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Chapter Text

The phone rings.

The sheriff grumbles something impolite under her breath and sets down her book. She answers on the third ring, just out of spite. “Sheriff’s office. Renée Minkowski speaking.”

He speaks rapidly—well, more so than usual. “Hey, so, I just got a dispatch from Urania—”

“Eiffel.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Renée states.

“No, listen, it’s marked urgent—”

“I’m in the middle of Pryce and Carter.”

“This is serious! You have that dumb law manual memorized anyway!”

Much as Renée wants to get back to Pryce and Carter, she trusts Eiffel. Somewhat. “Fine. What is it?”

Eiffel clears his throat. “Being a message from the office of County Governor William Carter. We’ve received a tip that an outlaw is in your area and thought we’d lend a hand. A posse will be sent out, to arrive tomorrow on the noon train. End message.”

“Eiffel,” Renée says, voice tight. “When did you get this dispatch?”

“Five minutes ago. Figured you’d want to know right away.” He continues gingerly. “They don’t mean… the Captain, do they?”

“Do you know of any other outlaw in the area?”

“Come on, she’s not an outlaw.”

“She steals. Avoids capture.” Renée tucks the receiver between her shoulder and chin and opens a file drawer.

“You’re just mad she broke out of jail,” Eiffel drawls.

“I was only going to keep her for one night.” She pulls out a file. Isabel Lovelace. Known as ‘The Captain’. “Don’t you have some calls to take?”

“It’s Sunday evening. Nobody’s making calls.” Renée can almost see him, flopped sideways in his chair, lanky limbs squished behind the switchboard.

“Life of a telephone operator not quite as glamorous as you expected?”

“Sure, I get all the good gossip,” he jokes, then sobers. “No. Not really.”

“Don’t you talk to Hera?”

“Nah. She has the saloon to run. I just stay here. In my cell.”

“It’s not a cell.” Renée flicks through the file. There’s a photo, an arrest warrant (now long outdated), and a note from the outlaw herself. Nothing else.

“I’ve spent enough time in cells to know one when I see one.”

“You’re getting paid to be there.”

“Hmm. True.” Eiffel suddenly brightens. “Hey, you know what I finally learned on the guitar?”

“Oh, no, Eiffel, you really don’t have to show me!”

But it’s already too late.

“Eiffel!” Renée yells over the horrific screeching sound (is that him or a bag of cats?).

“DO NOT FORSAKE ME, OH MY DARLING—”

“Eiffel! Shut up!”

“ON THIS OUR WEDDING DAY—”

“Please!”

Eiffel stops.

“You know, Eiffel, I bet Hera would help you learn some actual music.”

“That is actual music. Listen—”

“No no no—”

In the Red Wolf Saloon, Hera gives the switchboard operator’s office an exasperated glance. The sheriff puts up with a lot from Doug—they’ve been friends for years—but one of these days she’s going to drop him in jail overnight and refuse to let him back out.

Hera makes a mental note to teach him some basic chords.

In the doctor’s office across the square, Alexander Hilbert growls something very uncomplimentary in Russian and puts in earplugs. It doesn’t help. He hammers the keys of his typewriter, which does drown out the screeching but punches the slugs straight through the paper. 

Eiffel’s guitar playing isn’t audible in Urania, but Jacobi is wincing anyway. “We’re going to Hephaestus?” He throws the memo into Maxwell’s lap.

“Out in the south of the county.”

“It’s a backwater.”

“It’s our target,” Maxwell says. “Plus, it being a backwater means you can blow it up as much as you like.”

“True.” Jacobi flops onto Maxwell’s bed. “Hey, you ever heard of this Captain?”

Maxwell shrugs and returns to cleaning her rifle. The parts of the firing mechanism are laid out on the bed; each has been meticulously oiled. “Sure. Outlaw from Hephaestus. She ran a gang for years. We caught most of them, oh, two years ago. She got away. Carter’s put her on Most Wanted.”

“Then why are we going after her without Kepler?” Jacobi points to the pair of train tickets attached to the memo. Conspicuously, the third is missing.

“He’s coming down on the next train.”

“So we’re chasing down an outlaw without our commanding officer.”

“You don’t think we can handle her?”

Jacobi shrugs.

Maxwell elbows him. “Carter says jump, we ask how high. Pack your bags, Daniel. We’re leaving in an hour.”

Hera has always had a flair for the dramatic.

Knowing that doesn’t stop Renée from being startled when she enters the Red Wolf to the sight of a glass of red wine on the bar and the saloon’s owner looking directly at her, as if she’d known Renée would be walking in just then.

“Hello, Sheriff,” Hera says with a smile. “Care for a glass of wine?”

The saloon is a study in shadows—the sun is setting, and Hera has only lit one lamp. There’s nobody to see; it’s Sunday, after all, and the saloon is technically closed. Renée takes a seat at the bar and sips at the wine, just to be polite. It pays to keep Hera on your good side, even when you’re the sheriff. Since coming to Hephaestus, Renée has learned more about the town holding a drink than she has holding a badge, if she’s honest. That girl gets everywhere.

Hera flips her long braid over her shoulder and props her elbows on the bar. “So what’s going on? I heard Doug serenading you…”

“I’m not here to discuss Eiffel’s guitar playing. Although I do wish you’d actually teach him to play. I need to know where the Captain is.”

Hera raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I’m the sheriff, that’s why.”

“Touchy, touchy,” Hera says, and Renée is about to get stern when she continues, “She’ll be here in half an hour.”

“How—never mind. I don’t want to know. Can you point her to me when she arrives?”

“Already done.” Hera sits back on her stool with a smug smirk. “Honestly, Sheriff, it’s like you don’t have any faith in me.”

“You’re half my age.”

“I am not.”

Renée eyes her. “Are you even drinking age?”

“Yes,” Hera scowls. “I’m just short.” She gives Renée a last glare. “Anything else you wanted to know?”

“Nope, that’s all. Thanks.”

When Renée leaves, she circles around to the back of the saloon. Hephaestus is a fairly small town, and the Red Wolf is right on the edge of it; the back door opens onto sand and a long view of the desert. It would be easy to sneak up from behind. (Renée has long suspected that Hera dabbles in smuggling, but she’s never had conclusive proof. That, and the townspeople would drive her out if she arrested their only source of decent alcohol.) Behind the saloon, there’s a stable and watering trough, as well as a small vegetable patch planted in raised beds. Several hand-stitched pennants are strung from the rafters of the stable, adding a bit of cheerful color. Nothing looks out of place—the cellar door is shut and latched, as is the outhouse, and there’s no sign of hidden smugglers.

The sheriff of Hephaestus strolls back to her office. Maybe she’ll have time to say hello to Eiffel before the Captain arrives.

Hera stands in the back door of the saloon and watches the horizon. For long minutes there’s nothing but sand, broken only by the red silhouette of Wolf Tor in the distance.

At last, a small dark speck appears, drawing a cloud of dust in its wake. Hera smiles.

Isabel Lovelace, outlaw and Captain, fugitive mascot of Hephaestus, is laughing.

Dust flies up under her horse’s hooves, and she leans low over his neck, bandana fluttering in the wind. She is laughing with adrenaline and glee, and she is flying over the sand faster than most trains. Today it’s glorious to be an outlaw.

The thrum of hoofbeats rings in her ears, echoing her pulse. The wind fairly sings. In the distance, Hephaestus grows larger. In the desert, Lovelace is riding faster than lightning on a horse named Shadow (because what else would an outlaw call her black stallion, honestly).

The Captain is coming to town.

Lovelace rides right up to the stable, yelling “Whoa!” at the last moment. Shadow skids to a stop in a spray of sand, and Lovelace swings down from his back.

Hera darts out from the doorway, grinning up at Lovelace. “Hello, Captain.”

Lovelace tugs her bandana down. “So the sheriff wants to see me, huh?”

“Oh, stop acting like you don’t care. Everyone knows you’re—”

“An outlaw. Who shouldn’t be here anyway. But you asked, so I came. Where is she?”

Hera groans. “In her office.”

“Thanks, Hera.”

“You owe me something really illegal for this one.”

“Next time.” Lovelace adjusts her hat and grins. “See you, Hera.”

She saunters off, skirting the edge of town with her head ducked. No one would give her up—well, that Russian doctor might—but it’s worth keeping up the pretense anyway.

The back door of the sheriff’s office is cracked open, throwing a thin band of lamplight over the back stoop. Lovelace enters as quietly as possible and taps on the door with the brass nameplate. Sheriff Renée Minkowski.

Lovelace slips inside. “Hey, Minkowski.”

“There’s been a dispatch from Urania,” Renée says, and gestures for Lovelace to pull out a chair.

The outlaw sits.  “What did they say?”

“They’re after you. Apparently they’re sending their own posse on the noon train.”

“Did they say who’s on it?”

“No.” Renée considers her. Lamplight shades the lines of the sheriff's face, nose and brows and chin drawn in warmth and darkness. “What are you going to do?”

“Well,” Lovelace says. “I don’t want anyone getting caught in the crossfire. I’ll probably skip town.”

Renée laughs softly. “Between you and me, I don’t want you getting shot either. I don’t know what kind of agreement you and Hera have, but I suspect it keeps Hephaestus safe.”

Lovelace keeps her face a perfect mask. Of course she protects the town; it’s practically a second home to her.

The sheriff continues, “So I’ll help you.”

“Help me? You tried to arrest me.”

“Water under the bridge,” Renée says, with a slight blush. “I’m going to put together my own posse. So you should leave town, but we’ll cover for you.”

“Who are you going to recruit?”

“Oh, whoever volunteers.”

“You seem very calm about this, considering Carter’s sending his very own goons.”

Renée shrugs. “They don’t know Hephaestus.”

Lovelace glances out the window. “It’s getting dark. You must want to get home.” But it’s so quiet here, on Sunday evening in the sheriff’s office, with stars beginning to show in the dusky sky.

“I live here,” Renée says.

“Oh. Well.” Lovelace stands. “Good night, then. And… good luck.”

Renée smiles. It’s shy, but it’s there. “You too.”

The night train running south only has two passengers on it. They board at Urania and pay fares to Hephaestus, and they both carry more weapons than any respectable person. But they’re here on the governor’s dollar, and so the conductor simply asks if sir and madam would care to stow their luggage.

Sir and madam, as it transpires, would not.

Jacobi tosses a sack of grenades onto the top bunk. Thankfully, they do not explode. “I call top.”

“You can’t claim your bunk with explosives,” Maxwell sighs.

“Can and have.”

“Daniel Jacobi, we have discussed this. Poker is fair; grenades are not.”

As two of the governor’s top officers bicker over who gets which bunk, the train glides out of the station, sending clouds of steam puffing up into the evening air.

Chapter Text

When Hera drops by the next morning, Renée is filling out paperwork in her office and thinking about who to include in her posse. Eiffel will certainly stick by her, if she can trust him with a weapon. Maybe Pete Driscoll, or Louisa Tanner…

Hera leans in through the open window. “Sheriff?”

Renée jumps. “Hera! I didn’t hear you coming. What’s going on?”

“The night train came in. Two of Governor Carter’s officers arrived. They brought an awful lot of guns with them, too.”

“Already?! It’s barely seven!”

“But they’re still sitting on the platform.”

“Are they… waiting for someone?”

“No one’s asked.” Hera gives a cheery smile and waves as she strolls away again.

Renée stares after her for a moment before grabbing her hat and running out the door.

“Do you think that old geezer will ever get up the courage to talk to us?” Jacobi asks, nodding toward the man in the ticket booth.

Maxwell elbows him. “Don’t be rude, Daniel.”

“I believe we’re here to be rude, Alana.”

Maxwell rolls her eyes. “That can wait until Colonel Kepler gets here. He should be on the noon train.”

“Are we just going to wait until then?” Jacobi asks incredulously.

“We don’t have instructions otherwise, so, I suppose.”

Jacobi groans loudly.

Maxwell elbows him.

Hilbert’s day is shaping up to be a good one: nobody’s walked into his office yet.

He changes the phonograph record to Balakirev’s Second Overture and retrieves a watering can from the hall closet. Hilbert starts in the operation theater (three spider plants and a whole window box of petunias) and makes his way toward the sitting room (two bonsai trees, eight orchids, six more spider plants, and a large fern). Over the years, his office has been filled with potted plants of all sizes.

A knock at the door shakes him out of his reverie. Hilbert sighs, sets down the watering can, and answers it.

It’s the sheriff—Minkowski, wasn’t it? She starts speaking as soon as he opens the door. “Hello, Doctor Hilbert. I’m recruiting a posse.”

“I have no time for a posse,” Hilbert says, and makes to shut the door.

The sheriff sticks her foot in the way. “Governor Carter is sending his own men.”

“Then he must have a reason.” Hilbert tries to close the door again; Minkowski winces but doesn’t move her foot.

“He’s coming after Lov—the Captain.”

“The outlaw?”

“She protects Hephaestus,” the sheriff says defensively.

Hilbert shakes his head. “My apologies, Sheriff, but as the only doctor in this town I cannot take that risk.” That’s a good enough excuse. “Good day.”

Minkowski slowly removes her foot. “Good day, Doctor.”

The door slams with satisfying finality.

In the street, Eiffel strolls up, hands in his pockets. “So who’ve you got in our posse?”

Renée sighs. “You, me, Chris Slade, Louisa Tanner.”

“Isn’t four people enough for a posse? Carter only sent two.”

“I was thinking ten.”

Eiffel shrugs. “So we’ll find six more. Right?” He waits for Renée’s response. When none comes, he nudges her. “Minkowski? Sheriff?”

“I don’t know, Eiffel. I’ve been to almost every house in town. It just doesn’t seem like anyone cares. Lovelace has done so much for us—at least, I think she has—so we owe it to her to return the favor, don’t we?”

“Sure we do.” Eiffel slings a friendly arm around her shoulders. “Come on, Minkowski. Let’s keep knocking on doors. How long do we have left?”

“Probably until the noon train. If Carter’s officers haven’t come after Lovelace yet, they must be waiting for something else. Someone else.” Renée checks her watch. “So we have about three hours.”

They continue down the street, Eiffel chattering on about nothing in particular, and the minutes slowly spill away.

There’s a soft knock, and then the back door of the Red Wolf creaks open. Gentle footsteps brush over the floorboards.

Without turning around, Hera throws a dishrag at her visitor and says, “If you’re going to hide here, you can make yourself useful.”

Lovelace catches the cloth. “I’m not going to hide.”

Hera clicks her tongue. “Minkowski doesn’t want you to fight.”

“I know.”

“So why are you here?” Hera turns to face her.

Lovelace shrugs and leans casually on a tapped cask. “I don’t want her to have all the fun.”

Hera raises an eyebrow. “And you’re in looooooove.”

“Oh, get off my case.”

“I think she likes you,” Hera says casually, turning back to the piled dishes in the sink.

“She’s the sheriff. I’m an outlaw. That’s just how it is.” Lovelace stands beside Hera and starts drying glasses.

Hera continues as if Lovelace hadn’t spoken. “She doesn’t give much away unless she’s really smashed. But she asks about you.”

“She does?”

“Yeah. Mostly when she’s trying to pin me for smuggling.” Lovelace scoffs. “I think she cares, though. She just doesn’t show it.”

They wash the dishes in silence for a while, Lovelace turning the idea over in her mind.

It’s ten-thirty. Only ninety minutes left. Minkowski twitches at the sound of the church bells and counts the chimes with her heart in her throat. There are still only four people in the posse, and all of them are currently sitting in her office.

“We should probably get started, Sheriff,” Eiffel says.

Minkowski turns from the window and sits down behind her desk. “Thank you all for coming. I’m glad someone in this town cares. We’ll need to discuss a plan of action before noon.” She sits forward in her chair. “The two… officers the governor sent are heavily armed. According to Hera—”

“That barkeep?” Chris Slade asks.

“That barkeep who knows everything that happens in this town, yes,” Renée says. “You trust her word, don’t you?”

Chris nods silently, looking cowed.

“According to Hera,” Renée continues, “one seems to be carrying an assortment of handguns and grenades, while the other has a rifle. They’ve been waiting on the platform since seven o’clock, when the night train arrived. Lovelace has left town, so it’ll be our job to misdirect Governor Carter’s posse.”

“What are we going to do, exactly?” Chris asks. “I mean… they’re from Urania. And they have a lot of guns.”

“Mr. Slade. You volunteered for this posse.”

“Yeah, and maybe I’m regretting it, huh?” Chris rises to his feet. “You won’t catch me going up against that kind of gunman. Sorry, Sheriff, but I didn’t sign up for this.”

Renée grips the edge of the table, white-knuckled, and watches him leave. She looks to Louisa and Eiffel. “Well? Are you two going to stick around?”

Eiffel would follow her to hell and back again, but Louisa looks reluctant. She says slowly, “I would, Sheriff, but… you know I’m the only ferrier in Hephaestus, and Dr. Hilbert knows nothing about horses. It would go badly if I was shot down. I was willing to stick it out when there were four, but with three? I can’t take those odds.”

Renée can’t find anything wrong with that.

When the door closes on Louisa, she and Eiffel are left staring at each other. He grins. “Guess it’s just you and me, Minkowski.”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

Hilbert enters the Red Wolf Saloon just after eleven o’clock. He knocks politely on the door, although it’s already open.

Lovelace ducks her head, tipping her hat low to hide her face. Hera hurries out to meet her customer. “Hello, Dr. Hilbert,” she says coolly. “How may I help you?”

“I need a bottle of your strongest liquor,” he replies, all business.

“For… you?”

“As an anesthetic,” he snaps. “For surgery. I have depleted my supplies.”

Hera sighs. “Yes, sir.” She vanishes into a back room, leaving Lovelace and Hilbert alone.

Hilbert speaks first, without so much as looking at Lovelace. “If I did not know better, I would think the Red Wolf Saloon was harboring outlaws.”

“What do you want?” Lovelace asks. No point beating around the bush.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” the doctor replies, but the sharpness of his gaze says otherwise. When he leaves, after paying for a bottle of stiff plum brandy, she’s glad to see the back of him.

Eleven-forty. Twenty minutes.

Lovelace has stopped washing dishes and started pacing like a caged panther. Back and forth, back and forth, across the worn floorboards of the Red Wolf. Hera has wandered off… somewhere, leaving her alone. Her belly twists up whenever she thinks of Minkowski going out to fight without her. With every turn across the floor she becomes more certain of her plan.

Renée is cleaning her guns—two long-barreled revolvers she carries in matching belt holsters. She empties and reloads both, cycling the chamber over and over. Her office looks onto the main square. It’s completely empty; everyone seems to have decided to stay home and wait for the governor’s posse to leave. She doesn’t know where Lovelace is, but can only hope she’s left town.

Hilbert has watered all his plants. He’s sitting in the bay window of his office and watching the street. The governor’s agents must be here soon, as will that outlaw. He plans to be ready for both.

On the front step of the little shack that houses the switchboard and its operator, Hera is helping Eiffel with his guitar chords. His fingers tend to slip as he plays, but it’s a valiant effort. As Eiffel painstakingly strums, Hera sings along in a crackly soprano:

"Do not forsake me, oh my darling, on this our wedding day; do not forsake me, oh my darling, wait, wait along…”

Music drifts faintly through the empty streets. Lovelace stops pacing to listen; she knows the song well.

“I do not know what fate awaits me,” comes Hera’s soft singing. “I only know I must be brave, and I must face a man who hates me—or lie a coward, a craven coward, or lie a coward in my grave…”

The church bell begins to ring. Renée counts the chimes under her breath.

One, two, three, four.

Eiffel puts his guitar away and hurries toward the sheriff’s office. Hera runs to the Red Wolf.              

Five, six, seven.

The noon train comes around the final bend, brakes squealing as it slows for the station.

Eight, nine, ten.

Lovelace is already at the door, one hand resting on her gun.

Eleven.

Maxwell and Jacobi get up to meet their superior. Maxwell’s rifle is holstered over her shoulder, and Jacobi’s pockets bulge with explosives.

Twelve.

Warren Kepler steps off the train.

Chapter Text

Renée and Eiffel stand in the middle of Main Street. Both are armed, but neither has drawn a gun yet. Renée would like this to be as clean as possible. Delay them here, then send them off to the north again. But she doesn’t really expect that to happen.

She hears the jingling of spurs first. Then the footsteps. And then the governor’s posse rounds the corner.

There’s three of them, arrayed in a neat spearhead formation that looks a little too casual. They’ve done this before. The man in front is tall and broad-shouldered, and the gold star that glitters on his shirt pocket is the size of Renée’s hand. The two in back—one is a young man with bulging pockets and a dusty sack slung over one shoulder. The other, a young woman, is carrying a sleek rifle with easy familiarity.

It’s not the first time she’s seen a county officer. But… Renée has some doubts, now that they’re actually on her street.

The posse draws to a halt several yards away. Enough distance for someone to pull a gun.

“Hello, Sheriff,” says the man with the star. His voice is jovial, as if they’re talking over drinks in the Red Wolf. “Renée Minkowski, correct?”

“Yes, sir. This is my… deputy, Doug Eiffel.” It sounds better than “friend, ex-con, and switchboard operator”.

“Nice to meet you,” he drawls. “I am County Sheriff Warren Kepler. These are my associates, Dr. Maxwell and Mr. Jacobi.”

(A woman doctor? Well, kudos to her. Renée is impressed in spite of herself.)

Time to make a move.

Renée says, “We weren’t expecting your message. We haven’t had any outlaws in the area for several months.”

“Really,” says Kepler. “We’ve received several reports from an… anonymous source.”

So someone betrayed her? Renée feels a spike of anger in her gut. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“Our source seemed quite convinced that there was an outlaw hanging around and wreaking havoc. She’s known as the Captain, apparently.”

Renée doesn’t react. Don’t give him anything he can use. She’s depending on you.

“We’ll carry out a search of the town,” Kepler says. “Your deputy can show me around. I’m sure he’s perfectly capable.” He addresses Maxwell and Jacobi. “Go with the sheriff.”

Renée wants to scream. “Of course, sir.” She can’t say no without looking suspicious. Well, at least Isabel will be far away by now.

Isabel is roughly a hundred feet away.

From the second-floor window of the saloon, she gets a good view of the scene. Kepler’s two lackeys follow Minkowski toward the west end of town, while Eiffel and the county sheriff himself walk east.

She leaves the window and takes the narrow staircase two steps at a time. Hera looks up as she barrels through the dining room. “Lovelace, what’re you—”

But the outlaw is already gone.

Isabel draws her Smith & Wesson, fingers comfortable on the worn stock. Then she sets off at a trot, skirting back gardens and outhouses. She ducks from building to building, peering around each corner. The sheriff of Hephaestus is the most capable person Isabel has ever met, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to abandon her.

“So,” Kepler says, “how long have you been deputy sheriff?”

“Sir?” Eiffel asks, confused.

“Sheriff Minkowski seems to trust you.” Kepler’s upstate accent is perfectly smooth.

“Oh. Yeah, she does.” She probably shouldn’t.

They continue down the empty street.

Abruptly, Kepler asks, “Is that Doctor Hilbert’s office I see there?”

Eiffel looks. “Well, yes—?”

Kepler is already knocking on the door. Hilbert answers it, looking miffed, but as soon as he sees Kepler his expression fades into something else entirely.

“You are searching for Isabel Lovelace, I presume?” the doctor asks.

“Would you happen to know where I could find her?” It’s not a question. This exchange… it feels practiced, and Eiffel sidles closer.

“She is hiding in the Red Wolf Saloon, I believe,” Hilbert answers.

Kepler rocks back on his heels. “I see.”

Eiffel feels his blood run cold.

Kepler turns and steps out into the street, drawing a shotgun as long and thick as his forearm from a hip holster. He spins it in his hand with a surety you can’t learn on a shooting range, and when the barrel comes to rest it’s pointed straight at Eiffel.

The switchboard operator freezes where he stands. Goddammit, Minkowski’s going to kill me after Kepler’s done.

Kepler aims for the sky and pulls the trigger. The shot echoes. Eiffel breathes a sigh of relief. “What was that? Sir?”

Kepler doesn’t answer. “Take us back to the town square, Deputy Eiffel. I think we ought to have a talk with Sheriff Minkowski.”

“And this is the ferrier’s shop,” Renée says, pointing it out. (Louisa is nowhere to be seen.)

Jacobi and Maxwell both look exquisitely bored, but they still set Renée’s teeth on edge. There’s something about them—the way they move together, maybe, not in step but still perfectly synchronized. Maxwell’s eyes cast back and forth over the ground; Jacobi scans storefronts and rooftops.

“Very interesting, Sheriff,” Jacobi drawls, and he’s about to continue when a gunshot echoes from the other side of town.

Renée jumps. “What the hell?!”

Jacobi and Maxwell lock eyes. “Sounds like the Colonel’s found something,” Maxwell says. “Shall we?”

Renée has no intention of turning her back on this pair, but she sets off anyway. They make good time to the town square, where Kepler, Eiffel, and—could it be?—Doctor Hilbert are waiting. Kepler stands with his feet spread and his arms crossed, smug as a cat. Eiffel looks desperate— he’s trying to tell her something but Renée doesn’t know what. Hilbert looks inscrutable, but satisfied. Satisfied. What does he think is going on?

“Sheriff Minkowski!” Kepler says, voice dripping with enthusiasm. “Nice of you to join us.” Shivers go down Renée’s spine. “I’ve just learned something very interesting from Doctor Hilbert here. Now, he claims that the Captain is actually in town at this very moment.”

“Uh… sir, that’s not possible.” Renée glares at Hilbert, and he drops his gaze.

“Oh?” There’s a gleeful glitter in Kepler’s eyes. He’s playing with them, Renée can feel it, but damn if she’s not going to push through. “According to the esteemed doctor, Isabel Lovelace is right… over… there.”

Slowly, Renée looks where he’s pointing: directly at the Red Wolf Saloon.

“Well,” Jacobi says. “Why don’t we have a look?”

The governor’s posse crosses the square, and Kepler knocks on the door. Each strike echoes.

Hera answers it. She doesn’t open the door all the way. Renée can’t hear what she says, but it makes Kepler rock back on his heels in mock surprise. He asks Hera something else, at which she stares at him for a long moment and then steps slowly back, leaving the door open.

Kepler doffs his hat to Hera and strolls into the saloon like he owns it.

Renée stares, gape-mouthed, as Jacobi and Maxwell follow Kepler inside without a word of complaint from Hera. What just happened?

She hurries to the saloon. Hera is still standing just inside the door, fingers twisting together. “She’s not here, is she?” Renée asks, feeling panic settle in her stomach.

“She was,” Hera snaps, “and then she ran off to rescue you.”

“She didn’t leave?!”

“Of course she didn’t! Did you really think she would let you do this alone? She may be an outlaw but she cares about you!”

“Hera, this is no time to be playing matchmaker!”

Hera rolls her eyes. “Well, Sheriff, I don’t know where she is now. I can’t get any news when nobody’s around. She left when you split up, but she can’t have gone far—”

Deliberate footsteps sound behind them: someone trying to make their presence as blatant as possible. The sheriff and the saloon owner turn slowly, both dreading what they’ll see.

Alana Maxwell fixes them both with a fox’s smile. “It’s about time we ended this charade. Where is the Captain?” As Renée and Hera open their mouths, Maxwell raises a finger. That tiny gesture is enough to stop both of them in their tracks. “And don’t try to lie. I’ve been listening to you since, oh, around the time you confirmed that you both know Isabel Lovelace is in town.”

Renée grits her teeth. “She’s gone.”

Maxwell eyes her. “You really don’t know, do you?” She sighs. “Colonel!”

Kepler appears at the top of the stairs. “Ah, Dr. Maxwell. Any luck?”

“Sir, these two confirmed that the Captain is still in Hephaestus.”

Kepler descends the stairs, Jacobi on his heels, with excruciating slowness. Renée feels herself going tense, almost reaching for her guns. She can hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Kepler stops right in front of her, and for a long moment there is total silence in the Red Wolf.

When Kepler moves, he’s a blur, flipping a heavy shotgun out of his holster and jabbing the barrel into Renée’s chest. Renée freezes. She can’t possibly move faster than he can pull the trigger, and Maxwell’s hands are twitching toward her rifle, and Jacobi has one hand in the pocket with the grenade.

Kepler gestures with the gun. “Outside.”

And so Renée walks, with the shotgun digging into her spine, until they’re all standing in the middle of the street— her, and Kepler, and Maxwell, and Jacobi. At their approach, Eiffel shouts, “Sheriff!” and Hilbert almost smiles.

“Where is she?” Kepler asks, and there’s only one person he could possibly mean.

“I don’t know,” Renée spits. “You’ll never find her.”

The gun jabs into her back again. “One more chance, Sheriff. Where is she?” Kepler’s voice is a growl, something barely human, and Renée is reminded of the stories she used to hear about what roams the desert at night, ghouls and shapeshifters and twisted things that drink blood and eat bones.

She takes a gamble. “She’s coming.”

“Is she,” Kepler says.

“She knows the desert better than anyone. You’ll never escape.”

Kepler chuckles. “Am I supposed to be scared?”

Yes. No. Screw you.

“Here’s how it’s going to be,” Kepler says. His voice rings with mocking pleasantry, echoes in the empty street. “We're going to see if the Captain chooses to reveal herself." He cocks his gun. "Ten.”

Oh god.

“Nine.”

He’s going to kill me.

"Eight.”

Lovelace?

“Seven.”

Isabel?

And then, as though Renée conjured her up:  

“Step away from the sheriff, Kepler.” All eyes go to the far end of the street, where a lone figure stands. Dust billows around her feet. Her hat is tipped up, revealing the cold anger in her eyes. As Renée watches, Lovelace brings her revolver to point directly at Kepler. “You and I have some business to settle.”

Chapter Text

A slow smile spreads across Kepler’s face.  “Captain,” he says, “you’re just in time.” He removes the gun from Renée’s back, and relief floods through her, even though he could still probably shoot her without a moment’s notice. Kepler glances at Maxwell, keeping Lovelace in his peripheral vision. His voice is very quiet. “Doctor Maxwell.”

Maxwell’s lips tighten. “She must have skirted around the outside of town. I didn’t see any trace of her.”

Kepler shakes his head. “I hired you to be a hunter. I expect you to act like one.” He turns to Lovelace again (Maxwell scowls at his back, and Jacobi nudges her with his shoulder, earning a tired smile). “Is it pistols at noon, then?” he asks, voice just loud enough to reach to the end of the street.

Lovelace thumbs the hammer of her gun, and Renée imagines she can hear the click of the bullet loading. “Any time you’re ready.” Her feet are planted, and her sleeves are rolled up.

“Sheriff,” Jacobi says urgently. “Should we—?” Maxwell fingers the strap of her rifle, slung over her shoulder.

“That won’t be necessary.” Kepler saunters into the middle of the street. “On three?” His tone is altogether too jovial for a gunfight.

Lovelace’s aim hasn’t wavered. “Eiffel,” she orders. “Count it off.”

Renée hopes, heart a triple-time drum. She could swear that Lovelace’s eyes flicker to hers, that the outlaw’s lips curve ever-so-slightly into a smile.

“One,” Eiffel says, and he doesn’t even get to two.

There’s a single gunshot—two, so close together they sound like one. Lovelace doubles over, and Kepler is still standing— no, he’s wavering, and there’s blood soaking through his shirt. Jacobi is already moving toward Kepler, but Maxwell’s rifle leaps into her hands and she’s aiming at Lovelace, Lovelace who hasn’t raised her gun again—

The click of Renée’s revolver echoes in her ears. “Stop,” she says, and there must be something deadly in her voice because Maxwell doesn’t pull the trigger. Renée doesn’t remember drawing her guns, but she has one pointed at Maxwell, the second at Jacobi, and she dearly hopes that Eiffel is aiming at Kepler. Her hands are trembling with something between rage and terror—they dared hurt her, oh they hurt her.

Kepler touches his shoulder with a finger and looks almost curiously at the blood that coats it, red and dripping into the dust. He looks around at the scene, and he seems about to speak.

“Get out of my town,” Renée declares, “and don’t come back. You're not taking her away.” It sounds braver than she feels. She steals a glance toward Lovelace, who is watching silently. “If you try anything, we’ll shoot.” Maybe. If she can goad herself into it—but they shot Lovelace and she thinks it would not take much.

Kepler tips his hat to Renée, one tiny, sarcastic motion, and gestures to Jacobi and Maxwell. Maybe a vanquished-villain speech is too trite; he says nothing, and the silence is eloquent enough. Renée has no doubt that they’ll be back someday. Maybe soon.

But then the governor’s posse is walking away, is going, is gone.

Renée holds her aim until they disappear down the path that leads out of town to the depot. “Eiffel? Would you mind—”

“Yes, sir,” he says, and runs after them.

Renée holsters her guns and runs down the street to where Lovelace is still standing. The outlaw has one hand pressed against her side, where a red stain is spreading. “He winged me,” she says. “I’ve had worse.”

“Of course you have,” Renée says, maybe laughing and maybe sighing and maybe crying a little. “We should get Hilbert— oh, no, he’s gone again. We should get Hera to look at that anyway.”

“As the sheriff says,” Lovelace replies, and smiles. Her eyes are perfectly clear, even though her jaw is tight.

“Can you walk?” Renée doesn’t wait for a response. She lifts Lovelace’s arm around her shoulders. Lovelace leans into her. Together, they walk to the Red Wolf.

Hera meets them at the door. “You’ve got admirers,” she says softly.

“What?” Renée turns. People have started to trickle into the street. Louisa is there, and so is Chris Slade, and the couple who run the general store and the news boy and a dozen others. They’re whispering to each other, pointing out the drops of blood, giving the sheriff and the outlaw nervous glances.

Someone steps forward— Jim Green, a retired sergeant, as Renée recalls. “Sheriff Minkowski,” he says, “and of course Miss Lovelace, on behalf of the people of Hephaestus I’d like to thank you for protecting our town.”

Renée starts to reply, but Lovelace beats her to it: “Thank you for your kind assistance,” she says with perfect calm, and then turns and pulls Renée inside with her.

“Was that really necessary?” Renée asks, once the door has shut behind them.

Lovelace shakes her head. “But I enjoyed it.”

Evening falls easy on the town. Shops are shuttered, and lamps are lit. The train that runs south will not come until morning, and the train that runs north is long gone. It’s very quiet in Hephaestus.

“And then,” Eiffel says, “I got another call from Urania, saying that it had all been a drill!”

Hera shakes her head. “That’s the governor for you.”

“Bastards,” Eiffel agrees comfortably. “Oh, Minkowski, remember that time you tried to hold a musical?”

“Oh, no,” she tells him. “We are not talking about that.”

Eiffel turns to Lovelace. “She sang an entire opera about pirates.”

Renée drops her head into her hands. “Eiffel.”

They’re all sitting around a corner table lit by several lamps. Renée is sipping red wine, and Lovelace and Hera are sharing a bottle of bourbon, the provenance of which she’s decided not to question. Eiffel, who has shut down the switchboard for the night, is drinking milk.

“You sing?” Lovelace asks Renée, with a teasing lilt to her voice.

“Not when she’s sober she doesn’t,” Eiffel replies cheerfully.

Lovelace snaps her fingers. “That reminds me, what were you singing earlier?” she asks Hera and Eiffel. “I thought I recognized the song.”

Eiffel jumps up from the table. “It’s called Do Not Forsake Me,” Hera explains as Eiffel returns with his guitar.

Renée suppresses a sigh. Well, if Lovelace wants to hear it…

Eiffel settles the guitar in his lap and places his fingers on the frets. He strums the first few chords, more in tune than not, and Hera starts to sing. Her voice sounds almost hollow in the open room. “Do not forsake me, oh my darling, on this our wedding day…” Renée settles back, takes another sip of wine.

Lovelace is nodding along, a slight smile on her lips, and as Eiffel swings into the third verse she joins in. “Oh, to be torn ‘tweenst love and duty— s’posin I lose my fair-haired beauty; look at that big hand move along, nearin’ high noon…” Her voice blends with Hera’s, rough and rich as the bourbon in her glass.

“He made a vow for Goddard County, swore he would take me for his bounty—” all right, Renée is pretty sure those aren’t the right lyrics. But Hera has stopped singing (when did that happen? ), leaving only Lovelace’s voice, so warm it gives her chills. “I’m not afraid of death, but oh…” One long beat, and then: “What will I do if you leave me?”

Lovelace is sitting across from Renée. So it’s only reasonable that their eyes should meet, and Lovelace’s gaze is softer than moonlight. “Do not forsake me, oh my darlin’,” the outlaw sings. “Look at you, I’m starry-eyed… if you believe me, don’t think of leavin’, today I need you by my side.”

Eiffel strums a final chord, and then silence falls. It is very quiet in the Red Wolf. Renée says nothing.

“I should go,” Lovelace says. She downs the last of her glass of bourbon and stands, glancing at Hera. “Thanks for watching Shadow. I’ll owe you. Next week?” Hera nods, and Lovelace turns to go.

Renée plants her feet beneath her and almost stands to follow, but no, she can’t—

“Good grief,” Hera says under her breath, and then calls: “Lovelace!”

“What?”

“Sheriff Minkowski wants to see you off.”

Renée gapes at her, but Lovelace has turned to look back. “Sheriff?” It’s a genuine question.

So she gets up and follows Lovelace out. (Had she glanced back, she would have seen Hera and Eiffel fist-bumping.)

The sun has almost set, and Wolf Tor is a red monolith in the distance. Lovelace brushes past the pennants strung from the rafters of the stable to greet Shadow. The horse lifts his head at her approach. “Hey, boy. Sorry I left you— yeah, I know, I know.” She shakes her head fondly and unties the halter. Renée stands on the back step, hands twisted together, because she wants to say something but she doesn’t know what.

Lovelace leads Shadow out of the stable. She has to duck again to avoid the pennants. “I should really change those.”

“Why?” Renée asks, crossing the yard to stand beside Lovelace.

“Hera hasn’t told you?” Lovelace sighs at the blank look on her face. “Of course not. She uses them to signal to me.” Pointing at each pennant in turn, she explains, “She forgot to change them since yesterday evening. That one means come, that one is soon, and… that one’s for you.”

“Me?” Renée runs the edge of the blue cloth through her fingers.

Lovelace nods. “I should probably take them down, or I might rush back every day to see you.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” Renée says, very quietly. “Isabel.”

The outlaw turns, slowly, and oh they’re closer than Renée thought but it’s still like reaching for the moon. “You wouldn’t?”

“No.”

Lovelace reaches out, one hand brushing a strand of hair behind Renée’s ear and settling on her cheek. Lovelace’s voice is the slow song of desert thunder, and her eyes glitter like rain. She is a storm incarnate. “Renée,” she says, with something in her voice that Renée can’t put a name to, but she recognizes it, because it’s filling up her chest and threatening to spill out of her mouth.

Is she brave, or is she stupid? Either way she’s kissing Lovelace, and she tastes sweet bourbon on her lips, and when the outlaw pulls her closer she goes willingly. Lovelace's lips are warm, and she kisses like she's winning at something, and of course Renée has to take that as a challenge.

There’s a sudden crash, accompanied by a yelp of pain from Eiffel and virulent swearing from Hera. They separate, Renée’s arms still around Lovelace’s neck, and look as one toward the Red Wolf Saloon.

Hera sticks her head out the window. “Everything’s okay. Sorry! Carry on!”

Lovelace leans her forehead against Renée’s. “So, Sheriff—” There is something dark and mischievous in her eyes.

“Shut up and kiss me,” Renée says, and Lovelace does.