FIC: What is Done in the Dark (Part 2)
When Santana wakes up the next morning, she has a plan.
She’s running perilously short on funds, so as much as she’d like to take the next train out of town and leave this place behind, she can’t. However strange and intrusive the people of Emma’s Place are, their generosity isn’t something that’s likely to be matched, no matter how long or how far she travels. She has to have some way of supporting herself without relying on luck or the whims of others.
There’s a basin and a pitcher of water on the vanity, so she washes as best she can and quickly slips into one of Quinn’s borrowed dresses, a pale blue muslin that is much more conservative than anything she’s seen any of the girls wear. It still feels revealing to Santana, and she wishes she could get away with wearing trousers now, like she did when she was a little girl.
In the hallway, the lamps along the wall have been lit, but most of the doors are still closed, so she assumes that the rooms’ inhabitants are still asleep. Emma’s door is open, and after a quick check to make sure the room is unoccupied, Santana heads downstairs to look for her.
As Santana descends the staircase, she can see that the saloon area is empty, the tables and chairs all right-side up and where they should be. None of the lamps are lit, and the weak early morning sunlight coming in through the windows does little to illuminate the room. It’s quiet and still, almost preternaturally so, and if it weren’t for the spot on the floor near the piano that is just a little darker than the rest of the wood, Santana could almost believe yesterday’s brawl had happened someplace else.
Santana had scrubbed and scrubbed at that bloodstain, and still hadn’t been able to get all of it out.
She finds Emma in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a plate of mostly-eaten food in front of her. To Santana’s surprise, Quinn is also there, cooking something at the stove. Both women look up and smile at her as Santana pushes open the batwing doors.
“Good morning,” Quinn says pleasantly. “I didn’t think I’d see you this early.”
“I didn’t think you were up either,” Santana replies. “Your bedroom door is shut.”
“Rachel,” Quinn explains. “She’s not usually an early riser.”
“Or very pleasant when she is,” Emma adds. The fondness of her tone takes any sting out of the words. She gestures at the empty chair beside her. “Please, Santana, have a seat.”
Everything about the woman screams sincerity, from her big blue eyes to her soft voice to the fact that she hasn’t kicked Santana out in the street, but it’s that very sincerity that has Santana hesitating. She feels like a mouse trapped between a cat’s paws, and it doesn’t matter that the cat doesn’t seem inclined to eat her.
“Do you want something to eat?” Quinn asks. “I’m already making something for myself; it’s no trouble.”
Her first instinct is to say no, but her stomach chooses that moment to rumble, and Santana tells herself to relax. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.” Quinn shakes her head, and Santana sits down at the table, deliberately leaving an empty chair between herself and Emma. If Emma notices, she doesn’t comment on it. “I have a proposition for you.”
Emma’s brow lifts. “Oh?”
Santana takes a breath. She’s got to convince Emma to go along with her plan, because she doesn’t have another one to fall back on. “I don’t want to impose on you, but I’m out of money, and I don’t have anywhere to go.” She exhales. “If you’ll let me, I’d like to continue to stay here and work to pay for my room and board until I’ve saved enough to be on my way.”
“That sounds fine. See me in my office later and we can discuss your wages.” She smiles and stands as Quinn brings two plates of food to the table and sits down beside Santana. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
Santana gapes at Emma until she disappears through the swinging doors, then turns an incredulous stare on Quinn. “That’s it?”
Quinn puts two fingers beneath Santana’s chin and lifts, closing her mouth. “You’re about to start catching flies,” she says, eyes dancing with amusement. “Eat your food before it gets cold.”
Santana automatically bristles at being told what to do, but tamps down on the reaction, knowing it to be uncalled for. Instead, she follows Quinn’s directive and starts in on the scrambled eggs, sausage, and hash browns that the other girl has prepared. “I don’t understand,” she continues. “Why would Emma agree to that at all, let alone so easily? She hasn’t even spent five minutes in my company.”
“Emma is the most giving person I’ve ever met,” Quinn says. “You were there last night; Tina vouched for you. That was all she needed to hear.”
Since Quinn seems to know that Santana had been eavesdropping, she doesn’t bother to deny it. “So did you,” she points out. “Why?”
“Because I like you,” Quinn says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Santana shakes her head, and for the second time in as many days wonders, “Who are you people?”
Quinn stops eating and turns to look at her. “We’re people who were lucky enough to get a break when we needed it the most, Santana,” she says. “Is it so strange to want to pass that kindness on to others?”
“Yes,” Santana replies bluntly. “I don’t know where you came from, Quinn, but yes, it is.”
One of Quinn’s eyebrows lifts. “Probably not far from you,” she says dryly.
There is nothing about Quinn that makes Santana think she was raised remotely near the Lopez ranch, but she recognizes that the other girl is only trying to get under her skin, so she ignores the comment and goes back to her breakfast. After a moment Quinn does the same, and they finish eating in a frosty silence.
A full stomach does wonders for Santana’s outlook. When Quinn is finished, she takes their plates and Emma’s to the sink. She puts in the stopper, then takes the pot of hot water Quinn left simmering on the stove and pours it into the sink. She grabs the cake of soap resting on the back splash and begins to scrub the dishes.
“Leave those,” Quinn says, twisting around in her seat. “Matt is usually on dish duty in the morning.”
Santana tosses her a glance over her shoulder. “I’m working here now, remember?” she says. “I might as well start with this.”
Quinn stands. “Then I’ll help you.”
They stand silently side by side at the sink, Santana washing the plates and cutlery and handing them to Quinn one at a time to dry. As she does so, Santana debates the merits of probing Quinn’s background. She doesn’t want to bond with anyone here or encourage them to ask questions about her own past, but not even Santana at her surliest is thrilled by the prospect of spending days or weeks or months living under the same roof with a bunch of virtual strangers. And it wouldn’t hurt to ingratiate herself with the group and earn everyone’s good opinion and trust in case she ever does end up having to find and raid the safe.
As she hands the last dish off to Quinn, she says, “You’re not from anywhere near where I grew up.”
“Not unless you’re from back East,” Quinn agrees.
Santana nods. “I didn’t think you sounded like a local.”
“No; I was at a finishing school before I came here.” She avoids Santana’s gaze, staring intently at the plate in her hand as she wipes it dry. “So was Rachel. That’s where we met.”
Oh. “You came here together?” Santana asks carefully.
Quinn nods. “My father was going to make me marry a man I barely even knew, and I couldn’t do it, because Rachel and I--we--” She flushes. “Well. We stole some money and ran away, and eventually met Emma. We’ve been here ever since.”
“You love her.” The words are out of her mouth before Santana even realizes she’s thought them, and she feels as surprised as Quinn looks. To cover it, she hurries on. “Rachel, I mean.”
“I do.” She catches Santana’s eye, smiling shyly. “The crazy thing is that she loves me back.”
Santana refrains from pointing out that what’s crazy is that Quinn and Rachel are both women. She’s seen a lot of unusual things since leaving her home, done a lot of things that would have both embarrassed and horrified her at one point in time, but this is probably the strangest. It’s been quite some time since Santana has considered herself naive, but it had never occurred to her that two women could feel that way for one another. She doesn’t quite know what to do with the knowledge that they can.
Quinn passes her a dry rag, and Santana dries her hands, flashing Quinn what she hopes is a supportive smile even as she changes the subject. “Emma told me to meet her in her office.”
“It’s behind the bar,” Quinn begins, just as the batwing doors swing open and Matt and Kurt enter the kitchen, both looking more asleep than awake.
“I’m famished,” Kurt declares. “Quinn, tell me you’re cooking breakfast.”
“You should have been here twenty minutes ago,” Quinn replies. “You two are on your own.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Quinn,” Matt says, a hangdog expression on his face.
Quinn pats his cheek affectionately. “You’ll survive.” She beckons to Santana. “Come on, I’ll show you where the office is.”
Santana follows Quinn out of the kitchen and back into the saloon area, leaving a grumbling Matt and Kurt to fend for themselves. Quinn points to the bar, and for the first time Santana notices a door set into the wall behind it, unobtrusive beside the shelves of liquor. “There.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Quinn starts back up the stairs, and Santana heads for Emma’s office. She raps her knuckles against the door, pushing it open when Emma bids her to enter.
The office beyond is small and cozily shabby. A large, battered wooden desk that looks as thought it’s seen better days dominates the room. Threadbare scarlet carpet covers the floor, and the walls are covered in faded wallpaper that is peeling around the molding. All in all, the room looks run down, as though its upkeep has been neglected in favor of keeping the public areas of the saloon looking respectable.
Emma is sitting behind the desk, papers spread out across its surface, pen in hand and inkwell at her elbow. One lamp on the desk and two lamps mounted on the wall behind her provide illumination. Recessed into a wall between those lamps is a safe.
Emma waves her inside. “Santana, come in, have a seat.”
Santana eases into the single, rather rickety wooden chair on her side of the desk, holding her breath as it creaks under her weight. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” Setting the pen aside, Emma leans forward, resting her arms on her desk and lacing her fingers together. “I’m happy to have you here, Santana, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you like, but I’m going to be honest with you. The saloon is already supporting eight people, and I don’t have much money to spare to pay you.”
“Oh.” Santana struggles to contain her dismay and starts to shift in her seat, stopping abruptly as it groans. “Well, I’m sure I can find something somewhere else--”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t pay you at all,” Emma interrupts. “I just can’t pay you very much. It may take longer than you’d like to save up the money that you need.” She pauses. “There is another option, of course. You could always follow Tina, Rachel, and Quinn, and--”
“No!” Santana blurts. “I mean, I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Emma scrutinizes her. “I know what you must think, Santana--”
“No, ma’am.” Her gaze flicks to the safe behind Emma’s shoulder, and Santana thinks of all the lying, cheating, and stealing she’s done in the name of finding Finn; of all the lying, cheating, and stealing she’s still prepared to do. She smiles grimly. “Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do.”
---
Over the next few days, Santana settles into life at Emma’s Place. She cooks, cleans, does laundry, runs errands around town, helps Mike tend bar, and on one memorable occasion, tosses an inebriated Howard out the front doors and into the street. She enjoys that, probably a little too much.
The one thing she doesn’t do is go to bed with men for money.
It isn’t that she finds it wrong--Santana figures she forfeited the right to feel morally superior a long time ago--so much as distasteful. And while she’s impatient to get on her way, she’s not that desperate. Yet.
While the work is tedious and sometimes physically taxing, the biggest problem Santana has is dealing with the same people on a daily basis. She’s accustomed to living a nomadic lifestyle, staying no more than one or two days in the same place, exchanging no more than the barest pleasantries with the people she has to interact with along the way. Living with a group of people on a semi-permanent basis is...different.
The people who live at Emma’s Place are like a family, and they go out of their way to include Santana and make her feel welcome. She appreciates the gesture, but because she’s trying not to get too close to anyone, it’s more annoying than anything else. It also happens to be really hard to resist, which is why she invariably finds herself eating supper with the group every night.
Deputy Abrams, Tina’s special friend, is there most nights too. Santana reads the newspaper from cover to cover every day and always keeps her ears perked for mention of her brother, but Finn and his mysterious partner seem to have gone to ground. When Artie is with them for dinner, Santana spends most of her time ordering herself not to ask about Finn, then trying to do so as subtlely at possibly when she inevitably can’t help herself.
“We had a group of US Marshals come into town today,” Artie says when Santana manages to bring the conversation around to his job. “It’s the first time I can ever recall someone from the federal government showing up here.”
Santana’s heartbeat speeds up, and she struggles to maintain her composure. “Oh? Did they say why they came?”
“They’re hunting for Finn Hudson and the Sunshine Kid.”
Rachel inhales sharply, big brown eyes wide. “Do they think Hudson and the Kid are coming here?”
“That was my understanding,” Artie replies.
“Why else would they bother to come?” Kurt adds. “We’re not exactly a destination town.”
“I hope they do come here,” Rachel continues in a dreamy tone. “The newspaper articles make Hudson sound so handsome.”
Mercedes snorts. “You have got to be kidding.”
Rachel stares at her, nonplussed. “Why would I be kidding?”
“Well I certainly don’t hope they come here,” Emma says. “The last thing we need is a pair of hooligans bursting in and robbing us.”
“They don’t rob businesses,” Santana says quickly, unable to stop herself from trying to defend Finn. “Just banks and bank stagecoaches.”
“Don’t worry, Em,” Matt chimes in. “If they try anything, Mike and I’ll stop them.”
“And don’t forget about Santana,” Quinn adds with a grin. “She took out Azimio pretty easily the other day. I bet she could handle Hudson and the Kid all by herself.”
Artie smiles at Santana. “Sounds good to me. We can get Sheriff Schuester to deputize you and Matt and Mike, and then we can help Marshal Sylvester hunt down Hudson. What do you say?”
What Santana wants to say is very different from what she makes herself say. “I think I’ll pass,” she forces out around a pasted-on smile. “I don’t think my delicate constitution could handle it.”
Soon after, the talk turns from Finn and the Kid to local gossip about Sheriff Schuester’s obvious and well-known crush on Emma. Santana pretends to listen for a while longer, even tossing in her theory that the reason Ms. Castle keeps getting drunk in public is because she’s secretly in love with the sheriff and wants to be arrested so he’s forced to spend time with her, before excusing herself and fleeing upstairs to the privacy of her room.
Santana kicks off her shoes and begins to pace back and forth across her room. US Marshals, here. She’d come to this town because she’d been following Finn’s exploits in the newspapers, and had realized that he’d been moving steadily west down the railroad line. If a group of Marshals tasked with hunting him down have ended up here too, surely that means that they’ve come to the same conclusion she has, that sooner or later Finn will show up here. It’s a relief to have some confirmation of her idea, if only from people who are probably guessing just as much as she is.
Of course, if Finn is headed this way, having a group of Marshals lying in wait is going to be problematic. Sighing, Santana splashes water on her face and begins to change into her nightgown, hoping the more relaxed garb will help her think of what to do next.
She’s just taken her hair down when there’s a knock at the door. Swallowing impatience, Santana opens it, and isn’t at all surprised to see Tina standing there, an obstinate expression on her pretty features. “Yes?”
“Can I talk to you?”
“Can it wait until the morning?”
“Not really.” Tina’s mouth is set in a firm line, dark eyes glittering.
Ordinarily Santana would put her stubbornness up against anyone’s, but tonight she can’t be bothered. The sooner she finds out what Tina wants, the sooner she can get rid of her. She steps back from the threshold, pulling the door open wider. “Come in.”
Tina sweeps inside. Santana shuts the door behind her, and when she turns around, the other girl is standing in the middle of the room, studying her. “You seem really interested in Finn Hudson and the Sunshine Kid.”
Santana’s stomach drops to somewhere near the vicinity of her ankles. “Of course I am,” she says lightly. “We all are. It’s not every day that you find out the most infamous outlaws in the country could be coming to your town.”
“No, this is deeper than that,” Tina says thoughtfully. “Every time Artie is here, you manage to bring up Hudson, and tonight, when Artie mentioned those Marshals? You couldn’t have looked more surprised if he’d pulled out a gun and shot you between the eyes.”
Santana pushes away from the door and heads for the vanity, mostly as an excuse to break eye contact. “Have you seen many people shot between the eyes, Tina?”
“Actually, yes,” Tina says, matter-of-fact, surprising Santana. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it some time. But that’s not the point. How are you involved with Hudson?”
“I’m not.” Strictly speaking, this is the truth.
“You know something,” Tina insists, then her gaze softens. “I don’t care that he’s a bank robber, Santana. I don’t even care if you’re a bank robber. I just want to help you if I can.”
“But why?” It sounds less a demand than a plaintive request for Tina to give her an explanation that makes sense.
“Because we’re friends.”
Santana just stares at her, bewildered. “I don’t remember what it’s like to have friends.”
“Let me show you.” Gently, Tina turns Santana around and nudges her into the seat in front of the vanity. She picks up the brush that’s lying on top of the vanity and begins to pull it through Santana’s hair in soft, even strokes. “You can trust me, Santana.”
She wants to trust someone, so badly, so much more than she’s ever acknowledged. Her heart aches with loneliness. She tries to ignore it. “Why haven’t you married Artie?”
If Tina is nonplussed by Santana’s question, she doesn’t show it. “Because of what we do. He’s a sheriff’s deputy; I can’t marry him while I’m working here, and I can’t stop working here until I know I have enough money to be able to take care of myself. And Mike, if I have to.”
“But you love him.”
“Yes.” Tina pauses, her gaze finding Santana’s in the mirror. “But I don’t tell him everything.”
Lulled by the gentle scratch of the bristles across her scalp, and suddenly bone-weary, Santana’s eyes drift shut and she gives up. “I love Finn,” she says. “He’s my brother.”
---
It isn’t smart to push a horse to a gallop in the darkness of the night, when one misstep or misjudgement could break the animal’s leg or send her flying out of her seat, but Santana doesn’t care. The adrenaline is pumping through her blood, all anger and fear, and she just wants to get away - away from her Papi’s sickbed, away from Sandy’s leering smile and wandering hands, away from Terri and Shelby and their lies. Away from them, and to Finn.
As she nears the river, Santana pulls gently on Charlie’s reins, easing the tired horse up. When he comes to a stop, she dismounts and leads him carefully down the slope to the river. She hitches the reins to a low-hanging tree branch near the riverbank, then makes her way to the huge old tree stump where Finn had become her brother, and she isn’t surprised at all to see him waiting there. He’s leaning against the side of their tree stump, as if he’d known she would come looking for him. He probably had.
His eyes are huge in a face that has been bleached of its usual healthy color, making the smattering of freckles across face stand out in stark relief. “I didn’t do it,” he blurts desperately as she nears. “Whatever they told you, Santana, I swear I didn’t--”
“Idiot.” She flings herself against him, pinning him against the trunk and burying her face against his chest, desperate to hide the tears she can feel starting to burn up the back of her throat. “Of course I know that.”
Finn’s arms come up and around her shoulders, holding her close. “I was afraid you’d think--”
“Idiot,” Santana says again. Her arms are pinned between her own body and Finn’s, but she manages to loose one enough to thump the heel of her hand against his chest. “We both know what kind of people Terri and Shelby are, and even if they weren’t behind this, I’d never believe anything like that about you, never.”
Finn’s arms tighten around her. “What exactly did they say?”
Santana presses closer. “That you’re a thief,” she mumbles against his chest. “That you shot Papi on that hunting trip, not Sandy.”
“I didn’t--”
“I know.” She tilts her head up, pressing her nose to the bristly underside of his jaw, inhaling Finn’s familiar scent of sweat and horses and hay. “I tried to tell Sheriff Tanaka that, but he didn’t believe me. Terri told him that we’re--that we’re--that you’re taking advantage of me, and that I’m just confused.”
To Santana’s surprise, Finn chuckles, if a bit hollowly. “You’re much more likely to take advantage of me.”
It’s true, even if not in the way that Terri insinuated. Finn has always been more good-hearted than Santana. “What are we going to do?”
Finn doesn’t answer for a while, and the longer the silence stretches, the further Santana’s heart sinks. Eventually he says, “I have to leave.”
“No,” she denies immediately. “There has to be another way. I won’t let you go, you can’t leave me with them!”
“I have to,” he says gently. “You said it yourself, the sheriff thinks I’m the one who shot your father. He’ll arrest me, maybe even hang me, and then what?”
Santana ignores the question and way it makes it her heart seize up with fear, and leans back just enough to be able to look him in the eye. “I’ll come with you.”
Finn smooths a hand over her hair, brushing it away from her face. “What about your father?”
Papi. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to speak through a throat that feels like its done the same. “H-He’s not doing so well. I don’t think--”
“But you don’t know,” Finn interrupts softly. “You have to stay. What do you think he’ll do if you’re not there when he wakes up? He’s going to need you.”
He doesn’t talk about her Papi like he’s already dead, and Santana appreciates it more than she can say. “You’re right,” she agrees reluctantly. “But what if he--what about you? Where will you go, what will you do?”
Finn smiles. “I don’t know yet, but I’ll think of something.” He sobers, cupping her face with his hands, his eyes intense on her own. “Santana. Whatever happens, I’ll come back for you, okay? I swear it. I won’t leave you alone with them.”
“Okay.” The tears that Santana has managed to stave off finally overwhelm her and she turns her face away, not wanting Finn to see. “Take Charlie. I put some food and money in the saddlebags, just in case.”
“Santana. Look at me.” Finn waits until she does. “Thank you for believing me. I love you.”
“I love you too.” It takes every ounce of willpower she possesses, but Santana manages to pull herself out of his arms. “Hurry. They’ll be looking for you come morning.”
Finn kisses her forehead. Santana walks to the edge of the river, staring blindly at the rushing water as he unhitches Charlie from the tree and climbs into the saddle. “Thank you for being my brother,” she whispers, knowing he can’t possibly hear her.
When Santana turns around, Finn is gone.
---
Santana tells her everything.
Either Tina is good at keeping her mouth shut, or the people she tells are, because in the days that follow, nobody says anything to Santana about Finn.
A large part of Santana is angry with herself for confiding in Tina. Since leaving home, she hasn’t trusted anyone with the knowledge of her relationship with Finn, and doing so now, possibly endangering them both when she could be so close to finally finding him, is the kind of thoughtless mistake she shouldn’t have made.
Still, she can’t deny that opening up to someone has brought her a welcome sense of relief. There’s still a lingering apprehension that she’s made a mistake, that this will backfire on her eventually, but what’s done is done, and Santana resolves not to worry about what might happen.
Not long after, Santana is setting up the bar before the saloon opens for the day. Rachel is wiping down tables and singing along to the upbeat tune that Kurt is picking out on the piano, and since the two of them would drown out anything quieter than a cannon blast, Santana doesn’t feel self-conscious about humming along. As she ducks down behind the counter to stack mugs, she even starts to sing outright.
“Santana.”
She jolts at the sound of her name, rapping her brow on the lip of the bar. “Ow! Damn it.”
“Sorry.” Tina is peering over the bar, the chagrined expression on her face belied by the barely-repressed laughter in her voice. “I’ve been calling you.”
Santana straightens up, one hand pressed to the throbbing spot on her head, and gestures past Tina with the other, where Matt and Quinn have appeared and are waltzing around the tables and chairs, laughing like loons. “Who can hear anything over that?” she demands irritably.
Tina flashes her a sympathetic look. “Come with me to the bank,” she suggests. “I need to deposit some money, and we can both get away from the noise for a while.”
Immediately, Santana’s heartbeat quickens, which doesn’t do much for the pounding in her head. Since Finn almost always hits trains or stage coaches carrying bank money as they leave town, the best way she’s been able to think of finding him is to make sure she hitches a ride with each shipment as it leaves town. To do that, she needs to get a look at the bank shipping manifest. Emma hasn’t paid her yet, and she’s spent days trying unsuccessfully to think of a reason to go inside Puckerman’s that won’t raise suspicion.
Santana feigns hesitation, trying to cover her eagerness. “I’m not done here.”
“I’ll finish up.” White towel slung over his shoulder, Mike pops up to lean an elbow on the bar and flash Santana a grin. “Besides, you never stack the glasses the right way anyway. I’m not sure you’re earning your keep.”
“Leave the girl alone, Mike,” Tina chides. She pushes away from the bar and tilts her head toward the saloon’s entrance. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Fine by me.” Santana rounds the corner of the bar, ducking out of the way when a twirling Matt and Quinn dance too close. As she passes Mike, she flips the end of the towel up into his face. He makes a grab for her, nearing snatching her about the waist, but she manages to skip out of his grasp. Laughing, she wiggles one index finger at Mike in a repressive gesture before flinging open the doors and stepping outside.
It’s midday, and the heat hits Santana like a sucker punch to the gut, stealing her breath. The bright yellow blaze of the sun beams down from the azure sky, and she feels her skin tighten and prickle in response. As hot as it is, the fresh air is a welcome change from the stuffy interior of the saloon, and she inhales deeply, filling her lungs to capacity before releasing the breath. There’s a train pulled in at the station, and people are streaming out of the depot, some strolling through town, others heading for waiting horses or wagons or stagecoaches to continue their journeys.
It’s a gorgeous day, and aside from the lingering ache in her head, Santana feels good. Light. Better than she has in years, like things are actually starting to go right. She’s closer to finding Finn than she ever has been, so close that she can almost imagine what it will be like to see him, touch him. Santana has never allowed herself to do that before, full of a superstitious fear that doing so would jinx her search, but now, things are different. She can feel it.
Beside her, Tina jostles her elbow impatiently, pulling her out of her ruminations. “If we keep standing here I’m either going to melt or burn to a crisp or both.”
Pursing her lips, Santana slants her a sardonic look. “Toughen up, Chang.”
“Easy for you to say, you’re already brown.” Tina links her arm through Santana’s and steps off the wooden porch, setting off across the wide, dusty street towards the bank a few doors down.
The local branch of Puckerman’s is housed in a surprisingly modest one-story building made of dusky red brick. Two windows are set on either side of the front door, both with the bank’s name etched in gold lettering onto the glass. Through them, Santana can see that the lobby is empty. Not even Jacob ben Israel, the usual clerk, is manning the counter that stretches along the length of the room.
“Looks like we’re in luck,” Tina says cheerfully. “With the train here, I’m surprised there’s not anyone--”
She jerks backward as her forward momentum is arrested by Santana having stopped dead in her tracks. “What’s your problem, Santana?” she demands.
From the corner of her eye, Santana is aware of the scowl fading from Tina’s face as Tina takes a good look at her, but Santana can’t make herself look at the other girl. She’s frozen, a kind of disbelieving fear bleeding through all her muscles and seizing them up, rendering her incapable of tearing her gaze away from what she sees a few dozen yards away. “Oh my God. No.”
“What?” Tina’s grip on her arm tightens to the point of pain, and she gives Santana a little shake. “Santana, what’s wrong?”
Terri Del Monaco and Shelby Corcoran are arm-in-arm, strolling casually along the storefronts in Santana’s direction.
“Shit.”
“What?” Tina’s head swivels as she follows Santana’s gaze. “Santana, who are those women?”
Tina’s question jerks Santana out of her horrified stupor, spurring her into motion. “Oh, God, I can’t let them see me, hurry!” Clutching desperately to Tina’s arm, Santana bounds forward the few remaining steps to Puckerman’s and flings open the door, darting inside and pulling Tina along with her.
“Wait, what--?”
Gasping, Santana presses her back flat against the inside of the front wall, out of sight of anyone looking through the windows. “Did they see me?” she pants. The panic is so all-encompassing that she can’t even be bothered to wonder what her former teachers and guardians are doing here. “Are they coming?”
Tina takes a cursory glance out the window before going to Santana, standing in front of her to command her attention. “No, no one saw you, no one’s coming,” she soothes. “Santana, what’s going on?”
“That’s Terri and Shelby,” Santana hisses.
Tina’s eyes widen almost comically. “Oh my God.” She grabs Santana’s hand and yanks her off the wall, hustling her behind the counter. A hallway stretches toward the back of the building, presumably leading offices and the bank’s vault. “Come on, we’ll go out the back, then circle around to--”
For the second time in as many minutes, Santana freezes, dragging Tina to a halt with her. “Tina.”
“What?” Santana points, and Tina’s line of sight follows her finger. “Christ. What the hell is going on?”
Behind the counter, out of sight of anyone looking through the front windows, Jacob ben Israel is laying bound and gagged on the floor.
“I have no idea,” Santana says.
Jacob whimpers around the gag, and before Santana can shush him, Tina drops to her knees at his side and begins to tug at the rope binding his ankles.
“Tina.” Santana glances down the hallway, but no one appears to investigate the noise; whoever had tied up Jacob must not have heard them come in. “What are you doing? We have to get out of here!”
“We can’t just leave him,” Tina replies. “Hurry up and help me untie him and we can all get out of here.”
Santana recognizes the stubborn set to Tina’s jaw and swears under her breath. “Fine,” she says, crouching opposite Tina. “But you should know your sense of responsibility is really fucking inconvenient.” Shooting a quelling glance at Jacob, she pulls the gag out of his mouth. “What’s going on?”
Jacob’s eyes are wide and glassy with panic, but he does an admirable job of following Santana’s unspoken order to be quiet. “The bank is being robbed,” he says breathlessly. “We have to get out of here. I have to find Sheriff Schuester!”
“Done,” Tina announces softly. She has produced a knife from somewhere and sliced through the rope binding Jacob’s ankles. “We’ll worry about his wrists later. Help me get him up, Santana.”
Tina helps him sit up, and they each grab one of Jacob’s arms and manage to heave him to his feet without much help from Jacob himself, whose legs seem to have cramped up. “We have to go out the front,” he says as the girls help him shuffle along. “They’re in the back, in the vault.”
“They?” The implication of Jacob’s words hit her, and Santana’s heart begins to beat faster. “How many robbers are there, two?”
“Yeah,” Jacob says, surprised. “How did you--”
“Don’t move.”
Something cold and hard presses into the back of Santana’s neck, the unexpected touch sending a shock of adrenaline-laced fear through her system. She doesn’t need to see the look of terror on Tina’s and Jacob’s faces to know that one of the robbers has pulled a gun on her.
“Tie him up again.” The gunman’s voice is low, with a muffled, almost artificial quality to it. “Slowly,” the robber adds as Tina retrieves the discarded length of rope from the floor. “And don’t try anything stupid. I’ll shoot her.”
Tina nods mutely. Jacob looks too terrified to do anything but stand completely still and gape at Santana.
The silence is interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway as someone quickly approaches the lobby from the back of the bank. “What’s going on?”
Santana’s brain immediately shuts down. It’s the only explanation for the fact that she spins around at the sound of the voice, oblivious of both the gun trained on her and the gunman’s order to stay still. She hears the gunman bark another command, feels the barrel of the gun dig into her ribs, but doesn’t really take notice of either. She’s too busy staring at the man standing at the threshold of the lobby.
He’s wearing dark pants and a dark vest under a brown duster, and is so tall and broad-shouldered that he seems to fill the entire doorway. A neat brown beard covers the lower half of his face, but does nothing to disguise his hollowed cheeks and shadowed eyes. He looks different--older, tired--but Santana would recognize those eyes anywhere, just as she recognized his voice. She bats the gun aside and takes a step toward the man, heedless of the possibility of being shot. “Finn?”
He looks at her, perplexed, and Santana can see the confusion in his eyes drain away and be replaced by shock and disbelief and cautious joy. “Santana?”
She nods, unable to force any sound through a throat that has suddenly gone tight. But it doesn’t matter, because Finn is there, wrapping long arms around her and pulling her close against his chest, tucking her head under his chin. They fit together as well as they ever did, and it’s warm and familiar and right. Finn still smells of horses and sweat and hay, and for the first time in years, Santana feels like she’s home.
Dimly, she hears Tina’s surprised squeak of “Finn Hudson? Oh, shit,” followed by Jacob’s horrified, “You know them? I have to get out of here.”
She expects it to be an idle threat, but Jacob’s fear must have boiled over into desperation, because the next thing Santana hears is the sharp smack of flesh on flesh, a pained grunt, and Jacob’s footsteps echoing on the wooden floor as he sprints across the lobby and out the front door. “It’s Hudson and the Kid!” he screams, voice fading as he flees. “They’re robbing the bank! Somebody get the sheriff!”
“Damn it.” Santana hears Finn’s voice as a deep bass rumble in his chest as he speaks. “How’d he get the drop on you?”
She pulls back from his embrace just enough to turn and look at the person he’s addressing. His partner is clad in dark trousers, a dingy white button-up shirt, and a battered black duster, with a cowboy hat tilted low at a face-obscuring angle and a Colt .45 clutched in one hand. Between the hat and the dark bandanna that is tied around the lower half of the gunman’s face, all Santana can see is a pair of cornflower blue eyes blazing hot from beneath furrowed blonde brows, and she knows she’s finally looking at Finn’s mysterious partner, the Sunshine Kid.
She also knows, immediately and without question, that the Sunshine Kid is a woman.
“I was distracted by your family reunion,” the Kid retorts. Even sharp with sarcasm and muffled by the bandanna that covers her mouth, her voice is light and feminine, and Santana wonders how the little detail of the Kid’s gender went unreported in the newspaper. “He took a swing and caught me in the temple. He was out the door before I could get my bearings and catch him.”
Finn is instantly all concern. “Are you okay?” Jealousy, envy, and suspicion flare in Santana all at once, and she wonders just what kind of relationship Finn has with this woman he’s been traveling with for so long. When the Kid grunts an indication of being fine, he continues, “He didn’t look like much.”
The Kid’s scowl deepens. “What did you want me to do, shoot him?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
It’s then that Santana notices the smell of gunpowder clinging to Finn, its acrid scent stinging her nostrils. As she steps back in an attempt to escape it, her brain seems to come roaring back to life, and she instinctively slugs Finn in the shoulder as hard as she can. “What the hell is going on?” she demands. “What are you doing here? Why are you tying people up and robbing banks?”
“Ow! Shit, Santana!” Finn rubs his arm and flicks her a baleful glance, and there’s the boy she remembers. “What was that for?”
“Being an idiot.”
“Guys.” Tina’s voice interrupts them, and Santana is ashamed to realize she’d forgotten the other girl was even there. She’s somehow managed to cross the room without anyone noticing, and is peeking out one of the front windows. “Artie and Sheriff Schuester and the Marshals are coming.” She looks over her shoulder at Santana, her expression grave. “And Terri and Shelby.”
Finn’s hands clench along Santana’s back. “What are those bitches doing here?” He glances down at Santana. “For that matter, what are you doing here?”
“I’ll explain later,” she says. “We have to go.”
“We?” the Kid echoes incredulously.
“You’re going with them?” Tina adds.
Santana ignores them both and looks expectantly at Finn, who is staring at her with a dubious expression.
He leans in close. “You don’t want to come with us,” he tells her in a low voice.
“I want to come with you,” Santana insists. She fists her hands in his shirt, pulling. “You’re not leaving me behind, Finn. Not again.”
She sees the conflict in his eyes and tells herself it’s because he’s trying to protect her like he always has. It can’t be because he doesn’t want her, or because she’s been replaced in his affections by the Kid.
Santana doesn’t expect to find support from that quarter. “Let her come, Finn,” his partner says quietly.
Her support seems to tip the scales in Santana’s favor, and Finn nods, resigned rather than enthused. It stings, but Santana pushes the feeling aside, turning back to face Tina, who is splitting her attention between what’s taking place inside the bank and what’s happening outside of it.
Running off with fugitives means Santana isn’t likely to see anyone from Emma’s Place again, a realization that is unexpectedly distressing. There are so many things she wants to say but doesn’t know how to express. She finally settles for, “I have to leave.”
Tina nods, understanding in her eyes, and Santana is profoundly grateful for having confided in her. “I’ll explain everything to Artie,” she says. “I know he’ll understand, and he’ll do what he can to slow down the Marshals.”
Santana isn’t so sure, but there isn’t time to argue, and there doesn’t seem to be much point in doing so anyway. She catches Tina up in a fierce hug. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“Be safe, Santana,” Tina murmurs against her ear. “Be happy.”
“We’re out of time,” the Kid says. “We have to leave, now, or we’ll be shooting our way out of town.”
Santana backs away from Tina’s embrace, feeling Finn’s hand fall on her shoulder. “You two go out the back,” he tells the Kid. He’s holding a Winchester rifle in his free hand. His eyes are hard and flat, and he looks like a stranger. “I’ll cover you from here, and meet up with you later.”
“Got it.” The Kid looks to Tina. “You’d better get down. Don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.” Her gaze slides to find Santana’s, and unexpectedly, she holds out her hand. “Come with me.”
Santana takes a deep breath and steps forward, reaching out to place her hand in the Kid’s, and for the second time that day, her mind goes absolutely blank.
Everywhere it’s pressed against the Kid’s, Santana’s hand tingles, a sensation that runs straight up her arm and into her chest, stealing her breath. Goosebumps spring up on her skin, and despite the heat of the day and the stillness of the interior of the bank, Santana has to fight back a shiver. She entertains the idea that bumping her head in the bar may be causing some kind of fit, but then she looks up into the Kid’s eyes, wide and shocked and blue, and knows the other girl is feeling everything that she is. In the small corner of her brain that is still capable of coherent thought, she wonders if it’s possible to stay standing this way forever. She can’t make herself move or look away.
She doesn’t have to. Glass shatters behind them as someone shoots through the front windows, and the Kid jerks Santana into her arms, turning them both away from the explosion of shards that rain down. Tina screams and drops to the floor, covering her head with her arms, and Finn glances at Santana and the Kid long enough to yell, “Run!” before bringing his rifle up and returning fire.
They do.
The Kid turns and pelts down the hallway, past offices and the vault, pulling Santana along behind her. She slams into the back door at close to a full run, shoving it open with her free hand and tumbling onto the back porch with Santana at her heels.
Santana has a split-second glimpse of a Marshal with a revolver clutched in his hand before the Kid lowers her shoulder and barrels into him, sending them both flying off the porch. They go down in a messy tangle of limbs, the Marshal flat on his back, the Kid sprawled on top of him, and somewhere in the midst of their struggle, the revolver discharges.
The gunshot is shockingly, deafeningly loud, but does nothing to disguise the Kid’s grunt of surprised pain. It sends a rush of renewed fear spiking through Santana’s blood and she moves without thinking, leaping off the porch and wresting the gun away from the Marshal, who is still struggling to free himself from beneath the Kid. She brings the butt of the revolver down on his head once, twice, and on the third try finally manages to knock him unconscious.
Santana drops into a crouch and helps the Kid sit back on her heels. “Are you okay?” Her voice sounds thin and reedy to her own ears, and her hands are trembling as she reaches up to cup the Kid’s jaw. She feels weak with adrenaline and nerves. “Are you hurt?”
Blue eyes blink back at her in confusion. “He shot me.”
The Kid sounds so genuinely bewildered that Santana has to clamp down on the hysterical urge to giggle. “You’re a bank robber,” she says instead. “And you tackled him. What did you expect him to do?”
“Ask me nicely to surrender?” She puts one hand on Santana’s knee and pushes herself to her feet, wobbling slightly. “Whoa.”
Santana follows her up, dropping her hands to Kid’s elbows to steady her. “Where are you hit?”
“My arm,” the Kid says, glancing at her left arm. There’s a powder burn around a torn spot in her duster, and Santana can see blood beginning to soak through the material. Concerned, she reaches out to examine the wound, but the Kid grabs her hand and hangs on to it. “It’s not bad. Come on, we need to get out of here.”
Several more gunshots ring out from the front of the bank, bolstering her argument, and the Kid quickly leads Santana to the nearby hitching post. Two horses are tied up, one completely brown, the other chestnut and white. “Help me untie these.”
She sways on her feet as she speaks, and Santana peers into her eyes again; they’re wide and glassy. Santana nudges her toward one of the horses. “You just get into the saddle, okay? I’ll take care of the horses.”
The Kid scowls at her but doesn’t bother to argue, and Santana knows that her injury is worse than she’s letting on.
Fear makes her fingers feel thick and clumsy, and by the time she finishes untying both sets of reins, screams and gunshots are a constant chorus.
The Kid is perched atop the brown horse; Santana hands her it’s reins. “You’re with me,” she says. “Hop on.”
With more speed than grace, Santana climbs up behind the Kid and settles astride the horse. Her arms snake around the other girl’s waist, and as she leans forward, she can smell the warm coppery scent of blood. “Are you okay to do this?”
“I’m the one who knows where we’re going,” she replies, and as if to prove her point, digs her heels into the horse’s flank and takes off at a gallop. There’s nothing behind the bank but empty, undeveloped plains, and in the distance, a treeline. The Kid heads straight for the mesquites and live oaks, and the cover they’ll provide from the town and any trailing lawmen.
“What about Finn?”
“He’ll know where to find us.” Santana can barely hear the Kid’s answer over the rush of wind in her ears and the thunder of the horse’s hooves on the dry, hard-packed earth. “Just hang on!” she yells, and spurs the horse even faster.
Santana closes her eyes and presses her forehead against the other girl’s shoulder, deciding to take her advice.
---
Santana loses track of time as they ride. The adrenaline slowly fades from her system, leaving her spent and shaky. If she weren't so exhausted, she’d be annoyed by her own weakness, but it takes all of her concentration to hang on to the Kid. Eventually, lulled by the steadiness of the horse’s gait and the warmth of the afternoon sun on her back, Santana dozes off.
She jolts back into wakefulness when she feels the Kid start to slip sideways off the saddle. “Hey!” Santana clenches her right arm more tightly around the other girl’s waist, and reaches with her left hand to snag the reins that have fallen out of the Kid’s slackened grip. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”
“Fine, fine. Just a little woozy.” She shakes her head, and then to Santana’s consternation, tries four times to take the reins back before finally managing to grab them.
“You’re not fine, you’re about to pass out.” Santana pulls the Kid back closer against her body, turning her slightly in the saddle so she can look at her injured arm. Dark blood stains the ragged hole in her duster and has soaked all the way down to the cuff of the coat to drip off in swollen drops. “You need to let me look at your arm.”
“We need to keep going,” the Kid retorts. “We can’t stop until we get to the rendezvous point.”
“What’s the rush?” Santana asks. “If any of the Marshals were following us, I would have been shot in the back by now.”
“If we don’t get there before Finn does, he’s going to worry.”
“He should worry; you’ve been shot!”
The Kid cranes her neck around to glare at Santana. “You’re just going to keep arguing with me, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry, did you miss the part where you almost passed out and fell off the horse?” Santana demands.
To her surprise, the Kid gives an amused snort. She’s still wearing her hat and bandanna, but from the way her eyes crinkle at the outer corners, Santana suspects she’s smiling. “Compromise?”
Santana studies her through narrowed eyes. “It depends. What do you have in mind?”
“We keep going, and when we get to where we’re going, I let you look at my arm.”
“That’s not a compromise, that’s you getting your way.”
“Is it? My mistake.”
Santana reins in her frustration and speaks through clenched teeth. “And what am I going to do if you do pass out and fall off the horse? I couldn’t get you back up on it by myself. You’re not exactly petite.”
“You’re not going to let me pass out or fall off.” The Kid turns back around and settles Santana’s arm more tightly around her own waist. “You’re going to talk to me so I stay awake, and hang on to me so I don’t fall off.”
“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” Santana mutters, but she sighs and settles closer against the other girl’s back. “Who are you?”
“I’m the Sunshine Kid. Don’t tell me you haven’t read about me in the papers.”
Santana squeezes her ribs until the Kid lets out an indignant yelp. “You’re already on thin ice. Don’t push me.”
To her credit, the Kid seems to pick up on Santana’s genuine irritation and sobers immediately. “I’m Brittany Pierce,” she says. “And you’re Santana Lopez. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“What do you mean, finally?” Santana asks warily.
“You’re Finn’s sister,” Brittany says simply. “You’re practically all he talks about. It gets kind of annoying, really.”
Santana can hear the smile in Brittany’s voice, but all she can focus on is what she’s said. “Finn talks about me?”
“All the time.” She pauses, then adds carefully, “You didn’t think he forgot about you, did you?”
Santana swallows around the lump in her throat, blinking rapidly against the hot tears that suddenly sting her eyes. When that doesn’t work, she reaches up with her free hand to swipe them away with the backs of her knuckles. “Of course not, don’t be stupid.”
“You did,” Brittany says, incredulous. “Santana, why do you think he’s been robbing banks?”
“I don’t know!” Santana practically shouts the words, and once she starts talking, she can’t make herself stop. “All I know is that he left. He left, and my father died, and then his mother did too, and I was all alone. You can’t imagine what that’s like.”
“I don’t have to imagine,” Brittany says quietly. She rests her arm on top of the one Santana has around her waist and squeezes her hand. “I know.”
Santana gulps for air, trying to get herself under control. She leans her forehead against Brittany’s shoulder and murmurs against her back. “He said he’d come back for me, but he never did. When he started showing up in the papers, I decided I’d find him, so I ran away. That was two years ago.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “Why didn’t he come back?”
“He wanted to.” Brittany tugs on the reins, bringing the horse to a stop, and cranes her head around to look at Santana. “It’s all he’s ever wanted. That’s why we rob banks, to get enough money so Finn can pay off that Sheriff Tanaka character and go back without being arrested. He loves you, Santana.”
Brittany’s voice is full of sincerity, and Santana’s heart aches with wanting to believe her. She looks away from the open compassion in Brittany’s eyes, embarrassed by her vulnerability and unsettled by her inability to control her emotions in front of this girl, this stranger. She clears her throat and changes the subject. “You told me your name, but I still don’t know who you are.”
“I’m Finn’s partner.” Brittany tugs the bandanna down off her face, revealing a crooked smile. “I’m your stand-in.”
She’s gorgeous. Dusty and bloody and battered as she is, Brittany is still easily the most beautiful girl that Santana has ever seen. Santana is thunderstruck, and tries desperately not to goggle at her. “Stand-in?” she echoes dumbly. “What--what do you mean?”
“Finn couldn’t have you, so he needed a replacement. A temporary replacement,” she amends hastily. “You know, a surrogate sister for his surrogate sister.”
“Wait. Just, wait.” Santana’s head begins to ache, and she pinches the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. “You’re Finn’s sister.”
Brittany shrugs. “Well, not officially or anything, not like you are, but yeah.”
“Then you’re not...with him.”
“With him? You mean in a romantic sense?” Santana nods, and Brittany’s nose crinkles in distaste. “No. I mean I love Finn, but no, not like that.” Her expression turns inquisitive. “What makes you ask?”
“Nothing. I mean, I just assumed--I don’t know. It’s been a long day.” Santana waves her question aside. “Why did we stop? I thought you were in a hurry to get to this rendezvous point of yours.”
“I am, but if we show up and Finn’s there and you’re still upset because you think he abandoned you, you’re going to fight with him. I hate fighting.”
“But you rob banks,” Santana says blankly. “You fight with the law all the time.”
Brittany rolls her eyes and huffs. “I explained all that.” She turns back around and flicks the reins, and the horse starts off at a trot. “I didn’t say I liked being a bank robber, I just said I was one.”
“Then why do you do it? I mean you, not Finn. How did you end up with him?”
“That’s a long story,” Brittany deflects. “And part of it is Finn’s to tell. I’d rather you let him explain a few things first, and then I’ll tell you how I come in.”
“But you will tell me.”
“If you really want to know,” she agrees. “Why are you so curious?”
“Because you’ve been with my brother when I couldn’t be,” Santana says. “I want to get to know you. I have to.”
“I didn’t lead him into a life of crime, if that’s what you think.”
“No, I don’t think that.” Santana’s denial is automatic, a lie meant to keep the peace, but as she considers her words, she’s surprised to find that she means them. It’s hard to imagine Brittany, with her bright smile and her sympathetic eyes, as some sort of manipulative temptress out to lead Finn astray.
Brittany makes a pleased noise. “Well, I’m glad. But are you always this trusting?”
“No,” Santana answers honestly. “No I’m not.”
Brittany doesn’t respond, and Santana is content to leave the conversation there. Something about the other girl encourages Santana to drop her guard, and she doesn’t like it. Bad enough that Tina and the others from Emma’s were able to get under her skin; she doesn’t need another person to do the same. She’s been on her own too long to handle much more emotion than what she’s dealt with the past few weeks, and there’s still Finn to consider. No matter what Brittany says or how sincerely she says it, Santana needs to hear Finn say that he loves her, that he always planned to come back for her. She hates herself a little for needing it as much as she does.
Part 3
She’s running perilously short on funds, so as much as she’d like to take the next train out of town and leave this place behind, she can’t. However strange and intrusive the people of Emma’s Place are, their generosity isn’t something that’s likely to be matched, no matter how long or how far she travels. She has to have some way of supporting herself without relying on luck or the whims of others.
There’s a basin and a pitcher of water on the vanity, so she washes as best she can and quickly slips into one of Quinn’s borrowed dresses, a pale blue muslin that is much more conservative than anything she’s seen any of the girls wear. It still feels revealing to Santana, and she wishes she could get away with wearing trousers now, like she did when she was a little girl.
In the hallway, the lamps along the wall have been lit, but most of the doors are still closed, so she assumes that the rooms’ inhabitants are still asleep. Emma’s door is open, and after a quick check to make sure the room is unoccupied, Santana heads downstairs to look for her.
As Santana descends the staircase, she can see that the saloon area is empty, the tables and chairs all right-side up and where they should be. None of the lamps are lit, and the weak early morning sunlight coming in through the windows does little to illuminate the room. It’s quiet and still, almost preternaturally so, and if it weren’t for the spot on the floor near the piano that is just a little darker than the rest of the wood, Santana could almost believe yesterday’s brawl had happened someplace else.
Santana had scrubbed and scrubbed at that bloodstain, and still hadn’t been able to get all of it out.
She finds Emma in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a plate of mostly-eaten food in front of her. To Santana’s surprise, Quinn is also there, cooking something at the stove. Both women look up and smile at her as Santana pushes open the batwing doors.
“Good morning,” Quinn says pleasantly. “I didn’t think I’d see you this early.”
“I didn’t think you were up either,” Santana replies. “Your bedroom door is shut.”
“Rachel,” Quinn explains. “She’s not usually an early riser.”
“Or very pleasant when she is,” Emma adds. The fondness of her tone takes any sting out of the words. She gestures at the empty chair beside her. “Please, Santana, have a seat.”
Everything about the woman screams sincerity, from her big blue eyes to her soft voice to the fact that she hasn’t kicked Santana out in the street, but it’s that very sincerity that has Santana hesitating. She feels like a mouse trapped between a cat’s paws, and it doesn’t matter that the cat doesn’t seem inclined to eat her.
“Do you want something to eat?” Quinn asks. “I’m already making something for myself; it’s no trouble.”
Her first instinct is to say no, but her stomach chooses that moment to rumble, and Santana tells herself to relax. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.” Quinn shakes her head, and Santana sits down at the table, deliberately leaving an empty chair between herself and Emma. If Emma notices, she doesn’t comment on it. “I have a proposition for you.”
Emma’s brow lifts. “Oh?”
Santana takes a breath. She’s got to convince Emma to go along with her plan, because she doesn’t have another one to fall back on. “I don’t want to impose on you, but I’m out of money, and I don’t have anywhere to go.” She exhales. “If you’ll let me, I’d like to continue to stay here and work to pay for my room and board until I’ve saved enough to be on my way.”
“That sounds fine. See me in my office later and we can discuss your wages.” She smiles and stands as Quinn brings two plates of food to the table and sits down beside Santana. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
Santana gapes at Emma until she disappears through the swinging doors, then turns an incredulous stare on Quinn. “That’s it?”
Quinn puts two fingers beneath Santana’s chin and lifts, closing her mouth. “You’re about to start catching flies,” she says, eyes dancing with amusement. “Eat your food before it gets cold.”
Santana automatically bristles at being told what to do, but tamps down on the reaction, knowing it to be uncalled for. Instead, she follows Quinn’s directive and starts in on the scrambled eggs, sausage, and hash browns that the other girl has prepared. “I don’t understand,” she continues. “Why would Emma agree to that at all, let alone so easily? She hasn’t even spent five minutes in my company.”
“Emma is the most giving person I’ve ever met,” Quinn says. “You were there last night; Tina vouched for you. That was all she needed to hear.”
Since Quinn seems to know that Santana had been eavesdropping, she doesn’t bother to deny it. “So did you,” she points out. “Why?”
“Because I like you,” Quinn says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Santana shakes her head, and for the second time in as many days wonders, “Who are you people?”
Quinn stops eating and turns to look at her. “We’re people who were lucky enough to get a break when we needed it the most, Santana,” she says. “Is it so strange to want to pass that kindness on to others?”
“Yes,” Santana replies bluntly. “I don’t know where you came from, Quinn, but yes, it is.”
One of Quinn’s eyebrows lifts. “Probably not far from you,” she says dryly.
There is nothing about Quinn that makes Santana think she was raised remotely near the Lopez ranch, but she recognizes that the other girl is only trying to get under her skin, so she ignores the comment and goes back to her breakfast. After a moment Quinn does the same, and they finish eating in a frosty silence.
A full stomach does wonders for Santana’s outlook. When Quinn is finished, she takes their plates and Emma’s to the sink. She puts in the stopper, then takes the pot of hot water Quinn left simmering on the stove and pours it into the sink. She grabs the cake of soap resting on the back splash and begins to scrub the dishes.
“Leave those,” Quinn says, twisting around in her seat. “Matt is usually on dish duty in the morning.”
Santana tosses her a glance over her shoulder. “I’m working here now, remember?” she says. “I might as well start with this.”
Quinn stands. “Then I’ll help you.”
They stand silently side by side at the sink, Santana washing the plates and cutlery and handing them to Quinn one at a time to dry. As she does so, Santana debates the merits of probing Quinn’s background. She doesn’t want to bond with anyone here or encourage them to ask questions about her own past, but not even Santana at her surliest is thrilled by the prospect of spending days or weeks or months living under the same roof with a bunch of virtual strangers. And it wouldn’t hurt to ingratiate herself with the group and earn everyone’s good opinion and trust in case she ever does end up having to find and raid the safe.
As she hands the last dish off to Quinn, she says, “You’re not from anywhere near where I grew up.”
“Not unless you’re from back East,” Quinn agrees.
Santana nods. “I didn’t think you sounded like a local.”
“No; I was at a finishing school before I came here.” She avoids Santana’s gaze, staring intently at the plate in her hand as she wipes it dry. “So was Rachel. That’s where we met.”
Oh. “You came here together?” Santana asks carefully.
Quinn nods. “My father was going to make me marry a man I barely even knew, and I couldn’t do it, because Rachel and I--we--” She flushes. “Well. We stole some money and ran away, and eventually met Emma. We’ve been here ever since.”
“You love her.” The words are out of her mouth before Santana even realizes she’s thought them, and she feels as surprised as Quinn looks. To cover it, she hurries on. “Rachel, I mean.”
“I do.” She catches Santana’s eye, smiling shyly. “The crazy thing is that she loves me back.”
Santana refrains from pointing out that what’s crazy is that Quinn and Rachel are both women. She’s seen a lot of unusual things since leaving her home, done a lot of things that would have both embarrassed and horrified her at one point in time, but this is probably the strangest. It’s been quite some time since Santana has considered herself naive, but it had never occurred to her that two women could feel that way for one another. She doesn’t quite know what to do with the knowledge that they can.
Quinn passes her a dry rag, and Santana dries her hands, flashing Quinn what she hopes is a supportive smile even as she changes the subject. “Emma told me to meet her in her office.”
“It’s behind the bar,” Quinn begins, just as the batwing doors swing open and Matt and Kurt enter the kitchen, both looking more asleep than awake.
“I’m famished,” Kurt declares. “Quinn, tell me you’re cooking breakfast.”
“You should have been here twenty minutes ago,” Quinn replies. “You two are on your own.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Quinn,” Matt says, a hangdog expression on his face.
Quinn pats his cheek affectionately. “You’ll survive.” She beckons to Santana. “Come on, I’ll show you where the office is.”
Santana follows Quinn out of the kitchen and back into the saloon area, leaving a grumbling Matt and Kurt to fend for themselves. Quinn points to the bar, and for the first time Santana notices a door set into the wall behind it, unobtrusive beside the shelves of liquor. “There.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Quinn starts back up the stairs, and Santana heads for Emma’s office. She raps her knuckles against the door, pushing it open when Emma bids her to enter.
The office beyond is small and cozily shabby. A large, battered wooden desk that looks as thought it’s seen better days dominates the room. Threadbare scarlet carpet covers the floor, and the walls are covered in faded wallpaper that is peeling around the molding. All in all, the room looks run down, as though its upkeep has been neglected in favor of keeping the public areas of the saloon looking respectable.
Emma is sitting behind the desk, papers spread out across its surface, pen in hand and inkwell at her elbow. One lamp on the desk and two lamps mounted on the wall behind her provide illumination. Recessed into a wall between those lamps is a safe.
Emma waves her inside. “Santana, come in, have a seat.”
Santana eases into the single, rather rickety wooden chair on her side of the desk, holding her breath as it creaks under her weight. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” Setting the pen aside, Emma leans forward, resting her arms on her desk and lacing her fingers together. “I’m happy to have you here, Santana, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you like, but I’m going to be honest with you. The saloon is already supporting eight people, and I don’t have much money to spare to pay you.”
“Oh.” Santana struggles to contain her dismay and starts to shift in her seat, stopping abruptly as it groans. “Well, I’m sure I can find something somewhere else--”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t pay you at all,” Emma interrupts. “I just can’t pay you very much. It may take longer than you’d like to save up the money that you need.” She pauses. “There is another option, of course. You could always follow Tina, Rachel, and Quinn, and--”
“No!” Santana blurts. “I mean, I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Emma scrutinizes her. “I know what you must think, Santana--”
“No, ma’am.” Her gaze flicks to the safe behind Emma’s shoulder, and Santana thinks of all the lying, cheating, and stealing she’s done in the name of finding Finn; of all the lying, cheating, and stealing she’s still prepared to do. She smiles grimly. “Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do.”
---
Over the next few days, Santana settles into life at Emma’s Place. She cooks, cleans, does laundry, runs errands around town, helps Mike tend bar, and on one memorable occasion, tosses an inebriated Howard out the front doors and into the street. She enjoys that, probably a little too much.
The one thing she doesn’t do is go to bed with men for money.
It isn’t that she finds it wrong--Santana figures she forfeited the right to feel morally superior a long time ago--so much as distasteful. And while she’s impatient to get on her way, she’s not that desperate. Yet.
While the work is tedious and sometimes physically taxing, the biggest problem Santana has is dealing with the same people on a daily basis. She’s accustomed to living a nomadic lifestyle, staying no more than one or two days in the same place, exchanging no more than the barest pleasantries with the people she has to interact with along the way. Living with a group of people on a semi-permanent basis is...different.
The people who live at Emma’s Place are like a family, and they go out of their way to include Santana and make her feel welcome. She appreciates the gesture, but because she’s trying not to get too close to anyone, it’s more annoying than anything else. It also happens to be really hard to resist, which is why she invariably finds herself eating supper with the group every night.
Deputy Abrams, Tina’s special friend, is there most nights too. Santana reads the newspaper from cover to cover every day and always keeps her ears perked for mention of her brother, but Finn and his mysterious partner seem to have gone to ground. When Artie is with them for dinner, Santana spends most of her time ordering herself not to ask about Finn, then trying to do so as subtlely at possibly when she inevitably can’t help herself.
“We had a group of US Marshals come into town today,” Artie says when Santana manages to bring the conversation around to his job. “It’s the first time I can ever recall someone from the federal government showing up here.”
Santana’s heartbeat speeds up, and she struggles to maintain her composure. “Oh? Did they say why they came?”
“They’re hunting for Finn Hudson and the Sunshine Kid.”
Rachel inhales sharply, big brown eyes wide. “Do they think Hudson and the Kid are coming here?”
“That was my understanding,” Artie replies.
“Why else would they bother to come?” Kurt adds. “We’re not exactly a destination town.”
“I hope they do come here,” Rachel continues in a dreamy tone. “The newspaper articles make Hudson sound so handsome.”
Mercedes snorts. “You have got to be kidding.”
Rachel stares at her, nonplussed. “Why would I be kidding?”
“Well I certainly don’t hope they come here,” Emma says. “The last thing we need is a pair of hooligans bursting in and robbing us.”
“They don’t rob businesses,” Santana says quickly, unable to stop herself from trying to defend Finn. “Just banks and bank stagecoaches.”
“Don’t worry, Em,” Matt chimes in. “If they try anything, Mike and I’ll stop them.”
“And don’t forget about Santana,” Quinn adds with a grin. “She took out Azimio pretty easily the other day. I bet she could handle Hudson and the Kid all by herself.”
Artie smiles at Santana. “Sounds good to me. We can get Sheriff Schuester to deputize you and Matt and Mike, and then we can help Marshal Sylvester hunt down Hudson. What do you say?”
What Santana wants to say is very different from what she makes herself say. “I think I’ll pass,” she forces out around a pasted-on smile. “I don’t think my delicate constitution could handle it.”
Soon after, the talk turns from Finn and the Kid to local gossip about Sheriff Schuester’s obvious and well-known crush on Emma. Santana pretends to listen for a while longer, even tossing in her theory that the reason Ms. Castle keeps getting drunk in public is because she’s secretly in love with the sheriff and wants to be arrested so he’s forced to spend time with her, before excusing herself and fleeing upstairs to the privacy of her room.
Santana kicks off her shoes and begins to pace back and forth across her room. US Marshals, here. She’d come to this town because she’d been following Finn’s exploits in the newspapers, and had realized that he’d been moving steadily west down the railroad line. If a group of Marshals tasked with hunting him down have ended up here too, surely that means that they’ve come to the same conclusion she has, that sooner or later Finn will show up here. It’s a relief to have some confirmation of her idea, if only from people who are probably guessing just as much as she is.
Of course, if Finn is headed this way, having a group of Marshals lying in wait is going to be problematic. Sighing, Santana splashes water on her face and begins to change into her nightgown, hoping the more relaxed garb will help her think of what to do next.
She’s just taken her hair down when there’s a knock at the door. Swallowing impatience, Santana opens it, and isn’t at all surprised to see Tina standing there, an obstinate expression on her pretty features. “Yes?”
“Can I talk to you?”
“Can it wait until the morning?”
“Not really.” Tina’s mouth is set in a firm line, dark eyes glittering.
Ordinarily Santana would put her stubbornness up against anyone’s, but tonight she can’t be bothered. The sooner she finds out what Tina wants, the sooner she can get rid of her. She steps back from the threshold, pulling the door open wider. “Come in.”
Tina sweeps inside. Santana shuts the door behind her, and when she turns around, the other girl is standing in the middle of the room, studying her. “You seem really interested in Finn Hudson and the Sunshine Kid.”
Santana’s stomach drops to somewhere near the vicinity of her ankles. “Of course I am,” she says lightly. “We all are. It’s not every day that you find out the most infamous outlaws in the country could be coming to your town.”
“No, this is deeper than that,” Tina says thoughtfully. “Every time Artie is here, you manage to bring up Hudson, and tonight, when Artie mentioned those Marshals? You couldn’t have looked more surprised if he’d pulled out a gun and shot you between the eyes.”
Santana pushes away from the door and heads for the vanity, mostly as an excuse to break eye contact. “Have you seen many people shot between the eyes, Tina?”
“Actually, yes,” Tina says, matter-of-fact, surprising Santana. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it some time. But that’s not the point. How are you involved with Hudson?”
“I’m not.” Strictly speaking, this is the truth.
“You know something,” Tina insists, then her gaze softens. “I don’t care that he’s a bank robber, Santana. I don’t even care if you’re a bank robber. I just want to help you if I can.”
“But why?” It sounds less a demand than a plaintive request for Tina to give her an explanation that makes sense.
“Because we’re friends.”
Santana just stares at her, bewildered. “I don’t remember what it’s like to have friends.”
“Let me show you.” Gently, Tina turns Santana around and nudges her into the seat in front of the vanity. She picks up the brush that’s lying on top of the vanity and begins to pull it through Santana’s hair in soft, even strokes. “You can trust me, Santana.”
She wants to trust someone, so badly, so much more than she’s ever acknowledged. Her heart aches with loneliness. She tries to ignore it. “Why haven’t you married Artie?”
If Tina is nonplussed by Santana’s question, she doesn’t show it. “Because of what we do. He’s a sheriff’s deputy; I can’t marry him while I’m working here, and I can’t stop working here until I know I have enough money to be able to take care of myself. And Mike, if I have to.”
“But you love him.”
“Yes.” Tina pauses, her gaze finding Santana’s in the mirror. “But I don’t tell him everything.”
Lulled by the gentle scratch of the bristles across her scalp, and suddenly bone-weary, Santana’s eyes drift shut and she gives up. “I love Finn,” she says. “He’s my brother.”
---
It isn’t smart to push a horse to a gallop in the darkness of the night, when one misstep or misjudgement could break the animal’s leg or send her flying out of her seat, but Santana doesn’t care. The adrenaline is pumping through her blood, all anger and fear, and she just wants to get away - away from her Papi’s sickbed, away from Sandy’s leering smile and wandering hands, away from Terri and Shelby and their lies. Away from them, and to Finn.
As she nears the river, Santana pulls gently on Charlie’s reins, easing the tired horse up. When he comes to a stop, she dismounts and leads him carefully down the slope to the river. She hitches the reins to a low-hanging tree branch near the riverbank, then makes her way to the huge old tree stump where Finn had become her brother, and she isn’t surprised at all to see him waiting there. He’s leaning against the side of their tree stump, as if he’d known she would come looking for him. He probably had.
His eyes are huge in a face that has been bleached of its usual healthy color, making the smattering of freckles across face stand out in stark relief. “I didn’t do it,” he blurts desperately as she nears. “Whatever they told you, Santana, I swear I didn’t--”
“Idiot.” She flings herself against him, pinning him against the trunk and burying her face against his chest, desperate to hide the tears she can feel starting to burn up the back of her throat. “Of course I know that.”
Finn’s arms come up and around her shoulders, holding her close. “I was afraid you’d think--”
“Idiot,” Santana says again. Her arms are pinned between her own body and Finn’s, but she manages to loose one enough to thump the heel of her hand against his chest. “We both know what kind of people Terri and Shelby are, and even if they weren’t behind this, I’d never believe anything like that about you, never.”
Finn’s arms tighten around her. “What exactly did they say?”
Santana presses closer. “That you’re a thief,” she mumbles against his chest. “That you shot Papi on that hunting trip, not Sandy.”
“I didn’t--”
“I know.” She tilts her head up, pressing her nose to the bristly underside of his jaw, inhaling Finn’s familiar scent of sweat and horses and hay. “I tried to tell Sheriff Tanaka that, but he didn’t believe me. Terri told him that we’re--that we’re--that you’re taking advantage of me, and that I’m just confused.”
To Santana’s surprise, Finn chuckles, if a bit hollowly. “You’re much more likely to take advantage of me.”
It’s true, even if not in the way that Terri insinuated. Finn has always been more good-hearted than Santana. “What are we going to do?”
Finn doesn’t answer for a while, and the longer the silence stretches, the further Santana’s heart sinks. Eventually he says, “I have to leave.”
“No,” she denies immediately. “There has to be another way. I won’t let you go, you can’t leave me with them!”
“I have to,” he says gently. “You said it yourself, the sheriff thinks I’m the one who shot your father. He’ll arrest me, maybe even hang me, and then what?”
Santana ignores the question and way it makes it her heart seize up with fear, and leans back just enough to be able to look him in the eye. “I’ll come with you.”
Finn smooths a hand over her hair, brushing it away from her face. “What about your father?”
Papi. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to speak through a throat that feels like its done the same. “H-He’s not doing so well. I don’t think--”
“But you don’t know,” Finn interrupts softly. “You have to stay. What do you think he’ll do if you’re not there when he wakes up? He’s going to need you.”
He doesn’t talk about her Papi like he’s already dead, and Santana appreciates it more than she can say. “You’re right,” she agrees reluctantly. “But what if he--what about you? Where will you go, what will you do?”
Finn smiles. “I don’t know yet, but I’ll think of something.” He sobers, cupping her face with his hands, his eyes intense on her own. “Santana. Whatever happens, I’ll come back for you, okay? I swear it. I won’t leave you alone with them.”
“Okay.” The tears that Santana has managed to stave off finally overwhelm her and she turns her face away, not wanting Finn to see. “Take Charlie. I put some food and money in the saddlebags, just in case.”
“Santana. Look at me.” Finn waits until she does. “Thank you for believing me. I love you.”
“I love you too.” It takes every ounce of willpower she possesses, but Santana manages to pull herself out of his arms. “Hurry. They’ll be looking for you come morning.”
Finn kisses her forehead. Santana walks to the edge of the river, staring blindly at the rushing water as he unhitches Charlie from the tree and climbs into the saddle. “Thank you for being my brother,” she whispers, knowing he can’t possibly hear her.
When Santana turns around, Finn is gone.
---
Santana tells her everything.
Either Tina is good at keeping her mouth shut, or the people she tells are, because in the days that follow, nobody says anything to Santana about Finn.
A large part of Santana is angry with herself for confiding in Tina. Since leaving home, she hasn’t trusted anyone with the knowledge of her relationship with Finn, and doing so now, possibly endangering them both when she could be so close to finally finding him, is the kind of thoughtless mistake she shouldn’t have made.
Still, she can’t deny that opening up to someone has brought her a welcome sense of relief. There’s still a lingering apprehension that she’s made a mistake, that this will backfire on her eventually, but what’s done is done, and Santana resolves not to worry about what might happen.
Not long after, Santana is setting up the bar before the saloon opens for the day. Rachel is wiping down tables and singing along to the upbeat tune that Kurt is picking out on the piano, and since the two of them would drown out anything quieter than a cannon blast, Santana doesn’t feel self-conscious about humming along. As she ducks down behind the counter to stack mugs, she even starts to sing outright.
“Santana.”
She jolts at the sound of her name, rapping her brow on the lip of the bar. “Ow! Damn it.”
“Sorry.” Tina is peering over the bar, the chagrined expression on her face belied by the barely-repressed laughter in her voice. “I’ve been calling you.”
Santana straightens up, one hand pressed to the throbbing spot on her head, and gestures past Tina with the other, where Matt and Quinn have appeared and are waltzing around the tables and chairs, laughing like loons. “Who can hear anything over that?” she demands irritably.
Tina flashes her a sympathetic look. “Come with me to the bank,” she suggests. “I need to deposit some money, and we can both get away from the noise for a while.”
Immediately, Santana’s heartbeat quickens, which doesn’t do much for the pounding in her head. Since Finn almost always hits trains or stage coaches carrying bank money as they leave town, the best way she’s been able to think of finding him is to make sure she hitches a ride with each shipment as it leaves town. To do that, she needs to get a look at the bank shipping manifest. Emma hasn’t paid her yet, and she’s spent days trying unsuccessfully to think of a reason to go inside Puckerman’s that won’t raise suspicion.
Santana feigns hesitation, trying to cover her eagerness. “I’m not done here.”
“I’ll finish up.” White towel slung over his shoulder, Mike pops up to lean an elbow on the bar and flash Santana a grin. “Besides, you never stack the glasses the right way anyway. I’m not sure you’re earning your keep.”
“Leave the girl alone, Mike,” Tina chides. She pushes away from the bar and tilts her head toward the saloon’s entrance. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Fine by me.” Santana rounds the corner of the bar, ducking out of the way when a twirling Matt and Quinn dance too close. As she passes Mike, she flips the end of the towel up into his face. He makes a grab for her, nearing snatching her about the waist, but she manages to skip out of his grasp. Laughing, she wiggles one index finger at Mike in a repressive gesture before flinging open the doors and stepping outside.
It’s midday, and the heat hits Santana like a sucker punch to the gut, stealing her breath. The bright yellow blaze of the sun beams down from the azure sky, and she feels her skin tighten and prickle in response. As hot as it is, the fresh air is a welcome change from the stuffy interior of the saloon, and she inhales deeply, filling her lungs to capacity before releasing the breath. There’s a train pulled in at the station, and people are streaming out of the depot, some strolling through town, others heading for waiting horses or wagons or stagecoaches to continue their journeys.
It’s a gorgeous day, and aside from the lingering ache in her head, Santana feels good. Light. Better than she has in years, like things are actually starting to go right. She’s closer to finding Finn than she ever has been, so close that she can almost imagine what it will be like to see him, touch him. Santana has never allowed herself to do that before, full of a superstitious fear that doing so would jinx her search, but now, things are different. She can feel it.
Beside her, Tina jostles her elbow impatiently, pulling her out of her ruminations. “If we keep standing here I’m either going to melt or burn to a crisp or both.”
Pursing her lips, Santana slants her a sardonic look. “Toughen up, Chang.”
“Easy for you to say, you’re already brown.” Tina links her arm through Santana’s and steps off the wooden porch, setting off across the wide, dusty street towards the bank a few doors down.
The local branch of Puckerman’s is housed in a surprisingly modest one-story building made of dusky red brick. Two windows are set on either side of the front door, both with the bank’s name etched in gold lettering onto the glass. Through them, Santana can see that the lobby is empty. Not even Jacob ben Israel, the usual clerk, is manning the counter that stretches along the length of the room.
“Looks like we’re in luck,” Tina says cheerfully. “With the train here, I’m surprised there’s not anyone--”
She jerks backward as her forward momentum is arrested by Santana having stopped dead in her tracks. “What’s your problem, Santana?” she demands.
From the corner of her eye, Santana is aware of the scowl fading from Tina’s face as Tina takes a good look at her, but Santana can’t make herself look at the other girl. She’s frozen, a kind of disbelieving fear bleeding through all her muscles and seizing them up, rendering her incapable of tearing her gaze away from what she sees a few dozen yards away. “Oh my God. No.”
“What?” Tina’s grip on her arm tightens to the point of pain, and she gives Santana a little shake. “Santana, what’s wrong?”
Terri Del Monaco and Shelby Corcoran are arm-in-arm, strolling casually along the storefronts in Santana’s direction.
“Shit.”
“What?” Tina’s head swivels as she follows Santana’s gaze. “Santana, who are those women?”
Tina’s question jerks Santana out of her horrified stupor, spurring her into motion. “Oh, God, I can’t let them see me, hurry!” Clutching desperately to Tina’s arm, Santana bounds forward the few remaining steps to Puckerman’s and flings open the door, darting inside and pulling Tina along with her.
“Wait, what--?”
Gasping, Santana presses her back flat against the inside of the front wall, out of sight of anyone looking through the windows. “Did they see me?” she pants. The panic is so all-encompassing that she can’t even be bothered to wonder what her former teachers and guardians are doing here. “Are they coming?”
Tina takes a cursory glance out the window before going to Santana, standing in front of her to command her attention. “No, no one saw you, no one’s coming,” she soothes. “Santana, what’s going on?”
“That’s Terri and Shelby,” Santana hisses.
Tina’s eyes widen almost comically. “Oh my God.” She grabs Santana’s hand and yanks her off the wall, hustling her behind the counter. A hallway stretches toward the back of the building, presumably leading offices and the bank’s vault. “Come on, we’ll go out the back, then circle around to--”
For the second time in as many minutes, Santana freezes, dragging Tina to a halt with her. “Tina.”
“What?” Santana points, and Tina’s line of sight follows her finger. “Christ. What the hell is going on?”
Behind the counter, out of sight of anyone looking through the front windows, Jacob ben Israel is laying bound and gagged on the floor.
“I have no idea,” Santana says.
Jacob whimpers around the gag, and before Santana can shush him, Tina drops to her knees at his side and begins to tug at the rope binding his ankles.
“Tina.” Santana glances down the hallway, but no one appears to investigate the noise; whoever had tied up Jacob must not have heard them come in. “What are you doing? We have to get out of here!”
“We can’t just leave him,” Tina replies. “Hurry up and help me untie him and we can all get out of here.”
Santana recognizes the stubborn set to Tina’s jaw and swears under her breath. “Fine,” she says, crouching opposite Tina. “But you should know your sense of responsibility is really fucking inconvenient.” Shooting a quelling glance at Jacob, she pulls the gag out of his mouth. “What’s going on?”
Jacob’s eyes are wide and glassy with panic, but he does an admirable job of following Santana’s unspoken order to be quiet. “The bank is being robbed,” he says breathlessly. “We have to get out of here. I have to find Sheriff Schuester!”
“Done,” Tina announces softly. She has produced a knife from somewhere and sliced through the rope binding Jacob’s ankles. “We’ll worry about his wrists later. Help me get him up, Santana.”
Tina helps him sit up, and they each grab one of Jacob’s arms and manage to heave him to his feet without much help from Jacob himself, whose legs seem to have cramped up. “We have to go out the front,” he says as the girls help him shuffle along. “They’re in the back, in the vault.”
“They?” The implication of Jacob’s words hit her, and Santana’s heart begins to beat faster. “How many robbers are there, two?”
“Yeah,” Jacob says, surprised. “How did you--”
“Don’t move.”
Something cold and hard presses into the back of Santana’s neck, the unexpected touch sending a shock of adrenaline-laced fear through her system. She doesn’t need to see the look of terror on Tina’s and Jacob’s faces to know that one of the robbers has pulled a gun on her.
“Tie him up again.” The gunman’s voice is low, with a muffled, almost artificial quality to it. “Slowly,” the robber adds as Tina retrieves the discarded length of rope from the floor. “And don’t try anything stupid. I’ll shoot her.”
Tina nods mutely. Jacob looks too terrified to do anything but stand completely still and gape at Santana.
The silence is interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway as someone quickly approaches the lobby from the back of the bank. “What’s going on?”
Santana’s brain immediately shuts down. It’s the only explanation for the fact that she spins around at the sound of the voice, oblivious of both the gun trained on her and the gunman’s order to stay still. She hears the gunman bark another command, feels the barrel of the gun dig into her ribs, but doesn’t really take notice of either. She’s too busy staring at the man standing at the threshold of the lobby.
He’s wearing dark pants and a dark vest under a brown duster, and is so tall and broad-shouldered that he seems to fill the entire doorway. A neat brown beard covers the lower half of his face, but does nothing to disguise his hollowed cheeks and shadowed eyes. He looks different--older, tired--but Santana would recognize those eyes anywhere, just as she recognized his voice. She bats the gun aside and takes a step toward the man, heedless of the possibility of being shot. “Finn?”
He looks at her, perplexed, and Santana can see the confusion in his eyes drain away and be replaced by shock and disbelief and cautious joy. “Santana?”
She nods, unable to force any sound through a throat that has suddenly gone tight. But it doesn’t matter, because Finn is there, wrapping long arms around her and pulling her close against his chest, tucking her head under his chin. They fit together as well as they ever did, and it’s warm and familiar and right. Finn still smells of horses and sweat and hay, and for the first time in years, Santana feels like she’s home.
Dimly, she hears Tina’s surprised squeak of “Finn Hudson? Oh, shit,” followed by Jacob’s horrified, “You know them? I have to get out of here.”
She expects it to be an idle threat, but Jacob’s fear must have boiled over into desperation, because the next thing Santana hears is the sharp smack of flesh on flesh, a pained grunt, and Jacob’s footsteps echoing on the wooden floor as he sprints across the lobby and out the front door. “It’s Hudson and the Kid!” he screams, voice fading as he flees. “They’re robbing the bank! Somebody get the sheriff!”
“Damn it.” Santana hears Finn’s voice as a deep bass rumble in his chest as he speaks. “How’d he get the drop on you?”
She pulls back from his embrace just enough to turn and look at the person he’s addressing. His partner is clad in dark trousers, a dingy white button-up shirt, and a battered black duster, with a cowboy hat tilted low at a face-obscuring angle and a Colt .45 clutched in one hand. Between the hat and the dark bandanna that is tied around the lower half of the gunman’s face, all Santana can see is a pair of cornflower blue eyes blazing hot from beneath furrowed blonde brows, and she knows she’s finally looking at Finn’s mysterious partner, the Sunshine Kid.
She also knows, immediately and without question, that the Sunshine Kid is a woman.
“I was distracted by your family reunion,” the Kid retorts. Even sharp with sarcasm and muffled by the bandanna that covers her mouth, her voice is light and feminine, and Santana wonders how the little detail of the Kid’s gender went unreported in the newspaper. “He took a swing and caught me in the temple. He was out the door before I could get my bearings and catch him.”
Finn is instantly all concern. “Are you okay?” Jealousy, envy, and suspicion flare in Santana all at once, and she wonders just what kind of relationship Finn has with this woman he’s been traveling with for so long. When the Kid grunts an indication of being fine, he continues, “He didn’t look like much.”
The Kid’s scowl deepens. “What did you want me to do, shoot him?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
It’s then that Santana notices the smell of gunpowder clinging to Finn, its acrid scent stinging her nostrils. As she steps back in an attempt to escape it, her brain seems to come roaring back to life, and she instinctively slugs Finn in the shoulder as hard as she can. “What the hell is going on?” she demands. “What are you doing here? Why are you tying people up and robbing banks?”
“Ow! Shit, Santana!” Finn rubs his arm and flicks her a baleful glance, and there’s the boy she remembers. “What was that for?”
“Being an idiot.”
“Guys.” Tina’s voice interrupts them, and Santana is ashamed to realize she’d forgotten the other girl was even there. She’s somehow managed to cross the room without anyone noticing, and is peeking out one of the front windows. “Artie and Sheriff Schuester and the Marshals are coming.” She looks over her shoulder at Santana, her expression grave. “And Terri and Shelby.”
Finn’s hands clench along Santana’s back. “What are those bitches doing here?” He glances down at Santana. “For that matter, what are you doing here?”
“I’ll explain later,” she says. “We have to go.”
“We?” the Kid echoes incredulously.
“You’re going with them?” Tina adds.
Santana ignores them both and looks expectantly at Finn, who is staring at her with a dubious expression.
He leans in close. “You don’t want to come with us,” he tells her in a low voice.
“I want to come with you,” Santana insists. She fists her hands in his shirt, pulling. “You’re not leaving me behind, Finn. Not again.”
She sees the conflict in his eyes and tells herself it’s because he’s trying to protect her like he always has. It can’t be because he doesn’t want her, or because she’s been replaced in his affections by the Kid.
Santana doesn’t expect to find support from that quarter. “Let her come, Finn,” his partner says quietly.
Her support seems to tip the scales in Santana’s favor, and Finn nods, resigned rather than enthused. It stings, but Santana pushes the feeling aside, turning back to face Tina, who is splitting her attention between what’s taking place inside the bank and what’s happening outside of it.
Running off with fugitives means Santana isn’t likely to see anyone from Emma’s Place again, a realization that is unexpectedly distressing. There are so many things she wants to say but doesn’t know how to express. She finally settles for, “I have to leave.”
Tina nods, understanding in her eyes, and Santana is profoundly grateful for having confided in her. “I’ll explain everything to Artie,” she says. “I know he’ll understand, and he’ll do what he can to slow down the Marshals.”
Santana isn’t so sure, but there isn’t time to argue, and there doesn’t seem to be much point in doing so anyway. She catches Tina up in a fierce hug. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“Be safe, Santana,” Tina murmurs against her ear. “Be happy.”
“We’re out of time,” the Kid says. “We have to leave, now, or we’ll be shooting our way out of town.”
Santana backs away from Tina’s embrace, feeling Finn’s hand fall on her shoulder. “You two go out the back,” he tells the Kid. He’s holding a Winchester rifle in his free hand. His eyes are hard and flat, and he looks like a stranger. “I’ll cover you from here, and meet up with you later.”
“Got it.” The Kid looks to Tina. “You’d better get down. Don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.” Her gaze slides to find Santana’s, and unexpectedly, she holds out her hand. “Come with me.”
Santana takes a deep breath and steps forward, reaching out to place her hand in the Kid’s, and for the second time that day, her mind goes absolutely blank.
Everywhere it’s pressed against the Kid’s, Santana’s hand tingles, a sensation that runs straight up her arm and into her chest, stealing her breath. Goosebumps spring up on her skin, and despite the heat of the day and the stillness of the interior of the bank, Santana has to fight back a shiver. She entertains the idea that bumping her head in the bar may be causing some kind of fit, but then she looks up into the Kid’s eyes, wide and shocked and blue, and knows the other girl is feeling everything that she is. In the small corner of her brain that is still capable of coherent thought, she wonders if it’s possible to stay standing this way forever. She can’t make herself move or look away.
She doesn’t have to. Glass shatters behind them as someone shoots through the front windows, and the Kid jerks Santana into her arms, turning them both away from the explosion of shards that rain down. Tina screams and drops to the floor, covering her head with her arms, and Finn glances at Santana and the Kid long enough to yell, “Run!” before bringing his rifle up and returning fire.
They do.
The Kid turns and pelts down the hallway, past offices and the vault, pulling Santana along behind her. She slams into the back door at close to a full run, shoving it open with her free hand and tumbling onto the back porch with Santana at her heels.
Santana has a split-second glimpse of a Marshal with a revolver clutched in his hand before the Kid lowers her shoulder and barrels into him, sending them both flying off the porch. They go down in a messy tangle of limbs, the Marshal flat on his back, the Kid sprawled on top of him, and somewhere in the midst of their struggle, the revolver discharges.
The gunshot is shockingly, deafeningly loud, but does nothing to disguise the Kid’s grunt of surprised pain. It sends a rush of renewed fear spiking through Santana’s blood and she moves without thinking, leaping off the porch and wresting the gun away from the Marshal, who is still struggling to free himself from beneath the Kid. She brings the butt of the revolver down on his head once, twice, and on the third try finally manages to knock him unconscious.
Santana drops into a crouch and helps the Kid sit back on her heels. “Are you okay?” Her voice sounds thin and reedy to her own ears, and her hands are trembling as she reaches up to cup the Kid’s jaw. She feels weak with adrenaline and nerves. “Are you hurt?”
Blue eyes blink back at her in confusion. “He shot me.”
The Kid sounds so genuinely bewildered that Santana has to clamp down on the hysterical urge to giggle. “You’re a bank robber,” she says instead. “And you tackled him. What did you expect him to do?”
“Ask me nicely to surrender?” She puts one hand on Santana’s knee and pushes herself to her feet, wobbling slightly. “Whoa.”
Santana follows her up, dropping her hands to Kid’s elbows to steady her. “Where are you hit?”
“My arm,” the Kid says, glancing at her left arm. There’s a powder burn around a torn spot in her duster, and Santana can see blood beginning to soak through the material. Concerned, she reaches out to examine the wound, but the Kid grabs her hand and hangs on to it. “It’s not bad. Come on, we need to get out of here.”
Several more gunshots ring out from the front of the bank, bolstering her argument, and the Kid quickly leads Santana to the nearby hitching post. Two horses are tied up, one completely brown, the other chestnut and white. “Help me untie these.”
She sways on her feet as she speaks, and Santana peers into her eyes again; they’re wide and glassy. Santana nudges her toward one of the horses. “You just get into the saddle, okay? I’ll take care of the horses.”
The Kid scowls at her but doesn’t bother to argue, and Santana knows that her injury is worse than she’s letting on.
Fear makes her fingers feel thick and clumsy, and by the time she finishes untying both sets of reins, screams and gunshots are a constant chorus.
The Kid is perched atop the brown horse; Santana hands her it’s reins. “You’re with me,” she says. “Hop on.”
With more speed than grace, Santana climbs up behind the Kid and settles astride the horse. Her arms snake around the other girl’s waist, and as she leans forward, she can smell the warm coppery scent of blood. “Are you okay to do this?”
“I’m the one who knows where we’re going,” she replies, and as if to prove her point, digs her heels into the horse’s flank and takes off at a gallop. There’s nothing behind the bank but empty, undeveloped plains, and in the distance, a treeline. The Kid heads straight for the mesquites and live oaks, and the cover they’ll provide from the town and any trailing lawmen.
“What about Finn?”
“He’ll know where to find us.” Santana can barely hear the Kid’s answer over the rush of wind in her ears and the thunder of the horse’s hooves on the dry, hard-packed earth. “Just hang on!” she yells, and spurs the horse even faster.
Santana closes her eyes and presses her forehead against the other girl’s shoulder, deciding to take her advice.
---
Santana loses track of time as they ride. The adrenaline slowly fades from her system, leaving her spent and shaky. If she weren't so exhausted, she’d be annoyed by her own weakness, but it takes all of her concentration to hang on to the Kid. Eventually, lulled by the steadiness of the horse’s gait and the warmth of the afternoon sun on her back, Santana dozes off.
She jolts back into wakefulness when she feels the Kid start to slip sideways off the saddle. “Hey!” Santana clenches her right arm more tightly around the other girl’s waist, and reaches with her left hand to snag the reins that have fallen out of the Kid’s slackened grip. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”
“Fine, fine. Just a little woozy.” She shakes her head, and then to Santana’s consternation, tries four times to take the reins back before finally managing to grab them.
“You’re not fine, you’re about to pass out.” Santana pulls the Kid back closer against her body, turning her slightly in the saddle so she can look at her injured arm. Dark blood stains the ragged hole in her duster and has soaked all the way down to the cuff of the coat to drip off in swollen drops. “You need to let me look at your arm.”
“We need to keep going,” the Kid retorts. “We can’t stop until we get to the rendezvous point.”
“What’s the rush?” Santana asks. “If any of the Marshals were following us, I would have been shot in the back by now.”
“If we don’t get there before Finn does, he’s going to worry.”
“He should worry; you’ve been shot!”
The Kid cranes her neck around to glare at Santana. “You’re just going to keep arguing with me, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry, did you miss the part where you almost passed out and fell off the horse?” Santana demands.
To her surprise, the Kid gives an amused snort. She’s still wearing her hat and bandanna, but from the way her eyes crinkle at the outer corners, Santana suspects she’s smiling. “Compromise?”
Santana studies her through narrowed eyes. “It depends. What do you have in mind?”
“We keep going, and when we get to where we’re going, I let you look at my arm.”
“That’s not a compromise, that’s you getting your way.”
“Is it? My mistake.”
Santana reins in her frustration and speaks through clenched teeth. “And what am I going to do if you do pass out and fall off the horse? I couldn’t get you back up on it by myself. You’re not exactly petite.”
“You’re not going to let me pass out or fall off.” The Kid turns back around and settles Santana’s arm more tightly around her own waist. “You’re going to talk to me so I stay awake, and hang on to me so I don’t fall off.”
“That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” Santana mutters, but she sighs and settles closer against the other girl’s back. “Who are you?”
“I’m the Sunshine Kid. Don’t tell me you haven’t read about me in the papers.”
Santana squeezes her ribs until the Kid lets out an indignant yelp. “You’re already on thin ice. Don’t push me.”
To her credit, the Kid seems to pick up on Santana’s genuine irritation and sobers immediately. “I’m Brittany Pierce,” she says. “And you’re Santana Lopez. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“What do you mean, finally?” Santana asks warily.
“You’re Finn’s sister,” Brittany says simply. “You’re practically all he talks about. It gets kind of annoying, really.”
Santana can hear the smile in Brittany’s voice, but all she can focus on is what she’s said. “Finn talks about me?”
“All the time.” She pauses, then adds carefully, “You didn’t think he forgot about you, did you?”
Santana swallows around the lump in her throat, blinking rapidly against the hot tears that suddenly sting her eyes. When that doesn’t work, she reaches up with her free hand to swipe them away with the backs of her knuckles. “Of course not, don’t be stupid.”
“You did,” Brittany says, incredulous. “Santana, why do you think he’s been robbing banks?”
“I don’t know!” Santana practically shouts the words, and once she starts talking, she can’t make herself stop. “All I know is that he left. He left, and my father died, and then his mother did too, and I was all alone. You can’t imagine what that’s like.”
“I don’t have to imagine,” Brittany says quietly. She rests her arm on top of the one Santana has around her waist and squeezes her hand. “I know.”
Santana gulps for air, trying to get herself under control. She leans her forehead against Brittany’s shoulder and murmurs against her back. “He said he’d come back for me, but he never did. When he started showing up in the papers, I decided I’d find him, so I ran away. That was two years ago.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “Why didn’t he come back?”
“He wanted to.” Brittany tugs on the reins, bringing the horse to a stop, and cranes her head around to look at Santana. “It’s all he’s ever wanted. That’s why we rob banks, to get enough money so Finn can pay off that Sheriff Tanaka character and go back without being arrested. He loves you, Santana.”
Brittany’s voice is full of sincerity, and Santana’s heart aches with wanting to believe her. She looks away from the open compassion in Brittany’s eyes, embarrassed by her vulnerability and unsettled by her inability to control her emotions in front of this girl, this stranger. She clears her throat and changes the subject. “You told me your name, but I still don’t know who you are.”
“I’m Finn’s partner.” Brittany tugs the bandanna down off her face, revealing a crooked smile. “I’m your stand-in.”
She’s gorgeous. Dusty and bloody and battered as she is, Brittany is still easily the most beautiful girl that Santana has ever seen. Santana is thunderstruck, and tries desperately not to goggle at her. “Stand-in?” she echoes dumbly. “What--what do you mean?”
“Finn couldn’t have you, so he needed a replacement. A temporary replacement,” she amends hastily. “You know, a surrogate sister for his surrogate sister.”
“Wait. Just, wait.” Santana’s head begins to ache, and she pinches the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. “You’re Finn’s sister.”
Brittany shrugs. “Well, not officially or anything, not like you are, but yeah.”
“Then you’re not...with him.”
“With him? You mean in a romantic sense?” Santana nods, and Brittany’s nose crinkles in distaste. “No. I mean I love Finn, but no, not like that.” Her expression turns inquisitive. “What makes you ask?”
“Nothing. I mean, I just assumed--I don’t know. It’s been a long day.” Santana waves her question aside. “Why did we stop? I thought you were in a hurry to get to this rendezvous point of yours.”
“I am, but if we show up and Finn’s there and you’re still upset because you think he abandoned you, you’re going to fight with him. I hate fighting.”
“But you rob banks,” Santana says blankly. “You fight with the law all the time.”
Brittany rolls her eyes and huffs. “I explained all that.” She turns back around and flicks the reins, and the horse starts off at a trot. “I didn’t say I liked being a bank robber, I just said I was one.”
“Then why do you do it? I mean you, not Finn. How did you end up with him?”
“That’s a long story,” Brittany deflects. “And part of it is Finn’s to tell. I’d rather you let him explain a few things first, and then I’ll tell you how I come in.”
“But you will tell me.”
“If you really want to know,” she agrees. “Why are you so curious?”
“Because you’ve been with my brother when I couldn’t be,” Santana says. “I want to get to know you. I have to.”
“I didn’t lead him into a life of crime, if that’s what you think.”
“No, I don’t think that.” Santana’s denial is automatic, a lie meant to keep the peace, but as she considers her words, she’s surprised to find that she means them. It’s hard to imagine Brittany, with her bright smile and her sympathetic eyes, as some sort of manipulative temptress out to lead Finn astray.
Brittany makes a pleased noise. “Well, I’m glad. But are you always this trusting?”
“No,” Santana answers honestly. “No I’m not.”
Brittany doesn’t respond, and Santana is content to leave the conversation there. Something about the other girl encourages Santana to drop her guard, and she doesn’t like it. Bad enough that Tina and the others from Emma’s were able to get under her skin; she doesn’t need another person to do the same. She’s been on her own too long to handle much more emotion than what she’s dealt with the past few weeks, and there’s still Finn to consider. No matter what Brittany says or how sincerely she says it, Santana needs to hear Finn say that he loves her, that he always planned to come back for her. She hates herself a little for needing it as much as she does.
Part 3