"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
"Miss Matthews," he said, his voice low but steady, "Dont say that I didn't give you a chance."
Before she could respond, Duncan closed the distance between them in a few purposeful strides. With one swift motion, he bent, slipped an arm behind her knees, and hoisted her up and over his shoulder as though she weighed no more than a sack of flour.
Zenobia neither objected nor co-operated, she acted like said sack of flour, merely making a little involuntary grunt as the big man lifted her.
As he walked with her slung over his shoulder his voice low, carrying a mix of exasperation and amusement. "Stubborn woman, refuses to ride unless it’s in a carriage. Unfortunately, that ain't an option."
It was not a particularly uncomfortable ride, even if it was undignified. But at least she could tell herself, in a week or so, as she stood on the gallows ready to hang, that she had not walked to her death willingly, they she had been dragged to it: carried to it by main force.
As he reached the horse he set her down onto the saddle with surprising gentleness but not without a warning look. "Now, unless you plan to jump off and walk back to your prison cell, you're stayin' right there," he said, adjusting the reins so she could hold them, then making sure the tether from her horse to his was secure as well. "We’ve got a long ride ahead of us."
"My brother used to ride it in five days, but he had remounts." she commented in a slight daze. This was unreal. She was in shock. She was being taken to die. She couldn't really take it in, so she fell back on commonplaces.
Duncan made sure that Zenobia herself was secure and set before he moved to Róisín (Little Rose). "Faintly ridiculous, am I?" he muttered under his breath, adjusting the reins and swinging himself up one smooth motion onto his horse. Using his knees he maneuvered Róisín and they started off.
The jolt of her horse following the other broke the woman out of her morbid reverie and she was back to her old snappy self.
"What happened to 'tying me to the horse'?'" she asked dryly.
"Justice doesn’t always wait for the law to catch up."
Duncan glanced over his shoulder, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I decided you’d manage without the rope. Call it misplaced faith, or maybe I just didn't want to waste good knots on you."
He turned back to the trail, adjusting his hat against the rising sun. His voice dropped to a murmur, just loud enough for her to hear. "Besides, if you’re planning to make a break for it, I’d rather you try something interesting. Gives me a reason to stretch my legs." Without looking back, "Just remember that your horse is faster than you are, and so am I."
As they rode along, patting Róisín on her neck, his eyes occasionally flicked back toward Zenobia, her posture tense yet defiant, her expression unreadable. She didn’t look like a killer to him—not the wild-eyed, bloodthirsty sort he’d dragged in before. But then again, murder came in all shapes and faces.
He sighed quietly, turning his gaze back to the trail. The verdict was the law’s business, not his. The judge had heard the evidence, weighed it, and delivered his sentence. But even now, the details nagged at him. A father, dead at his daughter’s hand. And not just any father, but her father—the man meant to protect her, guide her, be better for her.
He didn’t like the idea of hanging a woman, especially one who might have had no other choice. But that wasn’t a decision for him to make. Whether he believed the law was right or wrong didn’t matter. His job wasn’t to pass judgment. All he could do was make sure she got to Kalispell in one piece. Whether or not she deserved the gallows... that was between her and the Almighty now. But the thought of her standing on that scaffold, her head held high despite the rope around her neck... it was a sight he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forget.
Javia
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
Duncan glanced over his shoulder, the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I decided you’d manage without the rope. Call it misplaced faith, or maybe I just didn't want to waste good knots on you."
“Call it the knots, I don’t want you to have any faith in me, misplaced or not, thank you very much, Marshall.” she replied curtly.
He turned back to the trail, adjusting his hat against the rising sun. His voice dropped to a murmur, just loud enough for her to hear. "Besides, if you’re planning to make a break for it, I’d rather you try something interesting. Gives me a reason to stretch my legs." Without looking back, "Just remember that your horse is faster than you are, and so am I."
“I don’t expect to escape, Mister Kerrigan” she told his back.
She looked around. They were passing some drab houses, heading out of Helena. Not a very exciting sight but one which she would never see again. It was poignant in a way, she supposed, but she was not an overly emotional woman – cold, she had been called. Maybe the trial would have gone better for her if she’d been able to produce some crocodile tears, as her lawyer Reeve had suggested.
But that was beneath her: they could take her as she was - and if they didn’t like it, well, they could lump it.
Suddenly she geed up her pony and caught up with Duncan, riding abreast.
“What are your plans” she demanded “We’ll be a good few days on the road: where are we going to sleep? What are we going to eat? What about…" she looked away from him a second "... ablutions?”
She tried to sound dignified as she said the word."
@[Jhwulfven]
"Justice doesn’t always wait for the law to catch up."
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
“Well, Miss Matthews,” he said finally, his tone measured, “it won’t be a luxurious journey, but it’ll be manageable. Nights, we’ll camp wherever we can find decent ground. I’ve got a bedroll and tent for shelter if the weather turns. The sheriff supplied us with rations—beans, jerky mostly and some biscuits if they haven’t crumbled to dust yet. Water comes from the skins or whatever creek we come across. Not the best, but it’ll hold us.” He paused, trying to gauge her reaction before continuing.
“Roughing it, then.” Zenobia concluded curtly “Mr Twain would be impressed, I’m sure.”
She’d read it once and never cracked a smile throughout. Her brothers were appalled. ‘I was laughing inside’, she’d told them.
“As for… other necessities,” he said, his voice dipping slightly, “you’ll have to make do with the open range. There’s plenty of space out here, and I’ll give you the privacy you need.”
“A little too open for me” she murmured: the lack of cover would not only be humiliating during toilet stops, but would also preclude any chance of running, or rather hobbling, away.
“You’ll manage just fine,” he added, his voice softening. “You strike me as someone who doesn’t scare easily.” He shifted his gaze back to the trail, suppressing a sigh.
“Who said I’m scared?!” she snapped defensively “I just want to know the arrangements.”
She pursed her lips and remained silent as they rode.
After a couple of miles, she asked “Are you married, Mr Kerrigan?”
"Justice doesn’t always wait for the law to catch up."
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
"Justice doesn’t always wait for the law to catch up."
Duncan kept his eyes on the trail, the soft shuffle of his horse's hooves a welcome distraction from her words. Still, her voice seemed to wrap around his thoughts like a coil of barbed wire, pressing into places he'd rather leave untouched. She said it so matter-of-factly, like it was some universal truth he’d been too blind or cowardly to see.
He adjusted his hat, buying himself a moment, but her words kept digging. "If you love someone, you wait." Was it really that simple? Could she be right? He thought back to faces and moments he'd buried—the girl he'd left behind, her letters growing shorter and less frequent, until they stopped altogether. Had she loved him less, or had he been the one to fail, giving her nothing but ghostly promises and silence in return?
Duncan shifted in the saddle, clearing his throat, his voice low and steady, but there was a weight to it. "Maybe you're right," he admitted finally. "Maybe if a love's real, it don't bend or break under the wait. But not everyone’s made for that kind of faith. Some folks are just... too human for it." He glanced at her briefly, his blue eyes sharp but shadowed. "And truth is, I reckon I’m not worth that kind of love."
That last part lingered in his mind longer than he meant it to, and the trail ahead blurred for a moment. Because deep down, he knew she was right—if you loved someone enough, you’d wait. Maybe the real question wasn’t about the waiting, but whether he’d ever been worthy of being waited for.
The quiet between them stretched, broken only by the rhythmic clop of hooves. His chest tightened at her declaration, her tone too certain, too casual for something so violent. Killed for love. The idea stirred something uneasy deep in his gut, a mixture of fascination and dread.
He finally turned his head slightly toward her, his voice quiet but edged with a cautious curiosity. "What kind of love is worth killing for?" His tone was steady, but his question carried a weight he wasn’t sure he wanted to explore.
Javia
"Go ahead and hang me, it was worth it!"
"Maybe you're right," he admitted finally. "Maybe if a love's real, it don't bend or break under the wait. But not everyone’s made for that kind of faith. Some folks are just... too human for it." He glanced at her briefly, his blue eyes sharp but shadowed. "And truth is, I reckon I’m not worth that kind of love."
"Poppycock" she said dismissively. "No one is 'worth it' or 'not worth it'. It just is. It is an attraction. A magnetic attraction: you can have it for the best person in the world... or the wickedest. And when two people feel it for each other, it can be heaven or it can be deadly." She looked out at the never-ending prairie stretching ahead of them "In my case it was both."
He finally turned his head slightly toward her, his voice quiet but edged with a cautious curiosity. "What kind of love is worth killing for?" His tone was steady, but his question carried a weight he wasn’t sure he wanted to explore.
She looked across at him, too. She shrugged. "The kind you end up killing for... I suppose."
Then she shook her head.
"Oh, I do hate people being cryptic! I'll tell you straight. When your father is beating you to death in the street but you put up with it because you've always put up with it, and then your lover comes along and you know... you just know... that he will kill that miserable son of a bitch, so you grab a gun and shoot your dear beloved bastard of a father first so that you'll be the one to hang, not the man you love... that's when love is real. You don't make decisions about love... love makes decisions for you."
Maybe she should have said that in court, instead of sitting there silent, stiff-backed and staring daggers at the judge.
"Justice doesn’t always wait for the law to catch up."
Her words echoed in his mind, sharp and raw, like the snap of a gunshot. He’d heard plenty of stories of violence, betrayal, and desperation in his line of work, but her bluntness struck something deeper. There was no apology in her tone, no attempt to justify herself. Just the truth, laid bare.
Duncan took a slow breath, letting the weight of her words settle into the quiet. “Sounds like you made a choice,” he said finally, his voice even. “A choice to love someone enough to give them a chance at freedom. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but I reckon it wasn’t about fairness, was it? It was about... protecting something you couldn’t bear to lose.”
He tipped his hat back slightly, glancing at her without turning his head fully. “A lot of folks don’t understand what it’s like to be cornered like that. To live in a place where every choice feels like the wrong one, but you make it anyway. That takes a kind of courage.”
His mind wandered back to his own past, to the mistakes he’d made and the choices he’d regretted. He thought of Isidora, the ghost of her laughter, and the silent spaces between them. He wondered what lines he might have crossed if things had been different.
Finally, he turned to face her, his blue eyes steady but soft. “I’m not saying you were wrong. Maybe there wasn’t a right way out of it. But I reckon love—real love—ain’t just about surviving the worst of it. It’s about finding a way to make something better out of it. Something that lasts.”
“And maybe,” he added, almost to himself, “sometimes we only see the shape of that love after the dust has settled.”
Javia