“Rosa?” I asked.

  I heard water splash before I saw her. She lay in the bathtub in the corner of our room, steam rising all around her, one bronze leg up on the rim. I threw my arm over my eyes and backed out before I dared see any more.

  Something in the form of an apology stammered out of my mouth. Of the words used—or if they were even coherent—I can’t be sure. It’d been more than an hour, so I’d figured she’d have been long done bathing.

  “Oh, just come in,” she said in a tone marked with exasperation.

  I edged in slowly, still with my arm raised. I caught a glimpse of her wet hair hanging out of the tub as she lounged with her eyes closed. Hadn’t she learned by now never to be at ease around a man? In these lawless parts or elsewhere.

  “I can come back,” I offered.

  She arched her back, shifting a bit for comfort. “A little late now. If you wanted a peek, you could have just asked.”

  “No… I… I wouldn’t.”

  A small laugh. “What a gentleman.”

  Despite my words, I chanced another look and noticed her smirk.

  “So, are you going to stand there gawking or help?” she asked.

  I swallowed the nothingness in my throat. “Help…?”

  “You’re the one who says we can’t use mirrors or they’ll see us, so yeah. Someone has to scrub my back, and I’m sure not asking a man named Picklefinger.”

  “I’m sure he’s got someone—”

  She sat up a bit, showing more than I’d seen of a woman in years. “James, we’re lying low. No need for others. Just get over here, hombre loco.”

  I froze. I’d faced demons and Nephilim, harbingers of death and destruction. Not sure I’d ever hesitated with any of them like I did with her, even at the onset of my unlife.

  Rosa lifted her hand out and wagged one finger, purposely flaunting the snake tattoo on her arm. “I promise it doesn’t bite.”

  I’d been numb for so long, walking without even the feeling of my boots touching the ground was like second nature. Then there are those rare times when my brain forgets the mundane. Sure, my legs carried me to a seat behind the tub, but I’m not quite sure how I got there.

  She handed me a wet sponge, playfully letting the water splash a little, then leaned forward, arms wrapping her knees. “Just be gentle, okay? I’m delicate.”

  “You ain’t right in the head,” I said.

  “A woman sits naked before you, and you act like a school boy… And I’m not right?” She laughed. “I’m only asking for you to wash my back.”

  I muttered some kind of affirmation, then put the sponge to her back and slowly got to work. Though in truth, I wouldn’t much consider it that. It was as if I were in the Garden of Eden, being tempted with a nibble. Poor Adam. The damn sucker never stood a chance.

  “So, what were you going to tell me?” she asked with grating nonchalance.

  “Just… uh… The train leaves in the morning.”

  “That’s good news,” she said. “Where are we going?”

  “Does it matter?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she rolled her shoulders back into the sponge. A soft moan caught me off guard.

  “East,” I blurted out.

  “That’s it? East?”

  “Golden River. Decent little place. They say people go there chasing an impossible new life after giving up on the West. Being chased ain’t that different.”

  “Except we’re easier to catch than a new life.”

  “You’re awfully grim today,” I said, dipping the sponge again.

  “I prefer realistic. We haven’t had too many peaceful times together, James.”

  My lip twisted as I stopped washing. She wasn’t wrong. I wondered then if she might’ve been better off had we never met. If Ace’d had his fill of her mother and tossed little Rosa to the wild.

  She was tenacious. She might’ve survived, and Heaven or Hell might never’ve been the wiser to her existence.

  Talk about grim. Ace could’ve killed her and robbed her of a life worth living, however short. That’s what the angels never seemed to understand. They’ve got eternity. Our lives, like a single stitch in a tapestry to them. I think sometimes because of the lot thrust on me, I forget too. That even sewing a rag is better than sewing nothing at all.

  “Don’t put that face on,” she said. “It’s nobody’s fault.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  I’d been so lost in my musings, I didn’t even realize she’d half turned around to face me. My gaze fixated on her eyes, for twisted as she sat, little of her lithe figure was left to wondering.

  “Everything is somebody’s fault,” I said.

  She smiled. “And you called me grim?”

  I smiled back, my stare wandering to the droplets of water rolling down over her lips. No. I returned to her eyes. This was just cruel.

  “There’s a brush over there,” she said. “Mind helping with my hair?”

  “I ain’t as handy with a brush as a gun,” I replied.

  “Just pretend I’m Timp.”

  She was jesting, but it still hurt to hear. She couldn’t have known I’d just bid farewell to my beloved horse.

  I merely grunted in response, then crossed the room to retrieve the brush. I should’ve said something. Lightened things back up. For me, at least. Like I’ve said, Rosa knew how to cut to my core, whether with or without intent. A damn good reason to keep people at a distance.

  Sitting back down, I stretched her hair over the back of the tub. Then I looked at the brush, and back at her. Didn’t look like mane, but I guess she was right. Wasn’t much different.

  “Ouch!” she yelped. “Gentle.”

  “You said to treat you like a horse.”

  “I guess I deserved that.” She chuckled.

  I was being sincere, but who was I to question her thinking I was funny?

  “Here, like this.” She reached back without looking and took my wrist to help guide my brushing. I let her do it a few times since I couldn’t feel a thing, so the motion would be embedded in my visual memory. “There. Perfect. Willy took some training too.”

  And there it was. A cold reminder of the life she’d had before our reunion. A life with a husband and family. A little slice of peace. It may not have suited her, but damn if I hadn’t come to envy something as simple as that.

  “Did you ever have a woman, James?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  “I ain’t a boy, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I don’t mean like that. Like, really have her. Be in love. You know… before you became what you are. Or during. I won’t presume to know if all your Black Badge bits work how they should.”

  I choked on air. Wasn’t even aware I could do that. The brush got caught in an unexpected knot as I did so. “My God, Rosa! There are some things you leave to the imagination.”

  “You know, for a hundred-year-old man, you’re quite the prude.”

  The brush got stuck again and I let it stay rooted in the mess. “I’m not a hundred.” I rose and took a few steps away.

  “Hey, c’mon. Where are you going?” She turned toward me, smiling and patting the side of the tub as if to beckon me to return.

  Getting comfortable with each other would mean developing thicker skin. Easier in a crew of dirty men I’d sooner stab in the eyes than bed. Again, Rosa knew how to dig deep. I dare say, by her grin, she enjoyed it.

  “I’m kidding, James,” she said. “Please, don’t leave my head looking like a bird’s nest.”

  “Yeah, I know. Alright.” I swallowed my pride and returned to brushing.

  We were quiet for a few moments. It was oddly comforting amidst all the chaos lately—the brushing. Simple. Monotonous.

  “Well?” she pried.

  “You’re serious?” I sighed. “Okay, well, the truth is, there ain’t much room in the life of an outlaw for love. By the time you get comfortable anyplace, you’re either trying to rob ’em, or leaving fast for the next place. Ain’t much different as a Black Badge, really. Go here. Kill that. On to the next.”

  “So, no lady outlaws who stole your heart?”

  That drew a soft chuckle. “Now, nobody said that. But love? No. I’m sad to say that the love of my life is a horse.”

  “I don’t think that’s sad.” When I started to argue, she cut me off. “Really.”

  She reached back to stop me from brushing, turned, and peered at me with those emerald eyes over the crook of her elbow. I got lost in them for a few seconds. Maybe more.

  When I finally broke free of the spell, I said, “Don’t go being nice now after calling me a hundred.”

  She splashed me right in the face like we were a couple of kids bathing down in the crick without a care in the world except what Mama’s making for supper.

  I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn’t. I put my repaired hand right on the top of her head, and dunked her. She popped back out of the water, eyes wide in shock. Then she raked her arms through the water, sending a relative tidal wave my way.

  Next thing I knew, we were both laughing uncontrollably. That sort of contagious belly laugh that just rises up and you can’t stop it until it’s through. It takes over your whole body. I didn’t think I could lose control like that anymore.

  Honestly, I wasn’t sure it’d ever stop until she suddenly stood right up before I could even look away, naked and dripping. She grabbed a towel off a hook—without any haste, I might add—wrapped herself up, then fell back onto the bed. Easy to be comfortable in your skin, I reckon, when you look like her… and when you aren’t covered in scars.

  “I needed that,” she said, breathless.

  “Good,” I said, eager not to draw any attention to what I’d just witnessed. “You should rest.”

  “Tomorrow, I’m getting on a train to nowhere. I don’t see sleep happening without a little liquid aid.”

  I shook my head. “No, Rosa, we can’t lose focus.”

  “Then regale me with me a story.” She put her hand behind her head and eyed me like I was an actor on stage.

  “About what, pray tell?”

  “I don’t know.” She groaned. “Tell me about James Crowley.”

  I paced, trying to remember what it was like to be James Crowley before all this Heaven and Hell malarky.

  “Ain’t much to tell,” I said, honest. “I ran with some bad folks, did a lot of bad things, a little good. Set myself up for a ticket straight to Hell, but the conductor had other intentions for me.”

  She mimicked my mouth moving with her hand. I became fairly certain then that she’d had a drink or two while I was out. Who was I to judge?

  “I don’t mean what you were,” she said. “I mean who you are. Who is James Crowley? You met me when I was young, but all I know about you is the mysterious outlaw who can’t walk away from trouble.”

  “Talk about simplifying things,” I remarked.

  She didn’t back down. “Where were you raised? Who were your parents? That sort of stuff. Before all the magic and murder. Before me.”

  “Well, if you really wanna fall asleep.” I laughed; she didn’t.

  “Oh, stop, James. We’re in this together now. I want to know.”

  And so, I told her. Told her about a childhood in the sweaty pit of nowhere. About dealing with my shit ma and my shittier pop. About scrubbing church pews for old Father Osgood while he spouted wisdoms that I wouldn’t understand for decades. About getting the hell out of Granger’s Outlook the first chance I got and finding freedom on horseback.

  I barely reached that part when I heard her snoring. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d put her to sleep with my banality. Until that day when I turned on Ace to save her, I wasn’t nothing—a follower, marching to the beat of someone else’s drum. Always someone else’s. Never mine.

  That was the first time I’d ever done anything worth a damn.

  I crossed the room and tucked her under the blankets. Got a quick whiff of her breath. Even with my dulled senses, it confirmed that she’d definitely had a few drinks sent up while I was gone. Picklefinger had a heavy pour, that sneaky Irish bastard.

  Carrying my chair to the window, I drew the curtains just a hair so I could keep an eye on the street. Creatures of the dark were in full swing. Drunks, gamblers, whores, bored husbands, and tired businessmen. Was a time I’d have loved to be down there in the heat of it, pissing the night away, drinking and carousing with Big Davey.

  Now? I was happy just watching. I was right where I belonged.