#Oc:calamity grace

[targwh0re]

Born on the coldest Christmas, in 1859, she killed her mother coming into this world. The effect; he named her Calamity.

Now don't get me wrong, her Pa loved that girl like no other. Now he might have had a bit of a drinking problem, but he ain't never raised no hand nor voice to her. Normally a bull seeing red in a china cabinet, you should've seen him with her. You would've thought that was the softest man alive.

And he did his best with her. She had aunts and women who were friends of the family to help her with some things, but when it came to others he raised that girl straight up as if she had been born a boy instead. Best horse rider I ever met, and I'd bet on that.

One day though, her Pa's luck caught up to him in an alley way after some poker game at the Saloon. So drunk off his ass, the man didn't have a chance to pull his gun before he was dead in the ground.

Calamity was alone, but she was okay. Well off enough since her ma's folks had been pretty successful apothecaries, and her pa had more than a few coins to leave her from all of the heads he'd brought in, he'll, the guy who'd shot her father felt so bad he give her to money for the bounty on that man's head.

And she had us to watch out for her, me and ma. But once my ma lyed down her head for the last time I flew away like "a whisper on the wind" in her words. We kept in touch, for a while, writing letters back and forth. I can't remember if she stopped being able to track me down or if I stopped reaching out to her. I vaguely remember something in her last letter about some man who was gonna make sure she got her due. Pretty sure I stopped writing after that, not wanting to get in the way of a good thing. She needed a good man, not to still hold out hope for me.

But God...Calamity Grace; a beautiful disaster.

[targwh0re]

Beautiful Disaster Masterlist

Untamable equine

The Meeting

Life Gives, and Life Takes

What We’ve Lost Holds No Cost, It’s Love That Truly Stays

Family Reunion

[targwh0re]

Life Gives, and Life Takes

Summary: Sometimes stories are just memories come to greet you from the past, and sometimes they’re a warning coming back up to bite you in the ass

Warning: cursing, drinking, almost drowning (all very briefly

A/N: this is part three of our story, so if you haven’t already, go back and catch up. This one’s a bit of a longer one but I’m tryna get this show on the road so we can get to the good stuff

The sun was relentless, blazing down on the city, casting a warm light upon the bustling square. The dusty streets were brought to life by the people, the clamor of energetic voices, and the clattering of worn-out wagons. Amidst it all, and as the dust swirled and settled, the McCarty family stood out amongst the rest.

A sum of fifty dollars seemed a minimal fee for the monumental task that lay ahead of them. But the deal had been struck. As the dust kicked up to swirled and settled for a second time, Patrick McCarty, the patriarch of the hard-pressed and frankly downtrodden family approached the man called Amos. His face, weathered and etched with lines from hardship, bore an expression of deep gratitude.

"Sir," he began, voice roughed by the days tribulation, "We can't thank you enough. But if you don't mind my asking, why did you do it? We've nothing to offer you." His eyes were sincere yet honest, reflecting the stark contrast of life's harsh realities as he studied Amos' face.

No sooner had Paddy voiced his query when Calamity, before Amos could respond, chimed in with a youthful voice that cut clear through the quiet conversation. Her gaze had been assessing the wagons, nose crinkled up in distaste. And though her words were seemingly about the wagons, it was clearly a pointed remark about people before them. "These wagons may be as beat up as Moss, but they're still looking worth more than what my eyes are showing me." She stated rudely, her gaze previously fixed on the beaten wooden structures that barely held together, flitted to the penniless folks before them.

Her audacity punctuated the air, drawing a few hushed murmurs from the townsfolk walking around them in the square. Amos, a bear of a man with a rugged exterior and a heart as soft as a ripe peach, gave her a rough pat on her back that nearly knocked the wind out of her. "Would you like to shell out 75 to 100 dollars for better ones, for their sake, then?"he teased, a twinkle glistening with amusement in his eye.

"Horseshit," Calamity shot back, her voice echoing in the bustling town square. Despite being taken aback by his daughter's brash language, Amos couldn't suppress an uncomfortable chuckle. His gaze shifting back to the shocked McCarty family, whom had been silent spectators, and couldn't help but look taken aback.

"Calamity, ixnay onyay ethay ussingcay," he chided gently, the hint of a soft smile tugging on his lips.

"Orrysay," she mumbled, her cheeks flushing a shade of crimson with embarrassment.

The silence that seemed to be overwhelmed the once bustling square was filled with anticipation as Amos turned back to the McCarty family, Paddy, Kathleen, and young Billy and Josie McCarty. Their wide eyes, previously fixated on Calamity, quickly shifted their attentions back to him. Beside them, their youngest son, Joe, known as Josie, was pulled closer by Kathleen. Now huddled together, they were a picture of resilience - battered yet unbroken, a living testament to endurance in the face of adversity.

Sensing the need for introductions, he cleared his throat, "Before we go any further," Amos started, "I reckon we should get to know one another better. "I'm Amos, and this firecracker over here is my daughter, Calamity." Paddy nodded, introducing his family in return, "I'm Paddy McCarty, this is my wife Kathleen, and our boys, Billy and Josie." Kathleen pulled both boys a bit closer, their young eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and awe.

Amos's gaze lingered on Kathleen. She bore an uncanny resemblance to his late wife, a pang of nostalgia tugging at his heart. The way she kept her hair, her posture, even the determination in her eyes, everything about her brought back memories of his beloved Birdie. Sure, maybe they had different eye colors, and hair colors, and Kathleen was a bit paler; but their face, it was exactly the same, and her mannerisms made it seem more real. Pushing aside his emotions, he focused once more on Paddy's previous question.

"You ask why I helped?" Amos began, his tone steady and calm. "Paddy, life out here isn't about gold or guns. It's about people, it's about a community. We've all seen hard times, and it's in those times we learn the true value of helping one another. It's not about what we can get, but what we can give. When it comes down to it, we're all just trying to make it in this tough world. Isn't that right? So, today I could lend you folks a hand. So, I did it. And I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

His words hung in the air as the midday sun continued to shine down brightly above them. The McCartys were silent, their expressions a mix of gratitude and newfound respect. Paddy nodded, a silent thank you, while Kathleen drew Billy and Josie even closer. Their journey was far from over, however the two families found solace in the fact that they wouldn't be alone amidst the vast, unforgiving wilderness.

As Calamity and Amos journeyed from the teeming cityscape of New York to the boundless heartlands of Kansas, the vast expanse of the American wilderness lay like a canvas of green, punctuated by slivers of winding streams and dirt paths created by thousands of wagons and feet undergoing the same trek as them, creating the veins and arteries. Rolling hills rose and fell like the chest of the land in a slumbering breath. These mounds of green, swathed in a verdant quilt, whispered tales of a land untouched by the iron will of civilization, their gentle slopes harboring secrets in the soil. It was an ever shifting piece of art weaved from the very earth.

The land whispered tales of the untamed wilds, like an old friend, that had cradled Calamity since birth. It was a landscape that Calamity had come to know as intimately as the lines on her own freckled hands. It all spoke to her in a language only those born of the trail could comprehend.

To her, the notion of staking claim to a single patch of earth seemed as foreign as the city skylines she'd only heard tales of. It was on the back of her trusty steed, Noble, amidst the rolling hills and the sinking streams, that she felt most alive. She had been reared on the move, her spirit as free as the wind that danced through the tall prairie grasses. This was her home—a home that was never the same two days in a row. It was a land that promised prosperity, yet demanded respect. A land where the journey was as treacherous as it was transformative.

As they traveled, Calamity and Amos rode with the wagon train, the wooden wheels creaking a steady rhythm that underscored their progress. Yet, as she rode alongside her Pa, the incessant rustling of her riding skirt grated against the serenity of the frontier. The skirt was a constant agitation, a reminder of a world that demanded propriety even in the face of adventure. The fabric, a gift from her Aunt Clara, seemed to have a life of its own, catching on the leather at every opportunity, as if rebelling against the stillness it was forced into. Her thoughts wandered, imagining what it would be like to cast off the cumbersome fabric and ride unencumbered. But with each pull and tug, the material seemed to mock her, whispering louder as a relentless adversary to her desire for freedom.

Amos was a man of the frontier, his ears pricked for the faintest hint of trouble, his senses attuned to the subtlest shift in the breeze or the distant crack of a twig. So, you can imagine, the rustling beside him was nagging at these senses, pulling his focus from where he felt it truly should be. He knew the dangers that lurked beyond the visible trail, and his daughter's battle with her attire was a needless diversion. Yet, as he glanced at her, his heart couldn't help but soften. The fire in her eyes, so like her mother's, was a source of endless pride.

"Calamity, do you reckon you could keep it down? You're louder than a tin can tied to a stray dog's tail," he remarked, a playful edge to his voice despite the annoyance.

She shot him an apologetic glance, her large, warm brown doe eyes filled with both apology and defiance that no riding skirt could quell. "Sorry, Pa. This dang skirt's got more opinions than a saloon full of drunks. Can't sit still for the life of me," she apologized, the corners of her mouth betraying a hint of a smile. What she thought however was, I'd rather be draped in the stars and night sky than this prison of lace and linen.

Her father, not one to let the matter slide, retorted with a stern finger pointed in her direction. "Hey! That was a gift from your aunt Clara. That skirt is a piece of family, girl. You'll wear it and respect it, just like any gift from kin." His 'dad look' followed—a blend of exasperation and affection only a father could muster.

Her father's stern admonition was met with an eyeroll, a constellation of freckles playing across her sun-kissed face. She muttered slyly under her breath, "Alright, I'll have Aunt Clara make you one too next time, so you can wear the definition of uncomfortable until it's worn its use." Although inwardly, she understood his sentiment. It was about more than the garment; it was about honoring the threads that connected them across miles to those they left back home.

Her father's gaze hardened, the quintessential look that spoke volumes without a single word—a mix of disappointment, authority. "You see anything out there?" he asked, his voice cutting through the tension.

"No," she replied hastily, eager to move past the scolding.

Her father pulled on both of their reins, bringing the horses to a halt. He leaned in, his eyes searching hers. "Now, you listen here. I need you to look, and I mean really look. What do you see?"

Calamity, taken aback by the seriousness of his tone, scanned the wagon train with a critical eye. She took in the wagon train, a procession of pioneers like a colony of ants carrying their belongings like a grain of sand in search of a new home. She observed Paddy with the most reproach as he scrambled into the back of a wagon, his movements awkward and ungainly. "Pathetic," she whispered, letting her true feelings slip before catching herself.

Amos caught the word, his expression turning stern. "Don't you go looking down on these folks, Calamity. They're doing what they can, same as us. We're all in this together, you hear?" She knew these people, their dreams and nightmares, weren't so different from her own. She felt conflicted, torn between her innate understanding of the land and the realization that not everyone could feel the rhythm of its beating heart in their bones.

"Most of these people, they don't know the land like we do, Pa," she began, her voice a soft rumble of contemplation. "They cling to their possessions, drag them across the country like a tortoise with its shell. They think they'll find happiness by putting down roots, but they don't understand—the roots are already here, in the journey, not the destination."

Her attentions were drawn to the wagon at the front of the train, where Billy—a boy with eyes full of dreams, someone who seemed to share a kindred spirit—talked animatedly with Moss. Though she had spoken of the settlers with disdain, her eyes softened as she watched him. Internally, she marveled at the fire she saw in him, a fire that mirrored her own passion for the untamed world they traversed. "Maybe they ain't all cut from the same cloth. Some got a fire in 'em that's kin to our own."

Amos, though unaware of whom she spoke, sensing his daughter's shift in perspective, appreciating her change of heart. He understood her better than anyone, her longing for the wild, her disdain for the mundane. But he also knew the value of empathy, the strength found in unity. His thoughts, though unspoken, echoed her sentiments: the true essence of life on the trail was in the shared experiences, the bonds forged through hardship and the collective will to persevere.

In a moment of stillness, letting the sun's warmth caress her freckled face in a warm embrace, she coaxed out the fragrance of the land and listened to it all unfold around her like a movie with no scene. The joyous chirps of birds fluttered from the trees, the throb of hooves against the earth, squirrels darting and chasing each other in the branches above—they all coalesced into a picture of the natural world ,a world of constant motion and untamed beauty.

And then, a subtle detail caught her attention—hoofprints near the treeline, distinct from the well-trodden path of the trail. "Wait," she murmured, half to herself, reigning in her horse Noble with a gentle tug. Her instincts licked at the inside of her belly. With a subtle squeeze of her calves and a soft cluck of her tongue, she urged him closer to examine the tracks with a practiced eye.

Amos, ever watchful, drew alongside her, his own thoughts mirroring hers. His eyes followed her gaze on the tracks, a silent demand before it escaped his mouth. "Tell me what you see."

"Well, they're not on the trail..." She shared her observation, her voice laced with caution as it trailed off into the breeze.

"True, but that doesn't mean some folks haven't slipped away without us seeing," he countered, his voice tinged with the wisdom of experience.

She nodded, trying to coerce her heart into agreement. "That could be true, but we should still keep our eyes open and our ears peeled. But maybe keep it between us for now, so as not to arouse any panic?" she suggested, her voice tinged with uncertainty and earnestness, her mind racing with the possibilities.

Amos's response, however, was a smile, a silent affirmation of her wisdom. In his heart, he knew that Calamity was growing into a force to be reckoned with, her intuition as sharp as any hunter's. He started back towards the wagon train, his hand finding its way to the top of her head, where he playfully tousled the twin braids of pure gold. "That's my girl," As he ruffled her hair, his mind was at ease, confident in the knowledge that she was every bit the daughter he had hoped she would become.

Together, they turned their attention back to the trail, their senses alert and their spirits undaunted. And amidst the vastness of the frontier, Calamity and Amos rode on, vigilant sentinels in a land of boundless opportunity.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, dropping its velvet shroud over the canvas of the frontier, the last visages of deep orange and purple retreated behind the horizon, and the wagon train settled into its nightly ritual. The tents rose like ethereal sentinels in the twilight, their canvas walls glowing in soft orange lantern lights.

Calamity, her silhouette framed by the dying light, stood outside her family's tent, her figure a ghostly wisp in her white cotton nightgown, and found solace in the rhythmic strokes of her fingers running idly through Noble's thick mane. Her hand moved in gentle strokes along his mane, a silent language of trust and companionship between them. Noble exhaled contentedly, his breath visible in the cooling air, he enjoyed the affection as much as she welcomed the quiet moment of reflection.

The cooling air of the approaching night whispered across the plains, carrying with it the day's warmth and the subtle scents of hard-packed earth and freshly trodden grass. In these quiet moments, Calamity's mind wandered. She thought of the rolling hills that had embraced their caravan, and the way the streams had whispered secrets as they passed. Her thoughts lingered on the settlers, each with their own reasons for braving the unknown, and of Billy—whose own spirit resonated within her own from behind eyes of blue fire. She pondered the strange notion of 'home' and how, for her, home was not a place but a feeling found in the freedom of the open trail.

Her Pa's voice, warm and familiar, called to her from inside the tent, breaking the evening's calm. "Calamity, time for bed," he said, the words carrying the gentle authority of a father's care.

Her reverie was gently broken by the sound of her father's voice calling her to bed. With one last affectionate pat for Noble, she ducked under the tent flap and entered their shared space, her nightgown brushing against the grass as she entered the spacious abode that would shelter them through the night. Amos sat waiting on the pallet, his straightened silhouette haloed by the flickering lantern light, an anchor in the sea of uncertainty that was the trail. He beckoned her beside him, already preparing for bed.

With practiced tenderness, hands steady and sure, he began the nightly ritual of freeing her golden locks. His hands casting larger-than-life shadows on the tent walls, the shadows flickered and danced, creating a puppet show as they mimicking the gentle motions of his fingers as they worked through the tangles of her day. Calamity watched, captivated by the dance of light and dark, as her hair fell free, cascading around her shoulders.

After her braids were undone and her hair had fallen, Calamity lay down on the soft bedding, her eyes wide and alert as they searched the canvas above her. Though her body was still, her mind was anything but. The day's events replayed in her head, mingling with the anticipation of the journey still to come.

Amos, worn from the day's ride, waited for sleep to claim him. They lay down, father and daughter, their faces turned toward one another in the dim light. Amos studied her for a moment, her face serene in the lamplight, and thought of the woman she was becoming. He marveled at her spirit, so like her mother's, and yet wondered if he had done enough to prepare her for the challenges that lay ahead.

"What now?" he broke the silence, his eyebrows arching with a mixture of exasperation and care.

"I'm not tired," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, as if fearing she might create a stark contrast to the stillness of the night.

Amos, feeling the weight of his own weariness, responded in kind. "Well, what do you want me to do about it?" His hand gestured in the air, lifting from his knee in resignation before settling it back down.

"Tell me a story," she said, her voice soft and wistful.

With a groan that spoke of aching muscles and the comfort of rest deferred, he acquiesced, lying back down. "Oh, you want a story? What type of story?" he inquired, his face turned towards hers, their eyes reflecting shared stories of days gone by.

"I like the scary ones," she whispered, a mischievous spark of excitement lighting her features.

Amos inhaled sharply, running a hand through his own golden hair and began to weave a tale from his youth, his voice a low rumble. "The scary ones! You like the scary ones, that's right," he murmured, casting his gaze upward as if drawing inspiration from the canvas above. His mind wandered back to a time long before Calamity had been born.

He spoke of a time when he served in the Navy, on a ship that faced the wrath of an unforgiving sea. "Imagine the waves, out on the open sea, each one a dark monstrous behemoth, clawing at the ship with the fury of the deep in a thunderous assault. Each one crashed against the ship's deck with the force of a thousand hammers, sending spray flying, each droplet a bite that stung against the skin..." His voice, deep and resonant, conjured images of a ship at the mercy of the sea, the taste of salt ever-present, the deck a treacherous landscape of motion.

In the lantern's flickering light, Amos' hands came to life, the shadows they cast growing into the very waves he described. They rose and fell, cresting and breaking against the imagined hull of the ship that held his captive audience of one.

Calamity's eyes widened as she visualized the scene her father painted—a vessel, small and insignificant, adrift in an endless expanse of churning sea. The salt spray bit at the sailors' faces, a stinging reminder of the ocean's raw power. The taste of brine filled their mouths, a constant, unwelcome companion as they fought to keep their footing on the slippery planks.

"The wind screamed like the lost souls of the deep, each gust more ferocious than the last, tearing at the sails, daring to rip the masts in half. It was a force that could sweep a man overboard with a mere flick, lost forever to the depths below, a sailor's nightmare," he continued, the shadow-play miming the chaotic dance of the howling gale that buffeted the shadow ship.

Calamity lay entranced, heart racing with the imagined danger, her own adventure melding with the sailors' plight. She could almost feel the dreadful rocking beneath her, the relentless motion that left men's stomachs lurching and their hearts full of dread. She could taste the salt on her lips, the darkness of the night all-encompassing, the stars obscured by storm clouds that blotted out any hope of light.

"And then, in the heart of the tempest, a rogue wave—a towering titan reared up, threatening to send us all to Davy Jones's locker..." Amos's hands rose high, casting a monstrous silhouette that seemed to loom over them, ready to crash down and plunge the shadow ship into shadowy depths. "It loomed over us, a moving mountain of angry foam, ready to break upon us."

Her breath caught in her throat as Amos described the terror of the wave, growing taller and more menacing as the wave threatened to engulf the shadow vessel and its crew, the inevitability of its descent. The shadows cast by Amos' hands took on an ominous form, growing taller and more menacing. The sailors, he told her, clung to whatever they could, their knuckles white, their prayers whispered and lost into the gale.

"But, even the fiercest storm must eventually break, and the world kept turning. The sea, though merciless, is not a heartless foe. We held on, and when dawn broke, the waters calmed. The ship, battered but unbroken, carried on, just as we must always carry on, no matter how fearsome the storm gets."

As the story reached its crescendo, it took a turn, leading them away from the stormy seas to a moment of destiny. Amos's voice softened, winding down like the storm he'd just described. "And after that, when we made port, the first thing I did was stride into the nearest saloon, belly up to the bar, and order the strongest drink they had," he said, a wistful smile touching the corners of his mouth. Calamity noticed that it made the line from years of smiling and laughter more pronounced on his otherwise deceivingly youthful face.

Calamity, hovering on the edge of sleep, listened as her Pa's tale took a turn toward the serendipitous. "And there she was—your ma. Sipping on some whiskey neat, with a fire in her gaze that outshone the fiercest star. Within her was the same untamed spirit that I see in you every day." His voice held a reverence reserved for cherished memories, for moments that change the course of a life.

Calamity's eyelids grew heavy as the tale wound down, the lantern's light dimming as she succumbed to sleep. A yawn escaped Calamity, she sighed deeply as she nestled deeper into her bedding. "I wish I could've met her," she murmured, the words slurred by the tug of dreams.

Amos leaned over, his movements deliberate and tender, and placed a tender kiss on her temple. "She would've loved you, just as much as I do," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

As she drifted off into the realm of sleep, she imagined herself there, on the deck, facing the elements with the same fierce determination she saw in Amos' eyes. Her thoughts lingered on tomorrow, on the face that she too might face her own storm on the raging river they would cross on their journey westward. She told herself that though the tale had been thrilling, it was more than that, it was a lesson—a reminder that they were made of stern stuff, capable of weathering any tempest, terrestrial or otherwise.

In the silence that followed, Amos watched his daughter sleep, her chest rising and falling with the peaceful rhythm of the innocent. His gaze drifted to the wedding bands that hung around his neck—a tangible reminder of a love that endured beyond the confines of mortality. His fingers toyed with the rings, tracing the familiar contours, each curve a memory, each touch a bittersweet reminiscence.

With a final look at his daughter's peaceful face and a deep breath, Amos reached out and turned the lantern's knob, the flame sputtering before surrendering them to the embrace of the night. And as the lantern flickered one last time, he whispered a silent vow to protect her, come what may, on the wild trail to Kansas.

The only light now was the soft glow of the moon filtering through the canvas.

Outside, the world was still, save for the occasional rustle of grass or the distant call of a night bird. Inside the tent, Amos and Calamity lay side by side, the bond between them unspoken but as palpable as the rings around Amos's neck. And as sleep claimed them both, the echoes of the sea and the warmth of a mother's love stood vigil, guiding them through the quiet hours of the night.

The sun had barely crested the horizon when the wagon train awoke to another day on the trail, the air crisp and filled with the scent of earth and dew. With methodical precision, the tents were dismantled, supplies packed, the canvas structures collapsing like wilting flowers at the end of a long day, supplies packed, and the wagon train prepared to resume its westward crawl. Calamity moved with practiced ease, her hands deft as she rolled the bedding and secured their belongings. They broke camp with the efficiency that comes from days turned to weeks on the trail. The only deviation from the norm was the river that lay ahead.

The river, wide and seemingly calm at first glance, lye in wait deceitfully in wait with its stillness masking the powerful currents beneath. Its surface mirrored the morning sky, masking the swift and treacherous currents that surged below. The settlers approached with caution, their wagons lining up along the bank. A hushed silence fell over the caravan as the first wagon tentatively entered the water, the gentle lapping of the waves belying the strength of the unseen forces below. As they neared the water's edge, the procession slowed to a stop, and a murmur of trepidation spread among the settlers.

Amos, ever vigilant, surveyed the scene, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation. When the caravan came to an abrupt standstill, Calamity, sensing the change, questioned her father, "What's going on? Why are we stopping?" Her voice was laced with confusion and anticipation.

Amos, eyes narrowed as he peered ahead, replied without turning, "I don't know. But I have a pretty good idea swimmin' about." His gaze fixed on the unfolding chaos ahead.

Then he saw it—A wagon, besieged by the current, was rapidly taking on water, horses rearing in a blind panic, their terror-filled cries piercing the morning calm as they struggled against the weight of their burden.  Amos watched as the canvas of the wagon twisted and thrashed in the water.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, spurring his horse forward with a grim determination. He cursed their late start and the complacency that had allowed them to fall behind the lead wagons. The peace that had accompanied their journey thus far had been a fragile thing that had draped the caravan in a gossamer veil, now shattered by the river's unexpected wrath.

Calamity, spurred by her father's urgency, followed her father's lead. As they approached the tumultuous scene, Amos's experience with rivers and crossings came to the forefront. He knew that the key to a successful crossing lay in calm and confident handling of the animals and precise maneuvering of the wagon. Amos dismounted with urgency, his boots splashing into the water as he moved to help guide the floundering process.

"Stay put," he ordered, leaving instructions that were as sharp as they were laden with concern while he focused on the crisis at hand. She nodded, her trust in her father's abilities unwavering. He approached the distressed team, his voice firm yet soothing as he took the reins and spoke to the horses in a steady, calming tone. With reassuring pats and gentle tugs, he guided the animals, steadying them enough to regain control.

Amos waded deeper into the river, the cold water an afterthought as he worked to reposition the wagon, distributing its weight to counter the pull of the current. His movements were deliberate, his strength evident as he pushed against the wagon's frame, guiding it to a shallower passage he had spied upon his approach.

As she watched her father wade into the turmoil, her horse, Noble, became a creature of sheer instinct. The animal, spooked by the cacophony and the fear that hung heavy in the air, bucked wildly. Overwhelmed by the bedlam, he unseated her with a powerful lurch, sending Calamity plunging into the icy embrace of the river.

The churning waters seized her immediately, pulling her into its depths with a disorienting force, the light from above growing dim as the current tossed her like a leaf in a storm. Light and dark, up and down, the water was a living thing, dragging her deeper, tumbling her about until the world lost all meaning. Each attempt to swim was a struggle against the current, her lungs burned for the taste of air as her mind desperately grappled for some sense of direction.

But then, fighting with every fiber of her being, she broke through the surface of the murky depths to meet the light, the air rushing back into her lungs in a violent, desperate gasp of the sweetness of life. The world was noise and chaos once more, but she was alive, she was breathing.

Amos, upon hearing the splash, a sound that cut through the din, felt a cold dread gripping at his heart. He saw Noble bolt past, riderless, and his world narrowed to a single point. His daughter's name tore from his lips as he plunged into the river in a fury, his fear propelling him forward at a speed he did not know he possessed. His eyes scoured the water, his hands, guided by a father's desperation, searched the deep until his hands finally found her and pulled her free from the river's relentless grasp. She surfaced, coughing violently, expelling the water that had invaded her lungs.

His relief only allowing a brief moment of anger, her coughs a symphony of life as she expelled the river from her lungs. "I told you to stay put!" he yelled, his fear and relief bleeding into anger.

But as he gazed upon his daughter, his expression softened, he pulled her into his arms, kissing her soaked hair, cradling her against him. His relief was palpable in the tremble of his arms, as he send a silent thanks for her safety.

Kathleen's voice shattered the reprieve, her  voice pierced through the air, her cries for Billy drawing their attention back to the river. Amos released Calamity, gaze meeting Kathleen's, and in her eyes, he saw his own reflection from moments ago—a recognition of similar pain and loss as her screams grew more frantic. With a protective arm, he held Calamity back before diving into the water once more.

Calamity stood beside Kathleen, joining her cries, the two of them bound by shared terror. Finally, Amos emerged, dragging Billy to the bank, his body racking with coughs but alive. Her eyes met Amos' in a silent exchange of thanks.

As the chaos of the river rescue waned and Kathleen's son, Billy, lay safe in her arms, Amos allowed himself a moment to study Kathleen. Her eyes, wide with maternal fear now softening with relief, so reminiscent of his late wife, brought a flood of memories, stirring the embers of a love that time had not extinguished. It was more than the shape or the color—it was the raw emotion, the depth of love that seemed to transcend the physical world. He remembered that same look, one of fierce determination and boundless affection, a look that once brought him back from the brink, just as it had brought Billy back to his mother.

Amos's thoughts lingered on his wife as he observed Kathleen whispering her thanks. The way her lips moved, the slight tremble as she spoke, it was like gazing through the mists of time. He felt the weight of his wedding bands against his chest, Amos's fingers brushed the wedding bands at his neck, a reminder of a bond that, although broken by death, still tethered his heart to a love that refused to fade.

Meanwhile, Calamity, shivering from the cold and the adrenaline ebbing from her veins, watched as her father's gaze held Kathleen's. She knew that look, had seen it in the quiet moments when he thought she was asleep, a look of longing and remembrance. She understood the silent language, the memories that were stirred, and the silent homage he paid to the love he once shared with her mother.

She understood, more than he realized, the depth of his loss and the strength it took to carry on, to be both mother and father to her in this untamed world.

The river continued to wreak havoc, and as Kathleen called out for her husband, another figure, Frank, burst from the water's grasp, a nearly lifeless Paddy being dragged behind him towards safety. The Irishman's stubborn grasp on his belongings nearly cost him everything. As Paddy was pulled into the safety of his wife's arms, coughing his way back to consciousness, the caravan seemed to collectively exhale with relief, the tension of the moment dissipating like mist in the morning sun.

Billy, now coughing and spluttering but very much alive, was a mirror to Calamity's own recent brush with death. As he regained his composure, his pair of perceptive blue eyes found hers across the chaos-strewn riverbank. They shared no words, but in their silence, understanding and respect were communicated without a word. In his gaze, she saw the echo of her own resilience. His gaze also held a question, a silent inquiry into her well-being, and she responded with a subtle nod.

Their shared look was a silent pact, a mutual acknowledgment of the fragility of life and the suddenness with which it could change. They were survivors, kindred spirits who had stared down death and now looked upon each other with a newfound appreciation for the threads of fate that connected them.

Amos, pulling himself from the past, gathered Calamity into his arms, his protective embrace a fortress against the unpredictable world. His mind raced with what-ifs and close calls, but as he held his daughter, feeling the steady beat of her heart, he allowed himself to feel relief. He was reminded once more of the preciousness of the child entrusted to him, and of the unwavering resolve that had become the cornerstone of their existence.

Calamity's gaze wandered back to the river, to the remnants of their life and memories it had claimed, feeling the sting of their material losses as she watched the face contorting all around her. The loss was palpable, a shared wound floating openly down the riverbank, caused by its own fury. It was a stark reminder of nature's capriciousness, yet it was the unspoken words between her and Billy that offered a quiet solace. In his blue eyes, she saw not only a reflection of her own experiences but also the dawning understanding of what they still carried within them—their resilience, their courage, their hope— it was far more valuable than any object the river could take.

As the sun climbed higher and the river continued its indifferent flow, Amos and Calamity stood at the edge of a world, faces etched with the day's trials. The river had tested them in taking everything, but it had also shown them the unyielding bond that tied them to each other and to a destiny that awaited them on the open trail. The trail ahead was long, but they would face it together, one step, one breath, one heartbeat at a time.

[targwh0re]

The Meeting

Summary: You know what they say, climb out a window and meet a blue eyed boy

Warning: None (I’m pretty sure)

A/N: so it’s not gonna be to terrible long that they’re children, I promise. But we gotta get to know Calamity a little bit more to understand who she becomes, so I hope y’all just power through with me

The wagons rolled on the uneven trail, hooves of their horses clattering against cobblestones, casting echoes into the early morning fog. The cityscape of New York unfurled before them, a grand orchestra playing a symphony around them, a magnificent tapestry of sights, sounds, and scents mingled with the air. Skyscrapers were but a far off dream, instead replaced by squat buildings of stone, wood, and steel, huddles together unceremoniously. Thick forests of soot stained chimneys spat out tendrils of smoke that weaved their way into the clouds above.

Calamity, a picture of youth, sat atop her sleek gray horse surveying the sprawling city lying out before her with a spark of curiosity. Noble was a creature of elegance and agility, her hide a canvas of gray adorned with darker speckles that seemed to dance each time the sunlight caressed them. Much like his rider, he possessed a thirst to discover the secrets that the city held within its depths, hunger for some form of adventure evident in his lively trot. Amos, cast a protective gaze over Calamity and the city rising from the ground up ahead.

He saw not just the beauty or the vibrancy, but also the dangers and shadows that lurked just beneath the surface. The wisdom in his eyes betrayed the age the years had gifted him as he felt a mix of pride and fear - he was proud of the fearless woman his daughter was becoming, but he feared for her because that seemed to be the most important thing she was lacking; fear. He guided his own mount beside her, a majestic creature with striped black legs to symbolize her pure Spanish lineage. The horses coat was one reminiscent of an ancient desert, a pale, sandy tan that was accented by the black markings that start around the eyes before trailing down to the nostrils, lending it a certain air of mystic, much like the man whom primarily rode her.

Amos, carried the weight of something he couldn't quite put his finger on yet, heavily on his shoulders. His presence was supposed to represent a reassuring beacon in the unpredictable terrains of the wilds, but how could he offer any reassurance when he felt so unnerved. He felt like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Their journey was one of both duty and desire, a father committed to the protection of those brave enough to venture into the unknown, and a daughter with a longing of adventure burning brightly inside of her. As they rode in at a steady trot side by side, the raw beauty of Hell's Kitchen unfurled before them, its heart beating in sync with their own. The thrumming pulse of the city filled the air around them, a symphony of life and livelihood that resonated around them and swept up their own from under them. The journey remained much ahead, they'd rest for a night after dropping of the English and German families they'd picked up from Maryland and Philadelphia, before starting the trek all over again. This time they'd take the trail westward, their path intertwined with the tales of the city and the people who  currently called it home.

"Hell's Kitchen, eh?" Calamity tilted her head, her eyes sweeping over the bustling streets alive with the cultural clash of city life. It was pure chaos. "Doesn't look much like hell, where's the fiery pits?"

Amos laughed at that, a deep, hearty sound that seemed to rumble through the air around them, the chuckle blending seamlessly with the cacophony of the city. "Yeah, darlin', and that's what makes it all the more dangerous." He replied, voice carrying the weight of past lived experiences.

As they rode on, the city seemed to unfurl around them, revealing a melting pot of cultures and a maelstrom of voices that echoed off the cobblestone streets and imposing brick buildings. Hell's Kitchen was a boiling pot of life, a cacophony of a thousand untold stories being lived at once. It was a place of chaos where the dirt-streaked faces of the laborers coexisted with the porcelain features of the upperclass elitists. Cobblestone streets were a whirlwind, lined with busy stalls, vibrant with the colors of various goods and echoing with the clamor of haggling voices. The air was filled with the smell of cooked meats, fresh bread, and a hint of the sea, a testament to the harbor nearby where the lot behind Calamity and her Pa should have been deposed of to begin with.

Is that where we're going, Pa?" Calamity pointed to a great leaning wooden shanty, the paint peeling off like an aged man's skin, door practically hanging off its hinges. It stood defiantly amidst the sprawl of stone buildings, a relic of a time long past, the sign above read the "Frontier Inn".

"No, sweetheart," Amos said, his lips curling up into a wry smile, his mustache tickling his upper lip. "We aren't desperate enough to stay there for a night yet, are we?"

"Speak for yourself, old man," Calamity retorted, a cheeky grin on her face as she dreamt of sleeping in a bed instead of on the cold hard earth, though she supposed the beds there couldn't be much better. "I wouldn't mind a place where the roof doesn't leak." She still reminisced.

"Now sweetheart," Amos began, heart tightening in his chest, his tone shifting to take on a more serious note. "When we stop here, you can't go wandering off. It's a big world out there, and I can't lose you."

Calamity smirked, her youthful defiance shining through. "I don't wander," she coolly retorted, a thrill secretly shooting down her spine at the thought.

Amos raised an eyebrow at her, his smile never once faltering. He saw once more her spirit and her fearlessness, he saw her Ma, and he loved her all the more for it. "Sweetheart, all you do is wander. And the place we're going to is literally called Hell's Kitchen. Now, I have no quarrels with searching through all of hell to find you, I'd just rather not do it today, much thanks."

The laughter that fallowed was both melodic and thunderous - a sweet refrain that filled the thick air with a warmth that even the city couldn't drown out.

The wagons creaked to a stop, hushed whispers replaced the clatter of hooves and soon, the immigrants disembarked. Families clung to one another, their hopeful eyes surveying the crowded streets of New York, a stark contrast to the rural landscapes they were previously accustomed to. The city, a veritable jungle of stone and steel, buzzed with a fierce energy, its song of promise and peril calling to some peace inside of them. One by one, they peeled off from the group, fanning out into the city's narrow arteries to seek homes and jobs for their families in this new land.

As the last of the immigrants disappeared into the city's embrace, Amos watched, a knowing gaze and his heart heavy with understanding as he traced their retreating figures. He mumbled to himself, melancholy seeping into his words, little louder than a whisper that was quickly consumed by the constant hum of the city. "Folks comin' to America, lookin' for a better life..."

His gaze lingered as it swept over the few straggling families gathered around their wagons, their faces alight with heady mix of hope and trepidation. He thought about how most of these families would barely be here before they decided to pack it up again and hire someone else this time for a journey Westward. "Manifest destiny..." he muttered, a sarcastic smile curling the edges of his lips. "Ain't nothin' but a bunch of hogwash."

It wasn't until hours later, under the cover of darkness, and away from the bustling streets and into quieter confines, when Calamity found the courage to ask him about it. She stirred from her bed, her curiosity unquenched. The room was a small sanctuary amid the city's chaos, with threadbare tapestries hanging on the walls and a solitary window overlooking the sprawling cityscape. They were both tucked into their respective beds, the city's daytime symphony transforming into a nocturnal chorus. The room was bathed in darkness, save for a sliver of moonlight that snuck in through that window.

Calamity studied Amos from across the room, her curiosity piqued by the offhand comment he had made as they bid farewell to the last of the immigrants. The words had hung in the air, a cryptic insinuation that had her mind spinning with questions of what he was poking around at.

"Pa," she ventured, voice piercing through the quietude with a hint of trepidation. She was clad in her cotton nightgown, her hair cascading down her shoulders like a calm river of gold. "What did you mean earlier? 'Manifest Destiny'? Better life? Hogwash?"

Amos, who had been teetering on the edge of sleep, sighed and sat up, his weathered face softened by the candlelight. He fumbled for a moment in the dark before striking a match and lighting a candle. Its soft glow cast a warm light in the room as the flame danced and flickered, as he prepared to explain. "You see, Mamie," he began, his voice like a rustle of leaves in the silence. "These folks, they've crossed vast oceans, left everything they knew behind in hopes of finding a better life here in America."

He paused, his gaze lost in the flickering shadows. "And now, they're being told to move westward, to civilize and claim the land. They believe it's their 'destiny'." He gave a sarcastic laugh, tongue teasing at the inside of his cheek. "And they're calling it 'Manifest Destiny'."

Another chuckle rumbled from his chest, this one harsher than the last, his mustache twitching in a shadow of his earlier mirth. "But destiny, sweetheart, isn't a path just laid out for us to follow. It's a wild river, unpredictable and untamed. It can lead us to calm waters or sweep us into roiling rapids. We don't choose it - it chooses us."

He leaned closer towards her, his eyes meeting hers with a sobering intensity that had her feeling her bones stiffening in her body. The room echoed with pure silence she felt. "But it's all a load of bull, darling. Just pretty words to dress up the ugly truth: they're being driven by desperation and hope, not some divine mandate."

Slowly, the distant hum of the city came back to her as Calamity digested his words, her youthful defiance wrestling with the wisdom of his explanation.

"Even so," Amos added, a twinkle in his eyes as he watched her brain whirl, "there's something admirable about their spirit, don't you think? The courage to chase a dream, even when it's wrapped up in a pretty lie. That's something worth remembering, Calamity. Something worth wandering for."

And with that, the lesson ended, he blew out the candle and the room once more surrendered to the dark chorus of the New York night. He placed his worn hat over Calamity's face, just like he'd had it on his when she had first posed the question. "Now go to sleep, sweetheart," he murmured as he lay back down, his voice a comforting lullaby in the witching hour.

Calamity, left in the dark with only his words for company, could only smile. Even in this city that never slept, under the protective brim of her father's hat, she felt a sense of peacefulness. With a soft sigh, she closed her eyes, letting her dreams run the wind through her hair and spin wild tales and adventures for her to see.

The morning light was a riotous intruder, its luminescent tendrils prying open Calamity's weary eyes to whisper the arrival of a new day. The cacophony of her pa's snoring resonated throughout the room. Outside their provisional shelter, the city was already throbbing with life, its discordant hum seeping through the cracks, a stark contrast to the serene quiet of the prairies they had left behind.

Rising before her father, in the dim, dust-laden light, Calamity began her morning routine. Pulled the tunic over her head, fingers fumbling over the delicately embroidery, a living testament to her mother's skilled handiwork. The riding skirt, a gift from a well-meaning aunt Clara was donned with a measure of reluctance. It felt like shackles, a barrier to her freedom and the life that a girl on the trail endured. In a tangible act of defiance, she reached for a pair of scuffed cowboy boots over the more feminine ones expected of her to complete her rebellious attire. Her reflection in the dusty mirror was an odd mix of innocence and daring, an echo of the woman that she was to become.

Before embarking on her morning escapade, she cast a final glance back at a her father. She gently removed the hat he had placed over her face the night before, the brim still warm from her dreams. With a tender smile, she placed it over his still snoring form, its soft wool a substitute for her presence.

The city beckoned to her like a siren would a sailor with its irresistible allure. She felt a rush of exhilaration that echoed with the pulsating rhythm of the city, the excitement coursing through her veins, making her feel alive. As she moved towards the lone window, she was filled with a sense of anticipation and a hint of fear, and the wild beating of her heart reflected as much.

Hoisting herself onto the window ledge, she paused, her silhouette framed against the sprawling cityscape, teetering precariously on the edge of the stone sill at the unfamiliar height. The ledge was just wide enough to hold her, a precarious platform suspended over nothing but air.

Below her, the building's face was a jumble of shingles and ledges. They were arranged haphazardly, mapping out her path, each one as unique in size and shape as the city itself. Some ledges jutted out more than others, while some shingles were weathered and rough, offering little in terms of grip. But to Calamity, it was a dance, some secret choreography.

With a deep breath, she twisted her body back to reach for the first shingle. Her fingers curled around its rough surface, it scraped against the soft pads of her fingers as her knuckles whitened under the strain.

Her nimble fingers continued to grapple with the shingles as she descended, navigating the uneven terrain, moving from one ledge to another. She tried to keep her moves fluid, confident and determined. She figured if she wasn't afraid of falling then she was less likely to do so.

The descent was not a smooth one. Each jump sent jolts of impact up her small but strong legs, her feet absorbing the brute of the force as they connected with the wood and brick. Her acrobatics became filled more with youthful enthusiasm rather than professional grace.

Below, the city watched as she moved, a small assembly of onlookers gathering below, their eyes wide with a mix of fascination and concern. They watched her decent, their breaths hitching each time she leapt.

With a heavy thud, she landed, her boots kicking up a small cloud of dust that billowed around her. Rising from her crouched position, she dusted off the remnants of her descent. The city greeted her like an old friend, wrapping her in its chaotic embrace as she melded into the crowd, boots clicking against the cobblestone as she left the crowd rooted in awe.

She slipped through the city's cracks and crevices, squeezing through the undulating sea of humanity, her heart pounding with the thrill of a new day. Her sweeping gaze fell on a familiar sight, the wagon trains, a symbol of hope and despair in all ways that mattered. In that sea of faces, one family in particular caught her eye - their desperate attempts to secure passage for their group mirrored a play of human desperation, and she found herself drawn to them.

In particular, it was the eldest brother whom fascinated her the most. His mess of dark curls gave her the impression of rugged charm whilst his eyes reflected youthful determination. His aura demanded attention even in a place as busy as a New York thoroughfare, despite his age. He was with a blonde boy of around the same age, though it was hard to tell; their silent camaraderie only serving to draw her in more.

Their path led them to a man called Moss, a name she knew all to well from her pa's hushed whispers of since passed days of revelry. Their conversation, intended to be private, drifted towards her, a stray breeze carrying their words. The blonde friend was a mute, and the boy with the intense blue eyes was named Billy. The name echoed in her mind, a piece of the mystery that was this intriguing stranger.

"And what about your little friend over there, huh? She a mute too?" Moss's gruff voice sent a jolt of alarm through her as it sliced through her thoughts, finger outstretched and pointed at her. She held her breath as Billy's eyes met hers, a spark of surprise flickering in his gaze. There was almost recognition in that look, as if he'd seen her somehow before, and she couldn't help but wonder if maybe he'd been one of the spectators in the small crowd she'd culminated earlier. "I don't know her," he admitted, his eyes lingering on her a moment longer than necessary before he turned back to Moss.

She remained hidden in the crowd still, like a shadow the sun painted against the exterior. "So, can you see me?" Billy questioned, nothing but curiosity coming from him as he waved a hand back and forth in front of the mans eyes.

"I can see well enough to know that you can't afford the drivers your folks are talking to," Moss retorted, his voice laden with wisdom and experience.

They want to go to some place called Coffeyville, you know it?" Billy asked, his voice tingeing with eagerness.

"I do," Moss stated matter of factly, giving a curt nod as further confirmation.

"What are your terms?" Billy demanded, his youthful determination cutting through the air.

Moss laughed, a weathered very wry note. And then he paused, a glimmer of amusement dancing in the eye not clouded over by loss. "Well, young man, I charge 75 dollars. That's a fair price. I don't cheat anyone. My wagons are almost as beat up as I am, but they'll get us there."

The exchange hung heavy in the air, an unfinished promise of uncertainty. As Billy turned to leave, a silent acknowledgement passed between them. The thrill of anticipation coursed through her veins.

With a final, lingering look at Billy's retreating form, Calamity pivoted and sprinted away, her boots striking a quick tap-tap of a rhythm on the cobblestones. She needed to find her father, to share the news of the potential journey.

The bustling throng of humanity parted for a lone figure weaving her way through the crowd as tumultuous as her very name. She darted through the sea of bodies with a sense of frantic urgency. She didn't care if she was knocking into people, her path marked by the clash of her apologetic glances and the unyielding set of her jaw. She would utter an apology if she didn't think it would be swallowed by the cacophony of the city.

Suddenly, a burly arm shot out, ensnaring her small frame in a vice-like grip, halting her momentum. The burly arm was as rough and rugged as the cobblestones beneath her feet. She turned to face the man, jerking around with her heart beating like a drum in her head, to find him unshaven with a permanent snarl carved into his weathered face as he sneered down at her. That malicious grin that sent a shiver down her spine. "What's the hurry, little girl?" His voice was like gravel, his grip on her arm tightening with each word.

Fear danced in her eyes, but she swallowed it down, not one to be easily intimidated. Calamity, ever defiant, retaliated. With a sudden burst of energy, and a calculated movement, she swung her foot until she felt the impact of it connecting with the man's shin. As he stumbled back, loosening his grip on her arm, a gasp emitted from the crowd as they watched whom they'd now dubbed, 'that wild child' in their whispers. She didn't stop there, though. Seizing the opportunity, she sunk her teeth into the rough skin of the hand that'd grabbed her.

The man howled, releasing her fully, but before she could dart away, a familiar figure loomed his shadow over them. Her father, Amos, still half-asleep and buckling his belt, slipped between her and the stranger, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and concern — the laughter that usually resided there momentarily dimmed in his slitted eyes. He was a formidable figure, his towering height stood over them. He moved with an ease that bellied that size. His movements were swift, predatory, a lion protecting his cub. With an iron-like grip, is hand snatched the man's arm, just as he'd done to Calamity, a low ominous rumble chilled the air, his voice held a warning that would make even the bravest of hearts falter. "Touch her again," he intoned, voice like the lethal rattle of a rattlesnake, "and you'll be meeting your maker sooner than you'd like."

Calamity, however, despite the veiled threat hanging in the air, seemed obliviously lost to the danger she had just been in and was entirely gone to her own head. Her mind raced with thoughts, her heart pounding in her chest like that of horse hooves crashing against the hard packed earth. She tugged at her father's arm, her words tumbling over each other in her rush to tell him in a breathless whisper what had happened.

Amos' stern gaze shifted to hers, his stern reprimand that followed echoing in her ears only to be blatantly dismissed by her darting eyes. "Running through a crowd like some wild horse, Calamity. Show some respect." His gaze then softened against her as he took a good look at her, giving her a once over and looking her over front and back. When he determined she bore nothing but faint bruising at the wrist he took a step back and truly looked at the girl before him. He saw a force of nature, a fierce determination that reminded him so much of his late wife, Calamity's mother.

She paid his looks no mind, her eyes flickering back and forth to where she had left Billy and Moss. Noticing this, with a roll of his eyes, he allowed her to lead the way. By the time they approached, entire McCarty clan had formed a semi-circle around Moss, their faces etched with anxiety.

Paddy, the patriarch, was in the midst of negotiating, his somewhat voice gruff and twinged with what Calamity seemed a funny accent. "My son tells me you're asking seventy-five."

Though his voice was not nearly as gruff as Moss', "Your son's got it right. Seventy-five includes... protection." The 'protection', looked more like the people you'd want to be protected from.

"We need two wagons." Paddy interjected, a pleading note entering his voice. "We barely have 50 dollars each. It's all I have in the world."

A silent moment of tension filled the air as Moss weighed his options, their future in such palpable uncertainty. But then, He glanced at Billy, his gaze lingering for a moment before he let out a sound of resignation. "Alright then. Two wagons. Fifty each. No protection."

It was then that Amos' gaze flitted to Mrs. McCarty. Her dark hair and kind face stirred something within him, a ghost of a memory. That kindness seeped into her blue eyes, a stark contrast to his wife's fiery hazel ones. And then there was something else missing as well, the mischievous glint that his wife used and had subsequently passed on to their daughter was absent, replaced by a loving that loving warmth. His heart ached slightly at the revelation, the differences between the two women serving as a poignant reminder of what he'd lost.

Just then, at the same moment as her father locked eyes onto Mrs.McCarty, Calamity's eyes met ones that mirrored the curiosity in her own. The boy had seen her earlier, climbing from the window. He found her fascinating then, and now here she was to give him a better picture of whom exactly she was. The connection was inevitable, an invisible thread entwining their fates together.

The world seemed to slow down around them, every single note of New York fading into the background. It was a moment of understanding, a silent acknowledgment passing between two young souls, as bewildered as it was exhilarating.

Amos, noticing the exchange, stepped forward, his voice steady and clear, pulling them out of their silent reverie. "I'll offer protection." The declaration hung in the air, echoing with silent promise.

Moss agreed in the form of a curt nod, his remaining eye glinting with a sense of respect. "Protection it is, then." Voice carrying a touch of finality that left no room open for any further negotiations.

Relief washed over Calamity, the tension gnawing at her heart easing some. As she glanced at Billy, she saw the same relief mirrored in his own mesmerizing blue. Both of their plans, it seemed, were falling into place. They had a long journey ahead, but for now, they had hope.

[targwh0re]

Untamable Equine

Summary: Calamity takes her first steps on her road to disaster

Warning: Gun, blood (nothing gory or anything but you never know what might trigger someone)

A/N: So I first posted this on Wattpad but I figured I’d bring it over here to share with y’all

(THE BANDITTI OF THE PRAIRIES.

A TALE OF THE MISSISSIPPI VALLEY)

CHAPTER. I.

"THE valley of the Mississippi River from its earliest settlement has been more infested with the reckless and the bloodstained men, than any other part of the country, being more congenial to their habits and offering the great inducements to follow their nefarious and dangerous trade.

Situated as it is, of great commercial importance, and the river who's name it bears, together with its tributaries stretching four thousand miles north from the Gulf of Mexico, and draining all the country south and west of the great chain of Lakes, and between the Allegheny and Rocky Mountains, it has afforded them an unequalled chance to escape detection and pursuit, and thus wooed as it were, countless villains and blood-stained, law-doomed ones to screen themselves in its bosom.

Organized bands, trampling upon right, and defying all law human or divine, have so annoyed the peaceful and quiet citizens of this great valley, that in the absence of a sufficient judicial power the aid of "Judge Lynch" has been but too frequently called in, and a neighboring tree proved a gallows and "a short shrift and strong cord" been the doom of those who have ever plead vainly for mercy at his bar."

Basking in the shade underneath the sun-dappled canopy of an ancient sycamore, on the cusp of a serpentine trail, a girl named Calamity Grace found herself lost in the timeworn pages of Edward Bonney's 'Banditti of the Prairie.' This book, a gateway further into a world not so terribly distant from her own, was an ever present companion for the spirited young girl. Their winding path was leading them closer to the bustling heartbeat of New York, a city that existed like a mirage in her eagerly expectant mind.

For Calamity, who was christened as such in memory of her mother's death, the trail was home. So, having always lived on the countryside, the thought of an actual city seemed like a far-off dream. Her Pa, a brawny robust man with a heart and spirit as boundless as the plains they traversed, was her only family. I mean, sure, she had kin in her aunts and uncle back up at the family's farm in Virginia, but they had long since abandoned the wild unpredictability of the trail in favor of settling down. Not her Pa though, her Ma had died on the trail and he was still here, headed to New York to work as protection to those traveling West on the wagon trains. He was less a conventional father and more of a boisterous older brother, his eyes always alight with mischief, sporting a grin that seemed to outstretch the horizon itself. People always told her she had his smile.

Disrupting the tranquil silence, a shadow lumbered towards her until it swallowed her up in its darkness, his big bellied laugh echoing and ripping through the quietude. "Calamity, you're obsessed, honey." He started, plucking the book from her fingers just as one plucks the petals from the pulp of a flower. "You need to make some friends beyond the ones in these dusty, old pages. Or someone who ain't a book for that matter." Amos, he wore that signature grin, the limited sunlight setting his hair and the scars that littered his body aglow. To most he was an intimidating foe, but when his little girl looked up into those eyes like an open expanse of blue sky, the only feeling she felt was home.

His playful jest kindled a spark of laughter in Calamity's eyes. He held the book within arms reach, teasing, challenging her. She sprang to her feet, her nimble fingers reaching out for the purloined leather-bound pages. A dance of playful tussle ensued as he pulled the book back at the very last second, so as to leave her agile little hand grappling with the air. His chesire grin was more arrogant now. Calamity didn't mind, sending back an even more mischievous smile to mirror his own, her eyes alight.

They continued this game of back and forth, each time Calamity becoming closer to her end goal. With frustration nipping at her heels, she could feel the pressure of the book zipping through the air, tickling the tips of her fingers. It all came to an end however, halting abruptly when Calamity tripped and scrapped her knee against a jagged rock.

Though getting quicker, she had still been no match for the stone that caught her unsuspecting and sent her stumbling down bloody to the hard packed earth. She immediately dropped down as a shock of pain went through her body. Her hands instinctively coming up to cradle the broken skin, tears welling up in her eyes. She could feel the sting of the air mixing with her cut as blood welled up freely from between her fingers .

She heard the book collide angrily against the ground, dust shooting up to create a film aimlessly on top of it. Amos collapsed at her side only a moment later. The sight of blood had quickly dissolved the laughter in her father's eyes, replaced by the familiar warmth of a parent's love. His voice softened as he insisted, "Move your hands away, let me see it, Calamity."

As he examined her scrapped knee, Calamity's keen eyes saw a glimmer behind him, and it wasn't from her tears left unshed. As she pieced together the fact that it was the sparkling of a river, an idea began to blossom in her sharp mind, sweet revenge tickling at the edges of her brain.

She saw her opportunity.

Seizing the chance, Calamity just 'gave him a little push' she would later go on to say, sending him sprawling back into the river. It rose up to greet his fallen form, creating an outline of his defeat. His surprised laughter echoed, reverberating through the clearing, merging with her own unladylike giggles that escaped past her lips in triumph.

Heaving himself back up onto the bank, he shook out his golden locks in her direction, making her squeal in delight. Though when he shook his head again it was in disbelief. "Now, how about you tell me how you noticed that, and I didn't?" He questioned, eyes twinkling with pride and intrigue.

Mimicking his teachings, she replied, "I did what you always tell me to do," her voice mirroring the hum of the river, "observe and listen."

As they lay sprawled out in the grassy field, the sun drying her Pa's clothes, he steered the conversation back to the book. Calamity Grace, her eyes reflecting the endless sky above, began to narrate the captivating tales of outlaws and their thrilling escapades with fascination twinkling in her eyes.

Her voice was bummed with fervor as she spoke, something that only a young heart could command, her words painting countless pictures and weaving vivid images of a life marked by excitement and all the other thrills that sort of life had to offer.

"I want to experience that," she confessed, almost as if she was just whispering it to the wind. A determined glint filled up her deep brown irises, "I want to know what it's like."

Her Pa, taken aback, slowly adjusted his head so that he was facing the side of her own. "Why would you want to go and do such a silly thing like that?"

With the rivers soft murmur serving as a backdrop to safeguard her secrets, she responded with, "So I can taste what it's like to be truly free, Pa." Her voice, unwavering, carried with it the hardness of the outlaws she so admired.

The sun was setting over the New Mexico landscape, casting long shadows that danced across the expanse of plains. Little Calamity now sat cross-legged in the grass, her freckled face glowing in the waning light. Her declaration hung in the air, a bold statement of intent that seemed to echo across the vast, open landscape. It staled in the air, something the girl seemed to pay no mind to and if she did, she didn't show it.

Amos, a grizzled veteran of countless gunfights and a man who had seen both the best and the worst that the West had to offer, was taken aback by her words. He sat up abruptly, his worn leather boots digging into the soft earth. His gaze fell upon his only child, the spitting imagine of himself and her beloved Ma. His heart clenched as he pondered her words, teetering with them in his mind.

Without saying a word, he had now risen all the way up onto his feet, striding over to his saddlebag. His hand disappeared into the worn leather pouch, emerging with a weighty object. He blocked his daughter's view with his broad back, the physical representation of his internal battle only increased the chaos going on inside of his mind as he now contemplated the object resting in his hands. It was a pistol, a brutal testament to the harsh realities of the Wild West, a harbinger of life and death.

His mind was a tangle of thoughts, like a tumbleweed caught in a desert wind. Would he be promoting violence by reaching her how to handle a firearm? Or was he simply preparing her?

Slowly, he turned to face his daughter at long last, pistol still cradled in his calloused hands. The rays from the sun caught on the gunmetal, causing it to gleam ominously. "Calamity," he called, his voice a gravely whisper carried on the wind. "Come here."

She rose to her feet, curiosity dancing in her dark eyes. She stepped towards him, her small boots leaving light impressions on the grass. He held the gun out to her, his heart pounding in his chest.

The pistol was a thing of brutal beauty, a testament to the deadly craftsmanship of the 1800s. It was a Colt Single Action Army revolver, its body a sleek expanse of steel, forged and tempered to withstand the rigors of frontier life. The grip was pristine white, made from the finest ivory to represent purity and elegance, adorned with intricate carvings that Amos had commissioned when Calamity was born. A rearing mustang, a symbol of untamable freedom, was etched into the wood of the ivory, its wild spirit mirroring that of its intended owner.

Casting a glance towards the boys, who were currently engaged in a game of horseshoes a little distance away, Amos led Calamity farther off into the rolling hills as their laughter echoed in the wind behind them. The world around them eventually fell away until it was just the two of them surrounded by natures natural and foreign song that was the star beauty of the West in both father and daughter's eyes.

"The gun ain't a toy, Calamity," he began, his voice stern yet gentle. He showed her how to hold the firearm, how to aim, how to squeeze the trigger and not pull. "Pulling the trigger is a careless act, no way to know if your aim will be true. But when you pull that trigger is when you really mean it, you hear me?" It wasn't a question.

The recoil jarred her much smaller arm, a sharp reminder of the weapon's lethal power, she could feel the surge of empowerment coursing through her veins now. She didn't flinch, her young face set in a steely determination that made Amos's heart swell with pride.

And the recoil that was still rattling her arm didn't just fill her with sensation, a thrill raced down her spine. It was intoxicating to her, feeling like she could protect both herself and others with the simple squeeze of the hairpin trigger. She felt invincible, responsible for life and death if her small hands so chose. Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears like the beat of a drum following no specific rhythm or pattern. A symphony of fear, excitement, and pure joy swam through her ears. She was not just a girl traveling the Wild, Wild West; she was a force to be reckoned with.

As the echo of gunshots reverberated off the plains, Amos watched his daughter, her face still being illuminated by the setting sun, eyes ablaze with newfound knowledge. With pride, there can sometimes come equal parts dread. He felt a pang of foreboding, a dark shadow that began seeping in at the edges of his heart as he watched her hand, clutching the ivory handled pistol in a tight resolve. This was a dangerous place, it's beauty matched only by a brutality Calamity had only ever read about. His smile slowly faded, replaced by a contemplative frown. For some reason he found himself reflecting on her name.

Calamity Grace. A disaster disguised as beauty.

The irony of her birth had not been lost on him. She was the most beautiful baby he had ever seen, and she had taken the woman he had loved more than anything. He didn't blame her, nor did he harbor any resentment. Instead, he loved her more if that was even possible. He decided to find humor in the situation, a bittersweet coping mechanism he supposed .

But now aside, still remained entirely glued to his little girl holding that instrument of power and danger, he couldn't help but wonder to himself. Would she become a calamity to others one day? Would her desire for freedom and her spirit of rebellion lead her to getting her wish and becoming an outlaw, bringing disaster to other towns and people? Would she one day live up to her name, and send a shiver of fear down the spines of those who dared to utter her name?

These thoughts worried him. His heart clenched with a father's worry. A father fear that they can't protect their own child from themselves. His little girl, his Calamity Grace, was standing on in the precipice of a path that could lead to an uncontrollable life of danger and uncertainty. He could only pray that she would navigate this wild frontier with the wisdom and strength he knew she'd inherited from her Ma.

He had given her a tool of survival, a piece of the harsh reality they lived in. But in her hands, it was more than just a weapon, it was a symbol of her will to carve her own path in this world, a testament to her spirit that was as wild and free as the rearing Mustang etched onto the guns handle.

He stood there, the sun dipping below the horizon his daughter by his side, he made a silent vow to a spirit resting in a grave. He would guide her, teach her, and stand by her, come what may. Because no matter what she was his little girl, his Calamity Grace, a disaster masked by beauty. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

But life has a funny way of doing whatever it likes doesn't it?