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The voices from Dutch's tent had been carrying across camp for the better part of twenty minutes now, and Karen was doing her damnedest to look like she wasn't listening while absolutely listening to every single word.
She sat with the other women near the fire—Tilly darning a sock that looked beyond saving, Mary-Beth pretending to read but clearly just staring at the same page, Abigail rocking a sleeping Jack in her lap, and Sadie cleaning her rifle with the kind of focus that suggested she'd rather be doing literally anything else than sitting through another one of Dutch and Molly's screaming matches.
"—you don't listen to me, Dutch! You never have!"
Molly's voice cut through the evening air like a rusty knife, all sharp edges and Irish lilt stretched thin over whatever the hell she was worked up about this time.
Karen resisted a sigh and took a long swig from her bottle, the whiskey burning pleasant and familiar down her throat.
"Here we go again," Tilly muttered under her breath, fingers still working the needle through fabric that probably should've been used for rags weeks ago.
Mary-Beth leaned in closer, keeping her voice low enough that it wouldn't carry past their little circle. "Think it'll be worse than last time?"
"Last time she threw a book at him," Abigail reminded them, adjusting Jack's weight against her shoulder without waking him. The kid could sleep through damn near anything at this point—probably a survival skill when you lived in a camp full of outlaws. "Damn near took his eye out."
Karen snorted, tilting the bottle back again. "Shame she missed."
The look Abigail shot her was half-scandalised, half-amused, which was pretty much the standard reaction to most things Karen said. She'd stopped caring about shocking people somewhere around her first year with the gang.
Molly O'Shea. Even thinking the name made something unpleasant curl in Karen's gut, some mix of irritation and something else she didn't care to examine too closely. The woman was a goddamn thorn in everyone's side—Karen's especially—and had been since the day Dutch brought her back to camp like some kind of exotic prize he'd won at a fair.
She didn't pull her weight. Didn't help with supplies, didn't cook, didn't mend, didn't do a damn thing except sit in Dutch's tent looking pretty and waving her silly fan around and complaining about how rough camp life was. Like the rest of them were living in some kind of paradise and she was the only one suffering.
Prissy bitch, Karen thought, not for the first time and certainly not for the last.
The worst part—the absolute worst part—was how Molly acted like she was better than everyone else. Like being Dutch's woman elevated her somehow, made her special, put her above the rest of them who actually worked for their keep. She'd look down her nose at Karen like Karen was something she'd scraped off her fancy boots, all while benefiting from the same food, the same protection, the same camp that Karen and the others busted their asses to maintain.
Karen had never claimed to be a saint. She drank too much, talked too loud, laughed too hard, and didn't give a damn what anyone thought about any of it. She'd been told she was unladylike more times than she could count, and she wore it like a badge of honor because what the hell was "ladylike" anyway? Sitting quiet and pretty while men made all the decisions? No thank you.
But at least she was honest about who she was. At least she didn't pretend to be something she wasn't.
Molly, though? Molly was all pretense. All airs and graces and "oh, I'm so refined" while contributing absolutely nothing of value to anyone around her.
And the shit-talking—... Well. Karen had never been one to keep her opinions to herself.
"—I am trying, Molly, but you make it incredibly difficult—"
Dutch's voice boomed out now, that particular tone he used when he was trying to sound reasonable while actually being condescending as hell. Karen had heard it directed at enough people to recognise it immediately.
"You don't even see me anymore!" Molly's response came back shrill enough to make Sadie wince, her hands stilling on the rifle for just a moment. "You look right through me like I'm not even there!"
"Maybe if you contributed something other than complaints—"
"Oh, that's rich coming from you, Dutch Van der Linde! You and your grand plans that never seem to—"
Mary-Beth made a small noise in her throat, something between a gasp and a giggle, quickly smothered behind her hand. Even Abigail's eyebrows had climbed up toward her hairline.
"Ooh, she ragged on his plans," Karen smirked, earning a playful swat from Tilly.
"This is bad," Tilly whispered, though she didn't sound particularly upset about it. More fascinated, really. Like watching a train wreck you couldn't look away from.
Karen took another drink. The bottle was getting lighter in her hand, which meant she'd need to dig out another one soon if this entertainment was going to continue.
The thing was, Karen didn't like watching Molly get torn down by Dutch's casual dismissal, despite what most would assume. Not because she gave a damn about Molly's feelings—she didn't—but because it was depressing in that special way that came from watching someone desperately chase after someone who clearly didn't give two shits about them.
Everyone in camp had eyes. Everyone could see how Dutch treated Molly versus how he treated, say, Mary-Beth. He'd spend hours talking to Mary-Beth about her books, asking her opinion on this or that, actually listening when she spoke. With Molly? He barely looked at her half the time unless he wanted something.
And Molly just... didn't seem to see it. Or maybe she did and couldn't admit it. Either way, it was pathetic.
Karen had told her as much, actually. Multiple times. Usually after more than a few drinks when her filter got even thinner than usual.
"He don' care 'bout you like you think he does," she'd said once, all slurred words whilst sprawled in her bedroll and being slightly too loud about it. "You're jus' arm candy to him, darlin'... Somethin' pretty to have 'round."
Molly had confronted her about it the next morning, all righteous fury and wounded pride, demanding Karen stop spreading lies about her and Dutch's relationship.
Karen had just rolled her eyes, because how delusional can you be to think that that is love?
That had been the first real fight. Not the last, though. Not by a long shot.
There'd been the time Karen commented—perfectly reasonably, in her opinion—that Molly dressed like she was going to a fancy party instead of living in a camp full of outlaws running from the law. Molly had called her a jealous cow. Karen had suggested Molly try pulling her weight for once instead of just pulling Dutch's attention away from things that actually mattered.
That one had ended with Miss Grimshaw physically stepping between them.
Then there was the incident where Karen may have—possibly, allegedly—told Sean that Molly couldn't ride a horse to save her life, and Sean had repeated it loud enough for half the camp to hear (him and his big mouth), and Molly had turned that particular shade of red that meant someone was about five seconds from either crying or committing violence.
Molly had chosen violence, naturally. Verbally, at least. She'd laid into Karen with a string of insults that would've been impressive if Karen had actually cared about being called "common" and "crass" and "an embarrassment to womankind".
Karen had just grinned and asked if Molly was done, because she was blocking the whiskey.
The worst one, though—the one that had really cemented their mutual hatred—had been about three weeks back.
Molly had finally had enough of Karen's constant commentary to the rest of the camp about her and Dutch's relationship, about how she didn't contribute to camp, about how she acted like she was royalty instead of an outlaw's woman. She'd come marching up to where Karen was sitting, all fire and fury, and started demanding that Karen stop gossiping about her.
Karen, several drinks in and not particularly interested in another one of Molly's dramatic confrontations, had just stood up, turned away, and started responding with short, dry answers. Non-committal grunts and the occasional "Mhmm..." while not even bothering to look up from her bottle.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you!" Molly had practically shrieked, and Karen had considered it for about half a second before deciding that no, actually, she'd rather not.
That was when Molly had grabbed her shoulder—actually grabbed her, like she had any right to put her hands on Karen—and spun her around.
The slap had come fast, Molly's palm connecting with Karen's cheek with enough force to make her head snap to the side.
For just a moment, Karen had stood there in absolute shock. Not because it hurt—it did, sharp and stinging—but because of the sheer audacity of this prissy, useless woman actually hitting her.
Then the shock had faded, replaced by something much hotter, much sharper, and Karen had recovered and stepped forward fast enough to make Molly take a stumbling step backward.
She'd put her whole arm into the punch, knuckles connecting with Molly's nose with a satisfying crack that sent the Irish woman staggering back several steps, hands flying up to clutch at her face as a pained moan tore out of her throat.
"And you be careful before you hit me again, you goddamn moron!" Karen had shouted after her, watching Molly stumble and nearly trip over her own feet in her rush to get back to Dutch's tent, one hand still pressed to her nose and the other gathering her skirts.
The camp had gone dead silent for about five seconds. Then the whispers had started, spreading like wildfire—"Did you see that? Karen punched Molly right in the face!" "Molly started it though, she slapped Karen first—"
Dutch had never said a word to her about it. Not one single word.
That had been depressing in its own way. Not for Karen—she didn't need Dutch's approval or his scolding—but for Molly. Because it meant Dutch didn't even care enough to defend her, to pull Karen aside and tell her to back off his woman.
He just... didn't give a shit.
Karen had almost felt bad for her. Almost.
The memory brought a smirk to her face even now, and she took another drink to wash away the small, uncomfortable twinge that came with it.
"—you're being unreasonable, Molly. I've got enough to worry about without you adding to it—"
"I'm being unreasonable? Me?! You haven't touched me in weeks, Dutch! You barely speak to me unless it's to tell me I'm in the way!"
"Oh, Christ," Sadie muttered, setting her rifle aside and reaching for the whiskey Karen was holding. Karen handed it over without complaint, watching Sadie take a long pull before passing it back.
"This is worse than last time," Mary-Beth observed quietly, her book now completely abandoned in her lap.
Tilly nodded, fingers still somehow managing to keep working that needle despite her obvious distraction. "Much worse. It's like it escalates every time."
"Maybe they'll finally call it quits?" Abigail offered, though she didn't sound particularly hopeful about it. "Save everyone the trouble of listening to this every other night."
Karen doubted it. Molly was too stubborn to admit defeat, and Dutch... well. Dutch liked having pretty things around, even if he didn't particularly care about them beyond their decorative value.
God, that's bleak, she thought, and took another drink because thinking about it made her feel things she didn't want to feel about a woman she didn't even like.
The argument continued, voices rising and falling in that particular rhythm that meant neither party was actually listening to the other anymore, just waiting for their turn to shout. Karen let the words wash over her, not really paying attention to the specifics anymore. She'd heard enough of these fights to know how they went—Molly accused, Dutch deflected, Molly pushed harder, Dutch got condescending, round and round until one of them stormed off.
Usually Molly.
"You know what your problem is?" Molly's voice cut through sharper than before, loud enough that Karen looked up despite herself. "Your problem is that you don't actually care about anyone but yourself! Not me, not the gang, just yourself and your precious plans—"
"That is enough, Molly—"
"No! No, I will not be quiet! I will not just sit here and let you treat me like—like—"
The sentence ended with an almost animalistic roar, and then—
The tent flap flew open with enough force to make Tilly jump, her needle slipping and jabbing into her finger. She swore under her breath, sticking the wounded digit in her mouth while everyone's attention turned to watch Molly storm out into the fading evening light.
She looked about three seconds from either bursting into tears or setting something on fire (probably both), her face flushed red and her hair coming loose from whatever fancy style she'd had it in earlier.
Dutch followed her out a moment later, but he didn't look particularly invested in chasing her down. More like he was going through the motions because that's what was expected. His movements were slow and his expression was exasperated, as if he genuinely thought Molly was just being ridiculous.
"Molly—" he started, but she spun on him fast enough to make her skirts flare out.
"Don't!" The word came out strangled, caught somewhere between a shout and a sob. "Just—just don't, Dutch. I can't—I need—"
She turned away from him before finishing whatever she'd been about to say, gathering her skirts in both hands and striding toward the horses with the kind of furious determination that meant she'd probably make it about ten feet before the tears started.
Karen watched her go, then looked back at Dutch, waiting for him to go after her properly. To actually try instead of just standing there looking vaguely inconvenienced.
He didn't move.
"Ain't you gonna go after your girl?" Karen called out, loud enough to carry across the camp. Several heads turned in her direction, but she kept her eyes on Dutch.
He waved a hand dismissively, already turning back toward his tent. "She's just having another tantrum. Let her.. walk it off."
Bastard, Karen thought, watching him disappear back inside like the whole thing had been nothing more than a minor irritation. Like Molly wasn't currently—
Wait.
Karen's head snapped back toward the horses, and her stomach dropped somewhere around her knees.
"That bitch is taking my horse!!"
She was on her feet before she'd even finished the sentence, her bottle hitting the ground with a dull thud as she started toward where Molly was struggling to mount Old Belle. The mare was shifting restlessly, ears pinned back in clear agitation at having someone unfamiliar trying to climb onto her back.
"Molly! Molly, you get back here with Old Belle right now!" Karen's voice came out louder than she'd intended, sharp enough to make several people look up from whatever they'd been pretending to do.
Molly either didn't hear her or chose not to acknowledge her, finally managing to haul herself into the saddle with all the grace of a drunk trying to climb a ladder. Old Belle whinnied—loud, unhappy—and tossed her head in protest.
No, no, no! Karen thought, breaking into a jog. That damn horse won't listen to anyone but me, and this air-head idiot can't ride worth a damn—
"Go!" Molly snapped at the horse (clearly having no idea at all how this was supposed to work), her voice cracking on the word as she dug her heels into Old Belle's sides.
The mare took off like she'd been shot from a cannon, hooves thundering against the packed dirt as she launched into a gallop that was way too fast, way too rough, way too everything for someone who clearly had no idea how to handle her.
Karen skidded to a stop, watching them disappear into the trees, and for a moment she just stood there with her mouth open and her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Then the reality of what just happened caught up with her brain, and she let out a string of curses creative enough to make even Bill blush.
"That—that bitch just stole my goddamn horse!"
She spun around, looking for something to throw, to hit, to do something with the fury currently boiling in her chest. Her eyes landed on the abandoned whiskey bottle lying in the dirt, and she snatched it up and hurled it at the nearest tree. It shattered on impact, glass and remaining alcohol exploding outward in a spray that probably would've been satisfying if she wasn't so pissed.
"Karen—" Tilly started, getting to her feet and holding her hands out like she was trying to calm a spooked horse. Which was pretty apt, actually.
"Don't," Karen bit out, jabbing a finger in Tilly's direction. "Don't you dare tell me to calm down! That crazy harpy just stole Old Belle, and she's gonna get her hurt or killed or—!"
"She'll probably be back soon," Tilly tried again, her voice maddeningly reasonable. "And Old Belle won't go far. You know she won't."
Karen did know that. Old Belle was fiercely loyal, protective as hell, and had thrown more than one person who'd tried to ride her without Karen's permission. The mare would probably dump Molly on her ass within a mile and come trotting back to camp like nothing happened.
Probably.
Better be the case, because if anything happens to that horse...
She didn't finish the thought. Didn't need to. Everyone in camp knew how Karen felt about Old Belle—the mare had been with her for years, had saved her life more than once, was probably the closest thing to family Karen had besides the gang itself.
If Molly got her hurt...
"Just... give it a bit," Abigail offered, still rocking Jack gently despite the kid being dead asleep. "She'll cool off and come back, or Old Belle will bring her back. Either way."
Karen wanted to argue. Wanted to go tearing off after them right now, but Tilly was right—Old Belle wouldn't go far, and charging after them half-drunk and pissed off would probably just make things worse and get even more people hurt than necessary.
So she forced herself to take a breath, then another, counting backward from ten like Miss Grimshaw had taught her years ago when her temper got the better of her.
It didn't really help, but at least it gave her something to do besides imagine all the ways Molly could get her horse killed.
The next few hours dragged by with all the speed of cold molasses. Karen tried to drink—found another bottle and settled back down with the women—but even the whiskey tasted wrong, too bitter and not nearly numbing enough to take the edge off her worry.
Because that's what it was, she realised with no small amount of annoyance. Worry. Not just about Old Belle, though that was definitely the majority of it, but also—in some small, irritating corner of her mind—about Molly.
Stupid, she thought viciously, tilting the bottle back and letting the burn distract her from examining that particular feeling too closely. Stupid to worry about someone who'd probably laugh if I fell off a cliff.
The sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and red that would've been pretty if Karen had been in any mood to appreciate them. Fires got lit, dinner got cooked and eaten—though Karen barely touched hers—and still no sign of Molly or Old Belle.
People started to notice. Started whispering again, though this time the tone was different. Less entertained, more concerned.
"Think something happened?" Mary-Beth ventured quietly, her dinner bowl still half-full in her lap.
"Probably just.. sulking somewhere," Karen muttered, but even she didn't sound convinced.
Sadie had been quiet for most of the evening, but now she looked up from checking her revolvers—a nervous habit Karen had noticed she'd developed—and met Karen's eyes across the fire.
"Getting dark," Sadie observed, her tone carefully neutral. "Real dark."
Which was her polite way of saying if something happened and she's out there alone in the dark, she's in trouble.
Karen knew that. Had been trying not to think about it for the past hour, but there it was, laid out plain and simple.
Shit.
The boys had started gathering near the fire, their conversation a low rumble that Karen wasn't paying attention to until Arthur's voice cut through clearer than the rest.
"—should probably send someone to look for her."
"Why?" That was Bill, naturally. "She's the one who ran off. Let her find her own way back."
"She doesn't know the area," Charles pointed out, his quiet voice somehow carrying better than Bill's grumbling. "And she's on foot if that horse threw—"
The thundering of hooves cut him off mid-sentence, loud enough that half the camp grabbed for their weapons on pure instinct.
Karen was on her feet before she'd even registered moving, hand going to her revolver as she spun toward the sound.
Old Belle burst through the treeline like the devil himself was chasing her, eyes rolling white and ears pinned flat against her skull. The mare was breathing hard, sides heaving, and there were scratches on her flanks that looked fresh—branches, probably, from tearing through the forest at full speed.
And no Molly in the saddle.
"Whoa, whoa, easy girl—" Karen was moving before anyone else could react, hands out and voice low as she approached the agitated horse. "Easy, Belle. Easy now."
Old Belle tossed her head, dancing sideways and letting out a harsh whinny that sounded almost accusatory. Where the hell were you? Why did you let that woman on my back?
"I know, I know," Karen soothed, finally getting close enough to grab the reins and run a hand down Old Belle's neck. The mare's coat was slick with sweat, her breathing still too fast, but she was starting to calm under familiar hands. "That prissy idiot stole you, I didn't let her do nothing. You're alright now. You're alright."
"Where's Molly?" Arthur's voice came from behind her, closer than she'd expected.
Karen kept her attention on Old Belle, checking the mare over for any injuries beyond the superficial scratches. Nothing serious, thank God. Just spooked and pissed off.
"Ain't here, as you can see," Karen shot back without looking at him, her fingers working to unbuckle the saddle girth. "Which means Old Belle probably threw her somewhere out there."
"Shit," someone muttered—sounded like Lenny, maybe.
"Someone's gotta go," Hosea's voice cut through the growing murmurs, calm and authoritative in that way that made people listen. "Question is who."
Karen finally turned away from Old Belle, leaving one hand on the mare's neck. The horse had calmed considerably, though she was still shifting restlessly, clearly wanting to communicate something Karen couldn't quite parse.
"I'll go," Karen heard herself say, her voice coming out steadier than the churning in her gut warranted. "Old Belle's my horse. She'll be able to find where she left Molly, and I can handle her better than anyone else here."
Everyone looked at her.
Karen wrinkled her nose at the way everyone looked so surprised. "What?? I'm capable of doing a good service, y'know."
"You sure? You and Molly don't seem to get along so well, is all." Arthur pointed out, not challenging, just acknowledging.
"Look, even I can put aside a petty rivalry if she's in danger, Arthur. I'm not that bad." She huffed.
And if Molly really is hurt, then me and Old Belle should be able to get her back.
The thought made her want another drink, but she'd already had enough that going out into the woods probably wasn't the smartest idea. Hadn't stopped her before, though, and it sure as hell wasn't going to stop her now.
"Take your weapons," Hosea advised, already moving to help her saddle Old Belle. "And be careful. Don't know what you'll find out there."
Karen strapped her revolvers into the saddle holster, checked her knife was secure at her hip, and swung herself up onto Old Belle's back with the ease of long practice. The mare shifted beneath her, still agitated but settling quickly under familiar hands.
"She probably just a little scratched up from getting thrown," Tilly offered, trying to sound encouraging and failing miserably. "You'll find her sulking against a tree somewhere."
"Yeah," Karen agreed, though she wasn't sure if she was trying to convince Tilly or herself. "Probably just sitting there thinking she looks all mysterious and brooding when really she looks like a lost princess with twigs in her hair."
That got a few scattered chuckles, which felt like a small victory. Karen took the opportunity to nudge Old Belle into motion, guiding her toward the treeline with enough pressure that the mare knew she was serious.
Probably nothing, she told herself firmly, ducking under a low-hanging branch and letting Old Belle pick her way through the darkening forest. Probably just fine. Probably gonna find her perfectly healthy and I'll feel like an idiot for worrying even a little bit about that viper.
But the nagging doubt wouldn't quite go away, sitting there in the back of her mind like a splinter she couldn't dig out.
Because Molly didn't know these woods. Didn't know how to survive out here on her own. Couldn't ride for shit, apparently couldn't even keep her seat on a horse that was already spooked and agitated.
And it was getting dark. Really dark, the kind of dark that made even familiar paths treacherous.
Karen leaned forward slightly in the saddle, running a hand along Old Belle's neck in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. "Alright, girl. Let's go find that shrew before she gets herself killed."
Old Belle's ears flicked back toward her, and then the mare was moving faster, following some trail Karen couldn't see but trusted absolutely. If anyone could find where she'd thrown Molly, it was obviously going to be Old Belle.
The forest closed in around them, branches reaching out like skeletal fingers in the failing light, and Karen tried very hard not to think about all the things that could go wrong out here in the dark.
It took maybe twenty minutes of riding—Old Belle picking her way carefully through the underbrush—before Karen spotted something pale up ahead that definitely didn't belong in the forest.
There.
She slowed Old Belle to a walk, squinting through the gloom at what was very clearly a person sitting on the ground, back against a tree and one leg stretched out at an angle that looked wrong even from here.
Molly O'Shea.
The other woman's head snapped up at the sound of hooves, and even in the fading light Karen could see the way she stiffened, chin lifting in that particular way that meant she was about to say something bitingly defensive.
Karen dismounted slowly, making a show of it—adjusting her gun belt, patting Old Belle's neck, taking her sweet time walking over to where Molly sat looking like every bit the stranded damsel she'd probably die before admitting to being.
She stopped a few feet away, hands on her hips, and looked down at Molly with what she knew was probably a deeply unsympathetic expression.
"Well, well," Karen drawled, letting her weight shift onto one leg in a posture of casual assessment. "Who's the dumb strumpet now?"
Molly's jaw tightened, her eyes flashing with something that might've been fury or embarrassment or both. Her hair had come completely loose from whatever style she'd had it in, falling in messy waves around her face, and there were leaves and small twigs caught in it that would've been funny if the situation wasn't so pathetic.
Her dress was torn at the hem, dirt smudged across the pale fabric, and her ankle—shit, her ankle was definitely swollen, even Karen could see that from here.
"I don't need your help," Molly bit out through clenched teeth, trying to shift her position and immediately stopping with a barely-suppressed noise of pain that came out higher-pitched than she probably wanted.
Karen raised an eyebrow, letting her gaze drift very deliberately from Molly's face down to her swollen ankle and back up again. "That so? Because from where I'm standing, looks like you need a whole lot of help."
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, you look real fine. That why you're sitting on the forest floor in the dark with your ankle twisted six ways from Sunday?" Karen tilted her head, making a show of examining the situation. "Or are you just taking in the scenic views? Real pretty out here at night. Peaceful. Quiet." She paused, then added conversationally, "Heard there's wolves in these parts."
Molly's eyes snapped up to meet hers, and Karen caught the flash of something that might've been alarm before the other woman's expression hardened again. "You're lying."
"Am I?" Karen shrugged, all casual indifference. "Guess you'll find out if you keep sitting here refusing help. They like to come out when it gets dark. Hunt in packs, you know. Very efficient killers."
"There are no—you're just trying to frighten me."
"Maybe. Maybe not." Karen crouched down, bringing herself closer to eye level with Molly and dropping her voice just enough to sound ominous. "But do you really wanna take that chance? All alone out here, can't run, can't even stand..." She made a clicking sound with her tongue. "You'd be reeaal easy pickings."
Molly's jaw clenched so hard Karen could practically hear her teeth grinding together. "You are absolutely insufferable."
"And you're sitting in the dirt with twigs in your hair looking like you lost a fight with a tree." Karen reached out and plucked a particularly large twig from Molly's tangled hair, holding it up between them. "Real dignified, Miss O'Shea."
"Well at least I don't go around terrorising injured people with stories about wolves—"
"Oh, they ain't stories. Saw one just last week, actually. Big bastard. Probably still in the area." Karen dropped the twig and brushed her hands off on her thighs. "But hey, you don't need my help, so I'm sure you'll be fine."
For a moment, Molly just stared at her, and Karen could see the internal war happening behind those eyes—pride fighting against the very real possibility that Karen wasn't actually lying about the wolves.
Karen waited, watching her, and tried not to look too amused by the whole situation.
"I hate you," Molly finally ground out, each word sounding like it was being dragged over broken glass.
"Yeah, I know. You gonna let me help you or you gonna keep sitting there being stubborn until something decides you look tasty?"
Molly's face did something complicated—flickering between fury and resignation and something that might've been grudging acceptance if Karen squinted.
"Your horse threw me," Molly finally spat out, like it was an accusation rather than a statement of fact.
"Old Belle throws everyone who ain't me," Karen pointed out, unable to keep the smugness out of her voice as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Which you would've known if you'd bothered to ask instead of just stealing my damn horse because you were mad at Dutch."
"I wasn't—I didn't steal—I merely borrowed—"
"You took her without asking while I was yelling at you to stop. That's stealing in my book." Karen shifted closer, getting a better look at Molly's ankle, and had to work not to let her wince show. Christ, that looks bad. Swollen to almost twice its normal size, already darkening with what was probably going to be some spectacular bruising. "How long you been sitting here?"
Molly looked away, her jaw working like she was chewing on something unpleasant. "A while."
"Super specific. Real helpful." Karen reached out toward the injured ankle, moving slow and deliberate. "C'mon, I need to see how bad it is—"
Molly jerked back instinctively, her good leg scrabbling against the ground as she tried to put more distance between them. "Don't you touch me."
"Jesus Christ, I'm not gonna hurt you. Well—" Karen reconsidered. "It's gonna hurt no matter what, but I ain't gonna make it worse on purpose. I just need to see if it's broken or just twisted."
"It's not broken."
"You a doctor now? That's new." Karen sat back on her heels, crossing her arms and studying Molly's face. The other woman looked like hell—exhausted, dirt-smudged, her fancy dress torn and stained, hair falling in messy tangles that would probably take hours to brush out. There was something almost fragile about her in this moment, sitting there in the dirt trying desperately to hold onto whatever dignity she had left.
Not my problem, Karen reminded herself firmly. I could always just go back to the Gang and say she refused my help. Doing this is just some... I don't know, good samaritan bullshit.
"You can't walk on that," she observed after a moment, keeping her voice as close to matter-of-fact as she could manage. No point kicking someone when they were already this far down—even if that someone was Molly O'Shea. "And it's getting dark. You planning to just sit here all night and hope something doesn't eat you? Because I wasn't lying about the wolves."
"I tried to stand," Molly's voice came out quieter than before, some of the fight draining out of it. "I can't—it won't—" She cut herself off, pressing her lips together in a thin line like she was physically restraining the words from escaping.
"Yeah, that's what happens when you twist your ankle badly enough." Karen stood, brushing dirt off her thighs and looking back toward where Old Belle was waiting patiently. "Alright. Here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna help you get back to camp—"
"I don't want your help."
"—and you're gonna shut up and let me," Karen continued like Molly hadn't spoken, "because the alternative is you sitting out here all night until something decides you look like dinner. And before you get all proud about it, this ain't for you. This is because if I left you out here and something happened, Miss Grimshaw would have my hide, and I like my hide where it is."
That wasn't entirely true—the Miss Grimshaw part was accurate enough, but Karen knew damn well she couldn't actually just leave Molly out here. Hating someone didn't mean being okay with them getting mauled by a bear or dying of exposure.
She had standards. Low standards, maybe, but standards nonetheless.
Molly stared up at her for a long moment, and Karen could practically see the internal battle happening behind those eyes. Pride versus practicality, stubbornness versus survival instinct.
Finally, Molly's shoulders slumped just slightly, and she looked away again. "Fine."
"Well, don't sound too grateful about it," Karen muttered sarcastically, moving back over to where Molly sat and considering the logistics of this. The ankle was definitely too swollen to walk on, which meant carrying her was the only option. And Molly wasn't exactly a small woman—tall, with enough weight to her that this was going to be awkward as hell.
"Can you stand at all if you keep the weight off that ankle?" She asked, already knowing the answer but figuring she'd give Molly the option to try.
"I already told you I tried—"
"Yeah, yeah, you tried. Humour me."
Molly glared at her but made an attempt anyway, using the tree behind her for leverage and trying to pull herself up on one leg. She made it maybe halfway before the movement jostled her injured ankle and she went white, sucking in a sharp breath through her teeth.
Karen caught her elbow without thinking, steadying her before she could fall back down. "Alright, alright. Stop being stubborn and just—here."
She positioned herself next to Molly, wrapping an arm around the other woman's waist and trying not to think about how this was probably the closest they'd been since that punch to the nose three weeks ago.
"Put your arm around my shoulders," Karen instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument. "And don't put weight on that ankle. You're gonna hop on the good leg while I basically drag you to the horse."
"This is humiliating," Molly muttered, but she followed instructions, draping her arm over Karen's shoulders and gripping tight enough that Karen could feel her nails digging in even through the fabric of her shirt.
"You want humiliating? Try explaining to Dutch how you got eaten by wolves because you were too proud to accept help."
"I doubt I would be able to tell him if the wolves already ate me."
"Alright, I get it, don't get your corset in a twist..."
Karen adjusted her grip, taking most of Molly's weight onto herself, and started the slow, awkward process of getting them both back to where Old Belle waited.
It was not graceful. Molly's good leg kept trying to buckle, and Karen had to basically hold her up while also making sure neither of them tripped over the uneven ground. The injured ankle kept swinging, and every time it did Molly would make this small, pained noise that she was clearly trying to suppress.
This is awful, Karen thought, gritting her teeth as they made maybe three feet of progress. This is the worst. I should've just left her to the wolves.
But she didn't mean it, not really, and they kept going until they finally—finally—reached Old Belle.
The mare watched their approach with what Karen could've sworn was amusement, ears pricked forward and head tilted slightly like she was enjoying the show.
"Don't start," Karen warned the horse, which earned her a confused look from Molly. "Wasn't talking to you."
Getting Molly into the saddle was going to be its own special kind of hell, Karen realised with growing dread. The woman could barely stand, let alone pull herself up onto a horse.
"Okay," Karen muttered, more to herself than to Molly. "Okay, we can do this. You're gonna have to—actually, you know what? Just stand there and try not to fall over."
She positioned Old Belle next to a fallen log that looked sturdy enough, then helped maneuver Molly until she was standing—well, balancing on one leg—next to it.
"Use the log to step up, then swing your bad leg over," Karen instructed, keeping one hand on Molly's waist to steady her. "I'll push if you need it."
"I am not going to—oh God—!" Molly's protest cut off as she tried to follow instructions and nearly toppled sideways. Karen caught her, shoving her back upright with more force than was probably necessary.
"You are going to, because otherwise we're spending the night out here, and I'd rather eat my own gun than do that with you."
That finally seemed to light a fire under Molly's ass—or maybe just pissed her off enough that she'd rather die than prove Karen right—because she gritted her teeth and made a genuine effort. Between Karen pushing and Molly pulling, they managed to get her into the saddle, though not without several near-disasters and enough swearing from both of them to make a sailor blush.
Molly ended up sitting sideways with her injured leg dangling, her good leg hooked over Old Belle's neck in a position that looked deeply uncomfortable but at least kept her from putting weight on the twisted ankle.
Karen swung up behind her, settling into the saddle and immediately regretting every decision that had led to this moment.
Molly's back was pressed against her chest—unavoidable, given the way she was sitting awkwardly with her injured leg dangling—and Karen could feel every breath the other woman took, every tiny shift of weight, every tremor that might've been pain or exhaustion or both. The fabric of Molly's dress was rough under Karen's hands where she gripped the reins, and there was the faint smell of perfume cutting through the sharper scents of dirt and sweat and forest.
This is the worst, Karen thought viciously, adjusting her grip and trying to find a position that didn't feel like she was wrapped around Molly O'Shea like some kind of goddamn blanket. This is absolutely the worst thing that's ever happened to me, and I've been shot at.
"You're breathing on my neck," Molly's voice came out tight, brittle around the edges in a way that Karen couldn't quite read. Could've been pain, could've been discomfort at their proximity, could've been sheer mortification at the situation.
"Yeah, well, you're taking up most of the saddle," Karen shot back, nudging Old Belle into motion with her knees. The mare started forward at a careful walk, picking her way through the underbrush with the kind of caution that suggested she knew her passengers were in a precarious position. "So I guess we're both suffering."
Molly made a sound that might've been a scoff or might've been a suppressed noise of pain as Old Belle's movement jostled her injured ankle. Her spine went rigid against Karen's chest, every muscle locked up tight like she was trying to hold herself completely still.
"You gonna breathe?" Karen muttered, guiding Old Belle around a particularly dense thicket of undergrowth. "Or are you planning to pass out on me? Because I'm not catching you if you fall."
"I'm fine," Molly ground out through what sounded like clenched teeth, and Karen could feel the way her ribcage expanded and contracted too shallowly, too quick.
Not fine at all, then.
"Yeah, you keep saying that. I'm starting to think you don't know what that word means."
"And I'm starting to think you don't know when to shut your mouth."
Karen snorted despite herself, the sound loud enough in the quiet forest that Old Belle's ears flicked back toward her. "You're one to talk. I've heard you go off on Dutch for twenty minutes straight without taking a breath."
Molly went very still at that, which—shit, probably shouldn't have brought up Dutch. That was the whole reason they were in this mess to begin with, Molly running off after another fight with the man who clearly gave less of a damn about her than she wanted to believe.
Smooth, Karen, she thought sourly. Real tactful.
"I don't want to discuss Dutch with you," Molly's voice came out flat, stripped of the usual sharp edges that made it cut like broken glass. Just tired. Defeated, almost, in a way that made something twist uncomfortably in Karen's gut.
"Wasn't planning to," Karen muttered, more to fill the silence than because she had anything useful to contribute. Old Belle navigated over a fallen log, her movements smooth and careful, but even that small change in elevation made Molly suck in a sharp breath.
Karen felt it more than heard it—the way Molly's whole body went tense, the slight hitch in her breathing, the minute shift backward that pressed her more firmly against Karen's chest like she was trying to brace herself against the pain.
Christ, that ankle must hurt like hell.
"How bad is it?" The question came out before Karen could stop it, rougher than she'd intended but not unkind. Just... blunt. Direct. The way Karen did most things.
"What?" Molly's response sounded distant, distracted, like she was only half-listening.
"The pain. How bad."
There was a long pause, long enough that Karen thought Molly might not answer at all. Then—
"Quite bad," Molly admitted quietly, and there was something in her voice that suggested the admission cost her. Pride, probably. The same pride that had her sitting in the dirt insisting she was fine when she clearly wasn't.
Karen filed that away, adjusting her hold on the reins and mentally calculating how long it would take to get back to camp at this pace. Too long, probably. The sun had fully set now, the forest around them dark enough that Karen was relying more on Old Belle's instincts than her own vision to navigate.
"We'll be back soon," Karen offered, which was about as close to comforting as she was capable of getting. "Miss Grimshaw'll fix you up. She's patched up worse."
"How reassuring," Molly's voice carried that particular dry quality that Karen recognised as sarcasm. Good. Meant she wasn't completely out of it, at least.
They fell into an uneasy silence after that, broken only by the sounds of the forest around them—leaves rustling in the breeze, some night bird calling out in the distance, Old Belle's steady hoofbeats against the packed earth. Karen kept her attention split between watching for obstacles and monitoring Molly's condition, which was getting harder to assess in the dark.
The other woman's breathing had evened out somewhat, but there was still a rigidity to her posture that spoke of considerable discomfort being forcibly suppressed. Every so often she'd shift slightly, trying to find a position that put less pressure on her injured ankle, and each time Karen could feel the movement ripple through both of them.
This is so goddamn awkward, Karen thought, not for the first time. Of all the people in camp who could've needed rescuing, it had to be her.
But beneath the irritation and the discomfort and the sheer absurdity of the situation, there was something else. Something Karen didn't particularly want to examine too closely but couldn't quite ignore either.
Molly O'Shea was miserable. Had been miserable for a while now, if Karen was being honest with herself. The fights with Dutch were getting more frequent, more vicious, and Dutch's responses were getting more dismissive, more callous. Anyone with eyes could see it was heading somewhere bad.
And Molly just... kept trying. Kept pushing, kept demanding attention from a man who'd clearly checked out of whatever they'd had, kept acting like if she just fought hard enough or loved him fiercely enough, he'd suddenly become the man she wanted him to be.
Pathetic, Karen had called it more than once. Had said as much to Molly's face during their various confrontations.
But sitting here now, feeling the way Molly held herself together through sheer force of will despite being hurt and stranded and probably terrified—even if she'd die before admitting it—Karen couldn't quite summon the usual contempt.
Don't, she warned herself sharply. Don't start feeling sorry for her. She's still a schmancy, useless goose who doesn't pull her weight and treats everyone like they're beneath her.
Except... was she treating everyone that way? Or just Karen?
And if it was just Karen, was it because Karen had been shit-talking her to anyone who'd listen since the day Molly arrived at camp?
Oh, don't start with that, Karen thought viciously, shoving the uncomfortable line of reasoning away before it could take root. She started it by being insufferable.
"You're thinking very loudly," Molly's voice cut through Karen's internal spiral, dry and sharp enough to make Karen blink.
"What?"
"Whatever you're thinking about, I can practically hear it. You've gone all tense." Molly shifted slightly, and Karen realised she had indeed tensed up, her shoulders gone rigid and her grip on the reins probably tighter than necessary.
"Wasn't thinking about nothing," Karen muttered, forcing herself to relax. "Just trying to get us back without you falling off."
"Mm." The sound Molly made suggested she didn't believe that for a second but wasn't interested in pushing the issue. "How much farther?"
Karen squinted through the darkness, trying to orient herself based on the shapes of the trees and the slope of the ground. "Maybe... ten more minutes? Hard to say in the dark."
"Wonderful." The word dripped with sarcasm thick enough to cut. "Ten more minutes of this delightful experience."
"You could always walk," Karen shot back without thinking, then immediately felt like an ass when Molly made a small, pained noise that might've been a laugh or might've been something else entirely.
"Hilarious," Molly's voice came out thinner than before, and Karen could feel the way her breathing had gone shallow again. "You're absolutely hilarious, Karen Jones."
The use of her full name instead of just "you" or some creative insult made Karen pause. It sounded... different. Less hostile, maybe. Or just too tired for hostility. Hard to tell.
"Yeah, well... someone's gotta lighten the mood," Karen muttered, guiding Old Belle around a thick patch of brambles that would've torn Molly's already-ruined dress to shreds. "Otherwise this whole thing's just depressing."
"It's already depressing," Molly countered, and there was something in her voice that made Karen think she wasn't just talking about the current situation. "This entire situation is depressing. I'm depressing. My life is—" She cut herself off abruptly, and Karen felt her spine go rigid again. "Nevermind."
Well, shit. That was closer to honest than Karen had ever heard Molly get, and it made that uncomfortable twisting in her gut intensify.
"Your life ain't.. that bad...?" Karen heard herself offer, which was possibly the stupidest thing she could've said given that she'd spent months cataloging all the ways Molly's life was, in fact, pretty goddamn bad.
"Isn't it?" Molly's laugh was sharp, brittle, nothing resembling actual amusement. "I'm stranded with a woman who hates me, after being thrown from a horse I stole because I was too upset to think straight, because the man I love can barely stand to look at me anymore, and I've twisted my ankle badly enough that I can't walk. No, you're right. Everything's wonderful."
Karen opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. What the hell was she supposed to say to that? Yeah, you're right, your life is a disaster and also you're annoying as hell? That seemed... unproductive.
"I don't hate you," she finally settled on, which was possibly a lie but felt like the thing that needed saying. "You're annoying as hell and you don't pull your weight and you've got your nose so high in the air you could drown in a rainstorm, but I don't hate you."
There was a pause, then Molly let out another one of those awful brittle laughs. "What a glowing character assessment. I'm truly touched."
"You asked."
"I didn't, actually."
"Well, you implied."
"I did no such thing."
They were bickering again, Karen realised with something that might've been amusement if the situation wasn't so absurd. Even half-dead from pain and exhaustion, Molly couldn't help but argue.
At least she's consistent.
"Whatever," Karen muttered, mostly because she didn't have a better response and the familiar territory of arguing was infinitely preferable to the weird almost-honesty they'd been veering toward. "Point is, you ain't dying, your life ain't over, and once we get back Miss Grimshaw'll wrap that ankle and you'll be fine in a few weeks."
"And Dutch?" The question came out so quietly Karen almost missed it, barely more than a breath against the night air.
Karen's jaw worked as she chewed on the inside of her cheek, trying to figure out how to answer that. Because the honest answer was Dutch doesn't give a shit about you and probably never did, but saying that to someone who was already this low felt like kicking a dog that was already down.
"Dutch is..." Karen started, then stopped. What? What was Dutch? A charismatic bastard? A silver-tongued snake? A man so in love with his own grand plans that he couldn't see the people around him as anything but tools to achieve them?
All of the above, probably.
"Dutch is Dutch," she finally settled on, which was both accurate and completely useless. "And you deserve better than waiting around for him to notice you exist."
The words hung in the air between them, heavier than Karen had intended. She felt Molly go very still, could practically feel the other woman processing what she'd just said.
"I didn't ask for your opinion on my relationship," Molly's voice came out cold, clipped, every word enunciated with the kind of precision that suggested she was barely holding onto her composure.
"Yeah, well, you're getting it anyway," Karen shot back, because apparently she'd decided tonight was the night to say every stupid thing that crossed her mind. "You wanna waste your time chasing after a man who don't appreciate you, that's your business. But don't act like everyone else is blind for pointing out what's right in front of your face."
"You don't know anything about—"
"I know plenty," Karen interrupted, her voice harder now, less careful. "I know you came to camp that time ago all starry-eyed and convinced Dutch hung the moon, and I know you've spent every day since trying to get him to look at you the way he did at the start. I know you fight with him near daily now, and I know he walks away from those fights like they don't matter. Like you don't matter."
"Stop—"
"I know that when you got hurt tonight, Dutch didn't even come after you himself. Didn't even seem all that concerned about whether you were alive or dead. And I know that's gotta hurt worse than your ankle, but you're too damn proud to admit it."
The silence that followed was deafening. Molly had gone completely rigid against her, and Karen could feel the sharp, shallow breaths she was taking, could feel the tremor running through her that might've been pain or rage or something else entirely.
You've done it now, Karen thought grimly. Really stuck your foot in it.
"You," Molly's voice finally came, so quiet and so cold it made Karen's skin prickle, "are the most insufferably rude, tactless, cruel woman I have ever had the misfortune of knowing."
Karen felt her jaw tighten, something hot and defensive rising in her chest. "Yeah? Well, you're a delusional, stuck-up princess who'd rather live in a fantasy than face reality."
"I would rather be delusional than be you," Molly spat back, and there was real venom in it now, the kind that came from a place of genuine hurt. "At least I have standards. At least I don't settle for being the camp drunk who gossips like a washerwoman and contributes nothing of value beyond comic relief."
That landed harder than Karen wanted to admit, sharp and cutting in a way that made her want to shove Molly right off the horse and let her limp back to camp on her own.
But she didn't. Because despite the anger burning hot in her chest and the words she wanted to hurl back, she wasn't that person. Wasn't someone who'd leave an injured woman alone in the dark out of spite.
Right now, she sort of wishes she was, though.
"At least I'm honest about who I am," Karen bit out through clenched teeth, her hands tight enough on the reins that Old Belle tossed her head in protest. "At least I don't pretend to be something I'm not."
"And I suppose I should applaud you for that? For being proudly mediocre?"
"Better than being proudly pathetic."
Molly made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a snarl, twisting in the saddle like she was trying to look at Karen despite the pain it must've caused. "You—you absolute—"
"Oh, save it," Karen snapped, nudging Old Belle into a slightly faster walk. The camp couldn't be more than five minutes away now, and she was rapidly losing what little patience she'd had for this entire situation. "I'm done. You wanna hate me? Fine. I'll add it to the list of things I don't give a shit about."
They rode the rest of the way in furious silence, both of them too angry to speak and too stubborn to back down. Karen could feel the tension radiating off Molly in waves, could feel the way the other woman held herself away from her as much as their position allowed, like even touching Karen was offensive.
Fine, Karen thought viciously. Be that way. See if I ever help your ungrateful ass again.
The lights of camp appeared through the trees like a beacon, warm and welcoming and so incredibly relieving that Karen could've cried. Multiple figures were visible near the fire, clearly waiting, and she could make out Arthur's distinctive silhouette pacing back and forth.
"We're here," Karen announced unnecessarily, her voice flat and devoid of the relief she actually felt. "Try not to fall off when we stop."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Molly's response was equally flat, equally sharp. "Though I'm sure you'd enjoy watching."
Karen didn't dignify that with a response, instead focusing on guiding Old Belle into camp and bringing her to a stop near the fire where the majority of the gang had gathered. Immediately, voices rose up—questions, exclamations, concern that felt almost overwhelming after the tense silence of the ride back.
"Thank God," Tilly's voice cut through the noise, the younger woman already moving toward them. "Are you both alright?"
"Peachy," Karen bit out, already dismounting with perhaps less grace than usual. Her legs felt stiff from the ride, her back aching from the awkward position she'd been holding. "Miss O'Shea here twisted her ankle. Gonna need Miss Grimshaw to look at it."
"I'll get her," Mary-Beth was already turning, hurrying toward where Miss Grimshaw's tent sat at the edge of camp.
Arthur stepped forward, his expression difficult to read in the firelight. "What happened?"
"Old Belle threw her," Karen explained shortly, moving to help Molly down despite every instinct screaming at her to let someone else deal with it. "About a mile out. Ankle's pretty bad."
She reached up, trying to figure out the logistics of getting Molly down without jarring the injured ankle too badly. Molly was already attempting to maneuver herself, clearly not wanting Karen's help any more than Karen wanted to give it.
"Just—hold still," Karen snapped, grabbing Molly around the waist and trying to ease her down. "You're gonna hurt yourself worse."
"I can manage on my own," Molly hissed back, but she was gripping Karen's shoulders anyway, using her for support despite the words.
Between the two of them and several near-disasters, they managed to get Molly down from the horse and mostly upright, balanced on her good leg with an arm slung over Karen's shoulders. The same position they'd been in earlier, awkward and too close and absolutely miserable for both of them.
"Someone get a chair," Karen called out, her voice rougher than intended. "She can't stand on it."
Sean and Lenny were already moving, dragging one of the chairs from around the fire over to where they stood. Karen helped maneuver Molly into it, and the relief on the other woman's face when she could finally take the weight off her injured ankle was visible even in the low light.
Miss Grimshaw appeared a moment later, her expression set in that particular combination of concern and exasperation that she seemed to reserve for situations like this. "What'd you do to yourself, girl?"
"I didn't—" Molly started, then stopped, her jaw working like she was biting back whatever she'd been about to say. "Her horse—"
"Old Belle." Karen corrected, her voice a low almost inaudible mumble.
"—threw me. My ankle..."
"Let me see," Miss Grimshaw knelt down, her hands already reaching for the injured ankle with the kind of clinical efficiency that came from years of patching up injuries. Molly sucked in a sharp breath when the older woman's fingers probed the swelling, but she didn't cry out.
Karen stood there for a moment, suddenly unsure what to do with herself. The job was done—Molly was back at camp, was being looked after, would be fine. Karen could go back to her bedroll, grab another bottle, and forget this entire nightmare of an evening had ever happened.
But she found herself rooted in place, watching as Miss Grimshaw examined the injury with practiced hands, listening to the murmured conversation happening between them.
"Twisted badly, but not broken," Miss Grimshaw pronounced after a moment, sitting back on her heels. "You'll be off it for a few weeks, though. No walking, no standing without help."
"Wonderful," Molly's voice came out thin, brittle. "Just wonderful."
"Could've been worse," Miss Grimshaw pointed out pragmatically, already standing to retrieve supplies. "Could've broken it. Could've been stranded out there all night. Could've gotten eaten by something."
Karen caught the slight widening of Molly's eyes at the last point and had to suppress something that might've been an amused smirk. At least the wolf talk had been somewhat accurate, then.
"Karen got you back safe, at least," Miss Grimshaw continued, and the look she gave Karen suggested the older woman knew full well there was more to this story than either of them were saying. "That was good of you, girl."
"Yeah, well," Karen muttered, shoving her hands into her pockets and looking anywhere but at Molly. "Couldn't just leave her out there."
"Even though I'm a delusional, stuck-up princess?" Molly's voice cut through quiet enough that only Karen could hear it, sharp with an edge that might've been aimed at cutting or might've just been reflex at this point.
Karen's jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists inside her pockets. "Even though," she agreed flatly, meeting Molly's eyes for the first time since they'd arrived back at camp.
The look that passed between them was complicated—still angry, still antagonistic, but with something else threaded through it now. Something neither of them seemed prepared to name or acknowledge.
Miss Grimshaw returned with bandages and a foul-smelling salve that made everyone in the immediate vicinity wrinkle their noses. "This'll help with the swelling. And the pain, though not much."
"Nothing ever helps much, does it?" Molly's question came out weary, defeated in a way that made Karen's chest do something uncomfortable.
"Not really," Miss Grimshaw agreed, already getting to work wrapping the injured ankle with efficient, practiced movements. "But you'll heal. Just takes time."
Karen watched for another moment, then turned away. The job was done. Molly was safe. There was no reason for her to keep standing here like some kind of worried mother hen.
She made it maybe three steps before Molly's voice stopped her.
"Karen."
Karen paused, not turning around. Waiting to hear if what Molly wanted to say was actually worth her while and not another annoyed lecture.
"... Thank you." The words came out quiet, grudging, like they'd been physically dragged from Molly's throat. "For... coming to get me."
Karen stood there for a long moment, her back still to Molly, weighing her response. She could be gracious about it. Could accept the thanks and move on. Could maybe even try to mend some of the bridges they'd burned on the ride back.
Instead, she glanced over her shoulder, meeting Molly's eyes one more time. "Try not to make a habit of stealing my horse, will you?"
Molly's expression flickered—surprise, maybe, or something close to it. Then her chin lifted in that familiar defiant gesture, and the corner of her mouth twitched in what might've been the ghost of a smile or might've been a grimace. "Don't make a habit of being right about things you have no business being right about."
Karen felt something in her chest ease slightly, some of the sharp edges of her anger dulling to something more manageable. "Can't promise that. I'm right a lot."
"You're insufferable a lot."
"Yeah, well. You're insufferable all the time, so I'm still coming out ahead."
The look Molly gave her was exasperated, pained, and something else that Karen couldn't quite identify. But it wasn't pure hatred anymore, which was... something. Maybe.
"Go drink yourself stupid, Karen Jones," Molly's voice came out tired but lacking the venom from earlier. "I'm sure you've earned it."
"Was planning to," Karen shot back, already turning away again. "Try not to steal any more horses while I'm gone."
She didn't wait for a response, just headed toward her bedroll and the stash of whiskey she kept hidden underneath. Around her, the camp was slowly settling back into its normal rhythms, the excitement of the evening fading into familiar routines.
Karen found her bottle, uncorked it, and took a long pull that burned all the way down. Then another. Then a third that finally started to take the edge off the entire godawful experience.
Molly O'Shea, she thought, sprawling onto her bedroll and staring up at the dark sky above. Still the most annoying woman in camp.
But, uh... maybe slightly less annoying than she'd been that morning.
And that was probably the closest thing to progress they were ever going to get.