Chapter Text
The night is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes right before a shit storm. The kind of quiet that makes it impossible for Agatha Harkness to relax. All she wants to do is nurse a beer with her feet up… maybe play some cards… because it’s been one hell of a week and she’d never say it out loud, but she could use a break.
So far this week she’s already had to deal with two bank robberies (which had both entailed jumping bareback onto the nearest horse and chasing the damned thieves for miles before she caught up, then having to subdue multiple assailants by herself because she has no damned deputy), one bout of domestic violence (which had entailed bloodying up her knuckles beating the crap out of her friend’s husband), one missing person (which had entailed searching for over a day and a half only to discover they didn’t want to be found and were not in fact missing so much as running away), a patch of sick horses that still aren’t fit to be ridden, a dust storm that covered everything in the damned town, and the madam from up top of the saloon demanding healthcare for her whores.
Not that Agatha has anything against healthcare for Rio’s whores. But she’s the sheriff, not a union leader, so what the fuck is she going to do about it? She swears to the almighty that Rio only brings things to her that she knows Agatha can’t fix… just to tick her off.
Like the time Rio sauntered down the stairs soaking wet from head to toe and started shouting at her about a burst pipe. Sheriff, not plumber.
Or the time Rio cornered her, complaining about patrons not tipping well enough. Sheriff, not pimp. She had tried to explain that she could do something about it if a patron didn’t pay at all, because that was a lawful matter, but tipping was in no way required by law and therefore Agatha had no jurisdiction over such an issue. Rio had literally growled in her face and stomped back up the stairs.
Then of course there was the time Rio came downstairs half dressed and insisted Agatha fit her into a corset. Sheriff, not tailor. She’d held up her hands, shaking her head and backing away, because she wasn’t touching that one with a ten-foot pole. That time, Rio hadn’t yelled. She’d whispered. Called Agatha a prude, a coward, and a ‘terrible dyke’ before turning to the literal next person in the saloon and forcing him to help her instead.
Agatha had not stayed around to watch.
So now… now the quiet has her on edge. She’s hesitant to even order a beer, because the moment she cracks it open and takes a drink, some kind of fuckery is going to start.
She sits on a barstool, surveying the saloon, watching patrons come and go for the next hour, and when nothing’s happened, she gives in and waves over the bartender-slash-saloon owner with a finger circled in the air.
Lilia drapes a towel over her shoulder and nods when she gets close. “What’ll it be, Sheriff?”
“Just gimme a—”
She doesn’t even get to order the damned beer before there’s a blood-curdling scream from upstairs, and she’s off like a shot.
Halfway up, she’s met by none other than Madam Rio, and Rio looks fit to kill. Agatha has the fleeting notion she’s about to be shoved down the stairs and instinctively sidesteps as Rio gets close.
“That you screamin’?” she asks.
“You don’t know my scream by now?” Rio snaps.
Agatha hooks her thumbs in her belt loops and puffs out her cheeks. “I s’pose y’do it often enough, I ought to know it. What’s wrong this time?”
“There’s some kind of animal in my room,” Rio says, deep brown eyes narrowed. As if Agatha snuck up there and left it for her.
“Ain’t my problem,” Agatha says. “None of the shit y’ever complain to me about is my problem. Do I look like a wildlife wrangler?”
Rio eyes her up and down and she regrets asking. Hypothetical though it may have been, Rio always takes advantage if there’s any advantage to be taken.
A hand lands on her upper chest, resting lightly, and Rio’s voice is a sultry little purr when she answers. “You look like you could wrangle something wild.”
Agatha tries to back up but she’s against the railing already, and if she shows fear, the shark will circle indefinitely, so she ignores the hand on her chest. Ignores the way it burns through her shirt. Ignores the way it makes her nipples strain forward, begging for relief.
The temperature’s gone up and her pants feel too tight. Sweat’s starting to gather on the back of her neck and she needs to shut this down, now. “I’m sure one of yer gentlemen friends would be happy to take care of yer… animal problem,” she says, giving Rio no indication of her inner turmoil at the prolonged contact.
Rio’s fingers start wandering up toward Agatha’s collar, and she’s had enough. Quick reflexes let her hand shoot up and grab Rio’s wrist, forcibly removing it from her body.
Something new flashes across Rio’s eyes for the briefest of seconds. Too brief for Agatha to read it, and when she lets go of Rio’s wrist, there’s a mark.
Her gaze is glued to it. Had she squeezed that hard? Or was the mark already there?
Rio notices at the same time and uses her other hand to rub at the reddened skin. “Careful, Sheriff,” she says, and the infernal teasing her voice usually carries is conspicuously absent.
Agatha only realizes she’s breathing too hard after Rio has walked away.
She needs that drink.
“You’re a little flushed, Sheriff,” Lilia says as she hands Agatha a beer.
“It’s hot tonight,” Agatha hedges, popping the cap with her teeth and spitting it onto the bar. She tilts the bottle toward the older woman and throws back a swig, appreciating the cold as she swallows.
“It’s not that hot,” Lilia says coyly, and Agatha chooses not to rise to the bait.
Lilia’s always been a mother hen, as long as Agatha’s known her – and that’s going on eight years now. She fusses and fawns over Agatha, over Rio, over Rio’s girls, making sure they eat right and have a place to stay.
Oh. And. She’s constantly trying to cause some sort of ceasefire between Agatha and Rio. That’s the worst of her character flaws. Agatha does not want or need a ceasefire with Madam Rio.
Never mind that the woman is blindingly attractive. That’s irrelevant. She is an ever-present pain in Agatha’s ass. The only reason Agatha allows her to have a whorehouse upstairs is because it funds the town treasury… and her salary.
The quiet is cut through by rifle shots from upstairs and Agatha’s on her feet again, ready to wring Rio’s elegant neck when a fluffy, furry creature hurtles down the staircase and hauls its ass through the saloon, out under the double front doors. Weasel? Raccoon? Skunk? It was too fast to see properly and Agatha’s head is spinning, the shots still ringing in her ears.
Lilia’s delighted laughter filters in past the unpleasant ringing, and Agatha turns back to the bar, burying her head in her hands. She just wants a peaceful fucking night.
--
She’s two beers in, working on a third, seated at one of the tables playing poker with a handful of men. Finally able to kick back and put her feet up, boots crossed on an empty chair, a pile of chips in front of her. She’s not sure if the men fold because she’s a woman, because she’s the sheriff, or because she’s good at bluffing, but either way, her winnings are stacking up.
She’s about to bluff yet again when a smooth voice sounds out from behind her, just over her shoulder.
“Pair of nines, Sheriff? Tough luck.”
Agatha throws her cards down and throws her hands up. “Really?”
She doesn’t look, but she hears Rio’s girlish giggle and the urge to strangle her flares anew. “Maybe if you helped me once in awhile,” she says. “Did your job… I wouldn’t be so adversarial.”
Agatha lays her hands flat on the table so everyone can see them. Can see that she’s not touching Rio. “Madam Rio,” she says, shaking her head, still not looking at the other woman. “Not a single thing you’ve asked for help with falls under my purview as sheriff. If y’find yerself with an intruder, an attacker, a thief, or anythin’ else that does fall under my purview as sheriff, I will be more than happy to assist ya.”
Rio’s standing so close that her dress is brushing against Agatha’s elbow. “What about an unwanted admirer?”
Something about that pricks at Agatha’s hackles and she wonders if Rio is toying with her yet again, or if she does indeed have an unwanted admirer. “It’d depend on the type of unwanted gestures,” she says, finally turning her head.
That’s a mistake, because Rio’s close enough to kiss.
Agatha leans away slightly, trying not to broadcast her discomfort to the room at large. “Do y’really have an unwanted admirer? Or are y’just fuckin’ with me ‘cause I wouldn’t shoot a poor little creature for ya?”
“I’m actually not certain,” Rio says, and it’s the first time Agatha has ever seen her uncertain.
Genuine concern starts creeping up to block Agatha’s throat. “Yer serious, though,” she says, pushing to her feet and waving a hand toward the stairs. “Show me what’s goin’ on.”
Rio nods once and moves past her, heading up the stairs, and Agatha points two fingers at her poker chips, then at the men around the table to let them know they’d better leave her shit alone while she’s gone.
As soon as she steps into Rio’s room, she can feel the flush crawling up her chest and neck to warm her face, because it’s the woman’s private space, and it’s not appropriate for her to be in here. She’s never been. She’s made a point to avoid it. But if Rio really does have an unwanted admirer, Agatha has no choice.
She puts her hands in her pockets just to have something to do and tries not to be obvious about looking around.
The way Rio’s room is decorated is a little surprising. Agatha had honestly expected it to look like a princess lived in it, but Rio barely has anything beyond the necessities. Bed, of course, trunk for clothing, desk for… well… she’s not sure what Rio would use a desk for. The obvious answer is writing, but she’s not aware of Rio indulging in that particular hobby. At least not often enough to need a desk in her room.
There are a few drawings hanging on the walls, mostly of desert plants, and one framed on Rio’s nightstand that’s facing away from her so she can’t see it. And the only way she’ll get to see it is if she sits on Rio’s bed, so she’ll never see that drawing, and damn if she’s not curious.
Before she gets up the nerve to ask about it, Rio steps between her and the nightstand, reaches back, and flattens the frame face down, cutting off any upcoming discussion of the item.
That’s… odd. Now Agatha’s even more curious. But perhaps that’s Rio’s intention. She resolves to forget it. With a subtle clearing of her throat, she proceeds. “What’s got y’spooked, Madam?”
“Someone’s been leaving things for me,” Rio says, and for once in their stilted history, she’s all business. “It started a while back. A flower here, a sweet little note there, things like that.”
“But y’weren’t worried at first,” Agatha says with a nod. “What changed?”
“The notes got less sweet. The flowers started arriving dead. One of my corsets was slashed up and left on my bed.”
She moves out of the way of the bed and gestures toward it, where a pile of things sits staring at Agatha, daring her to make sense of them.
Agatha doesn’t want to move out of the doorway, but she steps forward, closing the distance between respectable and illicit, and reaches down to pick up the tattered lace and bone garment.
“That’s certainly unfriendly,” she agrees and sets it back down. She picks up the stack of notes next and reads through them, brows furrowed by the time she’s done. As Rio stated, they started out sweet and progressed to downright threatening. The last one she read was most likely the latest, and had called Rio a nasty name and told her to sleep with one eye open.
Agatha doesn’t like it. A lead weight settles in her gut, pulling at her insides. She sets the notes back on the bed and looks at Rio, really looks at her, and sees so much more than she usually allows herself to see.
Dark circles under dark eyes, a weariness to the woman’s usually impeccable posture, a few hairs out of place, a heaviness as she moves. And fear. She’s never seen Rio scared of anything before.
“You ain’t been sleepin’.” It’s not a question, and Rio doesn’t answer. Agatha rubs a hand over the back of her neck and blows out an unsteady breath. “C’mon. Gather up some stuff. I’ll put y’in a cell tonight.”
Rio barks out a laugh, but Agatha’s not playing.
“Ain’t funny.”
Rio stops laughing abruptly and puts a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, I thought you were joking.”
“Nope.”
“But I can’t sleep in jail,” Rio scoffs. “Besides, that won’t keep me any kind of safe unless you stand watch all night.”
“That is the plan,” Agatha says. “Gather up some stuff, Madam.”
Rio is obviously irritated, but not enough to refuse the offer of protection, and gathers a small sack of items, standing in front of Agatha with a sigh. “All right.”
“Yer welcome,” Agatha says, spins on her heel, and walks out.
Her keys feel heavy as she removes them from her belt, the jangle of metal harsh in the quiet jail. She finds the right one for the cell closest to her desk, fits it into the lock, and turns. The door creaks on opening because it needs oiled, but that’s not Agatha’s job.
After Rio steps into the cell, Agatha moves to shut the door, instinct taking over, propelling her to complete the action she’s completed so many times before, but Rio puts a hand on the bars to stop her.
“Do you have to lock me in? You said you’ll be up watching all night.”
Agatha shrugs and leaves the door open. “No difference to me,” she realizes. “Force’a habit.”
Rio nods and pets the bars as if reassuring herself the door won’t close if she lets go. “Thank you,” she says, and Agatha nearly chokes on her own tongue, because that’s the first time she’s heard those two words out of Rio’s mouth.
She doesn’t answer; her sense of equilibrium thrown off, and just tips her hat toward the woman, taking a seat at her desk. It’s gonna be a long night.
Once Rio gets settled on the bed, she tries to make conversation, much to Agatha’s chagrin. “So… why don’t you have a deputy?”
Agatha pops a toothpick in her mouth, grinding the end lightly between her molars, and looks Rio’s way. “Nobody’s asked for the job.” Likely because nobody wants Agatha Harkness to be their boss. She’s already the law.
“Does anybody know you’d hire one?”
“I got no idea about that,” Agatha says with another shrug. “I don’t rightly care, either. Why don’t y’try and get some sleep? I’ll keep watch. We can talk about suspects tomorrow.”
Rio looks like she wants to say more, but ends up nodding and laying down, pulling the blanket over herself.
Agatha decides she does not like Madam Rio Vidal looking small and vulnerable. It just does not sit right. It’s not the way of things. She’s going to fix this problem before sundown tomorrow, so help her.
Rio’s asleep in no time, and Agatha’s heart pangs at how exhausted she must be, always looking over her shoulder, unable to settle. She might not like Rio on the best of days, but she wouldn’t wish that. And maybe she has a soft spot for the woman. Just a tiny one, barely there, a blip on the horizon. But nobody needs to know that, not now, not ever.
Nobody needs to know she drapes an extra blanket over the sleeping woman when the night takes a turn toward chilly.
Agatha spends the rest of the time until sunrise alternating between standing guard by Rio’s cell door and looking out the windows for any signs of movement.
Nothing notable happens, and as soon as Rio wakes up, Agatha intends to take a nap.
It happens well after sunrise, which reaffirms Agatha’s deduction that Rio hasn’t been sleeping lately, and she’s glad she made the decision to let the woman get some rest.
Rio’s gaze snaps toward her and Agatha’s brow furrows until she sees the reason for the look – Rio’s hands are wrapped around the extra blanket, and they both know where it came from.
“Go on,” Agatha says gruffly before it can become a conversation. “I need to get some sleep now. I’ll come by the saloon in a couple hours to talk suspects.”
Rio gathers her sack of things and her own blanket, leaves the extra one on the bed, and doesn’t speak or look at Agatha again as she leaves the jailhouse.
Agatha can’t be bothered to go home, so she locks herself in the cell, as she’s done on many other occasions, and crawls into bed.
Fuck. The pillow smells like Rio.
She knocks it to the floor and sleeps without one.
--
Hours later she wakes up to a ruckus outside. Well… that’s annoying. She’s still tired and doesn’t want to move yet. Maybe if she ignores it, the problem will solve itself.
She closes her eyes and tries to fall back asleep, but no such luck. The scuffle escalates and she can make out two distinct voices now – Edgar Rawlins, the town boozer, and Billy Maximoff, the town well-meaning idiot.
With a despairing grumble, Agatha resigns herself to getting out of bed, lets herself out of the cell, and kicks open the door of the jailhouse so hard it crashes against the siding and makes Billy jump.
“Sheriff, I was just—”
“I don’t care what y’were just,” Agatha interrupts him, holding up her hand. “Leave Mr. Rawlins alone. I don’t know how many times I’ve told ya, kid.”
“Okay so I’m actually twenty-five, and—”
“Oh good, then yer old enough to mind yer own damned business,” Agatha interrupts again. “Take off before I cuff y’and throw y’in a cell for bein’ a busybody. An’ annoyin’.”
“What? That’s not illegal,” Billy says, eyes wide. “Neither of those things are illegal.”
Agatha puts her hand on her handcuffs and Billy runs off. She turns to Edgar. “An’ you!” she says, though to be perfectly honest, she has nothing against Edgar. He might be constantly drunk in public, but he’s not a mean drunk. He’s a good man, used to be a family man before the mine collapsed, he lost use of one of his arms pretty much, and couldn’t provide for his wife and children so she took the kids and married some well-to-do fellow a few towns over, and Edgar took to the bottle.
“Yeah, Sheriff?” he slurs.
“Nothin’,” Agatha says, shaking her head. “Just take care of yerself. And stay clear of Billy.”
“I do stay clear of that boy,” Edgar says. “He finds me.”
“Yeah, I reckon yer prob’ly right about that,” Agatha says. “I’ve gotta get.” She tips her hat to him and starts off for the saloon to meet with Rio.
--
They’re sitting at a table in the corner of the saloon, Agatha’s back to the wall so she can take note of anyone paying Rio any special attention while they talk.
Rio is sitting with her legs crossed at the knee, back straight, hands folded in her lap, and if Agatha didn’t know any better, she’d think Rio was at a business conference.
“All right,” Agatha says after they sit there too long without speaking. Looks like it’s up to her to kick things off. “Let’s start with a list of all yer… patrons. I’ll look into backgrounds an’ such.”
“Patrons?” Rio’s eyebrows fly up.
“That not the preferred term?” Agatha asks, taken aback at the response. “Clients? Johns? I don’t care what y’call ‘em, just gimme a list.”
Rio lays her hands flat on the table and leans forward, her eyes gone from wide to narrow with the motion. “Do you not understand my job?”
“Pretty sure I understand yer job,” Agatha snorts. “What’s wrong with givin’ me a list?”
“I don’t have a list,” Rio hisses. “I run the business, I don’t participate in it.”
“Y’—what?” Agatha’s heart thumps against her ribs as she stares across the table at Rio. At her narrowed eyes and flushed cheeks. The way her mouth is drawn into a tight line. The muscles in her arms flexing as she curls her fingers on the table.
It’s time to move into damage control mode. Her shock and awe can wait. She’ll reflect on that dropped bomb later. Right now she has a job to do.
“A list of anyone who’s tried, then,” Agatha says in a lame attempt to cover her tracks. “Could be somebody’s sore y’ain’t on the menu, so to speak. Then I need a list of any patrons who’ve caused problems for any of yer girls.”
“Everyone in this town has caused a problem at some time or another,” Rio says, and Agatha can still see that anger seething beneath the surface, held at bay only by Rio’s iron will.
“Y’gotta give me somethin’,” Agatha says, blowing out a harsh puff of air. How is she supposed to find who’s harassing Rio if Rio doesn’t cooperate?
“You can have a list,” Rio says, sighing and glancing around. “I just don’t think it’ll narrow anything down.”
Agatha fights the urge to reach across the table and lay a comforting hand over Rio’s. “I’ll find ‘em,” she swears. “I’ll just find ‘em faster with yer help. Can you think of anybody’t stands out?”
She watches a few different emotions flicker past on Rio’s face. Thoughtfulness, frustration, resignation. And then Rio shakes her head. “I can’t.”
“It’s all right,” Agatha says, because she’d swear Rio’s about to cry, and she can’t handle that. Her world’s already been flipped upside down once today, and Madam Rio crying would send her over the edge. “We’ll get it figured out. I just hope y’don’t mind sleepin’ in the jail ‘til we do.”
“I actually slept very well,” Rio says, and the crisis seems to have been averted, because she looks much more at ease, and not on the verge of tears.
Agatha settles a little and turns toward the bar, raising a hand to get Lilia’s attention. “Gimme a beer, Lil?”
A bottle comes whizzing toward her head and she catches it just in time.
“Why do you call her that when you know it makes her physically violent?” Rio asks, standing up and brushing her hands off on her dress.
Agatha pops the cap with her teeth and spits it on the table, watching it spin off its axis for a moment and then clatter to a stop. “Keeps me alert.”
Rio’s eyes track the bottle cap and then raise slowly to Agatha’s face. “You’re uncouth,” she says, and turns to walk away.
Agatha doesn’t respond, just watches the sway of her ass as she goes, then takes a long drink of her beer and grimaces, almost retching it back up, because it’s warm. Lilia not only threw it at her, but gave her a warm beer.
She stands, pushing her chair back with one boot, and tosses the beer in the trash, then makes her way outside to clear her head.
Going for a nice afternoon walk ought to do it. She shoves her hands in her pockets and starts off, toward nothing in particular.
So. Rio doesn’t participate in her business, she just runs it. That’s a revelation. She’s been in town for five years give or take, and from day one, Agatha had just assumed she worked alongside the rest of her girls. And Rio had never given any indication otherwise.
Of course… Agatha had never asked. It doesn’t really matter, if she’s honest, it’s just a bit of a mindfuck. It’s not like she judges any damned person, especially not for matters of the flesh. Her dislike of Rio has nothing to do with the woman’s profession and everything to do with her annoying habits and refusal to follow rules and the way she never listens or knows what’s good for her, and the way she’s always tracking Agatha down to demand help for things a sheriff has no business in, only to get offended and throw a fit when Agatha has to refuse.
If Rio doesn’t entertain patrons, though, that opens up a whole new question that’s going to haunt Agatha for the foreseeable future: who does she sleep with? Men? Women? Both? And if she sleeps with women, does she like them girly like herself, or does she like boot-wearing gun-toting horse-riding women like Agatha?
The past five years, Agatha’s kept a respectable distance both physically and emotionally because she’d thought Rio serviced men all day and night, and that never left room for anything meaningful between them because if there’s one thing Agatha knows about herself it’s that she doesn’t share.
So despite being painfully attracted to Rio, she’s stayed away, shut down any attempts to be friendly, because there’s no point wanting something she can’t have. And that’s worked for her for five years. Worked for them. Worked for everyone but damned Lilia.
But now this.
It throws a wrench in her life’s plans. She should just pretend nothing’s changed. Pretend Rio is still unattainable in the way she always has been. Pretend she sleeps with multiple other people and there’s no hope of Agatha having Rio all to herself.
Times like these, Agatha wishes she smoked.
--
It’s a little after high noon when Agatha returns to the saloon, and she hopes Rio has that list ready for her. She’s restless to start tracking down whoever’s been bothering the woman.
Her fingers flex in her pockets as she thinks about it, hands itching to separate a head from its body when she finds out who it is.
As she steps through the swinging double doors, Lilia waves her over. Her steps are heavy, approaching the bar, and Lilia slides her a scrap of paper covered in names.
Before she realizes what she’s doing, she’s staring at her finger as it swirls over the fancy writing on the page. Rio’s writing. Agatha hasn’t seen it before, and it’s like she’s been put into a trance over it. Scrawling capitals, looping vowels, extra flourishes on the stems of hanging letters. It’s beautiful. She can’t stop tracing the names with her fingertip, as if she’s touching an extension of Rio’s body rather than words on a page.
What would it feel like, to touch Rio’s body? Every part of it… Agatha would leave no trace of skin untouched. What does she sound like when something feels good? The possibilities are ringing in her ears.
“Sheriff,” Lilia says, poking her in the arm.
Agatha looks up sharply, her fingertip separating from the scrap of paper like it’s on fire. “What?”
“You’re daydreaming,” Lilia says. “Seemed about to start drawing attention to yourself.”
“I’m thinkin’. There’s a difference,” Agatha says, eyes narrowed, and she takes the paper and leaves.
First name is Howard Breen. He’s young and stupid, and unlikely to be the mastermind behind harassing a woman, but she’s gonna check out every name on the list. If Rio put it there, it means something to her.
He answers on the third knock, curly hair mussed up, sticking every which way, a squint on his face. “Yeah, Sheriff?”
Fear is the way to go with this one. “Y’know what the penalty is for harassin’ a woman?”
“Huh?”
“It’s death,” Agatha says, drawing a finger across her throat.
His squinting eyes go wide. “I ain’t never harassed a woman in my life, Sheriff!”
He’s about to piss his pants. He isn’t the stalker. “See to it y’never do,” she says, tipping her hat and walking away.
The next five conversations go much the same way, but when she gets to Harlan Jones’s place, a weird feeling creeps up her spine. And he’s cagey when he opens the door.
“I’m real busy, Sheriff. What can I do for you?”
She’s gonna have to play this one different. “I need yer help. Can I come in?”
“Maybe later, Sheriff. Like I said, I’m real busy.”
“Real busy at lunchtime, with no wife and no kids?” Agatha asks.
“I’m cookin’. Fer myself.”
“What’cha cookin’?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of yer business, Sheriff.”
“It’s my town. Everything happens in my town is my business. Y’can move aside and let me in or I can strongarm ya, but either way I’m comin’ in.”
He looks on the verge of running, but after a second or two he steps aside to let her in. She keeps her hand on her gun as she steps inside, and nods toward the kitchen.
“You first. Show me what yer cookin’.”
“All right all right, I ain’t cookin’,” he says, holding up his hands. “I just said that to get rid of ya.”
“What for?”
“Place’s a mess.” He gestures around the living room, and yeah, it’s a mess.
“Where d’ya keep dead flowers?” she asks, hoping to catch him off guard.
“What dead flowers?” he asks. “Why would I keep flowers’re dead? Matter fact, why would I keep any flowers? Y’said it yerself, I ain’t got a wife.”
It’s a pretty good answer as far as answers go. “What d’y’think about Madam Rio?” she asks suddenly.
“Oh, she’s real pretty,” he says. “Once she let me pay only half up front fer my appointment on account’a I didn’t have enough money, an’ she let me bring the rest the next day. She’s real nice.”
Agatha doesn’t think he’d be a good enough liar to pull that one off, and she senses no animosity toward Rio at all. She heads for the door and nods at him as she leaves. “Clean yer shit up,” she calls over her shoulder and moves on to the next name.
“Widow Lawson,” she says when the widow answers the door.
“Sheriff Harkness,” the woman says, and Agatha has to wonder why she’s still all dressed in black six months after her husband passed. And wonders why her name is on the list. She can’t recall ever seeing Widow Lawson head upstairs. Could be it happened when she wasn’t around, but the likelihood of her never seeing it is… well… unlikely.
“What is your relationship like with Madam Rio?” Agatha asks straight out.
The widow slams the door in her face.
Agatha stands there blinking, then raps sharply on the door until it flies open again.
“How dare you mention that harlot?” the widow snaps.
“Hey now,” Agatha warns, her voice dropping low. “Don’t go throwin’ around nasty names.” Not about Rio.
“I throw around the truth, Sheriff,” the widow says, tilting her chin up haughtily. As if she’s better than Rio. Better than Agatha. “My husband’s dead because of that—”
“Watch yerself,” Agatha growls.
“He caught syphilis from one of her whores, didn’t you know that?”
“That don’t make her responsible for his death, or for what he chose to do durin’ his life,” Agatha says.
“She is responsible and there’s nothing you can do to change my mind.”
“Six months later yer still dressed in mourning. Haven’t moved on. Blame Madam Rio for yer loss. Any chance y’decided y’wanted ‘er to suffer?”
“Oh, I want her to suffer,” the widow says righteously. “And I’m sure God will make it so.”
“Have you tried to make it so?” Agatha asks. “Maybe leavin’ little gifts in ‘er room?”
“I haven’t set foot up those stairs. How dare you!” the widow shouts, losing her composure, and slams the door in Agatha’s face again.
She’ll have to go talk to Rio about Widow Lawson. Get the whole story.
She’s hungry anyhow, so a lunch break will do her some good.
--
After wolfing down a sandwich and chasing it with a cold beer, thank you Lilia, Agatha heads up the stairs in search of Rio.
“Hey there Sheriff,” one of the girls says, dragging a hand along Agatha’s shoulders with a girlish giggle. “You lookin’ for some company?”
“I’m lookin’ for your boss, Venetia. She around?”
“She’s in her room,” the girl says with a manufactured pout.
Agatha pats her on the head and makes her way to Rio’s room, knocking on the door frame. “Howdy,” she says when Rio looks up.
“Howdy,” Rio says with a half grin. “Did you get my list?”
“Sure did. I need’ta ask y’about one of the names on it. Widow Lawson. Claims she’s never set foot up the stairs. That true?”
“Sure isn’t,” Rio says, biting her lip.
“She a client?”
“No,” Rio says, and doesn’t offer anything further.
Agatha sighs. “Do I have to ask leading questions or can y’just spit it out?”
Rio scowls at her and puts down her drawing. “She came up here one night while her husband was busy with Wanda. She tried to kiss me. I told her I wasn’t available in that way, and she said she just needed someone to talk to. We talked about her being lonely when her husband engaged my services, and I directed her to a more appropriate outlet. She saw Tristyn once or twice, and never seemed dissatisfied with things, until her husband passed, and then suddenly it was all my fault. She said my whores were diseased. Which isn’t true, Agatha. Not a one of them has syphilis. He got that elsewhere, I swear on my prosperity.”
Agatha nods. “I believe you,” she says. “Y’run a clean business, I know that. People always need someone to blame when things get rough. But this means the widow lied to me, and that makes her under suspicion. She said she ain’t been up these stairs. Do y’think she could be the one doin’ all this?”
Rio thinks for a second and then shrugs. “I honestly don’t know.”
“You’re not very helpful,” Agatha grouses, furrowing her brow to frown at the other woman, but then she forgets to be irritated and steps forward, trying to get a look at Rio’s discarded paper. “What’cha drawin’?”
Rio points at a plant on the windowsill. “My little Echinocereus,” she says fondly.
“Yer what?”
“Hedgehog cactus.” Rio turns to look at her. “And I’m being as helpful as I possibly can. It’s your job to profile the people of this town and figure out who would bother harassing me, not mine.”
“I figure most people’d bother harassing someone like you,” Agatha says, and then cringes, shaking her head. “That sounded a lot different than I meant it to sound. I just meant yer a pretty lady and—oh hell, that sounds even worse. Please excuse me, Madam Rio.”
Agatha darts out the door, her face burning, and does her very best not to run down the stairs, only just managing to keep herself at a respectable pace and not draw everyone’s attention.
Of all the damned stupid things to say. Calling Rio pretty? And a lady? Good Lord.
Well. Nothing else to do but go back to the widow and put the screws to her for lying.
When she reaches the house, she knocks sharply on the door, and it swings inward a few seconds later. “Why are you back here?” the widow snaps. “Leave me alone to grieve.”
“I got conflictin’ accounts,” Agatha says. “Y’sure have been up the stairs in back of the saloon, and you’ve engaged Madam Rio’s services a couple times at the least. Why’d y’lie? Y’didn’t think I’d go an’ ask the madam or her girls?”
The widow’s face turns beet red and Agatha thinks she’s about to have steam coming out her ears like the drawings in the papers.
“How dare you!” Widow Lawson says with a gasp. Not very convincing. “How dare you believe those harlots over me! Or that trashy wom—”
“Watch yerself,” Agatha snarls, holding up a finger pointed toward the widow’s chest. “And if I find out it’s you’s been harassin’ her and y’stood here lyin’ to me about it, I’ll toss y’in a cell and throw away the key, Miss Lawson.” She deliberately omits the title of Widow to get under the woman’s skin.
The widow’s face goes from beet red to ashen and she drops the hostility, shaking her head. “I haven’t harassed her,” she swears. “I don’t approve of her and want her out of town, but I haven’t done anything at all, Sheriff, I’d swear an oath.”
Unfortunately, Agatha believes her. Which means she still has to find whoever’s doing it. “Y’got any idea who it might be?”
“I keep to myself,” the widow says. “I’m in mourning, remember?”
“It’s been six damned months,” Agatha says. “Y’can’t play the grief card anymore.” She tips her hat and turns to leave, pulling Rio’s list out of her pocket and heading for the next name on it.
--
Nobody on the list seems any amount of suspicious, and Agatha’s got to admit she’s frustrated. This shouldn’t be so hard. Somebody had to have seen something. Somebody had to have made a mistake somewhere that she can catch on to. There can’t just be nothing.
She slides onto a barstool with a sulk on her face and flags down Lilia for a beer.
“No luck?” Lilia asks as she opens the bottle and hands it over.
“Hey,” Agatha says, frowning at the lack of cap to pry off and spit out. But she takes a long drink nonetheless and tries to relax as she swallows. She picks at the label on the bottle and answers Lilia. “No luck. An’ it’s pissin’ me off.”
Lilia pats her hand – the only person who wouldn’t lose a finger for doing that. “You’ll figure it out, honey. Oh—stop pouting, here comes Rio.”
“I am not poutin’,” Agatha growls.
“Good evening, Madam Rio,” Lilia says with a smile. “What can I get for you?”
“How about a whiskey neat,” Rio says, and Agatha doesn’t look over at her, but she can sense Rio’s just sat on the stool beside her.
The hair on her neck stands on end and she has the silly urge to bite her lip.
“You got it, honey,” Lilia says, and goes about fixing Rio’s drink. She slides it across the bar when it’s finished and walks off to attend to other patrons, leaving Agatha basically alone with Rio.
Maybe she won’t mention—
“So you think I’m pretty, huh?”
Christ in pajamas. “Listen, that ain’t what I meant,” she says, still without looking at Rio, and downs half her beer in one go.
“Then you don’t think I’m pretty?”
She can hear the smirk in Rio’s voice. “Ain’t said that either,” she mutters.
Mercifully, Rio moves subjects. “Did you find anything today?”
Agatha feels the pull of failure and she hates it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t,” she says, shame taking root in her chest at the fact that she hasn’t figured it out yet. This is her job, her passion. This is what she’s good at. Why doesn’t she have someone in custody yet?
“That’s all right, Sheriff,” Rio says. Soft. Understanding. “Maybe it’s not someone from town.”
“Maybe not,” Agatha mumbles, looking anywhere but at Rio. “Can I ask y’somethin’?”
Rio scoots her barstool closer to Agatha’s. “You can ask me anything at all.”
“Even if it’s personal?” The air feels thicker with Rio sitting so close.
“Most everything is personal.”
“Yeah but…” Agatha scratches the back of her neck and takes a quiet breath, then stares at her hands as she asks what she wants to know. What she can’t stop thinking about. “Y’said y’told the widow yer not available in that way. I s’pose I’m just curious why y’don’t participate in yer business.”
She hears Rio’s breath catch, and maybe Rio hadn’t expected her to ask that. She’s never asked anything like that before, after all.
When Rio doesn’t say anything for long enough to be awkward, Agatha risks turning her head just a bit to look at the other woman, just out the corner of her eye, and Rio’s staring at her so intense she’s surprised her head hasn’t caught fire.
She quickly turns away again, tugging at her collar to get some air. Because it’s been sucked right out of the saloon all of a sudden.
“Why do you want to know that?” Rio finally says. Something in her voice says she’s holding back.
Agatha busies herself plucking the label of her beer bottle again. “Just curious is all.”
“Why are you curious about that?” Rio insists.
“All this time I thought y’did,” Agatha says with a shrug. “Then I find out y’don’t. So I’m curious why not.” Is it ‘cause you don’t like to sleep with men? Lord above, let it be that or something close to it. Because the thought of Rio sleeping with a man is suddenly more than Agatha can bear.
“I make enough money running things that I don’t need to,” Rio says smoothly.
Agatha’s gut twists with jealousy. But she’s got no claim to Rio. Has spent five years making sure she’s got no claim to Rio. And if she asks any more questions in this vein, it’ll be obvious she’s not just curious. “All right then,” she says with a nod, dropping the subject even though it kills her to leave it like this.
Rio’s on her feet, grabbing Agatha by the knees and forcing her around so they’re face to face, and it’s all she can do not to shriek and draw her weapon being touched so unexpectedly, but she manages to just sit there with her jaw dropped instead, staring at Rio.
“Agatha,” Rio says, staring right back. “Don’t do that.”
Agatha finds her voice somehow. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t sit there and pretend you just asked that question because you’re curious about my business choices.”
“Why else would I’ve asked?”
She sees hurt flash in Rio’s eyes and wants to take it back, but she’s too much of a coward. “So you don’t want to know anything else?”
“Like what?”
“You don’t want to know whether I sleep with men for pleasure?”
Agatha’s jaw clenches so tight her teeth grind. “No I don’t.”
Rio continues, undeterred. “If you ask, I’ll tell you,” she whispers.
Agatha feels like a caged animal. She needs to get out of this without attacking or being attacked. She makes the mistake of glancing over at Rio again and her heartbeat starts rushing in her ears. “I—”
She can’t make herself ask. Rio’s standing so close. Close enough to kiss if she leans forward even a couple of inches.
Rio waits, giving her the opportunity to stop being a coward, but she can’t. The risk is too profound.
Finally, Rio draws back, and she’s as elegant as ever when she speaks, but Agatha can read the disappointment. “All right, Agatha.”
And then she’s gone.
--
Agatha sits feeling sorry for herself and drinking until sundown, and then, slightly drunk, heads upstairs to fetch Rio. “Ready t’go?” she asks, leaning on Rio’s door frame.
“Go where?” Rio asks from her desk chair. Her hair is thrown up on top of her head, some wispy strands escaped and hanging loose. She’s so soft and beautiful. Agatha’s hands are too rough for a woman like that anyway.
She scratches the side of her nose and clears her throat. “To the jail. For safe keepin’. So y’can sleep.”
Rio looks like she might argue, but eventually she nods and gathers her things in her little sack, and approaches the doorway.
Agatha tries not to stare at the way she walks… or the way her breasts are showcased by the corset she’s wearing. Pushed up and out like they’re on offer. Lord, she needs to get herself under control. Thoughts like that have no place. “Uh… ready?” she asks.
“You already asked that,” Rio says, head tilting in a mixture of amusement and curiosity.
Agatha scowls to cover embarrassment at her mistake and turns to head toward the stairs. She doesn’t stop until she gets to the saloon doors, then checks to make sure Rio’s following.
She is.
So then Agatha turns back around and pushes open one of the doors, and she stands there holding it open for Rio to walk out.
“Such a gentleman,” Rio teases, dropping into a curtsy as she passes, and Agatha scowls at her again.
“Stop that. This is serious,” Agatha grunts, and moves past Rio to walk slightly ahead of her.
When they get to the jail, Agatha looses her keys from her belt and unlocks the front cell, pushing open the door.
“Why is the pillow on the floor?” Rio asks, moving into the cell and putting her sack on the end of the bed. She bends down to pick up the pillow and turns to Agatha, raising an eyebrow.
Agatha shrugs. “Must’a fell.” Or I threw it to the floor ‘cause it smelled like you.
Rio sits down and situates the pillow how she wants it, and smooths her hands over the mattress. “Did you sleep here this morning?”
“What if I did?” Agatha peers at her suspiciously.
“The blanket smells like you, that’s all,” Rio says with her own little shrug.
If Agatha weren’t a little drunk, she’d leave that well enough alone. “What do I smell like, exactly? An’ furthermore, how would you know what I smell like?”
“You smell like leather,” Rio says, and her voice is quiet. “And sometimes gunpowder, if you’ve just shot at something or someone.”
Agatha wasn’t prepared for Rio to actually give an answer, and her breath hitches right in her chest. She doesn’t know what to say to that. At all. So she asks a stupid question, the alcohol loosening her tongue. “Do y’sleep with men for pleasure, Madam Rio?”
“Just Rio,” she says, eyes darkening as she looks at Agatha. “And no I don’t.”
Agatha’s heartbeat is rushing in her ears so as to make it hard to hear, but she hears. She tries to swallow but her throat is bone dry. So dry it hurts. “Women?” she dares to ask.
Rio holds her gaze for a moment, then nods. Just a single dip of her chin, but she may as well have been screaming it from the rooftops, the way it rattles around in Agatha’s brain.
“What kind’a women?” Agatha whispers. “Pretty like yerself?”
“So you do think I’m pretty,” Rio says, eyelids fluttering.
Agatha doesn’t deny it this time. “I rightly do.”
Rio stands up from the cot and Agatha forces herself not to run. She’s used to being the predator, but in this moment, right here right now, she is most decidedly the prey.
“I like a strong woman,” Rio says, low. “One strong woman in particular.” She takes a step closer and Agatha’s fight or flight instincts are flaring red hot.
“That so?” she croaks out.
“That’s so,” Rio agrees. “She’s also chivalrous, thoughtful, and very handsome.”
Agatha’s going to combust any second now, she knows it. And Rio keeps getting closer. “Y’don’t prefer pretty girls like yerself, then?” Her voice sounds like she’s just been stabbed in the throat.
Rio takes one last step that puts her right in front of Agatha, close enough to touch. Her beautiful cheeks are flushed pink and her pupils are blown. “No,” she says. “I prefer a woman more… rugged. A woman who won’t treat me like I’m delicate. Maybe she has rough hands like a sheriff would. Rough hands that can pick me up or hold me down in equal measure.”
Agatha’s throbbing so hard between her legs she’s surprised she’s still standing, and before she knows what she’s doing, her hands are gripping Rio’s hips with intent to bruise.
Rio lets out the most sinful noise Agatha’s ever heard in her life, and it startles her so bad she snatches her hands back, skin on fire. “I’m sorry, I—I don’t know what came over me,” she tries to apologize, but Rio apparently has other ideas and presses flush against her front.
“Agatha Harkness, I will die if you’re sorry for that,” Rio says breathlessly. “I’ll drop dead right here in this jail cell.”
Agatha grabs her hips again, this time lifting her up, and Rio’s legs wrap around her waist, hands landing on her shoulders.
“Kiss me,” Rio says. Demands. Begs. “Please, Agatha, kiss me.”
Agatha does. And it’s not gentle. It’s five years of pent-up tension finally being released.
She sucks and bites and claims, forcing her tongue past Rio’s parted lips, licking along her teeth, the inside of her cheeks, across her palate. Swallowing the taste, swallowing Rio’s desperate moans, swallowing five years of distance.
“I don’t share,” she growls suddenly, moving her mouth to Rio’s jaw, biting and scraping her way down, tongue swirling through the light sheen of sweat that’s formed before her lips attach to the pulse point of Rio’s throat and suck a mark onto her skin.
“I don’t either,” Rio pants, squeezing Agatha’s shoulders. “Are you marking me?”
Agatha didn’t have the presence of mind to seek permission, but she does now and she grunts against Rio’s neck. “That all right?”
“Fuck,” Rio swears, and the lewd exclamation hits Agatha straight between her thighs. “Yes, it’s all right.”
“Anywhere?” Agatha growls.
“Anywhere,” Rio echoes. “I’ve wanted you for so long. Mark me anywhere.”
Agatha’s hands aren’t gentle on Rio’s waist, fingers digging in, and she uses her grip to practically throw Rio onto the cot. Before any complaints can be made, however, she’s on top of Rio, pinning her down, mouth back at her throat.
Rio squirms and whimpers and arches up into her, and when she tries to put her hands back on Agatha’s shoulders, Agatha grabs her by the wrists and slams them into the mattress above their heads. “Y’don’t touch,” she snarls.
“Oh!” Rio cries, and her hips buck into Agatha’s groin.
Agatha wishes to the Lord above that she was wearing her strap, because she would utterly, devastatingly ruin the woman beneath her.
Though she’s been known to cause plenty of ruin with her bare hands.
The thoughts in her head make her hungry, and she attacks Rio’s smooth skin with renewed vigor, marking down the column of her throat and sinking her teeth into the tender flesh between neck and shoulder.
Rio lets out a yell and Agatha can feel the shudder run through her. A shudder she caused. Rio is at her mercy, falling apart beneath her. And she doesn’t want to miss it.
So she slows down. She sucks harder at Rio’s skin, but she takes her time. Her mouth moving slow and deep.
Rio catches on and relaxes her body, and when Agatha lets go of her wrists, she keeps them above her head.
“Obedient,” Agatha observes, breath ghosting over Rio’s ear.
“For no one else a day in my life,” Rio pants softly. “You can take that to the bank.”
“Just me, huh?” Agatha murmurs, gliding the tip of her tongue along the shell of Rio’s ear. “Your neck looks like I used y’for target practice. What’y’a say to that?”
Rio shifts her weight a bit, pressing her hips into Agatha’s groin again, this time on purpose. “I say it’s a good thing I run my own business and don’t have a boss to answer to.” Her expression slowly turns coy. “And I say… why am I still wearing this dress?”
“Oh no,” Agatha shakes her head. “That dress stays right where it’s at. We already gone too far for one night and I wanna do this proper.” Never mind that I would’ve already split you open if I was wearing my dick.
Rio groans, but Agatha can see in her eyes that she’s happy. Happy to know Agatha doesn’t just want to use her and move on.
She lays a gentle kiss on the corner of Rio’s mouth and climbs off the cot, straightening out her clothes and brushing her hands on her pants. “Get some sleep. In the mornin’ we’ll go for a walk.”
Rio’s still breathing a bit heavy, but she nods at Agatha’s words. “Only if you hold my hand.”
Agatha quirks up one side of her mouth and lets out a little chuckle. “What would be the point if I didn’t?”
Rio pulls the blanket up over herself and Agatha flops into her chair, putting her feet up on her desk and settling in to keep watch.