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In the Painted Desert (Anetra x Sasha) - Athena2

Summary: Sasha rides into the town of Redemption seeking revenge in a shoot-out tournament. Anetra is also part of the tournament, and the two of them confront ugly truths together.

A/N: I had this idea a few months ago, but never attempted it. While having writer’s block on another fic, I started this and it somehow came together quickly. This is an au of the movie The Quick and the Dead. I did change some things, especially to make it a bit less dark. You also don’t need to know the movie to read this (I do recommend the movie, it’s really good, and also the main character’s wardrobe is amazing). Thank you so, so much to Writ for beta-ing this and encouraging me along the way, you’re incredible. Also thank you Mar for letting me talk about this with you and for gushing over Sasha in cowgirl outfits with me. I really hope you like this, and please comment if you like!!

Dust kicks up under Biscuit’s hooves as he carries Sasha through the Nevada desert. It’s settled on her long black coat, caked under her nails since her last wash just this morning. Everything is brown earth and steel-gray sky for miles, only an occasional cloud to break it up. Dry and desolate and desperate. Feelings she knows too well. It’s another world, and it’s proof of how far she’s come.

The town of Redemption rises out of nowhere, almost a mirage among the dirt. If she can even call it a town. One main street, a tall clock tower with strips of wood hanging from its frame, a chapel, fifteen shops and houses on each side of the street. And at the end of the street, a looming mansion, watching over everything.

The reason she came here.

The mansion is the reason she came, but she can’t just march in through its ornate door that costs more than the town’s houses. She has to be patient, wait for the right moment. She’s waited for 25 years. A few more days can’t hurt.

—-

Sasha’s throat burns from a day’s ride with just her canteen, and she ties her horse to a post outside the saloon. She washes up at the water pump, sighing in relief at the cool water. She gives her horse some, and he drinks greedily. She dabs some on the back of her neck, refills her canteen, adjusts her hat, and enters the saloon.

The scuffed doors swing open to announce Sasha’s arrival. The saloon is no different from others she’s visited: dark wood floors covered in scratches, wobbly chairs and rickety tables, gruff patrons playing cards yellowed with stains from years of beer. Whispers follow her, but that’s no different either.

“What’s a lady like that doing here?”

“That ain’t no lady,” another voice hisses.

“She’s beautiful,” a meek voice whispers, barely audible. Sasha’s eyes fly to the woman who she suspects said it, and the woman flushes and looks away, so she probably did.

Sasha strides past the voices to the bar, the gun at her hip grounding her. “A beer, please. And a room.”

“Forty cents.”

She slides over the money, and the bartender passes her a glass of amber beer and a rusty key. “First door on the left,” he says, motioning to the stairs.

Sasha retreats to a table in the corner, watching everyone’s eyes finally leave her and go back to their cards. She sips her drink and massages the cramps from her legs, sore and burning from days of riding. She waits, until the doors swing open, and John Herod enters.

She hasn’t forgotten his face in 25 years.

The saloon immediately quiets, every head turning to look at him in anticipation. He carries a chalkboard, which he sets up by the bar.

“It’s time to officially open the dueling tournament. Rules are as follows,” Herod continues over the crowd’s murmuring, “Anyone can enter. Anyone can challenge anyone, but challenges can only be made the day of the duel. Sixteen participants allowed. The duel ends when someone yields or dies. Winner gets five hundred dollars. My name is first, so who’s next?”

She knew he would enter. It’s an annoying way to get revenge, but it doesn’t matter how she gets it. Sasha sits back, still waiting, as men rush to enter, as other patrons insult their shooting skills. The woman who noticed Sasha earlier quietly gets her name put down. Anetra. Sasha notices her all the more now, because no other women are entering.

When the board is nearly full, Sasha stands. “Put my name down.”

“No ladies allowed!” One of the men yells.

“Twenty minutes ago you didn’t want to call me a lady at all,” Sasha says, crossing her arms. “Now I can’t enter your tournament because I am one? Which is it?”

“If I’m allowed to enter, she should be too,” Anetra says, that meek voice from before stronger now. Her dark eyes carry a hint of mischief as she shoots Sasha a small grin. “You said anyone can enter. We have to be fair.”

Herod stares at her, eyes narrowed. There’s no way he could recognize her, Sasha tells herself.

He finally sighs. “Fine. What’s the name?”

“Sasha.”

He scribbles it down and goes back to the rest of the crowd. Sasha takes a deep breath and decides to head to bed. She’s not in the mood to listen to drunken chatter all night, but she allows herself a stop at Anetra’s table.

“Thanks,” Sasha says, “for standing up for me.”

Anetra looks at her in awe, softening the scar running through her eyebrow. “Of course.” She grins, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’ll be the first to tell you my father’s an asshole.”

“Your father?” Sasha chokes out, staggering back. She can’t see any of Herod in Anetra’s face. His sharp cheeks don’t compare to her soft, rosy ones; his cold blue eyes pale in comparison to her warm brown ones. There’s not a single trace of him.

“Unfortunately,” Anetra whispers.

Anetra obviously doesn’t like her father, but Sasha can’t do this. She mumbles something about being tired and runs upstairs, collapsing onto the thin bed.

Anetra might hate Herod, but it’s nothing compared to the hate Sasha has for him.

Because Herod killed her father.

—-

Tiny beams of sun fight their way through the cracked window shutters. Sasha sleeps through them as long as possible, and the sun is high in the blue-gray sky when she finally wakes. She combs through her dark tangles in the bathroom’s dusty mirror. She’d fallen asleep in her clothes—which has been normal for this journey—and with her gun still at her hip, which has been normal for 25 years.

She braids her hair, changes into a clean white shirt, and goes downstairs for breakfast. The fights begin at ten, and the saloon is packed. Sasha picks at eggs and bacon in the corner, telling herself she’s not looking for Anetra. She does look at the chalkboard, though, and nearly chokes. Her duel is first, against someone named Gus. Apparently she wasn’t allowed to pick her challenger, and they gave her the first round to throw her off.

It won’t work.

Sasha’s gun is an extension of her hand, the trigger like one of her fingers. Just before ten, she and the mass of people head outside. The townspeople line the street, while Herod presides over them, instructing Gus and Sasha to take their ten paces.

Sasha takes her spot, boot heels digging into the dirt. She pulls her coat back and sticks her right leg forward, hand hovering over her gun in its holster. Silence falls in the seconds before the clock’s chime. She hears the clink of coins someone’s betting, hears the scrape of the dirt when someone moves. And then—

The clock chimes, and Sasha’s hand is around her gun before it stops. She aims and shoots in the same instant, getting Gus in the arm and sending him to his knees as the crowd screams. His hit toward her passes over her shoulder.

“Do you yield?” Sasha calls. She doesn’t want to fire again, doesn’t want to kill anyone she doesn’t have to.

“I yield.”

The crowd roars in surprise, and coins change hands. At least a few people bet on her; that’s something.

“Who’s the next fight?” Someone asks.

“Frank and Anetra.”

“Anetra’s not even here!”

Herod sighs. “Someone go get her, that good-for-nothing is probably still asleep in that stupid barn.”

Sasha’s feet head towards the barn behind the mansion, out of her control. She doesn’t know why she’s going, why she cares, but there’s something about Anetra. Something about her dark eyes.

Half of the barn is devoted to three horse stalls, while the other half is enclosed. Sasha knocks on the door.

“Come in.”

The door creaks open into a tiny room, with dressers on one wall and a bed against the other. Anetra’s in bed, also still in her clothes from last night, black shirt showing off a butterfly tattoo on her chest. She’s not asleep, but she’s curled on her side and staring at the wall with eyes so lifeless they barely qualify as awake either. They carry none of the fire and mischief they did last night, and Sasha misses it.

“Drink too much last night?” Sasha tries to joke, but those shadows under Anetra’s eyes—shadows of a sleepless night, not a hangover, Sasha knows the difference—make it hard.

“This happens sometimes,” Anetra says, like she’s used to it. “I feel too…heavy when I wake up. Doesn’t make sense. It’s easier to let my father think I’m sleeping. I always get up eventually.”

Sasha nods. Maybe it doesn’t make sense, but she does understand; she knows the weight that settles in her chest, knows how hard it is to pretend it’s not there. “Your fight’s next, you know?”

“Fuck.” Anetra pinches the bridge of her nose. She groans and sits herself up, movements slow and heavy like she’s raising a building.

“Have you eaten?” Sasha asks.

“No.”

Sasha digs in her bag and passes Anetra her canteen and an apple. Anetra’s collarbones are too sharp, Sasha notices with a twinge of worry.

“Why are you helping me?” Anetra asks around munches of apple. A little life returns to her eyes as she eats, though her body still sags.

“I should ask myself the same thing.” Sasha smiles wryly. And she could ask. She hasn’t had it in her to help anyone in a long while, and there are people she’d pick before her enemy’s daughter. But God, Anetra’s eyes are pleading for help. “I don’t know. You seem like a good shot. It’d be a shame for you to lose your first duel to a forfeit.”

“Did you fight already?”

“Yes.”

“Did you win?”

“Yes.”

“I knew you would,” Anetra grins, and though Sasha might hate her father, she doesn’t think she can hate Anetra.

—-

The gun is warm in Anetra’s hand, and she feels like herself for the first time today. There’s a moment, when the silver handle with its etched flower designs settles into her palm, that the world disappears. All the weight in her chest lifts, and all the thoughts in her head disappear. For one small moment, she can breathe, feel the air around her. She often finds herself chasing the peace of that one moment.

She slips her finger through the trigger and spins it around a few times, loosening up her hand—and maybe wanting to impress Sasha a little—before sliding the gun back into its holster. She adjusts her stance and looks down the street at her opponent. Frank is the town barber; his hands are steady, but not as fast as hers.

She nods as the clock hand twitches towards the 12. Years ago, Anetra discovered that the clock makes a ticking noise a split-second before the chime sounds. She can only hear it if she focuses as hard as she can, and shooting always brings out her focus. She stands still, ears alert, until that tick hits the air. Then she draws and fires, swiping Frank’s leg, because she doesn’t want to damage his arms or hands.

“Do you yield?” She asks.

Frank rises to one knee, takes in her gun, and nods.

The crowd cheers and argues over their bets, and the moment of peace is gone. She doesn’t enjoy the parts after, doesn’t enjoy the blood or destruction. But sometimes she can take a little destruction for that tiny moment of peace.

“I was right.” A voice is suddenly at her side, sweet and rich like the rare honey her father sometimes gets from the nearest city.

Anetra turns to see Sasha, and her heart leaps. A few strands have escaped her braid and frame her soft cheeks, and her light green eyes are as entrancing as the marbles Anetra used to play with. She watched them spin for hours, trying to see how long she could make them go.

“About what?” Anetra asks.

“You are a good shot,” Sasha says, and Anetra flushes at the praise no one’s ever given her.

“Thank you.”

Sasha nods, and heads toward the saloon.

“Wait.”

She turns back, eyes curious. “What is it?”

Anetra leans in. “For your next fight. The clock makes a tick noise before the chime. If you listen closely, you can hear it.” Sasha’s face gives away nothing. “I’m not trying to trick you. Think of it as a thank you for this morning.” It’s the only thank you she can think of for Sasha’s help. Help that’s never really been offered.

Sasha’s face still gives away nothing, but her hands loosen. She has nice hands, slim and fast, callused from a life of shooting yet still clean. “Thanks, kid,” she says.

Anetra tips her cowboy hat. “Of course.”

—-

The first round of duels continues all day, a mess of cheers and gunshots, and starts again early the next morning. After the morning’s second one, Anetra doesn’t think she can watch anymore, can’t take the noise. Besides, her father’s duel is next, and she doesn’t want him to catch her disappointment after he inevitably wins.

Sasha is tucked into the corner of the saloon again. It’s deserted inside, with everyone watching the duels, but she’s still drawn in tight, reminding Anetra of a coiled rattlesnake ready to strike if someone threatens her.

Only fools play with rattlesnakes, but then again, Anetra’s father always tells her what a fool she is.

“Hey.” Anetra approaches slowly. “If you want to get away from everything, I have a place I can show you.”

“I can’t,” Sasha says, though she looks like she wants to.

“Oh. That’s fine.” Anetra tries not to seem disappointed. What did she expect? Sasha’s just here to compete in the tournament and leave. She’s good with her gun, with enough mystery around her that Anetra imagines her living some life of adventure, going from town to town and winning duels. Anetra’s life is in the dust of Redemption. It’s not like she could offer anything to Sasha.

Anetra tips her hat and walks away, just in time to see her father raise his arm in victory.

There’s a frustrated sigh behind her, and Sasha is standing up, face as pale as a sack of flour, hat clenched in her fists. Anetra is wondering if she should help when Sasha darts up the stairs, her uneven steps creaking over the wood.

Anetra steps back outside, where her father’s opponent is on the ground, unmoving.

Her father always shoots to kill.

—-

Sasha collapses on the bed and turns her hat over in her shaking hands. Each breath burns, like her ribs are being squeezed between steel plates.

This isn’t going how she planned it.

In a perfect world, she would have rode into town, thrown open the mansion door, and delivered revenge in one sweet kiss of a bullet. But that would have carried questions and consequences, jail at the best and death at the worst.

The tournament was a way in, an excuse for putting a bullet between Herod’s eyes without anyone thinking twice. But the tournament rules are making it hard to get to him, and the waiting is making Sasha’s rage harder to contain. Her anger is a living, pulsing thing, and each minute of waiting, when he’s in reach, is straining at her skin, threatening to tear her apart.

And she hadn’t thought that seeing Herod, gun in hand, would stab her in the heart all over again. She hadn’t thought it would make her twelve again, trembling and crying and knowing she wasn’t supposed to do either of those things, she was supposed to be strong—

She gives up on the hat and holds her gun instead. It never fails to calm her. It’s her father’s gun, and she can settle her fingers over the handle and pretend she’s touching his hand, a ghost clinging to the metal. Weapon and comfort, past and present. A reminder of him, and what she lost. A reminder of what she’s been searching for since, a reason for existence hanging at her hip.

The air comes in easier as she squeezes the gun. Tomorrow morning, she’ll challenge him. By tomorrow night, this can all be over, and the thought thrills her as much as it terrifies her.

—–

Sasha doesn’t sleep that night, because every time she closes her eyes, it’s 25 years ago. She watches the moon instead, and runs downstairs as soon as the sun takes its place.

Herod is having a shot at the bar, and for a second, her hand twitches toward her gun. She could end it now. No tournament, ro rules, no waiting. Just a second and her father is avenged. But one last time, she’ll play by his rules.

“I challenge you,” she says, pointing at him like she’s marking out the target for later.

He doesn’t flinch. “Well, you already have a challenge waiting, I’m afraid.”

“What do you—”

“You’re mine,” a deep voice cuts her off. It’s one of the men from the saloon, with tattoos up both arms. He licks his lips. “No lady is beating me.”

Sasha’s hands clench into fists.

“It’d be cowardly to deny his challenge,” Herod says.

“Fine.” She stews in the corner while Herod stays at the bar. She watches the bartender bring him a jar of that week’s earnings, and Herod takes a handful of coins and bills from the top. His tax, probably; stealing money from each business is why he has a mansion and they don’t. It’s just another piece of coal on the fire of her hatred.

The rage calms slightly when she heads outside and sees Anetra spinning her gun to warm up. She’s up first; one of the local men challenged her, and she accepted. She takes her position, and the man takes his. Sasha joins the crowd, standing in silence while they talk. She really watches Anetra this time: her stance is solid, maybe a hair too wide. Her hands are quick, especially when she twirls her gun.

In the heartbeats it takes for the clock to chime the hour, Sasha has time to worry about Anetra losing, and to find that she doesn’t want her to. Just like she didn’t really want to tell Anetra no when she invited her riding yesterday, but also didn’t know how to say yes.

Then the clock chimes, and Sasha knows she was foolish to worry.

Anetra’s fast, with good control over her aim. Maybe a little too much control, too much thinking. You couldn’t think too much about the bullet’s path or try to control it in a duel. You had to just release it and trust that your instinct was right.

Anetra’s opponent yields after she shoots him twice, but his shot swipes her left arm. The tear in her black sleeve reveals muscular, tan skin, slashed by an oozing cut.

“You’re good. I’d hate to go against you,” Sasha says to her.

“Thank you.” Anetra blushes as red as she did last time.

Sasha motions to the blood trickling down her arm. “You should get that looked at,” she says, unsure where the concern is coming from. Why does it matter to her if Anetra bleeds all over the place?

“It’s just a graze.” Stoic and stubborn. Maybe she cares because Anetra reminds her of herself.

“Just trust me. Is there a doctor here?”

“Yeah, Loosey. I’ll go.” Anetra nods to Sasha before going over to a woman with blonde hair, who ushers her into a house.

Sasha shuts Anetra out after that. Her duel is next, and she needs to focus, since her opponent keeps yelling about how she’ll never beat him.

She takes her stance and prepares to prove him wrong. She remembers Anetra’s tip, and trains her ears to the clock’s gears. Now that she’s listening for it, high above the crowd, above the breeze, there’s a tick. Her hands darts toward her gun, firing at the man. It lands in his thigh but he won’t give up, running at her even though it’s against the rules. His bullets rain on her, and one tears the skin on her left arm. Sasha ignores it, just fires another shot that sends him down.

“I’d yield, if I were you,” she says calmly. “I still have four bullets.”

“Not yielding till I kill you, you bit—”

She fires a warning shot between his legs. “Yield.”

“I yield!” He howls, and the crowd cheers.

Sasha’s work is done. “Thanks for the tip about the clock, kid,” she says on the way by Anetra. She knows her a little, but Anetra is too much to say, somehow. Kid is easier, a little affectionate without the emotion of a first name. And Anetra blushes every time she uses it.

Anetra nods at her arm in concern. “You should have Loosey fix that.”

“I’ll bandage it myself. It’s just a graze.”

“I’ve heard that one before.” Anetra gives a shy grin as she nods to her own bandaged arm.

A smile cracks its way across Sasha’s face, and, against her better judgment, she agrees.

—-

Anetra’s father is fighting when Sasha returns. The duel reaches its inevitable conclusion, and Sasha is pale again, her shoulders moving frantically like she can’t get enough air.

“Everything all right?” Anetra asks.

Sasha nods. “Can we go to that place you mentioned? I need some air.”

Anetra doesn’t hesitate. They climb on their horses, and the town of Redemption disappears behind the dust they kick up. After fifteen minutes, they reach the clearing. It’s as close to a forest as you can have in the desert, with rows of cedar trees spread across the dirt. Sometimes birds fly overhead. Anetra’s been coming here since she could ride; she breathes in the desert stretching before her and lets herself believe there’s more than Redemption, more than her father’s harsh words or the Bible passages she has to hear every Sunday, more than the people who avoid her because they fear her father. It’s quiet here, and everything is easier. Breathing. Thinking. Being.

They settle at the base of a tree, and Anetra can’t stop marveling at how close Sasha is letting her get, a rattlesnake uncoiling. Hopefully it’s not a trick, but she doesn’t think Sasha would do that. She might be quiet, and there’s a cold fire in her eyes when she’s dueling, but Anetra doesn’t think she would harm anyone without cause. There’s kindness in her, even if it’s been damaged and buried like gold in dirt.

“Do you live around Redemption?” Anetra asks.

“Don’t really live anywhere.”

“Are you on the run? Do you go to places and win duels?”

“You ask a lot of questions, kid,” Sasha says, but she doesn’t seem mad; there’s a hint of a smile on her face, like she’s trying to remember how to do a full one. “I’m not some shootout hero, or anything. And I’m not on the run. But I am running, I guess.”

“Running from something, or to it?”

Sasha bites her lip. “Both, maybe.”

Another answer in as few words as she can manage. As efficient as winning duels with one bullet. But Anetra digs through her words, understands that she’s running from something in her past, and maybe trying to run to a new future, but is stuck somewhere in the middle.

Anetra nods. “Sometimes I feel like I’m running even though I’m not moving.”

Sasha sighs. She leans against the tree, knees still drawn to her chest. Anetra points out the desert flowers, a hawk that flies by, and her knees lower until they’re stretched out in front of her, just inches from Anetra’s.

Sasha may not be a big talker, but she listens, when no one really listens to Anetra, and soon she tells stories about the town. When she mentions the time a horse ran through the saloon, Sasha actually laughs, a low, rich laugh that seems to surprise her as much as it does Anetra.

A tumbleweed twists across the dirt. It barely makes a sound, doesn’t even kick up much dust. Anetra tries not to think of if they’re alike.

“Do you ever feel like that?” Anetra asks before she can stop herself.

“Like what?”

“Like you could just float away, and no one would notice you left, or remember you were ever there?”

Nothing lasts in the desert. Sun strips the color off wood, leaving nothing but faded white. Dirt devours the remnants of her bullets, the only thing she’s good at. Wind erases the footprints. Time passes through with the power of a sandstorm. Anetra can’t even remember her mother’s face anymore. If the town of Redemption disappeared, no one would notice, or remember. Just like no one would notice or remember her.

Sasha doesn’t answer. Maybe she’s sick of Anetra’s questions. She’d wanted to come here to get air and quiet, after all, and Anetra kept asking her things. They stay quiet until the sun begins to set, bathing the world in a deep orange, and they get on their horses in unison.

“Anetra?” It’s the first time Sasha’s said her name, and Anetra burns as fiery as the sun.

“Yes?”

“I would notice. I would remember,” she says, and it’s the answer to every question Anetra’s heart ever had.

—-

When Sasha gets back, a letter on her bed distracts her from the dizzying thoughts of Anetra, and how she makes Sasha lighter than she’s been in years. Thick paper, blood-red wax seal with the letter H. She tears it open.

Herod is inviting her to dinner, to celebrate her reaching the last four fighters.

It isn’t an invitation you refuse, not when Herod has two armed guards outside the mansion. Maybe it’ll be a chance to investigate, learn more about him in the hopes it exposes a weakness.

And Sasha would hate turning down a chance to wear her dress.

—-

She pulls on her dress like a suit of armor. Deep red, with a lacy corset and ruffled skirt. It was the first dress she ever bought, and even in the narrow mirror of the dress shop, it felt like she was truly looking at herself for the first time.

His guards pat her down before she enters. She holds herself rigid, squeezing her eyes shut at the memory of how his guards had grabbed her last time, hands digging into her arms as she yelled and kicked, but couldn’t escape.

The mansion’s dining room is just as opulent as the outside, with a tall fireplace and a long table bearing two gleaming white plates. A glass of wine sits at Sasha’s place, but she knows better than to drink it.

“Will Anetra be joining us?” Sasha asks, making the first move. She doesn’t know how to do fancy dinners, especially not with her enemy.

Herod shakes his head. “No, she prefers not to dine with me. I don’t mind. Less chance of her embarrassing me.”

“Your daughter’s a good shot.”

“Daughter.” It’s between a laugh and a scoff, filled with contempt, and Sasha waits. He’s a man who loves to talk, and if she waits, he’ll say more.

“You know, the year before her birth, my wife and I were sailing the Pacific. We met lots of men. Men who had a certain interest in my wife.” He sips his beer. “I don’t even think she’s mine. Makes her disappointments easier, I suppose.”

Sasha can only nod. She doesn’t think Anetra is his either—there’s simply too much good in her to have come from him. Sasha hopes that somewhere, at least, Anetra’s mother had been able to enjoy a moment with someone who cared for her.

Sasha pretends to take a sip of wine. “Is your wife still—”

“Oh, she passed from an illness. At least,” he adds, eyes glowing, “that’s what Anetra and everyone thinks. But the truth is I simply don’t hold for disloyalty.”

Sasha’s hand creeps down to her gun, hidden among the dress’s fluffy skirt. The bullets inside aren’t enough for Herod and what he’s done. He killed Sasha’s father, and casually admitted to killing his wife, because nothing will ever be done about it.

“Why are you here?” He asks suddenly. “I’ve never heard of you entering duels anywhere.”

Sasha forces her shoulders to unclench, taking a slow breath. “I was passing through another town and heard there’d be a tournament here, with big prize money. That’s all.”

“Right.” She can’t tell if he believes it or not. “You look…familiar. Your eyes do, anyway. They’re an unusual shade of green. I swear I’ve seen that shade before.”

She hides a shiver, and her hand shakes around the gun. He’s too close. He doesn’t have the truth, doesn’t have all her pieces yet, but he has enough to know they don’t fit. Enough to be suspicious. “Ex–excuse me. I’m sorry to leave so soon, but I–I’m not feeling well.”

She staggers out of the dining room, but he moves with her, hand clamping over the bandage on her arm. His cold eyes roam over her trembling body, a piece of meat he’s about to devour.

“Who are you?” He asks. His eyes look her over again, but he releases his grip and lets her go.

She shakes all the way to the saloon, then crawls into bed and curls into a ball. Her arm still burns with his handprint, a hand he’s been using to strangle her heart for 25 years. That grip will never leave unless she does what she came here for. If he won’t take her challenge tomorrow, she’ll just beat whoever she needs to, and take him in the championship duel. He isn’t escaping her. Never again. She falls asleep with the gun cradled to her chest.

—-

Anetra doesn’t sleep that night, the orange light of the sun filling her with energy. She spent the day with Sasha, and thoughts of her race around Anetra’s mind. Sasha had talked to her much more than she did to anyone else, as if she trusts her, knows they’re similar somehow. Anetra knows it’s stupid, but something about Sasha draws her in like a horse pulls a carriage. She wants to be around her, wants to do anything she can to get her beautiful face to soften and smile. Wants to feel that funny tingling in her stomach, somewhere between thinking she might be sick and the light-headed freedom she gets riding her horse. No one has ever made her feel that way except Sasha.

She heads to the saloon at first light. She needs to get there first to challenge Larry, because otherwise, she’ll be facing Sasha or her father. Larry is the only one she knows she can beat, but it’s more than just her tournament standing. If she loses now, then maybe she really is the failure her father says. But if she gets to the final, maybe it’ll be enough for her father to tell her she did good, for the others to stop avoiding her. It’s a stupid thing to want, a childish thing to want. But she can’t help it.

The saloon is bustling when she gets there, and her heart sinks.

Larry is at the bar, along with her father, and Sasha. Sasha. She’s in a loose white shirt and a cream vest embroidered with tiny blue flowers, like the red ones along the hem of her long black coat. Brown waves flow from her cowboy hat, and Anetra can’t look away.

“I challenge you.” Sasha tells Anetra’s father, eyes cold as steel.

“No, you don’t,” Anetra’s father says calmly. “I’m fighting Larry. You’ll be fighting Anetra. To the death. If you refuse, I’ll shoot you both myself.”

Anetra’s heart erupts in her chest. “But those aren’t the rules!”

“My tournament, my rules.” Her father looks at her with disgust. He’s faster than her, though she hates to admit it, and she doesn’t even see the hit coming until his palm collides with her cheek. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t stagger, doesn’t react to the burning red pain. “Don’t disrespect me again.”

Anetra nods.

“Fuck your rules.” Sasha is raising her gun, pointing it at Anetra’s father. “I’ll kill you here myself.”

Her father’s face holds firm, but he motions for his guards, who enter the saloon and point their guns just inches from Sasha’s face. Sasha doesn’t even flinch.

“Would you give your life to kill me now?” He asks Sasha coldly. “All you have to do is kill Anetra today, and you can kill me in the finals. If you can, of course. You won’t have to die for it.”

Veins pop out in Sasha’s hand as she squeezes her gun. Lines cut through her clenched jaw, and beads of sweat drip down her forehead. She finally lowers her gun, and the guards lower theirs. Anetra’s breath erupts in a painful gasp as her father leaves.

“Sasha?”

Sasha stares right at Anetra, but Anetra doesn’t think she’s seeing her. Her eyes seem like they’re somewhere else, their usual sharpness now a dark room with a dim candle.

“Sasha?”

Anetra wants to touch her, but she’d never touch an animal if they were in this state, and though it’s not a fair comparison, it’s better to be safe.

“Sasha?”

She finally nods, though Anetra doesn’t think it was to her question. After a few seconds, Sasha’s eyes settle, like the light returned.

“I want to kill him,” Sasha rasps, “but I don’t want to die for it.” She takes off her hat and runs a shaking hand through her hair, and Anetra thinks part of her is still trapped in that place her eyes went to.

“Maybe we should forfeit,” Anetra says weakly. “I don’t want to kill you.” Sasha has shown her kindness no one ever has, and Anetra didn’t feel so alone around her. She can’t kill her.

“I don’t want to kill you either,” Sasha says, voice soft. “But he’ll kill us if we don’t.”

“What are we gonna do? I don’t want to kill you. I don’t even think I could. But I don’t…I don’t…” I don’t want to die, she can’t say around the lump in her throat. But what’s the use in telling Sasha? She doesn’t want to die either, and the only way to live is killing Anetra. Sasha could just walk away, and put her bullet in Anetra tonight.

But Sasha stays.

“Kid, I have an idea. It’s not great, but it’ll do.” Sasha’s eyes flicker toward the sheets of steel behind the bar, ones the owner uses to cover windows in a storm. “How good is your aim?”

—-

The minute hand creeps so slowly the clock might be broken. Sweat tickles Anetra’s neck as she watches, eyes on the clock so she doesn’t have to see Sasha down the street.

If Anetra misses…

No, she won’t miss. She spent the morning practicing with Sasha, adjusting her stance and learning to trust her aim. She has to do this.

Sasha looks so small, so far away. Anetra’s fingers hover over her holster. The clock hand inches forward, and Anetra hears that tick first, her hand reaching her holster as the chime starts. She draws her gun, its warmth like an old friend in her palm, aims, and fires. Sasha’s shot whizzes by her shoulder—God, she’s fast—nearly a second before Anetra’s shot strikes.

Anetra watches the rest unfold numbly, like it’s happening in a dream and she’s powerless to move or stop it. Sometimes she feels that way even when she’s awake. Her bullet slamming into Sasha’s chest. Sasha collapsing to the ground, blood pouring between her fingers as she holds her chest. Loosey standing over Sasha and pronouncing her dead, then carrying her away while the crowd murmurs. Her father’s hand on her shoulder, saying he didn’t think she had it in her, and realizing that she never wants to do anything that will get his approval again.

After the crowd has dispersed, Anetra slips away and knocks at Loosey’s back door. She opens it and ushers Anetra in quickly.

Sasha lays on a cot in Loosey’s back room. Her shirt is stained with the red paint she’d used for blood, but the deep shades of purple on her chest, and her tiny winces, aren’t fake. The thin piece of steel Sasha hid under her shirt might have stopped the bullet from killing her, but it didn’t completely protect her like Anetra thought it would. She suspects Sasha left that out on purpose. Sasha tries to sit up when she sees Anetra, wincing again, but Loosey stops her and eases her back down.

“Are you hurt? Is she hurt?” Anetra frantically looks from Sasha to Loosey.

Loosey shakes her head, spreading the paste she uses for pain over Sasha’s chest, and Anetra looks at Sasha’s freckles instead of her bruises. “Bullet didn’t break the skin or any bones, but she’ll be sore as hell for a while.”

“I’m fine. I just hope this paint comes out of my shirt,” Sasha says, with a wry smile that finally makes Anetra believe she’s okay.

“Oh, I’ll get it out,” Loosey sighs, rubbing her forehead. “Faking deaths. Fixing bruises. Cleaning clothes. God, I don’t get paid enough for this.” She finishes with the paste and wordlessly passes it to Anetra, motioning to her cheek. The faint red print her father left there doesn’t sting anymore, and Anetra sets the jar by Sasha’s cot.

“Can I stay with her tonight?” Anetra asks Loosey.

Sasha had planned to stay here tonight, so there would be no chance of anyone seeing her. Anetra stayed here once, when Loosey stitched the cut on her eyebrow, making no mention when she wiped tears as well as blood from Anetra’s eyes, no mention when the glass she pulled from the cut matched the beer bottles her father drank. Loosey gave her a lot of whiskey for the pain, and all Anetra remembers after that is watching shadows dance along the ceiling, everything fragmented and scary with only one eye to see from. Even now, the room is still creepy; its only window is blocked by a gnarled old oak tree with branches that click on the glass. Besides, isn’t it better if she stays nearby for Sasha? She could get thirsty, or the pain could get worse, and she’d need someone. And going home means she might run into her father.

Loosey sighs yet again. “You can stay on the other cot, just don’t let anyone see you. Try and get that one”—she nods towards Sasha—“to take it easy, if that’s even possible. And don’t keep me up all night if you talk!” She retreats to her own room, mumbling, “I really don’t get paid enough for this.”

Anetra drags the cot closer to Sasha and settles on top of it.

“You don’t have to stay here.”

“I want to,” Anetra says firmly. Sasha’s used to being alone, but Anetra is too. She knows how the loneliness becomes familiar, all you’ve ever known. How pushing people away becomes second nature.

“Did it work?” Sasha asks.

“It worked. Everyone thinks you’re dead. The final match is tomorrow. Me versus my father.” Saying it out loud makes it real. It’s not just her name beneath his on the chalkboard. It’s his gun staring her down as coldly as his eyes do, and Anetra shivers. “He—he’s gonna kill me, Sasha.”

“Hey, he won’t, remember? That’s the plan. I won’t let him hurt you.” Sasha’s voice is soothing, but Anetra is still shaking.

“I think he planned it.” Anetra doesn’t realize how much she believes it until it’s out loud. “I think he organized the tournament so I’d face weaker opponents, and put us against each other so you would kill me. And if you didn’t, he would. Then he doesn’t have me ruining his name anymore.”

“I—”

“Do you think I’m right?” Anetra asks shakily. She doesn’t know what answer she wants. If she wants Sasha to disagree, say that her father is cruel, but couldn’t do something this horrible. Or if she wants her to agree, to see that her father is as horrible as Anetra thinks.

“Given what I know about your father, I’d believe it,” Sasha says cautiously.

Anetra nods. She doesn’t know if she would’ve preferred the other answer.

“But tomorrow it’ll be done. I’ll surprise your father in the duel, and take him out.”

Anetra nods again. She should feel something about planning her father’s death, but there’s nothing. Just a grim determination where her heart should be. Maybe she should kill her father herself, but she’s grateful Sasha is doing it for her. Grateful to have the gun in someone else’s hand, for once. Sasha doesn’t seem bothered by the planning, but she does feel something about Anetra’s father. Anetra remembers the rage in Sasha’s eyes, a fire that could burn down the desert as she challenged him. A fire of pure, personal hatred. But why does she hate him so much, when she doesn’t even know him?

“Sasha,” Anetra begins, “why is this the plan? I’m grateful you’re willing to fight my father, but you’ve wanted to fight him this whole time, haven’t you? Why?”

The light in Sasha’s eyes dims. “I…I can’t talk about it.”

“Sasha—”

“I can’t.” She sighs. “I’m gonna sleep. I’m really tired.”

Despite the dark shadow under Sasha’s eyes, Anetra knows it’s a lie; Sasha wouldn’t admit to pain or exhaustion even if she was passing out from them.

But if she doesn’t want to talk, if her shield is in place, there’s nothing Anetra can do except grab the blanket Loosey keeps in the cupboard and lay it over Sasha.

—-

The sun burns.

It speaks to a bright day, a happy one. Not the one happening in front of Sasha like a nightmare, while she cries and tries to pull herself from the grasps of four men.

The man named John Herod and his men had tore into town like a tornado, announcing that he had purchased the land and rounding up anyone who disagreed. Sasha’s father fought him, his marshal’s badge gleaming in the sun. Herod overpowered him, made him stand in the dirt with his badge raised.

Sasha doesn’t know what’s going to happen.

Herod strides over to his men. He nods, and Sasha is released, only for Herod to stand her ten paces from her father. He puts a gun in her hand. It’s too big, too heavy, and her arm sags under its weight.

“I’ll tell you what,” Herod says cheerfully. “If you can shoot the badge, your father lives. You have my honor. Three shots.” He’s already laughing, he’s expecting her to fail; she’s scrawny, small for her age, the victim of teasing from the other kids in town.

She hefts the gun and tries to aim the way her father taught her. She doesn’t want to look at him, and maybe it’s good she’s crying, because the tears conceal how small he seems, how far away. Like she’ll never reach him again.

“It’s all right, kid,” he tells her. Not even the nickname—the only one of his that she liked, that didn’t make her feel wrong somehow—is enough to calm her.

She takes the first shaky shot, and misses by a mile. The second is no closer. She aims the third—

“Sasha!”

Sasha shoots upward with the speed of a bullet. She gasps for air, ignoring the burning pain in her chest. She blinks until her father fades and is replaced with the tiny room around her, the worried face in front of her.

Anetra.

“You were having a nightmare,” Anetra says.

Sasha can only nod and wipe the sweat from her neck, willing her heart to slow. She finally sighs and leans back.

“Sasha, whatever you’re hiding, please tell me. You can trust me.”

“I can’t.” How can she tell Anetra what her father’s done, why Sasha wants to kill him?

“Everyone always lies to me. I know my father thinks I’m not his. I know people whisper about how my mother died. Please don’t lie to me too, Sasha. Please,” Anetra says, hastily wiping a tear.

Anetra didn’t cry when she got shot, or when her father slapped her. The only time Sasha’s seen her cry is now, when she wants Sasha to trust her. When she wants to understand Sasha, help her any way she can. If Sasha lies to her, she’s just as bad as the others.

So for the first time, Sasha lets the truth out.

“I’m sorry. Sasha, I’m so sorry.” Anetra’s hand fidgets, like she wants to hold Sasha’s but is stopping herself. Sasha takes a breath and reaches over, lets Anetra take it. Her hands are rough but warm, and Sasha relaxes.

“It’s fine.” Sasha steels herself. “I’ve spent twenty-five years trying to find your father. He—he took my life. He took my life, and I need to end this. I missed those shots that could’ve saved my father. I won’t miss this one.”

“Those weren’t your fault.”

Sasha shrugs. Sure, Herod might have taken back his word and killed her father anyway. But the gun was in Sasha’s hand. The bullets of freedom and life wasted, and it was her fault.

“It wasn’t your fault. None of it was. I don’t know if you believe me, but maybe someday you will.” Anetra is so calm, so kind. A cool wave of water after days in the desert.

“You aren’t going to talk me out of it?”

“No.” Anetra bites her lip. “He’s never been my father. He’s killing this town. He raises the taxes he takes every month. Everyone’s afraid of him. He’ll destroy it all if you don’t. And if you don’t, I think you’ll destroy yourself.”

Anetra looks at her deeply, and Sasha knows she understands. She understands the long nights hugging a whiskey bottle, chasing oblivion in every bitter drop. She understands the days that didn’t feel like days at all, because they were spent staring at a ceiling. She understands the ache in your legs from running, even if you never went anywhere, but running just the same, because you had to keep moving, clinging to life with everything you had.

Sasha rises from the cot, holding her chest. “Let’s go.”

—-

Anetra looks too small as Sasha watches her get in place for the duel. Her leg is trembling, and it awakens things in Sasha she thought had long gone. A warmth in her chest, reaching into her stomach. A burning desire to keep Anetra safe from anyone who would harm her. A lightness tugging in her heart at all the questions Anetra asks, the stories she tells.

Sasha’s doing this for her, and her father, but she’s doing it for Anetra too. To loosen some of the grasp Herod has on her heart too.

Time is passing; Sasha fires her gun into the air, and the crowd screams. The noise only grows as she steps into the street.

“Herod,” she calls, “you owe me a duel!”

He staggers backward, hand shaking as he lowers his gun. “Wh—You’re dead!” He screams, pale as the moon. “You’re dead!”

Sasha shrugs. “If I was, it didn’t stick.”

She meets Anetra, squeezing her arm lightly and sending her into the safety of the crowd while her father is distracted. It’s just Sasha and Herod now, and her body is on fire.

“Who are you?” He demands.

“You know who I am.” Sasha throws her father’s badge. It lands in the dirt, and she watches Herod’s eyes light up as he realizes.

“But you’re not—you were—”

“Name’s Sasha Colby,” she says. “You stole my father from me. You stole my life from me. And now I’m taking yours.”

He’s quick, she’ll give him that, and is reaching for his gun. But she’s faster this time. The gun caresses her hand, a hug from her father as she fires. Her aim is strong and true, whistling right between Herod’s eyes and sending him crumbling to the dirt.

People are gasping, talking, running, but everything melts into the background, like Sasha is hearing it all underwater. She doesn’t even know she’s falling until the pain of her knees slamming into the dirt pierces through the fog, but only for a bit.

She did it.

25 years of waiting. 25 years of running after Herod. Running for a place her father wouldn’t haunt her.

Maybe someday those missed shots won’t hurt anymore. Maybe someday her heart will lose the weight of that day. She’ll be light, no anger or rage or shame to hold her down. But there’s also the enormity of those things fading, leaving behind a space she doesn’t know how to fill. Without those to weigh her down, what if she simply floats away? Finding Herod has been her purpose for over half her life. A reason to get out of bed and keep fighting.

She’ll have to find a new reason.

“Sasha, it’s okay.”

It’s Anetra’s voice, and the warmth around her is from Anetra’s arms. She can’t remember the last time anyone hugged her, and she leans into it.

“You did it. You’re okay.”

Anetra’s words fade, but their comfort stays, and Sasha just stays in the dirt and lets Anetra hold her.

—-

Light is fading, but Redemption is still celebrating. It was small at first, grins from people who always seemed carved out of stone. Now beer is flowing, a guitar is strumming, and people are dancing in the street, celebrating a life with room to breathe. A life without Herod.

Sasha smiles at the celebration as she prepares her horse. She could stay, but leaving is the best thing. She needs to make her own way, find what’s next now that the weight is starting to lift.

She’d left a letter for Anetra, saying that she needed to go. They’d gone to the barn after the duel, falling asleep as exhaustion took over. Sasha woke first and took her time writing the letter, telling Anetra how much she means to her. How she’s made her think things can be good again, someday. But Sasha doesn’t know where she’s going, what she’s doing—doesn’t know if she knows how to stop running—and she can’t guarantee safety for Anetra. Leaving her here—leaving the note—is the only way Sasha can keep her safe, and not hurt her more than she’s already been hurt.

Sasha’s checking her saddle one more time when hooves clomp down the street.

There’s Anetra, bags packed, leading her horse by the reins.

A warmth rushes over Sasha—relief. Maybe some part of her hadn’t wanted to leave. The part that delayed leaving as long as she could, checking and re-checking her saddle in the hopes that Anetra would wake when the bed got cold.

“Did you get the letter?”

“I did,” Anetra says, “and I don’t want it.”

“What—”

“I want to come with you. Please,” Anetra’s voice is so sweet, so sincere.

“I can’t give you anything,” Sasha says.

“I don’t want anything.”

“I can’t give you a normal life, I mean. This isn’t some story, you know? We don’t ride off and have perfect lives. I’m not a hero, I don’t know where I’m going, and I’ve been alone for a long time.” What she said in the letter is true—she can’t guarantee Anetra’s safety, can’t give her a perfect life.

“I’m not asking for some perfect life,” Anetra says. “I’m just offering my friendship.”

Friendship. Someone to ride with, talk to, share things with. Friendship with someone who’s been through this with her, who knows her. Maybe being alone together is better than being alone apart. Maybe they could fight the loneliness.

“There’s something about me…I don’t belong here.” Anetra sighs, eyes intense with the feeling of being wrong that Sasha remembers from childhood. “If you say no, that’s fine, and I’ll stay. But if you say yes, I’ll ride with you as long as you’ll have me.”

Herod might have been destroying the town, but he was destroying Anetra too. Hurting her on the inside and the outside. He might be gone now, but Sasha knows how strong memories can be, and this is no place for Anetra to stay.

“I’d like you to come with me,” Sasha says, flooding with warmth at how true it is. “I’d like that very much.”

Anetra smiles, and she tips her hat again—if Sasha had a dollar for every time Anetra did it, she could buy the damn town, she thinks fondly—before kneeling and kissing the back of Sasha’s hand. The warmth travels into her face, until she’s as warm as the sunset.

They mount their horses, and the sun glows as they ride off into it.

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