Chapter Text
"This was a mistake," a voice had grunted, pulling weeds from man made raised garden beds. Well they were a sad excuse for a garden. Usual strong wood walls for the raisers were made of reclaimed splintered wood and rock. It was a poor mans farm, nothing growing and everything either wilting or being swiped by the nearby rabbits from the ridge or crows.
Sure the wilderness was pretty, if someone enjoyed the thick vegetation and tall trees, ignoring the fact that there could be bears or even the nearby Murfree Brothers. Either one of them equally eager to take a chunk out of the homesteader, be it flesh or the little money they had left.
It seemed like a good idea a year ago, when Y/n had found an ad in the paper about cheap land down south. Living with parents wasn't easy, especially at twenty five when they were expecting them to get married. That's what people were supposed to do when they got older. What was the point of living if not to live for someone else?
Y/n hated that idea. naively they thought that they could just buy a plot of land and live on their own. That was the big thing now, the American frontier and living off the land like some sort of new age Paul Bunion. The late eighteen hundred's, a time where the unknown was exciting.
So of course Y/n was excited, packing all their belongings in three bags and taking the train down from Pennsylvania. The young adult had decided to stop whenever it felt right. Maybe it was their naiveness, but anything felt better than being cooped up in the neighborhood they use to live, that city block where everyone knew their name and especially their business. Hell, the old woman a few houses down still didn't let the fact that Y/n had once been caught stealing a spool of ribbon, and that had been at least ten years ago. Sure, the city was comfortable and close, too close sometimes, but still soothing oddly enough. It had been a year since their grand escape from the city and somehow they still long to hear the sounds of the sharp clanks of horse shoes striking the stone roads.
Stubbornly though, Y/n was not going back to the city. They were set on making a new life. A new life where their mother would stop pestering them over some sort of spouse or their fathers constant worrying. They acted like they were made of sugar, and would somehow melt from even little bit of moisture in the air.
It took three weeks of travel, of train tickets, hotels, and carriages, but Y/n had ended up in a little town called Annesburg. A murky mining town, the filthy dirt road not so different from the dirty city pavement they had been previously accustomed to. It was dirty and damp, but freeing. Free from the peering eyes of neighbors and constant watch of their parents. Here, they were just a nobody in a nobody town surrounded by a bunch of nobody's.
It was amazing. Almost euphoric.
But then there was a different problem to deal with.
Money.
It always came down to money.
They had none left.
Of course Y/n didn't.
They had not planned this far and had used the lot of it to just get down here with those pricy train tickets. Suddenly it made sense, why Y/n had seen all those horse drawn carriages with at least ten people hanging on the back of them. It was cheaper and now they had nothing.
But they needed money, money to buy that plot of land that was promised in ink on that paper weeks ago. It wasn't like Y/n could of written to their parents. Besides the fact that they didn't even have enough coins to pay for paper and a stamp, Y/n hadn't even told them they were going.
Yeah they had subtly hinted at it in small conversations, but nothing too direct. Y/n could practically imagine their angered faces, all twisted up with disgust. Y/n would most likely never be allowed to leave the house ever again. Maybe be locked up in the attic and claim that they had come down with hysteria due to having too many crazy dreams at night. Cringing at that idea. So Y/n decided to hang around the small town for a few days. Talk to the locals and figure something out. They were almost as poor as Y/n was currently. There had to be a way they got money besides mining in the nearby shaft. There had to be something else.
And there was. As much as Y/n had been taught in the schools you were sent to, there was never talk of financing. Apparently learning how to mend and set a table was more important in both the institute and their parents eyes. The one skill that did seem useful was gardening. Well not exactly gardening, but they had taught Y/n how to put and grow herbs such as mint and sage to keep in the home for cooking reasons. Plants, big or small, couldn't be too different right? All tending they needed was water and sun, anything more? Find a book on it and just guess until they get it right. Trial and failure, that how most farmers survived anyways. Or so that's just what they assumed.
After many a conversation with the locals, some of what Y/n would rather forget, they got what they needed to know.
There was a man, an Austrian man, who was giving out loans. A rather mousy looking man with circular glasses hanging on the end of his nose, seemingly about to fall at any minute. Nothing like the bank which denied almost everyone in the town, but a seemingly nice man. He gave his usual little spiel about how he was a understanding man, though there was an exact deadline, Y/n had a year to pay him back in full.
Regretfully now in retrospect, They took the opportunity against their better judgement. Not that Y/n knew it until this day. At the time They took the money, one thousand dollars, and bought that promised land. A cabin, while run down, was somewhere to live and enough blankets kept the wind out. Thankfully, Y/n had packed at least three in their multiple bags.
So now here they are, a year later on the dot, and still living on a rundown homestead, fighting with the gardening that they had assumed and claimed almost confidently knowing.
No crops were sold as the early winter's frost burned away at their growth, no animals raised long enough to reach selling age (in result of the multitude of animals roaming around the forest), and no improvements.
They were dirty, broke, and shit out of luck to say the least. The clothes once brand new looking now had rips at the hems, their shoes had creases and holes forming at the bending points. The only thing that Y/n could claim was a mangey cat that had used their attic as a shelter from the foxes who lurked in the dark. The cat being named Creature out of spite for when it once lodged balding self in the pallets of the floor, the ugly mess of fur and flesh needing to be fished out with a can of sardines.
Living in the woods with an animal sidekick, it seemed like Y/n's life was starting to look like a fucked up version of a fairytale.
They had nothing, nothing besides a fucked up looking cat and a shanty house. For a year. An exact year from their loan.
Begrudgingly, they were in the front yard of their shack. The heat of the sun burning on the back of their neck as they were hunched over on the ground. Leaning into the just slightly too short beds as they pulled, one after another of weeds. For being a, supposably, farmer; they were growing more weeds than tomatoes.
But wasn't this what they wanted? This was the one thing in life that they had control over, this pathetic excuse of a farm. And Y/n would fight tooth and nail for it.
Oddly enough, this was enough, the quietness of the forest was soothing. Just the light sound of the breeze swirling around branches and every so often a thud from a branch falling. It was soothing. No more unimportant small talk with family and no more thin walls of the apartment, allowing Y/n to hear the steps to conversations of their neighbors.
Peaceful.
Quiet.
Click.
The pulling of weeds halted, the head of the homesteader turning slightly, chin resting on the edge of their shoulder. Just listening. If something was for sure, that sharp sound was not included with the soft melody of the woods.
Closing their eyes for a moment, they held their breath just listening. Listening for anything. Just silently praying that it wasn't the Murfree brothers or some other godforsaken gang looking for something to take. A few months they had already come in the night and stolen the few chickens that Y/n had had left. They wished they had taken that mangey cat instead. Now it was no chickens and a useless cat. A useless god awful mean cat.
There was a low drumming, and slight squeak of leather rubbing on leather. Sucking in a quick breath, Y/n hopped to their feet, not even looking behind them and running into the house. If they had to guess who it was then they didn't exactly want to find out. When they pushed the door closed, the wood struggled. The moisture in the air causing it to swell just enough to make it not want to fit into its respective frame. With an anxious frenzy, they slammed into it with their shoulder a few times, forcing it into place.
Whipping around in place, they looked around for their shot gun. It wasn't much, hell they couldn't afford to buy the bullets for it anymore so it was more of a decoration. But whoever was outside didn't know that. The cool metal contrasted with the hot nervous flesh of their hand, clutching it closely to their torso as they backed up to the far wall of the shack.
The curtains at the front windows hung lazily, not covering anything particularly up in the slightest. Clearly they could see a man, he seemed to be massive in height but slimmer in bulk. He looked as if at one point he was as large as a beast. But his muscles were more lean, thinner that you would of assumed. His arms covered partially by a blue cotton shirt, the sleeves tolled up to his elbows. Gloved hands gripping a pistol.
But his face? Hidden by the slight tilt in his posture along with his hat. The worn leather edges just passing his eyes, concealing him from the nose down. The skin looking just slightly sickly, like something was wrong. The skin of his lips was cracked, and by looking at the expression on his face, it wasn't the most pleasant expression. As if this was a bother to him, like he was annoyed by coming to this middle of bumble fuck nowhere house.
Putting his hand into the pocket of his dark denim pants, his gloved hand pulled out a worn folded piece of paper. Looking it over he let out a slight huff that sounded more like a wheeze. Something oddly pathetic for such an intimidating man. It was almost disheartening, how a man somehow so scary could be so... Worn.
He knocked on the door, the rotting wood rattling from the motion.
"Y/n Y/l/n," His voice called out from the door, not not being visible from the window, standing in front of the door, "you got somethin' I need."
Shit.
The cat, perched on one of the shelves between the canned goods, looking between Y/n and the front door. Letting out a mewl. Its eyes narrowing.