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metriaaqua · 2 months ago

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In The Wild Wild West | 1

San Diego’s Sweetheart

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THIS CHAPTER: Life is full of bad decisions. Unfortunately, you tend to make a lot of them. You have to wonder if it’ll bite you in the ass someday. Also, you NEVER want to see another blonde again in your life.

WARNINGS: blood. that’s it im pretty sure

NOTE: not one, but perhaps TWO asshole blondes this time?

It is finally September 25th, yet you feel nothing but exhaustion. Roughly four in the morning and Nirvana’s hooves were finally gracing San Diego’s beach.

The hours long journey that began in the town of Oceanside, through other smaller towns you’ve never heard of, and into more rural areas came to a close on this very beach.

There was a lot of plotting and planning to get here. Ideas you’ve scrapped, words you’ve decided not to say to others. In the end, the idea you’d like to call your final draft, wasn’t the best. Starting with stealing money from your father.

It’s bad. It’s really, really bad. But it’s something you needed to do. You needed that money to enter the race and get supplies. Once you were all alone with your thoughts in bed, it became clear to you that there wouldn’t be a chance in the world getting all that money in only two nights. Especially since you had to leave early to make it on time.

That lady didn’t tip you either, even after you helped her out. So much for that well-thought-out drink! You were glad her courting attempt wasn’t successful.

The night you returned home from the saloon, you asked your father to borrow the remaining amount and were met with a resounding no.

Your mood hadn’t helped at all thanks to that cad you had the misfortune of interacting with. Though you hate to admit it, you couldn’t stop thinking about what he said to you, aptly naming him the “asshole with shiny teeth” and making sure to write it down in your journal so you don’t forget.

Fueled by nothing but the taste of bitterness, before you visited Liam the next morning, you returned to the saloon and took money out of its safe before opening hours. It had all been stuffed in your reticule, which you ended up tossing somewhere in the wild after you bought a bigger saddlebag for Nirvana.

Despite knowing obviously that stealing was wrong, you didn’t feel guilty at the time. But the moment you came onto this beach, the feeling of unease started to creep in after realizing what you’d done.

Your mind had thrown out the word selfish, but there’s no way you could be when you had your father and even your mother’s best interest in mind.

You’d repay him the amount you took and more once you win the race. You’d even get him a bigger saloon, so the Lucky Spur’s old location would be but a distant memory. Your mother’s tailor business would benefit from your win as well. You’d ensure she had top-quality crafting material and nothing but the finest silk lined on a wooden spool.

It wasn’t selfish, it was far from it. You’ll always think of them.

“He’ll be fine” is what you’d counter your mind with. If he were in your shoes, he’d understand that getting this money was necessary. He’ll forgive you in due time.

However, your mind starts to dip into other territory.

The fear of being caught when you’re in the middle of the race with the word guilty written right on your forehead. Would you be branded with a hot iron? Would you be publically humiliated? Or perhaps you could beg for mercy, be given a slap on the wrist, and be thrown into jail for god knows how long?

The last option isn’t so bad in comparison. You’d prefer not to smell your burning flesh, nor would you want to face the town if humiliated. The thought of a lingering mark on your skin makes a sudden ache flow through your fingers into the palm of your hand, and you can’t help but release the reign from one hand and rub the back of the other with it.

You don’t want to think about it too much, so you need to remind yourself with the truth. This is not a selfish act, no, but a step towards a better future for yourself and your family, from your writing career to their business.

And speaking of writing, you’re gonna have to write an update about current events as soon as you can.

When you came back to see Liam and said that this would be the last time you’d see him, he asked if you had caught the epidemic.

“—’cause you make it sound like you’re going to die.” He said, a smirk playing out on his face. The two of you shared a tea kettle, and he reached over to pour it into your cup. “That’d make you the first one to catch it here. You must be special.”

“I hope I did catch it, then I could infect you. If I go down, you’re coming with me.”

The weirdest description of that ailment was given to you by papers. If one were to catch it, the individual’s skin could turn as yellow as a lemon, coupled with black vomit. You don’t even want to imagine what it looks like. Disgusting.

You also read that it’s uncertain if conditions will worsen or spread as winter approaches. Even now, all you can do is pray that it doesn’t.

After all, it’s well into autumn. The perfect time to harvest and sell vegetables, with pomegranates being this month’s hot item. You feel inclined to agree; the temperatures weren’t as bad as in the summer when it sometimes felt like you were burning alive. You’ve discovered that being covered in sweat while on horseback is not very fun—or comfortable, for that matter.

“What I mean, you idiot, is that I’m going to have to leave for San Diego as soon as I get out of here.” You clarified. “I’ll be taking Nirvana.”

“You know, I’m not sure what made you stick with her, let alone pick her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Friesian horse used in racing. You know we have others like an Appaloosa or an Arabian horse.” Liam muttered. It’s more like a suggestion, one that you weren’t interested in. “And yet, she seems eager to run rather than trot around for pleasure. Though I guess it’s a matter of endurance rather than speed…”

At that thought, you reach over and run a hand over the side of Nirvana’s neck. Thankfully, you’d be stopping soon because she’s hot to the touch. “You did fantastic!” You compliment with a smile. “I’m going to stop soon and get you some water. The both of us can get some well-deserved rest.”

The sun hadn’t even fully risen yet and the sky was painted in a deep blue, similar to the color of a polished gem. It reminds you of a beautiful lapis lazuli you had seen in a jewelry store long ago. Costed a ton of money though, so you swore that one day you’d come back for it and make it into a necklace.

As you recall, the moon rises from the East, lowers in the West. Fortunately for you, you didn’t seem to be the only one awake at this hour. There were a couple of racers that had been idling around. Hell, there were at least two at the sign-up stand when you took a look over.

Though excitement was making itself known through your exhaustion, the only thing you wanted to do now was sign up, find a tent, and pass out as long as you could before the race began. The next thing you do is shuffle through your pocket and pull out a small mirror.

One could say that you’ve had better days. The damage of it was most noticeable under your eyes. If only they made something that could cover it up…

Oh well. You’re here now. That’s all that matters. Today will be the better day. “Here we are,” You mutter, bringing Nirvana to a halt near a trough. “It’s all yours. I’ll be back.” You swing your leg from over her and jump down, then reach to unhook the saddlebag.

Once it’s in your hands, you yawn as you trudge over toward the sign-up stand, rubbing your eyes.

Hopefully, you can make this quick. It’s truly horrible you barely got any rest. It was originally planned to be a non-stop trip, but unfortunately you didn’t really have a choice but to stop occasionally. Even if it wasn’t for long, you knew you couldn’t afford to push yourself or Nirvana too hard right now.

At one point you had to camp out about ten kilometers from San Diego and rest, then continue after getting some shut-eye. It was tough, though. Nirvana would whinny and it would wake you. The sound of the fire crackling nearby would wake you. After all, you’d never been out on your own like that before. Just you, Nirvana, and the silence of the landscape near you.

Okay, maybe one snake tried to give you some company near your sleeping bag, but you’d try and put a considerable distance between you and the serpent with panic. No snake bites here.

Strangely cute as it may have been with its little flickering tongue, you didn’t have a way of telling if it was venomous or not and you didn’t want to find out.

You tiredly greet the clerk once you’re up there, face to face with a fenced window with a small slot under it. This place looks to be some inn repurposed to be used for the race. Nifty. You shuffle through your bag and pull out cash, placing it in front of him. “This should be enough to enter.”

The man inside looks down at the money, then back at you. He seems to fight a snicker. “Of course. You’re sure?”

You don’t like how he asked that, but you still nod. “Yes. Count it, please.”

He does, albeit slowly. It annoys you how long he takes. Not only had you begun to worry about not taking enough or spending too much, but you were worried Nirvana may get antsy around the other horses and people that were around.

The thought of so many racers on the beach had already unsettled you, actually. And this is only early on in the morning. Lord knows how many more will arrive once the sun fully rises. There’s no way you could let your guard down now.

“What time is it?” You suddenly ask. The clerk motions over towards the clock behind him, focused on counting. Your rough estimate was correct, as it’s a quarter past four now. You couldn’t help but drum a finger along the kiosk once you look back at him. “You’re taking an awfully long time. Think it’s not real? The president’s face is right there.”

It’s teasingly said by you, but you’re wondering what the hold up was.

”No worries.” Thankfully, he finally looks up at you with a nod, the final bill in his hand. “Yes, yes, this seems like all of it. Are you certain you want to enter? There are no refunds after we take this fee.”

“Yes. Again, I’m sure.” If he asks one more time, you might yell at him.

He then starts to rummage under the counter and pulls out a piece of teal paper with a number, sliding it under the fenced window to you.

“This is your identification card, you’re number 815. Make sure to keep it safe and with you at all times.” The next thing he gives you is a small golden badge. “It also comes with a commemorative race badge.”

The little golden badge has a man riding a horse in the center with a horseshoe around him. San Diego on its left, New York on its right, with the bottom of its curve says 1890.

You hold the badge up. How cute! You really hope they’d give you more goodies like this. You slide both the badge and the paper into your pocket.

“Exchanging of horses and riders are prohibited. We will record your fingerprints and the horse’s nose print immediately. Then, we will take your horse and attach your identification number to them. If you’re okay with these terms, please sign right here.”

You pull the paper closer to you. No issues at all here. Once he gives the pen to you, you sign your name in fresh ink, then blow on the paper so it’ll dry faster.

“This too, please.” The clerk slides another piece of paper. “Dip your index and thumb into the ink and stamp them on the paper.”

This still doesn’t feel real. It’s like you’re not actually on the coast of San Diego. Like you’re not signing up for the race.

You can’t help but smile tiredly as you stamp your fingers onto the paper. A vision of seeing yourself on the front of a newspaper, holding onto the book that you wrote all by yourself, is right here within your grasp.

The clerk wishes you good luck and you give him a nod in response, walking back over to Nirvana. As predicted, she had been pretty on edge, seeing as she’d been pawing the ground.

Once you’re in her line of sight, she let out a huff, which definitely sounded like attitude. Then she leans her head back down to take a drink of water. “It was like one second.” You huff back at her. You think you’ll leave your sleeping bag strapped onto her for a while, but bring the remainder of your stuff with you to the tent.

You hoist the bag strap further onto your shoulder, feeling the full weight from everything you bought inside. Some clothes, plus the consequence of hitting the shopkeeper with word vomit. He shouldn’t have let you buy all that stuff, damnit!

Still, a compass, a mirror, a toothbrush. Stuff like that? You need it! Your spending habit was worth it at the end of the day and as long as it can fit in the bag.

You also wanted to look at the paper before going to sleep again, as you didn’t have time earlier. The shopkeeper gave it to you on the house, insistent you read the brand new horoscope section, saying it was popular among women your age.

Well, at least you wouldn’t have to mount Nirvana for a minute. Getting on was difficult without help. The way you get on could have been better, but the more you do it, the more you’ll get the hang of it. If you get on her using the stirrup in a dire situation, it might slow you down. But that’d be pretty unlikely. This should be a relatively smooth sailing race.

Funnily enough, there was a point where you would get a running start, jump on top of Nirvana with your stomach on her back, then wiggle around to sit on her properly. Liam had to tell you there are better and safer ways. Of course, he didn’t forget to call you loony for mounting her like that, then said the stirrup exists for that very reason.

You brush along Nirvana’s black coat with a hum. She’s still a little sweaty, but the more she’s idle and the water she drinks, the more she’ll be alright.

“Hey, you.”

You pause and turn around, yet there isn’t anyone in front of you. Your gaze goes a bit downward to see a boy in a wheelchair who looks up at you with a scowl on his face. “Huh?”

When you get a really good look at him, you see blonde hair that was jutted in strange looking angles, the most of it covered up by a blue star patterned beanie with a horseshoe that matched the style of his pants.

Your confusion only annoys him further. “Are you gonna just stand there and tend to that horse all day? You’re the stable girl, right? Open the gate, I wanna ride.” He motions his hand over towards the pen. “I bought a horse.”

You’re still confused, brows furrowing as you look down at him. What made you look like a stable girl? “Sorry, you’ve got it all wrong.” You wave your hands at him. “I’m in the race, this is my horse here.”

Your words almost bring a laugh out of him. You? Participating in the race? “Yeah, right.” He rolls his eyes. “And I’m going to get out of this wheelchair and start walking. Just open the gate already.”

If you have to deal with one more person who belittles you for entering the race, you will snap. You swear you will. It takes everything in you not to lose it on this guy.

“You know what? You’re right. You might get out of that chair after all. When I push you out of it.” To prove yourself, you take out the slip of paper from your pocket and hold it out in front of him.

“Here, I hope you know how to read. Otherwise, that’d be embarrassing for you. I’ll say it again, I’m not a stable girl. What business does someone like you have riding on a horse anyway?”

Was that too much? Telling him you’d push him out of his wheelchair was messed up, but all those words came out quicker than you’d wanted. His eyes widened at your (empty, but how could he know?) threat, then screwed themselves shut as he looks away with gritted teeth.

He knew he should have been used to this by now. People who mocked him, insulted him, even the rare display of pity from those who knew of him. While you hadn’t recognized who he was, he still forced an answer out, trying his best to keep it together. “None of your business.”

You’re still lost. He’s in a wheelchair. How the hell would he get on a horse? Half curious and apologetic, you let out a sigh. “Well, um.” It’s the only thing you can start off with. Again, you’ve had better days. Days that didn’t include threatening a disabled man. “I’m sorry. I can…you want me to find you a way in?”

“Haven’t ya’ heard of the term curiosity killed the cat? You said it, you’re not the stable girl, so forget it.” He mutters, setting his hands on the wheels. “I’ll figure out a way to do it my damn self. Get out of my way before I run over your foot.” He didn’t have time for your shenanigans. There’s something more important to worry about.

“Fine.” You, too, have something more important to worry about, which is going to sleep. If he didn’t want help, it’s whatever. You wanna go to bed anyway. “Be that way! Don’t say I didn’t try to help.”

You end up walking away from him. He can struggle and figure things out by himself. You wish him luck getting anywhere, especially since most are sleeping at this hour and wouldn’t want to be bothered. You’d follow suit as soon as you can claim a tent, preferably somewhere you didn’t have to see him.

You’d peek into a few tents and move on to the next section each time you opened an occupied one. The last one you had gotten to was empty, a little closer to the ocean. Everything works out! You’d read and then fall asleep to the sound of the ocean’s waves.

Kneeling and pushing the entrance open, you crawl into the small space. The floor has padding, but it should basically be bare with the way it peeled off the ground and how thin it was. It’s not a comfy bed, but it’s better than sleeping out in the open, right?

Flipping open the newspaper before sleep can fully claim you, you can’t help but wonder if shoddy fortune-tellers had a hand in the horoscope. Instead of luring you into an alley to tell your fortune, they’ve made it into the papers. Good for them!

The first page you flip to immediately greets you with more information about the Steel Ball Run, again. This time, there’s a small section of popular racers who’d be participating. Diego Brando, an infamous jockey hailing from Britain and making a wave in the United States. Urmd Avdol, who hails from Egypt and possibly plans to ride with a camel? Even a real cowboy, the paper says, a Mountain Tim from Wyoming.

All kinds of people were joining, it seems.

The next page gives a weather report, which was slightly irrelevant to the area you’re in. And the section below decides to give you advice on how to keep a husband.

Ugh. The line “obey all his orders” immediately catches your unhappy eye. Like you’d ever need that.

A time ago, Miss Ava suggested that you should be looking to settle down with a fine man in the future. She even told you that you were truly stunning and didn’t see why men hadn’t already fallen at your feet.

She had only realized exactly why when you had adamantly refused. The thought of someone telling you what you do, giving away whatever money you have earned, and doing all the housework. The only things women are good for are cooking and carrying one’s children.

You’re a little too outspoken and men absolutely hate that. She quickly suggested keeping your thoughts to yourself to save yourself from public scrutiny.

It’s not like anyone would listen to you anyway. The night before was shown to prove as such. None of the men in there listened to you and the only other woman was too focused on trying to get in that man’s bed.

Flipping onto the next page, you’re finally onto what seems to be the horoscope page. There are predictions of love life, wealth, and the future. All scribbled down according to the month you were born in.

Your assigned paragraph reads: “Though love is to remain unchanging for the time being, it is around the corner awaiting your arrival. Hold off on any unnecessary affairs. For the next few months, trouble with men arriving in your path will likely linger.” How fun.

In a way, it seemed as if it was already beginning. You were already having issues with men that happened to get in your way. One that seemed to come in on a horse, the other that rolled.

They also don’t forget to mention that your lucky number is eight, which is a little weird. Your identification number starts with eight. The golden badge you got has the current year with an eight in it. Could be nothing, could be something. Could just be your lack of sleep.

But should you believe this? It was a little too coincidental.

The thought lingers as the words start to jumble together and your eyes droop lower. Perhaps you’d figure this one out once you wake up.

The feeling of a dream that was not entirely clear lingers. You think you had a dream when you had fallen asleep, but you’re not entirely sure.

You know that everything wasn’t pitch black when you closed your eyes. There were images inside your dream, shapes and colors you can’t remember.

It was also much lighter outside than before once you were torn right back into consciousness. You’re immediately filled with panic, throwing the flap of your tent open and nearly falling over. There’s no way you overslept. You couldn’t have.

The moment you open it up and swing your head from left to right, Seeing other racers still lingering by their tents and gathering their horses made you sigh in relief. Your saddle was still resting on the outside by the neatly folded pads.

You needed to put it back on Nirvana. This would be a little hard, but you sort of remember how Liam had gotten it on. The pads first, then the saddle itself, then tie it. It shouldn’t be too difficult.

You hoist the saddlebag back onto your shoulder, lift the saddle into your arms, and put the saddle pads on top. You’re a one-trip girl. As you stand up and make your way towards Nirvana, you pass by a pen or two, most notably passing a discarded wheelchair.

It’s lying there overturned. You can’t help but to raise an eyebrow.

This is the same wheelchair you saw earlier. The only difference is that it’s missing a person this time—that guy. You must admit, you’re a little worried. Surely, he couldn’t have gotten on that horse and made off into the sunset that easily?

“Well, well, color me shocked.”

That voice makes you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn around. The growing thorn in your side, the man you unfortunately couldn’t stop thinking about since he told you not to participate. The asshole with shiny teeth! He’s right here looking at you with raised brows, holding a thin bedroll tucked under his underarm and a saddle in his arms.

You can’t help but notice how his triceps flex as he adjusts the saddle to his comfort, and you frown. His muscles are probably the worst thing you could focus on right now.

“You must be the help.” You dryly say, a smirk playing on your lips. “Otherwise, I don’t know why you’re here. Are you following me or something?”

“Not at all.” He shakes his head, voice mirroring the same dryness as yours. “I wonder why you didn’t take my advice. I was only trying to help. I’m sure you have a family at home, yes? Shouldn’t you want to return to them safely?”

He must feel high and mighty right now, giving you advice. But you know what he was trying to do. He’s not a savior. He will never be your savior. His advice isn’t needed nor warranted, especially if it’s condescending.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” You retort. If you had a free hand, you’d show him your identification number like you did with the other guy. “Besides, I don’t need advice, remember?”

The urge to throw the saddle at him grows stronger, but that’d be a waste of a saddle. You start walking forward so you don’t change your mind and chuck it at him.

“I’m telling you, you’re not gonna last very long.” He tries to warn, following along with you. “Still, if you want to drop out and instead watch as I travel across the country, you still have the chance. That way, I’ll remember that cute little face, signorina. I’d definitely come back for you.”

Wow, it’s truly your lucky day! You’d drop to your knees right now if you could, begging him to whisk you away from this oh-so-scary race and have all ten of your children!

Not. You suddenly stop in your tracks and look him dead in the eye. He’s got this shit-eating grin on his face, those shiny gold teeth back on display. You never thought this could happen, but you think he’s starting to hit a nerve that no one else could touch. Not even Liam. Not even your father or mother.

“Nyoho!” He gives a stupid…laugh, you think it was. It makes your eye twitch. “You must be thinking about it, yes?”

“Right now, I’m thinking about you getting out of my face. Now move.” You push past him toward Nirvana before he can say more. But you pause, turning your head back to him. “You know, so that I can go and put the saddle on my horse. The horse I’ll be using to travel across the country myself.”

You wanted to put that out there, prayerfully annoying him in the process. It’s no wonder he wanted you out of the race, he’d be participating as well. If you get a higher placement than him, perhaps it’ll be the last time you hear his mouth.

However, trailing back to your thoughts from earlier about that wheelchair, you realize its emptiness really bothered you for some reason. Where could he have gone?

“Hey, that famous jockey, he’s still at it?” You hear a man say. “It’s been hours. Is he really planning on entering the race in that condition?”

Famous jockey?

You look over to where they’re looking, and lo and behold, it’s the same guy being ruthlessly dragged by a horse around the pen. Every rock he goes over makes you wince, and there’s blood running down the side of his face, dripping down to his arm.

The horse eventually forces him to slam right into the wooden fence of the pen, splintering into pieces. He coughs and hacks, blood splattering all over the dirt.

Even if you had threatened to push him out of his wheelchair and he had threatened to run over your foot only a few hours ago, you had a heart. “What’re you guys waiting for?!” You immediately drop your saddle onto the ground and rush toward the pen. “Are you just going to let him do that?!”

The moment you look like you’re about to get in there, the blonde shakily points a finger at you. “I swear to god!” He yells, voice labored, “If you come near me, I’ll light myself on fire!”

“No use, ma’am.” One of the men shakes his head. “He’s been at this for a while now. He’s insane. Look.”

He motions over to him. Once you look over, you see there’s a sharp piece of wood embedded in his calf, dried blood and dirt staining his star-legged pants. “He was sold a dobbin, apparently. It’s an old, untamable horse with a twisted personality. Still, let him do what he wants. Impossible glory, everyone who came here is like that.”

Impossible glory, he says. Leaning on the fence, you watch as he pitifully crawls back over to the horse, only to immediately cover his head once the horse starts to stomp its hooves into the ground in an attempt to trample him.

“I-I can’t watch this anymore! we have to stop him!” The shorter man says. “Hey, don’t you think?”

He couldn’t have been talking to you, could he? You’ve already made your thoughts clear. You wanted to stop him, but he threatened to kill himself!

“Are you asking for my opinion?”

The moment you hear that voice come from your left, you rub the palm of your hand onto your temple. He needs to find something else to do instead of being near you.

He leans on the fence like you, setting his saddle and knee on the middle wooden piece. “I was just looking since he was in my sight. But if I were to say something about it, he’ll never ride it. Not like that.”

You turn over to look at him. He’s at least a foot or two away from you. He pauses for a second to glance at you, then back towards the horse. “On the other hand, if he could ride it, he’d go beyond any human.”

After that, he gets off the fence, grabs his saddle, and leaves him to it. So much for saying anything helpful. The only thing you do is scoff, then cast a somewhat apologetic look towards the poor guy who’d continued to heave and cough on the ground.

There isn’t anything you could do, you suppose. Someone would have to take care of him eventually. You find yourself hoping you won’t see him on a small headline somewhere claiming that he met his end at the race’s starting point.

“Attention all participants,” There’s a voice from a loudspeaker, which overtakes all of the ambient noise on the beach. “There are officially fifteen minutes until the race begins. Each of your numbers is also your starting grid number. For fairness, please be at your corresponding starting grid by two minutes to ten am. Any participants who have not lined up or left their grid between those two minutes will be judged as a false start and will be penalized.”

Fifteen minutes?! You needed to get a move on and saddle Nirvana up. You rush over to where you dropped your equipment and scoop it into your arms, making a beeline for your horse.

“After the race mascot Mini Horse March and the band performance, there will be an opening ceremonial speech by the race director and sponsor of the Steel Ball Run Race, Mr Steven Steel.”

Nirvana swishes her tail at you again. She looks so wonderful with your number draped onto her side that you’re nearly crying. “Oh, Nirvana.” You call, dramatically bringing your hands to your mouth. “Look how wonderful you look!”

Though, your fawning would have to wait for another time. You immediately get to work on attaching the saddle. You try your best not to let the loud chants of “San Diego” and “New York” interrupt your focus.

The race of your life begins in roughly fifteen minutes. There’s no going back now.

#jjba imagine #jjba x reader #jojo imagines #jojo x reader #steel ball run x reader #sbr x reader #johnny joestar x reader #gyro zeppeli x reader #diego brando x reader #hot pants x reader

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metriaaqua · 2 months ago

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In The Wild Wild West | 0

A Fateful Encounter

THIS CHAPTER: Two nights before the Steel Ball Run is scheduled, an experience in your father’s bar only further fuels your decision to participate. No matter what anyone thought or said, you’d be at that race.

WARNINGS: period-typical sexism. gyro sorta smells normal jumpscare (im COPING) (I PROMISE THAT MAN WILL BE STINKY LATER)

NOTE: STEEL BALL RUN IS REAL HELLOOOOOO!! after the stream i went outside and frolicked around in the beautiful sun and picked flowers. life is good. ALWAYS KEEP HOPE NO MATTER WHAT.…. still waiting on my diego.png. that announcement gave me enough motivation to finish this rewrite!! hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing this once more! this is only an intro, so it'll be a little shorter than normal, the rest of the chapters will be WAY longer!

$50,000,000.

That’s the prize for first place in the Steel Ball Run race. There are other prizes for the rest of the placements, but they pale in comparison to first place. You couldn’t believe it then and still couldn’t believe it now.

The thought of it brings a smile to your face as you clean a glass. Maybe about…42 more glasses to clean and you’d finally make enough actually to enter. The entry fee was $1,200 and unfortunately for you, you’ve got $710 right now, including quarters and nickels you’d find lying within the streets. Every little bit helps.

In order to get to your goal faster, you volunteered to work at your father’s saloon as a barmaid.

Of course, you omitted the reasoning as to why, so he probably thinks you’re just doing a good deed and helping the business. The only things you were really focused on was winning the race and becoming a full-fledged writer. Now that you think about it, when the race was said and done, what would you be buying for yourself?

Beautiful silk clothing like those rich girls around town would wear? Those pearl earrings you'd see on their ear? God, you wish.

Not only was writing your motivator, but occasionally seeing those upper-class women around town made you want to splurge. It’s their fault through and through.

They'd only really pass through town, yet you still find yourself looking at them anyway. When you wondered why you couldn't stop seeing them, you chalked it up to them wanting to rub their wealth in your face. The lives of the aristocrats are so much better than yours and each time they’d pass, the reminder was just a slap in the face.

Their tactics to make you jealous worked a little too well, and even if mother would gently remind you that it's all in your head, you found yourself wanting that life, too.

Everything’s going to be achieved once you win the Steel Ball Run. You just know it. Your aspiration. Your dreams—

“You know, you’ve been rubbing the same glass for about five minutes now. Are you okay?” A woman asked, watching as you suddenly clam up. “Should I call for help?”

"Oh, no,” You quickly apologize afterward, setting the glass down. This is your reality at the moment, the closing barmaid for the rest of the night at the saloon. There were still quite a few people in here even though the sun had started setting and it was about 45 minutes or so until close. After all, this is the saloon that never sleeps: Lucky Spur.

That is until it’s closed. Makes you giggle a little.

The air was thick with the scent of nicotine, alcohol, and now the faintest hint of perfume from this woman in your area. “Did you want something to drink?” You ask her.

“Just a water, but can you make something nice for that handsome man over there too?” She sticks a finger behind her to point in his direction. “Wanna try and get on his good side a bit before I charm him.”

Handsome, she says? You’ll just have to see for yourself. When you turn to look, you think you’re completely blinded by his radiance…

Well, that’s being overdramatic.

Hey, she was right though. The man was attractive. With long flowing blonde hair that reached far down his back, he had a sharp face with piercing emerald green eyes that almost sparkled even in the dim lighting of the saloon. He’s got a strange beard pattern on his chin, squares of blonde lining upward on his jaw. You might be seeing things, but it looked like he had some green lipstick on as well.

The way that he looks makes you ignore the strange getup he has on. Must be a cowboy, the way he’s got his hat perched up on his head and the cape that cascades down his back. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a cowboy dress that way, though.

He’s got an annoyed look on his face, one that scrunches up even more when he reaches a hand down to adjust his boot.

It’s no wonder this woman had been twirling her auburn hair on her fingers with a dreamy look in her eye. You’d probably be doing the same, had you not wondered how long he’d been here for. All he was doing was sit at the table idly and you don’t recall serving him. There’s no way your head was in the clouds for that long.

Maybe he had come earlier than you had, but if that was the case, he would’ve been sitting there for hours and still hadn’t ordered a damn thing.

When closing time comes, what then? You can only hope that you won’t have to be the one to shoo him away. Having to look him in the eye might make it a little too tempting to say he could stay as long as he wanted to. You can almost feel your face heating up, so you quickly fill a glass of water and place it in front of the woman.

Now, something that’ll impress this guy, maybe something that'll get his attention. Once again, you decide to take another look at him.

You'd always had an eye for those things, being able to roughly guess what kind of drinks a person would like. The women who came here often preferred something light on their stomachs in comparison to people who usually gamble here. They enjoyed a drink that would go down easy, as long as they could focus on their games. Something in the middle would suffice for them.

Based off this situation? This woman wanted his attention and she was going to get it because of you. There's a sudden pang of admiration that shoots through you, followed by envy shortly after. Even if he annoyed you a little bit by not ordering anything, you wish you had the chance to jump at him first.

The man's eyes eventually flicker over to you and nearly give you a heart attack, causing you to pick up another glass and wipe it over at least five times. You must've been staring at him for a little too long.

The woman at the counter eagerly turns to you. “He was looking at me! Did you see it?” She asks in excitement.

You don’t answer her at first.

They're customers. You should treat them as such and do your job. Instead of being jealous, maybe you should focus on getting money to enter. If you’re lucky, this woman would tip you after.

“Sure did. How could he not? You’re very beautiful!”

You can see her blush and press her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, you flatter me!”

Prayerfully, you’ll get a tip for your kindness.

Anyhow, Brandy would do him good, as his appearance made you lean towards something a little more on the harsh side. With only a sprinkle of sugar and an addition of bitters, you reach down and add a singular lemon to rest on its rim.

Simple. You set the glass on the wooden counter gently. “Here you go.” You say. “Hope that works.”

Once she takes it energetically, she bounces on over to where the man is. Whatever. To distract yourself from taking a look at them and driving yourself nuts for no reason, you snatch up the newspaper you’d been looking at earlier, burying your nose in it.

The newspapers just won’t stop talking about this race. No matter what date it was issued, it’s been the talk of the entire month of September. Not only would it start in two days, but this is the first cross-country horseback race.

This Steven Steel guy, the organizer of this race, what a crazy man. Where did he even get an idea like this from?

Sign-ups were on site thank goodness, but it wouldn’t mean anything if you didn’t have enough money. Your window of opportunity was steadily closing and you had to hurry things up if you wanted to make it in time.

Your horse, all of the practice, that’s all set. You’re fine in those departments. It’s the money part that’s holding you back. Though, you can’t help but smile at the thought of your horse.

Nirvana, the Friesian that would lead you clear across that finish line to victory. Another perfect reason to come here often was to visit a family friend, Miss Ava. She owned a large ranch near the end of town. You’d clean things up around the house and tend to some of the animals and she’d reward you with food or trinkets.

Her son, Liam was there too, you guess. The brother you never had—or wanted, honestly. You always believed he’d been jealous of you because you were so close to his mother. He eventually came around after you admitted your interest in horses. Even more so when you mentioned the race.

It was luck, fate even, when he told you he had been a jockey a few years ago. There was an agreement between you both that he’d let you borrow Nirvana for the race, though the promise he made you keep (one he made sure you linked pinkies for), was that when you get famous, you’d mention him at every so often. No matter what question was asked, you’d always shoehorn Liam into it. Vain, but if it’s something you have to do, fine.

Then he made it abundantly clear that just because you’re a woman, it didn’t mean you’d get the easy route when it came to riding. You’d be treated just like a man by him and he insisted that it’d be no different in the race.

There’d be a red target plastered right on your back. Anyone could take a shot at any time.

That part may have been scary, but what probably was scarier was all the injuries you'd get from falling off Nirvana every so often. Liam reckons you’re lucky that it’s only scratches and bruises and that Nirvana hasn’t kicked you with her hind legs yet and killed you.

Now that you think about him, you’re pretty sure you have to remember to meet him tomorrow afternoon. He asked you to see him as soon as you had woken up.

“Hey! You listenin'?!” Another patron calls, waving his hand in the air to get your attention. He waves a cigar in his hand, spreading the smoke in the air. It makes you fight the urge to pinch your nose. They seemed to be in the middle of a very serious poker game, but you were sure that if they didn't get their next round of drinks, they'd just die. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Setting it down gently, you come around from the bar to serve him, an apologetic look on your face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you too well. I was reading the paper. Could you repeat what you said earlier?”

Your voice is sweet, cutting through the boisterous laughter directed towards you by the men. It makes you feel like you’re the butt of a joke only they know about, and the way they eyed you like a piece of meat hadn’t helped.

“..What's a pretty girl like you doing reading the newspaper anyway? Shouldn't you be entertaining us?” One man asks, lowering his deck of cards. “It can't be that interesting, can it?”

“It is,” You nod. “They're talking about the horse-back race. I think I may even enter.” You feel proud as you say those words, putting your hands on your hips with a smile. But then the men fall into more howls of laughter. “Why're you all laughing? I'm serious.”

Once you say you’re serious, their laughter suddenly slows down and they look up at you. The irritated look on your face had confirmed that you were indeed serious. “Wait, you're for real?” One of them asked, wiping a stray tear from his eye. “A woman? Entering a horseback race?”

“You're kiddin'..” Another says. “A woman doesn't know the first thing about horseback racing. I'd be surprised if you could even work a bet.”

You move your hands from your hips to cross your arms. “They said that any gender can enter.”

Before you can open your mouth again, the slam of glass on the table startles you and the men at the table. It's the blonde man coming to stand from his stool, the legs of it scraping onto the dry wood floor. He gives a sparkly gold smile to the woman from earlier, before walking in your direction.

“Nice drink you made.” He compliments, stopping right next to you. The smell of leather and an earthy tone fill your nostrils. “Those hands of yours worked some magic, signorina.”

He beams, your eyes catching onto the golden shine of his teeth once again. It quickly fades, replaced by something colder and serious. ”If you know what's good for you, stay out of the race and stick to what you know.” He says it like he's doing you some kind of favor, offering an act of kindness even.

There's a lot you want to say to him—to curse him out, say something venomous back to him—but nothing comes out of your mouth.

A handsome man completely ruined by his nasty attitude.

“Should listen to what he said.” One of the men suggest. “Aw man, you're too cute to look upset. Come sit with us for a while. I'm sure you'll have much more fun with us than hanging around back there. C'mon, it'll be fun.”

He reaches his hand up to grab onto your wrist and you immediately snatch it away.

To say a woman doesn't know a thing about this. To tell you that you shouldn't enter the race. When you’ve been busting your ass for months trying to learn. You can feel yourself almost boiling from their doubt. With clenched fists, you leave the table and walk over towards the entrance to trail behind the man leaving.

Hopefully, the people inside would behave themselves. You may get chewed out for this later by your father, but you couldn’t care less. When you shove open the door, the soft breeze immediately hits you. Your feet drum down the steps as you catch up with him. “Why should I listen to anything you have to say?”

He’s still walking away, undeterred by your comment as he makes his way over to a horse tethered onto the hitching post, running his hand down its mane lightly.

…The Goddess of Victory herself must have been looking down on him for even having a woman this close to his horse. He looks over to you with those piercing eyes of his. “You shouldn’t get too close.”

It comes off as a warning and your breath hitches. You had half a mind to step forward anyway, but before you can ask why, he cuts you off before you can speak yet again.

“I think you’re a beautiful woman.” He admits, turning over to you fully. “It’d be a shame to see that face all bruised up in that race if you enter. Save yourself, save people their time.”

This time, you get a full view of him and his wacky outfit. No matter how handsome he may be to you, that comment really got under your skin.

His words makes you tighten your fist even more, fingers tucking themselves into the palm of your hand. “I don’t...” Yes, he had called you a beautiful woman, but you just knew the rest of his words were dripping with sarcasm. “I don’t need your advice. I don’t need a man to tell me what to do.” You sharply exhale, then point a finger to your face.

“This is a face you should remember well. You’ll remember me when you see me in the headlines. You or anyone else won’t be changing that.”

This time, you don’t even let him speak. You sharply turn on your heel and head right back into the bar.

Those men in the bar, that woman, and most importantly, him, they’ll all remember your name.

Even if you die trying.

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