Where The Gallows Wait

Isabella's latest lead on the whereabouts of Kilgrave's men point her to a ranch in the cradle of Big Valley. An old barn looms over the homestead from its perch like a hungry vulture, its paint stripped away by time and neglect, surrounded on all sides by canvas tents. A small farmhouse sits to the east, slowly succumbing to the elements but its roof remains sturdy and steadfast despite nature's best attempts to reclaim it.

Little Creek River babbles quietly and keeps her company while she studies the ranch through the lens of her binoculars, though it isn't much of a conversationalist. She counts eight men milling about the ranch, some armed, some not; some crowded around a campfire belching black smoke into the sky, others idly chatting to pass away the time. She recognizes only one as a former accomplice of Kilgrave's -- though perhaps 'thrall' is a more accurate statement -- but the vertical scar that splits his face in two equal halves telegraphs his identity like an electric sign.

Her trigger finger itches with anticipation, but she denies it the bloodshed it so craves. She rides away from the ranch that night, not because she wants to, but because some foolish, nagging part of her is still clinging to the hope that she won't have to do this alone.

The little farm south of Valentine is alive and getting on just fine without her by the time she makes it back. Yuliy and his assemblage of street urchins are playing tag in and around the barn, and she spots Leon and Valerie taking down laundry off the line around the back of the house.

She scans the property for Jake but doesn't see him, and she nearly drowns beneath the wave of relief that washes over her. If she follows the tendril of cigar smoke drifting above the edge of the farmhouse's roof, she'll trace it to Vincent reclining casually against the wooden banister, watching, observing, waiting, though she doesn't know what for.

She makes a point of not looking in his direction, and instead lights up a cigarette of her own.

Leon approaches her as she dismounts her horse, his jaw still a mottled watercolor of purple and blue. "You're back," he remarks, though it's more of an observation than a greeting.

Something about the way he says it makes Isabella's stomach flutter, like she's a welcome surprise after a long, difficult day. Like he's happy to see her. Like he'd missed her.

Floundering for words, she offers him her cigarette instead and makes her way over to her humble living quarters.

He accepts it and trails behind her. "That's twice this week you've disappeared on us."

She scoffs and crouches down, throwing open the canvas flaps of her tent and tying them back. "You're the first one to notice."

"I find that very hard to believe, miss," he counters, and her stomach does another back flip. "Where'd you go?"

She busies her hands with the contents inside the worn trunk at the foot of her cot, but she doesn't know what she's searching for. An escape from this conversation, maybe, or even just a few spare seconds to think up a convincing lie.

"Looking for work," is the one she settles for. "I'm not going to find it lazing around here from sunrise to sundown."

"What kind of work?"

"The kind that pays."

He studies her momentarily, sizing her up like he's trying to determine what exactly she means by that.

"Listen," she interjects, before he can arrive at a conclusion. "You got your business, and I got mine. Let's not open a door that can't be closed."

With one last thoughtful drag on the cigarette, he flicks away what's left of it with his finger and hooks his thumbs in his gun belt, though one hand is quick to desert it in favor of scratching the back of his neck. Eventually it drifts to his pocket and then bounces back to his belt, like he can't decide where to rest it.

"You go after those men again?" he pries, voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "The ones that hurt your sister?"

Isabella's blood turns to ice in her veins, the tension in her shoulders instantly visible. "They didn't just hurt Sara," she reminds him. "They burned her alive and now she's gone."

Leon splays his palms to her as though pleading for forgiveness. "I know, I'm sorry, I didn't mean anythin' by it. It's just... Jake was askin' around earlier, wanted to know if any of us knew where you went, is all."

Rising to her feet and squaring her shoulders, her defiant gaze locks with Leon's, though there's far less animosity contained in his. "What did you tell him?"

He eclipses her in height, mass, and brute strength, but he's quick to back down, regardless. "That I didn't know."

She exhales with relief but remains on the defensive for being caught. "Quite a show he puts on, isn't it? Used to be that making those bastards pay for what they did was all that mattered to him. Now he'd rather play house with that monster who has the nerve to masquerade as a man."

"Far be it from me to defend the guy," Leon precedes, cautiously, "but I think he was just worried about you."

Isabella rolls her eyes hard enough to detach her retinas. "He's got a funny way of showing it."

Leon tries a different approach. "He's right though, least insofar as it bein' dangerous out there on your own."

"God, you sound just like him."

"I'm not tryin' to tell you what to do, Isabella, I just don't--"

She cuts him off. "You don't what? What's it to you, where I go and what I do while I'm out there? You still got your sister, Leon, and if you ever lose her the way I lost mine, we can finish this conversation then."

He almost looks wounded. He opens his mouth to retort, but the sound of the farmhouse's door flying open and clattering against the wall draws their attention. Jake hops down off the porch, bypassing the stairs like a man on the warpath, and elbows Leon aside to get to Isabella. She can't help but notice that Vincent is no longer outside.

"Where the hell have you been?" he demands.

It's a war they've fought a dozen times or more, and one she isn't willing to wage again. Instead she groans, snatching up a couple boxes of ammunition and stuffing them into her coat pockets.

"I'm talkin' to you!"

"I know you are. And I'm choosing to ignore you."

He reaches out and grips her arm while she's still within his reach. "Don't walk away from me, Izzy."

"Don't call me that!" she snaps, rolling her shoulder back to make him let go. "Jake got to call me that, not whoever this is. Not this version of you that I don't recognize anymore."

His brows knit a question. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Her answer is to stalk her way towards her horse and haul herself up into the saddle.

"Where are you going!?" Jake barks.

"To finish what we started."

"I warned you not to take on Kilgrave's Boys alone." This time it's not just a warning. It's a threat.

Her eyes burn with the wildfire that's been consuming her from the inside out since the night Sara died. "You're not my keeper, Jake, and I'm not a toy you can leave on a shelf until you're ready to play with me again. I'm not asking your permission to do this. I don't need it."

He marches towards her horse with an intensity in his posture that she's scarcely seen before. Even Paloma whinnies uneasily and paws at the ground beneath her hooves.

"How will getting yourself killed change what happened to Sara?" he grits out.

"It won't," she admits, "but at least I'd get to be with her again. I'm tired of waiting around for you, Jake, and I'm not doing it anymore."

She flicks her eyes over his shoulder and to Leon standing a few feet away. "You. If you're so interested in where I've been, then ride with me," she proposes. "I'll show you myself."

She flings out the words like a punch, but they're a plea for help, uttered supplication addressed to a god that hasn't answered her prayers in a very long time.

Leon sweeps his fingers through his hair with effort, like a man carrying a heavy weight. "Isabella..."

"Clock's ticking, vato," she urges.

Don't let me do this alone, she thinks but doesn't say.

"The decision is yours. Help me or stay out of my way."