line in the country, forced to cease their endless routes of iron and steel in the face of a vast ocean. They were in the open West--a few hundred miles and a few hundred banks between that ridge and the city he once tried to call home, but Neal's type of territory, all the same. "The winds come from the Northwest; they're only gusts now but they're picking up speed. There's cold promise in that wind--snow, too, probably not this far south so we'll just be pelted with rain." He took a deep breath; even recalling the lessons he learned from his adoptive Creek tribe was a hefty exertion. It had been so long since he and Andy were in Tulsa. "Something about nature today is restless; I can feel it in the air."
"How you do know all that?"
Neal smiled, tearing his eyes away from the landscape to look down at his inked knuckles, his hands. He couldn't remember his real parents anymore, the memories of a young boy pushed aside in a mind fit for marksmanship and bank robberies, but there were some things about his upbringing that he could never forget.
The Tulsa marketplace was crowded with people, every one of them trying to ignore him. Carpetbaggers from the East, fresh from the railroad station and looking to make their fortune off the backs of displaced Indians, hiked their noses up into the air at the sight of the orphan, an Irishman no less, whose reddish-blond hair and freckled complexion reminded them of the urchins they saw on every streetcorner in Boston or New York. The locals of Tulsa already knew where the young man stood in their strict hierarchy: a town built on tough, immigrant backs and rugged individualism, they cared less about the shade of his skin and more about the inked colors adorning it. A symbol of pride among the Creek Indians was a scarlet letter to others, the prejudices of an entire country thrust upon him for the people who took him in as a boy, the company he kept.
And the men of the tribe were no better, though their ire was less public than the townspeople: with the tensions rising between the peoples forced off their native lands and the white settlers claiming acres of the Indian Territory as well, the Creek men's resentment tended to land on their foster son. Although the tribe provided shelter, food, and the training to make him a fearsome warrior in either world, he was constantly reminded that he would never be a full Creek, always an outsider surviving on their benevolence. It was only a matter of time before they, too, decided Neal Tiemann was not one of them.
He wasn't buying but he wasn't begging, either; technically the stallmasters at the marketplace had no reason to eject him, but he knew they'd make one up eventually. On his way to find some less judgmental location to loiter, he felt the gaze of someone not staring at him with disgust or superiority, but fascination. Neal turned to meet large, round eyes, brown like the dark Tulsa soil but speckled with flecks of green; a fertile field on the cusp of sprouting its bounty. He was slightly younger than Neal, his tailored suit making him appear more mature, on even keel with men three times his age. He had an aquiline nose and a tight line of lips softly parted in awe, taking in Neal as much as Neal was assessing him. He fit himself into the shadows of the marketplace, finding comfort in being overlooked where Neal only held a resentful acceptance of the fact.
No one else seemed to even notice Andy Skib, but Neal couldn't take his eyes off him.
"The Creek are some superstitious sons of bitches," Neal replied, a whimsical smile on his face. Never had he thought he would get nostalgic for Tulsa. "But they know their storm watching."
Looking out towards the empty horizon, Kyle still couldn't understand how Neal divined a desert storm from a gust of wind, but stranger things had happened. A new thought came to him with this acceptance; perhaps he was the only one who couldn't sense the oncoming storm. "Maybe that's why Andy's taking so long," he said, more to himself than his companion on the ridge, though Neal had certainly heard it. "Maybe he's waiting out the storm."
The silence that followed Kyle's suggestion was so deliberate and resentful it was near violent; it filled the space between them, flowed out over the ridge and into the dark crevices of the desert mouse's hole. He couldn't imagine that David didn't feel it all the way back at the camp, that a chill didn't go down the outlaw's spine without knowing the reason why. Whatever smile lingered on Neal's lips vanished, his face as cold as the storm he predicted was inevitable.
Kyle's mouth drooped into a nervous frown, his eyes both sympathetic and hesitant. "...Or maybe not?"
"He's not," Neal immediately responded, a little too quickly and too resolute for his liking. The suddenness of his retort startled Kyle, though he should have realized such a topic would have enlivened Neal. "He wouldn't..." Neal stopped his own words, letting his more rational side--a side to himself he didn't know he possessed until David coaxed it out of him--calm his emotions. He knew the true answer was that Andy wouldn't let the others worry for such a prolonged time over him for nothing, wouldn't let Neal wait endlessly for him with no indication of delay or return. But all he managed to explain to Kyle was "Andy ain't gonna risk it just for a little rain."
Running a hand through his hair, Neal took a deep sigh, wondering if his emotions were getting the best of him in more ways than one. Had David been the one delayed in Hope, Neal wouldn't have been waiting on that ridge, and he would have probably had a decent breakfast on top of that. "Dave's probably right," he admitted under his breath. "There's probably nothing wrong, nothing out of the usual. I'm just being an idiot about it."
There wasn't much else for Kyle to say, really; Neal didn't need a placater but he didn't need a doomsayer, either. He needed a friend. "He could be fine," he said, choosing his words carefully. He hoped his partnership with Neal was solid enough that Neal would no longer be provoked to shoot him, but when it came to his emotions over Andy, all bets were off. "Or, maybe he's not. But we shouldn't jump to any conclusions; we shouldn't think of the worst until we know otherwise, and we won't know what happened until Andy himself comes up and tells us."
He paused, knowing he owed more than an explanation; there was an apology deserved to Neal as well, for doing exactly what he just cautioned the Kings should not. "I'm sorry I suggested he might wait out the storm." Andy was cautious when returning to the Kings after a heist but he wasn't lazy or selfish; he wouldn't have left them waiting--wouldn't have left Neal waiting--over a storm Kyle still wasn't fully convinced would come. "He's not leaving there till he figures it's safe, but he's not staying there any longer than he has to." A pang of sympathy surged through Kyle as he thought of the connection between Andy and Neal, the history they shared, the intimate touches he had seen. He knew Andy wouldn't waste one unnecessary second away from Neal.
"Kid," Neal said after a contemplative silence, biting his lip to keep the impressed smile from spreading across his face but failing, resulting in an unadulterated, guilty grin. "You are some piece of work."
It was the biggest compliment Neal had paid to the younger man since his first heist in Fox Canyon, when he proved to them all that he had the skill and the bravery to join them. Those months ago, Kyle felt accepted as a partner in crime by the fearsome outlaw, something he as a wide-eyed, idealistic young greenhorn would have never thought possible. Now, even more incredulously, this felt to Kyle like Neal accepted him as a friend. "You know," he observed, the initial tension he felt when confronting Neal being lifted for the better. "You're not really that scary, after all."
The amused smile grew into a laugh; Neal understood full well how the public forged their impressions of him, the simmering disgust he encountered in his youth transformed to an open fear from civilians and a wary respect from fellow gunfighters. He just never knew how he had deserved it. "Am I supposed to be?"
***
Andy had never been in so much excruciating, skin-shredding pain in all his life.
He had earned his lumps during the Kings's years on the open plain; no man who made his living on the fastest gun, the easiest payout, ever survived for as long as he had without scars. The one time a spooked Vera had bucked Andy off her back, sending him into a ravine and earning him a broken leg; the misguided return to camp by way of a cactus patch that he never heard the end of. And the wallop he took from a duo of ambushing bounty hunters who caught him off-guard, though Neal had thankfully shot one dead, and the other received a far worse, rage-fueled, fatal beating in return from Andy before the night was through. He was not ignorant of the physical hazards of his career path and always expected there to be more troubles along their way; though being impetuous, young, and cocky, Andy admittedly always thought that time would come much farther down the road than now.
But this was a pain he had never experienced before nor had he ever expected to; his right arm felt like it was on fire, burning from a furnace built within. The bullet wound at his back spread the pain like spilled black ink throughout his body, waves of rolling, dark sensation that made it difficult to breathe. He drifted in and out of consciousness the entire night, his body shifting between shutting down from the loss of blood and shocking him awake from the pain.
Someone had once told Andy that a burst of self-surviving adrenaline surged through your body when you were shot, that after a while one's brain turned a blind eye to the pain, deadening the senses to become numb. He waited for the numbness, for the pain to become monotonous and so familiar it barely registered, but it never came. Andy wished he could remember who told him that so he could shoot him.
The only thing that kept him sane through the night--and consequently the only thing that probably kept him alive that night--was the kindly deputy of Hope, administering the common, rudimentary medical knowledge of every frontiersman, making sure he didn't end up with a dead body in his jail by the morning. Stating his name was Kris with a friendly smile and a tip of his hat, the deputy removed the bullet wedged between Andy's shoulderblades with a sharp Bowie knife and prayer, apologizing with every movement, every incision. If Andy could have gathered the energy to scream during the backalley surgery he would have, but it took all his will not to black out.
Insisting under his breath that it would be too much of a victory for the sheriff to allow Andy to die, Kris took care of his health, providing equal amounts of strong, antiseptic liquor to Andy's wound and Andy's stomach, the only thing the outlaw found helped to kill the pain. Kris insisted on water as well, claiming that Andy couldn't replace all the blood he lost just with gin, and what didn't go into the outlaw's mouth to drink was used to clean up the floor of the jail cell, Andy still too weak to sit up and move away from the pool of his own lifeblood, its metallic scent pungent and sour. The bandages he used to dress the wound were old, albeit clean, rags; the bedrest Andy received was upon cold, hard-packed dirt.
It was more hospitality from a lawman than Andy had ever expected to get; he reminded himself, if he got out of Hope alive that Kris Allen would change his perspective on the cruelty of men of the law, and possibly owe him a gift basket in return.
Though drifting in and out of consciousness the entire night, Andy's mind was constantly on the seriousness of his dilemma, that he was wounded--dying, almost, or at least it sure felt that way--and lying in a jail cell, accused of being a member of the Kings. Even if there had been no evidence in Hope that Andy was an outlaw--he was careful, damn cautious not to leave traces of his real self behind, as he was in every town they hit--there was always the possibility the truth would come out, and one way or the other, by bullet or by hangman's noose, he'd die.
He wished above all else that Neal were there with him, a selfish, desperate desire just to feel the other man's arms around him, rest his heavy, wound-weary head on his shoulder, hear Neal whisper to him that it would all be okay. Then, at the least, he could believe there was a happy ending to this bleak situation, or that even if there seemed no escape from death in sight, that Andy would die right beside him, clutching hands, experiencing the last breath expelled from his body. He couldn't bear to think of Neal surviving without him; he couldn't bear to think of surviving without Neal.
The rising sun streamed in through the single grimy window of the sheriff's office and underneath the wooden door, pathways of light to the outside world that never reached the iron bars of Andy's prison. He made it through the night; only time could tell if he could survive the day.
***
Kris wiped his brow with a sleeve already stained with sweat--his--and blood--decidedly someone else's. It was a long, brutal night, possibly the worst the deputy had ever experienced in his young life, though for all the trouble he found, it couldn't have been worse than his prisoner. There were moments when the night was as its darkest, when the only reason Kris knew the poor traveler was still alive was from faint mumblings during his weary fever-dreams, the mind continuing to race long after the body reached the limit of what it could endure. He removed the bullet to stop infection, gave him gin to numb the pain, but with all the nursing and worrying Kris could do, the heaviest of his duties was to wait, silent and patient in the sheriff's office, to ensure Hope's prisoner lived through the night.
By dawn he realized that he was likely not the only one Chris Richardson told of a midnight arrest by the sheriff: the people of Hope were converging upon the small building, hovering around its windows like hives of bees, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man. Kris soon doubted it was the kindly ranch hand that tipped off the town and suspected his boss himself when questions started being thrown in through the grimy glass, young boys asking with wonder if Gokey really brought down a King, and women fearfully fretting that the arrest could cause the outlaw gang to have unfinished business with their town. Turning a wounded man's misery into a public spectacle before judge and jury were even requested for a trial...yes, that did sound like Danny Gokey's work.
Already they rapped upon the door, men claiming to be there to satisfy the curiosity of their wives but were just as curious and prone to gossip. They tried to peek in through the window, bribe and trick the deputy into opening the door for a public viewing, desperate to be a small part of the biggest news story to hit Hope in its entire history--barring, of course, yesterday morning's robbery. As much as he loved and vowed to protect the people of this town, Kris regretted that they had stooped to Danny's level, caring more about the spectacle of the arrest than the guilt, or well-being, of the stranger involved.
"No interviews!" he opened the door the tiniest crack to shout to the crowd, an opportunist farm hand anxiously holding a pad and a pencil, hoping to make his fortune in sudden journalism. Kris made sure his body blocked any type of view of the jail cell inside; nobody gets a free show, and nothing gets revealed about Hope's prisoner until the lawman got the details hashed out. "No look-sees! Just go back to your homes--there's nothing to see here!"
Curious but not disrespectful, the crowd immediately began to thin, the resolve of Kris's squared jaw a clear note that he would not back down. The citizens all knew, either way, that any information they desired would be readily given by the sheriff himself, holding court at his own home, more than willing to tell the tale. As people began returning to their daily business or heading for the other side of town to hear Danny Gokey's version of the truth, Kris noticed one man in the crowd who did not call for a peek at the prisoner or an explanation for the trail of blood leading towards the sheriff's office door. Dressed in an immaculate white suit, irrepressibly flashy for most men in the West but modest for his tastes, Adam stood with an unsure expression on his face, eyes rimmed with dark but from sleeplessness, not kohl, silently asking permission to step inside.
Kris gave the slightest of nods towards Adam, and once the townspeople of Hope got bored waiting at a stagnant, uninteresting door, Adam quietly slipped inside. The sight that was awaiting him there, however, was not what he expected.
"Holy shit!" he exclaimed when he saw the room, the smears of red along the doorknob and on Kris's hands, a trail of dark, drying blood leading to the motionless body in the jail cell. He stared at the scene, a macabre, horror-like room he never thought he would see Kris Allen at the center of. "Thought the rumors were false," he started babbling, unable to keep his eyes off the carnage. "Never thought Gokey could have done the damage he was bragging..."
"Oh, it's true," Kris deadpanned, reaching for a rag and cleaning his hands as best he could, the blood from the impromptu surgery still underneath his fingernails. The rest of the town, or at least the sensible-minded prostitutes at the Lambert Inn, must have shared Adam's skepticism that Danny could have shot and arrested someone. If this day taught Kris anything, it was never to underestimate an incompetent man when he's desperate.
Adam rushed over to the deputy, fearing the blood on his hands was not wholly from the prisoner. "Are you okay?" he asked, trying to mask the panic in his voice as it rose an octave. "Are you hurt?" He reached for Kris's hands but the younger man was hesitant; the brilliant white of Adam's suit was rarely seen in the West in places other than a virgin snowfall or a bucket of freshly-milked cream. The brothel owner was notoriously picky about his wardrobe and Kris simply couldn't handle adding one of his rants to the troubles of the day. But Adam's feelings for Kris overwhelmed his feelings for fashion and he insisted on touching Kris, ensuring his well-being, and he compromised on stroking a thumb against Kris's cheek while the deputy respectfully kept his bloodied hands behind his back and away from Adam's suit.
"I'm fine," Kris assured him, though he made no move to stop the gentle touch against his face, soaking in the gesture like a wine bladder drunk dry. He should have been more cautious--grimy, opaque window or not, he was in the goddamn sheriff's office and sighing dreamily at the touch of his secret lover's hand upon his cheek, it just wasn't smart, wasn't safe. But at that moment Kris needed the physical contact, needed some reassurance of something good in this world. It was risky, but he was willing to take the risk; Danny was far too busy happily telling his story to the masses to return to the office, and it wasn't like the wounded stranger--eyes closed, brow knit in discomfort, shallow breaths the only indication he was alive--was in a condition to be watching.
Adam saw the stress and fatigue in Kris's eyes, wanted to kiss it away, hold him until all of last night was just an illusion. "You were gone all night, I was so worried." He recalled every act to grace the inn's stage, every drink ordered while waiting for Kris's return until he was the last one in the bar, the paradox of a lonely man in a brothel. "What happened?"
Taking a deep breath, Kris looked around the office, remembering the fight he had with the sheriff that led him to this position. "Danny did more than just arrest someone," he explained, pointing towards the jail cell, exhaustion in his voice creeping in just at the thought of his full explanation. "The guy was nearly dying when I got here, I couldn't just leave him."
"I understand," Adam said immediately, admiring the sympathy Kris held for a stranger; not many lawmen, or men in general, would have done the same. The way Kris mentioned Danny's victim inferred he was still alive; from the amount of blood in the office Adam would have assumed otherwise. "So he's--"
"Not out of the woods yet. I'm going to stay here and keep an eye on him, and make sure no one tries to get in here for a peek and fuel the gossip mill." His eyes fell upon the extracted bullet lying on the sheriff's desk, Kris's own bloodied fingerprints marring the grain of the wood; the desk of a dead, good man, tarnished by the deeds of his successor. "I took out the bullet and tried to clean the wound as much as possible," he said, finding no humor in the pained look on Adam's face just hearing about the procedure. Kris couldn't imagine what Adam would have thought had he actually witnessed it. "Do you have any bandages back at the inn, or some linens you're not using? All I've got's some rags here."
Adam snickered, assessing the familiar swath of fabric in Kris's hands. "Rags?" he questioned, quirking an eyebrow. "Looks like Gokey's spare pair of trousers to me."
"Same difference," Kris replied, with little sympathy to the original owner.
With an amused, inappropriate little smile, Adam nodded, agreeing to commandeer clean bandages and some iodine antiseptic from the inn. But first, he had to see for himself if the rumors Gokey spread were true, if the sheriff who had been nothing more than a nuisance up until last night actually did what he was claiming up and down the streets to have accomplished. "God, Kristopher, deserting me to spend all night with another man, I should be insulted," he said with a wink, moving around the desk in the center of the room to get a better look between the iron bars. "Maybe I should get a good look at him--"
Stooping down to the prisoner's eye level was unnecessary; Adam recognized the profile immediately, though encountering him now in much different circumstances, the stranger understandably much paler than before. "Oh my God," he said in shock, realizing how false the rumors really were; this man wasn't an outlaw at all. "I know him...he's staying at the inn."
"Are you sure?" Kris asked. "You get lots of patrons, Adam."
The deputy's statement was true, but Adam remembered the traveler clearly; the Lambert Inn had many patrons but not many of them stayed in rooms alone. "I'm sure," he said. "I remember him: skinny, quiet, brunette...totally my type." He looked over in Kris's direction to see a bemused frown on his face, which only caused Adam to smirk indulgently. The brothel owner liked to look, but he never did touch. "Oh, you know I have a type, just look at you," he toyed with Kris, his attempt to wrest a smile from the sullen deputy but his efforts fell short.
"Flattered, Adam, really."
Kris was in no mood for Adam's playful jabs today, not when his eyes watered from sleeplessness and his joints ached from keeping watch on the stranger's condition. And thank God he was unconscious; Kris didn't think he could ever explain away the conversation he and Adam were having right now. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his exhaustion away and replacing it with indecision and doubt. "I just don't know what to do about this," he admitted, weariness ingrained into his voice; he sounded far older than his twenty-four years to Adam, as if the experiences of the night mystically aged him, wore his idealism down. "He wasn't part of the robbery but Danny's dead set on claiming he's an outlaw; he thinks the town'll run him out of office if he doesn't deliver them one of the Kings."
"It'll be okay, baby." Adam approached Kris with sincerity, his heart immediately going out to the troubled deputy, wishing he could help in some way other than mere support. He took Kris's hands in his, delicately manicured fingers contrasting with rough, bloody palms. "You'll think of something."
Pulling his lower lip in by the teeth insecurely, Kris looked up at Adam, his familiar, comforting blue eyes inviting him to open up, reveal what his mind had repeated over and over to him like a magpie. "I can't let a man die over Gokey's damn ego. He's calling for a judge from Santa Fe; he wants this to go to trial."
"You could write to them yourself," Adam suggested. "It'll take a long time for a judge to get here from Santa Fe. Tell him there's been a misunderstanding...or, the prisoner died, and there's no reason for him to go through the trouble of coming to our little Hope."
"Or I could testify," the wheels were turning in Kris's mind now, his plans tentative except for the primary goal to keep an innocent man's neck out of a noose and Danny Gokey's lauded name out of the papers. "Let everyone know that Gokey's got the wrong guy."
"Or," spoke up a voice from behind the pair, hoarse from exhaustion and disuse. Kris and Adam turned quickly in the direction of the voice, their eyes wide in shock at the sight of the wounded stranger, very much awake, alert, and alive, propping himself up on his good arm, a hint of a smirk on his face. "You could just let me go."
***
After their initial shock that Hope's wounded, unconscious prisoner was not quite as unconscious as the two men were led to believe, with Kris agast at hearing him speak and Adam announcing dramatically that his heart was about to stop, the conversation turned guarded, the lingering fear dwelling within Kris that the stranger had heard and seen more than he should have--more than Kris and Adam wanted him to see. They discovered that, as Kris suspected, he did nothing to provoke Danny's shooting, the wounded man also finding it rather distasteful of the sheriff to shoot someone in the back under the cover of night, though he admitted with a dry wit and a weak smile that he might have been a bit biased. He was still, expectedly, in quite a bit of pain, though thankfully his wound had stopped bleeding, the bloody makeshift bandage dry to the touch, and he remarked that the alcohol Kris gave him last night had been just as beneficial to him as the water.
Then, as they all found inevitable, came talk of escape.
For a wounded man his speech was well thought-out and practical, the conversation meandering from talk of his release only as far as he would allow it, then reining it back in like an unruly calf on a tether. Kris stubbornly refused to let the prisoner go without consequence: yes, he believed Danny had wrongfully arrested the man, and did so for selfish reasons, but Kris still upheld the law in Hope, despite his hatred of its execution. Besides, he had pointed out with a sympathetic frown, the man could barely muster the energy to sit up in the cell; Kris doubted he'd get very far by foot if Danny got wind of the escape and rounded up a posse, if he managed to get to his feet at all.
"And I'd probably have to be a part of that posse," he added sadly. After spending so much time and effort the previous night on keeping the prisoner alive, Kris found it such a waste just to have to track him down and shoot him all over again.
For far more selfish reasons that Kris kept to himself that day, not even sharing them with Adam for fear that he might try to convince him otherwise, the deputy wanted to keep the prisoner there for the same reasons as Gokey: job security. If Kris allowed Danny's prisoner to escape, the sheriff's hopes of redeeming himself in the eyes of the town--as well as the whole of the West--would be dashed, and undoubtedly his rage and revenge would fall upon Kris's shoulders. The paranoia in Danny Gokey's mind was always present; he might even go so far as to turn the rest of the town against Kris, making him lose more this time than just the position of sheriff. He couldn't bear the thought of being ostracized by the town he opened his heart to and made his home, and if they forced him to leave...
He looked over to Adam briefly, felt his heart soar and his lips curl into a smile from just the sight of him. He could never leave Hope, never.
"We don't even know your name," Kris countered, crouching down to meet eyes with the stranger, who had finally managed to hoist himself up to a sitting position, his back against the wall of the cell. Kris placed a hand to his chest in a gesture of good faith, the stranger relatively talkative about methods of escape but tight-lipped about his identity. "I told you my name yesterday, if you recall it." He gave a half-smile, hoping the wounded traveler would join in. "Though I understand if you were a bit distracted to remember."
With thoughtful, discerning eyes, the stranger surveyed Kris, internally assessing his character as much as he was jogging his memory. Of all things, Kris thought that he should be the one analyzing his prisoner's character: Kris couldn't be sure exactly what the other man had seen between him and Adam, the clasping of hands, the gentle brush of a thumb against his cheek that had made Kris sigh out of pleasure. The fact that this man was being as guarded about his own life as Kris was being about his unsettled the deputy, made him fear what a wounded, desperate man could do with that information.
After a moment of thought a weak smile spread across the stranger's face. "You're Kris," he said, his tone slow in speech from both fatigue and a careful planning of his words. "You're the deputy here." He paused, the calculating expression in his eyes giving way to a sincere gratitude, one that spoke of his character far more than any of the carefully crafted words he said. "You saved my life last night. I can't thank you enough for that."
Kris couldn't help but smile back, feeling the blush in his cheeks and a swell of pride that he had done something important in his role as deputy, repairing what his sheriff could have destroyed. And, in gratitude for his actions, Kris received the courtesy of knowing the stranger's name. "I'm Andy," he said after an internal deliberation; Kris wanted to press further out of sheer curiosity, but the look on the wounded man's face told him that would be all he'd reveal to the pair.
"I'm Adam," spoke up the voice beside Kris, his eyes lighting up at the thought of introductions. No matter how many people he encountered or the scores of them he promptly forgot, Adam always liked introductions. "We met before; I own the Lambert Inn down the road." He thrust his right arm in between the iron bars with a grin, absent-mindedly meaning to offer a handshake; sympathetically Andy looked down at the outstretched hand and shrugged, glancing down at his own heavily damaged, bloodied right arm. It was the best indication he could give that, had he the ability, he would gladly return the introduction.
"I remember you," Andy nodded, eyes squinting as he replayed in his mind the first time he had met Adam Lambert. He recalled there being a lot more glitter involved. "You checked me in." His eyes then grew cloudy, confused; he understood the presence of the deputy in a sheriff's jail but the owner of a brothel checking in on a town's inmate made little sense. "...This isn't the inn..."
"He's a friend," Kris interjected quickly, before thinking of the implications of such a word on his own heart, or on Adam's. The quick flash of surprise and hurt in Adam's eyes was lost on the deputy, who focused on the knowing half-smile Andy gave the both of them. He understood what manner of friendship they had, but he would not speak a word of it to a soul.
Still the town's sole prisoner persisted with his talk of escape. Andy wasn't the negotiator of the Kings but he was the best damn observer that ever dirtied their boots with Hope soil; now he just had to borrow a bit of David's power of coercion to put it to his advantage. Where there was a will, there was a way, and Andy had to get back, he just had to. "I have friends, too," he said after a while, though he didn't care to indicate whether or not they were the type of friends he reckoned Adam and Kris to be. "I've got to get back to them...they're waiting for me."
Adam narrowed his eyes skeptically; it was a different story from what he remembered upon their first meeting, of a solitary traveler probably on his way to the riches of the Pacific. "Thought you were just passing through," he said, Kris immediately picking up the wary intonation of Adam's voice.
"Was getting supplies," was Andy's succinct and quick answer; a little too quick, admonishing himself, the half-truth sounding like a well-practiced excuse--which, of course, it was, but Andy hadn't expected it to sound so obvious.
He took a deep sigh, eyes closing, the darkness behind the lids conjuring images in his head of Neal's eagle eyes searching the horizon for him, heart already on edge from an unexpected, lonely night watch. The deep, guttural feeling of loss was aching from his chest, and not other parts that tended to stir when riding back to Neal after a heist. Andy was starting to think his desire to return to camp, to see Neal again, had nothing to do with the sex they shared.
"They're my people," he said, breathing the word out like ambrosia, like precious gold. His brow furrowed on its own accord, his heart aching with longing.
Cocking his head to the side and sporting a bemused pout, Adam still appeared doubtful of Andy's sincerity here, his instincts as a successful businessman kicking in, refusing to let him see anything at face value. But the man at his side--the deputy who held the keys to the jail cell--instantly softened at Andy's words, sympathizing with him in ways he hadn't considered possible. He had people, too: every man, woman and child in Hope who depended upon him, who entrusted Kris to protect them from the evils that plagued the West, whether they be from outside the city walls--or within.
"I wish I could do that for you," he said, the regret heavy in his voice, noting from Andy's slumped shoulders that he had been holding out hope, too. "You're my responsibility...but you're the sheriff's prisoner. If I let you go...there would be repercussions."
The comment earned Kris a dramatic roll of a pair of blue-gray eyes to the ceiling; Adam wished Kris wasn't always such a stickler for the law. "Forget about what Gokey's going to do," he groaned. It was times like this he wished he could take charge himself of the situation, storm across town to Danny's homestead and show him a real man doesn't solve his paranoid problems with a bullet in someone's back. If Kris wanted to do things his way, Adam would stand aside and respect his good judgment; but he wouldn't allow Kris to do things Gokey's way. "His common sense couldn't fill a thimble. He's not even worth our breath, especially after this."
Kris took in a deep sigh; the argument was always the same, and as much as his heart would have loved to agree with Adam, the badge pinned to his chest forced him to do otherwise. "He's still the sheriff and I've got to mind him," he said. "No matter how incredible it may seem."
"Funny," spoke up the prisoner; both heads turned towards the jail cell, Andy's wounded body still propped up against the back wall, but a spark of cunning in his eyes brought new life to his features. "He's exactly who I wanted to talk to you about."
While each man in the small building had a personal distaste for Danny Gokey, they all agreed that Andy's was the most recent and by far currently the most significant. In rare form Andy discussed what he had learned about the other men's grudges, dismissing away his hidden observation skills by only admitting he "asked around:" how Danny had won the position of sheriff over the more deserving Kris, and that his first order of business was to bring down the Lambert Inn. Andy never revealed his secrets to others outside of the Kings, knowing a slip-up could be a death sentence; but he wasn't too far off from that fate already, and what he had learned about Hope for the bank heist could now pay off more than he had ever imagined.
It wasn't difficult to convince Adam and Kris that Gokey was more than just a nuisance and a threat to the both of them; with this shooting, he was a danger to those in the town, strangers and residents alike who merely got in between the ambitious sheriff and his lofty goals. That's why, Andy concluded, Danny Gokey needed to disappear.
Kris balked at the thought, eyes widening in shock even from the proposition. "We're not killing anyone," he insisted; it was unlawful, it was immoral...and it would prove he was no better than Gokey, stopping at nothing to achieve his own desires.
Andy tried not to roll his eyes visibly in front of the deputy: despite being a rational, resourceful man who deserved the outlaw's respect, he was quickly discovering Kris's optimistic idealism and staunch support of justice was a real drag. "I'm not talking about killing him," Andy assured him, though it would undoubtedly make the outlaw's week if he could get a shot at the sheriff. "I'm not even talking about hurting him. Just...getting him to leave town, unannounced. And making sure he doesn't come back."
He explained, very succinctly and giving no more away than he desired, that the people he had waiting for him, once he was returned to them, would help Kris and Adam alleviate their problem of the pesky sheriff. Aware of the dangerous line he toed, Andy kept details to a minimum, giving away none of the Kings's identities nor his own, simply stating that his friends could intimidate Gokey into deserting Hope on his own accord. The threats and restrictive ordinances placed on the Lambert Inn could be lifted; the town's loyal deputy could take his rightful place as their main lawman. And Andy and his people could ride off in the New Mexican sunset, never to trouble the town with their presence again.
"No violence, no bloodshed," he negotiated, a little disappointed with Kris's conditions. The Kings only killed when they had to, and he knew David felt quite strongly about selfishly taking a life, but he assumed his fellow outlaws would have gladly taken Gokey as an exception. Especially Neal.
"You sure they could scare him enough?" Kris raised an eyebrow.
Unable to hide the amused smile spreading across his face, Andy nodded, pleased with the added relief that it no longer caused stabbing shots of pain when he moved his head. Always a good sign. "Oh, I think they can handle it."
Chapter 14