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snowbellewells · 2 years

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Fic Update: “The Lawman, the Thief, and the Outlaw” {Chapter Five}

Wow, I can really only apologize for taking so long between updates. It certainly isn’t intentional, and I hope to do better in the future, but all the same I appreciate the enthusiasm and continued loyalty from those reading this. If it’s any consolation, I already have the next chapter started as well, so hopefully it will be on its way to you in much shorter order. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy chapter five!

**Many thanks once again to @searchingwardrobes for the wonderful cover art she gifted me for this story!

Summary: Sheriff Killian Jones has done his best to leave behind a troubled past and bring law and order to the town of Blanchard Ridge. However, when he upholds his duty in the face of the most feared and dangerous outlaw gang in the area, allies are few and he dreads trapping them in the same situation he finds himself. The small Western town is about to become a powder keg, and one lawman, his deputies, and a resourceful woman too stubborn for her own good are all that stand in the way of bloodshed and lawlessness... {A Rio Bravo movie AU}

Previous Chapters: Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four

And this chapter also available on AO3

Chapter Five

After Pan Malcolm’s visit to the jail, what little ease and certainty in his actions which Killian had managed to gather was more or less shattered. He could gamble with his own life in pursuit of upholding the law; he’d known that was part of the job signing on, and a part of him had felt he had little to lose in those early days when he washed up in Blanchard Ridge, alone, disillusioned, self-loathing and lost. But now? A town full of people looked to him for safety and guidance, and he had deputies under him who merely wanted honest work and fair wages, not working to right past wrongs or atone for mistakes with their own lives and limbs. Truth be told, he wasn’t at all sure that Smee didn’t largely stay out of some misplaced sense of loyalty and an old outcast’s need for companionship. If Malcolm and his gang attacked before the Marshalls arrived, if they already had emissaries stationed secretly in town biding their time - and Killian would bet money that Pan had done just that; the outlaw was crafty and it was only smart strategizing, it’s what he would do himself were their roles reversed - when the onslaught came, innocent people would be hurt, or even killed. He wasn’t sure how he’d settle with others paying for his determination to see through the letter of the law. Stubbornness, more like, he could practically hear an echo of Liam’s voice chiding ruefully in his ear. ‘You let him goad you with my name, little brother,’ the inner voice seemed to chide. Shaking his head as if to rid it of the beloved timbre reminding him of truth he would rather not admit, Killian hissed a curse and began to pace agitatedly in the narrow alley running behind the jail, out of sight. He had let the villain’s mention of his sibling, and how he had been lost, get to him. He’d shown his opponent just how tender that wound still was, even after all the time gone by.

Blowing out a long breath and redetermining to maintain a cool head, Killian squared his shoulders and strode purposefully back into the jail. Taking stock of things, all seemed quiet on the surface, but he shot a rapid, quelling glance toward Nightshade’s cell, just in case the deviant decided to comment or mock with the bravado his boss had no doubt aimed to instill. He’d have no more of it, and the two-bit hood might as well know that right off. Nightshade, however, seemed - at present anyway - to know what was good for him. He was already slouched in the back corner of his bunk, looking up to meet the Sheriff’s eyes only briefly before he dropped his own gaze once more in seeming disinterest. The prisoner spoke not a word, and Jones counted himself lucky. Will was still out on morning sentry duty, and Smee had finished clearing up from breakfast and was seated at the somewhat rickety table in the center of the room, perusing the latest copy of the Ridge’s weekly gazette.

“Keep an eye on things for a bit, aye?” Killian murmured to his compatriot lowly as he headed to the door. “Probably about time I made a bit of a lap around the square. Make certain our visitor didn’t leave anyone behind to cause trouble.”

“Yep,” Smee agreed simply, knowing his boss didn’t want to say too much in front of their jailed guest, who was almost certainly listening and taking in every word no matter how unconcerned he might appear. “You got it, Boss.”

Once out on the wooden porch at the jail’s entrance, Killian felt a crest of morning breeze on his face. The day was shaping up to be a hot one, but the humidity wasn’t in full force yet, and the air moving over his skin was a refreshing change after the tense air and volatile emotions in the enclosed space he’d just vacated. It was hard to believe it was still mid-morning after all that had already occurred. Proceeding down the steps, Killian turned right and proceeded at the edge of the dirt street in the direction of the blacksmith at the far end of the main thoroughfare; then, he’d work his way back along the other side of the street all the way up to where Will stood guard at the town’s main gate, then back to the boardinghouse across from his starting point. Once he’d made a circuit of the shops, businesses and bars to see that nothing was amiss or that no one suspicious was lingering around. He’d stop in for some of Margaret Nolan’s exemplary vittles for lunch, before taking some to Will and trading places with his deputy for the afternoon.

That decided, Killian moved forward with a bit more ease and assurance, keeping his attention sharp and eyes peeled all the while. Other than the scare when Robin’s cattle drive had rolled into town and the rancher had taken the bullet to his shoulder, the town had been quiet. More quiet than usual even, and it had never been a social hub by any stretch. Now though, the stillness in Blanchard Ridge’s deserted streets was unsettling; as if everyone around were holding their breath, looking over their shoulders so trouble couldn’t get a jump on them.

Killian hated to see such trepidation upsetting the daily life of good, hard-working people who’d given a purpose to his aimless, drifting life once more. As the law in the area, he couldn’t help but feel he had failed them with the threat hanging so low over their heads. He’d upheld the law, stuck to his guns, and refused to let Malcolm bully him - but were his citizenry paying the price if they were afraid to come into town to trade their wares, buy supplies, and gab with their neighbors for a spell on the boardwalk?

These heavy thoughts weighing on his mind, Killian had passed the livery and blacksmith, with only a small startle to rattle his nerves from a loose shutter swinging wide in the breeze and a donkey braying loudly in alarm. He peeked into the mercantile and the dry good store to see those few who were about quietly browsing and selecting their purchases. He was nearly at the head of the street, tipping his hat by way of acknowledgement to Scarlet; a gesture the younger man returned with ease - signaling all was well for the moment. Then, Killian swung wide to head back in the direction he’d come on the other side of the street.

Passing by the swinging door of the saloon, Jones frowned to notice that even the revelry from that sordid establishment was much muted, though he could hear the tinkling of the old piano from inside, occasionally joined by the jovial bellow of some inebriated warbler who thought he could carry a tune. He heard a strident voice calling out drinks from the bar and the rise and fall of a few voices in raucous laughter, but it was nothing like the hullabaloo that generally resounded from the place night and day, and even spilled out onto the street quite frequently.

Still, despite the easy view and general peace that would have made troublemakers stand out plainly, Killian could find nothing amiss - only felt it in his bones. By the time he had passed Dr. Hopper’s small clinic and Miss French’s tiny lending library within the entry of the schoolhouse during the summer months, he was nearing Nolan’s boardinghouse once again with little to show for his diligent patrolling efforts. Not that he wanted a shootout or any such violence to erupt in the middle of town where far too many innocents could be hurt - but at the same time, this stalemate had to break. The tension was crawling under his skin, and waiting for the strike he knew must be coming was slowing driving him crazy.

In an attempt to put from his mind what couldn’t be changed, Killian entered the boardinghouse doors and made his way to Margaret’s bustling restaurant. Her noon meal was a well-known treat, and the place was still well filled, even at well past noon. Thankfully, Jones found his preferred table in the back corner, where he had a good view of the entire dining area and clear into the parlor as well. Even if it meant he rarely found himself able to fully relax, he dreaded letting his guard down - needing to be ready for any eventuality.

A bit of the weight on his shoulders lightened when he saw Margaret Nolan herself, deep black hair piled high on her head as she worked right alongside her cooks and waitresses. A few strands escaped to lay in dark ringlets against her pale alabaster skin, and she moved with a cultured grace which made her appear to fairly float from one table to another as she checked on each of her guests. Busy as she was however, a fresh baked pie balanced in each hand, she beamed when she caught sight of him with a bright smile and warm friendliness he was not sure what he had done to deserve. Before he even seemed to blink, she was bustling over with a piece of fresh strawberry pie on a plate for him. Placing it in front of him, she fussed. “Afternoon, Killian. We’re hopping in here as always, but someone will take your order shortly. You look famished though, and I know strawberry is your favorite, so you go ahead and enjoy this while you wait.”

Nodding in pleased satisfaction when he dutifully picked up his fork, took a bite, and closed his eyes to savor the tart-sweet flavor on his tongue, she looked pleased as punch with his reaction before patting him on the shoulder at his “much obliged” and then hurrying on to her next customer.

He waited a few minutes, taking in the clientele and nodding to those he knew scattered about the large, bustling room. He had a bit of sweet tooth that he tried not to overindulge, so he was quite enjoyed his homemade dessert first until he could be served his lunch. And then he received a gift in gilded lighting, for who but Emma Swan should come to take his order?

“Well,” she drawled, her look rather sardonic as she angled her chin toward his pie, already half-devoured before him, “it would seem you hardly need me to take your order, Sheriff.” Despite her playfully scolding tone, Killian noticed that she held a small pad of paper and pencil in her hand, ready to take down what he needed.

“Mrs. Nolan takes good care of me, I’ll admit to that, Lass,” he dipped his head in agreement, “but I was hoping to have more than pie for my noon meal. It’ll be late before I’m off guard duty at the gates this evening.”

Miss Swan seemed unable to remain completely unmoved, her eyelashes fluttered slightly as she smiled at him with genuine encouragement. “It sounds like you have some long, boring hours before you. You had better get yourself something with substance.”

Killian hummed a mild sort of agreement in his throat before ordering his favorite - fried chicken with green beans and some of Mrs. Nolan’s fragrantly warm and fresh baked bread on the side. It was a good thing he rode, patrolled, and generally got as much exercise as he did in his job - the juicy, tender, fried poultry that Margaret Nolan could make to practically meet in a man’s mouth, would have been showing on him by now in most unflattering ways otherwise.

“Wise choice,” Emma nodded, giving him a wink as if it were some understanding between them rather than the most popular dish in the place - and the day’s posted special.

He couldn’t fight the lopsided grin he returned at her sass, before thanking her and watching her begin to move off toward the kitchens. Happily, he was just pondering how she seemed to be warming to him a bit, at least enough to show a more playful side, when he saw movement off to the edge of his vision. Instantly on alert, his eyes narrowed at the rather large and unfamiliar looking man seated at a table right in Emma’s path back to the kitchen. The stranger clearly had his eye on Miss Swan, and though it was a free country and Swan was a grown woman at liberty to interact with whomsoever she chose, Killian didn’t like the hungry attention being leveled at her just then as the ruffian leaned back in his chair, effectively blocking Emma’s walkway with a sly grin. That look spoke less of choice and more of a predator sizing up his prey.

Killian found himself already rising to his feet, even as the man reached out a hand to catch Emma’s elbow when she attempted to squeeze by him. His jaw clenched at the sound of the obviously inebriated and lecherous taunt which met his ears as the cowboy spoke laconically. “Hey, hey, there, Missy, what’s your hurry? I don’t believe I’ve seen you before, and I sure wouldn’t mind a second look.”

His buddies around the table guffawed and hooted loudly at his sorry excuse for humor, egging him on in his ribald introduction.

Hesitating only a moment to see what Emma’s response might be, making sure not to step in where he wasn’t needed, Killian clenched his jaw tightly to hold back from calling out a warning across the crowded cafe. His hand hovered warily over the gun holstered at his hip, despite knowing that Margaret Nolan would have his head if he was the catalyst for shots flying in her establishment. He was also the sheriff and in charge of protecting the citizenry, particularly innocent young women from the unwanted attentions of troublesome rogues.

For a second, he wanted to laugh aloud at the huff of indignation Emma Swan released at the man’s brash forwardness. He should have known she would be more than capable of making her mind clear on matters without his assistance. A wiser suitor would have seen from the way she looked down her nose at him, clearly annoyed at his halting her progress while working, and more than a bit repulsed by his belittling address and unwanted grasp on her arm, that she was uninterested in his attentions and let the matter drop. Killian could have laughed aloud, when she replied tartly. “My name isn’t Missy. And while you are correct, we haven’t met, I’m working right now, you’re in my way, and I think I’ll survive remaining unacquainted to one so free with his hands.” She shrugged him off firmly with a push to get free, and in doing so, unbalanced the cad’s chair, which clattered over, depositing him on the floor in an undignified heap.

His companions laughed good naturedly, echoing that she’d sure told him and wishing better luck next time, while Emma turned and started back on her way with a deep cleansing breath and squared shoulders. Killian was beginning to relax and gladly thinking that she hadn’t needed his intervention at all - that she’d saved herself quite handily - when the ruffian righted himself and leapt to his feet with an angered roar, knife in his hand pulled from somewhere, and starting after Emma with a shout.

Killian was on his feet in an instant, long-dormant but still present reflexes of a less savory life, where one lived or died by swift reactions and skill with a gun. Before most others in the room registered that the drama was still ongoing, or could have made a move to aid the young woman being threatened, he was across the crowded dining room and wrenching the other man’s arm back as he came up on his unguarded flank. Further uproar rose all around them, as the stranger’s table companions called out in affront, several locals at nearby tables called out in alarm or stood to move closer in trying to help or see what was happening. Miss Swan meanwhile, having heard the first shout, then a scuffle and uproar, had turned to see what was happening, only to glimpse her unwanted admirer whirling to slash at Sheriff Jones, who had hold of him by one arm, with the knife he held in the other.

Adeptly dodging the strike, which came at him wild in the heat of anger rather than any sort of skilled precision, Killian met her wide eyes briefly and gave a curt shake of his head to warn her back, almost as if he could sense without a word passing between them that her fiery temper was returning to her and she was considering diving into the fray herself. While by some miracle those around them seemed to have gathered their best move was to stay back and allow the lawman and his challenger to fight things out, it was still a fraught situation with far too many changing variables for Killian’s liking. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to bring the other man under control - to secure the arm he gripped behind the man’s back and knock the blade from the offender’s grasp. However, though slighter than Jones, his opponent was tall and wiry and flailing wildly - seeming almost frenzied with both anger and now wounded pride as well. When, one of his fellows at the table called out, “Hey Vic, you need a hand?” Killian wanted to dismiss it as a buddy giving a hard time, maybe even an attempt at defusing the situation, but he couldn’t bank on it.

A hurried glance over his shoulder revealed the other members of the unfamiliar group still seated rigidly, tense, and apparently unsure how to proceed, he could only feel a momentary relief that he was not in immediate danger of being swarmed by the whole gang. Unfortunately, even that second’s shift in focus allowed his slippery opponent to get a clear shot and dive in for brutal attack. Swift as a breath, the knife slipped between Killian’s arms, grappling to regain firmer hold, and sliced through shirt and skin both on his left side, under his ribs.

It was enough to steal his breath, the slash and ensuing fiery pain knocking him back on his heels, a frightening pounding agony seeming to radiate in his gut. He’d been hurt, both on the job and in his checkered past, multiples times - and bore the scars to prove it, but that didn’t make the vicious and sudden cut any less staggering. He could tell without looking that the man, through sheer luck or more skill than he’d reckoned, had made a long and deep enough gash to prove serious if he had to keep fighting much longer. He could already feel blood beginning to leak down his side, wetting his shirt with a sticky, unmistakable warmth.

“Jones!” he heard Emma Swan cry out in distress, as he stumbled, but managed to keep his feet. He’d be suffering much worse if his attacker struck again. Chaos seemed to ensue from all sides - people screaming, yelling, shouting out orders, some running away and others pressing forward. His senses nearly reeled, leaving him vaguely dizzy, but Killian managed with some last herculean and desperate burst of strength, to swing a punch that struck his assailant square on the chin and stunned the other man in return. Shoulders fairly slumping in relief, Killian managed to at last pry the knife from loosened fingers and kick it away once it hit the floor. The stranger was still struggling against him, but they both were moving with less force and grace than they had been. He was finally able to wrangle both the man’s hands behind his back and reach for his handcuffs when he heard a frightened shout ring on the air. “Sheriff Jones! Behind you!”

He ducked and veered to the side on instinct, taking his prisoner to the floor with him, and therefore feeling only a glancing blow to his shoulder as he fell. More shifting and shuffling, murmurs and exclamations, and a gruff, “Enough! We’d better clear out of here. Get him, he’s already made too much of a fuss for the boss!”

Though he could feel his prisoner being pried from his grip, Killian was struggling at the moment to keep his eyes open, not quite able to get his feet under himself and rise from the floor, with the way the room seemed to be careening around him. The frighteningly moist press of his own blood through his shirt felt as though it were drenching much of his side, a frightening amount in so short a time if he were blatantly honest.

His hand fumbled weakly to the site of his injury as if trying to hold the blood in and press the two ragged edges of his wound together. When his clumsy fingers met others there, gently reaching out to hold a compress of some sort to his side, his gaze fluttered up in bleary surprise to meet that of Miss Emma Swan’s. Concerned green orbs peered down at him anxiously, and he would swear she brushed his hair up off his clammy brow with her fingertips in anxious concern. He tried to stay with her as she called out for help, then turned back to him, her lips moving as she spoke, but sounds unintelligible and fading away. He had no further reserves to fight with. Letting out an exhale of frustration and pain, Killian surrendered and closed his eyes.

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