Chapter 21

The next time anyone told me there was a god in the world, I’d tell ‘em he’s an asshole. There’s no other reason I could think of, if there truly were an almighty, for the amount of bad luck in my life. Especially considering no matter what I did, it seemed to chase after me. Even if I wasn’t doing anything.

And this time, I swear, I’d done absolutely nothing fucking wrong. Yet, here it was, swaggering towards us with all the confidence of a child holding onto a shiny quarter. Bad luck’s physical form this otherwise uneventful night. Mr. Grayson and his goonies. Because of course, it was the final night before we reached Lincoln, and the asshole had nothing better to do.

“Probably best if you just say nothing.” Clint said to me as he spooned some soup into my bowl. He’d made us some sort of bison stew for the night, the warm meal easier on me to consume, what with the amount of pain I was in, as well as our unnecessarily large stock of the meat. The stew allowed him to soften up the meat, which had gotten hard and touch from our efforts to preserve it. Sure, it was nothing compared to what rich folk ate, but considering what I’d been used to from my time living on the run, it was amazing.

Following Clint’s advice, I gave him the smallest nod possible and promptly spooned a portion of the stew into my mouth. The warm broth, a bone broth he’d created by soaking some bison bones for a long while in boiling water to extract the flavor and richness from the marrow, was the first thing my tongue tasted. It was followed with a peppery flavor courtesy of the spice’s he’d added in, as well as a slight sweetness. The latter he’d explained during the preparation was courtesy of the onions he’d cooked before adding to the stew. He’d heated them in a pan over the open fire, working them till they were caramelized, and then Clint had tossed those into the stew. The old war vet had actually explained quite a bit regarding his cooking of meals every night, but my pain addled mind had only clung to the basics. Sweet, thanks to onions, salty, thanks to meat and salt, gamey, because well, bison.

“Please excuse my interruption on this fine night,” Mr. Grayson said, his smile revealing he wasn’t apologetic at all. I took another sip of my soup, before the man soured my food. “But I just couldn’t help but come investigate the wonderous scents of your meal.”

His gaze swept past Clint, as if he wasn’t even there, and lingered on Emma. “If you wouldn’t mind, Miss Parker, I’d surely be the luckiest man near Lincoln if you’d allow me to partake in your fine cooking.”

Emma, who was also enjoying her own bowl of stew, didn’t even look up as she responded. “That’ll have to be up Mr. Miller there,” she pointed with her spoon, “he’s the skilled cook here, not I.” Another spoonful, as she chewed on a chunk of meat, slow and deliberate. The whole time, she looked at Mr. Grayson, whom she’d caught in her gaze. “Not sure if I should be offended, that you’d imply I’m the one doing the cooking?’

His smile faltered, but he recovered in what had to be record time.

“My apologies, Miss Parker. I meant no offense, merely,” he glanced to Clint, who gave him his best friendly grin, before turning back to Emma, “someone as clearly beautiful and sharp minded as yourself, must be an exemplary cook too. Why, I bet any man would throw themselves to the ground to try a bit of your cooking, much less call you their own.”

I practically choked on my food as Mr. Grayson spoke. I’d been watching Emma the whole time, and the look that crossed her face, twisted in such a way due to the campfire, was enough to tell me Mr. Grayson was barking up the wrong tree.

My attempt to hold back my laughter resulted in a sudden inhale, which not only got a bit of stew broth sucked down my throat but also sent a massive wave of pain through me, which was further amplified by the coughing fit that racked my body as a result. The display, unfortunately, drew the attention of both Emma and Mr. Grayson.

“Are you alright Mr. Smith?” Emma asked, her demeanor completely changed from the venom she’d loaded her tongue with in preparation of whatever retort she was going to have regarding Mr. Grayson’s comment.

“Fine,” I coughed, the word making me wince. “Just fine.”

“You should remember to take breaths between bites,” Clint said with a grin at me. “Unless you took the concept of inhaling your food literally.”

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All I could do was narrow my eyes slightly at him, even as my lips curled upwards, trying to smile. Then another wave of pain, another cough, and I turned my focus back towards myself. It was all I could do to slow my breathing, and work to fight the pain that was in a constant state of revolt within my body. One more day, that’s all I needed to endure. I could do it.

“Didn’t your mamma ever teach you manners?” Mr. Grayson said snidely in my direction. “Such an uncouth display, in front of a woman such as your employer as well.” He shook his head, tone scathing. “Surely Miss Parker, you deserve finer company than that man. He may be good with a gun, but far as I can tell, he’s simply a handy tool, that should be kept away and out of site till it’s needed.”

He stepped closer to Emma, completely disregarding her obvious disdain. The man didn’t seem to understand what the word no meant. Clint stiffened slightly, and I knew the old man was prepared to intervene if needed. I was technically ready as well. Mentally I’d ensured I kept a few air bullets ready to go, chest thumpers, that is, the fist sized shots of air used to incapacitate folk, as well as air shields. Still, with the amount of pain I was in, I had little faith in my ability to be all that useful in a fight any time soon.

“If anyone has poor manners,” Emma said in her icy, I’m in control here way, “it’s you Mr. Grayson. Not only have you consistently belittled everyone in this caravan, and put yourself and your interests above all others, but I can count multiple occasions where you’ve been disrespectful to others. Your mannerisms, your actions, quite frankly, I find embarrassing.” She set her bowl on the ground, careful not to spill it, and stood. As she did, she patted the front of her dress down, smoothing the wrinkles, and stood up tall. Even though she was a few inches shorter than Mr. Grayson, her posture made her seem the larger of the two. Her shadow, cast by the flames of our fire, stretched larger still.

Mr. Grayson’s smile faltered, then completely faded. He looked at his men, and they said nothing, choosing to instead stand just on the outskirts of the area lit by our fire. The wagon train, circled up as it was, was lit by the cook fires of each individual group, with a massive bonfire in the middle. The area between both, was dark, and that was where the men stayed.

“If,” Emma took Mr. Grayson’s silence as an opening, and continued, “you must insist on insulting my men, then I can only assume you’re insulting me as well.” She looked at Clint, and something crossed between the two. Without a single word uttered, Clint set his own bowl down, let out a heavy sigh, and stood. He walked over to Emma, his movement causing Mr. Grayson to take a single step backwards, his hand flinching down towards his holstered pistol.

“Must you?” Clint said, his voice barely a whisper. Emma simply smiled at him, and held her hand out. Clint pulled one of his leather gloves from its resting place between his waist and his belt, and handed it to her. Emma then proceeded to step forward and slap Mr. Grayson across the face with the leather glove.

“You’ve insulted my honor,” Emma said, her voice raised, tone clear, loud enough for everyone in the camp to hear, “and as such, I find you must .” Between the sound of the smack of leather against flesh, and Emma’s words, the world seemed to go completely silence. As if the very universe was shocked at what had just occurred. For a brief moment, I forgot my own pain, as I simply stared dumbfounded, at Emma.

“You’ve no idea what trouble you’ve just put yourself in,” Mr. Grayson whispered, his tone filled with hate. “I’ll make you regret your words.”

“If that’s so,” Emma pressed, her own tone silent, “then accept my challenge, and set the terms.”

Mr. Grayson growled, “you claim I’ve insulted your honor,” he said, still hushed, “but if I gun you down here, a woman, then there’s nothing in it for me. Killing a woman in a gunfight ain’t honorable.”

“Who said anything about a gunfight?” Emma nodded down at his weapon. “Unless that sword of yours is just for show? I said a duel, not a fight to the death. A proper duel, to first blood, like civilized academics. Which, I understand, may be a stretch for you.”

Mr. Grayson’s smile grew as he looked at Emma. “Very well,” he licked his lips, his own voice raising. “I accept your challenge to a duel,” he declared loudly, “for no true gentleman would deny a woman a right to defend her own honor,” he then looked at Clint, and then me, “though, I find it sad you must defend your own honor, and no one else has offered to defend it for you.”

“Ain’t my place to stop her from doing as she pleases,” Clint said with a shrug, “I’m only here to keep her safe, and far as I can tell, she isn’t in danger.” Clint laughed as he took his glove back from Emma. He turned away from Mr. Grayson and made his way back towards his bowl of food, even as he added, “you are.”

I took another bite, not tasting my food, as I watched the two figures standing before me. Since day 1, there had been tension between Emma and Mr. Grayson. It had grown over the course of the trip, including on account of my involvement in the bison slaughter. I’d been hopefully it would blow over, and we could simply disappear into Lincoln, and be done with the man. But, it seemed Emma wasn’t the type to let grudges go. And, if I had to guess, her patience and self-control were at their limit by now, no doubt in part due to my harsh words and constant griping as I suffered the trip. Either way, the duel had been declared, meaning one way or another, the situation between Mr. Grayson, and us, was about to end.

And for some reason, I had a feeling Mr. Grayson was in for one hell of a surprise.