CHAPTER FIVE
Like A Woman Scorned

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THERE'S SOMETHING AFOOT IN THE enemy camp. Brandy can feel it.

Now, she's not claiming to be no Pinkerton after a few days of sitting around and eavesdropping, but it's painfully obvious to her that some kind of problem is on the rise.

   It's visible in the way their sanguine leader has been wide awake in the ungodly hours of morning, paranoia budding in his mind so clearly that she can practically hear his thoughts from her prison against the tree; it's equally as evident in his delusional ramblings that have Brandy yawning, not to mention how the grass surrounding his tent has been eroded by all his pacing. The signs are glaringly obvious, even to an outsider like herself.

   Although, much to her surprise, it appears that he isn't alone in these suspicions. He seems to be offloading his worries onto a man with silver hair, who sits and listens with an even temperament that Brandy's secretly in awe of. Despite his shared anxieties over a matter she's none the wiser to, his quiet patience is admirable — she reckons that if she had to be on the receiving end of all that man's incessant stressing, she'd be driven to lunacy.

And even with these quiet uncertainties going on in the background, they seem to have more than their fair share of calamities to deal with anyways. If Brandy thought the girls she runs with were bad at steering clear of trouble, she was in for a shock with this lot.

The gang hardly seems capable of sparing a moment without something hectic intertwining in their lives, which are by definition a helter skelter of misfortune and the like. When she isn't being interrogated for information that she doesn't have or watching as silly arguments unravel between these fools, she's been catching snippets of their ridiculous plans and scoffing at the incredulity of it all.

She's caught throwaway comments about the two feuding families, the Grays and the Braithwaites, as well as the hidden fortune they're believed to be sitting on. Brandy can only shake her head — why anyone would want to get involved with any of those inbred numbskulls is beyond her. Perhaps it's just the Lemoyne heat making them delirious, or maybe these particular outlaws really are that stupid.

   She memorises their chatter by the campfire with a sour twist to her lips; talk of illicit moonshining dredged up old memories of a lost sister and witnessing the aftermath of a failed coach robbery gave her a good laugh. However, she only ever manages to catch the tail end of all their elaborate plans before she's left in the dark, her back aching against the grisly tree as her captors duck in and out of camp.

Brandy digresses. It isn't the whole double agent situation with those two families that's getting to their leader, though. No, not entirely... this trepidation runs deeper than all the typical surface level giveaways. Brandy has noticed how he's grown twitchier than usual, which didn't seem possible to her before she witnessed it with her own eyes. She's caught stray syllables and words coming from his tent at all hours of the day, straying whispers of another gang and an old friend causing her ears to perk up with interest.

He's worried. It makes her grin.

Now, she doesn't like admitting this, but Brandy can't deny that beyond his mild megalomania and asphyxiating testosterone, there's a certain air about him that's just screaming Bonnie Diamondback to her. The thought has sat with her for a few days now and the more she lets it fester in her mind, the more she can evidence the truth behind it.

   Thick hair like sable, wickedness in those onyx eyes. They have the same tells, the same intonation when they command the attention of everyone in a room, armed solely with wit and a silver tongue. She can regrettably recognise Bonnie in the way he carries himself around his little dominion on the shores of Flat Iron Lake and in the way his smile glints with something cruel that she'll never quite be able to decipher.

   It raises goosebumps along her arms to watch him swan about in a way that she's too familiar with. They're too similar for it to be coincidental... ain't they?

Brandy wonders if it's her own delusions finally getting to her poor, dehydrated mind, or if there truly is a resemblance between the two gang leaders. She doesn't know — it seems to her that homesickness does funny things to the brain.

She can only hope for her misery as a prisoner to be over and done with soon. One way or another.

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  BRANDY IS AWOKEN BY THE thundering of hooves.

   Her neck is aching from the crooked angle she'd been resting her head against the tree, a stab of strain eliciting winces and groans from her with every movement. She'd gotten herself a new rope to constrict her shoulders after getting too mouthy earlier that afternoon, nearly provoking one of her usual targets enough to give her wiggle room to escape. They wouldn't be making the same mistake again, that's for sure. The bruises are still stinging on her face.

Her bleary eyes are scalded by the dying embers of the campfire as they roar a final swan song before burning out fully, tendrils of smoke curling off into the midnight air. The moon is cradled amidst the cobalt clouds that streak the starry night sky, pulling the ripples of the lake to and fro beyond the rocky bank. The cosmos is aflame overhead and it almost distracts her from the current situation, the stars gleaming in her eyes while her ears strain to pick apart all the different things she can hear in the throes of chaos.

She can hear faraway exclamations of surprise as everyone rouses from their sleep, confusion sweeping through the gang as those disjointed noises weave between the tree line. Laughter, whispering, hooves. They seem to be coming from every direction.

It's a tactic that's familiar to her. It makes the targets feel surrounded, defenceless. Her face uplifts into a grin as if it's muscle memory, though she wouldn't be surprised if it looks more like a grimace considering her current state of affairs. She lets her head loll back, a sense of security soothing her as the camp that has her ensnared goes up in apprehension. The gang has been caught unawares, she can tell that much.

A cold pair of hands graze over her own and she hisses a gasp, eyes stammering open and her back straightening sharply. The ropes constricting around her wrists are severed by a blade and she collapses into someone's waiting arms, a hand pulling her head into a shoulder that smells of mint and pine.

She would've leapt away in surprise if it weren't for the throbbing pins and needles holding her legs in place, her body numb from being held in place for so long. Her fair eyebrows draw together in confusion.

"Dakota?" she mutters blearily.

"I've got you, mija," Dakota whispers back, her voice quiet beneath the commotion. "You're alright now."

"What's going on?"

She begins to half lead, half drag Brandy away from the enemy camp and further into the surrounding grove, pulling her through the leaves and branches with a fumbling desperation. The feeling is beginning to return to her legs, so she pushes herself up and propels them into motion, reluctantly leaning on Dakota for support whenever her knees wobble a little too much.

   "We're rescuing you." Dakota's face scrunches. "Through... negotiation or something like that. Nothing that you have to worry about." She pauses. "For now."

   Brandy can't help her scoff. "Took your sweet time, huh?" Her mouth twists up as if she's bitten into something awful. She lowers her voice to a murmur, spitting out the words through slightly clenched teeth and watching as a pebble is kicked into the bracken by her scuffed boot. "I missed you."

   Dakota smiles gently, her scars and dark circles tensing as she reaches over to squeeze her side. "I missed you too."

They break out into a clearing, wisps of moonlight streaming down through the canopy to set the forest floor alight. Critters sleuth past with only a rustle amidst the leaves to commemorate them, nightbirds crooning velvety ballads upon the lower branches. A burst of neighing and whinnying brings her attention across the clearing to Dakota's beloved mustang, who been hitched up next to Brandy's own horse, the two grazing peacefully as the camp in the distance dissolves further into confusion at all the sudden disturbances.

Brandy wastes no time in rushing forward to greet him. She buries her face in Reaper's charcoal mane, smothering a smile at the way he nickers and tries to nuzzle back into her hand.

   "Hey, boy," she whispers, scratching his neck. "Missed me?"

   He whinnies, tossing his head back and whacking her with his unruly mane. She scrunches up her nose at the feeling.

   A quick glance over him reassures her that he's unharmed and everything that matters is still secured in her saddlebags, give or take a few dollars that must've been lifted by her captors. The audacity. She'd find time to vent her frustrations later.

"Still kicking, I see?"

She looks up to be met with familiar amber eyes and an endearing grin that's deceived many a fool over the years. Clementine Fletcher adjusts the bandana that conceals her throat until it's secure enough to falter the blood flow, tipping her hat and coasting a hand across her own mare's neck as they trot over to meet the two.

The Hungarian Halfbred in question, Petal, nudges Reaper's dark nose with her own. It seems that the False Widows aren't the only ones celebrating their little reunion.

"Clem," she breathes, relieved.

   "Good to see ya, kid," Clementine greets, throwing an arm around her shoulder and giving a firm squeeze. "Y'okay?"

   "Oh, yeah." Brandy snarks. "Right as rain."

   She grins, undeterred. "That's what I like to hear. You fit to shoot if things go south?"

Dakota clucks her tongue in disapproval. "Clementine," she admonishes. "Don't be ridiculous. I can't let her get into a gunfight after all she's been through—"

Brandy looks between them both in dismay. "What? No! Don't listen to her, I can still shoot!"

"No, you cannot, nena. You're... you're... Christ, what's the word?" Dakota throws her hands up in exasperation. "You're not in the right state."

"How come? I've still got all..." She pauses, flicking up her fingers and tallying them all up. "Ten fingers. What's stopping me?"

Dakota buries her face in her hands. "Ay, you'll be the death of me."

   Clementine rests a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Don't get worked up over it, honey. Bonnie knows what she's doin' — it probably won't come to that."

"Yeah, Dakota," Brandy chirps, standing between them. "I'll be fine. Besides, I need to blow off some steam. Maybe a gunfight wouldn't be such a bad thing."

"Brenda Turner," she scolds breathlessly, whacking her on the shoulder with enough force to fill a thimble.

Brandy scowls. "Don't Brenda me."

Whilst Dakota dissolves into angry mutters of her own disapproval, Clementine nudges Brandy in the ribs and slips her a pistol with a sly little wink. She straightens up at a jostling in the bushes, blinking away her unruly black hair and clearing her throat to wrench Dakota from her crazed ramblings.

    "Here comes trouble," Clementine chimes in, notching her head down into a nod. They follow her gaze to see three figures ambling towards them, outlined in diamanté moonlight.

Choruses of her name and exhales of relief reverberate around the dappled woodland, the sight of her more or less in one piece helping to settle the grievous worry that has been rearing up within their hearts.

She's welcomed back with open arms — literally. Brandy can't help but collapse into Bonnie's embrace, face buried in the pitch black detailing of her corset as her white-knuckled hands clasp at the small of her back. The welcome smell of fancy, no doubt stolen perfume and too-strong alcohol envelop her as silken consolations are cooed in her ear. Her arms feel nothing short of a sanctuary after all the shit Brandy's had to put up with the past few days.

   "My girl," Bonnie says quietly. Her steady hand strokes over her hair, all the rings she alleges as trophies getting tangled up in the knots. "Sorry we couldn't come for you sooner, angel. They sure made an effort to stay hidden before going and getting themselves deputised."

"Idiots," Brandy mutters, her voice muffled amidst all the fabric.

"I know," she croons. "I know."

She pulls away to get her hair ruffled by Winona and her arm clasped by Tallulah. There's a gaping absence between the outlaws in question, a blank space to fill the space betwixt Winona's broad shoulders and the silken swish of Tallulah's skirts — a charming songbird with auburn hair nowhere to be found. Brandy has a hard time concealing her disappointment, something inside beginning to eat away at her as she frets over whether her missing sister's alright or not.

"Where's Jolene?" Brandy wonders.

"Back at camp, doll," Bonnie replies curtly. "Needed somebody to hold down the fort while we're all away."

That quells her worry. She blinks away the surprise and nods silently, a flicker of embarrassment creeping up on her. In hindsight, that answer felt obvious. She suspects that the kidnapping got to her head a little more severely than she had thought, made her more paranoid than usual.

   Brandy does her best to shake that feeling off. The last thing they need is her mucking up a shootout after getting a bit too flighty.

   Clueless to her inner turmoil, Bonnie dives into a curt pep talk and begins to outline what their play is for this... ambush. That's what she settles on calling it as she doles out instructions to her girls, emphasising her words with frantic hand gestures to make it sound grander than it is. In reality, they're all going to be stood about twiddling their thumbs while she does all the talking — unless a shootout ensues, which wouldn't be preferable.

   Brandy lets her eyes trail over to something shifting in her peripheral vision, looking up to see Winona shuffling restlessly on the spot. She thumbs the throwing knife outstretched in her palm as all the information being thrown at her slips from one ear out the other, her fingertips brushing the carved in initials at the hilt. Everyone that knows Winona could tell you what letters are etched into the grain, as well as the weight that those wonky characters alone carry.

    S. D. M.

   That name. It's bittersweet, the pressure in her chest tearing into her like a sinkhole. Brandy misses the rightful owner of those knives more than anything, but it has always been clear to her how much harder that loss hit Winona. She cools the forlorn stabbing feeling that's bubbling up behind her eyes by engaging back into whatever Bonnie's yapping about, twisting the blades around until they've been secured to her waistband.

   Bonnie claps her hand down on Winona's shoulder encouragingly after describing her role in this little plan of theirs, snapping the woman in question out of a daydream so that she can pretend she was listening. When Bonnie's convinced by her reassuring grin and a nod of assent, Winona retreats back into the dangers of her own mind. Brandy can tell that it's one of those nights where she's not completely there. It's tricky to get through to her when she's in this state, so they've mainly given up trying — all they can do is hope and pray that her aim isn't off.

   Bonnie's lips part to conclude her speech when a grating voice splinters through what she's saying, a distant exclamation of surprise that makes her grimace.

   "Shit, where's our hostage?"

Brandy scowls.

   "Ah, I'll take that as our cue," Bonnie says. "With me, ladies. I think it's time we settle this whole mess once and for all."

   She takes off in the opposite direction, her spurs clinking menacingly across the forest floor. The girls hoot, holler and cheer in an unladylike fashion that they're so accustomed to, weaving in between the branches until the light of the campfire is hot on their faces. They catch a pair of raspy voices in the throes of their confusion, hissing whispers at each other from opposite sides of the camp.

   "Who's out there?"

   "I don't know. Raiders, maybe?"

   Bonnie's laugh is velvety and it resounds around the clearing. "We ain't no Raiders, boys. Sorry to disappoint."

   They swivel around at the sudden intrusion. Bonnie has her hands raised on either side of her head, the pearly handles of her guns twinkling at her hips. Hesitantly, her girls follow in suit, holstering their weapons and tucking away blades as they begin a steady approach.

   She whistles lowly, head turning to take in the camp. "Well, ain't this a quaint little spot?" She overturns a rock with the toe of her boot. "Shame you got here before we did."

   The man's face darkens, though it isn't characterised by hate nor fear. The chill of grim realisation is what takes hold in that moment — a dawning sensation to confirm that he was right in his suspicions. He shakes his head and mutters something to himself, his eyes splintering into a glare that carries little conviction.

  "Bonnie. I knew it had to be you."

   The aggression on Bonnie's face dissipates into something oddly unreadable to twin with his own, her eyebrows furrowing as she huffs an incredulous laugh. Her bejewelled hands come down to rest on her gun belt, head tilting to the side as her girls look between the two in poorly disguised confusion.

   "Why, Mister Van der Linde. It's been a while." Her arm moves into a sweeping gesture at all the guns pointed their way. "This how you want our reunion to go, cousin?"

  Brandy voices Winona's thoughts exactly, voice croaky. "Cousin?"

  She knew the similarities couldn't have just been a coincidence. Talk about a family resemblance, huh? She has to smother her initial instinct to cackle. God, she is so unbelievably exhausted right now...

  Clementine's eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. "So, uh, this is a family affair now?"

  Bonnie waves her girls off in an 'act now, explain later' type gesture that they just have to accept for the time being. Her feline eyes slip from her gang to the one opposite, dishevelled from a bad night's sleep but wielding guns nonetheless.

  "We're not here to pick any fights. Are we ladies?" They jeer their compliance and Bonnie smiles. "We're here to talk. Ain't gonna try 'n start nothin' with you fine people." She lazily gestures across her chest. "Cross my heart."

   He stares her down for a moment, the cogs in his head grinding together and sparking. His scrutiny of her is intense, cutting her to the bone with an accusatory glance alone. He's trying to gauge her next move before making one of his own, locked in a stalemate over the dying embers of a campfire, but it looks like he knows that he's fighting a losing battle — Bonnie isn't a problem to be solved, nor an equation to be calculated. That's not how things go with her. Her mind is too radical and labyrinthine for anyone other than herself to make sense of it.

   Bonnie just stands patiently, as though she's dealing with a petulant child, her expression shifting to something patronising when another minute with no response ticks past. She raises her eyebrows as if to say: 'well?'

   He lowers his guns slowly.

   His voice is as stentorian as Bonnie's, commanding the attention of everyone nearby as he shouts for them to stand down. It seems that a similar confusion ripples through his gang, but they holster their weapons with grumbles and reluctance.

   In that flurrying moment of distraction, Winona inches closer to her leader, voice dropping so that only they're privy to the conversation.

   "Kept that one quiet," Winona hisses through clenched teeth. "When were you gonna mention that?"

Bonnie sighs. "Couldn't find the right moment. I told you it was complicated."

"No kidding."

   "Not now, Bennet. There'll be plenty of time for you to berate me later. We have a negotiation to think about."

   The man, her cousin, clears his throat to break up their conversation. Winona glares at him but he's too busy burning holes through Bonnie's head to notice.

   "What do you want, Bonnie?"

   "An explanation." Her ruby lips curve up, palms splaying as if the answer is common knowledge. "You took one of my own and I'd like to know why."

"Well, that's easy," he replies, his voice even and irritatingly calm. "You tried to steal one of our scores."

She scoffs. "That score was ours to begin with," Bonnie replies snippily. "We've been settled here long before you came along. Not to mention how one of my girls worked hard to get the information directly from the source and you still think you were entitled to that stagecoach?" She allows for her facade to slip from indifference to annoyance for a split second. "You know I don't like it when people steal from me, cousin."

The conversation is almost comical. In that moment, the pair look less like the two formidable gang leaders they're renowned for being and more like a bickering pair of children. They continue going back and forth for a while before someone plucks up the courage to interrupt. If someone hadn't, the outlaws suspect that they'd have been there all night.

"You know the rules, Miss. What happened with the coach robbery was fair."

"Really, Dutch? Takin' one of my girls?"

"She was an easy mark."

"She's fourteen!"

"Hardly old enough to be out robbin' coaches. Thought you were more responsible than that."

"Don't tell me how to live my life."

He raises his hands defensively. "I'm not."

"You—"

    Tallulah pulls down her bandana with a huff, her pistol-wielding hand coming down to rest against her hip. She arches a manicured eyebrow and thins her ruby lips into a frown, rolling her eyes at the incessant back and forth.

   "Good grief," she says exasperatedly. "Will one of you please come to a conclusion? As entertaining as this is for us, all this standing around is getting old."

That seems to bring them both back down to earth. They stop bickering immediately.

   Bonnie flits her eyes back over, taking a rattling breath to calm herself. "God. Look at us. She has a point, don't you think?"

   Her cousin, Dutch, swallows his doubts, mulling his next words over. "It seems that this has all been one big misunderstanding," he says in a smooth tone, though his eyes communicate that he's not the picture of equanimity so early in the morning. "Why don't we make it up for you, for old time's sake? Get a drink, forget all about this mess?"

Winona shifts uneasily. This all seems too easy, too quick. She has a bad feeling about his forgiving nature. She trusts Bonnie's judgement — of course she does — but something about this feels a little too much like they're being taken advantage of. She'll just have to mention it later...

   Seemingly oblivious to this, Bonnie side eyes their current state, dishevelled from a few hours of sleep and clad in their union suits and rumpled chemises. Her lips upturn in a patronising little grin, her long lashes fluttering.

   "Try your luck again tomorrow night," she says coolly. "Maybe you'll be more prepared then. Sound like a plan to you, Dutch?"

    She doesn't give him a chance to reply, turning on her heel and whistling sharply for the girls to follow her. They comply, hazarding cautious glances over their shoulders and locking eyes with the unfamiliar gang members. She calls her instructions out over her shoulder, trying to suppress the satisfaction that bleeds onto her tongue — Bonnie'd be damned if she didn't get the last word in.

   "Rhodes saloon, nine o'clock. Don't be late."

    The girls find their horses scattered between the trees and mount up without a second thought, spurring them into a bracing canter to hurry away from the scene of the crime. They dive out from pitch darkness into the moonlight, carnelian dust clouds pursuing them along the dirt roads as they make a beeline for their camp out on the plains.

   When they're well out of earshot, Brandy spins around in her saddle to stare at Bonnie with wide eyes and a jaw to the floor. She voices what they're all thinking pretty perfectly, speaking quickly and frantically.

    "What the hell just happened?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE

tis the season for reunions apparently

the start of this chapter was a straight yap fest but i hope the mild drama of the end made up for that LMAOO !! 90% brandy tearing into the vdl gang, 10% actual plot

i've finally gotten rdr1 downloaded on my xbox so maybe playing it will give me inspo to write more for this fic 🙏🙏 we're also finally linking into canon rdr2 so who knows my writers block might go away for a wee while (touchwood)

next chapter will hopefully explain more of the diamondback + false widows ~lore~ and will probs contain a good old bar fight or two, because how could i resist 🥳 no sadie just yet but that'll be resolved soon wink wink