Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Larry McMurtry, the staff writers of Lonesome Dove: The Outlaw Years (of whom I am not one), and by Rysher Entertainment. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.
Posted by: Elspethdixon
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Mention of Amanda/Mosby

Warngins: This teensy ficlet contains spoilers for series ender �Love & War,� references to alcohol and assorted sleaziness, and vengeful scheming on the part of Amanda. It does not contain any hot sex�only mentions of sex in the past tense.

If she had to do it all over again, she would� have probably done the exact same thing, Amanda decided, as she dodged a customer's wandering hands yet again and slammed a glass of beer onto the table in front of him. Liquid slopped over the edge of the glass, splashing onto the grimy tabletop. If the man had half the brains he ought to have been born with, he'd have taken the hint. Instead, he just leered at her, eyes fixed on her breasts in a way that made her itch to slap him. But Charlie the bartender had ordered her not to threaten any more customers, on pain of being fired, so she just turned her back to him and retreated behind the bar.

She'd never had to put up with this sort of thing at the Dove. If a man there had tried to grab her breasts or offered to pay for his drink with something other than cash, she could have had him thrown out. Now, she was reduced to putting up with all the winks and groping and lewd comments�now, when she'd thought she had finally succeeded in setting herself up well enough that she'd never have to trade her body for money or security again.

Well, it wasn't as if she'd lost the knack. You never forgot how to lie with more than your tongue, how to flirt, and smile, and promise, and use sex and the possibility of sex as the bargaining tools they were. She'd just lost the knack for putting up with indignities when she didn't have to. And she didn't intend to learn it over again.

Amanda was going to get back what was rightfully hers, and Clay Mosby was going to pay for reducing her to this. He'd made the down payment already, satisfied a small part of her plans for vengeance with that shocked, wounded look in his eyes when she'd gone from making love to him to pointing a gun at his head, but a down payment was all it was. By the time she was done with him, he'd suffer every bit as much humiliation as she had, every bit as much uncertainty, uneasiness� That feeling of being worthless, being an object, being a victim to any man who decided he wanted you, oh, she knew how to make Clay feel that all right. All she had to do was take his precious town away from him, person by person, piece by piece, and he'd do it to himself.

Amanda *knew* how to destroy Clay Mosby, had known how to go about doing such a thing�if ever the need arose�ever since that robbery attempt, since she'd seen the look in his eyes when he mentioned that Yankee prison camp, when he insisted on picking up every piece of knocked-over furniture in the Ambrosia club himself, grabbing at any shred of control he could. She'd seen it confirmed last night, as he froze like a statue while she pulled the trigger on him. Take away Clay's power, and all that was left was fear, the same fear she felt whenever a drunken cowboy or miner grabbed for her.

Yes, if she could live last night over again, she'd do everything the exact same way�every kiss, every caress, every threat. Except this time, that little whisper of guilt inside her would, she was sure, be silent.