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In retrospect, America should’ve known that something was wrong. There was just a…feeling in the air, one that she couldn’t shake even as she sat baking underneath the hot Nevada sun. Yet, she had shoved her instincts, the very same ones that had often kept her alive in more trying circumstances, down and kept her eyes trained on the pass below. The merry band of outlaws she had joined a couple years back had heard rumors of a caravan, escorting a rather large sum of California gold, making their way back east by way of that pass. And while America was staunchly opposed to killing her own people, she most certainly didn’t mind liberating gold from the hands of a neo-Confederate group, who was most likely planning on using it for whatever southern sympathy plan they were cooking up now. She wouldn’t have lost any sleep over it.
That’d been before the caravan made its way slowly through the pass and marched straight into their trap, the three carriages carrying the gold rolling their way over the rough terrain as the group of armed men escorting them walked stoically beside. That’d been before their ambush had been unleashed and the firefight had started, the shouts of the men below echoing through the landscape and the roar of the rifle shots ringing in her ears as they exchanged volleys. That’d been before the flood of US Marshals had surrounded them and demanded they’d laid down their weapons and surrendered.
America had kicked herself hard the entire way back to the jailhouse, and even more so when they’d been filed into the cells, because she should’ve just listened to herself. To the tiny voice in the back of her head that had been telling her it’d all been too good to be true and to flee while she still could’ve. It was certainly too late now, wasn’t it? Even though she knew the metal bars of their cage would bend easily underneath her strength, she couldn’t do it without raising suspicion…
The clanging of the cell door opening was what pulled America out of her sulking, and her eyes fell on one of the US Marshals that had managed to drag them in. As a man, he was definitely a lot less impressive up close, not exactly someone America could’ve believed had been solely responsible for their capture, but there was an intense burn in his eyes that she didn’t like.
“Settle down!” the Marshal shouted over the immediate jeering of the group, not seeming to be at all bothered by the heckling he was receiving. “You,” he continued, glaring directly at America. It wasn’t exactly the most unnerving stare she’d seen, but being picked out of the entire group already had her feeling on edge. “Jones. Come with me.”
With a sigh, America did as he asked, slightly hoping that, if she played her cards just right, she could detangle herself from the situation without having to dig herself out of a grave. A brutally uncomfortable fate that she had unfortunately already experienced, and one she was hoping not to repeat.
As soon as the two of them entered what she could only presume was the sheriff's office, the Marshal shut the door behind them and made his way to sit down at the small desk at the far end of the room.
“My apologies for pulling you aside like that, ma’am,” the man said with a tried-sounding sigh, rubbing the back of his neck in an almost sheepish manner, “but I had to speak with you in private.”
The change in demeanor took America by surprise, so much so that her mind needed a couple of seconds to catch up with the shift before she responded. Despite that, though, she couldn't bring herself to lower her guard. “Is there something I can help you with, Marshal?”
Instead of answering, he just pulled out a piece of weathered paper, placed it down on the desk, and pushed it towards her. Yet, it wasn’t the action itself that took America by surprise, but rather what was on the paper.
$2,500 Reward , the bold lettered headline said. Then, underneath, it continued, Will be paid for the capture of Amelia Jones .
Then, smack in the middle of the poster, was what she could only assume to be an attempt at her portrait, which wasn’t at all accurate. If anything, it was more of a caricature than a likeness.
“Seriously?” she asked the Marshal incredulously, swiping up the paper to get a better look at the smaller text on the sides. It was a description of her, though most of the finer details were definitely off. “A bounty?”
“President McKinley is determined to bring you back,” he answered.
America's eyes snapped to him, narrowing in suspicion as anger threatened to well up in her. “This wasn’t about stopping a highway robbery, was it?“
“No,” the Marshal told her, “it wasn’t.”
Something ugly in her flared up at his words. She hadn’t been east in a long time, so much so that she partially wondered how the president even knew who she was, and it had been for a damn good reason. Did he think she would just allow herself to be dragged back ? Force her to go back to Washington and live the life she’d actively been avoiding ? Who the fuck did McKinley think he was ?
“The two Marshals outside are to escort you back east,” he continued.
America couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her throat. “You’re funny.”
“Miss Jones -”
“Ah-ah-ah,” she interrupted quickly, placing her hands on the desk and leaning over him. Before she continued, America made sure that he had the man’s full attention. “You can tell McKinley that he can fuck off. Because I have no intention of returning anytime soon, and if he has an issue with that, then he can come out here and talk to me himself.”
“He can’t -”
“He can, he just doesn’t want to,” America told him, the urge to jump to Montana growing stronger with each word. It was cool there, she’d heard, and not here.
“Miss Jones -”
“Okay, I’m done with this conversation,” she cutoff, not having the patience to hear anymore. Before the man could even open his mouth to respond, America was smelling the crisp pinewood of the deep Montanian wilderness, Marshalls and outlaws almost entirely forgotten as soon as she’d left them behind.