THE RISE AND FALL OF A MIDWEST PRINCESS

[ 02 ] Fool's Gold

CHAPTER TWO 
Fool's Gold

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  WINONA SHIELDS HER EYES FROM the sudden onslaught of sunlight as they break away from the tree line in a fanfare of thundering hooves, paving their way towards the winding dirt roads that lead, funnily enough, straight to Rhodes. Dust clouds her vision in a great fog of russet and she squints against the grit that lashes her face, knuckles tightening under the taut leather of her riding gloves. She digs her spurs in and her horse begins to gallop faster, tossing his mighty head in an act of defiance that she pays no mind.

As morning creeps leisurely into afternoon, the world around them feels sleek as molten gold, their problems melting under the calefaction that hazes the windswept cobalt skies above. They travel under a thickening shroud of laughter and chatter, weaving in and out of the gawking passer-by's without a care in the world for all the strange looks shot their way.

Winona's horse, Troy — a bulky Ardennes with a soft Strawberry Roan coat — barrels across the land as she digs in her spurs again to urge him on faster, his mane whipping wildly in the warm breeze. She rides up the formation until she's galloping in time with Bonnie, the reins gathered in one of her hands as the other rests down by her side.

"What's our plan, boss?" Winona ventures mockingly, a grin pulling at her lips.

She can't deny how giddy she feels to finally do a job after flying under the radar for a while, officially growing bored of the wariness brought by bounty hunters and the law. Carrying out a robbery just feels so freeing in comparison to all those wasted days and nights spent in hiding, the worrisome butterflies in her gut torched by the pure excitement and anticipation flaming up inside her.

   She tips her head back, eyes fluttering shut, and relishes in the warm Southern breeze as it rustles through her loose, sandy hair. The riches in the stagecoach are almost theirs; she can practically feel the taste of victory saturating on her tongue.

Bonnie hums. "We're gonna have Brandy put on a little show for us all. Get the coach to stop, cry to the guards and tug on their heartstrings a little as a distraction before we start shootin' from the bushes." She shrugs as if it's all commonplace. "You know how it is."

   Her eyes peel back open and her head tips back down to face the road ahead. "Not Jolene?" she wonders out loud, unable to hide her surprise.

Before she fell in with the False Widows, Jolene Jameson had scraped past life as an impassioned performer and part-time working girl in the big city. That is, until her husband dragged her off of the stage with the promise of his fortune to reel her in, conspiring to force her into the life of a trophy wife — a decoration to drape on his arm instead of a lover to cherish forevermore. She hadn't realised that giving him her heart meant sacrificing her career beneath the spotlight, an unsuspecting songbird sealed in an asphyxiating cage. Her marriage was spent in conflict with herself over the life she had lost; part of her was grateful to be freed from the shackles of those unwanted nights passed as a working girl while on the other hand, she missed all those hours under up on the stage desperately.

The freedom of a widow suited Jolene perfectly. After seeing her potential and seizing it, weaving ideas of freedom her into her head and pressing that pouch of poison into her awaiting hand, Bonnie had appointed her as their preferred distraction when it came to jobs like this due to her penchant for the dramatics. She often says that you can take the girl out of the theatre, but never the theatre out of the girl.