Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Credence to Credit

monday morning. with her fiancé.

She's dead. The outlaws have shot her and she's dead, and Addison can do nothing but watch her fall. He reaches for her, strains and pushes and yells, but he goes nowhere, and the harder he tries to run, the slower he moves.

Something nudges him—Bailey, getting ready to tie him up so he can have a front row seat to all the awful things they'll do to her—and suddenly, Addison's awake. His heart's in his throat, and he sits up so quick his head spins and all the blurry bits of the world he can see follow suit, but then he blinks and squints up at the figure standing over him, and his fingers, which had been reaching for his pistol, still.

Jude's glaring down at him, scowling ugly like some feral dog all angry with mange, and above him—behind his fat, thick head—the sky's turning gray, but the sun's still well asleep.

"Rise 'n shine, sleepin' beauty," Jude mutters, but it's almost a growl—something low and beastly curling up from the very pit of his stomach. The bounty hunter's hazel eyes are all sharp and cold and beady, like buttons, or the eyes of a wolf, and he gives Addison's feet another light kick before jerking his chin in the direction of the horses. "Pack up your shit, 'n make it quick. We gotta get goin'."

Addison curls his fingers up real tight, but Jude's a crass dunce—an ignorant brute who wouldn't know civility if it came up and bit him on the rear—so Addison takes his jacket and shrugs it back on. It worked well enough as a blanket—kept him warm when something that could've been called a dream found him, though quick it was to sour—but now dew's soaking into his pants and shirt, and he pats himself down some as he stands.

Light's peeking through the dark, dulling it slow and careful, and Addison packs up his things, buckles his gun belt, and then takes out the pistol to check the chambers, but all six bullets frown back out at him. They judge as though they have eyes, as though they can see him right now, staring and frowning and wishing—wanting so desperately he could but taste it. Might yesterday be nothing more than some terrible dream? Might today turn itself into a nightmare alone? He'll awake and find himself in bed, and he'll turn and spy [Name] sound asleep at his side, well and safe and content. The wedding was over; how quickly had it passed, and now, here she lay: his wife—his beautiful, wonderful wife. His darling. His [Name].

He'll embrace her, tug her so close her chest would press flush against his, and bury his nose in her soft hair. Smell her, feel her—have her and hold her and keep her safe, in sickness and in health; make her happy—take care of her. Be her everything, as she was his.

What might they do to her?

He flicks his wrist, and the cylinder snaps back into place with a hard click. He's hunted deer and foxes, and ducks and pheasants, but he needn't shoot to kill. Bailey has to hang. That's right; that's humane. Kinder, at least, than a bullet.

Wolves and dogs are never hanged. They're shot right between the eyes, and, for them—for an animal, a beast that can't think or feel or love—that's humane. That's kind.

He slides his revolver into his holster, and then he throws a blanket over Duke's back and grabs his saddle and bridle. The stallion flicks one of his ears, but his dark eyes are gentle and wide, and he turns his head to watch Jude trudge past. Addison buckles up the saddle's straps, makes sure they're firm and snug so the seat won't slip, and then he ties up the rest of his things, gets his foot in one of the stirrups, and with a grunt, brings his other leg up and over.

Jude's already leaving—sets off at a steady clip without bothering to check if Addison's following—so the editor frowns awful deep and sour-like before digging his heels into Duke's sides. The bounty hunter said he wouldn't wait, and he's at least decent enough to keep to his word.